Stuff White People Like

I'm pretty sure I've previously mentioned how much I love my skeeball family. If you're tired of hearing about it, take a moment to get over it, then please continue reading.

A new skeeason (season) is hovering 'round the bend, which means we need to start practicing. Rookie tried to call the first practice today but the snowicane quashed that plan. Instead of a definitive date for practice, I came away from this particular e-mail exchange with something much more valuable.

See for yourself:

Rook: Hey Skeenormous... THUNDERBALLS!!! is going over to FCB (Ed. Note: Full Circle Bar) for some practice tomorrow night (Thu) at 7. u guys wanna join??? (Ed. Note: Skeenormous Balls & Thunderballs!!! = team names)

Skeeazy E: Guys it is supposed to be a fuckin shit storm of snow and freezing rain. I propose we reschedule for friday or saturday or pre-broty sunday. (Ed Note: BROTY = Best Roller of the Year competition)

C-Funk: won't be able to join you guys sunday - going curling during the day

Rook: The second part of that statement requires further explanation (Ed. Note: said explanation involved jokes about ascots and Connecticut but has been removed for brevity) ...that is WASPily awesome. I'm always down for a good ole' fashioned super white activity.

... on a related topic, ever notice there's like one black guy at skeeball?

C-Funk: and for all of you who have met him, he's Carlton Banks black. barely even counts.

Skeedonist: I love white people.

C-Funk: http://www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/

And that's when I read one of the most hilarious websites of all time - if you haven't seen it, I highly recommend you check it out.

Anyway, approximately 48 e-mails and a perusal of the website later, I came up with the following little gem (which I wrote with no one particular in mind - just all of us really):

Stuff White People Like: Skeeball Edition

Skeeball is a sport involving little movement, lots of drinking, and wooden balls – which provide endless fodder for witty (and sometimes not so witty) sexual innuendo. Since most white people have lazy, alcoholic tendencies, and love a good “that’s what she said joke,” it’s no wonder they love to play skeeball.

White people also enjoy puns because puns make them feel more intelligent. Skeeball provides white people the opportunity to employ puns with great frequen-skee, therefore further cementing the game as white people’s sport of choice.

White people also enjoy any excuse to derive clever, catchy nicknames for one another. Nicknames that correlate with inside jokes make white people even giddier, as they strengthen bonds between teammates and provide a subtle way to exclude other white people.

Nicknames also enhance the appearance of the white person’s skeeball apparel. A personalized t-shirt is a must-have when it comes to a white person’s skeeball persona, something that all players must work hard to cultivate if they wish to be taken seriously (ahem, skeeriously).

The national home of the white person’s skeeball league is in a bar in a trendy neighborhood in Brooklyn because that's where all the cool white kids hang out. The bar serves locally brewed beers and cleverly named cocktails (see above reference to white people and puns) as this makes white people feel justified in spending large sums of money on binge drinking.

In turn, the alcohol helps all of the white boys and girls dance better to Weezer songs while they wait for their turn to show off their skeeball prowess. Contrary to what one might think, skeeball does contain a certain level of skill – if it didn’t, white people wouldn’t play it because then anyone would be able to play and be good at it. If anyone were able to play, then white people wouldn’t be able to brag about how much better they are at the game than their friends, which happens to be another one of their favorite pastimes.

While all of these reasons contribute to skeeball’s level of popularity among white people, the number one reason white people like the game so much is that they suck at most other sports. Whitey from Brooklyn takes his skeeball career very seriously as he probably won’t ever have another opportunity to be featured on the face of a trading card, or in a video on ESPN.com.

Roommates: Love'm or Hate'm

My living situation has vastly improved since the days of the Crazies. It feels like a million years ago that I was living in an apartment with a “family friend” from Austin. A past life ago that I had to vacate my bedroom every time my roommate (referred to sporadically in this blog as the Daughter) announced that her parents (the Mister and Missus) were coming for a visit.

I’d forgotten how unbearable things had become. I used to stand outside the door to our apartment, holding my breath, listening for telltale sounds of life within, one hand frozen just above the lock, clutching my key, hoping I wouldn’t hear anything.

But of course, the Daughter was always there. She really had nowhere else to go. In retrospect, I find this sad. At the time, I just found it annoying.

