Scary Halloween Costume

I love Halloween - Love the parties love the candy, love the costumes where women put a tiny piece of Yellow Tape over their breasts and go as, "Sexy Construction Area." Every year, there is "the" costume that half the population goes as. For Instance, I bet one to three odds, that one out of every three people is dressed as Donald Trump. Halloween '16 will go down as the Trump Halloween. No matter your political agenda, The Donald will be a popular costume. A Republican can go as "Uncle Sam" Trump, a democrat can go as "Klu Klux Klan" Trump and an independent can go as "Gary Johnson" Trump. The "Gary Johnson" Trump is basically an idiot wearing jeans, smoking pot and talking all sorts of nonsense. It is basically the same costume I wear the last 2 hours of every Halloween party I've ever attended.

Every year, there is one costume that sums up the year that was. That attire has a tiny shelf life, but one Halloween tradition that never goes out of style is the "Couple's Costume." This is, of course, the costume where lovers coordinate their dress together. Last year, brought us "Netflix and Chill." A couple years before that were Miley Cyrus/Robin Thicke dressed as Beetlejuice. And this year, you might just see a bunch of Donald and Ivanka's Trump in various throes of passion - complete with p***sy grabbing.

My wife and I always partake in the classic ritual of dressing up together. We've gone as Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction, Axl and Slash from Guns N' Roses and Roman Polanski and Thirteen year old girl from 1970's LAPD sex crimes files. I have always enjoyed figuring out what we're gonna go as, buying the materials and creating the perfect wardrobe for our endeavor. We work well together and are generally on the same page. It is always a great time that forms memories we will never forget... The same cannot be said for other Halloweens with other people.

One Halloween Evening, back in the early 2000's, a lady I used to spend some time with and I decided to match our costumes and enjoy Halloween as a couple. Actually, I should say, SHE decided to match our costumes as a couple. I decided earlier on that I wanted to go as Charlie Chaplin. I went to Goodwill and found an old, beaten up black suit, stopped by Party City to grab the classic comedian's bowler hat and then jumped in a boxcar headed to Auschwitz and whisked back to 1941 in order to get tips from the World's Most Evil Man on creating the perfect mustache for Hollywood's first big mega-star. I figured it would be difficult to meet with ol' Adolf, but he was able to fit me in the Time Traveling schedule once he finished his 11:00 with 2016 Donald Trump.

I was very excited about my Charlie Chaplin costume, but my excitement turned sour when my ex shows up with our actual costume. She swung by the Costume shop, Lucy in Disguise, and made an impulsive decision. No thought, no creativity, no fun. She got the brilliant idea to go as a "sexy" Fisherwoman and I was to be a can of worms. Yeah, that's right. Out of every outfit they had at one of the biggest Halloween stores in the country, she decided to rent the dumbest costume imaginable - A huge foam can with eight phallic pieces of huge felt popping out from numerous orifices. I knew right then and there, that my Halloween costume was basically going to be an asshole surrounded by dicks.

Now, my "partner" for the evening was going as a "sexy" Fisherwoman, which just consists of Daisy Duke jean shorts, a tight red and white checkered shirt, big fake boobs and a fishing pole. Before heading out for the Main Event, we started our evening at a house party where she is moving around comfortably, drinking and mingling with friends. All I could do was stand in a corner of the house, by myself, with no beverage because my costume was too bulky to get through the kitchen. It would've been nice for someone to grab me a beer and maybe have little conversation, but think about it, would YOU want to spend your Halloween chatting it up with a box of penises?

The House Party wound down and now it was time to head out to the biggest party of the year in Austin, Texas - The annual Halloween parade down Historic 6th Street. Since this was the early aughts, and Uber was merely a twinkle in some Silicon Valley nerd's eye, we had to use a Taxi to get around like some sort of animal. We boarded the old fashioned transportation, cash in hand and headed downtown, which is when I realized something horrifying. The girl I was with had her Daisy Dukes, her tight shirt and her big fake boobs, but was missing something - No fishing pole. You know how a couple's costume works, right? You dress together, coordinating the recognizable attributes that make the separate outfits form as one. For instance, if you are a "sexy" Fisherwoman, but do not have a pole, you're really just dressed as some country bumpkin tramp. She basically dressed as 2011 Miley Cyrus in 2003. There is no relationship to our attire, she is dressed as a truck stop whore and I am a can of cocks.

We arrive downtown and the woman I'm supposed to spend the evening with, jumps out of the cab and immediately starts taking pictures with horny strangers that think her very obvious balloon boobs might be real. Meanwhile, I am unable to force my way out of the back of Yellow Cab because one of my "worms" got stuck in the seat belt holder of Austin's finest fleet of Taxis. I finally was able to wrangle out of the vehicular vagina and begin what would be the most annoying night of my life. A close second would be the night I plopped down $12 to see "Man of Steel."

Austin residents are known for their friendliness, affability and genuine respect for one another... except on Halloween. October 31st is the one night where Austin's polite locals turn into an episode of "Real Housewives of Travis County." People couldn't be more rude, insulting and disrespectful. I am feeling down in the dumps and think I'm wearing the dumbest costume known to mankind and every other human is very loudly verifying that, in fact, I am wearing the dumbest costume known to mankind. Just imagine 100,000 people consistently telling you how much you suck. It was then that I realized what Johnny Manziel must feel like everyday.

Halloween 2003 was the worst night of my life. People filled with hatred, anger and hostility and directing it at me. I didn't understand it because I didn't do anything to provoke it. The only thing I was guilty of was looking like a bucket of dongs. For this year, I've decided to recycle that costume and parade around proudly. The night of Halloween 2016, I'm dressing as Donald Trump at one of his rallies - an asshole surrounded by dicks.

The Festival of Lights

There is a lot of confusion over the "Eight Crazy Nights." As a celebrator of "The Festival of Lights" since birth, I feel that I am qualified to enlighten those who haven't figured out how to google things.  In honor of "The Jewish Christmas" I will now answer the 8 most commonly asked questions about Hanukkah:

1. Why does it last 8 days?
A: Back in the day, the Jews had enough oil to light for one day and it lasted a miraculous EIGHT FREAKIN' DAYS!!!  The steps to celebrating: You light the "Shamash" (Helper or Servant), you say "The Prayer" (Blessing or Hebrew Nonsense) and light the rest of the candles on the "Menorah" (Chanukiah or Kosher Candelabra).

2. Why does it change dates every year?
A:  "The Festival of Lights" does not change every year. It ALWAYS starts on the 25th day of Kislev, according to the Hebrew calendar. As it turns out, the Hebrew calendar is not the same as the Christian calendar. Talk about Religious turmoil - If we can't synch up our calendars, how can we expect to ever accept each others practices. I imagine this would be a problem in setting up a date...
Jew: "Hey, let's grab dinner and talk about our differences."
Christian: "Sounds good. Let's get a BLT on December 12th?"
Jew: "Can't do it. Let's get a bowl of Kreplach on the 12th of Kislev?"
Christian: "WTF?!!!"

3. What presents did you get this year?
A: My fiancee and I decided to really embody the spirit of a Jewish Holiday... Saving money! Since we're planning a wedding, we decided to go waaaayyy easy on the gift giving this year. I told her I didn't want her to spend any money on me this year, with the exception of ALL the rent and bills until I win the lottery, inherit a large sum of money or find a job. Since I don't play the lottery or have any wealthy and dying relatives, I guess I have to find a job. So, the answer to question number 3 is: A scarf for $1.99 on the clearance rack at Banana Republic's outlet store. Oh, and ALL the rent and bills and groceries and toiletries and clothing and shelter and anything else that costs more than the change I have in my car's ashtray.

4. What presents did you give this year?
A: I gave the one present I could afford this year to the true love of my life, my best friend, soulmate and the woman of my dreams.... I gave her a hand written "coupon" for a 10 minute make-out session with her one and only. She's cashing it in on Larry David.

