Editorial Correction

A simple fact-checking adventure would have led me to IMDB.com and would have indicated that Elijah Wood was not in Free Willy (1993), rather he pondered the glorious benefits of beastiality with that porpoise in the unforgettable Flipper (1996). My bad! It's hysterical that nobody even said anything when I associated Wood with Keiko the Orca. Proving my point once again, that Elijah Wood is a waste of sperm and egg. I apologize for deceiving you, the reader. That being said, does it even matter?

"Either / Or"

A brief apology to those of you that were expecting this yesterday, unfortunately I was detained by Yuengling at Ryan's and wasn't coherent enough to string together these sentences at 3:15AM. The latest chapter in the "Either / Or" saga is centered around two different fashionably ugly shoes, adored and worn by the entire spectrum of sheep from Yuppies to Fashionistas. Either Uggs or Crocs? *Disclaimer I worked as a shoe salesman for a brief time in college at a comfort shoe store in Boston, and I think it's a fair statement to say that there is a directly inverse correlation between the fit and comfort of a shoe and its aesthetic appeal. These two brands/shoes are prime examples.

Uggs. Oh how I hate that you've made wearing slippers with a dress, out in public, acceptable for hundreds and thousands of women. This year marks the 30th anniversary for the company from Down Under. While these heinous sheepskin lined boots have been around for approximately 200 years, I'd like to focus on the particularly crappy recent past for the branded company. Uggs became an epidemic throughout Australia when surfers would go skiing in the winter and started sporting the versatile boots (thank God for sheep and their merino wool and skin). Today, you can buy Uggs in these fine United States, but not too long ago getting your hands on authentic Uggs was like an exercise in smuggling contraband into a prison via your ass-crack. I'm all for comfortable shoes, but limit usage to around the house or running errands. Please don't try to convince yourself that you can wear these out when you're with your girlfriends at that swanky lounge, club or bar. I think the only thing more grotesque is when you see that flamboyant male sporting his pair that go perfectly with his faux-hawk and skinny jeans. The most frustrating aspect for me is that this isn't just a temporary craze. Mindless consumers have helped turn this fad into a must-have fashion staple. The staying power of the Ugg brand is something to envy, especially considering the raw looks of these dead animals on one's feet.

Uggs suck something awful, but Crocs are racing neck-and-neck with Uggs to win the race of the most comfortable/horrifically ugly shoe ever created. We can all thank three jackasses from Boulder , Colorado for committing this fashion felony. These silly bastards, excuse me - entrepreneurs, will claim that the shoes were originally created for a purpose, for boaters, suggesting that they were slip-resistant and non-marking. We all know that these people decided to capitalize on the "they're-so-ugly-they-have-to-be-cool" trend, which should be copyrighted by Uggs by now. Today you'll see morons wearing these glorified condoms on their feet in various industries like nursing, restaurants, and demanding jobs that require the individual to stand for long stretches. Soccer moms love to force their children into the SpongeBob SquarePants edition, and I just shake my head and consult the Webster's Dictionary for the precise definition of "karma." It's still too early to determine whether or not the Crocs brand will endure the test of time, and if I had my druthers one would only be able to remember Crocs as they flipped through a fashion history book and found Crocs sandwiched between Skidz and British Knights.

It's no surprise that nobody wins when you wear either of these two examples of footwear. Both brands tried to further whore their brands and have dabbled in normal-looking footwear, to no avail. I've grown a bit more tolerant of Uggs as they've become more prevalent, but I stand by my policy of: a girl dressed up and wearing Uggs is to be regarded as a leper and should be considered to have chlamydia and avoided at all costs.

*Note this "Either /Or" was hatched with the help of a regular reader, so I thank her for her input.

Mistaken Identity

She sits at her desk, passing the time thumbing through her OK! Magazine, when she cries out in her involuntary Brooklyn-ese, "Oh. Moi. Gawd. You look exactly like Jake Gyllenhaal! Has anyone ever told you that before?"

I sit at my screen staring at Excel and check to see if my ears are bleeding, "No. I've never heard that before. You really think so?" [Do you think I was sarcastic?]

She then cuts out multiple pictures of the celebrity and affixes them to the outside of my otherwise barren cube. To each person that walks by, she makes it a point to illustrate the "striking resemblance." I keenly sense that girls at work begin to look at me differently, like they might be intrigued and slightly perturbed that they hadn't noticed earlier. The males that walk by my newly decorated cube look at me differently too, and usually comment, "Yeah, you do look like the queer from Brokeback Mountain. You know, the cowboy movie. God, that movie was SOOOOO gay."

Just another day and another dollar.

TxtSpk Grl

As if you needed further convincing that I will be making coffee runs for Satan upon my death, I would like to relate the following story. I met TxtSpk Grl at a mutual friend's birthday party, and I'm convinced our introduction couldn't be explained as anything other than destiny, or at least manipulated by the blog gods.

My friends were making small talk with her, when they decided to involve me in the conversation, and essentially handed her off to me as if I was Walter Payton. I decided we all needed another round, so like a sport I ordered the next round. I asked her what kind of beer she was drinking, when she claimed she was more of a wine girl. I goaded, "it must be your Catholic guilt." She started cracking up, "Yeah, something like that. I am Jewish. My people killed Jesus." My friends immediately fashioned a noose around their heads and watched as the blood flushed from my face. TxtSpk Grl didn't care, she was getting drunk off of her second wine. I was completely uninterested in this girl, and it was about 11:30PM when I slapped hands with my friends and tried to part with hugs claiming, "Outtie." They begged me to stay, to continue the entertainment. They even offered to pay for a couple more rounds and share a cab halfway back to the UES. I was just thinking that they saved me about 40 minutes of travel time and about $20 in beer. Of course I stayed.

We move to another bar, and by this time our group has dwindled to four. My friends keep talking to TxtSpk Grl, asking her questions that they know will make me want to kill myself. To each response, they start cracking up at me rolling my eyes. I try to act sober for a brief moment and get engaged in the conversation, when it hits me. This girl has the voice of Marge Simpson, and even beyond that her stories are accented by TxtSpk. I ask a question and she replies, "Obv." [What? What the hell did you just say to me? I know you didn't just TxtSpk me.] Flabbergasted, I decide to test her again "So you live in the city?" She replies, "Yeah I live on UES in a studio. It's expensive, but whatevs." I look to my friends, and the judges rule it a ten...this broad is, indeed, speaking TxtSpk. I pounded the second beer and pretended like I had to get home because it was a school night.

