Miss(ed) Manners

August 30, 2006

Why Wednesday?

Filed under: Humor,Life,Personal,Stolen Ideas,Why? — missedmanners @ 3:20 pm

The title for this post was shamelessly stolen from Bluejewel over at Is it Just Me?, one of the more than awesome blogs I read. Having been busy all week and completely uninspired, I saw her post of the same name and it got me in a real Wednesday type of introspective staring out the window at rain droplets and considering mid-afternoon drinking sort of mood.

Here are my “why’s.”
Why did NBC jump the shark with the show Ed and let Carol Vessey and Ed get together? Once the show was canceled WEDnesday was never the same. Where can I go for snarky dialog and the smooth as silk on screen persona of Tom Cavanaugh? His house? They won’t let me near there anymore.

Why do people putter around the end of a telephone conversation tossing in little “hmm’s” and “okay’s” just so that you can say, “bye” at the same time? It’s not a hostage exchange, I trust you to hang up the phone.

Why do I have a soft spot for the type of poppy adult contemporary that will ultimately be playing when my headphones accidentally become disconnected from my phone/mp3 player and blare it into a crowded subway car?

Why is that I get a billion boner pill spam messages every day? Does something about my online persona scream impotence?

Why do people stand at the top of stairs? Don’t they know that I’m just a few stopped-strides from going Ong Bak: Thai Warrior on them and sending them careening downwards with a flying knee-strike to the neck nape?

Why can’t the world recognize this man for the danger he is? He must be stopped.

Why do people press an already lit elevator button? Are there elevator gnomes who’ll say, “Oh shit, three button presses on elevator bank six! We better get moving, Mervin.”

What am I going to do for dinner tonight? Shit. Nevermind.

Why do I have recurring dreams of Saved By the Bell starring me and former Secretary of State Madeline Albright?

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August 25, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: Brrr

Filed under: Column,Humor,Life,Personal,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 3:07 pm

Dave here, writing to you from the polar north pole, also known as my office. Current temperature outside? 74 degrees farenheit. Current temperature inside? 55 degrees. Above me, a vent pumps nearly 400,000 BTU’s of frigid air per second right at my uncovered dome.

The best thing about working where I work has always been the T-shirt and jeans factor, or as I call it, TJ Time, ’cause I loved the Will Shatner vehicle of similar name. Modern man has reached the pinnacle of comfort with this most common of apparel. You can do anything when you’re on TJ Time: You can work construction, close a million dollar deal, write a movie, song, haiku, suicide note, whatever. Not here, not in this office anyways.

My TJ Time is enshrouded in a long sleeve shirt, polar fleece and scarf, not the greatest summertime look in any part of the world. I’m not comfortable, I’m not cheerful, I’m cold and I’m making typing erorrs.

Study Finds Colder Offices Less Productive

As I mentioned some weeks ago, I’ve always been fortunate enough to work in small offices. Along with unfettered access to a private bathroom we also had control over our personal temperature settings. Not now though. As we’ve moved into the belly of the financial beast we’re now at the whims of the dreaded building management. Not only do we have to share crap-space with strangers, but also climate control.

The more you think about it, the more ridiculous it becomes, for a few reasons:

1) We’re in the financial district, everyone wears suits. Including the women, only they wear those silly looking skirt suit things. Why would you want to do business with someone who looks like a federal agent? Now, say someone came up to you selling insurance and he was all pimped out, living large in TJ Time? Wouldn’t you be more willing to talk to him? Or play a game of pickup basketball or something?

