5 December 2009 | 8:38 AM
To be honest, I’ve tried to run as far away from the Tiger Woods “reaching for a different club” story as possible. I mean, not only is it so crazily out of bounds of being anything remotely to do with being my business, but I could give fuck-all about a) professional athletics in general, b) professional golf in particular and c) pretty much anything involving cocktail waitresses from Vegas. In fact, my only real opinion on the whole thing is that Woods is a fucking idiot: everyone knows that, if you’re going to cheat on your insanely hot – and by all accounts, charming and smart – Swedish wife, you do it with her equally hot, charming and smart twin sister. Anyway, to me the only gift that keeps on giving from this whole sordid episode is this Taiwanese TV news story’s CGI re-enactment of the events of that fateful night:
I kind of want to teach myself how to do shoddy CGI animation now so that I can re-enact everything from the Amy Fisher saga to Poppy Bush barfing on the Japanese Prime Minister.
Posted by Andy in Wincing The Night Away |
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14 February 2009 | 11:57 PM
As I believe the horrid, gravelly-voiced Canuck Bryan Adams once said, “It cuts like a knife/Oooh, but it feels so right”:
Happy Saint Valentine’s Day.
[Via Snotr]
Posted by Andy in Wincing The Night Away |
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27 November 2008 | 4:36 PM
For most people with families, the festive aspects of the Thanksgiving holiday are often overshadowed by the fact that we’re forced to, you know, interact with our family. And while I’ll agree that there’s no amount of pie, cranberry sauce or alcohol that could possibly make these dinners “fun”, its perhaps a good idea to reflect on how lucky you are. You see, friend, you could have it much, much worse. I’m not saying, but I’m just saying.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Posted by Andy in Wincing The Night Away |
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19 September 2008 | 1:49 PM
Despite the fact that I have no sense of style, it’s safe to say that I’m definitely a snob about some things. OK, a lot of things, actually. However, while I might go into hysterics if someone tries to PBR-me-ASAP, force me to watch a movie with Jared Leto in it or eat any brie that’s not triple-creme, my insufferable elitism does not extend to coffee. Don’t get me wrong: I drink a lot of coffee, and your name would be mud should you attempt to force some gut-rot Sanka down my pie-hole. But that said, if it’s a reasonably passable black suspension of caffeine, I’m generally happy to drink it. I couldn’t care a less if it’s French Sumatran, Equatorial Guinean or Staten Island blend: I just have trouble committing too much passion to any substance whose diuretic effects mean that it’ll stay in my body a mere fraction of the time that the mercury from really high-quality sushi will.
Of course, being a snob in other areas affords me a bit of empathy for coffee-snobs, something which aids me on a regular basis as I often find myself working from coffee shops. I generally fly below the radar of the barristas – usually only calling attention to myself when grousing that I have to use faux Italian silliness to differentiate between smalls, mediums and larges – but I am often afforded a front-row seat to some truly hilarious confrontations over just how (and in what form) people’s coffee will (or, in some cases, will not) be dispensed. Such was the case just a few minutes ago, when a harried soccer-mom-type waltzed up to the bar and asked for an iced espresso. To their credit, the barristas didn’t refuse the woman service or berate her about the damage she was doing by icing their product. Instead, after hastily concocting the illicit brew for the woman, the two be-nose-ringed Statler and Waldorfs have been huddled together behind the counter, hissing none-to-softly to one another in exasperated tones about the lunacy, impropriety and disrespect that a willingness to order such a beverage clearly belies ever since.
Look, I totally get it. These barristas (ostensibly) know their shit, and they’ve dedicated their lives to cultivating and creating a superior product: watching someone come in and turning their carefully crafted cuppa into the drink equivalent of a Wonder bread and American cheese sandwich must be crushing on some level. However, there’s also a part of me that finds coffee snobs – particularly of the sub genus Barristus Indignatus – to be the most insufferable snobs of all. I mean, really: their customers spend dozens of minutes waiting in line to pay the equivalent of the GDP of Rwanda for a cup of joe, memorizing a dizzying array of terminology like “venti double half-frap macchiato” and ensuring that they have enough extra cash to leave in the obligatory tip jar, only to be dressed down for daring to flash a pouch of Splenda or confusing the Guatemalan dark with the Tanzanian ultra-dark. That takes colossal, Bush-administration-sized balls, frankly. If I plunk down five dollars for my Americano and throw an additional buck into the tip jar, I should get to dunk a forkful of Spam in it and drizzle it over an Eggo waffle if I care to. As a web developer, I regular design systems which, when handed over to customers, get dumbed-down and bastardized beyond belief: I can shake my head, but ultimately it’s theirs to do with as they please, and clucking my tongue about it without offering to refund their money is just pointless and tacky.
Anyway, someone else has written about this subject far more eloquently and hilariously than I (shocking, no?). Plus, it bears mentioning that I engage in more of my fair share of eye-rolling and tongue-clucking when someone says they enjoy a good box of Sutter Home wine or admits to liking the latest Bryan Adams record, so perhaps this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black. Oh, I’m sorry, not black: “Congolese ebony”.
Posted by Andy in Wincing The Night Away |
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16 April 2008 | 9:05 AM
Last night/this morning, in the wee small hours, I came across this kind-of engrossing website called datingpsychos.com and yes, the very first thing I did was to make sure I wasn’t on it (I’m not, at least for now). I am a bit torn, though: part of me is re-assured by how seemingly crazy all of these other peoples’ exes are, but the other part of me feels like these people haven’t seen bat-shit insane until they’ve heard about some of my formers.
Tough call, really.
Posted by Andy in Wincing The Night Away |
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11 April 2008 | 2:48 PM
You didn’t think I’d stay away forever, did you? Oh well, dare to dream, I guess…
Yes, I’m back. Not back with A Plan. Not back with A Message. Heck, not even back with A Clue. And yet, for some reason, I am indeed back in Ye Olde Blog Saddle. As to the “why” question that must literally be on, um, one or two of your lips, all I can say is “who knows”? The fact is, there are very few things in this world that I’m actually qualified to do. Admittedly, I do many of them (driving an automobile, getting my own haircuts, caring for young children) anyway, but as it turns out, this blogging thing seems to be the only thing I actually have a knack for. By “a knack”, of course, I mean a predisposition to hold forth on a multitude of banal and tangential topics, including (but not limited to):
- vague political asshat-ery (look it up)
- celebrities, their behavior and – most importantly – their breast size
- generalized Apple fanboyism
- silly, nether-reaches-of-the-interwebs memes and time-wasters
- single entendre (double entendre being far too complex for my feeble mind)
- ridiculously overdue and/or out-of-context record, movie and/or concert reviews
- my own sad, introspective poetry, all of which begins with the phrase “There once was a lady named Whipple…”
- the film career of Steven Segal
And so here I am again, with my (really?) fourth go-round at this sort of thing. I know what it takes to write a measurably successful blog, having done so before, and if I were interested in capturing eyeballs and making money with this thing, perhaps I’d resort to my old habits of posting thinly-veiled pornography interspersed with the occasional tirade against Ann Coulter and/or Oprah. But, truth be told, I’m kind of over that kind of schtick, and my guess is so are you. In the end hopefully this blog will just organically grow into whatever it is supposed to be from the cack that rattles around in my head, with a healthy dose of input from you, dear reader, via comments, emails or anonymous midnight phone-calls. Then again, if that doesn’t work out, I can always rely on an old standby.
Ahh, it’s good to be back.
Electronically yours,
- Andy
Posted by Andy in Wincing The Night Away |
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