My friends cajole me to get into a cab, and at the last second offer it to TxtSpk Grl as well. So the four of us are in the cab headed home. My two friends stop at Gramercy, and I'm left with TxtSpk in the back of the cab as she's giving me a tour of the FDR Drive pointing out apartments that I shouldn't live in because of the guys that she's slept with in each building. The cabbie stops at 79th and York and we both get out, because I could use a good walk to sober up.

We walk to the corner, and she starts in with that voice, that smoker's voice, half-drunk, and fully horny. "I like you. You're cute," she claims right before she engulfs me in her arms and decides that my lips would fit perfectly on hers at that moment. I slowly back away as she becomes more frisky, but she cons me into taking her number down claiming, "we should get a drink sometime." I'm sitting there typing the digits into my phone, pretending to input her numbers, when she calls my bluff. She makes me call her. Buzzkill. So she takes my phone and saves her number. What did I care? I was never going to see her again.

Two weeks pass and she's giving me phenomenal text, I'm talking perfect grammar & perfect punctuation (and I'm thinking to myself this girl is quite the anomaly). She tells me she wants to get a drink at a winebar, which loosely translated means: I've been so horny for the last week and I don't think my vibrator will suffice. So I accompany her to a winebar on the UES, and endure two hours of TxtSpk sprinkled in the conversation about our jobs. By 11PM I decide that I'm either going to have to be completely shattered to continue any type of conversation with her, or just walk her home and head directly to Ryan's Daughter. Being the cheap bastard that I am, I decided to just walk her home and head to the pub.

We get to her door and she invites me in. I decide to get cute and mock her to her face, "Obv." It had gone completely over her head, and she commenced heavy petting. She tackles me onto her bed and things escalate. She's getting frisky, while we exchange bodily fluids and probably STDs, it dawns on me: WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING? I can't do this. Sex would be a gchat conversation with her, and I'm not even attracted to her in the slightest. Dirty talk played over in my head like a broken record: LOL, Obv. Whatevs. I immediately started talking some sense to myself: no way. I can't & I'm pretty sure I will never be able to think of sex the same again.

Luckily TxtSpk Grl got the picture as I retied my Chuck Taylors on my way out of her studio. She realized our best conversations occurred via text and wasn't so delusional to think that we could ever be anything more than what that was - GREAT TEXT!

*Note: there seems to be confusion by many readers. Allow me to clarify that I did not sleep with TxtSpk Grl. Instead of re-writing the post, I thought I'd make it clear in this addendum.

Prematurely Gray

At twenty four, I'm what my hair stylist dearly refers to as salt and pepper, but I'm afraid that by my 25th birthday I will be completely gray. Part of my job description reads: interact with financial scum of the universe on a daily basis. As if that wasn't bad enough, I'm baffled by how these assholes could be trusted with others' monies, dreams, and financial health. It's really astonishing that they have no idea what's going on. I'm convinced 90% of these stock jockeys trade based off of "Cramer's Picks." I love breaking their balls on a day when they think the world is coming to an end:

S.A.: Hey Jim, how's it going?
Jim: The market is down 340 points. The good thing is this could be a great opportunity for a bear market rally.

These slightly-evolved chimps stare at the tape all day long hoping to see triple bottoms (and trying to convince themselves that certain technical charts look like a woman's breasts), and haven't realized that it's not the equity markets that people should fear. It's the credit markets and the immeasurable derivatives exposure that will ultimately be the demise of the global "financial machine." Now I could try to explain to these idiots that the Dow and the S&P are really quite inconsequential in the grand scheme of things (just based on the sheer amount of assets), but they would never listen because Ludlow hasn't mentioned it on CNBC yet. I won't make a peep though, because nobody likes a cocky, piss-ant, 24 year old.

Pamela Beer

...was my Junior year Trigonometry/Pre-calculus teacher. No joke, that was her name. She was one of those awful people that couldn't master writing with the red pen cradled between her thumb and index finger, while letting it rest on her middle finger. She concealed the entire pen in her fist. I would always picture her correcting my 73% tests and quizzes with that obnoxiously vertical and militant handwriting. I would laugh at the thought of my quizzes and tests being a warm up to a bout with Mike Tyson, that would usually ease the sting of my mediocre grades. She was such an uppity and pretentious broad, and she had a nose and face like a character from a Tim Burton movie. She didn't know it at the time, but she taught me a lot about myself.

Amidst all the meaningless calculations and TI-85 calculator work (playing Super Mario Bros.), log(35), and everything else that I've since forgotten, she made us compute sines, cosines, and tangents. She was so stupid, I can't believe I'm giving her credit, but this valley girl turned high school teacher inadvertently hit on the importance of waves and cycles.

Everything is cyclical. The economy, the S.A.'s emotions, the relationship between the Earth and the rest of the universe, the economy, the reproductive patterns of salmon, the weather, etc. Since living in NYC I've noticed that everything about me is cyclical, including: my emotions, the way I feel about work, the work itself, my willingness to date, the trends of Manhattan rents. Everything has its own rhythm and cycle. I'm just writing this to thank you, Ms. Beer. I get it. I still generally couldn't tolerate you, but at least I get it. I'll feel better tomorrow.

Reader Contribution

"I read you shit everyday, good stuff

love to hear you bitch..." -Brian (via gchat) currently dwelling in Boston & works at State Street.

Hot Sauce

Recently living in Gotham has been a daily test of humility - shoving mounds of feces in my face, what with rent, bonuses on Wall Street, and this miserable precipitation. Sometimes she puts some Frank's Hot Sauce on it to mask the taste, like when I close the bar at 4AM and go eat at the 24 hour diner, it makes the excrement much more palatable.

His & Hers

So you want to scare your significant other to the point where no amount of therapy will ever allow them to recover and move on? Wait until three weeks after you've fornicated and hit him/her with the following scare tactic:

Hers: she tells him that she thinks she is preggers.

His: he tells her he thinks that the other girl is preggers.

