Dopplegangster: Zhang Zhen Yue

Everyone in China is laughing at me.

Genuinely Offended.

Apparently there are a lot of things in this world to be "genuinely offended" by. I hear it all the time. "I am genuinely offended that everyone on the cast of Jersey Shore isn't really Italian." "I am genuinely offended they only have the McRib several weeks out of the year." "I am genuinely offended there aren't any brown people in Girls." "I am genuinely offended by everything RiFF RAFF." "I am genuinely offended by rape jokes." "I am genuinely offended my dad didn't play catch with me as much as my neighbor's dad did." I'm not offended by that. My dad bothered the shit out of me all the time about playing catch.

Bill Clinton shows that sunglasses are a must.

There are a lot of things I do not like about people. The way they look. The talking. The breathing. The LOL'ing. The taking themselves too serious. The Puerto Ricans. But the thing that I do not like the most is hearing someone talk about how "offended" they are by something. This isn't me trying to be offensive. I don't think anybody thinks anything I do is offensive because I'm not arrogant enough to think anybody thinks about me. And that's great. No, seriously. I'm not offended. I don't think about any of you (specifically) either.

If you are over the age of 10 and you are genuinely offended by something, you are most likely wrong and an asshole. There is no other way to put it. Are people genuinely offended by global warming, income inequality, women trafficking, or the fact that the bars and restaurants in Manhattan are full of 25 year-olds at 2pm on Tuesdays? Don't you fucking people have jobs? I guess some people are genuinely offended about those things, but not nearly enough. More people spend their time sighing and scoffing at Miley Cyrus' latest haircut, Army generals' affairs, or the way the guy sitting across from them was a little too obvious when taking a picture. Get over the picture creepshow, in 20 years you'll be flattered by a guy like him not-so subtly taking your picture. (This time it won't be me. I won't be alive in 20 years.)

It's true. We are a nation of fat crybabies. "But Rush Limbaugh said all those racist, sexist, faggy comments about the Jews and the blacks!" Oh. Fucking. Well. And it's not just Americans. It's everyone. Open up your newspaper and you'll see millions of people around the world being "genuinely offended." It's the Arabs' fault. No! It's the Jews' fault. Well maybe it's the terrorists' fault. Nah, it's the Chinese communists' fault. It's religion's fault. It's atheists' fault. Blame Canada! I don't know, I'm pretty sure it's rich people's fault! Everybody is killing everybody over some shit they're offended by. It's your fault for being offended.

Don't be offended if I wear this shirt while I masturbate to my most awesome Tweets.

I'm not saying that you shouldn't be offended by anything. If someone killed my wife and bragged about it when they were on trial, I would probably be genuinely offended.

And you should be offended that I just constructed a hypothetical that consists of a woman that is married to me. Sorry. I meant no offense.

Be more selective of what you're offended by. Leave the rest alone.

Fiona Apple and her dog.

Here's a nice break from all things insecure. I thought this was pretty.

It's 6pm on Friday,and I'm writing to a few thousand friends I have not met yet.
I am writing to ask them to change our plans and meet a little while later.
Here's the thing.
I have a dog Janet, and she's been ill for almost two years now, as a tumor has been idling in her chest, growing ever so slowly. She's almost 14 years old now.I got her when she was 4 months old. I was 21 then ,an adult offi

cially - and she was my child.

She is a pitbull, and was found in Echo Park, with a rope around her neck, and bites all over her ears and face.

She was the one the dogfighters use to puff up the confidence of the contenders.

She's almost 14 and I've never seen her start a fight ,or bite, or even growl, so I can understand why they chose her for that awful role. She's a pacifist.

Janet has been the most consistent relationship of my adult life, and that is just a fact.

We've lived in numerous houses, and jumped a few make shift families, but it's always really been the two of us.

She slept in bed with me, her head on the pillow, and she accepted my hysterical, tearful face into her chest, with her paws around me, every time I was heartbroken, or spirit-broken, or just lost, and as years went by, she let me take the role of her child, as I fell asleep, with her chin resting above my head.

She was under the piano when I wrote songs, barked any time I tried to record anything, and she was in the studio with me all the time we recorded the last album.

The last time I came back from tour, she was spry as ever, and she's used to me being gone for a few weeks every 6 or 7 years.

She has Addison's Disease, which makes it dangerous for her to travel since she needs regular injections of Cortisol, because she reacts to stress and to excitement without the physiological tools which keep most of us from literally panicking to death.

Despite all of this, she’s effortlessly joyful and playful, and only stopped acting like a puppy about 3 years ago.

She's my best friend and my mother and my daughter, my benefactor, and she's the one who taught me what love is.

I can't come to South America. Not now.

When I got back from the last leg of the US tour, there was a big, big difference.

She doesn't even want to go for walks anymore.

I know that she's not sad about aging or dying. Animals have a survival instinct, but a sense of mortality and vanity, they do not. That’s why they are so much more present than people.

But I know that she is coming close to point where she will stop being a dog, and instead, be part of everything. She’ll be in the wind, and in the soil, and the snow, and in me, wherever I go.

I just can't leave her now, please understand.

If I go away again, I’m afraid she'll die and I won't have the honor of singing her to sleep, of escorting her out.

Sometimes it takes me 20 minutes to pick which socks to wear to bed.

But this decision is instant.

These are the choices we make, which define us.

I will not be the woman who puts her career ahead of love and friendship.

I am the woman who stays home and bakes Tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend.

And helps her be comfortable, and comforted, and safe, and important.

Many of us these days, we dread the death of a loved one. It is the ugly truth of Life, that keeps us feeling terrified and alone.

I wish we could also appreciate the time that lies right beside the end of time.

I know that I will feel the most overwhelming knowledge of her, and of her life and of my love for her, in the last moments.

I need to do my damnedest to be there for that.

Because it will be the most beautiful, the most intense, the most enriching experience of life I've ever known.

When she dies.

So I am staying home, and I am listening to her snore and wheeze, and reveling in the swampiest, most awful breath that ever emanated from an angel.

And I am asking for your blessing.

