Thinking on an Elevator

This ever happen to you: You enter an elevator with at least one other person, and press the button for your floor. Then you get that little thought.

Please don't pick a floor lower than mine.

Inevitably, if you even entertain that idea, they will DEFINITELY pick a floor that comes before yours. Oftentimes, they select the very first floor up, and you just want to grab that person by the throat and ask them why in the world they need an elevator to go up one floor?! ONE!

It elicits a very personal reaction too. I think I actually began to hate these people. Don't you sometimes start to believe they're doing this on purpose just to piss you off? Maybe they are.

There's just something so pleasing about a direct elevator ride to your floor. It's like catching all the green lights on the road, getting bumped up to 1st class for free on an airplane, or just having a really good BM.

Today, however, sucked. I live about halfway up my building, and six people entered with me. Mathematically, each one had an equal probability of picking a floor higher than mine or lower. 3 above, 3 below, I can deal with it. But then I got that little thought.

Turns out they all lived on different floors, and all below me. It's like ELEVATOR CONSTIPATION. The whole process is slowed, you become increasingly frustrated with each passing moment, and there's nothing you can do but simply wait it out until everyone unloads.

(I also may have been the first person to ever use and discuss the term "elevator constipation." Just saying.)

I'll tell you though, every time these neighbors of mine pushed a button, it was like a little man in my head would scream "GODDAMNIT!!!" and kick me the inside of my skull.

This is probably why I get nosebleeds.

Get Arrested

Annyong!

For all those who are already Arrested Development fans, rejoice.

For all of those who aren't, what the hell are you doing?

In case you missed all or some of the 2nd season (or you just need to see more of Tobias' balls, never-nude shorts, Gene Parmesan, GOB's magic, $5000 suits-- come on!!, a Lucille, a loose seal, Lucille drinking, rehab, Lucille 2, prosthetic hands, The Final Countdown, Ice the Bounty Hunter, the corn baller, promise rings, Girls With Low Self-Esteem, Abu Ghraib, wives with huge cans, tear-away pants, Sugarfoot, Spring Break--wooo!!!!, Motherboy XXX, Mrs. Featherbottom, 250cc's of George Sr., Les Cousines Dangereuse, and Franklin Comes Alive), I have good news! [And can you tell I'm excited?]

Fox is replaying the whole second season starting TOMORROW in weekly TWO-HOUR blocks to get you all caught up. That's right. From 8-10pm every Friday, you're gonna TiVo this bitch because it's too good to miss. Don't make a huge mistake and miss this.

This is all in anticipation of the new season beginning Monday, September 15th at 8pm (brand new time slot).

FOX should be paying me for this kinda promotion.

Oh, and you're welcome. That's in anticipation of you thanking me later.

Adios Hermano.

p.s. 29 A.D. references. I rule.

NBA Draft 2005

Went to the draft w/Blake & Brett today. I think this was Blake's 6th year in a row. This was the maiden voyage for the rest of us.

For me, the highlight came about 20 picks in. Things were really getting exciting, people were cheering, lights were flashing, and basically I got really excited and-- well, I think I ran up on stage, and everything was hazy and people were screaming, and it was just so exciting and...

I got drafted.

I'm not sure exactly how this happened.

I'm gonna need to move to Milwalkee now and start practicing before the season gets rolling. I don't think my family will be too happy either. I think I was supposed to attend a cousin's Bat Mitzvah, but I might have a night game.

Ignore me, I'm being ridiculous. It was a lot of fun, and now I'm going to bed.


NBA Draft 2005 at the Paramount Theater


Ready for Broadcast

Sunsets from 12 Stories Above The Street

I've started to try to appreciate the simpler things in life. I recently read an article about how the French can take 10 minutes to eat a single piece of chocolate. And while I'm not trying to mold myself into a cheese-eating, surrender monkey (kidding, I just really like that nickname), I think there's something to it.

However, as long as I'm talking about the French, here's a funny way to waste 20 seconds: Go to Google. Type "french military victories" and hit I'M FEELING LUCKY. Enjoy.

