hangin' downtown

It was a quick weekend, muggy and rainy and not much going on.

I went to a wedding on Saturday night at the South Street Seaport. Whenever I'm down there I feel a weird sense of nostalgia for a time and place I was never actually a part of. It feels like 1985 and I picture myself wearing a fancy suit, sitting outside at one of those interchangeable seaport bars, talking loud with my banker buds. Later we'd head out to The Tunnel and burn through a couple thousand dollars worth of coke before finally calling it a night around 5 am. That would be my routine: days spent on the trading floor, gambling with incomprehensible sums of other people's money, nights of aggressive debauchery and no time for regrets. Sleeping around and bragging about it and assholing my way through life with a guiltless, clueless smile on my face.

Too bad that I've never even taken one sniff of coke and I've never been to The Tunnel and in 1985 I was sitting nervous and alone on a park bench, wearing grey jeans, doing the Daily News jumble and trying to figure out how I was going to avoid failing out of school.

I totally screwed up the 80's. Oh well.

Anyway, the wedding was OK. It got started kinda late, so we ended up having to leave before dinner was served (it was 10:45 when we left). We were fringe invitees -- we got seated on the outskirts of the dining room at the Rando table: a hodgepodge of the bride and groom's work acquaintances and their spouses, all there because the happy couple felt obligated to invite us and we felt obligated to come. I like the groom, he's a funny guy and we get along. But I think he invited me mostly because I gave him a job a couple of years ago, and this wedding may well be the last time we see each other. That's OK.

One thing I saw for the first time, and it caught me by surprise, was people playing with their Blackberries at the reception. Maybe it was because we were a bunch of Randos and nobody seemed to care about us, but whatever the case two dudes (including a friend of mine) felt entitled to bust theirs out at the table in full view. One guy was a huge Red Sox fan, and he kept checking the score like every three minutes. He even pulled a move where he was checking the score with one hand and romantically caressing his girlfriend's hair with the other. Finally he gave up all efforts to be discreet and just parked his Blackberry on the table and stared at it for like 20 minutes straight.

I told him to relax, the Red Sox have all but locked up the division, and he shook his head and said, "No, we're gonna lose this game (Tampa Bay had tied it on a 2 run HR in the 9th), and I will not relax until the Yankees are dead, dead dead." I found his pussified Yankee fear to be quite refreshing. He was actually a pretty nice guy, so on the way out I tapped him on the shoulder to say goodbye. He looked up for a moment from his Blackberry.

"You heard about Ortiz breaking his ankle?" I said, with my best "sucks for you" look on my face.

I swear to you all the blood rushed from his face within half a second's time. I could see his mind racing: my life is ruined. what am I going to do now? why me? why us? why?

If I had then said, "Just kidding. But I did murder your entire family!" he would have let out a huge sigh of relief. Instead, I let him off the hook with a simple "just kidding" and went home. The Red Sox ended up winning the game in extra innings, so there was peace in The Nation that night. Thank God.

Today at work we had a bizarre unannounced four hour software training session, and we have another one tomorrow. It was right out of Office Space. I will spare you the details out of respect for the "you hadda be there" principle, but suffice it to say it was a mess: none of us knew why we were there, the poor trainer lady assumed we all had more familiarity with stuff than we did, and she ended up babbling on and on for twenty minute stretches without any of us having a clue as to what she was talking about. It was a lot of people staring at each other and stifling laughter. At one point when her back was turned I decided I was owed a nice full second eye-close. Unfortunately, that second turned into two seconds and then three, and suddenly I found myself asleep and lost in a dream. In the dream, I was standing on top of a tall ladder, neatly cutting lighting gels into beautiful oval shapes. It was satisfying. I woke up (what was hopefully only) like ten seconds later, and I made eye contact with the girl sitting across from me. She gave me a "Holy shit, I can't believe you just fell asleep in the middle of a meeting" look and then started laughing to herself in amazement. I think I sort of got away with it.

I'm sick of jobs.

Anyway, the best potato chip currently on the market is the Kettle brand Krinkle Cut Salt and Fresh Ground Pepper chip. It is right on the damn money. Simple yet completely unstoppable, just like Mariano Rivera used to be.