I'll be seeing you.

Love, Fiona

Back to me writing about my penis tomorrow.

Dreams Not From My Father.

If my child ever says his dream is to be a businessman I'm going to punch him, his mother, and his father directly in the dicks. When I caddied I often worked with kids 10 years younger than me. Sometimes I would ask them, "What do you want to be when you're an adult? What are your dreams?" And the most popular answer was, "Uh, I don't know, some sort of businessman...why are you still caddying at the age of 25?" Prickheads.

I dreamed of being Michael Jordan. I shaved my head. I stuck my tongue out. I worked on my jumpshot. I worked on my vertical. I became a mysognist (because if you're going to commit to something you have to be All In). And then I realized I was kidding myself. A chubby gookish looking dickhead kid couldn't be Michael Jordan. I was predisposed to breakdancing, giggling, maybe being a lady-boy, rooting for Manny Pacquiao, and hanging out exclusively with people with pug noses and bad haircuts. (Thankfully, only one of those things became a reality.) So then I dreamed of being an architect, but was talked out of it by an old rich country club lady. "Architects don't make any money." Really? Neither do substiute teachers for children with autism, caterers, census takers, comedy club workers, sales associates at Macy's or Uniqlo, etc. Then I wanted to be an artist but soon read about this guy. No thanks. And after all this, now, I dream to be David Beckham's penis.

So in order for my dream to become a reality a huge number of things would have to fall my way, including David Beckham's actual penis.

1. Beckham would, for some reason, need a new penis. So that means it would have to either be chopped off (that's so 90's), fall off (I don't think the saying grandmothers tell their grandsons, "If ya keep playin' with it, it's going to fall off!" is actually true. Believe me, I've played), or maybe sucked off (actually the most realisitc of the three, he's David fucking Beckham). And not only would it have to be removed from his body, it'd have to be kicked under a car and unusable. It's not like the girl who just sucked it off after receiving her gift from the Make-A-Wish foundation would be able to get it bronzed and hung over the fireplace. He'd surely ask for it back and have it sewed back on. (I just want to point out that if the girl actually had it bronzed and hung over the fireplace...and then died...that would be a crazy memento for the rest of the family to remember her by. Just saying.) He wouldn't just look around the crowd and pick the first balding 27 year-old he sees. "He'll do."
2. The gun from Honey I Shrunk the Kids would have to be involved. You couldn't sew a 5'6" human onto a ballsack and call it a penis (actually, I think I just defined the term "frat brother"). And more difficult, the actor who knew how to use the Honey I Shrunk The Kids gun would have to be found and convinced to take this role on. And when's the last time you saw that guy?
3. He would have to agree for me to let me keep the glasses. I want to see what/who I'm getting myself into. That's the whole point.

I have a ways to go.

Kids dreaming of being businessmen. Where have we gone wrong? Businessmen sit around and think of really boring (oftentimes evil) shit and sometimes ruin people's lives and spend long days at the office and end up hating their families and turn towards prositutes for advice. Out of all of the things in the world you could do, how is being a businessman your dream? Is it the money? Then isn't your actual dream to be rich? Shouldn't you be dreaming to win the lottery. I'm cutting it down even more. The only reason I'd want to have a lot of money is to be able to have sex with the women David Beckham surely has sex with. Why not cut out all those dates/bribes? Why not just attach myself to the source itself?

Dreams change as you get older. And for men, it almost always turns sexual. I've yet to meet a 45 year-old that is dreaming to change the world, unless changing the world involves getting those twins from that Hooters calendar into your bedroom for some creepshow goodness. It's why we're miserable as adults. It's not that we haven't achieved our dreams. It's that our dreams have changed into something pathetic and boring. And the real tragedy is that dreams are dying at a younger age. Dreaming to be a businessman isn't a dream. It's a travesty. So instead of telling your kids to dream big, start telling them that a dream can be anything. Look at me. I'm still dreaming.

Actually, if your dream is to be someone's small Asian penis, just forget it. Go back to school and take some business administration classes. Dreams are all in your head.

I just spent my entire Saturday evening making this. I do it for all of you.

Boy Friends.

How did I get all these boy friends? When I survey my frienship landscape, I often wonder how so many boys got all the front row seats to my unexceptional life. If you've read more than 4 sentences anywhere on this blog, you know that I firmly believe women really don't like me. (You know that, and you also know that I'm short, love D-Rose, and think my penis is "The Great American Tragedy", for many reasons.) Somehow I focused all of this female rejection into an unbelievable exuberance of boy-charm that's left my circle of friends looking a lot like an MDNA concert, if an MDNA concert was held in West Virginia.

I don't know what it is. I guess I just understand boys.

The other night, my brother and cousin were in town and we ended our evening of drinking at The Meatball Shop. One of my favorite places to eat meatballs, and (what I just recently realized) talk to boys. The seating situation is a lot like a dressed up high school cafeteria with less fat lunch ladies, better meatballs, and an equal amount of attractive ladies that won't give me the time of day, then or now. When we took our seats, we were squeezed in between respectable white people that blended into the background. They told the usual stories of "work" and "dinner parties" and "brunch" and "wedding season" and all sorts of other topics of conversation I never want to be a part of but love making fun of. As the 3 of us discussed our multi-billion dollar idea of a Chicago food truck for the 40th time of the evening, a few seats next to us opened up and a group of nice looking brown people sat down besides us. As they sat down, one of them made his way to the bathroom. Now I'm pretty sure it was a coincidence that I had to go to the bathroom too, but after thinking about this and looking at the evidence, it could have been the boy-charm spreading its wings and looking for its next victim/friend. As we waited in line together we formed an instant bond. Since I was too drunk, but really not that drunk, to remember exactly how the conversation started, I'll just say that we locked eyes and instantly knew each other. I actually think I asked him how he knew the girl and the good-looking clean-cut guy he was sitting with. Translation: "Why are you hanging out with those pretty people? You're a little brown guy like me. Shouldn't you be off crying and/or masturbating in a corner all by yourself somewhere?" The girl was his girlfriend. The guy was her brother. So for the next few minutes we came up with some unbelievable story about how we knew each other so when we got back from peeing (at separate times) we could play pretend and confuse the shit out of everyone. Then we realized everyone noticed our bathroom line conversation and our little brown guy tag team story was squashed. Oh well. As we took our seats, I talked some shit and we had a pleasant time. All the while thinking: How did this dude get himself one of those things I only see in magazines, and on the bus, and walking around, and everywhere else in NYC? A pretty girl. (I was really thinking "Who is going to call him Aziz first?" Winner: Zack.)

