I didn't expect to be stretch-molested on the train this morning, but then again, I rarely do. Today, I was riding into work on the train, minding my own business as the only person in a block of four seats, listening to music, and reading a book. All of a sudden, a tall, manic looking hipster slides into the seat next to me. Keep in mind that I'm sitting in the inside window seat of a four seat block. Unspoken train etiquette clearly (but silently) states that you don't sit DIRECTLY next to a person on the train if a diagonal seat is available. If you do, you shouldn't be surprised if you are pick-pocketed, knifed, or tickled (a fun creepy prank you should try is tickling someone while glaring at them with a look of complete hatred on your face). It's odd to sit next to someone and take their arm space and it's odd to sit directly across from them and take their leg space. This is a universal truth, like don't drink water in Mexico and if you call yourself Grizzly Man, you're going to die by Grizzlies.*
So I was more than a little surprised when this guy plunked down in the seat next to me. I was then MORE surprised when he started stretching-- for an extended period of time. Stretching is like peeing-- it's acceptable for a short period of time, but after a minute or two it becomes awkward and uncomfortable. Only two types of people have the social leeway to stretch in public-- white women clearly dressed for yoga, and elderly asian people dressed primarily in sweat-gear. White, shaggy hipsters are not on the list. The guy proceeded to stretch his legs, his sides, and his arms, which was a lot like he was playing a game called, "How close can my arm inadvertently come to your face without my noticing or you saying anything?" He then flipped himself forward and grabbed his knees, which was exactly as awkward as it sounds. Fortunately, his next move was to shake. Just like, in general. Just shake. Naturally, this drew some attention, and naturally I was partially subject to this attention, which meant I had to first ignore the looks, then give the "Fuckin' nuts, right?" look back, and then go back to ignoring them when I realized that THEY were giving looks of concern, not judgement. Go figure.
This is not the first time stretching has been out of context in my life. I'm cool talking with you in the gym, but not if your groin is, in any way, being manipulated. In fact, let's just assume I'm generally willing to talk to people as long as they aren't mid-stretch. Because when we're talking AND stretching, we're not having a conversation, we're playing a game called, "Continue Making Eye Contact At All Costs So It's Not Weird." When someone's legs are above their head, it's an elephant in the room-- and it's damn near impossible not to eventually look at that elephant's crotch. Fact of life.
DiscoSoup.Com -- Happy Birthday to The ATX! Even if you don't live in Austin, you should checkout his new website/company www.discosoup.com because it'll be coming to a city near you soon (well, hopefully the ACTUAL city you are in). Get live wait times for restaurants so you don't waste your lunch hour, get all psyched up for nothing, or not have any time to get your hot date drinking before your table is ready.
This Post Was A Stretch,
Witz
*Crocodile Hunter being an obvious exception to this rule. Who saw sting-ray comin?? NOBODY! (too soon?)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: My Saturday -- A Tale of Dry Cleaner Timetables, Stephen Hawking Impersonations, and Sharks.
It's come to this-- My Saturday
After taking it easy Friday night, and watching "Sex Drive" with my friends, I was ready for a big Saturday. While the movie was far funnier than we expected and had some great one liners, visual gags, and cameos, my Saturday took an immediate turn for the worse.
I woke up, got out of bed feeling great, and promptly threw out my back. How did I do this? Oh, it was while I was completing the incredibly active task of LOOKING DOWN. Yep. Lookin' down. Try it now-- if you can look back up to keep reading, you bested me. Much like how I threw out my entire back in December while DRYING OFF MY HAIR, I managed to render the upper half of my back and neck useless by looking down at my goddamn keyboard. I considered the fact that I might be similar to Benjamin Button: I LOOK young, but I actually have the immune system and body integrity of a 90 year old man. Following this logic, I should be looking forward to when I'm 90 and have the immune system and bodily virility of a 26 year old-- which means having more retirement home STDs than vitamins I am currently taking. But as Titan AE pointed out, "Great. Then you'll be old, healthy, and alone-- because everyone you know will be dead." Maybe then I'll finally have some time to lay back and watch The Wire.
The upside of this injury, of course, was that I knew I'd be able to do a kickass robot impression the rest of the weekend as my head, neck, and shoulders were a team now and only capable of moving in unison. I thought maybe I'd go down to a park and do some street performing for quick cash, but I was all out of silver paint and even if I had some, I'm still not ready to be the guy who "Died from asphyxiation while pretending to be a robot in the park." The downside of the injury was that MY ENTIRE WEEKEND WAS RUINED.
While my fun might have slipped the proverbial spinal disc, Saturday was meant to be a day to get things done, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Looking Down ruin my ability to check off "Deposit Check" and "Go to Dry Cleaners" from my to do list. So, doing my best Christopher Reeves impression, I slid into my car and drove to the bank. It only took me a minute to realize that switching lanes was going to be a problem as I couldn't turn to see the other lanes or the mirrors very well, so I decided to let fate dictate my day some more and just drive like old people or most asian women (This isn't racist. While I don't think that all asian women are bad drivers, more often than not, when I encounter an oblivious driver, it turns out to be an asian woman. The more this happens, the less surprised I am) and switch lanes whenever I felt like without checking to see if a car was already there. I can only assume people were honking at me to alert me of my success as I switched between lanes and eventually parked at the bank.
The Bank is not an interesting part of this story other than the fact that I was an unshowered, unshaven, poofy haired, paralysis impersonating robot AND STILL wasn't the most homeless looking person in the bank (95% chance there was an actual homeless person). I got a double take from the teller who probably assumed my check was fake, but banks aren't exactly in a position to be turning away money, so I was set. The check was, in fact, the "found money" check that was excrutiatingly frustrating to acquire. No part was more painful or amusing, than the hold music for the CT Unclaimed Property Division. Instead of your typical upbeat or classical music, they have the most depressing music I have ever heard. It is essentially sad guitar or piano with a guy woefully telling you his problems in more of a list format than a narrative. "She's gone forever. I'm all alone. I can't afford rent. My dog died. I can't sleep. And also I'm feeling sick. I wrecked my car," and so on. It feels like an overwhelmingly last ditch effort to get whoever is on hold ot kill themselves so they don't ever claim their property and the state can hang onto it.
