The Garbage Dump

My Cultural Awakening: Summer in NYC

2008-08-08T14:20:00.009-05:00

By Mink

So the last time I posted here, I was sweating in my stuffy NYC apartment in the dead of winter and months later, you guessed it, I'm doing the same in the dog days of summer.

Now I'm not going to lie, I miss summer in MD with the regular bbqing, the leisurely swims in the warm and strangely yellow colored pool of my former apt complex, the cheap nights at the empty Orioles games (where I had grown accustomed to hearing the largest roar of the night when mustard would beat ketchup in the condiment race between innings....hey that's what happens when the home team has been irrelevant for a decade) and the good old tuesday night all-male nude mud wrestling matches.

That being said, I am thoroughly enjoying my first full summer in the Big Apple. I am pretty much the opposite of cultured or classy, but here you can't escape it even if you try. And trust me I try. But thankfully I have been kept in the loop by my classier friends in the know. My friend Josh B, in particular, is my go to guy when I am looking for an adventure that will involve 4 subway transfers, beers I can't pronounce and a genre of music or artwork that even wikipedia could not adequately define for me. I therefore refer to him as "the cultural pipeline" or the "CP" (if you are like me and have a need to abbreviate everything.)

But even without the guidance of my CP, I have taken some serious cultural initiative this summer and I figured I would share some of my doings which reflect a truly cool and cultured summer in the city:

Biking to the Entertainment: There are few things chicks dig more than a man on a bike. Ok maybe that's truer in regard to a different kind of bike than the 10 speed I ride around the neighborhood. But in the past few months as I have regularly biked to the summer nightlife, and by now I pretty much own the streets of the upper west side (or at least share them with the delivery boys). Honestly, you’re always going to be the life of the party if you show up sweating and still wearing your helmet. I will, however, say that an area of concern is a fear of the dreaded BUI (biking under the influence).....Don't worry mom, if I ever have one too many cold ones, I make sure to nab a designated biker as I ride home in the attached child seat.

Concert Going: I've made an effort to get to more concerts especially the freebies in the park. But I have to say the biggest and most diverse cultural experience of my summer was the Tom Petty concert in Newark, New Jersey. I mean for my money it doesn’t get much better than Tommy P and his wacky voice belting out Free Fallin to a crowd of very Caucasian Jerseyians, many of whom spent the night livid about the inexplicable shortage of beer in the stadium (they also ran out of cups and offered to serve me in a used one with 3 pieces of gum caked in--true story). My friend AR, who is well connected in the black entertainment music industry, told me her boss “laughed his ass off” when she inquired about Petty tix for me. I didn’t fully understand why until I noticed that the only non-white people within ½ a mile from the arena were the employees being blamed for the beer shortage. It ranks up there with my participation in Jewish Model United Nations as one of those “realizing you are as white as a dry erase board moments.”

Short Wearing: In Bmore getting dressed up to go out involves throwing on some nice shorts and maybe a polo if the place is more upscale. So imagine my shock when I was recently turned away from Manhattan’s Hotel Empire's Rooftop Bar when I showed up to a friend's party in my new plaid "going out shorts" and polo shirt. As the late great Christopher Farley once said "what kinda hotel is this?"

Whiffle Ball: My roommate and I, two individuals in our mid to late 20's enter a Duane Reade at 11 pm on a Monday night and for some reason exit sipping fruit punches and carrying whiffle ball sets. Granted, the above little shopping experience reveals that I have probably regressed from my Bar Mitzvah, however the whiffle ball purchase is an essential summer tool and arguably a cultural experience. It resides in my trunk and makes appearances at bbq's, weekend retreats and even during lame cocktail parties.

And finally a couple other things I have picked up in NYC that you may or may not want to try at home:

Winking at strangers on the subway (only resulted in one black eye so far)
Eating full meals at bus stops
Fake Clogs
5 or 6 Flavor Ices after basketball games
Not blogging for six months
And then trying to make up for it with unnecessarily wordy blogs

Welcome Back: Some Things From My Head

2008-07-04T13:41:00.003-05:00

by singerz

It has been so long that I forgot we had a blog. You may have thought that we threw in the towel. Turns out, the towel was just sweaty and filthy and needed a good ‘ol “how’s your father.” Here are some things that come directly from my head. Don't judge me. Unless you like them, and then judge me favorably:

I met a black-smith this weekend. His name was Rondell Smith. He called me a racist.

The more I go through in life, the more I can see the writing on the wall. It’s actually more like graffiti than writing, its on the wall in a subway tunnel, and it says: “For a hott tyme call that bitch Gina at 212 -333-4528.”

I have problems. Eating-wise I mean. Eating Wise Potato chips. Delicious, but hurts my teeth.

I saw a sign on the street that said “Cheap Jewelry” but I thought it said “Cheap Jewry.” And I agreed.

One of my dad’s friends is weird- he compensates for things in weird ways. He bought a really shitty car to compensate for his large package.

I like my women like I like my scotch. Older than 15 years and smokey.

Last week at CVS, I was buying cough medicine, antibiotics, advil, pepto bismol, tissues, and nausea pills. I got up to the counter and the clerk asked me “How are you doing today, sir?” I answered her: My throat hurts, I have cellulites, I have a headache, my stomach hurts, my nose is running, and I am nauseous. You asked. How are you?

The other day, I took out money from a bank. But I didn’t have an account there and I used a gun. I was arrested.

A few weeks ago I was in Atlantic City and sitting in a hottub with 3 guy friends. The jets were running, and we were chilling. Suddenly, the jets turned off and 4 guys found themselves sitting in a small pool of still warm water with their shirts off. No one made eye contact. Someone turned the jets back on, and the situation returned to normal. And I realized something. The difference between a hottub versus an awkward bath in warm water with 3 of your friends is: bubbles.

Garbage That Keeps Me Up At Night

2008-02-19T15:02:00.008-05:00

By Mink

Some things besides the torn cartilage in my ear that keep me up at night:

On ATM Machines and Card Swiping

I love being carded in most situations but one place where it annoys me is at the Bank of America ATM booths. Why the heck do we need to swipe in just to enter the premises? Yes the heating situation in there is wonderful on a cold night, but requiring a fool like me to try to swipe twice is inhumane. By the way I want you to know how I really feel about card swiping (and no I am not talking about the hand-in-ass cheek game that seemed to have been all the rage amongst the Jewish-male-adolescent-midwesterner crowd in summer camp, which they found to be both hilarious and heterosexual,). No matter how many diagrams I read about how to slide the damn card, my swiping skills on a good day are horrid. This is actually really a handicap in life and it impairs my essential functions by causing me to miss subway trains, to have a line full of people curse at me in the grocery store, and to get swiping blisters.

My new approach is to just admit defeat upfront by asking the professionally trained grocery cashier to handle the difficult task. Usually the grocery lady will decline this task and force me to unsuccessfully swipe while yelling “no, the other way” about 8 times in front of a line of old ladies, waiting to buy one loaf of bread and eggs. This whole process causes me emotional distress and has led me to contemplate filing a class action under the Americans With Disabilities Act.

But back to my point about the ATM’s--- is the objective to keep the non-BOA members out in the cold unless someone is nice enough to add them to the guest list and let them into the lounge? I am pretty sure their Wachovia cards or whatever will work in the machine. So basically they are saying if you don’t bank with us, feel free to use our machines but you are on your own trying to get in the door. Some nerdy dude (think Dean Pritchard from Old School) who wasn’t allowed into clubs and parties had to have come up with this one to exact his revenge. Come to think of it I see where he’s coming from and I think I like it.

On Compliment Recieving

I am a pretty much a terrible compliment receiver. If someone says "Jon, nice shirt," instead of an appropriate "thank you" response, I inevitably will try to bring it right back to them even if the reciprocal compliment doesn't work at all.

For example:

Complimenter: Jon, nice shirt
Me: You too
Complimenter: But im not wearing a shirt

Or even worse;

Complimenter: "Jon nice haircut"
Me: You too
Complimenter: But I am bald and it’s because I am on chemo.
Me: Uh, well I like your shirt.......

On the Meaning of Apathetic

Would the opposite of apathetic be pathetic? If so I now have a great excuse for being a lazy-ass, as it would be pathetic to not to be....and yes it is rather pathetic that I am not apathetic about the meaning of these words.

On Mixed Breeds

I know this is so 2004, but in Napolean Dynamite there is talk of the "Liger" being pretty much Napolean’s favorite animal. The liger is a mixed breed of a lion and a tiger and it is bred for its skills and magic. I was thinking of some other ridiculous mixed breeds that would be kind of awesome. So far my list includes:

The Rhitah (Rhino/Cheetah)---It would be like one of those freakish NFL 350 Defensive Ends who can inexplicably run the 40 yard dash in 3.6 seconds.

The Cowperd(Cow/German Shepherd)---Imagine a scene where these animals successfully wrestle a fleeing criminal to the ground but not before providing the helpless dude with a warm glass of milk

The Fire Turtle (Fire fly/turtle)---Glow in the dark turtles....nuff said

The Spearson (Michael Jackson/Brittany Spears)---If the breed survived (and clearly that'd be a miracle), this "thing" would be a museum piece.

The Frat (Frog/Bat)---A deranged flying frog that is named frat. I need a beer just thinking about this one.

(Further absurd mixed breed suggestions are certainly appreciated)

Facebook is....Kind of a Big Deal

2007-12-16T23:36:00.001-05:00

By Mink

I think we can all agree that the Facebook craze has reached a level of popularity that has not been enjoyed by any social trend aside from the slap bracelet fad of the early 90's.

One day, social scientists will ponder the meaning behind our appeal to this massive time waster (ok I lied it is likely that nary a social scientist will pose this question, but I wanted to sound scholarly---which is the same reason I just used the word nary). Many of these scientists, assuming they are not burned by the sun, will likely link the cause to global warming. But, I for one, think the simple answer is that Facebook fulfills the missing void in our lives --the void of our longing to achieve celebrity status.

Facebook is our 15 minutes of fame (well actually 15 minutes, 4 times an hour if you are bored at work). It serves as the paparazzi for our dorky social circles. I, as a sports fan liken it to my own personal Sportscenter. Did I miss the Elaine's party? Oh that's cool I'll just get the highlights… I wonder if Bill and Janice did anything cool on their trip to bermuda? Nope just the usual PDA shots by the ocean... Is the girl I am supposed to be set up with a ten? Nah more like a 4.5 and that’s even with the self-selected glamour shots…Is Tonya still dating that D-bag? Yup, her status still reads “in a relationship”---damn it.

The point is, this little monster that is Facebook enables us to quickly check in on the seemingly exciting lives that our friends and acquaintances live. And I emphasize the word seemingly because it also gives the facebook poster the chance to make his or her very ordinary life seem quite glamorous.

For example, my bro and I were raking leaves at the Mink family home over Thanksgiving weekend and as mature 20-something- year- olds do, we decided to take off our shirts in 40 degree weather to get a little rise out of our poor momma. To our surprise, she was entertained and started snapping pics, which I obviously then posted on facebook. Now as you have read, this story is not so exciting. But our lives could appear rather enchanting (in a mentally challenged kind of way) to the bored acquaintance at work. He may wonder, maybe these nuts were getting wasted in front of their rents? Maybe they are submitting these as modeling pics to some new pasty-white-Jewish-American-magazine? When in actuality we are just morons, nothing beyond that….See what I mean? Ordinary becomes glamorous or at least intriguing. Access Hollywood is now at our disposal.

With this absurd analysis behind us. I would like to now gripe about a few types facebook abusers who need to be reprimanded:

The Facebook Paparazzi Girls: Usually these are girls in their early 20’s who absolutely need to be denied digital camera permits. They enter into any party or social situation armed and dangerous with their flashbulbs and moments after will “tag” (as the kids say) you in the most incriminating of photos. I mean before 2005, I could go out without the fear that if I decided to lick another human being on the ear that it would be posted for the entire world to see. Sadly, this is no longer the case today.

The Constant Group Requesters: I also am deeply saddened when I hear that a little boy has cancer but then you bastards have to make me feel guilty for not wanting to flood my profile with another group. I just declined to join a group for people that hate Hitler. I mean I dislike Hitler as much as the next guy, but my facebook group memberships are pretty much reserved for things that make me laugh. (though, I did consider joining solely because his little stache certainly does elicit a chuckle from me every now and then).

The Elder Members: There has recently been a wave of new facebook members who were alive before color television and when the Baltimore Orioles were considered a good franchise. Granted, I think it’s cute that you want to connect to your kids and even grandkids, but isn’t it possible that this could make things get a little weird? My roommate had a great call on this one. He told his dad that joining would be comparable to sitting on the couch between our friends while we were all just chilling in high school. I would take it a step further and say he would also just be wearing his tightie whities. You get the point: UNCOMFORTABLE.

Status Messageitis: Saying you are no longer listed in a relationship or that you are insanely hung over is newsworthy but my beef is with the people who think that we care to read that “Joe Green is feeling down” or that “Amanda Jones is thankful it’s nearly Friday!” Seriously, were you lacking attention as a kid? I was, but at least my response to that is to post awkward shirtless pics instead of telling you that I wish it was warmer outside.

The Groping Couple Profile Picture: We get it you have a significant other. It is now hot and heavy and you like to touch a lot in public. But can you instead create a nauseating personal blog telling tales of your picnics and post these awful pictures there? Trust me, anyone who cares will read it and this way you don’t have to force your love and sexy-time into our precious intimate moments wasted at work.

Personal Wall Messages: If you have a personal message or questions for me I think the wall is pretty much the worst forum for that. I.e. “Hey Jon, how is life treatin ya?” If you really care to know, give me a call or send me an email. Otherwise don’t be surprised to get a response from me to the likes of “I’m good. Hope all is well.” P.S. the “hope all is well” response was actually created by disinterested girls and can be translated to mean “I am now politely going to end our communication by not writing anything to which a response is required…have a nice life.”

Ok that is all for now. Hope all is well.

Oh Yeah, I Forgot We Have a Blog

2007-10-31T23:02:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Ok, Ok. No fanfare, no hugs and kisses, no screaming in adoration, no girls throwing undergarments in my direction. They smell, and they need to be washed. I am back. With a vengeance. Actually, I’m not really the vengeful type. Except against fat women who shove their asses into slim subway seats next to me and ruin my ride to work.

Question. How does Archie (of Archie comics) have two of the hottest comic book women out there (aside from Wonder-woman who is Wonder-ful and this woman named Chi Zing from a strange Chinese comic book I sometimes pick up when I am in Chinatown) fighting over him?? The guy has lighter skin than Mink, is a goofy redhead, and says things like “Golly gee” and “Guffaw.” His best friends are a dick named Reggie and an imbecile named Jughead. What do these girls see in him? And we all know who he should end up with anyway…Veronica. Her Dad is rich.

In Zev news, I am now working. Also, I need vacation. I’m thinking about going to an Island. Thousand Island. Joking. But not really. Delicious, on a deli sandwich with potato chips and some sauerkraut.

Is it weird that in the bathroom at my office, a law office, there is a sign that reads “Employees must wash their hands before returning to work”? FYI, I don’t work in a gross kosher bagel store. Then again, maybe it is weird that I think it is weird to want people to wash their hands. Would you want to meet your lawyer for the first time, and shake his unwashed potty hand? Me neither. Turns out it’s a good sign to have up.

I have so much more to tell you, dear readers. You missed my most fun summer EVER (I had mono and took the Bar exam) and I met a man on the street who looked like a woman. Crazy. But I will save these adventures for another time, and will end with this: The End.

Deep Thoughts from the Raucous They Call NYC

2007-10-18T00:46:00.000-05:00

By Mink

So a lot has happened since our last meeting: O.J. made his triumphant return to the slammer; Columbia University took a wonderful stand on the freedom of speech by allowing some dude, with a last name I won’t even try to spell, to speak on their campus; my beloved Baltimore Orioles made history in my presence by allowing Texas to score more in one game than even your mom did before you were born (sorry I woke up this morning with a major urge for a good old mama joke---please share your favorites in the comments section); and oh yeah I moved to NYC because I was running out of blog material down in Bmore.

Here are a few first impressions:

I would have to say that my first few weeks in this crazy town have made me feel quite a bit like Brooks from Shawshank Redemption when he finally re-enters society after years of incarceration. Yes it is true; New York City has made me feel like an average 75 year old paroled ex-convict. The cars are moving faster, the people are pushing and everything is kind of one overpriced blur. In Maryland, people are waving you into their lanes, and saying excuse me but in the apple of bigness every step outside in the crowded streets can result in a mini-world war, often involving collisions and coffee spillages on freshly dry cleaned shirts (which by the way are not anywhere near the 3 for 2 dollars that I am used to).

Living here with a car has also turned me into the crazed traffic-report-seeking middle aged man that I swore I would never become. It has come to a point where I could be listening to the best Madonna song in the world (“Like a Virgin” with a “Borderline” a close second) when the traffic report alarm goes off in my head and I immediately am compelled to switch the radio to the 1010 WINS “traffic and transit on the 1’s” report. And I now am often finding myself talking about traffic patterns and the like at Bar Mitzvahs and weddings. But my favorite part of being a driver in this area is that I work in Jersey and live in NY. This means I get to beam with pride when everyone reassures me “Oh yeah that’s not too bad, its reverse commute.” It also means I become giddy like a school girl every time I see the cars across the highway crawling like even younger school girls.

Besides for allowing me to experience “reverse commute pride,” having a car can be a real pain in the bum bum. Although going through the EZ pass lanes is kind of fun, they take a lot of my money every day. But far more annoying is the parking situation. I have become much more proficient at finding spots, but I never really go to sleep feeling confident that I am parked in a legal spot. These fears were confirmed one special Friday morning when I arrived to my parking spot only to find the car missing because I apparently parked too close to a bus stop. A friendly local was nice enough to reassure me about the whole thing. She informed me: “It’s not stolen; I saw it get towed 10 minutes ago.” So I then learned another cool thing about NY---not all impounding fees will take your money. In my case, they towed the car to 203rd St but they told me on the phone that there was no cashier there so I would have to pay for it down on 37th St. Need to ride a subway at 3 AM? Sure no problem, Want to pay an insane amount of money to get your car back? Sorry, the next impound with a cashier is five miles away from where your car is located. What a town!
When I am not in the car, I am excited by the wonderful world of public transportation here. As I have mentioned before I have a real issue keeping my eyes to myself and it is supposedly bad subway etiquette to look directly at anyone. So I fully expect a subway smackdown in the very near future. Stay tuned ... Call me weird, but I also happen to think that the woman's who says "Stand clear of the closing doors please" has an extremely sexy voice. If anyone knows of her whereabouts please let me know, I would love to take her to dinner or at least ride the subways with her.
In NY, for some reason people seem to eat dinner way later than they do down in MD. For me, this meal usually takes the form of a micro waved delicacy during the late innings of a baseball playoff game. More notably, however, some friends of mine randomly found me wolfing down a lamb kebob at a bus stop on 85th St. at 11:30 PM on a Tuesday night. After throwing some money at me, we then headed to one of the local bars for a round. Gotta love the city that never sleeps; that is until it wakes you up at 3 AM with one of its eight million sirens.

Cheezits and the Secret to Maintaining Your Youthfulness (or Immaturity)

2007-07-13T12:58:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I feel that it is worth sharing that Cheezits have moved slightly ahead of the chewy Chips Ahoy cookies in my top snack position. Nothing against the heavenly cookies, but the Cheezits are just so versatile that I haven't been able to think of a time or place where they don't belong. For example, they work much better at the pool than the easily meltable cookies. I also very much enjoy saying the word Cheezit despite the fact that I had pretty bad acne in 11th grade.

Speaking of snacks, I was recently at this soiree in D.C. where I came across some lovely fruit platters (ok that sentence reads like a line from an email I would get from my mother). Anyway, as I was filling up a couple platefuls with some watermelon slices, pineapples, berries etc, I wondered to myself why I don't eat fruit nearly as much as say Cheezits (did I mention I like that word).

But when I thought about it, it made perfect sense. I don't eat fruit often purely because I am a lazy bastard. I will see some great looking pineapples and decide that I just am not in the mood to get my hands all sticky. Or I may see a great looking stash of cherries and decide that it's not worth it to spit out some seeds or alternatively that it would be unpleasant to swallow them. Or I may get a craving for an orange which suddenly disapears when I open the fridge and realize that I need to spend 10 minutes injuring myself undressing the damn thing. (For the record, the previous sentence was not intended to be a metaphor for anything else you sick wise-asses). The moral of the story is that as much as I enjoy all types of fruit, I really have to get myself in the mood for the whole ordeal. (ok that paragraph reads like an email I got from a girl once but she wasn't talking about fruit).

On another note, I don't know where I have been for the last quarter century but somehow I missed the Rocky party and am now making up for lost time as I watch these magnificent films. I therefore found it very cool when I learned that the actress who plays Adrian is also the therapist for the Caveman in the GEICO commercials. I would say that seeing her all these years later made me feel old but that would be a lie for two reasons:

First it would be a lie because as I mentioned, I only recently was introduced to the Rocky clan (who I all now consider family). But more importantly such a statement would violate my recently instituted policy to stop considering myself old. Yes it is true that I make the same jokes that a senior citizen makes and that I can now recall things that happened over 20 years ago and that former campers of mine are now entering law school and that my baby bro is of legal drinking age. But the reality is 27 isn't ancient and we are going to have the rest of our lives to complain about being old.

Yet constantly people my age (myself included) talk about feeling so old. Well, I have had enough of this and have decided to take an oath not to play the old man card till I am 37. At that point a lifetime of bitching over aches, pains, and forgetfullness will be right there for the taking. Until then my friends let's eats some Cheezits and enjoy our youth. (P.S. somewhere my mom is reading this and crying in fear that she will never have grandchildren).

Summer Ramblings: Misapplications of Summer Solstice and Sunscreen Lotion

2007-06-22T11:11:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Well it is officially summer. I know this because yesterday was June 21, Summer Solstice. In general I enjoy wishing people (especially Dunkin Donut Cashiers) happy holidays no matter how obscure. “Ok you take care now and have yourself a wonderful Flag Day.” Or “Keep the change and enjoy your Bastille Day.” Or “You have yourself a safe Declaration of the Báb Day.” But for some reason the Solstice one just wont roll off the tongue and I end up inevitably fumbling over the words and telling people to enjoy their “Summer Salsa-tiz” which despite sounding like a fabulous spicy Mexican dish, actually means nothing.

Anyway, the point to all this rambling is that summer is officially here and that makes me happy. My pasty white skin would disagree, but for me it doesn’t get much better than eating a Rita’s Gellatti with my sunroof down while listening to Madonna. Ok maybe it gets a little better than that but not much. The point is that if you have pale skin make sure to learn how to evenly apply sunscreen before riding for 4 hours in a convertible to a wedding. No matter how you slice it if you have a bad sunburn across half of your face, you will look like a jackass.

Another pearl of wisdom as we enter the summer period---spend more than 7 dollars on flip flops. If you don’t there is a strong chance that one flop will break and that you will be awkwardly stumbling throughout the bar as other patrons anoint you as “Flopless Joe.” If you are beginning to think these are not just hypotheticals, well I think you should go eat some spicy Summer Salsa-Tiz.

Finally one of my favorite things about summer time has to be the outdoor bars and cafés. Ever since teachers would instruct me to use my indoor voice, I have always been a big outdoors guy. Now I am pretty sure they have some summer outdoor seating in every city in America, but my very New York-centric friend Alana, was utterly shocked that a non Big Apple city could facilitate outdoor bars (or anything for that matter). After leaving NY for the first time in her life to attend a conference in downtown Baltimore, Alana was baffled that there was civilized life outside NY and that the civilized life included outdoor entertainment. I think she got it after a while I think but I was a bit taken aback when she said “Baltimore actually isn’t so bad, it kinda reminds me of Amsterdam.” That has to be the first time that sentence was ever spoken. Gotta love New Yorkers.