5. Why do some people spell it Chanukkah and others spell it Hanukkah?
A: There is no right way to spell Chanukkah or Hanukkah. I'm sure there are numerous family arguments every year over what the correct spelling is, but it really doesn't matter. In fact, as long as your family is arguing about something, then you're celebrating Chanukkah or Hanukkah the correct way.

6. Does the holiday have an equivalent to Santa Claus?
A: Yes. Hanukkah Harry (or is it Chanukkah Charry?). As Saturday Night Live showed us, Hanukkah Harry delivers presents to all the Jewish boys and girls on a cart pulled by his beloved donkeys; Moshe, Herschel and Schlomo. The little Jewish boys and girls get the greatest gifts of all; slacks and three pairs of socks. Now, I recognize that SNL gets credit for creating the image of Hanukkah Harry, but I believe the three Schwartz boys came up with him first. Our frustrations with not having our Jewish version of Santa Claus led us to create our own Jewish hero. I also believe that the mid '80's cast and crew of Saturday Night Live must have been listening in the Schwartz's brainstorming session of potential Hanukkah mascots. We came up with it first and because of that, I believe that Jon Lovitz and Lorne Michaels can suck our matzoh balls!

7. What the fuck is a latke?
A latke is a potato pancake. Follow up question: Do you eat latke's on any occastions outside of Hanukkah? No, that would be silly. Do YOU eat fruitcake outside of Christmas? Follow up question: Do you eat fruitcake at all during Christmas? I've always heard of this tradition, but don't know anyone who actually makes or eats it. As a matter of fact, the only time I remember the word, fruitcake, mentioned in my entire life is when I was in 3rd grade and the VERY conservative mother of my neighborhood buddy wouldn't let me bring over the cassette of "Colour by Numbers" by Culture Club because "Boy George is a 'fruitcake'." What an ignorant grinch! I don't know what ever happened to that lady, but I hope the legalization of same sex marriage has sent her to her grave. If there is a hell, I'm sure she's there dodging fabulous fireballs with Fred Phelps.

8. Why does Adam Sandler keep making more versions of "The Hanukkah song?"
A: Because it is the single greatest holiday song of all time and he can do whatever the hell he wants with it. You can keep Rudolph, Frosty and your Silent Nights. I'll take Fonzie, Ron Jeremy and my family screaming at each other over over-cooked latkes any night of the year.

Happy Hanukkah Everybody! Or is it Chappy Chanukkah?

Let's Get Moving

There are many fun and gratifying experiences that we are fortunate to have throughout our lifetime. I have been lucky enough to have encountered numerous good times in my dumb little life. I've been to both Disneyland and Disney World, I have been on the "surprised" end of a Surprise Birthday party and I've had a Bar-Mitzvah, in which the only surprise is your voice cracking during your "hilarious" speech where you thank your parents, brothers and Rabbi before stating to the audience that you want to grow up to be a handsome movie star, an Oscar winning filmmaker or a Playboy Photographer. Spoiler Alert: I never became any of those. One experience that I've been a part of a few times that will never be fun and enlightening is packing up your apartment and moving halfway across the country.

For the past 10 1/2 years I've lived in Los Angeles. I loved it there - met lots of wonderful people, enjoyed the gorgeous scenery and shook hands with a fair number of Superheroes on Hollywood Boulevard. The greatest thing that happened while I lived there was meeting the love of my life, the apple of my eye, the Barbie to my Ken. Just to be clear, I'm not comparing myself to Ken because of his lack of genitalia. I'm comparing myself to Ken because we both love pink polo shirts, ascots and... alright, you got me, because we both have shockingly minuscule "junk."

Within the first 2 years of living in L.A., I met a girl. She started out as a friend of a friend, then a friend, then a girl who let me close mouth kiss her for 3 1/2 minutes one night, then a girlfriend, then a live-in girlfriend and now a fiancee. She is now, and has been for awhile, my best friend, my hero and my reason for living. She shockingly seems to still kind of like me after all of these years and if I play my cards right, I might be able to talk her into an extra couple minutes of kissing one day.

We lived in 2 different apartments together in Los Angeles. One directly across the street from the other so our move was just wheeling all of our belongings down Rodney Drive 25 steps at a time. I distinctly remember how annoying it was though. One box at a time, walking across the street, took a full day. I was thinking, "Oh, we're right across the street. Moving will take no time at all. I'll put on the Jagged Little Pill album and be done with the move by the time Alanis is letting everyone know that one of her hands is in her pocket." As it turns out, this is not the case. It was as if one hand was in my pocket, and the other one was pushing a 250 lb. fridge across a busy Los Angeles street.

As irritating as the across the street move was, I'd rather do that once a week for seven years than to do another move halfway across the country. It is roughly 1500 miles from LA to Austin. 1500 miles in a completely filled to capacity budget rent a truck with limited radio antennae and no AC through the desert is definitely not one of the more comfortable experiences of my life. And when I say filled to capacity, I'm not just talking about the back of the truck, I'm talking about the entire truck. Up front with me was: 2 suitcases - one filled with clothes and the other filled with toiletries, a set of dumbbells (5, 8, 10, 15 and 20 lbs.) Two toolboxes, Three re-usable grocery store canvas bags filled with the contents of our pantry and a decorative wreath that my lady and her friend made while drunk and angry after a Minnesota Vikings home loss to the Chicago Bears. The wreath is very pretty, but could probably do without a Jay Cutler voodoo doll in the middle.

After packing up our entire life and squeezing it, and myself, into the belly of the Budget beast, it was time to hit the road. First stop: Phoenix, AZ.  Arizona is known for many things: The Grand Canyon, The Gunfight at the OK Corral, the birthplace of Stevie Nicks. What it is not known for is, "World's Best Smelling Motel 6." We brought our dogs with us so our only options of sleeping were either laying our heads on the rock hard mattress of an I-10 frontage road Motel 6 or throwing down a Los Angeles Dodgers fleece blanket, rewarded to us for being one of the first lucky 25,000 fans to attend a useless September day game for the 4th place Dodgers battling out with the last place Pittsburgh Pirates, and laying down next to a bed of scorpions. We chose the motel and, upon entering the room, realized that we would be breathing through our mouth the entire night. The room smelled like a skunk's asshole after battling a case of food poisoning from eating an expired tin of sardines.

As bad as the odor from the Arizona Motel 6 was, I'd rather have it bottled as a cologne and then drink it, than to spend another night at the Motel 6 in Fort Stockton, TX. Texas is known for many things: The Alamo, the Assassination of JFK, the birthplace of Randy Quaid. What it is not known for is, "Home of the Motel 6 that you are least likely to get murdered at." If the rabid 100 lb. Pit Bulls that greeted us upon entrance by jumping on our car didn't give us a clue that we may not last through the night, the freshly broken lock on our door might have. After complaining to the Meth filled representative at the front desk, she gave us the key to their "most nicest room we've got." As it turns out, the nicest room of the Fort Stockton Motel 6 comes equipped with a family of spiders who must have seeked shelter in room 239 so they could settle down on the very comfortable bed of pubic hair that filled up the bathtub drain.

They say that every seemingly horrible experience becomes a cherished memory. I can say that it is completely true. From the back-breaking physical labor of loading everything we own into a 16 foot wannabe Uhaul to the loneliness of driving 15 hundred miles through the khaki colored rocky hills of the Old West to the haunted walls of the most terrorizing motels since the one named Bates, I will always cherish these memories because I was able to share the nightmares with the woman of my dreams.

Double Feature

Sometimes you're stuck at home for months on end and yearn for a getaway. Sometimes you're bored beyond belief and jump at the chance to do anything. Sometimes you make your life seem so unpleasant by writing about how "blah" things can be when you spend your day staring at a computer screen, trying to write the next great American screenplay. And sometimes the stars align and the greatest thing known to mankind swoops in and metaphorically kicks you in the nads. I'm talking about the magnificence of leaving the confines of your dog hair infested apartment and venturing to the local cineplex to catch, not one, but two movies. It's double feature day and it is glorious.

