New York City, What’s Up?

After having decried the puritanical, repressed and awful climate of The Hub, I’d like to extol the virtues of America’s metropolis New York City. Here are a couple of things I enjoyed while on a recent sojourn to The Big Apple.

1. A store called “Shoegasm“: People, it turns out, are really into feet and foot related accessories, namely Shoes. While traipsing about some area of Manhattan trolling for a gay bar, my friends and I passed the storefront of this shoe purveyor. I think these folks should let me handle their press. Consider the following slogans:

We’ve got tight shoes for your hard feet.

Those pair of shoes have been around the block and back!

I think everyone’s walked a mile in that shoe…

If you’re going to wear that shoe, make sure you wear a sock.

Sha… Sha… Sha… Shaaaaa. SHOOOOOOOEEEEssssss!!!!

Etc.

2. Lance Bass: So, Lance decided to make an appearance at this rather unremarkable bar called “Black and White” also in Manhattan. He arrived while I was outside indulging my nicotine habit, and I instantly recognized him as being famous, but could not come up with his name. It wasn’t until he’d entered the bar that I correctly identified him as “the gay Nysnc member who wanted to take a little trip into outerspace.” I tried to nonchalantly confirm this with the bouncer, but ended up making it seem like I had a low opinion of Lance–who happens to be a good friend of the bouncer, or so he told me–when I in fact have no opinion of Lance. Oh well. My friends chatted him up a bit and remarked that he was exceptionally smiley, more smiley than any one man should be. The picture here about sums that up.

Rise of the Idiots, Boston What’s Up? (Continued), Passé

So the birthday celebration in Boston happened, and was–setting excluded–a good bit of fun. There was an impromptu game of Zoomy-Zoomy in at a Waltham Ninety-Nine, the purchase of Trolli Hamburgers and Hotdogs, Red Bull and Vodka, Champagne and last (definitely not least) an hour long wait for a bus inside of a Convenience Store on the corner of Massachusetts and Beacon. The only mistake–and what a mistake it was–of the night happened to be patroning a bar that I’d previously enjoyed as an eater and a drinker: The Pour House Bar & Grill.

Now, I’m not a stingy person, but when I pay six dollars for an ice-intensive rum and coke I’d like to have every last drop. It just so happened that after stepping outside for a cigarette with some friends and returning to our table (watched the entire time by two other friends) my half finished rum and coke had been picked up by the bar. We alerted the waitress of the error, who then alerted the ‘bar manager’ who subsequently refused to do anything but be entirely unhelpful. We attempted to rationalize. We reasoned that he must as a human being understand our annoyance having likely had at one time a half finished plate of delicious food scooped up from underneath his mouth by an extremely eager server. The ‘bar manager’ didn’t see things our way and as most reputable businesses do; that a business should in general give the benefit of the doubt to the customer and work to resolve such trivial situations quickly by merely replacing the item in question rather than jeopardizing future business. We had, to this point, already spent forty dollars as a group and were looking to spend more. Instead, the ‘bar manager’ told us that it was our responsibility to keep their overzealous bus boys and girls from poaching our drinks and that we were shit out of luck. What followed was admittedly drunken on my part and somewhat hazy in memory, but it involved leaving in a hurry and being overcharged as a group and prevented from leaving by the masshole bouncers guarding the door onto Boylston St. As under the influence as I may have been, I still think I hit the nail on the head when I queried the bar manager, “If you’re not responsible for what your employees are doing, then what exactly is it that you’re managing?”

Needless to say, I’ll never be returning to The Pour House again–despite the fact that I find their fare edible and affordable. Conclusion:

The Pour House Bar and Grill: Passé

Rise Of The Idiots, Boston What Up?

It’s about time I made things a bit more personal here on The Digital Idiocy. Tonight I’m going to be taking a sojourn to the city of dreams, a bastion of booze, that sleepy eyed self professed hub-of-the-world Boston. The trip is being made to celebrate a friend’s birthday, and that–I’m afraid–is the only reason I would consent to traveling there. Now, I used to like Boston. It has a unique character, it’s home to my favorite sports team, I’ve many friends there. Yet, I’m sick of the scene. Too many Boston University students wearing trendy outfits, clinging to subway poles and riding the Green Line up and down Comm. Ave. Too many bars that close early and host endless seas of Red Sox baseball caps and the idiots underneath them. Too Many pretentious Harvard Twits dotting the sidewalks in Harvard Square across the Charles River, discoursing and not conversing over long hyphenated subjects like “pseudo-gender-confusion-stereotypes-in-post-modern-eastern European-societies”. Too many Dunkin’ Donuts, Dunkins, Double D’s, Dunks, DD’s. Too many serpentine avenues, one way streets, construction crews and back roads to outlying suburbs (here’s looking at you South Shore). Too much Boston. To make things worse, word on the street is that yours truly will have to abide some men-hating folk who think using big words like hegemony and patriarchy punch their ticket to intellectual station. It’s possible that I’m looking at this all a bit negatively. In fact, I certainly am. But seriously: Boston, What’s Up? Now: I’d like to share a video appropriate for the occasion.

