tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27293783340533709552024-02-02T08:08:31.858-05:00Functioning RageaholicA sarcastically humorous Boston based blog about life, sports, bars, music and things that are just plain ridiculous.FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-6701408311622249562011-06-06T10:46:00.000-04:002011-06-06T10:46:25.191-04:00Southie is a Weird and Wonderful Place (Part II): The Rest of the Lunatics in the NeighborhoodI was the last of my high school friends to move to Boston. I thought it was important to live in Worcester for a couple years just until I was on the brink of lunacy and sadomasochistic behavior. One of the first places they exposed me to was a place called Fresh Tortilla (now Lee Chen's). I have eaten tacos from a streetcart in Tijuana and I would not have walked into this place if my oldest friends hadn't sworn by it. Now I can't go very long without it. It's a rare drunken night out that I can resist it's siren call. And even if I do I fall asleep dreaming about the one place that can serve me crab rangoon and a chicken burrito at the same time. The fusion of low rent Chinese and Mexican food open until 2 A.M.? Clearly, there were mad geniuses at work here in South Boston.<br />
<br />
There are also just the mad. As in both angry and insane. I was down at the beach sunning myself, trying to hide away any vestige of my Irishness except my name (I can't be the palest one in a house of all Irish kids, it's embarrassing. It's like coming in last in a Special Olympic race). Two women came with their chairs and set up a gossip party about ten feet to my left. It was a mother and her late teenage daughter (not late as in dead, of course, that would have been much weirder. I mean she was about eighteen or nineteen). I was reading Hunter S. Thompson (I know, you can't decide if I'm cooler or smarter. Let's just call it a draw and move on). All due respect to Dr. Thompson but when these ladies started talking he didn't stand a chance.<br />
<br />
I don't usually make a habit of eavesdropping but I figure the less effort you put in the more acceptable it is. Glass to the door to hear a conversation in the next room: creepy. Laying on a beach and being ear-raped by inane conversation: unavoidable. It's called an Irish whisper for a reason. I wasn't exactly straining to hear them. I was more straining to hear my own thoughts at that point. Which wasn't a big deal because their thoughts were far more entertaining.<br />
<br />
They were silent for a little bit and it was just me and Hunter. Then Mom said, "You see Sean's new girlfriend?" The question was clearly rhetorical and the question mark was only there for effect. She was building anticipation. And it worked, I couldn't wait. <br />
<br />
"She's awful." And there it was. The knockout blow that the previous jab set up. The daughter stops looking at the pictures in the TigerBeatPeopleUs magazine she was holding and says, "I KNOOOOOOOOOOOW!" I know it's a hard thing to quantify but if you were there you would totally agree that the way she said it there were definitely eleven O's in the word "know." They went on for about five minutes assassinating this woman's character to the point that I was like, "Fuck this girl. Sean can do way better."<br />
<br />
That thought and the smell of my skin sizzling snapped me back to reality and I went in search of Aloe. I found it in the C.V.S. a mere aisle away from my other big ticket item of the day: condoms. I've been buying them for years and you should be too. People are dirty. But they're also sexy. And if you're having sex with them you should use them (cue the More You Know music). It's not usually a big deal for me to buy them.<br />
<br />
Except, when I got in line. I saw the woman that would be ringing me up. Picture Mrs. Claus in your head. That's what she looked like. All of a sudden this felt wrong. I was racking my brain trying to think if the Claus' ever had children as if that would provide some sort of loophole proving she was as dirty as me. But it was too late, I was next and she was staring at me.<br />
<br />
I handed over the condoms like a sheepish child handing over a shitty report card. She took them and swiped them as if it was nothing and fumbled putting my things in the bag. "Oh," I thought, "She's not a judgmental old prude, she is a consummate professional, if a little bit clumsy. Exactly how Mrs. Claus should be." <br />
<br />
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm a bit thrown off. I usually work nights. I used to work days but it's been all third shifts since 9/11 happened and I couldn't find another job for a while."<br />
<br />
I thought I had finally lost it. I could have sworn I felt a pop in my temple and I was bleeding out the ears. I have heard that awful day be blamed for many things but working the day shift at C.V.S. was a new one. I grabbed my bag and practically ran from the store. That sentence bothered me the whole ride home. Then it hit me: Mrs. Claus must have lost her job as a T.S.A. agent at Logan as a result of September 11. And subsequently, caused me to string together to craziest collection of words I have ever imagined into a sentence (Hint: it's the one right before this one).<br />
<br />
It was at this point that I started having that old worrisome feeling where I can't determine whether the craziness of the outside world is affecting my mind or vice versa. I felt like I needed a nap. I had a long day judging people and there were only three of them. <br />
<br />
Five if you count Sean and his girlfriend. <br />
<a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=FunctioningRageaholic&loc=en_US">Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email</a>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-81094675488496186552011-06-03T13:04:00.000-04:002011-06-03T13:04:17.548-04:00South Boston is a Weird and Wonderful Place (Part I)I have lived in South Boston for over a year but I am just now starting to explore the area better. I'm ashamed to say I was afraid before but it wasn't my fault. My family for some reason is obsessed with crime novels that take place in Boston, South Boston especially. I read them with the same vigor as they until I found myself with a leased apartment within two blocks of the Old Colony Housing Project where Whitey did a lot of dirty work. I spent a good part of the first few months worried that I would look at the wrong guy and be cemented into the foundation of a parking garage of a federal building.<br />
<br />
And, of course my whole family read the heartbreaking book <i>All Souls </i>by Michael Patrick MacDonald. In that book there were seven children in the family. Five of them died young, one went to prison, and the other was sold into the sex trade in Thailand (or something like that, I read it a while ago). The point is, I am just now getting to know the locals. And I regret the time I stayed away. These people are a community in the best sense.<br />
<br />
While on a run one day* I saw an very well-dressed old man fall off the sidewalk backwards. The woman from the laundromat ran out and we helped him to his feet. I offered to walk him where he was going since the woman from the laundromat looked about as sturdy as well-played Jenga tower herself**. <br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
We started down the sidewalk at a glacial pace with me supporting a good amount of this mans body weight. He was holding my hand and leaning against me. It was far more intimate than I ever imagined getting with an old man but<i> </i>I tried to put that out of my mind and concentrate on my new mantra: Don't drop the old man. Don't drop the old man. Please, God, don't let me drop this old man.<br />
<br />
Luckily before we could travel very far (though we had been walking for about four hours, it seemed) we walked by Telegraph Hill on Dorchester and the bartender and manager came out to see if the man was alright. They were very kind to this stranger and called in an ambulance to check on him and a cruiser to take him home. The E.M.T.s were something beyond professional. They really wanted this old man to be okay and seemed worried when he refused to let them take him to the hospital. We found out that the man was Albanian and his name was Paul (which was short for something that was 14 letters long and Albanian). Paul said, "God bless you" and it was the first time anyone had said that to me without me sneezing.<br />
<br />
And the only reason I told this touching story is so I don't feel guilty writing about the rest of the lunatics in the neighborhood later on this week.<br />
<br />
*This story already seems unbelievable to those of you who know me.<br />
<br />
**Now the people that know me are calling outright bullshit. They realize I do not hold the elderly in the highest esteem. They are stronger and smarter than people give them credit for and they exploit this at every opportunity. Also, they smell like halloween costumes that sit in the attic for eleven months at a time.***<br />
<br />
***As I reread this note, it seems a bit harsh. But just remember the time I carried an old man through Southie and I don't seem that bad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=FunctioningRageaholic&loc=en_US">Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email</a>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-70423539053252983152011-05-31T10:41:00.000-04:002011-05-31T10:41:54.383-04:00I Admit I Am Powerless Against Hipsters...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRu2ngcYzEmE2sNmFbyTYh5-08SJ0yOLqufnfDGyV7Sy7z80trjoiaXR_dUAhisTmdfrmH38ZVkOv5kUeRh0ZDIsu_G8NrYuDLYxYErxKXpQNGwnHiLpiBgx95pw98vpTRBQ6SH_fL6M/s1600/hipster-trap-500x668.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRu2ngcYzEmE2sNmFbyTYh5-08SJ0yOLqufnfDGyV7Sy7z80trjoiaXR_dUAhisTmdfrmH38ZVkOv5kUeRh0ZDIsu_G8NrYuDLYxYErxKXpQNGwnHiLpiBgx95pw98vpTRBQ6SH_fL6M/s320/hipster-trap-500x668.jpg" width="239" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have recently come to harsh and sudden realization that I may be a hipster. As with many major character flaws, I realize that everyone else saw the signs before I did. First and foremost, those of you reading this are probably yelling at your monitors: YOU WRITE A BLOG! HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW THIS?! Well, denial is a powerful thing. I realize now that becoming a hipster is a process, not an event. No one decides to do it, it happens gradually. It's very much how babies are born. People get careless and mistakes are made.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">That being said, I blame all of you. It started off slow. I liked their sunglasses. That's it. Then it began to pick up steam. I started shopping at Urban Outfitters and wearing clever graphic T's. I started to like bands until they were commercially successful and then would accuse them of changing their sound and selling out. I find women that wear those fake, geeky glasses incredibly sexy. I even, and I'm not proud to admit it, fashioned an ironic fascination with Matthew McConaughey (which I hope is heterosexual). Troublingly, that has since blossomed into a love of the man that is no longer ironic (or probably heterosexual).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My question is: where were my friends and family when I needed them the most? Had my drug been heroin instead of a fixation/hatred of popular culture they would have formed a group and intervened I'm sure. But they were asleep at the wheel and let me become the monster I am now. They should have sat with a professional and read out statements telling me what I had become.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Family Member 1: Those T-shirts are embarrassing to buy for you and they cost forty dollars each.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Friend 1: You are very condescending of my affinity toward Justin Bieber even though millions love him as well.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Friend 2: Kings of Leon are still a great band even though they no longer live in their parent's basements.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Family Member 2: You don't look nearly as good in Wayfarer sunglasses as you think you do.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Family Member 3: You do look good in flannel, but you insist on wearing it in the summer. It makes you look like a sweaty, uncomfortable lumberjack.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Something like that would have been incredibly helpful. Although, there is a very good chance I would have accused you all of being corporate sheep in a patronizing tone and then went home and watched a documentary about people growing their own food in Brooklyn like an asshole.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Still, they say the first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one. I will be twelve-stepping my way from hipsterdom hopefully. But none of you should expect a phone call at the "making amends" stage of my recovery.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=FunctioningRageaholic&loc=en_US">Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email</a></div>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-80968724363743160602011-05-23T11:37:00.000-04:002011-05-23T11:37:42.012-04:00Twaining DayFor Christmas I received <i>The Autobiography of Mark Twain. </i>I asked for it. Apparently my wish list is the one time I try to impress my mother all year. I could just as easily get a real job or bring home a girl that doesn't have any visible tattoos or facial piercings, but no, instead I ask for 700 page pain in the ass books.<br />
<br />
