Best Kosher? Gone.
I will forever miss those fantastic bagel dogs and mini corn dogs. Now I'll probably live till I'm 95. What the hell am I supposed to do with those extra years? I should probably stop wasting my money on M.U.S.C.L.E. toys.
Goddamn the Rubashkin family. First they make me care how cows die. Now they interfere with my meat intake. What's next, I'm going to start eating more salad because I find out that beef isn't healthy? I should say not. This is America, not Holland. Stupid Dutch people.
Not that Pittsburgh's got great meat anyway. I'm from the Midwest, where cows are robust but easily duped into being killed and chopped into cutlets. I lived in Chicago, where it's a rite of passage to befriend a calf, raise it as part of your family, and then slaughter it and eat it raw. Because they're committed to the carnivorous lifestyle. And because if they want to catch up to Milwaukee in the percentage of morbidly obese adults, they'll have to suck down more Polish Sausage.
Even when I lived in Boston meat was decent. Romanian pastrami was made by the local butcher, who flew in tiny Romanian grandmas to properly spice the meat, and paid them in calls from their grandchildren and shelled pistachios.
But here, the meat sucks. And it sucked before the whole Agriprocessors embarrassment. And it will continue to suck until they admit that Pittsburgh is not, in fact, a mid-Atlantic city, whatever that means. It's a Midwest town, complete with a stagnant economy, declining population, and tons of fat, cigarette-smoking children. Revel in your middle America-ness! It will make everyone feel better. Maybe I'll even get some decent cold cuts soon.
A side note: I'm not sorry for the lack of postings recently. I have a real job, that requres actual brain power, so I can't make up the funny as often as you'd like. I am sorry, though for the lack of downright bizarre posting. There aren't enough weird people here, so I find my weirdness dissipating. It doesn't last all day anymore. So I'm working with a team of scientists to come up with some sort of solution until I sucker my whacko friends into moving here. I'll keep you posted on those results.
Also, the Bears suck in a completely uninteresting way.
Showing posts with label message from the management. Show all posts
Showing posts with label message from the management. Show all posts
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Is it...is it over?
24 hours from now I will be drunk. It will either be a wonderful, champagne-bath-style drunkenness, or a miserable "dammit 4 more years of white people" drunkenness. Either way, I love beer.
2 years! We've been reading about these two men for 24 months, 104 weeks. And it's only been a couple of months with Governor Yokel, but it's seemed like decades. I can't even handle Tina Fey's impression of her anymore, I want to smack both of them.
I'm not going to link to any of the recent articles. I'm not going to refer to time spent as a community organizer, or a POW. I'm not going to talk about reverends, or Alaskan secession, or plagiarizing British parliamentarians of the 1980's.
All I'm going to say is that you should vote tomorrow. But I'm not going to get all mushy and "hooray for the process!" like the fifteen e-mails I got today from people who are just trying to be up for democracy.
If you're going to vote for John McCain, curl up with your favorite Matlock rerun, and stay the fuck home.
Like I said before, I'm not rehashing the reasons you should vote for Obama. If you don't know them already, then you're either a hermit or opening up the newest KKK chapter in your area (franchising is a wonderful way to support your community, folks!). And if someone asks you who you voted for, it is not in fact private. Shouldn't you be proud of your vote? Shout it from the rooftops! Own it! If you're afraid of change or black people or someone who's smarter and more charismatic than you, just say so. Or if you hate old people and Vietnam veterans and soldiers in general, and think Jeremiah Wright was criticized just because he was speaking truth to power, then you should be proud of that, too.
Either way, vote for Barack Obama. You know you should.
Oh, and the Bears beat the Lions. Shocker. Even without the Neckbeard, and with the Sex Cannon leading the charge, it was still Matt Forte carrying us all home in his warm embrace. What a man.
Programming note: I wanted to liveblog tomorrow night, but it turns out I have friends and am going to watch the returns with them. I'll try to remember each sizzling hilarious detail of the evening, but as mentioned above I shall be trashed, so don't expect Shakespeare. But do expect random appearances by unicorns, Alan Greenspan, and a few former popes. Happy Election Day!
