get big

Welcome to 2008, my friends. It's going to be a hell of a year and I can't wait to be a part of it.

Time to talk resolutions. But first, the obligatory progress check on last year's goals:

I made one New Year's Resolution. That ain't saying I only want to improve/change one thing; just that most likely I will be pretty much the same schmuck this year as I was last year so I may as well set a realistic single goal for something that I might actually do. And that thing is giving up sugar soda. No more sugar soda anymore. That stuff is just no good. Delicious, but no good. It won't be easy but I can do it. And if I succeed, I might move on to some other resolutions. You'll be the first to know.

Well, I gave that shit up for a large part of the year, maybe 6 months, maybe 9, but somehow I slipped and now I am half diet soda, half regular. I need to get that straightened out.

As for resolutions for año cero ocho, to hell with that. Once again, I am going to be the same schmuck as I was in years 1972-2007, making the same bad decisions, cracking the same obvious jokes, feeling much of the same stress. Why kid myself? I am weak and scatterbrained and can rarely keep my train on the tracks for more than a few seconds at a time.

So in lieu of changing the things I do, I have decided to change the way in which I do them. No more half-assery, no more tentative Charlie Brown-style pussin' around, no more laying low and hoping nobody notices me. Every thing I do this year, I will do with passion, with flair, with commitment. If I suck, I will suck with a vengeance. I will scream and yell and apologize with sincerity. On the rare moments where I excel, I will gloat and dance and let the world know how awesome I am.

I will look people in the eye. I will speak in a full voice when I share my opinion.

The simplest acts in life, the ones we think of as mundane, are really opportunities to demonstrate grace and panache.

Example: the elevator door is closing. You want to activate the sensor that makes it open again so you can get on. Maybe someone is on the elevator pretending not to see you, maybe it's empty. Either way, the instinct is to halfheartedly stick a toe in, or your umbrella, or give it a lame wave of the arm -- something that could trigger the sensor but might not.

Fuck that. From now on I am kicking my entire leg through that door, kung fu style. I may even let out a yell. Or I may go Rockette style, humming a show tune as I let loose. Either way, I will go big and my life will be slightly more exciting because of it (providing my lower leg is not severed and I avoid groin pulls).

When I go on a coffee run, I will tell even more enthusiastic corny jokes to the cashier. They may think I am a fool, but their day will be better for it. (*Tried this today and it was met with a cold stare and complete silence -- who cares, it was worth it!)

When I play basketball, I will jack up a few crazy shots just for the hell of it -- they won't go in, but they will be fun. Nobody will mind.

I have always shied away from physical contact -- handshaking, hugs hello, unironic high-fiving, etc. No longer: I am going to embrace you and slap your hand whenever I get the chance. You are great, man. I like you! Why not show it?

If there is a chance for a good fake fight, I will take it.

So that is my simple resolution: to take 2008 and make it my personal joyride. I am going to soak up every moment, I am going to be loose and goofy and full of spice. Join me. Or at least tell me your resolutions.

Would a midsummer moustache be out of the question? I hope not.

PPF FYI

This is the first installment of a little thing we like to call "Past, Present, Future." It is really no more than a cheap excuse for me to reveal a few things about myself, things you may not have known. Things you need to know. It's so simple I don't think I even need to explain how it works.

I. School/Work/Career

Past: I never had good study habits growing up, but it didn't really come back to bite me until my sophomore year in high school. Sometime around February 1985, I had a secret psychological breakdown. I still don't know exactly what caused it or what it meant, but I just about flunked out of school before I got the ship righted again. The truth is, my h.s. diploma is as tainted as HR ball # 756.

Present: My job is a daily battle to survive. My head is cluttered with intense anxiety and various lame plans for escaping that day's nightmares and moving on to tomorrow. I can't focus, I have little time for my family, and I have no time to think about carving out a better career for myself (or even updating my resume). I am always exhausted or overcaffeinated.

