I Am Fucking Insane
I don’t actually have anything to say right now that would justify an entire post, so I will once again resort to that cop-out of all cop-outs, the grab bag. Comb through carefully, because you never know what you’ll find. You might be disgusted, you might be mildly amused, you might even learn something. Well, OK, I’m lying about that last one.
What is with basketball players reaching out for their teammates’ hands after bricking the free throw? Hello, Sparky. You fucked up. This practice, not namby-pamby liberalism, is responsible for this new America in which no one is allowed to feel like a failure, even if he is one.
Check out Raw-B's latest musical gem, produced by the inimitable Sean Donnelly for Double Chin Productions.
Memo to Harry Reid: Now is not a time to be making nice. When your president nominates his barber for the Supreme Court, you start piling on. I don’t care if Harriet Miers signed a promise to protect Roe in her own blood. The Democrats don’t need another apologist. They need an attack dog with a collar made of razor wire.
Today, I went scuba diving with “Iron” Mike Guardino. The great thing about scuba diving is that you get to compete with nature on her own terms. Fins? Got ‘em. Breathing underwater? You guessed it. The only difference? After about forty-five minutes, I will be back on dry land enjoying a hot shower and an ice-cold beer, while you, my marine friend, will remain blinking vapidly. On the other hand, I guess we’ll both be happy.
Hopefully the fish aren’t talking to each other. After a twelve-year absence or so, I made my triumphant re-entry into the pantheon of exalted anglers, catching four rainbow trout Saturday in a remote, possibly nameless alpine location. Because Professor Logan set the itinerary, of course, we spent three times as many hours driving as we did fishing. My catch got the classic treatment: brown butter, Carmel Valley-grown thyme and tarragon, Meyer lemon from Richard Rosen Orchards, and a tall glass of Coca-Cola on the side.
People are idiots. I was at Carmel Valley Coffee Roasting Company the other day, and ran into a fellow I knew from the old days (in fact, this guy was banned from the Ocean Avenue location). He asked what I was up to, so I showed him the website for the gentleman I represent. He got visibly distressed, and began lecturing me about how dangerous it was to do business with Arabs, and how they all hate Jews, and support terror, and dress badly. I informed him that Mr. Sethi was, in fact, a Punjabi Sikh. He was familiar with neither the national origin nor the religion. This did not, however, stop him from laughing in my face when I suggested that the current administration was pursuing a dangerous and uneducated course in the Middle East. He also insisted to me that the deficit does not actually affect you or me. I should probably have beaten him senseless. Instead, I went and bought some Spanish wine. Hopefully this is not a preview of my political career, where decisive action must take precedence over my depressants hobby.
Finally, I should mention that Friday’s gumbo was my finest ever, and Myles L. Williams is the greatest man to ever walk the earth.
What is with basketball players reaching out for their teammates’ hands after bricking the free throw? Hello, Sparky. You fucked up. This practice, not namby-pamby liberalism, is responsible for this new America in which no one is allowed to feel like a failure, even if he is one.
Check out Raw-B's latest musical gem, produced by the inimitable Sean Donnelly for Double Chin Productions.
Memo to Harry Reid: Now is not a time to be making nice. When your president nominates his barber for the Supreme Court, you start piling on. I don’t care if Harriet Miers signed a promise to protect Roe in her own blood. The Democrats don’t need another apologist. They need an attack dog with a collar made of razor wire.
Today, I went scuba diving with “Iron” Mike Guardino. The great thing about scuba diving is that you get to compete with nature on her own terms. Fins? Got ‘em. Breathing underwater? You guessed it. The only difference? After about forty-five minutes, I will be back on dry land enjoying a hot shower and an ice-cold beer, while you, my marine friend, will remain blinking vapidly. On the other hand, I guess we’ll both be happy.
Hopefully the fish aren’t talking to each other. After a twelve-year absence or so, I made my triumphant re-entry into the pantheon of exalted anglers, catching four rainbow trout Saturday in a remote, possibly nameless alpine location. Because Professor Logan set the itinerary, of course, we spent three times as many hours driving as we did fishing. My catch got the classic treatment: brown butter, Carmel Valley-grown thyme and tarragon, Meyer lemon from Richard Rosen Orchards, and a tall glass of Coca-Cola on the side.
People are idiots. I was at Carmel Valley Coffee Roasting Company the other day, and ran into a fellow I knew from the old days (in fact, this guy was banned from the Ocean Avenue location). He asked what I was up to, so I showed him the website for the gentleman I represent. He got visibly distressed, and began lecturing me about how dangerous it was to do business with Arabs, and how they all hate Jews, and support terror, and dress badly. I informed him that Mr. Sethi was, in fact, a Punjabi Sikh. He was familiar with neither the national origin nor the religion. This did not, however, stop him from laughing in my face when I suggested that the current administration was pursuing a dangerous and uneducated course in the Middle East. He also insisted to me that the deficit does not actually affect you or me. I should probably have beaten him senseless. Instead, I went and bought some Spanish wine. Hopefully this is not a preview of my political career, where decisive action must take precedence over my depressants hobby.
Finally, I should mention that Friday’s gumbo was my finest ever, and Myles L. Williams is the greatest man to ever walk the earth.
posted by Gabe Rosen at 11:14 PM
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