Blogger Convention Part Deux: More Vegas Adventures

2007-05-31T23:20:00.000-05:00

By Mink

As you should be able to gather from SingerZ's post last week, our blogger convention in Vegas was nothing short of glorious. As anyone who travels on business will tell you, the comps make it all worthwhile. So I am proud to say that we cleaned in the comp department on this trip.

While my cousin was slumming at the Wynn Hotel for a JP Morgan business trip, our famous little blog hooked us up with 3 nights free (albeit with the purchase of a higher priced flight on travelocity) at the arguably more glamorous Tropicana Resort. Even if the television was the same size as a Watchman I received as a Bar Mitzvah present and there was a trace of blood on my pillow cover, the Trop honestly was quite charming. Besides the hotel deal, the convention also managed to hook us up with comp peanuts on the airplane, a comp bikini mud-wrestling show, and best of all comp drinks at every casino 24-7! All this comping was great except that it kinda forced me into making such wise decisions as the 3AM Red Bull and Vodka.

Anyway here are the rest of the Vegas action shots:

From the moment we were given those comp peanuts we were treated like rock stars....These lovely blog babes greeted us at the airport to help us with our stuff and take us over to strip...I mean the strip.

Throughout the trip SingerZ loved getting overly chummy (yes I used that word) with inanimate objects and that is all I can say about this one. Ok I will say one more thing. My semi-straddle pose here just seemed logical at the time. And to explain that I must again make reference to Red Bull and Vodka.

The rest of these shots (and photos) were taken during a 30 minute stretch at the end of our last night. I will refer to this sequence as the Downward Spiral:

4 southern girls and the new Juris Doctor of love. This would have to be looked at as Zev's peak moment of the evening. But from here things did take a bit of a downward spiral.

After boring the ladies with the usual over-analysis of his poker exploits and law school stories, SingerZ watches the gals disapear into the bright Vegas night. And yes kids Zev is sitting down on the escalator here.

Mild depression sets in as SingerZ contemplates the one that got away. And obviously I am not referring to the ladies but rather his last hand of poker. And yes kids Zev is lying down on the escalator here.

After a rough 20 minutes SingerZ decides to call it a night as he dozes off alone in his bed at the Tropicana Resort.

Well this wraps up our trials and tribulations from Nevada. This rough patch aside, the Vegas Vaca was a great success (say it in Borat voice if you prefer) and with your financial support we plan on attending many more such conventions.

Blogger Convention Part 1: Viva Las Vegas

2007-05-25T16:43:00.000-05:00

by singerz

For those big blog fans out there (both of you), you know that we have had two previous blogger conventions. This year, as the Garbage Dump’s financial situation is simply FLYING, we decided to take our convention on the road. And where better to do a convention than…wait for it…wait…a little longer…almost there now…this is getting annoying Zev…New Jersey. No no, VEGAS my friends. That’s right, Mink and I packed our sunscreen and mouthwash, had them confiscated at the airport by the dicks who think terrorists use sunscreen and mouthwash, bought more sunscreen and mouthwash at CVS, and went to VEGAS!

So where to begin? People seem to think that we spent 4 days straight completely drunk. That allegation is out and out…kind of true. But let me clarify, we were not drunk for 4 days, we were in a perpetual haze of tipsy grogginess and delight for 4 days. I’d be surprised if most normal human creatures could sustain the alcohol consumption that Mink and I experienced, but, alas, we live on. Wavering on that thin line between the normal sobriety of human society and the idiocy of drunken lunancy is not easy to do. We did it for over 80 hours. Impressed?

Here is an extremely awkward pose of Mink and I holding our “mai tai’, a drink consisting of vodka, rum, schnapps, tequila, scotch, bourboun, beer, liquor, mikes hard lemonade, and Zima. That’s what the strange old man at the pool told us. Then he asked Mink if he could put lotion on Mink’s back. Long story. I too winced when I saw this awkward picture, but a true blogger holds nothing back:

Now, many people have asked me if I gambled on this trip. Forreal? Sharing a room with Mink for four whole days? Biggest gamble of my life. Did it pay off? Depends on what you mean pay off, suckah. Actually, no, it doesn’t depend what you mean. It didn’t pay off.

One of the highlights of the trip for me was Mink’s insistence on approaching complete strangers, claiming that we were journalists filming a documentary, and asking to take a picture with them, Here are some examples:

Mink told this couple that we were making a documentary. Two major problems: 1) Why would a documentary-making-journalist take a random picture with an Indian couple walking around a casino? 2) Why would his photographer, yours truly, be giggling like a schoolgirl with a rasperry lollipop as he snapped the photos?

And heres another one:

It seemed like this guy thought he was going to be famous from being in our “documentary”. And in case you are wondering why Mink is grabbing onto the phallic looking object that the man is holding, so am I folks, so am I.

So far sounds like a CRAAAZY trip, right? Like INSANELY WILD. Well just wait. Below is a picture of the night Mink and I went “clubbing.”

That’s what I’M talking about, Mink. WORK IT at the Tangerine Nightclub.

Stay tuned in the next week for part 2, where Mink gives his perspective on the convention, denies my allegation that he thought a hooker was actually hitting on him (true story, just ask Candy Cane-Ass, she'll tell you) and obviously some more absurd pictures. Peace.

On and Off the Record

2007-05-02T10:49:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Don’t you love it when someone asks a question you weren't expecting and you answer it with the one you assumed they would ask? Since greetings often begin with a "how are you?" it is easier than you would think to get crossed up (especially if you are a special individual) Example:

Random Attractive Woman: Hey what’s up?
Me: Good how bout you?
Random Attractive Woman: Uh…..good.

While a tad embarrassing, the above scenario is an example of a harmless non-answer. The question-asker walks away baffled as she contemplates pointing out the absurdity of the response. But, usually she will just let it slide as she carries on the conversation. However, a non-answer can become more than awkward in the following type of situation:

Non-Random But Still Attractive Woman (this is my hypothetical, so clearly she is good looking): Did you hear that X has terminal brain cancer?
Me: Good how bout you?

For the record, the above interaction has yet to happen to me but it certainly is a very Minkovian exchange. I recently have taken quite a liking to this Minkovian adjective. Remarkably, it can be interpreted as self -promoting and self -deprecating at the same time.

Ok, now we can go off the record. Since we last spoke I have learned that:

“Nappy" is not a nice word to say---Honestly before the Imus debacle "alright, im grumpy, its time for my nappy," was my way of announcing my daytime dozes. I also learned that Jew is a bad word in some parts of the country.

People who say "I am so chilled out" are generally some of the more uptight and anal people that I know. Yet somehow they have all deluded themselves into thinking that if they say the magic "I’m so chilled" words, that people won't see the pole up their asses. Erroneous. Aside from the possible exception of alcohol consumption, it is impossible to hide one's analness. These type of poles all glow in the dark.

My roommate, Benito, was drafted in the ninth round of the Israel baseball draft. Rumor has it he would have been a higher pick but some teams were scared off by these quotes after his tryout last summer:

"I really am just looking for an opportunity to go to Israel and launch some bombs."

"My favorite play in baseball is the suicide squeeze. It is just so unexpected and causes so much damage."

"I have a cannon for an arm and I hope to gun down as many runners as possible."

The legendary Solomon Milgrome passed away just a couple of weeks after I wrote about him here You can read more about him in the Baltimore Sun. Best quote in the article: "We don't live long enough to hate." That is coming from a man who lived to be 104. Rest in peace Milgroomp.

Things I've Had Enough of: Mink, Me, and People Who Say "For All Intensive Purposes"

2007-04-27T14:12:00.000-05:00

by singerz

When 3 days go by after Mink posts, and I haven't put something up yet, Mink bitches. "Waaaaaa, cmon Zev, post on the blog, waaaaaa, change my diaper, waaaaaa." True story. But there is a double standard here, Mink, and I will not let this injustice stand. Next time you come for the weekend, I'm not putting a dirty sheet on top of the dirty mattress for you to sleep on. Chew on that, because G-d alone knows who and what has been on that mattress.

Have you ever wanted to take a break from a roommate or a friend? Well yesterday I realized that I really, REALLY need a break from...wait for it... myself. I just would like a little breathing room. Don't get me wrong, I really like myself. A lot. Like more than a friend. But I would just love to have one damn weekend alone, without myself, without my stupid jokes, and without my crazy ideas. I wish.

And finally- I know plenty of people who say "For all intensive purposes" instead of "For all intents and purposes." Drives me mad. Like my brother who says "HundreT" instead of "HundreD." C'mon bro, enough of that. To quote one of my favorite toys from childhood, Speak-n-Spell, "SAY IT." And who is going to argue with the authoritative robotic yet tender and sweet voice of the Speak-n-Spell. I rest my case.

Puns, Passover, and Some Other P-Word I Can't Think of

2007-04-12T10:57:00.000-05:00

by singerz

My blog jokes are getting a little thin. And I don’t mean they’re not funny, I mean they haven’t been eating particularly well and have lost weight. I hope they don’t have an eating disorder. Uch, now I’m gonna have to pay for therapy and start complimenting them- “No, you don’t look fat Joke, you look amazing…” Speaking of fat joke, yo mamma so fat, when she sits around the house, she sits AROUND the house. BOOM SUCKA.

On a completely separate note, is E Minor. In addition, 4+7=11. Had enough yet, dear reader? I could go on for hours or until someone calls the authorities.

And now, in honor of the recent holiday, a few Passover observations:

-Matzah is spelled “Matzoh” on the boxes. I tried walking around pronouncing it like that and got some strange looks.

-Matzoh gives you constipation, and prunes reverse the effect, so if you eat prunes on top of matzoh you can let them fight it out in your body.

-Horseradish has nothing to do with horses.

-If a household pet parakeet eats horseradish, it will probably die. Don’t tell my sister, we told her it had a heart attack.

-When someone spills wine on themselves, they’re supposed to pour seltzer on themselves to prevent the stain. When my brother spilled seltzer on himself, I poured wine on him. It didn’t work. And I have a black eye. (Is anyone else disturbed that when you say “black eye” fast out loud it sounds like “black guy”?)

-If you ever take the greyhound bus from New York to Washington DC to go home for Passover, do NOT sit directly next to the bathroom at the back of the bus. Cause if you do, the fat old man will probably have stomach problems and you will have to smell his stomach problems for the last 2 hours and 45 minutes of the trip.

The Urban Garbage Dictionary

2007-03-30T08:45:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I was having a brief conversation with my friend Joe the other night when it struck me that at no point in the conversation did we converse in normal English. The exchange consisted entirely of grunts and some sort of nonsensical code. Here is a little snippet (and no I don’t mean a circumcision you sicko):

Joe: Sana!
Me: Daaaaaaaaaaaa.
Joe: Hey man
Me: What up?
Joe: Nuthin whatchya you doin tonight?
Me: I dunno Grimple....It is really a what to do.
Joe: You are gross. Choices?
Me: Eh, maybe downtown maybe to Brenda.... Wanna meetcha?
Joe: Maybe I'll meetcha..... I'm tired though, not getting enough sleeptcha.

Now clearly there was little uttered in this Verizon to Verizon call that should make even remote sense to a reasonably sane observer. (It is also worth noting that I divide my friends and family into two categories: The Gold Members [a.k.a. the Verizon users] and the Assclowns [a.k.a. the other cell company users who eat up my peak minutes]. If it is the end of the billing cycle everyone but the Verizon Gold members are dead to me until the cycle starts over. This sadly includes my own Sprint using parents.)

Anyway, what you read above amazingly was an exchange between two pretty highly educated adult men. Sadly, such a conversation is par for the course for us. So I feel like it is necessary to devote some of a post to translating some of this bizarre code in which I converse with my less sane friends. So with out further ado, the Urban Garbage Dictionary:

“Sana” Pronunciation "sä-n&, (sounds like Donna)• noun

A nickname that derived from the heroic Solomon Milgrome. Born in 1903, Milgrome survived the Kossacks and several bullet wounds as a grocer in inner city Baltimore. At 104 years young, the man is unknowingly a cult figure for some twisted 20-somethings in Baltimore. The very first time I saw him he was a young 92, and he immediately approached my friend Joshy, and grabbed his long hair as he uttered an incomprehensible word we thought to be “Shithead.” One thing led to another and before I knew it I was writing school newspaper articles and college admission essays about him changing my life.

With the Sol Milgrome worship came a plethora of nicknames for anyone connected to us. The nicknames took many forms and featured numerous adaptations. Sana, for some reason is the one that is most popular today. Although it sounds nothing like his name, the root of sana comes from sanoma which comes from Milliams-Sanoma which comes from the cookbook Williams-Sonoma. The William was changed to Milliam after we decided, somewhere in the 1990’s, that Milliam was the official nickname for Mr. Milgrome. As such, everything that even rhymed with Milliam, such as the name Williams, was given this absurd Milliam name. Years later we dropped the Milliam, but for whatever reason Sana name still lives.
(other Sana variations include: Sanoma, Sans, Sanopa, and Sansy)

“Daaaaa” Pronunciation: just imagine some kind of dying animal • no grammatical description

Is a grunting sound that has become a common phone greeting especially when speaking to Zev. The grunt originated as an imitation of Zev’s sound effect just before he verbally dismisses something. The grunt is generally coupled with hand gesturing with rapid hand movements.

“Grimple” • Pronunciation: 'grim-p&l (like simple) • noun

Another variation of a Milgrome nickname that is far less attenuated than Sana. Originally the variations of the Grome part of his name included: Grums, Grooma, Grumple, Grumpelstiltskin. As counselors on a summer west coast trip, my friend Yoni and I had a bus full of spoiled Jewish 16 year olds calling each other these Grome type nicknames. And if you don’t believe me the trip sweatshirt designed by the brats themselves, prominently displays the phrase “AberGRUMbie and Fitch Company” on the front of the shirt.

“What to do?” • Pronunciation: figure it out yourself• can be used as a noun

This phrase originated in my heavy Madden playing days of 2005. Any time a remotely difficult strategic decision would arise in the video game, the player would usually slam down his controller as he rhetorically asked “what to do? what to do?” Now the “what to do’s” are thrown around in social situations like figuring out plans or deciding whether to eat a burger at 2 AM.

"Brenda" • Pronunciation: 'bren-da • noun

An extremely pleasant eye candy who bartends at the local tavern. Some sick individuals plan their visits around her shifts. Unfortunately the pickup line “I got my drinks, but didn’t get your number” has yet to pay dividends (besides for shelling out an unnecessarily large tip).

"Meetcha" • Pronunciation: 'mEt • verb

Our buddy “Big Baby” inadvertently started the widespread use of this word in late 2005. At the time he was doing pretty much nothing with his life. He would call you up and once you told him where you were--without any regard to the time of day or the proximity-- the Big Baby would have same two word response: “I’ll meetcha.” You could be in Tennessee at 4 am on Wednesday and he was always eager to meetcha. Obviously, the meetcha response took a life of its own and any word with even a few of the syllables of the word meet was changed to a form of meetcha (i.e. I’m hungry lets go grab some peetcha.”)

"Sleeptcha" • Pronunciation: 'slEp-ch(E-)• noun The act of sleeping when spoken in Meetcha language. See Meetcha above.

Example Sentence: It is ridiculous that I am up late and losing sleeptcha writing this blog entry.

Some Little Tricks and Trinkets and Whatnot

2007-03-21T09:52:00.000-05:00

by singerz

We miss you audience, we miss you. While it may be true that we have been pretty lax (not the airport) about writing frequently, the blog is still a living and breathing entity. Actually, the other night I heard some living and breathing entity in my room and got scared, but then I remembered Mink was sleeping over on the dirty mattress on my floor.

Big news. I got a Masters in Disaster. I now add that to my array of academic achievements, including Professor of Love, Doctor Pepper, and my Master Blaster. Mink shutup, your jokes aren’t funny either. At least I don’t steal my jokes from other people. And when I do, it is from people that you’ve never heard of.

In other news, I really like Coke-Cherry-Zero. Like REALLY like. Like more than a friend.

Here are some things that have happened recently or popped into my head that I find funny. And if I say they’re funny, then they MUST be. (Some actually happened, some I made up, some I stole, you’ll never know which is which, na-nee na-nee na na, sticks and bones will break my hurt but stones will never name me- or some shit like that)

Public Relations: I was working at the Israeli Embassy. One of the bosses said to an Israeli guy and girl who were working together on an event, "You two are in charge of public relations." Fast forward a few hours later. I get a news email in my inbox at work with the subject “Two Israelis Arrested For Public Fornication." (Note: Fornication is a ridiculous word. Also, isn’t it funny when people who don't speak English well fornicate in public?)

Look Where, Mom? I was home at my parents’ house for a weekend. I was watching TV with my mom, checking my email on a laptop. There was a commercial for some clothing store with a girl wearing a skirt my mom liked. I hear, "Zev, do me a favor, can you look up her skirt?" Excuse me? That's not how I was raised.

Fat can be Funny: A friend of mine who works for some weird lab was doing a study on fat people. He was complaining that their test group had too few people in it. He said to me: "Our new obesity study is really looking for a larger test group." What, his other people weren’t fat enough to study?

The Solar System is Weird: My roommate was watching Jeopardy© and I was in our kitchen making dinner (did you like the copyright symbol I put next to Jeopardy? I'm fancy like that). Little did I know, there was a category about the solar system. Either way, wouldn’t you feel uncomfortable if your roommate asked you the following question: "Yo, is there a ring of debris around Uranus?"

Over and out.

Oven Roasted Undies and The Vacation From Myself

2007-03-09T12:48:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Well it has been a while since we last spoke but I think we all needed a break. What is annoying is that while you can get a rest from me any time you choose, I can never get away from myself. The bad jokes, word associations and endless sports trivia follow me around every waking moment 365 days a year. You know, sometimes I just want a vacation from myself...

So last week I tried to take one. I wasn't exactly sure where I was heading, but I was excited-- this was going to be marvelous. I got in the Camry and started up 95 towards the big apple. I made it all the way up to the Delaware Memorial Bridge before I looked in the rearview mirror and realized I was being followed. I tried switching lanes, pulling over, and even taking some weird Jersey back roads before getting insanely lost and almost missing the Jersey Bar Exam (but that's neither here nor there). The point is no matter where I went I couldn't shake my pale ass.

With the vacation from myself not in the cards, I settled for the next best thing--laundry. Now I hate laundry as much as the next guy, but there are few things I enjoy more than putting on a warm pair of boxers straight out of the dryer. The boys just love the cookies straight out of the oven-- so wonderfly soft, warm, and tingly.

Now glowing from the oven roasted undies, I reached my relaxation apex as I watched some college basketball followed by some Devil Wears Prada (Anne Hathaway is just glorious). Anyway, it turns out I actually was able to get a mini vacation from myself.

But it didn't last long. I laid in bed for hours trying to think of some perfect first names for Zev's future children. I finally was able to fall asleep at 4 am after coming up with: Jazz, Wedding, Lounge, and Solo. My vacation from myself may be over but I guess that's not so bad when it can conceive a dude named Jazz Singer. And by "conceive" I just mean the idea...not that there is anything wrong with that. Ok I lied. There is something very wrong about that one.

My Return From Sabbatical

2007-02-09T01:01:00.000-05:00

by singerz

I was on blog-sabbatical. What does that mean you ask? How can I take a sabbatical if I am not a rabbi? First of all, it’s debatable whether or not I am a rabbi. At least that girl I dated from Brooklyn, Chana-Sheindel-Lea-Rachel-Bracha-Sheindel (yes, two Sheindels) thinks I am a learned man of the Book. Capital ‘B’ in ‘Book’, thank you very much.

Speaking of Sheindel-squared, I miss her. Those long nights of awkward conversations about how many children we wanted to have (she wanted 16, I only wanted 12), those sensual moments when we would both reach for the prayer book and my finger would graze her gloved hand (yes, she always wore gloves, even inside the house- such a modest girl). I yearn for her (but don’t worry, my beloved readers, I never yearn in public, that’s disgusting).

NOTE: the above paragraph may or may not be simply one of the craziest things I have ever written. Thoughts?

What the hell was I writing about? Ah yes, sabbatical. Truthfully, I didn’t just have to write the “What the hell was I writing about” sentence, I could have looked up above and seen what I was writing about and then just continued. As a matter of fact, this entire paragraph is gratuitous bullshit. My bad. Life goes on.

Lately, I have been on leave from the Dump. And yet, Mink bothers me to write as often as I accidentally drop my phone in the toilet and then bring it in to Sprint telling them I don’t know what is wrong with it, and then they open it up, see the water damage sticker thingy, foil my clever plans, and I freaking never learn. The point is, leave me alone Mink, my phone has pee all over it and I have to buy a new one.

My sabbatical from the blog reminds me of the period of time after college and before my first job when I had 3 months with nothing to do. I was basically retired. Actually, not basically, but literally retired. The most exciting part of my day was when the mail arrived- I was like a dog waiting for the mailman at the front window. Including the barking. And the drooling, of course. I regularly ate early-bird specials at local restaurants and I got angry at those damn teenagers for driving too fast. I frequented the public library and talked back to the newspaper when I didn’t like what it said. That was the life. my friends, that was the life.

A Female Guest Visits The Dump (There is a First For Everything)

2007-02-02T13:26:00.000-05:00

"Making Productive Use of the Technology Around Us"

By Xani

So Mink asked me to write a guest blog entry. At first I was flattered—he clearly admires my fine writing style and sharp wit. Then he asked me to have it to him by tomorrow. I now realize he’s just too busy doing other crap to write it himself, and he knows my boss is out of the country and I am probably just sitting at my desk reading Craigslist all day. (True. Mostly. See below.)

Now I am faced with a challenge: write an entertaining (?) blog entry to a bunch of people I don’t know, about a topic of my own choosing. I figure the best way to start this is where Mink left off, and I’ll go free-association from there…

Talking on the phone in the bathroom

The post on this topic caused quite a stir. Several people were mildly offended by the fact that they may have had conversations with the Mink where he was at least partially undressed. Not to mention the whole excrement issue. I know I made a mental note to never borrow, or even touch, the Mink's phone again. But I also immediately thought of a solution to the echo/splashing/flushing sounds issue:

Texting

It’s like a miracle cure. Sure, for the guys it might mean a little practice texting one-handed, but hey, it’s not that difficult (I often do it while driving). I admit to being a chronic texter. Although at the moment this is more something put upon me than an actual choice; my phone is slowly dying, and its latest symptom is that I can only make or receive calls in speakerphone mode (so clearly bathroom calls are out of the question). But even when I have the option of talking on the phone, I often opt to text. It’s the wave of the future—no more inane conversations over where and when to meet. Short and to-the-point:

Me: Where should we meet to watch the Terps lose tonite?
Friend: Thirsty Dog?
Me: They don't even have tv's there. Idiot
Friend: F U

See? So much easier than actually TALKING to another human being. And texting can be used for so much more than just making plans! It’s also good for: telling people you are going to be late to work (I send and/or receive about one of these per day); making pointed comments about what’s on TV (“are u watching top chef? marcel is such a tool”); phone sex (no comment); marriage proposals, etc, etc. The possibilities are endless. And speaking of endless possibilities, let’s discuss….

The Internet

What in the hell did we do before this came along? Probably a lot more work. I don’t have any actual figures on this, but I have to estimate that 98% of office employees’ time in this country is spent screwing around on the internet (other 2% spent getting coffee and making personal phone calls). I bet you are at work right now. And on the Internet. Screwing around. See what I mean?? One of my personal favorite internet time-wasters is…

Craigslist.org

Some of you might be familiar with this website, maybe you used it to buy some concert tickets, get rid of your old couch, find a roommate, or play a practical joke on your buddy (See http://minksgarbagedump.blogspot.com/2006/08/slurpees-with-strangers.html), etc. But you casual CL readers may not know about the seedy (and endlessly entertaining) underbelly of Craigslist. There is also a “personals” section on each city’s board that can provide bored office drones with hours of amusement. Want to read desperate attempts by painfully shy coffee drinkers to ask out that barista they’ve been pining after?

Head on over to Missed Connections. Casual Encounters is the place to see what kinds of crazy, high-risk sex is available in your city, tonight! Rants and Raves is another piece of work: huge amounts of bandwidth devoted to idiots spewing the kind of hate and stupidity they would never have the guts to say without the benefit of anonymity. Politics, race, dating, traffic, sports… any and every topic is discussed here, from the ridiculous to the downright disturbing (usually with a disproportionately large amount of grammatical errors).