I have very few girl friends. You knew that. Most guys keep girls they want to have sex with around and call them "friends" but are really just waiting for these "friend" bitches to dump the asshole boyfriend or slip on a banana peel, right onto a penis, preferably one attached to their own ballbag. I can't even do that. Girls with boyfriends don't even want to be my friend, probably because they can see it in my eyes. "It" being molestation, duh.  Instead girls tap me on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me!" not as if they are going to say something in excitement, but to tell me to get out of the goddamn way. And I do. I get out of the way and go cry and masturbate in the corner somewhere. Anywhere.

But this doesn't happen with boys. When I'm talking to a new boy, I'm engaged, I'm spontaneous, I'm funny, I'm...myself. So when I was talking to this little brown boy in the bathroom line at The Meatball Shop, I was comfortable, confident. And what do they say in GQ and other magazines that really don't offer any insight into a better life because everyone giving advice in their pages is some combination of rich and good-looking, what do they say? They say, "BE CONFIDENT!" And I was. As we were wrapping up a nice conversation and some good ol' shit talking, the conversation slowed and the night came to a satisfied end. But as we were leaving, I ripped off a piece of napkin and wrote the 10-digits I usually save for the beautiful imaginary girl in my dreams, my motherfuckin' phone number.

When I woke up the following day, I laughed, then I grew anxious. Did he think I was gay? Was it too much to give my phone number? Is he going to call? Did I ruin what could have been? No. I was being silly. How could it have turned into something if I didn't make an attempt to hold onto those moments? Was I expected to broaden my Craigslist missed connections search from "w4m" to "m4m"? It was too much to think about. But I thought. A lot. And then the text message came a day later.

Even as a cigarette, I only talk to boys.

It's been over a week since we exchanged text messages. I actually texted him last Friday to see if he had any plans I could tag along to so I could stare at his girlfriend. Not 100% in a creepy way (not 0% either) but more in a, "How the fuck did you accomplish this? TEACH ME YOUR WAYS!"-way. I never got a reply and then I broke my phone. 

I don't know what I want out of all of this. Maybe that's a part of the problem. I also don't know what to learn from all of this. That's another part of the problem. But I recognize these things, and I think that that in itself is important. I'm aware that I'm amazing at talking to boys. Am I supposed to be dating boys? No thank you. Girls taste better. I'm sure of it. Maybe I should just accept this as a gift. Nah. I'm not ready for that. Not yet. For now I'm just ready for my phone to be fixed. 

To see if that little brown boy called.

Face it. I ain't fightin' for you.

So it's been a while. Too long. Sorry. I'll make it up to you by embarrassing myself. I promise.

A week before last Christmas I got dumped. It's not at all a big deal to me that it was a week before Jesus' birthday since I don't ever do anything significant for the holidays. I just thought that adding this specific detail would get me some pity points. "Who would dump someone a week before Christmas?!" Who isn't a fan of some good ol' fashioned pity?

I've never really been dumped before. Not because I'm out breakin' hearts, but because I haven't had many (any?) girlfriends. Any other past "relationships" I've had ended respectfully. They were more like, "Hey you're cool, it just ain't gonna work out. Good luck." Getting dumped is one of the single worst things any person can experience, not unlike eating a big bowl of corned beef hash then immediately seeing a fat puerto rican woman wearing tights bend over in front of you on the M train at 7:00AM on a Monday. I love corned beef hash. But what I'm trying to say is: These are the most valuable life experiences.

Whenever Hollywood dramatizes a breakup I can almost never relate. Ben Stiller crying with cum on his ear, or Steve Carrell putting on a suit and smashing on beautiful women while missing his wife. There was crying, but there was no cum, not on my ear at least, and there were absolutely no beautiful women being smashed on to help me get my mind off of my brand new shiny ex-girlfriend. Instead, I sat around and thought about everything I could have done differently. Should I have held her hand more? Should I have been more patient? Should I have been nicer to her friends? Should I have cried less often after sex? Just kidding, I didn't cry after sex. No. Seriously. I didn't.

Having close friends around really helped. I had plenty of people to bore with my, "I just don't know where we went wrong" stories and they all responded with believable head nods and honest-sounding, "Maybe you just have too look at the facts. It wasn't meant to be." Actually Ryan (co-host of the amazing Daddy Issues podcast, subscribe on iTunes) told me to drink as much as I could and by the time I was over the hangover I'd forget I was ever in a relationship. He's a natural Dr. Phil. 

There isn't a book that you can read that gives you advice on how you're supposed to react when you get your heart ripped out of your chest and salsa y o merengue'd (danced) on. You might want to check Amazon before you take my word on that. I tried my hardest to not say anything I'd regret. And for the most part I don't have any regrets. But there is something I said more than a few times that I really don't understand. 

"I'm not giving up. I'm going to fight for you."

I understand that not giving up part. This one time my friend Conor and I ordered a huge Lou Malnati's pizza (half cheese, half sausage) and refused to leave the restaurant until it was completely finished. I still have indigestion from it. Or this one time I started that "Running With Scissors" book and read the entire thing. Sometimes you just have to man up and not give up. I get it. But the "I'm going to fight for you" part. I'm clueless.