I had to start asking for books because my mother went through a period where she would just buy me books where people died in nature. Just volume after volume about people dropping like flies in the wilderness. As if I didn't spend enough time indoors she was sending me messages about the outdoors murdering good people in cold blood. There were books about people dying on Everest, Kilimanjaro, Alaska, at sea, etc. This is probably where I got my deep distrust of outside. <br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I don't outright try to hurt nature. I drive a fuel efficient car. At least it probably was when it rolled off the assembly line in '97. I live a somewhat "green" lifestyle just in case M. Night Shyamalan was right about the trees trying to kill us. I want them to think I'm on their side. I just choose not to participate in outdoor activities. My favorite things are sex, drinking, and having drunken sex. The one thing all these ventures have in common is that if you do them outside, people will probably give you a hard time.<br />
<br />
So, I started asking for books that didn't give me an onset of agoraphobia. Which is how I came to own the fourteen pound monstrosity of Mark Twain's life story (Volume One, by the way). So, I decide I have to read this book because I feel bad about the effort my mother went through pointing and clicking her way through Amazon and making the arduous trip to the front door three to five days later. After skipping the 57 page introduction (wasn't written by Twain, doesn't count) and the "discarded manuscripts" (they were probably discarded for a reason, no point in reading the shit that didn't make it) I begin to read about Twain's life.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if you were thinking about reading this book but if you were, spoiler alert: Life in Mississippi at the turn of the century was boring as fuck. He goes on for the first few pages about how his family had this giant expanse of land that was almost immeasurable (it was totally measurable actually, I just don't know what an acre is) and how his father bought it for $480. Four hundred and eighty American dollars. If I tried to give that to my landlord for rent on my apartment in my shitty neighborhood she would have everything I own outside in a box by dinner time. Then I start thinking that if I had a time machine I could go back in time and buy half of Rhode Island for the change that's rattling around in the center console of my car.<br />
<br />
That's when I closed the book. Because I'm pretty sure Mark Twain did not intend for his auto-biography to invoke such dumb-ass, nonsensical retardery. This used to happen in school too. If the person I was supposed to pay attention to was boring, my mind would hijack my thought process and think of the most outlandsih, idiotic thing it could to jar me out of it. This time though, I blame Mark Twain (why not? It's not like he can defend himself). <br />
<br />
This book should, and easily could have been much better. Mark Twain dictated this book and left instructions that it was to be published one hundred years after he died. Imagine someone says to you, "We want you to write two different versions of your autobiography. The first version we are going to publish immediately. The other version we will publish in a hundred years after everyone you know is dead."<br />
<br />
I don't know about you but, for me, those two versions would be a bit different. The first version would be a lot like the movie <i>Cocktail </i>but it would take place in far shittier bars. The protagonist would be just as short but not quite as good looking (although, with the added bonus of not being a couch-jumping Scientologist). It would be forty-six pages long, and that would be mostly pictures and poorly completed pages of coloring books.<br />
<br />
The second version would be over nine hundred pages long. It would be called <i>Nymphomaniac Space Ranger </i>and have a three page pull-out of my penis shown "life-size."<br />
<br />
The point is: punch it up a little, Mark! God damn it, tell people about the time you had an interracial threesome with Harriet Tubman and Betsy Ross!* Everybody's dead, who's gonna call bullshit? I thought you had a handle on the human condition but obviously not. You did not foresee how fucked up we were going to be. How the hell did you think this was going to keep our attention? There is not a single scene that takes place in a hot tub. Even the Real World knows that you need hot tub scenes to keep people tuned in.<br />
<br />
Your other stuff is great, but you mailed this in and you know it, Twain. <br />
<br />
<br />
*I have no idea if these three people lived at the same time. I'm an idiot.<br />
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<br />
First off, don't bring your kids in the bar. Adults belong in a bar, kids make bartenders uncomfortable. You're all just dollar signs to us. When a little cent sign comes in with their little, sticky hands and starts throwing cocktail straws around with reckless abandon it puts us, and more importantly the adults trying to drink at the bar, on edge. <br />
<br />
One couple comes into the bar with their cherub and they both proceeded to something I assume they do quite often: drink and ignore the shit out of their kid. Their son proceeds to put his little feet on his stool and plant his hands on the bar, leaning forward in a threatening manner. I do not know what to do. I'm thinking, "This child looks like it might attack me. I've seen things attack things on the Discovery channel, it looks just like this. I'll put him down if I have to, but what do I say after? I don't think a simple 'he started it' will suffice."<br />
<br />
Luckily he did not attack. Instead, he just went all crazy eyed and screamed, "AAAAAAH! AAAAAAH! AAAAAAH!" Over and over. I glance over at the parents but they do not seem to be as concerned as I am about the situation. Dad, you wanna maybe put the scotch down and nip this serial killer type behavior in the bud? No? Alright.<br />
<br />
After a few minutes, his father did do something. He casually looked at me and said, "Oh, he's a dinosaur." As if that is an acceptable explanation for what was happening. Not "His Ritalyn ran out" or "He was raised by wolves." Nope, just "he's a dinosaur." Oh, well then, problem solved. Good parenting tip, sir. If my child is ever literally acting like an animal in public just give a half-assed explanation and move on.<br />
<br />
This made me mad though. Not the shitty parents, I see that all the time. I was mad because when I was little I LOVED dinosaurs, and this kid was doing it all wrong. He didn't have his arms tucked in or his nostrils flared, he was fucking it all up. So, naturally, I:<br />
<br />
ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!<br />
<br />
His crazy dead-eyed look turned to sheer terror and the parents look at me like I did something wrong. I tried to explain to them that it was not a combative or aggressive roar. It was a constructive criticism roar. Either way, that young man learned there's a price to be paid for doing a sub-par dinosaur impression in my bar.<br />
<br />
Tim, one. Eight year old dinosaur enthusiast, zero. You gotta enjoy the little victories.<br />
<a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=FunctioningRageaholic&loc=en_US">Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email</a>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-39933925256407674672011-05-02T13:29:00.000-04:002011-05-02T13:29:55.000-04:00SEALing the DealThere are many reasons why the members of the SEAL Team that killed Bin Laden are better than me. In fact, there are so many reasons I would rather not dwell too long lest it lead to crying in the fetal position over my shame that I share a gender with men like that. One of the biggest reasons they are far better men is that no one will ever know they did it. One day, a member of that SEAL Team will be waiting in line at Dunkin' Donuts and someone will cut them in line and they will not react the way I would: by yelling, "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO THE FUCK I AM?"<br />
<br />
This is obviously a small part of the sacrifices they make daily, but I find myself thinking about those soldiers in this time. What must have been going through their heads when they found out that their target was the most wanted man in the world. Did they even believe it? Was there some eye-rolling and 'we've heard that before'? There was almost certainly some gallows humor in the time leading up to the raid and some lighthearted argument over who would make the kill. <br />
<br />
I imagine it would resemble a locker room before the Super Bowl. A group of men all focused on the same goal, all filled to the brim with nervous energy, all finding a way to make that energy work for them. Those SEALs then came out of the locker room and won an incredibly lopsided victory. The other team never even touched the ball. If not for a malfunctioning helicopter that the team destroyed themselves, it was flawless. That was the equivalent of a bad long snap that the punter had to kick out of the back of the end zone. The other team got two points, but they certainly didn't earn them. And they still lost by sixty.<br />
<br />
What must last night have felt like for them? It must have been like ten Super Bowls, eight Stanley Cups, and a few Larry O'Brien and World Series trophies thrown in. But that's where it ends. There will be no parade. These men will not risk making themselves and their families the biggest targets in the world, no matter how much they deserve to be showered in more ticker tape than any champion in history. They will savor their victory as quickly and quietly as they executed their mission. And then, a debriefing and the next mission. There is no off season for these athletes. There was just last night. And I hope it was fucking beautiful.<br />
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<br />
Fun fact about gluten: it's in fucking everything. It is in almost all foods. If you have a gluten allergy I think it's a subtle hint from God that He wants you to starve to death. "We" finally found her some sort of food for her takeout order that I secretly hoped was packed with enough gluten to kill a pony. <br />
<br />
Then she says, "I'm sorry, I know it's a pain. It's not me, it's my baby that has the allergy. And I'm breastfeeding."<br />
<br />
Oh. Ew. That's it, bitch, I'm off the team. I am young and still think boobs are fun. How dare you remind me of their actual function. Look, I know I'm an "adult" and I should be able to handle a woman talking about breastfeeding, but here's the thing ladies (and I feel like a lot of you don't know this): when you talk to someone about breastfeeding you are forcing them to picture you breastfeeding. It's awkward for everybody. And this woman was not the fun kind of picturing breastfeeding, when you maybe think about it later and try to mentally photoshop the baby out. She was more National Geographic picturing breastfeeding.<br />
