I Kan't Spell
AMPA, FL-- When Apollo Mission Astronaut Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon, he not only gave his famous "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," statement but followed it up with several remarks to the other astronauts and Mission Control.
Just before he re-entered the lander, however, he made the enigmatic remark, "Good luck Mr. Gorsky." Many people at NASA thought it was a remark concerning some rival Soviet Cosmonaut.
However, upon checking, there was no Gorsky in either the Russian or American space programs. Over the years, many people questioned Armstrong as to what the "Good luck Mr. Gorsky" statement meant, but Armstrong always just smiled.
This past Monday, June 27, 2005 at the University of Tampa in Florida, while answering questions following a speech, a student brought up the 36-year-old question to Armstrong. This time he finally responded.
Armstrong explained, "When I was a kid, I was playing baseball [with a friend] in the backyard. He hit a fly ball that landed in the yard in front of my neighbor's bedroom windows. My neighbors were Mr. & Mrs. Gorsky. As I leaned down to pick up the ball, I heard Mrs. Gorsky shouting at her husband, "You want oral sex?! You'll get oral sex when the kid next door walks on the moon!"
At this remark, the audience - comprised primarily of college students - began laughing hysterically.
Your Local Corporate Laws
You have five monkeys in a cage. A bunch of bananas is suspended from the ceiling, a ladder underneath it. One hungry monkey approaches the ladder with a clear intent to get a banana. As soon as it touches the ladder, you turn on the hose and douse all the monkeys with very cold water. In a little while, another monkey attempts to get a banana. Again, cold water for everybody. Turn off the water. When a third monkey, nearly faint with hunger, tries to get a banana, the others will grab it and hold it back, because they don't want another cold shower.
Now, remove one monkey from the cage and replace it with a new one. As soon as it sees the bananas, it will try to go for them. The others will viciously attack it. After the third attempt, the rookie will realize that it cannot have a banana. Now, replace another one of the original monkeys with a new one. As soon as it reaches for a banana, it will get attacked by all the others, including the rapidly learning rookie #1, who will be as enthusiastic as the rest of them, if not more so.
And so, after you have gradually replaced all the monkeys, the cage will contain five monkeys who have never had a cold shower but who will not allow anyone to get a banana. Why? Because that's the way things are done around here.
Forget the Turpentine
When I threw that drink in that guy's face it was just to piss you off. Answer me! Answer me! The phone ring was screaming at me and I merely cowered to less than nothing now. I was the one between the bars and the boys with they keys. I was the one that it was harder to leave because the cuffs were off. It's harder now and I can't even see numbers. I can't even fathom faces. There is no need for me to be standing next to a flower fertilized by piss. There isn't a home for me in the ice of your heart. There isn't a happy birthday card waiting for me when I get home. There is my flowerpot and a bottle. There is an empty house filled with sunlight still coming out of your hair in the morning.
"Aint no birthday card waitin for you."
"Yeah no shit. What am I gonna do about it."
"Go find yourself someone you can love. Someone that you know...someone that's gonna hurt you."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means we all know, up here anyway, that you loved to be hurt boy."
"No, I don't"
"Shit. I ain't never seen someone push it to the razor just because that's the only place maked him want to live."
"What does that mean."
"It means you in it for the haul and whoever comes along, and believe me, aint gonna be many, is along for the fall."
"Clever. But ya know, I guess that's how I was made."
"Yeah, it is. I made ya."
"Right, look crazy old guy, I'm glad you are clairvoyant or whatever the fuck it is you people are these days. Fact is, I don't believe you."
"You're the one writing it stupid."
The 5 tiers of tipping: According to Bret
I titled this with the postfix "According to Bret" because everyone has his or her own views on tipping. And I also can't delve into this story without humbling myself by explaining how I learned and how I started out. I wasn't always the drunken-sailor-tipping machine that you all know today. I was once a whistler, a "hey sweetheart can you...", a bar thumper, a chair stander, a basically horrible patron. Michael Oliver taught me the ways of behaving properly in a bar, or at least he attempted, and after that I have developed my own theories about tipping and going out to bars.
Tipping is not an art. Tipping is not a science. Tipping is a sacrifice of one's money in order to receive perks. What perks? These perks aren't much but in the long run you'll be glad that you tipped. In the long run there is free food, free drinks, after hours non-kick out stays, sex with bartenders, free drinks, music veto privileges, tv veto privileges, free drinks, a smile from a pretty bartender, a handshake from a bouncer, a fight backer upper, a voucher for how cool you are, free drinks, and of course barfly friends. Wheeeewwww that is a long list. And of course the question remains, why do we want these perks? Girls. When in doubt for an answer to your own questions, the answer almost always comes up 'girls'. Every single time most of what you do is about vajaja.
Anyway, enough about girls. Fest walks into my room this morning and starts bitching about the tips he is receiving this week. Tipping is one of my biggest pet peeves and it is impossible to hang out with my friends and I without learning the art of the tip. That's not saying that you have to tip like a drunken sailor every time you go out, but when appropriate, you tip, and you tip well. And although I understand Michael's situation at not making a ton of money, I have to admit that he might not totally be in the right here. I think Fest might be a casualty of a tier 1 bar.
Tipping, ahh how I love you. Here are the standard tipping standards that my friends and I follow.
Tier 1 - the bottom feeders - Tier 1 is usually a TGIF, or Ruby Tuesday's in a different city or town where I never go. The food was brought out and it was awful, the wait staff checked on me once and I basically already know that my evening has been wasted. The main ingredient to the tier 1 tip is that I will never return. If I know that I will never return to a bar or restaurant I will more than likely not tip well.
50$ tab - tip = 10$ - Now most of you cheap motherfuckers are looking at that as though it's a good tip. Well, it's not. It's a normal tip you penny pinching poor sons of bitches. If this how you normally tip than you more than likely do not ever want to hang out with me. Which brings me to side point #1 - THE TAB BANDITS
Tab bandits are the groups of suck people I see divvying up a tab at a bar. These are the people who have conversations at the end of the night that sound like this:
1: Dude, you own me another 6$ because you had most of the Mozz sticks and I only had 1.
2: Yeah but your Miller Lite bottle was 3$ and my draft was 2$ so that makes it $5.
1: Yeah you're right.
3: I owe $12.50
1: Well, it's $13 with tip.
Total tab on the evening 37.50. Somebody just grab the fucker and pay it. People who do this are the worst. I can't stand them. This sets a bad precedence of cheapness and awkwardness every time you go out. You go out to celebrate life not to clip coupons or haggle over 3$. This fucks with my Chi and I hate it. Which is why most of the time I grab the tab simply because I don't want to look at some douche bag reading over a laundry list of food trying to figure out if the waitress chinced him on the extra ranch dressing. You don't go looking for drink specials and you don't fret over 50$. You pay the fucking tab, you say to your friends, "buy me a beer at the next place". Man, the fuckin boring lives these people must lead to divide up 30$. Go kill yourself.
Tier 2 - The Once in a Whilers - This for me would be a bar like Mother's or MacJerks or Mums. You go there maybe once a month. You sort of know the bartender's names. You know the jukebox pretty well but you have no real privileges here. You don't get hooked up for more than one drink out of 6 and that's usually only if you are by yourself and engage the bartender in conversation. Your friends may know a bartender or two but for the most part you stay trim here.
50$ tab - tip 15$. A decent tab and you more than likely got charged for everything. But this is a nice friendly tip that keeps you in good graces.
