...as well as my testicles. Together, they are known as Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.
Thank you.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Have you had your Mickey's today?
I don't know who markets 40's, or how they do it, but I want in.
Drink Olde English! The sophistication of being British, with the laid-back feel of drinking out of a brown paper sack!
Want a drink that will fuck you up and vaguely remind you of G.I. Joe while you vom' in the gutter? Drink King Kobra!!
Nothing says you've made it like Country Club Malt Liquor!!!
This drink is so good, you'll want to STEEL it, and keep extra RESERVEs!!!!!@$@
...I'm so ashamed.
Drink Olde English! The sophistication of being British, with the laid-back feel of drinking out of a brown paper sack!
Want a drink that will fuck you up and vaguely remind you of G.I. Joe while you vom' in the gutter? Drink King Kobra!!
Nothing says you've made it like Country Club Malt Liquor!!!
This drink is so good, you'll want to STEEL it, and keep extra RESERVEs!!!!!@$@
...I'm so ashamed.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Something I don't get...
People who wear sports jerseys all the time, even while studying in the library. I don't wear my leather gimp suit all the time, just when I'm with Ben.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Sal and Me
Acclaimed novelist Salman Rushdie came to Chapman last night. I told my friends I was going to the Q&A that he was having. "Wow," my friend Bobby said, "are you going to ask him a question?"
Hell. Yes.
An hour or so later, I was in Chapman's Waltmar Theater, listening to him answer the students' questions. I stood up, and said, "Sir Rushdie. You are a renowned novelist, father of two, and Knight of the Realm." He sat there, looking very much like a wise old owl, and waited for my question. "In light of all that," I continued, "Would you like to grab a beer?"
Silence in the theater. Then, "God yes. Let's get out of here." He got up and walked quickly to the door, eager to get out of there.
I met him outside. "So," he said, "where are we going?"
"I know just the place," I told him. So I took him to O's.
O's, or "O'Hara's" for the uninitiated, is like an Irish Mos Eisley. There are football helmets on the walls, people stare you down, and they don't take kindly to yuppie college kids and persecuted British novelists. Rushdie grabbed a vacant booth while I bought a pitcher.
"What beer is this?" he asked.
"Pabst."
"We don't have that in England."
"Really? But it won the Blue Ribbon."
Rushdie and I drank deeply for the next several hours. I was hoping to pick his brain about breaking into the writing biz, but I guess he needed to get some stuff off his chest. For about an hour, he went on about the misfortunes that fame had brought on him. "It is a Devil's Muse, is fame," he said. I nodded and refilled his glass.
We were ejected at closing time, and pondered what to do next. To tell you the truth, I had a test the next morning and kind of wanted to hit the hay, but when Sal told me he had never seen the Pacific Ocean, I told him I'd take him. "But first, we gotta hit up De Anda." He gave me a puzzled look, but I told him he'd understand in time. We piled in the car (Sal's bodyguard drove, don't worry) and headed to De Anda, where I introduced them both to Orange County's finest burritos and horchata. Sal and me were in the backseat, and I shouted directions to Bruce to get us to Corona Del Mar.
We got lost a couple of times, so by the time we got to the top of the hill that overlooks the ocean, the sun was just cresting over the Pacific. We got out of the car and watched. After a few minutes, I noticed that he was quietly crying. I patted his back, and left my hand on his shoulder consolingly.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"I know." And that's when he said the words I hadn't allowed myself to hope for, "Graham," he said, "I'm going to write my next book about you."
"Thanks, Sal. Thanks."
And that's how Salman Rushdie and I watched the sun rise on a beautiful Tuesday morning.
Hell. Yes.
An hour or so later, I was in Chapman's Waltmar Theater, listening to him answer the students' questions. I stood up, and said, "Sir Rushdie. You are a renowned novelist, father of two, and Knight of the Realm." He sat there, looking very much like a wise old owl, and waited for my question. "In light of all that," I continued, "Would you like to grab a beer?"
Silence in the theater. Then, "God yes. Let's get out of here." He got up and walked quickly to the door, eager to get out of there.
I met him outside. "So," he said, "where are we going?"
"I know just the place," I told him. So I took him to O's.
O's, or "O'Hara's" for the uninitiated, is like an Irish Mos Eisley. There are football helmets on the walls, people stare you down, and they don't take kindly to yuppie college kids and persecuted British novelists. Rushdie grabbed a vacant booth while I bought a pitcher.
"What beer is this?" he asked.
"Pabst."
"We don't have that in England."
"Really? But it won the Blue Ribbon."
Rushdie and I drank deeply for the next several hours. I was hoping to pick his brain about breaking into the writing biz, but I guess he needed to get some stuff off his chest. For about an hour, he went on about the misfortunes that fame had brought on him. "It is a Devil's Muse, is fame," he said. I nodded and refilled his glass.
We were ejected at closing time, and pondered what to do next. To tell you the truth, I had a test the next morning and kind of wanted to hit the hay, but when Sal told me he had never seen the Pacific Ocean, I told him I'd take him. "But first, we gotta hit up De Anda." He gave me a puzzled look, but I told him he'd understand in time. We piled in the car (Sal's bodyguard drove, don't worry) and headed to De Anda, where I introduced them both to Orange County's finest burritos and horchata. Sal and me were in the backseat, and I shouted directions to Bruce to get us to Corona Del Mar.
We got lost a couple of times, so by the time we got to the top of the hill that overlooks the ocean, the sun was just cresting over the Pacific. We got out of the car and watched. After a few minutes, I noticed that he was quietly crying. I patted his back, and left my hand on his shoulder consolingly.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"I know." And that's when he said the words I hadn't allowed myself to hope for, "Graham," he said, "I'm going to write my next book about you."
"Thanks, Sal. Thanks."
And that's how Salman Rushdie and I watched the sun rise on a beautiful Tuesday morning.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Think About It
In a restaurant of infinite possibility, it would be possible to order a spaghetti-wrapped Fudgsicle while drinking that Hi-C drink from the 90s that had Slimer from "Ghostbusters" on the bottle while listening to a fat albino kid sing "Revolution".
I would tip at least 20-25% at this restaurant.
I would tip at least 20-25% at this restaurant.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Waterboarding
Mike: ...No dude, waterboarding isn't torture.
Me: Seriously. I would waterboard an infant.
Mike: Wait, what?
Me: No, for serious. Like, if an infant was the only one who knew where the Easter Eggs were hidden... I'd get those eggs.
Mike: You're sick.
Me: Maybe.
The scary thing is -- this is an average conversation.
Me: Seriously. I would waterboard an infant.
Mike: Wait, what?
Me: No, for serious. Like, if an infant was the only one who knew where the Easter Eggs were hidden... I'd get those eggs.
Mike: You're sick.
Me: Maybe.
The scary thing is -- this is an average conversation.
Monday, February 25, 2008
'Scuse me while I ROCK YOUR SHIT
Ladders have no place in a world run by wiener doggs. Know what does a have a place, though? Tube socks.
Them fuckers must be hell of toasty if you're a frosty wiener dogg.
Them fuckers must be hell of toasty if you're a frosty wiener dogg.
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