2) We’re all on different sides of the building. My windows face east. I get a little sun in the morning, but the people facing south get it all day long, bright beautiful sunshine. Obviously they might need a little more AC. So while they’re baking in the afternoon sunlight, I’m getting the ass-end of their pumped up air flow being eventually directed right at my balls, and as we all know, cold helps keep your testes producing healthy, fertile sperm, and I’m not ready for kids yet, MOM! I swear, if I find out you’re behind this…

3) It’s a conspiracy. The religio-fascist-energy complex is behind it. Think about it? Who wins out when the AC is blasting? The power company, of course. But who else? LL Bean. They know you’re not wearing turtlenecks in the summer, but if you’re freezing like I am, you’re getting the catalog, ordering up some T-necks and bundling up. It’s also a little known fact that they’re a super-strict Mormon sect that has every interest in seeing every part of your body covered by cloth. “Mormons in Maine?” you may ask increduously, yes, Mormons in Maine are behind all of this.

When I figured this all out I was pretty depressed. Gone were the days of half naked, heightened jungle-style productivity during my summer months. Now I come in, put on my winter parka and ear muffs and just sit, slowly clicking through pictures of the outside, realizing I’m becoming as gray-faced and depressed as all the other robots in this area.

Then I realized there are some advantages to this frigid enviroment, slight though they may be.

Small Talk: I love meaningless small talk. You know, the kind of shit you just spew out of your mouth because you’re bored to tears with your life and you can’t bring yourself to lay out, “Oh God oh GOD I’m a failure and I’m going to be alone forever!” on some complete stranger, so instead you just talk about the weather? Right? right?

Well what better to fill that gaping empty void in a conversation after you’ve both painstakingly affirmed that it’s hot outside than a twenty minute shout fest about how frigid you are at your desk? It’s INDOORS weather! Brilliant! As you can imagine just from reading this far I could go on for hours.

Your Inner MacGuyver Awaits: Eventually, I got tired of slowly freezing to death, watching my loins surge with fertility and staring out the window at the tropical urban paridise denied me. So I got up and tore off the vent cover above my desk and tried to cover it up.

Well, as it turns out, my vent is the last vent in the air conditioning’s floor wide circuit. That means that the air NEEDS to come out, like swallowed chewing tobacco. I was more motivated trying to fix this problem than anything in recent memory. I first taped a piece of carboard over the now gaping hole in my ceiling. That worked for about ten minutes until the slowly loosening tape emitted a thunderous buzzing sound and the entire (now ice cold) home-made plug came crashing down on my head.

Then I shoved some paper plates in the hole. This only served to anger the beast as the winter blast contorted the waxed paper and found a wrinkle, slightly tore through TWO plates and is now jettisoning a Level 5 Cone of Cold right into my left ear.

Permanently Erect Nipples: This may be a little too much information, but as I write this, my man-teats are hard enough to cut diamonds. A feat which I’ve proven several times as I’ve taken out some side-work for a diamond merchant friend of mine.

These little headlights are good for all kinds of things. When it gets to around 55 like today, I can store a good six CD’s on them, that’s more than the collected works of Silverchair. I’ve got a personally located, portable one-hole punch, with just three swift ab crunches any report is good to go. Also, with a thin rubber coating, they do make for great erasers.

I could go on and on, but I think my mulled cider just got finished heating up over the bonfire in the server room. We’re setting up a skate rink in the supply closet, so if anyone wants to come over and sing some carols, I’ll be here till winter, when it will be, inevitably, sweltering.

August 23, 2006

I Just Won 50 Bucks, Help Me Spend It

Filed under: Announcements,Humor,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 1:34 pm

So I bought some bad coffee this morning. Not bad like Starbucks bad, but bad as in it smelled like faeces.

After I muscled through half of it, I ran downstairs to our local vice peddlar and picked up a new cup of non faeces coffee and on a whim bought a few scratch off lottery tickets.

Well I won 50 bucks on one of them, w00t.

Usually I don’t have any problem whatsoever figuring out a way to spend my own money, but won money? Found money? I’m absolutely lost.

Give me a couple hints.

Best suggestion will be executed and photographed. I’ll also save one of the fifty dollars for the suggester.

EDIT: Currently the discussion and best ideas are here:

http://www.rhythmism.com/forum/showthread.php?t=42861

I’ll have the winner decided by the end of the week so I can do a little travel journal this weekend.

