Cosmopolitan like that

Sunday night, Jeff the Dentist invited me over to watch a movie at his house on his huge TV with HD. And HD it is. I've never seen def so high.

Maybe that isn't the best lead for this blog post. Look at the title, though. Awesome, eh? I got it from one of my five favorite people, Caroline (you might remember her from such blogs as "Mom and Dad, there's a girl I'd like you to meet" - which I was wondering just last night if I should rename it to something like "you hurt her, I hurt you"). On Saturday, she described her friend Kosher John (visiting from New York) as " so cosmopolitan like that" because you can hook up with him and it won't be weird when you see them in the future. (Marshall- Caroline and Kosher John were both among the folks I was hanging out with the day you called me a girl part.) The next day, I looked up the word cosmopolitan to make sure that when I start using it, I use it correctly. I also like the word because I developed a fascination for the woman who invented the 'cosmo girl' concept and made Cosmopolitan Magazine a big deal, Helen Gurley Brown, about a year ago. For real. I wrote this about her almost a year ago:

"Back in '65, Helen Gurley Brown said, "I am a materialist, and it is a materialistic world." Twenty-some years later, Madonna ripped her off. What's up with that?"

Have you ever heard that song by the Dandy Warhols called "Bohemian Like Me"? I don't love the Dandy Warhols a lot, but I like that song so much. The title of this reminds me of that song.

Anyway, the title also works for this blog because of something I have realized about myself that isn't very cosmopolitan. Over the past year, I have noticed that my shirts have become crumb magnets. My ignorance has always just chalked it up to the fabric of the shirt. Imagine the inner-monologue that came up with that theory: "Nuts. Crumbs again? These shirts I wear to work will latch on to anything." Sometimes, me and my brain don't make a good team.

Jeff the Dentist had also promised treats to go along with the movie. Surprising to even myself, treats weren't as much as a motivating factor as they usually are. Treats do motivate me, though. If I had two people of equal value inviting me over to their houses to do the exact same thing - like watch Pitch Black as Jeff the Dentist did - and the only difference was one was offering me dinner and the other was offering treats (treats = cake, brownies, cookies and the like), I would go to the treat house. Need more proof? Over the past few weeks, I formed an friendship on the linkup with a pretty girl that was based on talking about pie (the relationship seems to have died - and it is probably no coincidence that the death came when pie stopped being the subject of discussion).

The treats promised were cookies freshly made by Ellen and Rocky Road ice cream. Like I said, I wasn't as intrested in treats as I normally would have been, but the cookies looked so delicious. And they were. I had like four. I don't love Rocky Road ice cream (nuts in ice cream? ew), but I took Jeff the Dentist up on his offer and had a small portion. When I finished the ice cream, I decided to dip a cookie in the residue. Not a bad idea, except that I slouch when I sit and I was sitting in a comfortable chair while I ate and I got two drops of ice cream on my yello shirt. See?

Do you need everything pointed out to you? Okay:

I realized that my bad posture (or, is it actually good posture?) is the culprit for my crumbs because I sit on a couch when I eat at work too. (I should clarify, the crumbs aren't huge and maybe nobody but me can see them.) I don't plan on changing the way I eat at work, though, because it is too comfortable to kick my legs up and sit back and watch ESPN. But, maybe the next time I am dipping a cookie in ice cream residue, I will be more careful because that yellow shirt has been one of my favorites lately. Or maybe I will just say 'no' to Rocky Road ice cream.

The more I think about it, maybe I do kind of like the Dandy Warhols more than I let on. I just don't love them like some people. I think they are one of those bands that you have to be cautious about how you describe your feelings for them or you might get clumped into a category that you don't necessarily belong in. Not that it is a bad category, it just isn't for you.

Marshall's vagina monologue

Marshall said,

2. I had thanks-for-giving-us-your-country-natives dinner at
Suzanne's family's house. It was fun.
3. sometimes I don't get people. I
will tell you why. we went to see a movie on thanks-for-giving and we picked up
these boys and one boy came with us and the other was going to come, but
apparantly didn't because I called him a pussy and I guess he can't handle being
called a pussy.
4. Dear [sugarcube], I'm sorry that I called you a pussy.
Obviously I wouldn't have called you a pussy if I had known you were such a
pussy. Grow some balls, you big pussy. love, marshall p.

Dear Marsha,
I thought this was funny. The more I think about it, the more funny I think it is because I have never even met you.
I should clarify, though, that I was never going to go to the movie. I was just coming to say "hello" to Suzanne. So, your salty language had no impact on me. That probably pisses you off.
I'm glad our first semi-meeting had such an impact on you that you wrote a blog. Don't worry, I don't hate people just because they are unpleasant at first. I hope we can be friends, maybe more.
Sincerely,
sugarcube

p.s. - I'm glad you liked Bond

Despite your stereotypes, I think it handsome.

