Uh Oh.

I think my leftover pasta wants a piece of me.

And thanks everyone for letting me know what you thought about me putting together a book. I was blown away by the response! What I envision is a more tightly wrapped collection of what's here on the blog, plus 5 or 6 new stories. I've started doing the grunt work on it, so we'll see how long it takes me. Thanks again for all your votes of confidence.


OK, the hard part is done.

Now I just have to stuff it with something.

(ps - do me a favor and leave me a comment if you'd even consider buying this book. Maybe I can use it as leverage to get my foot in some unsuspecting agent's door. Stranger things have happened.)


Zuma Nesta Rock.

So Gwen Stephani named her new kid Zuma Nesta Rock. Why would you do that to a poor innocent child? Why? It's a boy, by the way -- not that you can actually tell by the name. Here is a list of things you could describe using this name that would make more sense:

1. It could be a beautiful backpacking destination. "Yes, we're hiking in Peru this summer. The view from Zuma Nesta Rock at sunset is dazzling this time of year."

2. Or maybe it's an alcoholic beverage. "What'll you have?" "A Zuma Nesta Rock, please." I think it's Zima mixed with Red Bull and tea over ice.

3. A new musical style. "Hey mon, play some Zuma Nesta Rock." It probably sounds like an odd combination of slash metal and reggae, played over African beats.

4. A geographical feature on the moon. "Zuma Nesta Rock can be found 20 kilometers northwest of the Sea of Tranquility."

One thing it's not the name of, and that's a baby boy. Plus it makes everyone think that the father is Dwayne Johnson. Silly rock stars. Here's the official explanation, if you're wondering.


Sundays With Sylvia: Volume VI

In 1933, prohibition was over. I'm not entirely sure Sylvia was pleased about that, although she does have a few exercises to counteract the fact that drinks were no longer relegated to hidden basements and underground speak-easys. In today's installment of SWS, Sylvia talks to you about your alcohol consumption habits. For the very fat or the very nervous, all alcoholic drinks are right out:

What? I've been in awkward social situations before, but not that awkward. In fact, I can honestly say that I've never had this be an issue for me. Perhaps I'm not being invited to the right parties.

Oh, wait:

And here I must pause to emphasize the need for a good editor. For instance, the above hyphenated word was probably not the best place for a page break.

If you've ever wondered about what causes your hangovers, Sylvia can tell you:

So in other words, drink on an empty stomach to avoid that hangover. I think I'll try that next time.

Also, it's clear that Sylvia doesn't give a shit if you puke on yourself and fall down the stairs, as long as you look fabulous while you do it:

In case you don't know much about human anatomy, Sylvia once more imparts her vast medical knowledge and explains the liver:

The Biggest Gland We Have

So remember boys and girls -- the liver is the thermometer of your personality.

Bitchy Liver, Bitchy Person. It's that simple.

And for those of you who can't seem to make the whole eating right and squeezing fat thing work for you -- get yourself some of Dotty Woofenpoof's cream.

And for those of you who DO indulge, here's an exercise to keep "Ole Man Liver" in fantastical shape:

I don't know about you all, but my liver is stirred up just reading that. And I'm not even going to talk about my drumhead-like hide, much less my shitload of extra personality. I'm like Oprah now, except not fat, black or female. Maybe I should have picked someone different for that example.

I'm including this last paragraph simply because it illustrates the horrible* wrath of Sylvia:

And on that note, it's time for bed. I don't think I'll be able to sleep with visions of Sylvia stretching fat girls out on the counter and giving them "the treatment," but I'm going to try.

And see that button down at the bottom of this post? Slap it like that fat that runs in your family. If it's not working, blame Diesel over at Mattress Police. I hear he's taking donations for baling wire and chewing gum.

I thank you, and Sylvia thanks you.

*yet oddly arousing


Random stuff.

Man, I can't believe an entire week has gone by already. Sometimes it seems like all I do is drive to work, work, drive home from work, eat, sleep and then do it all over again.

Before I write this week's "Sundays With Sylvia," I want to drop a few randoms on you. First, I have to tell you something I've discovered about myself.

I've discovered that when someone at work sends me an instant message because they require assistance from someone on our team, it's only because most of the other members of my team happen to be unavailable. I think I've figured out why that is.

Suppose you have a script that has been given the green light, and you've moved on to casting. If Matthew McConaughey, Christian Bale, Matt Damon, and the rest of the A-List stars have turned you down for the lead, one of your options might be to sigh heavily, mentally adjust your expectations for the film's gross receipts, and then go see if Christian Slater is out of money yet.

So, yeah. I'm Christian Slater.

I do have a few specialties, but when someone comes to me for assistance with an application or the server it resides on, I can virtually guarantee that it's either (a) before 7 am, (b) lunchtime, or (c) because everyone else is dead.

I think it might be time for me to give TV a shot.

Next on my list -- I saw this the other day:

WTF? How stupid do you have to be to actually need these directions? At some point were people using way too few napkins, and the napkin maker's cabal locked a bunch of napkinologists in an undisclosed, secure location and ordered them to get to the bottom of it? Did they then have a secret meeting in the napkin-cave and discuss ways to implement this brilliant plan to boost usage? I don't know.

