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A Day in The Life: Solo Saturday

A Day in The Life: Solo Saturday

(Editor’s Note: Since SO is out of town, I have been ravaging the city bachelor style for the last five days.  I thought since I’ve been so lazy I should emit a special weekend post giving a glimpse into the bacchanalia – do not try this at home)

9:38 AM: Awaken early and clear-headed, even after a wild 6:00 PM dinner the previous night that included an entire Corona and some lamb vindaloo.  First time with the lamb ‘lol, pretty tasty.  Props to the lady at the restaurant who dropped the history of vindaloo on us as we left.  Knowing a little about the culture that developed your favorite animal/hot sauce/bread dish really adds to the ingestion experience.

loodicrously delishus


9:48 AM: Lot of shit to deal with today – exterminators coming to drop some precautionary bedbug bombs, sometime between 9:00 AM and 12:00 Noon.  Since when do exterminators need a 3 hour window like the fucking cable guys?  I didn’t realize exterminating was a monopoly business that could hold an entire apartment building hostage on a muggy August weekend?

9:50 AM: Survey the apartment’s landscape: 309 napkins in various states of use, several bags from well-respected chain restaurants, 14 empty jugs of wine, persistent (and sadly, permanent) cat odor, garbage cans overflowing, unopened mail covering every available flat surface.  Fuck.

9:51 AM: It’s time to get straight gangster on this shithole.  Throw all garbage outside, where it is already 134 degrees with 170% humidity.  Don’t see any exterminators, maybe they start upstairs?

10:20 AM: Fire up the dreaded device: the shredder.  Musical accompaniment: Chubb Rock (“Treat ‘Em Right” is horrificly underrated.)  Determine that if casinos simply sent me a check for the amount they spend on printing, postage etc for every offer they send me, my income solely from gambling mailings would be $117,000 annually.

10:45 AM: Shredder making odd noises and possibly emitting some smoke.  Hmmm….actually was just a small cloud caused by the extreme humidity and a temperature inversion.  Crisis averted.

10:53 AM: Review another casino offer where they will give me $1,200 in chips just to show up.  Another says I get a $1,000 Saks gift card just for walking into their casino.  Come to the conclusions that: 1) I am a terrible gambler, and 2) Gift card is meaningless as I wear the same shorts every day and alternate one of two t-shirts.

11:15 AM: Man I’m fucking starving – where are those bastards?  I’ve got to get out of here for two hours after they spray their noxious mixtures all over the place, so that’s when I need to eat to kill time.  A shower would be a good thing, but I don’t seize the moment.

11:16 AM: I don’t think they’re coming, so if I keep going this place will be sparkling clean, I can grab a burrito and take a well-deserved nap.  I’ll shower after I eat as I’m certain I will sweat away 8-9 pounds just walking to Chipotle in this concrete inferno.

11:45 AM: Notice eight people angrily sitting on stoop as I take out the last seven bags of shreddings.  They tell me the exterminators are late.  No shit – if they aren’t here in ten minutes I’m out of this motherfucker.

11:55 AM: As I head out to Chipotle, I see the dreaded visage of extremely-late-in-the-three-hour-window-arriving exterminators.  They may as well have been terminators – now I wasn’t going to be able to shower AND eat a ‘rito while enjoying some Talk Soup.

11:56 AM: Conclude my day is fucked.  Sweat dripping from ears only 40 seconds into my eight minute walk.

11:59 AM: Seek out shade and water.

12:01 PM: Wallet now entirely soaked in sweat.  Am leaving Hansel and Gretelish trail of sweat in my wake should I get lost.

12:04 PM: Chipotle, or an unoriginal mirage, appears on the horizon (barely visible through the humidity and suffering.)

12:05 PM: No line at noon?  Clearly everyone else died in transit.

12:15 PM: Return trip goes smoothly, my electrolyte levels should return to normal after a couple of IVs.

12:16 PM: Sulk momentarily at the thought of ‘terminators interrupting my meal.

12:17 PM: Grapefruit Izze is more manly than it sounds.  And delicious.

Surprisingly refreshing and non-ghey
Surprisingly refreshing and non-ghey

12:25 PM: Joel McHale is fucking hilarious.  Seriously.  Soup and Chipot is good for the soul.  Ponder how McHale will balance The Soup and new (and already critically well-regarded) sitcom Community?

12:45 PM: Maybe those fucking exterminators bailed since they were late?

12:52 PM: Assume nap-taking position.

