Seriously?

Okay, really?

I woke up 1.5 hours ago after the day I had?

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

Okay, Universe. I give. What does it take? What do you want? What did I do?

Well, whatever it is: I'm SORRY!

But that dont seem to please you people.

To Quote My Friend, Jester CM:

"I feel like I'm gonna tho' up, y'all."

5:30 am workout. Circuit interval training. I am Out. Of. Shape. I couldn't even do the final abs exercises---literally could not complete all the reps, hold proper form, none of it.

I can usually *at least* do the abs routine.

Tell you what, I staggered out of there feeling like I got hit by the ol' Grundelfly.

Had to go home and lay down behind it before I went to work.

Nausea, piercing headaches, and some neck problems later, I finally grabbed some lunch. (I did eat breakfast, as well).

Am I skinny yet? No.

Riddle me this: why are the negative effects so immediate, and the positive so distant and long term?

A Peek Back In Time: Still Crazy After All These Years

You know, I wasn’t always depraved and deranged.

Okay, that’s probably untrue. Let me re-state.

You know, I wasn’t always publicly depraved and deranged.

But as I’ve gotten older, I have either come to accept myself more, or else I just don’t give a damn. The genesis and inevitable downward spiral of my mental illness is far too complicated and boring to trace. And could I track it, even if I tried with all 100% of my brainium? 

But some things I can trace. A penchant for shared public lewdness and drooling, for one.

Email and interwebz has probably done more to reduce office productivity than anything since the introduction of indoor plumbing. It allows one not only to waste one’s own time, but to enjoin others in your slack ass ways of misbehaving. 

One day at work, some of the crew and I were discussing, you guessed it, Hot Mens. During this discussion, I had an epiphany. 

Hot Mens, much like NCAA teams, horse breeds, and hell, have brackets. Or divisions. I realized that during our conversation I had identified a heretofore Unrecognized Bracket in the Hot Mens listings: Ichabod Crane Hotties.

Eager to share my discovery of this, complete with pictorial proof, and desirous of just spreading beauty in general, I rushed back to my office. Whilst there I composed what, until now, was an email phenom restricted to the folks on my contacts list.

But like Typhoid Mary, I want to share what I’ve got with the world. After the recent Spaderpalooza and the barrage of Brody sightings /Stella Artois ad, I thought it might be instructive for my gentle readers to reveal the incident that sort of started it all.

So I have recreated that initial email here, for you. Because caring is sharing. There may be solace or insane anger in the fact that for some of you, your tax dollars indirectly paid for the original exercise.

So, with that preamble, I give ye:

ICHABOD CRANE HOTTIES

^{(AND OTHERS)}

Hi, I’m Jeff Goldblum. I sort of re-invented this category after Jimmy Stewart left the scene. Except that I’m way more Ichabod-y than Stewart. Actually a little hotter, as well. Don’t be fooled by my young, spoiled, 1980’s stockbroker look here. Though I can put on the glam, can’t I?

Well, here I am again. Quirky, but cute, right? Actually, I’m sort of disturbingly beautiful in that top shot. You’re starting to feel my vibe, right? 

 So, the hotness thing. I mentioned that, right?

Yeah, I’ll put on some muscle for a film and go shirtless. But only if it supports the artistic integrity of the film, you know? That’s really noble, upstanding sweat on my pecs there. Those are seriously method abs. Really.

 

This one’s for Svetlana. Who even digs me in blue. True hotness knows no racial boundaries. Or species boundaries, I guess. 

 Hi, I’m Dougray Scott. I can wear the hell out of a tailored shirt. My face is a little too rough to be pretty, even though I don’t qualify as an ICH. My hair is great though. I’m pretty much dead sexy. Just FYI.

Zach Quinto here. Proof that the younger generation has a chance at achieving some ICH role models. I’m pretty sure my fate was sealed when I played Spock in the Star Trek reboot. I made that bowl cut look smoking. I’m a little afraid Hawkeye might be stalking me, so I have to wear my uber nerd glasses to keep my vision sharp. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to help reduce my hotness or stalkability. Not much does. Damn.

See what I mean? If I go missing, you know who to talk to.

Some people won’t understand the appeal of an ICH. But no such mystery here, mates. Just a wicked fine Australian with a secret geek/nerd gene that somehow didn’t affect my looks. Included for Svetlana. And hotness in general.

Hey ladies, Gerry here. We’re definitely taking a detour from classic ICH. But don’t let my ridiculous good looks fool you. Inside this scruffy chest beats the heart of a true dork. And that is like catnip to Hawkeye. Sweet, crack-cocaine laced catnip. 

