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.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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).
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, January 12, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
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.
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