Witz Pickz: Once More Into the Breach...

I know, I know, "What happened to Witz?" Did I decide that my running diary on Bee Movie was the pinnacle of my writing and no more posts were required? Nearly, but that wasn't it. Did I re-read all of my posts, laughing less and less as I realized the horrors of my own life and redundant shame spirals? Nope, not there yet. It's all much more simple than that-- I got busy, and I got sick.

I got busy through work and through awesomeness like

Playing a Skate Park Opening in Sebastopol, California:
Sebastopol is a small town outside Santa Rose, California, which is a small town outside of San Francisco, California. Everything you imagine about the town is probably true. When we got to the skate park, we found three things to be true 1) You could add up the ages of any five people there and they still wouldn't be as old as us 2) Skateboarders of any age are still cooler than us 3) This was a town event. The mayor had been there earlier, and we were slated to play for the slew of teens and pre-teens around 3:30pm. We wandered into the skating area and were immediately greeted by a small child charging across our path with blood EVERYWHERE. We all did the obligatory, "AIDS!" step back and then watched as a panicked father charged toward the kid and the tent. Moments later, the alleged father happily walked away from the tent, announcing to his friend, "That's not my kid! You scared me!" Cue the "Real American Hero" music now. We made a note to dedicate one of our songs to the Absentee Parents of the Bleeding Child at the Med Tent.

Once around the lot and we were ready for some drinks and food. We circled up and decided we'd like some liquor and some sandwiches. Two quick right turns later, and the city of Sebastopol delivered with the almost comedically titled, "Liquor and Deli." The sandwiches were delicious, the drinks were good, and we were ready to rock some teens faces off. And so we did:

Make sure to watch these on the "high quality" mode to the bottom right of the frame.
A Victory Nonetheless - Cookie Jar
A Victory Nonetheless - Bailey Black
A Victory Nonetheless - Agrocrag
A Victory Nonetheless - Ric Flair Saves the World (Sebastopol) and Wasted

A HUGE thanks to Nick, Paller, Patel Me No Lies, and Mark for driving up to the show.

Hello Leslie's Bday Fiasco:
Hello Leslie's birthday was Sunday, and Saturday night we celebrated like the spritely, easily healed teenagers that none of us were. The night reaffirmed my belief that I a) know awesome people and b) tend, when drinking, to end up in conversations with cute girls without having ANY IDEA how I got there or what I'm saying. I'm pretty sure I kept repeating the sentiment that "Good people are good," for a while. We also ended up at a late night diner, eating grilled cheese & fries while I spoke exclusively to the two couples next to us and informed the girls that, "your guys HATE ME right now!" I knew I was a people person.

Don't worry though, the topper of the night came when I was Frankensteining it home (i.e. walking furiously with completely stiff limbs, letting momentum and luck lead me home) and was joined by a girl who decided that the best idea in these circumstances was to make conversation with me. I need to emphasize how dark and rapey my neighborhood is. I need to emphasize how 2am-ey the night was, and how batshit crazy I must have looked. Apparently, though, rapists and murderers don't wear shirts with french cuffs, which honestly, is a pretty fair assumption. She started talking: Where was I going? Where did I work? And then the kicker, "Are you Jewish?" Yes. "You should meet my roommate-- she needs to meet a good Jewish guy." Wow. What a standup roommate! I can't even imagine the horrible horrible guys that this girl's friend must have dated, if a Frankensteinian, google-eyed, 2am, non-practicing, curly haired wanderer constituted, "A Good Jewish Guy." I assumed the entire thing was a dream, until I woke up in the morning, like in so many movies and fairy tales, and found the girl's business card tucked into my pocket. The answer to your next question is No.

SICK:
Other than being busy, I've been sick. In fact, I'm sick right now, and decided instead of annoying the hell out of everyone on gchat at work, I should probably put my house-ridden insanity to use right here.

Being cooped up in a house for 3 days with no one to talk do does wonders for your creativity. Like always, I started out by watching House episodes to try and find cures for myself (far superior to WebMD). Unfortunately, I don't think I am the recipient of any recent transplants, and my symptoms pretty solidly suggest that I have a cold (which is JUST what NOT A COLD would want me to believe!). Moving on, I started tweaking on vitamins and cold medicine so that while I lay in a half-sleep, coughing, congested daze, I was able to think about such things as, "Which pair of shoes is most likely to come to life and kill me in my sleep?" The answer, incidentally, is my Self-Loathing Homosexual Penny Loafers, which I haven't worn since high school and have stuck behind another couple boxes beneath my dresser. Next, I had some brilliant insights like, "Why do they have dayquil and nyquil, but no napquil?" and, "it shouldn't be called a comforter if you wake up beneath it sweating like you just ran forty miles across a desert in a wool unitard."

Eventually, I fell asleep which was awesome, because who hasn't wanted to dream that the cat that lives in your house can talk, and is trying to kill you, and that, in case this psycho cat isn't enough, your house is scheduled to be shipped to New Jersey in a week, so you better find a new place to live or start loading up on warm jackets (and the aforementioned comforter)? Oh, yeah, and Red Sox fans, I've experienced the next two games of the ALDS in Oliver Stone-like clips, and let's just say that the voice-over announcers who set the scene for me are very confident.

I'm growing a "sick beard" which is like a "playoff beard" only instead of being lucky, it's just lazy. I think I've just about discovered the maximum number of pillow configurations that I can have with my two regular and two memory foam pillows (which both seems and IS too many pillows for one twin size bed). Just looking at what the memory foam pillows have remembered gives me chills when I see them in the morning, or maybe that's the shockingly hot/cold breeze that is simultaneously cooling me down and making me sweat feverishly. There may or may not be ants on me. I occasionally start to sing invented alt-country tunes. I am CONSTANTLY considering starting to watch the DVD box sets of The Wire that one of my roommates has. I am both furious and perturbed by the fact that our toilet paper is softer on my nose than my kleenex. The books that I have in my bookshelf are not remotely a representation of myself, but more so a representation of everything I am not (they are all the books I HAVEN'T read yet...). The number of bottles of wine I have in my room and shirts I wear to work are equal. My poker chips are called, "Professional Poker Chips" but I don't think I'd be allowed to use them in a casino. My "Right Guard Anti-Perspirant/Deodorant" claims to be a "Stealth Solid" when all this time I've assumed it was simply "clear." And most importantly-- how can there be SO MUCH EUCALYPTUS in my backyard and NO KUALAS IN SIGHT???

Got Me Lookin' So Crazy Right Now, Got Me Hoping You'll Save Me Right Now,
Witz

Witz Pickz: Bee Movie -- A Running Diary

Remember that "guy watching Bee Movie alone in the dark" scenario that I'd described earlier? Yeah, well it's happening. To make the whole debaucle more group oriented, I'm going to keep a running account of the experience:

08:00 - Well, I'm eight minutes in and I'll say this-- Bee Movie does not fuck around with their theme. I haven't heard so many bee puns in my entire life (I guess it'd be weird if I had). It really makes me wonder if Jerry Seinfeld has been sitting around his apartment the last ten years just going effing insane with Bee themed jokes. Did he try and throw down 45 minutes of Bee themed material at comedy clubs and got ridiculed off the stage? Probably not-- because these jokes ain't that bad.

12:20 - "Stem-sucker" is not nearly a different enough to make its way into a PG movie about bees.

20:00 - Cool, Seinfeld threw Puddy some business-- and he's really funny. Eff- I'm way into Bee Movie!

26:50 - This chick wants to bang Bee Jerry Seinfeld. It's amazing. Not only is she unfathomably accepting of a talking Bee, but she clearly wants him. Then again, I guess she's married, so she's right in Seinfeld's wheelhouse (ooo-- nice decade old Seinfeld dating burn). Speaking of which:

33:30 - Ray Liotta burn!?

35:00 - I can't believe I'm watching a movie about talking Bees and their secret lives, and yet my reaction when a random Hispanic Honey Packer starts talking and fencing a bee with a thumbtack is still, "That's a bit unbelievable."

36:00 - A mosquito with Chris Rock's voice? I smell a buddy flick!

40:00 - Whew, shit just got real. You're not gonna believe what us humans are up to-- gassin' bees and stealin' honey. Don't worry though, it's JUST AS MUCH LIKE THE HOLOCAUST AS YOU THINK.

42:00 - Ooph-- Bee Larry King burn. Is Seinfeld going through and crossing off his "Enemies" list from 1983?

43:30 - Bee Jerry is taking legal action against all humans for their stealing of honey, along with some more minor accounts including using bee-related names for things. Man, I'm glad our judicial system is so accessible.

44:00 - Possible quote of the movie between Puddy and his Bee Lovin' Hussy Wife:

VERONICA: Listen, you better go, we're busy working...
PUDDY: But it's yogurt night!
VERONICA: I'm sorry, but I have to...
PUDDY: (leaving) WHY IS YOGURT NIGHT SO DIFFICULT!?

46:00 - 1950's Bee Movie Joke Commentary: "A black supreme court justice? This movie really IS UNBELIEVABLE!"

47:00 - I didn't know it was possible to over-act when you're only doing voice-over, but John Goodman has proven that it is. I'm very uncomfortable.

50:00 - Sting! They're raggin' on STING!? TOO FAR BEE MOVIE! Oh my god, they're railing on Ray Liotta again. Why not just run him a bath, put on some Tom Waits, and hand him some razor blades?

53:00 - Bees have retard strength.

56:00 - If this chick bangs Bee Seinfeld, it's gonna be like that scene in Seven all over again.

58:00 - Remember those Bee concentration camps I mentioned before? Yep, turned out to be the key to the whole legal case. Bees win the day! Jews and African-Americans remain shocked.

1:02:00 - Oh, see, now Bee Jerry has gone too far...his frivolous lawsuit against the humans has resulted in TOO MUCH honey being in the Bee economy, thus making work less necessary and disrupting the entire flow of bee society. I think he's gonna learn something very valuable about the status quo (is this an uber-conservative "stay the course" movie??)

1:05:00 - I was apparently way off base with that buddy flick comment. Chris Rock is AWOL.

1:12:00 - I space out for FIVE MINUTES and the Cuckolding Bee Jerry and his Inter-Species Love Interest (which sounds like the name of a jam band) are flying an airplane?? What happened?? And how come THIS is the part of the movie where I think they took things too far?