So as I was saying, I'm trying to pay more attention to my senses. I take my time with chocolate now too. Also, I've begun to... ah, well let's see. What else do I do? I know I do other stuff now. I eat choc-- no, already mentioned that chocolate thing. Well, there was this time that this girl and I-- no, that's not appropriate. Damn it, I thought there was more stuff. This is, well, this is slightly embarrassing now. I knew I wanted to lead with the chocolate example, but now that I'm here I just feel a need to keep typing thinking that a new idea would come to mind and clearly that's not happening so at this point I should probably change the subject in hopes that no one has noticed that my grammar punctuation and aversion to run-on sentences have regressed slightly and suddenly this more of a question of stamina than anything else and a contest that no one else besides me is playing called "Who Can Keep Typing Without Stopping Never Stop You Sonofabitch Never Fucking Stop" that tests nothing other than the apparent diarrhea of my brain and oh god someone please give me a reason to end this sentence with something interesting and surprising and entertaining and--

(The phone rings. I need to take this. A friend just invited me to North Carolina to see The Rolling Stones. Perfect, that'll do.)

So maybe all of that stuff I said before is merely a bad excuse to eat more chocolate. Especially dark chocolate.

[Moving on] Aside from justifying my own gluttony, I've found a great way to decompress on those days when I can escape from work at a decent time. Reading the newspaper on the roof of my building has really become one of the best parts of my day (at least on weekdays that don't rhyme with Fursday or Thriday). And while we're all going to ignore what that says about the remainder of my normal activities, it has become a nice unspoken pleasure. Hot girls in bikinis don't really hurt the situation either. But may I say something to these ladies for a moment? YOU CAN'T GET TAN WHEN THE SUN IS BELOW THE HORIZON! WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU DOING UP HERE?? HOW DID YOUR PARENTS NOT EAT YOU WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG?

When I think to do it, I bring my camera up there too, in hopes that the smog that collects in pollution-riddled wasteland called Jersey (named after small African bugs that eat garbage and human feces for survival-- look it up, I know you won't) can refract the low-angled sunlight in such a way as to color the sky for a pretty kick-ass sunset.

Fortunately, tonight was pretty decent:

Amber Dusk

Looking West

Too Close for Comfort

On Friday night, there was a shooting across the street from my building. Turns out some rappers and magazine execs were involved. Amazingly, no one actually died, even though the main "target" (if you can call someone that) was shot in the head. The guy's in critical condition.

From the way some of the witnesses told it to me, there should be at least one guy dead right now.

I'm not really sure how to feel about this. I guess in a city, things like this happen. In a big city, it happens even more.

When I got to the scene around 2:30am, the whole block was saturated with ambulances and squad cars. Police were searching up and down the block with flashlights looking for who knows what-- blood, weapons, bullet casings? Apparently two guys were even chased down the street before they were apprehended, and perhaps shot in the extremities to slow or stop them. When I showed up, the street was illuminated with flashing lights, casting an alternating blue or red glows onto the surrounding buildings. People who sleep with their blinds open were probably in for a real show if they were light sleepers.

By the time the sun came up, you'd have never known anything had happened. The yellow police tape had been cut down. Joggers swiftly strode along the sidewalks. The bar where the incident began was full the very next night. Young 20-somethings strolled up and down the street wearing J.Crew button downs, halter-tops, and expensive jeans, looking for the next party at which to look fabulous and drink too much expensive vodka that's been ruined by a Red Bull. Unwitting, attractive, white girls stood idly on the sidewalk chatting on their Motorola Razrs exactly where a young black man of a similar age was nearly murdered by a bullet lodged in his brain not 24 hours earlier.

For all I know, the bullet's still in his brain.

In a city this big, it's impossible to dwell on this. You can run though a "what-if" scenario for every person in this city, and still not be satisfied. What if I had been lazy and decided to just grab a beer across the street at the bar where the fight began? Hell, even a busboy was hit with 3 bullets!

What if I had decided to walk home on the north side of the street instead of the south side? And what if I had left my party 30 minutes earlier? What if a bullet managed to miss its intended mark and made its way down the sidewalk to other pedestrians? It becomes absurd.

Living in a city this big, if you're looking 5 minutes back, you're 10 minutes behind schedule.

So in spite of the London bombings, you have to ignore the what-ifs. Instead, you pack your bag, jump down to the subway and hope the random bag checks aren't going to inconvenience you long enough to miss the next train, and render you too late to read CNN.com at work before your boss shows up. That's about as much control as you have so what does worrying do?

Read the Metro section of The NY Times. New Yorkers know that an attack in this city isn't of question of "if". It's "when". And yet most people can't or won't change their behavior. It's too overwhelming. Can you blame them?

It's nearly impossible to predict where the next bomb will go off, or even when the next shooting is gonna go down. So what can I do? This weekend, I'm going to put on my J.Crew button down shirt and jeans, grab my Motorola cell phone, and enjoy myself. Provided the worst injury I suffer is a liver no worse for the wear, I'll consider myself fortunate.

