.comment-link {margin-left:.6em;}

Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Cream of Sum Yung Gai

I get a good bit of spam mail. Most of it kindly offers to find me a perfect mortgage or special deals on products that will enlarge my penis (which is huge as is, so really, let's not guild a lily). Some of it offers me dream vacations and lovely asian women to accompany me. Still others are more forward and just offer me FETI$H SLUTZ IN ACTION CUM $EE NOW!@^&%*^#. In these offers, use of the shift key is the only real action you can see without a credit card.

If, say, hypothetically you wanted to Google Image search "pictures of slutz" because you were interested in whether slutz with a z would get you pictures featuring more actual sluts than sluts spelled with an s, you might, hypothetically, come up with something like this:

These guys have 'slutz' written all over them.

I like to think that this guy with the wand is in the process of organizing and motivating slutz this very moment. I also like the fact that he wears a name tag.

In all fairness, the image actually shown was a house, where I figured all the slutz lived, but then you click on said house and you get this sexual hurricane showing off his fine, fine collection of glossy telephone books.

In my head, this cat has a Texan accent and refers to the vagina solely as 'the fukkin goon-ya.' [Try to stretch that phrase out over as many syllables as you can to get the proper effect]. As you can see, we've caught him in a moment of intense goon-ya focus.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Dear Doug Woodhouse:

When you write things like this:

"The President says he will not bomb Iran. Who says something like that? Do you walk into a store and and announce 'Hey guys, just so you know, I'm not planning to shoplift anything from y'all today. Honest.' "

It makes me miss those times in college when you came over and got drunk all by yourself on my couch. Just thought you should know.



Friday, February 25, 2005

The Rhythm of my Heart

My haircut currently resembles:

A) An overzealous Bon Jovi fan
B) The unattractive one from Charles in Charge
C) Linda from The Wedding Singer
D) All of the above

If you answered D, you just won What does this free foreign haircut remind me of Bingo! Acceptable write-in answers would have been 80's College student or The Pseudo-Lesbo One From The Facts of Life.

Some time ago, I took advantage of the free "fashion haircut" offer through Toni and Guy's Hair Academy, where the degrade-and-conquer tactic of approaching future clients is in full effect. The visit began with me letting my hair down and them using the words "devastating" and "irreparable" and "catastrophic." People, if you keep this up, you're going to have no words left to describe actual bad things.

So I took off my beloved raccoon glasses, which I depend on for both sight and mutant powers, and relaxed as my hair got scientifically chopped to all lengths between 1 inch (seriously) and 1 foot. At the end, a man with who was not wearing a mesh shirt, but certainly had the tattoo of one came over, gave me my glasses and said, Do you love it?

I didn't love it. I didn't love anything about it. I did not love that I could accurately be described as "business in the front, party in the back." I didn't love the fact that now everyone would know that I secretly raise my goblet of rock to Guns N Roses almost every day. I didn't love that the only job I could now apply for was dancing on the hood of Twisted Sister's car. And while some may revel in knowing someone that's currently sporting what can only be classified as a crucial mullet (I'm thinking of you here Brando), I'm unsympathetic to any sort of novelty on my head besides maybe an award-winning mustache. In terrible French, all I could say was, "No! I do not like these hairs!"

So the mesh tattoo man said, "What could we do to make you love it?"

And again, all I could say was, "I am not familiar! I has none idea what occurred on my hairs! They was very very big and now is very small here and not small here and more not small here. I seem sad because I appear like someone who may not be me."

Let me just give you this hint: If you ever get a shitty haircut in France, make sure you say the phrase they was very very big and now is very small here and not small here and more not small here with a lot of emphasis. This sentence really gets your point across.