I love movies. I always have. As a child, there was nothing I'd look forward to more than after school on a Friday because that was when I would get home, see the Weekend Guide in the Dallas Morning News and see what movies would be playing at one of the 3 Prestonwood theatres close to my house. There was the AMC 5-plex where I would see "Three Amigos," "Beetlejuice" and "Die Hard." There was the UA 6-plex where I would see "Return of the Jedi," "Short Circuit" and "Batman." And there was the General Cinema Sakowitz Village 4-plex where I would see "Mannequin," "Big" and the movie that spawned one million Cary boners, "Career Opportunities," starring the very first love of my life, Jennifer Connelly.  I only remember 2 things about that movie...
1) I remember not liking all but 5 minutes of the film.
2) I remember the 5 minutes I did like was the scene of Miss Connelly riding a coin operated horse in a white tank top.
Come to think of it, I remember three things from that movie - two of them are in the horse riding scene.

I always looked forward to Saturdays as a kid. That was the day that my brothers and our friends would be able to see a movie. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we'd be able to see TWO movies in one day! By "lucky," I mean that there would have to be two movies we wanted to see that happened to time up back to back at the Promenade $1 theatre. There was no way my dad was going to give us more than $2 to see movies. To his credit, sometimes he would give us 3 crisp dollar bills to spend our Saturday away from him. $1 for a movie, $1 for another movie and $1 to spend on a pickle the size of Godzilla's penis. That's why the '80's were so spectactualar! For 3 bucks, we could see "Back to the Future" followed by "Teen Wolf" and in between grab the largest pickle you'd ever seen to munch on during Michael J. Fox's pre-shakes werewolf movie.

You might think that as an adult, I've grown tired of sitting in a dark movie theater for 4 hours furiously biting down on a phallic snack, but you'd be dead wrong. Nowadays, the greatest days of my life are the opportunities to see 2 movies in the same day. Most people might be too busy, too tired or too un-nerdy to spend half the day in the middle row of a soda stained blackbox theatre but I'm not most people. When the opportunity came to venture alone out of my sun drenched apartment and sit in the dark amongst strangers, I jumped at that chance faster than Michael J. Fox making a martini.

When I was a child, the double feature was more difficult to come by. For starters, most movie houses had a max of 5 screens so it was trickier to sneak into one theater after exiting a different one. Plus the timing might not always work out. You had to time it out just right so you can leave theater 2 as the credits started rolling in order to make it to theater 3 as the lights were going down. You didn't want to endure the embarrassment of Edward, the usher, catching you and (gasp) making you PAY for your second movie! Nowadays, every movie palace has 15-20 screens so after one movie ends, there are 7 others that are starting. It's very easy to leave theater 4 that was showing a movie where Samuel L. Jackson is playing a stressed out and angry man with a proclivity for biting one-liners and immediately enter theater 11 that is showing a movie where Samuel L. Jackson is playing a stressed out and angry man with a proclivity for biting one-liners except in this film, he's wearing an eye patch.

Double Features prove that all good things come in pairs. Whether it's movies, shoes or butt cheeks - two will always be better than one.

Yay for the Gay!

There have been many landmark decisions: Brown v. Board of Education, Roe v. Wade, Cary Schwartz v. going to South Padre Island for Spring Break during Freshman year of college or going back to Dallas and maybe participating in a day trip to Ft. Worth in order to visit my grandmother at the department store where she works, and the Supreme Court's Same-Sex Marriage decision. All of these decisions have been, in my opinion, the right thing to do including my decision to spend Spring Break in Padre. Yes, I could've scored some free Drakkar cologne from Na-Na but then I wouldn't have had a chance to make out with a High School senior from Houston behind the stage at South Padre Island's famed nightclub, Louie's Backyard.

For those of you living under a rock, getting out of a 3 day coma or not having a Facebook page, the Supreme Court declared same-sex marriage legal in all 50 states last Friday. This is a decision that gives people the same right to a legal union even if you happen to be in love with someone who is the same sex as you. It is one of those decisions that makes me happy, proud and, well, gay. Now, I'm not gay in the way that people use that word now. I am not sexually attracted to men not named Johnny Depp, I've never seen an episode of "Glee" and of all the Avengers, Scarlett Johansson is the only one I want to bang not named Chris Hemsworth. I am gay in the actual definition of the word: "full of joy, merry; light-hearted, carefree." 

I am happy, therefore I am gay.

I am gay for many reasons. I am gay because I have great friends - some of them happen to be in love with someone the same sex as them. I am gay because I have a loving family - some of them happen to love someone the same sex as them. I am gay because I have a wonderful fiancee - who happens to be a different sex than me. I am gay because being happy - being gay - is very important to me. I am gay because I believe everyone has the right to be in love with whoever they fall in love with. I am gay because it is the right thing to do. I am gay even though I love a woman. I wish everyone was gay.

I am gay and I am proud.

What Happened to Cameron Crowe?

This past weekend a movie that nobody cared about, written and directed by a filmmaker that people used to care about, starring actors and actresses that people seem to care about came out with very little fanfare. "Aloha" written and directed by Cameron Crowe made a little bit of money - around 10 Million - which is respectable, but not great. Considering that the lead of the movie is Bradley Cooper whose last movie made 350 Million (American Sniper) and whose last 4 before that made over 100 million and one of those is the monstrosity that was "The Hangover Part 3," it seems like quite the bomb. Money aside, according to Rotten Tomatoes, the movie is god awful at 18%. Eighteen is not a good number for a filmmaker. The only director who's life would've been easier if he had an eighteen is Roman Polanski.

I used to love Cameron Crowe. I was so influenced by his directorial debut, "Say Anything..." that I used it as the blueprint on how to act like a respectable man when I first started dating. I was so influenced by John Cusack's portrayal of Lloyd Dobler, that I even sent the woman I lost my virginity to a card thanking her, just like Lloyd did. To this day, when I get nervous, I talk way too much and spurt out a bunch of nonsense just like Lloyd did. I once tried to profess my love to a woman I had a massive crush on my Freshmen year of college and after the most painful 6 seconds of silence, she quickly handed me a T-shirt, sprinted down the University Towers 5th Floor hallway, flew down 3 flights of stairs to her room and barely made eye contact with me for the next four years. That was the equivalent to one of my favorite lines in move history when Lloyd Dobler heartbreakingly speaks into a payphone during a rainstorm, "I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen." Except in this case, the "pen" was an AE PHI Sorority Crush Party Off-White T-shirt that was 3 sizes too big and made me look like I was the "After" picture of a Jenny Craig ad.

"Say Anything..." to "Singles" to "Jerry Maguire" to "Almost Famous" is quite a resume, most people would say. I loved each and every one of these when they first came out. I suppose I must now say one of the most controversial things a self proclaimed movie nerd like myself can say about any movie. This is something that I should be ashamed of, but I now feel I'm ready to stand strong and "come out" to the world... I do not like the movie "Almost Famous." For some reason, this is a very blasphemous thing to say. I saw this "masterpiece" on Opening Night in the year 2000 and thought it was fantastic. I then saw it again about 6 months ago and I know think it may be the most overrated movie of all time. I disliked it so much that I assumed something was wrong with me. This is supposed to be one of cinema's finest treasures of the millennium and I found it to be cheesier than a chunk of cheddar humping a slice of Swiss. Regardless of my feeling towards that hunk of garbage, I understand that most people cherish it in the same way Renee Zellweger cherishes Tom Cruise in "Jerry Maguire" or the way Tom Cruise cherishes Xenu in a religious pyramid scheme.