My next stop was the Dry Cleaner. I'd never been to the Dry Cleaner before to drop off my own clothes, but after depositing my check, I felt cocky and determined to make other people do things that I didn't want to do. I dropped off some shirts and some pants that I haven't worn in months because they were "dry clean only" ("These pants are dry-clean only, which means...they're dirty!" -Mitch Hedberg). The girl asked me when I wanted them ready, which I thought was odd, and so I told her, "Well, as soon as possible, I suppose..." to which she replied, "We typically take 3-4 days," to which I replied, "Ok then," to which she bafflingly added, "Unless you need them sooner, in which case we can put a rush on them for you," to which I had to ask, "How much is that?" to which she had to reply honestly, "The same price."
..........
..........
THEN I WANT THE CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY. Of course I do! Each and every time. I promise that I will always want my clothes as quickly as possible for the price that I am paying. I'm never gonna say, "You know what, fuck it, why don't you hang on to these for a while so you can potentially lose them and they can be useless to me."
CUT TO POTENTIALLY RELEVANT CONVERSATION LAST NIGHT:
Jeremy: How'd you throw out your back?
Witz: Looking down.
Jeremy: Ah. Are you really stressed?
Witz: Not really.
CUT BACK TO DRY CLEANER:
Girl: (knowing full well I have no idea) Would you like your shirts starched?
Witz: (feeling like I was 7 and a friend asked if I'd seen a movie I hadn't, but didn't want to sound stupid) A little.
Girl: A little?
Witz: Yeah, some places...use too much (basing this assumption on the logic that because my mom used to say to me, "You shouldn't eat too much starch," then you shouldn't over-starch your shirts.)
Girl: That's true, some people like them so they stand on their own.
Witz: (exhale). Whew.
These are the reasons why looking down causes me problems.
My last menial task of the day was to vaccuum out my car. My roommate had recently bought a mini-vac to use on her car, so I went to use it. It's badass because it's called THE SHARK! and much like a shark, it's POWERFUL and is mostly concerned with CLEANING THINGS. As it turns out, sharks aren't vaccuums for a reason. While I kneeled on the ground, extending my ruined back out across the seats, I watched as the "head" of the shark (hammer head shark I guess) failed again and again to pick up any crumbs, sand, or leaves that had accumulated in my car (I have no idea how these are the things that accumulate. I mean, sure, there was that brief stint in the Fall when I was picking up children from playgrounds and feeding them cookies to shut them up, but on advice of counsel, I've had my car cleaned since then).
At different points in life, we realize that we are stuck-- either physically or metaphorically. As I lay there across my seat, kneeling on the pavement, unable to raise my upper body, while gripping The Shark vaccuum in one hand and a bag of trash in the other, I realized I was both. Stuck with dealing with the stress (or DOESN'T Picks, if you will) of the world, and physically stuck in the "station wagon fluffer" position. After a few minutes of wondering how I ended up at that point in my life, I crawled my way out of the car and went back inside to enjoy the weekend.
Somewhere In the World A Bubble Is Missing Its Boy,
Witz
After taking it easy Friday night, and watching "Sex Drive" with my friends, I was ready for a big Saturday. While the movie was far funnier than we expected and had some great one liners, visual gags, and cameos, my Saturday took an immediate turn for the worse.
I woke up, got out of bed feeling great, and promptly threw out my back. How did I do this? Oh, it was while I was completing the incredibly active task of LOOKING DOWN. Yep. Lookin' down. Try it now-- if you can look back up to keep reading, you bested me. Much like how I threw out my entire back in December while DRYING OFF MY HAIR, I managed to render the upper half of my back and neck useless by looking down at my goddamn keyboard. I considered the fact that I might be similar to Benjamin Button: I LOOK young, but I actually have the immune system and body integrity of a 90 year old man. Following this logic, I should be looking forward to when I'm 90 and have the immune system and bodily virility of a 26 year old-- which means having more retirement home STDs than vitamins I am currently taking. But as Titan AE pointed out, "Great. Then you'll be old, healthy, and alone-- because everyone you know will be dead." Maybe then I'll finally have some time to lay back and watch The Wire.
The upside of this injury, of course, was that I knew I'd be able to do a kickass robot impression the rest of the weekend as my head, neck, and shoulders were a team now and only capable of moving in unison. I thought maybe I'd go down to a park and do some street performing for quick cash, but I was all out of silver paint and even if I had some, I'm still not ready to be the guy who "Died from asphyxiation while pretending to be a robot in the park." The downside of the injury was that MY ENTIRE WEEKEND WAS RUINED.
While my fun might have slipped the proverbial spinal disc, Saturday was meant to be a day to get things done, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Looking Down ruin my ability to check off "Deposit Check" and "Go to Dry Cleaners" from my to do list. So, doing my best Christopher Reeves impression, I slid into my car and drove to the bank. It only took me a minute to realize that switching lanes was going to be a problem as I couldn't turn to see the other lanes or the mirrors very well, so I decided to let fate dictate my day some more and just drive like old people or most asian women (This isn't racist. While I don't think that all asian women are bad drivers, more often than not, when I encounter an oblivious driver, it turns out to be an asian woman. The more this happens, the less surprised I am) and switch lanes whenever I felt like without checking to see if a car was already there. I can only assume people were honking at me to alert me of my success as I switched between lanes and eventually parked at the bank.