Tier 3 - The Return - The return bar is the 2 or 3 bars you used to go to back in the day, or they could be seasonal bars. These bars for me are Sliders, O'sheas, Red Star, Midtown. The bartenders might remember you if they've been there long enough but it's more the owners that remember your old drunken escapades. The hook up here can vary like a pendulum. If you get a new guy that has never seen you before because you haven't been there in 3 months and he asks you for a credit card to run a tab, don't get upset, just ask how the owner is doing or one of the bartenders and you'll be fine within a minute. I have walked into these bars and drank all night for free and other times been charged every penny. That's just the way it goes, but usually you starts getting perks at tier 3. Tier 3 perks include, free drinks, no cover charge, drinks with staff, free food. Now these perks aren't there all the time but when they arrive it's a nice feeling.
50$ tab - tip 30$. This is an obvious gesture on your part to say thank you. Basically, what you want here is to at least pay for what you know you have drank. On a 50$ tab you probably drank 75$ of crap and you want to pay for that. If the bartender trusts you enough to help them steal then you need to abide by those rules. You also need options for later use. You tip well here to keep yourself in good graces. If you screw over the The Return bar, the next time it may be costly to you.
Tier 4 - The weekly - The weekly bar is where you go to watch ball games or eat. You don't usually go there to tear it up and you more than likely don't know a ton of the patrons but you know the bartenders and you more than likely have gone out on the town with them. For us, these bars are Ryleigh's, Now Way Jose, and Sean Bolan's. The hook up ratio varies from time to time because you aren't tier 5 with them but then again you more than likely have tipped your face off here more than once so you get the hook once for every time you have hooked them up. I.e. you tipped 100% one night, the next time, half your beers are free and you tip normal. But, the time after that you are back on the 100% pay scale. Your perks here range from booze and never waiting for drinks to rigged door prizes and after hours parties.
50$ tab - tip 30$. Yeah I know it's the same as the tier 3 but again it's not a given that you get the flat hook up. The 30$ signifies thanks and allows you to keep tier 4 status.
Tier 5 - Your bar - You can have multiple tier 5's but I haven't gotten there yet. It takes an extreme amount of dedication to have a tier 5. You have to know all bartender's names, bar back's names, and owner's name. You never wait for a drink, and they know your drink without asking. And you reading this say to yourself, "My bar does that for me." Yeah well, the difference between you being a boozehound and me being a tip artist is that you people pay for your drinks whereas I don't. How do you get to do this? How do you get to do anything at this bar you want? Well - it's not all about money. It's about time, flirting, behavior, jokes, and bringing them more business to counteract your free boozing. Here's how you can start.
First - Find a bar you like. Try somewhere a little quiet and off the beaten path. It should have a small touch of originality and not be a complete shit box. It also shouldn’t be a meat market with 500 people in there a night.
Second - Go there 3 or 4 times alone during the day or early evening or a weekday night and talk to the bartenders.
Third - Bring your friends there, and not 50 of them, but enough that you feel comfortable picking up the tab. Make sure you are well mannered but, and this is important, looking like you are having a kick ass time. Bartenders like to see people having fun at their bar. They don't want to see 5 creepy looking dudes standing around holding each other's dicks. They want to have fun just like you do.
4th - The time you bring your friends pay the tab yourself and leave a 100% tip. Yes a 100% tip. If it's a 50$ tab and you didn't get hooked up don't get pissed. You've only been there 5 times. Just say thank you for the great time and leave the tip.
5th - Rinse and repeat step 4.
Before you know it you are behind the bar on a Friday mixing drinks without permission. Before you know it you have your bar and you'll thank me for it.
I also want to make something very clear about tipping. I'm not buying anyone's love like you do with a dog, by giving him bacon. I'm showing appreciation. I'm paying the price for entertainment the same way you pay to go to a concert or fly first class. I like the perks of never waiting for a beer or having a big tittied bartender poor me shots in the envy of other men. I enjoy that shit. And you all know you do too...
So back to Mike's dilemma of not making any money off of tips this weekend. People would come up and order 6 beers and pocket the 2$ change out of the 20. Mike needs to understand that these people aren't planning on returning and they don't give a fuck about you. Now, if they return to get more beers you have to make your play as a bartender. You can either ignore them or bluntly ask them why they don't tip. That's Mike's choice. What Mike needs to understand is that very few people understand the art of tipping and you know what, that's fine with me. I get hook ups all around town and I like it. If everyone tipped like me then I wouldn't be special and people would be majoring in bartending in college because they'd be making 200k a year. But, hey, all you fucks out there that don't want to tip, you know what, you'll always be the asshole that doesn't tip.
Orange Apples and Lemon Pears
Heaven went and said, when the bottle did short me, that I was mistaken to believe that I was in it already.
H:Whose heaven you in boy?
M:Yours? or ..It's I suppose.
H:Ain't no heaven of mine belonging to you. You may want to check elsewhere. You may want to check the mission up on 23rd.
M:I don't know where that is. I'm not homeless if that's what you mean.
H:Yeah but damned if you ain't soulless.
M:How you figure?
H:You call on me like I was your Daddy and you skin your knee every damn day.
M:I don't think I'm soulless. I think I love just as you and everyone else. I think I may even in fact love harder.
H:Peoples with souls ain't gotta love that hard. They ain't gotta feel pain for all they done wrong. They ain't gotta torture themselves with thoughts of being alone and wrong. Wrong, I ain't never meant for no one to feel wrong.
M:Maybe. But I ain't homeless yet. And I don't need you or your heaven right now.
H:What you askin for then? What you wasting my time for?
M:I guess I'd ask you the same question if I thought it would lead anywhere. But you're just as dead to me as the time tickin by to tell her I love her. Dead and stale to the point you ain't ever gonna need me back.
There she was 3 rows up, 3 years gone, 3 dreams dead and 3 deaths coming. Make me laugh with your nothing. Not her. Not the one anyone is thinking of. She's poor and dead to me. Bye bye bye bye. Not you anymore either. Make the "fuck it" laugh. Make the sound with your mouth that lets me know you're bored when you are riding next to me in the car and I have nothing funny or interesting to say to you. Make the 3 deaths come to life in your bosom as you dance around flames of gold and orange. You dance twilring arms waving my dreams around you like a baton teasing me to be alive, teasing to be undead. You tempt me to be alive, dead, and the sun all at once. You give me hope, pain and burden and I have no idea how to make that sound with my mouth. I can't tilt my head like a woman and get mad like you people do. I can't make that happen, and if I could, I'm pretty sure I'd be just as happy alone as I would be with any woman. If I could only tilt my head like that or if I could just roll my eyes and make my body alive, dead, and shining. I can buy perfumes, and touch soft skin. I can look at pictures and I can listen to music to be close to women. But I can't make that sound with my mouth and I'll never even understand where that head tilt comes from.
This next breath of typing was written for you. It wasn't written for my imagination it was written for you. Like Whitman searched for years to find the perfect rose to fall on a wet black bow I search for you in my empty space.
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
That breath of typing was written for you and don't be mistaken by anything small and creeping that may crowd that brain from feeling good. Feel the way you feel when someone thinks about you. Don't get bogged by black midnight and smog smelling dreams of hot apartments, fatty foods, boring lovemaking. Let the words sung to you be what you want them to be. Let them be the cool breeze coming up off the shore of a burgundy evening. Let me be me.
You gotta shake all that bacon. You gotta move all that down your leg and your pants. The thing that you don't get is that all your happiness is right inside your little eye. You can't let it touch you much less beat you. Right now you playing tag with the wrong people. You ain't even playing tag because you ain't even been chosen yet to take up teams. You just a special child running in and out of the game with no team, no rules, and no code from which to draw from. You all alone on the side somewhere having rubber balls thrown at your face. But you need to forget all that and smile when you walk. You need to let the sun sit on your face as if it were a gift from the Lord himself. I think you'll find that simple always wins.
