I forget.

This week's issue of Time magazine has an article about the Freedom of the Seas, a cruise liner. The title of the article is, A Whale of a Boat. And so as you may imagine, the article is all about how large the boat is.

They compare it to the Statue of Liberty. (Twice as high!)

The Titanic. (Twice as wide! Nothing about sinkability, but twice as many life boats.)

A Large Chocolate Cake. (Twice as Tasty! And creamier)

Fine, I made that last one up, but it does not come close in sheer stupidity to the next comparison that the writer used. A comparison that was so breathtakingly idiotic that it, well took my breath away.

Are you ready for it?

He stated without the slightest trace of irony or sarcasm, “…the ship is heavier than 12500 Elephants.”

No one could have up with that comparison without being seriously high on some chemicals. Or being seriously idiotic.

Honestly, when did the elephant become a unit of weight? Even a pound is more logical than one metric Elephant. Do people go into stores and ask for one hundredth of an Elephant of potatoes? Or do you go on a diet to lose that one twenty fifth of an Elephant that you have around your waist?

And when was the Elephant standardized? Are all elephants now the same size? Where was the international conference on standardizing the Elephant held? Were there representatives from both the Asian and the African sub-species? Did they get along? Was there alcohol at the after-party? Did a temple elephant get drunk and disgrace itself by dancing on the table and waking up naked and sore the next morning…With a post-it note stuck to its trunk, saying, “You were fantastic. Call me xxx-xxx-0843.”

Will thin elephants be forced to eat a high calorie diet to pack on those um…not pounds…but sub-Elephants? Will overweight elephants have to go to aerobic classes? Jazzercise? TaiBo? Run on the treadmill? Get up at six in the morning to go running? Will teenage female elephants have to starve themselves to conform to the media’s portrayal of the ideal female elephant?

Who did frame Roger Rabbit? Where in the world is Carmen San Diego? What’s the good word? One small step for man, one large leap for mankind? Is there a Santa Claus in Viginia? Who the fuck is Alice? “Paint “your own pottery” studio” or “Paint your own “pottery studio””? How many chucks could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? I before E except after C? Will these questions ever end? No? Yes? Maybe?

Will we have more inappropriate comparisons and/or units of measurement?

As long as Three Hundred Bottles of Wine? ( This amount varies depending on whether the bottles are full or empty.)

As bright as Sixteen Sixty Six Fireflies swinging the Salsa in Spring ? (Quantitative, poetic, and alliterative.)

As young as one fifteen millionth of Mount Everest? (Quantitative and poetic, but not alliterative.)

Will this post end abruptly?

So...getting lost and stuff

The problem with living in a place for any extended period of time is that you cannot get lost anymore.

I moved to New Jersey eight months ago, and three months after that I acquired my car. (And a huge ass debt to the evil capitalist bankers. Vive La’ Revolucion. You can call me Comrade Rajneesh. I’ll be communist like Psmith, who believed that practical communism involved grabbing as much as a person could and then sitting on it.

I could be a good communist. Not the riff-raff proletariat, but a member of the politburo. One of those who defend the masses from the corrupting influence of capitalism, using their bodies to insulate the proletariat from luxury and decadence.

And it would allow me to do one of the things that I have longed for ages to do. Kick a door in. I’ve always wanted to kick a door in. I dream at night of doors that I could kick in.

I’m not quite sure what one does after kicking in a door. I fear I would probably be embarrassed and apologize to the people on the other side of the door. Or I might whistle nonchalantly and point unobtrusively to my dicey looking sidekick.

You need to have sidekick if you are kicking in doors. I do believe that not having one would cause a rip in the fabric of space time. They have to be dicey looking. You cannot have a sidekick who looks like a fine upstanding member of the community. We do not want Dr. Jeykll, we want Mr. Hyde.

I’d prefer a silent sidekick, not the one picked for comic relief. I’d rather have a grim brooding one. One who looks like his wife just ran away with a randy toaster. No quick quips or amusing eccentricities from my sidekick. I’ll be doing all the quipping and the eccentricity-ing.

We’d be a dynamic duo. Just no tights, and no homo-erotic undertones.

Maybe a female sidekick. Naturally hot. Because I’m a sexist pig. She’d still have to be silent (Desperately stifles urge to make incredibly sexist joke), because I insist on doing the quipping and taking care of the banter. She can do the whipping of the bad guys or the re-education of the proletariat (Though the proletariat may like being whipped by a hot sidekick. I know I woul…Never mind.)

(Boy, this is a long ass digression.))

So...getting lost and stuff. Good Shit.

One bourbon, one scotch, one beer .

I woke up at six today.

Intentionally.

I use my cell-phone’s alarm to wake me up. I usually set an alarm for seven forty five, and for seven fifty and for seven fifty five and for eight and for eight five, which is when I finally wake up.

The cell phone alarm is an obnoxious siren. Guaranteed to wake you up if you haven’t been dead for more than a week. (Still effective, but not covered by guarantee if you have been a corpse for more than a week. Its corpse reanimation properties extend only that far.).

