I’m Going And You’re Not (Part II)

Oh boy, am I a hot, moist and sticky mess.

It must be a billion degrees outside with a humidity of 2000%. It was so hot in the city that the completely involuntary act of my body growing hair caused me to break out in a sweat. If it weren’t for the massive level of Geekiness in my DNA that necessitated my attendance at PC Expo, I would have simply stayed in bed in my air-conditioned apartment like god intended.

And was it worth the effort? In four words, “Abso-friggen-lutely NOT.”

To say this years PC Expo was a disappointment would be shockingly insufficient. I was so dismayed at the complete lack of excitement and innovation at the show that my Inner Geek vomited all over my Inner Child. Needless to say, my Inner Child spent the next half hour locked up in my id crying for my Inner Mother.

I finally got him to come out by promising to buy a new game for Miss Ex-Boxx.

PC Expo was a pale shadow of its former glory. Gone were the huge, multi-booth displays with amazing Technicolor videos and surround-sound infused presentations. No more human sized dancing logos or spectacular pyrotechnics greeted me at the entrance of every display. Say sayonara to my dreams of winning a new car, sailboat or even a cheap computer. There weren’t even any boobies present to entice me into listening to the horrible presentations being given by badly prompted and under-rehearsed second-rate actors.

What? They expected me to listen without boobies? Puh-lease!

While there was some free stuff to be found, I got an egg of silly putty and a blue sticky-dart, it wasn’t nearly as much as last year and rarely worth fighting through the crowds for. I walked the entirety of PC Expo, Internet Expo and DV Expo in the course of four hours and I didn’t miss a single booth. I even got to sit through three presentations and schmooze with a few people about Geeky computer stuff before I got so fed up with the complete lameness of the show that I had to leave.

And then I rode the train home during rush hour. Dammit.

So, now I’m going to relax by meeting up with HoBiscuit for a quick dinner, going to her old place in the city to carry many large and heavy boxes down four flights of stairs into my car, drive back to my place and carry those same large and heavy boxes into my increasingly warehouse-like apartment and then try my best not to do something that will get me yelled at or smacked because I really, really, REALLY don’t want to ruin my chances of getting some sweet loving tonight. And lord, if that means letting her watch ‘Sex and the City’ while eating coffee cake on the couch as I rub her feet, so be it.

I am not a proud man. Pity me.

Public Service Announcement #92876820-G

Today I’m just doing my part to spread the love and pass on a bit of important information to my fellow New Yorkers. This email was sent to me by a close family friend. Those of you who live outside of New York don’t have to read any further unless you think you might want to attend.

Hello friends,

Sorry for the mass email but I wanted to let you know about an event I am working on and think you would be interested in participating. As some if you may know, I have been working on the upcoming “Listening to the City” event for the past 2 months. I invite you to register and help spread the word to others who you think may be interested.

“Listening to the City” will take place on July 20,2002 at the Jacob Javits Center and will bring together 5,0000 people from diverse populations to discuss the proposals and plans relating to the re-building of Lower Manhattan and a creation of a memorial to the victims of September 11th. The event uses interactive technology and face to face dialogue for a 21st century town hall-style meeting.

The event is being organized by the Civic Alliance to Rebuild Downtown NY, a coalition of 85 civic, labor, business, environmental groups and academic institutions who was formed to promote and ensure civic participation in the process and decisions being made relating to the remembering and rebuilding of Lower Manhattan.

Individuals can register by calling 800-862-3154 or by clicking here. It is a day-long event and we ask you to participate the entire day. The event is free but space is limited. Please register early.

Don’t worry, I’ll be back to my silly self tomorrow. But if it helps you at all, I’m writing this wearing Pokemon Underoos and drinking Juicy-Juice out of a pink dribble glass.

Oh yeah, and I just farted. Loudly.

I’m Going And You’re Not

Next week I will be in Geek Heaven.

It’s not often that I write about all the really, really geeky stuff that happens to me in real life, but next week is special so I thought I would tell you about it. You see, next week I won’t be alone in my Geekiness, standing solitary and proud, basking in the glow of a cathode-ray tube as I mutter arcane and mystical cantrips under my breath.

Be gone, thou most vile of Email Macro Virusi,

I invoke the Dark Lord Gates, the King of Unholy Software Lies!

Out, out foul Bug and deadly Fatal Error Fiend,

By Control, by Alt, and by Delete I doth keep my hard drive cleaned!