2 years! We've been reading about these two men for 24 months, 104 weeks. And it's only been a couple of months with Governor Yokel, but it's seemed like decades. I can't even handle Tina Fey's impression of her anymore, I want to smack both of them.
I'm not going to link to any of the recent articles. I'm not going to refer to time spent as a community organizer, or a POW. I'm not going to talk about reverends, or Alaskan secession, or plagiarizing British parliamentarians of the 1980's.
All I'm going to say is that you should vote tomorrow. But I'm not going to get all mushy and "hooray for the process!" like the fifteen e-mails I got today from people who are just trying to be up for democracy.
If you're going to vote for John McCain, curl up with your favorite Matlock rerun, and stay the fuck home.
Like I said before, I'm not rehashing the reasons you should vote for Obama. If you don't know them already, then you're either a hermit or opening up the newest KKK chapter in your area (franchising is a wonderful way to support your community, folks!). And if someone asks you who you voted for, it is not in fact private. Shouldn't you be proud of your vote? Shout it from the rooftops! Own it! If you're afraid of change or black people or someone who's smarter and more charismatic than you, just say so. Or if you hate old people and Vietnam veterans and soldiers in general, and think Jeremiah Wright was criticized just because he was speaking truth to power, then you should be proud of that, too.
Either way, vote for Barack Obama. You know you should.
Oh, and the Bears beat the Lions. Shocker. Even without the Neckbeard, and with the Sex Cannon leading the charge, it was still Matt Forte carrying us all home in his warm embrace. What a man.
Programming note: I wanted to liveblog tomorrow night, but it turns out I have friends and am going to watch the returns with them. I'll try to remember each sizzling hilarious detail of the evening, but as mentioned above I shall be trashed, so don't expect Shakespeare. But do expect random appearances by unicorns, Alan Greenspan, and a few former popes. Happy Election Day!
Friday, October 3, 2008
2 for the price of none - rejection, I knew ye only too well
You're such a wonderful audience, you're so great, I'm back for an encore today.
Let me say a few words about rejection. Personally and professionally I am intimately familiar with the word no. My interaction with the ladies before Wife was a multi-car pileup of unrequited adoration, a wonderfully varied story of friends and friends and friends and not a lot of heavy petting. And even when I did get the girl when I was starting out, it was always before they decided they liked bases 2-3 (4 being right out, as in the counting for the Holy Hand Grenade).
Later, I moved into the Friend Zone, where I established a truly magnificent estate, with rolling hills and endless vistas of really good friends with great smiles, heartbreaking eyes, and empty black hearts. Women, as a gender, have some serious creativity when they want to let you down easy. Or just let you down. Now they're all great stories -
"What the hell are you doing!" "
What if you have a really good friend that you want to be more than just a friend? Oh, that's sweet, you thought I was talking about you? Of course not, silly!"
"I know I said I'd go to the dinner with you, but I thought you were asking for a ride home. No, I'm not deaf. Why do you ask?"
ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
This is the part where Wife would come in and say "but you won in the end! Look, you've got me! And Child!" And all this is true. But for all the ladies who came before, you all sucked.
This wonderfully tragic trend continued into my professional life. Bizarre, convoluted scenarios played out around my job applications. Firms closed up shop, partner meetings were called for the first time in a firm's 50-year history, one firm swore they'd "have a final decision next week" for six months. For years I worked connections, networked, pressed flesh and put my game face on for crippling rejection after horrific blows to the ego.
Until yesterday.
Through a process of 12 - 12! - meetings, conversations with every one of my references, writing samples, and call after call from helpful connections, I got an offer for a job I really want. It's a community job, working for the Tribe in pursuit of "continuity," whatever that means. As for details, well, given the almost complete lack of filter I use on this site, certain things will have to remain a mystery, if only to protect myself and my organization. Suffice it to say that, just like when Wife gave in and decided to date me, this is well worth the wait, and the misery, and the stress, and the waiting, all the waiting.
