simple and right

Look, there's not that much going on right now, so I am going to keep talking about HIATUS and the moustache project and that type of crap. You may not really care about that stuff, you may be all, Enough Already, but I won't stop. All I can say is, when you see this moustache, you are going to have a hard time not falling in love with it. In love with me. In love with us.

So feel free to click elsewhere for awhile if you aren't interested. This is what we're about right now.

So my HIATUS is going to (finally) officially start on Tuesday. I guess you could say it starts today but I am working a few hours on Tuesday (and not getting paid, long story). How did that happen? Where did HIATUS go? Where have all the cowboys gone? My HIATUS is now less than a three week deal (although I did have two weeks in Cali that were pretty spectacular, have to count those). The reduction in time off has forced me to scale back my little boy dreams about what exactly is going to go down in the next three weeks.

I gotta simplify. So here's what I got (in addition to the usual glorious things I do every day):

1) See my ailing pops as much as possible.
2) Play basketball enough so that I suck 42% less than I do now. The last time I played was an embarrassment to pudgy pushing-40 fuckups everywhere.
3) Read at least one book. First, probably the Paul Auster book that Mrs. Sandals just loaned me. Then finish Stop-Time.
4) Have afternoon drinks at least one time.
5) Write a story based on an idea I had as I was going to sleep the other night. Not a great idea but good enough to get out of bed and write down.
6) Ponder how the Knicks just managed to get more unlikable. Zach Randolph? They didn't give up much but I would rather have nothing than have him.
7) Grow a moustache. It starts on Monday and runs through the end of July, which has prompted me to finally give it a name: The Monthstache. It's like a reunion tour of your favorite band. You have a limited time to catch it so don't miss out. I think I'm going for a Don Mattingly 1984,
with a dash of horrible late-period Eddie Murphy as well:

There, that's it. Very manageable.

12 ways you can start being less of a douchebag RIGHT NOW!

1. When you walk into a room full of attractive women, squash your overwhelming impulse to make a comment about how there's "a lot of talent" on display.

2. Go to your dresser. Open the drawers. See if you find any authentic or replica sports jerseys in there. Now open your wallet. Look at your driver's license. Are you over 14 years old? You are? Wrap up those nice jerseys and give them to a child.
3. Grow a moustache. Buy whatever moustache-grooming products you might need to keep it looking sharp. Proceed with confidence.
4. Specifically for Joe in the Bronx: If you are the captain of a sinking ship, don't wait 'til it's fifty feet below sea level to bust out the life preservers.
5. If you are reading this on your blackberry or PDA or whatevs as you SIT ON LINE FOR FOUR DAYS WAITING FOR A FIRST EDITION IPHONE, get up, wipe the street lint off your ass, and go home while you still have a shred of self-respect. Take that $600 you were gonna spend and donate it to Moustaches of Peace. You'll feel better, the troops will feel better, and we'll all share a laugh when the iPhone tanks with an unprecedented thud.
6. For every ten times you are about to share a personal secret/opinion/confession with someone, SHUT YOUR MOUTH INSTEAD like eight and a half times. Don't reveal what you're really like. The world will be just fine without a glimpse into your dark and damaged soul.
7. Whatever you do, stop quoting movies. In print. In bars. In frat houses. We saw the movie, and we thought it was much funnier when Will Ferrell said it. Or we saw the movie and didn't even think it was funny when Will Ferrell said it. Or we didn't see the movie and have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. You can't win. Shut up.
8. As Jonathan Richman would say, don't pretend you like a girl when you really don't.
9. When something good comes your way, but you need to go through some uncomfortable/difficult/awkward shit to make it happen, don't wait. You'll just talk yourself out of it.
10. Designate one friend as your bitch-partner. Whine to him or her about whatever's pissing you off. Outside of these conversations, minimize your bitching. You've got it pretty good, douchebag.
11. If you are a married man, stop shirking your household duties. You are responsible for completing no less than one quarter of the chores.
12. Trim your pubes. Seriously, that shit is out of control.

***

Of course I am guilty of plenty of these things myself, but that's because I LIKE being a douchebag. Ten genius points for each additional piece 0f douchiness-reducing wisdom you can impart.

embracing your inner mediocrity

Since I was a small child, I've had the feeling that simply by clenching my jaw and visualizing an explosion, I could blow up planets or stars in galaxies thousands of light-years from earth. Megalomaniacal delusion or fact? I've been lucky enough over the past few years to have developed a very close friendship with the acclaimed theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking ... recently, I was seated next to Stephen at the Evander Holyfield/George Foreman bout in Atlantic City, and I mentioned my suspicion that I had the ability to destroy celestial bodies just by willing it, and not only did Stephen find this plausible in the abstract, but actually correlated it with several heretofore unexplained supernovae.

-Mark Leyner, 1992

I used to go to a therapist. 6:30 every Thursday morning. For like four years with a couple of breaks thrown in there. New York City at 6 am is a different town -- people on the street either really want to be there or got no damn choice.

