Thursday, January 07, 2010
Thanks be to fucking God (I never got that stupid tattoo)
I managed to escape my teens and twenties without a single tattoo. Mercifully, I do not have a dreamcatcher tramp stamp, or a dolphin leaping over my shoulder, or any random Chinese characters, or ANYTHING subcutaneously airbrushed on my body. This is a good thing, too. All the tattoos I ever wanted to get were extraordinarily lame, and I'm glad I was either too young, too lazy, or too broke to get them.
In high school, while deeply smitten with my girlfriend, I painted the case of my TI-85 graphing calculator with illustrations of the tattoos I was going to get to declare my extreme baby dyke radical feminist views and my obsession with aforementioned girlfriend. I don't remember all of them, but I do recall that I wanted to get an armband tattoo that was a sort of vine of roses entangled with irises because those were our favorite flowers at the time. I painted this all around the perimeter of my TI-85 cover. I also remember that I wanted to get a pink triangle on the bottom of my foot, to "remind me where I stand." That wouldn't have been too bad or noticeable, but lacking that certainly didn't cause me to forget that I like to lick snatch sometimes and I support the civil rights of others who choose to get in on some hot same-sex action.
Later, in my early twenties, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, and myself were going to get matching Georgia O'Keefe deer skulls as a testament to our deep and abiding friendship. I planned on getting this on my right shoulder, LL Cool Jew was going to get it on her chest, and Wmania wanted the classic small-of-back cum catcher. Additionally, we wanted to get "WAR" below this famous reproduction of a decomposed, decapitated cervid, in Eazy-E's Compton hat gangsta font (it is an acronym of our initials). For some reason, we thought such a look was classier than any tattoo we would have opted for in college, and would be a cherished and not remotely regrettable addition to our bodies. After all, who wouldn't disfigure themselves for the sake of friendship?
Sha. Suffice to say, I can only imagine how annoyed LL Cool Jew would have been at her wedding had antlers been sprouting out of the bodice of her Vera Wang wedding gown and despoiling her hot-ass tits at her nuptial celebration. Luckily, those tattoos were all about $250 more than we had budgeted for our exercise in making a permanent physical record of our friendship. Still more luckily, we are all still friends, despite lacking Georgia O'Keefe deer skull tattoos.
In spite of all the dumb ideas I had with regard to body art, there is one tattoo I wanted for a long period of time that I never got. I just never got around to it, but I always figured if I found myself in a position where tattooing made sense, I would ask for that. Over my many years of Catholic education, I developed a fetish for graven images, and my favorite of all time was the sacred heart of Jesus.
At one time, I thought this heart-shaped, briar-encircled Zippo lighter of Christ was an awesome image. It was at once cool, relatively unique, less associated with Latin gangs than the Our Lady of Guadalupe, and scratched my old-timey-Catholic-stuff itch. It was personal, appropriate, and up to my standards, and I wouldn't have to draw it.
It was also the tattoo equivalent of a fucking Ed Hardy shirt. I realized this today, when I went to my favorite internets gossip site and found THIS:
When you realize that Michael Lohan--a convicted felon, estranged deadbeat patriarch of one of the most trainwrecktastic clans currently grasping desperately for a glance of the public eye, and probably the most detestable non-celebrity famewhore on the entire internet-- has your former dream tattoo, and is further flaunting it to the most accursed of bottom-shelf, we-wish-we-were-x17 paparazzi, you can go ahead and thank your lucky stars you never went ahead with that sacred heard of Jesus tattoo. You can also swear on the risen motherfucking Christ whose sacred heart that supposedly is that you never made it a permanent part of your epidermis, as I very nearly did. Bullet DODGED.
Labels: Dear God, media whores, Razzification
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Break's over
This past weekend, my friend TAFKAMA gave me a talking-to about how much dust this little blog of mine has been gathering.
"I'm on sabbatical," I told him. "My heart's just not into it. I needed a break."
This is all true. Over the last couple months, every time I'd try to write something, I'd feel uninspired and bored by my efforts. I felt that if I was bored thinking about what I was going to write, certainly others would be too. I'd rather write nothing than write a bunch of forced, banal shit, so I wrote nothing.
The reason I was so uninspired was that I did need a break. I was tired of having to write something all the time. I realized that if I was thinking of the blog as a horrible chore on par with vacuuming or folding my clothes, it was probably time to step away from it for awhile. I wanted to focus on my job, and my life in general off the internets. As an added bonus, I figured that taking a break for awhile might drive away some of the gross Razzyphiles who think I'm going to fuck them or strip for them or in some other way perform sexual favors for them just because they read this blog. For the record, those kind of expectations annoy me and creep me out, and basically guarantee that I won't even speak to you if I meet you in person, much less fuck your socially challenged ass.
That said, all the desperate pleading from many of my other loyal, non-creepy, and genuinely awesome Razzyphiles has not gone unnoticed. TAFKAMA said on Friday that he would help me, not only as a contributor, but in terms of revamping the layout of the site sometime in the near future. I think a makeover would suit it well, and some assistance would suit me well in terms of motivation. So, put your suicide implements away, because I'm back. Fuck yes.
Labels: excuses, Razzification, TAFKAMA
Monday, July 06, 2009
And they say romance is dead
I was busy celebrating America's birthday with my dearest college pals LL Cool Jew and Wmania this weekend in San Francisco, so I wasn't really paying attention to my text messages until we left the party we attended and got back to Wmania's condo. Once there I noticed that one of my honeys back in the P-N-Dub had undoubtedly been watching all the many exploding fireworks and naturally thought of me, and sent me a text sharing his feelings. What followed was an exchange of brief messages so romantic and sentimental they make The Notebook look like it's about a one-night stand. And not a nice, respectful type of one-night stand either, but the kind of drunken, why-the-hell-did-I-bone-this-idiot one-night stand where you say you have to go see a guy about a thing immediately afterward, use his shirt to wipe the jizz off your chest without asking or thanking him, run the fuck out of there, and then put him on permanent send-to-voicemail status.
Anyway, this series of texts is way, WAY more romantic than any of that. I wouldn't be surprised if the fine folks over at Harlequin Publishing hit me up asking me to write a book with Fabio lording over a heaving bosom on the cover based on these texts, because they are just that beautiful. Cue the violins:
Dude: Hey Razzy?Razzy: Yes Dude?Dude: I want to put my wiener in your vagina.Razzy: Well duh.Dude: I was trying to sweet talk you.Razzy: Mission accomplished. You better pen me in tomorrow, because I missed choking on your dick all weekend.Dude: Oh I'll pencil you in all night long, if you know what I mean.
Jealous? It's okay...I know that every girl dreams of one day sharing drunken texts with a silver-tongued Prince Charming of her very own. Maybe, just maybe, if you drink enough scotch and sodas and add enough random pieces of dick to your stable, you too can live the dream, single ladies, and start receiving poetic sentiments such as these. Dream big!
