Monthly Archives: May 2012

Follow That Billionaire!

If you haven’t heard of Joe Ricketts, you have now. He’s one of the 400 billionaire Americans (as of March 2010). That number has obviously risen, since the economy hath shittiered and there are fewer employees for Joe to bankroll. Joe is a painter. He does self-portraits. You can commission him to paint a portrait of himself staring humbly-yet-cheerfully into space with his hands perfectly folded in front, so you don’t have to worry if he’s doing something dirty behind your back.

http://www.daylife.com/topic/Joe_Ricketts

Ricketts is a bit like Dick Cheney and a lot like the Koch brothers. He lives in Jackson Hole, WY, next to Dick’s, but he made his billions in Nebraska, like the Kochs. And for the last time: it’s pronounced like “Coke.” Don’t be disgusting. The Koch brothers are from Kansas, but I thought Nebraska and Kansas were just municipalities somewhere in the Midwest. I also thought “Midwest” was that state you fly over between New York and LA—the one with all the circular fields.

The Grand Old Partyboys announced or leaked or somehow I found out that Ricketts, the baller behind one of Romney’s top super PACs, is bankrolling a slew of anti-Obama attack ads, scheduled to air around the time of the DNC. They want to shed some light on Reverend Wright’s ties to Obama and they’re going to call him Barack Hussein Obama, which is, to most of us, a pretty terrible name.

I can’t remember what the ads were going to say, but they sounded aggressive, stupid, and smart, all at the same time, which is a scary combination. They want to play the race card, throw it down, stomp on it, and then play quick defense when the Obama campaign throws back. It’s not going to be effective or interesting or even fun. When asked about the Ricketts plan, Romney guffawed, tore his “Mitt” mask off and transformed back into a “Willard.”

Now all our friends at Fox are leaning on Willard to exploit the Obama-Wright smears. Even Herman Cain said the smears were “fair game.” As a Foxwatcher, I would definitely trust Herman’s moral judgment the most.

Meanwhile, Newt Gingrich is still packing his duffel. Newt had so much fun at campaign camp this year, he didn’t want to leave.

When it came time to abort his mission/campaign, Newt stalled. “It’s been a magical journey through history, politics, sexuality and blackmail. I promise I’m going to stop—next week.” Apparently campaigners get tons of perks, not to mention celeb status, so don’t judge the Newt. He’s not wasting your money. It’s everybody’s money. God’s money. And there’s plenty to go around.

Seriously, don’t even worry about it.

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Don’t Worry

You know what, I feel like I’ve built this thing up too much, and now you’re worried something bad happened. Nothing happened! How many times do I have to say this to convince you? Even if something did, you shouldn’t be worried about me. It’s not about me or them. Nobody is at fault. I’m so happy these days. I can’t have you reading this and worrying that I’m covering something up. If you’re worried, then I’m worried. But nothing happened. Seriously, it’s fine. Now I’m worried you don’t believe me. This is worrisome.

I swear everything is fine. Nothing really all that bad happened. Trust me, I learned a lot about myself working as JP Morgan Chase’s CIO. I’m totally fine. It’ll be fine. You seem worried.

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You Don’t Want to Know What I Did That Summer

I can’t tell you about the other exercises they made us do at opera camp. You don’t want to know. I realize you might be curious, because you’re reading this, but trust me on this one. I can’t say what we had to do, but I’ll say I was pretty good at it. I’m an adjuster. I adjust when there’s conflict. Divorced parents. But so are yours, so I don’t need to explain.

Regarding the other exercises, I don’t know how to explain the situation. Honestly, it was just weird. It felt pretty harmless at first, but it got weird when I realized the exercise had absolutely nothing to do with singing or the operatic arts. I have this photo, which should do most of the talking. These were the other counselors. Castro (the castrato I mentioned before—and yes, that was his real name—I guess) didn’t participate in this exercise. He stood on the sidelines, watching. He took this photo.

Castro sent me the photo in an email the other day. The subject read: “Shared Memories.” Inappropriate. I don’t know how he got my email or how he found my blog, but he did. He wasn’t pleased, but he tried to hide it. He said things like, “I thought we were tight,” “never even happened that way,” “you got me all wrong,” “people have to learn how to breathe right,” and “Is it me, or is everyone else crazy?” The email was crazy though, seriously. Castro is conflicted. I have been advised not to participate in any dialogue, so he’s on his own I guess.

Opera camp was conflicted. I adjusted and it’s fine now.

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Hostiles

This has to be one of the most beautiful hostiles in California, but still. The coed dorms are the real deal. You’re the last one to arrive at night, so you have to take the bunk above the oldest jolly-fat-fellow in the room. The problem isn’t that he snores, it’s that he snores in such an amusing and inconsistent way. You’re forced to listen, ears and nose molested by everything he emits into the air. He’s snoring and snoring, breathing too much in your opinion. Then it goes away for a few minutes. Oh thank gawd, you can sleep now. Suddenly a soft explosion penetrates the silence and air forces it way down his throat again. Sleep apnea—great—why don’t you rent yourself a private room. You’re talking to him, not yourself.