1:08:00 - I just went back to see what I missed. Apparently Bee Jerry and Veronica are taking a plane somewhere because it will solve everything-- and I was wrong before-- the most unbelievable aspect of the movie so far is that the plane took off on time. Bee Jerry seems to have his own seat, which makes me wonder if he really had to pay for it, and if he did, was that really necessary? It has to be at least a $300 flight, and that money can't possibly be his on account of his lack of a currency based economy, so is Veronica sugar momma-ing him on this trip? Couldn't he just have sat on her lap? Can BEES make it through airport security?

Anyway, once onboard, Bee Jerry charges the cockpit, scares the shit out of the pilots (who, apparently haven't been keeping up with the biggest news story on the planet that illuminated the existence of talking bees who are sueing humans), who freak out, pass out, and set back my general comfort and sense of airplane safety twenty years.

1:15:00 - Bee Jerry Seinfeld just domestically abused his stolen wife.

1:19:00 - I don't know what "You gotta think Bee," means, but all the bees have started saying it and I really wish they'd had Luis Guzman or David Ortiz doing the voice and saying, "Joo gotta think, b..."

1:30:00 - The bees land the plane safely, and everyone ignores the fact that it was Bee Jerry in the first place that caused the incident (I'm sure there's a political/foreign affairs comparison here, but I sure don't know what it is-- I only know 3 current events newspieces: Travis Barker and DJ AM are severely burned, but should make a full recovery, Tampa Bay is up 2.5 games on the Red Sox with 6 games left, and the stock market looks like the opening scene from the movie Twister-- oh and Megan Fox is on the cover of GQ.).

The bees and humans live in perfect harmony, and, rather uncomfortably, Bee Jerry now co-owns the flower shop that Veronica runs, and has stolen Puddy's wife and life. "That bee is living my life!" Puddy announces, and it's funny, but also very, very sad. I would love to make a sequel that is the same story told from Puddy's perspective and show how absolutely batshit crazy the whole thing, including his wife, really is; how his entire life goes to shambles because of a vengeful, horny bumblebee. How he works hard all day long, and isn't even able to have a relaxing, uncomplicated yogurt night. He would end up broken, devestated, and alone-- all at the hands of a bee. Which is just how Bee Movie ends.

Bee Cool Bitches,

Witz

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Car Trouble

I know that "Car Trouble" sounds like a movie starring Ice-Cube and Mr. Bean, but doesn't that only further my point?

My car is a disaster right now-- for starters, I haven't had it washed in probably eight months to a year, and parked it in a dusty lot for the last four months. This is an intentional move because I think it gives it that good, "don't steal me" look that I'm going for, and frankly, nobody ever differentiates by saying, "That guy drives a Station Wagon," and "That guys drives a dirty Station Wagon," (and if anything, "dirty station wagon" sounds cooler, like "Man, that guy drives really cool! PLUS, I'd be "ridin' dirty.") They just notice that I'm driving a soccer mom car-- end of story. So my car kinda looks like if Swamp Thing and Herbie made sweet sweet love and 9 months later (because in this scenario if a swamp creature and car mated, they'd follow the same birthing schedule as humans) my car-baby was born.

My windshield wipers don't remove water so much as paint impressionist art with dirt, and I'm never entirely sure that my car is going to stop when I brake (it's a little game I like to play called "Involuntary Manslaughter or Not!?")-- although I'm ALWAYS certain that they will squeel gleefully at my duress. My driver side rear tire loses air like it's selling it for crack, which makes it look like while my other three tires have been hitting the gym and staying in shape, this one's taken a month off to drink Budweiser and eat nothing but double whoppers with cheese while watching Law & Order marathons on TV (also, how awesome does that sound??). Oh, and you know those, "house noises" that you hear as houses shift and settle? Yeah, my clutch pedal has that. Maybe it's having an existentialist crisis, or maybe I'm one gear shift away from my doom-- TBD! To top it all off, one of my heat shield clamps is loose (again) and makes a high pitched metal clinking sound, so every time my car idles, children sit up in bed thinking that Santa's in the neighbordhood (yes, I realize this scenario assumes that children are constantly in bed-- but just go with it). I like to say to people who hear it, "Listen to her purr, huh?" and they like to say to me, "You cheap son of a bitch, take care of your goddamn car." I will, Dad, I will.

While I realize that my car sounds like one great big game of mouse trap at 70 mph, no one thing is enough to push me to spend the money to take it to the shop. These problems are all superficial and non-threatening. It's like when you're coughing, and sniffling, and your throat hurts, but you don't have a fever and aren't hallucinating that Tom Arnold is stealing your canned goods-- so you don't go to the doctor. Instead, you turn to self-diagnosis. Which really makes me wish I'd learned ANYTHING about cars growing up. My Dad explained to me a bunch of times how to change a tire, and in a pinch, I think I could use some context clues to make it happen, but when someone asks me, "How do you change a flat tire?" my answer is always going to be, "You call triple A." If someone asks, "Can you change your own oil?" I reply, "No, but I have $15 and they invented Jiffy Lube."

Unfortunately, when you're rollin' down a popular street with your car sounding like Marty McFly's DeLorean when it runs out of plutonium (p.s. 100% definite that neither Marty McFly nor Doc Brown had any functioning sperm left by Back to the Future III), you wish that you knew a thing or two about fixing your own car. I read a few websites and here's what the response was to the heat shield clamp. "It's a whole lot of noise, but not any type of problem. Just get in there with a soldering iron (soddering iron) and clamp it back down!" Uh-huh. I can barely operate a regular iron, nevermind a SOLDERING IRON! I primarily wear shirts based on what came out of the dryer least wrinkled and it's only under extreme circumstances that I bust out the iron and ironing board and have at it, and I'm still no good with the Bermuda Triangle part where the sleeves meet the torso (and it's time you admit that neither are you).

It makes me wonder what I did instead of learn how to do useful things like fix my car. "Can you check your own car's engine?" No, but I can tell you more than you care to hear about the show Freaks and Geeks..."Can you rotate your tires?" Nah, but I can play Say It Ain't So on Rock Band at 78% accuracy! "Can you replace your coolant?" I can drink abundantly if that's what you mean?

So until I have the money or until one more thing goes wrong that puts me into House MD territory (er-- House Associate-Degree-in-Mechanic-and-Repair-Technology), I'm gonna keep fightin the good fight, continue to raise my actuarial chances of death, and keep on giving children false Christmas hopes.

At Least One "Will Work For Food" Homeless Person HAD To Have Been A Mechanic Right? Like Even In the Army? I'd Even Take Him to Red Robin If He'd Solder My Heat Shield (...Hm, Easily the Most Homoerotic Metaphorical Non-Metaphor Witz Pickz Has Had Yet),
Witz

P.S. Yep, that was Red Robin reference was "sign-off post foreshadowing"

Witz Pickz: !!Weekend Roundup!!

Check it out, I've repackaged the "Monday Melange" as a hip new Monday segment called "The Weekend Roundup." It's gonna be the same stuff I'd write about anyway, but with this sleak new marketing, I hope to trick you into being more excited and prone to laughter than usual. Also, I forgot what number "melange" I'm on and am not even willing to make the effort to scroll down and figure it out!

On Friday night I finally figured out what to say to famous people! My friend DC Cab was in town with his girlfriend and we ended up at a wine bar that was extremely confusing in that it was swanky, but playing Notorious B.I.G. songs-- presumably for white hipsters who like to enjoy a glass of fine wine while hearing large black men demand "the loot." Or maybe people just like hearing what Biggie would do if he were in their position:

"Soon as he buy that wine I just creep up from behind and ask what your interests are, who you be with-- things to make you smile, what numbers to dial. You gon' be here for a while, I'm gon' go call my crew, you go call your crew-- we can rendezvous at the bar around two."

Oh Biggie, no you can't, the bar will be closed at two. Anyway, when I ordered a Fat Tire instead of wine and got a look from the bartender, I fought back the urge to take my queue from B.I.G. and explain to her, "motherfucking right, my pocket's looking kind of tight."

The other confusing thing about the bar was that it was theoretically a place where you bought wine to drink, but was ALSO a big, barely attended room with bottles of wine everywhere, to be sold during the day. There was a time in high school when taking things like signs, posters, ashtrays, etc. was playful and referred to as "ganking" something, not stealing. That bar was the first time since those years when I honestly felt like it would be ok to simply "gank" a few bottles of wine, and the others agreed. "Hm, should we buy a glass of wine for 10 bucks, orrrr, have these eight bottles for free?" It was almost as if they were daring us to do it because it would make us uncool. It was the same urge that hits me every time I walk past an unattended Wonder Bread truck with, like, hamburger buns in the back. I don't possibly need them, and could probably get in trouble, but THEY'RE JUST SITTING THERE! I imagine more people would get this urge and possibly follow through if they showed up already drunk. Thankfully, I never had the chance to follow through with my urge to steal because DC Cab had spotted a guy that looked astoundingly like one of the three helpers on Mythbusters.

This was because the man was, in fact, one of the three helpers from Mythbusters. Tory-- which is spelled like one of his parents wanted to name him Troy, but had a lazy eye that got out of control right as they were writing the name down. We debated what we should do about this Mythbusting Assistant, as well as what the implications were for DC Cab having accurately identified one of the non-independently-mythbusting-mythbusters. After great debate, his girlfriend went over and pretended that she was way into the show, even though she hadn't seen it before. Tory was very astounded, to say the least, and finally delivered a line he must have been saving for years, "It's not everyday that a hot chick comes up and tells me she watched my show!" and then they hugged. My brain finally clicked into gear and I had something to say to this "famous person."

ME: (stepping closer to the guy with DC Cab in tow) Sure, but I bet you get the hot chick's boyfriend who actually watches the show coming up a lot more often, huh?

Tory stared at me for a second while my words registered and then slumped against the wall. "OH MAN!" he exclaimed, dejected, but much more himself. We talked for a few more minutes, I think I admitted that I'd only seen the show a few times, and concluded awkwardly with the stellar line, "Keep up the busting!" which did attract a little more attention to our conversation, but probably not the right kind.

Saturday night we celebrated the fact that we closed the Johnson account. Woo! Johnson account! Yep-- that's an inside joke for a few of my readers. I won't make a habit of it. During this stretch we were "those guys" on the public bus, met and dismissed a man who looked like a live action version of Donkey Kong, and I told an old man that I hated us too, which made him laugh, which made me smile, which had no effect on him one way or the other. We went to a club where I danced, which is always a great idea, because I'm nothing if not born to hip-hop dance.

We bailed mid-sentence while talking to some girls because my friend declared, "I hate this girl, I hate everybody, we need to leave, fuck you Witz," which are the 14 words to my heart. We avoided the police, a fight, and vomiting in the cab, which was the triple crown for the night, and the cabbie and I became BFF. I hate us, too.