Caption this tool pic (25 GP's goes to the winner, and yes, our hero just emerged from the Apple store with one of the first iphones to be sold at that location):

hiatus review

Fuckety fuck, as Mr. Rogers used to say after every blown take. Fuckety fucking fuckface motherfucker.

It's the end of good things.

Hiatus is over. I am back on the job. My upper lip is as hairless as the day I was born. My emotional state is one of mild panic. My facial expression is droopy. My free time is immeasurably small. My hours are long and my stubbed toe is probably broken. My sneakers are dirty. My fancy headphones are busted. My card is American Express.

Hiatus flew by in roughly 14 minutes. It was a complete non-event. It doesn't even count. If you look up my career stats, it says "Hiatuses: 1" but there is an asterisk. I was anxious the whole time. There was a lot of serious shit going on but I also managed to worry about stuff that didn't matter. I have a lingering fear that I might be an anxiety addict.

It is time to do a quick review of my (modified) goals for hiatus to see how well I fulfilled them:

1) See my ailing pops as much as possible.

I did this. Yes I did. Almost every day. It was really all I did, and I thank science we were able to have this much time together. And, praise be to science, he seems to be doing a little better.

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.

Played zero times. Now suck 5% more than I did at start of hiatus. Legs, arms, and back feel like Larry Johnson's. Time is running out.

3) Read at least one book. First, probably the Paul Auster book that Mrs. Sandals just loaned me. Then finish Stop-Time.

Read two books, the Auster book (nice quick read, will return soon, didn't even fold any pages to mark my place) and a book that I was embarrassed to be seen with because it was so unavoidable a few years ago: Running with Scissors. That said, I really liked it; I related completely to his family's complete disregard for traditional childraising strategies (not so much with the blowing dudes at age 13 part). Am now picking up Stop-Time again and it is getting good.

4) Have afternoon drinks at least one time.

Should have said: at least zero times. Darn. Had nighttime drinks maybe two times. Not so good. Came home every day to pick up kid from nanny. That's what you gotta do sometimes.

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.

Nope. Luckily, as I thought more about it, the idea was sucky enough to leave behind forever. It was an emotional tale of forbidden love, and there are too many of those out there already. Right?

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.

Not really. Thinking about other stuff.

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:

Here is what I finished with (in 21 days):
While certainly not a home run, I will give myself a solid B. The effort was there, but time and hormones proved to be formidable opponents, and I ended up with 10th-grade level growth. Fine. I definitely enjoyed every minute of it.

More about the monthstache, including a link to a website where you can send a check to meet your pledge amount if you so wish, is coming soon to our monthstache-tracking site.

Overall I'd say I finished with like a 43% hiatus success rate. I'd be mad, but that's just how it goes. You never get a hiatus from being a father and you never get a hiatus from being a son. You just remind yourself how lucky you are and you keep on livin'.

The best part of being back at work: Lunch. Anticipating it. Planning it. Delaying it. Stepping outside to go buy it. And finally, eating it.

Lunch is all we've got sometimes; luckily, we always have lunch.

For ten GP's, what is the best potato chip on the market today (in my opinion)?

lost in the sauce

Did you ever have a class in school that for one reason or another left you mystified?

Like maybe you were too lazy to do the reading, or it was over your head, or it bored you so you skimmed over it, and then you went to class and there was a discussion and some other kids were enthusiastically weighing in on Jane Eyre or some shit and you were like, damn, what the hell am I doing here?

If you were superconfident, maybe you'd go, "I don't need this boring crap. I've got more important biscuits on my plate than this."

Or if you were a little insecure, maybe you'd go, "Holy shit, all these people are way smarter and more focused and more connected to the universe than I am. And they're just run of the mill schmucks. Life is hopeless."

Somewhere in between there is how I feel most of the time.

harry potter spoiler alert!

Hiatus is over and I am good and pissed about it. So I am going to be a douche and spoil the new Harry Potter book:

One word, three syllables:

Gar

ga

mel

Gargamel!

Long philosophical posts re: hiatus, monthstache, etc. to come.

