Some Random Thoughts for Monday Evening

As I'm sitting here watching Satan's little puppet show in Lincoln Center -- David Blaine trying to hold his breath for 9 minutes -- I figured I should share a few random thoughts from the past several days.

• I learned that Jester is a total David Blaine hater. I, myself, find his little alchemic ruses quite delightful and entertaining.
• Speaking of alchemy, Saturday night, I had the pleasure of seeing the Sox stomp on the Royals (yes, I know, the Bad New Bears could stomp the Royals), along with J-Diza, Trey-C, Matthew Spring, and 38,000+ others. Thanks to JD, the seats we had were awesome. They were 4 rows up along the right field foul line. Sure enough, in the bottom of the 8th a towering Paul Konerko foul ball landed in the aisle less than 3 feet from a cowering Jessie (who had the aisle seat). Needless to say, someone else is the proud owner of said ball. When it hit the ground (after ricocheting off some teenager's leg), it sounded like a slightly overweight pre-teen's stomach smacking the pristine surface of a pool in a well-executed belly flop.
• Speaking of getting randomly douched with water, on Friday night in the area around the intersection of Halsted and Diversey, there was an unknown man terrorizing sidewalkers with a Super Soaker.
• Speaking of Super Soakers, apparently the geniuses at Hasbro have decided to combine a Super Soaker and facials with the well-thought-out Oozinator. It's a squirt gun that, as far as I can tell, has one nozzle that squirts water and one nozzle that squirts a sticky milky white substance. I couldn't make up something this dumb. Well, I could. In fact, I can dream up a whole boatload of stupid shit. However, it's not blogworthy if I make up a squirt gun that jizzes. But when some corporate execs actually give the okay to a toy this ridiculous, well that's definitely blogworthy. Check out the commercial. Special thanks to Jenn "Don't You Dare Call Me a Rookie" Weisgerber for sending me the link, as well as the link to the hilarious customer reviews for the Oozinator on Amazon.com.
• Speaking of terrible corporate marketing moves, just when I thought life couldn't get any worse, I hear Verizon DSL's new commercial with the uber-annoying voice of Michael McDonald, aka the man who ruined the Doobie Brothers, aka the king of butchering Motown songs. You would think that after the 40-Year-Old Virgin, the world would know how hated Michael McDonald's voice is. You would think.
• Speaking of 40 year olds, I was in the Gap near North and Sheffield, and there was this 40-year-old dad wearing a pink polo shirt with a popped collar (and he was wearing sunglasses indoors). Those of you who know me know that I can't stand the fucking Gap, and I've probably been inside the Gap less than 5 times in my life. This guy is why. As if popping his collar wasn't bad enough (that's castration grounds in most circles, especially circles comprised of those older than 19), some song comes over the speakers and he starts playing air guitar, rather adamantly at that. Then he starts snapping (with both hands), dancing, and singing the song to his kid, who is still in a stroller and not old enough to realize that his dad is a complete embarrassment. To top it off, the guy grabs his wife and starts dancing with her in the middle of the store, then they start making out. Much to my chagrin, she found nothing wrong with any of his behavior. Jessie would have smacked me in the dick with a lead sap -- and rightly so -- if ever attempted to pull anything like that. I had to get the hell out of there before I actually said something to him. Not that it would have made any impact, since he would have just packed the fam back into the Volvo wagon and rocked some jazz hands on the way back to their Old Town brownstone.
• Speaking of 40-year-old douchebags in polo shirts, there must be a 24-hour douchebag virus going around the city because I was walking to the L after work and saw who I assume was the Gap man's older brother. Living in Dayton for so long, I forgot that there are people called "tourists." So I see this guy whose look screamed "I am a naive rich man from parts elsewhere. Mug the shit out of me." His hair was neatly combed so as not to flap in the wind. His almost nerdy glasses said, "I spent $700 on these glasses, I have mutual funds, and I voted for Bush. Twice." He was wearing a perfectly pressed red high-end polo shirt, tucked perfectly into his well-pressed pleated khakis. Draped symmetrically over his shoulders was a navy blue sweater, with both arms hanging down, wrinkle- and crumple-free. To top it off, both of his hands contained large (full) bags from Brooks Brothers. He crossed the street, got to the corner, stopped and whirled himself around, looking up at the skyscrapers as if to say, "I am happy to be unfamiliar with my surroundings, and I have a very respectable disposable income. It should be a crime not to rob me."
• Speaking of my new Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, I'm gonna look good tomorrow at work.