Sunday was a big tv day, which was great, because I haven't had a chance to rant about commercials lately. Fortunately, I saw some doozies. First up, was football, and so I saw this gem of a Quiznos commercial: a shot of a meatball sub and the announcer guy saying, "Too many balls on the field! NO SUCH THING!" Nothing more to say there-- I just laughed for a while. I later saw an updated version where they say, "Too many MEATBALLS on the field! NO SUCH THING!" which is still weird and confusing and funny because there should never be meatballs on the field-- it's a field on which professional sports are played. Which fattie lineman is stuffing beef down his face on the field at such a pace that he actually drops one onto the field? Even if it's not a league penalty that the referee would call, it's still not something that should be acceptable NFL behavior. Maybe Quiznos should just stick to toasting stuff.

My other favorite was with this chick who is standing in her pajamas talking to the camera. She says, "I may be in my pajamas, but I'm not going to bed-- I'm taking online classes to get my degree!" Wooow. She's gonna be all kinds of ready for the real world. Aside from the fact that going to class in pajamas was not exactly rare in college, this girl is essentially saying, "Not only am I not ready to step up and make the commitment to go to school and get a degree, but I'm one of my primary reasons for not doing so is that I really only want to wear clothes I can sleep in." That's a pretty serious level of lazy. I half-expect her to be in other commercials as we watch her life progress towards a sad and bedsore ridden end: "I may be lying naked in the shower, but I'm not bathing-- I'm looking into the endless abyss that is my life and trying to find one single reason not to slash my wrists right here and now!"

Just this morning I checked my Netflix Queue and was dismayed to discover that Bee Movie has been shipped. I have since received an email telling me the same, which is great, because when Netflix emails you stuff like that, it's like your buddy's trying to get you excited for plans you guys have later on (and that's a nominee for saddest thing Witz has ever said on this site). The problem is that I'm not excited for Bee Movie. It was one of those movies that I clicked on to add to my queue just so I remembered it existed, but without the intention of it ever making it up past spot number 30. You need some place holders at the end of your list; Bee Movie, No Reservations, and First Sunday have been really great in that respect. But now, through some sort of mishap, Bee Movie is heading towards my mailbox. When talking about my conundrum, I was informed that it's "actually kinda cute," which is clearly a ringing endorsement. "Surprisingly, a movie about bees vaguely taps into your unconscious desire to sympathize with cute creatures through anthropomorphism!" I guess I have to ask-- is it cute to watch as a dude, alone, in a twin bed, on a weeknight? Because that's my typical netflix scenario. These are the barometers of life.

Tell Your Friends, To Get With My Friends and We Can Be Friends, Shit We Can Do This Every Weekend,

Witz

Witz DOESN'T KNOW IF HE Pickz: The Socio-religious Nature of Brisket, The Most Terrifying Balloon Experience Ever, and MORE!

Brisket. Simple enough. And yet this morning at the train station, an offhand remark by my friend "North of the Border" made me realize just how political, religious, and potentially world altering brisket really is.

North of the Border: I went to this place for dinner last night with really amazing brisket.
Witz: Cool.
North of the Border: You know who makes good brisket?
Witz: (thinks: the Jews)
North of the Border: The Jews.
Witz: Very true. And you know who else?
North of the Border: Who?
Witz: Texas!
North of the Border: Very true.
Both: Complete opposite ends of the spectrum.

This makes me wonder if that was like, God's plan all along. He was like, "We'll make the Jews have great brisket and Texans have great brisket-- they can meet in the middle." Did He do that for a lot of things? I mean, was that the same logic he used for The Middle East?

God: Hey, you guys wanna hangout here?
All Religions Ever: Uh, I guess so?
God: Done! I'm gonna go space out for a while-- and by "a while" I mean three-thousand years.

After all, the universe (and numerous religions/philosophies) is characterized by opposites. Light/Dark, Good/Evil, Pleasure/Pain, Meet The Parents/Meet the Fockers...maybe everything was created not to have polar opposites, but to have those opposites slowly move towards each other until they meet in the middle-- like socially viable, but ultimately weak-willed political candidates. Maybe brisket is a microcosm for the entire universe. Or maybe I just have too much time to think on the train.


The Most Terrifying Balloon Related Experience Ever:
About 3:50 p.m PST, yesterday, Hello Leslie and I had the most terrifying balloon related experience ever. I don't care if you've fallen out of a hot air balloon. I don't care if you've been molested by a balloon clown. This was worse.

I should have known something was up when The Balloon Guy hemmed and hawed about taking the balloons over himself. I mean, he's The Balloon Guy-- that's his thing. Instead, he pointed at the 15 inflated helium balloons rattling in the wind, that he's intertwined and tied to a pole and told me they were all mine. He then booked it to his Balloon Van and went on with his Balloon Life. "No problem," I thought, "we'll just bring them over in that golf cart." See, our only option for transportation was to walk about half a mile or to use a golf cart. Since we were in a rush, and I didn't want to look absurd, I decided the golf cart was our best bet. I loaded the balloons into the back seat and let them rest against the roof of the open air cart. Hello Leslie climbed in back as my balloon wrangler (which I'm pretty sure is not another name for a Fluffer), and I climbed in the front to drive, theoretically not absurdly.

About five seconds later, as I pushed my foot down on the accelerator, that theory went out the open air window, along with several balloons. The cart might only max out at roughly 10 mph, but those balloons got moving in the wind like there were hurricane gusts. They started flying around Hello Leslie's head and clustered forward toward the back and sides of mine. They whipped around and made hollow thwunk sounds as they careened off our faces and back into the chaos. Quickly, the chaos overtook us.

Picture this: You are walking quietly on a sidewalk. There are the sounds of birds, a slight breeze, and nothing else. A golf cart slowly approaches on the street. There's a guy in a jacket and tie, hunched desperately forward over the steering wheel like how a T-Rex would drive, a terrified woman in a dress in the back, balloons enveloping them both, and two loud, constant "AHHHHHHH!!!!" screams as they slowly pass you by and leave you back in your silence. That was us. We were rolling down the street, a cart full of multi-colored helium balloons, one dunking booth away from a street fair, scared out of our minds.

Back in the balloon hell, the balloons swirling and thumping against each other and us like a pack of angry bees, I suddenly understood what Hurricane Katrina must have been like. The balloons were gaining static as they slid against our hair and clothes, and I became obsessed with the fear that a balloon would pop right next to my ear. Then it happened-- like a gun going off to start a race, it popped right against my ear and I let out a pained shout, while making eye contact with a man crossing the street in front of us. He hustled along. Suddenly, there was another pop from the back and Hello Leslie let out a shout. If I hadn't seen Saving Private Ryan, Generation Kill, Star Wars, Rudy, and The Mighty Ducks, I might have just quit right then and there; just bailed on my vehicle, left the balloons and went AWOL. Fortunately, however, those things and the first 30 pages of Bill Clinton's presumably inspirational book, "My Life," led me to press on. We made it to the dropoff points, set the balloons up, and succeeded in our mission. Post-Traumatic Stress pending...

Currency Exchange:
For a number of years, I have classified how much I want some food or entertainment item in terms of what and how many of a thing I would kill or do to get it. Here are some more-- feel free to add your own in the comments:

-I would kill four tiger cubs for a pumpernickel bagel.
-I would kill three innocents for a milkshake and fries.
-Matt says: I would kill a bald eagle for some wendy's.
-I would kill six gerbils for a grilled cheese.
-Titan AE says: I would kill a million gerbils. For no reason. Those things are gross.
-I would de-foot fourteen penguins for a new episode of House.
-I clubbed seven baby seals and got a new Mitch Hedberg CD.
-Global Warming killed millions of polar bears. (That's my blunt global warming "fact-as-joke" joke).
-I would kick seventeen manatees for Lost to come back, get its shit over with, and be done forever.

I Would Kill Nine Attractive Mutes For Better Blog Fodder,
Witz

Witz DOESN'T Pick: "Rainbow's End" Trailmix, Pumper-Rye Bagels, Microwave Cordiality

Trader Joe's "Rainbow's End" trail mix assumes that instead of gold, there are nuts and M&M's at the end of the rainbow. That would be useful if it was a long trip to get there, but ultimately disappointing to those seeking treasure. It's a pessimistic point of view, even for a very tasy product. Can you imagine the reaction?


TREASURE SEEKERS: AHA! We have followed the rainbow from it's arc across the sky to its physically improbable end here on the ground! We will be rewarded with GOLD!
END-OF-RAINBOW-DISTRIBUTOR: Actually, there is no gold-- BUT we do have this mix of fruit, nuts, and chocolate for you!
TREASURE SEEKERS: WHAT? No gold!? What have we risked our lives for? What have we traveled miles and miles for? What have we used all of our vacation and sick days up for?
END-OF-RAINBOW-DISTRIBUTOR: A tasty snack!
TREASURE SEEKERS: Well-- are there a lot of almonds?
END-OF-RAINBOW-DISTRIBUTOR: Nope, it's mostly peanuts!


It makes me feel like Trader Joe's is saying, "Why would you want gold when you can have a delicious, healthy snack?" To which I would reply, "So I can afford your goddamn trail mix." What else are they selling? I bet they have "Halloween Avocados" and "Tooth Fairy Millet." Lose a tooth, gain a protein laden grain. I bet they have organic "Geltless Chocolate" for Chanukah and "Santa Presents: Tofu" for Christmas.

Pumper-Rye Bagel:
This one bagel place, Izzy's Bagels, that I go to doesn't have pumpernickel bagels. For most of you, this probably isn't a problem, but since they happen to be my favorite type of bagel, I'm gonna blog about it. Instead of the pumpernickel, they have a hybrid pumpernickel-rye bagel. What type of no-stance, weak-ass bullshit is that? TAKE A STAND! There couldn't have been an influx of people saying, "Well, I like pumpernickel, but only like...50% of a normal bagels worth. I also like Rye. Juuust putting that out there." Incidentally, I didn't realize that bagel technology had evolved to the point where we can make one bagel with two different flavors-- I guess Willy Wonka moved on from the candy business. Now I know what you're thinking-- you're thinking, "Witz, if you take this stance on bagels, doesn't that just open the flood gates for people to argue against gay marriage (two bagels shouldn't become one union), interracial couples (no explanation required), and creativity in general (all things you are in favor of)? Well, my answer is simple-- No! You're absurd for even thinking it. You're absurd for even putting yourself in a position for me to assume that you are thinking it. We're talking about bagels-- something far more important than those other issues. A pumpernickel/rye hybrid robs the consumer of both half pumpernickel and half rye. It is not a 2 in 1 product, it is an 0 for 2 product.