Every once in a while you find something genuinely funny, touching, or interesting (start with Best Of if you are impatient). But what’s truly special about CL is the volume of crap there is to read. With tons of boards and dozens of cities there’s no waiting around for days for more crap to appear (like on this blog). I think CL refreshes every 5 minutes. You may never do work again. You’re welcome!

A "Bathroom Guy's" Idiot's Guide

2007-01-26T12:05:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I have this one friend who loves categorizing everyone in "Guy" categories. What I mean is that if you enjoy movies (even if this interest is shared by 99.9% of the world) he will tell you that you are a "Big Movies Guy." If you read the "Sportsguy," then you are a "Big Sportsguy guy." He classifies in the negative too so that if you are not interested in a certain blonde haired girl he will tell you that you are not a "Big Blonde Guy." (Given my physique and hair color this doesn't really work when he says it to me. But I humor him because technically he is right, I am more of a "Big Dirty Blonde Guy") The point is that under his absurd "Big Guy" categorizing system, I would not be considered a "Big Phone Guy."

I like to call my friends for a quick catch up or just to "ooh and ahh" over another heartbreaking loss by one of my sports' teams, but in general, if I am just chilling on my couch, I'd rather not be on the phone. As such, I prefer to make my phone calls in those moments when I am not purely relaxing. Many times this phone chatting will occur in the car on the way home from work. But most preferably this multi-tasking goes down in a place traditionally reserved for a much different type of discarding of obligations.

You see I am a "Big Bathroom Guy," It may sound cliché but I do my best thinking in the palace. Like anyone else I have read countless newspaper and magazine articles in there but with the creation of wireless I was able to reach new heights. I was now able to send emails, watch baseball games on MLB TV, and even finally figure out what the hell it meant for a bank to be "member FDIC" (they say this at the end of every bank commercial and it annoyed me for years that I was clueless…..thanks again wikipedia.)

Anyway you see where I am going here. I find the atmosphere of the "John" to be suitable for pretty much anything (aside from eating…..My friend Yoni actually does snack in there, but I don't really see a point…It certainly isn't multi-tasking. In fact you are doubling your work). Obviously this also means that it is my venue of choice to dial up a friend, relative, or well anyone.

With this potentially disturbing background in mind, I decided it was time to write out some sort of guide for this type of activity. Most of these are common hurdles that could hinder an otherwise cathartic experience. I have provided some suggested remedies please feel free to add other suggestions and potential blockages (pun intended) that I have not addressed. So here it goes:

An Idiot's Guide to the Bathroom Phone Chat

1. Dealing with the Echo Problem: A common problem for us potty mouths relates to our voice transmission. The other caller will often claim they hear some sort of "echo" and may even ask you candidly "are you shitting with me?" You can deal with this issue in one of 2 ways:

---"The Museum Defense"---I haven't been to a museum in quite a while but I have some of my friend's convinced that I am a bigger museum buff than their retired Aunts. This is just an easy quick retort to the sound effect question. Although it is problematic if you are telling this fib at midnight or if the art gallery, you chose, has well known rules forbidding cell phone usage. If you run into either of these traps just say you are a VIP member with special privileges.

---Surround sound---A simple musical background can drown out the echoish sounds or at least distract the caller, provoking questions such as "Are you really listening to Ashlee Simpson?"

---Keep the door slightly ajar--- (warning: performing this remedy has the danger of infuriating spouses or roommates).

2. The Side Step: If you are male and you are in the midst of a onesie aim a little to the side of the bowl. You don't want them to hear the direct splashing sounds. But in the event that the curious caller does hear you, just tell them you are doing the dishes. Like the museum defense, this is a problem for me because it is just so out of character.

3. Sounds of Silence: If the bathroom visit is of the deuce variety, try to minimize your expressions of relief and jubilation or, at the very least, pretend that you were really just excited about a good play in the game you were watching.

4. Discard your obligations (and your dinner): It is always preferable to use the facilities to speak to that chatterbox friend of yours, who you are obligated to call every once in a while. First, this means you get the obligatory convo out of the way. But make sure to get up an stretch in the middle. Second, it means you can just put them on speaker as they jabber away and you do your thing with an occassional "right on" "sure" or "yessssssss feels so much better........uh never mind what were you saying?"

5. The Bathroom Sunburn:If you are using a wireless laptop and having your convo on Skype:

---BE SURE TO PUT A TOWEL ON YOUR LEGS (I've been burned before and it aint pleasant)
---BE SURE NOT TO ACTIVATE THE WEBCAM FEATURE (unlike above this will not be a hot situation)

6. The Exit: Ok definitely do not flush until you are on the way out. If you aren't finished the convo then either pull a flush-and-run as you exit or just wait till after. Leaving the evidence behind isn't cool so I'd advise this flush-and-run-as -if-you-are-Napolean Dynamite method. If you do get caught here, you can't really assert a "dish washing" type defense. There just is not too much that sounds like a flush. Perhaps if you are a video game buff you could tell them it is the sound of a new type of rocket launcher from your James Bond '07 game and that it just sounds weird because it is Russian.

7. Use Good Judgment: Bathroom phone chatter is not universally viewed as acceptable adultlike behavior (though it should be). For whatever reason, some people get quite offended by the bathroom talk, so be sure to know your audience. Even if you have taken effective precautions, you probably shouldn't risk this activity when speaking to extra sensitive important people in your life (be it a boss or a significant other). It's just not worth it. Ok it definitely is, but you get my point: You speak, you poo, someone could get hurt. ***This message has been brought to you by MAPP: Mother's Against Phone Pooping. My mom is the president.

Tis the Season

2007-01-10T15:14:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I know it's almost mid-January but I want to tell you how much I enjoyed this winter holiday season. The annual holiday friendliness is always nice (especially on my visits to NY, where somehow the city's standard rudeness is replaced with an aura of cheeriness), but the thing that stood out about this year in particular has to be the unseasonably warm temperatures on the east coast. (I just can't tell you how many elevator conversations I've had about this topic).

But for some reason former Vice President and current meteorologist, Al Gore, seems to believe that this global warming thing is a full-scale disaster. I have to disagree. 70 degrees in January is just glorious. With apologies to my hypothetical grand-kids, I just can't really get all up in arms for something that may harm us in hundreds of years. For now, my pale-ass will enjoy the sun. (This carefree attitude on the global-warming situation pretty much ensures that my last words will feature a variation of "I'm melting.")

With that I will share a few anecdotes and thoughts from my winter break:

I had the pleasure of visiting Los Angeles a couple weeks ago. Now the trip was a blast and highlighted by an Israeli-rave (though I fell asleep due to my jet-lag), a B-list celeb sighting (the older bro from malcolm in the middle), and a trip to Venice Beach (the only jurisdiction in the U.S. where herb smoking is legal. Honestly I have never seen such public smoking, but maybe I am sheltered). The more noteworthy part of the journey, however, was the travel itself. On the way there, I was forced to go stand-by after my first flight to Denver was cancelled due to a blizzard (apparently global warming isn't so global). I ended up sleeping on a bench in Dulles Airport and entertaining myself as I asked airline employees how I could get to Krakozhia.

It turns out that life as a stand-by traveler isn't exactly fun, although by the end of the journey we sort of formed a fraternity of stranded travelers. My favorite activity was rooting for the confirmed travelers to miss their flights, which would obviously open up spots for us. Poor Mrs. Jenkins was standing around the gift shop and didn't hear the final boarding call. When the 60-something-year-old lady in a hot pink jumpsuit finally emerged, she was told that her seat had been given away. The stand-by contingency thereby erupted into a smattering of chants to the tune of "Back of the line, Ms. Jenkins!" I felt kind of bad, but I certainly was leading the chants.

By the end of the trip we hugged mothers, girlfriends and siblings of other stand-byers on our way out of LAX airport. We even planned a 5 year reunion. The whole 19 hour experience seemed like some kind of bizarre reality TV show experience, and I would rank it up there in my top ten worst bodily odor moments. (this could be a future posting if I could remember the other nine).

Following the eventful trip to Cali and a long New Year's weekend of absurdity in NY, I returned to MD, and immediately got into an altercation with a homeless man. Beggars apparently can be choosers. (What the hell is a chooser anyway? Do we ever use that term other than this context? I mean you just never hear: "Zev, are you seriously going to dump this girl just because she insists that at all times you refer to her as 'pumpkin'? Man, you are such a chooser!") The point is a homeless man in downtown Baltimore refused my bagel offer. Granted, it was one of my roommates' gross and overly healthy whole-wheat ones, but it was in a sealed Ziploc and was actually pretty fresh.

Of course his refusal caused quite a scene as a random woman witnessing the event jumped in and started yelling at the "chooser" for declining the carbo snack. The event capped off a rough week between the poor man and myself. Just a few days prior to the bagel incident, the dude also chose to drop his blanket, roll over to his side, pull out his member and urinate inches from my leg as I walked to work.

I am a CHILD

2007-01-04T16:39:00.000-05:00

by singerz

It is not rare that I will hear the statement, “Zev, you are such a child.” Usually, I take this as a compliment. I’m youthful. I’m energetic. I have soft skin like a baby’s ass. But I have recently started to realize that sometimes, (gasp), most of the time; this is NOT meant as a compliment. It is a dig at my maturity.

Well Mr. I’m-So-Serious-I-Don’t-Laugh-At-Poop-Jokes-And-I-Carry-An-Attache-Case-Even-When-I-Go-To-The-Beach, you have to relax. (Don’t you LOVE saying the word “attache-case”? I do. I really do.) As Frank (who won 4 Jeopardy episodes in a row), answered to a Jeopardy clue about the Bible, there is a time to laugh, a time to cry, blah blah blah. And then Alex didn’t give him credit because he didn’t ask it in question form. Alex is a dick. He doesn’t know as much as he pretends and those fake accents make me want to vomit in his mustache. Actually, I once did…na I’ll leave that crazy-ass story for another time.

And so, here are just a few examples that should prove to you that I am still a child:

-Someone recently said to me: “Awwww, you look SO grown up in that suit!“

-I always like the kids table better. French fries, fish sticks, apple juice and no adults.

-I hate dry wine.

-Whenever anyone offers to set me up on a blind date, I make the joke: “If she’s blind, how will she know where to meet me?”

-As my roommate once explained, I regularly eat as if my parents are away for the weekend. Sugar cereal, soda, devil dogs, licorice…But at least I eat salad: pickles.

-When my friend who I share this blog with comes to visit as he did this past new years weekend, we are more excited to lay in bed next to each other having ‘pillow talk’ then we are to go out and meet girls (actually, that’s more gay than it is childish, but let me have that one, will ya?)

Relax We Are on Vacation

2006-12-28T16:04:00.000-05:00

By Mink

We have been flooded with emails, some expressing discontent with our infrequency of posting, while others seem to believe that we should be using Viagra (must be the plethora of old man pun jokes made on this site). Anyway, I am just writing to let you know that we are on a garbage dump vacation and we will be back to entertain ourselves and infuriate the anoynmous readers when we feel like it. I will, however, give you a quick run down of some stuff going on with us. Some of this may appear in more detail later on, but for now just sit back drink some egg nog and watch a Scrubs or Arrested re-run. We miss you too.

---The Mink's travel plans to LA take an expected (not a typo) turn for the worst as his connecting flight goes through Denver International Airport, which is closed for a blizzard. Oh good Karma where art thou?

---SingerZ tries to enjoy his law school winter break but his stomach hurts, and he can't fall asleep so he just sits in bed eating fried cheese.

---Benito (see The Odd Couple post) gets an offer to play professional baseball overseas. The Mink is furious, as he now needs to find a replacement at shortstop for his overly-competitive summer softball league.

---Mink's friend finds out that her boyfriend was 1. Married 2. Has two young children 3. Does not really have cancer. You may have to read number 3 again, because it is the most insane thing I have ever heard. Even George Constanza isn't that twisted.

---The Dumpers will be tearing up the Big Apple on New Year's Eve. We encourage all female blog readers to find us under the mistletoe when the clock strikes 12. Extreme and outrageous behavior are strongly encouraged. The Garbage Dumpers are always looking for some good action......or any action at all for that matter.

---And finally, Cal Ripken is about to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. I am writing this mainly because SingerZ hates when I write anything sports related but also because I have a shrine to him in my parents' house, including a life size growth chart of the man as well as his jock strap. I had the pleasure of meeting him at a wedding, a year and a half ago, and my mother made sure to repeatedly embarrass me by telling Cal about the chart and other symbols of my man crush. Well at least she snapped this shot of us.

For any sports fans here, this is a great article about Calvin and his Hall of Fame worthiness. I plan on attending the Cooperstown induction in July, and you should too.

The Odd Couple

2006-12-15T11:49:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Well, I have been sharing my thoughts and mental illnesses on this blog for over a year now but for some reason I have yet to really write about my current living partner. Benito and I are going on 18 months now (which I believe is generally accepted as the absolute cut-off for any prohibition for flatulence-in-public between couples). Like a true married couple we eat dinner to Scrubs re-runs, wear matching green "going out t-shirts," and ask each other if we look obese in certain articles of clothing. He even makes me waffles on Sunday mornings! (a real keeper, I know).

More importantly we are about as opposite as Michael Richards and Martin Luther King. (Editor's Tangent: I was watching a Seinfeld re-run the other day and was very worried that Kramer's real life tirade would taint my enjoyment. But to my surprise, the experience went better than expected. I kind of likened it to a hypothetical scenario where I would walk in on a female guest sitting on the toilet at a dinner party hosted by my parents. Upon her return to the table, it would certainly be awkward but then at a certain point I would probably realize that this person is friends with my parents and that I would thus be required to block out the unfortunate imagery and act as if nothing happened. I would then resume socializing with this lady and maybe even laugh at her jokes. Similarly, about 5 minutes into Seinfeld, the characters and I were cool and I was enjoying all the jokes to the fullest. In sitcom world, Kramer is pals with Jerry, George and Elaine and for that I must pretend like nothing happened in the real world.)

Ok that was a long digression. The point is Benito and I are the Odd Couple. He folds his clothes neatly; I use my bathroom floor as a hamper. He has a daily workout regimen; I have a daily Entenmanns eating regimen. He is handy and is known in the D.C. area for his satisfying wall-jobs (he builds dry-walls for people's apartments); I am not handy and make immature sexual jokes about wall-jobs.

The point is that while we generally get along great, my roommate is shall we say Type A and I am shall we say somewhere around Type T (on the lesser known A-Z scale). I will illustrate this with the recent incident of the missing apples:

I rarely purchase apples but for some reason one Sunday night I decided to act healthy and purchase a few for the upcoming work week. Unbeknownst to me, Benito made a similar decision the day before, although there was a glaring difference in the grade and quality of our respective apple selections. Whereas I picked out some standard yellow/green-bruised-dirt covered granny apples from Shoppers, the Type-A roommate spent his Saturday night at Wegman's where he carefully hand-selected some shinny-red-Grade-A candies of nature.

On Monday morning, I went to grab some food for my lunch and decided to take the whole batch of my apples to leave in my office fridge. Being my absent-minded self, I obviously had no recollection of the color of the apples, whichI had purchased less than 8 hours before. I grabbed a bag of 5 red apples, thought nothing of it, and headed to work. At lunch, I excitedly washed an apple off and ate it after finishing my standard cheese sandwich. I then offered some of the remaining ones to several co-workers. Fortunately, only one person took me up on the offer. So I was down to 3 shiny-red-roommate-apples.

Fast forward to Tuesday morning. I woke up about an hour after my roommate and headed to the bathroom for the morning pee. With my contacts not yet in my eyes, I glanced over at the mirror and noticed the following message on 2 post-it-notes:

Matter of Life and Death.......I think you took my apples. Please return, I don't want your yellow shitty apples. I want my red ones for tomorrow. They're from Wegman's. Thanks,

Hate,
Benji

My bad, my bad. Ben is now vacationing out of the country and I am home alone with only some deformed yellow "shitty" apples to keep me company.

The Dump's Anniversary Reading List

2006-12-07T00:05:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Many of you said we wouldn’t make it. By many of you, I mean that guy I bumped into on the train a year ago. Well, you stinky little man with small hands, screw you. We lasted a year and are going strong. And no, I didn’t forget the Garbage Dump’s one year anniversary. I’m just mad that Mink never takes me out anymore. The first few months were great, but since then I feel like he takes me for granted.

Anyway, in honor of our anniversary, I have put together a reading list of books I either wish existed or I want to write myself. Feel free to add your own. I already know “Anonymous” is going to add “This Blog Sucks But I Still Check it 6 times a Week.” And now, the list:

101 Things That Make Me Vomit

Why We Should Wash Our Hands After We Pee

10 Better Ways to Spend a Saturday Morning Than in Synagogue

The secrets of AOL IM: How to be someone youre not when talking to girls

Sweatpants: A Novel

Facial Hair - part two

When You're Hungry, You Should Eat

Secrets of Law School: Don't Go

Snood: Gross hair covering or addictive video game?

Candy is Better than Vegetables, No matter What Mom Says

I Started this Blog to Get Girls and its Just Not Working

The Anniversary Edition

2006-12-01T02:19:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Well it is official. SingerZ has forgotten our one-year anniversary. I came home the other night wearing a racy new outfit, had the scented candles out, fried up some of his favorite goat cheese and even cleaned out that gross brownish ring that lives right about the water of my John.* (I just want to add for the record that it hasn't always been easy having a name that also stands for a place where people go to move their bowels. Yet recently I have come to embrace it, and on occasion I will even sign a thank you note or an email with a: "Sitting on the, Jon.")

Anyway, getting back to the humiliation of the forgotten anniversary....On November 19th, we reached a major milestone in our blogging relationship. We have just completed one glorious year of sharing stories about escapades involving manicures, woman cramps, haircuts, and insulting dead guys. Yet for whatever reason, SingerZ seems to take this for granted and instead chooses to live the American dream in Manhattan, spending his wild nights eating bad pizza and loudly over-analyzing Grey's Anatomy with an all- male gathering.

So I sit here alone, eating a carton of Ben and Jerry's while watching When Harry Met Sally. And I am left with no choice but to share some of my mis-adventures with anyone who is really bored at work reading this (or just to my mother's 50-something- year-old pals who apparently comprise 90 percent of our readership).

Note: All of the events below are one hundred percent accurate. Only the timing of the occurrences has been altered to enhance my debacle- filled week:

Monday was supposed to be an exciting one as I was replacing my cancer- infested '96 Accord with a "new" '01 Camry. In the previous weeks I tried to play the "educated consumer card" and began talking out of my bunghole as I asked various car dealers about V-6 engines, gas mileage and rotary girders. In reality, I was just pleased to be driving something with brakes and a radio that actually works (My old radio would work on occassion but usually I would have to bash it in with my fist for this to occur. Such violence caused many a bloody hand as well as many an awkward conversation with passengers who were convinced I had a bad case of Tourette's).

But as expected, things refused to go smoothly, and within minutes of coming into possession of my burgundy bundle of joy, I found myself garbage- bagging shut the driver- side window when it refused to go up. I then was unsuccessful in filling the tank with gasoline because the gas hatch was broken and locked shut. Finally, to add insult to injury, the seatbelt decided not to lock into place. (I don't generally use the "insult to injury" phrase but here it is applicable because after finding each little blemish with the new car, a voice inside of me actually was loudly hurling insults my way. By the time I discovered the seatbelt problem it was actually screaming, "Jon you are an ASSHOLE")

Feeling as if I had just purchased a lemon, I decided to relax by laboring on a paper for work. I actually was semi-productive for a few hours, before somehow accidentally saving the document as a temp file and then over-writing it and in the process losing about 8 hours of work. After a couple hours on the phone with the tech people and learning more than I ever want to learn about temp files, I realized it was a lost cause.

Then to cap off the smooth day, I tried to chill out with some wine and Sportscenter before retiring to sleep for the night. But somehow my bedroom television had become unplugged and I had to fumble around in the dark to reconnect the damn thing. In the process, I knocked over my cup of spare coins, scattering them into the various clothing piles that reside on my floor. At that point I threw up my hands and cried myself to sleep. Ok maybe I was laughing, but certainly not with myself (My timing must have been way off because I was constantly a few giggles off my own pace**).

That was my manic Monday and a perfect way to usher in year 2 of the Garbage Dump. Here is to another year of insanity, L'hayim. Happy Anniversary!

*For those interested in learning of the origins of the name "John" as a bathroom name check this out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Harington

**FYI this was meant to be a pun

A Day for the Eavesdrop

2006-11-16T11:00:00.000-05:00

by Mink

Whether it is on a subway, at a restaurant or when peering through a hole you created in the ladies bathroom, eavesdropping (weird word...try saying it a few times) is unavoidable. Yesterday unintentional eavesdropping was the theme, as well as the highlight, of my day. Please allow me to share with the class.

I was walking near the law school when I overheard a snippet of a female student's cell phone conversation. She emphatically told the poor soul on the other line that "it is not just about Miami G-d damn it!!!!!)" I found myself intrigued and tried to eavesdrop.

Inner monologue:

---What could possibly be negatively associated with Miami? Did your boyfriend cheat on you there? If so are you single now? Looking for a pseudo-functional rebound guy?

---Was it something you ate in South Beach? a bad sunburn? (spf 45 aloe vera works like a charm and doesn't leave that oily residue) distraught over the UMiami player who was murdered?

----And if it wasn't just about Miami what the hell is this all about? Perhaps the voice on the other line was a movie-scene ruiner spoiling all the lines from the Borat movie that she planned to see this weekend. Or perhaps it was just a roomate who failed to wash one dish too many.

---Ok buddy you just need to simmer down and get a hold of yourself. (not sure if this was directed to myself or the hostile phone converser).

---And did she just use the word G-d in the same sentence with Miami? I think the last time I heard the two linked was when a favorite college professor of mine proclaimed "Miami, otherwise known as G-d's waiting room." (editor's note--- I am not using the "-" so much for religious reasons as I am trying to protect the heavenly father from having this absurd site come up on a google search of His own name).

Well after an awkward and abrupt pause in my walk and a non-discrete stare, I decided I would not get any answers and was on my way. This bizzare street eavesdrop sadly was the highlight of my otherwise uneventful day. However, thanks to the paper thin walls of my apartment building I was blessed with a much better eavesdrop moment after dark.

The night-time soundbyte was not really a conversation, rather I would more appropriately describe what I heard as the "moans of passion" or the "grunts of love."

Inner monologue #2:

---Is that a female voice screaming for help? Should I go knock on their door?

---No that is not a yell, sounds more like moan.

---Wait, let me find a better ear angle...... there we go.....yeah repeated expressions of jubilation.....Sounds like Maria Sharapova playing tennis.

---Sexytime, wawaweewa!

---Wow, still going.....will this be weird when I get my mail tommorrow and this couple says hello? Should I give them accolades for this performance?

---Ok I need to get some sleep. Should I go knock on their door?

Choose Your Own Adventure

2006-11-06T01:28:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Growing up (which many people claim I have not done yet), I used to love reading those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books. There was nothing more exciting to me than having an adventure, and being able to choose it, on my own. Simply fantastic.

Admittedly, I cheated. Whenever I made a choice, I would hold my finger in the place in the book where I was reading, look ahead to the page where my choice led me, and decide whether it was the right choice. Needless to say, I always beat the villain, never became the villain, never accidentally killed my friend, never got eaten by a three-headed wooly mammoth, always solved the crime, and once, I even got the girl (that was in my older years when getting the girl was the good result and not the bad one - ewwww girls).

Not that it was so difficult to choose what the correct choice should be. I will give you an example: You’re walking in the woods. There is a fork in the road. You pick it up and put in your pocket with your spoon (sorry, I had to say it). Then the road splits and you have two choices:

If you decide to walk down the scary dark path with snakes on it, a skull and crossbones marking it, and evil maniacal laughter emanating from down the path, turn to page 4.