<br />
To stop her from saying more things, because God only knows what was coming judging from the first five minutes of our relationship, I asked her if she wanted a drink while she waited for her food.<br />
<br />
"Yes," she says, "I would like a Tanqueray martini."<br />
<br />
Wait, what the fuck? Your kid's fragile body can't handle gluten but you're feeding him white russians for dinner?! She's talking to another dude at the bar, "Oh, he's such a good baby, he's already sleeping through the night." No shit! He's blacked out on titty gin!<br />
<br />
Good luck getting that kid to switch to a bottle. If I could get drunk from a boob I would never leave the house.<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">It is with decreasing regularity that I have moments I think I was a bit hasty in abandoning Christianity. It wasn’t very long after my confirmation that I started rebelling against weekly church trips and eventually decided to end the Christmas/Easter façade that many Christians keep to this day. As a system of beliefs it is rather admirable. I even believe and do my best to keep nine of the Ten Commandments.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My biggest problem with Catholicism is deeply rooted in its most fervent members. The outspoken, ignorant few who speak with great passion but without a modicum of thought. The people who know the words of the Bible by heart but seem incapable of grasping any of the central themes. People may accuse me of cynicism but this child would benefit from it greatly. Cynicism is what led me away from church and into the warm understanding that the church does not hold all the answers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Too many members of Christianity treat the church like a fortress; and all outsiders are invading heathens that deserve to die at the hands of their loving God. I studied the Bible briefly in college and even through the haze of a pretty steady hangover mixed with teen angst, I missed that message of hate. I believe people like this young woman are missing the point. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is the face of a religious fanatic. They comfort themselves with the thought that their weapons are not bullets or bombs. No, their weapon is poison that they feed to the next generation of Bible-thumping bigots. The intolerance they espouse is not the teaching of any God but the greasy fingerprints of zealots on the stained glass windows to the outside world. These are the fans of the vengeful, Old Testament God that are so horny for vindication that pages of their Bibles about Noah and the Flood are stuck together.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have no anger for these people. I pity them. I pity their ignorance (without which they might know that there are between one and two million Christians in Japan). I pity their lack of compassion (in stark contrast to many Christian groups that have already mobilized to help). I pity that they constantly see everything through the filter of their faith; they limit themselves to a peephole view of a world best seen through a panoramic lens.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I pity their lack of self-awareness. They have no idea that they are an embarrassment to their faith and, more importantly, their species. You could certainly attribute this young woman’s viewpoints on youth, but her thinking is not likely going to change with age. Such insular views do not bode well for the maturation process. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, I realize that I am beginning to sound as pious as the people I am railing against. And to answer your question: Yes, I do think I’m better than them. Of course, there is the possibility she’s right. None of us know for sure, even those of us who claim to. Her God may be real and maybe he did cause this tragedy as an answer to the misguided prayers of His believers. If that’s the case, I’ll be comforted in hell by the fact that no one like this girl will be with me. My immortal soul will rest outside the gates of heaven with the same people who occupy my thoughts today: the people of Japan.</div><br />
<a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=FunctioningRageaholic&loc=en_US">Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email</a>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-44192296342578135902011-02-15T02:19:00.003-05:002011-02-15T03:07:15.927-05:00FuncRage Answers Reader Mail<b>Are you that starved for inspiration that you have to rip off a Bill Simmons gimmick?</b><br />
Yes. But given my recent hiatus, the letters and e-mails have stacked up and this seems like a good way to get rid of them.<br />
<br />
<b>Do you even get reader mail?</b><br />
Not really. No.<br />
<br />
<b>You made these questions up didn’t you?</b><br />
Uh-huh.<br />
<br />
<b>So, where have you been?</b><br />
Due to an unfortunate incident involving a Starbuck’s employee and a small dog I was undergoing court-ordered anger management treatment with Mel Gibson and Carlos Zambrano.<br />
<br />
<b>What happened?</b><br />
I threw a small dog at a Starbuck’s employee. They both deserved it.<br />
<br />
<b>What was anger management like?</b><br />
They made us watch the movie <i>Babies</i> over and over. Mel ended up punching an actual baby. It was <s>hilarious</s> reprehensible. <br />
<br />
<b>Did anger management work?</b><br />
It turns out I didn’t need it. My aggressive behavior has since been attributed to chipmunk-induced rabies.<br />
<br />
<b>What are the symptoms of that?</b><br />
Nut cravings and assault charges.<br />
<br />
<b>Does this mean you will be posting regularly again?</b><br />
If by "regularly", you mean the grueling bi-monthly schedule that I averaged in my prime then…maybe. <br />
<br />
<b>What do you think of <i>Jersey Shore </i>this season?</b><br />
I think anybody that watches it should be sterilized. Anyone that uses vocabulary from that show in real life should be shipped to an island where there is nothing but large predatory animals and a literal mountain of cocaine. Now <i>that</i> would be a reality show.<br />
<br />
<b>What’s wrong with the terminology from that show? Smush is a funny word.</b><br />
Using the word smush to describe sex is a boner killer. It sounds like you’re trying to force a flaccid penis into an unwilling vagina. Call me old-fashioned but I don’t think you should have to use a shoehorn during sex. Yeah, try to use the word “smush” without that mental image popping up now. <br />
<br />
<b>Did you write that last response solely to make your sister feel uncomfortable when she proofreads this post?</b><br />
Mostly, yes. But the other night during dinner she told me a story about my mother trimming her dog’s vagina hair, so fuck her.<br />
<br />
And with that, I’m back, bitches. I’m going to try to pull fewer punches this time and post more regularly. At least until my parents read some of this shit and I can never make eye contact with them again. See you around town.<br />
<br />
Love, <br />
FuncRageFuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-42435779337406321802010-06-14T15:08:00.000-04:002010-06-22T23:12:33.608-04:00Rescue Ranger: Tim Saves The Life of a RodentDespite not being a fan of most people, I would have to admit that I am, at heart, an animal lover (except for cats... they're worse than people). Which is why when I spotted a chipmunk struggling in my parent's pool I did my best David Hasselhoff impression down from the second floor to attempt a water rescue. Cue the music!<br />
<br />
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(I was actually playing this in my head on the way downstairs.)<br />
<br />
I was a lifeguard for over five years and this was by far my most dramatic rescue. I got to him (No, I do not know how to tell the gender of a chipmunk, but for the purposes of the story it's a him - It's my damn chipmunk and I'll do what I want.) just as he stopped struggling and scooped him up in the skimmer. I deposited him by the side of the pool and saw him struggle to untangle his feet from the net. He looked bad. He looked, well, like a drowned rat. He was waterlogged and shaking from the morning cold. I walked him over to the edge of the woods and away from the pool and set him down. <br />
<br />
I left him there for about a minute, and then my ovaries kicked in. I brought him up on the deck and wrapped him in a towel trying to counteract the effects of rodent hypothermia. hen my sister chimed in, "We should take him to the animal hospital down the street." Son of a bitch. This never occured to me and now I have to do it. We put him into a shoebox and took him down the street to what turned out to not be an animal hospital, but a dog and cat hospital. Those segregationist assholes. I thought about saying it was a really small cat, but my chipmunk was already in bad shape and I didn't want to insult him. The receptionist recoiled at the sight of the chipmunk.<i> </i>I repeat, she recoiled at the sight of a baby chipmunk in a shoebox wrapped up in a pink towel. I wonder what it's like to not have a soul, I should ask her next time I see her. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyyiIE1Q9sxvMwuadRLxYl_HEWZg7_1ze-Ezz7cGLR39jbuupWRR-qvtDaaKLH6rr570glTCr374r57qgyhEImgvij5m2CDcCR9gMLcGwDgBNahOpdT7n7TIfNyDdUGkn7cA1We7l3sE/s1600/smudge1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyyiIE1Q9sxvMwuadRLxYl_HEWZg7_1ze-Ezz7cGLR39jbuupWRR-qvtDaaKLH6rr570glTCr374r57qgyhEImgvij5m2CDcCR9gMLcGwDgBNahOpdT7n7TIfNyDdUGkn7cA1We7l3sE/s320/smudge1.jpg" width="281" /></a></div>She directed us to Tufts Veterinary Hospital in Grafton. Tufts is the best place to take your animal. Our old dog Smudge was treated there and those people are amazing. But, they're also in Grafton which is a good 20 minutes from where my parents live. I thought about how insane it is to drive a chipmunk that far to seek treatment and then I realized that I wasn't working for another six hours and this may be the most worthwhile thing that I do all week/month. Buckle up, chipmunk, we're going for a ride.<br />
<br />
The chipmunk was riding shotgun with every heating vent pointed in his direction and I was sweating. We're making decent time without speeding (I didn't want to test out the "My chipmunk is sick" excuse on a cop). I make the turn onto the street of the hospital and suddenly the chipmunk makes a miraculous recovery and seems a bit more animated than it was previously. And by animated I mean the chipmunk was like, "Get me out of this fucking box right the fuck now!"<br />
<br />
No problem, you say. Just put the top on the shoebox. Uhhh, I didn't bring the top. I thought the thing was dying. I didn't know it would perk up and start trying to recreate <i>The Great Escape </i>and <i>Cujo </i>at the same time. I pulled into a spot and rushed inside as the chipmunk was about to jump out of the box onto the pavement. I walked up to a receptionist and calmly (yeah, right) tried to tell her that I had rescued a chipmunk and he was currently trying to free himself into her waiting room.<br />
<br />
"There's a chipmunk in there?" She asked as she gestured toward the box. <br />
"Yeah, I found-" <br />
<br />
I stopped midsentence. Why did I stop midsentence? Because of the next sentence. I never in a million years believed that I would ever hear myself say, "I'm sorry ma'am. My chipmunk is biting me."<br />
<br />
"Oh," she answered completely unconcerned, "Is it bad?"<br />
<br />
A WILD ANIMAL IS USING MY INDEX FINGER AS A CHEW TOY! IS IT BAD?! IT AIN'T GOOD LADY!<br />
<br />
"No." I answered stoically.<br />
<br />
She informed me that I had to go to the Wildlife Center because they only treat cats and dogs here (obviously). It occurs to me that if a cat swallows the chipmunk this ceases to be my problem. There were no cats in the waiting room. Figures, the one time I need one of those things they are nowhere to be found.<br />
<br />