But I gotta go to bed now. See you on the bus tomorrow morning at 8:30. If I miss you there, I'll catch you at The Sunset Grill at quittin' time. First Foster's is on me!

catching up

Back in the early 2000's, we used to make a lot of lists on this here site. They were pretty fun. It's been a couple of years now, and I think this one needs an update (although I stand by pretty much everyone on the list). It's interesting looking back at who was pissing me off in 2003. Well, now they've got some company. Here then, are 10 famous people who have annoyed me over the last four years (not to be confused with these super-annoying regular people):

1. Chuck Klosterman
2. Dane Cook
3. Mitt Romney
4. Adam Sandler
5. Lewis Black
6. The Pope
7. Joe Lieberman
8. Joe Theismann
9. Tony LaRussa
10. Sarah Silverman

More to come. Who's on your list?

jack don't know jack

I should have known better.

After all the horseshit that's come out of my mouth in bars over the years, I should have known not to trust that old drunk Jack in the bar the other night.

His trivia question: who was playing RF for the Yankees when George Brett hit the infamous pine tar homer?

My answer: Don Mattingly (a guess)

Jack shook my hand and said nice job, nobody ever got that one before. I beamed. And I stupidly posted his question as a challenge for you fine people.

Only problem is, Jack was full of shit. Mattingly didn't play RF in that game, according to the box score. He pinch hit, played first base, and, in a sarcastic gesture from Billy Martin, played second base in the second part of the game that the Yankees were forced to play a month later when the AL upheld the Royals' protest. He did play RF in the game just prior to this one.

So who was playing RF? Well, both Piniella and Kemp played RF that day -- Kemp started in left but moved to right at some point. As to who was there when the ball went out, well let's just do a quick youtube search and we'll dig this up...uh, hold on...what's that? you say the video has been removed from youtube after a judge cited it in his ruling and the attention this brought got the video taken down...? Shit. Internet masters, we need you to dig this up. Genius points are at stake.

(Edit: A closer look at that box score indicates that the Yankees brought in Jerry Mumphrey as a defensive replacement to start the top of the 9th, with Winfield moving to left and Kemp moving to right. So 12 genius points go to B. New, he was the first to guess Kemp. Strange that the real answer turns out to be my favorite player at the time, and I didn't guess him. Also, note that Mumphrey was due to bat in the second half of the game but he'd already been traded to the Cubs...why didn't they fly him in?)

I should have known Jack was full of crap -- he also said he was at the second part of the game. I said, wow, that was crazy, only a couple thousand people showed up, it only lasted a few minutes, right? Jack said, no, it was game 1 of a doubleheader so we all stayed.

I knew that was wrong. I knew there was no other game scheduled that day because Graig Nettles talked about in his book. That was the Yankees' only scheduled day off for like a month, and when the league told the team they'd have to play the final 4 outs on that day, the players took a vote and (unanimously) decided not to play. They would rather have forfeited the game, in the middle of a pennant race, than show up and try to scratch across a run. Somebody (Steinbrenner?) stepped in and said, Get your asses to that stadium, so they ended up playing. Although Martin made a farce of it, God Bless him.

Here is some more cool shit about that game.

***

I took my pop in for a couple of doctor's visits in Manhattan the other day. He's in a wheelchair now so we booked a car service to take us from his Brooklyn apartment into the city. On the way back, we decided to take a cab to save time. We were standing there hailing away, me on foot, him in the chair, 85 degrees outside, for like 15 minutes. In that time, THREE open cabs just drove right past us, pretending not to see us. They clearly didn't want to deal with the wheelchair, which is actually a snap to fold up and put in the trunk.

To those cab drivers, I say:

I know your job sucks. Low pay, danger, bad hours, unhealthy working conditions, stress, aggravation, etc. I am sorry for this. I salute you for working so hard and so thanklessly, all so that your kids may have a better life than you did. I thank you for not becoming muggers or drug dealers instead.

But...when you refuse to pick up an 80 year-old man in a wheelchair on a hot summer day, well, that entitles me to say go fuck yourself. That entitles me to say, here's to you being treated like shit when you are one day old and sick yourselves. May cabs drive by and spray gutter sludge in your faces. And at that moment, may you remember what douchebags you were when you were young.