If you decide to walk down the path with sunshine, roses, gold, ping pong tables, fair maidens giving out free snacks, and unlimited soda fountains, turn to page 5.

Tough decision, eh? I should write a psychology book entitled “You know your child is a sociopath if he finds himself on page 4.”

And now, for this weeks Choose Your Own Adventure: You live in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Two different friends are offering to set you up on dates with different girls:

If you decide to go out with the ‘bearded lady’, turn to page 10

If you decide to go out with Jo-Jo the dog-faced albino, turn to page 14.

Correct answer: Burn the book.

Mein Cramp

2006-10-27T00:42:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Now I may not be a doctor, but I can say with a great deal of scientific accuracy that a woman's menstrual cycle can change as a result of her environment (i.e. workmates or roomates). Ok maybe this is bogus because I didn't see it on wikipedia, my reliable source for everything (fyi, today's queries included: on the fritz, Borat, Otto Von Bismarck,* Posse Comitatus, and Menstrual Cycle). But seriously, I have heard this concept before from some of my female friends who tell me there were times that they were "in sync" with their gal pals.

What I didn't think was possible until last week was that:

1. I could also have a cycle and
2. that it also could be coordinated with the girls from work

Ok, relax guys. I didn't really have my period. And if I did, it would clearly be a colossal disaster. We are talking redness-through-my-khakis disaster. I have trouble enough just walking, so bless the Lord for giving me easy to use equipment. I swear I don't understand how you gals do all that maintenance.

Anyway, the reason I went off on this disturbing tangent is to tell you that last week I had lower abdominal cramps which I described to my doctor-father in jest, as menstrual cramps (and I mentioned the cycle alteration theory cuz it also seemed that a lot of the ladies in the office were not feeling well last week).

Now apparently the cramping was just the result of a little stomach virus I had contracted, but I want to tell you that it pretty much ruined my week. Besides, the constant pain which made it even more difficult than normal for me to walk down the street, the damn cramps actually cost me a chance to earn 500 extra bucks.

The University of Maryland Medical Center is conducting a vaccine trial for the Avian Flu and any generally healthy 18-40 year old who passed a "routine" blood test, would be eligible to be a part of the trial which also 500 big ones. Well a bunch of us loan re-paying fools at work decided that a drug injection for cash was a genius idea.

In fact about an hour before the blood-test screening, I decided that I owed a civic duty to share this news with other young workers who may want to inject their bodies for money too. So I promptly went over to a couple of young women at Starbucks and proudly asked them "Hey, you guys, want to make 500 bucks today?" It was one of those moments where you realize what an ass you are even before completion of the sentence. (I have roughly 19 of these a day). Needless, to say the ladies, responded with a semi-polite "Uh, maybe," before making a brisk get-away.

Fast forward one hour. The stomach cramps are not bad at this time but are certainly present. We enter the vaccine clinic, get the whole schpiel about the process and then have about 500 pints of blood sucked out of us. They then tell us that they will call us the next morning after the blood tests come back clean and we would then be eligible to return to get the injection.

Fast forward one last time to the next morning. I receive the first phone call of the bunch, a rejection from one of the nurses. "Jonathan, we are sorry but your white blood count was high and we are unable to include you in our trial."**

Now I have been rejected before (jobs, schools, girls, etc), but for some reason getting rejected from a wacky little human medical experiment really hit me hard. Of course all the others begin receiving their acceptance phone calls in the next few minutes, as I sulk in my workspace corner looking up "white-blood count" on wikipedia.

Notes:
*My curiosity about Von Bismark was piqued when I learned that we share an April Fools birthday.

**Doctors later would inform me that the high white blood count likely was the result of the virus.

Urine Trouble (that’s a pun)

2006-10-16T23:45:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Just recently, I was visiting home in MD and I got a ride back up to NY from a friend of mine and his pregnant wife. (Sorry Mink, I don’t remember if they say “we” are pregnant or not, but I honestly think its weird that you care. There, I’ve said it, OK? It just doesn’t bother me, and I’m not embarrassed to say it. The guy is a part of it- haven’t you ever had the birds and bees talk? Geez, do I have to teach you EVERYTHING?).

So my friends and I are on the road. Anyone else know how boring the scenery is between MD and NY? The most exciting thing that happens is the fact that sometimes the pollution in Jersey smells like farts and I like giving other people in the car accusing stares when the smell begins. Trust me, if you’ve never tried it, its fun.

As Mrs. Friend is pregnant, we stop about 45 minutes into the ride for a pee-rest stop. No problem, she’s pregnant, she has to pee a lot. I took Biology, I know this. My friend and I pee as well (remember this fact please), and I proceed to purchase a 3 dollar diet-cherry-pepsi. Expensive, but worth it. Oh so worth it. Such a damn well made product.

As a side note, there was a man at the rest stop who did NOT follow urinal etiquette, and I was very unhappy. Its one thing when David Goldstein pees in the urinal right next to me in synagogue even though there is an open urinal two spots away. But when truck-driver Frank sidles next to me- reeking of oil, cigarettes, Redbull, and 57 hours straight on the road, I am not a happy camper.

After the rest stop, we hit the road again. Then, my friend’s wife asked us why we are hitting the road and not just getting in the car to continue our trip. So we did. About 35 minutes later, after having drunk the 20oz of heaven, the following conversation ensues:

Zev: So…do you have to pee again? I don’t mind.
Pregnant Friend: No thanks, I’m fine.
Zev: You sure?
Preggers: Ya, I’m sure, thanks anyway.
Zev: You SURE?
Pregster: Um, yes, thanks.
Zev: We should REALLY stop for you to pee.
Husband: Zev, you sure YOU don’t have to pee?
Zev (crossing legs, shifting oddly, and wincing): Oh yes, I’m quite sure. Fine. FINE.

Needless to say we stopped for ME, the non-pregnant man, to pee. I don’t generally have a small bladder, but on that fateful evening, something was amiss. At least the couple was nice about it and didn’t make me pee in my trousers. Good people, those Landmans.

I will leave you with this - is there a such thing as street peeing etiquette? Or, since a street-peer is partaking in an intrinsically disgusting activity, maybe all etiquette is thrown to the wind? (And hopefully the pee isn’t thrown into the wind cause then the guy who drives the red Honda Civic is gonna be so pissed tomorrow morning).

My Cottage Cheese: The Sending of "Regards"

2006-10-06T13:37:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Ok you will have to excuse me. Of late I have gone away from posting about some of my ridiculous mis-adventures and instead have commented on some annoying phrases or behavior that I have observed from some of the more mainstream human beings whom I sometimes find myself around (although generally I try to surround myself with a collection of SingerZ-type inappropriate brain damaged clowns).

That being said, I feel obliged to address yet another pet peeve of mine that has recently come to light. So by now the annoyed readers (if there are still any) are probably wondering what in the world could possibly be my deeply philosophical and brilliant societal beef (Btw...why is that even a phrase? shouldn't beef always be associated with pleasant things and not used as a synonym for a gripe or qualm? I see the word beef I immediately think melt -in- your- mouth, juicy tenderloin steak, and its hard to have a gripe with that....but I digress)

So my Cottage Cheese (now I think we all can agree that this is a food that stands for an aggravation) centers around the excessive sending of regards. Now we all are guilty of this. Here is what I mean. You have a convo with your friend on the phone and the friend mentions some other person who they are about to see whom you also know. So instinctively you say something to the effect of "Oh please send him my regards!"

Now its fine to say this because it is polite and a conversational norm but clearly your friend is under no obligation to act as a messenger in the sending of your regards. And if you genuinely expect him or her to actually carry out your dirty work, then well I think of you as part of the cottage cheese (And for those of you wondering what my beef is with cottage cheese; Ever since I was a little kid, that is the one food that disturbs me even more than Roseanne Barr singing the national anthem http://www.signonsandiego.com/news/features/20030717-9999_1c17barr.html ....it is soggy, kernelly and looks like baby drool.)

Anyway back to my drivel: The point is that if you really want to send "regards" (whatever that means) then pick up the phone and call the person. The bottom line is that the reason you are "sending" the regards in the first place is that you don't really care enough about the "regardee" to speak to them yourself.

My friend Julie disagrees and she got annoyed at me when she tried to send off the"regards" to my sister who is visiting this weekend from California. When I informed her that my sending of such a message was unlikely, she got all hissy and proclaimed that everyone sends regards and that I am just an asshole for not relaying the message.

Well that may be true. But I am right. But to humor Julie I will relay the message. Here it goes:

Dear Rachel (my sister),

Julie told me to tell you that she "sends her regards." She doesn't really think enough of you to call you herself. But she does want you to make sure that you receive her very meaningful "regards."

How's that?

We Are Not Pregnant

2006-09-29T11:28:00.000-05:00

By Mink

As my fellow Jewish people approach Yom Kippur, the most reflective day of the year, I have been doing a lot of reflecting and soul searching. But recently, in these precious meditative sessions (which usually occur on my throne with a flusher), my brain has been clogged up (no pun intended) trying to make sense of an annoying phrase that I have heard way too frequently of late.

Several of my more mature friends have begun conceiving children. And for some reason when the husband decides to interrupt my reruns of Scrubs to bring me the grand news he will say something like this "Just wanted to let you know that we are pregnant." Am I the only one that thinks this is outlandish? Yes this is wonderful news and I am excited for your new cheese drooling addition but unless you are now the governor of California, (see the legendary Junior) it is never acceptable for a male to utter this phrase.

Your involvement in the pregnancy starts and ends with the magical night that you slipped one past the goalie (if you are looking for a full birds and bees explanation send an email over to SingerZ). The statement "We are pregnant" suggests that you are the one with the weird hormone changes, vomiting, and maternity clothes. Despite the fact, that during a brief stretch in law school I had these symptoms and wore overgrown sweatshirts, I am pretty sure the only thing I will ever be able to deliver is a bad joke.

So please, if you are going to announce that your wife is pregnant. Firstly, don't interrupt my TV time and second don't give me that "we are pregnant" garbage. If you insist on including yourself in the statement try something such as "I knocked my wife up." Or best of all you could say nothing at all, invite all your friends to a barbecue and let a cake with a sonogram covered in frosting do the talking (see picture below---Nate you are a genious).

Have a happy new year .

Random Thoughts from my (big) Head

2006-09-21T13:48:00.000-05:00

by singerz

I didn’t have the patience to write a full-fledged, beautifully interconnected, articulate, introspective, deep post. So I just threw some random goofy shit together and hope you enjoy what goes on in my head. And my head happens to be big. Literally, not figuratively.

Big news. I have a new favorite snack. That’s right. I do. I’m not lying. After years of sitting on my Twizzler Nibs throne, I have now switched to…wait for it…CREAMSICLES. I spent two and a half months of the summer searching for these snacks, and I finally found them and ate 16 of them within 4 days. That’s quite a lot of Cream and Popsicle. Cream-sicle. Popsi-cream. I’m changing the name- POPSICREAMS. Delicious, really delicious.

Know what annoys me? Leftovers. Growing up, every Monday night in my house involved reheated items from the weekend food. My mom is a great cook, but somehow between Friday night and Monday everything melds together into a mush of leftovers that is indiscernible. Cannot be discerned. A mush of chicken, meat, soup, salad, potatoes, grape juice, bread, gefilte fish fat juice, and cookies. Indiscernible.

Speaking of my Mom and Food. When my mom is serving food onto everyone’s plates, and I have put my rice or potatoes ALL THE WAY to one corner of the plate with clear intentions that I do not want any of the juices from other food items touching my rice or potatoes, my mom has DEAD ON ACCURACY. Without fail, the food she is serving will end up directly on top of the food that I was trying to protect in the corner of the plate. With that aim, my mom should take up archery

Last Wednesday. Last Wednesday night, I found myself at home. Which is awesome, because I had been looking for myself for like 3 days and home was the last place I thought to look. If you did not get this joke, read it again. Still no? Once more. Get it but don’t particularly like it? Suck it.

Toys ‘R’ Us. Why is the ‘R’ in the Toys R Us logo, backwards and in quotes? Are they mocking dyslexic people? Do the quotation marks around the backwards ‘R’ emphasize it, as if to say- “Look, only dyslexic people see this as a proper ‘R,’ isn’t that funny?” Well I have news for you Geoffrey you little awkward son-of-a-bitch giraffe, ITS NOT FUNNY.

ANOTHER GUEST: Levi's Mom is Funny

2006-09-14T14:28:00.000-05:00

by Levi

It was one week ago that my parents and I flew down to Florida. It was on this flight that a somewhat innocent and mild incident turned publicly embarrassing and somewhat comical. And I begin.

My parents are not young. They are not old, but they are definitely not young. So when we travel together I usually step up and "assist" to the best of my ability- carrying bags, dealing with the airline staff, collecting the luggage from the baggage claim... you get the point. Our flight was scheduled for 6:00am, and at that time we were smoothly departing- Go Blue! (jetblue, that is). Seated side by side were me and parents- I had the window, my mother the middle and my father the aisle. Aww, family flights. Soon after being airborne we all religiously break out our headphones to watch tv. After some channel surfing (which btw, should be called channel 'scrolling' b/c on jetblue you can only go up or down, so when you have two channels that you'd want to watch, say ESPN and Animal Planet, but they are separated by 14 other channels, it gets very painful on the fingertips).

I started to recline my seat and try to get comfortable. In doing so, I noticed that the row behind me was completely vacant. SCORE! Not even relating this goldmine to my parents, I selfishly and quickly unbuckle, and like the gazelle that I am jump from armrest to armrest until the aisle. I excitedly take my seats and contort into my new found leather bed. (not one to break the rules, I tried tri-buckling. Not gonna happen- it felt like I was on a leather bound stretcher- all that was lacking was the neck brace.

This is the part of the story that the age of my parents comes into play. You see, in normal settings they can hear just fine. However, as anyone who flies knows, there are other elements that exist on a plane- there's the cabin pressure which pops your ears, there's the silent hum of the engines outside, and of course there's the HEADPHONES that have the live tv pumping into your ear canals- that can decrease the hearing ability of anyone. These elements are just that much more potent when one factors near-retirement-age into the mix. One also may overlook the fact that just because you can't hear does not mean that everyone else cannot as well.
After about 10 and a half minutes of hearing my mother SHOUTING to my father about Rachel Ray's approach to salting pork ribs on The Food Network, (keep in mind, I too had headphones on, and even one row away I heard her loud and clear so) I decided to "assist" the situation, by getting her attention to make her aware of her very-loud-talking.

I sat up and gracefully reached my hand above the seat in front of me and gently tapped my mothers head. {Now, for those of you who do not know me and/or my mother, I get much of my satirical and comical genes from her. She's a lovey-dovey cutesy type who likes to joke around, at home.} Immediately after my hand completes the second tap, my mother SCREAMS "SOMEBODY IS TOUCHING ME".

My hand is still red (from being caught red-handed, dahh) and my body instantaneously freezes. My eyelids open like a dear in headlights not wearing any underwear. And as the sound waves from my mother's rape-like bellow reach the front of the plane and cause the entire plane to turn and look, I slowly tip toe my hand back to my lap and elegantly slide my entire body through my seat belt onto the floor.

Sure, her intentions were clear- she didn't realize the booming volume of her voice, and she was just being her lovey-dovey-joking-self. She continues to be unaware of the whole state of affairs and goes on talking uber-loudly to my father. Out of pure, raw embarrassment I smack the back of her chair with my elbow, from my new seat on the plane- the floor under my lone row.
I managed to make the best of the situation- the other passengers were calmed when they saw that there was clearly nothing awry; but in this day and age- when a bottle of water is considered a threat and everyone is aware of everything it definitely makes my top 10 list of embarrassing-situations-on-a-plane-with-my-parents-from-last-week.

After I got our bags from the baggage claim carousel, my face finally returned to the post-birth paleness I was born with and I was able to recount the story to my parents. And yes, on our way out of the terminal, I know I noticed some undercover security officials slyly following me....

Tour de Court and the Fantasy Life

2006-09-07T19:37:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I recently attended a lecture where a well known litigator explained how he was so prepared for his oral argument that he actually became relaxed when the judge started asking him questions. He was so comfortable and well versed in the subject matter because he knew he could answer any question and could on for hours about every nuance of the case.

I was thinking to myself “wow that is really impressive I never could imagine being so knowledgeable about any subject.” (do you use quotes when you think to yourself?) But then I smiled as I remembered last weekend and the absurd little neighborhood basketball tournament that we ran for the 12th straight year (or the bat mitzvah as we disturbingly have labeled it). I realized that I had reached a level of expertise that is probably Supreme Court level. I honestly would be unfazed by any question that could come my way.

To give you a little background, eleven years ago, back in the summer of 95 (in the days of VCR's , and the O.J. trial) a couple of bored and competitive teenagers (including yours truly) decided to bike around to different basketball courts around the Baltimore area where they would play until there was a champion. The obvious nickname choice for the biking and basketball combo was Tour de Court (Get it? you see the most famous bike race in the world is known as the tour de France and we replaced the evil French part of the name with "Court" to reference the basketball component.....genius I know).

Anyway, Tour de Court became an annual tradition with as many as 32 participants in a given year. The winners earn the prize of the gold helmet----an old ratty bicycle helmet that was spray painted gold and with the winners names inscribed each year. Like the Stanley Cup, the helmet is on loan to the winning team for the year and has become a prominent part of weddings and bar mitzvahs to the extended TDC family. (you can read all about this madness on our soon to be updated website http://www.angelfire.com/folk/TDC/tourdecourt.htm)

This summer, over a decade after its inception, the tournament’s proud executive committee members argued the same exact points regarding tournament rules and organization as we have for years. However, now instead of yelling at each other in backyards (and beating each other with sticks and assorted other sharp devices) we would just send nasty emails (with much bigger vocabulary words) from graduate schools or the workplace.

You see for a tournament like this to continue, there is a requirement that you do not grow up. It is a forum for a preservation of boyhood immaturity and a simulation of a professional athletic career that we will never have. You could say that I have Peter pan syndrome or live in a fantasy world but to some degree don’t we all?

I could spend hours boring you with the rich history of our absurd tradition with tidbits such as: that there is a player named Yoni Rosenblatt is the winningest player in our history with 7 gold helmets (by the way he won again this year)…… or that the 1998 tournament is forever known as the overpious debacle because it was postponed after several over-pious participants, led by Dr, Joshua Wolf, pulled out of the tournament in solidarity of a player falling off his bike and breaking a limb…….or that there is an asterisk in our record books because one of the infamous players in the tournament shamed Tour de Court by refusing to ride his bike (the gold helmet reads "*drove car" to commemorate this atrocity)

I will stop now because you have all just been exposed to enough sickness. I just am still dumbfounded that I am actually an expert in something. To be honest though, after an annoying couple weeks of planning and organizing, I am even sick of this tournament. So for the next 11 months or so it is time to get back to reality. The problem is I don’t think I have a reality. When my Dad called and asked how I would spend all my free time now my response was “Sorry Dad, I can’t talk now, I have to prepare for my fantasy football draft”

The Gold Helmet at a wedding

Did You Listen to That Nonsense?

2006-08-30T09:47:00.000-05:00

By Mink

The average person will not have difficulty ordering at Starbucks (see http://minksgarbagedump.blogspot.com/2006/03/starbucks-and-realizing-that-i-am.html) and will surely understand that one is not supposed to fill up the gas tank of a Honda Accord with diesel fuel (yeah I never posted about that, but let's just say that it turns out that trying to save money on gas can end up costing $730….and I digest or digress or whatever). However, I have noticed of late that the normal, adequately functional, human being often will say a lot of weird shit that makes no sense, yet will rarely, if ever, be challenged.

Example: Last night at a local ice cream parlour, I overheard a "normal" young lady ask her friend: "How did you finish your ice cream so quickly?" I think the friend may have responded with a shoulder shrug or something similar but she certainly did not appreciate the absurdity of her buddy’s worthless conversation filler.

Obviously the person who finishes her food first is the hungriest or has fast metabolism but there is really no proper response to such a pointless question. What got my sick mind infuriated was this realization that someone (usually a person whom we consider normal) will always ask this or a similar question to the person who finishes his or her food first. It means absolutely nothing yet we refuse to call anyone out on it because it has the appearance of a mainstream normal comment.

Now this makes sense to some degree merely because we generally accept anything that people say if it is presented well and the speaker has established a decent degree of credibility.

To illustrate this point I will first examine a bizarre idea that is presented by a person who is generally accepted by society as abnormal or “special.”

Mink: I think HBO should make an episode of Entourage which brings back the Sex and the City quartet to mingle at a pool party with Vincent Chase and the boys. I for one would love to see a bizarre twist with a very random Carrie Bradshaw and Turtle hookup. The whole collision of worlds would be amazing, it would be almost as good as when they came out with The Jetsons meet the Flintstones in the late 80's.

Disinterested Aquaintance: Oh Mink, you are ridiculous. Great idea, you should write HBO a letter (heavy sarcasm in the voice)

Now let's change the facts a little. Instead of me making this point, the idea comes from a well established doctor at a cocktail party or even just a regular person with a non-ridiculous reputation. In this case, the "normal" person would probably not attempt to spice up the idea with the ridiculous suggestions and would present the idea something like this:

Normal person: HBO should really consider having episodes where characters from its different shows come together. For instance, that new show Entourage could do an episode with the Sex and the City women. Just a thought.

Responder: That is a really insightful and innovative idea. You really should send HBO a letter (not a trace of sarcasm).

You see the difference is reputation and presentation. The idea itself clearly is an absurd one but because the normal guy has a reputation for saying bright things and presented it without outrageous hookup suggestions and Jetson-Flintstone comparisons, his outrageous comment is met with respect and even admiration. Mine however, would undoubtedly be met with a head shrug and maybe accompanied by a dismissive "laughing at you" type giggle.

So I guess the point of this useless drivel, is to my voice my frustration over normal people’s ability to get away with saying crap that doesn’t make any sense. The next time I hear a regular person ask me how I finished my matzah ball soup so fast, I will probably just respond something like this: “I'm not sure but I was wondering about the shape of your last bowel movement. Can you describe it?” But I guess that would just do little more than solidify my already established whacked reputation that I have built over the years. Oh well.

Question The Dump

2006-08-20T23:54:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope you are sitting down. Not for any particular reason other than the fact that sitting is more comfortable than standing or lying on the floor. But also, what I am about to inform you may very well suck your socks off, tear your trousers off, blow your briefs off, or, in the most likely event, it may not be a big deal at all.

The Garbage Dump is now answering questions. We will give advice, respond to esoteric inquiries, and counsel lost souls. Got a relationship problem? We can mock it. Having career issues? Sucks for you, dude. Got a question about the bloggers? We’ll answer it, if it allows us a lead-in into writing about the topic that we wanted to write about anyway on that particular day on the blog. Feel free to email us with any questions or comments at emailyourgarbage@gmail.com. And now for the first batch of REAL questions and answers asked by REAL people. Not written by me, tonight. REAL.

Q: Don’t you care that Mink’s name is on the website of the blog even though you’re an equal partner and use punctuation better than he does?
Zev: Na, I don’t mind. Meaning: I joined a day too late and got screwed. Thanks for pouring lemon juice on my wound.

Q: What makes you guys experts on anything?
Zev: Shut up I didn’t ask you for your questions or comments.
Q: Yes you did.
Zev: I said shut up. I don’t like these questions as much as I thought I would.

Q: Do you guys have blog-groupies?
Z: Yes, tons. And by yes, I mean no. But there are always positions open.

Q: In your Bloggers Convention Post why were the two of you in bed together?
Z: See, there was a misunderstanding…
Q: But your hand was around Mink.
Z: Errrrrr…see…
Q: Yes?
Z: Hey - remember the 80’s?

Q: Why do we park on a driveway but drive on a parkway?
Z: I dunno, but that’s some goofy shit.

Q: Since you’re the snack expert, what’s the most delicious snack besides, of course, Twizzler’s Nibs?
Z: Tough one. Cheese curls are scrumptious but that orange crap gets all over your hands. The deliciousness-to-mess ratio is like 6:1. Or no, I mean 1:6. Shit, I hate ratios. In addition, éclairs take the cake. No pun intended. I’m lying, I intended the hell out of the pun. But if you ever saw Van Wilder, you might never eat an éclair again.