I make my way back out to my car yelling at a chipmunk in a shoebox for being, quote, "an ungrateful little bastard." I have reached a level of insanity that is usually reserved for homeless people. As I reached my car, I realized that I could not drive and control the murderous furball at the same time. He was hard enough to get here in the first place and now he has a taste for human flesh. I looked around for something in my car to use as a lid. I found a styrofoam take-out container. Perfect.<br />
<br />
I walked into the Wildlife Center holding the take-out container with both hands as the chipmunk is trying to get out and finish the job it started on my finger. The elderly female receptionist regarded me warily.<br />
<br />
"What is that?" She asked.<br />
"This is a chipmunk in a take-out container, ma'am. It's been a weird morning." I answered.<br />
<br />
They took the chipmunk away in the container (I was kinda hoping for a tiny gurney) and had me fill out some paperwork. I made the suggested donation for the care of an animal that I did not own. I should have used the money on a tiny life jacket instead. They informed me that he was still shaking and very cold and they were going to keep him.<br />
<br />
I drove away feeling pretty good. If they kept him then that meant they can provide care that I could not. So, despite it making me appear insane, I guess I did the right thing. As I was thinking this a squirrel darted out from the side of the street and almost directly underneath my tire. I looked in the rearview as it scurried away unharmed and wondered why woodland rodents were conspiring to ruin my life.<br />
<br />
Like I said, it was a weird morning.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=FunctioningRageaholic&loc=en_US">Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email</a>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-812813053745708502010-06-09T10:04:00.000-04:002010-06-09T10:04:46.126-04:00Tim Gets Trim: Hockey Edition<a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=FunctioningRageaholic&loc=en_US">Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email</a><br />
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If I had to pinpoint the worst aspect of the meteorologically schizophrenic Northeast it would have to be the rapid change between the sweatshirt and shirtless seasons. Every year, many of us are caught off guard and scramble to lose the blubber that is physiologically essential to surviving the harsh winter. Running, I have been told, is the fastest way to lose this and I do it as much as I can.<br />
<br />
That being said, running sucks. It's boring as hell. When I was rowing crew the one thing that I could not master was the skill of staring at the back of another guy's head while repeating the same motion over and over. "O'Brien, keep your fucking head in the boat" was my nickname on the team. And we were rowing on Lake Quinsigamond in Worcester. Imagine if there was actually scenery worth watching.<br />
<br />
I realized I had to pursue other avenues of calorie burning. Playing pick-up hockey seemed like a good idea. Initially. I'm not sure why I thought this was a good idea. I haven't played in over a year. "It's just like riding a bike" someone said. No, no it is not. It's like riding a unicycle through an obstacle course while trying to hit a golf ball through a moving target the size of a dinner plate. I thought I would give it one last try before hanging up the skates and getting serious about golf.<br />
<br />
It turns out I can still play. The first circle around the rink when I crossed over through a turn and my skates stayed under me I knew I would be alright. After a few goals the confidence was sky high; which was the part of my game that was missing back when I played competitively. In high school I never would have tried to take the puck out from behind my own net. But I did, and beat four guys in the process. The last move (in my own mind) was right out of Ovechkin's playbook, putting the puck through the final defenseman's skates and in perfect position to shoot. And I did. About three plexi-glass panels to the right of the net. The boards rattled and I laughed at myself for being so athletic and incompetent in the span of about 9 seconds.<br />
<br />
I sat down on the bench near the end. I must have been beet red and soaked in sweat and I popped my helmet off to cool down. The kid to my right did the same. He could not have been more than 12 years old. The faded hockey bag I lugged my equipment in was literally older than him. His name was Conery as far as I could tell from the name on his jersey. <br />
<br />
"Who do you play for?" Conery asked.<br />
"Um, nobody." <br />
"I mean, who did you play for in college?"<br />
"I didn't play in college." I said between gulps of air.<br />
"Wow," Conery said, "You could have."<br />
<br />
I didn't realize it, but that's what I was playing for. I never really struggled with a sense of belonging but it suddenly occurred to me how much I wanted the approval of these 13 strangers I was playing with and against. I missed having a team even if the team only lasted for 2 hours and our only common bond was that we chose to wear a dark jersey today instead of white or grey. But it felt better than running alone. Thanks, Conery. Good luck next year at Winchendon.FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-40884698571997981932010-05-13T18:41:00.000-04:002010-05-14T05:35:44.902-04:00Tim Tries Golfing; Mediocrity EnsuesEvery year, my father signs up a foursome to play in a charity golf tournament and every year it is the first time I touch my clubs. Not this year. This year, I will be a finely tuned golf machine. I will not be the weak link. <br />
<br />
That being said, I will probably be the weak link. I have always considered myself a halfway decent athlete, but I've come to realize that's very relative. Here's the combined resume of the guys I know:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>There are 4 former college football players</li>
<li>One of them was Division 1AA</li>
<li>One of them has the interception record at his college</li>
<li>There are 3 former Division 1 hockey players</li>
<li>2 of them play professionally now</li>
<li>One of them rowed crew for one semester at the Division 3 level</li>
</ul><br />
Alright, that last one was me. I got my membership in the N.C.A.A. and then called it a career after one season (those fuckers get up early). The point is, despite making the single most important play in the history of Marlborough High School Junior Varsity football,* it's easy to be intimidated by that group. So, I wanted to get out and practice a little first. I headed to Quincy to play at a course we will call "Commander in Chief's." (If you can't figure this out, this blog is too much for you. <a href="http://sabrinadandridge.tumblr.com/">This one</a> is more your speed.)<br />
<br />
I had to be the only one listening to Jay-Z while rolling up to the course. I sheepishly put my windows up so I didn't spook the geriatric locals. After unloading my clubs I worked my way up to the club house to talk to one of the crankiest men in the world. And I do not make that last statement lightly. I know cranky.<br />
<br />
He greeted me with a disinterested "Yeah?" I pondered for a minute what this man thought I could possibly want. "Yes sir. My troop is trying to raise money to go to space camp and I wanted to know if you wanted to buy some cookies."<br />
<br />
I'm in a borrowed polo shirt and golf shoes: why do you think I'm here, dickhead? Yeah, I know the camo cargo shorts were a bad touch and God knows I don't like them either but they're the only shorts I own. I told him I was going to play eighteen (in the best Stephanie Tanner "no duh" voice I could muster). He answered with a gruff, "it could be a while." But he said it like a question. Like, "I'm gonna make you wait so long that you should probably just pack up the camo cargos and get the fuck out of here."<br />
<br />
That's it, asshole. To paraphrase The Rolling Stones: wild horses being ridden by Victoria's Secret models holding bowls of ice cream couldn't drag me away. I am going to play the shit out of this course. I might not even replace a couple divots. Take that, bitch. By the way, your course is not nearly nice enough for you to be such a prick. <br />
<br />
I said none of this but I think my expression conveyed the sentiment. I went out to the practice green and immediately saw an old man wearing jeans and a young kid wearing wind pants. I walked in the camo cargos with a little more pride after that. After putting on a horrendous display of short game I was called to join three other guys on the first tee.<br />
<br />
I wish I could say something dramatic happened like I shot a 75 (is that even good?) or that I went all "Tin Cup" on the eighteenth and put it in the hole from the fairway on my fourteenth shot. But it was just a normal round of golf. There were good shots. There were bad shots. I was happy. I was mad. I hate this God damn game. I can't wait to play again.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At the very least, I don't think I'll be embarrassed on Saturday at the tournament. Especially once I can toss out the camo cargos in favor of my new golf pants:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydJodTco4fbOWh3_-fV_oV0P5H6umdWz5iqz3c_PbxpzKP4cVxKqM-nwZWw935nXg99Hrf7Ab-UwClHo-Izf8vKbEwp2D2kCYunRmPIpmmMbtZS37Swsjf8hEaaWwJ8BE8-49zXbuB6w/" /></a></div>*I defy anybody to dispute this.<br />
<br />
<br><br />
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<!-- ckey="4BD47652" -->FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-51648257613327812392010-05-07T14:33:00.000-04:002010-05-14T05:23:11.994-04:00Beadle-ManiaDear Michelle Beadle, <br />
<br />
Seeing as it is Friday, it seems like as good a time as any to ask you. I've been working up the courage to write this for a while, so here goes: You and I should get together for dinner this weekend.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUs-RmbE9KMG5ZEDRsHbo2fcMA4rv9hrVZi83r8hqVCZYpJIGSM9MulSUyJZsOr3HgY_XVSukda2DVgrQ3sRDGOH6e-PkD-LSkuYXehGMf11ju3r_uWVsyuyVC_My-rKJywVnuUlTMRk/s1600/funcrage_sportsnation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUs-RmbE9KMG5ZEDRsHbo2fcMA4rv9hrVZi83r8hqVCZYpJIGSM9MulSUyJZsOr3HgY_XVSukda2DVgrQ3sRDGOH6e-PkD-LSkuYXehGMf11ju3r_uWVsyuyVC_My-rKJywVnuUlTMRk/s400/funcrage_sportsnation.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I see you almost everyday on the increasingly palatable SportsNation and with all due respect to your partner, sometimes I get halfway through the program and all of a sudden say, "Holy shit. That's Colin Cowherd. I didn't know he was on this show." I only have eyes for you.<br />
<br />
I have decided to include a graph, since you seem to love graphs:<br />
Bar graph<br />
(X axis: Times I've asked out ESPN personalities this week.)<br />
(Y axis: Michelle Beadle, Hannah Storm, Sage Steele, John Buccigross)<br />
Beadle is at 1. Everybody else is at zero.<br />
<br />
This was just your run-of-the-mill crush until I heard you on Bill Simmon's podcast. Yeah, yeah, the sports talk was great, but you also dropped this gem: "I'm not a huge believer in the whole institution. The marriage thing to me is a very bizarre ritual." Ironically, I've never wanted to marry a woman more than I did at that moment. And I've never wanted to make out with a girl on a tractor more than this moment:<br />
<br />
Bill Simmons: Where have been the locations that Beadle has lived since college?<br />
Michelle Beadle: Oh, well Oklahoma. Elk city to be specific.<br />
Bill Simmons: Really?<br />
Michelle Beadle: I was quote, unquote engaged to a professional bull rider. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Wow. I can be your new cowboy, Michelle. At a bar in Springfield once I rode the mechanical bull for the full eight seconds and got some really impressive distance on the dismount. However, I might not even have to go that route since you did say, "Don't get me started because I'm gonna say something, Bill, and I'm a woman. Hockey dudes, there's something there." <br />
<br />
