This is the last day of April.  That means the last 10 words you just read qualify me for having posted an entry every day for 30 days!  Take that, NaBloPoMo!

You:

Would you like to try that again?

That’s more like it.

Let me be honest for a minute: it sucked.  It required writing posts on the weekends.  Hell, I even wrote a post while at a party, because I knew that since I had forgotten to write that morning, and was guaranteed to be heavily intoxicated within the next couple of hours, the last 23 days would have been for nothing if I failed to get something up.

It was a chore.  Somebody owes me a drink.  Anyone?  Bueller?

Actually, maybe I’m not the one who deserves a drink.  Maybe it’s you.  Do you do this 7 days a week regularly?  If you’re there, let me see a show of hands.  *waits*

credit: PrimoVox

Drop your hand if any of the following doesn’t apply to you.  You work approximately 40 hours a week.  You have friends that don’t blog 7 days a week.  You go out at least one night a week.  You are in a relationship you’d call “serious.”

If your hand is still up, I’m convinced: you’re a superhero.  Miss Bianca would [insert unfortunate situation] me if for the next 335 days, I was guaranteed to be sitting in front of my computer every night.  [Insert unfortunate situation] me.

Also, having to write that much content made me suck at blogging.  The number of unread posts in my reader was absurd.  I was always at least a day behind to return the commenting-favor to way too many people.  The creativity fell to pieces some days.

But all in all, it was a great month.  You made it a great month.  All of you (*aww shucks*).  Look at just a little of what happened because of you:

1. I guest-blogged for the first time.
2. A cheetah found a home.
3. You accepted my Paul Rudd man-crush.
4. We asked DC — actually all of the cities we’re from — to get out of the funk we were in.  And the City Paper listened.

I even met hundreds of you in real life.  Ok, maybe just a couple dozen, but still: awesome.  Thanks for putting up with this here blog.

_____

don’t let me catch you.

This is post # 2.

And this goes out to the asshat that messed with the wrong goddess, er, uh, lady and recently hacked into a certain celebrity’s MobileMe account:

Hey asshat,

Did you know that this woman jump-started my puberty?¹

And you what?  Tried to steal her identity… like we could possibly confuse you for her because you had her list of contacts.  Or maybe you just wanted some VIP access to events.

You think my anger is completely manufactured solely because it gives me a reason to mention Salma Hayek?

Whatever.

Don’t let me catch you on the street.  Salma is off limits to you and your innerwebs-freak ways.

That is all.

-f.B

—
¹TMI? What? It’s Thursday anyway.

This is worth a party in and of itself.  Usually my timing is like finding out about a sale a day too late.¹  But last night, my timing was impeccable.

I had a craving.  Me wanted french fries.  But I don’t believe in commercialism so I went to a little hole-in-the-wall, family-run place that grows all of its food locally.

credit: The Consumerist

What?  Oh, like you never do?  It was a guilty plea, or want, whatever.  Sometimes there’s nothing like “potato” fried in toxic sludge.

Anyway, so I stroll over the threshold and through the door, beneath the golden arches.  And chaos ensues.

At the counter, two men are arguing violently.  Actually, only one man is arguing.  He looks like a local Mr. Puniverse runner-up.

Ok, ok.  So maybe he wasn’t that small.  But whether it’s living in my neighborhood, or watching awesomely bad TV, I know the difference between homemade muscle and prison swole.  And this dude — with a headband, knee-high double-striped socks and a too-tight shirt tucked into stone-washed spandex trunks — was homemade muscle.  Let’s call him “Puny.”

The guy he’s yelling at is the manager, the captain of the place.  Let’s call him “The Captain.”

He’s standing behind the counter, near the thing that makes the shakes.  But he seems to want no part of the screaming.  Apparently, The Captain’s Log (read: franchise manager handbook) said that in moments like these, the first and only thing a manager should do is stand there talking to someone on his red Razr like nothing was happening.  He’s taking the passive-aggressive, don’t-solve-the-problem approach to problem-solving.

I have no idea how long this scene was playing out before I got there.  But after a few seconds, Puny is mad as hell and isn’t gonna take it anymore.  He is wild with his rage.  So you know what he does?

He launches his bag of food into The Captain’s face at point blank range.