Preemptive Penning

Dear Future Ex(es),

It's probably best to start at the beginning. I apologize. I wasn't always like this. If I jog my memory enough I can remember a time when I thought "chivalry" had a definition and wasn't the punchline of a heartbreaking joke. At one point in time I was capable of contributing equally to a healthy relationship, but I fell. Some argue I fell from grace. Wherever the origin, the result is what many PhDs consider an "emotional cripple." I remember when I used to smile a lot and was quick with a joke. Now I excuse my overall demeanor and outlook by naming the city where I reside, hoping people will walk by and overlook me like a homeless beggar in the subway station. I wish I could have introduced you to the 13 year old version of me. Unfortunately for both you and me, that was the best I'll ever be. What can I say? I peaked early and I was still stupid enough to think that there was someone out there for me. Someone like my Mom, but you know, not my Mom. I wish I could look at you and get lost in you for hours, but those visions are tainted by projections of the worst qualities of those before you, which have manifested in my mind. You didn't know this at the time, but you never stood a fighting chance because I'm so jaded and I'm completely neurotic. Maybe living in NYC when I was younger made me callous and in retrospect it probably wasn't a great idea. I know this doesn't excuse me or begin to explain why we didn't work, but fate can be so definite.

Sincerely,
S.A. (24 years old, living in UES)

Honesty & Speech

My patience wears thin when offenders take the liberty to abuse English phrases. As we become more technologically advanced, implementing texts, gchats, instant messages, etc., the language becomes increasingly perverted. Witnessing people democratize the rules of the spoken word on a daily basis gives me mental jock itch. The most outrageous example is when people say some sort of variation of, "I'm going to be honest...." So let me get this straight, unless you preface a statement with the aforementioned terminology you are lying directly to my face? Please stop with statements like this, because, "Let's be honest, it makes you sound like you're incapable of forming intelligent speech."

Wilde, Oscar

"Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it." -The Critic as Artist, 1891.

Old Habits

...[everyone knows] they die hard. I was introduced to peanut butter and jelly as a little S.A. I thought nothing of it. It was completely uninspiring, two ingredients married together on bread. Not to mention, my mom used to make it the night before and let it sit in the refrigerator for school the next day. The results were catastrophic, a soggy mess. To me, pb&j was a fall back sandwich, only to be considered when you ran out of cold cuts. I never thought of it as the number one.

Many years later, I went back to pb&j and even acquired a taste for pb&fluff. The setting was fall 2002, and I was settling into Northeastern University. I would sit in my room playing "Ready To Die" at overwhelming decibel levels, and mastering Madden 2002 (with the door wide open) welcoming challengers. I quickly developed a bond with Mike, a Puerto Rican from Miami, who would fill up his Brita in the bathroom while dressed in mesh shorts, socks, and Nike sandals. We quickly became friends and developed a smoking bond. He majored in blunts and bongs. I was more the adventuresome MacGyver-type, willing to experiment with apples, door stops, and half-broken glass. Anything really. Many would finish a session and reach for Funyuns, Doritos, or maybe even Swedish Fish. Mike and I would eat at least two pb&fluff sandwiches. Mike would later curse the New England cold and head back to Miami to finish out his college career (graduation date: TBD), and I stopped puffing. However, I was still cognizant of my finances and made pb&j a staple in my diet.

Now, I am creeping up to a quarter century, and I work in Finance. Many think that I should give up my love for pb&j and fill the void with $10 Midtown lunches. However, now I'm working to pay my rent, and devoting long hours to my career. So, sometimes I come home at 7 or 8 PM and an Emeril-esque dinner isn't requisite. I look to my trusted pieces of wheat and these two spreads.

It wasn't until I was 24, when I met a girl, that I mastered making the pb&j. I confessed that I make more money now than in college and that I can't walk away from pb&j. She thought I was "special," but she asked me about it. "How do you make them?" I didn't understand the question. It was simple. Even a stoned monkey could make one. Besides she went to a well respected institution for her undergrad [maybe she didn't smoke]. I carefully explained it to her via gchat, while bored at work one day (I'm assuming my mocking and condescending tone wasn't recognized via the medium). She then explained to me I was doing it all wrong. She said my method resulted in sogginess. She then told me I had to coat both slices of wheat with peanut butter to form a seal, then add gratuitous amounts of jelly and it would never seep through. This girl was brilliant. I told her I didn't want to talk to her anymore, but I want her to know, I RENEGE.

7:47 AM

Bright sunlight finds its way through my bamboo blinds and red curtains to bisect my face. My legs are oddly bent to form the figure four and the drool has hardened on my stubble as dehydration leaves its mark on my chapped lips. My blurry peripheral vision suggests the possibility that I fell asleep (read, passed out) on the phone mid sentence. To be dealt with later.

"Either / Or"

This week's "Either / Or" is devoted to you caffeine addicts who would be completely content with a coffee intravenous dripping the brown liquid directly into your bloodstream. Either Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts? Both companies should be recognized for what they've meant to coffee culture domestically.

Starbucks coffee tastes burnt, like sour milk. They are visible, especially in NYC where there are 193 stores within a five mile radius of my UES apartment. Howard Schultz, the company's CEO, is credited with bringing the Italian coffee experience back to America and recreating it in each store. Praise Starbucks for making it cool to pay five clams for coffee, creating a made up language (venti, grande, etc.), and making it hip for Mac users to sit at a table for endless hours pretending to be writing in public. They try to portray an image of giving a crap about things, what with cups made from recycled paper and their marketing efforts to promote free-trade coffee. Starbucks is nauseating.

I had a dream the other night, and I thought I could remember when Dunkin' Donuts used to actually sell donuts. Those days waived goodbye long ago and the brand has spread across the country like a wildfire. When I drink coffee I order, "Medium coffee with milk and sugar." Notice it is ordered in English [or American as I affectionately refer to the language]. This would be a victory by a landslide, but this company has had some noticeable gaffs on its record. Most notable was their choice to endorse that twattwaffle Rachel Ray as the face of the brand. I'm not really sure what the reasoning was behind that, but I'm sure the DD's people were thinking: we should make Rachel Ray the face of our brand because she has absolutely no talent and proves that all you have to do is blow your way to the top of the Food Network in today's society to be considered a celebrity. She was also seen in a controversial commercial sporting a scarf, which coincidentally was considered "ethnic garb" [and the Gods smile favorably upon the S.A.]. Since then she hasn't been heard from in association with the DD camp. I think a whore that takes the liberty to shorten extra virgin olive oil should shampoo my crotch, but that's for another post. More recently they've been really pushing stuff other than their core competency, which is coffee, like flat bread egg white sandwiches. In an attempt to increase revenues, they've alienated themselves. What's next a fat free Donut, from those culinary masters?

Twist my nipple and I'll say Dunkin' Donut's, especially after a long night of drinking. Coffee sucks. Drink Sencha green tea. You'll live longer.

