Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Olio (and blood).

I don't have a coherent stream of consciousness right now, because I'm sweating. Actually sweating from the heat. Without heavy lifting, or running, or any physical exertion. I gotta say, that doesn't happen often, and I don't much care for it. But, while I'm not making any sense and while I'm waiting for the freezer to work its magic on that big glass of Kool-Aid I stuck in it, I figure I might as well blog. You know, instead of doing anything truly productive.

Before I forget, this nugget of bloggold is dedicated to the woman I talked to on the Staten Island Ferry today. She was very pleasant and came from a land I had never heard of called Jaw-Juh. Wait, what?

Ohhh. That makes waay more sense than what I was thinking.

Anyway, I was in the deliciously air-conditioned Staten Island Ferry Terminal when this old tourist lady approached me and asked about how long the ride was (heh) and getting off (heh) and after the ride was over, could she get right back on, or did she have to wait 10-15 minutes (and... heh)? Rejecting my initial answers to such questions, I answered them to the best of my ability. I ended up playing tour guide to her quartet of former southern belles, answering some questions, making up answers to others, and pretending not to hear their repeated comments about taking me home (though that intoxicating drawl did make that part a little difficult). They did mention that they were going to see Spring Awakening tomorrow. It was then my mind wandered.

Me: Oh, really? Hey, could you guys do me a favor and run something backstage for me? It's a gift for one of the actors.

Southern Woman: Why Sure, y'all. I'd love to!

Me: Great, here it is, thanks.

(hands her a jack o' lantern with a knife stuck in it)

SW: My, how nice! Who's it for?

Me: Oh, he'll know. He'll know.

And Scene.

I dedicate that scene to the anonymi out there. Love you guys! Though if they're reading this, that means they're repeat readers, so I probably shouldn't alienate them... Ah well, it's what I do.

Speaking of what I do, I had a job interview today!

Hooray, right? Totally. But as I was waking up completely early today and rushing out the door all fancified, I had a choice to make. Should I wear my trustworthy old black shoes, that are kind of busted and scuffy, but as comfortable as walking on a waterbed full of angels, or should I wear the shinier, duplicitous bastard shoes that come complete with invisible pain razors?

Oh Vanity, thy name is Rev. As I'm typing this I have four bandages on myself, and went through a large section of my profanity lexicon having applied Peroxide to the oozing wounds where I once had structures known as "parts of my feet."

Being quick of mind, once I arrived in Manhattan, I hobbled into a Duane Reade and purchased some bandages, and at the office where my interview was to take place I politely requested the men's room and performed emergency surgery. That slightly lessened the pain, plus it totally made me feel like Bruce Willis in the greatest action movie ever filmed.

Hans Gruber, you bastard.

Still hobbling slightly and bleeding through the band-aids even slightlier I went into the interview. As is my wont, I tried to work the charm. Though I must admit, it's tough to answer the question "what do you feel you're best at?" when your brain has split into Mr. Orange and Mr. White and is acting out the after-the-opening-credits scene from Reservoir Dogs.

This one (you can skip the first 35 seconds).

Speaking of things that are completely ripped off, you know how I told you not to read the book Eragon? Well, definitely don't read its sequel, Eldest.

The Empire Strikes... uh... DRAGON!

I can maybe forgive a sheltered, homeschooled teenager for buying into his weird parents' claims that "No, honey, no one's ever written this story before, and their version certainly didn't have lightsabers." But to write a sequel that's just as full of parallels and then having the BALLS to quote the work you're plagiarizing (Eldest, p. 665 paragraph 5)? Paolini, you cutesy, tongue-in-cheek, self-aware piece of garbage. I'll wait. I'm sure when the third book is published, and Eragon has to destroy a second Death Star, you're going to do a book signing tour, and I'll be there to... well... glare at you as you sign my copy. Glare REALLY hard, though.

All for now,


PS - Anyone want to help me move this weekend?

PPS - Seriously, the glaring will be intense.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Book REView

Maybe my last post was a bit misconstrued. First off, I never said that Jonathan B. Wright was either unattractive or untalented. In fact, he's both, which is why he is featured in a Tony Award winning musical. However, the Michael York connexion is positively uncanny. Also, as much as I might like him, I like Phoebe Strole much more, so he can go ahead and get out of the way.

Anyway, as far as some other comments are concerned, rest assured, I have not yet begun to criticize people because I'm unhappy with my own life!

Ok, John Paul Jones said it way better.

That's Captain Badass to you.