The Bank is not an interesting part of this story other than the fact that I was an unshowered, unshaven, poofy haired, paralysis impersonating robot AND STILL wasn't the most homeless looking person in the bank (95% chance there was an actual homeless person). I got a double take from the teller who probably assumed my check was fake, but banks aren't exactly in a position to be turning away money, so I was set. The check was, in fact, the "found money" check that was excrutiatingly frustrating to acquire. No part was more painful or amusing, than the hold music for the CT Unclaimed Property Division. Instead of your typical upbeat or classical music, they have the most depressing music I have ever heard. It is essentially sad guitar or piano with a guy woefully telling you his problems in more of a list format than a narrative. "She's gone forever. I'm all alone. I can't afford rent. My dog died. I can't sleep. And also I'm feeling sick. I wrecked my car," and so on. It feels like an overwhelmingly last ditch effort to get whoever is on hold ot kill themselves so they don't ever claim their property and the state can hang onto it.
My next stop was the Dry Cleaner. I'd never been to the Dry Cleaner before to drop off my own clothes, but after depositing my check, I felt cocky and determined to make other people do things that I didn't want to do. I dropped off some shirts and some pants that I haven't worn in months because they were "dry clean only" ("These pants are dry-clean only, which means...they're dirty!" -Mitch Hedberg). The girl asked me when I wanted them ready, which I thought was odd, and so I told her, "Well, as soon as possible, I suppose..." to which she replied, "We typically take 3-4 days," to which I replied, "Ok then," to which she bafflingly added, "Unless you need them sooner, in which case we can put a rush on them for you," to which I had to ask, "How much is that?" to which she had to reply honestly, "The same price."
..........
..........
THEN I WANT THE CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY. Of course I do! Each and every time. I promise that I will always want my clothes as quickly as possible for the price that I am paying. I'm never gonna say, "You know what, fuck it, why don't you hang on to these for a while so you can potentially lose them and they can be useless to me."
CUT TO POTENTIALLY RELEVANT CONVERSATION LAST NIGHT:
Jeremy: How'd you throw out your back?
Witz: Looking down.
Jeremy: Ah. Are you really stressed?
Witz: Not really.
CUT BACK TO DRY CLEANER:
Girl: (knowing full well I have no idea) Would you like your shirts starched?
Witz: (feeling like I was 7 and a friend asked if I'd seen a movie I hadn't, but didn't want to sound stupid) A little.
Girl: A little?
Witz: Yeah, some places...use too much (basing this assumption on the logic that because my mom used to say to me, "You shouldn't eat too much starch," then you shouldn't over-starch your shirts.)
Girl: That's true, some people like them so they stand on their own.
Witz: (exhale). Whew.
These are the reasons why looking down causes me problems.
My last menial task of the day was to vaccuum out my car. My roommate had recently bought a mini-vac to use on her car, so I went to use it. It's badass because it's called THE SHARK! and much like a shark, it's POWERFUL and is mostly concerned with CLEANING THINGS. As it turns out, sharks aren't vaccuums for a reason. While I kneeled on the ground, extending my ruined back out across the seats, I watched as the "head" of the shark (hammer head shark I guess) failed again and again to pick up any crumbs, sand, or leaves that had accumulated in my car (I have no idea how these are the things that accumulate. I mean, sure, there was that brief stint in the Fall when I was picking up children from playgrounds and feeding them cookies to shut them up, but on advice of counsel, I've had my car cleaned since then).
At different points in life, we realize that we are stuck-- either physically or metaphorically. As I lay there across my seat, kneeling on the pavement, unable to raise my upper body, while gripping The Shark vaccuum in one hand and a bag of trash in the other, I realized I was both. Stuck with dealing with the stress (or DOESN'T Picks, if you will) of the world, and physically stuck in the "station wagon fluffer" position. After a few minutes of wondering how I ended up at that point in my life, I crawled my way out of the car and went back inside to enjoy the weekend.
Somewhere In the World A Bubble Is Missing Its Boy,
Witz
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Witz Pickz: Supermarket Best Friends & Costco Sized Philanthropy
The Safeway grocery store by my house is known as the Safeway where single people go to be seen...theoretically seen buying toilet paper, frozen pizzas, and anti-itch cream, but seen all the same. I'm not sure if any couples have ever emerged from the Marina Safeway scene, but I do know that, in classic Witz fashion, I now have a super best friend.
The other night, I was standing by the deli, waiting to buy some turkey, when the guy in front of me ordered, "1/2 a pound of turkey..." and then said the six words that let him into my heart: "...and can you slice that thin?"
For some reason, the west coast serves up deli meats unlike anywhere I have been before. Instead of taking your order and slicing what you want, they have displays of different meats, pre-cut and haphazardly thrown in a heap. It's the "abusive husband" way of displaying meat. It's as if they're saying, "No matter how poorly we treat you, you're gonna keep coming back because we're all you've got." And they're right. So what I have started doing is asking for them to slice the turkey at a different thickness so I know my turkey is fresh (and I like thin sliced turkey as opposed to the GD thanksgiving portions slices they have pre-cut). This usually results in me getting a glare from the woman behind the counter, an awkward piece of test turkey (awesome), and generally fresher turkey than I would have gotten.
So when I heard those six words come out of my mystery friend's mouth, I knew I'd found somebody special. I got cocky, like, "This guy is gonna get so psyched when he hears me order..." and started getting anxious, hoping I wasn't going to freak out and say, "and thin can turkey slice?" After some hapless woman ordered roast beef straight from the display it was my turn.
"I'd actually like the turkey too, please."
"Turkey?"
"Yeah-- and could I actually have that thin-sliced too, please?" Boom. These are the moments we analyze and agonize over-- or is that just me? And then--
"Hey, alright, man-- thin sliced!"
"Yep!"
"They slice it so thick!"
"And the heap of meat is gross!"
"Right??"
"I'm just glad I'm not the only one."
And there you have it. Nobody wants to be alone in this world. Everyone is just looking for someone else to order thin-sliced meat with-- or something like that. The rest of this conversation is not entirely accurate:
"Can we be Super Best Supermarket Friends?"
