Mix Bag of Bad Blog Topics

It's time that I clean out the piss-poor blog topics that are in the memo section of my crappy phone. Some are kind of interesting in a Gancey kind of way, some are just plain dumb, but either way, here they are:


1. Remember the Amazing Kreskin? He was a psychic who made appearances on David Letterman. For whatever reason, I was thinking about how sometimes women want men to read their minds, and men just want women to tell them what the hell they want. Well, neither one is right. Men need to be more in tune and women need to just spell it out every now-and-again. So, while riding my bike to work, I was having one of those imaginary conversations in my head with my girlfriend about how I can't be expected to know what she is thinking, and I was saying, "Who do you think I am? The Amazing Kreskin? The Amazing Foreskin? I nearly fell off my bike laughing to myself, but is that even funny to anyone else? Haha. Foreskin.


2. I was watching some people play Flippy Cup, and I say watching because I have vowed not to play drinking games after thirty years old, and I also don't do more than one shot in an evening. I like to do zero shots a night if possible, but sometimes there are those special occasions where a guy just can't be rude. As I'm watching this game, I was trying to liken a given player's ability to flip cups in baseball terms, and I've decided that someone who averages three flips is batting .270, two flips is like a .300 hitter, and someone who hovers right around a one-and-done is like a .333, batting title type of guy. Anyone refute this or want to change these figures slightly in either direction?

3. I don't like to go to strip clubs because they kind of depress me. I always get thinking about the girls and what their childhood must have been like to be doing something like that, but I will say that one thing that can keep my mind from drifting to those sad places is how terrific they smell. There is this distinct smell that no other women really smell quite like. I asked a bartender a while back to affirm this for some of the ladies I was with, and our exchange went roughly like this:

Gancer: Barkeep, don't strippers smell great?
Barkeep: Oh, God yeah.
Gancer: How would you describe it.
Barkeep: I'd say it's like a . . . sexual chocolate type of goodness . . .


4. Those last couple may have been a little strange, but this is one could very well be just outright stupid. I was at work the other day singing "Some Like It Hot" by Power Station, only I was singing, "Some like it hot and some shit their pants when the heat is on." I just liked that I was lumping people into two categories: those who can handle said heat, and some who at the first sign of trouble just go ahead and crap themselves. It's funny to me, damn it.

230th Post and Still Not Good With Clever Titles

Some of those drafts that never were never deemed post worthy or ones that I didn't even think were funny upon a second look all count towards that 230 figure. I just want to clear that up because all seven of you were so concerned about that, I'm sure.

Make Romance. Everyone says this in songs, but nobody says it in real life because it's the most terribly dorky thing ever. What would you say if your significant other said to you, "Baby, tonight I don't want anyone around. It's just you and me, and all night long, we're going to make romance." Hahahha! Don't say that to me, weirdo.


Yet songs say it all the time because it rhymes with dance. Don Henley says it in "All She Wants to Do Is Dance" when he says make romance as an almost after thought, as if it should be implied that of course she likes doing it, or she wouldn't be interesting subject matter to sing about.


Walter Payton of the Chicago Bears said it when he compared running with the football to making the romance, which seems strange, but have you see highlights of his runs? Son of a bitch really was making love out there. It's no wonder they called him Sweetness, but while he was a smooth muthafucka, I bet her never asked some girl on the road in a Phillidelphia bar to go back to his hotel to make or create, if you will, some romance.*


The lead singer of The Four Tops once lamented that he and his old lady used to dance to the music and make romance through the music. That sounds intense. Had he said we used to make romance to the music, yeah, big deal. We've all put on a little music and gotten down with someone, but to make romance through, the music, well, that is something.

Help me out here, seven readers. Are there any more romance making lyrics out there to be blogged for posterity, I mean seven people? Leave them in the comments section, you romantic F'ers.

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* I grew up watching Walter Payton run the football and jump over a defensive line to score touchdowns, sometimes landing directly on his head. He's one of the most complete backs to ever play the game, but he also seemed like such a great guy. He died in 1999, prematurely and unfairly at the hands of a rare liver disease, despite not being a drinker, looking skinny and terrible in a press conference, and it was really hard to see. It was especially hard having always remembered him being so strong, running up those hills, working harder in the off-season than anyone else, getting that edge on the competition through hard work and not performance enhancing drugs. It was very sad to lose him, and yet it seems he's not remembered anywhere near as much as Michael Jordan when it comes to Chicago athletes, which is unfair. My first Old Style beer when I'm camping this weekend is for you, Walter. Thanks for playing in my city. I will show that clip of you running over Kanasas City Chiefs like mere speed bumps to my son some day.

2 Quick Things: Poop Precautions and General Suckiness

THE FIRST THING

There are some expressions that we use to remember certain things to get us through life:
1. Look both ways before crossing the street
2. Beer before liquor, never sicker. Liquor before beer, you're in the clear.*
3. You have to know when to hold 'em, fold 'em, and walk away. And don't count your money at the table, because as Kenny Rogers once said, that kind of greedy shit amongst friends and strangers alike is bound to get you an ass whippin'.

One that should be added to this list, I think, is don't ever start pooing without first checking to see that there is toilet paper readily available. We need a good expression for that reminder. It sounds like something that should be such an obvious precaution, that we shouldn't need a catchy phrase, right? Everyone should have an instinct to avoid finding themselves with a dirty ass and nowhere to turn. One would think it would be clear to most anyone. One would think . . .

AND THE SECOND THING


Friends and I were talking about a real dork. We're talking a virtual tool shed of a man that you can't even stand to talk to. The kind of a guy where he walks into a party, and you say, "Awww, fuck! So-and-so is here. I'm either going to have to leave this place or kill myself with a corkscrew." As we discussed this guy's outright crappiness, someone said, "That guy sucks." I busted out laughing because is there anything worse to say about someone? I'd rather have someone say, "That Gancer is an asshole." Asshole I can deal with. To say someone sucks is to say that they don't necessarily suck at anything in particular, basketball, croquet, or anything else, they just suck in general, in summation. It's so final.

Leave me a comment, Seven Readers, because you don't suck, and due to your foresight and lack of need for catchy phrases, you all have sparkling clean anuses.

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*That one actually has been disproved by most experts (read drunks) because what really matters is how much booze you pour down your esophagus, not the order in which they go in. Either way, if too much goes in there, it's going to come back out. The only thing does make the expression hold true is that if you have 7 or 8 beers in you, you may be pouring in hard liquor without knowing how much you're really boozing. Then again, if you have 3 or 4 cocktails in you, you may throw back beers like they're water. No, I was right the first time: it's a dumb concept.