[maniacal laughter here]

Next week is a celebration of all things geeky. Thousands of people, no, scratch that, thousands of Geeks will be gathering in one place to look at, touch and talk about every Geek toy on the planet. I will be among them because I have in my possession a ticket to this Mecca of Geekdom.

That’s right, I have a ticket to PC Expo.

Oh boy! Free pens, bags, t-shirts and key chains! The opportunity to play with brand-spanking-new hardware and software with my own two hands! The young and sexy scantily clad models standing outside booths and attempting to entice me to listen to a 15 minute spiel about questionable products by showing me their firm, bouncy and perky breasts! The sights! The sounds!

Oh god, the smells.

The horrible, horrible smell of thousands of sweaty, unwashed Nerds and Geeks packed together in a poorly ventilated space for extended periods of time. The unidentifiable stench coming from the sweating, bald guy sitting next to you for the entire fifteen minute speech you didn’t want to listen to but sat down for anyway because you were momentarily hypnotized by the young model’s fabulous breasts. The inedible foods. The stopped-up toilets. The CIOs.

Oh man, I think I’m going to be sick.

In other news, I was considering joining this event and meeting up with my fellow NYC Bloggers. Anyone have an opinion on whether that’s a good idea or not? Is anyone else considering meeting up with their area’s Blog community, or are we all so antisocial that the mere thought of meeting someone in real life can send us screaming to our hallway closet for a good cry?

CityBoy’s Big Day

My hands are killing me.

This weekend I was coerced into performing labor. Intensive, sweat-inducing, physical labor of the most degrading nature that my poor, weak, Geek body was completely unprepared for.

I mowed a lawn.

Having been born and raised in a big city where a 10’x10’ patch of weed infested dirt in front of a single-family, waste-of-good-condo-space, home is considered a luxurious ‘lawn’, I had no idea that mowing the lawn could cause someone so much agony. The seemingly simple act of walking in a shrinking square pattern under the burning eye of a blazing sun while being dragged along behind a self-propelled, gas-powered, ear-shatteringly loud grass muncher has reduced me to a simpering, blister laden, body aching crybaby.

Simply holding a fork can reduce me to tears.

Oh, this all started innocently enough. HoBiscuit asked if we could visit her father for Fathers Day and of course I said yes. We spent a pleasant Sunday morning looking around various neighborhoods in the hopes of finding a new apartment (no such luck) and then headed out to her parents place at around 4pm. She told me all about her fathers recent eye surgery, her sisters upcoming visit, and how nice it will be to spend the evening helping her mother cook.

Not once did she mention anything about me doing physical labor.

When we arrived, HoBiscuits father was in the driveway proudly standing behind a beaten up lawnmower. I would have kept driving, but HoBiscuit’s never fully grasped the proper method of ‘Tuck and Roll’ necessary to ensure a safe landing when thrown from a speeding automobile. That, and her father might interpret her violent expulsion from my car as some form of personal attack or insult and then hunt me down and remove my manhood with white hot pincers and serrated chopsticks.

I hate when that happens.

For those out there like myself who have never actually mowed a lawn before, allow me to list the necessary steps so that you’ll know what to do should you ever find yourself standing on a lawn in suburbia with waist-high grass and holding on to a bright yellow and green JD machine.

  1. Carefully unscrew gas cap from lawnmower and pour exactly ½ gallon of gas into lawnmower gas tank.
  2. Swear gently as tank overflows and covers lawnmower and driveway with 1/8 gallon of gasoline.
  3. Smile ruefully as girlfriend’s parents and girlfriend laugh at you and call you ‘CityBoy’.
  4. Ask for help cleaning up gasoline. As they all bend down to help, pretend to light match and watch them run. Ha ha. Bad CityBoy. Bad.
  5. Attempt to start lawnmower by pulling ripcord 100 times in under three minutes.
  6. Clutch chest, fall to the ground and foam at mouth. Serves you right, CityBoy.
  7. Start lawnmower by pulling ripcord and holding clutch.
  8. Curse smart-alecky girlfriend.
  9. Manhandle obnoxiously loud, heavy and vibrating lawnmower seven feet from driveway to front lawn.
  10. Wonder out loud why the stupid lawnmower isn’t moving no matter how hard you push.
  11. Thank the cute little 7 year old girl from next door who takes pity on you long enough to point out that you need to release the brake in order for the lawnmower to move.
  12. Say a silent prayer that you’ll lose control of lawnmower and it will run over the smart-alecky cute 7 year old girl next door. Ha ha. Bad CityBoy. Bad.
  13. Watch in awe as lawnmower dutifully cuts a six foot long patch of grass and then stops dead.
  14. Attempt to re-start lawnmower by pulling ripcord 100 times in under three minutes.
  15. Throw out back, fall to ground, bleed from anus.
  16. Remember that to start lawnmower you need to pull ripcord while holding clutch.
  17. Mow entire 7 square acres of front lawn. Good CityBoy. Have a cookie.
  18. Go to back of house and mow entire 20 acres of lawn.
  19. Do not mow the garden!
  20. Curse and swear, just to stay in practice.
  21. Notice that your good, clean light brown pants are now completely covered in grass stains and smell of gasoline.
  22. Swear vengeance on your snickering girlfriend.
  23. Finish mowing the backyard and let go of lawnmower for the first time in three hours.
  24. Scream in agony as two humongous blisters on your hands burst from the shock of encountering fresh air.
  25. Vow to use a sharp, hook-pointed stick up the wazoo to remove the entails of the next person who should ever ask you to mow the lawn.
  26. Listen in silence at dinner as girlfriend and her family poke fun at CityBoy and his inability to hold eating utensils without sobbing in pain.
  27. Consider coming back at night and salting the entire lawn. Bad CityBoy. Baaaad.

