We have 12 ft ceilings, so I debated jumping on the table and attempting to thrust the magazine against it vertically. At this exact moment, the roach stopped and seemed to look me straight in the face. It sensed my hesitation, flicked me off, and started flying directly towards my face. I let out a little scream as this giant monster took to the air to decapitate me with its wings. This was first time I saw one fly, having heard stories from my good friend in Bermuda about their flying roaches, I was expecting a devastating whoosh as it soared around the room and prayed for death. I crouched with the magazine ready…and waited…and waited… and it finally flew over my head and onto the blinds. Any fear I had was washed away by the pure slowness of the flight of this roach. I jingled the blind and it flew to the brick wall again. I casually walked towards it and wanting to impress GF, decided to lunge like that dude in 300 who thew the spear at that other dude and chucked the magazine against the wall with all my might.

An utterly perfect throw, the roach was hit and fell to the ground and I finished the deed with a quick squish of the magazine. I turned with a big grin of satisfaction, expecting to be congratulated on my prowess and agility by GF and she was no where to be found. She called me 2 seconds later and revealed she had sneaked outside and called her mother. I bent down and picked up the home decorating magazine, my Excalibur, and with a slight smile, returned it to the pile of other magazines.

I have never stopped ordering it.

I still remember that frightful afternoon years ago when I learned that the Cheesy Gordita Crunch (CGC) was going to be discontinued from the Taco Bell menu. Why, I thought, would they end the reign of such a delicious and fulfilling item, arguably their best non-burrito creation? Weeks went by without at trip to the Bell, as my desire vanished like the cheesy middle between the hard and soft shell tacos, until one day I decided to venture back. Out of habit, and possibly scorn, I presented my order as usual: One chalupa, one gordita and one cheesy gordita crunch.  The staff shuffled as normal and produced my order, not missing a beat.

Elated I devoured my food and spread the word to everyone I knew. Subsequent trips followed suit and it wasn’t until a manager handled my order that I understood the reason why my orders weren’t rejected.  I presented my selection and he smiled as he punched in the order.

“Ya know,” he started, “I have to make this for you even though we don’t have it on the menu anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“As long as there is this button on the register, I have to make it for you.”  His smile changed to something more sinister as he pointed to a button that I couldn’t see and kept bobbing his hand up and down just long enough to make it uncomfortable, like this button was the reason his girlfriend left him and he still lived with his parents.

“Well I’m glad that button still exists.”

He passed me my receipt with a look of disdain and I hurriedly stepped to the fountain drink machine, out of arms length. There I waited for the deliciousness to come, hoping that he didn’t secretly blame Mountain Dew for killing his goldfish.

Gary kept telling me over the phone as we were making plans that this guy had a cult following, which interestingly enough was comprised dually of himself and his boss at work. He wanted to introduce me to this poet in hopes of recruiting a third cult member. I wasn’t quiet sure what to expect but I’m pretty sure after seeing him perform I wouldn’t hesitate to take up the third leg of the Bingo Gazingo tripod.

I got to the Poetry club just in time to miss the rain and to see Bingo begin his performance. Gary wasn’t kidding; aside from the three of us, there wasn’t a single other person in the club. I was never asked for my $3 cover charge and figured the place had pity on anyone who was here and sat down as he started his first ballet about J-lo and the affect she has had on his heart. Between his moans and mumbles I discerned a pattern of rhymes on the name J-lo like Hey-lo, Fay-lo and for a minute thought that they had pulled a homeless man off the street to fill 20 minutes before the next act. He then moved effortlessly to a poem about Beyonce which actually was sort of interesting and provided for my favorite line of the evening: “Beyonce, you are my Champs-Elysee, I love you, I love you.”

The Bowery Poetry club reminded me of my Fraternity and the eloquent rush dinners we would put on in our band/party room. We would line up those plastic granite tables end to end and surround them with those cheap black chairs you might see at cheap banquet halls. There were three rows of of this assortment, a jumble of chairs on stage that reminded me of an unused high school classroom during the summer and a nice chalk mural on one wall. I don’t think it cost to much to throw everything together.