I don't really know what to write about my 5 or 6 days away. This medium isn't very good for capturing summaries simply because no one wants to read that much about you. So - we'll just say it was like pancakes - all great at first but by the end you are fucking sick of it. It was great to see Craig, Blake, Dheval, and Lenny (a shame I didn't get to see Danny, La, T, Alyson...) - Oasis was solid but ruined in a lot of ways. It was nice to be away and nice to come home. It's tough to be back at work but it's better knowing that stability exists on some axis somewhere. Cheers - maybe more later.
Pics(well sort of - it appears I have developed a double chin and my womanly side will not let me post ugly pictures of self)
That there on the right is Craigums clad in well...umm.. some sort of Baltimore pride night out shirt...engineers...pssshhhh.
My standard "I don't like cameras" pose. Man my head is square and my nose is pointy. If the girl on my right offered me marijuana or grabbed my hand to sing in unison one more time there was going to be either a fight or intercourse. Luckily, she got the hint when I gave her the old "don't touch Bret" shocked look.
Bonus - there are so many I figured I might as well show my eyes on one. The dialation....!
Ok so there are a few things I guess want to write about - no wait - nah - not going to do it. Let's just say this, I look and feel as emotionally and physically bankrupt as I do in those photos. Even though you can't see my eyes, trust me, they look poor and lost. Bankrupt - plain and simple.
NYC - MSG was ok - Oasis was ok - drank a lot - saw Devhal Tejani - for you old friends you know who that is - for you new ones - no need to worry because he acted like a salesman and it pissed me off. Phone calls from the garden to people - half of them numbers that dont even work anymore.
Boston - Long drive - Singing - ummm - Newbury Street is stupid looking and Boston is much less cool than I thought it would be - MIT is pretty kickass looking - lots of Asian women - umm off to next show tomorrow morning Boston ----> Philly = 8 hours - yipp fuckin yippee -
Maybe more later - I'm a little salty - than again who isn't.
That word "hiatus" either looks like a disease or an island. I'm not sure yet. Anyway - your dear old sad bastard will be gone for about a week or so travelling with the brothers Gallagher and Mr. Peregoy. Stay clean.
New Flaming Lips
For those of you who dig the Lips - and that - eh hem - should be everyone. Then you should go download the new Lips jam. It's super tasty. It'll be on that new awful movie the Wedding Crashers. This song sounds like it's off Soft Bulletin but with you know - those new tasty baby beats that they use.
I have found the drink of life
Beefeater Wet - I had these last night and they were great. It's like Gin and happy mixed together.
I dont like foo foo drinks like beer, or anything mixed with fruit or cola. This somehow, and I don't know how yet, has managed to slip under the radar of boozers. It's actually tasty just straight up - it tastes like clean non-biting alcohol.
The Beauty of a Manager Arguing a Call.
Yesterday afternoon I watched as our beloved Orioles played the greatest game in the world, here in Baltimore, at Camden Yards. An avid Oriole fan since 87' (8 years old) and I can't remember a time I have been more positively fired up about a play that went against us, caused our manager to get ejected, and the umpire was definitely correct.
Lee Mazzili, manager of the Orioles, ex-yankee first base coach, ex-Met, ex-broadway play something or another, and basic non-Baltimore kind of a guy, got tossed out of the game yesterday in great fashion.
"Tossed out of a game, isn't that a bad thing?" you might ask me.
Well, no, no it isn't. Baseball is one of the few sports remaining that doesn't use a camera or replay or whatever other stupid moron shit used to make a "sport", a game of chance and unpredictable decisions based on uncountable variables, more precise. Baseball uses human judgment based on knowledge of the rules and quickness of the senses to allow for whether a rule has been broken or play called one way or the other. This fact of human error dictating a game's possible outcome allows for one of the greatest thing in pro-sports; the arguing manager.
Yesterday, Lee was in the wrong. The ball hit by Gomez was obviously foul. From the replays on the television monitors we could tell that the ball was not playable and we had all hushed back into our seats to wait for the batter to return to the box. And then, all of a sudden, like an orange and black Tasmanian devil here come Lee Mazzilli racing out of the dugout.
Now, a little background about Lee is that he hasn't been ejected from a game. He is actually being bashed in the media and fan circles for not having enough heart. When I look at Lee in those M-Frames and that pullover, never flinching from his permanent scowl, I don't think that.
Lee in usual Italian Manager of the Year garb
I think Lee was a little nervous abut getting tossed. It's his second year as manager. Joe Torre never gets tossed and that was his mentor. He believes in being calm cool and collected but I don't think he really believes it. I think he knew it was time to show some emotion to these guys. He knew it was tim to back guys playing through injuries and that on more than one occasion have been called out on close plays only to look into the dugout and see their manager sitting on his ass, not coming out to argue for them.
Listen motherfucker they are calling me a pussy in Baltimore. Throw me out you son-of-a-bitch.
That is one of the greatest things about baseball. In no other sports does the game stop, and the manager runs on to the field of play to verbally annihilate the umpire. And as long as he stays away from the f-bomb, talk about the umps mothers, or as Bull Durham would say, "A word that is a certain no-no with umpires. Yeah, Crash must have called him a cocksucker. He's so romantic." then you won't get tossed. Lee dropped an F-bomb and told the guy about his mother. He got thrown out of a game. What other sport do you see that?
Besides all that, I want to talk about what I thought really happened. I thought Lee got thrown out on purpose. A manager knows that his players like to see him stand up for them. A good manager knows that umpires do have a tendency to pick less fights and allow for lead way with louder managers. And a brilliant manager knows (like Earl Weaver - Mazzilli is NOT Earl Weaver - but) that the fans love it. Eearl Weaver made Baltimore a town that could rally around his feistiness. People would go to a game in hopes that Earl would famously roust the umpire.
That a boy Lee you fucking cocksucker you.
Yesterday in front of his first packed house in close to a month, Lee Mazzilli took full advantage of the idea that everyone loves watching a fesity manager fight for a scrapy team. Lee wanted the extra press. Fans wanted the extra press and I guarantee Pete "enough is never enough" Angelos wanted the extra press. He wanted the ump to toss him and I bet, for 10-1 odds, that he probably asked the ump to toss him. I'm glad he got tossed. I think 3 or 4 of those a year can help a team bond even more. If you do it all the time it becomes an eye roller but every once in a while, especially in legitimate scenarios, it is one of the best motivators in the game.
Some love for you - an Earl Weaver outtake from a live radio show where he goes nuts.
My Man Noel On the Stupid G8 Event
He said: 'Are they hoping one of these guys from the G8 ... sees Annie Lennox singing 'Sweet Dreams' and thinks, "Fuck me, she might have a point there, you know." It's not going to fucking happen, is it?
'Keane doing "Somewhere Only We Know" and some Japanese businessman going: "Aw, look at him ... we should really fuckin' drop that debt, you know." It's not going to happen, is it?'
2 days until my Summer vacation with Craigums begins. Man - I love Oasis quotes. Here are some more since they landed in the states. Speaking about recent bands limited success and the strange revival of Oasis (selling out every concert from MSG to Olympia)
"Freud for 800 Alex"
I usually don't write about my dreams for two reasons. 1) There is nothing more boring than reading about dreams. So I can only imagine no one wanting to read about mine. 2) All my dreams have the same characters (girls) and they all end up with me sitting up in my bed a little more heartbroken than the day before.
Last night though I had the best dream I can ever remember having. So for some reason I want to share some of it with you and since you weirdoes think that dream analyzing is valid, I'll allow you to go ahead and crush my dream. It was vivid, and since I went to bed drunk off my tits, I can only imagine that was why. I am pretty sure that I have had this dream before but I can't put my finger on it.
