Monthly Archives: June 2009

It’s wabbit hunting season.

Beer count: 0, Scotch: 6, lolcats: 0

So summer is kicking into high gear, you know what that means you over-priced, gorgeous massage therapists? Right, It’s wabbit hunting season!  With a recession in full force, I look forward to my casual encounters (sorry Craig, no disrespect) with you on Park & Madison in midtown.  Although, I’ve become wily in these turbulent times, and I am hiding out in the not so common places.  You will no longer find me casually grazing by The Four Seasons, The Peninsula rooftop, The Campbell Apartments, or even The King Cole Lounge.  Nope, I have moved to safer, greener pastures.  There is no chance in Hell, but if you are That lady working at Madame Paulette’ reading this, get in touch. Anyway if you are a massage therapist reading this, be warned, I am going to record my next casual encounter, and hilarity will ensue.

the city is always an interesting place.

Beer count: 9.


I just started playing soccer again, and boy did I suck.  Newborn deer have better motor control than I did tonight.  I’m always like this  though.  I start out really rusty, and as the season goes on, I get better.  I will be better next week.   I’ll share a bbm recap I had with a friend shortly after the game:”Dude I am getting old. Shit man, my first soccer game of the season b/c of an eye infection. I was like a fish out of water. I pulled the perfect Lupus from The Bad News Bears. I play defense, I intercepted the ball, saw no challengers around so I started moving forward.  I was so rusty at ball handling that the first person to challenge me, waited for me to fuck up…it was that bad.  Well, I managed to pass him, then another, and then another.  In Forrest Gump fashion I carried the ball to the opposing teams goal.  Now being defense minded I knew my position was wide open because now I am deep in the offensive zone.  It’s funny b/c everyone was yelling “pass, pass!” But as I made it closer to the goal, they yelled “shoot, shoot!” Well I passed.  But I didn’t pass to a teammate…Lupus man, Lupus.”

Now obviously, I went into and left, the game with a beer count of zero.  I made it a point to drink a beer for every point my opponent scored.  Luckily I lost count.  Anyway, just when you think your attempts are being met with utter humiliation, shit, or whatever word gets you down, something better always seems to come along.  I am now in my building and I see this very pretty, soft-spoken girl (no ring:  she’s fair game.  Her soft-spoken voice just screams “Talk to me God damnit!”).  To gloat, I am brilliant when I’m drinking/drunk.  Although, I wasn’t in a “Burn down Rome” kind of mood.  This may have saved me though.  I’ll be talking to her again, although what the hell is it with me and blondes?


I’m not attracted to blondes.


So, while new things are prepared and edited, I will take a moment to share more of the wisdom I have earned, and learned sitting, and thinking, and spending time with myself.

Once more I have the legendary Richard Feynman to thank for this beautiful, and simple lesson.  Again, this is taken from “Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman”.

The premise is that universities all over the country are throwing offers and counter-offers his way, and he is unsure of where to teach and do research.  He is currently a professor at Caltech, however, Cornell has made him a generous offer, and there are tempting breakthroughs that have just taken place in their facility.  He calls Cornell and accepts their offer, only to call back a day later to say he has changed his mind and is staying at Caltech.  This back and forth is unacceptable to him, so he decides on a solution to correct his indecisiveness:


“When you’re young, you have all these things to worry about- should you go there, what about your mother.  And you worry, and try to decide, but then something else comes up.  It’s much easier to just plain decide.  Never mind- nothing is going to change your mind.  I did that once when I was a student at MIT.  I got sick and tired of having to decide what kind of dessert I was going to have at the restaurant, so I decided it would always be chocolate ice cream, and never worried about it again- I had the solution to that problem.  Anyway, I decided it would always be Caltech.”


Do I think everything should always be chocolate ice cream?  No, of course not.  I don’t think Mr. Feynman did either.  However, most things should be.  In particular, those things that are likely to impact your life, or future in any significant way.  I decided (see?), that this should be called the, “chocolate ice cream principle”.

I have also decided to live according to it.

Love is Pain (or, I wish I cared…whore.)

Beer count: 5 , a scotch, and some lolcats.


I find myself here.  So I have a confession. I have trouble showing my emotions, seriously.  I can feel emotionally, I just don’t show it.  For example, I was in a seriously committed, long relationship that ended.  Having one of these last heart-to-heart conversations with my ex, I couldn’t help but notice how emotional she was, read: crying.  I didn’t know what to do.  So I excused myself to the bathroom.  In the bathroom I took a good, long look in the mirror and asked myself the same question I always seem to ask myself, “How can I care?” Luckily an answer found me.  Looking at myself in the mirror so long made me notice I had a nose hair that was feeling quite adventurous.  It was sticking out enough for me to pull it out.  It really hurt.  But more importantly, I found that by pulling it out, I made my eyes tear.  I quickly tried to pull out a few more nose hairs until finally, I was showing enough tears to look like I was crying.  I left the bathroom back to my crying ex, and showed her how much I cared as well.