"But not in a gay way?"
"I don't even know how that'd be possible."
"Well, restroom hand jobs."
"Oh. Right. Then no."
"Cool, then I'm for it."
"I'm for it, too, Guy Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care To Know."
And from that moment, we became Super Best Supermarket Friends. What does this mean? It means that if we ever run into each other at the deli again, we'll remember and probably be like, "What's up, man?" or "Hell yeah, thin sliced turkey." And if we run into each other in OTHER parts of the store, we'll probably be like "..." and not talk, because "where do I know that dude, from?" And that is the most anyone could EVER expect out of a supermarket friendship-- which is why we are Super Best Supermarket Friends.
Costco-Sized Philanthropy:
I had the best idea ever yesterday. I inexplicably have some random found money coming to me (no, not from the King of Uzbekistan), which is not only proof that the world is illogical, but also that my entire, "Eh, things will work out for me somehow" world view is absolutely correct-- because there is no reason in hell why I should be the recipient of found money. For this reason, I decided that I need to use at least a small portion of the money to help someone. I also recently learned that I still have an active Costco membership, which led me to a brilliant conclusion.
I am going to take at least 100 dollars of my found money and buy bulk Costco food to give to homeless people. Not LOTS of homeless people, but several homeless people. I want each individual homeless person to receive an inordinate amount of ONE THING. "Hey, Homeless Guy, are you hungry? Because here are FORTY FIVE CROISSANTS!" This idea is brilliant because it involves so many aspects:
1) Philanthropy - Feeding the Homeless. Simple.
2) Comedy - Feeding the Homeless obscene amounts of food. The joke potential is huge, and the best part is, the joke isn't on the homeless person, it's simply in the act itself-- like manatees sex. "Hey homeless guy, would you like a dollar...AND FORTY-THOUSAND GOLDFISH CRACKERS!?"
3) Exercise - It would be naive to think we aren't going to have to run away from a lot of people-- homeless and otherwise.
4) Element of Danger - Partially covered by Exercise, this is not necessarily a GOOD philanthropical idea. While we're helping people, we also might be assaulted, knifed, shot, chased, and potentially impregnated. Zen question of the day: If you get pregnant from a homeless person, can you theoretically leave that child anywhere and say "It's living with its father?"
5) Documentary Potential - Absolutely ripe for youtube. A comedic adventure into the true soul of America's streets. Learn who these people are as we give them hilariously oversized, but nourishing goods.
6) Tax Write-Off - Maybe?
7) Feel Good About Myself - Most importantly, I imagine I'm going to feel great about myself after this-- and you should feel great about me too. After all, what's the point of doing something like this, if you aren't going to BLOG ABOUT IT AND TELL EVERYONE??
Here are some more of the things I'm excited to say:
"Hello, do you like ham and turkey, because HERE'S AN EIGHT FOOT PARTY SUB! And here's a twelve gallon tub of mustard because we didn't know if you wanted any on there or not!"
"You should eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because WE BOUGHT YOU FORTY GALLONS OF PB&J AND TWELVE LOAVES OF WHOLE WHEAT BREAD!"
"Hey, symbiotic homeless couple-- why don't you have a romantic dinner? Here are some candles, garlic bread, and NINETY POUNDS OF FETTUCCINI ALFREDO!!!"
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.
Medium-Sliced,
Witz
The other night, I was standing by the deli, waiting to buy some turkey, when the guy in front of me ordered, "1/2 a pound of turkey..." and then said the six words that let him into my heart: "...and can you slice that thin?"
For some reason, the west coast serves up deli meats unlike anywhere I have been before. Instead of taking your order and slicing what you want, they have displays of different meats, pre-cut and haphazardly thrown in a heap. It's the "abusive husband" way of displaying meat. It's as if they're saying, "No matter how poorly we treat you, you're gonna keep coming back because we're all you've got." And they're right. So what I have started doing is asking for them to slice the turkey at a different thickness so I know my turkey is fresh (and I like thin sliced turkey as opposed to the GD thanksgiving portions slices they have pre-cut). This usually results in me getting a glare from the woman behind the counter, an awkward piece of test turkey (awesome), and generally fresher turkey than I would have gotten.
So when I heard those six words come out of my mystery friend's mouth, I knew I'd found somebody special. I got cocky, like, "This guy is gonna get so psyched when he hears me order..." and started getting anxious, hoping I wasn't going to freak out and say, "and thin can turkey slice?" After some hapless woman ordered roast beef straight from the display it was my turn.
"I'd actually like the turkey too, please."
"Turkey?"
"Yeah-- and could I actually have that thin-sliced too, please?" Boom. These are the moments we analyze and agonize over-- or is that just me? And then--
"Hey, alright, man-- thin sliced!"
"Yep!"
"They slice it so thick!"
"And the heap of meat is gross!"
"Right??"
"I'm just glad I'm not the only one."
And there you have it. Nobody wants to be alone in this world. Everyone is just looking for someone else to order thin-sliced meat with-- or something like that. The rest of this conversation is not entirely accurate:
"Can we be Super Best Supermarket Friends?"
"But not in a gay way?"
"I don't even know how that'd be possible."
"Well, restroom hand jobs."
"Oh. Right. Then no."
"Cool, then I'm for it."
"I'm for it, too, Guy Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care To Know."
And from that moment, we became Super Best Supermarket Friends. What does this mean? It means that if we ever run into each other at the deli again, we'll remember and probably be like, "What's up, man?" or "Hell yeah, thin sliced turkey." And if we run into each other in OTHER parts of the store, we'll probably be like "..." and not talk, because "where do I know that dude, from?" And that is the most anyone could EVER expect out of a supermarket friendship-- which is why we are Super Best Supermarket Friends.