I imagine men used to say this to their wives and muses before a battle of some sort. I think Russell Crowe said it to his wife's freshly raped/burned corpse in Gladiator. "I will fight for you." The real Robin Hood (Kevin Costner) paired up with Morgan Freeman and whooped ass for his lady to the Bryan Adams soundtrack. They put their armor on, got on their horses (in that order I think, I have no fuckin' idea), and rode off into battle. Once they got to battle they killed dudes and went to their homes and fucked with their families. Revenge. They made their enemies' favorite sons watch them as they tied up and shit on the dogs. They made the wives make dinner and then ate it and told them how shitty it was and how much better their own wives cooked. Actually I think they probably just forced them to do other wrong and disgusting X-rated things. The favorite sons too. "Don't just look at it, eat it." The point is: They fought, they fought for their loved ones.

As I read through the pathetic, but honest, text messages and e-mails I sent, I keep coming across that phrase: I'm going to fight for you. Why did I say it? The honest answer is that I probably heard it in many movies growing up and thought it was what you were supposed to say. I didn't want to break up so I said a lot of shit that sounded Hollywood. "Girl, you're my one, my only errrthang." I actually didn't say that but I wish I did. Instead I sat around my apartment with red eyes wondering if everything was my fault. My way of "fighting" was pathetic and borderline nonexistent. What did I do? I got on Facebook. I Liked a few more of her statuses. I riddled some pictures with a few HAHA!'s and some CUTE!'s. I read a book she always talked about. I successfully fought every urge to smell the panties she forgot here. I bought her a Christmas present so she could float in some chamber and discover her consciousness, or some shit, I still don't fuckin' know. I sent her an e-mail saying everything I had to say. I...fought? No. It would have been more impressive if I would have gone to her enemy's house and ate all of his/her Doritos or something like that. Or ran a shopping cart into the door of the job she hated. I don't even know where I'd find a shopping cart. Instead, I stayed at home. Hiding behind my computer. Sobbing. Thinking. Blaming. "Like"-ing. "HAHA"-ing. But not fighting. Nothing close to fighting. And what happened? I stayed dumped. And although I'm not a natural Kevin Costner, I'm fine with it. It had nothing to do with the ex. It's who I am. I don't have the slightest goddamn clue how you fight for a girlfriend. Do I go beat up her next boyfriend? Do I yell at her mom? Do I apologize to her friends? Fuck it. I'll never know. And I don't give a shit. Apparently I'm a big pussy. That's alright. I'm a lover. Not a fighter.

Fuckin' pathetic.

[I wanted to embed Bryan Adams - (Everything I Do) I Do It For You but I guess he didn't want me to.]

I seriously didn't cry after sex. Why don't you believe me?!?!?!?!

Screams from the haters got a nice Ring to it.

LeBron got a ring. After weeks of hate-watching the NBA playoffs since Derrick Rose went down, it has all come to an end with an outcome that will leave many of us angry and disappointed. But I’m not at all surprised. It was his time.

In a world of excess, glitz, illusory glamor, shortcuts, promoting yourself as a brand rather than a human being, and the want to constantly remind the world of just how goddamn special you are, it’s only fitting that the city of Miami and their basketball team are the “World” Champions of Basketball. What other team in the NBA would represent our time better than this above average mish mash of a team? We all sat, stared, and hoped that the thing we’ve been afraid of for two years now wouldn’t come true: LeBron James & The Miami Heat, Champions. It might have started with The Decision and then continued with the “…not 4, not 5, not 6, not 7…” but up until this point the real reasons we’ve rooted against them is because of our hope (and denial) that the great sport of basketball would not take the same inelegant path our American culture and society has taken. (It has.)

LeBron James is an undeniable talent. He’s built for the game of basketball. He works hard, constantly tries to improve, involves his teammates, stays out of the tabloid headlines, and he seems like a nice enough guy. He is the best basketball player in the world. So why do we cheer against him so often? The answer is simple: he’s not the Hero. In the 90’s, when Michael Jordan was dominating the globe with his game and his brand, there were only a handful of people who genuinely hated him. And they were all either playing or rooting for the Knicks so they don’t count (because they’re barely human). It was extremely difficult to really hate the guy, even when he was beating your team easily and mercilessly, because you had to appreciate his dominance, his confidence, and the beauty in which he elevated the game of basketball. Jordan was the hero, even when he was supposed to be the villain. When I talk to Knicks fans, which is very rarely (remember there is a language barrier, they’re barely human), they brag and boast about the moments when the Knicks were close to knocking off the Bulls (they remember history differently, they’re barely human), and then they pause and their eyes gloss over as if they are simultaneously remembering their child’s first steps and the death of a beloved dog. They remember, in awe. Hero.

When LeBron and his talents arrived in Miami, it seemed more childish than anything. Like the kid who complains to the gym teacher endlessly so he can get switched to the other team that his friend is on. A shortcut, instead of braving the storm and manning up. And we judge this harshly because we place superhuman qualities onto superstars of the world. We want them to figure it out and fuck shit up. When LeBron put on his assassin face and chopped it up against the Celtics in Game 6, I watched in awe. Sighing at every made LeBron basket but also respecting the game. It was a thing of beauty. But where was the team in all of this? Making wide open 3’s from the corner or lying on their backs like hillbilly teenage girls. I’ve never once heard a team get applauded for their ability to draw a charge until the 2012 Miami Heat. Who is a fan of that style of basketball? Where is the beauty in it?

It is the Miami Heat’s time. Instead of building a team around fundamentals and passion, we will watch LeBron overpower everyone and everything while complaining for fouls. His teammates will stand around until they can draw a charge and they’ll all dance in the end. We’ll all sit and watch disgusted, knowing that this team and style of basketball has turned into a reflection of the American mentality. Bullshit, boring, and disgusting.

When we’re bouncing our grandkids on our laps in a few years from now, how will we describe this moment? Will time have eased the pain and will we give this team more credit than they deserve? Will we still be comparing LeBron James to Michael Jordan? Or will we just accept it for it was. A YMCA basketball team lead by the most dominant basketball player in the world and his bitter sidekick, oh yeah and the Avatar looking guy. Obviously, a lot of our future opinions depend on what LeBron does with the rest of his career. But we’ve undoubtedly already started shaping them. Whatever happens I will remain a fan of the game and of my Chicago Bulls. A team that is defined by hard work, team first, and most importantly, humility. That’s the world I aspire to live in. That’s the narrative I want to watch unfold and be a part of. I will continue to watch LeBron in awe but not in the same way I watched Jordan. LeBron is an awesome player. Jordan was a God. It didn’t matter if they were fans or opponents, he made us all feel like little kids again. And as kids, we see everything in a new way, a more beautiful way. Let’s hope Derrick Rose and the Chicago Bulls will bring us there. I want to feel like a kid again.