August 22, 2006

Naughty Naughty!

Filed under: Announcements,Humor,Life,Manners,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 10:19 am

shame-on-you.jpg

Ok.

So WordPress has this AWESOME feature that let’s you see what search terms are bringing people to your site. Fantastic, great tool. So what are people searching for on the internet that sends them this way? Are people looking for help and advice on how to act? No. Are people looking for a laugh to lift the oppressive gray cloud of depression from their lives? No.

They’re looking for advice on how to get a handjob at a massage parlor. *Sigh*

If you’re confused look here:

https://missedmanners.wordpress.com/2006/08/11/missed-manners-theres-the-rub/

Listen, people, if you want a handjob, go do it yourself. And remember, your search strings are about as private as taking a dump in Times Square.

Don’t believe me?

 http://www.somethingawful.com/index.php?a=4016

http://www.somethingawful.com/index.php?a=4032

August 18, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: Blackjack

Filed under: Column,Humor,Life,Personal,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 4:17 pm

Miss(ed) Manners: Blackjack

So, today is my little brother’s 21st birthday. He’s passing under the final bridge to adulthood, and that bridge my friends, is made of booze.

He’s already got the right to vote, a responsibility and priviledge that I’m fairly certain he’s completely unaware of. I’m assuming he’s gone through puberty, though he won’t let me check. He can drive, he can work, he can stay out all night. But truly, how important are these things? What more measure of a man can there be than to behold his grown visage face down in a puddle of his own vomit, a testament to the horrors visited on him by his so called, “friends?” How much more adult can you get?

I’m taking him out tonight, our plan of attack is one that I started scheduling nearly six months ago. Every detail meticulously thought out; though, for the most part every detail seems to involve, “drink this” or “expose that.”

The hallowed tradition of an American 21st birthday is one that goes back nearly forty thousand years to the later neanderthal tribes of Northern New Jersey. Tying down their now adult pack-member, the large foreheaded beasts would force one animal skull-full of fermented berries after another down his open gullet.

Little has changed over the eons, we all know this. Standard fare today is the classic “21 shots” rite. Some may institute a time limit, though this is usually overlooked as the sight of seeing your dear friend semi-puke a few times will generate some clemency in your heart.

For those that don’t know, the semi-puke usually happens right after a shot, the taker having tried to swallow the drink full, but his stomache, being so filled with liquor, bile and sadness, tries to force it all out. The semi-puker looks like he’s just been punched in the stomache by a midget. Not fun.

Everyone has their own 21st birthday story. They usually end with you clinging the base of a soiled toilet, crying out for the pain to stop and wondering when you’d eaten a salad. You also find out really quick who your real friends are at the end of the night. Here’s a hint, if they’re laughing at you while you hurl gallons of stomache acid at a light post, look into changing scenes.

My own 21st birthday story is no different. Sparing you the details I’ll just say that I tossed out some stomache nuggets on the floor, got carried home by my girlfriend at the time, who as it turns out was exceedingly strong and traversed the eight blocks in a near sprint with me in a Fireman’s carry. We must have looked like the drunkest wrestling match ever as I clamored to make it to my useless feet amidst my protests of wanting to go drink more.

To be honest, I wasn’t amazingly pleased with the results. When I woke up I was still drunk and about four hours late to a new job I’d recently started. I stumbled around Union Square smelling like paint thinner and throw up, it wasn’t very chic and I certainly didn’t feel like a man.

Is there a better way to enjoy the mandatory excess? Is moderation even allowed? Will I send my little brother back to summer job with a massive head wound? Only time will tell.

A while ago, I mentioned to a friend that instead of starting out tonight with the intention of ruining his gastro intestinal system via enough alcohol to kill an elephant I would try and aim to have him remember some of the night. He actually got angry at me for even suggesting it.