I guess I really wanted to be there. I was a pretty happy dude but like a lot of people I stupidly thought I deserved to be happier. And for those 45 minutes a week, I generally was. I'd bitch about my stupid problems, the therapist guy would make sense of it all, and I'd come out of there charged up and ready to break the world's jaw in seventeen places. Then I'd go home, dick around on the computer for twenty minutes, eat a bagel, and catch an extra few minutes of sleep, still managing to get to my shit-sacking job only half an hour late. Somewhere in this two hour time frame I lost my superhuman confidence and ended up right back where I started. I think that's actually how therapy is supposed to work.

One thing my therapist was always preaching about was grandiosity. Apparently it was my subconscious belief that my decisions and actions had huge implications for the human race. If I was erased from the planet, everyone I'd ever crossed paths with would be doomed to confusion and failure. And I had a suspicion that there was more out there waiting for me -- great triumphs were always right around the corner.

Basically, my attitude was, This world is so average, it's just a matter of time before I begin to dominate it. And the therapist guy was like, Dude, you're doing pretty good, and you should be happy with that, because you ain't all that special. Concentrate on enjoying your life as it is, stop thinking about some fantasy life you're not capable of attaining.

This came as a surprise to me. Huh. A regular life. A regular job. A regular everything. Sounds lame.

But eventually the message got through. Greatness was not going to call me up out of the blue so we could hang. I was a regular dude. And I could be a happy regular dude if I stopped thinking about it. Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative. Live. It's not boring, it's heroic.

But you can't help but wonder. Was I always meant to be a mid-level shitsacker with a pathetic blog read solely by my friends? Or could I have been great at something? Could I have been great, period? Thinking about it could drive a man nuts.

The trick is to never let go of your grandiosity completely. Find ways to remind yourself that you are, indeed, great. That the world would be a mess without you. That you are capable of anything even while doing nothing.

This is why we drink. And why we drink more than one drink when we drink. This is why we rock out at 4 am and say all sorts of embarrasing shit to one another.

This is why we douchily blog on for a handful of friends.

This is why we play basketball against people who are terrible.

And this, bitches, is why we grow moustaches.

After some negotiation with the wife, mine is now scheduled to launch on July the second. It should be pulling into the station on July 23rd. I heard Beefsteak Charlie is so scared he's getting testosterone injections.

Let's start distributing those genius points again. For those of you who heard me tell this story in a bar over the last few days, consider yourselves ineligible. The rest of you, twenty points if you can tell me which British singer (his band had a couple of minor hits in the 80's) is being interviewed in the following TMI-style exchange. As always, no googling.

So what kind of crazy, “rock-star life” question should I have asked you? Was the groupie sex all it was tarted up to be?

I wasn’t a groupie sex man, actually. I was very, very well behaved. There was all sorts of talk of girls being accommodating to most of the band, roadies, lighting men all at once, and, “Oh dear, she’s had her period, it’s all over the walls. Oh dear.”

Or the Led Zeppelin shark story or some such.
Right, although the nearest I could get was my rubber shark story. That was my notorious way of not being unfaithful when I was on tour.

Come again?
It was the best blow job I ever had! I bought it at a Woolworth’s in Melbourne, Australia, on tour. I was thinking, “How am I gonna be good?” I had an afternoon off, wandering around, and was amazed that they had a load of stuff in this store that you just couldn’t get anymore, like a time capsule or something. I saw this soft, rubber shark about a foot long and I thought, “Wow, if I stuck my dick in that, it’d feel really good, and I could be faithful and not tempted by all these women now that I’m married!” So I thought, “I’m gonna buy this rubber shark and fuck it!” I bought the shark, and it felt great. You’d get some suction going, a vacuum effect, just terrific. I used to wedge it under a cushion or a chair and I’d fuck this rubber shark. My suitcase was full at the time, so I had to buy an extra box to take it around. I had this blue fiber-board suitcase, and I’d keep this rubber shark in there. I remember going through New Zealand with it and the customs agent asking me, “What’s in the case, mate?” And I said, “Well, it’s a rubber shark.” “Wise guy.” Then he’d open it up and it’d be a rubber shark! It was great.

Did it have a name, this shark?
Not really a name. Sharky. [Laughs] Although after a while that stopped because then I’d think of Feargal Sharkey, and the last thing—literally—you want to be thinking of when you’re blowing your wad is the lead singer of the Undertones.

Did you ever write a song about the shark?
Never did, although I guess I should slip him in somewhere there, no pun intended. [Laughs] I once went for a dinner in Hamburg with Julian Lennon; he wanted to write some songs with me. We got rather drunk and ended up talking about masturbation technique. And he was trying to top me, and while I’m not going to tell you his stories, he couldn’t top me. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a front-loading washing machine full of warm liver, or something.