Cordial Microwave:
The microwave in the work kitchen shows the words, "Enjoy Your Meal," when it's done microwaving. This strikes me as a) cocky and b) rather presumptious. As for the cockiness, it's as if the microwave is saying, "Yeah, I'm pretty sweet at microwaving, so ENJOY THAT! I'm sure it's gonna be awesome." It's presumptious in that I'm probably either not microwaving a full meal OR I'm not microwaving anything that will possibly be enjoyable. It comes off as sarcastic. "Hey, enjoy your hot pocket, asshole," or "Wow, that Eating Right chicken is going to be deeeelicious! Enjoy your meal," and then I imagine it winking. It also makes me as a person look bad if I DON'T tell someone that I hope they enjoy their meal. "Oh hey, this microwave cares if I enjoy my lunch-- thanks for not saying anything to me, Witz, we only see each other 8 hours a day, five days a week! BUT I GUESS THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU!" Friggen microwave.

Post-Microwave Realization: I was walking back with my bowl of soup in one hand and a cup of ice water in the other and as I walked, the soup melted the ice and I thought "I'm a walking Global Warming Impersonation." I also thought, "If someone bumps into me, they're gonna have two opposite horrible temperature related reactions." This is what I think about.

They're Not All Gems...But Give Then Again, That's What They Said About Coal*,

Witz

*Not necessarily true...

Witz Pickz: Bumber-Shot

As I stood sipping a beer Sunday night, with Seattle rock group The Blakes on my left and prolific comedian David Cross on my right, it occurred to me that I have absolutely nothing to say to famous people. I was at Seattle's music/film/comedy/arts festival Bumbershoot, and a friend of mine had hooked me up with a pass for the VIP Lounge. Up until that point, I had enjoyed the free water, cheese platter, and Chapagne "tasting" from 3-5pm. Up until that point, I had enjoyed these things WITH SOMEONE ELSE PRESENT. It was only when I was left alone in the lounge that I found myself shoulder to shoulder with two "celebrities" and absolutely nothing to say-- hence the drink. I didn't even want the drink, but it turns out that even if you are looking out onto a stage where The Saturday Knights are performing, it still comes off as creepy to be an unfamous person standing alone with no obvious goals or activities near famous people.

I wish I could say that "to my credit" I didn't say anything to them because I was playing it cool, but frankly, I didn't say anything because I had nothing of value or interest to say. PLUS, I had already clapped The Blakes bassist on the shoulder and said, "Great set man" earlier in the day, so it was doubly awkward to be standing by him AGAIN. And what do you say to David Cross? "Hey man, you're funny." Wow. And you can't quote the best Arrested Development line of his back to him by saying, "Hey David, love Arrested Developement-- I'm an analrapist!" because talk like that will get you thrown out of the VIP lounge pretty quick. So what is there to say?

I had encountered this problem earlier in the festival when I walked past my favorite up and coming comedian, Aziz Ansari. I walked past him while he was hanging out with two other friends and missed the chance to say hi. Later that night, I saw him hanging out with another comedian and two very attractive, very slutty looking fans. "This is a good time to say something," my brain obviously concluded, so I interrupted their conversation to say, "Hey Aziz-- great stuff, man! (apparently my go to phrase for performers is to say "great," then fill in the ___ for what they do, and conclude with the word "man." Did I mention they let me talk on the radio?) Don't worry though, I didn't stop there, with Aziz trying to figure out what hairy intruder just interrupted his conversation. I realized that I knew the other comedian and quickly added, "You too man, you're...(like you don't know what I'm gonna say)...great, man!" I couldn't for the life of me remember his name (Rob Heubel, incidentally), which was a fun bonus moment, only outdone by our attempt at a handshake, where I'm pretty sure I ended up grasping his forearm like we were Roman Gladiators. The whole thing went over like getting home on my birthday. I'm only getting smoother with age.

After this horror occurred, my friends and I discussed what I could possibly have said to Aziz.

ME: Hey, Aziz! We're...the same age! WOO! We're the same age! I mean, you're Indian and I'm Caucasian, and you're from South Carolina and I'm from Connecticut, but we're the same age! You're a successful comedian and I did a few open mics several years ago! WOO! THE SAME AGE!

With nothing to say to Aziz Ansari, I couldn't possibly say anything to David Cross or The Blakes or Janeane Garafolo who tore past me looking like a drunken troll doll sporting cool tattoos and about 4' 8'' of aggression.

ME: Hey! The Blakes and David Cross! We're white! We're not the same age, and we're of vastly different success levels creatively, and I'm the guy alone in the VIP lounge while you are with your friends-- but we're all WHITE! Let's hangout!

As I was about to leave, The Saturday Knights played a song that immediately made me think, "This sounds like The Blakes if they were a hip-hop group." It was an innocent thought, and IT DID sound like that, but it's very rare in your life when you have a thought like that and the group you're talking about is directly next to you. You're not always able to turn to Muse and say, "You guys sound like Radiohead, but with more affordable ticket prices!" or to Bono and say, "Coldplay sounds like you when you were relevant!" After a great debate, I fought the urge to say something and simply left. Somehow, saying, "They sound like you if you were a hip hop group," and walking away sounds like the last thing someone might say to you before hiding in the trunk of your car and following you home. So I played it cool, and said nothing.

Other Bumbershoot Moments:

"Repent or Else:"
This is not the name of a Christian Hardcore band. It was the gigantic sign that a ragged looking man with cracked out eyes was carrying around outside of the festival. The sign was probably six feet tall and on a giant stake. This, in and of itself, was not unique. As I walked by the man, however, I saw that another guy was talking to him very eloquently. I looked at the guy and he appeared to be a well dressed bespectacled man in his forties-- and he was attempting to have a conversation about the man's sign. I was shocked. If there's one thing I've learned in my years on this planet, it's that YOU DON'T TALK to the man with the REPENT OR ELSE SIGN! The man made a giant sign. He has stated his position. You can't say things like, "but the scripture clearly states...(actual quote)" to him because he's THE GUY WITH THE REPENT OR ELSE SIGN! You're not going to change his mind! Now, maybe if you were the guy with the six foot tall "Do Whatever" sign, you can have a religious debate in the streets. But you can't just be some educated dude walking up to the REPENT OR ELSE guy and deciding to argue the finer points of organized worship. Hoooooly crap.

The Opening Act:
While killing time by the mainstage stands, we were treated to an opening act of sorts. Three girls, none of whom could have been over eighteen, were slowly making their way in front of the stands. Two of them were supporting a third, who was stumble-drunk and looking like each step might be her last. Just as she passed where a couple of us were sitting, she halted slightly, then booted right in front of her on the ground. THE ENTIRE CROWD SECTION CHEERED and APPLAUDED! Apparently, everyone had been watching this progression just waiting like we were for the inevitable. One of the girls was so embarrassed she abandoned her friend and ran off. The other helped her to the bathroom where she would...I dunno really-- it seemed a little late to me. The crowd then played a game for the next ten minutes that I called, "Don't Step In It, But We're Not Going To Warn You." You don't realize how easy it is to ignore vomit on the ground until you watch other people traipse right through it. Every time someone came close to it, the crowd would gasp slightly, and every time someone stepped in it, we'd all groan and break into applause. And we wonder why we can't band together to fight global warming...

Rockstar and...nothing?
The energy drink Rockstar was one of the sponsors of the festival this year, which meant that at the Rockstar stage they were giving out big cups full of Rockstar (which is mildly disturbing when it's yellow). Needing occasional energy boosts (and assuming that my body now craves the stuff), I had a few throughout the days-- and a strange thing happened. While there was no actual alcohol in the drink, my body reacted AS IF there was vodka in it. When I turned my head, things moved a little slower, I began slurring my speech (as did two other friends on mine), and I straight up felt DRUNK. This means that either a) my body noticed my intake of an energy drink sans alcohol and actually secreted stored up vodka into my system OR b) I have trained my body like a Pavlovian dog to automatically feel drunk when I taste or consume an energy drink. Both of these possibilities are perturbing, probably unhealthy, and ultimately, kind of cool.

Greatest Crowd Surfer Ever:
Once again, someone with fewer active limbs has achieved something greater than I have. During The Offspring's set, the crowd actually lifted up a kid in a wheelchair and managed to pass him (still in his chair) all the way to the front of the crowd. The lead singer saw it and laughed during the song, and everyone cheered for this kid as he made his way to the front. It was probably the single coolest thing I've seen at a concert (and I've seen a skanking midget elbow me and my friends in the stomachs repeatedly). It was punctuated after the song by the singer announcing, "That might be the single greatest crowd surfer ever!" I looked at the morbidly obese, goateed man nearby and shook my head, "No," just in case he got any ideas.

Bumbershot:
By the end of Bumbershoot, what with all the stress, and the sun, and the celebrity awkwardness, my body finally broke the promise it made when it decided I would be impervious to illness so long as I constantly pushed it to its breaking point (and drank RBVs). I got sick. Bumbershoot was fun, but by the end of the third day, I was bussing it home before Death Cab For Cutie took the stage, and was content simply to sleep on Dolan Out the Pain's futon for the next 10 hours with a powerade in one hand, and a bottle of nyquil in the other-- which they card for now-- meaning that just to spite them, I took a double dose and it was faaaantastic. It was a great weekend in Seattle, but I was Bumbershot and ready to come home.