I just hope that busboy's okay.

Still Running in Slo-Mo

Two days later, and I'm still furious at Hasselhoff. If I see that rat bastard again, it's on.

Hear that, Hasselhoff?

I SAID HEAR THAT, HASSELHOFF!?!?

Toilet Paper & Roller Coasters

Do you ball or fold your toilet paper?

Have you ever given thought to that before? Will you now? At least the next time you start to take some off the roll?

It's a simple question, and yet it begins to expose the very fabric of your existence on this planet. There's no in-between on this. People do one or the other, and I've never heard of switchers. Never.

This also conforms to my other theory on people: Either you really like roller coasters, or you don't. There is a very hard split among the populace. Even as you read this, you know exactly where you fall.

To clarify, this is not a question about whether you ever ride a roller coaster. This question is attitudinal, not behavioral. What I'm discussing is whether you really enjoy it, or really don't. One test is to ask yourself, "When the cars slow down as they approach the loading cabin for the coaster, am I relieved that it's over, or severely diappointed?" Again, hard split.

Few things in this world are as black and white as these two subjects. There's really no gray. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. And is probably a communist.

And in case you were wondering, I fold, and I love roller coasters. So, ah....now you know.

Running in Slo-Mo with No Shirt On

Location: Bloomingdales, Men's sunglasses department
Time: 2:05pm
Accomplices: Matt & Davey
Situation: David Hasselhoff, who looks really gay since he's been dying his hair a light brown, walked by me and bumped my shoulder as he passed. Never apologized. Big mistake, Hasselhoff. Big. Mistake.

I don't know what I'm gonna do. Here you are, 6'5" of tanned, 53-year-old meat who is so masculine that your CD's have gone #1 fifteen times in Germany (Who the hell goes #1 in Germany?? Kernkraft?). And here's me...ah...pissed because you bumped into me.

I'd say my odds are pretty good, my friend. Prit-tay, prit-tay, prit-tay good. I mean, if you didn't have the most awesome first name ever, I would have just ended you on the spot. But you bought yourself some time with that. Well played, Knight Rider. You're smart.

Anyway, watch your back, lifeguard. That's right, I'm looking right at you, big daddy. Mark this: you'll rue the day you crossed me. Or at least, you'll feel slightly remorseful. I hope.

I'm always ready, I won't let you out of my siiiiight (I'llllllll be reaaaaady..... I'llllll be reaaaady)

Oh, and if you see Brande Roderick, can you tell her I say "hi"? Thank you David.

Books No One Wants to Read

"...Moving from cashing in on fictional kidnappings, to cashing in on real ones, there's Ashley Smith. She's the woman who's heroism consisted of not dying when taken hostage by Altanta courthouse shooter, Brian Nichols.

"Her upcoming book will tell the story of how she's been inspired by Christian best-seller 'The Purpose Driven Life.'

"So... she's getting paid to write a book...about how she read another book?!?! That's not a book!

IT'S A BOOK REPORT!!

"Why don't I just shop around my manuscript about how much I enjoyed 'Where the Red Fern Grows'???"

-Lewis Black, BACK IN BLACK on The Daily Show

Actually Famous

Allow me to begin this appropriately: Brett Pearlman is the man.

I use the power of this blog very rarely, but when you're responsible for taking me to my very first movie premiere, then hell, you're getting a damn Hot97-style shout-out.

I just got home from the New York premiere of The Island, and let me say that this is a hell of a film. It's everything you'd expect from Michael Bay. He's the guy who did both Bad Boys films, The Rock, Armageddon, and Pearl Harbor. And The Island doesn't disappoint. Did I say "ridiculous"? Cuz it was ridiculous.

The night begins as expected: speeding through 30 blocks of traffic in 5 minutes to make it to the theater on time. God bless whoever programmed the traffic lights last night; it was scary how perfectly they changed. Okay, this isn't interesting at all.

Upon arriving at the theater, we walked down the red carpet, past the paparazzi, and enjoyed every minute of it. Quite an experience. We were at the Ziegfield Theater, and the most noticable part of the premiere experience is that when the movie begins, it simply begins. No trailers, no dancing popcorn. It's just-- lights down, movie starts. That alone is cool. It's also incredible how interactive the audience gets -- constant cheers and applause when anything big happens.