Costco-Sized Philanthropy:
I had the best idea ever yesterday. I inexplicably have some random found money coming to me (no, not from the King of Uzbekistan), which is not only proof that the world is illogical, but also that my entire, "Eh, things will work out for me somehow" world view is absolutely correct-- because there is no reason in hell why I should be the recipient of found money. For this reason, I decided that I need to use at least a small portion of the money to help someone. I also recently learned that I still have an active Costco membership, which led me to a brilliant conclusion.
I am going to take at least 100 dollars of my found money and buy bulk Costco food to give to homeless people. Not LOTS of homeless people, but several homeless people. I want each individual homeless person to receive an inordinate amount of ONE THING. "Hey, Homeless Guy, are you hungry? Because here are FORTY FIVE CROISSANTS!" This idea is brilliant because it involves so many aspects:
1) Philanthropy - Feeding the Homeless. Simple.
2) Comedy - Feeding the Homeless obscene amounts of food. The joke potential is huge, and the best part is, the joke isn't on the homeless person, it's simply in the act itself-- like manatees sex. "Hey homeless guy, would you like a dollar...AND FORTY-THOUSAND GOLDFISH CRACKERS!?"
3) Exercise - It would be naive to think we aren't going to have to run away from a lot of people-- homeless and otherwise.
4) Element of Danger - Partially covered by Exercise, this is not necessarily a GOOD philanthropical idea. While we're helping people, we also might be assaulted, knifed, shot, chased, and potentially impregnated. Zen question of the day: If you get pregnant from a homeless person, can you theoretically leave that child anywhere and say "It's living with its father?"
5) Documentary Potential - Absolutely ripe for youtube. A comedic adventure into the true soul of America's streets. Learn who these people are as we give them hilariously oversized, but nourishing goods.
6) Tax Write-Off - Maybe?
7) Feel Good About Myself - Most importantly, I imagine I'm going to feel great about myself after this-- and you should feel great about me too. After all, what's the point of doing something like this, if you aren't going to BLOG ABOUT IT AND TELL EVERYONE??
Here are some more of the things I'm excited to say:
"Hello, do you like ham and turkey, because HERE'S AN EIGHT FOOT PARTY SUB! And here's a twelve gallon tub of mustard because we didn't know if you wanted any on there or not!"
"You should eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because WE BOUGHT YOU FORTY GALLONS OF PB&J AND TWELVE LOAVES OF WHOLE WHEAT BREAD!"
"Hey, symbiotic homeless couple-- why don't you have a romantic dinner? Here are some candles, garlic bread, and NINETY POUNDS OF FETTUCCINI ALFREDO!!!"
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.
Medium-Sliced,
Witz
Friday, March 06, 2009
Witz Pickz: 300th Post
This is my 300th post here on Witz Pickz. To be fair, it probably should have arrived sooner, but after the movie "300" came out, I had to delay the release of this pick to avoid any confusion:
"Want to see 300?"
"Wait, the movie or the witz pickz post??"
See. Chaos. So after some months, the 300th post has finally arrived, and it seems only appropriate after these last 299 posts that I am sick. After all, what is Witz Pickz if not a venue for me to passive-aggressively express my woes and cry for help? My immune system has been a top theme here, and so, in a way, I'm glad it has let me down one more time for this post.
There's some kind of mutant cold going around that people all over the country are coming down with. Here's how my mom was able to enlighten me:
MOM: Oh! You have that flu-cold!
ME: Flu-cold?
MOM: Yep-- it's like part flu part cold (part man-bear-pig).
ME: Hm-- my limited medical knowledge tells me that's impossible.
MOM: Nono, it's true-- it's like a flu that shows up as a cold.
ME: A flu that's actually a cold?
MOM: Or a cold that has flu symptoms.
ME: But those are two separate things. Wait, my cold has the flu?
MOM: I'm just telling you what I know! It's gonna get worse.
ME: Wow, thanks Mom.
Which is why I found myself in the waiting room of the doctor's office at 10am this morning, just in case I was about to enter the weekend without meds that I could have used.
I love my doctor's office because it is predominantly asian-- and when I say predominantly, I mean that I am the only white person in a sea of asians. If the waiting room were a can of mixed nuts it'd go, "peanut, peanut, peanut, cashew, almond, cashew, peanut, cashew, FILBERT???" I'm the Filbert. Nobody knows why I'm there or where I came from, and while they shouldn't be frightened of me, my shear size makes them wary. Having said that, it's kind of nice.
The waiting room is a little less depressing and a little more interesting. Why does that guy have a "Quarantine Matters" hat on? Oh well, he's prooobably not massively contagious. Just this morning, a woman next to me was talking on her cell phone loudly. She had cupped her hand around the phone and her mouth to theoretically mask the noise, but it ended up just making her sound like a megaphone-- and because she was speaking another language, she also ended up sounding EXACTLY like the phone voice in Charlie Brown. I like that I can't understand most of the conversations going on, and therefore, don't know what diseases are just around the corner, waiting for me to walk into their wake-- although I have learned that some cognates exist-- "japanese japanese japanese Bronchitis japanese japanese." I like how when the R.N. comes out to call me in, she has absolutely no idea how to pronounce my name. I like that she has to check my sheet to make sure I'm saying the same name she has written down. I like how she takes my blood pressure and weight, but then asks, "How tall?" and nods, impressed, when I say five-ten. "Yep, five-ten, I'm of complete average height."
I didn't expect much out of my visit this morning, and didn't get much. After a quick visit, the doctor informed me that I didn't have an ear infection, but I felt ok because I'd essentially paid 20 bucks to get my accurate weight and blood pressure taken, and to confirm that I wasn't sicker than I thought I was. Worth it. I briefly considered asking for some candy (after all, I'd thought I might have an EAR INFECTION, so since I'm apparently five years old, I might as well make a stab for some treats), but then remembered that I'd most likely get some kind of asian candy, which I'd already had some experience with. Here's how:
While working an event in Los Angeles, my friend Drea and I were given "Strawberry Pocky" as a thank you for helping a couple of Japanese women get registered for the event after the RSVP deadline. I'll save you the trip to the wikipedia and just tell you that Pocky was introduced in 1966 and was a hit amongst Japanese teenagers. It consists of biscuit sticks covered in chocolate and is named "pocky" because it is onomanopoetic for the sound pocky makes when you eat it (awesome). Strawberry Pocky was invented in 1977 (it took them ELEVEN YEARS to make that leap). SO, these women giving us pocky was like me giving someone malt balls as a thank you (Pocky briefly tried to sell their product in malt ball form under the name "Pock-Marks"-- the product was quickly removed from stores). The gift was appreciated, but I wasn't interested in more Japanese candy, this time from the doctor's office.