I Realize "BumberShot" Sounds Vaguely Like Pornographic Film Terminology,
Witz

Witz Pickz: Closing Ceremonies

Both my birthday and the Olympics were over before I knew it-- and I mean those both literally. Apparently the Olympics closed last night while I was watching The Bank Job and eating a tuna fish sandwhich and the ill-advised BBQ Baked Lays (meaning the chips, not post-coital hippies covered in A1 sauce). I can't believe that closing ceremonies were last night, although it does make more sense than my previous belief that my roommate was listening to a National Anthems mix CD. The entire Olympics seemed like a blur to me, with a whole lot of obscure events taking place during primetime and the main ones happening either early in the day or between 11pm-1am. Here's how my Olympic experience is summed up:

"Sychronized WHAT?? That's too many divers. Bah-- ping-pong. Fencing, that could be cool. Nope. The trampoline is an entire sport now? Michael Phelps is supposed to be good. MICHAEL PHELPS IS OLYMPIC GOD. Michael Phelps can't talk so good. Chad Johnson on Michael Phelps (paraphrased): "I know five dudes in the ghetto that could beat Michael Phelps right now, but they ain't in the Olympics..."Male gymnasts are ripped, but make high-fiving look gayer than Lance Bass doing a Richard Simmons impression. Female gymnasts look eight. Chinese female gymnasts ARE eight.Is this the paralympic marathon? No-- it's what? Speedwalking?? You gotta be shitting me. Really-- two chicks who grew up playing beach volleyball in California turned out to be really good at beach volleyball? They must have had a really tough life. Chad Johnson on Misty May Treanor and Kerri Walsh (totally made up): I know four ho's in the ghetto who could beat Misty and Kerri's 108 beach volleyball win streak-- but they're not in Beijing..." Lolo Jones is kinda cute and inspirational, I hope she (starting gun BAM!)-- SADDEST MOMENT EVER. Horrible runner knew she could do it even though in reality, she still couldn't, it was just that other people couldn't more. MORE DIVING!? Pole vaulting was cool when I was little and didn't question it's validity. Thanks ESPN Bottomline for ruining every basketball/baseball/softball game that I wanted to watch. I wonder when the Olympics end. The Bank Job. Tuna and chips.

And now they're over. I guess the real problem was having time to watch and buying into the "Olympic Spirit" which, as I mentioned, still kinda freaks me out. It seems like if the "Olympic Spirit" is rooting for your "people" unconditionally, then WWII had a whole lot of Olympic Spirit. Regardless, I suppose I will miss them, and wish I at least knew they were ending.

Not entirely unlike my birthday.

You see, my birthday was on Thursday, and while I originally intended on writing a post that day, full of half-amusing, half-depressing witicisms, I ran out of time to do so and therefore get to deliver this baffling birthday fiasco tale instead.

The night started out like any other only more so. Dinner with friends, drinks. We went to a mexican restaurant and I realized early on that strange and confusing things were afoot. While some pitchers of margaritas were making their rounds, a double of tequila showed up out of nowhere (read: I didn't hear anyone order it for me) and I took the obligatory birthday shot (to my credit/detriment without gagging). This made me think about bday parties at other places. I mean, tequila seems to be the go to birthday shot, right? If you're at a dive bar, maybe Jager. But what about at a Sushi place? I suppose sake bombs. Thai? Indian? I have a tough time imagining a group cheering mightily for someone to drink their pint of Birthday Kingfisher Beer.

The next oddity was a few drinks later and came at the tail end of the dinner portion of the evening. Fireworks arrived. Well-- one firework-- a sparkler really. If my memory serves, it arrived with thirty-five mexicans and one very white waiter who's name I don't know, but believe I referred to as Brad. They were all clapping, seemingly for the sparkler that was making its way down to the ice cream it was sticking out of. I had to assume that's why they were clapping, because it would be ridiculous for them to be clapping for me to blow out the sparkler, since it was A FUCKING SPARKLER and the sparks were burning bright and mighty, keeping me well outside the candle blowing radius. We all maintained our positions, therefore, well after it was socially comfortable to do so (kind of like a slow clap at a baseball game that builds up to a frenzy and then the pitcher steps off the mound and you don't know whether to keep clapping insanely fast or just give up). So the thirty-five mexicans, Brad, and my friends all stood around clapping while I watched the sparkler with a half-smile on my face, content to see what would happen next, and entirely confused as to what was happening currently. Eventually, I decided that it was time somebody showed the (dwindling) sparkler who was boss, and leaned my face into the flame, giving it one swift shot of air. It went out immediately, and there was silence (possibly because I wasn't supposed to blow it out, but probably because it's pretty awkward to clap in celebration after JUST having clapped for over a minute).

Seeing that I was clearly primed, we all went into the bar section where some karaoke came on and apparently some more drinks were had. This is where the third baffling occurrence took place. It was baffling in two parts: the first part was when my friend and band-mate Ensomniac told me that he put in a special birthday karaoke request that I would know all the words to. When I pressed him, he informed me that it was a song by My Chemical Romance. It's important that you realize here that there is no reason for Ensomniac to believe that I know any words to any My Chemical Romance songs.* I have never listened to My Chemical Romance around him. I have not quoted My Chemical Romance, nor suggested we go to their concert. I do not have a "Black Parade" tattoo; temporary, henna, or otherwise, and I don't wear eye shadow. So it was particularly confusing when I heard that I was going to have to karaoke to it. Then the music started playing and here was the second baffling aspect. It was a My Chemical Romance song that I had never heard before-- AND what's more, my band had clearly ripped off a number of the riffs from it, because it sounded exactly the same as one of our songs. My Friend Formerly With A Pool Now With A Patio clapped me on the back and informed me that it was, in fact, our song. Technology Wow.

We then karaoke'd to our own song, which means yelled into a microphone basically, while everyone else in the bar stood by, not knowing what the song was. It was a very surreal experience, and if we'd intended it to be performance art, I'm sure some critic would hail it as some really deep, avant garde shit. On the plus side, it was our largest audience ever, and the waitress seemed to genuinely think it was cool. On the down side, it was one of the most self-indulgent, potentially lame, super embarrassing things we have ever done in public. Also, it was AWESOME.

We sang another of our songs, I was fed more drinks, called my roommate a Puma, and I believe I berrated one of my friends about the importance of sober self-transportation (on a related note, I checked in with people the next day to make sure they survived, and learned the lesson that texting, "U alive?" is not a good idea when there is any chance that they might not respond. Dead people do not text back "no," but live people do fail to reply to texts. I'd be better off texting, "If ur dead im going to take ur $ and apt like we talkd about unless u text that it's no longer ok." Then we'll find out who's dead or not). After that, my memory becomes one big game of Blackout Bingo, if the rules of Blackout Bingo were that you drink until you no longer remember or care that you are playing bingo. The next bit unfolded like a scene out of the film Memento or The Bourne Identity. Somebody hugged me, I drank something and-...

COP: Sir! Sir!
ME: Huh? (I look around. Two cops are shining their lights in my eyes. I appear to be just down the street from my home, but have no idea how I got there).
COP: Sir, where do you live?
ME: Um, right up that hill.
COP: Where do you live, sir?
ME: Uhh (I can't for the life of me remember my new address, but this seems like a bad thing to tell the cops. I don't know if I'm in trouble, but it doesn't appear that I'm NOT in trouble, so I play my cards close to my chest. Saying, "I just moved here," sounds both like I'm going to rob the place, and like what a homeless person would say about wherever it is they pass out for the first time. Instead I say...) I dunno, but it's right up there (nice).
COP: Uh-huh. Do you have ID on your or anything? (this would have been the best possible time to have had a Burger King Kid's Club Card. "Why yes, I do!")
ME: Riley Road! Uhhh (my brain pulls at my eyes and my eyes make everything dance)...614 Riley Road!
COP: Sir, please get in the car.
ME: Nono, it's alright, I'll just--
COP: We're gonna take you home, sir, just get in the car. (It would have been so much easier if they had just offered me candy)

So I get in the car and enjoy the brief ride back to my apartment. The plexi-glass separates me from the driver, which is good, because if I probably would have started babbling about getting motion sickness in the backs of cars if we hadn't been separated. Instead, I hope out at my stop (which happens to be the only stop on this public transport) and am shocked to find my key in my pocket. I wonder if this is what my boss meant when she said, "Just don't drive yourself home if you're drinking." I slip the key into the door, enter the building and-- wake up in the morning-- shirt on, pants off. Nice. I find several calls from The ATX, who was also there, and while I feel like I want to throw up, I can't seem to.

See? Just like those movies. The Bourne Identity makes so much more sense when you understand that Matt Damon was just drunk off his ass the whole time. Jason Bourne was just an alcoholic who knew kung-fu. That's a character we could connect with on a global level.

JASON BOURNE: I'm drunk as hell, where's my bed?
BAD GUYS: We blew it up. And we're gonna kill you.
JASON BOURNE: Whaaaaat? Fuck that-- I know kung-fu.
BAD GUYS: Just get in the car, we're gonna take you home.
JASON BOURNE: Man, I am WASTED and belligerant.
BAD GUYS: Good. Let's keep up this dynamic for three films.
JASON BOURNE: Can that chick from the white girl dancing movie inexplicably be in it?
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER: Yes.

As I put the pieces back together, things became more confusing. We apparently went to a second bar where I was handed numerous drinks-- which had to have been the same dynamic as laughing while getting a dog to lick up some spilled beer. I then got into a taxi with My Friend Formerly With A Pool-- it was a love taxi. Christmas lights, romantic mood music, plush seats. This is where the call from The ATX happened. Apparently, despite staying with me, we left him at the bar. I was then dropped off IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. I don't know if I went inside or not, but I apparently let gravity take it's course and wandered about a half mile away again where the cops found me. I don't know if I was babbling incoherently, walking erratically, or passed out on the ground ("awesomely" if I have to use an adjective for that too), but something attracted the cops.

(in the morning)

The ATX: How you doin?
ME: Alright.
The ATX: You threw up last night down in the bathroom.
ME: Nice! (explaining why I don't have to now-- what a champ)
The ATX: Yeah, I stepped in it when I got home and had to pee.
ME: Yikes.

The ATX got in by throwing rocks at the window of the girl who came out with us and lives with me. So while that sucked and he was locked out, as he himself said, "I've never gotten to throw rocks at a girl's window before, so that was kinda cool."

So I have to assume that I probably went searching for The ATX when I realized he wasn't home. I wasn't stumble-drunk, I was on a mission-- a quest if you will. I was Lolo Jones, in search of gold (i.e. The ATX and/or a place to throw up), and the cops were my ninth hurdle (the one she tripped on). Neither one of us might have won, but we certainly gave it our all-- and that is the true Olympic Spirit. The Olympics, my birthday-- these things come and go, fade away (or disappear entirely from memory), but in a day, a year, 18 months (until Vancouver), whenever-- the Olympic Spirit will rise again, and we can look to be champions. You can cue the National Anthems Mix CD now.

BYO-Intervention,
Witz

* Despite this photo proof
taken after my friend's wedding
when we all belted out the entirety of
"Welcome to the Black Parade"...you
know...the one where they go,
"We'll caaaarry oooon, we'll caaaarry
OOOOooooonnnnn..." a lot.