RLS Audition

I think you can tell a lot about compatibility based on the way two people share a bed. If that's the case, the God's completely understand my fate and mock me every time I sleep with another (not a euphemism for coitus). Sleeping with me is like involuntarily auditioning for a role in one of those Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS) medication commercials that conveniently airs during Larry King Live. You see the commercial and think to yourself: that RLS can't be considered a real disease, nobody really dances the salsa unconsciously at night, in bed while on their back - counting sheep. WRONG! I do. Perhaps it's attributed to the fact that I really don't devote a full night to sleep due to the noise emitted from First Avenue or the ongoing stresses of life on Wall Street, or a countless array of other problems that plague my mind on a regular basis. Whatever the case may be, I do somersaults spanning the entire length of my bed at night. I'm destined to be alone, and this is completely unrelated to any undiagnosed emotional issues that I may or may not have.

Elijah Wood

Should Free Willy (1993) be considered the pinnacle or pit of his career? He's so pathetic that I'm actually considering an "Either / Or" segment judging the acting chops of Keiko, the Orca whale that played Willy or Elijah Wood. Good God, Elijah. I will pray for you and will light a candle for you at church in hopes that another facial hair will sprout on your boyish face by the age of 40.

Unwritten Code

It goes without being said, you don't give a man's wife a foot massage, and [as a man] you don't walk into a bathroom with three urinals and choose the middle one. It's just bad form and extremely poor taste. And now a word from my friend Jules, "And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord" (Pulp Fiction, 1994).

Facebook Dilemma

I am one of the 17 people scattered throughout the U.S. that doesn't have a Facebook or MySpace account. Part of me hates what these "social-networking" sites have replaced - meaningful communications and relations with people in the flesh. I understand the merits of such a tool, especially when keeping in touch with friends that are slaves to lines of longitude between them. I abhor this site for many reasons, much too many to list here in this insignificant blog.

That being said, I'm also aware that I'm a walking contradiction, but chief among the reasons for abstaining is the notion that some things are better left off of the intertubes. I know what you're thinking: Wait. What? You idiot you have a blog. That's true. But the blog, while incriminating, doesn't have my face and name tagged all over other people's half-naked pictures. I'm not taking the holier-than-thou approach here, because I can't recount all the infantile antics I've participated in whilst inebriated. However, I have no desire to become a MySpace or Facebook celebrity because of the digitized megapixels portraying me naked and straddling a porcelain throne at 5:16AM.

The only thing that makes me even consider opening a faceless account, is so people know I exist (and to pimp the Scriptural Apothecary). Facebook and MySpace have become a tool for people to do a background check on new acquaintances. It raises red flags in their minds when they find out I don't participate. I can understand that it's a bit strange and that I should just stop being me and create some stupid profile, but the stubborn Irish in me won't let me budge from my moral stance. I could picture in my mind's eye, as I typed the keys to fill out my bare-bones profile, my mother questioning, "If everyone jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you do it?" What can I say? I've always been a sucker for D.A.R.E. scare tactics.

Jobs & Torture

I can't recall the countless conversations that I've had over the past six months with people of all ages and walks of life that are completely uninformed of the economic realities that face us today.

Socializing can be agonizing. Look no further than the obligatory exchange between new acquaintances, "So what do you do?" I reluctantly confess that I work in finance, and before he/she can ask how things are going I blurt out, "Things are not great, but I'm still employed. But, you know, that can change at any moment." The listener usually empathizes publicly, but wishes bad things on my family because they think I somehow masterminded the credit freeze and the downward spiraling economy based on the intense Excel work I do on a daily basis.

As if that dialog wasn't unpleasant enough, I then ask about their career. They usually admit to a career that is more interesting than mine by a power of infinity. At this point I don't question further, and I'm ready to talk about something completely meaningless like the weather outside. However, they just continue, and I sit there and take it like a suspected terrorist being interrogated in some cavernous basement being exposed to "questionable tactics." This individual rambles on about how their job is fairly safe because he/she doesn't work in finance, or that they're immune from things that happen on Wall Street.

WRONG! In case you hadn't noticed, the engine for NYC and the economy (in the recent past) has been the excessive workings of Wall Street. That trickles down to every job, every municipality, every school, to all ends of the Earth. Wait. Am I suggesting that it affects auto manufacturing plants in Detroit? YES! So it's no surprise that it could affect your publishing job, or your trendy fashion job.

You don't realize it, but I'm judging you with each ignorant and naive statement and I don't care that you went to the country's finest schools because you are oblivious to reality. Now if you don't mind, I have to get back to scanning the room or bar for more interesting people than you, and drown in my lonely beer.

Oochie Wally

"Yo, this is Horse, you know, the pussy filla. I still haven't gotten paid." John (01/17/2009), employed by Sony, sipping Purple Haze and articulating work-related frustrations.

Ryan's Daughter

"I like the blog."
"Thanks for reading it."
I settle into my beer at the bar at approximately 3:20AM and wax philosophical with Catherine. She takes offense to the way I portray UES women in the blog, and is still flabbergasted that I'd take the time to read Skinny Bitch. On cue an UES girl, wearing a strapless dress, tugs on her sagging fabric to re-establish the appropriate cleavage and orders another drink. The vapid girl with the obligatory tattoo on the inside of her wrist (probably related to Kabbalah) begs, "Gary, I'll have another drink." She looks to Kate as Gary fixes her poison, "I don't really care. My Dad pays my credit card bill." Catherine looks at me and rolls her eyes and commences laughing. In a desperate attempt to prove that my sweeping generalizations don't hold water, Catherine explains that she's really smart - besides she graduated from UPenn. I just continued to verbally spar with Catherine until last call. I got the impression that Catherine fully understood that it would only be a matter of time until the ink dries on another post.

Garbage & Jenga

When is it time to take the garbage out?

My roommate and I have a long-standing game going re: community garbage. I'm in no rush to take out the garbage, and he certainly doesn't volunteer to take it out. Every other week we engage in a strategic game of Jenga. It's not intentional. It just kind of happens. We stack the trash up into a pyramid structure, and usually it takes on a Jenga-like form. The idiot that adds the piece of trash that topples the structure is charged with taking the trash out. In the past I'd be beside myself because I had a roommate that had mastered garbage Jenga. He could stretch it an additional week before it had to be taken out. I'd always catch him chuckling, knowing it would take something special to take his Jenga crown. That type of sentiment twists my titties. If the garbage is full, just take it out. Don't play games. If you've mastered garbage Jenga, chances are your roommate has a deep-seeded hatred towards you.