After "Almost Famous," Mr. Crowe made the polarizing "Vanilla Sky." This was some sort of hallucinatory dreamscape which some people seemed to like but most people seemed to hate. I'm somewhere in the middle - didn't exactly hate it, but didn't like it. It was a departure for ol' Cam Cam and I gave him the benefit of the doubt for the effort. Up until this deformed Tom Cruise flick, he had pretty much only made "young men trying to figure things out" movies and his next project would be right in that lane. "Elizabethtown" was Cameron's follow up to "Cameron Diaz possibly kills Tom Cruise because he's lusting after a cartoon mouse played by Penelope Cruz" and it seemed to have all the elements that made C.C. one of the most respected writer/directors of his generation. Something happened with that movie though - It was a heaping pile of shit. That movie was so bad it made "The Godfather Part 3" look like "The Godfather." "Elizabethtown" was so horrible it killed the careers of both the male and female lead. If this movie had not have come out, we might have seen "Silver Linings Playbook" starring Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst. I guess there's a silver lining after all.

After the monstrosity of "Legolas goes back home to Kentucky for his dad's funeral and falls in love with a very annoying child-woman," the ex-husband of the guitarist from Heart didn't make another (non-documentary) film for 6 years. Normally that wouldn't be that big of a deal. Quentin Tarantino generally takes a few years between movies. Stanley Kubrick took 12 years in between his last movie (Eyes Wide Shut) and his second to last movie (Full Metal Jacket). Terrence Malick pretty much has made a career of making one movie, then waiting 20 years and making another one. Terrence Malick is to filmmaking what Michael Douglas is to parenting. The problem with Cameron Crowe taking 6 years to make his next movie is because the next one was "We Bought a Zoo."

"We Bought a Zoo" is as bad as its title. The movie is literally about Will Hunting buying a dilapidated zoo run by Lucy from the movie "Lucy." It is also over two hours which seems excessive. How long do we need to watch Jason Bourne try to bond with an elephant before we realize that this movie is a joke? The Joke was on me though, because this insane flick grossed 75 million dollars. I guess people will pay for anything if there's a small chance of seeing Scarlett Johansson's cleavage.

With his latest movie, Cameron Crowe has let us all down again. "Aloha" looks like the kind of movie Bradley Cooper and Emma Stone would go see in another movie where they play a mismatched couple on a first date seeing a generic shitty rom-com set in Hawaii. Having said this, I'll admit that I haven't actually seen "Aloha." I also haven't seen "We Bought a Zoo." I don't think I need to because these movies seem lame, immature and childless with no redeeming qualities. I don't know why anyone would want to watch that nonsense. They're both about men who refuse to grow up and go about their life in a constant string of delusion and arrogance. What a bunch of crap.

Now if you excuse me, I have to go get my tickets for the "Entourage" movie.

Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's

I don't have a lot going on these days so I'm always excited when something falls into my lap. Even something as annoying as picking up someone from the airport gets me excited because I'll have a legitimate reason to leave the house. The best situations are when something free and delicious appears right before your eyes. During my normal routine of clicking through the silliest part of the ol' interweb I came across the greatest banner known to man... FREE ICE CREAM CONE DAY AT BEN & JERRY'S!

I'll be honest with you, I've probably only been to an actual Ben & Jerry's store twice in my life. One in the Haight/Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco in the late '90's. I was visiting my friend, Adam, and I asked him to take me to the mecca of San Fran hippie culture. This place was the epicenter of the 60's counter culture movement. Peace and love were the value's it was based on. This was the place that dreams were made of. Everyone loving each other and interacting in a positive environment where you feel like everyone has your back. Unfortunately, Haight/Ashbury by the late '90s had pretty much become Time Squares but instead of the Disneyfication, it was Classic Rock-ified. It had now become clear to me where Spencer's Gifts ordered all their Led Zeppelin Blacklight posters.

The second time I visited a Ben & Jerry's store was in beautiful downtown Burbank, California. It is located in a huge shopping area next to an Ikea, a mall, a still operating bookstore, an AMC movie theatre with 16 screens and a Cold Stone Creamery. The reason I've only ventured into this Ben & Jerry's one time is evident from the last sentence, I mean, why waste my time at one ice cream store when the one directly across the street can roll in Reeses Peanut Cups and Butterfinger to your Cake Batter Ice Cream? I am, and will always be, a Cold Stone man. This would sound much more macho if I were a Stone Cold man. It would also mean I was dyslexic.

Since I rarely visit San Francisco and have a deep allegiance to Cold Stone, I do not foresee myself becoming a patron of Ben & Jerry's. That is of course, when I have to pay for it. Seeing the banner ad for Free Cone Day turned my Cold Stone heart into a Ben & Jerry's mind. I also thought, why not make a day of it? A movie and free ice cream? Junior High Cary Schwartz just hit the jackpot!

I ventured to Burbank from Los Angeles which is about 5 miles away but takes 45 minutes. It doesn't matter though, the light at the end of the traffic tunnel leads to free ice cream. I arrive in Burbank and access one of their many free parking lots which is oddly exciting to me since I live in L.A. In pretty much every city in America, a free parking lot at noon on a Tuesday is as normal as a sunrise. A free parking lot at noon on Tuesday in Los Angeles is as abnormal as a son rhys. That anolagy only works if you aren't the parents of lovable wacky movie actor, Rhys Ifans from Notting Hill, or lovable wacky TV actor, Rhys Darby from Flight of the Conchords. If you can find me a non wacky Rhys, I'll eat my hat... which is exactly something a wacky Rhys would do.

I decide to see a movie first so I can work up an appetite for my free ice cream cone. I grab my ticket for the Ben Stiller/Naomi Watts dramedy, "While We're Young" and rush over to Theatre 4. The idea behind this movie is that if you're in your 40's, hanging out with young twenty-somethings will invigorate you and make you feel young again. The viewer realizes this because Naomi Watts dances to hip-hop music and Ben Stiller buys a hat. I enjoyed this movie but it made me feel old. Not just because the subject matter warrants it, but because Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys has so much grey hair!

I finish the flick and head over to the grand finale of my day - Free Ice Cream. The first thing I notice is the absurd long line leading into the high calorie locale. The second thing I notice is the amount of firemen holding signs that say "Fill the Boot." The third thing I notice is the twelve signs placed along the windows of the store thanking everyone for supporting the Muscular Dystrophy Association. The fourth thing I notice is the firemen accepting donations from EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN LINE. Everybody is reaching into their wallet and placing a wad of bills into the "charity boot" that the firemen are passing around. That boot is getting stuffed more than a passed out woman at Bill Cosby's.

I realize now that the "free" ice cream isn't exactly free. I can take out a dollar bill, hand over to the MD fighting fireman and still get a decent sized scoop of Chubby Hubby for a major discount. The only problem with that plan is, I only have 2 five dollar bills. I patiently wait in line clutching a five dollar bill when it dawns on me. Paying 5 dollars for a 3 dollar scoop of ice cream would completely go against my entire plan of having a free scoop of ice cream. Realizing the math made me immedietely jump out of line and head on over to Cold Stone. I mean, if I'm paying for ice cream I should grab my Like 'em sized Cake Batter with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Butterfinger plus I didn't have to wait in line because every sane ice cream lover was across the street getting their "free cone." April 14, 2015 is the day that Cary the Asshole decided to spend $7 on a candy bar infused heart attack inducing confection instead of giving $5 to a very deserving charity. Maybe April 14, 2016 will be the day I finally decide to not be a dickhead.

Jewish Easter

There are a lot of days I look forward to every year. My birthday, Christmas/Chanukah, the first Cowboy game of the season, 4th of July/Superbowl Sunday/New Years or any other date reserved for drinking all day and any day I'm about to go to Vegas. But the best day of the year, the one I hold dearest to my heart, is Jewish Easter.