You know in Pirates of the Caribbean, how Bootstrap Bill decomposes into the side of the ship and becomes a part of the wall?

I used to tell people that it wouldn’t surprise me if the same thing happened to the Daughter. I could just picture her fused with the cushions, an extension of our couch.

She went through a phase after she lost her job where she lived permanently on the couch in the dark, watching CSI. Of course, all of my friends knew about this habit of hers because I complained about it incessantly (sorry, y’all …) Anyway, I got to wondering once…

ME: I got home yesterday evening and guess what the Daughter was doing... What's that? Did you say, "watching CSI?" How did you know?? She stayed home all day yesterday because she's "sick." When I went to bed - she was watching CSI. When I woke up this morning to get ready for work - she was watching CSI. SERIOUSLY!!! Do you think it's humanly possible to watch every CSI episode ever made? I mean, there has to be an end at some point, right??

LB: Common misconception. There is actually a never-ending supply of CSI thanks to a spin-off for every major metropolitan area, every type of crime, victim, ethnicity, weather-condition, time period, weapon- the list goes on. I would think that much CSI would really start messing with your head. She is probably going to start getting really paranoid and weird- oh wait.

Clearly my friends loved the Daughter as much as I did. But – back to the point – I am proud to say (without sarcasm this time) that my friends actually DO love my post-Daughter era roommates (affectionately referred to as “the rooms”).

And, of course, so do I.

We actually enjoy hanging out with each other. I pause outside the front door and hope for an apartment full of people instead of an empty one.

This morning, one of the rooms and I ran into each other while getting ready for work. We’re all on pretty different schedules, so this rarely happens. And as she walked out the door, after we exchanged “have a good day!,” I remembered how I used to hide in my room while getting ready for work, emerging only after the Daughter had left for the day.

My one year anniversary with the rooms is coming up in March – obviously, we’re planning a date. And looking forward to another year of awesome.

So in closing, I'd just like to say:    Love you girls!

Celebrity Funeral: Matthew McConaughey

What would it be like if Matthew McConaughey’s gloriously chiseled, sweaty abdominals ceased to glisten under those bright rays of sunshine? What would people say if he was no longer around to “just keep livin’?” Would they miss his sexy Southern drawl?

We found out last night during Celebrity Funeral: Matthew McConaughey at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre.

Eugoogolizers included:

•Camilla Alves (via Skype – she’s busy these days folks, and didn’t mind telling us all about her new show Shear Genius “which airs on Bravo WED @ 10/9C” instead of actually eugoogolizing Matt)

• Charles Dickens (you know him – he gave Matt his permission to adapt his semi-famous play A Christmas Carol into the now largely-famous movie Ghosts of Girlfriends Past)

• Padma Lakshmi (who apologizes for the fight she got into with Camilla during the funeral – but still maintains that she and Matt would have made a far better movie-star/Bravo-TV-host-couple)

Of course, one of my favorite speakers of the night was Matt’s shirt. Yes, his shirt:

Clearly Shirt had some repressed anger to express – all those times Matt discarded him in favor of a trip to the beach or a run with his best bros Lance Armstrong and Jake Gyllenhaal. You can imagine how badly Shirt needs some serious therapy.

But I must say, the number one eugoogaly of the night goes to ….

Maya Angelou.

As played by a white man.

I was confused at first too, but then when I heard Maya speak of the racy relationship she had with Matt, I understood. I would attempt to paraphrase the poem she read for him – entitled “Can you find the buried treasure?” – but I wouldn’t do it any justice. And it’s entirely way too vulgar – unless you don’t find the thought of Maya Angelou’s lady parts offensive.

All in all, the whole thing was pretty enjoyable – from the slideshows of Matt’s abs to the bongo full of his “ashes” that they placed up at the podium, there were lots of laughs to be had.

My biggest complaint was the length – entirely too short. And I think my expectations were pretty high, since the last time I was at the Upright Citizens Brigade Amy Sedaris was a guest in the show.

Imagine Strangers with Candy live before your eyes. Yes please.

In any case, I’ve now resolved to up my current average number of trips to UCB per year (ahem... that would be 1) – and am now accepting applicants for UCB-going companions.

The makings of a great V-Day are…

No expectations. And lots of great friends.