"Either / Or"

Sylvester Stallone wrote, produced and starred in Rocky in 1976, then went directly to the bank to cash in. This week's "Either /Or" begs the question, which installment reigns supreme, either Rocky or Rocky II?

Rocky introduced us to the underdog southpaw from Philadelphia. Rocky was struggling to stay employed, far from wealthy, and spotted an opportunity in throwing hands. With the help of his trainer, he employed rather unconventional training techniques, e.g. chasing the chicken, busting up ribs in the meat factory, and famously running the steps of the museum. Side note: who could forget that theme song or better yet "Eye of the Tiger?" Rocky emerges as an unlikely challenger to the silky-smooth Apollo Creed. It's a one and a million shot, but Rocky proves with enough heart anything can happen, as he gives Creed a run for his money in one of the most memorable fights in movie history.

Rocky II is simply the rematch of the century. Rocky attempts to adjust to his new family life, and tries to ignore his instinct - fighting. Creed provokes Balboa to return to fight, if only to prove that his first victory was more than a fluke. It really didn't take much goading, seeing as it was exposed that Rocky "really don't read too good," while trying to film commercials. After inspired words from Adrian in the hospital fresh out of a coma imploring him to win, he goes on to do just that.

You all just got Punk'd. The best Rocky was neither Rocky nor Rocky II. You are so gullible. Everyone knows Rocky IV wins by a decisive knockout, when Rocky not only beats Ivan Drago, but TKO's Russian Communism. And who could forget that spirited soundtrack with all of those synthesizers - "There's no easy way out. There's no short cut home." You all would do well to remember that in the future.

His & Hers

The sensitive subject of gift-giving and receiving. Your guide to important (but extremely insignificant) information to avoid pitfalls.

Guys: When she says she doesn't really care about a Hallmark Holiday, it means you better have flowers and dinner planned for Valentine's Day or be prepared to become reacquainted with Palmela Handerson, yet again. When she agrees to forgo exchanging gifts for a special occasion due to the mutual understanding that the economy is trying and your money would be better spent elsewhere, she's essentially failed to provide the following subtitles: I expect a gift - if only something small, you selfish moron. When she gets you an "I was thinking about you gift," she expects one in return and you groping her is hardly a gift. When you get her a personalized gift like a book and inscribe it or make her a mixed-tape, she thinks you are joking and is waiting for the "real gift."

Girls: When he says don't get him anything, it means don't get him anything because he isn't planning on getting her something. When he hears you agree to a "no-exchange" policy due to the economy, he looks to his lucky stars and thanks God that she finally "gets it." When she asks him what he wants and he says he doesn't know, it's because he doesn't have the heart to tell her he wants that new electronic gadget - which means he will be spending more time away from her. Oh, and he's not your Ken doll. Stop buying him clothes that you think he'd look good in. He's happy wearing his shirts from the 6th grade. He views every day as giving to you. So meaningless holidays, save Halloween, don't excite him. He considers each phone call, text, email a gift, because he could have been doing a handful of other things like playing video games, talking about sex, drinking beer, or all of the above - simultaneously(with his boys).

Layer Up

I woke unnecessarily early this morning for work, you know, even before my alarm (probably in anticipation of a snow day-wishful thinking). I went through my normal routine, turned on Channel 4 news and threw my down comforter back over my head until I heard the weather report three more times.

Finally 6:30AM arrived and I forced myself to get up, then do push-ups to ensure that returning to my nest wasn't a feasible alternative. I went through my normal routine in the bathroom, put the shower on, arranged my shaving mug, my badger hair brush, my trusty double edged safety razor, and shaving cream. I hopped into the shower and startled myself, usually either the water is scalding or glacial , but never perfect. Today it was unnecessarily hot.

After five minutes of applying shampoo, and facial scrubs, I began to soap myself. I achieved a foamy lather with my bar of soap rotating the soap clockwise (in my left hand) on my belly, when suddenly I was introduced to a new friend, someone I'd never cared to notice before. The place where my abdominal and oblique muscles used to be prominently featured has been replaced by a pouch. I must say, I've grown quite affectionate and fond of the little guy. I think I will name him Ozzie. I know all he really wants is more pub food and some suds to help him grow, and right now I don't have the will to deprive him.

Besides, now my trousers fit much more snug and now my belt no longer serves a utilitarian purpose, but sits as belts are supposed to - around my waste as a decorative accessory. I don't know if you judgmental bastards noticed but it's below freezing and tomorrow is going to be colder. You wish you had an Ozzie of your own.

Two Quarters

"I love you like a fat kid love cake" - 50 Cent, "21 Questions" (Modern-day Shakespeare).

Animal Cruelty

Many believe Michael Vick is Anti-PETA/the devil/and a despicable sorry excuse for a human-being. While I don't condone the behavior that landed Vick in a penitentiary (where his life was hardly disrupted), what with a regiment of lifting weights, scheduled laps around the exercise yard, and watching cable daily, I'd hardly consider him cruel. The man had an addiction. He was a gambling fool.

The flagrant offense is on display everyday in Gotham on the UES. Irresponsible girls think it's a rite of passage to move into an apartment, that their parents completely subsidize, with a beloved dog. Consider the following hypothetical girl. Strike one: she doesn't make enough money to bankroll her "out-every-night-of-the-week-clubbing" lifestyle, let alone that mangy rat that she calls a dog. Strike two: she dresses her little toy pup in a matching Burberry jacket, because everyone knows that she has to match her mommy. Strike three: the bitch drops the most foul feces all over the sidewalk, whilst the other bitch sips her skinny non-fat grande peppermint-cinno and calls her friend Samantha (you know, the one that has all of the sex) on her Blackberry, which means she conveniently missed Truffle's little gift that I'm bound to walk in on the way to the subway.

It's the little things that make me think I'm over this city. It makes me want to flee to some secluded area of New England like Salinger, and sooner or later I'd fade from the "collective" memory, with Birthdays passing unnoticed. Irrelevance is bliss.

Scribblings & Pints

How did I get here?
I can recall a time when the day's most difficult task was trying to color within the lines, and one day Mrs. Cavanaugh, my portly kindergarten teacher who coincidentally wanted to "leave me back a year" due to my coloring follies, sat the entire lot of us in a circle and told us we could be anything we wanted. She went around the circle and my classmates had legitimate answers, like a princess, a fireman, a police officer, a lawyer, or a doctor. One ambitious little teacher's pet responded, "I want to be an astronaut." All I could think of at the time was being paid to spit. A spitter. She was appalled, but the others laughed their grotesque little faces off. I soon learned how to count change and read a clock.