We finally got home to his apartment and I was taking a leak when I noticed a big ol' fly buzzing around the bathroom. I was thinking, "You know, I should really get rid of that shit-eating, germ-carrying fly. But I am so tired I don't have the energy to chase it around."

Plus, the pussified vegetarian in me does have a problem (only a slight one) killing insects. I do it all the time, but I admit I somehow feel cosmically accountable for it. After all, the fly is just minding his business, sharing the earth with me and you and our friends.

I just kept pissing and pondering what to do, when suddenly the fly flew directly into my urine stream and was sprayed right down into the toilet. Poor little bastard was probably in deep shock. He started trying to swim his way out, the little fighter, but I quickly flushed his ass out to sea.

What does this mean (25 points)?

In other news, my monthstache seems to be growing on me.

jack grows old in a bar

Do you ever find yourself playing out entire conversations in your head before they even take place? It usually happens with one of those talks you don't want to have. You'll think, "OK, so I'm gonna tell the boss I need one more day to finish the Hanrahan report, and of course he'll be like, 'I already gave you an extra day,' so I'll say, 'yeah, but the time frame you gave in the first place was unrealistic, and a lot of other stuff came up,' and he's such a dick he'll inevitably say something like, 'stuff comes up all the time for all of us, that's no excuse,' and I'll be like, 'well it's not done, what are you gonna do, fire me?' and he'll be like, 'you're goddamn right I'm gonna fire you,' and I'll get fired. Shit."

Then you'll go into the boss's office and be like, "Um, is it possible I could have one more day to tweak a few things on the Hanrahan report?" and he'll be like, "Sure, take your time, turn it in when you're ready."

And you'll wonder why you wasted so much time thinking about stupid stuff.

It happened to me the other day. I was having a tough day, and to be honest every day has been tough lately. And I started thinking about how good to me Ma Bungle's been. And I decided, you know what? Ma Bungle could use some flowers. So I stopped and got her a nice little bouquet and I started walking home.

There is a little concierge service that handles packages and dry cleaning and stuff for Stuy Town and Peter Cooper and the surrounding neighborhood. It's a crappy little place but it's useful and all the guys in there are pretty nice. I had to stop by there to pick up a package after I had bought the flowers, and I was already dreading the inevitable small talk. I'd walk in with the flowers, and of course some comedian would say:

"So, what'd ya do?" (referencing the generally accurate belief that the only time a man gets his woman flowers is when he has fucked up badly)

I came up with what I thought was a good response line and walked in. To my disappointment, nobody cared about my flowers and nobody said anything. I got my package and headed home.

As I was entering my apartment building there were two guys who live on my floor (one about 50, one about 75) outside having a conversation. I nodded hello and walked past them.

One of them muttered something so I pulled off my headphones and asked him to say it again.

"So what'd ya do?" said the 75 year-old, eying my flowers.

"It's not what I did, it's what I'm GOING to do," I said, possibly winking although probably not. They both laughed knowingly at my vaguely suggestive joke. I was proud.

That thing I ended up doing was going to the terrible bar right outside Stuy Town and slurping down a few delicious Buds with Joe née Monkeyweb. It was cold beer, depressing clientele, and lots of baseball talk. Our conversation ended up spilling over into the rest of the bar, which up to that point had been engaged, apparently, in their own baseball talk.

There was an old Yankee fan there named Jack. Jack was probably 60, full of stories and trivia, and he seemed fairly certain that he was The Fuckin' Man. He was one of those guys who preferred that everybody gave him their devoted attention whenever he spoke, and if you did that, maybe you could throw in a few words of your own if time allowed.

He and a couple of other dudes were having a friendly debate about who was the most 'money' pitcher of all-time (loosely defined as the guy you'd want pitching if you had to win one game -- one guy said, 'you know, the guy you'd want to start game 7 of the world series,' to which joe replied, 'wouldn't game 6 be more important if you were down 3 games to 2?' which made everyone scratch their heads). They had the whole discussion sort of confused, though. Some guys were naming a pitcher and a year -- Hershiser '88, for example -- while other guys were talking about a pitcher's entire body of work.