Lucky for you, I played high school hockey at the Division 3 level less than a decade ago. I'll dust the skates off if that'll help my chances. So, let's drop this puck, Michelle. I will treat you to a meal at the finest dining establishment in Bristol, CT (which I would imagine is probably a Chili's). Ball's in your court, Beadle.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRG6Elfq7B2gntBNkzKj137h4ce7pUp35-GL7blPUg2s7dL8N6jjdMsVy7icqNRUDy4mg0zFJMnNlgVPag9x7gZMZB71TA-i7HfcsvNSyf-hgr15nBywfsqxP3hnS5s0cbIHQdwTI2alE/s1600/MichelleBeadle_touchscreen_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRG6Elfq7B2gntBNkzKj137h4ce7pUp35-GL7blPUg2s7dL8N6jjdMsVy7icqNRUDy4mg0zFJMnNlgVPag9x7gZMZB71TA-i7HfcsvNSyf-hgr15nBywfsqxP3hnS5s0cbIHQdwTI2alE/s320/MichelleBeadle_touchscreen_1.jpg" /></a><br />
Sincerely, <br />
Tim<br />
<br />
PS. If the date goes well, can I play with your touch screen?<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-31142268309616222402010-04-30T13:33:00.000-04:002010-05-01T04:28:38.127-04:00Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz? (Four is the new magic number: Part II)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Girls, it's only fair we give guys the same treatment you got yesterday. So, here it is: The guide to guys put in terms you'll understand. The metaphor today? Chick cars. You know them. The kind of car that guys have to look inside and see who's driving because 98% of the time it's an attractive girl. Girls, if you drive one of these cars, you're either hot or disappointing men at stoplights constantly.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYS2xYUVJifOsE4BOv3zI5DKTde8M8ZdTW9X9Ek80IUnX_a1a1bCK-RqAXC_LXBJWG_oaxMPtR1opBYqwldYUundAtTIF27XaDlK0ocaPbQx4yz9YF0c0BHAwwpl9UmJ50iDcCLKgZTnA/s1600/vwbeetle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYS2xYUVJifOsE4BOv3zI5DKTde8M8ZdTW9X9Ek80IUnX_a1a1bCK-RqAXC_LXBJWG_oaxMPtR1opBYqwldYUundAtTIF27XaDlK0ocaPbQx4yz9YF0c0BHAwwpl9UmJ50iDcCLKgZTnA/s320/vwbeetle.gif" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"> <b> </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Make:</b> Volkswagen <b>Model:</b> Beetle</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>He's more cute than hot. He is a little offbeat but that makes him special, right? Right? Sometimes people think he's gay and you even have to wonder a little. But he's considerate and unique, even if he does try a little too hard sometimes. His displays of affection are nice but they're a bit superfluous and awkward at times. Like having a place to put flowers in your car. Not for everyone, but appealing to a certain kind of girl.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEosDoQME3ovNJXl-fqUCeq2JNCO3_6nt26M7IQxOBTnGFY6wmr9e5mpmb8N7pEpgtFahZ5xjVMHM6yzZUnc0XfPo4dsQ6A62IFQJ92X5raodSm49cWmi5-Epz7R8Zml5ukuYgmJotzY/s1600/acurarsx.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEosDoQME3ovNJXl-fqUCeq2JNCO3_6nt26M7IQxOBTnGFY6wmr9e5mpmb8N7pEpgtFahZ5xjVMHM6yzZUnc0XfPo4dsQ6A62IFQJ92X5raodSm49cWmi5-Epz7R8Zml5ukuYgmJotzY/s320/acurarsx.gif" /></a></div><br />
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<b>Make:</b> Acura <b>Model: </b>Any (Mostly the RSX)<br />
He's almost as good looking as he thinks he is. The problem is he thinks this is enough to make him interesting. It's not. But an Acura is just as good as an Audi or Mercedes, you say. No, no it's not. And you and him wishing that were true will not make it so. He looks good and maintenance is relatively low so you decide to keep him until he acts up. You're not exactly rifling through AutoTrader late at night looking for a trade in per se, but if a car commercial comes on you definitely take a look.</div><div style="margin: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJ7k3c38GsUf1a3b-rPtikCeeGEpd-y9IxhCtQKEi1ObEeLQa8f6U0Ptex3JyA2AeuVqka4mxtVC3LxFMtQj1ulBF_iV1j_5LkuhAan_-cg3InkMKJRGwq1VDGELdX_Oj_9nqaz5u7jo/s1600/vwjetta.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJ7k3c38GsUf1a3b-rPtikCeeGEpd-y9IxhCtQKEi1ObEeLQa8f6U0Ptex3JyA2AeuVqka4mxtVC3LxFMtQj1ulBF_iV1j_5LkuhAan_-cg3InkMKJRGwq1VDGELdX_Oj_9nqaz5u7jo/s320/vwjetta.gif" /></a></div><br />
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<b>Make:</b> Volkswagen <b>Model:</b> Jetta<b> </b><i>or</i><b> Make: </b>Dodge<b> Model:</b> Neon<br />
This is a good, not great, guy. His maintenance is lower than the Acura but lacks the high-end, name brand recognition. This guy will mildly impress your friends and you wouldn't be embarrassed to drive him home to Mom and Dad. He won't leave you stranded on the side of the road but he doesn't exactly blow your skirt up either. This guy (though reliable and kind of fun) is a dime a dozen. You're gonna drive him until the wheels fall off. But when they do, you're not gonna be all that sad to see him off to the junk yard.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbVuNe9ZsWXKtDWRJhpywhJATJ4vtJq3JzP-3EOe5VWt1380HYsGm4rO8oLFofhbhqQ1MUzYEnDiDrxkvDL4JLwmayA8fRSO8hOgmVYXd9SRbPRF7fvupaDMoCgdW943bZLVfxf7IiRI/s1600/bmwconvert.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbVuNe9ZsWXKtDWRJhpywhJATJ4vtJq3JzP-3EOe5VWt1380HYsGm4rO8oLFofhbhqQ1MUzYEnDiDrxkvDL4JLwmayA8fRSO8hOgmVYXd9SRbPRF7fvupaDMoCgdW943bZLVfxf7IiRI/s320/bmwconvert.gif" /></a></div><br />
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<b>Make:</b> BMW <b>Model:</b> 3 Series convertible (white with contrasting black top)<i> or</i></div><b>Make:</b> Land Rover <b>Model:</b> Range Rover Sport (White) <i> </i><b> </b><br />
They're hot. They know it. You know it. So hot in fact, you expect there to be nothing under the hood. Oh, but sometimes there is. This guy might have a V8 supercharged with a good education, dynamite job (though not necessarily high paying), and great family. Then again, they could have a V6 that's in desperate need of an oil change. Either way they're fun to be seen in, but they're not easy to get or keep. Make sure you keep up regular maintenance (blowies) because these can be an absolute bitch to fix or replace. Worth the effort though.<br />
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There you go, girls. Carfax for the male mind. You're welcome. Oh, and guys? If you drive any of these cars, you can go ahead and forget about any girl taking you for a spin*. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8hymPR18-oDRUF2A9nFSGDqBmBRVxH3le7m4KZlaTz3xDKDEdFwd9j4T-BmbTuS5In6jyjOaGumJyihLBIu5vaCXsWGZW0cq_2_SfphcInTjSD485F5gTlwhs7NVWsY4BNF4pKGPFpfY/s1600/vespa-scooters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8hymPR18-oDRUF2A9nFSGDqBmBRVxH3le7m4KZlaTz3xDKDEdFwd9j4T-BmbTuS5In6jyjOaGumJyihLBIu5vaCXsWGZW0cq_2_SfphcInTjSD485F5gTlwhs7NVWsY4BNF4pKGPFpfY/s320/vespa-scooters.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><br />
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*Just to be clear, we're talking about sex. If you didn't get this, you're a moped. Enjoy celibacy.FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-30430064391280923372010-04-28T14:22:00.000-04:002010-04-29T02:56:08.880-04:00Four is the New Magic NumberI have a lot of theories about women. This is probably my second favorite*. Women travel in groups of four because there are usually four sides to a table. If you have three people, there is a spot open and you look unpopular. If you have five, you need a bigger table and then feel like you have to fill it. Then the group gets a little too big and unwieldy.<br />
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Girls, guys form into groups of four because we like to hunt in packs and the ratio should always be 1:1. Ideally, we would be in groups of five like The A-Team and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: line-through;">*NSYNC</span> the branches of the U.S. Military. But you make the rules and we just dutifully follow them**.<br />
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Within the group there are four kinds of women. To make this easy for guys, I have put it in terms they can understand:<br />
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1. Donatello: The interesting one. This girl has backpacked Europe and loves outdoor sports. The volunteer experience part of their resume is actually true. Most people think this girl would be the ugly one. This is not (always) true. In fact, many women find the confidence to be the interesting one because of their looks. Admittedly, sometimes it’s to make up for them. <br />
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2. Leonardo: The leader/hot one. This is the big-breasted masthead on the ship that leaves lesser vessels in her wake. This is the Helen of Troy that has led many good soldiers to their doom. Sometimes, she's fun to talk to. Often, she thinks she's too hot to have to give a shit. More often than not, this girl will be terrible in bed.<br />
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3. Raphael: The surly one who thinks she’s the hot one. She has no idea that she isn't. She thinks everyone is crazy for thinking otherwise. Sure, she's not classically hot, but she's hot in an alternative Shannon Sossamyn kind of way. At least that what she tells herself in the mirror in her “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” moments. More often than not, this girl will be incredible in bed.<br />
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4. Michelangelo: Of course, the slutty one. This does not mean she is a lay-up by any means. It just means you have a better chance of going home with her that night than the other three. The friends like that this girl makes them laugh and gives them a sense of moral superiority. This one is usually the most fun because she's the most carefree and open. Also, she puts out. <br />
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Like I said, I feel pretty good about this theory. Oh, and to the girl who inevitably e-mails me and says, “You’re wrong because the girls on ‘Sex and the City’ totally weren’t like that.” Congratulations, you’re Raphael.<br />
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*My favorite: If a girl has a strong handshake (like really comes over the top and down on you like a haymaker) I think, “Wow. This girl will never fuck me.” Not only does she see you as such a nonviable sexual candidate that she shook your hand like a man, your handshake ended up limp-wristed because you misjudged how hard she was coming in.<br />
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**Don’t worry girls. Tomorrow we’ll go through the four types of guys.FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-68892490477513529212010-04-26T13:30:00.000-04:002010-05-14T05:25:03.570-04:00Dim Summers<div style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIzP72xQ-7uK_zX11k2QKMSLYVOC_RyHz7410nenrA2tqhS26a6gzgXxKsnI28aFX8fK939jMPHyKLYQ_ASl-nMtpFJ9BCySe6kYcirmwnsqU1viyIBJnsB6ZsCVRixN3DzdtbhReOa0/s1600/dimsum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIzP72xQ-7uK_zX11k2QKMSLYVOC_RyHz7410nenrA2tqhS26a6gzgXxKsnI28aFX8fK939jMPHyKLYQ_ASl-nMtpFJ9BCySe6kYcirmwnsqU1viyIBJnsB6ZsCVRixN3DzdtbhReOa0/s320/dimsum.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">It was that kind of morning. The kind where between waking up and opening your eyes you run a complete system check. You lay still and enjoy those quiet moments between sleep and when your body begins to register pain in several areas, particularly the head and stomach. I would make the mistake of saying never again but I've already broken that promise too many times to believe it anyway. Besides, a far more troubling thought occupied my mind now. <br />
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Did I really agree to go to Chinatown for lunch today? <br />
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Yes. Yes, I did. Drunk Tim committed Sober Tim to go get dim sum with his buddies. Drunk Tim probably acted all excited about it, too. Drunk Tim is a dick. After a quick shower I was off to our version of the far east. Chinatown is like no other place in the city. It is still the most authentic neighborhood in Boston. Every other neighborhood from the North End to South Boston have become more racially diverse in the past years. Not Chinatown. <br />
