Also, more insufferable: those parents who brag that their children don’t watch TV? Or those children 13-20 years from now when they’re trying to make friends and they say, “Sorry, I didn’t grow up with a TV in my house”?
I finally, mercifully, finished all five books in the Game of Thrones series. I bought all five in one bundle for my Kindle, so that when I started, it said that I had about 80 hours left of reading. Here are a few NON-SPOILER takeaways:
1) The start of the fourth season of the TV show is going to be awesome. Wow.
2) I could not care less about Bran’s story (which, by the way, got pretty weird). I mean, Brandon Stark? More like borophyll? AMIRITE?
3) Speaking of shit getting weird, what the eff with Arya?
4) I am only vaguely, possibly 60% aware of everything that went down from about the middle of book four until the end of book five. Once you get past the 150 main character mark, it gets a little hard to follow. This is especially true with all the Daenerys stuff.
That’s all I can really get into without giving anything away. One thing I will say is that I would not recommend reading the books. I don’t read as much as I used to and it took me forever to get through these (provided, they are almost 5000 pages altogether). My main issue is that the show does a good job of distilling the most important characters and their storylines, whereas - I’m not joking - there are about 150 main characters by the end of book five; as a writer, the thing I am most amazed by is how the eff did this author name all these people? (I usually look on Facebook for character names.)
This is nice; I’m honored to be included on a list like this. And to this day, every time I see this cover, I really wish I’d gotten the author photo with the custom-made replica suit for the back of the book. Maybe for the reprints.
Very excited that tomorrow evening is the first installment of the Gentlemen’s Listening Series. You see, a buddy who recently got married decided to use some wedding cash not to repay wedding costs but to buy an incredibly expensive and awesome stereo system – never mind the fact that he lives in a 300 sq ft apartment in Manhattan and he has to keep one of the subwoofers on 0.5 (even 1 is too loud). A few weeks ago, I went over his place to listen to the stereo and my god, it was worth every penny. It’s something I hadn’t really considered before, but nowadays 99.9% of the music I listen to is via my headphones, on my laptop or in a public place like a bar or restaurant. Long gone are the days when our parents would sit in the basement, listening to records start to finish on a stereo system, getting high.
Long gone – UNTIL NOW. In our inaugural Gentlemen’s Listening Series, we’ve picked an album that we’ll listen to start to finish, while we drink beers and talk about what it means to us – sort of like a book club for dudes who like AC/DC and talk about how they used to get laid a lot before they got married or settled down (author’s note: none of the dudes actually got laid a lot). Because this is our debut GLS, we considered primarily debut albums and decided upon Led Zeppelin I. This is for several reasons:
1) It’s Led Zeppelin. There is no more dude rock band.
2) Zeppelin’s sound would change over time, but they sound 90% fully formed Led Zeppelin in Led Zeppelin I. Compare this to, say, the Beatles, who went from “I Want to Hold Your Hand” to “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” in four years.
3) There are not many stronger first songs on debut albums than “Good Times Bad Times.” That doesn’t say “We’ve arrived” – it says, “We’re here, we’re going to rock your balls off, and then we’re going to eff your girlfriend.”
I will let you know how it goes but I am pretty sure it’s ok for me to start talking applications for Gentlemen’s Listening Series clubs in other cities across the world. Please inquire within (but only if you know how to rock).
This is probably my favorite thing Buzzfeed has ever done and I hope it helps to explain to my relatives in South Philly why I’ve been living in NYC for nine years and still rent.
(Seriously: I am probably the world’s best at looking at NYC apartments on Trulia and saying things like “Are you serious?” and “You have GOT to be kidding me.” My favorite was the dilapidated rowhome around the corner from my current apartment in our not-cool-at-all neighborhood in Brooklyn. It was 1500 sq ft, needed to be completely redone, and the second full bath was in the kitchen. All this for the low, low price of $700,000. STEAL, they said.)
I’m a little worried. Tomorrow, my copy of FIFA 14 arrives (I’ve been tracking it all day via Amazon; it left New Castle, DE at 9:45am). This, just as my wife has discovered season two of Scandal on Netflix, reducing her more or less to junkie status, fixed in front of the TV and unable to be distracted.
So if you’re free during the evenings this week and want to spend time caring for an adorable child, please let me know. Otherwise, I can probably throw some potato chips and bottled water into his playpen while FIFA is loading or saving.
Eleven years ago this weekend, my buddies and I flew out of Newark airport en route to Munich, where we spent eleven days and ten nights at Oktoberfest. It was at once the best and the dumbest thing we’d ever done. We made our way through liter after liter and beer tent after beer tent, armed with only two German words: bitte (which fortunately means pretty much everything) and Scheiße Straße (which means “Shit Street”).
If I’m lucky enough to write a third book, that trip is going to be a very difficult chapter to write. [insert awkward smile/gritted teeth emoji here] Godspeed to everyone at Oktoberfest this year.