I heard Mesh-too say to the woman who cut my hair, "the Americans, they are only here because it's free," and I didn't know how to say, "The Japanese chick behind me who now looks like 'If I Could Turn Back Time' Cher doesn't seem too thrilled either." It didn't matter. Scathing words can never replace well-coiffed hair. 4PM, heart in hand and hair on floor, I stepped back into the heart of Paris, in search of the Journey albums I missed as a kid.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Probably the Best

The French are nothing if not self-assured.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Not a Pity Post

So how is it that people in the adult world make friends? Working freelance is awesome in that you can A) work in the nude, you know, if you wanted and B) get up no earlier than 2PM. Working freelance sucks in that you have no A) health insurance and B) no reason to ever leave the house ever, oh dear god, you may never leave the house and see another person again.

Today is February 21st. I haven't talked to a single person outside of the boyfriend and my French tutor (who I pay to talk to) since February 11th. Today I saw a guy on the subway, looking smooth, wearing the t-shirt of a band I really like, reading a book I really like, in English, and just generally looking awesome and I thought "that guy’s really, really smolderingly hot we could be friends." But you can't just go up to somebody and say, "Hey, I haven't talked to a single person in 10 days. Do you want to just hang out in a jazz bar? Or watch horror movies all night long and laugh at how shitty the special effects are? Because, seriously, I'm awesome. I mean...I...uh...quote The Simpsons and Wet Hot American Summer a lot...I own a candle that looks uncannily like a skull...all I really want in life is to wear an 80's flame helmet while riding something that looks like ExciteBike while rockin out to White Snake...and I'm charming too...yeah...I could charm the fuck out of you...[get crazy eyes and nod maniacally here while pointing your finger directly at the person. People love that]...think about it, Mr. Trachtenberg Family Slideshow Players fan...think about what you're missing."

You can't just say creepy stuff like that to other people, no matter how much your skull candle may make you feel like one of the Hell's Angels. Really, once you get up to, "I haven't talked to anyone else in ten days," people begin to wonder if you were either institutionalized or a prisoner of war.

So the hunt for people-in-Paris-who-are-neither-dicks-nor-pity-friends continues. In other news, the boyfriend talked to Kirsten Dunst a few days ago. I guess this is karma biting me in the ass for telling the building super he was a crossdresser.

R.I.P Hunter S. Thompson

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Like a real post, only better!

Sorry about the lack of post-age recently. I'm swamped with work. In lieu of an actual post, I'll leave you with this link to pictures of celebrities with penises for noses, this link to the greatest music video ever, this link to the second greatest music video ever (thanks Orange!), and this Hottie Mchotterson picture of Scarlett Johansson. If this picture doesn't make your legs quiver, you my friend, have no soul.

Don't say I never gave you nothin.

Friday, February 18, 2005

Since when did Jon Favreau start dressing like Al Boreland?

Thursday, February 17, 2005

$5* to the person who can tell me why this story isn't getting more coverage. Why is flu-riddled Michael Jackson getting more coverage?

*Money may or may not be real

Update: How are people in the US reacting to this? From here, it seems like it's not an issue at all.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Giants Causeway, Northern Ireland

[Me]: [Emerging from shower]: Notice anything? I'll give you a hint, you're supposed to say "wow, it looks as if you've spent $1.50 and 15 minutes removing all impurities from your skin. You look like a radiant goddess."

[the boyfriend]: Yes, that's exactly it...you look...good...I mean you always look good...you look clean...in the face...[thumbs up]...you look shiny....but not shiiiiiiiiiiny like a fat sweaty lady...shiny clean... like a gym floor...but not waxy...you certainly don't look dead...you look glowing...but not like a pregnant lady glowing...nevermind...I give up...Happy fucking valentine's day.

Happy fucking valentine's day to you too.

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Sauce-covered Sass

Photo by C. Mattera

Last night, the boyfriend and I were hungry, as is usually the case in my apartment. We wanted something trashy, something fatty and delicious and smothered in sauce. So we looked in our trusty guidebooks and voila, there is was, Haynes American-style Barbecue Restaurant, featuring soul food and honey fried chicken. We were there.