Labels: correspondence, hot dudes, Razzification, sex, weiners
Friday, June 19, 2009
Coozin' for a bruisin'
The other night I was banging one of my honeys and as always had a grand old time...until the next day, when I went to get in the shower and realized that I looked like I'd been beat down. I have bruises on both arms, my left tit, my right thigh, my left ass cheek, and my left hip, which are not my favorite reminders of a torrid night of passion. This is surprising, because I do not recall sustaining these injuries, and I wasn't even that drunk.
Mystery sex bruises have bedeviled me since I started boning dudes. Thanks to my Scandinavian-Irish heritage, I bruise easily, and there have been times when I've woke up and wondered why I look like a domestic violence PSA. I can never figure out why sometimes I emerge without a scratch, and other times I look like a UFC fighter after a bad night in the Octagon. Granted, I like it rough, and I grow bored if not given a healthy measure of spanking and hair pulling, but I've been satisfied in that manner many times without developing hematomas. I didn't think I got such a dose of the roughness the other night as to warrant looking like I just showed up at the YWCA asking for a bed and a new identity.
My current hypothesis about how this occurred concerns the fact that the dude is what I call a baker. There are some common guy bedroom archetypes that I call the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. A butcher is a dude who likes to dick-slap your ass like he's tenderizing a roast, a candlestick maker is a dude who likes to jerk off in front of you, and a baker is a dude who likes to grab your tits and/or ass hard like he's kneading bread dough. This guy was a baker, which explains the T and A marks. However, I still can't figure out how a week ago, this guy knocked this thang out without leaving a single blemish, and how today, he made me look like I'm trying to imitate J-Lo in Enough. The timing is further terrible, because tomorrow is my friends and Razzyphile Black card holders HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair's birthday party, and they're both big fans of breasts, and I was planning to honor their natal day by dressing accordingly. That's not going to work with big black-and-blue thumbprint marks on my cans. Damn you, mystery sex bruises!
Labels: Razzification, sex
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seattle is already pissing me off
Don't get me wrong, because I'm excited to be back in the P-N-Dub. Although there are many things I miss about New York, my time in Seattle so far has basically ruled. I have appliances that I've merely fantasized about for the last six years, and I'm very happy doing chores around my comparatively gigantic apartment and listening to my icemaker thump steadily and rapturously. I have a Costco membership, my buddies Morrissey'sHair and TAFKAMA are practically my next-door neighbors, my fridge is loaded with Vitamin R, I partied with Sig Hansen AGAIN at CatchCon, the Mariners are at least doing a little better than they were last year, and I managed to cap off a night of lame wall painting with some hot unexpected lesbian sex. Oh, AND I get to have dinner at my parents' house every weekend! As soon as I identify the location of the nearest Taco Time, life will be all sunshine, Mexi-Fries, and cunnilingus.
However, in spite of my happiness at being back in the verdant corner of the country from whence I came, aspects of Seattle that I consider less than appealing have already begun to draw my ire. I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. When I lived in Tacoma, Seattle used to piss me off to no end. It turns out, this is still true. While I'm generally enjoying life, a few things have emerged to push my internal "KILL A BITCH" button.
1. Stupid fucking eco-asshole-themed bumper stickers. People in Seattle love to be greener than the Prius driver next door, and they aren't shy about covering their hybrid or their Subaru in stickers proclaiming this. I actually saw a Saturn hybrid (LOSER) that had a bumper sticker reading "TREEHUGGER." This was in the company of a variety of obnoxious self-righteous stickers along the lines of "Ignore the Environment...It Will Go Away," "Have You Thanked a Green Plant Today?," and "The Revolution Will Not Be Motorized." Sha. The Terminator movies have indicated that any major revolution will, in fact, be motorized, and that franchise is more credible than an asshole who puts a "< / car >'" sticker ON HIS FUCKING CAR! Buy some REI fleece instead of blowhard bumper stickers bragging about how "My Prius Accelerates Faster Than Your SUV" and shut your tempeh hole, hippie-crite. Oh, and BT-dubs. That duo of Kucinich '04 and '08 stickers on the back window of your Outback? You should be embarrassed about that.
2. SoapNet is not included in the Seattle Comcast basic digital cable package. The other day I went to watch a rerun of the greatest show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210" and flipped through my new digital cable until I found SoapNet. I was all excited to see Dan Rubin, hot Jewish English nerd, flirt with Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman while she whines condescendingly about the self-loathing Jew running the Alpha Omega sorority, Steve Sanders pledge the KEG house while laying the groundwork for major drama with the nefarious John Sears, David Silver experiment with meth, and Brenda fail miserably at being Jim Walsh's office bitch. Alas, my hopes were dashed when I flipped to SoapNet and discovered that I have to upgrade to a more expensive cable package to get my Bev Niner fix! The fact that I have seen every Bev Niner episode at least five times and own the DVDs is irrelevant. Bev Niner-showing channels should ALWAYS be considered "basic" and included in cable packages accordingly. I also discovered that National Geographic Channel is likewise considered semi-premium when I DVR'd an hour of a blank screen that should have showed me "Locked Up Abroad: Indonesia." I never thought I'd say anything nice about the knuckle-dragging morons who work at Time Warner Cable, but at least they have their priorities in order more than Seattle Comcast.
3. My local pizza place sells RAW pizza. Seriously. I live down the street from this place called 'Zaw, which is not only a stupid fucking name, but they sell uncooked pizza. At first I thought this was one of those places that serves actual raw pizza, but after checking out their website, I realized that it's actually a take-and-bake place. I guess that's slightly better, but it's probably the most self-inflated bake-at-home pizza place–excuse me, I mean "artisan pizza in the raw" place–I've ever seen. On their website their pizza is described as "tummy-nourishing" and "life enhancing." They add snottily, "Not all pizza comes in a grease-stained box. (Ick!)" Parenthetical Ick! is right, at least if we're talking about the asshole who actually managed to make a take-and-bake pizza menu pretentious. Parenthetical Ick! is how I feel about trying to order something called "The Arizawna" or "Formaggio the IV" when I'm drunk and hungry for some grease-stained box pizza and then having to actually cook it. (Fucking hella ICK!)
4. There is a Lady Gaga song on any given radio station at any given time. Yes, Lady Gaga annoyed me plenty in New York too, but I don't recall Hot97 playing "Just Dance" every two seconds. They may have played "Right Now" by Akon or anything by Ne-Yo every two seconds, but not Lady Gaga. Here, I discovered to my extreme chagrin that "Poker Face" was simultaneously eliciting homicidal anger from me on THREE different radio stations. Because my hot Cam'ry doesn't yet have a CD player and I can't be bothered to dig out my old cassette tapes (which consists Vanilla Ice's To The Extreme, NKOTB's entire early 90s repertoire, Out of Time by REM, the Metallica black album, and the Cocktail soundtrack, if I recall), I'm stuck with the radio. Hearing that fug disco skank belt out a casino-themed ode to her own sick game (and I do mean sick...bitch is a blight upon humanity and her face should be reclassified as a disease) does not give me a peaceful attitude about rolling to Taco Time in the Cam'. Lady Gaga sucks and yet the people of western Washington (at least those listening to KUBE 93, Movin' 92.5, or KISS 106) seem to compulsively require regular dosing with the electronically augmented wailing of this club banshee at 5 minute intervals. Please, dear God, can the backlash bred by such relentless overexposure start ruining this hooker's life already?