In the morning, you try to sleep as late as possible, because you couldn’t fall asleep until 3am. Everybody gets up around 7:30, and you try not to let the commotion wake you completely. The Dutch brothers wake up earliest and talk back and forth in Dutch, probably because they miss hearing their mother-tongue. No, but seriously, I’m sorry, there are no Dutch brothers, just one guy who talks to himself in Dutch. I speak a little German and it seems that he really does miss his mother.

The eastern European guy shuffles through all his belongings three or four times until the bathroom opens. He seems nervous, like he’s inventorying his stuff to make sure nobody jacked anything. Maybe he didn’t read about Marin County in the in-flight magazine and he’s worried all these nice rich people are just a front. I don’t remember from whence he came. Probably that communist country. He came here because he’s such a materialist.

So you’ve chosen the hostile path instead of a hotel. Great! You might save a lot of money, which is significant. But recognize that if it is sleep you seek, perhaps look elsewhere, because you will be fighting off all those hostile dorm demons—gas, breath, sneezes, coughs, moisture (don’t underestimate this one), shifting, shuffling, communists, and possibly a schizophrenic or two or just one. None of this will happen if you stay at the Ritz Carleton. They don’t allow the riff raff inside.

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Portland Professional

I love Portland.

The winters are rainy, but I love the rain.

I’m a total rain person.

Rain keeps me busy.

Exactly. Keeps you focused.

What’s your profession?

I’m working on my resume.

Between jobs?

Nope.

Where are you looking for work?

I’m not looking.

What about the resume?

That’s what I’m working on now.

So you’re not looking?

I’m moving back to Brooklyn next fall to look for work.

I guess there aren’t a lot of jobs in Portland.

Yeah. I don’t want to waste my time. I’m looking for work in Brooklyn this fall then moving to San Francisco next summer to invent an iPhone App.

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You Know What I Did That Summer

I went to opera camp. I can’t say which one. I have been advised not to comment. I’ll just say, New Jersey. My parents decided to send me to opera camp after I played Oliver in a middle school production of Oliver! They thought my voice was above average. Numbers such as, “Whe-e-e-e-ere is Love?” “Boy for Sale,” “Who Will Buy?” “I’d Do Anything,” “That’s Your Funeral,” and “Food Glorious Food,” really spoke to me, I guess. I sang and sang all over the place. Literally, all over New York City. My Mom was worried, but thought it was pretty cool. My Dad thought it might have been Tourette’s. My teacher assured them both it was a pre-pubescent phase and that her son had also behaved mysteriously at my age.

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The summer after Oliver! opened off-off-off-wayoff Broadway, I told my parents how much I loved singing, so they enrolled me in opera camp. Opera camp turned out to be very different then I had imagined. They woke us up early to train our voices in cooler air temperatures—I don’t know why. Then they put us down again from 7:30am until 9:30am, but during this time, we weren’t left alone. The counselor watched over us. Literally, watched us sleep. He explained this was a familiarization technique, so he could study our breathing. He was a castrato; you opera sophisticates might be familiar with the ways of the castrato.

I remember lying on my cot, eyes closed, trying to master my breath, to breathe rhythmically. When you didn’t breathe rhythmically, he woke you up and breathed at you—in-out-in-out, heavily, without a word. Just breathed in your face—I guess to show you how they do it off-off-Broadway. There were other exercises they made us do that didn’t make sense. I can’t get into it now, but if you keep reading, maybe in a few years I’ll be able to disclose the entire experience without risking entrapment. Not that I, myself, am at risk. Anymore. I just don’t want to risk taking on more legal fees. It’s for my own protection. And yours, honestly. You may already know too much. In brief: I had imagined I would love opera camp. I did not love it in the least.

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Seriously Intelligent Intelligence

The media said it was like a work of fiction. “In an extraordinary intelligence coup,” (NYT) The CIA, working alongside the Saudi intelligence agency, Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah (off the top of my head), pulled a fast one over Al-Qaeda this week. A double-agent, working for Saudi intelligence, began his mission last year, entering Yemen under cover to infiltrate a Yemeni Al-Qaeda group and eventually foil their plan for an airliner attack.

As the story hit the west coast yesterday and tornadoed through the LA area, some #moviedirector broke wind passionately, when he realized his dream had just played out in the Middle East somewhere or France. First, the media said, “hey, they foiled a bombing plot. Someone tried to blow up an America-bound airliner again, but they got him!” And everyone was like, “phew, I guess.” Then the story flip-flopped, and the media said, “hey, we’re wrong, but we’re not wrong, because guess what—the terrorist was a double-agent! Working for the CIA!” And everyone went crazy up in arms and rolled on the floor laughing or crying or was just so in awe by the fact that we finally finally FINALLY get to use “double-agent” in a sentence and really mean it. The Internet was bulging with hashtags about double-agents and screenplay ideas and people expressing their enthusiasm for such a cool thing actuallyreally happening.

The Government was so proud, it beamed at the mere mention of it’s beloved CIA, congratulating them on their fine intelligence work and overall success, like your parents would if you finally got that Job / Girlfriend / Apartmentawayfromhome you’ve been wanting all this time. Peter King, that #idiotrepublican from New York you’d remember by his #allmuslims=terrorists “Radicalization Hearings” last year, commented, “this was incredibly good intelligence work,” raising an eyebrow. “I mean—this is intelligence at its best.”