Ever had a blog that you typed up and it was amazing, but when you went to publish it, this site had some type of error? That is was happened with this one. I know nothing is ever as magical as the first time, but here's take two:

Until this morning, I had a mustache that had been growing for 13 days. I didn't really do it as a joke, but I have to admit that it was hard to keep a straight face when someone noticed it for the first time. I also couldn't help but put two fingers under my nostrils, and spread them out and slide them down the mustache. Some readers might wonder, "Is this just a ploy to prove he is a man after his stint as a girl?" No, it is not. I have nothing to prove.

Here is the story of the mustache:

On November 9, I decided to skip class and go to a high school football game. It was the 5A semifinals. Alta ('98 dominate) was playing Fremont. Chris H. came with me. We arrived just in time to pay $6US to see most of the fourth quarter. Alta won, 28-0. We committed to attend the championship game a week later. Chris suggested that we grow mustaches in honor of it. I had already had a day's worth of growth on my face (on account of not shaving on school days, just work days).

The next few days I was sick and had a tissue to my mouth most of the time. This turned out to be a good thing because then the mustache would debut in people's hearts and minds after it had already had some time to grow. My boss saw it and a few hours later said, "I just went through the employee handbook and unfortunately I can't find anything that says you can't have it."

The championship game came and went. Alta lost, but they had a chance to tie the game at the end. The next day, the mustache was still alive. I decided that it had something to prove because people were saying things like, "Is that a goatee?" Anyone who knows me should know that goatees are not how I do. They are more how Lance Armstrong do.

Yesterday, I went to work with the mustache, messy hair, and neck hair that was ungroomed (I shaved my head on September 1 and had yet to cut it anywhere). When I walked into work, my boss said, "I think I'm going to edit the employee handbook. Not because of the mustache, but because of the neck hair." Later in the day, I called him and asked him a question that he didn't know the answer to. As I hung up the phone, I thanked him. Recognizing an error, I quickly picked the phone back up, called him, and said, "Just to clarify: when I thanked you, I really meant to say, 'thanks for nothing.'" He retaliated by picking up the phone, pressing the 8 then the 1 (to access the intercom), and said, "Adam Morrison to shoes. Adam Morrison to shoes." Touche.

Here it is:

Lest there be a misconception

This blog is:

One night it Salt Lake makes a hard man humble

I'm a big advocate of Nathaniel moving back to the SLC.

Or visiting more. He's good people.

On Friday, I drove home from work, registered for next semester, grabbed a bacon cheeseburger and fries at Apollo Burger, and watched WWE Smackdown (while I ate). Oh, and I was pretty sick. I was sick enough to spend a Friday night laying around thinking about how great being healthy feels because you don't feel sickness. In other words, feeling nothing feels great. But...not this Friday night. I had a plan.

Nathaniel had asked me to pick him up from the airport at 8:30 p.m.. I was expecting to get there at around 8:45, but he called at 8:04 and said he was already in. I still showed up at about 8:45. One of the first things he said was, "I'm rich!" Seattle has paid him a lot. And he has taken their money and gone out and bought happiness.
See?:


One thing he can't buy in Seattle is the Dushane Dames and their affiliates. So, the first thing we did was stop by and visit Natani, Natasha, and Jaime (who, by the way, needs to be given credit for taking all of the pictures that I posted from Caroline's Halloween party). We mostly talked about the K-Fed and B-Spe breakup and the "How to Catch a Predator" series on NBC. After there, me and Nathaniel went to Taco Bell. We had to wait for awhile to even order, but guess what:In case you didn't know. I ordered the new crunchy cheesy gordita, Nathaniel two bean burritos. Nathaniel paid. While waiting to get our stuff, we took more pictures of us:

And that is pretty much all the pictures we took. And it is pretty much the end of this blog.
I guess I could tell you about going over to Chris' house and watching Bear Grylls survive Moab on Man vs. Wild. Or how we went to Freaky Dee's (which is nowhere near as freaky as it used be [although, there were these three tough girls]) with Chris, Danny, and Hoon, and how Nathaniel and Daniel were singing One Night in Bangkok while we were eating.

Even though I was sick, it was filthy to hang out with my rich friend.

It might be time to stop wearing your Livestrong bracelet

Lance Armstrong ran a marathon this weekend and said it was harder than the Tour De France. I think it it because steriods don't help one as much in marathons.

Body off Baywatch, face off Crimewatch

"The first text message was sent Dec. 3, 1992, when British engineer Neil Papworth sent an early ''MERRY CHRISTMAS'' from his computer to a colleague's mobile phone. It wasn't Samuel Morse's telegraphed ''What hath God wrought?'' or even Alexander Graham Bell's sublimely mundane telephone request, ''Mr. Watson - come here - I want to see you.'' But Papworth's concise, two-word greeting was the harbinger of a communications revolution that has encircled the globe." (click link for the reference to this quote)

My friend told me - via text message, of course - that her predictive text brings up "ho" before "in" when she presses the '4' and '6' keys on her phone (probably a Razor - everyone has those these days). I told her - via text message, of course - that it shows what our world has come to. Folks no longer want to be "in with the in-crowd as much as they want to be ho with the ho-crowd." She responded, "I had no idea that predictive text was a barometer on the state of the world." (Then she somehow segued into a text message about how a bird is chirping outside her window and that Oprah has a nice butt. Yes, all that in the same text message.)