Here were some names thrown around:

-Hershiser '88
-Guidry '78, my suggestion, and I quoted this rather amazing fact about that season for the 19th time: in the span of four starts in September of '78, with every game a must-win (literally, remember they ended up in a tie with Boston), Guidry pitched three 2-hit shutouts, including 2 against Boston.
-Bob Gibson
-Sandy Koufax
-I drunkenly threw in Babe Ruth
-Walter Johnson (I said something sarcastic when his name came up, like 'come on, he probably only threw 75 mph')
-Somebody said Gooden which seemed stupid
-Somebody said Clemens which also seemed kind of stupid
-I threw in Mike Scott '86

And there were a few others. The discussion slowly dissolved and talk turned to the 2007 Yankees. Jack had looked at the upcoming schedule and decided the Yanks needed to go 16-4 in the next 20 games to have a shot at the postseason. I drunkenly nodded. I made a mental note to get more into baseball for the rest of the year, with the Yanks hopefully making a push for the playoffs (or not).

Jack asked me his stumper trivia question, which I answered correctly on a guess, earning his lifelong respect, I believe. The question: when George Brett hit the pine tar home run, what Yankee right fielder watched the ball sail over his head into the seats? 12 GP's for a correct answer, one guess per person.

New softball recap is alive and kicking like Jim Kerr.

same, more of

Sometimes I get these big broad ideas for posts. Like I'll come up with a theory and like fourteen examples that sort of support it and I'll be all set to start typing and then I just deflate. It's too daunting. So I'll let it sit for like three days, unable to write about anything else until I can move past The Theory. Eventually I officially give up on it, and only then am I able to return to my blogging comfort zones: moustaches, basketball, shit that happened in the deli this morning, etc.

Today was one of those "Big Idea" days. I came up with an elaborate theory and it weighed me down. Partly because it was really more of an observation pretending to be a theory, and partly because I was too lazy to develop it, to nurture it and watch it grow into full fledged theorydom.

But instead of letting it stop me, I am going to shelve it and keep on going with some more of the same old bullshit you're used to.

Almost two years ago I posted some crap in which I revealed the thing that most excited me about fatherhood: taking my kid on a water slide. I finally did it, you fuckers (you can click on that pic to see her sheer terror and my semi-terror).

We went to Sesame Place near Philadelphia (thanks for the hotel hookup D!), which is an amusement/water park based on the Sesame Street characters. Sort of an East Coast version of Legoland. Yes, I've now been to both Sesame Place and Legoland. If you don't have kids yet, try not to feel too jealous.

Anyway, it was crowded and the lines for rides were kinda long, but I did get to go on one cool water slide with Baby Bungle, and it made my day. There's gonna be more of that in the future.

We spent the night in Philly and that gives me a chance to do one of my favorite things: deliver an Ignorant City Review. This is when I go someplace for like three hours and decide I know what is right and wrong (mostly wrong) with their shitburg little town.

So here's Philly.

First of all, without looking at any numbers (to do so would taint my full ignorance of the subject), I'm gonna say that crime in Philly is strong. In my hour on the streets, I saw two drug deals (complete with money changing hands), a low-end prostitute, several dudes passed out on the streets, a crazy-ass ranter guy who was on something that science doesn't even have a name for yet, and a window with two bullet holes in it. And I was staying in what seemed to be a nice part of town. I just got the sense that it would be a great place to visit if you're looking to get accidentally shot in the head. (Which is ironic, because the one murder I've witnessed in my life happened in broad daylight on the streets of NYC, in a good neighborhood, and the unintended victim was...a lawyer visiting for the day from Philadelphia.)

Second, it seems like a good city to go to for food. We went to a really nice little place called Pompeii, and there seemed like a ton of other options right in our neighborhood. They take the food seriously there and I'd like to try out a few more places next time.