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Going there is like being on vacation because you don't feel like you're in Boston at all. I was a mile and a half from my apartment and it might as well have been across the world it felt so foreign. Luckily, we had a guide. Enter Kit. He is a high school friend and our token Asian. He weaved through the streets expertly and we arrived at our destination, China Pearl.<br />
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We sat down and were immediately given tea and water. Very little water. I held up the slightly-bigger-than-a-shot-glass of water and immediately said a silent apology to my body. I will hydrate you soon, I said. Fuck you, it answered. Heated carts of food started rolling by and the women pushing them were ignoring everyone at the table but Kit. It's like they knew that we were only there because of him.<br />
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Then one of my buddies nailed it. "Look at all the tables of white people," he said. Without fail, every table of white people had a token Asian that was ordering for them. Soon, our Asian had filled our table with several plates of things that looked very hot and slightly gelatinous. It did not look very appealing. Everything I know about food I have learned from Iron Chef; and these people were not getting high marks for plating.<br />
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However, they were off the charts in the taste department. I loved it all. I was literally shoving food in my face (the consistency of the food upped the degree of difficulty of chopsticks). The whole time my taste buds were yelling at my eyes: "This is awesome! You were telling me this was going to be terrible! You don't know shit! Everything you know is wrong." <br />
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However, the saltiness of the food and the hangover combined to make me issue the following threat to Kit: "Listen, these people are ignoring me. Unless you get us a pitcher of water soon, I am going to stand on my chair and yell 'Excuse me, white people are thirsty' at the top of my lungs." I'm pretty sure Kit knew I was bluffing, but soon enough we had water.<br />
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I gorged myself on everything, only pausing to ask Kit what I was eating. His response every time was, "I don't know." I didn't care, it was good. We were very full when the busboys came by to collect the obscene amount of plates we had used. They were in black and gold vests and bow ties. They reminded me of the blackjack dealers at Foxwood's and it was oddly fitting since this meal certainly felt like a gamble. We left there up big-time and will definitely be back to play again.</span></div>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-71007307927167333092010-04-23T10:40:00.000-04:002010-05-04T01:18:31.729-04:00How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love Country Music<div style="font-family: inherit;">I know exactly when it happened. The exact moment when I stopped fighting it and succumbed to the sweet sounds of country music. Everyone who likes country, especially those like me who formerly despised it, have that one song that cracked the dam and opened the floodgates. It's as much as where you are and who you're with as it is about the song itself.<br />
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For me, it was in the back of a white Escalade that looked like we should have been sipping Cristal from the bottle and listening to Chingy. Instead we were blasting "Back Where I Come From" by Kenny Chesney and drinking out of a pitcher we had just stolen from a Hooters on Cape Cod. I was partly drunk, riding that special high that comes with passing off a fake I.D. and by the second chorus I was crooning with Kenny like I was a farm boy from Tennessee. Aside from vodka and puppies it's probably the greatest thing ever.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Like my board shorts and flip-flops, it always goes away in the Fall. The country music gets packed up and placed in the attic of my iPod. It just doesn't work in the winter. Country musicians do not do weary very well. It needs to be too hot to think or else you talk yourself out of it. The simplistic nature of country music is the number one reason people claim to hate it or love it. I love Matthew McConaughey movies for that same reason; he's just there to have a good time. You wanna join in? Great. If not, your loss. You're probably the kind of person who wouldn't know a good time if it was playing the bongos naked in your living room.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">And if you are that kind of person, I can't explain the appeal of country music to you any more than you can explain the appeal of Coldplay to me. One of my country hating friends nailed it on the head: it is a musical genre completely devoid of metaphors. They say what they mean and mean what they say. Anyone uncomfortable with that level of honesty is suspect as far as I'm concerned. There's a kind of intimacy in the straight talk songwriting that you don't really get from self-important acts like The Dave Matthews Band*. </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Plus, how hard do you really want to think when the sun's out? Summertime is too damn hot for subtext. I like to do my real analytical thinking in the winter when my Seasonal Affected Disorder is in full swing. Right about now all I want is sun, steel guitars and cooler full of silver bullets. If that sounds like a bad time to you, see you in the fall.<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><i>*This will probably be the most controversial thing I've ever written. Dave Matthews Band fans are easily offended and love to try and talk you into liking them. As if it's possible to talk someone into liking a band. Oh, and D.M.B. fans... the girls who listen to country are way hotter than your chicks. Unless you dig leg hair. In which case, enjoy all that.</i></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-50672295848648772142010-04-21T20:21:00.000-04:002010-04-21T23:57:09.516-04:00Ma'am-o-gram<div style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not sure exactly when it happened but I suspect it was around the same time that I embraced country music.* I started calling women "ma'am" and men "sir." And I don't understand why it pisses people off so bad. Like, pisses them off Kanye-West-at-award-shows bad. But I refuse to stop.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">This post was brought on by a community question fielded by the phenomenal Heather Armstrong on <a href="http://dooce.com/">Dooce.com</a> (a blog that is so much better than mine that I almost don't want to link to it... enjoy the extra seven readers this garners you, Mrs. Armstrong). The question was: When do you think it is inappropriate to call a woman ma'am?<br />
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The answer is never as far as I am concerned.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">I work in a bar and I don't know your name. I have to call you something. It's not going to be the annoying "hon," the condescending "sweetheart," or the creepy "dear." It's going to be something that I was taught was a sign of respect and in no way a dig about your age. Although, if you're old enough that you're insulted by it, you're old enough that you shouldn't take offense to innocuous greetings. Besides, I haven't called the same woman "sir" three weeks in a row like my old bar partner Steve. Now that woman was justifiably pissed.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">The thing is, there are high school girls at work who are <strike>much</strike> a little bit younger than me and I call them ma'am as well. They don't care. Of course they're girls in high school so ambivalence is kind of their thing. Very few men care but everyone who does uses the exact same line: "Don't call me sir. I work for a living." Exactly, sir. If you were a hobo or a trust fund baby and <i>didn't</i> work for a living, I wouldn't call you that. Not to mention that phrase originated in the military as a way for the grunts to differentiate themselves from the officers. Even more reason for the sir treatment.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to call you. I wish I could pull off the southern mannerism of calling women "Ms." followed by their first name. I cannot. You need a little bit of a drawl for that, doesn't really work with a Boston accent. </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">The words "ma'am" and "sir" have been around for hundreds of years and are in jeopardy because of vanity and youth envy. You should wear the fact that people call you ma'am as a badge of honor. You should make younger women address you like a drill instructor where the first and last word that comes out of their mouths when they address you is ma'am. Ma'am, yes, Ma'am. And you should appreciate men who try to desensitize you to the word ma'am by using it about 42 times in a closing paragraph. </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">In short, embrace your Ma'amhood because like the polar bear, you'll miss it when it's gone.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">*Yes I do listen to country music and we'll be having a long talk about this later in the week.<br />
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P.S. This is by far my favorite title I have ever come up with for anything.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-5270244105418281552010-04-09T00:56:00.000-04:002010-04-09T00:56:18.674-04:00Sprung<div style="font-family: inherit;">If you know me at all, you know I don't want to do this. I am a malcontent and that amuses other people so I guess it makes me happy. I am judgmental and pessimistic and immediately derisive toward and suspicious of anyone I don't know. Which is why this might get a little weird. Yes, spring is here. And with it I'm afraid, may be a kinder, gentler Rageaholic.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't sit down to write a clichéd "hope springs eternal" post, I swear. I wish I could rail against Easter with the same fervor I reserve for Christmas. In fact, it's downright hypocritical since every gripe I have against Christmas can be applied to Easter. They're both perversions of important religious holidays that are thinly veiled attempts to bribe children into behaving for once in their goddamn lives. One of the only differences between them is that one is in the middle of the winter and one is at the beginning of spring. It's a huge difference though. </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Especially when you get to see people you really should see more. Like your siblings you're related to and the ones you've picked up along the way. On Sunday night, as the Yankees and the Red Sox did battle I was busy being a bad fan. Their efforts were ignored as I sat around a bonfire with the guys I grew up with. It was better that way. Instead of someone grounding into a double play and me griping that the Sox will blow it in the playoffs I was tapping the Rockies around a fire and talking shit with expert shit talkers.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">As I sat too close to the fire I could literally feel the winter depression melting away, along with my eyebrows. (Yeah, I can't believe I just typed that sentence either; it's like I sprouted a vagina and started reading Nicholas Sparks). But I could feel my sanity returning as sobriety slipped away and we clinked our cans to the fifth brother who couldn't make it because of his new job (which happens to be as a right winger for the Ottawa Senators). </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">It was a rough year, a harsh winter, and even that very afternoon was pretty trying, but it didn't matter. There was country music coming from someone's car while a tractor loomed behind us and I had the attention of a pretty blond girl who thought I was interesting. I couldn't have complained if I tried. And the weird part is that I didn't. Who has time for unhappy thoughts when there is beer to drink and fire to stare at?</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Being driven home by my buddy the next day I was rooting around in the glove box for something when I found something better.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">"Hey, where did you get these sunglasses?" I asked.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">"Somebody left them at the house after Al's graduation party," he answered.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">"Yeah," I said, "That was me."</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">I slipped on the sunglasses and laid the back of my pounding skull onto the headrest. "Things are looking up," I thought. And after a short pause, "Fuck, spring is making me corny."</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">PS. If you ever meet my friend JR, ask him what him and my brother Mikey found in a parking lot in Long Island one time. Trust me.</div>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-70004218899664368762010-03-29T11:03:00.000-04:002010-05-14T05:24:37.405-04:00Sarong. So, so wrong.Just about the most metrosexual activity I engage in would have to be reading GQ magazine. Sure, it’s 55% ads and the clothes in there are unaffordable but nestled between all that stuff is some of the best writing anyone is doing in America. You can learn a lot.<br />