Beautiful.

Sigh.

Someone apparently threw some D's on this bitch.

Why the hell is this picture saved to my desktop? And why did it take me so long to notice?

The Title Run Begins Next Year.

Well. The Chicago Bulls' season has come to a disappointing close. A bad decision by CJ Watson at the end of the game will be the talk of the town for the next few days and then hopefully people will get back to their regular lives. Of course, we should (always) be disappointed in the biggest chach to ever put on a Bulls jersey (there have been plenty), Carlos Boozer. I'm not even going to do him the courtesy of looking up how many points he had in this last game because I know it's lower than the average number of shits I take a day (so what if my average is unusually high at 4.83?).

But I'm not overly upset about it. Because I have it all figured out. Let me share.

The Bulls suffered tragic injuries this postseason. It was difficult to watch (repeatedly thanks to a million replays) but it had to happen. Yes. It had to happen. We will never know if the Bulls would have beaten the Heat in the Eastern Conference Finals but it doesn't matter. What matters is what happens next playoff run. This year, I almost want the Heat to win. Because if they do, LeBron James is doomed.

It goes like this. The Heat win this year. Fuck. Shucks. Goddamn. Oh well. Next year, the Bulls will get Rose back halfway through the season. He'll be shaky and a shadow of his former self at first, but we'll still cheer him on and get (nervously) excited when he blows past the defense for an easy layup. I don't expect Rose to be what he has been the past few years. Not yet. (It'll take time but Rose will be amazing again.) The Bulls will not have the best record in the NBA but they will play hard and give us plenty to be proud of. During the playoffs they'll play a couple of tough series before they run into LeBron and the Heat. Let's face it. LeBron has beat the shit out of the Bulls for many years now. Even when he was on the Cavs he chopped it up against the Bulls. If you don't remember this, then I envy your faulty memory that forgets all the bad stuff. (I once farted at my grandfather's wake. Not just a fart. A family of farts that smelled horrible and that everyone (maybe even my grandfather) heard. My brother made fun of me until I cried. So imagine some priest saying religious words then having to pause because a little chubby kinda yellow kid is lightin' up the back of the room like it's America's Birthday. Not sure who came away from the whole experience more traumatized. Anyways, I'd like to erase that from my memory and everyone else's. I'm sure the priest talks about it with all his boring priest friends and they giggle over it while they're drinking wine and staring at the wall.) The Bulls will play the heavily favored returning champions Miami Heat in a 7-game series that will come down to Derrick Rose and Joakim Noah outplaying LeBron James and Dwyane Wade. The Bulls will win. LeBron will forever be remembered as the guy who won a championship only because Derrick Rose was hurt. Rose proved it when he came back as a lesser version (for now) of himself and still managed to get the better of the Heat through solid fundamentals and with the support of a hardworking, close-knit TEAM. There will be less of "LeBron isn't mentally strong enough to lead a team to a championship" and more of "LeBron only won because Derrick Rose was hurt." And doesn't that sound better? Derrick Rose. The loyal, humble hero of Chicago, wins it for his city. The good guys win. For once.

So let the Heat win this year, who gives a shit. Think of this year as the setup and next year as the punch line. When the Bulls trample them in the playoffs next year, everyone will have something to smile about and something to laugh at.

3-peat. Then repeat.

Josh got me this for my birthday. I'll be wearing it on every article of clothing.

Your neck bone is connected to the...love of your life.

I was once told, "If you can't bench press her, she's too fat." I'd hate to be the first guy in history to succumb to that death. A weakling suffocating under his fat disgusting girlfriend. Can it get more embarrassing? Either way I think it's simple advice. The only problem is, I'm pretty small and adult women usually weigh over 85 pounds. So if I was to take this advice I'd be standing outside middle schools wearing sunglasses and handing out Tootsie Rolls (while doing the Tootsie Roll). That's a totally disgusting life.

Now watch this video.

                           
                         

Are you totally blown away? You better be. That one dude was playing the accordion while balancing that other dude who is playing the accordion on his head. I watched this over and over and told myself that it couldn't be real. But then the guy gets down and I can't see any way around it. And of course I dissected this the way I dissect everything. (Seriously.)

1) Who was the first person to do this and why?

2) How can this help me pick up chicks?

I got to thinking. I could find a partner to do this with, preferably somebody bigger than me because (again) I'm small and don't think I have the neck for most of my friends. Also, if I was upside down on a friend's head, chicks wouldn't be able to tell how short I am. Win win. We could stand around staring at people then I'd casually pop up onto his head and wait for the chickadees to flock. Sure we'd hear cheesy jokes like, "You must have a lot on your mind." But we'd get over it.

Having this talent would be revolutionary for me. I could go to a bar (or the library, wherever), sit next to a pretty girl and say, "I bet I can balance you on my head." She'd think I was being a pervert and I'd have a smooth reply like, "Girl. Don't get a head of yourself." (Doesn't make any sense but chicks usually just like stuff that sounds smart.) Then I'd pop a stranger on the top of my head and balance them for a minute and she'd beg for me to give her a try. So I'd pop her up on my head and she'd never want to get down. And it's not like she could anyways. Falling straight on your head from 5 feet 6 inches (unless I'm wearing my good heels) would result in a cracked skull. No woman would want that. I'd just walk straight out of the bar (or library) with her on my head and take her home. Easy as pie. 