As my education progressed, so did my aspirations. By first grade I told my parents I was going to do the right thing for society and be a police officer. My parents lovingly steered me toward something else that didn't involve risking my life in the name of a pension. I could see them mouthing the letters l-a-w-y-e-r and d-o-c-t-o-r, as I proclaimed I would settle for being a fireman. They were less than thrilled, and if I recall that night I was forced to drink an extra glass of milk, a.k.a. arsenic at that age.

By third grade I had it figured out. I was going to be a professional basketball player. "Dad, I want to be like Magic Johnson," I said. "You mean Larry Bird," he corrected. He was silently hoping I had said Patrick Ewing. In his estimate I would have been ambitious to want to emulate a man that was rumored to have to tape his trouser snake to his leg with duct tape. I gave that dream up when it became apparent that there weren't any 5'9" Lebanese men in the NBA, which describes what my dad is.

In fifth grade I knew I was destined to be a drummer (see Flams & Paradiddles post). The phase slowly burned out when I realized I wasn't really that talented, but suffered through years of school band.

Then thirteen punched me in the face with braces and acne. Welcome to adolescence you cocky little bastard. I was at a crossroads in my life in terms of career paths. My parents had completely given up hope. They couldn't reach me, so they just begged me to do well in school. I ignored them and everything and focused on a movie that melted my face and planted a seed, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I couldn't really comprehend what the hell was going on in the movie, but the imagery was unparalleled. Directly after the viewing, I connected to AOL with the dial-up modem and looked up the movie to find that it was based on the Hunter S. Thompson book. I had to read it. I would later re-read the book three more times at various stages of my high school and college life.

This was my calling. I was destined to be a correspondent. The job would just be an excuse for me to go on the most mind-bending, drug-induced benders that God had ever seen. It was a lay-up and a physical challenge to endure such a strict drug regiment. I would convince some idiot to pay me to write something completely unimportant and slightly appealing. My lens would be influenced by LSD, various pills, weed, and liquor in an attempt to explore and describe some of the best and worst trips that only the most devoted addicts had ever experienced.

All of my friends were applying to colleges and I had no idea what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go, which forced my parents to pray daily to St. Jude that their second son would be found. I went to school in Boston and decided (like all true morons) to major in finance and accounting. My parents were so happy. I was in school, out of their hair, and doing well. I did well enough so they wouldn't question what I was doing in my leisure time, which was smoking trees regularly with my friends. Graduation reared its ugly head in May and reality set in. I would be working on Wall St. and not following in any rogue author's footsteps.

All of this brings us to the present. My drug of choice is strictly alcohol, mainly beer and red wine. The closest to a Thompson-esque demonstration is when I show up to work wreaking like a gin mill. It is highly frowned upon when my boss sees me sweating and chugging alternating gulps of lemon-lime Gatorade and coffee loaded with milk and sugar. Sometimes I get to live out my dreams and go out to lunch with some guys from work, easing my nerves with a Brooklyn Lager, and return to churn out some more irrelevant financial reports that nobody reads. Enter this blog you unlucky, devoted few. I can't thank you enough for indulging in this useless banter.

Note: I realize that I conveniently overlooked the following professions: skimboarder, surfer, and skateboarder. Ohh, and actor.

7th Day

After the events that transpired today, my foreseeable Sundays have become undesirably available. It's a relief, because I thought I'd have to be glued to the dummy box for the next few weekends. Besides, Sunday is the holy day of rest. F*ck you, Plaxico.

Designer Jeans

Apparently, and this is news to me, she is completely disinterested in the fact that I can recite over 97.635% of the dialog from Swingers. "Oh, you're one of those guys, that has to quote every line from a movie or song," she casually jabs. No. Actually I really like talking about geopolitical issues and travel, but I can see I'm going to have to settle for talking about things that interest you - like "The Hills."

Note to self: do homework on the subtle differences of stitching between Rock Republic and Seven For All Mankind Jeans, in an attempt to feign interest.

Hurry Up

Dear Mother Nature,
You heartless wench. I know you're beyond menopause, but it would be great if you could kick your slow ass into high gear and rotate yourself on your axis around the sun. It's only the second week of January and I'm no longer willing to play the "prisoner" to my UES "jail." Winter is a transvestite hooker waiting on the L subway platform cleverly plotting to give me gonorrhea. I'm sick of seeing it.

K.Thx.Bye.
S.A.

"Either / Or"

This week's installment of "Either / Or" pits two of the greatest rock 'n roll bands to ever dawn leather pants against one another: Led Zeppelin vs. The Who - two bands from across the pond, that left their imprint on music for eternity. Coincidentally enough, neither band would recover from each respective drummer's death.

Led Zeppelin was great. Plant, Paige, Jones, and Bonham were synonymous with rock and roll. Zeppelin had a unique sound all their own, driven by Bonham's aggressive and heavy drums. Plant's voice would soon be linked with Paige's guitar riffs and solos for countless years. Album after album Zeppelin churned out mind-altering and innovative music, until Bonham's death in 1980. Zeppelin's B-sides blow my hair back and are light years ahead of anything that's been considered rock since. "Fool in the Rain" is my favorite song of all time (and that must not be overlooked). Do yourself a favor and take a little vacation next weekend, if you haven't been introduced to Led Zeppelin yet. Acquire (legally or illegally) Led Zeppelin I-IV, House of the Holy, Physical Graffiti, Presence, and In Through the Out Door (omit Coda), buy copious amounts of wine, LSD, and an O, lock yourself in your room and blast each of these albums. As an encore, watch Led Zeppelin the dvd. [Author's note: every single middle school dance of mine ended with "Stairway to Heaven" & both my braces and I loved every second of it.]

The Who - Pete Townshend, Roger Daltrey, John Entwistle, and Keith Moon. This group was rock 'n roll's equivalent of the 1992 USA Men's Olympic Basketball Team, dubbed "The Dream Team." "Quadrophenia" is probably one of the finest albums from cover to cover that has ever been made, regardless of any genre. Much like Zeppelin, The Who would never be the same after the death of Moon. Why are The Who the decisive winners here? They made destroying their instruments at live shows "the tits." The Who was also unique because their albums were intended to be unified stories, not just a collection of tracks. In the mood for another vacation? Fresh off of a Zeppelin weekend, procure My Generation, A Quick One, The Who Sell Out, Tommy, Who's Next, Quadrophenia, The Who by Numbers, and Who Are You (omit Face Dances, It's Hard, Endless Wire, and Then and Now). Plan to assemble and arrange the aforementioned menagerie of substances and paraphernalia and allow your eardrums to make passionate love to the music that is emitted from your utterly unworthy sound system.