Jewish Easter is a magical day that consists of Jewish boys and girls scrounging up whatever bills they can gather and spending it on half price candy. Every grocery store and pharmacy in the country orders WAY too much Easter candy every year so on the day after Easter, they load up 12 shopping carts full of candy and place them right at the entrance in hopes of luring all the non Jesus believers into buying their chocolaty goodness.

Today is a day of great responsibility. You mustn't just wander in freely and start shopping around. There needs to be a plan. Without a plan, you'll have no hope. Walking into a store on Jewish Easter and not having a thought out strategy will seriously mess you up. One year, I strolled into the nearest Rite Aid pharmacy without a blueprint of what I was doing and immediately felt tingling pain and numbness in my hands and feet. Actually, that could've been the diabetes acting up after celebrating Jewish Easter the previous year.

Jewish Easter was first celebrated by my family when I was just a young, pre Bar-Mitzvahed tyke. My father would pack up my mom, my 2 brothers and myself in the family Chevrolet Van and drive the 3/4 mile to Eckerd's drugstore. He'd present us all with $5 and utter the greatest words known to man... "Buy whatever you want!" He'd then follow that line with this one, "as long as it's half price." This is pretty much what my father says about anything always.

The treasure hunt would begin. My older brother went straight for the Reese's Eggs while my little brother tried to find the largest chocolate bunny in the place. This is no joke, I'm talking about the ones on the top shelf! The Schwartz boys don't mess around. I would scour the aisle looking for a sleeve of Cadbury Creme Eggs that was always impossible to find. To this day, I believe the Cadbury company sneaks into every place in the world selling their delicious, gooey filled, milk chocolate eggs at 11:59 PM on Easter Sunday and removes every single one from existence. I also believe the Cadbury company only hires people that are descendants of Ninjas and Santa Claus.

I'd take my 5 smackeroos and run down the aisle swiping various pimple causing delectables into my cart like I'm a contestant on "Supermarket Sweep." I'd grab all the Easter faves: Snicker's, Hershey's and Milky way eggs, Butterfinger and Baby Ruth bunnies, Huge rabbit shaped chocolates that you would think takes 4 months to eat but when you get home, you feel dubed because it's hollow. No worries though, nothing a spoonful of Peter Pan Peanut Butter couldn't fix.

Nowadays, I've upped my game. I double up on my childhood allowance and walk into the place with a crisp ten spot. It's all about the Hamilton's, baby! I waddle into the neighborhood Albertson's, take a quick left past the fresh baked goods that appear to be made a month ago, slip between the elderly Armenian couple that are arguing over what generic Cheeto's brand will taste the best, and sashay through the cereal aisle, taking a quick second to ponder whether they should even make regular Cap N' Crunch without Crunch berries anymore. I mean, why would you buy those when they offer the berries in there for no charge? If I'm gonna cut up the roof of my mouth, there better be an extremely vague taste of strawberries involved.

Once I hit the motherload, I casually place the shopping cart behind me and do the happiest of happy dances as I sprint through the aisles, spilling every half price piece of luxurious Easter themed candy into my arms. In this moment nothing else matters. Religious wars in the Middle East, Political Unrest in Bangladesh and The Cowboys inevitably going 7-9 and missing the playoffs on the final drive of the season. I will get my candy, I will get a great deal and I will have to take a Pepcid by 4:15 PM.

Happy Jewish Easter to you all!!!

The Proposal

I recently had a life changing experience. It's a positive life change - has nothing to do with bad turbulence on a flight, bad dealings in a business plan, or bad Mexican food near a co-ed bathroom. This experience is one that most of us go through in a lifetime if you're lucky enough to find someone that you can tolerate, or more realistically, they can tolerate you for longer than a week and a half. I decided, after 8 years, to propose to my wonderful girlfriend.

My lady and I had been together for eight years. Most people (i.e. my parents, her parents, every aunt/uncle/cousin we have, friends, acquaintances and outward strangers) all thought we were bat-shit crazy to be together without "putting a ring on it." They would say very cliche things like "Shit or get off the pot" which, while I understand the metaphor, isn't exactly how I'd explain my relationship with my lovely gal. Is marriage some sort of grand situation where you'd never have to empty your bowels again?

The first step in the journey to "off the Pottsville" would be to find the perfect ring. I'm not exactly a jeweler so I wasn't sure where to begin. Should I hit up Kay or Zales at the mall? Is there a Robbins Bros. nearby? Maybe she would appreciate it if I "went to Jaryd!" After conferring with her best friend and "The Bachelor" watching co-hort, I was informed that, "if she finds out you got her something at Zales, she'll shove that ring right up your ass!" That didn't sound like a very good proposal, although it did sound like an interesting honeymoon.

I found a ring at a boutique jeweler and gravitated towards a beautiful piece that seemed to fit my gorgeous life partner's unique taste in jewelry and my "Jew-ey" taste in prices. As I was buying this beautiful testament to my undying love for my one and only, I realized that I have no idea what her ring size is, so I had to abort the mission. I wasn't sure how to find out the dimensions of her ring finger so I once again called on the help of her best friend/gay bar dancing associate. I was informed of said friend's ring size and then told that mi amore's finger is at least one size bigger. At least one size bigger is what I assume my girlfriend is thinking about during copulation with me.

I proudly purchased the ring, clapped my hands together and thought, "the hard part is over." As it turns out, the buying of the ring is the easiest part to handle. Now I had to figure out the best way to ask for hand in marriage without doing something too unoriginal, stupid or flamboyant. My girl is not the kind that would want to be proposed to in a crowded place like a trendy restaurant,  a public place like a sporting event's Jumbo-tron or a glamorous place like the "Glitter Gulch" in downtown Las Vegas.

I decided to make my plea for her hand in marriage at a rarely visited dog beach in Malibu, California. This was great for a few reasons: There will not be many people out there so I can find a secluded place away from the action and not embarrass her too much. The golden sand and crystal blue water will be a beautiful landscape to remember as we look back fondly on this momentous occasion. And our two canine companions will be present which means she'll have to say yes - otherwise I'll take the four legged members of our household, swim to Catalina Island and send a ransom note in a bottle back to shore. The best way to get someone to spend the rest of their life with you is through some sort of peculiar dognapping scheme.

I told my roommate with benefits that we should take our pooches to Malibu on December 30th, 2014 for no reason in particular. While she was in the bedroom getting ready to go, it dawned on me that all I had was a ring and no other celebratory accessories. It might seem anti-climactic to propose and then not be able to continue the momentum with some libations. I grabbed 2 champagne glasses and a delectable $8 bottle of Wilson Creek's Almond Champagne that we were saving for the next day and snuck it into our traveling beach bag. We made the 25 mile drive to Malibu through windy, one-way, hillside trails and arrived - pooches, ring and champagne in tow - to the desolate and gorgeous dog beach. As we exited the Toyota Corolla and made our way to the spot that will be remembered forever, our little dachsund/min-pin mix decided that would be the best time to start vomiting like he just attended his first frat party.  That little bastard has always been a cock blocker but now he was taking it to new levels.

Now, I don't want to worry too much about the little bugger. He was fine, but my almost fiancee assumed he was inches from death and must be rushed to the hospital ASAP. I didn't really have much of a choice in this matter - it's not like I could've said, "Hey, why don't we at least chance our puppy's demise and check out the ocean for 2 minutes or so?" We rushed back to the car and I realized that I must call an audible. There were three things I had decided: 1)  Proposing in a car while speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway might be a tad dangerous. 2) I wanted to be engaged in 2014 and not on New Years, which left that day as the ONLY day left on the 2014 calendar that wasn't designated for Ryan Seacrest's toothy smile at midnight. And 3) I wasn't going to fucking propose at The Los Feliz Small Animal Hospital.