Witz DOESN'T Pickz: Shy Bladder Fiasco and Kitchen Encounters

I don't have a shy bladder. I don't. That might be too much information for you, but if so, you're probably new here and you should know that I'm about to go one step further. I have a bladder that will ocassionally wait for my go ahead if someone sidles up nearby, which I like to think of as a "danger instinct" kicking in. It's like my bladder is saying, "We can do this, OR you can kick this guy's ass first." I like that. But it's certainly not shy.

So you can imagine my confusion, shock, and chagrin to find myself in a Shy Bladder Fiasco. You see, a couple of weeks ago, I was in the office and thought, "Hell, I don't have anything better to do, let's see if I have to pee." THAT'S how bored I was. "I'm not sure this is gonna happen, but let's give it a test run and see what turns up." I don't exactly work on Wall Street. Well, it just so happened that just as I sidled up to the urinal, one of the major higher ups walked into the bathroom. I wasn't quick enough in my zipping up, so instead I just stood there, willing myself to action while this guy two silent urinals over started makin' water music. I stood there awkwardly in my silence until he was gone. I was now the guy in his mind who stands silently at urinals. I should have at least said something like, "Whoah! I just totally spaced out," and zipped up. I'd rather be presumed high than bladder shy (which sounds like a Snoop Dog lyric). End Act One.

Act Two happened yesterday. This time I DID have to pee and walked into the bathroom ready to roll. Right as I was Battle Ready, however, the same guy walks in and over to another urinal. This time I freeze up. Straight up performance anxiety. "C'moooon, c'moooon!" I think while I stand once again in the deafening silence-- that is except for the glockenspiel-ian plinking over at urinal number one. I wanna tell him that, "This never happens to me," but I know he won't buy it. The minute he leaves I'm back to normal, and I almost want to shout out to him just so he knows. I want to shout, "Wait-- look what I can do! Look what I can do!" Before I do, however, I remember what I asked my parents when I was little-- and what they told me:

LITTLE WITZ: Mom, Dad...where do sexual harassment suits come from?
MOM: Hmm...I think your father should handle this one...
DAD: Well, uh, you see Witz, when a boy realllllly likes a girl--
MOM: --or a boy!--
DAD: --right! or a boy! When a boy likes one of those, but that person doesn't like them back-- and the boy makes repeated inappropriate or offensive workplace advances or repeated behavior, that boy can be sued for sexual harassment.
MOM: Listen, Witz. Your father complicates everything. Here's what you need to know: Never call someone back into the bathroom to listen to you pee-- even if it's so you can prove to them that you can pee. Ok?
LITTLE WITZ: I guess so...

So I remained silent as he exited the bathroom.

Act Three-- today. JUST as I'm zipping up, he walks into the bathroom. I zip, flush, wash my hands. It comes off, at least to me, who is now paranoid about the whole thing, as very suspect-- like I probably heard someone coming and zipped up just to pretend I was done, when nothing had actually happened. We exchange hellos as I go to wash my hands and I ask how he's doing, "Well, I don't know," he replies confusingly, "How are you?" and I feel like he HAS to be referring to my ability to urinate in public. My initial response is to say, "Me? Oh, I dunno, how about GREAT! Yeah, that's right, I just peed! There were like, pff, I dunno, twelve dudes in here, just peeing together, no problem. Yeah, no shy bladders here..." but realized that aside from the homo-erotic undertones, it was also a bit too much information. I should have just told him, "Eh, read my blog later, you'll find out," but instead I simply said, "Good," and finished washing my hands and drying them off like I was compensating for something else-- which I suppose I was.

Kitchen Encounters:
An odd thing happened to me in the kitchen at work. I was waiting for some pizza to reheat (which would be a great literary detail to give you insight into my life. "He was the type of guy who would reheat pizza for lunch.") and all of a sudden a guy walks up to the water container and sorta huffs/growls at it. In my head, I thought, "I wonder what this guy is huffing about?" At least I'm pretty sure I thought and didn't say that outloud, but the next thing I know, I'm being told what's so upsetting. Parts of this conversation are real and parts are what I thought in my head. See if you can spot which is which:

GUY: You know, this cup thing is unbelievable!
ME: Huh?
GUY: The tiny plastic cups! What was wrong with the paper cups?
ME: Oh yeah-- that's...
GUY: Infuriating!
ME: Yep.
GUY: Ya know-- THESE cups are biodegradeable too! (pointing at the cardboard cups nearby and making a face not unlike Jack Nicholson in The Shining) Why not just use these?!
ME: Yeah, haha, I actually do.
GUY: Not these stupid plastic cups.
ME: (trying to win favor) Yeah, the plastic ones probably take LONGER to bio-degrade!
GUY: And the thing is, you just KNOW that someone feels good about themselves for using these new cups.
ME: Pff-- those assholes.
GUY: Like, because they're "Earth Conscious."
ME: Despicable fucking pieces of low-life shit.
GUY: It just makes me so angry!
ME: Yeah...so...are you gonna shoot me or...I mean, can I go eat my pizza now or...are we done here? (and this is where the complete 180 kicks in)
GUY: (calmly) I guess there are bigger things to complain about than which cups we use. (and he leaves).

I wait a few minutes because I'm pretty sure it's like in a movie when you think the bad guy is gone and then all of a sudden they pop out and stab you somewhere unfortunate. When that doesn't happen, I grab my pizza and taking a cue from my GPS Device thinking say, "Well, if I'm meant to die by angry cup guy while eating my reheated pizza-- so be it." Not to give away the ending, but I survived. Actually, that is the ending. I survived.

Insert Funny Quip Here,
Witz

Witz Pickz: Monday Melange III

I think I'd be ok if I never heard anyone say, "I HATE Mondays!" ever again. In fact, I'm sure of it. And it's not because I'm not big on complaining-- case and point right here-- it's that EVERYBODY HATES MONDAYS! Whenever I hear someone say, "I hate Mondays," it always sounds like they are personally affronted by Mondays, and that the rest of us couldn't possibly comprehend. Inevitably, whoever they are talking to says, "Me too," as if to prove that they're in on the horror as well. It reminds me of conversations that went like this when I was in elementary school:

FRIEND: Did you see NAME OF SCARY MOVIE?
YOUNG WITZ: Yeah, definitely! (read: No, I will never see that movie)
FRIEND: It was awesome!
YOUNG WITZ: Yeah, it was! (read: But, I still want to be friends)
FRIEND: What was your favorite part?
YOUNG WITZ: Oh man-- uh-- I dunno, what was yours? (read: Shit shit shit)
FRIEND: Probably when the dude pops up from the pit and just rips the guy's face off.
YOUNG WITZ: Oh, yeah! Me too! (read: I still want to be friends, but now you kinda freak me out a bit)

No matter how good your job is, nobody is a fan of going from doing nothing, staying up late, and waking up late to suddenly waking up early and having to focus for 8+ hours a day. We're all aware of this.

GPS Devices:
Whenever I'm being guided by a GPS device, I always assume that the Female Computer Voice is leading me to a back alley where her buddies are waiting to rob me. Either to my credit or stupidity, I still follow the directions, making me either extremely brave or horrifically idiotic. It just always seems easier to say, "If being led to my doom by a GPS voice is my destiny-- so be it," than to explain to my passengers that I cannot follow the directions because I don't entirely trust the motives of the device. It doesn't instill confidence.

What also doesn't instill confidence is the fact that whenever I ride in someone else's car with GPS, they never seem to have any idea where they are or how they got to or can return from, that point. All human navigation skills go out the window in favor of the digital map, meaning that if it were to break suddenly, we would be entirely lost. They also seem dramatically offended when I try and gauge where we are or how we can get somewhere. "Witz, we have the GPS-- it's ok!" I guess when you spend $200+ dollars for a map, you get a little defensive.

Thoughts and Happenings:

Chumbawumba is fucking prolific! They seemingly have 10+ albums and are a folk band. I guess they weren't kidding about the whole getting back up again thing.

On the train this morning, in a four seats facing each other setup, I sat diagonally from someone else and hoped my intimidation level would keep people out of the other two seats. One person ended up sitting opposite me and promptly moved after one stop. Then he got off the train entirely-- so consider him intimidated. One stop later, a small, unassuming asian man sat down in the same seat. He remained there until we all got off the train. I have no choice but to assume, therefore, that I am both greatly intimidating when I want to be AND that unobtrusive asian men feel safe when they are around me. Nobody sat in the seat next to me, so clearly my intimidation worked there. Also, I had a back pack on that seat.

It turns out the best way to get me to give you change is to be a 300 lb scary looking bald dude who stares at me with unblinking eyes in a Burger King right up until he asks me for coffee money. Under those circumstances, I will most certainly hand over my 56 cents in the hopes that you will stop looking at me like you just remembered I threw your puppy out of a skyscraper and laughed about it (I realize that simile is a little tough to identify with and needs some backstory-- I mean, why the hell were we both in a skyscraper? And why did you have your dog there? And if you WEREN'T there, why was your puppy there, and how the hell did you find out about it-- especially the part about me laughing?! Maybe before you stare me down, you should try and figure out if you aren't just having a little mental breakdown, and combining my face with the time your dog died as a child with scenes from The Dark Knight. Long story short, I don't even have access to a skyscraper and I never have).

"Generation Kill" is actually a very well done HBO miniseries about the war in Iraq, but I'm afraid that, like myself, most people are going to take away one major thing-- the language. It would definitely make my day more exciting in the office. I constantly want to tell people to "stay frosty" when they should be ready for action-- perhaps while addressing envelopes. People should "have my six" at all times and these goddamn "whiskey tango (white trash) motherfuckers" need to stop RSVP-ing after the response deadline. And I sure as shit wanna be "oscar mike" when I'm "on the move" at the end of the day. Especially today-- because I HATE Mondays...

Screwby,
Witz

Witz DOESN'T Pick: E'erbody In the Club Goin' Broke

If you don't want to go to a club on a Wednesday, don't leave your credit card there on a Saturday. That's the lesson I learned this week.

There were two things on my mind when I ran out of the Element Lounge on Saturday night-- a bathroom and a taxi. Unable to have access to the former, I was contented to easily acquire the latter, leaving both thoughts of my credit card, and the credit card, itself, in the bar. It was only when I got home that I realized what I'd done.

You can tell that I don't go to clubs too often because my inital thought was, "Oh well, I'll get it tomorrow." Turns out that SUNDAYS aren't prime business hours for clubs. Same goes for Mondays and Tuesdays. So it was Wednesday night at 9pm that I rolled back up to the Element Lounge, this time in a "walk of shame" hoodie instead of a "big night" collared shirt. It the sober midweek hours of the night, I took in a little more of the surroundings-- Adult Video Store next door, a bus stop loaded with sketchy travellers, and lots of homeless people. One of which started talking to me as I approached.