It was neck and neck, and in many instances too close to call, but The Who emerges victorious. For Chrissake, they wrote a f*cking rock opera. Keep in mind there are no losers when you combine mass quantities of drugs and either/or both of these bands.

Book Review

Skinny Bitch, the accomplished writings of Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin, is a must-read. It's no wonder that such brilliant minds of our time, like Victoria "Posh" Beckham have been photographed in L.A., not with children in hand, but grasping Skinny Bitch. Freedman and Barnouin have masticated centuries of science pertaining, but not limited to: nutrition, health, and body chemistry; and masterfully regurgitate the relevant bits into the readers mouth for simple digestion, much like an eagle feeding its offspring. The two discuss the economics of eating and the conspiracy theories behind the attempts of certain food industries and special interest groups to actually sell food in a devilish plot to turn a profit, almost as if it was a missing scene in Oliver Stone's movie devoted to ulterior motives - JFK (1991). They provide a completely unbiased view of healthy eating, advocate positive and healthy lifestyle changes, and don't (wink wink) pimp the benefits of vegetarianism and veganism. The writing is sophisticated and should be considered along the same vein as Shakespearean prose, "Yeah, eating onions and garlic makes your breath smell like someone took a shit down your throat"(177). After reading the book it's easy to comprehend why it was a #1 New York Times Bestseller, let alone every UES girl's Bible. Really, who doesn't want to be a skinny bitch?

Skinny Bitch is just further justification for me never wanting to bring a tiny S.A. cherub into this backwards world. Not because it was written, but because it was so well received by the ignorant masses.

3.5 Years

I thought it could wait but I'm so pissed off right now. I had an entire blog to write, devoted to you. I've numbed the immeasurable regrets and thought of you in my mind with countless beers. I've covered myself in lovers to convince my body that you were nothing more than college, and now I'm past that. I had so much more to say, but like the memory of you, for the life of me I can't remember.

#1 Network

I am so thoroughly infuriated right now. ::Author takes deep breaths and counts to ten:: I've been a faithful Verizon Wireless customer since 2000. When anyone ever complained about how terrible their service was, I'd be the first to tout Verizon's reliable network. I like to think I had my hand in converting many T-mobile, Cingular (remember them), and AT&T users. But today...

I sit here typing this post in disgust. What has my loyalty gotten me? Nothing. I walked into a Verizon Wireless store today to resolve my current phone situation. The charger is deformed as a result of dropping it and the phone too many times. I take full responsibility. The following happened today. Please read it while I go sh*t a brick:

VzW: Can I help you?
S.A.: Yeah. Do you sell chargers for this Samsung?
VzW: Yeah.
S.A.: Could you see when my contract is up, so that I can skip spending money on this charger and just upgrade to a Blackberry?
VzW: February 8th.
S.A.: So what can we do?
VzW: Hold on, since it's only a month and you want to upgrade your service (looks at other Eurotrash douchebag who's mad at life because his college degree has him selling cell phones to the likes of me in Midtown and sees Eurotrash douche shake his head). Na. Sorry man.
S.A.: How much for the charger?
VzW: $40
S.A.: [laughing in his face] You serious (thinking I could buy this on the street for $7)?
Eurodtrash d-bag: Do you work in the area? If so 20% off accessories.
S.A.: Don't you think it's doesn't make business sense to make me wait to give you more money? I mean my plan is currently $50 a month and I'm willing to give you $80 a month?
VzW: Our return policy is 30 days.
S.A. So you want me to buy this overpriced charger and return it in 30 days at which time you will give me the credit towards a new phone?
Eurotrash d-bag: Yeah.

Thanks fellas for our little conversation. Instead of ever dealing with you assholes again, I will do something I vowed I'd never do again, buy a Steve Jobs product. You assholes drove me to buy the iPhone, just to spite you both. Despite what you may have been conditioned to think and market, the Blackberry Storm is an epic failure and hardly an answer to the iPhone.

To calm down from this little episode, I'm going to have to smoke Nate Newton amounts of weed: http://archives.cnn.com/2002/LAW/08/20/ctv.penalty.box/

Wilde, Oscar

"All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his." - Algernon, Act 1.

Reader Contribution

One of the subscribers to this blog, we'll call her Nicholas (in favor of keeping her anonymous), is the inspiration for this post. So Nicholas and I talk regularly, and during one of our first conversations I confessed that I enjoy reading, especially books that everyone else praises. Nicholas assumed I must spend a lot of money on books. "No, I just borrow books that people claim I have to read," was my response (read: frugal miser). Nicholas, the eternal student spending the majority of her life in school and recently graduated with a Masters, confessed that she loved reading as well, and the following dialog transpired (to the best of my recollection):

Nicholas: Do you do the Barnes & Noble policy?
S.A.: Yeah, in the past I've bought books there, but I prefer Borders. They send me more junk mail and coupons.
Nicholas: No. Barnes & Noble has a 7 day return policy [often overlooked]. So you buy a book and have 7 days to return the book to put the credit toward another book. No questions asked. So you buy a book once, and you essentially have access to every title.
S.A.: This works? They never give you they eye?
Nicholas: Works every time. Maybe it's because I'm a girl.

At that moment I knew what it felt like to find the Rosetta Stone. It's like I had been living years in the darkness, and then Nicholas showed me the light. I immediately had a soul mate, a girl who was literate, aware of details posted on the back of the receipts, and a student for her entire life.

Don't kid yourselves, we are living through a Depression. Nicholas and I just saved the three of you (readers) mucho dinero and provided you with hours of entertainment, so now you can have a break from your pedantic lives and enhance it with some culture. You're welcome!

His & Hers

So you've watched Ryan Seacrest usher in the New Year, vowed to never smoke again, committed to your new gym routine, and this will be the year that you convince someone of the opposite (or same) sex that it was your ex that was all sorts of Tom Cruise crazy. Do yourself a favor and heed the S.A.'s advice.