I saw this and wondered about it, too:

It was on the bottle of dishwashing liquid. My main question is -- how do you know if it's working? I assume you'd just have to take their word for it, or have your own electron microscope.

Either way, I rest easier at night knowing that all my unseen food residue is being eliminated in both English and Spanish.

And speaking of food residue, this was in the foyer of my office building a while ago:

Yeah. It's a dental floss thingy, complete with meat chunk. Who drops crap like this? Probably the same people who leave their nail clippings on the table in the cafeteria. Luckily, I didn't get you a picture of that.

That's all I have for now. I'll be back a little later with Sylvia. That gives you lots of time to click that little HB button at the bottom of this post. You guys need to move me out of third place. It smells funny down here.

PS - Is it just me or does anyone else wonder why the hell Brian Williams wears so much eye makeup? He looks like a french whore half the time. Jesus.


Sundays With Sylvia: Volume V

I don't know if you guys are getting sick of hearing from Sylvia or not, but this edition of SWS marks the end of "No More Alibis" - as far as I'm concerned anyway. But don't worry, because there's plenty more Sylvia in the even funnier addendum book entitled, "Pull Yourself Together, Baby!"

Today we will go to Sylvia for the answer to that age-old question: WTF is up with my skin?

This is a little weird, and I would love for someone to try it and let me know if it works. I would try it myself, except, for reasons that will become obvious shortly, I cannot. Here's how Sylvia guarantees you beautiful skin. For your own sake, and the sake of those around you, I hope you are not lactose intolerant:

That's a lot of milk. As far as the rest goes, maybe it's because I'm a guy, but that seems like a lot of effort to me. I would probably go with the tomato juice. My reasoning is this: If it's just as effective, it would seem to involve a shitload less boiling, draining and slow fire-making. I especially like the way she just sort of...breezes past the substitution. It's like your mechanic telling you "If you can't get gas for your car, you can use liquified chicken fat. You want me to check your oil?" The whole menstrual thing sounds like voodoo to me and I am surprised that she doesn't require you to drink your grapefruit juice at midnight with the light of a full moon shining on your face, but I guess doing it when you have your period is enough to make it work.

She also says that you can tell something is missing in your diet by looking at your nails. If they are weak, or flaking, you aren't eating something you need. I'll give her that much, and even though I've never heard of gooseberries, the rest of the stuff sounds pretty wholesome and good for you. I was with her right up until the end. At the end, she made me gag a little:

Sour, clumpy milk and stale breadcrumbs?* I'm sorry, but adding a little brown sugar to that is NOT going to make it any more palatable. And to all the Scandinavians reading this, what the fuck? That's disgusting. It's like eating a bowl of baby vomit. If it's all the same to you, please keep the rest of your recipes to yourself, thank you very much.

Sylvia jumps around a little bit toward the end, and drops little nuggets of wisdom in the oddest places. In fact, right after she tells you how to keep your skin looking young, that must have kicked off a bout of wishful thinking, because she goes off into an exercise and diet plan for young girls. I'm glad to see the turkish towel makes another appearance:

If you child likes cold showers? Granted, I was a boy child, but at no time do I recall ever liking cold showers. She's big on the dancing, too. In fact, you parents with daughters need to pay close attention to the next bit, because it's vitally important:

At least she doesn't require them to dance in front of an open window, although I'm sure all the young boys in the neighborhood would be very appreciative.

And here we get to the meat of Sylvia's secret. It's not about drinking sour milk, and it's not about slapping off your fat or drinking grapefruit juice at midnight when you have your period.

Her secret is simple. Plastic Surgery!

So there you have it. Screw the exercise and the diet, just have it all fixed with the knife. That being said, it's very important to remember one thing: Don't have a quack. Also make sure your doctor doesn't work out of an alley behind a hotel that rents rooms by the hour. If his examination table is an old door resting on two garbage cans, you might want to check that AMA registry.

Last but not least - All you fat, sloppy, lazy chicks past 40 should be glad that Sylvia never went into politics, because you'd all be doing hard time right now:

So that's all Sylvia has for you this week. Go enjoy your sour milk and stale crumbs. And if you liked this post, hit the HB button at the bottom. Even if it's the only exercise you get all day, it helps me out, and it keeps me in gooseberries.

Hey! I turned a million today. Whoo hoo!

*clabbered milk doesn't actually sound horrible. Apparently the clabbering process only works with unpasteurized milk, but I'm still not eating it.


Bicycle Mary.

My wife just started a new job, and the husband-t0-be of one of the women she works with plays in a local band. I expected them to be a standard no-talent, upstate NY classic rock bar band, but much to my surprise, I really liked their stuff.

Think Gin-Blossoms meets Toad the Wet Sprocket meets Jellyfish and you'll have a good idea of their sound. Those are the influences I hear, anyway. I haven't had the opportunity to check them out in person yet, but I plan to. You can listen to their CD here, or visit their myspace page here.

Tell'em Johnny sent ya.

And actually, it occurred to me that since I'm pimping a band I don't even know, that I should also pimp a couple of my friends' bands. So if you get a chance, check them out as well: IKE and The Badlees.

Let me know what you think.