I honestly can’t remember what I did last year for Valentine’s Day. Which I’ll file under “success” as no memories are better than the drama-full/depressing/woe-is me kind of V-Days that many ladies speak of.

I’ve been guilty of wallowing in a bit of V-day related self-pity in the past – during the tender young years of my elementary school days no less. Momma J likes to tell a story about the time she read an entry in my diary about Valentine’s Day (thanks Mom…). Apparently, it went something like, “Dear Diary, Today was the worst EVER. No one gave me any flowers and my dog ate my chocolates.”

This year, I didn’t need flowers or chocolates – I had the Brewskeeball National Championship (BBNC), girlfriends, alcohol and arts and crafts.

I kick-started the 14th with Mad, her two roommates and Carstees at Ulysses for brunch. Mad is probably one of the only people that could get me to venture to the Financial District for brunch at 12:45 on a Sunday morning. It was definitely worth it – buffet style ham, turkey, pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs benedict, oysters. etc., etc. Yum.

There were lots of couples and several families there celebrating V-Day. I’m sure they all appreciated our inappropriate topics of conversation and overzealous use of the F word. Also, Mad accidentally backhanded some lady’s face as she walked by the line of us perched at the bar. Success.

Mad and Carstees are also the only people whom I’d go to The Patriot with (ever, let alone on V-Day). They’re also the only ones that have ever invited me – hmmm. Correlation? If you’ve never been, picture the shadiest dive bar you have ever been to, then multiply times 3. Add in a crazy looking bearded guy who brings his toy dinosaurs to the bar every Sunday and orders them rounds of shots, and then you will have The Patriot.

Next stop: Full Circle Bar to watch our friend Rookie Monster roll in the Brewskee-Ball National Championship (BBNC). If you’ve read previous entries, you know by now that I belong to a skeeball league and that we’re kind of fanatical (OK, extremely fanatical). Watching Rook roll as one of the top 64 players in the nation was pretty awesome.

The bar was packed and the energy hit you like a tidal wave as soon as you stepped in the door. Being part of something that’s beginning to get so much attention and acclaim is exhilarating. For instance, one of our top rollers, Ocean, was just featured in a clip on ESPN. See below for “How to Hurl a Hundo” as well as additional picks from the BBNC this weekend.



metromix : BBNC pics

Last on my V-Day agenda was arts and crafts with part of my girl-entourage homance. The act of making the cards was actually more fun than handing them out to strangers.

Now that V-Day is over, we can all set our sights on St. Patty’s Day. Get ready for Hoboken everyone!

Ice Ice Baby

Snowmaggedon/Snowpocalypse 2010. You'd think people have never seen snow before...

Enjoy the pics, as well as some of my favorite links:

Weatherman in Baltimore

Metaphorically Speaking...

And then there's this:

"This blizzard is coming in hard..."

I left early for work this morning so I could try and document (no snow day for me...):

Caption this image:

Part of our office is currently under construction. Which means that we all have to enter on the top floor, walk through our design department, then descend to our respective floors from there. Ugh.

Which I suppose is the reason they posted this ... er... helpful - ? - sign to guide us towards design. I'm not quite sure what it's supposed to mean - decapitation is pretty much the only thing that comes to mind:

(first few letters redacted above ...)

So I'm soliciting captions - here and elsewhere (where people might actually read and respond... ). Go a-HEAD, give me your best shot.

UPDATE: A sampling of the entries, for your entertainment:

When we're on a deadline we never lose our head...oh, wait a minute!

Looks like someone's got a case of the Mondays.

Design: They'll blow your mind away.

We don't have bathrooms, we just kill you...with our designs.

I hear she gives good head.

Blog Rant: Why We Blog

I’ve recently had conversations with several people regarding the banality/triviality/superficiality of many blogs residing on the “Internets.”

And I suppose mine may fall into this category.

But …

I try to be accessible, to be witty and entertaining in my ramblings. I try to post things frequently enough to hold any sort of interest I’m lucky enough to capture.

I realize that these are stories mostly about me, and that you probably don’t care if I ever talk to that one guy that I really liked ever again, or that I think brunch is one of the greatest inventions on the planet and that New York City is the preeminent place for it.