12:53 PM: Knock, knock.  Fuck.

12:54 PM: Throw The Cat That Is Afraid Of Everything out on the patio.  15% chance he’ll make a run for it and be lost forever.  Fingers crossed.

12:55 PM: Realize that fear of paper, shadows, etc. doesn’t bode well for impulsive decision to scale six foot walls and explore the neighborhood.  Dammit.

1:00 PM: Barred from the house for two hours.  Standing outside in sweltering heat, stuffed to the gills with chicken/cheese/rice/tortilla/chips/salsa, wearing clothes from two days ago and in desperate need for of a shower.

1:01 PM: Note that hair looks as if I’ve just administered a can or so of mousse to it.  A health-conscious cannibal would have to blot me down with napkins before consuming me.

1:02 PM: Decide to man up and seize the day.

1:05 PM: Goddamit, is it raining?  Or did the humidity finally say fuck it and officially turn into water?

1:06 PM: Wonder if there’s a scientific explanation for how it’s both raining and getting hotter and humider?  Of the 100% wetness of my clothing, I can’t clearly break down the responsible party, but I would estimate it’s 78% sweat, 22% rain.

1:07 PM: Buy NY Post.

1:10 PM: Buy pint of Stella at Jake’s Saloon.  Make peculiar decision to sit at front of saloon, where it is not air-conditioned.

2:19 PM: Go to restroom.  Observe that I look like heroin addict who’s just run a 10K.  Also note that I haven’t worn anything other than flipflops since returning from Africa (except running shoes when, you know, running).  Flipflops covered in a grimy substance that has the look and viscosity of Predator saliva.

Sweat looks okay on some people
Sweat looks okay on some people

2:30 PM: Hit Best Buy to check out the new shit.  MLB 2K9 looks exactly like an actual baseball game.  If I thought I would devote the seven months needed to play it, I might buy it.  Instead, I will play the Batman: Arkham Asylum demo when the need hits.

2:50 PM: Ten minutes to kill, time to be productive.  Go to the non-judgmental liquor store and pick up a jug of Yellow Tail Cab/Shiraz.  That’s the purple label, yo.  Won’t drink it all, but good to have on hand.

3:00 PM: Return to apartment – it doesn’t even remotely smell like chemicals.  WTF?  They probably just sprayed some tonic water around and charged $21k.  Fucking bedbugs.

3:10 PM: Fucking cat still here.  Dammit.

3:12 PM: Take first of a series of showers.  Estimate that socially acceptable hygiene levels will be restored after the sixth shower.

3:30 PM: Finally, a nap.  Arrrhrhghghgh!  Remember that took all the sheets and stuff off the bed from fear that they actually shoot toxic fireballs into your bed or something.  Now have to remake that shit.

6:00 PM: Finish series of showers.  Rest levels high.  Day looking up.  Time for a trip to the gym.

6:01 PM: Gym?  Or maybe I’ve had enough today, and should order a pizza?

6:01:02 PM: Yes, reward yourself.

6:03 PM: Despite presence of numerous independent and delicious pizzerias, find myself debating offers from two long-time friends (and contributors to obesity): Domino’s and Papa John’s.

6:04 PM: As a healthful compromise, I decide to forgo the spicy italian goodness of PJ’s for some boneless wings and a large thin crust at Domino’s.   The fact that my body had been recently covered in sweat that closely resembled PJ’s garlic sauce also aided my decision.

6:07 PM: Domino’s online ordering is insane.  It shows exactly what’s going on at every step.  Thankfully there’s no “preparer takes care of itchy genitals before assembling your pizza” graphic.

6:18 PM: Pizza arrives, leave solid 23% tip for expediency.  Open Yellow Tail, a large bottle of Poland Springs, and a Diet Coke with Lime.  Keep your options open.

6:20 PM: Click on a Chelsea Lately.  What the fuck is up with this new Time Warner guide/dvr format?  Bring back the old style, I do not approve either user interface or the look of the screen.  I hate the font too.  Realize I should have ordered some Cinnastix.

They tast 15x better than they look
They tast 15x better than they look

6:25 PM: Having eaten a modest 1/3 of the pizza and maybe 34% of the wings, I put the food away.

6:26 PM: What now?  Hmmm, I guess I could play a little online poker while I’m figuring out what to do.  I’d remembered a week or so ago that I had $400 on a site and had run that up a little bit to a couple of grand.