Girls: No guy ever slept with you because you had a Chanel bag. He would actually prefer if you had a knock-off from Canal Street because then he wouldn't think you were such a money grubbing wench. He spends enough money on beer at the bar and he isn't ready to make contributions to your purse and shoe collection. At least have the decency to lie to him and tell him it's fake.

Guys: She is not impressed that you have the high score in Dungeons & Dragons, or that you logged more hours playing PS3 than you did sleeping last year. She really isn't stoked that you dominated your fantasy football league. Her thought is, if you want to play with yourself then enjoy playing with yourself because you seem to be good at it.

Fresh Prince

Fact: Will Smith is a blockbuster movie star. However, for the life of me, I can't recall one great movie that he's starred in, save Wild Wild West. His earning power is not being called into question here and it's certainly unparalleled in the industry. The S.A. recognizes that Will Smith movies tend to gross billions of dollars the world over. So the S.A. has embarked on a journey to explain the driving force behind blockbuster movies that suck something awful starring Will Smith.

The S.A. is not a correspondent for Inside Edition or Hard Copy, but thinks this phenomenon can be simply explained in the context of the economics of the movie industry.

Picture this: the S.A. is a really powerful movie executive, and he wants to put out a movie that will ensure his great grandchildren will never have to work again. He orchestrates the creation of a movie with an uber-leading man/star in mind. The script is scrawled down. The premise could be deeply enthralling if the right actors are on board. I have this epiphany that I really could care less about the artistic integrity of the movie, because I'm about to get myself Richard Branson rich. I look at the film's budget of $55 million and devote $30 million dollars to the Fresh Prince. That leaves me with approximately $25 million left to spend. I realistically couldn't even go out and sign Macauley Culkin, Corey Feldman, and Paul Reisner for that type of money (keep in mind it's been years, arrests, drug addictions, marriages and subsequent divorces since they've been relevant in the industry). So we scratch the idea of telling a story with decent actors, a real character development plot. Instead I decide that we only have the money to have Will Smith and $10 million allocated to really insane CGI, like some friggin' aliens or mutants or something completely unmotivated like that.

The movie comes out, it's a real piece of garbage, but every white girl, that loves Will Smith's whitewashed persona, goes and drags everyone they know to the theaters. Now I've bought my own island and I'm laughing at everyone that went to see my blockbuster. I'm loving that I've sold out to become a bajillionare. Thanks Big Willy Style (my own personal ATM).

Note: S.A. is insanely jealous of Will Smith, that's why he's such a hater.

Child's Play

Setting: Hot summer day in Bay Ridge - Brooklyn, at the Fort Hamilton High School Park, during 2007. The S.A. is "running game" on the basketball courts, and is witness to the following:

A young boy is a spider-monkey-in-training performing countless feats of strength on the Jungle Gym. [Mr. Softee's signature jingle rouses all of the children in the park causing a dispersion and a mad scramble to muster $2.50, which in many cases meant the children nagging their parents.]

Spider Monkey: Mommy, can I have some ice cream?
Mother: The Ice Cream Man only plays that song when he's out of ice cream. Besides, I brought you carrots and a juice box. [Spider monkey drops his head in disappointment, and is puzzled to see other children grinning ear to ear while indulging in a Sponge Bob Square Pants pop.]

Truth be told, the S.A. was paying attention and considers this a brilliant move (albeit terribly cruel). He has filed it away and will consider unveiling this tactic when he needs to outwit his future spawn.

True Friend

"Just finished watching judgement night, de la soul, fallen, you f*cking hairy f*ck." -Brendan, Wed., Dec. 31, 1:44 AM; currently engaged, unemployed, and resides in small town, CT.

"Either / Or"

"Either / Or" is a weekly segment devoted to the comparison of "things." For example, Coke or Pepsi? Then the author of S.A. will prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, why he never chooses incorrectly.

This week's "Either / Or" is centered around which group/band is best suited for an altered state of mind. Either Bob Marley and the Wailers or Pink Floyd?

While Floyd's place in stoner history is undeniable with the Dark Side of the Moon & Wizard of Oz synchronization, very few artists have been so convincing while advocating for an illegal substance as Marley. Marley was a constant champion of the benefits of things that came naturally from the earth; among other movements political and otherwise(score one for the good guys). We, here at S.A., would be remiss if we didn't recognize Marley as one of the most influential artists in crossing Reggae over into the mainstream while simultaneously boosting the sales of Funyuns in towns across the country. While Marley has been dead for some time, his music and affinity for herbal remedy lives on in each lyric. Besides, every time I hear "Get Up, Stand Up" or "No Woman, No Cry" it feels like I'm immediately transported to Jamaica. Where in Jamaica, you ask? Uh, you know, by the beach.

Recap: Marley edges Floyd out by a sloppily made peanut butter and fluff sandwich in 9 out of 10 dorm rooms in the continental U.S.

Yellow Fever

It's the first day of 2009. I've been conscious since approximately 8:50 AM, battling my body as it exacts revenge on me for guzzling countless fluid ounces of LaBatt Blue Lite (Happy New Year). I've already made a visit to Dunkin' Donuts and the Asian fruit stand across the street. In an attempt to keep my eyes shielded from any direct sunlight and keep my migraine at bay by staying secluded in my apartment all day, I've made a conscious decision to devote my day to movies.

I just watched one of the funniest movies I've seen in a long time and I bet you have never heard of it. Ping Pong Playa is the funniest cultural comedy since Don't Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood. Ok, not really, because Don't Be a Menace was a parody. Ping Pong Playa is the new My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Substitute lamb for ping pong and you've got comedic brilliance in cinematic form.

A young man, Chris (C-Dub) Wang, shunned his Chinese heritage in the name of "keeping it real" only to return to his roots and find his own identity as he wins the Golden Cock Ping Pong Tournament. Jessica Yu and Jimmy Tsai team up to make this hysterical cultural satire. Knowing that these two people exist and have made a movie like this makes me want to either: a) consider not taking Excedrin for this massive migraine as a form of self-inflicted punishment for not being the person that created Ping Pong Playa, or b) pretend like these two geniuses never existed, so that I might be able to sleep at night knowing nobody on the face of the earth is smarter than me and could possibly have made this film.

I'm putting everyone on notice. This blog will serve as the "tipping point" for Ping Pong Playa and Jessica Yu and Jimmy Tsai will no longer be able to ignore our influence and be forced to thank me and the three of you, that read this blog, personally for starting the Ping Pong Playa epidemic. Get on the China Express and go see this movie or at least grab a pirated version from the internetz.