Anthony’s Song

I thought I was rid of him forever.

I was minding my own business, watching Maria “Money Honey” Bartiromo on MSNBC when I first realized trouble was nearby. Call it a hunch, or my innate ‘geek-boy danger sense’ (developed during the requisite Bully Avoidance classes all true Geeks must take in school), but somehow I knew that something horrible was headed my way. Little did I realize that it was already too late.

“Hey Bub, got a sec?”

I was really proud of the way I managed to hide my near heart attack level of surprise when Bread spoke from directly beside me on the couch. I didn’t flinch, I didn’t jump, and I didn’t even blink. And even though I was screaming like sex-crazed spider monkey in my mind, to all outward appearances I did nothing more than calmly turn my head to give him a questioning look.

I didn’t let on at all that I was slowly and silently peeing my pants.

“Bread, I’m on a leather couch in the middle of my living room. How the hell did you manage to sit next to me without my noticing?”

“Because you’re an idiot who’s quick thinking is measured at the same rate as plate tectonics?”

I waited just a heartbeat too long.

“And you’re a big dummy.”

“Oooo. That really hurt. Did you think of it all by yourself or did your momma send you an email?”

I turned away quickly, so as not to give him the satisfaction of watching me furiously blink back my tears. The little bastard knew exactly what to say to make me feel slow, stupid and awkward. Just like all those girls back in college.

Well, at least Bread wasn’t laughing hysterically and pointing at my crotch.

“Is there a specific reason you wanted to talk to me, or are you here just to insult me?”

“Hey Bub, you’re insulting enough without any help from me.”

“Why you little…”

“Speaking of ‘little’…”

“Shut up!”

I gave him my best Don’t You Dare stare and took a sip of water while I calmed down.

“Easy there Bub, no need to burst a capillary or anything. I’m just yanking your chain, is all. We cool?”

“What. Do. You. Want.”

“I was just wondering what happened to Miss ExBoxx. I mean, I know you and a friend of yours were busy using and abusing her yesterday afternoon, but now I can’t seem to find her.”

This was Amazing! I knew something Bread didn’t! My mind stopped working for a moment and began to repeat the phrase, “I know something. I know something.” over and over again. I was knocked speechless as the reality of this new and exciting fact made its way through my brain like a freight train and burrowed into my burgeoning self-esteem.

I wanted to mark this day on my calendar.

I had information someone else wanted. This was big. Real big. So big that one day I might find a way to parley this secret knowledge into a bid for global domination. I could cure cancer or end world hunger with the sheer might of my knowledge. I would be worshiped like a god. Llama’s and virgins would be sacrificed in my name at giant altars made of cranberry paste. My knowledge would raise me far above the ken of mortal men and…

“Hey Bub, are you going to answer me or just sit there staring into space and drooling?”

God, sometimes I really hate him.

“If you must know, she’s sitting over there in the corner with the rest of the VEHTS.”

“Where? All I see is a pile of cardboard boxes and cartons and crap. That reminds me, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the mess around here lately. Boxes and duct tape and people in and out at all hours. It’s getting on my nerves. You’d almost think we were moving or something…”

“Yes…”

“Wait a sec. Are we moving?”