5. Spiders. In six years in New York City, I maybe saw five spiders. They were all small and manageable. The worst spider incident in NYC involved me discovering a daddy long-legs residing in a corner of the ceiling in my shower, and I had to ask this dude I was banging to exterminate it for me. Here, I have pleasant dreams about daddy long-legs. The spiders in the P-N-Dub are no fucking joke. This weekend I was hanging out with my friend TAFKAMA at his girlfriend's house. We left to go hit the bars, and on the way out, TAFKAMA says something like, "Check that out, Razzy." I look at where he is pointing, and see ONE OF THESE FUCKING THINGS. I freaked out and fled the scene at a sprint, babbling "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Once outside, TAFKAMA apologized, saying he didn't realize I was THAT arachnophobic, in spite of having heard anecdotal tales of my great spider-related freakouts for nearly 20 years. I am not pleased about the fact that there is plenty more spider action where this came from.
6. People who can't fucking drive. The greater Seattle-Tacoma region has some of the worst traffic in the country, and this isn't just because state officials have the transportation engineering skills of Paris Hilton. While it is completely asinine that people seem to believe that the solution to all of Seattle's horrible congestion problems is to extend the novelty monorail built as a tourist attraction for the 1962 World's Fair, the real problem is not just based on flawed transit planning. The real problem is all the stupid assholes who can't drive in the rain. If you live in Seattle, your ass really has no excuse AT ALL for going 35 on the freeway just because it's sprinkling. You should be used to driving in the rain since everyone drives here and it rains all the fucking time. You should not freak out and go at a snail's pace, and then stop to let an entire freeway ramp merge in front of you because you drive like a fucking pussy, oblivious to the giant line of cars slowing to a miserable halt on the freeway behind you. I'm not a super aggressive or pissed-off driver, but I also don't act like a passive dick by being "nice" and letting more than one car bust into line in front of me.
I could go on for pages, except I have to go to work. My new job is definitely not giving me a honeymoon period. I already have business cards and a full Outlook schedule! And I have a meeting this morning, which should be sufficiently dull as to allow me to organize my thoughts about the next 6+ points about what to hate in Seattle.
Labels: P-N-Dub, ranting, Razzification, retard rage
Monday, May 04, 2009
Miss me?
First off, let me apologize for being so absent the past three weeks or so. I was finishing up my thesis, defending it, and then jumping through eight zillion bureaucratic hoops you don't even want to hear about in order to get Ph.ake doctored. BUT you can all officially call me Dr. Razzy now. I even have a faincy letter from Columbia saying so. Then, as soon as I finished, I moved to Seattle. Moving cross country sucks just as much as I remember it sucking, so I didn't feel compelled to share that wonderful experience with the few Razzyphiles who haven't either deserted me in disgust or killed themselves in despair over my absence.
Anyway, first things first: I sort-of moved into my new apartment yesterday. My dad had a hilarious conversation about veganism and fake meat with the long-haired Seattle-type guy working the pizza counter at Whole Foods. This was after my dad duly impressed another Whole Foods employee and fellow "Seinfeld" fan with his Vandelay Industries t-shirt, which was declared "awesome." My dad started swaggering around the store, emboldened by his compliments from the Whole Foods guy, complaining he'd left his sunglasses at home because "when you're cool, baby, the sun always shines." Then he pondered employment at Whole Foods, because "people there have some taste, alright."
Then I did some painting and went with my buddy TAFKAMA to find my neighborhood bar. I continually marveled at how cheap everything is. A salad, nachos, a Johnnie Walker rocks, a Jim Beam with soda, and three beers came to $27. In New York that same tab would be at least $50. TAFKAMA also advised me that I live in a "hot new neighborhood." I have my doubts because he also told me this "hot neighborhood" was created by Paul Allen, but nonetheless I have yet to see someone over the age of 35 in my apartment building. This place is like a really modern, well-equipped dorm for grownups. Last night when I was showing him the rooftop deck there were about ten people getting drunk and barbecuing tofu tikka masala or something (ugh, Seattle), and among them were at least two hot guys. I mentioned this, and TAFKAMA mused, "I wonder how long it's going to be before you start doing some asshole who lives a floor or two up from you."
So I still don't have much to report, but hopefully living in the giant South Lake Union version of Melrose Place will change that soon. Already TAFKAMA declared that I look "very gangsta for Seattle," which I think bodes well for pulling in some neighborly ass at a roof deck party. I think.
In any event, cancel your suicide plans because I'm going to be back on the blog with greater frequency. So get those "your fat and old and ugly" insults ready, or alternatively dust off those requests/demands that I show off my tits, so I can ignore them both. I am back to service all your useless bullshit needs. Holla.
Labels: goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Sunday, April 12, 2009
World War 6E
I haven't been writing much lately because I've been finishing up my thesis (which will finally be fully done tomorrow) and trying to get everything in order for a cross country move and generally doing a bunch of boring stuff that nobody wants to hear about. In fact, the only notable thing I've been up to is waging a blood feud with my upstairs neighbor. Okay, well maybe it's not quite so bad that blood will be spilled over it, but it's a feud and there's a whole lot of fuming and stomping going on.
Several years ago, I noticed that there was a lot of pounding coming from my ceiling coincident with occasions when I'd bump some Southern ass rap or Kells. Loud jams echoing through my building, and in fact through my building from other nearby buildings, are a normal part of life in my neighborhood. Still, my suspicions about the nature and purpose of these pounding noises were quickly confirmed when my upstairs neighbor advised me that my music disturbed him. I initially tried to keep it low. However, when I would hear him practicing his piano, I figured he was awake and it was okay to chillax with a little Rick Ross at medium volume. Furthermore, I figured I wasn't the only one on his shit list, since he sometimes stomped when I was reading or sleeping and generally not making any noise at all. I figured he'd direct his ire to his other, louder neighbors.
Well, I was wrong. I am this asshole's whipping bitch for every noisy motherfucker in the vicinity. Apparently, because this douche fancies himself some kind of jazz piano composer, I need to to stay quiet as a fucking churchmouse (and, apparently, keep my neighbors quiet too) so he can fully focus on the bullshit "jazz music" he churns out. He plays that hippie sort of jazz that never really begins or ends. In other words, it's a fucking one-man jam session all day. It's like living downstairs from Bruce Hornsby. An even more annoying Bruce Hornsby who first asked me to keep it down, then whined that it interfered with his daily piano abuse, then threatened to call the landlord. Then he apparently did call the landlord, because I received an enlarged photocopy of the section of my lease detailing rules concerning noise in the mail from the management office. Rather than fight, I just kept my music extremely low. And this had, until recently, resulted in an uneasy truce between us.
I understand that he probably feels the same way about my music as I feel about his, but just because he writes terrible music from his rodent-infested slum doesn't mean that it's more important than my right to do what I want in my own apartment. The notion that his bullshit takes precedence over mine just because really pisses me off. And I must have subconsciously been listening to my music a little louder than normal, because a couple months ago the stomping began again in earnest. This time, however, instead of opting for peace, I decided that I was going to piss this obnoxious prick off just as much as he pisses me off.