Our little bundle of fur was fine so we took him home. We were told to monitor him at home which means I had no choice but to take care of my "bidness" at the apartment I share with my true love and our pesky, four legged friends. I had to think fast because I know I couldn't just plop down on one knee in the living room while she cradled a pretending to be sick mutt and watching DVR'd episodes of "The Shah's of Sunset." I excused myself from the residence so I could get some flowers and a nicer bottle of champagne. I mean, she deserves more than an $8 dollar bottle of sparkling vino... my baby's getting a bottle of the nicest $17 bubbly that Alberston's has to offer! I grabbed the champagne and a dozen red roses and headed back home. I didn't want her to see the flowers so I snuck through the backdoor... which maybe I'll do again on the wedding night. (OH NO HE DI'N'T!)

I layed down the flowers in the hallway leading to the bedroom and called for future bride to help me out with something. She begrudgingly left the couch to find out what her lazy boyfriend needed help with. I had secured myself in the room with a chilled bottle of champagne ready to be opened and an engagement ring that may or may not fit on her finger. I heard her make her way down the hallway and had a five second panic attack where I literally had no idea what I was supposed to do. Should I have the ring out of my pocket? Should I be on one knee already? Should the ring be behind my back? Should I stand and then take a knee like I'm on a junior high football team? I decided to be on one knee when she entered the room and I would calmly ask her to marry me. She opened the door and said exactly the loving words you'd expect someone to say when they see their life partner on one knee with an engagement ring raised towards her. Those words were, "Whoa, dude!"

I would love to say that I was very manly and calm and asked for her hand the way a suave leading man would in a romantic movie starring a younger Richard Gere. Instead, I blubbered through a cheesy speech that sounded more like something from "The Elephant Man" than "Pretty Woman." To everyone's shock, she said yes and now we get to start our life together as an engaged couple. I look forward to our future wedding, our grand life together and a brand new set of silverware that one of our seldom seen cousins in Arkansas buys us off-registry at Wal-Mart.

Clogged Kitchen Sink

Today was supposed to be a special day. I had a very welcome day off smack dab in the middle of the week. I had plans - a lot of emails to catch up on, a lot of doggy cuddles to catch up on, and most importantly, a lot of sleep to catch up on. Things were gonna be great! I couldn't wait to sleep in, wake up late, drink coffee, eat Cap'n Crunch's "Oops All Berries" in my underwear, and scour the internet to read all about how awesome the Dallas Cowboys have been until their inevitable December breakdown where they miss the playoffs by one game.

Of course, the kicker was being able to sleep in. I'm the kind of person who can sleep through any kind of noise. TV, noises outside, alarms, barking dogs, screaming girlfriend - anything. I noticed something today... I cannot sleep through the foul stench of whatever odor was coming through the clogged sink in my kitchen. It smelled so bad in my place today, I assumed someone finally dug up the dead hooker that has been stored under my floorboard since Valentine's day.

I awoke from my much deserved slumber because my nose was filled with a horrendous scent. I followed the putrid smell to the kitchen and noticed both sides were halfway full with a black-ish liquid. It looked like something the classic 1950's movie villain, The Blob, would've thrown up. Actually, I once saw The Blob's vomit in the shape of a 1980's movie starring Kevin "Johnny Drama" Dillon. ZING!

Now, since I'm a real man, I figured the best way to handle this was by fixing it myself. I take great pride in how macho I am and I'm sure everyone knows that about me. I like to get down and get my hands dirty fixing motorcycles, gutting the half ton bucks I hunt for sport and shovel the massive amount of bullshit I just wrote. Actually, I am the opposite of macho. To say I am a man is an insult to the entire species of Man.

I do know a little about fixing sinks though because I'm very observant. No, I have never studied a plumber to learn the specifics of his craft but I have seen one or two Drano commercials. I can finally be a man and fix the sink myself with the help of a gelatinous fluid. I was starting to feel quite macho after all. I just needed to take care of a few things before heading out to the local Albertson's. All I had to do was wash my face with a gentle facial wash, cover my problem pores with a moisturizing lotion and freshen my armpits with baby powder infused Citrus Blossom scented organic deodorant. I may be a man but I smell like an arboretum.

I made my way to the store to pick up a nice hefty bottle of Drano and then I would make it back to my place to perform my manly duties. There was no other reason to be at the store but maybe I should look around just in case. You never know when something will pop up at you while shopping for the one necessity. I decided to take a stroll through the seasonal aisle to see what Halloween themed materials that may catch my eye before I head back to the casa and act like the man that I am. As it turns out, they were offering a sale on Reese's Pumpkins, Snicker's Witches and Butterfinger Monsters. I may be a man but I eat like a woman right before she menstruates.

My bag is now full of candy with a tiny bit of room left over for some Drano. I  make it home and open up a few Reese's Pumpkins. I figure I should get my chocolate peanut butter fix before I dirty my hands with the toxic pipe cleaner. I wolf down every delicious morsel and then head over to show that sink who's the man. I open up the Drano and pour half a bottle down the left side of the sink, then the right. That's right sink, who's the man now! As it turns out the sink is the man because the sewage goo that was invading my pipes just grew larger. Reading that last sentence out of context makes this sound like a "Fifty Shades of Grey" fan fiction blog.

After emptying the bottle of Drano into the sink and scarfing down another 4 pieces of candy, I did what any man would've done in this situation. I called a plumber to come fix the clogged sink. I didn't feel that defeated though. I knew I was the man. I'm sure I'll be just as manly as the macho plumber that comes to my door. Doorbell rings and there awaits the knight in shining armour that has come to my rescue. The first thing I notice is the nametag... Jessica. The second thing I notice is that we wear the same deodorant.

Vegas, baby!

I, just like most people, am an avid fantasy football player. I, just like some people, attend a live draft every year. I, unlike a lot of people, attend that live draft in Las Vegas. It is always a great time. Catch up with old college buddies, spend time in poker rooms and at blackjack tables, and act like a teenager for a weekend. The problem is, I'll act like a teenager and then by Monday, I DEFINTELY realize that I am no longer anywhere close to a teenager.

I am an average 30something male with a job. I'm unlike an average job having man because my job does not require me to be there on Fridays. It's kind of like my freshmen year in college where I scheduled all my classes Monday thru Thursday so I can have Fridays off to sleep in, relax and listen to Guns n' Roses "Appetite for Destruction" on repeat. The cool thing about the Fridays off is I can plan trips around then. For instance, if I'm going to Vegas for a fantasy draft, I can leave early Friday morning and have time to hit the poker rooms and relax by the pool before others get into town. A nice relaxing way to start a debaucherous weekend.

Of course, my life doesn't really work like that. If I have something planned that I'm looking forward to, it'll inevitably be messed with. I bought my cheap ass Southwest Airlines ticket from LAX to Vegas for a Friday that I'm not working, only to find out that I would be working that day. I have worked exactly one Friday since before Thanksgiving and it happened to be the one day I had a plane ticket that cost me a whopping forty nine dollars.

Because I'm a team player, or because I really don't want to be fired, I changed my flight. No big deal, I'm on Southwest so there won't be any change fee, I'll only have to pay for the difference on the new flight. Now, spending two hundred dollars on a flight is pretty good, but not after you've already spent the forty nine bucks. Oh well, I'll just win it back says optimistic me. I change my flight so instead of leaving at 9 AM and enjoying my day in Vegas. I'll be leaving at 10 PM and slaving away in Los Angeles. The good news is, I'll save all that money I was planning on spending in Vegas.

I finish my grueling day at work and head on out to the airport so I can start acting like a teenager. I get to LAX, go through baggage, check the monitors to see if any changes and and sit down at the nearest bar to start my weekend with a twelve dollar pint of beer. No worries, I'll just win it back in Vegas. Finish the most expensive beer I'll have until the next time I'm at the airport and go wait in line for my plane. As it turns out, it is now delayed so I guess I'll be having another expensive mug of suds sooner rather than later. No big deal though, I'll just win it back.

