We should've gone to Dorsia; I could've gotten us a table

Confession time:

I think I might be a yuppie. Or, like, a Jewish yuppie. A Juppie? Yeah, sure.

You know the scenes in American Psycho where they're all talking about these ridiculous foods and restaurants? Dorsia? Barcadia? "Great sea urchin ceviche." See, I laugh at those scenes like you're supposed to. But secretly, I REALLY want to go to town on some sea urchin ceviche. The word "emulsion" gets me wet. "Black truffle reduction?" Shit, I'm 4/5ths already. Last night I had crispy shrimp tempura with soy mayonnaise and chives followed by a steamed branzino in ponzu sauce with scallions. Not too fancy, but you should've seen the presentation. And it was delicious.

I don't like the word "foodie." Everyone likes food. I prefer "Juppie snob." "Foodie" is just another one of those words we substitute in because we don't like the word "snob." Like "hipster" or "Democrat" or "Upper-middle class." We should just say fuck it and be like "hey, I'm a food snob." Or "hey, I'm an everything snob." What kind of bullshit is a "foodie"? I saw someone put that on their resume. Seriously. If you call yourself a foodie, guess what, you're not. Y ou're just someone who can afford nice restaurants. I'm one of these people, by the way, I just don't call myself a foodie. EVERYONE is a foodie. You think people would rather eat shitty food? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. We would all rather eat at Le Bernardin and The Palm every night. But we can't. So fuck you.



And pass the white truffle risotto with raspberry emulsion.

Ahh, Nostalgia...

DP's post reminded me that it did indeed snow last night. And then DP proceeded to talk about since he doesn't have to drive, how he loves the snow and wants to frolic about in it like a bawdy little rubblemuffin on Boxing Day. Well that's all well and good for him, but when I think of snow and driving, I think not only of a traumatic experience I had, but of a traumatic experience that was intentionally engineered by my father.

I was all of sixteen, still brandishing a learner's permit and all the adolescent swagger that comes with being able to drive a green minivan provided there is also a licensed driver over the age of 21 with you. So I was uh...not all that good at driving yet. So cut to a random weekend where it's snowing in Southeastern PA, and it's nighttime. I had just finished shoveling the driveway when my Dad informs me that I am going to drive him around the neighborhood for practice driving in snow. I appreciated this, as it was a pretty typical "Oh right, I have a father" moment that are exceedingly rare once you stop believing in Santa. So, as I am about to pile into the minivan I had been practicing on, my Dad stops me. "No, we're taking the Buick." The Buick is from 1984. The Buick is two years older than me. The Buick is Grey.

We drive around some empty parking lots, and I slowly get a feel for driving in snow. Basically, the lesson boils down to "Drive Slower". We're headed back home and I am the new king of rally car ice racing. My Dad asks me a question about something innocuous- school, the Wright Brothers, etc.- and waits for me to answer. I get halfway through my response when he shouts "HIT THE BRAKES! NOW!"

The car fishtails, swerves and spins ninety degrees into the other lane. We stop, and I'm taking a quick inventory of all the little children I'm sure I had killed with my Buick Regal Wrecking Ball. What will I say to their parents? How will I deal with seeing coffins so small? But instead, we're fine, on an empty road, while snow falls amiably onto the windshield. My Dad chuckles quietly "That's why I had you take the Buick. No anti-lock brakes, see what happens?"

I'm going to have so much fun messing with my kid.

My eye! I'm not supposed to get pudding in it!

From the window in my bedroom I can see the playground of the preschool next door (don't tell my parole officer, please. I CAN'T GO BACK THERE MAN! I'M TOO PRETTY FOR PRISON!). And it's all snow-covered and beautiful. Why when you're a kid do they make you stay indoors for recess at the exact times you want to be outside playing? When it's snowing? Awesome. When it's raining? Sweeeeet. But they make you stay inside. Is it really that much more dangerous to play outside in precipitation?

Since I don't have to drive, I still look at snow like a small child. Wheeeeee! It's snowing. And I stomp around in it. And frolick down the streets. It's quite disconcerting for passersby. All they see is an Amish leprechaun (seriously, the beard is getting out of control. I'm going to start going by the alias Brother Hezekiah McShanus) running around like a joyful toddler while the rest of the adult world screams to the heavens: "Damn you, white demon rain!" What did the snow ever do to you? Exactly. Enjoy it. Because before you know it, it'll be 110 degrees and you won't be able to walk outside without sweating like you're Viggo Mortensen in a bathouse.

Also, a nuts and bolts note: I changed the comment settings so you don't need a google account or anything to comment. So feel free to, y'know, comment. Add funny-ness. Or say hurtful things. Whatever.

Six More Weeks Of Seasonal Affective Disorder

Followed by sixty more years of seasonal affective disorder. Look at that smug, round little bastard. He decides the seasons for a month and a half of every year of our human lives. Look at those eyes. Do you see benevolence? Do you see goodwill toward men? No, I see a morbidly obese squirrel that literally weakens the foundation of humanity by burrowing tunnels under our feet. "Oh, but they have just as much right to be here as we do!" Correct, which is to say NONE AT ALL. "Oh but it might be Spring!" Oh, but it might be CERTAIN DEATH. We have given groundhogs every opportunity to destroy us, and so far they've just been building their underground army. Waiting. Fattening. You don't know what you don't know about groundhogs. I'm from Pennsylvania. I've seen them. They will run in front of your car just like other things. Except fatter. And more entitled. Do you think Groundhogs get together and dedicate 1/365th of their year to humans? You're damn right they don't. Join the resistance. Pave your lawn.