“Everyone’s gotta puke on their 21st birthday, it’s the law.” Which it is, in some counties in upstate New York.

To me, the whole, “must puke” idea has smatterings of a frat house hazing. You had to go through it, everyone else does too. Everyone talks about their 21st birthday and throwing up all over the place with some sort of deluded pride. But when you get down to it, no one’s excited about that, there’s just a little bit of shame. Like when your parents walked in on you beating it to a picture of Barbara Bush, the kind of shame that no amount of schnapps can kill.

I’m the second of four children. My older brother used to beat the snot out of me, literally. I was snotless for a good five years, it wasn’t all that bad. When Danny, my little bro, came along I beat the snot out of him too, because I’d gone through it, so should he, right?

Not really. Where does it end? Who says, enough is enough, I want my little brother to enjoy himself tonight, I want him to possibly meet a nice, older woman with a penchant for barely legal skinny white boy ass, I want him to party, not puke.

Who says that? I do. Because I really don’t like dealing with pukers, it grosses me out, man.

August 16, 2006

For Eyes

Filed under: Humor,Life,Personal,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 11:23 am

First off:

RIP Bruno Kirby. Funnyman, character actor, man who let us all in on the Blowjobtoberfest that is the Port Authority bathrooms. You know who sucks the best dick? Leo Dicaprio, that’s who. Big ups.

Anyway, did I miss a crucial news update? Did we start making eyeglasses out of enriched Uranium? I went to my neighborhood Lenscrafters (store #45567) and picked up a new pair yesterday. They were almost as much as my rent. I keep looking for the button that deploys the oil slicks, smoke screen and caltrops but none of the letters in “Versace” work. 😦

Now, I’m alright with this, mainly because I look really fucking good in my new glasses, like Plastikman era Richie Hawtin’s hotter older brother. (See Below)

good-god-im-sexy.jpg

While on one hand I’m out enough loot to buy a black market kidney, on the other I can actually wear my glasses again, which is good because apparently you’re not supposed to wear contacts for six months straight and stare at the sun while rubbing raw chicken on your retina.

Though, last night I was in Williamsburg, Brooklyn meeting my friend Nick for some iced peppermint tea and logo design for my Dad’s upcoming cichlid sales website. Normally I don’t venture into that area the same way people don’t like to come to mine. They’re afraid of getting mugged, and I’m afraid becoming violently ill at the sight of so many fucking trust fund spending, obscure music listening, rank and file hipsters.

So while we sat around the Laptop and listened to some sort of piped in German Folk music that’s only cool if you’re cool enough to know the story behind it or something, I realized I was about 50% less out of place there with my new glasses on. Not cool.

We wrapped the meeting up soon after that and I’m putting my contacts back in tomorrow.

August 11, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: There’s the Rub

Filed under: Column,Humor,Life,Manners — missedmanners @ 1:42 pm

I’ve got a problem.

A serious addiction.

My name is Dave and I’m a massage junkie.

massage.jpg
Once or twice a month I absolutely have to slink into a sub-basement level Tui-Na Acupressure massage joint in Soho to get my kinks worked out.

Wait. I’m going to pause for about five minutes to let everyone make the requisite “Happy Ending” jokes. OMG THAT’S HELARYOUS! hahahahah

The fact of the matter is that there is a serious negative stigma surrounding the practice of massage, especially Asian massage. You’re all racist for propagating it, yeah I said it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and the only real reason I can come up with for people assuming a massage has to be something sexual stems from the following:

1) Good old American Puritan Repression.
What, me? Get touched by someone who’s not me? What? I won’t have any of it. Now would you pass me my one holed sex sheet?

2) Law and Order
Well, all of TV, really. Any time you see a massage “parlor” on the tube there are hand jobs going on. In fact it’s like a dick knuckling bonanza on Prime time. I said Law and Order because of my deep hatred for Benjamin Bratt, he knows what he did and why myself and the municipality of Aspen will never forgive him.