Hawkeye also doesn’t mind when I express my feminine side. Guyliner and hair extensions? Cool. Running around in leather skirts? Not fazed a bit. In fact, Hawk is always so supportive, pushing me towards exploring my boundaries. So selfless. Um, does anybody know if it’s true that I should be going commando in this outfit? 

Hi, I’m Adrien Brody.

I’m the current god-king of the Ichabod Crane Hotties. You can call me A-Brods, Snookums, or what most girls end up saying a lot around me, “Omygod - pleasedon’tstop - i’mgonnadie - fromthisyesyesyesyes.” You know, whatever works for you.

How does one get to be god-king? Is it my brooding, ethnically vague good looks? My sometimes winsome smile?

Maybe it’s my soulful eyes and hangdog expression. The incredible schnozz? Or perhaps you like your men lanky and lithe. It is, after all, the Ichabod Crane Hottie division we are talking about here.

Though, like my predecessors, I will undergo a grueling, horrific transformation if the role requires that kind of honest, raw truth.

I’ll even get muddy and kill aliens. It’s all about the craft, you know? I’d take this time to mention I’m also of Jewish descent, but I really don’t want to have to take out a restraining order on Hawkeye. Chances are Hawk’s out there right now, having an attack of the vapors just talking about my nose.

If you are thinking “Having two such hot, attractive objects in such close proximity to each other is actually skirting the plausibilities of physics as we know it,” then you are right. You are also about to burst into flames.

RDJ: Look, A-Brods, I dig you and all. But we are about to cause a serious cosmic disturbance.

Adrien: I feel ya, man. I almost created a rift in the space time continuum with Gerry Butler at a Lakers game last week.

RDJ: Being hot is hard.

Adrien: Word, my brother. Word.

HoYay!:

It’s not just for San Francisco anymore.

Weighing in with the final word on ICH:

I’m Sam Motherfucking Waterston. 

I basically rule the world. The second coming of Christ will look a lot like my amazing hair. Brody may have out-nosed me…..but nothing’s been proven yet. Peace out, bitches.

Rando

On the way to work this came on my player. It's sad and it's sweet, and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man's clothes. There's a haunting sweetness to this, and it's worth clicking on the link and giving it 3 minutes of your time.

Do you carry every sadness with you

Every hour your heart was broken

Every night the fear and darkness

Lay down with you

http://www.playlist.com/searchbeta/tracks#half%20acre/all/1

Then there is this.

"This fall I think you're riding for--it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environement couldn't suppply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started."--J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

My cousin sends me a lot of emails with little sayings and prayers and some terrible chain letters. But there was a line in one the other day:

Life is a coin, you can spend it anyway you wish, but you can only spend it once.

We talk about spending our lives all the time, but I never thought of it in that way before. How am I spending the coin of my life?

And finally, a little Bobby Burns. Is it just me, or are all his poems really songs?:

Coming Thro' The Rye

O Jenny's a' weet, poor body,


Jenny's seldom dry: 


She draigl't a' her petticoatie, 


Comin thro' the rye! 


Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 


Comin thro' the rye, 


She draigl't a' her petticoatie, 


Comin thro' the rye!

Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the rye, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the glen, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


Need the warld ken? 


Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the grain, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


The thing's a body's ain.

Translation of a sorts at http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/coming_through_the_rye.htm

Attack of the Grundelfly

So, I stopped by a grocery store after work today. Finally.

It was much nicer than I expected. I guess Ralph's vary by location.

Anyhoo, in a classic case of This Doesn't Happen To Normal People, my first stop was the deli. The two worker there were finishing up a conversation. I guess I looked amenable to waiting, because they continued some chatter about a woman that had managed to get pregnant 10 times. The deli lady was of the opinion that at some point

"You just get something tied off or something."

Her companion spent most of his time ducking behind the counter and trying to keep from hyperventilating from laughter.

"But you know, her pastor had said that he didn't believe in birth control, so she was there with 10 kids."

At this point I opened my big mouth and said, "Isn't it funny how people who don't believe in birth control are always the people that don't have 10 kids?"

This earned me a high five from the guy behind the counter, and full entry into the strange gossipy world of Ralph's Deli section.

A few miscarriage, secret birth control, vasectomy, and clap-penicillin stories later, my deli lady conceded my point that things had changed, and one really had to worry about more than just unwanted pregnancies these days.