One day he decided to cool down from a vigorous stomping session by loitering aimlessly outside the building front door. As I passed on my way out he bawled, "Your music's too loud." I mustered the most cunty expression in my repertoire of don't-fuck-with-me-son looks, and said in my most icy tone, "So is yours." And thus, it's on.
He has taken to stomping at the slightest provocation. Originally he took issue with just my rap and R&B collections, but now he's stomping with equal fervor to music as varied as Brahms piano sonatas, Heart, and David Bowie. Unfortunately, I don't have any bootlegged tracks from bands jamming live at Bonnaroo or whatever to test whether or not he'd stomp at something he'd presumably consider more palatable. I think at this point he would stomp regardless of his preferences, because we hate each other that much.
The other day we literally had a pounding contest, and not in a hot way. As a matter of fact, there's no way that sexual diplomacy can resolve this matter, because he is revolting. He looks like he has Marfan's syndrome, because he's built like Abe Lincoln: extremely skinny and tall, with freakishly long limbs. He also is almost bald, but the patchy, thinning Friar Tuck salt-and-pepper hair ringing his ashy-ass skull is long and obviously unfamilar with a brush. When he rocks his beret over the overcompensating, undergroomed mess that is his coiffure, he looks like a skeezy child molester in a Lawrence Ferlinghetti costume. Add to it that he's probably in his mid-40s and still living in a shithole like my building and can't afford a studio or practice space, which suggests to me that most consumers agree with my assessment of his art. There is unequivocally NO WAY even in the most extreme or ridiculous circumstances, I would ever consider standing two feet away from this man, much less fucking him. Our pound-off therefore consisted of me listening to Muse, him stomping, me changing the music to "Fireman" from Tha Carter II, him stomping louder, and me grabbing a broom and pounding on my ceiling in response while shouting "GO FUCK YOURSELF!" through my light fixtures.
Because this situation is rapidly escalating, I decided that it was time to quit fucking around and demand surrender. He spent today working on some major construction project and then had the audacity to stomp when I took a writing break to bounce around to The R. in R&B. So it's time to regain the psychological upper hand in this war, and break his fucking spirit. I took it upon myself to craft a letter full of real talk to be taped to his apartment door like it's the damn church at Wittenberg. Sun Tzu would approve.
Dear Fake Bruce Hornsby,For some time now, I have been enduring your presumptuous stomping on my ceiling whenever you perceive a stray bit of noise coming from the direction of my apartment. I am constantly amazed by the acuity of your hearing, as you have on occasion woken me up with your imperative, obnoxious floor-pounding. I can only assume that in such situations, your exquisitely sensitive audio detection skills have made it possible for my restful breathing to annoy you. Either that, or you for some reason expect me to act as your emissary to any of my neighbors who might have the audacity to listen to music, watch television, open and close the doors in their apartments, and generally make the noise that occurs in the course of living. Once a couple years ago you complained to me about one of my neighbors slamming a door too loudly for your taste, and still seemed to think that was somehow my responsibility despite my informing you that the door slammer was not myself.I am certainly not suggesting that I don't make any noise. I listen to my stereo at a reasonable volume during daytime hours (never late at night), and have never had any complaints from any of my other neighbors. In fact, if my other neighbors did ask me to turn it down (which again, they never have), I would gladly comply. When you first asked me to turn it down, I did so. I even accommodated your podiatric demands for lower volume when you have stomped so frequently and with such ardor that my light fixture rattled and it sounded as though a rehearsal for Riverdance was occurring in your apartment.Sometimes I listen to the stereo more often than I normally would, as I need it to drown out the incessant cacophony of jam-session jazz that pours down from your apartment on a regular basis. As long as I'm being forced to suffer through your meandering, uninspired compositions whenever you get a hankering to practice, I figure I can at least block it out with something I enjoy. I've heard you say numerous times that you are a "musician," as if this somehow means that you can commit noise pollution as a matter of professional necessity and everyone else has to not only tolerate it, but provide you with a quiet atmosphere in which to craft your ghastly generic jazz-flavored non-masterpieces.Granted, given the fact that you live in this dilapidated tenement and the fact that you apparently don't have a studio to practice in, your music career hasn't exactly been successful. I feel slightly sorry for your pathetic attempts to parcel together what scraps of a career you can at any and all hours of the night. However, since your tired, desperate grasps for relevance involve me being forced to aurally consume a largely rejected product such as your entire piano repertoire, I am completely justified in instead choosing to listen to something that the market apparently finds much more palatable, including such multi-platinum-selling artists as Lil' Wayne, T.I., T-Pain, and R. Kelly. And Morrissey. And Lionel Richie. And Metallica. You even got stomping mad about Chopin Nocturnes, and I really honestly can't think of anything quieter and less intrusive than those.Therefore, please believe that from now on, when you start composing your next dissonant snorefest of elementary jazz chord progressions, I will turn on my stereo JUST LOUD ENOUGH to drown you out so that I can exist in peace in my apartment. I will not respond to any future stomping, except by possibly adjusting the volume accordingly. And if you like, you can call the landlord, because I'm more than happy to explain that I'm not the only one who likes music around here. However, good luck getting building management to care, since I'm moving in three weeks. I am sure after that, you will enjoy the dulcet tones of ten loud construction workers gutting and converting the apartment into an illegal one-bedroom so that the landlord can fleece some poor college student WHO ALSO LIKES RAP AND/OR ROCK MUSIC AND/OR ANYTHING BESIDES ORDINARY, SOPORIFIC, INTERMINABLE HIPPIE JAZZ PIANO PIECES.In short, sir, I demand that you cease stomping immediately.Regards,The Bitch Directly Downstairs From You
After writing this, I decided that it might be a little longer than necessary. At the very least, it might be so awesomely crushing that he wouldn't glean the larger "QUIT STOMPING" message from it. I wasn't trying to challenge his feeble mind with a comprehensive account of our ongoing hostilities. So I just wrote:
6E,From now on, whenever you rudely stomp on your floor/my ceiling in response to my music, I will turn said music up. If I have to tolerate your music, you can tolerate mine in return. Feel free to complain about it, because I'm moving in three weeks anyway.Regards,5E
I think it gets the point across. I win again and as usual.
Labels: assholes, Harlem world, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The deadliest night out
I should have been working on my thesis yesterday, but JerseyGirl called me up and said that I had to go out with her. I told her it was not a good time. I'm handing in my thesis this week.
"Razzy, I have a surprise celebrity for you to meet. And YOU HAVE TO COME. I would tell you to skip your wedding for this. You are going to cereally bug when you see who it is."
That was enough to pique my interest. "Who is it?"
"I'm not telling. But you are going to LOSE IT. I can't wait to see your face. You don't have a choice. You are coming out for drinks."
"Okay, fine, I'm coming. But seriously, who is it? Is it R. Kelly? I'm going to have a fucking heart attack if I have drinks with Kells. Is it Lil' Kim? Is it Lil' Wayne?!" Now I was not only sold on coming, I was determined to find out who I was meeting so I didn't act like a total asshole.