Stay tuned for more Q+A, some new blog features in the next few weeks, and Mink getting tricked by a girl who claims she was turned on by watching him eat an egg and cheese on an everything bagel.

The Dump Hosts Another Guest (Yes, We're Getting Lazy): A Businesslike Approach

2006-08-15T13:52:00.000-05:00

by Nathan

After recently switching jobs, which is an annual event for me, I realized that there are a number of things we can learn from the business world. I’d like to discuss a few that specifically pertain to relationships.

Finding a Candidate
As is the case when looking for a job there are three major ways to find a date.

Online Search – The absolute worst way to get a date, unless you’re using Craigslist’s Casual Encounters (as Mink unsuccessfully did last week). Just like your resume, the info available online is all made up...unless you actually believe that a single 28 yr old could still be single when they look like the “Jewish Jennifer Aniston”. And what does that mean anyway, should I imagine Jennifer Aniston with a huge nose and as a possible Tay-Sachs carrier?

Shadchan (matchmaker) – Or as I like to call them, Hook-up Headhunters. Using one of these ensures your background will be checked by a myriad of possible suitors with “great personality”.

Connections – Nobody can talk you up like a friend, it’s always the best way to get your foot in any door, or in someone’s pants, as the case may be.

Getting to know your prospect
There should always be an interview process, whether it takes place at a coffee shop, bar or bedroom is your decision. Key questions to ask:

How much experience do you have?
Is there a chance of a counter offer?
Do you want to climb my corporate ladder?
Word association – handcuffs, blindfolds, farm animals, etc...
For same sex candidates or foreigners – Are you just looking for health benefits?

In-relationship Interaction
Weekly status meetings and timelines are important documents that can keep the relationship on track. For example, isn’t it easier to manage expectations by having lines like “8/10 – 2nd Base (over the shirt)” or “8/22 possible score, buy flowers and make appletinis”. This way everyone is on the same page.

There are also some other corporate ways to improve relationships.

Evaluations – Every 6 months or so let your partner know how their doing, try to pinpoint flaws while giving positive feedback on what their doing right. God knows we wouldn’t want anything to stop all together. Try and use motivational techniques for better performance like “I’ll try not to watch TV this time” or “if you’re lucky I’ll brush my teeth this week”.

Two Weeks Notice – Nobody likes to be blindsided with a breakup. Give your partner time to try and replace you with someone else while at the same time not depriving him/her of the essential services you provide. Feel free to help train the replacement.

I’m sure there are plenty of examples involving copiers and staplers that I haven’t mentioned, but I’m sure I’ve convinced you that a businesslike approach will help you succeed in any relationship.

Slurpees with Strangers Part Deux: The Meeting

2006-08-06T23:00:00.000-05:00

(if you have not read the first part yet, read that first: http://minksgarbagedump.blogspot.com/2006/08/slurpees-with-strangers.html )

By Mink

On Friday afternoon I shared a slurpee with the mystery girl, named Gina. As she said in the email (last posting), she was not a “heifer.” However, she did resemble a bowling ball and wore a white sleeveless tank with a big ketchup and grease stain right above her exposed belly button.

We sat down in the shade to eat our icy treats and raved about the friendly 7-11 workers and their amazing coffee. We then discussed our futures and dreams of owning 7-11 franchises. One thing led to another, and by the end of our little meeting we were feeding each other Slurpees and whipping the slurpee drool from our respective facial hair on our chins. When our time was up, I gave her a gentlemen’s peck on the cheek and promised to attend all of her intramural rugby games.

Does this sound hot? Well unfortunately this was just my fantasy and the real story is far less exciting.

Gina, does not really resemble a bowling ball.
Nor does Gina even drink Slurpees.
Nor is Gina, a member of the Jewish faith (sorry mom).
Nor does Gina even exist for that matter.....And I was just a big dumb animal who got punked by a couple girls from the office.

The mastermind (who works with me but not at the same physical office) created the posting and then used a straight shooting accomplice who works next to me and frequently reads the Craigslist: “Missed Connections” to carry out her dirty work. This was all done to avenge a prank call I placed on her over 2 months ago (pretending to be her wacky summer roommate, who seemed to have a major crush on her). And the 2 month delay perfectly created the necessary element of surprise to carry out the attack.

I probably have not been this duped since Freshman year of college when I poured meat sauce in another dude’s pillow case after being deliberately misinformed that he messed with my stuff. But I have to give credit where credit is due and these clowns nailed me.

I must say though that I HATE losing to girls in athletic competition (including the sport of pranking) which is why this was more embarrassing than losing to every girl on my high school cross country team at every meet. This, however, was not as embarrassing as my big purchase of baby wipes at the grocery store tonight. (The wipes will change your life and I highly recommend them to all but would advise avoiding eye contact with the checkout lady as she rings up the product).

So for now this ends the slurpee story, but stay tuned for the “Slurpee Revenge” and any ideas are appreciated.

Slurpees with Strangers

2006-08-03T22:15:00.000-05:00

By Mink

To some, 100 degree weather is equated with sweatiness in uncomfortable bodily parts, scantily clad women, or even death. For me, this kind of heat only means that I become obsessed with embarking on daily missions to find heat quenching icy treats (ok some of the scantily clad women are nice too). Whether its ice cream, sno-balls (or cones as they apparently say outside of Maryland), slurpees, or even just cold fountain sodas, I will not be denied.

So obviously 7-11 has a lot to offer me in the summer. As bad as I may be at ordering at Starbucks, I am a pro when I make purchases at these icy treat havens. I even have good slurpee filling fundamentals as I maximize every square inch of my cup without overflowing by implementing the “lid-first technique."

Anyway despite the icy treat obsession I still generally get coffee in the morning and I would have this past Tuesday morning until me and this friendly lady began conversing near the coffee stand at a downtown Baltimore 7-11. Like 90 percent of conversations we have with strangers, the short exchange was entirely related to the weather pattern. (A couple of snippets included: "Hot enough for you?" and "Cold front tommorow, its only supposed to hit 97.") By the end though she had talked me out of the scorching coffee and right into a 9am icy treat: a 40 oz Dr. Pepper Big Gulp.

For some reason I left the store sipping away at my cold beverage with a very satisfied smirk on my face. But little did I know that there was someone watching. No, I am not turning this into a religious posting about a higher being looking down, I am merely referring to a certain 5’5 green eyed girl who has used the world wide web to successfully get in touch with my distrurbing self.

Allow me to elaborate:

At about 2 pm the day after my innocent 7-11 run, my co-worker who apparently was perusing Craigslist's "missed connections" listings asks “Jon, weren’t you at 7-11 yesterday?” She then sent me this link http://baltimore.craigslist.org/mis/189212553.html which reads:

Tall guy w/ Big Gulp at 7-11 on Tuesday morning - w4m - 24

Saw you coming out of the 7-11 downtown (corner of Howard and Baltimore) Tuesday morning. You were wearing a navy short-sleeved polo with a horizontal orange stripe and khakis. I’ve seen you around the area before (near/in the law school); maybe you’re a grad student like me. I’m 5’5 with dirty-blond hair and green eyes. Would love to get to know you better!

Now I normally don’t remember what I was wearing from day to day, but I had remembered stepping on that horizontal orange striped shirt in the morning as I got out of bed (which meant I must have worn it the previous day). And based on the above story involving the lady by the coffee stand, I certainly remembered purchasing a Big Gulp (I also hadn’t thrown out the remaining bottom third of the soda, and it is staring me in the face at my desk as I read this absurdity).

So to make a long story end faster, that tall guy was none other than myself and even though I have no idea what the math equation of w4m – 24 means, I have agreed to meet this ballsy chic for slurpees during lunch break tommorow (Friday).

I am obviously assuming the meeting (and I emphasize that word since it is not a date) will be an absolute disaster. But it will be just a quick snack break and at worse will just be sharing an icy treat with a crazy person. The bottom line is weird crap like this doesn’t happen every day so I figured the story deserved some more follow up and I guess the girl also deserved her 15 minutes with Mink (hahahha what a prize that is).

FYI: Here is the transcript of emails from my made up account that led us to the slurpees (I created a baltimorebiggulp@hotmail.com address to protect my identity).

My Response:

Hello,
I came across your posting after a co-worker stumbled upon it on her daily craigslist perusing. I am pretty sure you were speaking of me. Are you an UMAB student? Do you like slurpees?

I gotta be honest, this situation is a little new/bizarre to me but I would be open to the following: Friday afternoon we meet up "again" at our favorite local hub and pick up a couple slurpees, which we will consume at the law school courtyard. If this is agreeable to you drop me an email.

Her response (also from a made up hotmail account):

Hey Big Gulp!
Clever email. Do you like mine? Hee hee! I'm totally psyched that you wrote back! I love slurpees by the way. I have like 5 a week! :) But don't worry, I'm not a heffer or anything! LOL! Anyway, yeah, let's get together on Friday! Can't wait to meet you!

I'm outtie for now!!!

Anyway, at least she isn’t a “heffer.” I will let you know how the slurpee gathering goes, unless she slits my throat.

COME ON MINK

2006-08-02T07:44:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Mink- get your shit together. This is ridiculous already, put up a damn post. No excuses. I hate to air our dirty laundry in public but, to kill the metaphor, your dirty undies need to be shown to one and all until you post. Get on it, bitch. Love, Zev.

Nausea Can Be Fun

2006-07-18T13:39:00.000-05:00

by singerz

I know I know, we haven’t posted in two weeks. A lot has happened in two weeks time, you wouldn’t even believe it. For example, ummmm, I bought a pack of undershirts. Oh, and I tasted broccoli- FYI, it’s just as bad as I thought it would be.

In other news, I had a stomach infection thingy. No, not the usual- “6 slices of pizza and two liters of soda” virus, but something actually serious. I was nauseous for like two weeks straight. Was kinda fun. Lost some weight. It’s the new diet, called “starvation.” Works like a charm. Wow, actually, now that I think about it, being nauseous for two weeks straight sure wasn’t fun at all.

So after a while of this, I went to see the doctor- something I dread doing (see previous posts). The doctor rubbed my belly, made a honking noise while doing so, I giggled, and then he prescribed antibiotic pills for me to take. Two problems arose.

First, the pills were HUGE. We’re talking horse-pills, the size of New Jersey. I only recently, in the last few months, learned how to swallow pills. (Yes, for 25 years I would buy children’s chewables or mash up regular pills and eat them in ice-cream. Am I weird?) This is strange, since I have absolutely no problem whatsoever swallowing a whole hot dog without chewing it, but cant down a Tylenol. Getting those antibiotics down was a brutal battle of epic proportions.

Second problem. The Doctor informed me that if I was not feeling better after a few days of the antibiotics, I should, and I quote, “just pop on right by to the office and I will give you a stool-testing kit which you can take home and do yourself.”

Doc, I love you and all, but I ‘aint “popping on by” ANYWHERE to get a stool-testing kit. My mind went crazy. What could this kit contain? What must I do with it? Where would I put it? And most importantly, would I tell my roommates about this?

Needless to say, I prayed my little heart out to get better- I did in fact want to feel better, but mainly because I simply did not want to find out what this stool-testing kit business was all about. Thankfully, the monster-pills worked and the stool kit remains a mystery to this day.

In conclusion, some words of wisdom from a nausea expert. If you have a stomach virus and think you’re feeling better but just aren’t sure yet, DO NOT eat nasty powdered mac and cheese. Trust me.

Burned

2006-07-04T22:18:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Back to the grind. July 4th weekend came and went. We are all just a little bit more tan. Some of us are a little bit more hungover. Others, maybe, are a little bit more in the emergency room nursing firecracker wounds to 4 of our fingers on our strong hand because our asshole friend doesn’t know how to use a goddamn firecracker. You know.

I did happen to have a chance to make it briefly to the beach this weekend and I want to share some sunburn thoughts. Now, I burn very easily. Not as easily as Mink the friendly albino, (no offense to friendly albinos), but I burn. And every single time I am out in the sun, I make sure to use a ton of lotion – it goes as fast as hotcakes. And if there is a boardwalk nearby, I love hotcakes and so I eat them- and they go like suntan lotion. You get the idea. And if you don’t, stop reading and go back to work before your boss fires you for reading goofy shit at work.

Inevitably, I will miss a spot with the lotion. But is it a normal spot to miss? No, of course not. Is it my arm that I miss a spot on? OF COURSE NOT. It’s a weird part of my neck, or some crazy part of my face, or my forehead. Well this year, boys and girls, it was my chin. I FORGOT TO PUT LOTION ON MY FREAKING CHIN. (I’m sorry for the caps, I was trying to hit the ‘Shift’ button and hit ‘Caps Lock’ and it just so happened to work out well with what I was trying to write. Who doesn’t like a little more keyboard humor these days?)

So yes, I forgot lotion on my chin, and so my face is completely normal with a burned chin. I look like I have some sort of rash and have been scratching it nonstop for three days. HA HA. You should see the looks I am getting on the streets. “Mommy, why does that man look like he is wearing a red chin-guard on his face?”

Or how about:
“See Jimmy, that’s why mommy always tells you to make sure you put lotion everywhere.”
Zev: “Uh, lady, I can hear you, I’m right here.”
“See Jimmy, that’s why mommy always tells you to whisper when you are talking about crazy people outside.”
Zev: “LADY, I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.”
“See Jimmy….” Ad nauseum. (Joke note: I decided to stop after two, but trust me, I could have gone all day… ALL DAY I tell you…

Next time: Zev forgets lotion on that little indented place under his nose.

Collision at Home: It's Not Easy to be the Villain

2006-06-23T12:36:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Ok what is worse? Being sent to the hospital as a result of a collision in a softball game or being the guy that sent someone to the hospital (with a bleeding lung) after a collision?

Many of you certainly will choose the former (for the record I hate it when people use the former/latter crap in their writing...maybe I'm just very slow but those phrases confuse me nearly as much as my enjoyment of madonna's music). Anyway, in the immediate moments following the accident, I decided that assuming the man didn't pass away or enter into a schiavo-like condition, that it was far better to be him (the needy victim) than it was to be me, (the asshole villain).

Here is a brief rundown (no pun intended for you baseball fan nerds like me) of this past sunday's events:

In the first inning of our second game of a double header on sunday, I was on third base trying to score (again no pun intended for you perverts like me) on a groundball hit toward first. To make a long story short, I slid awkwardly into him as the ball arrived and my right knee hit him square in the rib. The force caused him to drop the ball and I was safe! But immediately something didn't look right. I think his rollover and subsquent schoolgirl-like moans interspersed with 20-30 F-bombs were a giveaway.

At this point the game came to a complete halt and his entire team began tending to the wounded soldier. Five or six of them lifted the husky dude off the field and onto a nearby table shoving ice in his face and anywhere else on his body. I love how people with no first aid knowledge (myself included) really believe that some ice will fix everything. I think 90 percent of the people there assumed he would rub his injury with the cold pack until the coolness was unbearable at which point he would get off the ground, spring to his feet as if nothing happened. Well, not on this day.

After watching him continue to groan and clutch his ribs, and then being informed that 911 was on its way, I determined that this situation was potentially ugly. I was only able to make this "potentially ugly" assessment as a result of my extensive experience of being a doctor's son as well as a former First Aid counselor on a west coast teen tour for spoiled Jewish kids from New York. (I know I said I didn't have first aid experience before but I'm not sure that being entrusted with carrying around a bagpack full of bandaids, cough drops, and tampons for a whole summer really counts).

So the game was stopped for about 40 minutes as we waited for the ambulance with everyone tending to the fallen victim. But for me, the real victim here, I could only stand on the side and feel helpless (as well as proud for scoring the run), realizing that I singlehandedly caused the circus. That I may have in fact killed a man. That an entire team wants me to die as well. That it is late in the morning and I am famished. That I am also dehydrated and sunburned. BUT NO ONE CARES, cuz they are too busy worrying about the other guy.

The bottom line is being the victim may suck but being the victimizer is far worse. As it turns out, the catcher only suffered some internal bleeding in his lung (no joke) and was released from the hospital the next day. He probably is getting tons of ice cream and ladies because of it. I, on the other hand, continue to get death threats from his team and my sunburn has begun to peel.

Summer in the City

2006-06-14T23:41:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Summer is here. The birds are out. They’re shitting all over town. Ahhh, the sun is shining. The humidity rises to unprecedented levels - not only am I sweating through my shirt, but I’m sweating through the shirt of the guy sitting next to me on the subway. He gets annoyed. Yum, the urine smell in the subways returns and becomes more pungent. Wait, maybe that smell is just mold or something…Nope, no, that’s urine all right. Yup, urine. Delish.

I stroll through the streets. A car honks and almost hits me. So I then move to the sidewalk. I try not to step on the cracks because my mother would NOT like osteoporosis. (JOKE NOTE: That was a “Step on the crack, break your mother’s back” reference). And then something strikes me. No, not bird poop, but a thought: Where do all the hot women go in the winter?

All winter long, there seems to be a lack of hot women on the streets. When summer returns, I feel like a suicide bomber after a successful jihad. No, not dead and in pieces you fool, but in heaven with 70 virgins. But then winter- bam, the women disappear. Where do they go? Do they hibernate? I think they do.

This winter, I am determined to find the lair of the hibernating hot women. And when I do, here’s what I will find: A cavern filled to capacity with hot women sleeping, like bears. But hotter than bears. And with less fur. Hopefully. Except this one furry girl I once knew named Wendy who looked like a bear from Wyoming. Not unattractive, just different. Don't be mean, Wendy has a good sense of humor.

I have finally realized what the answer to this existential question is. Turns out, the hot women do NOT hibernate in the winter. They’re here among us humans. But in the summer, women simply wear less clothing and so it’s an iluuuuusion that there are hotter women in the summer. Same women, less clothing. Chew on that. Actually don’t, you’ll choke. This just goes to show you the only thing on guys minds- hibernation.

Mustaches and My Quarter Life Crisis

2006-06-08T16:29:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I recently have been spending more time with middle aged men. Is that a weird thing to say? Well it is true. As I've mentioned, I travel quite a bit for work and many of the participants on these conferences are male emergency planners in their 40's and 50's. I also play in 2 softball leagues which are flooded with the senior circuit. In fact my team got shut out last week by a dude who was playing softball during the Korean war. And finally I have been spending more time just chilling at the barber shop in the Jewish part of town. (It's really a pretty similar barbershop experience to the one in the Baltimore inner city that I wrote about a few months ago. The only mild difference is that you have to replace conversations about boxing matches with kvetching about back spasms and replace Allen Iverson styled hair requests with "please make sure to part it like David Goldberg the accountant and leave some sideburns.")

Anyway all this male bonding has been life altering. I am now a regular groaner during both take offs and landings from my chair, I wear a V-neck (not tighties), and make the same unfunny puns as my father. But the most significant change in my life is that I am pretty sure that at 26 years old I have mustache envy. The stache is something that has always fascinated me but it is also something that I have mocked for years. I have never known my Dad without his under-nose fur and growing up it often provided an easy retort to his rebukes. Example:

Dad: Jon your room is disgusting, clean it
Me: You have a growth under your nose, shave it

But as time went on and I watched Tom Selleck achieve fame and sex appeal solely on the basis of his thick whiskers, I began to become more intrigued. There were, however, some things that troubled me about the whole phenomenon. First of all what prompted someone to begin the stache movement? I mean common sense says that you are either going to shave or not shave but the mustache is something that involves careful grooming, triming, and even brushing. I also found it to be extremely troubling that Hitler, the regimented German genocide artist, seemingly forgot to shave a little patch everyday. But most troubling of all is the question of why has the mustache become the lost art of our generation?

I mean you see twenty-somethings grow them once in a while but usually they are on the faces of murderers from Alaska, and are certainly not considered cool. Kip in Napolean Dynamite has a solid one (see picture above) but he doesn't exactly convey sex appeal unless middle- america- white- trash gets you going. Adam Morrison, the best college basketball player this past year, also sports one but his looks like one a 13 year old unintentionally would grow before he can shave. Bottom line is for whatever reason we don't choose to grow them and if we do they look abysmal.

With that in mind, I decided I wanted to try it out. But unfortunately my dad didn't pass along the good stache gene and mine looked even worse than Morrison's. The whiskers are light colored, very thin and each one grows in a different direction. Basically I look like some of the older Russian ladies that I have run into at the JCC who decided probably 20 years ago to stop grooming their faces. (no offense intended to Russian people.... my great grandparents were all Russian and I love the babooshkas).

Anyway I had to shave that upper lip debacle off but don't think that it made me happy. I am now fully entering a quarter life crisis where I am bitter about the onset of greying hair, receding hair lines and an inability to compensate for such things because I am incapable of growing even a semi-presentable looking mustache.

This Week's Matchup: Zev vs. Doctors

2006-05-30T19:20:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Last week, a girl asked me if I would be her “friend with benefits”. I was like HAROOOGAH! (nothing to do with what she said, I had a waffle stuck in my throat and that’s the sound I make when I’m choking. Mmmmm boy do I love waffles). Anyway, I told her I’d have to think about it. Turned out, when she said friends with benefits, she was referring to health and dental benefits. Joke is on me. Well, and on the medical insurance company. And on the provider group, I guess. But mainly, the joke is on me.

So speaking of health and doctors (nice segway, eh?) my whole life I have hated doctors. (Hated = feared). (If you haven’t noticed, I LOVE parentheses (I really (really, (no, REALLY) ) do)). Sorry.

So what were we talking about? Ah right- doctors. I know that doctors are more common than guys whose favorite movie is either Shawshank Redemption or Usual Suspects. And I know they are necessary and help people. But I think that because of a couple of incidents with doctors that have happened to me, I’m simply afraid of the whole lot of ‘em.

Incident 1: Zev is approximately 9 years old. Needs some weird procedure where the doctor has to shove something up Zev’s nose to go down his throat to take pictures of things. Zev receives novocain. Doctor returns, pokes Zev’s nose, and asks- “Do you feel that?” Zev replies- “OW, YES.” Doctor says – “No you don’t, you just think you do.” Zev wonders, even with his little 9 year old brain, why doctor would ask Zev the question if he wasn’t going to believe his answer. Doctor starts procedure. Zev feels the procedure. It hurts. A lot. Zev’s mom calls him a baby. Lots of crying involved.

Incident 2: Zev is approximately 12 years old. Gets braces with reputable orthodontist. Reputable orthodontist usually does not wear gloves when he places hands in Zev’s mouth. Reputable orthodontist has very hairy hands. Human hands are generally not hairy, but reputable orthodontist’s are hairier than a Chewbacca. Zev eats reputable orthodontist hair for breakfast twice a month, unless his braces break and then he gets it a little more often. What a treat.

My mom, or as I like to call her, “Mom”, calls me a baby and mocks me for the “crying-like-a-bitch-when-the-doctor-wanted-to-prick-your-finger-with-the-little-needle-to-get-blood-when-zev-was-18” incident. Well mom, the only prick in that story went to school for 7 years and makes you read Good Housekeeping in his waiting room. And I’ll give you a hint- it’s not me. I have Redbook in my waiting room.

Doctors do many good things- help, heal, and fix people. I know this because I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Meredith is SO annoying. And Yang is just so cold, yaknow? The point is, many grown men are afraid of showing their Willy Wonka to doctors, and I might just be one of them. Sorry Mom, but that’s the way I play it, homes.

The Car Crash that is Graduation

2006-05-23T13:31:00.000-05:00

By Mink

So my little sister graduated college yesterday, a lovely occasion. Well not exactly, I'm certainly proud of the kid even if we had our doubts. The sis and I recently had a lunch convo that went something like this:

Cum Laude graduate: Jon, I got a job as a teacher in Los Angeles and I'm moving this summer.
Me: Fantastic. I am so proud of you being all grownz up.
Cum Laude: Yeah so I need a car. Can you buy a new one and I take yours.
Me: Nah sorry I don't have the cash for that now and besides it would never make the trip out there since the brakes and engine are on life support not to mention the defroster isn't operational.
Cum Laude: Well I wouldn't need to drive it out there, I could just ship it.
Me: True, but that's kind of expensive
Cum Laude: Really? I thought its cheap to send them out there by boat?
Me: Boat? You sure about that?
Cum Laude: Yeah isn't that how they ship em?
Me: Over what body of water?
Cum Laude: The gulf of Mexico?