<br />
I was flipping through one the other day, despite my hatred for the cover model Kobe Bryant, and learned a lot. Then... things got weird. Right after telling me the best brown liquors to buy, the quintessential man drink by the way, a mere six pages later a picture of photographer Peter Beard wearing a sarong caught my eye (not like that). It was accompaniment to the following question:<br />
<br />
“I’m going to the Caribbean next month, and I want to wear a sarong. Do I walk in a store and ask for one, or do I just grab a picnic blanket and wear that? And most important, do I go commando beneath it?”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_AKst0YHtGWwQNK0TSTZIQVU8uMgXyKuVvzeVdiM4PX-6NrvNbJYhrQKWFS_SGVS32Jq-Bwsa1T_lOB4p3qEYVxglja8puHoQxs_HH4Pbd3QSs0uHeBZf4bFvr0w-mp85lETviy_Cn0/s1600/sarong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_AKst0YHtGWwQNK0TSTZIQVU8uMgXyKuVvzeVdiM4PX-6NrvNbJYhrQKWFS_SGVS32Jq-Bwsa1T_lOB4p3qEYVxglja8puHoQxs_HH4Pbd3QSs0uHeBZf4bFvr0w-mp85lETviy_Cn0/" /></a></div>I... wh-. No, just no. Not okay. Not ever. A sarong could not be manly even if it were tied around your face while you were robbing a bank. The caption under the Peter Beard picture was: Sarong? When you’re as cool - and tan - as Peter Beard, you can pretty much wear a mini-skirt. Um... no. No you may not. I know we men don’t agree on a whole lot, but I thought we could get together on this issue. Yet, here was a reader confident that GQ would not ridicule his question but instead steer him in the right direction. And he was right.<br />
<br />
Glenn O’Brien (no relation) is GQ’s Style Guy and he not only told the man where to find one but (shudder) how to fold it correctly. Is this what modern men have become? Wholly comfortable with the thought of wearing a skirt to the point that we can have conversations about it? Women are embarrassed if they are wearing the same top as another woman at a party. How do you think a woman would feel if she looked down the beach and saw the same cover up she brought wrapped around a man’s legs?<br />
<br />
What the fuck? Everywhere I look there are “men” devoid of body hair, fake tanned, and sipping on vodka and soda water with just a splash of cranberry juice. Hey Lance, all the splash does is make your drink look pink, it doesn’t really add to the flavor. And if you’re really worried about the calories in beer, just drink water instead. It will garner you more respect than sipping on a Michelob Ultra. I know Lance Armstrong drinks it. Beat testicular cancer and win 7 Tours De France and you can too. Until then, it’s bourbon or Budweiser. <br />
<br />
Four days ago it was Steve McQueen’s birthday. If he laid eyes on the exfoliated faces of the 21st century man we could power the city of Boston if we could figure out how to harness the energy of him spinning in his own grave. If we added John Wayne and Paul Newman, we would have a wind farm that would end our dependence on foreign oil once and for all.<br />
<br />
In short, it’s time for men to be men again. Here’s a quick refresher: The only reality show you should watch is Cops. You should not own a loofah. None of your clothing should be unisex. Clint Eastwood is your God. Nicholas Sparks is the enemy. Twilight is the time between work and drinking; nothing else. You need to watch The Great Escape, The Hustler, and The Longest Day. There should be more electric guitar than acoustic on your iPod. The bulk of the acoustic should be Bob Dylan, pre-Newport Folk Festival. The elliptical should not be part of your workout. Whatever machine puts you in full view of the elliptical machines should be. You never “go Dutch.” You always hold the door. <br />
<br />
I can’t believe I have to say this, but you air dry at the beach. If you feel the need to cover yourself it should be with a bikini clad female companion or a mound of sand shaped like a mermaid with impressive breasts. That’s it.<br />
<br />
There are many advantages to acting like a man again. Respect is one. It’s unarguably lower maintenance, both in time and cost. But the biggest advantage may be this: When you stop acting like the fairer sex, you’ll be surprised how much attention you get from them. And isn’t that how this all started in the first place?FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-16312245629521117862010-03-25T12:43:00.000-04:002010-05-14T05:24:23.044-04:00The Psychology of Selling Out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7H-0jpOSyk65S-69jCg93J6rw6H7SSjlGq_4gexOPKCmws9uaXEeGhuKvUpWWoIGK_6qHkbIe3CI_A6kJOC-du75OJOGc59Bv0PH9WF9r3xyWufCYKwc-M_VhlYKWIh22yTJFwcw-q0o/s1600/anthony-bourdain-no-reservations2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7H-0jpOSyk65S-69jCg93J6rw6H7SSjlGq_4gexOPKCmws9uaXEeGhuKvUpWWoIGK_6qHkbIe3CI_A6kJOC-du75OJOGc59Bv0PH9WF9r3xyWufCYKwc-M_VhlYKWIh22yTJFwcw-q0o/s320/anthony-bourdain-no-reservations2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div>Kicking back midday and watching Anthony Bourdain is something that immediately makes me feel better about being me. For all the mistakes and missed opportunities in my life I've never found myself addicted to heroin or crack. Bourdain once was and it’s heartening to see someone who not only took a meandering road toward success but also relished the journey; or at least would not trade the lessons learned for all the pork in China.<br />
<br />
He should be dead or in a gutter. Not in Singapore or Hawaii or Ecuador sampling local delicacies, getting drunk on the local hooch, or making interesting friends in the process. In Northern China he decided to bring together all of the local guides who led him through the minutiae that makes their hometown home. They drank and laughed and Bourdain led them down the boozy philosophical path he loves to steer conversation down. At the end of the meal in a magnanimous gesture he, or perhaps more accurately The Travel Channel, offers to pay for the meal. Bourdain digs into his pocket and produces a Discover card which he awkwardly hands to the waiter in a way that would display the front of the card and the logo perfectly. Watching the exchange, and the annoyed look on the host’s face, you could tell they probably <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4mqiZSmc_g&feature=related">did more than one take.</a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkXWCWrFHUsOKzyGBN1E1mUW8T_b0hMpHGZmy1qyKCCbus1MwiDxTZ0R74CDe0FNYt4cJdpTCkZSwZMvNh3ltf2tc2w_dUSIRcBxqxuCYd1iRMEnQLbm-ckv9TDIEe3BQPQRFuu91wkj8/s1600/anthony-bourdain-chase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkXWCWrFHUsOKzyGBN1E1mUW8T_b0hMpHGZmy1qyKCCbus1MwiDxTZ0R74CDe0FNYt4cJdpTCkZSwZMvNh3ltf2tc2w_dUSIRcBxqxuCYd1iRMEnQLbm-ckv9TDIEe3BQPQRFuu91wkj8/s320/anthony-bourdain-chase.jpg" /></a></div>Could it be that Bourdain has sold out? Has the cantankerous cook turned corporate shill? Bourdain is endearing because he never tries to sell us anything. He doesn’t drop the names of swank hotels and gets visibly nauseous when near a resort of any kind. In fact, if Bourdain ever turned into a bounty hunter you could be confident living on the lam in any tourist trap that he would sooner die than be found in. His personal version of hell would probably be a Jamaican Club Med filled with Americanized food, umbrella drinks and reddish rotund tourists in Tommy Bahama shirts belting out The Pina Colada Song. <br />
<br />
Yet, here he is turning his counter culture vibe into corporate currency. A few years ago I would have written him off audibly to anyone within earshot. I would have decried his eagerness to turn his back on his biggest fans who probably have credit scores lower than their weight. The only piece of plastic most of them have any chance of seeing their name on is the nametag of the restaurant in which they work. And a younger Anthony Bourdain might have agreed with me.<br />
<br />
The difference now? Bourdain did something that I desperately need to: he grew the fuck up. He realized that life is not all about happiness, nor is it completely about sacrifice. It is about a million tiny compromises; a delicate push and pull of want and need. Compromise has had a negative connotation ever since Hollywood decided to usher in the Age of the Antihero. For too long we have been sold that steadfast refusal to change is a virtue that will eventually pay off in a glorious way. In reality, being an immovable object does nothing but make you stationary. Turns out, stagnant is a far dirtier word than compromise.<br />
<br />
The younger version of myself could never imagine setting an alarm in the morning in exchange for health insurance, let alone Tony Bourdain flashing a credit card to help pay the bills. Now, I realize it’s a small price to pay for living the dream. The only reason I don’t conspicuously use a certain companies credit card? Because they haven’t asked me to. If it keeps you traveling, go ahead and flash that plastic, Tony. And if you ever need a travel companion, I’m in. I’ll even pay my own way. In cash though.FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-14335394324190308122010-03-16T01:23:00.000-04:002010-05-14T05:24:06.763-04:00The 5 People You Meet On St. Patrick's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a alt="Irish - St. Patrick's Day" href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/03/5-people-you-meet-on-st-patricks-day.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGuzlGRMpVyz0gv8D3MK70FNrzW3MiztnN8rUOmDsG_VGqG_GtNhSq3WayVbx6SOyu-KwCjcNMv9iDfcy1wt_CKqIGuU4uyTwjG9b9S8cZijm48v1WDKDckiQX5wbNh40ZD3fe93XPsU/s320/irish.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Have fun tomorrow, but be careful not to be any of these guys:<br />
<dl><dt><b><big>The Irish Stereotype</big></b></dt>
<dd>He is not just content drinking Jameson and Guinness; he has to berate anyone who is drinking a domestic beer. He is constantly either trying to start a fight with anyone (and squares up to them like the Notre Dame mascot) or he is hugging people and telling them he loves them. He will do both of these things to the same person in a five minute span. He is one-eighth Irish but will tell everyone who will listen (which is nobody) that his family is from County Kildaire as if they got off the boat that morning. He loves potatoes and hates English people. <i><b>He is wearing:</b></i> A "26+6=1" T-shirt. <i><b>Famous Last Words:</b></i> "What are you? A fucking British queer? Póg mo Thóin! I'm sorry bro, I didn't mean it, I love you. Gimme a hug." </dd>
<dt><b><big>The Way Too Drunk Way Too Early Guy</big></b></dt>
<dd>He is constantly on the verge of vomiting and passing out and he has been so obnoxious for so long that people are actually starting to root for it. Instead of trying to make him stop drinking, everyone is starting to pour him shots of whiskey. He tries to leave the party wearing someone else's jacket and then adamantly declares it is his own that he bought at Forever 21*. It isn't yours Nancy, find your own jacket that you bought at a woman's clothing store and get the fuck out. <i><b>He is wearing:</b></i> No pants. <i><b>Famous Last Words:</b></i> "Merrrrrrrrr..." </dd> *Yes, this really happened.