HOMELESS MAN: Yo, man, what's up?
ME: Nothin."
HOMELESS MAN: Spare a buck?
ME: Sorry.
HOMELESS MAN: Yo man, you want a sensual ma-ssage??
ME: From you?
HOMELESS MAN: No, son, I ain't givin' you no ma-ssage! Right there man! (he points to a shady sign I hadn't seen before right above what's looks like an alley leading to steps. The word "Massage" is lit up by expiring bulbs.)
ME: Ohhh, no, I'm good man, thanks.
HOMELESS MAN: Aight, aight-- you lemme know.
ME: I'll do that.
HOMELESS MAN: (just remembering something) Hey! Can you spare a buck?
ME: Sorry man, I don't have any cash-- I'm going here just to get my credit card back!
HOMELESS MAN: (totally understanding) Ohhh- aight aight, you a good guy, aight.

So there ya go. Endorsed.

After waiting outside the locked doors for 15 minutes, and after knocking on the windows to see if anyone would answer (cause I'm sure they don't get that a lot...), I called them until someone picked up (which I figured out meant I had to press 1 for VIP Reservations and not 4 for Left Credit Cards). It turned out that their event was cancelled so I was shit out of luck until last night. So I went back, and...

HOMELESS MAN: Yo, man, spare a buck?
ME: Sorry man, I, uh, actually am here to get my credit card that I left on Saturday (I like having the homeless feel informed of my actions)...

That exchange and explanation worked like a snap on Wednesday. As it turns out, this homeless guy was a bit more lucid than one would think, and that excuse doesn't go over two nights in a row.

HOMELESS MAN: Oh, aight, aigh-- wait! Man, you said that shit already! That's cold. (he waves his hand at me and walks away, shaming me. As I watched him walk away, the thought crept into my head that it's the second time I was shamed by a homeless guy in the last two weeks-- which can't be step in the right direction.)

This time the door is open and I'm able to walk right inside and up to the bar. "Hi, I need to, uh, sign for my bill from Saturday..." I say slightly embarassed to the same bartender who served me all Saturday night. My embarrassment quickly dissipated into horror as I stared at the bill-- 75 dollars.

"So...is this the 'Asshole never closed out his tab' bill or is this ACTUALLY how much I spent?"
"Haha, nope, it's how much you spent."
"Ah-- no wonder I forgot my card..."

Before everyone assumes I'm a raging alcoholic, let me make some excuses. First-- drinks are probably pretty expensive. Second-- I bought a few drinks for other people. Third-- I'm white and Jewish-- dancing in public for me is like track and field for Stephen Hawking. But most importantly is the fourth excuse-- The bartender. This girl was the peppiest, happiest bartender I've ever been served by. She was the Safeway Veronica of the club world. She was a friendly asian girl who would put on a semi-serious face to take your order, and then when you ordered, she would suddenly react as if it was the best decision in the world, spin around like she was wearing roller skates, and move as if she was dancing while she mixed your drink. It only got more mesmerizing as the night went on.

This time, instead of spinning around and getting me a drink, she spun around and handed me a pen. Signing away more money than I've spent on groceries in the last few weeks, I realized how horrible it is to pay for fun you had five days ago. It's like eating a doughnut while you shop at a grocery store and then having to pay for the bag when you get to check out. Only roughly 75 times more expensive.

And now, here's what I imagine a PSA against drinking would be like:

MUSIC PLAYING -- "E'erbody in da club gettin' tips..."

BILLY: (clearly drunk) Wooo! Da club! Yeah!
ROBBIE: Billy are you drunk?
BILLY: You know it, WOOO!
KAREN: Billy, you don't have to drink to have fun.
BILLY: Huh? What are you talking about. We're in da club...
KAREN: So?
BILLY: So..."e'erbody in da club is getting tips..."
ROBBIE: I'm not.
BILLY: You're not?
ROBBIE: Nope. This is water.
BILLY: It is? What about you, Karen?
KAREN: 7-Up.
BILLY: 7-up and whiskey?
KAREN: Nope. Just 7-Up.
BILLY: Wait a minute-- wait a minute. Hey-- You-- are you getting tips?
STRANGER 1: No way, man, getting tips is for losers with no future.
BILLY: What about you?
STRANGER 2: Pff-- nah-- I'm hydrating.
BILLY: So NOBODY in da club is getting tips?
MC HAMMER CAMEO: Hi Billy. I'm former MC, current religious leader MC Hammer. It's just a song, Billy, you don't have to drink in the club. It's actually cheaper, more healthy, and more memorable if you don't.
BILLY: But I'm white and Jewish-- I need some social lubrication!
MC HAMMER: Do you? Maybe it's not your dancing or your heritage that's the problem. Maybe you need to take a look in the mirror and find out what's really the problem.
BILLY: You mean my nose, don't you?
MC HAMMER: No, Billy. I mean your confidence. Dancing comes from the heart-- not from alcohol. And THAT'S how you can become 2 Legit 2 Quit. (smiles at camera and gives the 2 sign).
BILLY: I was wondering how you'd work a 2 Legit 2 Quit reference in there.
MC HAMMER: Me too, Billy, me too....
KAREN and ROBBIE: YEAH!!!!!
(everyone starts dancing)

New Motto: E'erbody In Da Club Takin' very-tiny Sips,
Witz

Witz Pickz: The People We Meet...

I ran five miles in a sweaty t-shirt yesterday and woke up feeling like I'd been suckling a litter of ferrets all night long. So that's where I'm at.

Veronica:
I've made a new best friend at Safeway (and if that one sentence doesn't sum up why I'm going to end up sad and alone, I don't know what will). Her name is Veronica and she works at the sandwhich counter. She's probably around fifty, short and weighty, and while I'm not sure exactly where she's from, I've narrowed it down to either Mexico, Turkey, or Armenia.

The thing about Veronica is that she is utterly outwardly joyous about her job. She smiles when you step up to her and asks how you are doing. She laughs at the subtleties of the deli process, and smiles like she's figured out the riddle of life, and it's a really good punchline. She smiles and nods her head when you are done, seems genuinely thankful when you say, "Have a good night," and truly wants you to have a good night too. And yet the thing that makes Veronica really stand out in my mind is that more than anything else, she seems to want you to have pepperoncinis on your sandwhich.

Whether you order a sandwhich that includes them or not, she'll push the issue with a very happy smile. She's made three sandwhiches for me, and each time, I've ordered something different and before closing the sandwhich, she's looked at me with caring eyes and suggested, "Ehhh, maybe some pepperoncinis...?" The first two times I politely declined, and she backed away laughing a little, doing a mock, "Ok, Ok, no pepperoncinis!" This last time I had her put em on there just to make her happy. "Ehhh, maybe some pepperoncinis?" she asked? "Yeah, absolutely!" I replied, and watched as she bubbled and smiled and nodded, saying, "Good pepperoncinis," and piling them on for me. Rereading that accurate description, I want to ensure you that Veronica is not simply one of the mentally challenged employees that grocery stores sometimes have bagging. She's just very into pepperoncinis.

It has crossed my mind that maybe there's something in pepperoncinis that she thinks will specifically benefit me. Like maybe she takes a look at me and says out loud, "Ehhh, maybe some pepperoncinis--" and then finishes in her head, "--to make your nose smaller?" Maybe where she comes from, pepperoncinis make you taller, help you sleep, and easily remove wisdom teeth. There's also an outside chance that she laces the pepperoncinis with something and she's high as shit all the time. That explanation actually makes way more sense. Suddenly you're all like, "Great-- all it takes to make Witz happy is having some foreign chick on ecstasy make him a sandwhich..."

For whatever reason, I'm glad people like Veronica exist. It beats the hell out of the other Safeway skeazy mustachioed sandwhich guy who EVERY TIME YOU ORDER A SANDWHICH says, "Wow-- I wonder how many calories are in this!" LOTS-- but I'm the kinda person who is purchasing a SANDWHICH at a GROCERY STORE instead of buying the ingredients and making it myself, so maybe I have enough that I'm dealing with.

Gym Guy:
After that aforementioned running at the gym, I was at the water fountain (the good water fountain, which means the one out in the hallway, not in the gym. This is the same type of thinking I employed in kindergarten-6th grade when I'd come in from soccer and hop into the line for the "good fountain," sweating profusely while some a-hole behind me starts counting to five) drinking lots of water, when a large, built dude steps up to the tiny fountain next to me. His headphones are still on blasting music, but it takes a second for the music to clear up and reach me while we drink. Right as I'm swallowing some water, I hear the chorus of everyone's favorite democratic party anthem: "Don't stop-- believing!" The dude was listening to Journey. I choked on my water, laughed without being able to stop myself, and shared a momentary look with him. My look said, "Journey? Really?" and his look said, "Just because I'm listening to Journey doesn't mean can't kick your ass." Touche.

Standing Room Only:

From a baseball game over the weekend with my friends...

ATTENDANT: Please stand closer to the seats…
CLARE: But not past the yellow line, right?
ATTENDANT: No, not past that.
NICK: You're sending me mixed signals—I don't know how you feel about me!
ATTENDANT: Just stand a little closer.
CLARE: Just the tip. She's saying just the tip.

Dare From A Reader:
I dare any of your readers to browse weight-lifting websites at work, then convince anyone that catches a glimpse of it that they aren't looking at gay porn. Can't be done.

...These are my readers...
(right, J-Kow?)

Witz

Witz Pickz: Political Dream Encounters and Olympic Update

The other night, I had a dream where I was walking through my kitchen on the way to the television, and got stopped by Barack Obama, who may or may not have been fixing himself a snack. It was obvious from the way that he was looking at me that he had a misperception of what I'm like, and started talking to me as if I was a super conservative troubled teen. He introduced himself and started outlining his policies, and I kept nodding my head without paying much attention, trying to act interested, but really wanting to say, "Dude-- it's cool. I'm on board." For some reason, in the dream that felt rude, so I just let him talk, and eventually said thanks and went to watch TV. The thing that interests me most, however, is the fact that Obama was outlining his policies IN EXTREME DETAIL. Now, while I know what Obama is about, I can't claim to be an expert on his stance on all of the issues-- especially not to the degree that he was talking which was essentially delivering well thought out stump speeches. WHICH MEANS that he must have just been saying things that I know that I would want. It probably went something like:


OBAMA: Now, as you might know, I'm a huge proponent of Grilled Cheese and Tater Tots on Fridays. I think we need to take this out of the academic cafeteria world and bring it to everyone, everywhere. You know how Bush talks about Freedom? That's gonna be me with Grilled Cheese and Tater Tots.
ME: I am very pleased with this.
OBAMA: As far as where I stand on gas, well, I want to give that to you for free.
ME: This is a very good policy.
OBAMA: People ask me, "Barack, how do you feel about speeding tickets?" And I tell them-- I say, "Who cares if you're speeding as long as you're driving safely? I believe that it's the unsafe drivers, NOT the speeders, who should be pulled over. Sometimes driving faster is safer.
ME: I have very similar beliefs.
OBAMA: On the count of three, I'd like us both to say how we feel about making monkeys legal, affordable pets. 1...2...3...
ME: FOR IT!
OBAMA: FOR IT! Ha ha ha. Awesome.
ME: Hey, Obama?
OBAMA: Yes, Witz?
ME: Are you the same person as The Rock?
OBAMA: Maybe, Witz...maybe...