Plus. You'd have proof that all those friends you have that supposedly get all the girls, are really just bringing home whatever they find at the bottom of the barrel. Just look at their necks. It's like rings of a tree. A bigger neck with more "rings" only means one thing: Fat bitches. Those guys at the gym doing those ridiculous neck exercises with the weight strapped to their head are just gearing up for battle with the big mamas. More power to them. More importantly, guys would have to stop putting gel in their hair. How the hell are you going to balance a chick on your head if your hair is all gelled and spiky and shit?

So not only have I cured my loneliness. I've rid the world of hair gel. You can thank me later. I have to go practice balancing some shit on my head.

Let's Go Bulls!

The Bulls are back baby! Believe. For two straight seasons the Bulls have had the best record in the NBA. Derrick Rose has led the way, but his strong supporting cast of Luol Deng, Joakim Noah, an unbelievable coach, a fantastic bench, and not Carlos Boozer shouldn't be overlooked or taken for granted. I was extremely excited about these playoffs and I'm still intrigued on how all of this is going to play out. After watching Rose go down in what appeared to be a tremendous amount of pain, I knew that a new Bulls storyline from these playoffs would begin. I knew right then and there that his season was over. His season.

Step yo game up Boozer.

The thing about injuries is that they always happen but you never expect them and never want to accept them. I've made jokes about all of the "aggravated groin" injuries that plagued the Bulls all season. Should we be surprised Rip Hamilton started off the season with sore balls? Do you remember the last team he played for? The Detroit Pistons. If you didn't know, that team plays in, yep, you guessed it, Detroit. Now I didn't memorize the 2012 Ho-Rankings for The Lower 48 but I can say with strong certainty that Detroit is definitely on the Lower part of that list. So he moves to a new city with better looking hoez and he smacks his balls on some of them too aggressively (he was in Detroit for a long time) and ends up walking like he just got done riding a horse for a month straight. (A lot of the women in Chicago are comparable to horses only in weight, lord knows them bitches can't run.) So we sat around and waited, uncertain what Rip could do for the team. Luol Deng has had a bum wrist all season. Torn ligament. I believe this was actually a basketball injury unless I've got him all wrong and he's up late behind dumpsters passing out HJ's to new, lonely friends. (My guess is that you use your weak hand in those situations so you're not constantly reminded of it when you pick up a pen, peel a banana, take the lid off a jar, etc.) CJ Watson was taking all kinds of treatments for his battle wounds. Then there were all of the Rose injuries. The turf toe, the back, the ankle, all of them. But with all of these injuries to all these players, each and every one of us sat back and said, "Well that's alright. As long as they're ready for the playoffs." As long as Derrick Rose is ready for the playoffs. Even if you were extremely worried that he wasn't going to get enough rest and the schedule was too hard on his body because of his All In style of play, you still managed to lie to yourself just the right amount so you could go into the postseason thinking, "The Bulls are warriors. We won all of those games without him and now he's back and we're ready to go all the way." Then he went down and reality crept back in. And we have to accept it.

I sat around and watched almost every single Bulls game this season (and many other seasons) and I'm extremely disappointed that our King isn't going to lead the team into battle. But when I look back on what happened this season, I can't allow myself to be surprised.Yes, the Bulls have an incredible team (TEAM, not 3 pussies supported by a bunch of D-leaguers) but they've been beat up. Even when Rose came back from all of those injuries he didn't seem like the Rose we've come to know and love. Don't get me wrong, he was still excellent, but that's because he's one of the most talented players in the world and even at 75%  he can outshine the best of them. But I was always on edge watching him, hoping that everything would be alright.

(Side note: The only thing Bulls fans should be surprised about is that Kyle Korver didn't get a groin injury all year. Look at that guy. He must have plowed through 94% of the city by now. Then again, if he's attracted to physically fit chicks, that mean's he's gotten laid three or four times in the past couple of seasons. Sucks to have standards!)

And if you think Coach Thibodeau should be fired, please move to a different city and kill yourself. He's the best coach in the league and the best thing to happen to the Bulls (besides Rose) for a very long time. He's passionate, hard working, extremely intelligent, and looks like he knows all the best pizza places. And I hope the rumors are true. I hope he is gay. Maybe some of you faggots will be more accepting of others who may not live exactly the way you live. Anyways, what's not to like about the guy? So the Bulls were up with a minute and a half to go. Don't play that game. Rose needed to get back into game shape by finishing teams off in the final minutes. These are the playoffs. Fear should never be a part of the game plan. "As long as he's back for the playoffs." Well he was back and it's the playoffs and he's getting paid to destroy the opposition. He needs to be on the floor at the end of games to do that. Extend Thibodeau's contract today. 

The playoffs are still going to be fun to watch. I am a Bulls fan. I love Derrick Rose. (After he went down today I sank into my seat and stared into oblivion until...well, I'm still kind of lost.) But the Bulls are the team I grew up watching and cheering for. I'm glad he's a part of it, but that's exactly it, he's a PART of it. It's still going to be an amazing run. I'm still looking forward to yelling at Boozer, screaming at everyone to give the ball to Deng, being amazed that Rip can still shoot the ball so well, cheering on the little guy John Lucas, hoping Noah slaps somebody, and wondering why Scalabrine is on the team. But seriously, why is he on the team? I think they should hold a raffle every year. $100 for a ticket and you can only buy one. Must be at least 18. Money goes to charity. A name is picked and you're the last guy (or girl) on the Bulls roster. Winner also gets paid $1 million. You also have to have a Chicago address (Fuck You suburbs). Think about it. Every single person in Chicago would get really into it and get behind whoever got picked. Fat lady that can't run. Can't wait to see her sitting next to Noah taunting the Heat. Mexican city worker that doesn't know anything about basketball. That locker room is going to love those tamales. Girl that is kind of unbelievably hot. Put her in Coach! Let's see how many groin injuries the other team racks up. That's if Rip Hamilton doesn't get to her first. 

Today I felt like my house burned down. But these playoffs aren't over and next season Derrick Rose will come back stronger than ever. The Chicago Bulls will be alright. I promise.

Get well soon Derrick Rose. Your city needs you.

Funny caption anyone?

Boston City.