(Speaking of, I’m handing in the proposal for book three soon. If you haven’t bought book two - 236 POUNDS OF CLASS VICE PRESIDENT - yet, please consider doing so before I hand in this proposal. This way, the publisher can say, “Looks like 236 had a big spike in sales recently, all the way up to four copies sold this week, representing a nice leap from the usual -2 per week.” Thank you.)
Had fries with two meals and a breakfast of eggs, sausage and a PB and banana smoothie today (not to mention a few pints of Guinness during the game) and I’m getting three suits fitted tomorrow. They are going to cut a neck hole in a tent, throw it over my head, and kick me out the door.
I’ve basically given up on fantasy football this year – and I haven’t enjoyed actually watching football this much in years. I used to sit in my living room with my laptop open, checking stats for my three or four teams, rooting both for and against almost every player in the NFL, who I either owned or was playing against in any one of my leagues. I’d see lines scroll across the bottom of my TV screen like “WR John McScrub 4 catches, 94 yards, 1 TD” and I’d race to pick up a guy who, 30 minutes prior, I’d never even heard of. I’d pore over Twitter to see if my TE2, listed as doubtful but who fully practiced all week, was going to play or not.
This year, nothing. I have my teams, and I set my lineups, but that’s it. I don’t know how my players are scoring during the games and I frankly can’t even tell you who they are. No open laptop with stat tracker, no rushing to pick up various bums having big days, no fretting over existential questions like, “Well, I have MJD in my biggest money league, so I want him to do well, but I’m playing against him in another league, where he’s owned by a guy who I really want to beat.” I’m so out of fantasy football and its ilk this year that I was eliminated from a survivor pool in week two because I forgot to make a pick. In week two. That’s the second week of the season.
I just sit there, watch football, and enjoy it. And it is glorious.
And I encourage you to join me. Fantasy football jumped the shark about five years ago. Put away the Yahoo or the ESPN or whatever and just watch the goddamn games. I promise you’ll have your most enjoyable Sunday afternoon in years.
[PS – I still love fantasy baseball and fantasy basketball, as they have a less frenetic pace and, because they have significant samples sizes, they are not based almost entirely on luck. I’ve said many times that when it comes to fantasy, baseball and basketball are science, and for football, you might roll some dice after your draft to determine the winner. Anyone who attempts to divine statistical trends from a 16 game schedule wherein positions are so dependent on each other – e.g., a WR needs a QB who can get him the ball; if an offensive line loses its star LT, the whole offense is in trouble; a defense that gets blown out early alters the game plan such that an RB might not carry more than three times in the second half – is basically more or less a Gypsy trying to read your palm.]
To the gentleman who was blasting that dreadful “Ack-ack-ack-ack” Billy Joel song from his 1980’s beat-up sedan on the streets of Brooklyn at 8am as I walked to work this morning: Happy Friday to you too, sir. Happy Friday to us all.
I feel like as I get older, I get way more disgusted and self-righteous. For example, I’m disgusted by everyone making a big deal about Miley Cyrus without realizing that THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT SHE AND HER PEOPLE INTENDED. Good job, fucking sheep. Post about and talk about how horrible it is – you might as well just send money directly to Miley Cyrus Enterprises. This is exactly what happened when Rolling Stone put Tsarnaev on the cover, people flipped out, and, wouldn’t you know it, it was later revealed that Rolling Stone broke sales and web traffic records with that issue. So, way to be. Your “outrage” is making the target of your outrage richer. Again, kudos. In the PR meeting for my next book (should I write one), I’m going to say, “Do you guys think I should go out and commit a horrific crime? Or do a TV or radio appearance where I go on a tirade against [insert minority group here]? Bet we’ll move a lot of units if I do.”
I’ve made this offer before, but with each passing day it gets more sincere: looking for potential (let’s just say it) cult members. I know, I know – “cult” is a loaded word. But I’m thinking we go into the woods, get a big plot of land, build a little commune, and just hang out, read, talk, eat, drink, listen to and play music, dance and eff all day long. No internet. No TV. No fashion. Though I’ll miss them, no sports. The only modern conveniences we will allow ourselves will be related to medicine and perhaps fancy cheeses. Of course, I will be the unquestioned leader, but I will be a benevolent leader, sort of a cross between King Robert from Game of Thrones, a significantly less sexy JFK, and, naturally, Meatloaf.
If interested, please DM me. Serious inquiries only.
I was sitting on the couch with my six month old son in the crook of my arm, watching baseball. All the lights were off, because I was trying to get him to sleep, and I was rubbing his belly, as he was cranky because he got shots today.
We were having some nice quiet time when, slowly, he took my hand off his belly and placed it on his diaper, above his bird. He didn’t turn away from the TV or make any other movement or noise. Just suavely put my hand on his crotch.