It was in black and white and we were on the set of a television show. When I say "we" I obviously mean faceless people that are more like shapes than people. I was the star of the show and I talked like homestar runner. I was in a green room drinking an entire bottle of booze throwing shit around and being insane. I had these Korean girls in there naked hoola hooping and a small dog in a clown costume. George Clooney then comes rushing into the room and says "I'm done with cocaine and I'm done with your stupid show you son of a bitch. Nobody treats me like this." To which I reply, "Shut up you hack. I have your passport and your wife in a cage. You'll do what I say or you'll be crying til you die." Clooney replies "You fucking bastard." and storms out of the room.
The Korean girls then pick me up under my arms and walk me to the hall. The dream now becomes colored and as I'm walking the color fills my body like water into a pitcher. A door on my right opens to what looks like another green room. James Woods darts his head out and says "In here. In here you dolt." I curl my body like a spring and punch him in the face and continue to stagger down the hall. All of a sudden the girls go away and a make-up person comes to powder my nose.
I'm standing in front of the camera with a bottle of whiskey and I'm swaying back and forth. I get into character and start rehearsing my lines:
"Wait a minute. You back there, am I sounding into character?"
"I said "you back there!" you fucks. How do I look? And someone take this bottle of booze off the set."
"Oh well fine. Let the kids see me drunk. Fuck 'em. I hope they all die anyway. I hope you die too. Where's that fucking dog?"
The camera then opened up and I was in a room with what looked like a Thanksgiving dinner on the table. I pulled up a seat and thought I was doing an impromptu special for my TV show. James woods server me turkey with a gun and a knife as the utensils and George Clooney was just sitting there crying. I put my feet up on the table and lit a cigarette and decided to tell everyone the life story of "Bret Holmes".
Then I woke up.
See, reading about dreams sucks.
Secret Blog Moves Spineless America Closer to the Edge
How many of you have seen this "PostSecrets" blog? Basically, the premise is that you do some artsy post card up with pictures of your dead relatives or you masturbating in a holy water dish and then send it in with your secret attached. I found the whole thing mildly amusing at first, as I thought it was a joke. But, now people are taking this website entirely too serious and are giving it way too much credibility. I could make an equally comparable website by people writing in talking about what famous president their turds look like.
The only reason to like this website, is the same reason you watch a car crash. You drive by and say to yourself, "Glad that isn't me." or even worse "I wish that was me." Hopefully for those of you reading these travesties of wasted attention, you have the balls to say what you want and not keep it a secret forever. Hopefully, you don't draw up a post card of a dog fucking Santa Clause and let the world know behind your gray shroud that you have always had a thing for this kind of fantasy. Hopefully, you have enough of a life not to guide your ship by someone else's anonymously lit star that holds with it nothing but empty empathy and pity.
The self-pity drivel that most people go through in a day is already infinitely written about throughout the blogosphere. The last thing I need is a condensed repository of sad bastard shit averting the attentions of gay men and fat secretaries from their daily workload. Somewhere my boss is not getting his phone messages because his secretary is on the phone to her friend in Boise cramming down a donut talking about the post from January 9th about the girl who couldn't stop cutting herself.
I've been getting a lot of flack about my hatred for this site. I don't understand why. It's all flacid bleeting by a society to ashamed of their own desires to even dream of pursuing anything more than an anonymous fucking post card. If you are too much of a cheesy sap to confront people or even your own life - you know what the last thing I want to do is; entertain myself with your cowardice. Secrets are for pussies and cheating housewives.
Let's review a few gems from this tear jerking lonely little site that has the blog community on it's ear -
Right off the bat here you can't get more stupid than this. Hey DIPSHIT I'm afraid of not existing as well. That's why I keep breathing you fuck.
Here - news flash - if the psychiatrist told you that you would be fine again, first off don't tell Tom Cruise because he'll break your legs for talking to a therapist and secondly get your fucking money back. Ready here you go - "YOULL BE FINE AGAIN". That will be 280$ - a check is fine.
No no no no no you aren't. And you were happy before. Trust me when you were 6 and you had ice cream you were happy. And you know what who gives a fuck if you are happy. Your post card is laden with everything that tells me you aren't happy. A) You have to tell me about it - obvious sign of phoniness. B) You specified your age signifying that you are somehow unhappy with your happiness at such a late age. You must be crying somewhere deep down inside at those wasted years. So fuck your happiness you are full of shit.
Oh God. Someone sound the hippy alarm. Someone - anyone. Please for God's sake this woman leaving jagged edged pottery saying "Save the Marsupials" and "God is a woman" is littering our forests with her pagan messages. Or you can just tell her to get a fucking life and get laid from time to time.
No shit - so is everyone else. Get a fucking helmet and jump back in the game you pussy.
Yeah and the 17 guys you gave a VD to will come to your house and kill your puppy puddles for being such a whore. Good luck looking your husband in the face with the knowledge that you are a slam pig.
Than for fucks sake do it and send in that photo. Stop teasing me with turds on white carpets and if you aren't gonna do it make up something really horrific to fantasize about like staging a play of Stephen King's Misery with your Mother as the writer and you as Kathy Bates with a sledge hammer. Now that's a fucking revenge fantasy - not dropping a deuce on someone's rug. That's amateur right there.
Uh huh - yawn. Yaaaaaawwwwwnnnnn. It's God's fault that you got molested or beaten. God's not busy and oh by the way what happened to you - man - that was the worst thing in the history of the world. I mean nobody has ever had anything bad happen to them. Actually you know what - I just stubbed my toe - must have been God's fault. You fucking dolt.
And I'm the guy that comes in after you have your awful poetry in the back of all the Milan Kundera novels and Amelia Alcott flip books to tell you that you are an awful poet that should think about shaving her armpits or joining a convent. If I wanted to read your poetry I would buy a fucking book that you released.
I hope this didn't last past the aged of - ohh I don't know ---- 3 - because if it did obviously you were a special child in need of a friend or two. Either way I have no idea why you think this is a secret. This is more of an amusing anecdote that you tell on a first date in order to get the girl to identify with your childlike warmth. Secret - I have better secrets sneak out of my ass when I'm not looking.
Bret's secret: "I come up behind people that pretend they are reading and punch them as hard as I can in the neck and tell them to read their fucking book and to mind their own business." This isn't so much of a secret as it is a way to let people know that A) you read *clap *clap and B) You are cooler than those walking around in that you feel the need to dupe them and then mock or judge them as they go about their natural lives.
That's all for now - come get me about this one.
My Aim Is Only True When I'm Aiming At You
I have dreams all the time these days. You are always in them and they sometimes come in threes in one night. Sometimes you know me. Sometimes you don't and sometimes I pretend not to know you. I always wake up heart broken and in pain simply because I wake up alone. I only dream when I'm alone. I'm only good when I can see me in eyes of someone who loves me. I'm only considerate under those watchful eyes. I can only heed so much caution before I break from boredom but in hindsight, the caution was what saved the body from the beast. But, with only dream to tempt my aggression to fail, I have little excuse for not lashing at the world with both arms as hard as I can. I throw everything I own out the window. I claw every hair out of my head. I bang on every door and yet it's only in dreams where I get to pretend I don't know you. It's only at night that I can aim for your heart.
Ping Pong with Saint Harold
I started to flinch internally at the idea of anything remotely dealing with it. I saw it and wondered about what had gone so askew in my life to need such a ridiculous item around me at all time. Then I laughed out loud at it and wanted to toss it in the sewer or in the frozen foods section where it belonged. I figured if I could just fling this worthless crazy thing out into the street and watch it scream and kick and then die that I would somehow be happier. I wanted to watch it rot with it's matching it so that the two its could go hop skip and die together. I always imagine both its somehow smelling of garlic, cigarettes and cheap wine. The kind of smell found on the bankrupt of life. It would never come back. It was dead. I was happy.
I had no idea what to think of her when she walked in to the bar last night. I had no clue what to make of that woman. "Woman" even the word sounded strange coming from a boy like me. In the back of my mind it was all sexual. There were eons of sex flowing through her walk to the bar to order a drink. There were miles of flesh intertwining as she threw her hair back. In that moment I looked down, took a drag off my cigarette, shook my head, and laughed. I had no intention of ever knowing who this woman was, simply because I myself had no intention of ever being with a "woman".