Leaving New York City always seems like a good idea to me but never materializes because I'm too broke to fly to the badass places I'd love to visit and because I'm lazy. Mostly because I'm lazy. Sitting around and pretending to be working hard on my passion isn't very fun but it requires very little effort and planning. It just requires sitting, staring, and a little bit of lying/exaggerating. I'll take it.

This past weekend I got my ass on a bus and made the long-procrastinated trip to Boston/Cambridge to visit Conor. We've been good friends since high school and I'm always curious to see how much old friends' lives differ from my own. What I'm doing (nothing, I just moved to a different city to not do it in) is a lot different than what most people I know do. Conor decided to pursue his goals by continuing his education at Harvard and rack up design competition wins, an awesome diverse group of friends, and continue a stellar academic career. He's going to do big things. He's all in. And I couldn't be more proud of the guy.

I got to Cambridge at about 1 a.m. and met up with Conor at a house party. He warned me that parties at Harvard tend to be toned down versions of the parties we frequented in Urbana but I couldn't have cared less. I saw 2 or 3 thin-enough girls that looked like they might talk to me if I was smooth enough/quick enough to corner them and that's always more than enough for me. In reality, the only girl I talked to was extremely weird and I only stayed in the conversation to be nice. Yes. I can lie and plaster on a smile with the best of them. Don't let all the bitterness and bullshit that comes out of my face fool you. The night was a success. I got to meet Conor's crew and get an idea of how the future leaders of the world (that's what Harvard graduates are right?) get down on a Friday night.

Me and Jan hanging out with Dongsei, Luke, and Kees. These guys work on projects when they're hungover. I can't even do that when I'm not hungover.

On Saturday, Conor gave me a quick tour around Boston and we met up with another Northside College Prep graduate, Mr. Lew Jan. Conor and Jan hadn't seen each other since high school so there was a lot of catching up to do which basically meant Conor and I listened to Jan talk for 2 days straight. Seriously. If he didn't eat $95.00 worth of Indian food on Saturday night, I would say it was the most impressive thing I saw him do. $95.00. Now let's spend a few minutes laughing at what he liked to do on his wedding day.

If you have a bald/Polish fetish then go nuts. You deserve it.

The best thing I did in Boston was go to a Celtics-Heat game. Originally we had no plans to go to a game but since tickets were offered and we well-rested after a calm Saturday night, it seemed like a great idea. When else would I get the opportunity to see two teams I despise kill each other? Actually, probably every day since I hate every team that isn't from Chicago.

The Garden's atmosphere is seriously unmatched. I love the Bulls but I think there is something kind of shitty about the United Center. It feels like a mall and the way it's lit makes me feel like I'm there to see the Chicago Symphony Orchestra instead of Derrick Rose, Joakim Noah, and the rest of the boys from The Chicago Fucking Bulls (excluding Carlos Boozer, I'm never there to see that bum). I also think WGN has something to do with my opinion of the United Center. Stacey King is amazing but their broadcasts are way too quiet. It sounds as if 14 people and Boozer are the only ones that are mic'd. The Garden felt far different. Everything was really well lit, the stupid games they played on the JumboTron were far more entertaining, the dancers were hotter, and the (approx.) 100+ championship banners they have hanging over everyone's heads make you feel like you are a part of something incredible. I fucking hate the Celtics. And I don't like the Heat. But the Garden is the place to watch a basketball game. And LeBron was complete garbage.

I'm actually not wearing all black. I promise.

All in all, Boston was a hit. The city was alright, I wouldn't go out of my way to make a huge trip there but having good company there helped and there are definitely some very charming things about it. It always helps when you're surrounded by a bunch of All-Stars that know how to have a good time. Next time I'll be sprinting after Harvard girls.

And the best thing I did in Boston will go unmentioned. My mom reads this. There is one thing I came away wondering though. If they make so much money, why do they only buy "cheap" perfume?

Whatever it is...smells pretty damn good to me.

See you soon Conor + The Harvard Boys!

All The Stars In The Sky.

The cosmos is incredible. I've always been fascinated by stars but never really began to learn about them until fairly recently. It started with the show Wonders of the Universe and continues with Neil deGrasse Tyson's Death by Black Hole. After many online articles about the universe and multiple shows dumbed down for the layman, I still have no fuckin' clue what's going on out there. The cosmos is unfathomable to me. I can't wrap my mind around it. Seriously. We live on Earth. Earth is a part of our Solar System. There are hundreds of billions of stars in our galaxy, The Milky Way, and hundreds of billions of galaxies in the universe. So does my question, "Why can't I get a date?" really matter?

Nope. But neither does, "Is asking out a girl you talked to for 5 minutes at a bar via Facebook message creepy?"

I'm about to share with you, the exact message I sent to a girl I met 11 days ago for 5 minutes. Let me put it into context. Not that it matters. THERE ARE BILLIONS OF FUCKIN' GALAXIES IN THE UNIVERSE! I was out with my old friend Conor, who was meeting up with one of his friends. She brought us to a co-workers party at a bar. I didn't know anyone except for Conor and one of his friends from Harvard. I usually avoid scenarios like this mostly because I have no interest in meeting people and listening to their boring stories while I make little effort to hold back my dickhead comments. I don't do it to be mean. I do it because I need to be entertained somehow. That is until I drink myself into a coma and hope I don't wake up with pee on my cheek in the morning. But either way, there were women at the bar and the only other thing in the universe, besides the universe, I'm completely fascinated in but also completely ignorant of is Women. Black holes. Well Black/Yellow/White/Mulatto/Mestizo/Canadian, really any of the ones that look and taste good. (I'm done making comparisons to black holes and vagina openings (mouths?).)

When I was standing at the bar getting a round of drinks a girl came up next to me to do the same. We made small talk for a little bit about how it's a pain in the ass to get drinks at a packed bar. I told her she'd probably have more luck because...well...look at me. As we were waiting to get served, she introduced herself and we talked for a few minutes about nothing special. She got served first and ordered my drinks. I gave her the cash and even gave her some extra for a nice tip. For her and the bartender.