This morning a very, very attractive young woman got on the train. She was maybe 22, dressed up for work, long blonde hair, totes bodied up (I mean, real, real bodied up). I had my head buried in the interminable Game of Thrones series on my Kindle, but when she stepped on, I did a double-take and gave her the quick check-out. But then something magical happened: just as I did the double-take to check out the girl, I noticed a black guy and a Hispanic guy standing across from me (the girl was between us) giving her the same quick check-out. Our eyes briefly met, and the three of us – me, a fat white dude, and two middle-aged men, one black and one Hispanic – shared a moment, and we all gave each other that semi-shrug, raised-eyebrow look, as if to say, “Pretty, pretty good way to start the day.”
Let this be a lesson: nothing can bridge racial and age divides like really attractive women.
Related: the girl in question had the new-to-NYC/first-day-of-work/definitely-not-from-here vibe to her. And she got on the train with, I presume, her boyfriend, who had the same vibe to him. But if she was a sexpot, he looked like a high school student: he was about 6’5”, gangly and pimply, with a suit that was not tailored and fit him poorly. I could only think, “You poor, poor son of a bitch. You’d better enjoy it. In about four months, you’ll be masturbating to the memory of her while her new 30-something banker boyfriend shows her off at all the cool rooftop bars of the city. Welcome to New York City, mother fucker. This city is filled with sharks, and you’s about to get eaten.”
Today is my birthday. I could not have made it to 34 without you. For a present, I want only one small thing from you: $14,000. Per follower. That’s it. I’m a simple man. Just $14,000.
However, if you do not have $14,000 but instead have a few bucks lying around, maybe you can get around to buying one or the other or both of my books, please? They are reasonably priced and enjoyable. EIWWM is first chronologically, but 236 is the better read (not just me saying that – look at the reviews). You don’t have to read them in order, because this is not Game of Thrones that we’re talking about over here.
Speaking of reviews, if you’ve already bought and read both books, how about taking approximately 8 seconds to review them on Amazon or Goodreads or the like? A four or five star review (but let’s be honest – five) would certainly put a smile on my face, and maybe encourage someone who is not a regular Tumblr reader or my FB friend to buy a book. More people buy the book = more books I get to write. And that’s not a bad thing. Except, you know, if you’re a character in these books. Especially if you’re a character in the planned book #3. Because, that one…look out.
Either the $14,000, the purchase of the book(s), or the review of the book(s) would make an excellent birthday gift for someone who is spending his 34th birthday working from his mom’s dining room table in Philly, because his wife is in San Fran on a business trip and he is too afraid/tired to take care of his five month old son alone for four straight days and nights. Maybe, if I can bear the heat, I will go to a local bar and have a beer alone, but I doubt that, because my son and I slept maybe four hours last night. So that’s what I’m looking at. At least there’ll be a lot of Wawa and Tastykakes over the next couple of days.
Anyway, thank you for giving me any of the birthday gifts above and for any/all birthday wishes. Again, I could not have made it to 34 without you. Here’s to another year of baby pictures, book begging, and making a big deal out of generally unimportant stuff!
This evening after work, I’m driving to Philly with my son, just the two of us. Because he’ll be alone in the back and I’ll be driving, I got one of those baby “in-sight” mirrors to put in the backseat so I can see him and talk to him during the ride. The mirror included several attachment options to fit “almost every” vehicle. You know what the attachment options do not fit? A 1996 Lincoln TownCar.
So last night after work, I found myself in my suit crawling around the backseat of the car, which was about 103 degrees, fastening this mirror into/onto my backseat via a complicated web of duct tape.
My wife is always like, “We need a new car. We drive an almost 20 year old black Lincoln TownCar and it’s ridiculous.” And I always point out to her that the car has only 65K miles, Lincoln TownCars are known to be safe cars, and new cars cost money, money which I’d rather save or spend on luxury things like trips and nights out. But yesterday, as I was sweating my balls off, cursing, my body contorted in that backseat, ripping duct tape apart with my teeth and strategically and ghettoly putting it all over the backseat of my car, I thought, “You know, maybe it’s time to get a new car.”
(I can’t wait until the mirror falls off 10 minutes into the ride when I’m stuck in traffic on Staten Island and then Patrick proceeds to scream his face off for the rest of the trip.)
Guys, we need more feet by the pool/ocean/beautiful view pics from this weekend. Please.
(PS - you should first ask yourself, “Do I have gross ass feet?” before posting those. In many cases, it’s like someone going up to a Monet painting and smearing shit in the bottom-center of it. Gross. Put those dogs in some sandals, y’all.)
Today, we got a 15000 BTU air conditioner installed in our living room. I was told that 10000 BTU would do it. But no, I said. I am American, and in America, we conspicuously over-consume, to the detriment of the environment, of our bank accounts, and of ourselves. And guess what? The giant air conditioner, in the span of only two hours, has changed my life. I was right. Just like America always is.
On this Independence Day, I implore you to live as I have - as a gross, selfish American. God bless our country and, more importantly, ourselves.