Unbefreakinglievably, The Captain sprints around the counter, around me, charging.  Changing his mind just before he speared/kicked/punched Puny, he pulls up and tries to just motion to Puny to leave.  I’m about a foot away from the madness.

Puny isn’t interested in leaving, though.  He backs up, gets into his stance and tells The Captain to, and I quote, “Do it.”  And, well, when someone asks you that politely to dance, you dance.  So The Captain drops into his stance and they start dancing.  Grannies are clutching their grandchildren.  All of the employees are just watching.

Now, this may be true for the ladies as well, but guys tend to know when another guy actually wants to swing.  If he’s gonna hit you, you’ve got maybe a few seconds.  But as soon as the guy crosses the 5 or so seconds mark of screaming, “Do it.  Hit me,” in your face — like he’s going ’round the mulberry bush rather than fighting — you can bet he’s not gonna throw first.

Why is this important?  Because it explains why I just stood there and didn’t do a damn thing.  They weren’t actually gonna fight mid-store.  And they didn’t.  A grandmother eventually steps forward and urged Puny to let it go.  I thought he did.  He goes out the door on the left and it seems we were getting back to normal.  The lady at the counter asks me what I wanted like nothing had happened.  She doesn’t even ask me, “Would you like a fight with that?”

As soon as I get my change, though, The Captain sprints out the door to the right followed by an eager employee.  So what do I do?  I sprint out the door to see wtf is gonna happen.  But either I got there late, or they went off somewhere else…  I go back inside.  I missed the action.

How did I know there was action?  The Captain comes back in the door with red marks on the left side of his face.  And you know what he does?  He pulls a Piper Palin and starts licking his bare hand and wiping his wounds.  Which is cool, which is cool.  Except he works in food service.  So when he heads straight for the fries and starts shoveling them into containers with his spit and blood and dirt and whatever was on Puny’s hands, I thank the baby jebus my fries were already in a bag and decide this just might actually be the best dining experience of my life.

_____
¹See Chris Rock’s 2003 VMAs monologue at 4:00.

… so I wanted to take off all my clothes and walk the DC streets a little more freely.  Naturally.

[parody video of my ensuing public nudity blocked by the YouTube]

Why would this have been better than staying inside?  Because the air conditioner isn’t conditioning our air.

Whatever holds the coolant is about as dry and empty as every bottle of Disaronno I’ve ever met.  This isn’t any different from last year, at about this time, when our landlord said he could fix the coolant issue then, but that the real issue was something else.  Left ignored, of course, that something else would resurface as an issue the next year.

And that makes the situation we face the ever so popular definition of “insanity:” committing the same act and earnestly expecting different results.

And you know what insanity + a thermostat reading 87 does to a house with two dudes in it?

Yep.  Makes it smell like balls.  Schweddy balls (“SB”), to be exact.

Use a fan, why don’t ya?

I did.  But when the thermostat is stuck at 87, as the SBs announce their presence to your nose, the best a fan can do is accelerate the waft to your face.

Open a window.

We live on arguably the busiest street in the city.  It is also Route 50.  There is constant traffic, human and vehicular.  All this, plus not having a single screen on any window, means opening them would lead to the following items in our home:

1. trash
2. dust (seriously, it would be like a Saharan sand storm)
3. strewn car parts
4. neighborhood children

Now, obviously, none of this is really anything to complain about; not even the neighborhood children that would flood our house and rob us blind.

I just wanted you to know, dear readers, that this post was written with love.  Hot, SB love.  Instead of spending the night taking 6 consecutive cold showers to beat the heat, I, wrote this post, for you.

Today is a day of firsts.  It is the first time (since almost a year ago) I walked out of my house at 8 am and it was approximately 70 degrees.  Also, I’m guest-blogging for the first time in ever.  Yep I am.

So, you should go here.  Do it.  Dooo it.  Help deflower me.  You’re just one click away.

…

Are you there, yet?

So here’s what we’re gonna do about that.  Below, there are pictures of four products I have come across in stores in the past few weeks.  I have purchased one of them.  But rather than wax poetically about how the product has changed my life for the better, I thought I’d leave it up to you to guess which one I bought and, if you’re adventurous, just how my life has changed.

Ready?  Go.