Maybe you don’t think that the exploits of my best friend and I (a.k.a. Heterosexual Life Partner - LP) are quite as hilarious as we do. I mean, we find the fact that we continually get ourselves into some pretty preposterous situations endlessly entertaining.

Come on – how many of YOU have met the winner of Israel’s American-Idol-equivalent while eating bacon-wrapped hotdogs at 2 AM, only to call bullshit (we really thought those were fake accents …) then later learn that he’s telling the truth after looking up the web address on the bottom of the business card he gave you? (Yes, business card! I also received an e-mail address instead of a phone number the other day as well – another tale for another time).

Of course, I would be thrilled if you did find this interesting. Hell, some of my favorite blogs are exactly this – random snapshots of other people’s lives that I find endlessly fascinating. (See: Stephanie Klein’s Greek Tragedy; Jennsylvania; Suburban Turmoil).

It’s like an escape into someone else’s reality. An excuse to encourage the voyeur inside yourself. A chance to temporarily banish boredom or the remnants of a bad day.

So I guess that’s what I’m offering. A chance for strangers (but realistically, I’m sure, mostly just a handful of friends) to hear about life in the City, to – hopefully – get a kick out of the crazy situations I frequently land myself in.

Belatedly, I realize that I should have chosen another name for this blog in order for the following argument to hold validity. But I still stand by it – I just like puns and thought “Tex and the City” would be cute.

I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, and – even though girls my age that blog tend to be involuntarily slapped with this label – I’m not trying to be one. Seriously.

Just trying to create an outlet for all of these words swirling about in my head that demand they be formed into proper thoughts; into sentences that march across a page.

Big Yellow Taxi

I remember the first time I hailed a cab in New York City. I felt extremely self-conscious – was I doing it right? Was I supposed to hold my arm up high, or out and down? Could everyone streaming past me on the sidewalk tell that I had no clue what I was doing?

I realize now how silly that was – short of throwing yourself in front of a cab to stop it, no one cares how you do it. Just stick your arm out and pray that your driver is semi-normal, because – lemme tell ya – I’ve been stuck with my fair share of the crazy ones.

Once, while heading downtown with Skeazy E and K-Mother-Effin-S after work, a cab of the crazy persuasion found us. The driver careened recklessly through intersections and turns, paying no heed to our not-so-subtle back seat hollers and commentary.

I remember looking over at K, proclaiming that we’d stumbled upon a death cab. Which prompted Skeazy E to remark, “That must make us cuties, then.” Always word-smithing and punning, that one…

I’ve found since then that most cabs fit into one of two extremes: warp speed or agonizingly slow.

Some zip and zigzag through traffic dangerously like angry yellow jackets, while others amble along like affable bumble bees, drunk on pollen.

Most, however, seem to magically avoid accidents. I’ve decided there’s a higher probability for accidents on the highways of Texas than anywhere in Manhattan. Maybe because there’s less space here. Maybe because we’re able to drive at faster speeds there. Probably because one of them has scores of teenage drivers and the other doesn’t.

But, the other day, I witnessed my first full-fledged, taxi-related accident – and it wasn’t even the taxi’s fault.

I was standing on the corner, across the street from the office, waiting for the traffic light to change. Impatiently of course. It was snowing and I was cold.

Something made me pause for a beat after the white hand illuminated the cross walk. Or maybe I always do this but am now hyper-aware of it.

That’s when a huge white construction van barreled into the back of the innocent little cab stopped at the light in front of him.

I’m pretty sure I – and several other people – screamed. I definitely remember that my heart was racing. One onlooker ran over to the cab and opened the door. The driver spilled out onto the icy asphalt, writhing in pain, clutching his head. There were no passengers in the back.

The driver seemed pretty out of it, I’m sure shifting to park was the farthest thought from his mind. Which would explain the renewed screaming as the cab – left to its own devices – started slowly rolling towards a stationary bus full of people, stranded mid-intersection. Several men – transformed from ordinary suits to heroic bystanders – ran to either side of the moving car, restraining it by its side view mirrors.

At this point, a large crowd had gathered. An ambulance had been called. I felt compelled to stay and run at the same time.

In the end, I shuffled slowly into our office building, jaw still dropped. And it hit me, that no one I know ever wears a seatbelt while riding in the back of a cab.

Time to start.