As for all those other law firms and organizations? I happily wish you a year of venereal disease and flat tires on highways in the middle of traffic.
Let me say a few words about rejection. Personally and professionally I am intimately familiar with the word no. My interaction with the ladies before Wife was a multi-car pileup of unrequited adoration, a wonderfully varied story of friends and friends and friends and not a lot of heavy petting. And even when I did get the girl when I was starting out, it was always before they decided they liked bases 2-3 (4 being right out, as in the counting for the Holy Hand Grenade).
Later, I moved into the Friend Zone, where I established a truly magnificent estate, with rolling hills and endless vistas of really good friends with great smiles, heartbreaking eyes, and empty black hearts. Women, as a gender, have some serious creativity when they want to let you down easy. Or just let you down. Now they're all great stories -
"What the hell are you doing!" "
What if you have a really good friend that you want to be more than just a friend? Oh, that's sweet, you thought I was talking about you? Of course not, silly!"
"I know I said I'd go to the dinner with you, but I thought you were asking for a ride home. No, I'm not deaf. Why do you ask?"
ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
This is the part where Wife would come in and say "but you won in the end! Look, you've got me! And Child!" And all this is true. But for all the ladies who came before, you all sucked.
This wonderfully tragic trend continued into my professional life. Bizarre, convoluted scenarios played out around my job applications. Firms closed up shop, partner meetings were called for the first time in a firm's 50-year history, one firm swore they'd "have a final decision next week" for six months. For years I worked connections, networked, pressed flesh and put my game face on for crippling rejection after horrific blows to the ego.
Until yesterday.
Through a process of 12 - 12! - meetings, conversations with every one of my references, writing samples, and call after call from helpful connections, I got an offer for a job I really want. It's a community job, working for the Tribe in pursuit of "continuity," whatever that means. As for details, well, given the almost complete lack of filter I use on this site, certain things will have to remain a mystery, if only to protect myself and my organization. Suffice it to say that, just like when Wife gave in and decided to date me, this is well worth the wait, and the misery, and the stress, and the waiting, all the waiting.
As for all those other law firms and organizations? I happily wish you a year of venereal disease and flat tires on highways in the middle of traffic.
Monday, September 15, 2008
R.I.P. David Foster Wallace
On Saturday David Foster Wallace hung himself in his home.
He was one of my favorite writers, if only because he was so obviously more talented than I could ever hope to be. He was almost the polar opposite of Kafka or Isaac Babel, in his need to fully flesh out every aspect of his message, whether in an essay or a novel. Where their sentences are terse, with unfathomable depth, Wallace's are long, and struggle to convey every conceivable emotion and fact. The mystery in Wallace's writing is all on the page, if you've got the eyes to see it, and the mind to comprehend it.
Infinite Jest is an enormous, heavily-footnoted book. It has become the 21st century version of Ulysses - even if you've finished it, you didn't understand it. Not that anyone would believe you if you say you actually read the whole thing.
The lyricism in Wallace's writing is all mathematical and angular - his sentences don't so much flow off the page as march in robotic perfection. Despite that seeming lack of aenima his characters live and breathe, their words come naturally and true. Reading his stories makes your head crack open and leaves your brain and soul exposed, allowing you to pick through the mess and say to yourself, "wow, who knew I had all that inside me?"
His work is harrowing and beautiful and now there won't be any more.
He was one of my favorite writers, if only because he was so obviously more talented than I could ever hope to be. He was almost the polar opposite of Kafka or Isaac Babel, in his need to fully flesh out every aspect of his message, whether in an essay or a novel. Where their sentences are terse, with unfathomable depth, Wallace's are long, and struggle to convey every conceivable emotion and fact. The mystery in Wallace's writing is all on the page, if you've got the eyes to see it, and the mind to comprehend it.
Infinite Jest is an enormous, heavily-footnoted book. It has become the 21st century version of Ulysses - even if you've finished it, you didn't understand it. Not that anyone would believe you if you say you actually read the whole thing.