After about an hour delay (and twenty four dollars worth of slightly cold Blue Moon), I'm ready to take off to Sin City. I'll now be in at around midnight but not to worry, I'll be a teenager this weekend so I can stay up all night and be fine. I eventually get to Vegas to meet up with all my "acting like teenager" friends but I guess their teenage act is to go to bed by 11:00. I guess I'm playing blackjack the same way I listen to Alanis Morissette - alone.

After the thirteen losing hands of blackjack in a row, I decide it's time to go to bed. I mainly decide this because I ran out of all the money I was planning on spending for Friday night. Actually, I ran out of that waiting for my flight at LAX, so I've dipped into my Saturday fund. Nothing to worry about though, I'll win it back. I get up to the room to sleep my unlucky blackjacks hands away and get ready to act like a teenager starting early Saturday morning. I wake up just like a teenager the next day. That is after I stretch my aching back out, pee seven times and take a blood pressure medication. That's exactly what a teenager would do.

I made my way down to the tables with the rest of my allotted "Saturday" money and was gearing up to win all my money back. I sat down, ordered a "free" beer and got ready to become a thousand-aire. Now, if I thought thirteen losing hands in a row was traumatic, imagine how I must've felt when I lost twenty two. That "free" beer I ordered wound up costing $500.

Since I was completely out of money, I was able to go to the one machine in Vegas that always pays out - the ATM. I put my card in and, BOOM, I know had another five hundred bucks to turn into five thousand.  I decided this time to switch it up a bit and approached a roulette table. I took my chips and followed the advice of Wesley Snipes from the classic '90 film, Passenger 57, by "betting on black." As a simple rule of life, you should always follow the lead of Mr. Snipes when it comes to handling money.

I put my chips on black and the wheel spun. When it stopped, that little white ball was surrounded by the intense red of a roulette wheel. Chips gone. No worries, I had some more chips. Put it on black! Next spin = red. Well, it can't be three in a row, right? Wrong. What are the odds of it landing on red for a fourth time? I'd say pretty low. Bet on black, landed on red. Fuck you Wesley!

Back to the ATM. Of course this time, the only machine that pays out in Vegas didn't pay out. No more funds in my account. Oh well, I did have a nice necklace I received from my dead Grandfather ten years ago. I'm sure the family wouldn't mind if I pawned the one family heirloom I have so I can get some money and pay myself back for all that I lost. I mean, what are the chances that I would continue losing? That's not how Vegas works. If you don't win, then why do so many people flock there constantly to win money. These billion dollar casinos lining the strip are funded by people spending money in Vegas on food, drinks and hotels, right?

I found out that the casinos might be paid for by schlubs like me spending thousands of dollars trying win back a few hundred. Vegas kicked my ass and me crying for my mama. The problem was my mama wouldn't take my calls. I guess that's what happens when you constantly call her for money... or for more precious family heirlooms you can pawn in Vegas for seventy five bucks.

Under the Weather

I've had a week of off work which is pretty exciting. I had everything planned out. Set up some lunches, recorded a few movies on the trusty ol' DVR and turned off the alarm in my bedroom. I figured I'd catch up with some old friends, catch up on some crappy 80's era action flicks and catch up on sleep. Of course, the only thing I caught was a cold.

I'm a pretty lucky guy because I don't get sick very often. Maybe once or twice a year, I'll get a little cold that lasts a day or two. No big deal. My immune system is pretty spectacular since my lifestyle isn't one you would necessary call healthy. I stay up late, wake up early, drink alcohol and rarely work out. If it wasn't for my 10 step voyage to the makeshift bar in the dining room to fill up my wine 3-4 times a night, I'd never get any exercise.

You'd think that with my lifestyle, I'd be sick about twice a week but that isn't the case. It's nice that I don't have to worry about my health. I can do pretty much anything I want without fear of it taking me down for a week. In life, my parents blessed me with good genes. In 4th grade, I wished they would've blessed me with Guess jeans but my dad wouldn't spend the money.

I have friends that freak out constantly about possibly getting sick. They won't shake people's hands, touch doorknobs without wrapping their hand in a paper towel or shirt or even do something as innocent as share toothbrushes. I never concern myself with such nonsense. I shake hands with anyone, well, excluding lepers. I'll touch a doorknob without using a paper towel or my shirt as a hand condom and I share my toothpaste with anyone who wants it. Oh, it appears I misspelled toothpaste earlier in this paragraph.

Those are the best parts about rarely feeling under the weather. The worse part is when I do feel sick, I'm the biggest baby there is. I mope around the house in a ratty, old, yellow bathrobe that used to be white. I lay around on the couch, blow my nose on some Puff's Plus w/ lotion and then throw the used facial tissue on the ground because, "I'm too sick to throw it away in the trash." I drink a gallon of Orange Juice and after every sip complain about how much I don't like orange juice unless there's champagne in it. I sniffle obnoxiously loud whenever my girlfriend asks me to hand her the remote control so she can, "turn off this dreadful Sylvester Stallone movie and watch Bachelor in Paradise."

Another thing about me when I'm feeling ill is that I'll sneeze about 12 times a minute. Actually, when I'm not sick, I'll go on some sneezing tangents every now and then but when I have a semi-cold, I'm sneezing like one of Snow White's seven dwarfs in a pepper factory. I can't remember the name of the dwarf I'm referring to that sneezes all the time. You know, he has allergies, a sad face and a big nose. Jewey the dwarf? That must be it. People say that sneezing is very close to having an orgasm. If that's the case, then I'm close to getting gangbanged by the seven dwarves right now. Let me tell you something, behind closed doors, Bashful ain't so bashful.

Since I'm feeling so crappy the only thing left to do is make a big pot of matzoh ball soup, grab another gallon of OJ and settle on the couch for a marathon session of Rambo movies. This is actually such a good idea, I hope I'm sick again next week. Better go lick a few doorknobs.

Blood Pressure Check

I live a pretty stress-free life. Things are great and I have no issues to speak of. I have a sweet and beautiful girlfriend, two cute and loving canine companions and a DVR filled with 1990's era movies that I forgot to watch twenty years ago. I stay in shape, eat relatively well and only drink on days whose first letter belongs in the 2nd half of the alphabet... with the exception of Monday and Friday. I have great friends, a working central A/C unit and a job that is walking distance to Chick-fil-A. I also have a family that has blessed me with full love and support. They've also blessed me with high blood pressure.

My family history is very typically Jewish. We eat with each other, talk to each other and complain about each other. A very Jewish upbringing means you're with family a lot. Holidays, weddings, Bar/Bat mitzvahs, Sunday dinners and especially the opening of a new bagel place. This are all parts of my genetic make-up that I have embraced about my Jewish heritage. The genetic trait I dislike the most is the passing down of high blood pressure. Well, that and the nose size.

I went to the doctor a month ago and was informed that I was "at risk" for high blood pressure. My BP was not too worrisome but with my family history, I would have to keep an eye on it. I was told to work out regularly and be mindful of what I was eating. That seemed like two very reasonable things. Work out regularly, like, a couple times a month. Be mindful of what I eat, like, don't eat a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup that fell on the floor of a movie theater unless you were able to pick it up within 13 seconds.

My doctor actually meant that I should work out more than twice a month. He went as far as to say I should work out 3-5 times a week. Hey Doc, I'm just trying to lower my blood pressure, not join the Marines. He also said my eating habits should go beyond not just stopping myself from eating a tasty treat off the floor of the stale popcorn stained concrete of a popular movie theater chain and actually paying attention to what I'm ingesting into my body. Not too much red meat, not too much fried food and not too much beer. I don't think that's going to happen - I may be Jewish, but I'm also Texan.

The best part about modern medicine is that the doctor can lecture you on how to live your life but he can also prescribe to you a magic little pill that helps you out without having to listen to the quack. I don't have to work out or watch what I eat. Instead, I swallow an unjagged little pill as I woof down my second plate of bacon.