A Book Review and Some Random Crappola

1. My good friend Jeff Phillips, otherwise known as The Igloo Oven, just published a book called Whiskey Pike. Having known him for around three years now, seeing him steal the show with his knack for comedic timing in the play I co wrote and directed, The Loitering Hole, and knowing what a light-hearted fellow he is in his day-to-day life, I was not expecting such a dark tale. Yes, it's dark, but not just dark for dark's sake; it has something worthwhile to say about strained relationships in a family as they deal with greed, corruption, and alcoholism. I also like the cute illustrations Jeff did on his own that keep such a sad story grounded in the theme: "A Bedtime Story for the Drinking Mankind." So, pick up a copy at the website or at Amazon.com, sit back with a single-malt whiskey, and settle in for all 65-pages of booze soaked enjoyment.

2. Recently I got thinking about a bar that one of my best friends managed that was like my home away from home for around a year. I knew the whole staff, they knew me, and I always felt pressured to be funny when I came in there, coming up with bomb-ass one-liners like Norm on Cheers. There was a gal there who will probably always be my favorite bartender. She'd pour me a drink with like a four to one booze to mixer ratio that I could just sip on for an hour or two, and she'd say, "I put some stank on it." One day my roommate at the time and I were having a few there and helping that very bartender come up with names for a Christmas shot she had concocted. I'll be honest here because there's no other way to say it: It looked like a shot glass full of cum, but it tasted just like Christmas! Because it looked so much like spunk, all of the names we were coming up with were totally inappropriate, but so damn funny that they need to be shared.

I remember throwing out Santa's Baby Batter, and my roommate, always shocking me with the funny stuff he'd stir up in his head, being such a quiet fella, came up with Blitzen Juice. Blitzen Juice! I still laugh when I say it. Telling that story last night, I decided to text him those two words. I woke up this morning to a return text from him: Santa's Sleigh Load. Ha! Forgot that one.

3. I was watching COPS today, and as you know, I've been known to offer little tips here and there to help all of you Gancey Up Yourself, and I think this is one of my better ones: Watch COPS as a means of boosting your self-esteem. I watch losers getting arrested, and I think to myself, "Sure, I have a heaping pile of student loans, my writing career isn't taking off like I hoped, and my actual job doesn't pay a whole lot, but I have all my teeth, I've never smacked my 'old lady' around, gotten handcuffed shirtless on my front lawn with a knee in my back, cursing out cops who would moments later find a few grams of cocaine in my jean shorts. I got it pretty good next to those guys, and so do you, seven readers. Whenever you get down on yourself, just remember, even if your job sucks, be thankful you have a steady one, and you could be somewhere getting dragged out of your trailer and beaten with nightsticks while snarling police dogs bite your ankles.

Updates

1. I've been writing weekly reviews for The Bachelorette over at Starpulse.com. Click over there and leave a comment if you have a second. The show has exposed me to all kinds of unthinkable douchiness, and I'd like to share with you what I've learned . . .

2. Sitting at my girlfriend's place with her brother, both of whom were born in the 1980's, we saw a clip of Mr. T. chainsawing down about 100 oak trees on his estate, angering his neighbors. The following conversation ensued:

Gancey Girlfriend and Gancy Girlfriend's Brother: Who's Mr. T.?
Gancer: Who's Mr. T.? He was on the A Team.
GF and Bro: What's that?
Gancer: It was a show about a bunch of mercenary dudes driving around in a van being called on upon by clients when they had nowhere else to turn, doing God's work with machine guns. The show was so awesome, we used to play it at recess. I played the part of Hannibal, their savvy, silver-haired, cigar-chomping leader.
GF and Bro: (blank stares).
Gancer: Okay, he had a Mohawk. Well, everyone has that hairstyle now, but back then it was really significant, you know? I mean, on his Saturday morning cartoon, even his dog had a Mohawk.
GF and Bro: Okay. Got it.
Gancer: He had like fifty pounds of jewelry around his neck, and I'm not exaggerating. I'm serious!
GF and Bro: So, are you going to order that sushi?


3. Yesterday, as I sorted out my colors and lights for my laundry, I started gangsta' rapping "Colors" by Ice T from the movie of the same name. Every time I'd come across a dark shirt, I'd throw it to a pile, and say, "Colors! Colors!" My roomy must have though I was the biggest laundry hardass ever. Laundry hardass?

4. Okay, I know I've given you some cutesy nephew stories before, but here's one more, so deal with it. I'm going to say his name is Maynard. He was around 5 when he had this conversation with my sister, his mom, so you'll have to excuse his problems with suffixes.

Maynard: I pukeded on Christmas, and I pukeded on Easter. What's the holiday called with the red, white, and blue?
Gancey Sis: 4th of July.
Maynard: Yeah, I didn't pukeded on that one.

Readers, any thoughts on any of these random-ass updates? Who's my reader who's gone the longest without having "pukeded?"

Dilf With Baby on Board

My girlfriend has a park across from her apartment, which is great for looking out to see what people are wearing to see what to wear, but it's also great for people watching in general. She told me that she had been seeing a rash of DILFs (Dads I'd Like to . . . Fornicate). We then got in a discussion about dads and baby slings. I want to know what my Seven Readers think.

Is a man more or less hot if he's wearing one of those?

Would you ever wear one?

Can a man be hot if he's wearing a baby sling AND jean shorts? How about a baby sling and Zubaz?

5 Things in the 1980's That Didn't Form Voltron

I did one of those lists on Facebook called, "When I Was a Kid, I Loved . . ."

Here's what I came up with, in no particular order:

1. Stinkor from He-Man. He looked like a skunk, and his power was just that he really, really smelled. It must have sucked for him to have a superpower of which he was a little self-conscious, or did he just not give a damn, like, "That's right, bitches! Stinkor is back, so put your clothespins over your nose, and get ready to lose your appetite!" Whether he embraced it or he wanted to crawl into a cave and wallow in his own stink, either way, only the 1980's would have a muscle-bound guy who reeked to the point of superpowerdom.

2. Big League Chew. It was gum that came in a pouch, billed to wadded into your mouth during little league games to prepare kids for chewing tobacco and eventual mouth cancer, and you have to love how they still make the stuff. Joe Camel gets all that flack for being a cartoon geared towards kids and having a phallic nose, while all the while kids are throwing in a chew before heading to the on deck circle, and I like that for some reason.

3. Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka. He was a Fiji born professional wrestler who ushered in high flying acrobatics off the top ropes into the world of body builders who fake like they're hurting one another. He was my favorite guy, and it always seemed like he lost, which is why I liked him. And the Chicago Cubs.

4. Pitfall. It was a game on the Atari 2600 video game counsel in which you were Pitfall Harry, a guy jumping on the heads of alligators, swinging on vines, and hopping over scorpions in an endless screen-by-screen pursuit of hidden treasures in the jungle. Today's games are too advanced. Now they have these story lines where you're a guy stealing cars and shooting hookers in the face. I like the world of Pitfall, where I could assign my own metaphors, like maybe he's just going to that next screen, hoping for more treasure, but no matter how much gold he gets, the game will only end when he dies in a limited number of horrific ways, or when his time runs out. If you don't see the deeper meaning in that, just go back to your hooker shooting games, and try not to think too much. Pitfall Harry and I think you're not deep enough, and you wouldn't last a day in those scorpion infested jungle caverns.

5. Feathered Hair. I just dig it, that's all. Do I think it should come back? No, that would be stupid, but it's hot. Can a chick work up some feathered hair for one night only, and then fix it before she had to go to work the next day looking like Farah Fawcett? If my girlfriend could do that for me, I'd be happier than Ponch. At the very least, I'd promise never to feather my own hair.

Have You Ever Thought About . . .

1. I know it's old news, but remember Miss South Carolina in the Miss Teen USA pageant with her incoherent, desperate effort to explain the horrors of the lack of maps in foreign countries? Well, the other day I was thinking about, don't ask me why, how she kept saying "such as," and I was speculating that someone probably coached her to say that every time she had the urge to say the word like because she probably said the L-Word a few zillion times during her run-through responses. Watching it again, there is, in fact, one instance where she starts to say like, catches herself, and then goes to her stand-in, the fail proof such as. Check it out.


2. On our walk to the Cubs game the other night, my buddies and I were talking about the final, really fat days of Chris Farley, and I said, "Remember that last shitty one he did with Matthew Perry, Wagons East? My good friend corrected me, saying that title was John Candy's morbidly obese movie, and I was thinking of Almost Heroes. Isn't it weird that two overweight, very funny, likable actors both had fat guy in the frontier movies that were universally lambasted by critics for their swan songs just before their untimely deaths?


3. Gancey Girlfriend was cleaning her apartment with a do-rag on her head, and I said, kissing her temple, "Hello there, Aunt Jemima." By the end of the night, she was calling herself the pancake icon, too, but then she questioned it, saying that she did not believe the good aunt wore the apparel in question. This morning, reaching into the cabinet, I was shocked to see that my syrup had revealed that Gancey Girlfriend was right: Jemima was staring right back at me sans do-rag. I did the research, and apparently she hung up her rag in 1989. I personally think the old way was better because I'm old school, and if for no better reason than to keep her fallen hairs out of the damn syrup.

What senseless junk have you been thinking about, Seven Readers?

Jimbo

Here are some reasons, in no particular order, why I think my new roommate is going to work out just fine.

He hails from Alabama, and he kind of talks like Wooderson, Matthew McConaughey's character in Dazed and Confused, which leads me to ask him to say lines like, "I get older, and they stay the same age. Yes they do."

I wouldn't call him a heavy drinker, but he has a Jim Beam or two every few nights. The other day he was making chili, and he reaches for the bottle of Beam and says, "Eh, what the hell. I'll pour a little 'Jimmy' in there." I asked him what does that do for the dish, and he had no idea. When he had finished his masterpiece, he says, "You know, you can actually taste the Jimbo in there." I would have thought that a bad thing, but he followed it up with, "It's real good."

It's getting nicer out in Chicago, and he had not seen the lake yet. He told me that he walked down to the lake, stopped to do a few sets of pull-ups on a tree branch, and as he's telling me this, he was showing me the scrapes on his hands. That's a man's man right there.

All five roomies participated in a night of margaritas, and he said, "I think I have the heartburn." The heartburn. Perhaps that's one you would have to hear him say to get how it's funny . . .

He's seriously considering brewing up some peach moonshine in the apartment.

I wanted to go to Aldi because I'm broke and needed lots of groceries, and knowing he had just got back from grocery shopping, I said, "You should go along just to make fun of weirdos." I was kidding, but he came along. And we did poke fun at a great deal of weirdos.

He pays rent, he's clean, and he's a gentleman. You would think this one would be the biggest reason, but I think the best thing is that he affectionately refers to his bottle of Beam as Jimbo.

A Deep Purple Bully

I heard "Hush" by Deep Purple on the radio this morning, and out of nowhere I thought about a bully in my seventh-grade class who wore Led Zeppelin, Slayer, and Metallica shirts to school, all of which were bands the students knew. But on that one day, or sometimes two, out of the week, he would spend a good portion of the day trying to explain just who the hell Deep Purple were. Sure, now I know that they were famous for having lots of keyboards in their hard rock sound, they had Ritchie Blackmore on guitar, and were famous for playing a song that you only need to know a few chords to play: "Smoke on the Water," but at the time I didn't know anything about the band or the boy wearing it, excpet that he scared the shit out of me.


One day he wore a Slayer shirt on a school spirit day where we had to wear our colors, red and white, and he inadvertently had those colors on his shirt. He was bragging to everyone that he was showing his school spirit with a gruesome Slayer shirt, and the teacher said, "Jake," we'll call him Jake, "why don't you get up and parade around the room in your Slayer shirt to show everyone, and he DID it! He marched around the room displaying his shirt, cavorting around the room, flipping his long, dirty blond hair around, and all I could think was, "I'm scared of this kid, and I'm scared of Slayer."

Frightened as I may have been of his apparel, I actually came to his defense when administration banned heavy metal shirts but continued to allow girls to wear their New Kids on the Block shirts. This teacher thought I made a great point, and I think it was then that she told me I had one of the brightest minds in the school if I'd only apply myself. I got that a lot, but never quite like that. But, I didn't set out to tell you what an underachiever I was and still am; I'm here to tell you about the biggest bully I've ever known.