"Not telling. I'm going back to work. Just dress classy, but show a little cleave."
"It's not anyone from the New York Yankees, is it?" JerseyGirl is, unfortunately, a Yankees fan, so I worried that she might be bringing me to meet one of Satan's pinstriped minions just because I'm more into sports than most of our other girlfriends.
"I wouldn't pull strings so you could meet someone you hate! It's not a Yankee. But I'm not telling. See you at 8 sharp at the Time Warner Center tomorrow."
So I spent every spare moment yesterday pestering JerseyGirl and all our friends to whom she disclosed this mystery guest's identity about the matter. All I could ascertain was that it wasn't Chris Hansen or Geraldo. I figured that it probably wasn't Belladonna, since JerseyGirl doesn't watch porn and wouldn't know who that was, and probably wouldn't be meeting with her and a bunch of cable news producers. I also figured that it probably wasn't anyone from the cast of "Battlestar: Galactica," since she doesn't watch that, and I cried twice during the series finale neither do I. Despite wishful thinking, I also didn't think R. Kelly was the type who would personally attend such a function. And I knew Lil' Kim is currently in L.A. filming "Dancing With the Stars." So I settled on the notion that I was going to be meeting Morrissey, only because I've had a hard-on for him since I was a moody baby dyke, I'm definitely more into him than any of our other friends, and he was in town this past week.
I was thus really excited, and got to the Time Warner Center a little early. I decided I should eat something to calm my nerves, so I went to Whole Foods and got some fancy pizza. I was still so wound up that I could barely concentrate on mocking the people next to me in the cafeteria who were clearly on a first date at WHOLE FUCKING FOODS via text to JerseyGirl. Normally I have all sorts of scathing things to say about this unbelievably stupid practice, but all I could manage was a text reading "People who go on dates at Whole Foods are lame." JerseyGirl replied, "I know, ew. See you in 5."
So I went upstairs to meet her, and then we went to the bar. Nobody was there. "I'm meeting Morrissey, aren't I?"
"Razzy, SHUT UP. I'm not telling you. You'll see in a minute."
Then the special guests arrived. Morrissey was not among them, but I did see a familiar face. It was Captain Keith from the F/V Wizard on "Deadliest Catch!" And then, behind him, like a hero of Valhalla in the flesh, came the shining, Nordic godlike countenance of ***CAPTAIN SIG HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was speechless for a minute, before I advised him that once on MySpace he linked to my blog and declared me his .1 fan. I was disappointed to learn that this wasn't actually him, but someone who runs his MySpace page for him, but who cares? I was meeting Sig in person and that's way better than a MySpace comment any day. He actually blushed when I told him that I once wrote that I was surprised he didn't melt the frozen sea spray off the Northwestern's rigging just by standing near it. He recovered, ordered an Absolut and Coke (aka "Norwegian champagne") and proceeded to match my Johnnie Walkers drink for drink.
I chatted Keith and his wife up for a while, and they were both very nice people. I learned that both Captain Keith and Sig think their wives have much more difficult jobs. I was very pleased to see that fame hadn't gone to any of their heads, and they were really cool, down-to-earth people. Sig was thrilled when I understood that "kukslikke" means "cocksucker" in Norwegian, and was impressed by my proficiency in swearing, which is at the advanced level of any given cowboy mining the Bering Sea for "red gold." Sig thought it was hilarious that I went brunette because my Sarah Palin Halloween costume was so successful. We commiserated about how lutefisk is gross, and I almost wept with joy when Sig told me that being a small girl wouldn't prohibit me from fishing myself. "Jake Harris is scrawnier than you," he told me. I didn't mention that I doubted I was tough enough to handle the extreme conditions or the frequent almost-dying part of the job. And of course I took pictures. This is what I look like when extremely happy on account of being flanked by two incredibly hot REAL MEN.
At the end of the night, there was nobody left but myself, Sig, and his handlers, and Sig wanted to go to another bar. I thought that was a capital idea. He wanted to go to some Irish bar that he got into a fistfight in during his last visit, although he couldn't remember anything about it except that it was around the corner from where he stayed last time, and the owner's name was Mickey. He finally called his brother Edgar (!!!!) to figure it out, and got the name. Unfortunately, his handlers advised us that he had an early morning, and it was not a good idea. So I just finished smoking the unfiltered Camel I bummed from Sig, and hopped in a cab so that I could go home and freak out about having just met Sig in person. The Discovery Channel guy told me to call him today about going out tonight instead, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get to witness Sig brawling with some local riffraff tonight. Or at least throw back a few more cocktails with him. If not, hopefully I'll at least get to see him at "CatchCon," which appropriately enough is the afternoon before the annual Crab Feed that I attend at my high school.
And on that note, I better get off cloud fucking nine and get some work done so I can (maybe) go raise hell with Sig tonight.
P.S. JerseyGirl, YOU FUCKING RULE! MAJOR FRIEND POINTS! *MAJOR!*
Labels: celebrities, Deadliest Catch, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, NYC, Razzification, TV
Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
NOT FUCKING FAIR!!!!!!!!!!
Star magazine just advised me that Douchebag of the Geological Epoch John Mayer is planning to write a tell-all about his relationship with Jennifer Aniston.
I think it's now official that John Mayer is the worst human being in the world. Not because he's writing a tell-all, which I'm sure will be excellent reading should you ever find yourself having a hard time falling asleep. I can only imagine what sort of tawdry tales he can tell about how Jennifer Aniston's leathery old ass spends all her time being vain and obnoxious. I'm sure I will be blown away when John Mayer regales us with the scandalous details of how an aging TV actress desperate to sustain her own relevance spends all her time doing yoga with some $400-an-hour private instructor. NO FUCKING WAY, John Mayer! STOP THE FUCKING PRESS!!
Whoever is coughing up $10 mil for a titillating batch of "secrets" like that is paying about $10 million too much. John Mayer is thus an extreme asshole, as I can't imagine he pulled off such a deal without some sort of contract with Satan. I don't remotely understand how this pubestachioed cooing dove (FYI, that's a dude who makes "ooo, ooOOO" disturbingly feminine cooing sounds while he's banging you with as much gusto as the average tampon you insert during your monthly) managed to negotiate a $10 million dollar deal for revealing the most boringly obvious non-secrets in the world. I'm really hard pressed to think of anybody whose secrets I am less interested in than old Human Benadryl Aniston. You'd have to pay me to waste time reading what I already know, because I can tell you exactly what a day in Jennifer Aniston's life entails for free. Observe:
1. Wake up at 10 a.m.
2. Do combo bed/spray tan.
3. Do yoga for 3 hours.
4. Get hair and makeup done for 3 hours. Bitch at them when they fail to give historical props to the cultural importance of "the Rachel."
5. Consult astrologer.
6. Go somewhere expensive for dinner and get photographed by paparazzi.
**OPTIONAL** Do above with Courtney Cox Arquette, assuming you can accommodate her similarly uneventful schedule.
7. Go home.
**ALSO OPTIONAL** Fill out e-Harmony profile, stealing Match.com commercial line "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball," because she's the only one in the entire fucking world who thinks that's cute or sexy. Go to bed, hoping to find an inbox full of many matches based on deep compatibility.
8. Repeat.
I mean, I guess there's probably some whining about how she used to be married to Brad Pitt and is so unlucky in love or whatever in the mix too, but who cares? That shit is boring, and spiking in a little "taking John Mayer's douchenozzle in missionary with shirts on" does nothing to spice it up, unless "spice it up" actually means "simultaneously gross me out and bore the shit out of me." Unless John's "private photo album" includes shots of Jennifer Aniston taking a baseball bat up the ass like Belladonna, I can't see how it would be worth more than the digital camera it's stored in. Frankly, even then I couldn't be bothered. I certainly wouldn't pay $10 million for that, much less news that Jen accidentally confused John Mayer with Brad Pitt in bed. This is hardly surprising, considering that not only is Jen still famously bitter about how her man ditched her for the Baby Collector, but the aforementioned 10-years-ago's Sexiest Man Alive is almost as insufferably obnoxious as the loathsome Mr. Mayer. I would be hard pressed not to confuse them myself, and I'm an internets gossip junkie so addicted that I can tell the Olsen twins apart and know what Peaches Geldof looks like.
I am primarily outraged that John Mayer, who does not need $10 million as much as I do, is getting such a ridiculous book advance for a tell-all about something as soporific as his dalliance with this busted-ass catcher's mitt of a woman. Granted, I tried hard to get a book deal in the sense that I wrote emails to two or three j-school grads I know and talked about wanting to do so and thought really fervently that it would be awesome to get fame and fortune for being Razzy. However, even if I sent the world's most stellar pitch to every publisher in the entire world or actually made the slightest amount of meaningful effort, I wouldn't get a $10 million deal. Granted, I don't have the pre-existing literary chops of writing such profound statements as "I want to run through the halls of my high school," but hell...I've slept with a whole bunch of doctors and lawyers who will surely be important someday, as well as writers for a couple publications even my parents have heard of, and other totally not-famous-but-work-for-famous-places types of people. I even dated a waiter at a famous restaurant, porked a fella who placed 27,945th in the New York City marathon, and publicly dumped a guy who invented the chip that went into Motorola StarTac phones! We all had one of those in like 1999!!!! Okay, he didn't actually invent the chip, but he wrote the mathematical algorithms that made it work, so same difference...you still wouldn't have been able to use your notoriously unreliable flip-phones without him and his state school engineering degree, which has known my vagina. I'm a total star fucker, like John Mayer!
Plus, I've had threesomes and done some hot girl-on-girl stuff and even taken it up the butt with some of these not-famous-but-I-could-maybe-convince-you-they-peripherally-are-type people. I'm not going to write shit about someone's boring obsession with yoga or in-home hairstyling. I'll tell you how big their dick is and whether or not it's worth a sit and spin! Instead of giving you pictures of a couple uninspiring, vain twats walking around LA with giant sunglasses on, I'll give you some straight-up real talk. And I'd be happy with a $10,000 book deal, which is a bargain compared to paying $10 million for something that does what Lunesta can for a mere $30 co-pay. So, assuming Star has its facts straight (which is actually a big assumption), I'm willing to underbid John Mayer and write whoever is paying for this a far more interesting book. So don't pay this tard an AIG bonus worth of cash for his account on what it's like to stick your dick in the human equivalent of a couch. Give it to me instead, and get your money's worth.
Labels: celebrities, John Mayer sucks, librophilia, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I hate VD
While I've never suffered from a venereal disease, I think it's hardly a coincidence that these pestilent conditions go by the same initials as Valentine's Day. I HATE Valentine's Day, primarily because it is a holiday dedicated to things I despise. It's like when the executives at Hallmark or whoever decided that Valentine's Day was a holiday worth celebrating, they spent hours brainstorming customs that are designed to piss me off. From the romantic comedies to the obligatory gift-giving to the lame-ass decorations, Valentine's Day is a clusterfuck of loathsome abhorrence.
For starters, Valentine's Day isn't even a real holiday. This bullshit was made up to encourage consumer spending, and I don't see anything romantic or passionate about that. Nothing is more annoying than seeing an endless stream of commercials featuring ugly bitches getting all worked up because they got an even uglier tennis bracelet from Zales. Watching some scrawny ho squealing about how "he went to Jared" and paid $199.99 for some tacky heart-shaped necklace does not fill me with a lust for low-budget diamond-and-fug-ass-14-karat-yellow-gold jewelry. This certainly does not make me feel romantic. Homicidal, maybe, but not romantic.
It's also not just the jewelry that's low-quality. Valentine's-themed stuff is always crap. Those heart-shaped boxes of candy always have really shitty chocolate. You can just tell that whoever is in charge of that at See's uses the cheapest grade chocolate fit for human consumption. They also never tell you which chocolate is which, and you have to find out the hard way: by accidentally eating a bunch of nauseatingly repellant buttercreams that taint your mouth with their cloying grossness. Those sampler boxes also go heavy on the chocolate-covered cherries, presumably because cherries are red, and because they are also fucking disgusting. There is nothing worse than biting into a chocolate that you think is going to be something good like caramel or hazelnut and getting an unexpected and VERY unwelcome blast of maraschino repulsion. I'd rather my love interest give me a Hershey bar and call it a day rather than that box of mystery nastiness. Or even better, to hell with the chocolate. Give me some scotch.
I would try to escape from the bullshit of V-Day by going to the movies. Unfortunately, none of the movies in the theater during Valentine's season contain what I consider the three essential elements of cinematic excellence (murder, explosions, and fucking). Instead, the multiplexes are full of date movie/chick flick bullshit like He's Just Not That Into You. God, even typing the title of that movie pisses me off. Never has a movie title so thoroughly captured the spirit of what I presume is two hours documenting the madcap adventures of a bunch of desperate bitches going on lame dates with ugly guys like my archnemesis Justin Long the Mac dude. I don't really know what the movie is even about, but the ads make me think it's a supposed "comedy" about desperate bitches whining about how they don't have a man. And I would rather be gangbanged by an army of morbidly obese, unshowered Steelers fans while listening to Coldplay than sit through Bride Wars, New in Town, or Confessions of a Shopaholic. Come Valentine's Day, theaters abound with films featuring shrews like Kate Hudson, Katherine Heigl, and Jennifer Aniston, and there is truly no escape from the pervasive reality of this horrible holiday.
I even hate the damn iconography of Valentine's Day. To me, a flying baby with archery skills is the stuff of nightmares, not romance or cuteness. The idea that I might be walking along, minding my own business, and be shot at by an infant with a poison arrow that turns me into a lovesick, monogamous, probably undersexed loser is nothing short of absolutely terrifying. I'll stick with just getting blasted in the face with random jizz than blasted by Cupid's plague of irksome, simpering love, thank you very much.