So today I am going to turn my eagle/laser eye on a book that I read this week. This book is called Eragon, by Christopher Paolini. The cover looks like this:

I have furnished you with this image so that you may avoid the real thing at all costs.

Many of you may be asking "But Rev, why bother reading this juvenile fantasy book in the first place? Surely it's far below your reading level, or maybe you're just an idiot who loves this sort of thing, and it took you several months to stumble over the more complicated words and that enraged your simple mind"

Wow. You guys are mean. But no, the real reason I read this is because I'm getting set to move in a few days, and so am reticent to get any books from the library for fear they will be misplaced and/or never returned. In a desire to pass the time, I picked up a copy of this book from my housemate, who is a fan of dragons. Yeah, I'll leave that there.

Basically, to sum up this book, if you went through it and replaced the word "Rider" with "Jedi" you would very soon realize that you're actually reading the original Star Wars. Plot breakdown:

-A farmboy who has no knowledge of his parentage is raised by his uncle. Said uncle is killed and the farm destroyed by forces of the evil Empire.

-Farmboy starts on a quest with an old man with a mysterious past who gives farmboy a special sword and trains him in the ways of an ancient peacekeeping organization.

I won't ruin it all, but along the way a mysterious ruffian is added to the mix, they rescue a princess from a prison and have to defend a rebel stronghold from the Empire. You see where I'm going with this?

Sure, it's targeted at 12 year olds, but if they're that hard up for stuff to read, try The Hobbit, or read the Harry Potter series again. Or, you could even try to find something that doesn't involve a dragon.

"But Rev, the author wrote this when he was circa 15 years old! Shouldn't that count for something?"

Sure, it would get him a kick ass grade in his creative writing class. Dare I suggest... an A Plus Plus! Otherwise, I'm not sure it's a good idea to start making exceptions for literature review.

"Sure, Uncle Tom's Cabin is a good book... for being written by a woman"
"Sure, The Picture of Dorian Gray is good... for a homosexual Irishman"
"Sure, Night is good...

Well, you get my point.

Anyway, unless you actually are 10 (in which case I don't suggest you read my blog anyway), don't read this, or see the feature film based on it. Also, don't encourage anyone to read it either. There is a wealth of other stuff out there, and all you need is an imagination and a library card*. don't have to take my word for it

Peace out.


* Literacy helps, too.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Continuing that thought...

Disclaimer: this blog is a work of (hopefully) comedic fiction. If any of the people mentioned herein object to the use of their names and/or likenesses, please let me know and I'll remove them. This blog does not constitute an actual marriage proposal... unless the answer is yes.

Ok, the other day when I was shopping for a wedding present, and consulting the bridal registry information, I became extremely jealous. I would really love for people to buy me lots of nice cookware. Bed Bath & Beyond rocks my socks.

Evidently, however, in order for this to happen, you have to find someone who you can legally promise to love until at least one of you dies. This act is called a wedding and it sort of ties your souls together, turning two individuals into one bank account and potentially ruining your credit score. Enough cynicism yet? Ok, I'll move on.

Seeing as how I would love to have a nice bunch of place settings, or a high-end food processor, it may be time to get hitched. Therefore, I formally extend that invitation to Miss Phoebe Strole.

For those of you who do not know, Miss Strole is a cast member of the hit musical Spring Awakening, which at the age of 24, makes her much more successful than I am. I saw her in this production several months ago, and enjoyed it very much. I have made mention of her in the past, I believe, but with the sudden onset of this quarter life crisis/desire for a nice saucepan, I think it's time to go to the next level.

That's not to say this is a cut and dried matter, no sir. First of all, she's a native of Texas. Many of you know how I feel about that. More importantly, the rumor that's come to my attention has her romantically linked with fellow cast member Jonathan B. Wright.


He plays Hanschen, the narcissistic homosexual classmate of Melchior and Moritz. This makes him, at 20 years old, also more successful than I am. I remain unintimidated. Lord knows I haven't the best track record with girls with boyfriends, but hope springs eternal.

Also, if I may be so bold, this man is completely wrong for you, Phoebe. He is clearly the result of a decades-long genetics project to replicate and enhance the gaiety of Michael York. Don't get me wrong, I love Michael York. He was D'Artagnon in the greatest version of The Three Musketeers ever filmed. I don't mean to demean Mr. York in any way, and neither do I know why so much time and money was spent on this cloning programme. But the pictures don't lie:

Exhibit A.

Exhibit Fabulous.