Well, normally it is a siren. Except that today it wasn’t. Today it was quiet metallic voice telling me that it would hurt me if I did not get up immediately.

My cell phone scares me now.

Given my phone's gentle persuasion, (blood curdling threats) I dragged myself out off bed and stared owlishly at the phone for a few minutes. I fully expected it to turn into a Dalek, or the Terminator. The creepy liquid one from T2 and not everyone’s favorite governor.

I woke up at six today. Intentionally. Because, for some unfathomable reason I decided last night that waking up at six in the morning and running for an hour before getting in to work was a good idea.

Sadly, I am not a morning person. I consider eight thirty to be an unearthly hour. And I wasn’t aware that six in the morning existed. (I was aware that six in the morning in the night exists. That’s when you go to bed at six.)

Six in the morning is a strange time. The world looks disgustingly fresh and clean. Squirrels scamper about a-squirelling. Bird flutter about a-birding. (I love verbifying nouns). My cousin, who was at my place this last weekend, informed me that the bike path that runs by my apartment goes from Trenton to New Brunswick, or, if you prefer, from New Brunswick to Trenton. My response to this was, “There’s a bike path that runs by my apartment? Huh, fancy that.” I did know that there was a path, but I felt like being obnoxious. Coz’ I’m special that way. All a part of my boyish charm.

So, at six in the morning, squirrels were a-squirelling all over that path. I counted twelve of them hanging about, gossiping, bringing in the newspaper, and doing body shots. (Squirrel alcoholism is really, really sad. The next thing you know, the rodents will be wasted by mid-afternoon, slumped over a bar somewhere, pouring out their sorrows to the bartender, writing bad blank verse and strumming away half heartedly on a guitar. (Think Deperado without the guns, but with Salma Hayak. Because Salma Hayak improves anything. Salma Hayak doing body shots!) The bartender naturally will not understand them because most bartenders do not speak Squirrel. However, most bartenders do speak Rabbit and a rabbit interpreter might help… If in fact you are an inebriated squirrel who needs to pour his sorrows out to a bartender. And if you can find a rabbit prepared to do an honest days work. All they care about is rabbitting. (Now, that is a euphemism that works.))

Leaving behind the corrupt squirrel settlement, (Squirrem and Gammorel), I set off down the path. With a song in my heart, (That old Beatles classic, “Why the fuck am I not asleep at six.” It’s from the little known “Tribute to Rajneesh” album.) and a … um something else in my soul(Cheesecake?).

And strangely enough, I rather enjoyed myself. I probably will be making a habit of this. What? You expected me to rant and complain? Hey I liked it. I’m sorry, but I’m not a completely disagreeable person.

Yeah, so early morning runs and stuff. Good shit.

Sometimes

You read something, something so brilliantly written that it takes your breath away.

So...

...I was at this fancy dress party.

Gesundheit!

The problem with being a sarcastic person with a moderately caustic (well… extremely caustic) sense of humor is that people do not, will not, cannot believe that you coughed innocently.

Such attitudes sadden me. I had a mild cold and I needed sympathy.

Needless to say I do not get any.

There was no need to say that I did not get any sympathy, but I said it nonetheless. Cause I’m cool that way. I say that which should not be said, I do that which should not be done. (Or at least I do that which some people might frown upon, if they knew I had done what I had done. Or had wanted to have done)

My great decorating adventure continues. The print has been hung up and looks rather spiffy. And I have another bookshelf. Which is a good thing because I seem to attract books like honey attracts bees. (Or a more interesting metaphor, like supermodels attract Rajneeshs. Or cheesecake attracts Rajneeshs. Or supermodels bearing cheesecakes attract Rajneeshs.)

Ah, so where was I?

I was considering buying a new television to replace my tiny, tiny television from grad school. Not because I watch much television, but because deep down every guy needs a Television as some sort of electronic phallic symbol. A forty five inch screen (No! I am not overcompensating.). In high definition! With picture in picture. (It’s surprising how quickly analogies break down isn’t it?)

I’ve watched maybe a half hour of television over the last couple of weeks and so maybe, just maybe, I will refrain from installing the electronic male fertility symbol in my living room.

But I will not give up cable. I fucking do not watch television, but I will not give up cable. It costs me an arm and a leg, and out of the sixteen hundred channels that I get, I watch only two…that is when I do turn on the television. You can watch the television without turning it on. But there’s this same show on all the time. I think it is about the colour, “Dirty Grey”(‘s Anatomy?).

So yeah, Television and cable. Good stuff.

(I meant to write more, but I finally caved in and bought Half-Life 2 today.)

Grrr...

The day after I told someone that work was less hectic, it got to be a lot more hectic. I blame you completely for this. (You know who you are!)

I doodle...

...a fair bit.

A. Prince. Among. Men.

Sometimes, just sometimes I shoot my mouth off without pausing to think. My brain’s going, “Fuck you Mouth. Wait for me dammit. I can help” And my mouth replies, “Screw that. I can do this.”