Which leaves me now, back home, sick, once again telling you about my immunal woes. When I told my boss that I was going to be out again today, she told me with motherly concern, "No partying this weekend!! We'll see you on Monday." I appreciate the sentiment, but this time around I don't think partying had anything to do with it. To the contrary, I wanted to reply that, "I'll also avoid standing out in the freezing cold for 3 hours driving old people in golf carts," which is the real culprit for catching this sucker, and is very much work related.
So here is my plight: My Netflix has left me in this state with only Zak and Miri Make A Porno, which I don't want to waste by watching alone, and Appaloosa, which is one of those movies that sounded like a good idea, RIGHT up until I got it in the mail. I'm out of snacks, but live in a goddamn forest, so I'm going to have to either take a drive to the store or start hunting rabbits (which I was good at in The Oregon Trail). Going out is only a problem insomuch as I haven't shaved in two days, look like late night with Joaquin Phoenix, and am hosting a game of Body Temperature Tag between Arctic Chills and Hot Savannah Nights. I'm also dressed suspiciously like Dexter's "killing suit," but that's not really the dealbreaker. So I'm house-bound. Either the cuddle-crazed cat or a misplaced midget has been pawing at my door for the last hour, so I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. I'm all out of House, Lost, and Entourage episodes to watch online. And I'm about ready to start rooting through the trash for that pocky.
So where am I after 300 posts? Not very far from where I was on post #1. Sure, I have a lot less shame and sure, we've had some good times. I'm PROBABLY more recognizably racist, and certainly lack some morals that we all thought I had. All the same, thanks for readin these last 300 (or the last 100 and then complaining that there aren't more posts for you to read even though you could go back and read the 200 that you missed out on the first time around), and if I survive this round of mutant flu that has a cold that's pregnant with anemia, I hope you stick around for more.
"I Liked the Movie Better,"
Witz
And now, here's a sketch based on in inexplicable scene I saw in which I have to assume two rapists discuss their van purchase:
LARRY: Frank, what the hell is this!
FRANK: What are you talkin' about, you told me to buy a rape van!
LARRY: Ohhh, no, no, no, no, no-- Frank, this is a Dodge Stratus!
FRANK: And?
LARRY: Are you kidding me? And this isn't a rape van!
FRANK: Well not YET it isn't!
LARRY: No, Frank, it never will be! EVERYONE knows that a rape van is a WHITE van with tinted windows. You bought us a-- a FAMILY van!
FRANK: What??
LARRY: Oh come on!
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Seriously??
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Great. Just great. What the hell do we do now-- we look like idiots.
FRANK: Well...At least we don't look like rapists!
LARRY: But we ARE rapists, Frank, we ARE rapists...
FRANK: Yeah...you're right.
LARRY: Now we just look like a gay couple struggling with the adoption process.
The hot new comedy, Frank N' Larry: Serial Offenders, coming soon on Fox.
"Want to see 300?"
"Wait, the movie or the witz pickz post??"
See. Chaos. So after some months, the 300th post has finally arrived, and it seems only appropriate after these last 299 posts that I am sick. After all, what is Witz Pickz if not a venue for me to passive-aggressively express my woes and cry for help? My immune system has been a top theme here, and so, in a way, I'm glad it has let me down one more time for this post.
There's some kind of mutant cold going around that people all over the country are coming down with. Here's how my mom was able to enlighten me:
MOM: Oh! You have that flu-cold!
ME: Flu-cold?
MOM: Yep-- it's like part flu part cold (part man-bear-pig).
ME: Hm-- my limited medical knowledge tells me that's impossible.
MOM: Nono, it's true-- it's like a flu that shows up as a cold.
ME: A flu that's actually a cold?
MOM: Or a cold that has flu symptoms.
ME: But those are two separate things. Wait, my cold has the flu?
MOM: I'm just telling you what I know! It's gonna get worse.
ME: Wow, thanks Mom.
Which is why I found myself in the waiting room of the doctor's office at 10am this morning, just in case I was about to enter the weekend without meds that I could have used.
I love my doctor's office because it is predominantly asian-- and when I say predominantly, I mean that I am the only white person in a sea of asians. If the waiting room were a can of mixed nuts it'd go, "peanut, peanut, peanut, cashew, almond, cashew, peanut, cashew, FILBERT???" I'm the Filbert. Nobody knows why I'm there or where I came from, and while they shouldn't be frightened of me, my shear size makes them wary. Having said that, it's kind of nice.
The waiting room is a little less depressing and a little more interesting. Why does that guy have a "Quarantine Matters" hat on? Oh well, he's prooobably not massively contagious. Just this morning, a woman next to me was talking on her cell phone loudly. She had cupped her hand around the phone and her mouth to theoretically mask the noise, but it ended up just making her sound like a megaphone-- and because she was speaking another language, she also ended up sounding EXACTLY like the phone voice in Charlie Brown. I like that I can't understand most of the conversations going on, and therefore, don't know what diseases are just around the corner, waiting for me to walk into their wake-- although I have learned that some cognates exist-- "japanese japanese japanese Bronchitis japanese japanese." I like how when the R.N. comes out to call me in, she has absolutely no idea how to pronounce my name. I like that she has to check my sheet to make sure I'm saying the same name she has written down. I like how she takes my blood pressure and weight, but then asks, "How tall?" and nods, impressed, when I say five-ten. "Yep, five-ten, I'm of complete average height."