6:30 PM: A $200 sit-n-go fills up.  I theorize that people reach in these situations and take a shot before going out on a Saturday.  (Sit-n-gos are six or nine man tournaments where the top two or three get paid, so a $200 6-man pays $840 for 1st and $360 for 2nd)

7:15 PM: I finish second in two sngs, and am up a couple hondo.

8:20 PM: Fucking A, you know what’s not that far from here?  Atlantic City.  Hmmm….there’s this sweet train now…

8:30 PM: You know what this party needs?  Yep, MC Hammer, Garbage and Kriss Kross.  90’s ruled.

8:43 PM: Pizza now 80% gone.

9:00 PM: Start seeking out any and everyone who might want to make a spur-of-the-moment trip to AC.

9:15 PM: Send text to degenerate I barely know who had drunkenly suggested AC trip a month ago.  No response.

9:34 PM: Incorrectly read train schedule, realize that next one is at midnight.  Shit.

9:45 PM: Nobody’s down with AC.  Where’d all that Yellow Tail go?  Shit, why is my account suddenly down?  I was winning?

The place where good decisions go to die
The place where good decisions go to die

9:57 PM: Pizza is 100% gone.

10:10 PM: Why am I opening the dreaded Online Blackjack application at the poker site?  That’s fucking stupid.

10:16 PM: Maybe some Heavy D & the Boyz will turn this shit around.  You can’t see what I can see.

10:30 PM: Why am I now playing $100/hand online blackjack that I’m 100% sure is rigged?

10:45 PM: Fuck it, will try another $500.  I mean if my bankroll is fucked, who cares?  Probably can’t take the money out anyway with all the legal bullshit going on with online poker – Barney Frank or somebody I think personally looks at all the transfers from those sites, no matter how.  Wait, no, Barney Frank is a proponent of online poker.  So maybe Maxine Waters reviews the monetary situation or something.  Whatevs, it’s not looking good for the kid.

11:03 PM: Miraculously win 8 hands in a row, several at table max.  Even more miraculously, quit the stupid blackjack game.  Look at account and relieved to find I have exactly what I started the night with.

11:08 PM: Head back to the non-judgmental liquor store for another jug of Y-Tail.  Won’t drink it all, but good to have on hand.

11:15 PM: Wait for $200 sng to fill up.

12:03 AM: Win $200 sng for $840.  Fuck $200 sngs – apparently too easy for me.  Wait for $300 sng to fill up.

1:20 AM: Win $300 sng for $1260.  Wait for another $300 sng to fill up.

1:31 AM: Put the following ingredients in a tortilla: boneless chicken nuggets, wing sauce, one slice american cheese, one bag of Cosi potato chips.  Surprisingly delicious and life-affirming.

2:10 AM: Win $300 sng for $1260.  $300 sngs are for pussies (also no one is playing them now), but there are 4 people sitting waiting for a $500 sng to fill up.

3:12 AM: Win $500 sng for $2100.  Man, I’m pretty fucking tired.  Where did all that Y-Tail go?  There’s only about 1/4 jug left?  I probably spilled a lot of that.

3:30 AM: Bust out of my last sng.  Pretty good run though, aside from momentary blackjack idiocy.  Up $3,500 for the night.  All effectively imaginary since withdrawals might have one shipped to Gitmo, but still an uplifting moment. But tired as shit, b.

I’m going out of town Thursday but there will be some 2-3 real-assed posts on this sit this week.  And then things will get really real once August is over and the whole world starts reading goofy websites with abandon once again.

Til then,


Reassessing My Life’s Goal

Reassessing My Life’s Goal

Yeah, goal, singular.  I’m too tired to multitask this kind of stuff.  More on that in a minute.  I need to spend a second complaining about how fucking sore my legs are – this is very likely critical information for both the casual and hardcore reader of this site.  I had a goal of running 100 miles this month, which is a pretty modest, but complicated somewhat by taking off ten more days off than I’d planned. I still have 26 miles to go.  At least after tomorrow I can go down to five milers if I want.  Standing up for 13 straight hours Monday didn’t help matters much, but at least the Red Bull is wearing off – the seizures are coming less frequently now.  I still live in fear of the fucking calf cramps that are only an awkward movement away.