An Idea For A New Anti-Superhero

I propose for the first time in the history of the world–I hope, but not likely–an idea for an AntiSuperhero: “F**king Dude Man”. He is everyone and no one, and we all know who he is. He’s the man who bumped into you at the Fall Out Boy concert and made you spill your Sex On The Beach, he’s the one who groped your girlfriend at the party last night, he’s the one who bought the last pack of Lucky Strike Lights at the gas station, he’s the one who showed up to your party and managed to find the floor more often than his mouth with all of your food. You know what you say to your friends:

“Who got Doritos crumbs all over your bed,” they ask.

“I don’t know. Some f**king dude, man!”

F**king Dude Man is an Anti-Superhero with the power to replace any ol’ chap with the misfortune of becoming “That Guy”, the committer of the oft dreaded party foul.  We’ve all done things in the company of others that we’d just as soon forget as soon as we’ve done them. Unfortunately for us all, people tend to remember names, faces and social faux pas. What F**king Dude Man does is replace the would-be party fouler at the exact moment the crime has been committed and accepts the blame, scorn and awkward glances. Meanwhile, he teleports the party fouler elsewhere in the gathering where he or she can take some vitamins and try harder at not screwing up. Honestly though, the real source of F**king Dude Man’s strength is in his ability to remain perfectly anonymous to everyone.  When someone recalls the misdeeds of Party Goer X, for example, all one will recall is that the misdeed was committed by, “Some F**king Dude, Man” of average, bland and common characteristics and not by the aforementioned Party Goer.

Upon reflection, it’s possible that this AntiSuperhero already exists and has appeared at whatever social gatherings it was that you’ve found yourself at over the course of your life. But, we’ll never know for sure, Man. It was just some f**king dude, man.

Passé

Fred Thomspon: Passé

For those of us either given to Lawandorderaphilia or those of us with friends, relatives or relations infected with it, Fred Thompson is already some jackass we’re eminently familiar with. Frankly, I’ve had it up to here with Fred Thompson’s quasi-intellectual hobnobbery. This man isn’t fit enough to lead a plate of mashed potatoes. He will never be President. Granted, in a field that includes Rudy G’s and Mitt “The Stormin’ Mormon” Romney all bets–it would seem- should be off.

Crocs: Passé

This is a frightening fad. Think of it: Millions upon millions of people clamoring to wear brightly colored shoes with holes in them–holes that can be plugged with a myriad of decorative accessories. Doesn’t that sound like everything a person shouldn’t want in a shoe? Now, I’ve heard the argument that they’re comfortable and great for people whose professions require them to stand on their feet for extended periods of time. Great, I’m all for comfort and breaking Dr. Scholls dread grip on the shoe market. But, come on! Couldn’t they design them in such a way so as not to make them look like Jolly Ranchers? Path-et-ic.

answers to questions posed by A.S.W.

1) What’s your favorite kind of Bird?

I like Kingfishers, the kind of bird that will wait patiently and placidly perched on a branch out over the water before plunging down headfirst for a tasty fish. Charles Olson wrote a poem ostensibly about Kingfishers called “The Kingfishers”. It happens to be the only poem of his that I recall enjoying a considerable amount. Aside from that, they have long beaks. Who couldn’t get behind that?

2) What do you do with those slightly thicker cards that they insert into magazines and sometimes fall out when you’re reading them?

That would depend on where I am. At a doctor’s office, I’d pretend that I didn’t notice that it fell out. At home, I’d probably just discard the subscription cards in a rubbish can. Actually, at a doctor’s office I might pick it up and shove it back in another magazine on the table that I’m not reading. Under the influence of drugs and in a doctors office, I might fill out the cards with the names and address of people I know. We should all take pleasure in such minor annoyances.

3) Why are you blogging?

For the exact same reason that I tend to laugh at my own jokes even when no one else thinks they’re funny.