At the very least, you need someone whose cheekbones pay heed to the laws of physics. Someone clever, someone who looks like Spider-Man and can crush a can between his shoulder blades. So come on, Phoebe, get rid of that guy and let's get hitched. You know, we don't even have to rush to that. There will always be T-Fal. We're still young and have plenty of time to make life-altering mistakes.

You want to just go get a cup of coffee or something?



Monday, June 18, 2007


Ok, yeah. I'm a bad blogger. Nigh on two weeks without an update? That's lame. I make no excuses for my actions. You are beautiful people and you deserve the best, which is why I'm frankly surprised you're reading this at all. That being said...


It is wedding season, no doubt about it. I went to my first one of the year this weekend. One down, three more to go, I think? I lose track. Anyway I'm not going to get into the specifics of this one. Suffice it to say, I really can't stand the wedding ceremony.

Let's be completely honest. Who can? When you get an invitation to a wedding, everyone knows that it's all about the reception. If you're bringing a guest or not, what do you want to eat, which hotels you can get a room in to pass out, or hook up with bridesmaids, or cry (or all three!), those are all about the reception. To me, that's the part that actually celebrates the couple. People talking about how they met, and when you knew they were going to head down the aisle, and on a scale of one to ten, how pregnant is the bride right now?

It's the party, the cool part that everyone will remember. The ceremony, on the other hand, will be remembered by two people. The only two people required to be awake. You know, these two:

"your honor, I never said I wanted a divorce because she was insane..."

But seriously. The one I went to on Saturday was a Catholic ceremony, and I got the distinct impression that the bride and the groom weren't really that important to the goings-on.

"Welcome, we are here today to celebrate the Union of these two individuals, and while I think it's great that they've decided they like each other a whole bunch, I'm going to take the next two hours and talk about Jesus."

"Hi, I've never been married and my mother was a virgin. Good Luck, though"

Before all you DaVinci Code people get on my comment page, let me remind you that the road to Hell is paved not with good intentions, but with pages of Dan Brown's writing. I read Digital Fortress two weeks ago. Worst three hours of my life.

But I've decided that when (and if) I ever find someone to settle down with, the ceremony is going to be a fantastic preamble to the reception, and will make people completely forget their mental countdowns to open bar and old people dancing. How, you ask?

Jets of fire, a laser light show, animatronic dinosaurs... I haven't worked out all the details. I have, however, already decided on the bride's processional music: The Final Countdown, by Europe.

I guess I should focus more on finding a bride first... Hmph.

Oh, in other news: barring some misfortune or unlucky circumstance (knock on wood), I should be soon escaping Staten Island, and relocating to Astoria, where I can live near awesomely talented and beautiful people, and fool them into thinking I'm one of them.

Sorry again for the neglect,


Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Just Like a Visit From an Old Friend

Oh, me.

As many of you (may) know, I've been a man of leisure for the past few weeks. Basically, this translates to me spending hours on the internet applying for jobs and also hours in the apartment, doing absolutely nothing.

So? Here's a Rev-based math problem.

Rev + Boredom + Frustration + Fear of Stagnation = _______

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?


Give yourself a huge pat on the back if you knew the answer to that. Truly you are a good friend, or an attentive stalker.

But yes, for pretty much the first time since moving to NYC, I was awakened last night by a nightmare in which the dead had risen. Interesting wrinkle? This one actually took place in Manhattan.

My family and I had been preparing for a week-long camping trip. We were packed, and piled into an Oldsmobile which we no longer own. There were some crazy aspects, like meeting former president George H. W. Bush, but that was before the action started.

We were in a train station when the screaming began. Clearly concerned by that, we looked around, and saw a large group of people running away from another group of people. The latter group, of course, was a bit ragged, and bloody, and had white eyes. You know, zombies. Also, some people in the first group didn't run quite fast enough. There was commotion, and I was separated from the rest of my family. I knew I had to get uptown to where our car/rendezvous point was.

I got turned around and ran for the nearest subway platform. It happened to be a stop on the 1 line. I had my backpack on my back, and a 4 inch kitchen knife in my hand, in case things had to get grisly. This is where the dream got nice and suspenseful. Most of the lights were out, and there were dozens of people standing in flickering darkness, wondering which would arrive first: the train, or the mass of cannibalistic undead. Suddenly, screams from the other end of the platform. Panicked people started running towards me and the stairs directly behind me as others fell to the rather hungry mass. Just then the train arrived. More suspense. Is the door going to open only to reveal a horde of decomposing commuters? No! The train was clean, myself and several others piled on, and took off.