The dog with the sad eyes came up and licked my hand the same way he would lick the wounds of a saint. But a saint isn't made out of wounds. His soul is procured because of mud and dirt and sacrifice. It is the eyes of the sad dog that make men into saints. It is the heart of the man that makes the sin come from the blindness. The dull hum of the world turning on axis is what the saint is forever trying to quiet. A dog knows sadness the way the sun knows life. The sagging eyes of an old dog can tell you all you will ever need to know about love and being a saint.
Starting Fires with Grass Stains
I want instructions on how to disappear completely. If only you could get a little shut eye. If only you could get a little "bad day" medicine or a cool kiss on a forehead from someone you loved. If only you could take a month and walk around smiling. If only you could disappear into the vast light that is the walking of the sun along the world. The horizon is chasing down the dream of dying, living and disappearing. The horizon can chase you on over the grass and through the stream. It can trip you up and make you realize that dreams only last the night and no one cries in their sleep. Your gift of disappearing isn't happening because the dawn chases you down everyday. With hot arms of reality it brings you in close to make you see what you are missing.
Strong life grows near. You can smell strong life in someone. You can feel them. You can taste their looks as if you tasted pies in a window. You know what blueberry tastes like but your mouth is already remembering without tasting. You know what love is but your body is already melting without the caress of a lover. You know what sorrow is but your body can taste the tears running down your face. You can feel strong life the same way you can feel the sun on your face and the tears in your mouth.
He was watching the Royal Tannenbaums and he threw his amethyst rock out the window and onto a car. He was so jealous of lives that weren't real. He wanted to live again. Even in poverty they had uniforms and pets. The real poor, like him and I, stay in bed all day and feel sorry for themselves. They get drunk with cocaine addicts and play cards at all hours of the night. The true bankrupt of the wallet and soul like to feel like they are dying in order to remind themselves that they are still living. The truly sad don't talk on the phone or go in public because they are ashamed. They let themselves slip into a world of foulness. The truest foulness that can never escape a person is coming to my mouth in acid nausea. It is the most wretched thing that is so hard to leave in the dust; the feeling of pity.
You better realize that I kill people. I bet you knew right away that it's all over town that the sun is going down on the days of your easy life. You have no idea where it is. It's all over the street that it's our time to pray. You can feel like a force of nature if you want to. You can whip yourself through drapes and make me realize that the wise man's treasure is buried beneath my feet. I see the cracks frozen on your skin and as the world slowly turns it hits you that the thieves of the night are coming to take you away.
I find myself singing out loud all the time. I'm a skipper of streets. I'm a cartwheel on 5th avenue person. I'm so shy as well. I can curl up and become angry with everyone else. I can become embarrassed by my own life just as you do. I can walk around and wonder what it all means just like the rest of us blind that have on intention of shaping but only buying and crying our lives away. When I feel like that I go get drunk and find a good juke box and remember what it was like to feel alive. I look at everyone. I talk to poles and stairs. I climb up and down my own heart as if it were a ladder in a play. I climb in and out of your heart as if it were my home and you kept locking the door.
Ryan Adams in Baltimore Review
Last night I went to see Ryan Adams at the Meyerhoff here in Baltimore. I had seen Ryan before and I was expecting an eclectic original show and instead I got pre-baked, pleated khaki, fat ass old men in Hawaiian shirt rock n' roll. None of which was Ryan's fault. Ryan was great.
It felt like that scene from the Doors where Jim is really drunk or stoned and he looks out over the crowd. He sees people throwing joints at him and wanting him to play certain songs. "PLAY LIGHT MY FIRE JIM!!!". And Jim, being what Jim was, retorted with dissent because he didn't want to be predictable. I don't know what the people last night were expecting but predictable is not what they got.
Ryan came out scruffy with a beard and basically looked and sounded like shit. The sound check must have been all but miffed because he was inaudible to anything played with an electric guitar. His words came out muffled and if you didn't know the songs then you probably sat there wondering what the hell was going on.
Anyway, his backing band the Cardinals were pretty good - I mean it's different seeing him with a backing band since I have only seen the acoustic tours but it was nice to here some rock n' roll instead of an entire show of sad bastard music. The goat is, the fucker sent the band off after 4 songs. He just says "get lost" and then starts playing acoustic guitar and piano solo (and at the same time on Call Me on Your Way Back Home --- which was fuckin hot BTW)
During the acoustic set Ryan starts complaining about his hand. He's had a hurt wrist for a while and I've heard of him doing this in the past. Honestly, he was more disengaged than I have seen him and at one point during the show he came back with his only comedic response that everyone could hear. While waiting for his guitar and smoking a cigarette and sucking on a bottle of what looked like Champagne - some meat head in back of us yells, "Sorry to interrupt you!" to which Ryan responds "Sorry man I am waiting for my guitar. You know, the machine I make noise with." That right there was the high point of the show for me - that and Strawberry Wine which everyone else hated and I adored. How do I know they hated it - well - - - this is where my experience turned sour as all hell.
Have you ever been to a two-hour movie? Sure you have. Have you felt the need to get the fuck out of your seat 6 times and go outside during the movie while other people are watching? NO YOU FUCKING DON'T!!!! Imagine you are watching, I don't know, Signs with Mel Gibson and the scene with the closet and the alien is on and some douche bag fucker - actually - make that 300 douche bag fuckers, decide to get up and take a leak or call their girlfriend or get a drink. Imagine that and feel my anger. So all during the show I'm marking these people with my shaking head and gaffed laughter as they parade back and forth in front of me after already showing up late and talking during tunes. I couldn't have been more disappointed with the evening thus far.
After one of the songs Ryan says his wrist hurts and he's going to need a minute for a Cortisone shot. So he leaves for like 15 minutes. People go outside. The house lights all come up. The place turns from an intimate setting with wobbling fat bastards who are suffering from a perpetual pissing disease to a mob of people heading for the exits. I refuse to get up. I'm not mad at Ryan. I'll never be mad at one of my favorite songwriters. I imagine a concert with him as is he were inviting me into his home to play for me. I would never be rude enough to not appreciate his hospitality and the chance to see one of the most interesting enigmatic performers of my generation play in the most beautiful building in my city. So I sit there. I sit. Sit.. sit... sit...
Then here comes old scruffy beard face coming through the crowd. He's smoking a cigarette and he's armed with an acoustic guitar. This looks cool to me and at first I smile and realize that I am now a part of something special. He meanders around for a little bit and then settles right in the middle of the seating section asking for a stool so he can sit and play. This ladies and gentlemen is where I lose my shit a little.
I found the gesture to play in the middle of the crowd to be different and possibly even very generous to those few lucky fans who got to see him that close. Personally, I found Ryan to be hamming it up a little. He loves to feed that ego of his, but you know what I already knew that, and to be honest that's really one of the reasons I love him. But, what I didn't love was this; the fat fuckers in striped shirts, with their annoying belly shirt wearing girl friends, and their flip-flops and fucking FUCKING FUCKING pleated docker pants and KAE SIGMA TAU shirts on. These fuckers who left 3 times during the first 8 songs to get beers and laugh in the hallways, these fuckers then cow tow back in, now noticing that Ryan is off the stage, they hustle to get a view. They are now clamoring over each other to see something "special". YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! THE SHOW YOU WERE WATCHING WAS SPECIAL. THIS IS A PLOY TO GET YOUR ATTENTION. So these bastards are standing on chairs and railings and are wanting to catch a glimpse or a word or an intimate glance from a performer that they couldn't be bothered with more than 20 minutes ago. You fake fucking sons of bitches.