I work in education, and on the whole, I really do believe that kids are meaner and nastier these days. While that may be true, this guy would have given anyone at my current place of employment a run for their money. He may even have taken on the top three or four the baddest baddies at once. He got in a fight just about every week, and he logged hours and hours of solitary confinement time in the in-school suspension room. He was like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape , only younger, wearing more heavy metal shirts, and instead of bouncing a rubber ball, he got his jollies beating up other seventh-graders.

Maybe it's because we both donned blond mullets at the time, but for whatever reason, he liked me. I remember one time I walked into the bathroom to find Jake just hiding out for a while, probably having just finished a Marlboro red, and he said, "Let's slam dance!" I didn't know what the hell that meant because I had never been to a heavy metal concert, or any concert for that matter. I think at the time I was into Vanilla Ice. Before I knew what was going on, he was colliding into me repeatedly, vigorously, with his shoulder, but with a big shit-eating grin on his face. All I could do was slam back into him with a bony shoulder of my own. Despite being short in stature, he was really strong, and I found myself inching closer and closer to the tiled wall . . . At which point he stopped and we went back to class. I was so scared and happy it was over that I forgot to go pee.


Jake reeked of smoke every day. I had a locker next to his, and he stunk of that awful combination of leather and cigarette smoke. He'd be opening his locker singing, "Your mother was a witch. She was burned alive. Satan's little bitch . . ." Now I know that is from "Am I Evil", one of the bonus tracks off a now out of print version of Metallica's first album, Kill 'Em All, originally performed by Diamond Head, but at the time, I just stared straight ahead into my locker, hoping that he wouldn't look at me, hoping that he wasn't talking my mother, his, or anyone's.

One time I was in health class with him (I seemed to have every class with him), and we were getting our drug education. Jake was giving the class an education of his own when he asked questions like, "What do you call those pills that are small and yellow cause my sister gave me some and I was all messed up . . ." I don't think he was talking about Nuprin. He probably could have given us a sex education lecture as well. I remember rumors of him having sex with the the class slut (I was horrified that we had a few in junior high having not even started masturbating yet) behind a dumpster while his friends waited at the end of the alley for him to finish. Really? This guy seemed to have enough life experiences after middle school to just chill out and join the Peace Corps at the ripe-old age of forteen.

He went to a different high school than me, which is good because he probably would have had every class with me again, but during my junior year I remember someone in my study hall, where everyone bullshitted and no one studied much of anything, telling me that he ran into him. He said something innocent to Jake like, "Hey, we went to Junior High together!" Jake started punching him in the face, perhaps for old time's sake?

What the hell was wrong with this boy? As an adult and an educator, all I can think about is what was being done at the time to help get this young man get on the right path and keep him from hurting anyone on a daily basis. Also, I wonder what his parents were like? Actually, as I typed that, I remember his mother, and she had a feathered mullet, looked as if she were more of a buddy than a mom to him, and she probably got her son stoned and made him the only Deep Purple fan in the district. I thought of most of this in the span of five minutes during my car ride, constructing a long-winded blog about shit that happened twenty years ago, just having heard a self-indulgent keyboard solo. I need a blog bully to shove my head in a toilet the next time I get on a tangent like this.

How about you, Seven Readers? Tell us about a bully when you were a kid. What did he/she do? Why do you think they did it? Most importantly, what rock bands were they into and do you think of them when a song pops on during your morning commute, or is that just me?

Spring Break '09 Has Had Far Less Keg Stands than '99

What I have done with my Spring Break:

1. I went to the dentist where I got a complementary massage (awesome!) and some complementary laughing gas (awesomer!). I don't know if you guys have ever been under the gas, but it feels exactly like being stoned. They put something over my nose that pumped me full of the stuff while I listened to classic rock on headphones. The only song I can remember now was Black Water by The Doobie Brothers, a song made that much more annoying when you're getting fillings, it's coming through headphones so you can hear "by the hand-hand" in alternating ears, and you can't change the station!

I made a joke about how they should do the shoulder massage after going through all the drilling and filling and figuring out I was out 700 bucks, and they actually had the guy come back for my second rub down. I tried to tell him I was kidding, but I really didn't try that hard to stop him. After all, I've earned this Spring Break.

2. Shit! I forgot to get my emissions test. That was on my To Do List.

3. I took my bicycle to the shop to give her a tune up before the summer. I'm picking it up in a few minutes, and I plan on buying an odometer to attempt to bike more miles than I drive this summer. Have I said that in a prior blog without actually doing it? Probably. I'm not real big on follow-through.

4. My Heterosexual Life Partner got engaged. You can read about him in numerous posts. This puts the heat on Old Gancey pretty hard, but that's okay. I was headed down that road, anyway.

5. My interview with Jason Lytle from Grandaddy just went live here:
http://www.staythirstymedia.com/200904-032/html/200904-jason-lytle-int.html

6. The final run of the play I cowrote and directed is running its final four shows the weekend of the 24th. You can read about that here:
http://www.woodsugars.com/TheLoiteringHole/

7. I've just been named the guy for updating people on The Bachelor via a weekly write-up at Starpulse.com. You will be able to read about that here when the new cast of desperate pretty people clamor for a new rich guy:
http://www.starpulse.com/news/index.php?s=Matthew+Swanson&sentence=AND&submit=Search

8. I'm leaving for Iowa tonight to spend Easter with Gancey Girlfriend's family. I bought her mom and dad a stone hedgehog for their garden. That sounds stupid, but hedgehogs, I'll have you know, are great for a garden because they eat their weight daily in snails, slugs, and all kinds of bugs that F' up your plants. If you feed them some cat food, they'll likely stick around to make your garden a healthy place, and even after they're gone, the bugs and slugs they go after generally don't come back for a year! Stone ones like the one I bought, well, they just sit around and look cute, but it's a metaphor for a healthy garden. Did I really just buy them a stone metaphor? Oh well, too late.

Does Anybody REALLY Know What Time It Is?

I heard "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?" by Chicago on the radio in my bathroom this morning, and I got to thinking, as I too often do about meaningless shit, mostly about rock music, that if I were the other guy in the exchange with the songwriter on the street that day, I would have likely punched him in the bean bag.


Let's pretend I, Gancer, were to have really needed to know the time, and Guy from Rock Band Chicago said those lyrics to me verbatim. Essentially, in the narration, he says that he was walking down the street one day, and a man asked him what time was on his watch . . .