And sometimes I shoot my mouth off after pausing to think. My mouth says to my brain, “You think this is a good idea”, and my brain replies, “Hell yeah, go for it. I’d do it if I were you. Be a man Mouth.”

I think that what I did a few months ago, during a job interview was the latter.

I was in the car with two of the people who would be interviewing me over lunch. They were talking were talking about life insurance policies. Not something I am normally interested in, because death isn’t something I usually think about. (I DO THINK ABOUT DEATH). Mouth said to Brain, “Fuck this all, I’m bored. Let’s do something fun.” And Brain replied, “Go for it dude.” …and Mouth went “Watch me.”

So as they continued to talk, animatedly, about insurance and premiums, I looked out of the car window and said, with all the weariness I could put into my voice, “Boy, old people sure know how to have fun.”

Brain broke into stunned applause, and the Mouth basked in his finest moment.

And presenting the continuing adventures of Mouth and Brain, here are lines that Mouth has uttered, tongue planted firmly in cheek (Well…mostly), in a place where circumspection might have been warranted..

“I am a prince among men.”

“It is all a part of my boyish charm.”

“I am a delicate flower.”

“A life without Rajneesh isn’t worth living.”

“I assumed you possessed the intellect of a mildly retarded three year old. Clearly I was mistaken.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be a legal corpse than a felonious one?”

“I am a pathological liar. And a horrible, horrible person. That is true.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that I don’t trust you.”

“You are a moderately trustworthy person.”

“You are a strange, strange woman.”

“You are an obscenely tall person.”

“Everything belongs to me unless otherwise stated.”

“Have friendly dolphins refuel the plane.” (I’m particularly proud of this one”)

“We thought about doing the presentation in interpretive dance, but it just did not work.”

Yeah, so apparently Mouth and Brain are both drunk and high.

Harmonious interiors

I'm confused.

And busy as hell.

How busy would hell be, if hell did exist?

Would the Devil say he was a busy as hell, if the Devil did exist? (And I'm not referring to that devil who occasionally reads this blog.)

He’d say, "Stop bothering me, I'm busy as hell!" And then he would snicker and stroke his goatee. And smirk. And smirk some more and stroke his goatee some more.

I always picture the Devil as smirking. Like someone who knows something funny but refuses to share it. I can imagine him thinking, “It is “Paint “your own Pottery Studio””, and not “Paint “your own Pottery” Studio”” and gloating in the smug superiority of his knowledge.

Goatees are good for that. For stroking and for framing a smirk. Anyone with a goatee looks sinister. I have repeatedly mentioned this fact to a colleague who has a goatee. He retorted that my penchant for dressing in black is far more sinister.

I smirked at him.

I may have mentioned this before. But I have a very, very annoying smirk. Actually a smirk that women find very, very annoying.

I practice it in the mirror.

I think it is rather devilish.

I briefly practiced an innocent expression. I made me look like a mildly retarded sack of flour, and so I do not use it in public anymore. (Most sacks of flour are actually quite intelligent, but sadly mistaken in believing that it is “Paint “your own Pottery” Studio””)

I hate decorating. I really, really do.

(The segue here? Painting to decorating.)

(Or maybe Deus ex machina. A rampaging horde of mildly inebriated toasters took over the blog and forced me at crumb point to start talking (complaining?) about decorating.)

But getting it half right is some kind of a genetic imperative. And so I stress over it and obsess about it. I try to build a unified theme, with colors that flow together and build a sense of harmony.

And halfway through I say, “Fuck it all” and take a nap.

So this leaves me with an apartment that looks half decorated, just as it would if the person in charge of decorating it had said “Fuck it all” halfway through and had taken a nap. The wall above my couch has the hooks for a painting, but I’m too lazy to hang it up. (Only a poor reproduction I’m afraid. My wallet went into terminal withdrawal when it heard the price for an original, or even for a lithograph.)

Yes, I’m talking about decorating the apartment. That admission makes me feel vaguely emasculated. Now I have to grunt and scratch myself in an inappropriate place to reassert my masculinity.

Grunt.

Scratch.

No! That is not a catalog from Pottery Barn in the back seat of my car.

And please for fucks sake, it is “you” and not “u”. “Z” is not a fucking acceptable alternative for the letter “S” in plurals (It saddens me when people I am fond of commit these transgressions). And fucking capitalize. The shift key is but a finger away.

And for the fucking love of all that is good and pure do not fucking ask me what I am into. I am into nothing. Nothing is fucking into me. Ask me the field I fucking work in and I will give you a fucking detailed answer. Ask me what I am into and I will try to do unnatural things to you with my umbrella. And I assure you that you will not enjoy it.

Yeah, so, decorating and shit. Fuck it all.

(I am the King of Coherence and Structure. Crown me now and take me to my harem.)

EDIT: "r" does not fucking equate to "our" or "are". You can use "r" if you are pretending to be a pirate, but never ever in any other context.