3) Friendly’s Restaurants
Their happy endings sundaes, while delicious and fun, are racist. Do not attempt to romance the hot fudge covered sugar cone, it’s hot fudge you idiot.

If anyone’s actually ever BEEN into one of these places you’d find that the idea of it being a home for assisted meat pounding is patently ridiculous. The massage tables are generally lined up next to each other with a few feet in between. It would be pretty hard to have someone play the skin flute royale on your peesch without making a ruckus.

I know some of you will say, “well when I went to camp I used to masturbate ten or twelve times a night and no one ever knew about it or heard me, until the last week of camp of course when the incident happened” Well to you I say, “You need to find Jesus, STAT.”

With this unfair and incorrect assumption being the norm, it’s hard to admit to being a massage junkie without people painting you as a guy who likes to get his nob wrangled by some stranger. The worst is coming out afterwards. Since I’m an avid, enthusiastic smoker I instantly light up and I am positive I’ve seen some people shake their heads at me. It’s silly.

In my opinion everyone should be a massage addict. There are almost as many Tui-Na places in New York as there are Starbucks, so it’s not difficult. They’re cheap, usually around 40 bucks for an hour, not including tip. Most of all you will feel refreshed, relaxed and energized.

Proper behavior is very important when finding a regular massage parlor. Below is a list of a few do’s and don’ts.

Do: Feel free to choose your level clothing during the massage, it’s a comfort level thing. In your case I would suggest putting more clothes on… you’ve been hitting the Haagen-Dazs a little hard this month, Sally Struthers.

Don’t: Ask if they do internal massage. You’re in the wrong place, you were looking for the Public Bathrooms at Washington Square.

Do: Tip well. This is very important. My grasp of Chinese is incredibly limited, but I’m usually a big tipper. From the chatter I’ve overheard all the masseurs are big fans of mine… or I’m a chicken with red ice claws who is a “shrrrr” something.

Don’t: Fart.

Don’t: Shout “Immigration!” really loudly and then try to explain that you were just kidding. Not cool man. Unless you actually are from Immigration in which case thanks for protecting us from incredibly loose lower backs and adjusted spines.

Do: Try out the guy masseuse. Almost always at a Tui-Na place there’ll be this one guy who just sits around. Sometimes he’s an acupuncturist, but usually he just hangs out and doesn’t get many appointments because, well… he’s a dude. Most girls don’t want to get a rub down from a guy because, well… he’s a dude. Most guys don’t want to risk an erection and the ensuing collapse of their sexual identity like a brittle house of cards.

Don’t be such a pussy, usually, these guys are the best. Not to discount any of the female masseurs, but most of their allure is that their hands are soft. Guys usually apply more pressure and are more therapeutic.

They also give the best happy endings.

August 10, 2006

Other Things That Should Be Banned From Flights Between the UK and the US

Filed under: Humor,Life,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 5:49 pm

Of all the things to ban UKer’s from having on their person at all times: toothpaste, hair gel and sun screen, ha!
I think we all see the humo(u)r in tooth paste and sun screen. The British are notoriously well groomed in the mouth and possessing of deep tans befitting their island nation.

But the hair gel? That’s simply cruel, do you have any idea how long the perfectly messy/feigned disinterest hair style has been a part of British culture? Like twenty thousand years. Don’t believe me? Watch Vanity Fair, that Reese’s Meyer kid has what looks like a parrots ass sticking out of his head the entire movie.

Instead the following items should be instantly forbidden to travel from the UK to the US:

  1. Victoria and David Beckham
  2. Cultural references to cricket
  3. The Madonna/Gwynneth Paltrow Megabritwifezord
  4. Royalty
  5. Crumpets
  6. History
  7. Actual Irish People
  8. British humor and the unfounded national pride assocciated thereof

August 4, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: Stomache Gramps

Filed under: Column,Humor,Life,Manners,Personal — missedmanners @ 5:07 pm

In a couple of hours I’m heading north to my family’s home to begin a weekend-long celebration of my Grandfather David’s 80th birthday. Some of the people who read this column/blog/weekly catharsis have met him and will understand why this is such a big deal for me. It’s going to be one of those picnic type affairs, under the sun, soaked in drinks and drowned in laughter.

