Monthly Archives: January 2009

Go Fuck Yourself, Mr. Times Square IMAX

OH. Oh am I so mad about this thing.

Look, we all make mistakes. Me ESPECIALLY. We just admit them and we move on. We metaphorically throw the rest of the blueberry meuslix in the garbage and we allegorically remove it from our future shopping carts, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. So things could have been done differently. I could have seen The Dark Knight on the IMAX last summer when God intended for us to see The Dark Knight on the IMAX. That is on me. It is not like the marketers behind the movie failed in their job to let me know it was going to be in theaters. I was really really well aware of that. They should sleep well at night, The Dark Knight marketers, knowing that they thoroughly marketed that movie.

But I did not see the movie in IMAX last summer. So I was excited that it was being re-released this month. Total do over! I bought my ticket and everything. But when I got to the IMAX, totally pumped for what would obviously be a massive screen of incomparable clarity obliterating my field of vision in order to bring this darkly woven tale of an anti-hero’s battle with immeasurable cruelty, I instead found this:

Whoops. The Times Square IMAX is just a regular movie screen, except that there’s an illuminated IMAX sign hanging above the door to the theater. Perfect. And you only want 6 extra dollars for the privilege of seeing a movie here? I’m basically making money at this point. Oh, this is so infuriating. Stupid jerks! STUPIDJERKSMAX! I’m going to burn that theater to the ground. Literally. No I’m not. But you get my point. About hating it. I could have been doing so many other things last night. Like dusting my Penguin Paperback Classics collection, or seeing Dark Knight on an actual IMAX.

What a tragedy.

Man, I Could Really Go For Some WeightWatchers Right Now

I’ve been really against WeightWatchers for a long time because it’s food for women. I knew that it didn’t have the vitamins and nutrients that a man needs for all his man activities. It was food for three kinds of people:

1. Women
2. Gay Men
3. Rabbits

But now I am just really in the mood for WeightWatchers For Men because I know that it’s going to taste delicious and also be full of electrolytes and nicotine and whiskey and TESTOSTERONE. I’m going to just eat some WeightWatchers for Men and get some ripped abs because of diet and go out in the woods and fuck a shark with my bare hands. NO RABBITS ALLOWED.

Toby Young Hate Me (But Mostly Hate Max)

Oh great:

“It is unclear why the producers chose Mr Young whose main claim to fame is f***ing over Graydon Carter, being an EPIC FAIL and who maintains an entirely deserved reputation as a self-serving whiny drunk pissant,” wrote Joshua David Stein on Gawker, a New York gossip site. “My friend Gabe deftly pointed out he is like Simon Cowell without the talent or hair,” wrote Max Silvestri, a New York comedian. “But I think he’s like the lady from The Weakest Link but with a more feminine physique.” Comments like this — comparing me unfavourably to other British television personalities who’ve crossed the Atlantic — popped up all over the internet, mainly from outraged fans. But the most wounding insults were hurled by American restaurant critics, no doubt furious that they hadn’t been asked to appear on the show themselves. “A horror” was the verdict of Adam Platt, the distinguished food critic of New York magazine, who dismissed me as a “bald-headed Londoner” guilty of delivering “forced bon mots”.
(Toby Young, writing in The Spectator)

Now I’m going to have to throw out all my old business cards because they don’t say “Professional Success” on them.

SIDEBAR: how come every post I’ve written since my “return” has been tagged “assholes”? Riddle me that, 2009.

I Don’t Have Any Cigarettes Because Of This Dick In My Butt

I have a couple things that I can say about last night without getting into SPOILER territory for future work-related projects, but:

1. Barbara Walters in real life looks INSANE.
2. Sheri Shepard is actually stupid.
3. Elizabeth Hasselbeck is very pretty, too bad she is a nightmare (like Barbara Walters face).

That being said, it was time to CELEBRATE with some over-priced cocktails at another one of downtown’s new-ish speakeasy-themed bars, that seriously, New York, you know who has this many restaurants where the staff all wear period-costumes? Epcot Center. Grow up. And not to get too deep into the blueberry-meuslix-revelations-of-tax-bracket-sadness from earlier this week, but it turns out I am the kind of person who can totally enjoy an elderflower cocktail, so interpret that as you will (badly).

So after all of this, I get to the subway, and I sit on the bench to read Heat, Bill Buford’s CULINARY JOURNEY (clearly someone needs to kill me). To my left are two young women deep in conversation. To my right is a homeless man in red sweatpants, drinking from a brown paper bag. I have my headphones on, NATCH, but I can hear this homeless man shouting. TRANSCRIPT:


So finally I turn to him and say “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” and he shouts “NOT YOU, YOU’RE NOT A GIRL.” Because he was shouting at the girls to my left. Which is already pretty much perfect. But he’s not done. “You might be a faggot, but you’re not a girl.” Now it’s perfect. My cigarettes are no good here (if I even had any, which I don’t, because I don’t smoke, because I’m a faggot). I should also point out that both the homeless man and I had our legs kicked out and crossed ankle over ankle, like some kind of important echo that is probably nothing, but just to be sure, I uncrossed my legs at the ankle and sat up straight, like a human being not suffering from schizophrenia and chronic poverty/alcoholism.