“No. I am moving. You, you little bastard, are staying right here. I’ve decided that this place isn’t big enough for the three of us, so Miss ExBoxx and I are eloping to a new apartment together where we’ll spend countless hours in 5.1 surround sound and wide-screen enabled Halo bliss. I’ll be gone in a few weeks. Don’t forget to drop dead.”

The look of pure, sadistic joy on my face stopped him cold. I could see his tiny, crumb-infested mind working feverishly to come up with a retort that would end my unbridled happiness. He didn’t know it, but this time I was ready for him. I knew what he was thinking and I waited with baited breath for him to give me an opening.

“Well, what’s to stop me from just packing up my things and following you to your new home, Mr. Smartypants?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that HoBiscuit would be there, too.”

“Oh. Crap.”

RAPTURE!

I had him! Finally, I would be free of this slovenly, slimy, disgusting, rude and obnoxious fiend. Never again to wake up to find my toothbrush covered in short, curly hairs. No more coming home only to find the locks had changed. Never again would I try to go to the bathroom only to find that the seat had been covered in saran wrap.

I was a free man.

“You know, HoBiscuit did mention something about that last time we were talking..”

“What? You talked to HoBiscuit? How? When?”

“Oh, we talk all the time. She needed someone to listen to her and she liked it when I badmouthed you.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“In fact, if I remember correctly, she said something about an ‘open invitation’ to come by anytime.”

“No.”

“She even said something about a second bedroom?”

“Oh god, no.”

“Yeah. Me and your woman. We’re tight.”

He gave me such a look of smug satisfaction that I didn’t even care that he heard the whimper of fear that escaped my lips. I was living in hell and no matter how hard I tried, this devil would never let me go. I was trapped and I wanted to die.

“Hey Bub. You should go change your pants. That’s the second time you’ve peed in them in the last hour and I haven’t even told you what she said about your personal hygiene yet. And don’t get me started on your sexual shortcomings!”

My Favorite Season

Thank god for global warming.

I love the heat of summer more than any other season. To me, Summer is the best time to be alive and NYC is the best place to be. It’s hot, muggy, sweaty and disgusting. The air holds you in its simmering grip like a fire giant’s fist, squeezing you so tightly that you can barely breathe. Even blinking can cause a person to break out in a sweat that drenches them from head to toe.

Even peoples knuckles sweat.

Some people prefer the cool, crisp and colorful season of Autumn. Or perhaps they enjoy the newfound vitality and freshness of Spring. For some crazy reason, a few people even like the cold, dark yet holiday-filled Winter season. Now, I’m not saying these seasons don’t have some redeeming qualities, but the truth of the matter is that Summer can kick all the other season’s asses while eating a breakfast burrito and with one hand tied behind its back.

If I had to describe Summer in three words I’d say: “Fan-frigging-tastic.”

You might be asking yourself what could possibly be so infatuating about Summer that it would make me go on about it like this? Could I be recalling fond memories of my youthful days at summer camp? Do I wish to recapture my long gone childhood by playing a game of Rooftop Manhunt or Full Contact Street Football? Am I suffering from heatstroke? Have I finally gone bonkers?

Or maybe you think I’m just a moron who likes to sweat.

Well, no. Actually, I hate it when I sweat. Makes my underwear bunch up, you see. And don’t get me started on the whole sticking-to-the-plastic-covered-furniture thing. I still have nightmares of the time I spent six hours stuck to my Aunt’s couch in her air-conditioner-less apartment.

I still wet myself every time I hear someone rub two balloons together.

The truth of the matter is that the real reason why I like Summer so much is pretty simple. It can be summed up in five words that will have every man nodding in agreement and every woman gasping in shocked amazement. You want to know the reason why I think Summer rocks? Well then, here it is.

Tube tops and mini skirts.

That’s right, I said it. Tube tops and mini skirts. You all know I’m right. Forget Autumn’s changing leaves and Winter’s wonderland of white snow. Spring? HA! Spring’s got nothing on Summer’s heat and humidity. And, as we all know, it’s only when it’s hot and humid that women are willing to go outside with no bra and a white, nearly-transparent, show-off-your-newly-pierced-belly-button shirt.

Oh yeah, the men are with me on this one.

I don’t know about you other guys, but I spend nine months of the year standing on my front porch spraying hairspray into the air in the hopes of making the hole in the ozone just a little bit larger. Every year I hear about global warming on the news and I pray that the scientists of the world never fix it. Every September, I hope that Summer might last just a few days longer. That I’ll get just a few more days of seeing women in Daisy Duke’s and high heels leaning against a Mr. Softie ice cream truck. That I’ll have another hour to watch sweaty girls in stretchy tube-tops step into an air-conditioned store and literally poke holes in their shirts. That my eyes will have just one more minute to savor the sight of a woman in a restaurant holding a glass of ice water to her forehead and rub an ice cube on her neck.