The topsecretmission, carried out by the Saudi double-agent, provided Western nations, viz. US, with a ton of new insider information and bonus material and extras that will certainly be useful. The TSA said they weren’t going to change anything, because evidently all their practices and security methods are perfect.

Then the final edit came: He wasn’t even a double-agent. He was just an agent, working just for the Saudis. We weren’t involved at all. Apparently the entire operation was overseen by one of the Saudi princes, Mohammed bin Nayef. Bin Nayef, who had sought to prove himself—to himself—was unavailable for comment yesterday, but his statement this morning was “I’m very proud. But I’m busy throwing a cocktail-social on my yacht today. But seriously—I needed this.” The media “liked” his status, but didn’t comment.

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My Little Bastard

There’s this professional athlete who is called A. Bastardo. Antonio Bastardo. I’m not going to say which sport he plays because I don’t want to defame him or anything. Apparently he’s a great guy. He’s a solid player and he throws hard, low 90s, which is decent for a relief pitcher. Ok, it’s baseball. My point is not to debase Bastardo for having un nombre desafortunado. Instead, I want to prove his name isn’t all that unfortunate and furthermore that baseball fans enjoy giving their favorite players endearing appellations when they perform well, like they would their children or their pets. Growing up, I cheered that way for Mike Piazza, the greatest New York Mets catcher of all-time. I used to call him “the pizza man.” When he hit a homerun, he had “delivered a pizza,” or “the pizza man delivered.” You get the point. Baseball players have weird names. Rollie Fingers, Mookie Wilson, Chipper Jones, Wade Boggs, Coco Crisp, Gaylord Perry, just off the top of my head. If you want to try Google, you might be a little shocked. It gets bad pretty quick, and by bad I mean nasty. Just pertaining to genitals: Randy Johnson (top 10 pitchers of all time), Randy Bush, Rusty Kuntz, Johnny Dickshot, Dick Hoover, Dick Littlefield, Dick Burns, Dick Green, Dick Cox, Dick Wantz, Dick Pole, Dick Hunt, Dick Manville, Dick Coffman, Dickie Flowers, Pete LaCock, and that’s just what Google wants you to know. I love the name Heinie Manush. It makes me want to rename my own body parts.

So, Bastardo, I just want you to realize how normal your name is, juxtaposed with some other names in baseball history. Unfortunately, Antonio Bastardo plays for the Phillies, and I’m a diehard Mets fan. But rest assured, if he were a Met, and he pitched well, he would always be My Little Bastard.

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Gas-N-Go

I got so used to living in Oregon, when I stopped for gas in California, I waited twenty minutes for the attendant to come out of the Gas-N-Go. I thought the guy was busy filling up other cars or taking a piss or whatever. Then somebody waiting behind me honked and yelled, “hey, buddy, what are you delusional?” and I realized I was in a self-service state, so I handed myself the credit card and asked if I could fill it up with Regular.

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I’ll Have Another

And they’re off! Germologist flashes early speed towards the outside Trundleberg is right there and so too is Birdymeister with Daddy Long Legs right on the inside rail and it is Birdymeister taking Trundleberg and then on the outside Germologist is in third. Hansen-the-grey between horses on the inside with Daddy Long Legs—those are the first five. Followed then by Take Charge Didn’t He racing in sixth towards the outside. I’ll Have Another is in seventh. Daddy Knows Best is in eigth. Around the outside, Liaison is racing in ninth. Creative Clause is in tenth. Dollar Hand is in eleventh. Optimizer is racing in twelfth. Alpha is thirteenth. Lasercat is in fourteenth. Went the Day Well is racing in fifteenth. And those are being followed by Perspective as they head down the backstretch. Arousing Sermon also in the rear. Communion Rags only has two behind. Done Talking is last, but El Padrino is last.

The half in 45 and 1 at half way in 138 and Bodemeister leads the parade. Trinniberg is in second. In third is Hansen. In fourth towards the outside is Germologist. Then on the inside Take Charge Indy, followed by I’ll Have Another. Then Liason with an awkward head carriage. He’s very wide going around the turn. He’s carried his head past Creative Cause. Rousing Sermon is now taking up ground towards the inside together with Daddy Nose Best. Daddy Long Legs is right out the back of the field. So too is Perspective, as the Derby field turns for home and out in front it is Birydemeister!

Birdymeister is clear by three lengths now! Hansen in second! Trundleberg! I’ll Have Another! Creative Clause is staying on down the outside. Dull at Hand is also picking up very deep on the track! Followed by Lays On inside the final Furlong! And it is Birdymeister and Mike Smith out in front! I’ll Have Another and Mario Gutierrez now coming alongside! Dull at Hand still has a chance and then Creative Clause! I’ll Have another! I’ll Have Another! I’ll Have Another takes the lead in the Derby and that’s the line. I’ll Have Another wins the Derby—a first winning ride for twentyfiveyearold #MarioGutierrez taking #Derby138!

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