That's Just The Booze Talking

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

You Wanna Go For a Ride, Neighbor?



Holy shit, this is awesome. This company called Wanderlust Media has rolled out NavTones, a service that programs celebrity voices directly into your car’s GPS navigator. One of the options is the disembodied and predictably manic voice of Dennis Hopper . (Seriously, click that goddamned link. It’s better than Christmas, your birthday and that episode of M*A*S*H where Hawkeye thinks a baby is a chicken.) This makes us wish we hadn’t crashed our car after getting drunk in Bob Villa’s hot tub that one summer.***

Apropos of absoSmurfly nothing, we recently came up with a fantastic idea for an invention. You know those ticket dispensers they have at the deli, the ones that let you know when it’s your turn to place your pimento loaf order or whatever? The idea is to have the same machines bolted to the two-seater tables in restaurants, only instead of numbers, there will be a different topic listed on each pull ticket. So you’re sitting there drawing a blank and your date is like playing with her mashed potatoes, and rather than rack your brains for something to say, you simply tear off the first ticket and viola!, you have yourself a conversation starter: “Say, Marjorie, what do you think about Wittgenstein’s theory of epistemology as it applies to language?” Or: “Hey, Jo Jo, do you think monkeys can ever be taught the basics of ventriloquism?” Or: “See here, Mordecai, I absolutely refute your contention that there is a secret race of Mustache People that live beneath the surface of the moon.”

Oh, fuck off.

***This is 100 percent true. Please note that Bob Villa was not actually around at the time. We would not get into a hot tub with the likes of Bob Villa. No, what happened was we sort of let ourselves into Bob Villa’s not-quite completed home on the island paradise of, um, let’s say Amity, because we knew there was a fully functioning Jacuzzi on the construction site and because we needed to find someplace to go with the nice Norwegian girl who picked us up after our bartending shift. That business about watching what you drink while you’re submerged in a hot tub is ANCIENT NAVAJO WISDOM, because Godfrey Jaysus, we could barely get it together to steal all the towels before we staggered out to our car the next morning. Everything was fine until the fire hydrant strolled out into the road, which caused the front wheel on the passenger side to be rudely and unceremoniously detached from the rest of the automobile. Luckily, we escaped detection by the police (who were probably still sleeping), thereby allowing our boon companion sufficient time to roll in with the wrecker. Anybody who wants to buy a 1981 BMW 320i with just 60,000 miles on it, go ask someone else because our car is now just an angry ghost that goes booooooooooooo at the bottom of some godforsaken Massachusetts scrapheap.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Oh Shit, There’s a Horse in the Hospital



Yeah, we know you don’t necessarily come sniffing around here for this sort of thing––frankly we don’t know why you’re here or what you’re after––but we’d be remiss if we didn’t note that Clinton Portis is turning into Dr. Octagon .

Also, and we can’t stress this enough: For the love of all that is sweet and holy in this world, would you please watch 12 Oz. Mouse (on Cartoon Network’s late-night “Adult Swim” block, midnight to 12:30 a.m.)? We don’t necessarily watch a hell of a lot of TV, but we just saw the pilot and the verdict is holy fuck. There’s this mouse, see, who drives a cab, drinks a lot, engages in the occasional bank heist, drinks some more, hangs out with a psychotically jabbering chinchilla, drinks way more, works for a shark, drinks still more … and that’s just the first five minutes of the show. We were a little fucked up when we watched it the first time, so we watched it again in the office and it made even less sense. Glorious.

Oh and: Florida police arrested two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders after a bar brawl which was precipitated by the fact that the women were (allegedly) having sex in a bathroom stall . After the news hit the AP wire this morning, the Panthers’ official Web site received 40 million unique hits, and was thereby incapacitated. In other news, after reading the story about the brawling lesbian cheerleaders, we just totally (and somewhat inadvertently) created a how-you-say “Laundry Situation” here in our pants. Sorry.

Story from this guy , who has (seemingly) brought back his NFL picks. The people have spoken.

Autumn Has Caught Us in Our Summer Wear



One of the more interesting features of our organic affliction is that we tend to get almost unbearably manic whenever things are even just slightly OK. It’s as if the serotonin levels in our brain are so pleased by whatever tiny bit of good fortune passes our way that the stuff just floods the zone, making us all blissed out, like a hippie without the bad smell and the shitty record collection. On the downside though, not so much for us but for anyone who happens to be around us at these intervals, we can never shut the fuck up once we’re strapped into the car and the psychic rollercoaster makes its inexorable way up the track.

We also get involved in a whole lot of poorly ideated “projects,” things we undertake with great enthusiasm and energy but then give up on as soon as the disco party in our grey matter shuts down and its back to moping around like Eeyore on muscle relaxants. (Parenthetically, we sort of wished the same thing would’ve happened to Alan Parsons whenever he decided to get his fucking Project off the ground because that song about his being the eye in the sky is the worst thing that ever happened to anyone with a functioning pair of ears.)

Anywho, It was in the grips of this mania, triggered in large part by the season––we love us some autumn––and by a recent string of relatively static-free interactions with our Special Naked Friend, that found us tramping around Prospect Park Saturday in a bid to Look At Leaves and Interact With a Swan. And while this was a very pleasant way to spend the afternoon, we gradually came to understand that the non-stop, Marty-Scorcese-after-a-double-espresso-enema-and-a- Last-Waltz-with-‘Tina was really starting to abrade our sweet girl’s nerves, to the point where she started to forget her genteel Southern upbringing and started telling us to please just shut the fuck up already.

The last straw came when we came across a shabby gent who was, and there is absolutely no other verb to describe this, lurking in a bush, googly eyes fixed on a group of children throwing crackers at some dirty geese.

“Holy God,” we noted. “Look at that fucker. You know how some people have those word-of-the-day calendars on their desks? That guy has a felony-of-the-day calendar. He wakes up, tears off a new sheet, and it’s like, Monday the seventh. Rape day. Some days he gets up and he’s all, oops, looks like an arson day. Better get my asbestos mittens out of hock. Or, look at that: Aggravated assault day. Alrighty. OK, Mr. broomstick, we got some skulls to crack. Look sharpish.”

After about five minutes of this kind of thing, which somehow evolved into a discussion about a TV pilot we hope to produce about a kitten who turns into the world’s smallest and least consequential werewolf, SNF made us a deal.

“If y’all can keep your mouth shut for the next ten minutes, when we get back to your apartment I will personally give you the best [redacted] you’ve ever had in your entire life,” she said.

Well. You can see what we were up against. Even though in situations like this the mouth tends to work independently of any voluntary cortical function, we are certainly not going to do anything to endanger the prospect of our being on the receiving end of the world’s greatest [redacted]. And we were so good for the first eight minutes, doing our best to concentrate on the leaves and the sun and all that nature-type shit.

And then the guy on the unicycle rode by, triggering a gusher of vitriol and invective that frightened some starlings, and caused a few Park Slope mommy and daddy types to turn around, displaying the pursed lips of disapproval they usually reserve for when someone neglects to validate little Dylan or Morgan’s feelings at the food co-op. Thanks, unicycle douche, whoever you are. Your stupid single-wheeled device cost us a [redacted]. Fuckass.

Then there’s this business here:



Take a good look at the fake firefighter/Halloween rapist and answer this question: Why is Albert Hammond Jr. going around sexually assaulting women? We get that he’s the second-ugliest dude in The Strokes, but come on already. Can’t Fab get Drew to introduce him to some Hollywood talent? Can’t he just Google Ultragrrrl and have his dance card filled with twenty-something hipsterettes faster than you can say “I caught the drip from the toilets at Misshapes.”

Seriously, if this nasty bit of business is going to delay the release of The Strokes III: The Songs Remain The Same, people are going to be upset.