Future: Using "To-do List" technology, I will become more organized and efficient. In my extra time, I will think creative and productive thoughts, one of which will eventually help me land a job I really love. My work-life balance will be ideal.

II. Bowling

Past: I am pretty decent for a down-the-middle, no-hook bowler, with a career high of 193 or 194. I average about a 150.

Present: I have not bowled in quite some time and I miss it. Let's go bowling this weekend.

Future: I just want to go on record that no child of mine shall ever participate in bowling with the bumpers along the gutters -- at least not on my watch. Maybe if they go to another kid's birthday party or something like that that's out of my control, it will happen. But I am completely opposed to it. When my kid first goes bowling, she will get the 33 or whatever we all get the first time we bowl, and then she will want to get better. I have too much respect for her as a person, and more importantly for bowling as a sport, to let her do the bumper thing. It's moronic. Are kids really excited after they get a strike that was banked off the damn bumper? WHY TEACH THEM THAT IT IS OK TO SUCK? SUCKING IS NOT AS GOOD AS EXCELLING. A REAL STRIKE = EXCELLING. A BUMPER-AIDED STRIKE = SUCKING AND BEING LIED TO ABOUT IT. IF YOU THROW IT IN THE GUTTER, YOU NEED TO STRAIGHTEN THAT SHIT OUT AND DO BETTER THE NEXT TIME. OTHERWISE, WHY FUCKING BOWL AT ALL? Apply the bumper theory to other sports and you will see how stupid it is.

III. Basketball

Past: Once I stayed up 'til 1:30 am on a school night watching the Showtime Lakers squeak out a home win against the hapless, hustling '86 Knicks. Magic Johnson kept complaining to the refs all game, infuriating me. After the game I sat down and wrote him a bitter, irrational letter. I never sent it, but I still remember the exact anger I felt that night. I might type that shit up again from memory right now. I used to be passionate about basketball.

Present: I am trying to play more hoops. Whenever I see pictures of Laguna Beach I get inspired. I can't watch the freaking Knicks without a barf bag (wouldn't it be funny if the Knicks ran a promotion called Barf Bag Night?) but I did recently plop down 150 bucks for NBA League Pass. On the rare nights that I have time, I get to watch any NBA game I want. And I like it a lot. And if I ever get around to faxing them a copy of my cable bill, I can watch 'em all live on my compooter, freeing up the TV for the wife.

Future: I am getting old and slow and will probably have to stop playing at some point in the next few years. But I do look forward to the Knickerbockers' memorable 2013 playoff run. Also, I don't think a player should ever be called for a charge if he has released his shot already and then crashes into a defender who is just setting up there trying to get the contact (and possibly injuring both players).

Also, why isn't there a good basketball website? Free Darko is OK from time to time but they take things a bit too seriously for my taste. Wizznutzz is of course magnificent but doesn't work on firefox for mac, in fact it crashes my browser. Plus, it is more of a site about humanity than it is about basketball. So somebody either clue me in to what I'm missing or let's start a damn basketball website that is good.

IV: Diet/Health

Past: I have eaten nothing but crappy food for the last 37 years. My pop used to make me nachos for dinner -- Doritos with Monterey Jack cheese melted on top. I have continued gaining weight every year of my life. I did go on a modified version of Weight Watchers for a few months six or seven years ago. I lost about 15 pounds but then decided to go back to regular old Bungle-style eating and I gained it all back in like half an hour.

Present: I seem to have stabilized at an unhealthy and grotesque weight and body shape.

Future: I will continue to gain weight until my first heart attack, pre-age 50. Then, motivated by terror, I will lose weight and be skinny for the rest of my days.

V: Shoes

Past: I have never had really cool work shoes, but I have owned a shitload of basketball sneakers through the years. Even at this moment, I own 6 pairs.

Present: For Christmas, my wife got me a pair of boot-shoes that I really like. Check 'em out:

I have had good experiences with the Clarks in the past. Real simple and comfy. I think these will be my regular work shoes for the next few months. (Update: Unless my feet keep sweating the way they have been the last couple of days.)