Damn, I really, really, REALLY love Summer.

Dr. D Kay’s Revenge

My mouth hurts. Bad.

Today was my last visit to Dr. D. Kay where my second wisdom tooth was forcibly extracted from my unwilling skull. When I arrived at the Dr.’s office this afternoon he greeted me at the door himself and bid me inside with a sweeping gesture that looked almost gentlemanly. Silly me, I fell for this little act hook, line and sinker. I actually believed he had decided to be nice and that maybe he wouldn’t hurt me.

Yeah, I know I’m an idiot.

I should have been tipped off by the way he smiled at me when I told him I “forgot” my checkbook at home. He just turned around with a knowing smile on his face and told me to forget about it, I could pay him later or whenever I got the money. At the time, the only thing going through my head was the thought that Dr. Kay had really mellowed out. That maybe I had been too hard on him in the past.

That perhaps he hadn’t deserved having his balls squeezed so hard that he’d needed reconstructive surgery.

When we got into the office I noticed that all the furniture had been removed. He didn’t even seem to have any dentist tools or anything. Even his usual dentist chair, the one with the leather straps and spiked seat, wasn’t there. In fact, there was no chair at all. The only thing I saw was a set of golf clubs in the corner of the room.

“Hey, doc. Where am I supposed to sit?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”

“No? Why not?”

“Well, if I were you I’d be much more concerned with the floor.”

“The floor?”

“Yes. The floor.”

“Hey! You’re right, doc. That is pretty strange. Why’s the floor covered with plastic?”

That’s when he hit me in the face with a nine iron.

When I came to, I was lying in a pool of my own blood on the plastic covered floor of his office. The nurse was trying to wake me up by gently kicking me in the temple with her steel-tipped boots and muttering soothing words of comfort like, “Get up, you stupid bastard.” under her breath.

I would have told her off, but I was too busy spitting out pieces of my lower jaw.

Somehow, I made it to my knees and with the ever attentive help of the nurses foot in my anus I managed to crawl to the front desk. The nurse then informed me that I owed my first born or my immortal soul in payment for the privilege of having my tooth knocked from my head with the doctors titanium golf club. Dizzy from loss of blood and massive head trauma, I quickly signed away my first born and went home.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go gargle with some salt water and fall asleep crying for my mommy.

Sleep, Perchance To Dream

I’m going insane.

While working here in Boston I think I’ve discovered, and am currently in the process of patenting, the worlds only true perpetual motion machine. The idea for my invention came to me in a sudden flash of inspiration brought about by the ingestion of far too much chocolate, chicken wings, potato chips, pasta, pretzels, cola and something that might once have been called “tuna fish” at 5am.

The ‘tuna’ had blue streaks in it. And it crunched.

My idea for the perpetual motion machine’s engine is for it to be made from a quasar powered quantum engine, a tachyon pulse modulator, two metric tons of dental floss (mint), one oversized Styrofoam “Go Team” hand and an angry shaved llama covered in confectionary sugar stuck in a glass bottle.

Well, wouldn’t you be angry?

Of course, there are some other necessary parts but the ones listed are the most common, so describing them doesn’t give away any of my secrets. My special secrets. Like how the machine harnesses the latent energy from corporate, brown-nosing lackeys who play the “It’s not my department.” game. You see, the Styrofoam hand catches and collects the energy into a net made of the dental floss. The llama eats the net and…

Shhhhh… it’s a secret.

I plan on building this contraption while yodeling the theme to Knight Rider in C# and shaving a pickle in my hotel bathtub. Believe me, the pickle is integral to the entire operation. And don’t let the instruction manual fool you, if it’s not a sour pickle the whole thing will fall apart like a house of cards. When my machine is finished I’ll call Lockheed Martin and sell it to them for five bazillion dollars and a pair or socks made from paper bags and twine.

Oh god, I’m so tired this post actually seems funny.

I’ve been working non-stop since 9am Monday (it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to stop until 6pm tonight) and it’s beginning to show. The walls are spinning, everything I see makes me laugh like a deranged orangutan and the only reason I can see enough to type this is because my employers have hung me upside down from the ceiling to keep my eyes open.

Mommy, can I go home now?