You might think, "Oh, HA! Razzy's a bitter single woman who hates Valentine's Day because she isn't in a relationship." That hypothesis would be incorrect. I hated Valentine's Day even when I had a boyfriend, because it meant I'd have to go out and buy some bullshit to give him. Not that I minded giving my boyfriend gifts, but Valentine's presents for men are a pain in the ass to select, especially if they already have a nice watch. You aren't really supposed to buy a dude a shirt or some other practical, unsentimental gift for V-Day, especially when you know the dude is getting you jewelry. I used to agonize for hours about this, and spent most of my time cursing Valentine's Day for the added stress. Relationship or not, Valentine's Day manages to spread the bullshit around.
I realized that I've written a lengthy rant about Valentine's Day every February since this illustrious blog's inception. In 2006, I wrote about "the fiscal anal rape" I suffered at the hands of Sprint on the holiday of love. In 2007, I protested the obligatory self-pity party that unattached bitches are supposed to throw. In 2008, I douchebagged the entire holiday. In fact, the only positive mention of Valentine's Day I could find on my website was an amused narrative concerning one of my friends advising me that she employed my anal sex tips last year to commemorate the theme of romance and passion. I think that from now on, my Valentine's tradition is going to be complaining about how much I hate this fucking holiday. Happy I Hate Valentine's Day, everyone!
Labels: gross, movies, oh the horror, ranting, Razzification
Monday, January 12, 2009
It's called the "Great" Northwest for a reason
I know I've been seriously AWOL lately, and for that I apologize to all the Razzyphiles who have been rending their garments, self-flagellating, weeping, gnashing their teeth, and generally experiencing crushing despair due to useless bullshit withdrawal. I spent the holidays frantically dispatching mice in my lab and arranging postdoc interviews for later this week. I'm also trying to make a serious dent in my dissertation and write two papers. In short, I'm working my tits off (thankfully, not literally), and I have barely had time to eat or sleep. Hell, I've barely had time to get my daily rub-off in, and that's just unacceptable.
As of today, I'm in the beautiful (and by "beautiful" I mean "gray and overcast") P-N-Dub, sitting at my parents' kitchen counter working diligently away on still more science-type stuff. However, I did break away long enough to go out and get my drink on in Tacompton with HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair this past weekend. While I was at Doyle's, a standard Tacoma watering hole, I was informed by the barkeep and Razzyphile extraordinaire Startender that my site has gone neglected for so long that I'm second-to-last on his internet surfing history. Nonetheless, Startender still hooked me up with some complimentary scotch for being the source of all things Razzified, but I drank it with a sense of shame. Despite my legitimate excuses for doing so, I've been appallingly remiss at blessing you with my prosaic hotness. I plan to do a little making up for that now, if only so that Startender doesn't regret his generous gift of Johnnie Walker.
Unfortunately, I haven't been up to speed on my internets gossip on account of spending 90% of my online time on PubMed. So instead of railing on whatever current event has pissed me off and/or excited me I will instead try to answer a question that a number of people have been asking me lately: Why am I moving back to the P-N-Dub?
Oh, did I mention? I'm probably moving back to the P-N-Dub this spring after I get Ph.ake doctored. I love New York like crazy, but I'm so tired of being broke all the time and living in what could pass for a Gangs of New York-style tenement. Seriously, if I live there any longer, I'm going to have to sharpen my teeth and become proficient in hand-to-hand combat with meat cleavers and various farm tools. I'm also tired of struggling to find dogsitters and being so far away from my family. So like all great affairs, mine with living in New York City is coming to an end in favor of stupid, dumb Seattle. Also, there are some hot-ass virologists up at the University of Washington who I can get a sweet postdoc with.
Now, I realize that Seattle is a lame fucking city that annoys me to no end. Seattle people, whether they fall into the category of Overblown Yuppie, Scruffy Hipster, or Environmental Nazi, are all ultimately the same in the sense that most of them are from backwater towns like Eatonville and Mukilteo and Chehalis and compensate for such humble upbringings by being insufferably condescending to everyone crossing their paths. I do not like most of them and they usually do not like me. Tacoma, while I love it for its more unassuming, blue collar atmosphere, is too far away from Seattle to live. I did that commute for three years and vowed that I would never again live so far away from my place of employment. After-work happy hour is a critical part of my professional life, and long driving commutes are not conducive to early evening drunkenness. However, there are many bonuses to living in the P-N-Dub in spite of Seattle's wholesale suckery. In spite of my tendency to be a ruthless, brutal hater, I actually am a very optimistic, glass-half-full kind of person, and I've compiled a list of things that are going to be AWESOME about living here.
1. Close proximity to my parents and little brother. This pretty much speaks for itself. I'm very close to my family, so being able to come over, raid the fridge, do laundry, and get free dogsitting services is hella awesome. Notice I said "hella." I'm getting back into West Coast mode!
2. Taco Time.
For those who have never been to the P-N-Dub, you've probably never heard of Taco Time, and that is your grave misfortune. It is the best fucking fake-me-out Mexican fast food you will ever eat. The crisp beef burrito is like a sublime tube of deep-fried meat and their Mexi-Fries (aka deep fried tater tots with taco seasoning on them) are mind blowing. Taco Time is the only fast food I will deign to consume. When I'm in New York, I have had dreams about eating Taco Time.
3. I always get laid like crazy in the P-N-Dub. I certainly get plenty of action in New York, too, but never like it is here. I don't know what it is about the honeys here, but they LOVE my ass. They're practically lining up to knock this thang out. I'm barely in town for one day and I've got my hand down some random 24-year-old's pants. Then the next night I got some totally different ass! I'm a true playerette for real wherever I'm at, but my inherent game is at its apex here in the Dub-A.
4. It's cheaper than New York. With the exception of some ridiculously priced Lagavulin scotch I drank the other night while I was hanging out at my buddy TAFKAMA's neighborhood bar in Seattle, booze, food, rent, gas, and life in general is less expensive. In New York, I not only have to pay a state income tax and a state sales tax, I also have to pay CITY income and sales taxes. In Washington, there isn't even a state income tax and top shelf scotch in Puyallup is $5.
5. Pretty scenery.
6. Rainier Beer
Otherwise known as "Vitamin R," Rainier is the next best thing to the nectar of the gods. Truly there is no finer lager in the entire world than Rainier. Okay, well, that might not be true because Rainier is pretty shitty. However, as far as shitty beers go, Rainier sets a standard of excellence that all other canned beverages can only dream of achieving. Thus far I've already consumed at least 3 Vitamin R tallboys, and I've still got a week of this working vacation to go.
7. Seahawks fans abound
While the Seahawks may have had one of their worst seasons since the mid-90s this past year, I never stopped wearing my jerseys. Even when we were 2-10 I gritted my teeth and headed for the bar bravely rocking my Tatupu jersey in spite of the derisive statements some of my fellow bar patrons made concerning the Hawks' performance this season. The nicer people (ie: my friends and/or dudes who want to bone me) attributed it to the rash of injuries suffered by the Seahawks. The assholes (ie: Cowboys, Eagles, Giants, Patriots, Jets, and/or Bears fans) attributed it to the phenomenon known around the P-N-Dub as "S.O.S.", or Same Old Seahawks, the local term for the Hawks' reversion to the old days when they sucked harder than a toothless hooker. Moving back to the P-N-Dub means I don't have to put up with any of this bullshit. Instead, I can simply wallow in everyone else's collective depression. It also means I don't have to explain what the fuck "SEA-fence" means.