Gancer: Hey, bud. You know what time it is?
Guy from Rock Band Chicago: Does anybody really know what time it is?
Gancer: Uh, well. I suppose you do. I mean, I see your watch and all.
GRBC: Does anybody really care?
Gancer: Well, I certainly do. I have to catch the brown line downtown. So, would you mind terribly just looking down at your wrist for that time?
GRBC: If so, I can't imagine why.
Gancer: Okay, chief. I don't need this existential conversation. What. F'ing. Time. Is. It!
GRBC: We've all got time enough to cry
Gancer: I suddenly have time enough to beat someone, and how fortunate for both of us that you have time enough to cry!

How about you, Seven Readers? Do you ever picture conversations in songs as the most stupid thing you've ever heard? If you get stumped, just default to Piano Man by Billy Joel.

High and Dry But Not Dry Where You May Think

Yeah, i'm not a loner, i'm not a fool
Don't need a reason, reason to be cool
I got my whiskey, i got my wine
I got my woman, and this time the lights are going out
(saturday night) high
(saturday night) high 'n' dry
(saturday night) i'm high
(saturday night) high 'n' dry

I was singing this song to myself as I drove over to my lady's place; the lyrics based on the items I picked up.

1. Thai food for two.

2. A romantic movie: "An Affair to Remember" starring a very pimp-like Cary Grant and an entirely unbelievable guy who seemed to be fine with his girl holding onto a crush on the aforementioned big pimpin' Mr. Grant. Seriously, he was like, "Okay, babe. Why don't you go for it? He is a looker." Then again, as stupid as it was to think someone would act that way, at least he wasn't a predictable prick like he would have been in today's movies. Consider the evil shoot-people-in-the-butt and lay-cheap-shots-on-you-during-pick-up-football boyfriend in Wedding Crashers. Or, take the take the window-seat-taking and cheat-on-you-lefty-right boyfriend in Wedding Singer. Come to think of it, both those guys were cheaters, and both were in movies with wedding in the title. I like both films, but the point is that today's movies seem to want to hit the audience over the head with who a character should end up with at the end of the thing. I like Danny Aiello's guy in Moonstruck because he's not a bad guy, just a harmless momma's boy and kind of a dork. I guess I'm looking for that kind of realism, but nobody pays me to write bad guy or even neutral boyfriends in movies, nor do they pay me to compare my life to Def Leppard lyrics. You all get that for free.

3. Twizzlers and some shitty cookie dough candy

4. A couple bottles of cheap, instant headache wine I'll never buy again that I got at Aldi. There will be a blog about Aldi very soon.

5. A bottle of Astroglide Lubricant

Now, you're probably thinking that was going to be a romantic evening, an affair to remember if you will, until number five threw a major curve ball into the mix. But, we weren't using the lube for it's namesake - this particular one doubles as a massage oil. We wanted to go with the stuff that warms up to make up for my lack of massage ability, despite being Swedish. Then again, if I got some good music and I'm in love, like I am with her, I'm not all that bad.

And you may be asking the reason I made you read those awful Def Leppard lyrics if you're still reading after all those tangents? I was singing:

"I got my lube. I got my wine. I got my woman . . ."

I ask you, Seven Readers, what else do you need?

You THINK You Pissed Yourself?

I don't know about your town, but the Saturday of St. Patrick's Day weekend is just about the drunkest day of the year in Chicago. Many spend their entire morning and afternoon completely pickling themselves with alcohol, but I spent most of Saturday afternoon lying around doing absolutely nothing with my girlfriend. It was a wonderful, totally mindless afternoon, right down to watching Norbit. Don't judge me.

Anyway, when we finally emerged from her apartment, there was still some daylight left, and it was around 6:00 PM. We saw a guy who looked to be in his mid twenties, disoriented, wearing a predictably green shirt and having way too much trouble walking and texting as he made his way down the middle of the street. Something about this guy being alone, quiet, and it being still light out, made me wonder what was wrong with him without even thinking that it was simply drunkenness. Gancey Girlfriend had no trouble diagnosing him: "That guy is three sheets to the wind,*" she said, as we walked towards my apartment to begin some boozing of our own. I'm a little disappointed in myself for not saying what I often do when I see a guy like that - He's everything I want to be.

That guy was lit up like a Christmas tree, but he wasn't the drunkest guy I saw that weekend. The absolute drunkest was someone I only saw in a picture.

I knew things would be ugly for a friend of mine from said picture when he told me that he was so intent on getting schlitzed that he got a hold of a bag of Dihydrogen Hexachloroiridate, more commonly known as an IV, and a needle to shoot himself up to rehydrate the next day. Things were even uglier than I could have possibly imagined. Today, on the Sunday of St. Patrick's Day weekend, the most hungover day in Chicago, without saying anything else at all to me, he announced, in a gruff, painful sounding voice that he often has after a night with lots of loud mouth soup, talking loud and drawing a crowd, "I pissed myself." He then clarified, "Well, at least I think I did."

That's a strange statement, right? Either you pissed yourself or you didn't. Well, he then explained that he and a friend were looking over the pictures from the night prior over breakfast, when he came across a full body shot of himself, the one he would show me, with a wet spot starting at his crotch and going all the way down his right leg, almost to his ankle. It's possible someone spilled on him, but not likely that it would have that precise of a location and pattern. I'm pretty sure, as is he and anyone in that bar clinging to any of their sobriety, that he, in fact, pissed his pants.

What's most impressive about this is that he also showed me two numbers that he got post peeing his pants. Those gals were either too drunk to notice (good thing), they gave him bogus numbers (probably the case), or they are into guys who piss their pants (not likely but interesting).

I told him that perhaps a guy taking a whiz right then and there could be seen as a form of flattery. Consider him saying:

"I just felt our conversation was so engrossing that I couldn't dream of interrupting such a beautiful exchange with something as mundane as a trip to the bathroom."

Well, Seven Readers, you know there are no limits to the stupidity we can explore on this rag over the last four years, so why don't you tell us an incontinence story?

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* I was always curious about this phrase so I looked it up. I found this on phrases.org.uk.something-something, and I'm using it with no permission at all.

"Don't be taken aback to hear that sheets aren't sails, as landlubbers might expect, but ropes (or occasionally, chains). These are fixed to the lower corners of sails, to hold them in place. If three sheets are loose and blowing about in the wind then the sails will flap and the boat will lurch about like a drunken sailor."

Slangin' Latte

I saw an advertisement for free lattes on Mondays at McDonalds, and I thought I'd try one out today. It was real small, stopping made me three minutes late for work, but it was damn good.