Future: I will continue to wear shoes.

VI: Drinking

Past: Between the ages of 16 and 35, I drank a ton of beer. Fuck that, more than a ton. About 8 tons, by my conservative estimate. I used to love drinking beer, I really did. Just the sight of an unopened case of Old Milwaukee made me giddy with anticipation. I never liked blacking out or morning-after anxiety, though. I used to encounter both of those about once a week.

Present: I drink about three or four beers a week. Maybe twice a year I will exceed three beers in a night. On those nights, lock your doors and hide your fireworks.

Future: I will continue drinking about three or four beers a week. That works out pretty good for me.

VII: Relationship with La Toya Jackson

Past: I never had an intimate relationship with La Toya Jackson.

Present: I am married with a child and vehemently deny that there is anything going on between me and La Toya Jackson.

Future: Who can predict the future?

VIII: Facial Hair

Past: I never had much more than a few stray hairs stickin' outta me chin.

Present: In 2007, I finally attempted to grow a moustache. It wasn't all I hoped for, but it was pretty incredible nonetheless. I miss it. My misstache. Whatever, here is the final photo taken of it before it got shaved.

Look into my eyes (but not too close!) -- I think this shot demonstrates how emotionally difficult it was for me to euthanize the ol' lipsnake. At the very least, you get a free gander at some chest and neck zits. And since we are here, it is time for me to give my long overdue moustache-troops donation info. If you pledged money in support of my 'stache, you can give it to the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund. I'm sure they are corrupt and your money will end up somehow going to Dick Cheney's rent boy, but it's worth a shot. I am giving $40 as promised. In case you have forgotten, here are your pledges.

Future: I need an excuse to grow another one. A better one. A moustache that redefines masculinity for the 21st century. What, you say my first moustache already did that? Then I'll do it again.

IX: Hometown

Past: I grew up in NYC, then lived in Madison, Wisconsin for 6 years. Then I moved back to NYC and I've been here for the last 14 years.

Present: I live in one of the "luxury" apartments of Stuyvesant Town, but the rents are getting so ridiculous we will have to move soon. Maybe to the boonies of the Bkn.

If we do move, maybe the suburbs are a good bet, too. Although Brooklyn is not getting left out of the suburban-style holiday fever, let me tell you. Check out this atrocity:

Future: I think I will move to Southern California at some point in the next five years. I want to be outside 52 weeks a year. I want my kid to ride dirt bikes and catch rattlesnakes. I want beaches and mountains and a newspaper with all the box scores in it. This city's got me feeling like a motherfucker.

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:

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.

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?

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.

stubbed

Here's some stuff that happened over the last few days:

I saw a guy try to back his car over a gay deaf couple (deaf gay couple?). Whatever the terminology, it was insane. This maroon sedan was blocking the box on 14th street just to the southwest of Union Square. Suddenly he threw it in reverse and intentionally tried to hit these two dudes, who seemed to be minding their own business. They barely got out of the way and then they went after him. He sped away like a big chicken, leaving rubber on the street, and then he got stuck at a light and they caught him for a second before the light changed. One of the dudes punched the rear left panel of his car nice and good, but it didn't look like it left a dent. I secretly wished they had smashed his head like a melon.

Ten feet away, a cop tried not to notice. He was busy hassling street vendors.

The next day I stubbed my toe so hard that a 14 year-old kid in Dayton, Ohio started crying uncontrollably and had to be taken in for psychological evaluation. Sorry kid.

5 points for every attempt to finish that sentence: The next day I stubbed my toe so hard that...

3 entries max per person. Surely you can do better than the Dayton, Ohio business.

Today I (and a couple other people) fucked something up at work and it wasn't good. Big bosses found out. In fact, they were the ones that called it to my attention. I could have attempted some creative BSing and buck-passing, but I owned up. That's never a good idea. My stomach bounced and rolled and did The Hustle for about an hour, and then I moved on. There's worse things in this world than fucking up at work.