We got to the restaurant and settled down at our table, looking at all the American musicians and celebrities who had once enjoyed the same barbecue we were about to enjoy. Seated between a small piano in the corner and an autographed picture of Louis Armstrong on the wall, we settled in for a relaxing, sauce-covered meal. The table beside us got up and as the gayest man I've ever seen in my life took the stage, you could see a gleam of determination appear behind his fashion glasses as if he was thinking:

"Jaime, you can go up there, sing some of that Ella Fitzgerald shit they want you to sing...or you can take your sassy ass up there and ROCK Hayne's America-style Barbecue Restaurant in a way that no American-style barbecue restaurant in Paris has ever been rocked before!"

And rock he did.

He didn't just sing an off key version of the entire soundtrack from Chicago...he became an off key version of the entire soundtrack from Chicago, complete with monologues and sexual innuendos. You have to respect someone who does not let the fact that they're a 6'2" man stop them from touching their own phantom breasts. There was crowd-pointing. There was tap dancing. At one point, he came off of his 1X1 pedestal and into the audience. Combined with ribs, it was everything I could ever want in terms of trashy and sauce-covered.

"Don't you feel embarassed for him?" the boyfriend asked.

"Nope, I feel embarassed for people who go to their jobs every day and never feel anything but emptiness and self-loathing."

And as Liza Minelli high kicked his way through "New York, New York," I knew, from the bottom of my soul, that Paris truly is the city of love.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Did it Again

In Google Image searching "Pictures of Britney Spears" for...um...research purposes, I definitely found this. The internet is a strange and fascinating place.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

People in France drop by unannounced. That's not true. They announce it, I just can't read well enough to tell if said announcement applies to me. Our building is getting refurbished and this morning a woman dropped by to ask me questions regarding the apartment. The night before, I had done laundry, but hadn't put it away. Directly next to our mattress-on-the-floor (we call this kind of thing a 'bed'), was a pile of panties that actually rose up higher than the mattress itself, remarkably close to the head of our "bed." Wanting her to know both that the panty pile is A) clean and B) that I do not normally sleep with my face in a heap of them, I said in horrid, horrid French:

"This is not me. No! This (pointing to the panty pile and turning red with embarassment) is not me. I am not like this. I am more good. I am more fresh. I promise, I am more fresh!"

I don't know the French words for 'clean,' 'organized,' 'put together,' 'not dirty,' or 'You have to believe me when I say that I don't go to sleep to the smell of fresh panties.'

[suit-sporting woman]: Do you live with someone else maybe?

[Me]: Yes, I lives with my boyfriend.

Really long, awkward silence. Notes being made in a leather-bound notebook. Stern looks abound. By now, I've told the suit-sporting, totally put together, totally not wearing her pajamas and sporting Rod Stewart hair woman standing in my bedroom that "I am more fresh" than the pile of my own underwear comfortably situated next to the head of my bed.

[suit-sporting woman]: Does your landlord know [long pause] about your boyfriend?

[Me]: Yes, yes, of course. There is not some problems with him. Everything is very goods.

[suit-sporting woman]: [very long uber-French sigh here] Ok well, that's certainly...interessant. I will speak with my colleagues. If we need anything else, we'll call. Good day.

Ashamed of my messiness, I looked at the panty mass on the floor, then replayed what had happened in my head, blaming the awkwardness on my own sloppiness. I didn't realize until 30 minutes later that the disapproving glances weren't directed at me, but at the purported panty-sporting boyfriend, but by that time, she was gone. I wouldn't have known how to have begun that explanation anyway. I can imagine that it would have gone sour immediately, culminating in me trying on my own underwear, producing a jock strap in one hand and tie in the other to prove that men's clothing runs amuk in our attic apartment and that the person leaving fresh piles of ladies panties suspiciously near the head of our bed is me. This would have ended in me screaming in terrible, broken Frenglish that besides, even if he wanted to wear Victoria's Secret while he cooks, the boyfriend still wouldn't deserve your snotty, disapproving, Euro glances because he would still BALL SWEAT MORE AWESOME THAN YOU'LL EVER HAVE IN YOUR LIFE, YOU JUDGMENTAL CHANEL NUMBER FIVE BITCH!!