As I was standing talking to Conor and all of our new friends, I noticed that the new love of my life (it only takes 2 seconds of eye contact these days before I start writing love sonnets (poems are for pussies)) seemed to know everyone Conor's friend knew. I then realized she was a lawyer at the same law firm. Yes. Lawyer. I'm trying to find a chick that might swipe me into the train once in a goddamn while. Gold digger. When I realized I had a legitimate excuse at continuing the conversation we had at the bar, I made it my goal to charm. That's when I noticed some balding guy chattin' her up and hogging all of her attention. As I stood there, staring into my cheapest beer on the menu, I told myself to get ready for a break in their conversation. So I stood there and Uh-huh'd and OK'd my way through conversations with Conor and his friends but kept my eyes on the prize.

Now this is where I think I probably messed up. When I was keeping my eyes on the new love of my life, I forgot that Rape Eyes exist. What got me really pumped about talking to this girl is that I noticed her looking in my direction a bunch of times. At the time I thought: Oh shit. This girl wants to talk to me. But 11 days later, I'm starting to think: Fuck. It probably looked like I was red-lining on the Rape Eyes. Those probably weren't looks of "I want you to take my pantsuit off (she looked like she was headed to a business conference) and hug me really hard. For like 5-8 minutes. Then we can shower and cry together." They were looks of "Jesus Christ. This is why I don't go out after work. There's always some little faggy sorta Asian lookin' guy staring at me with his Rape Eyes and writing love sonnets in his head." But I honestly don't care. Hundreds of billions of stars in The Milky Way.

After what seemed like hours of staring at Ms. Lovely Lawyer (it was really like a half hour) I realized I had to pee. So I decided to take a quick break from love and empty my penis. I'm pretty sure I used to think all that watery stuff around your balls was pee. What an idiot I was, I never figured out why all that watery stuff in the ballbag was still there after I pee'd. (This was what I thought about while I was in the Men's bathroom.) I came back out. Fully charged and ready to go. But of course, when I came back, she was looking for her coat and getting ready to leave. Probably because the combination of my Rape Eyes and Balding Bill's boring ass conversations, reminded her that lawyer work can actually be far more fun than going to a bar.

So the rest of the night I thought about how often this happens to me. Not very. Girls don't ever introduce themselves to me, but if they do I dwell on them for days. And if they don't introduce themselves to me and I somehow get a chance to talk to them I'm always shocked and at a loss for words. Then I sit around and think about all the things I should have said. So when I woke up on Saturday, I did some really creepy research after I couldn't find Ms. Lovely on Facebook (I only had her first name), and decided that if I found her, I would reach out to her. And I found her.

This is creepy. I know. But for some reason I don’t really care. I’ve never done this before (but of course I would say that even if it wasn’t). The fact of the matter is, I thought you were cool and cute (which is #1 on the world’s endangered species list) and wanted to talk to you more but was outgunned by the dude with the bald spot (story of my life and one day (probably in about 4 years) I’ll be that bald guy, hopefully doing really cool stuff like talking to cool/cute girls at bars, actually, nevermind. I don’t want to be going to “cool” bars at 31). I’ll admit I don’t know how to talk to girls (women?) at loud bars on Friday nights (and beyond) because it’s weird and I’m not good at lying. Seriously. Talking to women at bars on Friday nights is the thing I’m worst at in life. That and Scattegories. Anyways. It would be cool to get a drink (in a bar, ha!) in a less loud place (or whatever people who go on dates do) and I could waste of few hours of your time.

So how did I get your full name? 

But seriously. I sat around and thought about how creepy this is for a few hours today. Then I decided, “What do I have to lose?” Either you’ll (a.) ignore this and make fun of me to your friends who I don’t know (please do, I encourage it), (b.) you’ll respond with something mean (/hilarious) like “Aw! That’s so cute. I only talk to guys that are 5’7” and up. The kiddie table is over there.”, or (c.) agree to it (and probably regret it sometime in the near future). I’m sure I’m missing a few somewhere in there.

There used to be a time when guys would force women (if I used “girls” in this sentence it makes it sound even more inappropriate) to go on dates or to get married. I always wonder how they got away with it. Then I remember they had guns and lived to be the ripe old age of 35. They just didn’t have the time to write Facebook messages (trying too hard to sound charming).

Either way. I hope you consider it (that sounded confident). Enjoy your weekend. At least you’ll have something to laugh about!

Now I’m going to go spend the day thinking about how I asked a girl I talked to for 5 minutes out through a Facebook message. Can’t wait.

Oh yea. I don’t have a gun and I’m 5’6”. No need to sound the alarm. Trust me.

- Marty

It sounds like I'm trying really hard. I know. And the thing is, I was. And I don't give shit. I wouldn't even take back the Scattegories joke if I had the opportunity. Even at the time I thought, "This is a terrible joke." But I put it in there because...well...why the fuck not? I kind of like what I wrote to her. Mostly because it was honest. It probably doesn't exude confidence, but I wasn't, so why would it? I don't know the rules of asking chicks out through Facebook. If there were rules, the person that came up with them should walk the plank because sitting around and thinking of rules on how to ask girls out on Facebook is the only thing lamer than...asking girls out on Facebook.

I don't know if this is some sort of epiphany or mid-life crisis. No matter how much I joke around about being a pervert or being creepy, I never act on any of those things in public. In fact, I spend hours obsessing on ways to not come off as creepy. It's the true reason I don't talk to girls at bars. I know that they know that my only interest at that moment is to hug them really long and really really hard. Where has this gotten me? And why do I give a shit if some cute 27 (?) year-old girl wearing a pantsuit to a bar thinks I'm creepy? She don't know me. I'm a grown ass man. I will not spend any more hours of my life worrying about sounding creepy. Probably.

She never responded. It would have been nice if she had but I didn't lose any sleep over it. Honestly. I would have lost sleep if I had never tried. But I did, and I was honest, I can't be ashamed or embarrassed by that.

Either way, I'll just continue looking up at the stars in the sky. For once in my life, I believe one day I'll have my very own.

Actually I hope I have one main one and then like four or five on the side.