I apologize for the cursing but man was I livid. I have never, ever, ever EVER EVER left a rock concert early. NEVER. I walked outside and smoked a cigarette. I walked back in and told Charles that we were fucking leaving. I had had enough of the sheep that were crawling over each other to see something that they were already getting but couldn't appreciate it because it wasn't what they were considering to be special 30 minutes prior. I hope all you plaid shirt wearing, designer jean owning, mussed up hair gel wearing motherfuckers choke on your cocks. I hope you are at work today telling people how awesome your time was. I hope somewhere in the many people you tell someone calls you a pathetic posing liar who deserves to attend REO Speedwagon and Journey reunion tours for the rest of his life.
Unfortunately, he did play Sylvia Plath later that night and I missed it. Here is what the herd is saying about the show. Fucking sheep.
Bret's Federal Hill Food Review
Last night I went over to Nick's Fish House on the side of 95. This is becoming a popular place frequented by soft ball teams and soccer moms. They do really good volume and have a wonderful spacious location. Unfortunately, and much to my own chagrin for my friends that work there, I have to admit to never receiving a good meal outside of shucked oysters. Also I drove home with a co-worker and he was saying how Federal Hill was cool I guess - I figured I'd help him and the rest of the non-fed hillers out if they are ever in the area and can't find me at Turners.
This is prompting to me to write my Federal Hill Bar Food Review.
I am not planning on writing about places I have never been and these include the following: Vespa, Matsuri, Nichiban, Taj Express, Spoons, Green Olive, Zeeba Lounge, Porter's and any bar that does not server food (Nevin's, Turner's, Grumpy's)My ratings are on a scale of 1-10.
Bicycle - If you are a middle aged couple or 20 something vegetarian looking to get laid by your mountain biking buddy (hence the awful pretentious stupid name) than this is your place to dine. I'm sure you can find everything from Bore Ribs to Seared Duck Al Fau Grais Healthy Humping Salmon or whatever the hell they serve. I mean this place does have good food, an open kitchen, bright and quick waiting staff, and a local owner that took a chance on a south Baltimore property that should more than likely right now be a Rite-Aid or Laundromat. This however is not the place you want to go for a drink with a friend to watch a ball game. Unless your friend is a homosexual and by ball game you mean the Kennel Club Dog Show. BTW - they only serve wine and trendy shitty beer.
Rating Food (8) - Booze (1) - Clientele (9)
Blue Agave Restaurante y Tequileria - Oh the Schmave as we like to call it. Don't let the free chips and authentic Mariachi players fool you. This place is a walking shit box when it comes to food. Anyone who is going to try to sell me a skirt steak for 22$ is going to get the lash of my pen when I sign my check "Go to hell". Personally I find this place to be cheesy, overpriced, and just plain awful. You can tell it's awful because no one from Federal Hill ever eats there. It's always people from Parkville coming down to dine in trendy Fed Hill and then getting butt humped for 150$ tab after sucking down 4 shrimps between them and a 19$ margarita.
Rating Food (4) - Booze (5) - Clientele (County People)
City Crepes Cafe - I wouldn't worry about this place. It won't be around in another 4 months because well - they don't serve booze and their menu item of choice is Crepes and yet everyone thinks it's a breakfast place. Talk about your flaming hot bag of turds. Bye bye Crepe place.
Rating Food (?) - Booze (X) - Clientele (?)
Corks - "Oh show me the way to the next 300$ meal. Oh don't ask why. Oh dont ask. For if you dont spend 300$ on your meal. Than you must not be eating at Cork's. You must not be eating at Corks. I tell you, I tell you, I tell you that you aren't there." Don't get me wrong this place has great food but you are going to pay for it and you better be getting laid or be a tax attorney to swing this joint. Good luck.
Rating Food (9) - Booze (?) - Clientele (10)
Crazy Lil's - Now most people know old Crazy lil's for the 3$ car bomb brigades that come into there on Saturday nights. But, you know what - the food is pretty damn kick ass. They have an open upstairs now and a new menu. My more portly roommate prefers the wraps, but everything I have here from the wings to the burgers have been really good. Granted - it's bar food extraordinaire - but what do you expect when you are eating in front of a framed picture of James Brown's mug shot and Reservoir Dogs poster. If you need a Sunday afternoon lunch I'd recommend it. Plus there always seems to be a good amount of tail in there.
Rating Food (7) - Booze (6) - Clientele (4)
Federal Hill Lounge - The most contrived stupid bar in Federal Hill is up next. This place was made for the summer with it's open front doors and neon counters and God knows what else. I think I ate there once but I have no idea why and I won't ever endorse going back. If you want to find out where your secretary is trying to get laid by a guy driving an M3 than this is the bar you more than likely want to cruise by.
Rating Food (?) - Booze (3) - Clientele (7)
Kiku Sushi Restaurant - My Korean brethren own this joint. I don't really dig Sushi but I know that they make me Korean food that isn't on the menu so therefore I love them. They have Sake but no Soju for all those Soju lovers out there. I hear the sushi and stuff is good - but to be honest - umm I couldn't really tell you. The Korean stuff they make is all right but I guess you would have to know how to order it. Thus making this review a complete waste of your reading. Sorry...
Rating Food (Korean shit is great) - Booze (1) - Clientele (5)
MaGerk's Pub - Old mc'Jerks' is your classic booze hound airplane hanger in Fed Hill. The Miller Lites flow out of here like the Nile in to the Atlantic. I personally hate this place for 2 reasons. 1st, and really the true reason, they claim to be a Philly bar. A Philly bar in Baltimore. Hmm - yeah fuck that. 2nd this is the place to find your girlfriend or ex-college sorority girl fuck buddy, or any declining piece of ass with her hands up in the air singing "Living on a prayer" at the top of her lungs while shaking her ass. The cheese steaks here are Philly style I guess - the bar food isn't bad but unless it's Sunday afternoon and someone else is buying than I won't be in there.
Rating Food (4) - Booze (6) - Clientele (3)
Mad River - Mad Beeeeeeeaaavver wider than your smile. Where is this place - oh just follow the smell of Aqua Gio, and look for the girls in black pants, guys with striped shirts unbuttoned down to their nipples, and the sounds of Jay Z pouring out of a converted bank into a discohell. Next to Sky Lounge (below) these is no place more deserving of a fire bombing than Mad River. You can't wear a hat but they can have a Golden Tee machine, mounted Lacrosse sticks on the wall, Hot Wings on the menu, and Plasma TVS on the wall but I can't wear my styling paperboy hat? Yeah - the BAS staff has had to ask me to leave more than once. Above all this - it's not a bad place to take in a football game on a Sunday afternoon after they have cleaned the hair gel and semen off the booths. I mean honestly if you like crowded loud places than this is where you want to go. Personally, I'd rather walk around all night with a mousetrap clamped on my penis.
Ratings Food (7) - Booze (8) - Clientele (6)
Metropolitan Coffee House and Wine Bar - Formerly, or maybe never known, but known to me as Zen cafe'. This is your Sunday morning breakfast joint if you don't mind waiting and not being able to smoke while some AIDS patient looking waiter forgets your orange juice for about an hour and brings you cold waffles with a side of tofu. It's not too bad - I mean it is, considering the best part of the whole place is that they put the syrup in old bottles of booze.
Rating Food (3) - Booze (1) - Clientele (5)
Mother's Federal Hill Grille - The famous Mother's. The famous jack ass place to hang out is what it should be called. I never hated Mother's until I sort of found out what a farce of a bar it is. They claim to be, at least they scream the loudest, that they are the quintessential Baltimore bar for Ravens and O's games. Yet - when I go there I can't get ZZ top off the radio and there are more people pounding shots of Jaegermeister than there are watching the game. Second, the food sucks ass. Third - remember what I said about McGerks and the girls - yeah you can apply that to Mother's as well. Only at Mother's they are more likely to have VD, a bastard child, or a neck tattoo.