I like text messages more than a friend. My text message plan is more important that how many minutes I get, or whether or not I "roll over" (which, by the way, I do). So many good jokes can come from it. One time, my friend was using the phone of our friend who was uptight about her text message numbers. So, we would send our messages one letter at a time or with only the first letter of the words in our message - which made it so we had to waste (her word, not ours) more of her text messages by asking each other what the sentence was, then making the other guess.

Another time, I had a friendship that was founded on text messages. We would often talk about what awesome text messagengers we were because we messaged in complete words and sentences. One day, I sent her only text messages that were abbreviated words - or shortcuts, if you will. Stuff like:
r u cool 2day?
wut r u up 2?
I just 8 lunch
Those aren't direct quotes from that day, just examples of stuff I might have written. Anyway, she was pretty mad.

But, I think there is a downside to text messages. And not just that some fools refer to it as 'texting' or talk of receiving 'a text'. Instead, I advocate calling it 'messaging' or being a patient person not afraid to say the entire name of something and call it a 'text message' (some day, this blog will discuss the heinousness of abbreviations - I promise). I digress. Really, I do. Text messaging has turned me into what I have labeled a "One-liner" personality. I can no longer write a long essay on anything anymore because after two or three sentences, I run out of thoughts. Also, not since reading the Bible has something affected my near-perfect spelling like messaging has - due mostly to my reliance on predictive text (T9).

Part of the purpose of this blog is to give me practice on writing longer ramblings about whatever. Hence, the long (and perhaps boring) blog posts. Thank you for reading. I really hope it will get better. Last week, I expressed - via a text message, of course - disappointment that one of my earliest commenters hadn't commented lately and feared that I had bored him to death. The response I got - via text message, of course - was:

"Manfoom is like the lord. He'll always be there."

I hope so. I sure do.

Scurvy is overrated

The real Halloween Day.
I decided that there was no better place to go that to the UC. I showed up and had to wait while certain people took forever to get ready. No pictures came from my waiting because I didn't want to ever re-live the experience. I was the Unabomber, so I was practically ready.

(Note: a kid in my class just said this a girl in my class (about Halloween): "Every girl was a pirate. Or a 'naughty' something.)

We had a plan, but before we left the house we took pictures. I forgot my sunglasses, so I improvised.



Then we went to see Monkey Grinder at Velour. Only we had to wait outside for like 30 minutes before they let us in. This made nobody more mad than it made Melissa. Luckily, we butted to the front of the line, enabling us to get chairs to sit in when they finally did let us in. While waiting for the opening band to play, we took some more pictures. Like this one:

And this one:

Hulk Hogan just laughed when I asked if he wanted a picture of just us.

As luck would have it, the Future Girls were there too. I didn't get a picture with them, but this is what they looked like on Saturday.

After Monkey Grinder played, rocked, and scared (there was this part at the very end where they had about seven people on stage with accordians; it was incredible), Becky wanted to go to Arby's. If there is one thing I learned this Halloween, it is that you do whatever someone dressed like Marilyn Monroe says (even if you are pissed that she hasn't called you "Mr. President" at all). So, we went to Arby's. As we were ordering in the drive-thru, the Arby's worker was being kind of dumb. We thought he might be a douchebag. It turns out, he was just an All-American slacker who cares about his job as much of the rest of us. He told us he would give us candy if we could guess what he was dressed up as. He was wearing the usual Arby's employee garb, so we knew there had to be an underlying concept to his costume. We guessed a lot of guesses. One of my guesses was a curly fry. Becky guessed "a lazy Arby's employee," and it turns out she was right. He gave us a bowl to pass around the car. I took a SweeTart Chew. After I took it out of its wrapper, I realized how gross some candy looks. When I ate it, I realized how delicious some candy tastes.

We went back to Becky's house and watched TV. This mindfreak dude cheated our eyes out of truth, and I hate him for it. We also watched Laguna Beach, or whatever that show is called. When I got home, I predicted that I would either dream about Marylin Monroe or breaking a Laguna Beach girl's heart. I ended up dreaming about my mechanic, Butch.

It was a good Halloween season. Even thought it is my least favorite holiday*, I felt a huge comedown yesterday. It was like the day after Christmas, only not half as bad. Want to know the best costume of the year? Okay:

*= Note to the government: if you gave us the day off, it would no longer be my least favorite holiday. Why do you think I like President's Day? Duh.

Say "no" to vember.