The End.

Michael Jackson: The King of Poop.

Childhood memories are puzzling.  There are events that take place, crucial, life-shaping events, and you struggle to recall the details, or simply cannot remember anything at all.  Meanwhile, that time the crossing guard gave you a star-shaped, purple pencil eraser is recollected in full mental HD, with 1080 dpi (I don’t even know what the hell that means but it sounds cool).

Music is an amplifier.  It colors in the grey, and sharpens the fuzzy points.  I remember the first day my father brought home the top of the line in stereo equpiment.  It was a Zenith, equipped with an *AMFM radio tuner, a record player, and the pinnacle of music technology, a cassette tape deck.  This thing was massive.  Once assembled, it took up a good third of the living room, which isn’t bad in a house.  However, in a cramped, upstairs two bedroom apartment, it’s somewhat impractical.  My father never thought like that though.  He wanted his sweet stereo, the rest was details (and some engineering…).  My thoughts blur up until the very moment he pressed his thumb to the large metal power button on the tuner face.  The long radio dial lit up like a row of holiday houses, and my father slowly turned the thick metal circle, dragging a bright red line across large back-lit numbers.  Static….then, ‘dum dum dum, dum dum dum dum…..dum dum dum, dum dum dum dum…’  “She was more like a beauty queen…”

The sound from that thing shook the walls.  I remember my dad grinning and sitting down to organize his massive vinyl collection.  I loved every window rattling thud, and this is likely why I most often play music in my car at volumes that rival Knebworth.  That moment comes back to me every-time I hear even just the opening line of Billie Jean.

Thriller always terrified me.  The opening, the zombies, and particularly at the end, werewolf Michael.

I was about to take a bath.  I was a silly child, so as my sons do now, I escaped my mothers grasp and began to run around the house bare-ass, screaming like a howler monkey.  My mother walked after me, and finally cornered me in a room with the television blaring in the background.  I began to run around in circles, and then froze, hearing Thriller.  I turned and there was Michael, all fangs and yellow eyes on the screen.  My mother gave a loud yelp and I jumped away, only taking a moment to look back and see the large brown turd I had left behind on the rug.

Many people are saying we lost the “Elvis” of our generation.  I am inclined to agree.


…..Love it, (Rest in peace Mr. Jackson, and thanks for all the songs that help me remember)



* This thing truly was a sight to behold.  A long, thick strip of yellow-ish lighted numbers, with a thick red-lit needle, book-ended by two large, circular metal knobs, and more switches than mission control.  Like most things manufactured in the 80’s, it was all sharp corners and glossy, lethally hard plastic.  But listening to the radio was great.  It was reassuring in a way to see that line stop where you directed it, and then if you were lucky, someone was spinning a record you wanted to listen to.  Taking it for granted simply wasn’t possible then.

Thriller…but no make up needed.

They are dropping like flies in the entertainment biz.

Carradine, Fawcett, McMahon, and of course, Michael Jackson.

Rest in peace.

I think most people would probably agree that Jackson’s death is the most keenly felt.  It is made all the more tragic by the fact that he was poised to burst back into the spotlight, in a positive way.  I have so many fond memories of his music as a child.  I believe any person who grew up in the eighties basically had a life soundtrack that consisted of Jackson, and Madonna.  His death wasn’t just a human being ending, it was the death of nostalgia.  We will always remember, but we will never get to re-live.

The newspaper covers are almost surreal.

“Corny” QoTW.

What time is it?  Why, what a silly question! It’s time for the Quote.. of.. The… Week!

(try to imagine the announcer from the Price is Right when you read that, it’s more fun that way…..ugh… just work with me people, okay?)

This weeks QoTW came via a text message, which I will post in it’s entirety.  In short, the ghost of George Carlin decided to possess my best-est pal, and dispense some much needed dating advice:


“Yes, make her wait….that’s good.
But if you meet up, be punctual.
Being late is like ass-fucking her,
and then commenting on her hygiene.”


And with that little pearl of wisdom, I can wade confidently into the dating pool, armed with the necessary etiquette to engage in the joy of ass-fucking.


Live it, Love it, (wipe it…. had some corn yesterday didn’cha?)



I’d like to officially welcome our first contributor, Boone!  TWYL’s own liberally sauced city correspondant.  He will be providing perspective on Manhattan living, dating, and nightlife.  I am personally very excited to see what he has to offer, sober, or not.  So stay tuned and sign up!  The subscribe button is right on the sidebar, and that way, you can always know when some shit gets slapped up here.  New article on Iran should be up soon.  Live it, Love it.

A Primates Lament.

leetle monkey man

Lonely lee-dle monkey,
Oh lonely lee-dle me,
Nobody love my lee-dle self,
I sad as sad can be,

I try to hug a lee-dle bird,
But birdie flew away,
I cry and cry for lee-dle bird,
But birdie wouldn’t stay,

I am just a lee-dle monkey,
Sad and lonely me,
Nobody love thees lee-dle monkey,
By myself I always be.