<dt><b><big>The Guy Who Studied Abroad In Ireland</big></b></dt>
<dd>Yeah, we know it's really a religious holiday. And in Ireland, they give thanks to St. Patrick for spreading Catholicism and do not use it as a mask for their drinking problem. Guess what, dickhead? We're not in Ireland. We're in America, so do as we do. Drink some green beer, eat corned beef, try to have sex with a red head, and stop being an elitist douche. By the way, you look fucking awful in that scally cap. <i><b>He is wearing:</b></i> A Bray Wanderers scarf that he got at a football, not soccer, match. <i><b>Famous Last Words:</b></i> "You know, if we were in Ireland we would be in church today." </dd>
<dt><b><big>The Guy Who Has No Idea What We're Celebrating</big></b></dt>
<dd>He shows up wearing orange and drinking Smithwicks. Irish people would sooner punch the Pope than do either. When questioned, he says St. Patrick did something with snakes. Yeah, idiot, we're all celebrating a glorified Pied Piper. If you wanna drink that bad, just do it for the same reason as all the other alcoholics: It's Wednesday. <i><b>He is wearing:</b></i> Nothing green. <i><b>Famous Last Words:</b></i> Quoting Sean Connery in a Scottish accent all day. </dd>
<dt><b><big>The Irish Music On His iPhone Guy</big></b></dt>
<dd>He momentarily kills the party by stopping the music so he can put on The Saw Doctors. Never heard of them? He would love to tell you about them for an hour and a half. Also, there's a reason you've never heard of them. They sound good for one day a year and then just take up gigabytes the other 364. I like bagpipes as much as the next guy but when you've been drinking all day they have the same effect on your cerebral cortex as a cat giving birth while scratching a chalkboard. <i><b>He is wearing:</b></i> The Chieftains tour t-shirt he bought on Ebay. <i><b>Famous Last Words:</b></i> "All you have is U2 and the Dropkick Murphy's?" (Eyeroll).</dd> </dl>FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-32973424605394571632010-02-26T12:24:00.000-05:002010-03-29T13:45:03.932-04:00Tap the Rockies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/tap-rockies.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDITCDHaiXNGv5OH_stXP0S7Kg8KPbGWE-RjDzdt-YgilmPFLVvuxcfHKBuFjvhZ4keaLG0n1FNOAjMLlJNDYoYwy6NB6AffmjA6A-dSNTbxSy1O6xNVb4irXBACNSobQ5dZSE2Fzxehk/s400/coors1-480x369.jpg" width="400" alt="Canada's Women's Hockey Team celebrates drinking Coors Light" /></a></div><br />
Don't try to shush me number 25, I'm telling people the truth. Whoop it up about beating the Americans all you want bitch, but you're drinking a Coors Light and you know it. I know a Silver Bullet when I see one. And you're chugging that sweet American nectar while the Molson Canadian bottle sits untouched like the one Canadian girl at a make out party.FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-88287453487981277832010-02-24T15:41:00.000-05:002010-03-29T23:22:23.191-04:00The Curling CougarDear Cheryl Bernard,<br />
<br />
I'm gonna come right out with it. I know you Canadians like to play it coy but us Americans just say it like it is. So here goes: Cheryl, let's get married.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/curling-cougar.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAG1-boJwq7B7NJI-pFgtViu4uCvhIhC-3KFTJxFBF_yD84O0ub9Jzvc7ZIjZc2JjZUHRW46-io1ZftrTpJS4j8rbUMwQp8m-9QX5VOFIxnjzL0Ejmav6YDoi-NvO_1qEeaXVjBfQChs/" width="400" alt="Cheryl Bernard curling" /></a></div><br />
I know, it seems crazy. I've only known you for a week. But when you know, you know. And sure, you're married in Canada, but what does that even mean? I do not recognize the authority of the Canadian government, therefore I do not recognize your Canadian nuptials. I do recognize a perfect spouse when I see one though. And your grace, poise, clutchness, and most of all flexibility have caught my attention.<br />
<br />
I understand that not knowing me even a little bit might make this decision difficult. I'll go ahead and tell you what I will offer as a husband: <br />
<a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/curling-cougar.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdQcRPIAtJjuD5ZypW-ewlFH9ClMS1Kc-49krtI_XHAHk2SAHxwKl5o_kkoDVCYXtIj4ivQV15opSWy456rYt9YqXOn17zfJhjD9ASf5HcEurytuz4r-rXcEVG_NvGglVgWw60bl1Vco/s320/cheryl_bernard_smile.jpg" width="256" alt="Cheryl Bernard smiling" /></a><br />
• I will go to all your curling matches provided you are wearing the tight white uniform that you were wearing when I realized I loved you for the first time.<br />
<br />
• I will not move to Canada, but I will buy pine tree scented candles from Target to make you feel more at home.<br />
<br />
• I will buy you a pet moose that we will name Alex Trebek.<br />
<br />
• I will wear one of <a href="http://images.google.com/images?client=safari&rls=en&q=don+cherry+suits&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=WkmES4nkE9be8AaT2IXKAg&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CBcQsAQwAA">Don Cherry's suits</a> at our wedding.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/curling-cougar.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYyayta5LffnQVjmgFeo-yG9HVPgl-WiF_s62koSmz0kGgJRpmk1mdyxOm5A4Q2CF7OdQkd9to2M2MGKjSzi-wlHTmYXoBkTGr6AFHeFvCCFiV5a1bBjBwTv5KicGoxMI-FS71bXuAEC0/s320/brawny_papertowels_man.jpg" alt="Brawny Paper Towels Man" /></a></div><br />
• I will grow a mustache and wear denim shirts.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>(Pictured: Canadian sex symbol.)</b></span><br />
<br />
And don't let our age difference bother you. The exchange rate is like 1 Canadian year equals 1.55 years here. So you're only 28 in America.<br />
<br />
So there it is: my proposal. Ball's in your court, Cheryl. Yes or no? <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Tim<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>**Update: You're a San Diego Chargers fan?! How the hell did that happen? This changes everything, I take it all back. Sorry baby, we'll always have Vancouver.<br />
<br />FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2729378334053370955.post-58001422896103353122010-02-23T15:27:00.000-05:002010-05-13T23:42:20.668-04:00FX: Television for Macho MenLet me get this straight.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You started out with a show about soldiers:<br />
<a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/fx-television-for-macho-men.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding-top: 8px; padding-bottom: 15px;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU3Td03LVIR1ctvraHQ9BHstVXVty2Ap53vmFx_k4ejlTYSguzZLoDmygURkbqtmvVZtNAgVppBUmFQs3FVdl9xwjdFB_3UPyTttZ4fIF7VZWQuo2KmdwTvUCFQyxH1cLojA30i_OcKeM/s320/Over_There.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then there was a cop show:<br />
<a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/fx-television-for-macho-men.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding-top: 8px; padding-bottom: 15px;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDk4HUTE5zoOXpKkr1dxhDQo9El4CVAvDQuFs9DmdptG1hFGD7fQLSHg9B-1PIAwBCRzZh0hslglWOXEIpOa2l9Xolxf0CFyChRx5ZbkDfCzJy828_I0GKlfPfYYP59ymN9KZbPf7R-k/s320/The_Shield.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then there was a biker show:<br />
<a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/fx-television-for-macho-men.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding-top: 8px; padding-bottom: 15px;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmmfBvrKLq5vTZdZIqtzdb-YIOU22mhhLCN_XBKY-r3WhShrw0SDHx4X5XxMfGo5wqn2baOm05_osTAyCfX49ve0L6O52NjyXH9EGGoeiO9VfMYGiuA-GVREMkFd8KMOzY9Ke-WPV6RQ/s320/Sons_of_Anarchy.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, we're getting a cowboy show?<br />
<a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/fx-television-for-macho-men.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding-top: 8px; padding-bottom: 15px;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq1C-Lq79d32mXrJ-QJHZwc9UBhcfq-m7rDEUz7NUCUd5_SpGgIkNhjC_QOHbhujBp9EJAvf11P1vkMfqiaYyJZvx9lW8FY6umPfWC1mp-i_lqDf12FAMbnPhOtot-L_dSmFrvyRhI7EU/s320/Justified.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This seems familiar:<br />
<a href="http://www.functioningrageaholic.com/2010/02/fx-television-for-macho-men.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding-top: 8px; padding-bottom: 7px;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Jd0TYfjxTzQH7vP8K7q2D2dvdVIbhVthlUOutXHr6V1rms5wW9X9_ML9Zw2nA-034pRdigwimm-_QdToY9bMDfwc_jewabIapwjMpTj1mSBTlm5ZtOdyagEqi5-RoX_UPsrwTdWChVw/s320/village-people.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold;">(Pictured: FX's lineup)</div><br />
Can't wait for the shows <i>Hard Hat</i> and <i>Navajo</i> coming in 2011. Keep up the good work, FX.<br />
<br />
PS- I'm going to watch every episode of <i>Justified</i>.FuncRagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01143496016855845672noreply@blogger.com0