But then the movie ends, and on to Roseland Ballroom we go for the after-party. The whole place was done up like the movie. They've got models of adult-size human embryos surrounding the entrance and hall as you walk in, all of the waiters are wearing costumes from the movie, etc-- it's incredibly overwhelming. I even got to briefly chat with Steve Buchemi and Sean Bean (006 in the James Bond flick, GoldenEye). Both were enormously gracious, but while Buscemi appeared to be moving around constantly, Sean Bean actually appeared to want to chat. I even made him laugh when his date began to sniff the mashed potatoes at the buffet and I made a face at him to say "What in the world is she doing??" He actually laughed out loud. Needless to say, Sean Bean is my new favorite actor.

Meanwhile, Buscemi was drunk off his ass.

It's all so remarkably silly. Wanna stand next to Michael Clarke Duncan, just to see how big he really is? Sure. Steal the sign on Sean Bean's table, just cuz it's funny? Go ahead.

But where was Scarlett Johansson??? I know she came to the party, but we couldn't find her! And that almost ruined my night. Almost. Granted, it would have been the perfect beginning to a story of how we met, locked eyes, fell instantly in love, and lived happily ever after... but alas, no. Did I mention how drunk Steve Buscemi was? Did I mention how cool Djimon Hounsou was? Did I mention how badly I needed to pee? All true.

Now that you have my immediate reaction, I need to go to bed. But what a hell of a night, and I just needed to get that out. It's so easy to give in to the superficiality of it all (I'd be lying if I told you that most of the people weren't beautiful), but it's suprisingly easy to get caught up in it. After talking to Buscemi, I couldn't NOT smile, clink glasses with Brett, and acknowledge a mission accomplished. And for those who know me, I can't begin to explain how pissed I am that I didn't bring a camera. This entry would have been a whole lot more interesting with pics of me with Michael Clarke Duncan, Michael Bay, Steve Buscemi, Sean Bean, and some gigantic Italian guy that I definitely recognize from something but couldn't place at all.

Well, I'm giddy like a schoolgirl. I better cut this off now. Thanks for reading.

Oh, random things I forgot:

• Pauly Shore was there. Here's the weird part (though I guess just seeing him there is weird enough): When we walked into the theater lobby, there was only one celebrity being interviewed by the press. Pauly Shore.
• Two words: Open Bar
• Two more words: Mini Cheeseburgers...
• ...and cornbread
• Mickey Dolenz of "The Monkees" was there just hanging wearing a fedora

Almost Famous

What a day! I was out with the parents for dinner, and in the span of 30 minutes, I ran into two huge celebrities.

First, I dined next to Christine Ebersole. Yes, that Christine Ebersole.

After a celebrity sighting like that, I could barely walk! I just mean, wow. THE Christine Ebersole. Not only was she in Ghost Dad, My Girl 2, and Richie Rich, but she played the evil senator in Black Sheep. How can one woman be involved with so many classics??? It boggles the mind.

So like I said, I could barely walk. I managed to stumble about a block down the street, contemplating my existence and wondering if Christine Ebersole realizes how she's a semi-recognizable actress who gets that, "I think that person is famous, but I can't recall one thing she's ever done" look at restaurants. Who do I practically run over?

Mo Rocca.

I know, I know. How did I not go into sensory overload at that point? But I managed to keep it together long enough to say, "Hey you're Mo Rocca! You're the comedian who used to be funny on the Daily Show, and then was hired for Larry King Live during the Democratic and Republican conventions in 2004 and was about as amusing as syphilis." Well, except for the time he called the DNC an "Obamarama." That got a chuckle.

I admit it. That was harsh. In all fairness, he is funny on occasion and I'm just tired so I felt like ripping on the guy. In reality, I didn't say word one to him. But he does look fairly young (especially when he's wearing an old undershirt), so for the first couple of seconds I knew I recognized him, and considered whether we went to college together. So I made that "I recognize you but don't know your name so it's better we keep on walking" face and nodded my head, as if to say "What is up?" He looked at me and nodded back.

I was about to say hi, but quickly arrived at a startling realization: Mo Rocca is not my friend. Mo Rocca is Mo Rocca. So on I went, mildly surprised with how unexciting pseudo-celebrity encounters can really be.

A Few Bits of Random Crap

Coolest feat of strength I've ever seen.

Where the hell is this?

"You will soooo be glue soon!"

Hey kid, do you like muffins?

Perhaps you like to dance instead?

Finally, is this not the happiest music video ever?

Big ups to my brother for assisting in today's compilation.