The same night, I had a dream where I met John McCain, shook his hand, and thought, "John McCain has very soft palms." In my dream, I then wondered how that would go over for the country. Would McCain shake some other leader's hand with his soft palms and make the United States look weak? It certainly seemed possible. Then I woke up and realized that some people ACTUALLY vote based on things like that. Yikes.

Regardless, the fact that I had these political dreams is unusual given that not only hadn't I been watching or thinking about polical anything, but I HAD been watching ANACONDA beforehand. Which means that my brain actively decided not to dream about snakes despite watching a movie entirely about snakes. Big win.

OLYMPIC UPDATE:

Sychronized Diving: Do you think someone saw two people plunge identically side by side to their death and thought, "That. I want THAT to be a sport." How else could something so ridiculous have been conceived?

"Diving is tough, but it'd be tougher if two people had to do the same thing at the same time." "Should we blindfold them, too?"
"No-- that'd be a bit much."
"Good point."

Or maybe someone was diving and someone else was like, "That's easy," and they were like, "I'd like to see you get up here and do it," and then they did...AT THE SAME TIME...and someone else saw it and made it a sport, leaving the door open to judges to say years later things like, "They weren't THAT together." If you said something like that under any other circumstances, you would get your ass beat by anyone that heard you. "See how that one's foot was slightly more pointed than the other one? They weren't THAT sychronized." And inevitably, people at home start to say the same thing. We could never in a million years do what they're doing, but all of a sudden, "They didn't make a similar enough splash," and, "He closed his fist slightly more than the other one."

And yet despite their athletic feats of tandem descent, all I could think the whole time I watched was, "Couldn't they do this while showing me less of what their penis looks like?" I mean, they weren't even regular sized speedos, it's like they shopped for them Baby Gap. I wonder if at some point the two synchronized divers went up to their coach with one regular sized speedo and one tiny speedo and while they stood near naked together asked him, "Which looks less gay?" and received a long blank stare in response.

One NBC Announcer: Why do they get in the showers right after they get out of the pool?"
Other NBC Announcer: Well, they do it because the water in the pool is kind of cold, and they want to keep their muscles loose and also just have some fun!"

Michael Phelps: If you ever wanna feel good about your lack of achievement, learn a little about Michael Phelps. The guy gets Olympic Medals like he finds them in the bottom of cereal boxes, but last night they had a little special where they informed us that all he does is swim, eat, and sleep. And repeat. That's all he's done for at least the last four years. What kind of life is that? It made me feel a little sad and almost pity him a little, knowing that someday that would end and the first 30 years of his life would be gone. No more medals. Hopefully, someone will track him down after the Olympics, slip a beer in his hand, change the background Wayne's World style from a pool to a beach, and he can enjoy a more normal "swim, eat, sleep" experience.

"Witz, what do you do on a daily basis?"
"Me? Work, gym, eat, sleep. Why?"

Men's Gymnastics:
Is it weird that while I saw the Chinese Men's Gymnastics team do their floor routines (I know that part's weird, but lemme keep going), and I thought they were unfathomably strong, I STILL think that I could probably beat them up? I mean, not if they started doing the twirly whirly shit, but if I got a punch or two in, I think I'd be ok. What I'm trying to say is that if I was able to run up behind a Chinese Men's Gymnast and punch him in the back of the head before he turned around and hurricane kicked my face, I think I could do some real damage...

If John McCain's Dream Handshake Was More Like Sychronized Divers (Young and Strong),
I Might Dream Vote For Him,
Witz

Witz Pickz: Olympic Grab Bag

The Olympics are here-- meaning that it's that special time when once every four years we all wish we were from a poor, third world country so that it really meant something to us when our country won a medal. Without that desperate, genuine nationalism, I just can't quite get into the Olympics like I'd like to and used to. It's like I heard Patrice O'Neil say on the radio, "The reason why America is great is because we don't need to get excited when our athletes win a medal." Or so I thought-- here are some Olympic moments and realizations:

Women's Volleyball:
I'll tell ya what, I didn't care one bit about the women's volleyball game on Saturday-- right up until I was running next to a Japanese man at the gym who very much did. I was casually watching the game, vaguely hoping the US would win the tight match, and actually had the thought, "I wonder if this guy next to me is way more into the Olympics than I am because he might be from another country (he was walking briskly on a treadmill while wearing a white v-neck t-shirt, which historically, for me, means he's not originally from America.)" My thought was almost immediately confirmed when Japan slammed down a point and he pumped his fist. Yep-- he was into them. I started feeling bad for rooting for the US since he obviously cared more than I did-- and that's when he let out a victorious, shrill laugh when the US team served the ball out of bounds, giving Japan a point. I'm ok with someone cheering for another team, but not when they laugh at my team's mistakes. And while I don't care about volleyball, support all the athletes of all the nations in the olympics, hate Ford commercials, don't care that Budweiser was bought out by a foreign corporation, and rooted against the Yankees in 2001, I was suddenly very into America. It was on.

The US team scored a big point and I smiled. The tension suddenly grew between us, and I got a shot of adrenaline that got me running faster. I watched the screen intently as I ran (which, yeah, made me a little motion sick...), and was genuinely excited when the US rattled off a bunch of points (you see, they subbed this ONE girl for this OTHER girl, and the NEW girl got everyone pumped up and was high fiving and shouting and slapping people, and-- see, I was INTO IT!). When the US scored their last two points, I actually got choked up, and had to fight the nationalistic and comedic urge to turn to the dejected Japanese man, do the fake victory gallop on the treadmill and shout, "Wooo! U.S., baby! Can't do THAT with a Wii remote!" And that's when I remembered the words of my scumbag sophomore year high school history teacher: "Nationalism is the one word to remember when talking about the World Wars-- Nationalism."

Handball:
Goalies have very little impact in the game of handball.
After an hour of play and over 30 goals scored per team, it is possible to tie.
Handball was probably invented in somebody's basement when they were ten.
The existence of Handball proves that BASEketball might one day be an olympic event.

George W. Bush:
Did anyone else see when the President randomly came on TV to talk with Bob Costas? It came out of nowhere and from what I could tell, just made everyone feel uncomfortable. He had to answer a series of questions that he obviously knew were coming, but still managed to stumble over his words and give answers that were vague and sometimes, not even relevant. At one point, he almost even kind of berrated us/Bob Costas, which was unnerving because Bob Costas is like 4 ft 3 and looks like a turtle. It all felt a lot like in Generation Kill when one of the officers gathers up his group and tells them, "We need to remember who the real enemy is-- The Enemy!"

Gymnastics:
You'll feel alright watching gymnastics right up until one of your roommates walks in on two of you sitting on the ground, eating bread, and watching fifteen year olds vault. When he says, "What's up guys?" and you have to answer, "Not much, just watching...gymnastics..." Then things don't feel quite as ok.

The Olympics Lose Some of Their Charm...
...when you realize that you will never achieve what these people have achieved by the age of 16-25-- not without cheetah legs at least.

The Olympics Gain Some of Their Charm Back...
...when you remember that the ski jump exists, and muse on how that possibly became a sport. "AAHHHH, I'm falling horribly down a mountain! AHHHH there's a cliff! AAAHHHHHHH I-- landed it and am gonna do this over and over again and get others to join me and then we will compete to see who launches to their near-doom the best.

Heritage Nights:
On a sports related note, I went to a baseball game yesterday and was a little surprised to hear that the SF Giants are having "Heritage Nights," where each night, one of six heritages will be celebrated-- there are only six heritages right? I mean, otherwise, it might be a bit awkward to celebrate them wouldn't it? The nights kick off with Irish Night, Italian Night, and African-American Night AKA Socially Uncomfortable White Minority Night. What's weirder is that they actually compare the nights in the descriptions, saying that Irish Night is, "Arguably the most anticipated and successful special event of the Giants season...The giveaways at this event are always the most sought after..." Then the Italian description is essentially, "If you're Italian, you might like this event." The African-American one informs us that, "The package includes more then just a $20 discounted Friday night ticket with proceeds going to a local community group charity - it also includes a seat in the African American section of the park." WHAT?? The African American section of the park?? Is this the same marketing group that they had in the '50's? "Ride to and from the game on the African American section of the bus! Get drinks from the African American water fountains! Watch your favorite players play in the African American League!" Poorly phrased, Giants, poorly phrased.

After the three big Heritage Nights, they set the bar pretty high, and with Jewish Night on the horizon, they clearly needed to ramp things up-- so what did they do? Welp, they scheduled the upbeat "Leukemia & Lymphoma Society Night" first followed by the always uplifting, "Missing Children's Awareness Night." That'll get people psyched up for the Jewish Heritage Night. Don't worry though-- not only do you get your ticket for the game, you also get, " a unique gift that one of the fans created themselves." Oh yeah, that doesn't sound cheap at all. The SF Giants are a multi-million dollar organization, and they're giving out Suzie Weinstein's homemade "Challah If You're A Giants Fan" t-shirts (which I guess is better then the abstinence themed, "Jesus Is My Third Base Coach" t-shirts. I also wanna get a bumper sticker for the carpool lane that says, "Elijah Rides Shotgun." Any of these religious jokes hittin'?).

"Are you going to Jewish Heritage Night?"
"Nah."
"Why not?"
"Anytime people start rounding up Jews, I get a little nervous..."

The series rounds out with India Independence Day Celebration Night and Latino Heritage Night, but to be honest, not really many jokes there other than some puns...like how they could say, "ARRANGE to be there!" or, "More like LatiYES!" but nobody needs those jokes.

Michael Phelps Makes Lance Armstrong Look Like Tanya Harding,
Witz