Rating Food (4) - Booze (7) - Clientele (4)
No Way Jose Cafe - No Way Boozeaye's - I kind of Like No Way's if it wasn't so crowded all the time. The food isn't bad, especially for bar food, even though you have to sit at the bar to get the happy hour specials ($ tacos and 25 cent wings) - but other than that the place is solid. The owner is always cool and trashed. The wait staff there gets more drunk than any other place and the layout is cool if you want to go upstairs to get away from the 50 guys wearing Axe body spray down stairs.
Rating Food (6) - Booze (9) - Clientele (6)
Regi's American Bistro - I like Regi's and wish I ate there more. If there was one non-yuppy, old school, authentic feeling place to eat in Federal Hill it would be Regi's. They have meat loaf, and turkey. They have great contemporary American cuisine that is sort of reasonably priced. The wait staff is courteous and quick and the ambience of the small front room is just about right, complete with Baltimore row home paintings, a fireplace and hanging ferns.
Rating Food (9)- Booze Factor (5) - Clientele (8)
Ropewalk Tavern - Are you a Republican? Do you want to at least pretend you are? well then the Smokewalk is your spot. It's spacious, I guess, but it fills up quick. They have pool tables, 4 big rooms, and lots of wood paneling. They have a huge selection of beer and the bartenders are pretty quick and courteous even if you told them they can go fuck themselves a week before. The food is pretty well - - umm - - bar food. It has a decent burger, and shitty Baltimore fare (crab soup, crab anything, fish anything).
Rating Food (4) - Booze time (8) - Clientele (7)
Rusty Scupper - Are you from Jersey? Are you from PA? Do you like overpriced shitty food so you can stare out at our filthy Inner harbor? If that's you then this is your place. You can sit atop the harbor in what looks like an alien space craft and chow down on a 25$ crab cake while over in Middle River they are having a 10x better crab cake for a 3rd the price. Anyway - enjoy yourself sucker.
Rating Food (5) - Booze (2) - Clientele (6)
Ryleigh's Brew Pub and Raw Bar - I loved the place, then I hate it, now I like it again. The service is still the worst in Federal Hill and I have no idea why. I have never had to wait so long for a waitress, a drink, my order or any other standards of restaurant service in my life. Upstairs could be a great place to watch football because it's an unknown jewel of the plasma TV world and downstairs has a solid bar staff that's fun to talk to. The food is actually pretty damn tasty and usually consistent. They have some of the best wings and crab dishes in Baltimore (cream of crab and crab pretzel are solid). I endorse it.
Rating Food (8) - Booze (8) - Clientel (7)
Sean Bolan's Irish Pub and Restaurant - When I first moved here I didn't dig on Sean Bolan's because of the endless Irish music, all male bartending staff seemed to know way too much about beer, and the sometimes awful waitress staff that were slower and dumber than a rabbit trying to drive a stick shift. But as of late I find myself showing up here once a week (usually for a 1\2 priced burger Wed. or a Saturday afternoon ball game.) The guys that work there have been there long enough to know the regulars and they like watching the O's and shooting the shit about booze. I don't know why there is a strong geriatric demographic always there but from time to time a nice piece of ass will walk through the door.
Rating Food (7) - Booze (9) - Clientele (6)
Sky Lounge - Fuck you. I hope you burn in the 7th ring of hell if you enter here. I hope you go upstairs listen to the bumpdity bump diddy bump music while you watch greasy guys spin on their heads and tell you how bad ass they are. I hope you heed my advice because at 2 am when you are walking out of the "Sky Lounge" I'l be the guy pissing in your Daddy's S-Class passenger window while you fumble for the words, "Hey".
Rating Food (Die) - Booze (You Fake) - Clientele (Yuppy Fuck)
SoBo Cafe - Ahh otherwise known as the place where the Lesbians hang out. That doesn't really matter because there is only one reason you go to this joint - - Chicken 'motherfuckin' Pot Pie. Well that, and girls with forearm tattoos. But either way if you want some tasty homemade food I recommend it.
Rating Food (7) - Booze (3) - Clientel (5)
Let me know if I missed something - - - !!!
..and I thought I was clever
This site is the best satirical work I have read in God knows how long. It is 100% ridiculously hilarious. I laughed out loud for the first time in a long time. Below are some excerpts - feel free to pee yourself and thank you Maddox for the wondeful joy you have brought me today. Oh - and thanks Tim for showing it to me.
From "Star Wars Episode III: a steaming pile of Sith":
"The movies are for children but [the fans] don't want to admit that."
Oh really? It just so happens that this "children's movie" has a scene where a guy gets his hands chopped off, a graphic decapitation, the wanton slaughter of children (the highlight of any movie), and the coolest scene in any space action movie starring Ewan McGregor: Anakin getting his legs chopped off as his stumps catch fire while his face melts.
From "I hate Cameron Diaz":
Every time she opens her gaping mouth, she spews more self-righteous bullshit all over the place. One of my favorite lines is when she says "it's kind of gotten out of hand how much of a convenience we think we need." Diaz, who makes around $20 million per picture and drives a Lexus, was able to say this with a straight face. What the hell is that supposed to mean, "convenience we think we need"? We don't need it asshole, we want it. I like being able to get hot water, hot food, and hot porn whenever I want. Just as soon as you give up your mansion and live in a shit hut with your multi-millionaire boyfriend, we might give a shit about your criticism of the modern conveniences.
From "If you're too much of an impressionable idiot to watch "Sideways," then don't. "
I used to drink merlot, and after I saw the movie, they say "don't drink merlot," so [now] I'm drinking pinot noir...
You shallow idiots, get your own opinion. If you can't even go see a movie without changing your mind about what kind of wine you like, then tell you what: stay home. You'll be doing all of us a favor. Going on a wine tasting tour does not make you an expert on wine tasting. Just because you see a movie about wine doesn't mean you should stop ordering merlot with your $6 plate of pasta at Olive Garden you tools. If you liked merlot before the movie, why shouldn't you like it after?
From "How to kill yourself like a man."
How to do it:
Step 1: Slam your head into the sidewalk.
Step 2: Repeat.
Headbutting is probably the manliest thing ever. Not only is it useful for suicide, it's also a great way to break up with your girlfriend. For example, I couldn't find the words to tell my ex that our relationship was over, so one day while we were watching TV I headbutt her in the tits. Then I picked up my jacket and left. No awkward goodbyes, no "still friends" bullshit. Just a couple of bruised titties and a failed relationship. I rule.
Those are just a few - there are a ton more - - -
A Mother's Wish
The milky whiteness had covered her vision. Seconds ago she had been holding a spatula with this morning's breakfast on it. Now she was spreading her hands out into the air like a light tower searching for the shore. She had been stricken without sight in the middle of her morning routine.
The children could be heard coming in from the laundry room that was next to the kitchen. She could smell the fresh detergent that adorned their scarves and jackets. She heard her son Ishmael shake his head and body like a dog beating off the bathwater from a tin tub. She felt her 6-year-old daughter Isabelle, who she could only imagine was bundled like a Nanook child sledding, grab her hand and whisper "Mommy". Her husband had left 30 minutes ago and she had no intention of frightening the children with her sudden affliction. She was alone to sort out bags, zipper, shoestrings, and wet noses.
She could almost feel the cocked head of her 9-year-old son as she dropped the egg sandwich that had been on the spatula. The boy nudged Isabelle and made off in a dead run to the other room for no reason other than that he was 9.
The cause of the white darkness was unknown to the mother. She had no recollection of diseased encounters with anyone and she had no reason to believe that an epidemic had broken out that would affect her but not the rest of the household. She merely attempted to sort the children out before they began questioning, worrying, and then crying.