Extreme Moose Tracks ice cream.

An egg tree.

Vegas cologne, by Playboy (yes, that Playboy).

The ShamWow.

It’s gorgeous out, at least in DC.  So let’s just get to the goods, shall we?

Today’s FVF is just a story about a breakup (see picture above).  There’s a guy, and there’s a girl.  Below the story, there are three videos completely unrelated to this post because I wanted to laugh.  The first?  I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the part of Coming to America that featured Adam Lambert from Idol on vocals.  The second is a pretty good example of how I’m going to leave the bar tonight.  And the third, well, just see for yourself.

Happy Friday.  Thanks for stopping by.

_____

science fiction –

she cries
from behind a smile to comfort me
as she says, “you know we’ve got no chemistry
it’s just science fiction
it’s just science fiction”

her hand
is warm but won’t stop shaking
and she stares
at the cup, the floor, just anything
to keep from falling in again,
a place there’s no escaping;
or so she promises
but here we are
as she starts vanishing

and this time
the only surprise waiting
is for her
she won’t find me begging
i’ve seen this play before
she treats us like we’re staging
and she honestly
don’t know i know she’s faking

so she smiles
like a smile right now could comfort me
as she says, “you know we’ve got no chemistry
it’s just science fiction
it’s just science fiction”
…

Jersey.

We don’t pump our own gas (it’s illegal).  We have the driest wit in America.  We lovingly self-deprecate more times a day than you probably say words with the letter “e” in them.  Want proof?  The governor asked the citizens to create and vote for the state slogan.  You know what won?  ”New Jersey, Come See for Yourself.“

And yes, we’ve heard your jokes.  The armpit of America.  The plays on the fact that we’re literally the densest state in the country.  The smells.  The irony of our Garden State moniker.  The Sopranos/mafia quips.  Once, someone asked me, “What smells and is where people go to fail at life?”  I said, “Nursing home.”  He could barely stop giggling long enough to spit out, “Nope.  Dirty Jerz.”

So yeah, we got your jokes.  But we’ve been able to brush our shoulders off and ignore them, resting on our unwavering kickassedness.

That is, until now.

Now, we’ve had our hideous underbelly exposed by five women Bravo probably MetroNorth’d in from upstate NY or imported from Long Island.¹

I’m speaking, of course, of the Real Housewives of New Jersey.

Let’s get one thing straight: this, is not Jersey.

The Jersey I know is remarkably like a Kevin Smith movie.  Though confused if you don’t, it doesn’t care that you don’t like it.  And it certainly doesn’t parade — from right to left — a lady who won’t stop publicly talking in code about how “tightly knit” her “family” is like the mob’s anthem is a version of “Go Tell it on the Mountain,” three ladies² who’d multi-fail a remedial eating course and a woman (far left) that, frankly, after watching the 22-minute sneak preview, I just don’t like, as spokespersons.

The Jersey I know wouldn’t look at a glass already half-full with stereotypes and ask these broads to piss in it ’til full.  It’s a family thing.  We can say whatever we want about ourselves.  But we keep it in the circle.  You know what I’d do drunk?  A lot.  But you know what I would never do, even drunk?  Insult Jersey in mixed company.

I’m not counting these broads as “Jersey girls.”  That phrase is for a special kind of lady that these women wouldn’t know if one walked up and stealth-punched them in the throats for speaking without being spoken to.  These “real” housewives are a charade.  Just look at them: they’re in couture posing opposite industrial fans to create a wind-blown-hair look, while on the boardwalk at the beach.

If you’re still wondering why this pains me so, the kicker: they’re based in my county, Bergen County.  And that just feels like a sandpaper ball-rub.  The promise of this show feels like someone is sandpapering my balls.  All the pre-show hype (it hasn’t aired yet) is rubbing me against the grain and I just can’t take it.

So, I’m going with the grain. *hangs head*

I’m gonna watch it; at least the first episode.  I gotta keep an eye on mine enemies so that I might trounce them when the time is right.  Maybe I’ll even host a viewing party and make something out of it.  Not to celebrate, of course.  Nubby-balls no!  But so I can teach the non-Jerseyers what is and isn’t true about the greatest state in the union.  I’ll take one for the team and sit through this madness.