Couple of other things – kudos to the lady who set the craps record at the Borgata.  But where the hell was she when I needed her?  Have to imagine if she rolled that many times that the aggressive bettors took down somewhere in the neighb of $200k – $300k.  Not bad for four hours.  Also, I have to give props to the Greyhound ride that we had to resort to last night.  Granted, waiting for the bus at the AC train stati0n is one of the least desirable fates in the world (unless you are a traveling circus recruiter), but the ride itself clocked in at two hours and fifteen minutes.  That’s faster than the fucking “train service” that inexplicably does not run on Mondays (but will be happy to drop you off at 2:00 AM Monday morn just in case you are looking to spend 4-5 days in beautiful Atlantic City).  The bed-n-meth bender places there are divine.

Anyhoo, back to my reassessment.  As I alluded to yesterday, I really needed to stop and take a look at where my life was headed.  I’m using past tense here because I did stop, I did take a look and I did reevaluate my plan.  As you might recall from my first real post, one in which I didn’t even know how to post a picture (semi) properly, I vocalized my seemingly lofty long-term plan to use this website as a springboard to full-time punditry.  Preferably at VH1, the El Dorado for undertalented comics/writers/models with a snarky take on pop cultural events.

But was I selling myself short with such a goal?  I, someone who had achieved a measure of average-to-below-averageness in a wide range of career paths?  Someone who had lapped at the golden trough of The Street (only to later become lodged under The Street’s urinal cake)?  And did punditry even offer a significantly greater long-term outlook than my other failed efforts?  For every Aisha Tyler, there’s probably ten Patrice O’Neals.  Who’s Patrice O’Neal?  He’s the dude who looks like former Knick and Hornet Larry Johnson, and who parlayed his VH1 gigs into a slot as one of the factory guys on The Office.  Where’s he at now?  Looks like he got some voice work on Emmy candidate Assy McGee, but fame/fate’s fickle hands bestowed all Office factory goodness on Craig Robinson.  Where’s Michael Ian Black these days?  Shooting web videos and guesting on Reaper?  I’m not sure that’s a better place in the world than anonymous internet hack/Yellow Tail connoisseur.  (And, by the way, “connoisseur” is pretty tricky to spell, even for someone who won his school’s spelling bee in fifth grade.  But let’s not discuss how the Tulsa citywide-bee went – damn you “obscured”!  You should have two r’s!)

I’ve decided I need to pursue something that provides signficant subsistence opportunities at all points in the economic cycle.  An occupation where I can leverage my pop culture knowledge and the writing skills I’m honing on this very website.  The chance to work with a diverse mix of forward-thinking intellectuals from across the social strata.  A career path that allows for both financial and spiritual growth – not just mad scrilla with no emotional or philanthropic fulfillment.  There’s really only one job I can think of that captures all these elements and would likely allow me to continue spending 15-16 hours a day sitting on my couch.  I am going to become a featured rapper.

ianblack patrice-oneal2



         From Pundits to Pundidn’ts?






If you are reading this blog, there’s a pretty good chance you are white, so you may be unfamiliar with this career choice.  Let me translate into something more digestible for those of you in this category: let’s say you are a contractor building a house: setting the foundation, putting up the frame…actually I don’t know much housing lingo, so you’re the guy who turns the bricks, concrete, lumber, etc into a fucking house.  You do everything but put up the mailbox, you have a specialist who does that.  The mailbox guy is like the guest rapper – he does like 0.2% of the work but gets outsized credit if the mailbox is extremely noteworthy, taking the house to a whole new level.  Shit, that might’ve been a weak metaphor or whatever.  Let’s say you’re a gigolo (or a prostitute for the three female readers of this blog: hi Mom!), you take some shriveled octogenarian out to a nice dinner, maybe some dancing (you’re no common whore), set the stage and everything.  You start sexing it up real good with the old bag, even holding in your vomit until just before the climactic/possible cardiac event.  Then someone steps in to finish the job.  See – that’s also the guest rapper there, the guy who finishes the deal.  Metaphorically, he will get significant credit for a job well done and little blame for a shitty job.  Doesn’t have to do as much dirty work, but still gets paid.   Is the tableau complete now for all my white readers?