I got to thinking that this is not unlike when a drug dealer gives a new customer some free "shit" to get him hooked. Think about it. I'm a caffeine addict - pretty much like a junkie. I'm not going to go to Starbucks to get my "shit" if I can get it just as good and cheaper from Mack (McDonalds), right? When I go to Mack, I'm not going to buy his shwag stuff (regular old coffee); I'm going to want that bomb stuff (muthafuckin' latte) that he gave me last Monday for free. The one I've been telling all my homies (coworkers) about. As my tolerance grows, I may even have to buy a twenty sack (a medium, maybe even a large latte).

Mack's got me by the short and curlies, Seven Readers. Pretty soon the promotion will run its course, and I'll be paying for it, maybe even whoring for it.

Rockstar Struck

I just interviewed Jason Lytle from the rock band Grandaddy over email, and I was nervous. Again, over email, and I was nervous.

I have always been in awe of rock stars, and even before I knew I liked rock music, I still wanted to know everything about the rock. When I was seven, in my spare time, which was most of my time, I wanted to spend it with G.I. Joe, but an unavoidable seed was planted by guys with guitars, not little plastic guns. I wasn't even sure I liked the Rolling Stones yet, but I intently listened to my dad tell about the time they hired the Hell's Angels biker gang for security and someone got stabbed. Cool! I didn't necessarily know that I wanted MTV or cable (I was the last on my block to get both), but whenever I was at a friend's place, that's all I wanted to watch. I'd watch Sting knock over that tall maze of candles in the "Wrapped Around Your Finger," video and I was transfixed.

In high school and especially college, I started to become a student of rock. Everything I heard about it went into my brain where it would stay forever, pushing out the ever shrinking space for more pertinent information. I studied liner notes to learn every member of Anthrax, just in case it would ever win me any money on a game show. So far it's only made me kick ass at the name game when I'm drinking, but I'm confident knowing the correct spelling of Joey Belladona will pay off some day, some way.


I have little daydreams where I meet rock stars. You would think, since they are fantasies, after all, that in these day dreams I'd end up doing mounds of cocaine, chasing groupies, and running away from the cops with these rockers until dawn. Actually, I just walk up to, let's say Dave Gilmour from Pink Floyd, and I say, "Your music has been so very important to me, and I thank you." That's it. Even in my fantasies, I can't allow myself to be anything but humble, brief, polite, and unobtrusive in the presence of my rock heroes.


This is the way I was in my interview with Jason. I was humble and in awe, despite the fact that it was flipping email. I eagerly contacted all my friends with discerning taste in music to let them know that it was going to happen and that I was getting an early leak of the album from his publicist. I was stoked!

I'm not getting paid for any of this, but it's still very exciting for me. In my rock journalist fantasies I typically allow myself to get paid, and usually I have a high rise condominium with a minimalist modern vibe and lots of black leather, but for now I'm happy doing it just for the excitement of the whole thing from my shitty apartment with four too many roommates.

Joanie's Unrequited Love

I'm always really tired during my morning drive to work, and sometimes my mind will drift off to a place where a more alert Ken would have stopped the train of thought twelve blocks prior. This morning I got thinking about a television show centered around the coolest Italian kid on the block, Arthur Fonzerelli, played by the Jewish Henry Winkler: "Happy Days."

I should have stopped there, but then I got thinking about the 17 episode failed spin-off from 1982, "Joanie Loves Chachi." For some reason, I just wanted to see how bad it really was, kind of like Ishtar. You can't do that with a show that got cancelled before it built up enough episodes to go into cyndication. Maybe they're on youtube or something, but then I'd have to watch it in ten minute intervals. That would just cheapen Erin Moran's vision in my opinion.

But I didn't stop there. No. On this morning I was thinking how the title kind of left Joanie out to dry. Why does she just love him? Doesn't he love her? Were the creaters thinking of calling it something like Joanie and Chachi Are in Love, but that was just too many syllables? Let's see . . .

"Joa-nie and Cha-chi Are in Love" (8 syllables)
"Joa-nie Loves Cha-chi" (Ahhhhhhhhhh, 5 syllables)

Still, I think it makes Joanie look like she's with some jerk who doesn't love her.

Why not:

Joanie Loves Chachi, But Chachi Can't Even Stand to Be in the Same Room With Her Nowadays.
or

Joanie Loves Chachi, But Chachi Loves Her Sister
or

Joanie Loves Chachi, But Chachi's Into Machine F$ck*ng

What do you think, seven readers?

I think I need some books on tape or something for that morning car ride.

. . . You Know You're an Old Dork When

. . . You're a teacher, and the first thing you do at work is swing by the science lab to ask a teacher if they have one of those eye washers to get the Rogaine out of your eye.

When did you know you were old/not cool anymore? If you haven't had this realization yet, what event will tip you off?

Never Cook With Oxyclean; It Will Leave You Hollow Inside*

I signed the girlfriend and I up for one of those hands-on cooking classes because we both want to get into cooking more. What's cool about the one I found is that you can sip wine while you take the leaves off of stalks of Thyme and other bullshit tasks, and you get to eat everything when you're done - and everything was absolutely incredible.

Now, I don't blog about stuff like cooking, specifically. I'm here to tell you that there was a guy there who looked just like the guy from the Oxyclean commercials, he was every bit as intense, and thrice the asshole. First off, he stood across the island from his wife, which I suppose didn't have to be a sign that he was a fuck-o, but then he was throwing uncomfortable digs her way all night. I whispered to Gancey Girlfriend, "Oxyclean over there is a real butthole." She said, "Oxyclean, what the hell does that . . . (as she looked over) . . . oh yeah. He does look like that guy." I've always been good at spotting celebrity twins of people, and I really know I've nailed one when someone barely knows who the celebrity is, looks at the person, and wholeheartedly agrees with me. Love it.

The group consisted of like 7 couples who all knew each other and then us, but everyone else besides Big Oxy was really nice but really yuppie. Sometimes I get self-conscious around people with lots of money, and then a conversation about "the market" breaks out, and I want to stick my head in a food mill** and turn the crank. Am I getting to the age now where I need to start having adult conversations? Am I supposed to get stoked for a guy when he talks about the granite counter tops in his condo? If he were nailing his girlfriend on the counter top, now that's a story, but otherwise I just can't stand that sort of shit.