On the train, I realized a potentially fatal mistake. I had gotten turned around and was now headed Downtown, instead of uptown. I decided to make a break for it at the next stop. This happened to be the stop where the 1 line intersects with the R line. Don't be too confused, it doesn't really exist, that's just where I was in the dream. The place was largely deserted. I heard announcements over the loudspeaker recommending evacuation of the island.

Looking about, I tried to find the uptown R platform. It turned out to be down several flights of stairs. I got halfway down the first one and peeked over to see if the coast was clear. There, staring at the wall with milky white eyes and a rather bloody mouth/torso was a zombified old woman with crazy hair. Kind of like the undead version of the Simpsons' Crazy Cat Lady.

Anyway, beyond her were several more zombies. The platform was lousy with them. I backpedaled, started running away and quickly lost the use of my legs. One of those fantastic dream moments in which it becomes impossible to move the way you want to. Zombies were closing in. Through an act of supreme willpower, I managed to get up and run away from them to a zombie-less part of the station. I managed to find some NYPD who were patrolling the area. They had a German Shepherd and several AR-15's. I decided to stick with them until I could figure out a way to reunite with the rest of the Revs. I looked out the large window into the night, just in time to see a crowd of people run screaming past a flaming, overturned car. A wave of the zombies shuffled after them, in my general direction...

And I woke in a cold sweat.

Granted, it was neither the worst nor the most violent nocturnal zombie visit I've had. But it is somewhat disappointing to find that I'm not completely free of them, as I had previously believed.

This has been a visit to my subconscious, hope you enjoyed it.


Monday, June 4, 2007

WTF, McDonalds?

Ok, now I'm pissed.

I have finally seen the light, McDonald's. I have been on your side for years. Me. Loyal to you. I watched Supersize Me the other day, and I was still unconvinced. I've applied for dual citizenship to McDonaldland. I learned that 14 is the number where Chicken McNuggets completely lose their appeal, but you have to keep going because you ordered the 20 piece, and Goddamnit, you're going to finish the 20 piece. There was a time, before I understood the concept, when I thought that the Ronald McDonald House would be the awesomest place to live ever. And now this.

Sure, we've had our misunderstandings in the past. That Quadruple Quarter Pounder with Extra Cheese that I had Rico make me back in high school nearly killed me (I now refer to it as the Pounder with Gusto). Maybe I've graphically threatened murder once or twice. But that's all water under the bridge. Simple stuff really. But this is just a slap in the balls.

I refer of course to the Shrek-themed abomination that is currently being served in the restaurants nationwide. This so called "Swamp-shake" is, get this, a MINT flavored milkshake!!!!1

You've got some stones, McDonald. You turn your back on Uncle O'Grimacey and leave the island of Manhattan Shamrock-Shakeless the entire month of March, but that big green sonofabitch comes along waving his Dreamworks money and you give it up like a drunken Sorostitute.

Let's examine the sinful menu item in question:

Nice job, by the way. Lovely color. That doesn't remind me of infected bile at all. Some sort of rich, frothy phlegm hacked up by the less well-off members of a Hawaiian leper colony.

And another shot:

Mmmm... split pea soup and loose bowels.

If you hadn't guessed, I'm trying to poison the mind of everyone reading this, so that you will not be able to order one of these from the menu.

Bare-assed truth be told, they're not that bad. It is a variation on the mint shake. This one supposedly has chocolate thrown in there. That's where the baby poo color comes from. It doesn't really show up in the flavor, except to add a slightly bitter aftertaste that is blissfully absent from the original, ambrosia-esque Shamrock Shake.

But WTF, McDonald's? St. Patrick's Day comes and goes without so much as a whimper from you, but all of a sudden, you can flood every single restaurant with this bastardization? Well, almost every restaurant. A few weeks ago I was in the Onley McDonalds in Virginia, and they didn't have the milkshake. The Flurry, yes, but not the milkshake.

I don't want any more excuses. Bring back the Shamrock Shakes in March.

I don't want to tell you again,


PS - As I was sitting in McDonald's conducting my research today, some smart-assed punk named Jason tried to stare me down. True story. I was minding my own business, when I got the sense that someone was looking at me. I glanced around and there he was. We locked eye contact in a pretty intense glaring match. I've got a pretty sweet glare, but I gotta tell you, the jackass gave as good as he got. It was rough going for a little while, but then he burned his mouth on a fresh-from-the-fryer french fry. With that rookie-level alliterated move, I claimed victory. Sure, the little bastard wanted a rematch, but by then his mother was pushing his stroller to another table. Sorry Jason, you lose.