There’s always a market for guest rappers – some songs might have seven or eight “featured” artists on each song.  I believe Lil Wayne alone has been featured on something like 4700 songs.  And you don’t have to do much as the “main” rapper has okayed the beat, chorus, pentameter and all those other musical things (so I’m not a contractor and know little about music, why do you think I’m writing this stuff instead of being constructive in some way?)  But, importantly, the featured rappers apparently get to write their own lyrics – that’s fucking sweet!  Hopefully I’ll be able to start with something with a pop vibe, where my ghetto sound will give it a little crossover appeal.  (My voice sounds very similar to the crack whores on The Wire, so I know my style is gonna be legit)  And I know most of the latest slang, since I listen to a lot of Cameo, Boogie Boys and UTFO.  Word.  Fingers crossed that I can get something done with Lady Gaga, on her next socially-conscious album.  I’m already pondering what rhymes with “rain forest.”  I’m thinking “Al Gore-fest,” since that dovetails pretty nicely with the whole global warming sitch.  (That’s slang for “situation”)

So I will still be working hard at this blog; as occasional featured rapper Eminem has proven, timely, satirical jabs at pop culture targets is all the rage in the rap world.  Watch out Speidi, I’m just waiting to spit some hot fire your direction.  Plus, in this bizarro world of rap, there really aren’t any featured rappers who are 40+ year old white guys with MBAs, so I think I will have a certain corner of the market locked up from the onset.  Like, if Fat Joe has a track about Black-Scholes, I will be a logical candidate to throw down some lyricism (“For those with a mathematical persuasion, it starts with a partial differential equation”).  I can go all day.  Let me (for like the eighth time) take us out with the greatest featured rapper debut in history, one that changed the annals of hip-hop, gin consumption and adding -izzle to every word, forever.   



Recipe for Disaster

Recipe for Disaster




Ingredients (marinade):

  • 1 Six mile run
  • 1 Corona
  • 1.5 Dark and Stormies
  • 3.0 Martinis (gin)
  • 1 dinner at Nobu

Directions (marinade):

Start Sunday with the six mile run, preferably in the late afternoon.  Follow the run not with Gatorade, but with the beer and DNS’s.  Have dinner with Academy buddy and wife (Tropril for anonymity’s sake) at Nobu – take care not to eat too much rice or other carbs to ensure poor decision making later.  Due to work obligations, make sure Tropril have to leave early from dinner, to leave ample time for said poor decisions.  Let sit for two hours.

Ingredients (main course):

  • SO’ stroke of genius 
  • Internet connection
  • Plans to have Memorial Day cookout on back patio
  • Proximity to train station
  • Gosling’s Dark Rum
  • Goya Ginger Beer
  • Empty Poland Springs bottle
  • Contempt for Borgata

 Directions (main course):

After discussing Vegas trip over dinner, have SO use stroke of genius to suggest quick trip to AC on new train service.  Use internet connection to confirm that there is an 11:00 PM train getting in at 2:00 AM and a return trip at 10:00 AM (important: disregard the fact that the 10:00 AM return is actually for next Friday, there is no train service to AC during the week).  Throw cookout plans in the trash.  Pour rum and ginger beer into Poland Springs bottle – brilliant subterfuge, that looks exactly like water!  Rush to train station.  Throw contempt for Borgata in the trash.

Once at Borgata, proceed to go up $7k within the first five minutes by throwing money around like a moron.  Have this plan stop working starting at minute six.  Do not leave craps table until 3:00 PM.  Serve and enjoy!



I feel like shit.  I did a wonderful job packing for this impromptu adventure, taking the following items: the clothes I was wearing (unfortunately including my ‘gamo loafers that hurt like mofos), my phone and a phone charger.  That was it.  Luckily SO took our tooth brushes (teethbrush?).  By 3:00 PM I needed a sand blaster to get back to the enamel layer of my teeth (which is especially painful for someone who brushes about 13 times per day).  I did realize a few things on this trip though.

Warning Signs That Should Lead To Reevaluation of Your Life

  • You find yourself drinking alcoholic beverages out of Poland Springs bottles in public
  • Your urine has the exact same color and (apparently) viscosity as Red Bull
  • You find yourself still standing at the exact same craps table at 3:00 PM that you were standing at at 3:00 AM

I hit all three of these, so I did some thinking and had a couple of epiphanies.  From here on out, I’m turning over a new leaf.  No drinking.  No gambling.  I’ll probably do some volunteer work.  Maybe become a vegeterian.  Read more (I’ve still got like 820 pages of Kavalier and Clay left, but all the detailed gay stuff has slowed my momentum a bit).  Become more tolerant of others.  Use this website to advance the state of the world.  Do good.  Take fewer naps.  Curse less.  Burrito moderation.  I’m doing it all – a whole new me!

Hmmm, I forgot we are headed back to Atlantis in 2.5 weeks…maybe I’ll keep the leaf where it is for now and turn it over after I’m back from the ATL…given that a couple friends are going too, it would be rude to be too evangelical, right?