Hey, Seven Readers, Is it my own insecurity or is that stuff just real boring? I guess what I'm asking here is for a comment from someone with money who still thinks conversations about money and material things are conversational masturbation.

*Props, another way of saying a prize of nothing, to the reader who tells me what movie this title is in reference to, sort of.

**Just learned about that item that night. I love how general the name is. It's a kitchen item that really doesn't want to get pigeon holed. The other important thing the lady and I took away was . . . Shit, I forgot already, and it was a real good tip, too . . .

"You're a Butt"

Last night, after dinner with the family, my first-grader nephew tried to tell me something from inside the minivan as I said my goodbyes to my parents. He was motioning to me, and then pointing towards his butt. But what could it mean?

I'm a butt?

He rolled down the window to tell me, sure enough, "You're a butt."

Updates

1. I just wrote an article for Starpulse entitled "Top 10 Bands Who an Aging Music Snob Can Begin Admitting He/She Likes" My editor notified me that it got picked up by something called Fark, and I was getting brutalized in the comments section. The people completely missed the point by saying the bands sucked, in that I was admitting that the bands were nerdy, but I was ready to admit I liked them anyway. Oh well, no press is bad press, as they say, and you can read me getting bashed right here.

2. The other night I caught three grunge cover bands of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains, and you'll be able to read about my experience very soon at Staythristymedia.com. My buddy told me a great story from his grunge days there that didn't make it into the article, but it will make it here. He was being hoisted up for his one-and-only crowd surf, and some guy said, "This guy's a porker!" From that day forward, he steadily started losing weight because that comment always stayed with him. "He had to use the term porker," my friend still angrily mutters to himself . . .

3. On the Wood Sugars site, I'm going to have a segment where I'll be turning old blogs of mine into videos blogs. if you have any thoughts about which ones would be funny, email me or leave something in the comments.

4. Tonight I chose to write an article about grunge cover bands rather than watch the Super Bowl, but I tuned it just in time to see the dramatic conclusion and the dramatic improvement in the appearance of the wife of Cardinals quarterback Kurt Warner since her Superbowl Appearance. I mean, I don't know if it's really true that blonds have more fun, but chicks with flat tops have just never done it for me, even Sheena Easton.

Backpedaling

I just finished a play in Chicago about infidelity, and my next project will more than likely, at least partly, deal with cheating as well. My writing partner and I decided that lots of authors continue with or revisit a theme if they still have more to say on the topic, and this theme is still important to me at least, as evidenced by this conversation I had with my girlfriend the other day.

Gancer: Seriously, though. If you ever slept with anyone I know, I'd have to kill you.

Gancy GF: Excuse me???!!!!

Gancer: Well, you know. I wouldn't kill you, but I'd be pissed as hell. I'd hurt you real bad, like with a pillow case full of oranges or something.

GF: Jesus, Gancer!!

Gancer: I wouldn't physically harm you. I'm just kidding. I could never hit a woman or a man for that matter. I've never even been in a fight. So, I wouldn't hurt you physically, but I'd make your life a living hell.

GF: Why are you threatening me like this?

Gancer: I'm not! I wouldn't ever make your life hell. I care for you way too much to do that, but I'd certainly have to do something.

GF: Like?

Gancer: Well, maybe pour some water in your car locks in the dead of winter to freeze 'um up real good or move all your picture frames around slightly to screw with your OCD tendencies or take your mail so that you never get your heat bill and they shut the gas off and . . .

GF: (incredulous stare)

Gancer: I really wouldn't do anything at all, but I'd be so hurt. Please don't ever do anything like that.

Halite, Halite. My Boyfriend's Back.

I was at work the other day helping some kids learn how to add and subtract fractions, when I found myself singing to them two ninths to the tune of Phil Collins: "Two ninths, two ninths, two ni-iinths. Woh ooooooh." I don't think they remember the song, but I think they liked it anyway cause I'm a lot of fun.

It got me thinking about one of my favorite teachers in high school who when quizzing us on the different types of rocks would cue us for halite by saying, "my boyfriend's back." You know, "halite, halite. My boyfriend's back."

He would also say, and keep in mind that he looked like Christopher Reeves but talked like Yogi Bear, "Gancer, I will give you an all expenses, paid trip to the in-school suspension room!" Just before a three day weekend, he would say, "I tell you what. You kids have been so good. Don't even come on Monday. I'm serious. Take the day off. You've earned it.

I found myself saying that last one to the kids yesterday, since MLK Day is Monday. I'm officially a nerdy teacher.

Okay, Seven Readers who I'll soon have to call Three Readers, who was one of your favorite teachers growing up? What was one of their catch phrases?

Sorry about the decline in blogs lately, but I should be back to at least four or five a month now that this play is over with. We sold out all three night and even had some standing room only! Everyone is telling me how much they liked it, but I know that I can't just bask in that - I need to build on it. There will be a short break, but then I need another project to stay creative.

I just did a piece on Starpulse.com about how I think the movie Caddyshack is overrated, and because it pissed so many people off, I got more comments than I've gotten on any blog in a long time. It was tough to see all those people slam me, but I know I'm right - and no press is bad press, right?

I also put up a new blog on the Loitering Hole play site, and you can read that by clicking here.

Have I ever told you guys about Brutal Jim*? His name isn't Jim, but he's brutal to talk to, so we call him Brutal Jim. He's always talking about how much money he makes, and he's one of those really dorky guys who thinks he's cool and is kind of mean, perhaps in an attempt to overcompensate for his dorkiness. Well, I ran into him recently, and he's still as brtual as ever. Anyone have a fun nickname for someone they know?

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*His name isn't really Jim. I just wanted to change it in case he or someone he is close to reads this. Fuck it. He's brutal. His name is Bill. Just kidding!

Updates at the Ass End of the Two Thousand Eights

Well, I haven't blogged here in a while. Writing, directing, and producing this play is consuming my life, and it may have something to do with the fact that I've never really done all three of those things. We just posted our second webcast video, and I think you'll get a bang out of it. I also just posted another journal on the site about Jack Frost trying to f' up my shit, and that should go live any minute. It's been a lot of work, but it's really exciting. I hope to have at least 2 of my 7 readers make it. You know why I have no readers these days? I don't comment on other people's blogs anymore. I'm so sorry about that. I will try to make the rounds while I'm off of my real job for the next two weeks.