Here is a look at the field where my moustache will soon grow:

There are definitely some areas of concern. What do you think? Will it be a bumper crop or will I be reaching out for federal assistance?

Oh, and softball got frozen out. Next year will have to wait until next weekend.

soul suckin'

Unless you're a Rock Star, a Movie Star, a Sports Hero or a Bank Robber, you are pretty much doomed to bounce along through life in one of three ways:

1) Being told what to do and doing it;
2) Telling people what to do and making sure they do it;
3) Doing stuff in a relatively unsupervised setup, with occasional check-ins from a big boss but a large degree of autonomy. This scenario exists much more often in the movies than it does in reality.

Unfortunately, I hate doing #2 and I don't have any particular skill that will allow me to find a #3 anytime soon. It looks like I'll be a worker bee for life. And not even a highly-paid worker bee.

I really don't like managing people. They inevitably disappoint you, and then you have to confront them about it. Fuck that. Most people in the universe are by nature unskilled, lazy, unhappy and uninterested in their jobs. So you're bound to have like, a ton of confrontations. Who needs that? I'd rather have someone else confronting me about my poor work. I can take it!

If anybody's looking for a responsible, good-natured #3, let me know.

Here's some more working man's wisdom for you. When you are evaluating a current or prospective job, you should look for satisfaction in at least 2, preferably 3 of these 5 areas:

1) Good pay
2) Good working environment/co-workers/bosses
3) Low stress
4) Fulfilling/Stimulating work
5) Reasonable Hours/Time off

If you are getting 1 or 0, it's time to look for a new job. What are you at right now?

I am a little concerned about my upcoming moustache. There is a definite shortage of lip hair right underneath my septum. I might have to rock one of those two-part moustaches with a little gap in the middle. Will you still love me? Will you still love Oscar Gamble?


Of course you will.

growing old takes the romance out of failure

First, a couple of clarifications/addendums to the Moustaches of Peace post.

1) The month I have off is UNPAID. Hopefully I am eligible for unemployment, but I definitely do not get paid by my current employer. So it ain't gonna be all that great, other than the fact that I will be spending it growing one of the most intense and, in a certain sense, significant moustaches of the last 20 years. Won't you join me?
2) Maybe the Paypal thing is too aggressive for the Moustache project. I think pledged donations are fine, and you can send in a check once you actually see me deliver the moustache you hoped for. So Paypal is coming down, don't think anybody used it anyway. So far I have the following pledge amounts:
Dipak: $20
D. Kois: $10
pbdotc: $10
Christina, Doug and cW are all in but without specific dollar amounts. You can make a pledge by clicking on the photo on the right, or you can just wait for the results and donate based on how much you enjoy the final product. And of course, you can back out at any time (assuming you don't care about disabled war veterans).
3) I really enjoyed the Moustache Starting Fives you all put together. I am going to give everybody who submitted one a ten point bonus and I am going to give the 30 point Grand Prize to pbdotc. His list contained four moustache icons and then a nice humorous finish with Rosie O'Donnell. Well done to him and to the rest of you as well. It was a very tough decision.
4) I forgot that my 5-year wedding anniversary is on June 1st. So in the interest of complete disclosure, let me announce that the moustache project will actually get underway on 6/2/07.

I left my cellphone in a cab this weekend. I was on my way to basketball and I got dropped off at 11th st. and 6th ave. The driver pulled away and then a minute or so later I reached into my pocket and realized the phone was gone. I could still see the cab -- he was stopped at the light at the corner of 11th street and 7th avenue. I know that's a crazy 3-street intersection -- Greenwich Ave., 11th st. and 7th avenue -- because a kid in my elementary school got decapitated by a truck while crossing the street there in like 3rd grade. Armed with the knowledge that it would probably be a long light, I decided to make a dash for it. I ran right in the street, full sprint, flailing my arms so if he looked in his rear view he migt see me (I suspect he did, but chose not to care). When I got to about the halfway point in the block, the light changed and he drove away, making a left onto 7th avenue. I almost gave up but decided to push through in the hope that he got hailed again. Sure enough, someone had flagged him down and he pulled over. I was still a good 80 feet away as he started to pull from the curb, but at this point I simply was not going to let him escape. I screamed out "TAXI" like a goddamn lunatic and he heard me. He stopped, I opened the back door, and there was my cellphone, gently tucked under the ass of the new passenger.