I just also want to point out that every time a woman walked by the bench, the homeless man would pat the seat next to him. It kind of reminded me of that David Cross joke about seeing a garbage man whistling at ladies from his garbage truck because maybe one out of every hundred girls he whistles at loves fucking on a pile of trash, you never know. It’s also funny because it’s not like patting the seat next to you on a subway bench would work for anyone, even someone who HADN’T just been having a screaming argument with one of the concrete support beams. But his consistency in patting the bench every time also made me think that at some point maybe this had worked for him and he was just hoping for some more of that beginner’s luck, or whatever.

Which is all a long way to say that that guy’s your boyfriend.

I’m Turning Into My Idea Of A Shitty Kid’s Father

I bought some blueberry meuslix at Trader Joe’s this weekend. Don’t even worry about it. Some of us think the morning is the best time of day to TREAT YOURSELF. Whatever. It was probably a mistake. I think I even knew that at the time. For one, it was too expensive. I’m not sure what the economics behind meuslix are that make it so much more expensive than regular cereal, but my guess is the spelling. X’s are expensive. In any case, it came in a bag, and even before I opened that bag this morning, I could already tell what was going to happen and then it did:

All over the floor, as well, btw. So not only is there a mess now, that was foreseen in the prophecy, the prophecy being just looking at the fucking cheap, shitty bag the cereal came in, but now also HOW TO STORE what’s left, because contrary to popular belief I do not eat a pound of cereal every morning. And what I realized was that because the bag was so obviously poorly designed, and not really intended as any kind of storage vessel beyond the shelf of the store, what’s actually happening here is an unspoken expectation on the part of Trader Joe’s and the Trader Joe’s customer that when you get the blueberry meuslix home, you’re supposed to carefully cut the bag open with a pair of Daniel Boulod kitchen scissors, and after pouring your child a bowl before he’s escorted over to the Lycee Francais de New York for a day of bi-lingual education, you’re supposed to then pour the rest of the bag into some kind of reusable jar that you have for just such an occasion, like:

Because, duh, that’s where cereal goes.

The whole thing just made kind of angry, because I recognize that certain aspects of my life as I get closer and closer to genuine old age have now become what you might describe as “yuppie-ish,” but I’m still not such an asshole that I can’t deal with the garish, unbearable sight of a sturdy American cereal box that doesn’t fall the fuck apart in my hands when I’m trying to get to the fourth hour of Today before Kathie Lee and Hoda have finished talking about all the hot topics.

Then again, I’m the asshole who bought blueberry meuslix. So fuck me.

Kelly Clarkson, More Like Kelly ClarksDUMB

This makes me so mad for some reason:

Her life will suck without me? Like suck bad? No, suck a lollipop? Her life will suck a lollipop without me? Ouch. Ouch my brain. It’s like the worst mixed metaphor because it’s not even a metaphor. It’s just lazy. “This word means two things.” That was the meeting they had about this. “What’s a word that means two things, but one of those things could involve candy.” (Extended edition.) And then the double-worst part also is how SHE DIDN’T EVEN THINK OF THIS HERSELF. A team of clowns was needed to push this through. The president of the record company was like “Are we sure that teenagers respond well to double-entendres,” and the marketing VP was like “oh my God, you’re so right. I just noticed that there were two meanings here. Haha.” Kelly Clarkson meanwhile was like “my sweatpants are warm,” and they handed her 250,000 dollars and told her to wait outside in the car.



Look, I’ve said my share of things. We all have. I’ve made jokes about blowjobs. I’ve dropped the n-bomb. The internet is nothing if not a dumping ground for the latent adolescent impulses of people who aren’t smart enough to have real ideas. But lately I’ve been getting extraordinarily fatigued by the tendency of virtually every “humorous” male blogger (with many exceptions, duh) to refer constantly to his desire to fuck all the pretty women and how hard his boner is over everything and the general attitude of frat boy sexuality as “comedic” trope. Can we please all give it a fucking rest already?


I know that it’s boring and peevish to get worked up about the lazy stylistic choices of people who are just trying to eke out a couple of laughs by the end of the day, and you’ll notice that I’m choosing not to name any names or link any links, but seriously, you guys, get all of your shit together. It’s the 2009ies. In the words of Tom Scharpling, “we have a grown up president now, it’s time to grow up.” If this shit was ever cute, it is not cute anymore. The relentless and exhausting “voice” of the contemporary on-line-diarysphere is categorically misogynistic, homophobic, and racist, none of which stances I necessarily have a problem with if it was actually funny and/or had a wittily subversive commentary to make about misogyny, homophobia, or racism, but in general it absolutely is not and does not. If you were only to pay cursory attention you’d think the entire internet was written by a slightly meaner-spirited Seth MacFarlane. It’s just so much shit fuel poured on the fart fire. And also it is boring. We need a new general style guide for internet writing. I don’t know what that style guide will actually provide in the way of structural suggestions or tonal requirements, but I think the title will be “Actually Be Good At Writing, You Fucking Idiots.”

Oh look at me, Professor Blog giving a lecture on Pots Names For Kettles. Obviously, I should not have come back. My bads.