Isabelle picked up the dropped egg sandwich and put it in the sink. The mother asked her to grab her pocket book from the next room.
"Now, who is my big girl?" She said wiping her brow from nervousness and perspiration.
"I am Mommy." Squeaked the little girl.
"Go into the other room and grab Mommy's pocket book and be careful to avoid your brother."
She scurried in and out with the wobbling motion a child often makes when running full speed with too many clothes. She fell to her knees on the way back, but as a rubber ball keeps bouncing after being run over by a car, the child kept running to her mother with the pocket book that was bigger than her own torso.
"Ok baby. Take out Mommy's wallet and see if you can find a 5 dollar bill."
"Yes Mommy.... Mommy? What's wrong?"
"Nothing baby. Mommy is just a little tired that's all. Did you find a 5?"
"No there are only 3 20 dollar bills." The mother smiled at the proper way her daughter had relayed the number and unit of the money in her wallet.
"Well take a 20 for you and your brother. Ask the teacher at school if she can help you make change for it."
Just then the boy ran in with his father's umbrella that he was now using as a sword.
"Unhand her!" Screamed the boy from the walkway outside the kitchen. His plastic goulashes were tapping the wooden floors and his face started to sweat from running around in the house with his full winter clothing on.
"I said unhand her or I shall thrash you." Again the mother smiled at the life within the boy. The 9 year old in the boy brought so much light, laughter, and tiring to the house.
"Now your sister has a 20 dollar bill Ish. I want you to split it with her when you get to school and then bring me back my change this afternoon. Ok?"
"I shall mother. I shall valiantly take down any pirate looking to steal me sisters gold. Argggg."
The mother laughed and fell to her knees from exhaustion. The white blindness had not only affected her vision but her stamina and breathing. At the moment she was on all fours grasping for a handle or ledge to pull herself up she heard the horn from the school bus outside.
Ishmael rang out to her, "Mom? Mom, what's wrong?!"
"Oh Ish you know how your Mother sometimes gets those headaches. Well this is a bad one. I'll be all right in a minute or two. Now go - you - don't want to miss your bus. Come give your mother a kiss."
The boy limply meandered over. His face wore the expression of a boy walking to his mother's casket at a funeral parlor. He lunged at her as if instinctively he knew it was more than a head cold. He lunged and hugged his mother. His mother felt the boy's anxiety and responded with a toying joke. She coughed like a coy fake actor at a cocktail party and rolled a little on the floor as he squeezed her neck with his chubby 9-year-old arms.
"Ish, you are too strong for your mother. Such a strong boy" - She coughed pretending to be overwhelmed. Then with every last ounce of energy she could muster, she sprung to her feet, straightened out the curled hair that had fallen in her eyes, and in her white blindness managed to pat the boy on the back side and say, "Now run along before the pirates of the cellar get ye sister's gold."
"Aye! Aye! Mother" And he waddled off to the door clearing a path with his rapier of an umbrella.
Isabelle hugged her mother's leg and darted away screaming, "Wait for me Ish. Wait for me!" The mother, in her final breaths before she died, envisioned that Ishmael held out his hand waiting for his sister and with his other hand on the canvassed sword, blazed a path through the door and out into the world. She waved at the empty house imagining they were in the doorway waving back with smiles bigger than any she had ever seen.
Coldplay Album Early
No, you cannot borrow my copy. I got it in the mail - and I want to be cooler than everyone else for a week. But - I'll tell you what I will do - I will let you listen to the new Coldplay album for free - you just can't touch my cd.
Here it is - enjoy - you are all welcome.
God Pees Too
Stop right there. Internally that sediment echoed throughout her. Externally she was holding a torch to a pile of beds. She was ready to burn away the house that had caused her blindness. She was all that was awful. The mattresses were lined with all the colors of disgusting. She knew not where the eyes would finally meet the horizon of peace. Would she ever get to feel the warmth of his hand on her stomach her again? Did she believe that acts such as this were something more than her own leaps towards his smile. She dropped the last bit of gasoline onto the tattered rags. She lit them and tossed them into his room. He awoke and ran in circle not knowing what to do. He saw through the flames that she was standing with a fire extinguisher and a smile.
When did he come around to play? He only came around when it was dark and the shadows fell on his head in concealment the same way the shirt falls over my body in warmth. He would stand at my porch and kick stones waiting with his hands behind his back for me to come outside and nod my agreement to his presence. Sometimes he would come up and say "Why won't you play with me when I come 'round?" I would simply walk out to the front of the porch and tell him that "I am the monster underneath your bed that you aren't afraid of yet." He would always say that he had been stranded on my doorstep every night and day hoping to have the answer to his scuffed jeans and tattered shoes. I don't have the answers. All I have are water sermons with empty words. All you have is a bucket with holes as big as your fist.
It smelled of 3-day-old body in the room. The sunlight was pouring in through windows that did not have curtains. The floor was littered with dust, sweat and food. The television rang out louder because it was morning and the senses had allowed for muted responses from background life as I slept. I rolled over and pissed on the floor. I rolled back and fell asleep. It had made no difference. It never did. The phone rang and I ignored it. The day was starting and I was behind.
He got off the train and the smell of New York hit him in the face with the smell of a Bum's unwashed ass. It smelled of death, money, indifference, and disease. It would last until he could rid himself of the idea that he was special. "Embrace it." He would say this over and over again but had no reason to embrace either the city or even his own ideas. He had lost faith in the thoughts that leaked from him. He had lost faith in reds and oranges. There was no music playing in ears that were once touched with oils and perfume. The train station belched him out into the street where he was greeted by the hot sun, a homeless beggar, buildings dedicated to the soulless, and a rather pissed off God.
Pandora Song List
Amazon Wish List
Revolutionary Wealth - Tofflers
Things Making Me Smile
Listening - [out of 5]
Benjy Ferree - 4.8
The Thermals 3.1
David Gray 3.8
Like the guy with the beard? YES - like the guy with the beers. What? Yep
Bands That I Check Schedules For
Badly Drawn Boy
Belle and Sebastian
The Black Keys
Drive By Truckers
Mark Hopkins Band
Iron and Wine
Mates of State
Two if By Sea
Places I Rock in the Flesh
The Knitting Factory
The Otto Bar
Places I Eat/Drink in the Flesh
Cross Street Market
No Way Jose
The Irish Pub
The Waterfront Hotel
My Greatest Hits (that's so lame)
The time I almost killed a child
July 4th in Korea
Excerpts from Demian
Why I screen phone calls
Bret's Death Metal Report
A conversation at a cocktail party
A conversation at breakfast
So you think you are a Baltimorian
A conversation about a girl singer
Observations from a bar
Observations of strippers
Why I love Oasis
I would go to war
"You Son of a Bitch" An Open Letter to Tom Friend
Dance to Your Ocean
When men become pussies
Jason Whitlock is a racist propaganda promoter
Pitchfork takes music snobbery to new level
The Cosmic Clash of the Red Sox and Cubs
The Hatred that is Runts Candy
Starting corporate line-up
Do you know me? List 1 / List 2 / List 3
The Night I Burned Philly Down
So You Want to be a Booze Hound
She Said it was Free
Funniest Corporate Story Ever
Striped Shirts and the Fucks that Wear Them
Pieces of Morning
Oasis Album Revew
The Art of Tipping
Starting Fires With Grass Stains
Bret's Federal Hill Food Review
Sexcapades and your Picture on the Internet
Stupid Secrets the Return
Stuff I Swing By From Time to Time
Indie Video Archive
Large Hearted Boy
Pitch Fork Media
Scenestars MP3 Blogs
Sound Garden Baltimore
Angry Little Girls
Junior Varsity Meat Market
Baltimore City Paper
The Baltimore Sun
Villa Julie College Baseball
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