Well, now there’ll be a run on rubber sharks on eBay.
Well, I did go and try to look for one, but they make them out of denser, harder rubber now, with a kind of squeaker in the mouth. And that just won’t do now, will it?

HIAT-US

So Joe Monkeyweb is on HIATUS, too. Unbelievable. This may have a major impact on my HIATUS plans.

As of right now, I am leaning towards spending a lot of my HIATUS with my dad in his new apartment in Brooklyn. He is getting discharged from the hospital on Tuesday for the 6th time in the last 6 months. The guy just won't quit. So obviously it's going to be important and meaningful to hang with him as much as possible. And I will. I'll probably ride me bike out to Brooklyn two or three times a week.

So without doing the math, it's becoming clear that HIATUS is not going to be a two month solo excursion into immortality. There's too much to do. It's going to be great, but it will probably end up only being a handful of days that I am free to just fuck around or pursue greatness.

Which is fine. But it does make the moustache project even more critical. And with my buddy Joe joining me 'on the chill' (that's slang for 'on HIATUS'), I am starting to dream big.

I think it's a given that Joe will join me in the project. The question is, do we just grow our fur peacefully and organically, let the 'staches grow up together as friends? Or do we turn it into a competition, with daily photo updates and a space for you to vote? Do we shave the moustaches on the final day and weigh the trimmings to determine a winner? Do we pair our moustaches against two other 'staches from the world wide web? Is anyone else out there up for this? Ideas are welcome.

I am not sure I want to tangle with Joe, I think he's had full beards in the past. I'm new to this game.

Thanks for all the reading suggestions. On the strength of two recommendations, I ended up buying Stop-Time, which was in my parents' house for years and always interested me just enough to almost pick it up. Now I am going to read that shit up nice and good.

on the beach

It was, as Ice Cube would often say to me back in the early 90's as we laid on our backs in the sand after a carefree afternoon spent wading in the surf, chasing girls and playing Kadima, a good day.

Walked in 72 degree sunshine. Played hoops at Laguna Beach. Took Baby Bungle into the ocean and she loved it.

Didn't even have to carry any keys. The less keys you're carrying, the more fun you're having.

Only downside is I got me some sunburn. Neck, nose, arms, feet, legs, and, I believe, eyeballs. Nose is looking like it might just fall right off. I used some SPF 40 sunblock, too. I guess I was a little haphazard in the application, and I paid the price.

To protect my eyes and face, I borrowed some low-budg hat and eye-wear from the in-laws. I was sexy. So sexy that I decided that when I grow my manly stache, I may have to sport some oversize cheapo sunglasses to keep it company. Picture this stud with a full-on furlip. It's scary.


Also, I kind of just plain suck at basketball these days. I had a decent moment here and there but I was out of breath and I kept getting stripped of the ball by younger and more competent players. Oh well, I did manage to win most of the games, including one against some dudes who shoulda killed us. No pictures were taken, so you'll just have to imagine how sexy I looked in my sweaty undershirt.

I hope cW's rooftop blowout was a blast, I wish I could have been there. Rooftops + Warm Weather + Beer = Guaranteed Fun.

I saw Spiderman 3. Piece of shit. And I loved 1 & 2.

I am also looking for a nice HIATUS read. I bought a Babe Ruth biography and I can already tell it sucks. I think Mrs. Sandals is hooking me up with a Paul Auster book I haven't read, but until then I am open to suggestions. As always, a good coming of age novel would be swell.

hold my calls, shirley

(note: this post was created the other night; I am now in California)

The air will taste fresher tomorrow, the Cheetos will be crisper, the Budweiser will be richer and more complex.

That is because tomorrow I am officially on god-diggity-damn HIATUS, you poor working stiffs.

I will fly to California at 9am. California is a land of righteous yellow sunshine and sea breezes and bouncing basketballs, where men are free to grow the moustaches of their choice. Where children wake up with smiles on their faces and the homeless body-surf themselves clean. I can think of no better place to launch the Summer of Slack.

Moustache Update:
6/2-6/15: HIATUSing in cali with in-laws, moustache unlikely
6/18-6/22: back at old job for one additional week of work, moustache possible
6/23-7/22: more glorious HIATUS, in NYC. Moustache probable. Fuck that. Moustache definite.

It's a nice stretch of relaxed living and I deserve it. I will be taking care of Baby Bungle on Mondays and Fridays, so it's really only three days a week that I will be completely free to do whatever stupid thing I can think of, which means I'll probably have only 12 such days all Summer. Shit, I feel like it's over already.

7/23: HIATUS and moustache end. I make two columns on a piece of looseleaf paper and decide if life is still worth living. If so, I return to job.

I'll miss you, Summer of '07. We only danced for a short while, but I'll never forget the way you felt against me. Or the way your teeny mouth quivered when I told that my moustache was your moustache. Girl, we were meant for each other. Kiss me again before I grow up.