They have this little indoor market thing called the Reading Terminal Market -- Chelsea Market is a good comparison for New Yorkers. Like Chelsea Market, it seems kind of cool but turns out to be disappointing. We went to this diner that, despite a sterling review from phillyguy1980 on citysearch, somehow turned out to suck. How do you screw up eggs and pancakes? Ask the people at the Down Home Diner. I did have a great moment where the Wurlitzer stopped playing so I gave it the Fonzie bitch-slap treatment and it kicked in again. To my wife's horror, I celebrated my triumph by spreading out both arms with thumbs extended and saying, "Aaaaaaay." I probably destroyed the vintage 45 that was playing.

The city is beautiful, though. I was there in 2002 and before that not since I was a kid, and you really get a vibe there that is unique. By 'unique' I mean it reminds me of every other large city I've ever been to (especially Montreal) but is also a little bit different.

Philly, I think I have captured your essence remarkably.

Two more things:

I am probably very late to the party on this one, but as I was clicking on some links from our friend Uncomfortable Christina's site, I came across a really funny piece she did for McSweeney's. And in reading her fine piece, I came across another fine piece by a writer I'd never heard of named Michael Patrick Welch. Anyway, apparently he had a book in 2004 or something and you've all probably read it already, but here is the story anyway -- the more I read of it, the more I thought it bore the marks of greatness. I'm gonna buy his book and give you the full review. I just thought it was neat -- you're reading something you like that leads you to something else you like, all through the power of the internets.

Also, in support of my quest for upper-lip dominance, Big Jim Lang has been sending me some incredible moustache-related content over the last few days. I am going to start posting one of his pics per day on our sister site that tracks my progress. Hopefully they will amuse you and motivate my stubborn follicles.

playing with the boys

Thanks for the shout-outs to Tom Skerritt and Sam Elliott, two of the most important and consistent moustaches in the world today. I posted Anthony Edwards' pic more because his 'stache was such an awkward, unnatural thing -- it looked like it had been pasted onto his face to give him more of an adult look and separate him from his "Revenge of the Nerds" image. I always like seeing movies where youngish actors suddenly have moustaches. It's so ridiculous and it seems so out of place. You immediately lose your suspension of disbelief. It's awesome. Five genius points for each silly actor-stache you can name.

But Skerritt and Elliott, damn. Those guys don't fuck around. Check 'em out:

These are grown men who've earned the right to shove the evidence of their ample masculinity right in your stupid face. They've been in movies for like 80 years combined and you've probably only seen them without a moustache like twice. That's commitment. They're basically telling directors, casting directors, studios, etc., "Yeah, I'll play that part in your little movie, but you should know right now that the character's gonna have a moustache. What's that, JFK didn't have a moustache? He does now."

Since it's still sorta the 4th of July as I type this, it seems like a good opportunity to talk about a super-patriotic movie that Skerritt and his 'stache figure in prominently: Top Gun. I think I am qualified to talk about this movie, and here's why: I saw it in the theater like three times, including TWICE IN ONE DAY (paying full price both times) back in 1986. I loved it, and the saddest part was I didn't even love it for the cool and manly flying shootout scenes. The parts I liked were the inane macho banter and the scarcely believable relationship between the Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis characters. Since I had limited experience with girls/women myself, it seemed perfectly plausible that the way to seduce a chick was to serenade her with a horrid version of "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" and follow it up with all sorts of obnoxious insults, thinly veiled fuck jokes and unwarranted open-mouth grins. You couldn't miss. The two of you would soon be gently performing your sex dance together in silhouette, probing each other's mouths with your tongues as an industrial fan blew the sheets around and Berlin's "Take My Breath Away" played softly in the background.

So for about a year, impressionable young me went around assuming that Top Gun was some cool shit and Tom Cruise was the fucking mango. The closer you could get to living The Tom Cruise Experience, the closer you would be to fulfilling your promise as a man.

Then I went away to college. I'm not saying my perspective on the world changed overnight, but a lot happened in that year both physically and intellectually that would challenge my simple understanding of life and of Top Gun itself. About halfway through my freshman year our dorm floor rented it on video and I watched it with about 25 other kids, male and female. I couldn't believe it was the same movie. Tom Cruise wasn't cool. The romance between him and McGillis was as stiff as Val Kilmer's moussed-up hair. The whole movie played like a giant piece of Reagan-era propaganda, a military recruiting advertisement with a lame Kenny Loggins soundtrack. I was so ashamed of who I'd been that I decided to distance myself from the movie forever.