Anyway, even if her geography is more than a little remedial she was going to get a diploma, so I felt like she earned the right to make her family sit through something that is about as painful as being in a car crash only far less exciting. (my co-blogger's brother also graduated but the graduate himself made the wise choice to skip the 2 hour torture session)

The way it works at UMD is that each department holds its own graduation and the sister was going to be receiving a degree in History (even if she also thinks that California is where the constitution was written). To add to the brutally long commencement address by one of the professors we also had to endure an elaborate description of each of the PHD graduates fine work. Now don't get me wrong, if I wrote a scholarly 535 page PHD paper entitled: "Married to Empire: Ruling Class Masculinity, and the Asexual Ideal in Late Victorian Britain," besides becoming asexual myself I would also demand that a room full of proud family members and graduates with no plans of advanced history degrees be subject to hearing all about why Queen Victoria never turned in her V-card and how that influenced an entire generation.

But since it was clear that they weren't handing me a PHD, I joined the rest of the audience in staring at my cuticles as each PHD advisor got up there to share the enthralling highlights of each paper. Basically the only things that saved me from my ripping out my upper back hair were cell phone text messaging and the asanine word associations that my brother and I started doing with the graduate's names on the program. My two favorite names in the whole graduating class were: Elizabeth Woodhead Nutting (comments to yourself) and Ashley Tease.

After two grueling hours the misery was over and we could now eat. Sure, the rents and grandrents were proud and even emotional but I am pretty confident that a ceremony consisting solely of the awarding the diplomas followed by some photograph taking would've produced the same effect. I turned to my brother at the end of the debacle and informed him that he would need to switch from his Biology major over to Physical Education if he wanted me to even consider attending his graduation.

I HATE Pigeons

2006-05-11T11:32:00.000-05:00

by singerz

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up one morning and was the only one in my apartment. One roommate, (who, for purposes of anonymity, we will call “Doug”), was out somewhere, overachieving. The other roommate, (who, for purposes of anonymity, we will call “Levite”), was at work being angry at his boss.

As I was going through my morning routine (which includes: being unreasonably angry at the company that makes my alarm clock, drinking a diet coke, and trying to track down that funky smell), I heard a noise coming from Levite’s room- which happens to be the room attached to our terrace.

A pigeon had somehow gotten into Levite’s room. (“Somehow” = walked through the door to the terrace that was left open). So I, of course, did my duty as a wonderful roommate and shooed the pigeon away and back outside. Sounds straightforward, no? NO. Every time I stepped toward the pigeon to try and shoo it out, it FREAKED OUT. Somehow, after the pigeon had gotten in, the terrace door had blown closed. And so I was trying to get in to open the door, but every time I stepped in the room, the pigeon went berserk, flapping around and freaking out. Eventually, I threw a shoe at the door, it flew open, and the pigeon was out.

But alas, not before the pigeon shat. Alot. On Levite’s floor.

Later that day, Levite gets home from work and comes in to my room. “Ummmm, Zev, why is there a mess in my room? Was it Doug?” Now, a few thoughts immediately flew through my weird (and large) head:

1) Why does Levite call poop a "mess"
2) Why would Doug poop on the floor?
3) Even if our toilet is stuffed most of the time, still.
4) If Doug HAD, for some crazy reason, pooped on the floor, why would it look like pigeon poop?

Turns out what Levite meant was – did Doug leave the door open to the terrace. The moral of the story? I hate pigeons. Also, our apartment needs a new plunger. But back to the pigeons- they are arrogant, filthy, and ugly. How can an animal be arrogant? Oh I think you know. If pigeons could talk, they’d say something like: “Even though I’m filthy and disgusting, I think I am so much better than you.” Well, I got a newsflash for you, you g-ddamned nasty New York pigeons. You’re NOT better than me. I hate you. Next time: Other arrogant animals, including cats, foxes, and those huge cockroaches you see in yeshivas in Israel.

Sweet Home Alabama

2006-05-03T17:39:00.000-05:00

By Mink

As some of you know, my top secret job informed me that I was required to accompany 4 others from work to Anniston, Alabama for a five day training seminar. I have gotten kind of tired of responding to all the questions about the trip so I decided to answer the FAQ's here.

Q: Where the hell is Anniston, Alabama?

A: 80 miles west of Atlanta and 60 miles east of Birmingham. It's not every day that you have to fly into a different state to get to your destination. I also was alarmed when at some point during the ride from Georgia my cell phone clock jumped back an hour as we entered the ridiculous central time zone. (when did bama join the central? was that part of baseball's realignment?.....weird)

Q: Who was the town named after?

A: Legend has it that back in the late 90's there was a young mayor here who in a weak moment during an adolescent crush decided to rename the town after the Friends' phenom. Shortly thereafter he was impeached from office after illegally photographing the city's gorgeous mountain chain (see http://www.hollywood.com/news/detail/id/1733986).

Q: Are you the lone Jew of the town this week?

A: No only because one of my lady co-workers is a member of the tribe as well. But that hasn't changed the fact that I have spent most of the week nervously laughing at holocaust jokes. I also think I was peer pressured into joining the KKK (there isn't much I wouldn't do for some good grits!)

Q: Are you at least staying at a nice hotel?

A: I am actually staying at a former military base. I share a bathroom, have a curfew and must eat my meals in the cafeteria. Besides the 3 girls who are with us, there are only maybe 2 others on the whole base. So basically its just a major sausage fest.

Q: How is the nightlife?

A: There is a lounge that is opened till 10 with $2 beers and free popcorn. So that has been a blast even if it means telling corny jokes to a bunch of male middle aged-married emergency-planners as they hit on your friends.

Q: What kind of bullshit training is this? Cmon do you really think we believe you are working?

A: This is actually a tough question. You see we are getting some kind of adult instructor certification from the government but it sounds like they (uncle sam) aren't even sure what that means and we have had daily arguments to try to figure that out. All I know is that the first day I had a rude awakening when I learned that the group photo was happening at 6:45 AM, that we would have daily homework, and be required to give 3 presentations. But the unlimited Dr. Peppers and snacks has certainly kept me from complaining.

Q: Are the other trainees cool?

A: They are enjoyable. I particularly enjoy this one dude from Northern Florida whose most memorable line was upon returning to class from a bathroom break with water all over the bottom of his tanktop proclaimed in a thick southern accent "Just to be clear, I didn't pee myself."

Q: When do you return?

A: The deep south is actually growing on me and I may never return back north......I like the new language and culture and besides I hear the bar exam is much easier down here.

Through My Eyes

2006-04-26T12:10:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Have you ever run up behind someone that looked like your friend, given them a huge hug, and then realized in horror that it was a complete stranger? Welcome to MY world. Except usually instead of giving them a bear hug, I slap them in the ass (not donkey). And it ends up being a gang member. In Harlem. At night. And he’s got a gun. And I forgot my bullet proof vest. And I wet myself. You get the idea.

Many of you who know me know that I have eye problems- and by eye problems, I mean I am legally blind in one eye. Oh you don’t believe me? Well, I’m so blind in one eye that when I was writing this and I wanted to make reference to a computer keyboard, I wrote ASDFGH instead of QWERTY (that’s a little keyboard/computer humor from my computer science major days. If you don’t get it, look at your keyboard. If you still don’t get it, it means you are not a nerd and don’t worry about it)

After doing a little research about my weird eye condition, named “Keratoconus”, I found the website of the National Keratoconus Foundation. On one of their front pages, they give directions on how to change the fonts on the website to make it bigger since only people with bad vision will be looking at the site. Isn’t that nice? NO, IT’S NOT. IT’S DICK. If I’m so blind that I can’t read the site in the first place, how the hell will I read the directions to make the font bigger? Riddle me that, you seeing-bastards.

Now, a few anecdotes relating to my vision:

1) I’m walking with a friend down the street and say some weird observation, as usual. Maybe something like, “Aren’t pigeons lucky? They’re so dirty and they don’t even care.” So my friend says, “Wow Zev, I sure would like to see the world through your eyes. Although, then I wouldn’t see much at all. ZING.” Needless to say, my friend is a dick

2) The phone is ringing in my house while I am visiting home. Nobody is downstairs at the time and so I answer the phone. But it wasn’t the phone that I picked up, held up to my face, and “answered.” No my friends, I “answered” the hot iron that was left on.

3) I saw a man walking in the park and I asked him if I could pet his dog. I began to pet it, rub its belly, let it lick my hand. I asked him what kind of dog it was. He replied, “Well, my dog is a golden retriever, but that squirrel you are petting seems to really like you.”

Why don’t I get the special contact lenses that could help my vision? They hurt. Meaning, I’m a baby. In the meantime, I will continue slapping stranger’s asses (not donkeys). And by the way, if any of you are wondering why I would even slap my friend’s ass even if I knew who it was, that happens to be an excellent question.

PIZZA-MOVIE: Zev’s Saturday Nights and the Blogger Convention 2

2006-04-11T13:42:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Hello. How are you. I’m good.

Today I will write about Saturday night activities, and why I choose to, as the old saying goes, “PIZZA-MOVIE” most of the time. I get mocked for choosing the pizza-movie lifestyle, but I will prove, using biblical and archeological sources, why I am correct.

The average Saturday night goes like this: Make plans to go out…some party where I’ll only have fun if I’m either a) extremely drunk so I don’t care what I do or say, or b) pretending to be extremely drunk so I can pretend that I don’t care what I do or say or c) the party takes place at the playboy mansion (hasn’t happened yet, Hugh keeps telling me my invitation is getting lost in the mail).

I get hungry, so I order pizza before I go out. As I happen to have an extremely weak stomach, I get a stomach-ache after eating the pizza (its weird, people keep telling me that its not the weak stomach but the 6 slices…naaaaa, it’s the weak stomach). Since it hurts, I try to cancel my plans and stay in instead: “Guys, lets just get a movie”, which really means: “I have terrible gas, go to the party without me.”

As a side note, unbeknownst to many, a good way to relieve stomach pains is to use a hot water bottle and hold it on your stomach. I’m telling you this works. You think I’m a homo for doing this? Well my friends, I’m a homo whose stomach feels a little bit better than it did before, so screw you (not literally, I’m not really a homo).

I forget where I was going with the rest of this Saturday night story, but anyway this past week was something unique since there was actually a blogger’s convention in Baltimore. Below are some of the highlights from the bowling event Saturday night:

The bloggers are popular with the girls…at least the girls who we lie to and tell them we are rich and succesful and have passed the bar:

Mink thinks hes funny when he lays down on the floor. He learns his lesson and realizes its not particularly “funny” when someone throws a bowling ball and it crushes his crotch:

The bloggers licking a bowling ball. Not sure why. Something to do with beer:

Mink gets implants. Zev trying to see if they are real. Turns out, they’re real and they’re spectacular:

My Life Soundtrack

2006-04-04T13:21:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I wouldn't exactly call myself a music scholar. In fact I wouldnt exactly call myself a scholar in anything except maybe a scholar of useless information (although others may call that autism). Before I ramble any further I don't think anyone is ever referred to as a music scholar so I guess what I meant was someone who is an educated music fan who keeps up with the bands, knows the lyrics etc....

Anyway, while my friends in high school had fancy stereos and the most up to date anti-shock discmen, I was still in audio-cassette mode. In fact I still am in audiocassette mode and from time to time will proudly listen to my first tape, the Michael Jackson classic; "Bad." I did eventually make the jump to CD's and in fact even learned how to burn a couple (unfortunately it took me 3 tries to learn that burning a CD was not supposed to involve matches)......Last year I even made the jump to an Ipod mini but the majority of my music listening is in the car on the radio where I can keep up to date with the latest pop hits or flip over to good old classic rock or whatever the hell else I am in the mood for as I angrily fight through traffic.

However, despite my non music-scholarliness, my ridiculous life has a soundtrack and even a theme song. For any given period of my life I have a song that is deeply engrained into my head. A lot of times a song doesn't become part of the soundtrack until a few months after the period when I hear a song which triggers the memory. Other times the song becomes the current song on my soundtrack. Here are some snippets from the more memorable tunes from the minktrack with a brief note about the time period:

Fall 1995--high school: "Mmmmmmm" (Crash test dummies) (was heavily traumatized by the girl who couldnt change in the changeroom b/c of all her birthmarks)

Fall 1996---high school (cross country season): "Bullet With Butterfly Wings" aka:"despite all my rage") (Smashing Pumpkins) (I really just may owe my life to Billy Corgan for getting me through the vomitting, tripping (not drugs just falling on my face), and embarrassment ( getting my ass kicked by girls) of the 5K varsity cross country races. P.S. ----Being that I am not a real music fan I had to use google to find out Mr. Corgan's name.)

Fall 1999---college: "Blue" aka "Im blue daba dee daba di" (Eiffel 65) (I have no clue what this song means but I certainly had the tune in my head as I so unsuccessfully would try to pick up chics in college. This is also the song that got me into powerade)

Spring 2001---college: "I’m not that innocent" (Brittany) (This was during a confused stage, I guess. But I am not embarrassed to admit that I looked forward to my special times where I would listen to this legendary song as I sipped martinis and polished my nails.)

Fall 2003---law school: "The First Cut is the Deepest" (Sheryl Crow) (I would sing all the words as I drove to school. One time I ran a red at a camera light while singing/monotonely chanting "'cause when it comes to being lucky she's cursed when it comes to lovin' me she's worst."..... Girl troubles, I promise.)

Spring 04----law school: "Come Clean" aka "let the rain fall down"(Hillary Duff) (Brittany to Crow to Duff: I think you are starting to see some real maturity and growth here. FYI-- did you know that hillary duff's older sister plays the mean attractive blonde in Napolean Dynamite who refuses to play teather ball with Napoleon or go to prom with Pedro after he romantically builds her a cake? )

Fall 2005---looking for a job: "Listen to your heart" (DHT) (I decided to make this the hurricane katrina theme music and would hum this as I put my law degree to use by delivering pizzas.)

December 2005----temp work/Josh's AC bachelor party (no he isn't gay): "Hung up" and "Lucky Star" (Madonna) (This was just my weird madonna phase---ok im still in it....For some reason I felt really cool, like I was in Swingers, as a group of us strolled through a casino in AC where this song was playing. I think in describing the aforementioned scene most people would replace the cool adjective with "incredibly teenage girlish" and replace Swingers with The Notebook.

Currently---new job: "Brown Eyed Girl" (Van Morrison) (I am not sure this would have made the cut had I realized that the words were really "hey where did we go?" as opposed to "Hey there Rodrigo." They always play it at the Orioles games and I obviously assumed that they did so in honor of their starting pitcher, Rodrigo Lopez......It also happens to be my current ringtone)

Quite a list right? Every once in a while, there is a song that becomes such a dominant part of the soundtrack that it has to become your theme song (sort of like "build me up buttercup" in "There's something about Mary"---although the song didn't appear in the movie till the closing credits) Around new years of last year I was fortunate enough to have that happen to me... The song: "Your Love" by the 1980's legendary band, The Outfield. It has actually come to a point where my friends call me when this song is on at a radio or bar to the share the moment with me....Sick stuff.

That's all for now and I certainly expect that if anyone wants to burn this soundtrack they wouldn't need an extra CD, just some lighter fluid or matches.

Starbucks and realizing that I am Special

2006-03-29T11:39:00.000-05:00

By Mink

It’s been a while since we last spoke but in that time I've been doing some thinking. By the way, has that statement ever been followed by something positive? It’s usually something like “I’ve been doing some thinking……we should just be friends.” No one ever says “I’ve been doing some thinking…..you really are great” Anyway after doing some thinking…. I realized that I am special. That statement also is never used in a positive way but instead has become the gentler way of describing someone who is a mentally challenged or disturbed individual. And that is exactly what I mean here when describing myself.

So as I was saying, I had one of those “I am special” revelations and this one occurred at the starbucks near my office. A couple of the ladies at the office invited me to join them on their daily stroll over there and me being a Dunkin Donuts man, was a little intimidated. But I decided to join them realizing full well that if I ordered anything besides a cup of water, the trip could turn into a full blown disaster. You see at Dunkin its as simple as “coffee cream and sugar please.” (Unless I make any insensitive remarks about Sikhs or take money from the tip jar---which I always mistake for the give a penny take a penny jar.)

At Starbucks however, even ordering just a normal coffee requires slang-words such as “grande” or “tall.” I never remember which is which and inevitably piss off the counter-girl by asking how many ounces each one is. I also don’t particularly enjoy their regular coffee which I find very bitter but remembered that once or twice in the past I have enjoyed their specialty drinks with the fancy names (Caramel Machiata very well could be the name of my future child). But being the cheapskate that I am, my eye was drawn to the espresso, which was significantly cheaper than those fancier blends. So after the girls ordered their impressive sounding drinks I proudly proclaimed with a big smile “I’ll take an espresso.”

I then stepped to the side and waited proudly for my special drink. But when it was ready I was majorly disappointed. You see I learned about the espresso the hard way. The espresso apparently isn’t one of those nice fancy drinks but instead is a small shot of bitter tasting extra strong coffee or something like that. The nice counter girl could see from my disgusted face that I had not ordered what I wanted (and that I must be special). She said “I can turn it into a latte.” So I thanked the magician starbucks girl and waited for her to transform it into a vanilla tasting delight. About a minute later she called out “latte!” and I tried to take the drink from her magical hands.

But it turns out that my drink wasn’t ready yet and I was in fact trying to steal the latte of another customer who happened to be a police officer. For some reason I continued to firmly grasp the hot cup of fancy coffee as the counter girl tried to transfer it to the short haired husky cop. I finally started to recognize that maybe it was not mine but inexplicably shook the cup as I attempted to dismount.

As I did this coffee began to ooze out of the small hole on the top and all over the counter. As the disgusted officer began to gather napkins to clean up the debacle, I tried to save face by sincerely stating “Sorry bout that sir.” I was puzzled when the cop rolled her eyes. I realized I was a fool but I did make the effort to apologize and she totally shot me down. I was pissed until my co-worker elbowed me and said “Jon, that police officer is a woman.”

So to summarize I messed up my coffee order, attempted to jack a policeman/woman’s coffee, shook it up and spilled it all over the counter, and capped it off with an apology that featured me calling a woman “Sir.”

It doesn’t take much thinking to realize only a special person has episodes like that.

Awkward

2006-03-03T12:12:00.000-05:00

By Mink

One of the problems with being awkward is that you tend to always do say or do something that deviates from the socially acceptable norm.

By the way I think that the word “awkward” is way overused. Since about the year 2002 I have noticed that people have been really forcing that word into daily conversation. And half the time nothing at all was awkward until the label has been vocalized. Example:

Me (in front of my friend’s parents): Sara, so how’s that rash you were telling me about?
Sara: Um…..better….thanks
Sara’s friend (standing right there): All right this is awkward; I think I’m going to go.

Well maybe this wasn’t the best example but you get the point. Things often would not ever be considered awkward until a third party casually drops the A-word, creating quite an uncomfortable scene that ultimately enters the realm of awkwardness.

Anyway despite my little rant on awkward over usage, it is certainly fair to characterize me as awkward and I definitely have a problem of saying and doing the wrong thing nearly all the time. I was actually pretty excited the other day when I heard speakers at a crisis readiness conference discuss how to deal with what I thought was my exact condition: “Foot in Mouth Disease.” However, I was quickly educated by my co-worker that “Foot and Mouth Disease” is actually a pretty serious epidemic plaguing thousands of livestock. I guess cattle can be awkward too.

One of the ways that I awkwardly do the wrong thing is by non-discretely staring at people. This is a major problem especially on subways where the non-awkward obviously realize that you are supposed to stare at the ground and avoid eye-contact at all costs (see singerz’s subway piece from December). I also noticed last night while watching a comedy show that I have this tendency to stare directly at the person seated closest to me who is a member of the ethnicity that the comedian just made a joke about. Finally, I non-discretely gaze at pretty girls, unattractive girls, women with mustaches, suicide bombers, and at people in mid-brawl or mid-arrest. So far I have yet to get my awkward ass kicked but that could change any day.

The City That Reads

2006-02-19T02:08:00.000-05:00

by singerz

I had a great post prepared about the super-bowl, including such happenings as: My friend spills wing-sauce on his pants. We have an awkward moment as I reach and wipe the sauce off of his upper left thigh and eat it. The sauce I mean. I did not eat his thigh.

In other news, I just saw my doctor on the subway. While it may be legitimate for him to do this during a checkup, I don’t think grabbing my crotch and telling me to turn my head and cough is appropriate for the subway. Maybe that’s just me. Oh, it IS just me? Fine. Grab away, Doc. Cough cough, bitch.

Later that day, I met a British man. British accents make everything sound smart and sophisticated, to the point where the guy could say “I slept with your mother and beat up your children” and you will probably thank him for his articulate and well-thought-out kindness. Maybe not. Maybe, since you speak English and are normal, you’d get upset if he said that. Again, that might just be the way I play it, homes.

In blogger news, next weekend will be the second blogger convention but this time it will be in Baltimore. You may be wondering where Baltimore is. I’m just not sure. You may also be wondering why Baltimore’s city nickname was “The city that reads” (not a lie) when its literacy rate was one of the lowest in the country. I’m wondering that too. The only theory I came up with is that they brought some guy in to pick the city slogan among a few choices, and he couldn’t read any of them, and so he picked that one. Illiteracy jokes are funny, no? And even if they are not, no one who can’t read will be reading this so I don’t have to worry about offending anyone.

Superbowl, New Job, Bar

2006-02-07T10:14:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I know its been a while but I didn’t have much of anything to say. But at long last here are a couple of thoughts on 3 things going on in my incredibly exciting life right now.

Super Bowl: First of all the commercials were nothing to email home about, although the Fedex dinosaur commercial was solid.

Now about the game: It’s a weird emotion when you aren’t rooting as much for one team to win as much as you are for the other to lose. I actually kind of like Seattle but for me the game was much more about wishing death on the black and gold. As many of you know, they are number three in my pillars of hatred tree which is as follows:

1. The New York Yankees
2. Duke University
3. The Pittsburgh Steelers
4. The Nazis.

Needless to say I wasn’t pleased with the outcome and am gloomily predicting that 2006 will be the year that all members of this despised quartet will be champions. And yes I am including the Nazis in this b/c early word is that the Germans have a solid squad for the world cup.

New Job:
So to fill you in last Monday I began a paid fellowship doing top secret govt work. Anyway besides myself and the other new fellow everyone else in the office is actually a fella. Now I definitely have no complaints about that and the ladies are all lovely and pleasant co-workers but it certainly has been a bit of a culture shock. I am getting a great education about calories, panda bears, sugar content, boyfriend’s back hair, grams of fat, shopping (including ring shopping), sodium, clothing and anti-oxidants. I’m trying really hard to fit in but it’s not easy. At lunch yesterday, after hearing 8 or 9 shopping stories, I tried to join in the parade by proudly exclaiming “Yeah I did really well at the Syms winter blowout sale.” For some reason they weren’t all that impressed. I keep having this recurring nightmare that the whole office is snickering at me as they notice me munching on some potato chips while wearing a black belt that apparently clashes with my brown shoes. Oh well.

Bar exam: Finally I haven’t been writing much cuz I’ve been torturing myself with this fun little test. Found out recently that I’m taking it at the warehouse at Camden Yards (FYI: it’s the home of the orioles). Anyway it has always been my dream to compete at that stadium I just never imagined that the competition would be a bunch of anal law grads and the bats and balls would be replaced by number 2 pencils. I’m thinking of starting a wave and will definitely have several 7th inning stretches. Boy would it be nice if there were some peanut and beer vendors there, but on second thought the beer would probably not be wise as it would cause me to heckle. “Hey Goldberg you don’t even know what a tortuous assault means!” or “Johnson I hear you were only hitting .200 on your evidence practice questions.” Anyway I just hope I perform a little better than the O’s do in that park.