The boyfriend is currently at culinary school, no doubt making something delicious to bring home to his girlfriend who has told the building that he's a cross-dresser, that he owns boatloads of women's underwear which he leaves in dead, wrinkled piles on the floor, and that even with a haircut resembling the ugly one from Three's Company, she's still "more fresh" than that. Welcome home Mattera, welcome home.

Monday, February 07, 2005

On the Topic of Making Friends

I'm crappy at making friends. I think I have always been a poor friend-maker, I just happened to come across many benevolent people during the high school and college years who were in the same, pitiful position. For some reason, during the transition between college and passed college, making friends becomes more difficult than saying, "You have a tendency to sing loudly to Extreme's More Than Words at 3 AM when menstrating? I have a tendency to sing loudly to Extreme's More That Words at 3 AM when menstrating. Let's be friends."

In a very few, sweet cases, you can just look at a person and tell that they're awesome. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, J.T.:

Saturday, February 05, 2005

In Ireland, make sure to watch out for falling baseballs, time capsules, or men's footprints.

Friday, February 04, 2005

Strut the Krypton Crawl

Proof that white men never can, and never will be, able to dance.

Update: I think my favorite part of this picture is that Jimmy Olson refers to Superman as 'Supie.'

9 Ways Virginians can support Equal Marriage

You know, if you're into that kind of freaky shit.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

If you thought you were successfully living before you bought Diesel, you were wrong.

I just received an e-mail from someone containing a power point presentation of the blizzard and a note that says, " Check out the dog in the slide show. How does he go potty?"

If you use the word 'potty,' you shouldn't be e-mailing me...or anyone else...ever. Just a heads up.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

11:00 PM - Euro time - the boyfriend paces.

"Has anyone commented yet? I don't understand. I'm so clever."

[dramatic pause]

"Now everyone's going to think I'm a douche."

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

My Sticky-Fingered Filcher

The boyfriend is undeniably a better human being than I am. I don't mean that as some sort of bizarrely sentimental sack of horse pooh. I mean, objectively, when all things are counted, he's a better human, as is evidenced by his lack of swearing, his punctuality, and the fact that he's never once hit someone's car with his own on purpose. Punctuality will probably get you into the kingdom of heaven, whereas recycled underwear from your mother will get you a good story to lay on the family at Christmas.

I've always thought that the boyfriend was simply born better, which is ok, because I was born hotter...or better at trig...or something. As it turns out, the boyfriend was not actually born better, but rather would just make a shitty evil-doer, scratch that, ne'er-do-well.

When writing an article on dorm theft, this conversation occurred:

Me: Hey, what are some valuable things students keep in dorms?

The boyfriend: I don't know, laptops, iPods, rare books?

Me: Rare books? Sorry, I can't come to class today because my first edition copy of The Once and Future King was snagged?

The boyfriend: People could have rare books in their dorm. I have a rare book. I loaned it to Mike. [awkward pause here] How about shoes? People have nice shoes.

Me: Shoes? [skeptical glance]

The boyfriend: People kill for good shoes, I read about it...in a book...but not a rare one.

Me: If you're a kid on campus who needs money and you have 2 minutes in someone's room to steal things, you're going for the shoe collection?

The boyfriend: Expensive linens? Textiles?
[Who uses the word 'textiles?']

Me: 2 minutes in a dorm and you're going for the linens?

The boyfriend: Yes, I would strip the bed, grab The Once and Future King and The Shroud of Turin and run....Fuck. This is going on the site right? I can't stop being charming. People are going to send me proposals. I make you seem soooo cool.

He's now conducting the John Phillip Sousa U.S. Marine Corps Hymn from our Futon. Proposals can be sent directly to Chris.Mattera@gmail.com.