The lyricism in Wallace's writing is all mathematical and angular - his sentences don't so much flow off the page as march in robotic perfection. Despite that seeming lack of aenima his characters live and breathe, their words come naturally and true. Reading his stories makes your head crack open and leaves your brain and soul exposed, allowing you to pick through the mess and say to yourself, "wow, who knew I had all that inside me?"
His work is harrowing and beautiful and now there won't be any more.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Yes I am, and no, I have no idea
He was a great writer and all, but F. Scott Fitzgerald was a dick. Yeah, Zelda was mentally unbalanced when they met, but his behavior didn't help the situation. But give the man credit, he knew it. He said - and here I'm paraphrasing, if not wholly making it up - that in order to be great, a writer must be a bastard, selfish, and greedy. I don't know if that's the only way to do it, but of the many published writers I know (2? No, definitely at least 3) 14% are complete douchebags. So there's gotta be something to it, right?
Right now, in my e-possession, I have 40-odd stories in various stages of completion. I also have a large unwieldy, thing, codenamed "Olga," that at this point I am consciously avoiding. I also have a wife who is slowly going insane, as the weirdness of moving back in with her parents splits her brain in two. Then there is Child, who at 4 months doesn't need to demand my attention because he gets it anyway, being obviously the smartest, handsomest, and kindest soul ever to inhabit a onesie.
I need time for all that, plus keeping up with the politics thing, and the Jewness thing, and the experimenting with transvestism thing...there's a lot on my plate. So something has to go. And if you'll notice, there is one substantial portion of my focus, one particularly dear to at least two of my six (seven? Is it seven yet?) readers, that is missing. And that would be sports.
Starting today I am giving up my passionate devotion to all sports, except for football.
My first thought was equivocation: I could put this off a month, and wait to see how the Penguins do in their pursuit of the Stanley Cup, whether the Hornets can prove themselves to be a second generation Phoenix Suns, or whether the Celtics can give their fantastically non-clutch superstar Kevin Garnett the title he so achingly desires, or whether Lebron could really take a mediocre Cavs team, less impressive even than Jordan's Jordanaires, all the way to a championship. Then I thought of the Brewers, and all that young talent, and that it looked like maybe Ben Sheets would stick around for 200 innings, and they might give the Cardinals a run for their money, and that could take me all the way to August, when training camp starts for the NFL. Then I realized that this was the sort of thing I wanted to avoid if I was going to do this.
So. Since Friday I have not once logged on to ESPN.com, nor Kissing Suzy Kolber, nor Free Darko. I won't even link to those fantastic sources of information, for fear of getting sucked in once again. And I will continue not checking those websites - or any sports website - or watching games on TV, excepting, again, football, until one of two things occurs: either I publish a story in some obscure, online-only literary magazine with a readership of 12, who themselves were assigned to read it as a writing workshop experiment in awful internet writing, or I finish a draft of Olga.
To put the questions to the answers in the post's title: "Are you fucking serious?" and "Do you have any idea how long you think you can keep this up?"
I assume Brothers A and S will keep me updated somehow, and I am still getting ESPN the magazine, so it's not like I'm going to shack up in the cave next to Bin Laden. But no TrueHoop, no Deadspin, no WithLeather, no Sporting News. No NBA on TNT, no Versus, no ESPN. Don't think I'm not terrified. But it's either this or I get Wife another husband, and she's already had it with the one she's got, so she's not really inclined to get all Mormony.
As a last hurrah, though, here are some thoughts on the NBA playoffs and one or two on baseball, which, now that I don't live in Boston, I don't really have to care about.
- I hate his team, I hate his style, I hate his combover, but Greg Popovich is simply a great coach. He will do whatever it takes to win, even if it means taking the entire sport of basketball down into the Dungeon of Unwatchability, which is what we in the bizz like to call San Antonio. Tony Parker has gotten too good for a French guy married to Eva Longoria, and with all those titles there is no doubt that Tim Duncan is better than Kevin Garnett. This will bear out if they meet in the finals: Popovich will take Doc Rivers into the deep grasses and show him what it is to be a real coach of men.