But time softens your resolve, and in recent years I've found myself watching Top Gun all the way through (or at least for a good half hour) whenever I stumble across it on TV. And I sort of love it in all its painful glory. It's a really weird fucking movie. We all remember Quentin Tarantino's motormouthed theory about the homosexual undertones in the film, and even if he comes across as an idiot it's certainly fair to say that there is something sort of gay happening throughout the movie. The volleyball and locker room scenes are completely homoerotic, and there is definitely a bizarre sexual-style tension between the Kilmer and Cruise characters. Pretty radical for a big blockbuster movie if it was intentional.

Anyway, I was watching the movie on TV the other night and I just want to describe one sequence that is particularly troubling:

1) Maverick and Goose play gay beach volleyball against Iceman and his buddy/partner Slider. With the score tied at 2 games each, Mav pusses out on a rubber match so he can get to his date with Kelly McGillis on time.
2) He arrives late, and sweaty, and gross. She lets him in anyway and says something like, "No apologies." He says he is going to go upstairs and take a shower. She says, no, that's not OK, ya pig.
3) They eat dinner. They drink wine. They talk about Maverick's dead father. She pushes it too far. The same way bad comedians try to wrap up their act with a reference to a joke from earlier in the set, bringing it all full-circle for the audience, Maverick says, "No apologies." He grins the Tom Cruise grin. They drink more wine and talk about his dead father some more.
4) She assumes he is going to stay and make tongue-probing silhouette love to her. There has been wine, and conversation, and grinning. All the elements are there. She has even brought in an industrial-size fan for the occasion. The dead father talk has apparently got her lady parts worked up nice and good.
5) She says, "This is going to be complicated," the word "this" indicating she is ready for him to initiate coitus. They lean in for what promises to be a probing tongue-kiss.
6) Suddenly, Maverick gets up to leave. "Where are you going?" she asks. "To take a shower," he says, possibly grinning, I don't remember. Is he going upstairs to her shower, where she can join him for some soapy yet romantic lovemaking? No, he is going home. There will be no coitus today. And Kelly McGillis will think twice before denying Maverick his showerly demands in the future.
7) After he leaves, she lets out a frustrated sigh and semi-humps her pillow.

What does this mean? What are we as young men supposed to take from this?

you're welcome

If your swiss cheese omelet had an extra-pleasant ooze this morning, if you found yourself high-fiving the mailman, if the boss's unreasonable demands rolled right of your shoulders, if your iPod kept shuffling to the perfect songs you'd all but forgotten about, if your balls swung a little more freely, you've got me to thank.

That's because July 2nd, 2007, marked the day when The Monthstache breathed its first hairy breaths. America's idea of sexy is about to get turned on its head. In fact, excuse my exuberance but I don't think the world will ever be the same.

I will get up Monday morning, I will do my usual combination of showering, toothbrushing, hairbrushing, etc. AND THEN I WILL SHAVE MY FACE. This is significant because it's the last time a razor will touch my upper lip in the month of July.

I think I will probably let everything grow for like a week and then trim it down to just the stache. I don't know yet. The future is wide open.

I have started a special blog to chart my progress. I am hoping Joe Monkeyweb joins me and posts daily updates there as well.

Each day's photo update may be a recreation of a famous moustachioed pose. Or it may just be identical little photo booth shots for continuity. Again, I simply don't know yet.

Suggestions for how to implement the monthstache page are welcome and will be rewarded with genius points where applicable.

Anyone who would like to join us please let me know in the comments or send me an eee-male to bungmeister at verbungle dott comm.

The reason I must shave today is that it's Baby Bungle's 2nd birthday. Damn, that was a quick two years. Sorta. Either way, no more horsing around for her. Time to start acting like a grown-up.

Un-ironic Moustache of the Day for 7/2/07: Anthony "Goose" Edwards, 1986: