The main reason this blog exists is so that various projects are provided a “home” - a place where they can be explained in a way that might be annoyingly self-involved, but explained nonetheless. You don’t necessarily get that luxury posting things on a blog or website that isn’t yours. I mean you can do that, but then you’re just making everything about yourself on a platform that isn’t necessarily about you. Which is like going to some food fair with all your hip friends but ignoring everything they have to say, just so that you could further pat yourself on the back for knowing about the fried oysters and for buying that sweet satchel. Not sure why there needs to be a satchel, but I guess it’s one of the few things that would effectively accentuate this hypothetical dude’s sheer terribleness. 

I’m starting to make videos. They are at one hand strategic (they seem like a #dece thing to be doing), but on the other half fun and a great opportunity to sharpen my pop culture reference prowess whilst crushing the flat-brim game. I’m gonna be putting out a new video approx every Thursday, each of which will break down some facet of society that probably doesn’t merit much more breaking down, but will be executed in an easily digestible, inventive, and slightly humorous way. The format I’m going with is “5 Steps To” — as shown by the video below, which talks about what people say on Sunday morning after spending $35 on alcohol they wish they never bought. 

Note: The sound on this one is a bit off, but that’ll be fixed in future videos — the one coming out this Thursday was filmed in succession to this one so the sound will be of the same “eh” quality, but a mic will be purchased to offset the current (Marc) Ecko.  

The humor that I’m going for in these videos is that which isn’t so much funny as it is true — meaning that the joke isn’t so much “look, I farted,” as it is “people fart, and that’s kinda funny.” In other words, the intent is to point out all the ridiculous things we do, because everything we do is most certainly ridiculous. The fact that I wrote “write tumblr post explaining video,” and am opting to do this instead of getting a proper night’s sleep (#grindneverstops #lookhowhardImworkingIdeserveatrophy) is as good an example as any.  

All in all, the aim of this project is to pump out a consistently enjoyable and familiar product; one that will definitely get better with time and might end up being something that, hopefully, is worth watching on a consistent basis. It’s clearly quite far away from being subperb, but part of the fun will be hitting the video gym week in and week out.*

*While this is a mind-bogglingly toolish thing to say, telling people about how hard you’re working is a necessary evil of 2014 life. Hence, the fact that this blog post is an actually acceptable thing to be doing.   

Big ups to Big Joe, the Jack-of-all-Shephards who has been very crucial in this whole process. Did a great job with the direction here.

After reading this and watching the video above, you may have half a mind to never visit this page again. If that’s the case, I wouldn’t hold it against you. Though the somewhat reformed 2011 Britney Spears might.*

*second Britney Spears joke made on the internet today. Big day, but far from a career high. 

Pulling Out All The Stops

It’s been an interesting year. I don’t want to be one of those people on social media who are like “look at all this great shit I did, now pat me on the back so I can keep convincing myself that I matter!" I mean of course I do, but that means spending a good 2 hours doing nothing but compulsive screen hawking. For those "big life reflection" statuses you can’t really breathe easy until you’ve got 20 likes in the bag. At least

That said, 2013 was a big one. Took some steps in a direction that might be positive. Left a solid job for a new one that has an impressively #hungry energy around it. Getting up on stage. Bombing, surviving, killing, surviving, bombing. Figuring out how to make it all work. Not having a clue. Enjoying the “dollar pizza phase.” Writing vague sentences about self-discovery that are pretty impossible not to make fun of. At this rate, I’m probably one step away from walking around saying things like “it’s all part of the plan.”

This comedy world; standup, writing, and other autoeroticism posing as #art seems very much into paying dues. In order to be someone, you have to have been being someone for years. Spending night after night writing dumb as shit thoughts into a google doc (or tumblr draft) that maybe morph into something. An idea for a bit, a premise for an article, a specific reference totally aimed at someone you’re looking to impress for networking purposes, but done in a way that appears to be organic. You have to be willing to work. You have to be willing to sweat. You have to be extremely willing to tell as many people as humanly possible about how much you’re willing to work and sweat. 

You have to be a self-aware, self-promotional, self-parody. And you have to be really good at all of that. And then you have to be ten times better than whatever really good is. Follow me on twitter

This is really me just writing a post to signal that I’m attempting to come back onto this medium. Seems like a good move. I can pretend like I’m saying all this stuff from my heart, when in reality I’m just trying to figure out how I can manipulate the medium into helping me with my career. Though those two things are one in the same, really. Any sort of creative shit seems to be about toying with the boundaries of truth. No lie.   

Anyway, just came to say hello. Solveig reference, I guess. Calculated is the new organic.  

Nobody Likes You When You’re 23, But That’s Probably How It Should Be

I’m one of those people who never wastes a chance to tell others I grew up in the epitome of Long Island suburbia, so naturally I remember the first time I heard Blink-182’s now immortal hit, “What’s My Age Again?” I was nine, sitting in the backseat of a minivan with one of my best friends at the time. He, more musically inclined, was pumped the fuck up about a new CD he had just got for his birthday—something called “Now, That’s What I Call Music! 3.”

Like most overly impressionable kids, I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually like the song. Twenty-three seemed like another life, and I’m fairly certain my innocent and sheltered 4th grader self wasn’t exactly down with “watching TV with no pants on.” But Blink became the sort of thing you were supposed to like at the time, so I figured there was something wrong with me if didn’t totally buy in—it was like saying how dope “Billy Madison” and “The Waterboy” were, or laughing your head off after every loud armpit fart.

Middle school brought a pretty heated Good Charlotte phase, and the early high school years were all about the now non-substantial mid 2000’s rap—Unk’s “Walk it Out,” The Game’s “How We Do,” and our basketball team’s main jam, the Terror Squad’s “Lean Back.” Blink was always kind of around though, particularly as the themes became more applicable. “Feeling This” hitting the Madden 2004 soundtrack (the one where Mike Vick was stupid good) was a pretty big deal, and liking Blink became even more important after their 2005 indefinite hiatus. Sure, the internet wasn’t totally around to manufacture nostalgia via shit like “14 Punk-Rock Reasons Why Blink-182 was the Band of Our Generation,” but we managed to figure it out anyway—liking, even worshipping Blink became some sort of strange universal testament to growing up “where we grew up.” I’d find out a few years later that this all had to do with a bunch of media theory bullshit like semiotics and the encoding/decoding theory, but even those old guys were wrong—after all, they didn’t grow up in Smithtown. How could they be right?

Over the years, I have remained relatively close to the owner of “Now That’s What I Call Music! 3.” A lot of this has to do with the fact that we’re neighbors, we both have parents who enjoy talking about college applications, and the similar caliber schools we went to have rendered some “no way!!” (yet, predictable) mutual friend connections. We now both live within 10 blocks of each other in New York City, he happens to live with one of my better friends from college, and my roommate happens to be working for the same company that he is. I’ve just gotten a Facebook invite to his 23rd Birthday Party.

The funny thing is though, I rarely see this kid—we have relatively different friends, we only have so much free time, and our various pursuits of trying to #makeit don’t really intersect. We make plans to hang out, but a lot of times they don’t exactly make it past the “we totally should” barrier. And when they do, one of us (me) will usually find a way to not text back, or say “I’m there in 15”  and then never show up. We have plenty to say to each other when we do hang out, but the infrequency in which we do renders the never-ending carousel of jokes about people we know the predominant conversational fodder.

I was recently rehashing weekend adventures with a friend from college that I do sorta hang out with, and after recounting one of those “only in NYC” stories where a strange series of circumstances led him to making a decision he wasn’t 100% proud of, he tells me that he’s come to the conclusion that “all 23 year-olds are sorta assholes.” I think to myself that 1999 was fourteen years ago, but he’s exactly right. 

Now, to take a moment to incorporate big-picture ideas into things that our demographic cares about, I will consult Golden Age Comedian Louis CK, who makes a pretty funny yet real point about people who are 20:

I’m prejudiced against twenty year olds. Because, nineteen you’re still your parents’ fault. Twenty, you’re technically an adult, but you still haven’t done anything.

Twenty year olds at their jobs are always like, “This job sucks.” Yes, that’s why we gave it toyou! Because you’re twenty. You haven’t done anything. You’ve just been sucking up resources, you’ve just been taking food and love and education and iPods, and taking it and judging—“I like that,” and “Oh, that sucks.” You’re like a big orange on a tree that’s rotting, and the tree is like, “Get off!” and you’re hanging on, “I don’t want to go.” If you’re twenty, you definitely have never done a thing for anybody.

Twenty-three though, and you don’t necessarily have that luxury of hanging on. “Real Life,” despite being the name of a recent facebook album, is decidedly a thing. Yes, the job you take right out of college could just be something “you give a shot,” but if you look at the kids a few years older, that never really seems to happen. Like Red at Shawshank, you become “institutionalized” — privy to a certain lifestyle, the nuances of which become increasingly hard to understand for people not in your same boat. You then develop different reflexive tastes, wants, desires. You prefer the trail with moguls, they like the one with that dope jump.

Trails that may intersect at some point, but ski mountains don’t always do that. We’re at the point where life is demanding that we weed out certain things—friends, hobbies, shitty lifestyle habits—and start embracing other things—waking up early, realities of a career, and for some, even settling down and ceding to permanent monogamy. Compromises need to be made, and compromises inevitably hurt at least one party, if not both. And because you’re really compromising for the first time, this is also the first time people are going to get seriously offended. No longer can we really go back on this shit. Congratulations, we’re officially all sorta assholes. 

I have tickets to Louis CK the night of my friend’s 23rd birthday party, so I probably won’t end up going. I guess this is growing up. 

Who The Hell Are These Girls Dating?

Today, I discovered the blog known as Fuck! I’m In My 20’s. Given my general ish, the lack of prior knowledge on this shit is astoundingly inexcusable. It’s really deserving of an analogy, but that’d be like saying this girl is the equivalent of some well-known, legitimized entity. And to get completely real for a second, that’s just pushing the envelope way too far, way too fast. Who are you, what have you done, and insert third somewhat existential crisis-ey line that would make for a solid early 2000’s pop song.  

This is not to say the blog isn’t very well done—it is. All things equal/ceritus paribus/we all took economics so lets make a meme and a pictograph, its a HIGHLY impressive take on the narrative that seems to have encapsulated every girl from 20-27 who thinks she has a personality and/or something unique to offer to the world. Very Lena Dunham-esque, a phrase which is essentially the epitome of what this whole movement is aspiring for—to be the “indie” voice of a generation that only the cool kids know about.

The indie part is of course necessary for preserving creative integrity, thus enabling a persona to be constructed based solely on artistic authenticity. In non-shitty “look how smart I sound speak,” this means that this shit is all about being SO relatable that you become famous. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy that’s ultimately doomed (once someone “makes it,” it’s only a matter of time until they start amassing a scary amount of twitter followers, inevitably leading to informal twitter conversations with other rising stars and/or established celebrities.) Whether or not these are contrived or not, I really don’t give a shit—being part of “that world” is now who you are to the point that you need to let everyone else know. Not saying it’s a good or bad thing, but it’s the career-stage equivalent of moving high school lunch tables.

I’m not gonna act like I know exactly how being a 20something goes for these types of “Girls,” but there’s something so glaringly ingrained within the overall narrative that isn’t so much disturbing as it is…well, it just needs to be called out. The fact that these girls spend half their time complaining about non-existant relationships, how they can’t find a good guy let alone a semi-redeemable one, and how everyone who they’ve ever so much as looked at the right way treats acts the exact opposite way they want to.

How much, for lack of a better word, they claim that guys suck. 

To this general thesis, harken to the following rebuttal:

Things and shit and look, we’re going through such a weird time in our lives. Sick. But as much as it’s “so true,” and “the story of my life,” integrity is also kind of cool. Not saying that myself and the rest of the male race is cool. The amount that we suck is nearly unfathomable, particularly our penchant for thinking we know everything. But why the fuck would you think something and not believe it? It’s refreshing to have a bit of confidence. Radiate confidence. Teddy Geiger.

Obscure, but well known enough to be legitimately adored as an off-the-beaten path pop-culture reference. Original, dawg. 

A 22-Year-Old Writes His Will

I moved into New York City two weeks ago. The homie commonly know as Zeitgeist would lead you to believe that I’m telling you this due to some conflated sense of self-importance, a trend primarily brought about by getting pumped the fuck up by every new twitter follower. This is of course, shamelessly true.

(Note: I used the word “shameless” in that last sentence, because people who acknowledge themselves in self-deprecating fashion think the self-deprecation gets them off the hook for being douchey. Of course, it ironically does the opposite.

In other words, telling you of my recent move is a confirmation that despite being a postgrad in the real world who has no clue, I am also on the right track. Obviously this is beyond crucial, and is the sole reason why there’s no point in instagramming your tapas unless they are sitting in your “look, I can’t afford things”* kitchen—a nice foreground to your decidedly meh window-side view that gets much more Facebook likes than it aesthetically merits because MANHATTAN. It also sets the stage nicely for me to tell you about a mundane occurrence, that is obviously a huge deal because it occurred on the elevator of my apartment building in New York City, the surefire sign that I am a 22 year old, who, despite being on the right track, is figuring everything out and doesn’t have a clue. 

INT. Elevator, Stuyvesant Town - Day  

Me: Dawg, I have all this change that I’m saving up in my change jar. 

Roommate: You talk about this change jar a lot 

Me: Not only is such obsession a tremendous exhibition of Judaism, but it also underscores that while I would one day like to have a cabinet with spices that no one ever uses, being fiscally irresponsible is a hobby I cannot currently enjoy. Overall, a win-win

Roommate: Truth. The East Village

Me: What? 

Roommate: It is a requirement for people our age to randomly mention vibrant neighborhoods in the cities we have just moved to.

Me: Oh word. But this change jar. I’m thinking either I cash out at the end of each calendar year, or wait like 30 years and go on a dope sauce vacation. I really wanna do a second one, but what if I die? I know that we have all the time in the world, but some of us are unfortunately winners of the reverse lottery, so its important to savor every day and all that good shit.

Roommate: What if you write a will? That way it wouldn’t go to waste

Me: Yea, but that still doesn’t solve the problem of ME, Ricky Bobby’s racing automobile, capitalizing on using the change.

Roommate: But that’s where you couldn’t be more wrong, my friend. You could BLOG your will!


Roommate: You’re welcome. Looks like you have a date with that desk of yours that is way too nice for you to have at this stage of life, but isn’t because of helicopter parents.

                                                      CUT TO                                                            

Me, Desk, Now

Homies, this is my Will. Also known as my Smith, my I.AM, or my Nye the Science Guy.

I am accomplishing two things here. One, if I do happen to die, this shit will go VIRAL and I would get so many more twitter followers up in death-land. Two, I can underscore how I don’t have many possessions at the mo’, but the little things in life ya digg. 

Yea Hi. Ok. Here We Go: 

Change Jar: 

My Jar of Judaism, also known as a green lysol jar with a fuck ton of change it, goes to my good friend Paul Stoltz. As a person who is into mundane things that are actually not mundane, he is perhaps the only person who would treat said change jar with such undying and unnecessary devotion. He is also currently watching Breaking Bad, a television show that I am required to mention at least once per post as mandated by blogging law. 

Backpack With Patches of Every Country I Went To While Abroad In Europe 

Nothing screams “look, I am an individual” more than this. Therefore, I would like it to be buried alongside me. 

Dillon Panthers Trucker Hat 

To Christopher Gudgeon, Ben Goldhaber, and Ari Khuner-Haber. All are former college roommates who share a collective passion for Dillon Panthers Football.

Furthermore, because including them in my Ferrell is the ultimate testament of BFFs, I now don’t have to attend one of their bachelor parties should it seem unappealing. 


Will be split equally amongst the children of my two siblings. Being that they wouldn’t know me, they wouldn’t feel guilty about not reading them. Anyone else would just have to waste time out of some dumb sense of obligation that I am probably exaggerating. 

Artsy as fuck picture collage 

On my wall, I have a picture collage of things I find particularly dope sauce, inspirational, or attractive. Essentially the same idea as the wall of legends, except I had mine before Angry Boys. I also listened to “Levels” before everyone else.

I bequeath this to Kelsface Cohen, mostly for the priceless reaction that is sure to occur when she reads this. 

A Sweatshirt of Choice 

To Catherine Walsh, because she asked nicely. There are many to choose from, so its important to choose wisely here. 

Ripped Georgetown Basketball T Shirt 

 To Modern Nightclub, who would likely never accept this, because stooping to one’s level defeats the entire purpose of nightclubs  

Dope Sauce Light, That Looks Like A Tripod 

There’s a few options here, but all of them are kind of weird and essentially networking plays. 

Booeymongers Sandwich Card

To Justin Eisenband, who likes this particular sandwich establishment more than people who unbutton one too many buttons like cocaine. I’m two sandwiches away from a free one, so this is a really good deal

The Optioning Rights To This Will 

To Evan Karr, for coming up with the tremendous idea to do this will

All Other Possessions 

The obligatory, yet not necessarily less meaningful word up to the fam. Marty, Jen, Nolie, and Alyssa. Not only are they significantly cooler than your family, but they also never eat dinner on time, and drink more coffee per capita than 99.9% of the world’s population

**Those Tapas were likely $18, and definitely not enough food. 

"You should do your job, that’s what I’m trying to say. You should do your job, because it’s your job. Cause you’re the person standing there, doing that thing. So just do it! Do the shit out of it! Why wouldn’t you?! It drives me crazy when some one has a job they don’t like so they do it shitty. What kind of response is that? If you do it shitty, isn’t it worse for you?"

Louis C.K. 

Flo Rida And The Tragedy of Artistic Complacency

There’s this new song out by Flo Rida called “Whistle.” It starts out in a rather refreshing manner, meaning that it doesn’t really sound like a Flo Rida song. The acousticy background gives us a glimpse of evolutionary potential, and perhaps a departure from the never-ending versed torture chamber Flo Rida songs often bring with them. 

45 seconds in: Shit, nevermind. 

I view this as a musical tragedy. It’s clear that the song is—or claims to be—trying to do something different. Though when it comes down to it, the departure is really just Flo Rida saying “Look guys, I could sing over a guitar for 15 seconds, I’m evolving as an artist! Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.”

And the regularly scheduled programming is the musical equivalent of CSI. Meaning, Flo’s incredible popularity is more derived from familiarity and existence as the lowest common denominator than it is actual respect. Its popular because you know what you’re getting with a Flo Rida song. People like to know what they’re getting. That’s why Applebees and TGI Fridays both exist. 

Flo Rida’s evolution as an artist represents a strange sense of musical complacency. Low and Sugar, his two breakout hits, offered something new and refreshing. I was never particularly a fan of Low, but I appreciated what it did. There was a niche role somewhere in between Kanye and Ne-Yo. Flo Rida filled in the missing gap, and all was good in the world. Only problem is, Flo hasn’t budged from that space since. Sure, a song like “Good Feeling” is arguably a major statement to the faux EDM world/Guetta music factory, but its decidedly Flo-Ridian. Its more of dance music catering to Flo Rida more than Flo Rida catering to a musical movement that isn’t totally his. Even “Club Can’t Handle Me,” arguably pop music’s first jaunt into the EDM scene, played like two different songs. There was the awesome chorus and Guetta part, and then there was Flo Rida farting all over the place for awhile. 

It’s important to note here that musicians are successful because they have a unique sound and ethos, and the failure to wholeheartedly embrace and hone these things can often spell artistic doom or irrelevance. At the same time however, the landscape of music, mainstream or otherwise, isn’t exactly down to sit in the same place for 15 years at a time. R&B turns to Hip-Hop turns to Dance-Hop turns to Gym Class Heroes Dance Hop. Point is, movements come and go, but the good artists manage to rep their shit through and through. A good example of this is Usher. Usher could easily whip out whatever the fuck he wanted at whatever time, and people would listen to it no matter what it sounded like. He’s reached the same level of popularity by familiarity that Flo Rida has. Except that Usher, unlike Flo Rida, has managed to reinvent himself with every mini-movement. He had it bad in the early 2000’s, then he started saying YEAH a lot, then he brought his lovemaking vibe to the club, then OMG he’s still in the club, then he featured Pitbull because it was time to feature Pitbull, and now he’s singing over tracks that sound like Swedish House Mafia on dubstep. I’m not saying these songs are particularly amazing and should be awarded Thriller status, but its clear that this particular evolution indicates both an awareness and a respect for musical trends. Whether this is the product of Usher himself or good representation, the fact remains that Usher has weathered the storm and then some. Flo Rida on the other hand, appears to be stuck in his own storm. 

Flo Rida’s level of music complacency isn’t necessarily his fault. I have no idea whose fault it is, actually. But if we’re looking at this from a big picture perspective, its clear that there’s no reason for Flo Rida to stop doing what he’s doing, because nobody is exactly stopping him. Its the same reason why MIB III made $70 million this weekend. Maybe like Will Smith, Flo Rida isn’t as much into his artistic growth and evolution as he is creating a self-branded business model. In other words, why bother putting in all the extra work to do something original and inventive when there’s a cookie-cutter formula right in front of you? The cookie-cutter is a bit overused and rusty at this point, but hey it still cranks out cookies. 

I’m not sure where this leaves us. But if Flo Rida ever ventures into movies, I’d bet a lot of hangovers like too much vodka that he’d ride the Wild One’s franchise all the way to the straight to DVD trilogy.  

What Sport Would Pablo Sanchez Have Picked To Go Pro In?

In high school, college, and I’m assuming in adult pickup sports leagues where people smell increasingly worse by age, there are always the players who everyone assumes are really good solely based on their looks and/or athletic accessories. These are the guys whose closets are stocked full of under armour, four new versions of Nike Shox, and audition tapes for Dicks Sporting Goods commercials.

Logic tells you that these guys probably were all-state superstars with a million D-1 offers, and ended up on the pickup bball court only because of some freakish Willis McGahee type injury. The fatal flaw of logic however, is that it never actually watched these guys play. 

Pablo Sanchez is the opposite of Mr. I Look Like An Athlete So I Must Be One. For what he lacks in looking like a human meatball, he more than makes up in being arguably the greatest video game athlete of all-time. There’s no question that if given the chance to star in a shitty movie waiting to happen where a kid from the backyard sports series enters a virtual reality machine, becomes a real person, and must vanquish the evil forces of elementary school bullying, Sanchez would decline starring in the sequels to pursue a career in professional athletics/twitter celebrity. Thus we must ask, given his excellence in all athletic endeavors, what sport would “The Secret Weapon” ultimately choose?


His first sport, his first love. It’d be silly to say that Pablo wasn’t attached to baseball more than DJ Khaled is attached to screaming how “the best” he is. 




We are never told where Pablo is actually from, but we are definitely led to believe he spent many a childhood day playing some futbol with the hermanos.




Pablo played QB on the Backyard Cup winning Mighty Wombats, though that’s only because Barry Sanders was the running back and Jerry Rice the WR. He easily could’ve played all three.




I started thinking pros and cons, but lets be real here. Sure hawkeys making a nice little jaunt into the American sports consciousness, but that’s about as far as it goes for Pablo. Besides, then he’d have to start listening to SlipKnot.


He’s got a low center of gravity, which would render him a Mark Jackson type point guard.



There’s really some solid arguments for all of them. I want to go soccer, but it’s also definitely got the most potential for him to have a midlife crisis and end up becoming most known for being the subject of unfortunate articles on Deadline well into his 40’s, all of which involve him doing sketchy stuff in hotels around the LA area. With that in mind, we’ll have to go with baseball. It’s the game he’s known forever, and it’s the game we know he’s just got that natural flair for. It’s the difference between ability and destiny. Sure Pablo could become an all-pro QB, but that doesn’t mean he was meant to play football. He’s a baseball player. He guns down runners, steals bases, and hits homers. Plus, the quirky handshakes. He’d destroy the quirky handshakes. 

Improved Movie Titles And Loglines

Title: Aging Bull

Logline: A burnt-out college student struggles to make up believable excuses for why he hasn’t written his 20 page research paper.  

Title: Pulp Nonfiction 

Logline: Upon discovering that a local Tropicana distributor is actually a drug front, one man must sacrifice his love for orange juice for the greater good. 

Title: Forrest Ump

Logline: A man struggles to overcome his history of terrible sports arbiting.

Title: The Ion King 

Logline: The heir to the electron throne must save his kingdom after a group of evil proton Hyenas murder the king of electrons, James Earl Jones. 

Title: Ink Like A Man

Logline: A classic coming of age story chronicling a brave Octopus’ tumultuous journey into adulthood 

Title: Stand By E 

Logline: A man finds himself in rehab after attending too many EDM shows.

Title: Itch

Logline: Kevin James gets bitten by a mosquito 

Title: The Quid And The Whale

Logline: After a british sea mammal is forced to declare bankruptcy, she turns to the lucrative world of underwater strip clubs. 

Title: Pollo 13

Logline: The tragic story of a spaceship built entirely out of chicken.

Title: Lawrence of Rabia 

Logline: A guy named Lawrence deals with the aftermath of an unexpected raccoon attack

*This post was inspired by good friend and budding comedic mastermind, “Chet” 

A Semi-Running Log Of The Rangers Game Last Night

Now I usually don’t do this but uh…my good friend (we’ll call him Aaron) has consistently called me out on the fact that I don’t actually like sports, and only care about making internetty pop cultural connections and/or reacting to events in sport via witty commentary. I’m not saying he’s right or wrong—all I’m saying is that during the second overtime last night, he noted that the only reason I was still watching was so I could blog about it the next day.

I want to call this a self-fulfilling prophecy on Aaron’s part, but it’s more like a twisted, hedged investment that yielded some strange continuation of his self-imposed frustation that is my lack of what he deems to be “true” sports fanhood.

Funny thing is, I proved him mostly right. But maybe a bit wrong: 

First Period: I had come back from this farewell picnic for my major, which is exactly what you’d probably picture it to be. I’m not going to elaborate here, because there’s a decent chance it would actually ruin what you’re picturing to be. And then I’d just be a liar.

But it’s important to note that when I walked back into the house from the picnic, I had no idea the Rangers game was actually on. Furthermore, I had no intention of actually watching it. But in the game of bros, you sit in the main room and hang out with everyone, or you go upstairs and die a death of everyone ripping on you for no reason. Rangers game it was. 

Second Period: Catching up on Breaking Bad generally trumps every other life activity, and looking at the TV when Ryan Callahan scored is no exception. Between the first and second intermission I watched 2 episodes of Bryan Cranston pwning noobs like it was 2008, and man is that show some real dope sauce.

I managed to somehow be watching the game when the Caps tied it up, which was probably more due to Doc Emerick’s game-long Gus Johnson impersonation than anything else. Sidenote, Gaborik was named star of the game, but I’m pretty sure the nod should go to Doc. If I were Duracell, first thing I’m doing this morning is getting that dude in a commercial that is slightly less serious than other battery commercials. 

Third Period: My other roommate—whose name isn’t Chet—is from Rome. This makes him both a huge Washington Capitals fan, and semi-regular receiver of care packages that contain awesome Italian shit. I’m talking the real deal here; truffle oil, olive spread, and those really long cylindrical things with the old world maiden on the cover holding more wheat than she could probably carry. The point here is that he had this dope bizzle pasta that was in a plastic bag rather than a box, which automatically means that it was one of the most gourmet foods ever to enter our house:

Me: Yo, is that pasta? (secretly hinting that we should make it)

Chet: Yea, you dingis 

Me: Yo, we should make it (not secretly hinting that we should make it)

Chet: Yea man. We got olive oil?

Me: Nah. I’ll go get some, but I’m too scared to go anywhere by myself because college does that to people. 

Chet: I feel ya. Let’s go after the game since there’s only like 10 minutes left. 

Me: Yea word. 

Barry Melrose’s “Hawkey Gods”: Muwhaahhaha 

Overtime 1: I thought about starting another episode of Breaking Bad, but figured it’d be interrupted, being that it was Ovitime and all. My fatal flaw here was that I didn’t account for Ovitime being the period where you just hit the post and don’t score. 


This is when I actually started watching the game. I can’t remember if it was this overtime or the second when the Caps held off a powerplay that occurred entirely on the defensive end, but it was strongly reminiscent of King Leonidas’ strategy in 300. I don’t think the Rangers even got a shot on goal, which again, given the decibel level of Doc Emerick’s intonations, is truly astounding.  It was also at this time Chet and I started calling Holtby’s dad Ned Schneebly. 

Overtime 2: My body was saying watch the game you fool, but my heart was saying olive oil. Twitter was doing its thing, so I had to do my thing and talk about how the Rangers and Caps were impeding my pursuit of olive oil. I exaggerated in my tweet about how places were closing soon, because that’s what people do in the twittersphere.

But it was after that tweet when I realized that I hated myself for having a laptop out. This was playoff hockey. The same playoff hockey that I didn’t give a shit about during the blackhawks series, but kind of cared about when the Caps beat the Bruins in game 7. Yet, there was this thing in the back of my head that told me I had to watch this game. It was like when you’re a little kid and you go to school the next day all tired, but you’re a better person for having that insane memory that everyone else probably didn’t have the mental stamina for. If I was watching this game, I was going to watch the shit out of it. So I closed my laptop, moved to a better viewing seat, and placed my butt in prime leaning forward position. 

Overtime 3: Out of all of us, Chet was by far the most invested in the game. Yet is was here where he started losing steam. Actually he started engaging in one of the most egregious acts anyone can commit nowadays, also known as making a .GIF.

His inability to continue his vociferous viewing paralleled exactly what was happening on the ice; actual hockey was being replaced by full-body dives in front of pucks, and the Rangers intensified the style of play I like to call “The 2007 Phoenix Suns.” Shots weren’t  being fired because they were probably going to go in, but because the game had reached “I’m physically no longer able to give a shit, so I will continue to torture myself by giving more of a shit than I ever have before, but won’t be too upset if we lose because like, honor and shit” status.

It was tough to watch at times, which was what made it hands down the most invested I’ve ever been in a hockey game. The olive oil no longer mattered, even though another period meant that places were actually going to be closed. It was so evident that this game was just one of those things that you have to watch not for the outcome, not for the blog posts, and not even so you could be one of those people who could say they watched the entire thing. It turned into something you watched because it was one of those rare experiences that only sports can provide; the one’s where you cannot possibly imagine doing anything else at that moment, because that would be contrary to who you are as a person. There’s really no logic or reasoning for this, it’s just the truth.