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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,


I’m Not a Great Conversationalist

I’m Not a Great Conversationalist

This GQ image relates in no way to the text below
This GQ image relates in no way to the text below

I went to a party on Friday and managed to keep alive my streak of being the most immature person in the room – this was challenging given that I had at least a 15 year life experience advantage on the average attendee.  I am still hung over a solid 48 hours later.  Just maybe, like a cop on the verge of retirement faced with his most personal and challenging (yet potentially life-affirming) case, I’m getting too old for this shit.  But in the course of this social gathering, I did recognize my own shortcomings as a conversationalist (and/or normal person).  In my constant quest for complete self awareness, I noted that I am only capable of discussing a vary narrow list of topics.

Stuff I Can Have a Conversation About (In Order of Occurrence):

1.  The Mets suck, motherfucker!  (I run into lots of Mets fans)

2.  Have you seen The Wire?

3.  I fucking hate the Mets, man, boy do they suck!

4.  Would you care to hear some gambling stories?

5.  I mean, they fucking really fucking suck, dood, seriously the fucking Mets fucking stink.  I’m a Braves fan, man, so glad the fucking sorry-assed Mets took Francoeur’s sorry ass.

6.  My favorite character on The Wire is probably Bunk.  Or Carver.  Did you see that one where Bunk set his clothes on fire when he had a one night stand?  That was awesome.

That’s basically it.  This certainly will not stand.  I used to be something of a bon vivant, capable of thoughtful discourse on any number of topics, including religion, politics, wine, food, sport, the theatre.  You name it, my bizarre yet versatile educational/vocational background allowed me to nimbly navigate the social strata.  Okay, none of that shit was true, but I certainly had a broader repertoire than “Mets suck/Wire rules” – I’ve seen comments on that are more substantive than my current social set pieces.  One great thing about being so fucking self aware is it provides you with a list of things to improve on (or to ignore and allow to fester and become debilitating).

Mrs. Roddick, from SI.  Why is this picture even here?
Mrs. Roddick, from SI. Why is this picture even here?

To improve my social capabilities, I vow to spend some time on the following:

1.  Broaden viewing of topical television shows that I missed: I will rent The O.C. and Gilmore Girls DVDs so I’m in better touch with the youth of today.  I want to know the story behind those sweet “Free Marissa Cooper” tee shirts.

2.  Become more well-read:  I will pay particular attention to the the copies of Us Weekly and OK! that are lying around the apartment; all that SmartMoney reading has increased neither my level of smart nor my level of money.

3.  Pay more attention to the channels further down the channel guide:  After experiencing the particular genius of Ninja Warrior, and learning it’s been going on for years, I initially felt like a pop cultural failure.  I will not let the post-channel-30 locations of the G4s, FitTVs, Fuses, C-SPAN-3s, etc. scare me away from potentially excellent, and socially relevent, programming any longer.  (Hopefully there are also more ninja-focused shows out there.)

4.  Hang around the liquor store to see what’s new in the world of alcohol:  Did you know there’s a new vodka that tastes like fucking sweet tea?  Seriously, Firefly vodka.  It tastes like fucking sweet tea.  Read that again – and it’s still 35% hooch.  Throw some lemonade in that bitch and you are set with an alcoholic Arnold Palmer.  (Thanks, ‘Pril)  I have spent considerable time and energy working on a chili verde burrito-flavored vodka, with little success thus far.  This tea-flavored ‘ka is an evolutionary step up the “alcohol that tastes like something else that is delicious but will still get you drunk” ladder.

5.  See more movies:  I need to go see that Bruno – no one captures the cultural zeitgeist like Mr. Baron Cohen with his guerrilla performance art pieces.  I’ve gotta get on board with the hilarious catch phrases.  “I’m Bruno!”  Haha, that’s hilarious in and of itself.

6.  Experience different foods:  In that vein, I will today try the Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito at T-Bell.  I have never tried any of the “bacon” products at The Bell, and for good reason: their other products are already fucking fantastic.  And really the only bacon I need I get on the Atlantis Club at Murray’s Deli.  But I’m ready to take this drastic gastronomic step in my quest for self improvement.  I will probably also get a Volcano Burrito, too.  That sounds pretty good.

We’ll see how this goes.

(Editor’s Note #1: I’m still kicking myself for omitting my couplet “sat down for some online poker, yo, messed around and won a $50 sit n go” from “Wednesday Was A Good Day.”  Dammit.)

(Editor’s Note #2: You may wonder why there are like 100 pictures of girls in swimsuits today.  Good question.  Given that my traffic has increased 17,000% since the debut of Megan Fox in a swimsuit, I’ve realized that it’s not the hours of painstakingly crafted content that will help this place grow.  It’s nubile young ladies in swimsuits.  The inner artist sheds a tear.  Apologies to the four females that read this site (SO, Railbird, Mom, maybe Mrs. C-Note) but at least I’m providing some good swimsuit ideas.)

(Editor’s Note #3: Tomorrow I’m coming back to my crappy jobs list, but I’ve gotten to that point where they aren’t that crappy.  So don’t be alarmed if the title is modified slightly, it’s not an entirely new list.)

Marisa Miller is in good shape
Marisa Miller is in good shape