I didn't expect much out of my visit this morning, and didn't get much. After a quick visit, the doctor informed me that I didn't have an ear infection, but I felt ok because I'd essentially paid 20 bucks to get my accurate weight and blood pressure taken, and to confirm that I wasn't sicker than I thought I was. Worth it. I briefly considered asking for some candy (after all, I'd thought I might have an EAR INFECTION, so since I'm apparently five years old, I might as well make a stab for some treats), but then remembered that I'd most likely get some kind of asian candy, which I'd already had some experience with. Here's how:
While working an event in Los Angeles, my friend Drea and I were given "Strawberry Pocky" as a thank you for helping a couple of Japanese women get registered for the event after the RSVP deadline. I'll save you the trip to the wikipedia and just tell you that Pocky was introduced in 1966 and was a hit amongst Japanese teenagers. It consists of biscuit sticks covered in chocolate and is named "pocky" because it is onomanopoetic for the sound pocky makes when you eat it (awesome). Strawberry Pocky was invented in 1977 (it took them ELEVEN YEARS to make that leap). SO, these women giving us pocky was like me giving someone malt balls as a thank you (Pocky briefly tried to sell their product in malt ball form under the name "Pock-Marks"-- the product was quickly removed from stores). The gift was appreciated, but I wasn't interested in more Japanese candy, this time from the doctor's office.
Which leaves me now, back home, sick, once again telling you about my immunal woes. When I told my boss that I was going to be out again today, she told me with motherly concern, "No partying this weekend!! We'll see you on Monday." I appreciate the sentiment, but this time around I don't think partying had anything to do with it. To the contrary, I wanted to reply that, "I'll also avoid standing out in the freezing cold for 3 hours driving old people in golf carts," which is the real culprit for catching this sucker, and is very much work related.
So here is my plight: My Netflix has left me in this state with only Zak and Miri Make A Porno, which I don't want to waste by watching alone, and Appaloosa, which is one of those movies that sounded like a good idea, RIGHT up until I got it in the mail. I'm out of snacks, but live in a goddamn forest, so I'm going to have to either take a drive to the store or start hunting rabbits (which I was good at in The Oregon Trail). Going out is only a problem insomuch as I haven't shaved in two days, look like late night with Joaquin Phoenix, and am hosting a game of Body Temperature Tag between Arctic Chills and Hot Savannah Nights. I'm also dressed suspiciously like Dexter's "killing suit," but that's not really the dealbreaker. So I'm house-bound. Either the cuddle-crazed cat or a misplaced midget has been pawing at my door for the last hour, so I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. I'm all out of House, Lost, and Entourage episodes to watch online. And I'm about ready to start rooting through the trash for that pocky.
So where am I after 300 posts? Not very far from where I was on post #1. Sure, I have a lot less shame and sure, we've had some good times. I'm PROBABLY more recognizably racist, and certainly lack some morals that we all thought I had. All the same, thanks for readin these last 300 (or the last 100 and then complaining that there aren't more posts for you to read even though you could go back and read the 200 that you missed out on the first time around), and if I survive this round of mutant flu that has a cold that's pregnant with anemia, I hope you stick around for more.
"I Liked the Movie Better,"
Witz
And now, here's a sketch based on in inexplicable scene I saw in which I have to assume two rapists discuss their van purchase:
LARRY: Frank, what the hell is this!
FRANK: What are you talkin' about, you told me to buy a rape van!
LARRY: Ohhh, no, no, no, no, no-- Frank, this is a Dodge Stratus!
FRANK: And?
LARRY: Are you kidding me? And this isn't a rape van!
FRANK: Well not YET it isn't!
LARRY: No, Frank, it never will be! EVERYONE knows that a rape van is a WHITE van with tinted windows. You bought us a-- a FAMILY van!
FRANK: What??
LARRY: Oh come on!
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Seriously??
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Great. Just great. What the hell do we do now-- we look like idiots.
FRANK: Well...At least we don't look like rapists!
LARRY: But we ARE rapists, Frank, we ARE rapists...
FRANK: Yeah...you're right.
LARRY: Now we just look like a gay couple struggling with the adoption process.
The hot new comedy, Frank N' Larry: Serial Offenders, coming soon on Fox.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Witz Pickz: Ever Onward-- Wednesday
Here's where I'm at today-- I'm potentially getting the cold that everyone else has (either that or I sleep-swam last night and woke up at 4am covered in pool water and super parched from all my hard work), and have had a song stuck in my head the whole day-- which song? Oh, just a little gem known as "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." WTF?? Fortunately, I only know the good parts, so here's a little window into my brain:
"Oh come all ye faithful.................................Chriiist the Lord!"
Dutch Crunch Bread:San Francisco has an indigenous* bread! Ever since I've been in California, and on the west coast in general, I've seen an overwhelming prevalence of DUTCH CRUNCH BREAD-- rolls to be more precise. I'd never seen this bread before, and started wondering how this phenomenon occurred...WHO is making NEW BREADS??? The answer is NOBODY. Nobody says, "I like sourdough BUT--" they just eat sourdough bread. Chances are, whatever bread you desire has already been made, which is why the next great bread idea turned out to be slicing (and, to a lesser extent, croutons).
SO WHERE DID DUTCH CRUNCH COME FROM, WITZ? Well, reader, it's been around for years, the name is just specific to the San Francisco Bay Area. This explains why, back east, I had the following conversation with my dad while he was on his cell phone at Stop & Shop:
NoPaullution**: What kind of rolls would you like me to get you?
Witz: Dutch crunch if they have it...
NoPaullution: Do you mean a KAISER Roll?
Witz: No, I mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution: Do you mean a CIABATTA Roll?
Witz: No, I really mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution:...Do you mean a BAGUETTE?