8. Lots of people for me to mock.
The other night, my friend TAFKAMA took me to a hipster bar on karaoke night. When we walked in, I was like, "TAFKAMA, this place sucks! I feel like I'm in goddamned Williamsburg, what with all these losers in their trucker hats singing bad Blondie covers. Do you come here because you actually hang out with these people? I want to go back to the classy bar with the expensive scotch."
"I never come here with anyone," he confessed. "It's not like I come here because I want to be part of this scene. I only come here to watch and make fun of these people. I know you'd be into that. And there's $1.25 cans of Oly."
While I'll always take a Vitamin R over an Oly, I did admit that I couldn't beat that deal and indeed I was into it. TAFKAMA is a lot of fun to rag on people with because he's extremely perceptive and chances are, he's already got a lot of material that he's just been waiting to try out. For example, I was wondering why these hipsters were so void of boxy glasses, an accessory that I assumed was as much a part of the uniform as a messenger bag or a copy of something by Camus for the pretense of intellect. TAFKAMA advised me, "Bushy Grizzly Adams beards are the new boxy glasses." He was right. Every last one of these assholes had a faceful of unkempt pubes to wear with their plaid button-up/vintage t-shirt combos. TAFKAMA and I proceeded to spend the next two hours tearing apart every asshole in the place, from the guy wearing some sort of Church of Satan shirt to the fat girl wearing what can only be described as pantaloons with a hideous sweater dress that made her look like a giant black-and-green bratwurst.
I could go to hipster karaoke every night if those are the kind of outfits I'm going to see. And in addition to the Hipster Douchebags are the Overblown Yuppies, who spend all their time talking about garlic presses and wines and trying to sound incredibly cosmopolitan and sophisticated in spite of the fact that they live in tiny-ass Seattle, and the Environmental Nazis, who bike everywhere, eat vegan, and constantly whine about being green. In otherwords, the material is limitless.
9. Second to last but not remotely least, all my old school friends. These people have known me since before I hit puberty in some cases, and they always ask when I'm going to move back. Well, the answer to that is probably "April 2009."
10. Finally, to all my devoted Razzyphiles, I am sorry for being so incommunicado. If I move to the P-N-Dub, I will be spending considerably less time freaking out over things like money and grad school and that sort of bullshit. That means I'll have more time for blogging. And since there's only nine good things I could think of about the P-N-Dub, there's a multitude of others that enrage me and will provide solid grist for the Razzy mill for a long time to come. Please be patient with me the next few months as I finish up at school and get a job. I'll check in at least once a week, and I'll be back for good before you know it.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, P-N-Dub, Razzification, Razzyphiles, Seahawks
Monday, November 17, 2008
The dirty thirties
Sorry to interrupt everyone's preparations for their Jonestown Massacre anniversary parties, but I wanted to let you all know that it's my thirtieth birthday today, and true to form, I decided to ring in my third decade of life with a soul-crushing hangover. I wanted to write a long ode to my own magnificent awesomeness today, but thanks to the inordinate number of complimentary shots and pitchers at my football bar yesterday, I'm barely going to be able to muster the energy to get to the afternoon talks of the thrilling virology conference that Mt. Sinai threw in honor of my natal celebration. So far my birthday weekend has involved drinking, football, drinking, Korean barbecue, drinking, hot lesbian sex, drinking, and drinking. An afternoon of talks about innate immunity and interferon antagonism (followed by more drinking, Monday Night Football with dudes from my fantasy league, and drinking) is certainly going to do a lot to distract from the fact that I currently look like I got trampled by a team of Budweiser Clydesdales.
Oh, yeah, and I dyed my hair brown to celebrate this historic occasion. Happy 30th Razzy Vagina Ejection Day! Razzyphiles can feel free to send pearls, which are traditionally given at thirtieth anniversaries of totally kickass instances, such as me blessing the earth with my inimitable (and loud, crass, obnoxiously charming) presence. I particularly appreciate receiving pearl necklaces. Razzy Haters, I'm a year older and thus an even MORE haggard, strung-out, washed-up, totally beat-down old crone, so have at it!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, Razzification, Razzy Haters, Razzyphiles
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The only thing missing was "Razzy's a pimp" on the Goodyear Blimp
So you may have noticed that I've been remiss the last week or two in posting regularly. In fact, you were probably rending your garments and wailing and gnashing your teeth and other assorted Biblical-type expressions of lament and sorrow that you weren't getting Razzified on the regular. This is because unfortunately I have this thing I'm doing called grad school, and I'm almost done with it. Therefore, not only do I have acute senioritis (or more accurately, sixth-yearitis), I have more bullshit to do than you even want to hear about. I have experiments to run, mice to kill, viruses to grow, cloning projects to finish, two riveting first-author papers to write, and a thesis committee to appease. I was doing the latter today, which is why I spent most of the week cranking out some last minute experiments and preparing to rock their faces off with some hot Power Point action.
Well, not only can I say "mission accomplished" to that notion, but on the VERY SAME DAY I discovered that, after two long years of passaging and plaque assaying and begging my virus to replicate, I gave a mouse a goddamned cold! And not some bullshit real-time PCR assay showing RNA replication like certain competitors of mine managed to get published (in a fucking Nature journal, of all places), but actual, honest-to-God, infectious motherfucking rhinovirus that kills cells and will give you a cold, make you miss work or school, and possibly exacerbate your asthma, COPD, or cystic fibrosis. REAL rhinovirus, not some pussified replicative form of the viral genome.
I know this doesn't sound like much, but I'm seriously having a fucking awesome day. In fact, this is one of the most awesome days in recent grad school memory. In fact, I can't think of a day when I was happier in grad school. I suppose the day I graduate will be better than this, but for now, I'm right up there in O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson territory regarding "good day" status. This is the science nerd equivalent of looking in the mirror and ascertaining that there are no jackers in sight while getting a beep from Kim, who reputedly can fuck all night. This is like no barking from the dog and mama cooking the breakfast with no hog (if I were a fake-me-out Muslim like Ice Cube apparently was when he released The Predator, anyway). It's like picking up the cash flow, then playing bones and being the individual skillful enough to be repeatedly yelling "domino." I probably won't be getting laid tonight with anyone who can fuck all night or doing any backyard gambling, but I will at least be having beers with J-Sexy, who apart from my PI is the one person in the entire world capable of deeply appreciating exactly how fucking mindblowingly, orgasmically, phenomenally awesome THIS is:
I know, I know...try to resist masturbating furiously at the sight of such a sexy piece of data until you are in a private place more appropriate for that sort of activity. I'm off to drink some beer and eat a fucking cheeseburger. And come up with topics for lots of interesting posts that I'll have slightly more time to throw together every couple of days, of course. Thanks for your patience with me being an absentee blogger, and please feel free to have a drink or fifty in my honor!
Labels: epidemic geekery, excuses, grad school bullshit, I LOVE IT, rap, Razzification, science, viruses rule
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