Maybe you're lactose intolerant?

Good morning.

Before we get to it today, I'd like to alert you all (and by "you all" I mean the 3 people reading this, two of whom are me and Canadian Tuxedo) of some great news.

My friend Doug is one of the co-proprietors of a jerky company called Slant Shack Jerky. As in beef jerky, not as in handjobs for sale. Anywho, many people scoffed at them when they said "we're college educated people, we're gonna make it in jerky!" For the record, I was not one of those people. I've been buying the jerky since the start. And it's delicious. But anyway, the point is, it's apparently starting to take off. NY Magazine online featured them here. So, check them out. As NY Mag put it:

"The burgeoning category even has a bespoke model, SlantShack Jerky out of Jersey City, whose “Build-a-Jerky” feature starts at $5, and allows online customers to select meat (supermarket top round or turkey), thickness, rub (like Jerk McGurk’s Wild RubDown), and glaze (Sesameshire, for one). The product sold out at its Greenpoint Food Market debut in two hours, and will make an encore appearance February 13."

Again, the website is http://www.slantshackjerky.com/.

Okay, now that that's over with, I have a completely unrelated topic to discuss: pooping.

I poop a lot. This is something that I have been alerted to by my brother, my girlfriend and pretty much anyone who knows me well. I'm not talking about volume of fecal matter per bathroom visit (I have no way of comparing this with other people's) , I'm talking about trips to the porcelain throne per day. I am told that most people go once, maybe twice per day. I had friends in high school who only went once every three days or so. I take at least 4 shits a day. Sometimes more. It's not unusual for me to go to the can 6, 7, 8 times a day.

But what I'm getting at is this. No one seems to be content with the amount they poo per day. Some people pray that they can pinch a single loaf in the morning after a strong cup of coffee. Me? I had to give up caffeine because a cup of coffee in the morning means crapping 5 times before lunch. Shit, writing this is making me need to drop some weight. Anyway, I'm just saying that I wish I'd pooped less and most people wish they pooped more. It's a feast or famine kind of thing. Kind of a choose the form of Gozer the Destructor, kind of thing.

In retrospect, this post really shouldn't have gone with the jerky post.

Oh, hey, how was your weekend?

Did you know that 70% of workers will ask one of their coworkers how their weekend was today?

Did you know that 100% of the people who are asked will not feel like answering?

Did you know that 50% of responses will be "oh you know, pretty low-key" and the other 50% will be "I had a nice weekend, but I just don't feel rested at all!"

Did you know that the 70% of people who ask how your weekend was also make up about 100% of people who need to mention that it is Monday every Monday. "Oh goodness, another Monday!" Yes. Every seven days. But these people will also update you that it is "Humpday" and "Friday". Which means that Tuesday and Thursday are really your only two days of relief from insufferable coworkers.

Happy Monday. How was your weekend?

Day 1: The Awakening

Huh? What? Who's there? Uggghh... Alright, alright, take it easy. I'm getting up. Yeesh.

Ugh. *sniff* Okay. Okay. Where was I? Oh right, getting this thing going.

Pass me that bottle, would you?

Ahhhhh. That's better.

What? It's 9:30 in the morning?

....

No, you're an alcoholic!

Man, my balls itch.

Get used to it people, we got 99 more of these to go.

A Hazy Shade of Winter...through May 12th

Yep, there are two people who will post on this blog. We are like Simon and Garfunkel. Except talentless and twice as vain. We met as office temps, and we now love separately as free men. We are now friends with health benefits.

When I worked with DesperatePickle (*shudder*) we were constantly having to explain to other people that we were temporary. And since nothing really ever changes, the idea is that this blog is temporary. 100 days of uncompromising postage. We must each log in and post something, anything, for 100 days. I can only imagine how many abandoned blogs exist that have 9 days of 4-times a day posting followed bleakly by a sporadic "hey i haven't posted in a while lolz!" post 6 weeks later. Those untended wordgardens that served as blogs now haunt cyberspace like ghost ships, waiting for an unsuspecting salvage crew to stumble across them and be subsequently devoured by the posessed remains of long-dormant posts. Will you be our salvage crew? Will you rescue us? Do you like science fiction references? See you February 1st.

100 Days of Ineptitude

So here we go. A little while ago, while drinking bourbon out of the bottle (I believe in Central Park) we got this idea to try to write a blog. The problem is we don't have any important opinions nor did we want to just write about one subject. There are too many good football/politics/entertainment blogs out there already. Plus there are so many people who I know who I think of as "successful" just because they write a well-read goddamn blog. How hard could it be? So we thought we would just make the promise that for the next hundred days we would post SOMETHING every day. We'll try to make it funny most of the time. But maybe not all of the time. Chances are if you're reading this, you already know at least one of us because, let's be honest, who the fuck is googling "Centaur Sleepover?" Anyway, hopefully this will be fun or, at the very least, a very spectacular failure. If you have anything to send us, please go ahead and email centaursleepover@gmail.com. Pornography is especially appreciated, particularly if it involves half-men, half-horses. Which is distinctly different from man-on-horse or horse-on-man action. I swear, if anyone sends me video of this guy, I'm gonna be PISSED.

Seriously.

Stop sending me them.

I'm covered in my own vomit already.

Anyway, starting on February 1st, we will officially begin the one hundred days of posting crap that no one will read. Welcome. And enjoy. Or don't. Whatever, man.