The last poem was about a stalker between the yellow lines of a road who never gave up chasing UFO’s or something like that, I dunno, I sort of lost consciousness at that point. Seemingly unsatisfied with himself, his 20 minutes were up and he nonetheless had to end his performance and was helped off the stage by the sound tech. He slowly made his way through the tables and past his audience trio. I stood up and shook his hand, not sure what I was expecting to happen, hesitant that anything I might say would open a floodgate of profane and wet verbal carnage.  Gary, seemingly familiar with Bingo’s eccentricity, wanted a picture to commemorate the moment, giving his daughter his camera and jumping next to him expecting him to stop. Oblivious to everything at this point, Bingo proceeded to trod along despite Gary’s attempts to get in the same frame for his picture. As I watched this slow and painful process I noticed Bingo kept his sullen gaze directed towards the shimmering light that was trying to escape between these two large plush curtains at the end of the bar. On the other side of these curtains was the exit, and as he made his way to the light and disappeared through the curtains, I have no doubt at that point Bingo envisioned being birthed by Madonna.

P.S. I Love You.

Mean Girls.

Up.

What are these you might ask? Is this a list of my girlfriend’s favorite movies? A top-ten of the greatest chick flicks? There are only four, first of all, but I need to discuss something with the 6 of you reading this. Why did I stay up hugging my pillow tonight when I was watching the first movie Why did I allow almost 20 minutes to go by while I watched the second? What was appealing to me about Mean Girls that I couldn’t find on the internet? Why did I tear up multiple times during Pixar’s latest adventure of an old man and a chubby boy scout? Fuck man, where did the days go where I yearned for explosions and martial art kung-fu fighting and non stop 100% pure adrenaline found only with a cast of Keanu Reeves, Gary Busey or both.

Maybe because I watched the first two by myself I felt free of criticism, although I had to stop P.S. I Love You because after Gerard died it was draining my testosterone. Mean Girls had hot girls talking about Taco Bell. Up was an all around fantastic film, and my friends who watched it with me also admitted some man tears at the end. I really liked Definitely, Maybe and I will fight you if you disagree. Man-Crush on Ryan Reynolds? Possibly.

Entourage is still awesome and arguably the best show on Television. I still polish my Point Break collection every morning. The bench press is still my favorite exercise. I love beer. But what am I to make of these, these changes in my movie preferences? I no longer want to watch movies with senseless violence and death. I am solely drawn to positive and meaningful material, made better if I can relate to it. I want to be inspired, or laugh, or feel like yeah, I’ve been there too. Speaking of which, I loved every one of M. Night’s films with the huge exception of The Happening.

So maybe this change isn’t something I should fear. My manhood is still intact, and I imagine it happens to plenty of maturing adults. We’ll see where it takes me for the rest of the Summer Blockbusters.

Then again I still retain much of my old, rural self. I like to look up at the skyscrapers when I’m in midtown. I love spinning the cube in Astor place, especially after cheap drinks at the Continental. And although I actively use my gym membership, working from home made me realize how spoiled I was having a gym in the same building as where I worked.

An exterior shot of Tiger Woods' House in Hawaii

A shot from inside looking out beyond the pool into the ocean

A shot of his immaculate living area

A shot from the second floor showing off the amazingness

For more pictures check out Office Spam

On a side note why do add “the” when we say the Moon?

But I must speak of another series which has taken over my attention for the time being. It took a season for it to happen, but I really enjoy watching Weeds. Luckily my wonderful girlfriend purchased the 4 available seasons in China and I can peruse them at my leisure. The writing and character development is quite good, the older and more life-experienced brother of the cult-favorite Arrested Development with more dramatic themes and somewhat darker elements. Interestingly Arrested also took me about one season to realize the epic amounts of humor and depth of conversation that each episode packed into half an hour. If I had my way, Arrested would be back on prime-time. Until that happens, I am happily looking forward to more Weeds.

I feel like Will Arnett in this amazing biographical video.

Come on, try me! Give me that football, I can throw it over them there mountains.

I’ll play a violin while beating the entire Knick’s team in Scrabble.

I’ll catch a Bald Eagle and train it to make me tea with an English accent.

Megan Fox already asked me out on a date and I said no because I feel so great. That doesn’t even make sense!

POWERTHIRST!!!

Basically if you took all the awesome from this site and put it in a blender volcano and drank the molten ooze, that’s how awesome I feel.

Or went here.

Fucillo Huuuuuggggggggeeeeee