It would have been a happy story except:
1) I hate my cellphone because it keeps shutting down for no reason.
2) I pulled a muscle in my lower leg and after about three or four good games of ball, the leg shut down completely and still hurts.

The moral of the story is that old greasebags like me have to stretch before doing anything physical.

It was a good weekend anyway. Hope you dug it too.

Oh, I figured out with 92% certainty what it is that happened in the last 15 years that fucked up professional (and college) basketball. Remind me to tell you sometime. Or you can state your own opinion and if it matches my (92% correct) opinion, you get 20 GP's.

Introducing Moustaches of Peace

You might have noticed that I talk about moustaches a lot in this space. Specifically, the one I someday intend to grow.

And each time it seems like I'm actually close to pulling something together, my plan disintegrates, my optimism erodes, and I shave my stupid face. It's not that I don't want to grow a moustache -- oh no, nothing would mean more to me. It's just that there are a few things standing in my way.

1) My wife has promised me that exactly one time in my life she will tolerate me growing a moustache. However, whenever I suggest that this time has arrived, she says, not now, maybe some other time. I don't blame her for this.

2) I have a job. And as much as you and I know that my moustache will be heartfelt and unironic, to an outsider it might look like I'm just having a few laughs. That I'm not taking my appearance seriously. That I am just a kid. And my stock with the bosses will plummet in some tiny way. Since I am a big pussy, this bothers me.

3) When I don't shave for like 6 days and I get a look at the actual hair growth that has accumulated, I actually have serious doubts as to whether I have what it takes, whether my 'stache will ever grow beyond what you're used to seeing in 8th grade yearbook photos. See:

There's no point growing one if it can't be supersexy and thick.

4) Even if it did eventually grow into something to be proud of (and let's face it, it would), the process would be long and embarrassing, with lots of questions like, Are you growing a moustache? I guess I could let the full beard grow and then shave it down to a moustache at the appropriate time, but that would look patchy and people might start to worry about my health.

So I apologize for constantly getting you all excited about my moustache and then just flaking on it.

And people, I think I have a solution, a way to make it up to you. Two factors have come together and created the perfect environment for 'staching.

One, my wife has always said that I could (attempt to) grow one if I could somehow harness its power to increase the overall level of cosmic happiness. She even sent me this link to one of several moustache-growing charities. Alas, I missed the most recent deadline and you know what, I don't want to jump in on somebody else's thing anyway. Good on those dudes for making it happen, but I want to create my own moustache project.

And this year, for the first time, my job will end at the end of May and won't start up again until at least July. So I will have an entire month to do nothing but lament past life-failures, put off any thoughts of improving my future, and grow one serious fucking moustache.

So here is what I intend to do. I want you to sponsor me and our new charity Moustaches of Peace. You can make a Paypal donation of any size and I will match total donations up to $37. If I get a reasonable amount of money in there ($37 would be a reasonable amount), I will begin growing the stache on my first day off in June. When I shave it, whatever donations have been accumulated will be transferred to a charity to be named later. As in, later today. Any suggestions? I was thinking about something for Iraq war veterans or Iraqi families displaced by the war. Please chime in.

I also welcome anyone who wants to join me in this project come June, and I will sponsor any of you who commit with a $5 donation into the MoP kitty (first five growers only).

Also, I would appreciate it if everyone could please spell the word "moustache" with the "o" in there. Moustaches are about flair, about giving it a little something extra, and that's why the "o" seems so right.

Give me your top five moustaches in history. Best list gets 30 points.