Zev's Crib

2006-01-30T18:23:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Last week, I was watching MTV’s Cribs and decided I would write about what my “crib” would be like if I was rich - or even just had more than $629.87 in my bank account. (NOTE TO IRS: Just kidding, I don’t really have anything in my account. NOTE TO VIOLENT BOOKIE MAN I OWE MONEY TO: I know I know, I only have until next Wednesday. But the joke is on you my friend, my fingers are already broken.)

First and foremost, if my house was on MTV Cribs, I would buy an actual baby crib. Then, I can say to the camera: “Wanna see my crib?” And then I will show them my crib. And then I will say “OK that’s it, you saw it, please leave my house now.”

Next, there would have to be a room in the house with tons of books, scrolls, maps and other various academic things. Oh and a kaleidoscope too. I feel like all fancy smart-people’s rooms have those expensive kaleidoscopes in them. I call this room the “Fakeout Breakout Room” because it’s only there to fake people out to make them think that I’m smart and read the academic books. And breakout rhymes with fakeout and reminds me of camp so I’ll call it that. Shut up, it’s my house and I can call the rooms whatever the hell I want.

I’d have a 35 person kitchen staff. In charge, clearly, is a fat black woman named Betsy who loves me and reminds me of the cook from Billy Madison. I’ll hire a man to taste my food before I eat it to make sure my enemies didn’t poison it. If it is poisoned, I’ll only eat it if I’m really hungry and Betsy tells me its going to take a while for other food to be ready. Also, I don’t think I have many enemies (though I may after this post).

The Candy Room is just what it sounds like. Except no Willy Wonka cause he freaks me out. In the candy room, you are allowed to take candy from strangers and babies. (As a side note, there’s nothing wrong with taking candy from a baby. They don’t even eat it, they eat like applesauce and shit like that).

Finally, my favorite room will obviously be named “The Best Room Ever.” This room includes: a hot tub, an automatic brick pizza-oven, a ping-pong table, a soda fountain with: Cherry Coke, Dr Browns Cream Soda, Sunkist fruit punch soda, and single malt scotch. I’ll hire Dr. Brown and build him a laboratory so just in case I run out of Cream Soda, he can just make more in his laboratory.

The wall-paper will be Far Side cartoons and the floor will be that bubble wrap paper that is changed and put in every day. Instead of a juke-box, I’ll hire Jimmy Page and Carlos Santana to hang out there so when I want music they will just play. They can use the ping pong table and step on the bubble wrap floor if they want, but are not allowed into the hot tub because they are dirty musicians.

The Blog in Trouble?

2006-01-24T01:47:00.000-05:00

by singerz

We know what many of you are thinking. Where have the bloggers been? Also, why did Fruity Pebbles add that new pink color? And for those of you who aren’t thinking that, suck it.

The truth is, the Garbage Dump is at risk of being canceled. Our ratings are down, our morale is low, and the Aschen family is threatening lawsuits (for those you who don’t know, Mink made fun of a dead guy).

There have been talks with Google and Yahoo! (I badly wanted to write that exclamation point) about having them pick up the blog, but the CEO of Yahoo goes to the steam room naked and was offended by my last post. The CEOs of Google are apparently “too cool for school” and our blog doesn’t “tickle their tootsies.” NOTE: I don’t ever want to tickle anyone’s tootsie.

In other news, we are proud to report that here is a direct quote from a Rabbi writing about our blog: “the blog of someone in our Jewish sphere posting about things that seem a bit juvenile.” He thinks that is an insult? HA. That may very well be the greatest compliment I have ever received (aside from the time that girl on the subway told me that I have gorgeous knees).

Until next time, I bid you adieu. (I’ve always wanted to bid someone adieu and never knew how. Thoughts?)

High School, Take Number Two

2006-01-11T01:56:00.000-05:00

By Mink

With little better to do this past Saturday night, I attended a high school basketball game between two Jewish rival schools in Baltimore. Beth Tfiloh (my alma) and Rambam (a newer Jewish school commonly mistaken for a Flintstone character)....It was a heated battle, too close for comfort, that the good guys squeaked out by 8 (after trailing by 12 late).

Besides providing a Saturday night activity for my bored and lazy self, the game and the festive environment gave me a chance to reflect. And no I don't mean reflection about the high school girls in the stands, although there were certainly more future stars in the stands than on the court. What I mean is that I began to reminisce about high school, which is natural when one enters his home gym. But this nostalgia did not take me back to missing the glory days or the old high school gang. Instead I was consumed with a new dream that at 25, I could head back this minute to high school and do it all over again. I would get out there and atone for the lackluster high school career I had on and off the court.

They say everyone should have a dream, some people want to be doctors, I want to spend my mid twenties in the hallways of Beth Tfiloh, throwing paper airplanes at substitute teachers and cracking perverted notes to my neighbors (Oh wait I might be confusing this with law school). So here are a few reasons why I would love to do it go back and rewrite history knowing what I know now as a 25 year old goof:

1. Varsity Basketball: Ok this is the main reason, I'd go back. The team needs a big man, and although I miss many a layup these days, I would like to think they could actually a 6'3 210 lb center. When people ask me my number in high school I can only respond "yellow" which was the color of my warmup shirt which never came off.....The "well disciplined" team didn\'t have much use for 6'1 160 lb scrawny, poor shooter.....But now I could start as a freshman and that will make anyone cool no matter what they look or smell like.

2. Acutane: In 1997 if you spotted me from far away, it was sometimes possible to mistake me for a tomato patch. One upper class-man even nicknamed one particularly red and oily visitor, who prominently parked himself on my beak for 3 weeks, as "Binky." Well that was before I took those crazy pills with the picture of the pregnant silhouette with a big red X over her on the outside of each individually packaged capsule. The dermatologist (or "pimple popper" as Seinfeld calls em) told me it reshaped the sebaceous glands or something. All I know is that after 6 months of nose bleeding, face peeling, and my lips nearly falling off I stopped having to wash my face ever.....Bottom line is that in 2006 I will no longer have to try to make my "I'll let you pop my pimples" pitch to secure a prom date....Although inviting 17 year olds to prom just may invite some legal drama, but that's another story.

3. The Beard: I, like most men my age, don't like shaving, its annoying and time consuming. But in high school its damn cool. When I was in high school I was just dying to shave. I didn\'t need to at all until I was 18 which worked out nicely because I would just borrow my 12 year old neighbor's norelco to trim my peach fuzz.....Anyway this would be a great deal for me, as I would instantly transform from "lazy" and "shlumpy" (my mother's term) to "cool" and maybe even"intriguing."

4. My Post Graduate School Credentials: I would enter with a law degree so the kids and teachers would be intimidated as I rattled off some of the few Latin words I remember from law school like "Mrs. Schultz this equation really reminds me of a res ipsa loquitar." or "Ms. Levine did Macbeth have the requisite mens rea? (As I purposely and repeatedly drop my pencil on the floor in an attempt to view some cleavage when she picks it up for me---ok maybe this part of the dream already happened)".....

5. New Pranks: I've always enjoyed a good prank but in High School the wildest things I did in class were hiding and coming out of closets or snorting dental floss and making it come out of the back of my throat. I would love the challenge of scheming up some new pranks (i.e. faking a heart attack during class) and setting up online chat rooms like we did in my first year Constitutional Law class.

6. An Experienced Drinker: At least for me, consumption of alcohol in High School was like my pursuit of females; unfruitful to say the least. But these days a Miller Lite can in my fridge is just something to wash down my burger and fries. My female adventures, while not as plentiful, at least have made strides since the 90's. This would be make me moderately cool as a high schooler today. Although after coaching JV basketball last year and hearing some of their alleged tales, I still think I would be getting the education in these regards.

7. The Cassanova or the Ladies Man: This is what we strived to be in high school and where I failed so miserably. Back then I learned the harsh reality that a girl who says she " just wants to be friends" really means "don't call me, don't touch me." But ooh how the times have changed, I mean what high school girl would not come running to a Bearded and Pimple Free/Juris Doctor/Prankmaster/Beer drinking/Varsity Basketball player? Is that not every teenage girl's paradigm of a hunk?

That's all I got for now, but at least for me this admittedly disturbing daydream sure beats the alternative of being a pseudo-functional grownup about to begin his first full time job ever.

Who Loves Being Nude

2006-01-09T00:19:00.000-05:00

by singerz

Ever notice that little kids - say 2,3,4 year olds, hate wearing clothes and love being naked? (In some cases, 10,11, 25 year olds, ahem Mink ahem). I have seen many little kids with huge grins on their faces running around their homes buck naked. They’re at the age where they are well-aware that they are naked, and simply love it. I envy them. People just comment: “Oh he’s so cute.” The one time I ran around my apartment in the nude with a huge grin on my face, needless to say, no one commented: “Oh how cute.” (which reminds me, I need to find a new apt, anyone know of roommates? My roommates said that they and I have “irreconcilable differences” and I have no idea why).

It has come to my attention in recent days, as I have been spending more time in the sauna, steam room, and men’s locker-room at my gym (not to see the men, to do that I can always just go see Brokeback Mountain), that the “loving being nude” trend returns at about the age of 63.

I understand that it’s a men’s locker-room and so many people go with the “why-the-hell-not-be-nude” lifestyle philosophy. But no, this is different. Coincidentally being nude for a moment or two while changing, showering, etc, is fine in a men’s locker-room. But these men, these old men, LOVE being nude. Support:

(The scene: steam room. Zev is the only one below the age of 67 and, interestingly, the only one wearing a bathing suit)

Old man 1: Sonny, why are you wearing your bathing suit?
Zev: Errrrr…
Old man 2: I bet he’s embarrassed of something.
All old men: (raucous laughter)
Zev: NO not true.
Old man 3: So then take off your bathing suit! None of us are afraid of showing off our goods!
Zev: (runs out of steam room crying)

Maybe it’s the fact that they just don’t care anymore. They’ve seen it all, done it all. What’s one more set of genitalia to these guys, yaknow? I can’t imagine that I will ever enjoy being nude as these guys do. But you never know, there was a time that I never thought I’d even be sitting in a room with scalding steam pouring into my face and loving it.

Year Fetish

2006-01-03T11:34:00.000-05:00

By Mink

For anyone who is still reading this blog (and I'm assuming its just the 3 of us: zev, myself and anoynmous) I would like to wish you all a happy new year. I can't believe its already 2006 and I will refuse to believe it all the way up to August 1st which is normally the time that I start dating things with the correct year (Although I take even longer to adjust to the drastic year changes such as 1999-2000 where I continued to date things as '99 well until the spring of 2001.)

I think New Year's excites me more than it does most people because among my many issues, is what I guess I would describe as a "calendar year association fetish." To clarify, my sick little brain enjoys using calendar dates to remember and understand stuff. For example, when I am introduced to someone who I know I have met before (and he or she of course has no knowledge of my existence), instead of acting like a normal person and either biting my tongue and saying "nice to meet you" or "I think we met at Joe's house," I will say something like "Oh yeah didn't we meet at a party at Joe's house back in the fall of 1999?" or "we met right after they announced the major league baseball strike of 1994."

Obviously such statements are percieved as weird, creepy, or autistic. And this person I am speaking to either honestly doesn't remember me or more likely once made a concious choice to erase me from their memory. More problematic is if the person I have remembered happens to be a girl and she now believes I am an obscessed stalker who has forever stored the date of our first meeting in the recesses of my brain.

A girl's perception of stalking is a whole nother ballgame. If you show up at a girl's door with flowers, sing her lullabies, remember exact calendar dates, and send her candigrams you very well could be labeled a stalker. But that same girl could also very well find the same actions to be "cute" or "sweet" if she is somewhat attracted to you. So I guess what I'm saying is, I really struggle with that fine line between "cute" and "dangerously stalkish."

P.S. I will only respond to Zev's cheap behind the back attack by saying that while he wrote it, my albino body was enjoying the 80 degree sun and black jack with Ken Griffey Jr......And one more thing Zev, your fingernails are gross and you eat fried farmer's cheese.

Civil War at the Dump

2005-12-26T10:17:00.000-05:00

by singerz

While Mink is out of town, getting his extremely white (almost albino) skin burned to a crisp in the Bahamas, I would like to say something. Has anyone noticed that he is copying my topics? OK, it was one thing when he stole my barbershop idea and wrote “Barbershop 2.” But when he wrote “I’m about to go on strike too,” I realized that instead of coming up with new topics he has been using mine. Isn’t the point of a blog to write about new topics?

As such, I’m thinking about leaving him off of the invite list for the next blogger’s convention. Furthermore, he is going to be fined $1 million a day until he comes up with new topics.

Many of you may be saying to yourselves, “Wow, that’s a real dick move - writing about Mink while he is away and cannot defend himself.” And for those of you who don’t talk out loud to yourselves on a regular basis, you may be thinking such things. And to that, I respond with: there’s nothing wrong with talking out loud to yourself. Also, its more fun talking about someone when they cannot defend themselves.

Happy Holidays to all. Mink, your next topic better not be “Yea, Zev’s right, there is a Civil War at the Dump.”

I'm about to go on strike too

2005-12-23T10:38:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Last night I watched someone get arrested outside a bar in downtown bmore. I don't know if this makes me a disturbed individual but I kept inching closer to get a better view and to listen to the whole interaction between the two cops and the young intoxicated lad....Piecing together what I saw and heard the young man was kicked out of a bar for fighting, then tried to kick down the door to get back in, and then began physically resisting the cops.......I was heading to my car about to head home but my legs just froze and I started staring at the scene the same way I generally stare non-discreetly at lovely looking ladies. Eventually (maybe 3 hours later) I finally walked away, and began to wonder why I absolutely cannot turn away from: arrests, fights, bad car accidents, and most disturbing of all the Baltimore Orioles.

Note: The NY strike and the Zevie strike may be over but I'm starting my own little blog strike on Sunday......If anyone wants to join me I'll be in the Bahamas staring for hours at scantily clad girls on the beach while trying not to become the guy that is stared at by idiots like me for getting arrested or getting involved in a rumble.....Back to work Zev.

R.I.P. ELROD

ZEV ON STRIKE- BLOG SHUTDOWN?

2005-12-22T00:09:00.000-05:00

By singerz

I am on strike from blogging until my pension plan gets better and my blogging salary is raised by 6%. Mink doesnt treat me well and hes going to have to deal with a blog shutdown. I hope he has a good contingency plan (every comment below 96th street has to be written by at least 4 people).

The only result to this impasse will be binding arBITCHration.

NOTE: For our non-NYC blog readers, you may not find this post funny. Sorry.

NOTE 2: For our NYC blog readers, you may not find this post funny. Sorry.

Barbershop 2: My turn in the chair

2005-12-21T00:55:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I hope you aren't barbershopped out but after Zev posted his barber adventures I felt an obligation to share this tale

Towards the end of my first year of law school my very caucasian law school friend and I entered a barber shop in lexington market (in the heart of downtown baltimore) much to the amusement of the customers and barbers.....If you have seen the movie Barber Shop you couldn't have replicated it much closer than the scene we witnessed that day.....(Guys hanging out for hours talking sports and detailing their latest female conquests, reading Ebony, and selling bootleg dvds)

Anyway they asked me what I wanted and I think I said something like "just buzz the back and blend the top with scissors, leaving the bangs a little longer." The dude looked at me in shock and responed "I don't do scissors, its either clippers or you can wait for Big Willie to help you." I chose to wait for Big Willie as my law school pal got an unusually time consuming buzz cut. I also giggled after hearing another guy describe that he wanted his hair to be done "Allen Iverson style."

As I got into the chair I told Big Willie to do mine "Christian Laetner style." (for the non-sports fan readers Mr. Laetner is one of maybe 7 caucasian-american NBA players in the league) Several patrons chuckled at that one but Big Willie was getting frustrated because I kept turning around to look in the mirror. Viewing it as an insult, he said "what you don't trust me?" I just smiled and tried to remain calm.

As it turned out Big Willie didn't use scissors either and his version of a blend was holding my hair in the front with a comb as he would chop off another layer with the clipper. After 2 or 3 chops, some chatter about illegal cable and the Maryland basketball team I was satisfied enough and thanked Big Wilie for his services......We walked past that shop on the way to law school everyday and although I never got another haircut there, Big Willie waived to me everyday after my unforgettable visit.

Editors note: I was saddened to learn recently that the Lexington Barber Shop has closed, however the DVD bootleg business is alive and well and rumor has it Big Willie is filling some of his extra time posting anonymously on this blog.

The Dump Hosts a Guest

2005-12-20T02:27:00.000-05:00

by Kaliri

I am truly honored to have accepted a kind invitation to guest post on the blog. This website is one of the most important of it’s kind (whatever that may be.) It’s a true to testament to random literature and uncompromising journalism. The fascinating topics covered on this website by head writers Mink and Zev leave me thirsting for even more arbitrary information. That being said, I couldn’t think of an arbitrary topic funny or important enough to write about. So, I figured I’d just make fun of Zev and Mink.

On that note, I’d like to start by unofficially renaming this site “Minky and The Brain”, one is a genius and the other is clearly insane. Let’s take a look at the similarities between “Pinky and the Brain” and ”Minky and the Brain.”

“Pinky and the Brain” was a popular segment of the cartoon show Anamaniacs. It depicted two lab mice: Pinky was a comical English mouse that was completely insane. He was the taller of the two, and was quite clumsy. He was partnered with The Brain, a brilliant yet very dark and disturbed mouse. The brain was shorter, with a tremendous head and mouse shoulders. The Brain had one mission in life, and that was to take over the world.

Their missions generally failed, due to the fact that The Brain would almost always rely on Pinky to complete the most significant part of his brilliantly intricate plans. Pinky was inept, and incapable of following through on The Brain’s plans. As smart as he was, the Brain never seemed to learn that Pinky couldn’t come through for him. Or it could just be that fact that he had no one else (sound familiar yet, Zev and Mink?)

“Minky and the Brain”, are two popular guys who grew up in the nineties, they star in their own real life roles as simply Maniacs. Mink(y) can be compared to Pinky in many ways. Much like Pinky, Minky is tall and lanky, a bit clumsy as well. He too has been deemed insane by many observers. Pinky had a bizarre English accent; Minky too has a strange accent and bizarre way with words. He too has been deemed inept by all academia. But much like Pinky, he is a lovable character.

Zev (The brain) is very similar to The Brain. They are physically almost a perfect match. Zev is the shorter of the two, and he too has an unusually large head and football player like shoulders (possibly to house his large brain, or just globs of cheese from all of the pizza he eats.) The Brain’s mission was to take over the world and anyone that knows Zev understands that he too shares this same desire: trying to take over the world one person at a time, becoming loved by all, one mock trial club at a time.

What Zev and Mink don’t realize is that they too are just mice in “relation” to the rest of the world. History has a tendency of repeating itself, why not learn from the painful mistakes of those two lovable mice? This website may attract many readers, but Zev, C’MON, global domination? Minky, You gonna let Zev post more homosexual images of the two of you to carry out his plan?

I wish the two of you the best of luck, and I commend your very funny efforts. My point is, the two of you should continue to enjoy the popularity this site brings you, and be proud of the exposure that you are giving arbitrary issues that might otherwise go unnoticed. Good luck and watch out for traps!

The Barbershop Experience

2005-12-19T00:04:00.000-05:00

By singerz

I decided to write the blog today about barbershops in order to redeem myself after my manicure post and to prove once and for all that I possess more testosterone than estrogen. And so I did some underground investigative reporting and went to get a haircut. I also went to get a haircut because I needed one. But mainly for the blog.

I enter the barbershop that I go to, one that has a very creative and appropriate name. “ALEX BARBER SHOP.” It seems that in Russian, there is no possessive ‘s’. In any event, there is security and a line to get in. I get to the barbershop and decide to begin my interview with a few of the customers.

Zev: Excuse me sir, is this your first time in Alex Barber Shop?
Angry Russian Man: (grunts) (unintelligible Russian mumbling)
Zev: Sir? Does Alex give a good haircut?
Angry Russian Man: Rasvitali Yagushki, Mina Nadricai (that’s a direct quote)

As it turns out, I don’t know Russian. And so even if his mumbling had been brilliant and articulate, I still would’ve called him angry mumbling Russian man. I decide to move on to interview number two. I approach a man, maybe in his mid-sixties, maybe not in his mid-sixties. He is completely BALD, sitting looking at some of the adult content magazines that Alex Barber Shop graciously provides for its customers.

Zev: Hello sir. I see you are bald. Why are you in a barbershop?
Bald man: I like the magazines. Alex has good magazines.
Zev: Ah yes, I agree, Rolling Stone, Sports Illustrated…
Bald man: Nah sonny, I’m talking Playboy, Penthouse..the works.
Zev: I see. And Alex does not mind that you come here just to read dirty magazines?
Bald man: Don’t worry, I wash my hands in the barbershop green liquid stuff.
Zev: That’s absolutely disgusting.
Bald man: Yes. Yes it is.

I came to the following conclusions from my time at Alex Barber Shop. A real barber shop must have the following:

-A red white and blue spinning thing outside that makes you dizzy
-A Playboy at the magazine table, but it's from 1986
-There is a shitty old TV on that gets only 2 stations
-Your barber watches the TV while he gives you a haircut
-There is a picture of the 1978 Russian soccer team on the wall
-Haircut prices have not been adjusted for inflation in 25 years
-A "haircut" means a buzz with a razor and shaving cream on your neck, no matter what you ask for

In blog news, we have a very special week. Stay tuned for a special guest blogger post, some new pictures, and Mink making fun of another dead guy.

An Apt 1B flashback

2005-12-15T15:47:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Just saw a couple of bugs crawling around the kitchen today and got pretty annoyed but every time I see a little critter I immediately crack a smile as I take a trip down memory lane to my days at Yeshiva University in Apt 1B.

You see our Apt was the daily host for informal gatherings to watch the NBA on TNT, the Ravens (back when they were good), Maryland Basketball (the championship year), the Redskins (not my choice), Emeril, free PPV (where we became captivated by classics like Coyote Ugly and Bring it On), Playstation2, and sitcoms such as Everybody loves Raymond, Seinfeld and the then hit show ED (the bowling alley lawyer show).

Besides humans (i guess you can call us that) Apt 1B was also a huge hit amongst the rodent community of Spanish Harlem. They too enjoyed hanging out and actually being able to find a place to watch non-NY sporting events but I think they came mostly to chill with my roomate whose half eaten snacks left around the apartment made it the perfect place for the mice to pre-game before checking out the wild rodent nightlife scene at the NY Subway Stations.

Anyway here is the 1B mouse tale that always brings a smile to my face:

It is about 2 in the morning and I am just returning from the library (believe me not an ordinary occurence). So I enter the apartment and am not surprised to find the remnants of a normal night in 1B which to give you an idea featured: half eaten chinese food, wrappers, empty 40's of Colt 45, cigarette butts and the like.....

I don't see him at first but my roomate is sitting behind his desk located in the back part of the living room near the heater (which was the entry point for our furry friends and where we constantly kept the glue traps smeared with peanut butter). He is holding a small broom and in a faint and almost moaning tone explains "Minkove we have a situation!"

I head over towards his desk to find the scene of husky disheveled man with a look of sheer horror and helplessness as he watches a mouse nibble on the remains of his cheese curls which he had opened a week ago. Apparently the 2 creatures had been sitting there this way (my roomate with broom in hand; mouse with cheese curl in mouth) for quite some time before I arrived. But we decided enough was enough and chased the critter around the apt until we lost track of her in the cushions of our fine looking whitish leather couch......ahhh, good times....

Word Association Gone Bad

2005-12-13T02:45:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Those of you who know me know that I have a habit of putting my foot in my mouth (both literally and figuratively). So the story that happened to me the other night should come as no surprise:

I was out to dinner at a restaurant the other night with my family including my aunt, uncle, and cousins. So during dinner I was having a side conversation with my sister when I overhear something my uncle says that strikes me as rather odd. I abruptly end the convo with my sister and ask loudly to my uncle "Did I just hear you say that you'd love to see more action?"