"I know. Now you get something and your stuff just start falling off. Like in that movie Grundelfly. You remember that movie."

Well, I was still recovering from the image of genitalia falling off all over the city, but I managed to squeak out that I wasn't familiar with film in question.

"You know, it's from the '80s. With that one guy. The one with the big eyes. Jeff Goldblum! And his parts start falling off and keeps them stored up in a cabinet."

Well, that did it for me. I was a goner. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Grundelfly (American title: The Fly)--and the best goddamn movie synopsis since my moo described Army of Darkness. (Sorry, but that story is a treasure that we keep in the immediate friends and family circle. So we can tell intruders and pod people from our own kind).

I cried re-telling this story tonight. I've got tears in my eyes right now. Fucking Grundelfly.

1:22 a.m.

sometimes I wake in the night, for no specific reason. i always imagine it's ultimately due to some lack of proper care on my part.

Usually there's this uncomfortable hot feeling, too. Even if the room is cold. I'll probably be freezing in the morning. And undoubtedly sleepy as hell. What can you do?

I gave up on sleep an hour or so ago and finished reading "Catcher in the Rye." I bet if old Holden Caulfield had been hanging around in this day and age, he would have been a voracious blogger. On the shallow side, I kept wanting the poor guy to get a shower, what with all the cigarettes and sweating. It makes me want to take a shower and brush my teeth, just thinking about it.

Well, illuminated objects don't help you sleep, or I've heard. Apparently the one reliable sedative in the world is the alarm clock telling you it's time to be at work.

This post was brought to you by iPad.

Indications That One Might Have A Problem

Is it a bad sign when people across the country are sending you link to the same thing? Am I that predictable? Is it so obvious? Could these questions be any more rhetorical?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0c5agGJQAE

No, I didn’t see it during the Super Bowl yesterday. As shocking as it may be, I wasn’t watching the Super Bowl. I don’t usually watch the Super Bowl. In fact, the last time I can remember making a point to watch it was at the house of one Albeson Melbeson, in the 9^th grade. I am now going to pointedly NOT mention how many years ago that was. But it was, like, a bunch.

Thanks to all my friends, though, who are aware of my freakish stalking refined appreciation for Msr. Brody’s nuanced theatrical skills.

Though, as I mentioned to my bubbly champagne loving friend and sometimes commenter, this does raise a few questions.

Bless his little pea-picking heart. I really do wonder about his seeming propensity for self injury. I mean, he takes the what could possibly the single most testosterone laden, American machismo defining moment of the year, the mouth-breathing-knuckle-dragging grunter’s high holy day, and chooses that time to sally forth in an artsy, jazzy commercial about imported beer.

With a French accent.

French.

This raises an interesting set of questions as to Monsieur Brody's state of mind:

1. Really perverse sense of humour, and willing to tank career just to make himself laugh?
2. Really perverse sense of humour, and wants to fuck with anyone who liked his manly man performance in Predators? (Take that, you wankers that finally gave me some notice because I made things go ka-blooey. You can’t pigeon hole me! Now somebody get me Halle Berry to make out with.)
3. Self destructive and self sabotaging? (Take that, action movie star cred! Now somebody get me a coffin-like structure in which to entomb myself.)
4. Soooooooooooooo high that it seemed like a good idea at the time?
5. So in love with himself that it seemed like a good idea at the time? (Damn, I’m even sexy when I sing in a faux French accent to beer! C WUT I DID THAR? Faux? French? Damn, I’m the shit! Now get me a picture of myself to make out with. Just grab one off of Hawkeye’s computer.)
6. Just does not Give A Fuck. At All.

Sub Question:

a. Who the fuck is in charge of marketing at Stella Artois and what demographic were they aiming for here? 

In my universe, the one in my head, there is a 7^th option.

  7. Did it for me, to make me smile. (There is no need to point out the sheer crazy     behind this. I know. I’m aware. Once I find a 12 step, I’ll join it. Maybe.)

As unlikely as #7 is, if it has any pertinence outside my delusional wistful wantings, allow me to advance a small suggestion to ABrods: next time, make me smile by being in the same room as me. Just a thought, throwing it out there.

Summation: 

Adrien Brody. Following in Brando's footsteps, and making women the world over wish they were named Stella.

PEE ESS: There is a person in my office who has a picture of a Bakugan character that he and his friend cooked up. He’s called Adrien Barodius, invincible to all things except the Power of Love, and able to make his enemies weep at will. I’m not making this up. It’s not just me.

Scary, huh?