Witz: No, I really mean a Dutch Crunch roll.
NoPaullution: Forget it! You'll get what I bring you!
He had never heard of the Dutch Crunch Roll, and therefore, like many, was both frightened and confused by the unknown.
The bread's ACTUAL name is "Tiger Bread" which, as far as I know, is the most badass name of any bread, and is so named for it's cracked pattern. I'm not sure why SF delis took the name and decided to change it to "Dutch" -- a word that is most closely associated with wooden clogs, splitting cost, or a tree disease (although the exterior does look like bark-- sweet, delicious bark), but they did. It has quickly become dear to my heart, and while it does sometimes cut the roof of my mouth mercilessly, I know that, much like tigers, you must take the good with the bad (the good being how cool tigers are-- the bad being a brutal mauling death at the hands of a tiger).
A brief update on Nitro's work-situation: He is alive, but his supervisor went over to the guy and said, "So Kenji...WHAT is WITH the SURGICAL MASK??" Apparently, either Kenji or other people are sick. Nitro's screwed.
Weight Watcher's Mug:
I was just in the work kitchen and there is a Weight Watchers mug. Who, in their right mind, would possibly tote around a mug with "Weight Watchers" on it? Either you used to be fat and now you're skinny and don't want people to know about it, or else EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE FAT. No need to draw attention to it with a logo mug. Plus, the mug was huge which was weird. Like, I'm not sure if it was for tea, a lunch shake, or a bucket of fried chicken. Is it a mug or a burrito koozie? Even weirder, the mug was in the "feel free to use my stuff" area-- like somebody NOT on Weight Watchers is going to pick it up and advertise for the day. That's like wearing a "Race for the Cure" shirt that you found at Salvation Army. Participation is mandatory for these types of things.
Emphatic Diseases:
I realized earlier today that AIDS is one of the most emphatic diseases out there. Like, it is impossible to type AIDS without it looking like you are emphasizing the word.
Person 1: What do you have?
Person 2: AIDS.
Person 1: SHIT!
Person 1: Hey, hope you don't have AIDS! (that'd make a great t-shirt)
AIDS demands the exclamation point-- which is totally fair. It's that visual onomonapoeia that I was talking about a while back. I mean, DAMN, it's AIDS!
I'm Like A Germs Koozie,
Witz
*No matter how you look at it, this is not the proper use of indigenous.
**My dad is an energy consultant named Paul.
"Oh come all ye faithful.................................Chriiist the Lord!"
Dutch Crunch Bread:San Francisco has an indigenous* bread! Ever since I've been in California, and on the west coast in general, I've seen an overwhelming prevalence of DUTCH CRUNCH BREAD-- rolls to be more precise. I'd never seen this bread before, and started wondering how this phenomenon occurred...WHO is making NEW BREADS??? The answer is NOBODY. Nobody says, "I like sourdough BUT--" they just eat sourdough bread. Chances are, whatever bread you desire has already been made, which is why the next great bread idea turned out to be slicing (and, to a lesser extent, croutons).
SO WHERE DID DUTCH CRUNCH COME FROM, WITZ? Well, reader, it's been around for years, the name is just specific to the San Francisco Bay Area. This explains why, back east, I had the following conversation with my dad while he was on his cell phone at Stop & Shop:
NoPaullution**: What kind of rolls would you like me to get you?
Witz: Dutch crunch if they have it...
NoPaullution: Do you mean a KAISER Roll?
Witz: No, I mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution: Do you mean a CIABATTA Roll?
Witz: No, I really mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution:...Do you mean a BAGUETTE?
Witz: No, I really mean a Dutch Crunch roll.
NoPaullution: Forget it! You'll get what I bring you!
He had never heard of the Dutch Crunch Roll, and therefore, like many, was both frightened and confused by the unknown.
The bread's ACTUAL name is "Tiger Bread" which, as far as I know, is the most badass name of any bread, and is so named for it's cracked pattern. I'm not sure why SF delis took the name and decided to change it to "Dutch" -- a word that is most closely associated with wooden clogs, splitting cost, or a tree disease (although the exterior does look like bark-- sweet, delicious bark), but they did. It has quickly become dear to my heart, and while it does sometimes cut the roof of my mouth mercilessly, I know that, much like tigers, you must take the good with the bad (the good being how cool tigers are-- the bad being a brutal mauling death at the hands of a tiger).
A brief update on Nitro's work-situation: He is alive, but his supervisor went over to the guy and said, "So Kenji...WHAT is WITH the SURGICAL MASK??" Apparently, either Kenji or other people are sick. Nitro's screwed.
Weight Watcher's Mug:
I was just in the work kitchen and there is a Weight Watchers mug. Who, in their right mind, would possibly tote around a mug with "Weight Watchers" on it? Either you used to be fat and now you're skinny and don't want people to know about it, or else EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE FAT. No need to draw attention to it with a logo mug. Plus, the mug was huge which was weird. Like, I'm not sure if it was for tea, a lunch shake, or a bucket of fried chicken. Is it a mug or a burrito koozie? Even weirder, the mug was in the "feel free to use my stuff" area-- like somebody NOT on Weight Watchers is going to pick it up and advertise for the day. That's like wearing a "Race for the Cure" shirt that you found at Salvation Army. Participation is mandatory for these types of things.
Emphatic Diseases:
I realized earlier today that AIDS is one of the most emphatic diseases out there. Like, it is impossible to type AIDS without it looking like you are emphasizing the word.
Person 1: What do you have?
Person 2: AIDS.
Person 1: SHIT!
Person 1: Hey, hope you don't have AIDS! (that'd make a great t-shirt)
AIDS demands the exclamation point-- which is totally fair. It's that visual onomonapoeia that I was talking about a while back. I mean, DAMN, it's AIDS!
I'm Like A Germs Koozie,
Witz
*No matter how you look at it, this is not the proper use of indigenous.
**My dad is an energy consultant named Paul.
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