The invite came to my house a few weeks ago; “No Presents!” it said in the perfect, school teacher handwriting of his second wife and my third grandmother, Peggy. What a relief, I thought, what in the hell do you get a guy who gave you his name? Somehow a tie or the latest book you’ve read hardly seem measure up. I’ve got this kidney I don’t really need, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want it.

Eighty years is a big milestone by any standard the world has to offer. Regimes have risen and faded in far less, sports dynasties have come and gone; disco was born, died, ressurected and then killed again in a tragic platform shoe accident.

We’ve got the same name, which has had its ups and downs. When we’re together I’m Davey, which honestly, makes me sound like I’m a children’s TV show host with a substance abuse habit and a secret life as a Furry.

Living in the shadow of that name has been a little disheartening. Having done the math, I’ve realized that the statistical probability of me leading half the life he’s already led is on par with winning a US Open, any of them. But it’s worth a try, right?

To some extent we’ve all got the crippling handicap of seeing the world through our eyes only. For me, David’s life is limited to my 26 years on the planet. For all I know he didn’t exist before I was around, that goes for all of you, too. In truth, I’ve only been around for a third of his life, the sunset years as they’re so incorrectly called in his case.

His latest third has been more active than my first by many orders of magnitude. While most grandparents move to Florida and take up doctor prescribed shuffleboard, he jetted off to Taiwan to teach English as a Second Language. I don’t think they even know what shuffleboard is over there.

He’s set up and help run a massive food pantry in Northern New Jersey. Feeding the less fortunate, making a difference, being the man that Bono wants to be. All of this, well after 60. You know what I’ve done? I gave a guy some change the other day because he was blocking the path out of the Popeye’s and I was scared of his facial hair.

The other day my mother mentioned to me that David had mellowed out in his most recent years, slowed down a little.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This guy’s got more energy than if Lance Armstrong had both of his balls. If what he’s like now is mellowed, then I really wonder how he made it through the first sixty-odd years of his life without constantly being in traction.

What I DO know about David’s earlier years is built from a series of tellings and retellings spaced out over two decades. Exaggerations and reductionist games of Telephone in my own mind have him sometimes wearing the plaid shirt of Paul Bunyan when he topples the Nazi regime, or knocking out Pecos Bill’s teeth with a can of Campbell’s tomato soup.

Whether I like to admit it or not I’ve tried to do as many of the things he did: we attended the same college, lived in the same city, gone to the same bars. If plagiarism is the highest form of flattery, call me Jayson Blair.

We’re storytellers, me and him. I can’t count the hours we’ve sat around sweating booze and swapping tales. Whether it’s him claiming to have spent three days pretending to be a deaf mute just to avoid having to chit-chat with strangers on a train, or it’s me ratchetting up the bust size of a… “law infraction” just to hear that trademark grenade blast of a laugh, we’re here for two things: The moment, and then the retelling of that moment to who ever will listen.

I retell his moments all the time as well. Many of my friends have heard about his drink cards, which were a gift from Peggy. Five hundred business cards with the correct instructions on how to make his favorite drink, a Canadian Club on the rocks, in a rocks glass, with a twist. I think I’d pass on teaching the Parables to my kids in favor of this one in a heartbeat. The moral? Waiters are practically retarded and DID need the card.

I like to think of Grandparents as the closest real life approximation to the fourth dimension (puts on nerd glasses) we’ve got. They’re your past, where you came from, and your future, what you’ve got to look forward to, and they’re right in front of you rolled up into one person.

If that’s true and I’ve got a future like his to look forward to, I’m thinking I should head back to the gym.

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