- I don't know if you noticed, but Chris Paul? That guard on the Hornets (when did they leave Charlotte?) is pretty good. He can dribble, and he's got a bit of touch around the rim, and he can poke that ball away with those sticky fingers, and that 3-pointer looks near effortless, and he throws lobs like parabolic poetry, and his teeth are perfectly white and straight. I bet he's real good to his mama, too.
- Now that Barry Bonds is gone, and Julio Franco is retired, there's no reason to care about baseball. I can't even root for the Diamondbacks to keep up their hot streak because they're an expansion team, and have already won a championship, over the Yankees, no less. So baseball isn't such a loss.
- Oh, and Cedric Benson? Don't think there's not plenty of time between now and August for me to find you, and slice your Achilles tendons while you're not looking. The only compelling reason for me not to bother is that I don't have the time for Chicago to host a parade in my honor, and give me a key to the city.
Right now, in my e-possession, I have 40-odd stories in various stages of completion. I also have a large unwieldy, thing, codenamed "Olga," that at this point I am consciously avoiding. I also have a wife who is slowly going insane, as the weirdness of moving back in with her parents splits her brain in two. Then there is Child, who at 4 months doesn't need to demand my attention because he gets it anyway, being obviously the smartest, handsomest, and kindest soul ever to inhabit a onesie.
I need time for all that, plus keeping up with the politics thing, and the Jewness thing, and the experimenting with transvestism thing...there's a lot on my plate. So something has to go. And if you'll notice, there is one substantial portion of my focus, one particularly dear to at least two of my six (seven? Is it seven yet?) readers, that is missing. And that would be sports.
Starting today I am giving up my passionate devotion to all sports, except for football.
My first thought was equivocation: I could put this off a month, and wait to see how the Penguins do in their pursuit of the Stanley Cup, whether the Hornets can prove themselves to be a second generation Phoenix Suns, or whether the Celtics can give their fantastically non-clutch superstar Kevin Garnett the title he so achingly desires, or whether Lebron could really take a mediocre Cavs team, less impressive even than Jordan's Jordanaires, all the way to a championship. Then I thought of the Brewers, and all that young talent, and that it looked like maybe Ben Sheets would stick around for 200 innings, and they might give the Cardinals a run for their money, and that could take me all the way to August, when training camp starts for the NFL. Then I realized that this was the sort of thing I wanted to avoid if I was going to do this.
So. Since Friday I have not once logged on to ESPN.com, nor Kissing Suzy Kolber, nor Free Darko. I won't even link to those fantastic sources of information, for fear of getting sucked in once again. And I will continue not checking those websites - or any sports website - or watching games on TV, excepting, again, football, until one of two things occurs: either I publish a story in some obscure, online-only literary magazine with a readership of 12, who themselves were assigned to read it as a writing workshop experiment in awful internet writing, or I finish a draft of Olga.
To put the questions to the answers in the post's title: "Are you fucking serious?" and "Do you have any idea how long you think you can keep this up?"
I assume Brothers A and S will keep me updated somehow, and I am still getting ESPN the magazine, so it's not like I'm going to shack up in the cave next to Bin Laden. But no TrueHoop, no Deadspin, no WithLeather, no Sporting News. No NBA on TNT, no Versus, no ESPN. Don't think I'm not terrified. But it's either this or I get Wife another husband, and she's already had it with the one she's got, so she's not really inclined to get all Mormony.
As a last hurrah, though, here are some thoughts on the NBA playoffs and one or two on baseball, which, now that I don't live in Boston, I don't really have to care about.
- I hate his team, I hate his style, I hate his combover, but Greg Popovich is simply a great coach. He will do whatever it takes to win, even if it means taking the entire sport of basketball down into the Dungeon of Unwatchability, which is what we in the bizz like to call San Antonio. Tony Parker has gotten too good for a French guy married to Eva Longoria, and with all those titles there is no doubt that Tim Duncan is better than Kevin Garnett. This will bear out if they meet in the finals: Popovich will take Doc Rivers into the deep grasses and show him what it is to be a real coach of men.