In other news, Gancey Girlfriend is in another state with her family for Christmas. We thought it would be a good idea to do a Separate Ways (yes, like the Journey song) Christmas, since traveling to both would be an impossibility. Well, as it turns out, being totally alone for Christmas was depressing, but having someone and not being able to see them is way, way worse. We'll have to muddle through somehow . . .

What are my Seven Readers doing for NYE? I'm spending it at a small gathering at a couple's house in a remote suburb where I spent this Halloween and this NYE back when said couple lived in Chicago proper. In years past I would have rather drank 25 vodka red bulls at some crowded bar with a bunch of young idiots. This year an intimate gathering sounds good, especially since I'll be with Gancey Girlfriend, my Heterosexual Life Partner (who I just did a blog about on the Liars Club Blog), and a good friend who moved away, an experience I wrote about here. He actually inspired the whole gancing phenomenon for those of you who know what that is.

Well, happy holidays to all of you. I'm going to pass out, get up early, buy a bunch of crap at Toys R' Us for my nephews, drink too much wine with my old man, drive out to my sister's, wake up the next day, and see what Santa brought my nephews. Jeez, I bet the oldest one doesn't even believe anymore. I hope he's one of those cool big brothers who keeps the younger ones believing. I know I'm that type of guy . . .

Around the time that the Sex in the City movie came out, I saw that a lot of women were taking online quizzes to figure out which character their personalities were most inline with. I'm sure lots of women learned about themselves from filling out those questionnaires, but the results don't concern me because I'm a child of the 1980's; therefor, I want to know which Golden Girl best represents my readers (male and female).

Those four silver foxes could solve all the world's problems in their robes while eating cheese cake until the break of dawn, but each had to play their part.

Which one are you?

Are you . . .

Blanche Devereaux: She's a bit of a slut, but she expects men to wine and dine her, given her southern belle upbringing. If you're a Blanch, you have dated a lot of men over the years, and you may continue to date within your retirement community. You've slept enough men to win the war in Iraq, but if anyone points that out, you're appalled at the characterization.


Rose Nylund: She's a sweet, sweet woman, but she's not too bright. If you're a Rose, you're a simple woman, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes the world needs uncomplicated, nice, harmless people.

Sophia Petrillo: She's a wise-cracking chick who tells a great story. If you're a Sophia, you're often holding the floor at a party with a great story or perhaps stealing the show with well-timed one-liners.


Dorothy Zbornak: She's smart but cynical. If you're a Dorothy, you're very insightful and funny, but a bit of a glass empty gal.

If you must know, I had a Blanch period a few years back, I have dumb moments like Rose, I can be a little too Dorothy for my own good, but I think overall I'm a Sophia.

How about you, seven readers?

Also, check out the Facebook group for the play I'm writing/producing (The Loitering Hole). There's a video of me to watch, which, for many of you, may be the first time you will see Dr. Ken live and in color.

Also, check out the review I did of the new Guns N' Roses record where I compare it to a can of Dr. Pepper.

Gancey Up Yourself

I just found a great way to cheer myself up, and I hope it works for you.

Go to dictionary.com, key in funny/gross words, and make your computer pronounce them out loud. There are girl and boy readers, and they both have a knack for making funny words funnier. Try these:

Scrotum
Dick
Pussy
Penis
Smegma
Fart
Shit
Poop
Tits
Nuts
Masturbation

The holidays can be depressing. Maybe some dirty words with a deadpan delivery will help. It has to help a little. I mean, just listen!

I am NOT Thankful for Blanket Text Messages

Have you had this happen? You're sitting down to your Thanksgiving meal, and you get this text:

"Happy thx giving to you and yours"

You think to yourself, "That was so nice of Jim to reach out like that, but I haven't talked to him in like a year. Wait, did he send that to just me or to everyone on his phone list?"

That's right. This person cared enough about you to scroll through his/her phone contacts and click YES when it came to your name. You should be honored!

I remember last Christmas I got like 9 blanket texts. They're annoying. I'm sitting down to dinner with my family, and my phone keeps buzzing. I'd turn it off, but would if someone I really care to talk to, like my Aunt in Colorado, calls? So, I have to leave it on and keep checking the darned blankets.

Well, this Thanksgiving I decided to respond to each and every one, and here's what happened.

Blanket Texter One:
Unknown: Happy Thanksgiving. This is the day to be with your family and be thankful for what you have.
My Response: I wish you the same, but to whom am I wishing this towards? I dropped my phone in a urinal a while back.
My Thoughts: I got a new phone contact when he responded! What's bad is that I think we had the same exchange last Christmas after another phone got ran over by a cab.

Blanket Text Two:
Neighbor: Happy Thanksgiving!
Me: Same to you. I know this is a blanket text, but I'm sorry we kept you up the other night.
My Thoughts: I felt a need to explain that I didn't think she was wishing just me a happy holiday, and yes, we did keep up all our neighbors the other night.

Blanket Text Three:
Friend: Happy Thanksgiving!
Me: Same to you! I'm replying to all blanket texters this year. See you at your party
Friend: Hahaha! See you there.
My Thoughts: This person gets it. : )

What are your thoughts, seven readers? Do you agree with blanket texting? Do you do it? Does anyone see themselves responding to a bunch some time, maybe Christmas time? If you do, tell 'um Gancey sent ya.

Playing (Badly) With the Boys

As I was on my way to work this morning, "Playing With the Boys" by Kenny Loggins came on, and I immediately thought about the volleyball scene in Top Gun. When I was a kid, those pilots were locked in a heated grudge match, showing that their rivalry in the sky continued while on the ground. As an adult who knows his way around a volleyball net, all I can think is, "Man, those guys are in good shape, but they suck at volleyball." All four of them: Ice-Man, Slider, Goose, Maverick. They all suck.



You would think that someone on the set, maybe a grip, would know how to hit a ball properly to at least get them looking anything less than a special education gym class. Also, why does Slider flex for the other guys? I mean, it's just a bunch of dudes playing volleyball. It's not like the movie has homosexual undertones or anything. Oh . . . Wait. I mean, "Playing With the Boys" does sound kind of gay.

There's a New Post . . .

. . . at The Liar's Club

The next post here at The Gancer is the 200th. For the historic post, I'm going to ask everyone who comes by to tell me his/her favorite post of mine of all time (the last few years). If you haven't read that many or can't think of any good ones, just skim through like three at random and tell me the least crappy one.

Cast your votes in the comment section of this post, and I'll give the results on the 200th.