After what seemed liked the awkward eternity of silence (even longer than the pauses I would get in high school after asking girls to prom) he responds "Jon, actually Mr. 'Seymour Aschen' was a friend of mine who just passed away today." I quickly and quite awkwardly offered my condolences. This was followed by some more uncomfortable silence and one of the quickest "check please?" requests that you will ever see.

Besides feeling a little bad about the incident, my drive home was spent thinking of how I personally would have attempted to capitalize on being given such a fortunate name. Here are a few I came up with:

(NOTE: No disrespect whatsoever is intended to Mr. Aschen, may he rest in peace. I just really love the name)

1. I could start a blog called “Ladies: Seymour Aschen every night!”

2. My prom sales pitch to girls: Seymour Aschen at the prom!

3. I could break up with a girl by saying “Sorry but you will Sey(no)mour Aschen” or “No more Aschen for you”

4. A girl could leave another guy to be with me (haha) after saying: “I’m sorry but I’m all about Sey(ing)mour Aschen”

5. I would have been able to have had the following exchange with my middle school literature teacher:

Miss Levine: (during roll call): Seymour Aschen?
Me: As usual Miss Levine
Miss Levine: See me after class
Me: It would be my pleasure

Tales of an Insomniac

2005-12-11T21:40:00.000-05:00

By singerz

Most of you don’t understand what life is like on the dark side. I am referring to life as an insomniac. Some pretty strange things can occur while lying in bed and trying to sleep between the hours of 3am and 6am. Here are some of the classics that I hope many of you will never have to experience but that I deal with on a near-nightly basis.

The Car Alarm
This is something that never ceases to amaze me. I really want to meet the guy who came up with the actual noises that the car alarm makes (actually, no I don’t. He’s probably really loud and annoying. His friends must say- Frank! Jesus man, its 2am, stop making rhythmic noises and alternating excessively loud sounds every 6 seconds outside of my window). The alarm drives me crazy- shoot me (don't really, please).

The Hopeful Noise
This can come in many forms and its simply a noise that leads me to believe that someone is awake in my apartment at this late hour. Example: I think I hear a creak outside of my room. “Brian? (excitedly) Brian? Is that you? Are you up? (getting really excited now) Want to talk? Are you up? Hello? Hows work? Want to chat? (then realizing its just the pipes creaking) *%#& you, you sleeping bastard.”

The IM sign on
Who the hell is up and IMing at 4am, you ask? The answer, my friends, is that guy who I haven’t talked to since camp in 1989. But I’m desperate for human contact, and so let the games begin:
Zev: Yo.
Camp Guy: Who the hell is this?
Zev: Its me, Zev, from camp.
Camp Guy: Camp? Which camp?
Zev: Remember, the all-boys strange religious camp we went to in ’89?
Camp Guy: Ummm, sort of.
Zev: So anyway, whats up? Anything new?
Camp Guy: Since 1989? Yes, a few things are new.
Zev: I have time.

Numbers Games
My dad always tells me that when I can’t sleep, I should play numbers games in my head. For example, he tells me to break down numbers to their factors to see if they are prime numbers. There are a few problems with this strategy: a) it’s not fun b) it’s really weird c) I can’t get past 19 (and yes, 19 is a prime number, stop doing the math before you hurt yourself).

Blog checking
Did someone post another comment? Did I read that comment yet? Is Anonymous poster still a dick?

I’m always open to ideas. For example, last night I found out that a minute on my cell-phone is really 61 seconds while a minute on my alarm clock is a little less than 60 seconds. Amazing, truly amazing and interesting. Please do not ask me how many minutes I watched go by on the clock to figure this out (the correct answer is 82).

G’night all, I’m off to bed. And maybe sleep. Probably not.

Questions

2005-12-09T02:35:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Some questions that have been on my mind recently:

1. Why do girls sound much sexier when they have hoarse voice? My friend came over and had a small bout of laryngitis and I was loving every second of her visit. I told her to make sure stay away from any hot drinks or sucking candies.

2. Why is there no word "ept" or "whelmed" in the language? You would think that being the opposite of inept or overwhelmed would warrant its own word.

3. Why as a Baltimore Orioles fan am I starting to feel like a battered wife (For the record I'm obviously not claiming to know what that feels like and domestic violence is a terrible terrible thing)? Well this one I can answer. We are constantly beaten and humiliated yet for some reason we keep running back; deluding ourselves that the bleeding will have to stop because we love them.

4. Why do some people think its OK to respond negatively to the question "hey how are you?"
I mean if you get anything besides a "good and you?" response then you have to brace yourself for an unbargained- for life saga where you willlikely say "I'm sorry to hear that" and without a doubt you will mean those words while sounding sympathetic at the same time.

5. How is it possible that a show that regularly comes up with genious ideas such as this pic below is never watched and is therefore getting cancelled?
Oh this picture isn't funny? That's because you are a TV snob who only watches reality shows, Sex and the City reruns, and just started getting into Seinfeld becasue the DVD came out a couple years ago and you decided it was ok to laugh even if it was too jewish and too new york....Anyway if you are fighting the good fight here is some info you may be interested in......

http://news.yahoo.com/s/eo/20051208/en_tv_eo/17931; _ylt=AgqRCGwLhc4AFZdCku3fCXcEtbAF; _ylu=X3oDMTBiMW04NW9mBHNlYwMlJVRPUCUl

The Story of a Manicure

2005-12-08T00:02:00.000-05:00

By singerz

I am a chronic nail-biter. Those of you who know me, know that I bite my nails like they are the last remaining pig-in-blanket at a smorgasbord. And so recently, thinking that if my nails were cleaned up a little and shinier I would have incentive not to bite, I decided to get a manicure.

I went with a female friend of mine to her salon in midtown Manhattan. FIRST MISTAKE. Big window in the salon, right on 6th Avenue, everyone could see me sitting there drying my nails like a little girl. It was funny. For them. Not for me.

So I walk in, and the lady takes one look at my nails and yells “Ewww. These disgusting. Yong, come look, disgusting nail man want manicure.” SECOND MISTAKE: Letting Yong give me a manicure. Little did I know at the time, Yong was an expert at the ancient art of maximizing cuticle-ripping pain.

Yong starts the manicure, and I lose 3.6 pints of blood through my hands. I’m sitting there with more blood on me than a vampire at a nude beach. Yong is clipping away, and my friend is laughing hysterically. But its good, Yong is cleaning up my nails. And then… the hand massage begins. THIRD MISTAKE: Moaning with pleasure during the hand massage. Unlike a full-body or back massage, I guess its bad hand massage etiquette to make noise. But it was excellent either way. I’ve never had a hand massage and the thought has never appealed to me, but this was glorious.

Finally, Yong finishes and I go to sit by the window with my hands under the nail-dryer, in the least masculine pose humanly possible, staring out into the street. And then I feel hands on my shoulders and jump. “No massage?” I am asked by a cohort of Yong’s. Massage? Yes, yes, massage! Definitely massage! I reply, a little too eagerly. This time, the sounds I make are socially acceptable. I leave the parlor a happier, albeit more effeminate, young man.

Needless to say, I only lasted a week before beginning to bite again. My shiny nails were gone in 17 seconds, record time. FOURTH MISTAKE: Biting nail-polished nails. Nasty. Tastes like shampoo flavored cottage cheese (not the good tasting kind of shampoo).

So now I understand a little more about why girls like this stuff. It’s not just about looking pretty - its about the experience, the massages, the blood, the Yong. FIFTH MISTAKE: Sharing this story with the entire world-wide-web (or at least the 9 people who read the blog).

Fun in the Snow

2005-12-07T00:00:00.000-05:00

By Mink

So this week we have really gotten our first little sprinkling of frozen dandruff from the heavens. As I'm sure it does with a lot of you snow really has a warm place in my heart. I immediately associate it with school cancellations, hot chocolate, and Maculay Culkin's heartfelt reunion with the family that he made dissapear. Here are some of my favorite snowtime activities and memories:

The Snow Angel: The idea is to lay in the snow as you swing your arms and legs back creating an angelic looking impression in the snow. Am I doing something wrong? cuz mine always comes out looking more like a "snow tall-awkward man."

The Yellow Snow: Given the right circumstances everyone enjoys the thrill of the outdoor pee. Think about it all the shirts they make that say "I peed off niagra falls" or"I made the shallow end warm at Scott's Bar Mitzvah Pool Bash" (ok maybe they only made the latter one for me but you get the point). Anyway combine that great outdoor thrill with some pure white natural flakes, and I promise you, that you will impress all the kids in the neighborhood

The Snowball Fight: It's all fun and games till someone gets snow in their ear. I'm still traumatized by the sneak attack direct snow -to- face rubdowns.

Snow Skinny Dipping: For some reason the neighborhood gang never wanted to come outside when the brother and I played this way.

Snow Eating: Plain snow is wonderful but there is nothing better than the maple-syrup snow combo. A close second place goes to the iceicles from the bottom of cars which also make a fantastic icy treat. The issue with the ice-icle is how many hours or days after the fresh snowfall will you still eat them?I had a friend who prided himself as the kid who ate the iceicles even after they turned a blackish/brown shade with a heavy salty kick.

Sledding: Always was more of a disaster when the snowstorm would coincide with the olympics as I would attempt stunts such as, "the headfirst sled luge race" and "sled skiing"

(NOTE: My most tragic olympic imitation came when i attempted to mimic a kristi yamaguchi triple axel during an ice storm in 92 and had a busted lip for the rest of the winter.)

Weekend Adventures and Journeys

2005-12-04T23:30:00.000-05:00

By Singerz and Mink

Dearest Friends,
Oh, what a glorious weekend it has been. Here are the highlights:

Friday:

4PM: Check in for the blog convention in Zev’s bedroom.

5PM: Zev gets impatient since no one has arrived and begins to devour the muffins from the spread buffet, intended for the blog orientation members.

6:15PM: At a dinner party at the Upper West Side, Zev and Mink continue to self-promote their blog and get reprimanded by a hairy Russian man for drinking all of his vodka.

9:00PM: The search begins for the infamous “Anonymous” blog poster. Mink takes Manhattan and Staten Island, Zev hits Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx.

9:41PM: False alarm after Mink thinks he has spotted “Anonymous,” but realizes the homeless man he has just questioned has been going by the name Anonymous since he lost his ID in 1986.

Saturday:

3:10AM: We reconvene at a birthday party after our fruitless search has concluded. After a short while, we give up and go home after “We started a blog” fails miserably as a pickup line.

5AM: Zev, unable to sleep (as usual), breathes loudly in bed. Mink awakes, and asks Zev to dress for a prompt 5:15AM “State of the Blog” board meeting.

7PM: The boys wake up for the day.

10PM: Mink heads to the ‘burbs to visit his little cousins who don’t really like him and Zev binges upon inhuman amounts of pizza.

11:45PM: Zev and Mink physically removed from posh NYC club, being told V-neck undershirts are not appropriate club attire

Sunday:

2PM: Zev and Mink have an awkward moment walking down 72nd street when Zev inadvertently holds Minks hand for a brief moment as he is swinging his arms (whether you admit it or not, we’ve all been there).

8PM: Mink goes on date. Fun time, except in the middle, unbeknownst to his date, he runs to the bathroom to vomit. Not because of the date, but because of the combination of heavy Moroccan food and blog-posting stress. He returns from the bathroom as if nothing has happened (true story).

10PM: With help of expert webmaster, photographer and entertainment expert, Levi-Son, the Garbage Dump holds its first photo shoot. See below:

Proudly showing off our V-garb:

Zev blogging and Mink there for some weird moral support:

The boys after a long and tiring night of blogging:

Hope you guys had as meaningful and inspirational weekends as we did at our convention.

Love,

Singerz and The Mink

Life's Simple Pleasures

2005-12-02T01:03:00.000-05:00

By Mink

This evening I left the Baltimore Jewish Community Center pretty despondent after blowing an 18 point second half lead to a bunch of Russian thugs. Things got so bad in the game that I almost came to blows with an idiot who mimicked my plea for a foul call.

But it doesn't take too much to get me excited and a couple things that followed the game really cheered me up:

1. I got one of those "pull-through spots" at barnes and nobles (You know, the ones where you pull in and lo and behold the spot in front is open as well.)The ability to drive away without having to back out is really all that anyone can ask for out of a parking spot. So if I get one of those in a given week I am very satisfied.

2. Zev emailed me the link to the new Borat website. Apparently after another Sasha Cohen (Ali G) as Borat performance at the European MTV awards, the foreign minister of Kazahkstan lashed out on Mr. Cohen's act and even suggested a political conspiracy:

"We do not rule out that Mr. Cohen is serving someone's political order designed to present Kazakhstan and its people in a derogatory way. We reserve the right to any legal action to prevent new pranks of the kind. We view Mr. Cohen's behaviour at the MTV Europe Music Awards as utterly unacceptable, being a concoction of bad taste and ill manners which is completely incompatible with ethics and civilized behaviour."-Yerzhan Ashykbayev, Kazakh Foreign Ministry Spokesman"

You guys have to hear Sasha Cohen's response which can be heard on this website http://www.borat.kz/ ........priceless

Have a great weekend all, I will be in the big apple at Zevies where we will have our blogger photoshoot and premier party.

Subway Etiquette

2005-12-01T00:20:00.000-05:00

By Singerz

Last night, I was waiting for the subway and trying to see down the tracks if the train was coming. (We all do this. Its fruitless, it doesnt help me to know the train is coming, but there is just something warm and comforting about seeing those two glorious headlights down the track.) Anyway, my view down the tracks was blocked by some guy leaning all the way over so no one down the platform could see past him. I cursed in my head. I was going to curse aloud, but he was a big man.

In any case, there is a judge and a jury. Also, I was inspired to write about subway etiquette. Some dos and donts that should be written in stone:

DO: Hold the pole when the train is moving and youre standing up
DON'T: Lick your hand, sneeze, wipe your child's ear wax, wipe a stranger's ear wax, and then rub and hug the pole like youre a stripper

DO: Step toward the middle of the train when other people are getting on
DON'T: Lunge your body full force and headlong into a packed train, thinking "theres always room for one more"

DO: Be nice and courteous to people when they ask you for directions
DON'T: Tell the guy asking for money that you don't believe him that his house burned down and that he should just get a freakin job

DO: Buy a newspaper from the "New York Times, fiFTY ceNTS" guy if you want to read
DON'T: Buy a single cigarette from that weird guy, no matter how bad you need a smoke

DO: Try to be clean on the subway, minimizing BO for the benifit of others
DON'T: Do your personal grooming on the subway (and that includes pluckings and shavings)

DO: Move your bag out of the way if it is hitting someone
DON'T: Scratch your nose when the big-bossomed woman is 2 inches from you (I can tell you this from personal experience and a black eye)

DO: Start a blog if you have really weird thoughts in your head
DON'T: Start a blog if you start running out of funny things to say

Just a quick rant

2005-11-30T17:22:00.000-05:00

By Mink

I just got back from the grocery store and as usual did not get a clean swipe of my credit card. Without fail my checkout is like shooting an advertisement as it takes at least 2 or 3 cuts. I'm presuming this is solely my problem as I could add it to the list of basic everday things I don't know how to do such as throwing a spiral on a football or even blowing my nose. Anyone else have swiping issues?

Email Subject Lines: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

2005-11-29T03:05:00.000-05:00

By Mink

It took me a number of years but I really have embraced the world of the emailing and use it quite frequently. However I think I would send even more emails out if I didn’t have to worry about composing that short but annoying little hurdle of the subject line phrase. Here is a review of some subject line phrases. The good the bad and the ugly.

THE GOOD:
"Yo": This is a personal favorite of mine. Its informal, slangy and catches the reader’s attention. It also is effective because it is a pretty non-threatening and neutral greeting. For example a girl won’t necessarily assume you are hitting on her with this subject line even if in actuality you are. So the bottom line is this is an excellent salutation because it is not intimidating and the slanginess of the word draws the reader into the email.

The Running Start: This is when the writer begins his email in the subject line by inserting the first couple of words. Example: Subject: "Minkove is a"…….(the email would then begin with something like “an F*****A****** and I hope he and that other F***** blogger (Zev) go F***** themselves)"……These are solid because they draw the reader in and don’t leave us guessing the reason behind the writers choice for the subject line.

The Random Comment: I like doing this one too cuz it allows me to insert something into an email that I otherwise would have nowhere else to insert. Example: I need to write a serious email to my friend about trying to save Arrested Development from going off the air. As I write the email I also want to express my frustration regarding the performance of the Ravens from earlier in the day. But as I write the email I realize that I will be unable to work a Ravens jab into the email without ruining the serious tone of the subject at hand. So I would pull something like this Subject : “Ravens are gross.” The reader would nod approvingly and then smoothly switch gears to the message at hand.

THE BAD and the UGLY:

"Hi" "Hey" or "Hello": These aren’t awful but I try to shy away from them because they are far too boiler plate. Of all of these I prefer the hello as it conveys a more playful tone,

"No Subject": You just have to give me some idea why I should take time out of my allotted wasted time online to read your email.

"Fwd": If I see this in the subject line odds are I am going to delete it unless I am warned ahead of time. When I see this my brain immediately flashes back to the previous “fwd” subject lines that I have sent to at least 10 people and not collected any money or even have had a good week as promised by the fwder.

Have a great day and feel free to share the subject lines that warm your heart or make you cringe.

SNACKS Awards

2005-11-27T22:34:00.000-05:00

By Singerz

You can’t dispute it, I am a snack expert. I may not be a great student or “pass” my classes. I might not be socially “normal.” But when it comes to snacks, I know my s***. And when I say s***, I mean shit.

And now, the 2005 SNACKS awards:

Best overall snack: No brainer. Twizzler’s Cherry Nibs. Not the ridged kind (OBVIOUSLY). Scrumptious, refreshing, and delicious snack. I defy you to name a better snack. Cherry, soft, licorice. My mouth is watering typing this.

Best cereal (has to be sugar cereal, no one in their right mind would have a non-sugar cereal as there favorite cereal. If you do, you’re too grown up and you’re gross): Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Perfect mix of cinnamon, toast, and crunch. Can eat it any time. Only problem: milk leftovers a little nasty. The milk leftovers award goes to Coca Puffs but the Toast Crunch hangs on to the overall, despite this negative milk trait.

Best Soda: Tough category since I recently made an extremely embarrassing switch to diet soda, for health reasons that only me and my doctor (Dr. Pepper) know. Not withstanding this mortifying lifestyle change to diet, the best overall soda is a two-way tie between Dr. Brown’s Cream soda and good ole Cherry Coke. I know many of you will argue for Dr. Browns Black Cherry, but I like to save cough medicine for when I have a cold (oooooh I busted you, take THAT black cherry).

Best snack not in existence anymore: Cherry and Bubb. Mike and Ike made a grave error by taking this off of the shelves. Support: You stick your hand in. You get a cherry? AMAZING. You get a Bubb? GLORIOUS. You can’t lose. It’s like a grab-bag Hanukah party except there’s no crappy picture frame gift- every present is amazing.

Worst snack (not including fake snacks, like carrot sticks or celery with peanut butter, kids who grew up with those “snacks” are traumatized): Black jelly beans. An embarrassment to an otherwise unbelievable snack, which is why they are so bad. Should be sold in their own separate bag of just black jelly beans for the weirdos who like them. I’m not a proponent of segregation, but this exception must be made. The injustice shall not stand. (What the hell am I talking about you ask? I’m just not sure.)

And finally, the weirdest unknown snack: Fried farmer’s cheese. I get my share of mockery about this one, but buttering up a pan and frying farmers cheese is one of the most delicious things G-d put on this earth. Try it. All of this is a matter of taste and opinion anyway (no its not, I’m correct about all of it).

Oh, and if you disagree about any of the above, please post, citing sources.

House stench

2005-11-23T02:06:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Have you ever noticed that the house you grew up in has a unique aroma that your friends all know and analyze? Of course you don't because apparently it is impossible to know your own family's stench.

For example, I have a friend whose family's aroma is the most distinct of anyone else I know. I could actually smell his living room when he would pull out his wallet in the law school cafeteria. But the crazy thing is he only learned of his family smell when he came into my apartment and told me it smelled like the Minkove family's home. I of course also didn't realize we had a family scent (besides the natural B.O. and methane that my brother, father, and I provided.) NOTE: THE FEMALES IN OUR FAMILY ALSO RIP THEM QUITE OFTEN BUT THEY SOMEHOW RUN ON SILENT MOTORS. Anyway we both were mystified that we even had the house stench and extremely curious about what the hell our respective smells smelled like. (I guess I would label his as a "musky historic wood scent."

So I was wondering a couple things from you all:

1. Is there a such thing as house stench?

2. If they do exist, what makes a good or bad smell? and how do we even describe one? (besides "uch smells like minkove")

3. Is it possible for the family stench to travel with you when you move into a new place? and what happens when there is a collision of stenches(i.e. the rosy engelhart smell and minkove stench)?

Have a wonderful turkey day and happy bday to SingerZ, and another former roomie Cranker Joe Anker.

Pet peeves

2005-11-22T12:47:00.000-05:00

By Singerz

Todays pet peeves: (feel free to add your own)

1) When you call someone and start to leave a voicemail and then they call you on the other line and so your voicemail is awkward... "so call me...oh look,there you are, calling me now."
2) Pizza that is soggy on the bottom. Its a tease, looks good, and tastes like crap.
3) Blogs that put up too many postings.
4) That arrogant paper clip asshole from microsoft word who pops in to "help" you.
5) The old men in the gym lockerroom who mock me for not going in the steam room buck naked. (more on this to come at a later time)

Interviews

2005-11-21T08:38:00.000-05:00

By Mink

So I have 2 interviews today but I'm really not in the mood for the whole ordeal. I'm sick of looking for the magic bullshit catch phrases to turn someone on. It is the same reason I don't enjoy going on dates. So maybe I should just start being more like myself during these things. I bet a judge or fellowship professor is just dying to hire a ball-scratching, potty-mouthed kid who spends saturday nights dancing behind the food stand at the bowling alley with the 17 year old workers. Or maybe I should just bring my playstation along, people I know always seem to love having "next game."

V-necks

2005-11-20T10:34:00.000-05:00

By Mink

For years I made fun of my dad for walking around the house in the V-shaped undershirt. So I always would get the standard white tshirts or the sleeveless wife beater. But recently I have learned that my dad actually had the right idea. The V-neck is the ultimate hybrid of an undershirt. Like the wife beater, it has the feature of not being visible when worn under another shirt. I'm not sure why this is great but for some reason I like some of my gross chest hair to be visible. At the same time it has the under arm sweat protection that the standard undershirt offers and the sleeveless beater does not. At 25 I have aged 30 years with this switch but I am damn proud of it and recommend highly to the masses. The switch to tightie whities however is something I am not prepared to do at least for another 20 years.

hello gang

2005-11-20T01:51:00.000-05:00

By Mink

Welcome to the madness.....If you are reading this you also have problems so I hope you enjoy and please feel free to chime in....We have some wonderful columnists at this blog. But none is more renowned than my weekend nutjob of a guest, Zevie Singer...Mr. Singer, currently a moot court member at Cardozo school of law, is the loudest whisperer you will ever meet and believes that fried cheese and iced tea is the cure for his constantly upset stomach. My roomate, Benjamin Engelhart will also freelance here. This kid's idea of a perfect evening is sitting shirtless, listening to salsa music while refreshing craigslist 42 times a minute. Let the games begin.....Suggestions (only ridiculous ones) are always appreciated.....And if you hate this don't worry it will still entertain me and that of course is the only thing that really matters.

Welcome to Garbage

2005-11-19T19:02:00.000-05:00

Jon may not be the best law student, or at least according to the State of Maryland and their punk ass "Bar Association."

But when push comes to shove, people get hurt. Also, no one will argue that this young man is a g-ddamned GENIUS of garbage. We're talking nobel prize of garbage, if you will. We're talking the summa cume lade of crap, if you will. The wizard of bullshit, if you will.

So welcome to Mink's Garbage Dump blog. You will get a minor glimpse of the trash that goes on in this man's sick head, and sometimes some of his less-sick-but-still-pretty-freakin-sick friends.

singerz