- I don't know if you noticed, but Chris Paul? That guard on the Hornets (when did they leave Charlotte?) is pretty good. He can dribble, and he's got a bit of touch around the rim, and he can poke that ball away with those sticky fingers, and that 3-pointer looks near effortless, and he throws lobs like parabolic poetry, and his teeth are perfectly white and straight. I bet he's real good to his mama, too.
- Now that Barry Bonds is gone, and Julio Franco is retired, there's no reason to care about baseball. I can't even root for the Diamondbacks to keep up their hot streak because they're an expansion team, and have already won a championship, over the Yankees, no less. So baseball isn't such a loss.
- Oh, and Cedric Benson? Don't think there's not plenty of time between now and August for me to find you, and slice your Achilles tendons while you're not looking. The only compelling reason for me not to bother is that I don't have the time for Chicago to host a parade in my honor, and give me a key to the city.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Screw you guys, I'm taking my ball and going home
Here are some reasons why Boston blows...
1) Red Sox fans, drunk and sweating on the un-air-conditioned T.
2) The T, summer, fall, spring or winter, it always sucks.
3) A 3-bedroom house costs, literally, 14.8 billion dollars. Inflation's a bitch.
4) College students, and their rock music, and loose lifestyles.
5) The Charles River. I suppose I should have some allegiance to it, but screw that noise. It's inconveniently located, and smelly, and cold.
6) Frappes. It's a milkshake, you freaks! You are not French!
7) The accent. Not the accent itself, which I actually enjoy. I'm more aggravated by all the crappy imitations. For me, it's the original, or nothing. That's why I hate people who cover Britney Spears; no one else can do her justice.
8) Northeastern liberalism, Southern segregation. The city is like a Dalmatian: a black spot in a sea of white leftist guilt.
9) Somerville, little annoying brother to know-it-all Cambridge. "Ooh! Ooh! Cambridge, check it out! We hate Israel too! Look! Just because we don't have Harvard or MIT, we're still cool, right? Can we come hang out with you and the South End? We've got those cool girl jeans, and hoodies, and everything!"
10) Beacon Hill. Not much of a hill, really, is it. Pompous pricks.
11) Hey, we have inadequate public transportation, we fight parking garage construction because we like our city to be pretty, not functional...let's make it illegal to park on the street! Yeah! That way, we get to ticket cars for pretty much anything!
12) The Commons is actually, get this, a park. But don't call it that, because that would be what normal cities do.
12) I just...I just thought we had something. We had good times, right, Boston? Remember that one time, in the Commons? We had a bottle of wine, and watched the sunset, and talked about our feelings. Didn't you enjoy that? I just feel like, you know, we've been drifting apart. You never tell me what you're thinking about, or how your day is...maybe it's time we went our separate ways.
So... goodbye. The Fancy Pants are packing it in, and moving to another town. One with...other...things...for...people. So, yeah. Bye.
New updates to the Fancy Pants
You may have noticed some new changes here at the Fancy Pants...Flight...place. First, as to the whole reading thing: I put it up there to make me look smart. There. I'm not going to hide it.
Maybe I'll tell you about what I'm reading, maybe not. Maybe I'll do it book report style, with a special cover and everything, done up in crayon, or even PrintShop. Or maybe I'll do nothing, and you'll be left to wonder - did he enjoy Darkmans? What does he think of Pynchon's scatological brilliance? Or maybe you'll just think I'm a wannabe showoff who reads books I don't understand. But you know what? I'm OK with that. And that's how I suckered Wife into marriage, by conning her into thinking I'm all about words and whatnot. So how do you like that knowledge?
The other addition is the links to other web pages. The Fancy Pants seal of approval has been granted to these other sites, because I know they'll never make you feel bad about not having your own blog. Which, by the way, you should totally not feel bad. Blogging, aside from being both a ridiculously lame noun and an ugly, embarrassing verb, is a complete debasement of the English language, almost as bad as text messaging.
Other than this blog, and the ones on the side. Obviously. So enjoy them.
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