If you’ve got any recommendations on a great bourbon for me to slurp straight from the bottle while I watch, the box below is open for suggestions.

Oh, and I almost forgot:

Dear prestigious legal counsel of these five delightful people,
It’s satire and jokes.  Think of it as stand-up comedy from the seated position.
Also, I have nothing.
– f.B

_____
¹I throw you under the bus for kid, NY and LI. For kid.
²Though, in all fairness, the blonde in the pink might know what food is. Maybe.

Everybody’s got something, right?  A chink in the armor here, an Achilles’ heel there, an awkward love/hate thing with The Nightman…  Insecurities abound.  Actually, for the purposes of this post, let’s just refer to all insecurities as “Nightmen.”

To conceal them, we wear hats, baggy clothes and clothes that are too tight.  We self-tan, eat more, eat less and watch reality tv shows.  We laugh at jokes about our Nightmen and even start jokes about them ourselves to get ahead of the curve in awkward moments when we feel a joke coming.  Some of these methods work better than others.

But you know what 60% of the time works every time?  Having someone scream your Nightmen at you in broad daylight on U Street.

Example, Saturday.

A friend and I had just left DC Noodles.  It was about 1:30p, gorgeous outside, and I was headed west towards 16th.  Feeling good, feeling great; watching my step at an uneven part of the sidewalk, and then, about two feet from my face…

Older Crotchety Dude: HEY!!
all of U Street between 14th & 15th: *turns*
OCD: lift yo head up, bwoy!
me: …
OCD: just ’cause you kinda skinny –
me: (hey; I’ve gained 20 pounds since –)
OCD: — and you ain’t as dark-skinded¹ as me is –
me: (great.  now no one will mistake me for Djimon Hounsou.)
OCD: — don’t mean you ain’t worth.  Just look at me!

And then he smiled a “where are my teeth” smile and just walked away, as quickly as he appeared.

I get approached a lot in public.  It’s probably because I look everyone in the eye and smile or nod.  But not looking at this dude is what got me publicly pitied by a man with no teeth.  Go figure.

I’m used to public accostings.  I’ve been told, loudly, to cut my hair and that my dad didn’t raise me well.  I’ve also come dangerously close to being punched in the throat by, I believe, the same lady who spit at a friend of LiLu’s B.

In short, I should see this coming.  I should be ready to defend my Nightmen on site.  But since practice makes perfect, I apologize in advance if I yell out stuff like, “My Nightmen keep me warm at night, so leave them alone!” in the middle of totally unrelated conversation.  I just have to be ready.

_____
¹Yes.  I meant “skinded” and not “skinned.”

He’s the first face I see.  But then there are others.  One at a time, they make invisible entrances — I notice them but can’t see their faces.

Two of them sit next to MJF at an Idol-like table.  The rest join me, standing in front of their bench.

Their bench?  Oh, I’m being judged!  Wait, there is a god and it’s Michael J. Fox?

Then he, MJF, speaks.  “Welcome back to Bravo’s newest show, Cinemaddict.”¹  It was a show about movie-making.

I’m on a reality show?  So, I’m not dead…

One by one, MJF calls a name.  Soon there are only two people standing with me, as a handful of others celebrate within earshot.  Then just me and another.  And that’s when it set in: the feeling so many of us have had when someone’s picking teams, there’s an odd number of people, and you’re one of two left.

Sure enough, he picked the other person to stay on the show.  Michael J. Fox cut me.  He cut me deep.  It hurt, kids; kind of like when the guy’s dad got shanked on “The Mad Real World” on Chappelle’s Show.  He must’ve cut me early, too, for that many people to be celebrating their survival.

I’ve made a few “movies” for this blog.  I was actually pretty proud of the trailer for A Googled Kind of Love.  My pride took a hit with this fantasy rejection.

But maybe I’ve totally misread the entire scene.  If you’ve got any ideas, I’m all ears.  Otherwise, clearly I’ve got some work to do around here.  No matter how I’ve felt about the videos I’ve made, if it wasn’t good enough for MJF and Cinemaddict, then it wasn’t good enough.  It’s that simple.  Guess it’s back to the drawing board.

_____
¹Ok, so I don’t remember the name of the show.  But I know it was on Bravo, which means it was something cute like “Shear Genius.”