I feel great, I look great and my life doesn't have to change at all. I like these small blue tablets I take daily. They're easy to digest and affordable to buy. Everything is alright in the world. Now, if I can only figure out how to get rid of this constant erection...

August

Today is August 1st. It's not necessarily a great day or a bad day. There's no history that I know of that happened on August 1st. August 1st is not celebrated the way you would for July 4th or a loved one's birthday and it's not a date that you would shudder at the way you would for September 11th or last Saturday when we found out that 5 Seconds of Summer's album knocked "Weird Al" Yankovic's album off the number one spot.

August 1st is a day that, as a kid, kind of sucked because it was the last month of Summer. You go to Target on July 31st and in their seasonal department is lawn chairs and barbecue grills. You go on August 1st and it's backpacks and notebook paper. That's a shitty day as a kid. As an adult, it's kind of cool because it means that football season is a month away. It also means that the blazing heat outside will start fading. It also means, and this might make me sound a tad bit old, that the kids will get the hell off my lawn.

I live in a pretty urban area of Los Angeles. Lots of apartments, restaurants, bars, and because this is LA, yoga studios. Of all the apartment complexes on our street, we're the only one with a lawn. This is great because, hey, it's a grassy lawn in front of our apartment. This is bad because, hey look everyone, come enjoy the only lawn on the block. It's not like we're having BBQ's or birthday parties on the grassy knoll in front of our place. It's just that people like sitting there. Seems crazy to me, because you can just sit on a beach 10 miles away.

What are people doing while sitting there, you ask? I'll tell you... nothing. That's right, they don't bring books, they don't bring dogs, they don't bring flaming batons to throw around. They literally do nothing. Just sit on the grass patch and stare into the oblivion. In this case, oblivion is a rundown apartment across the street.

Living here is very different than the area where I grew up. In the suburbs of Dallas, Texas it seemed that everyone had big yards and swimming pools. Well, everyone but us. No swimming pool for the Schwartz household. We had a backyard with 2 swingsets though. One that was nice and new and one that was rusty and old. When we upgraded to our brand spanking new swingset, complete with monkey bars and slide, we never got rid of the old one. We just had 2 vastly different eyesores invading our space where a fucking pool should have been.

We did have access to a few pools though. Summertime in Texas, you kind of need a pool. The sprinklers just don't cut it. 100 degrees plus everyday warrants a dip in the pool. Otherwise, you'd have to spend time indoors like a chump. Sometimes, you could run through the sprinklers or even better, you can hook up the ol' Willy the Waterbug and become the envy of the block.

Willy the Waterbug was some sort of weird plastic caterpillar looking thing that you hooked your hose into. It had about 6 beaded, little "water veins" that would thrash about and squirt water. As a kid, it was pretty awesome. We'd play a game where you got a running start and tried to jump over Willy without getting hit by one of his nasty little water arms. As an adult looking back, it was terrifying because those hard, beaded, unpredictable little water arteries of Willy would hit you in the, well, the willy constantly. 

Back in that day, we didn't use protection from the sun. Didn't need sunscreen or lotion. Actually, the girls I knew greased up with baby oil and sat in the sun for hours on end. We'd get in our bathing sutis, walk outside in the blazing Texas sun and run around the yard for hours with no sunscreen in sight. The only protection we needed was our hands covering our peckers as we tried to jump over Willy.

Dallas Cowboys Training Camp

Today is a day I look forward to every year. I'm not talking about a birthday or a holiday. I'm talking about something much bigger, much better, much more exciting. Today is the day that I will watch a bunch of 21-35 year old men put on tights and beat the shit out of each other. I know it may sound like my usual Tuesday night ritual, but it's not. Today is the day I'm going to Oxnard, California to watch the Dallas Cowboys practice.

I currently live in Los Angeles but was born and bred in Dallas, Texas. Because of this, I'm a die hard Cowboys fan. Since I live about 1500 miles away from my hometown, it is quite difficult to see my favorite players in person on gameday, but lucky for me my hometown boys train in sunny Oxnard, CA. Oxnard is about an hour and a half from Los Angeles. This would obviously make it much easier to catch, in person, Tony Romo throwing interceptions to numerous receivers.

Growing up in the '90's in Dallas made it impossible to not love the Cowboys. They were the only sports team in the metroplex that had any kind of success - unless you count the Tatu era Dallas Sidekicks, and we won't. The Texas Rangers, at least on the days that Nolan Ryan wasn't pitching, were a joke. The Dallas Stars were the Minnesota North Stars. The Mavericks were 10 years away from the Mark Cuban/Dirk Nowitzki era - the only era in which a Jew and a German worked perfectly together on anything not called a Volkswagen.

The Cowboys were our city's only bright spot. Sure, we had Edie Brickel and the New Bohemians, but those stinky hippies had nothing on Jerry Jones and Jimmy Johnson. These were the glory years. Three Super Bowls in four years, constant playoff appearances, constant division winners, constant cocaine and hookers. The 1990 era Cowboys were the most explosive thing that the city of Dallas had every seen. Well, except for that one time in the 60's when the President got his head blown off.

The Cowboys in the '90's were full of great players. Charles Haley, Bill Bates, Leon Lett, Mark Stepnoski, Darren Woodsen, Nate Newton, Jim Jeffcoat. We even had fierce animal nicknames for Daryl "Moose" Johnston and Kenny "The Shark" Gant. I mean, come on, nobody's gonna mess with a moose and a shark. That would be crazy! The only thing more frightening than that is a Moose-sharknado, which is probably what the hookers at the "white house" called it when they were selected for a Daryl Johnston/Kenny Gant menage a trois.

The roster was full of stars but none could hold a candle to the Gods that were Troy Aikman, Michael Irvin and Emmit Smith. "The Triplets" were the true Kings of Dallas/Ft. Worth. They were the men that every woman wanted to be with and every man wanted to be. Their faces were plastered on billboards around town. The newspapers wrote about them every day. They couldn't leave the house without being mobbed. They were like the Beatles, except better, because there was no Ringo.

The thing I remember the most about "The Triplets" was their famous poster. Every person who lived in Dallas in the '90's knows exactly what poster I'm speaking of. It's an iconic shot of our city's biggest superheroes - Troy, Michael and Emmit - on the sidelines of Texas Stadium, facing away from the camera, arms around each other, looking out onto the field.
#8 Aikman
#88 Irvin 
#22 Smith
Every kid has that "aha" moment where they realize the things they loved more than anything in life takes a backseat to their true passions. My "aha" moment came when the poster featuring the muscular asses of Troy, Michael and Emmit replaced the poster featuring the furry face of ALF on my bedroom wall.

Now we all know good and well that the Cowboys are not the same as they were back then. In the '90's, they were loved by the fans and feared by their opponents. Now they're laughed at by both. It used to be whenever I wore a Cowboys shirt, people would walk by and shout out, "GO COWBOYS!" Now when I wear a Cowboys shirt, people walk by and shout out, "GO CHANGE!"

I used to feel proud to be a Cowboys fan. Now I feel sad. So sad in fact, I've decided while writing this that I'm no longer going to training camp. Who wants to keep living in the past and remembering all those wonderfully glory days from many years ago? It's pathetic to think of days long past. 

Now, if you excuse me, I have to go watch my VHS tape of the 1996 Super Bowl.

Happy Birthday to Me!

My birthday is July 21st, this coming Monday. I will be (insert lots of numerals here) years old. I have always loved birthdays, especially my own. Remember when you're a kid and your birthday is the greatest day of the year. Well, that, Christmas/Chanukkah or the day that your camp takes a trip to Six Flags.

As you get older, the magic of a birthday isn't the same. You start to mature and realize that celebrating your birthday might make you seem like a douche. Hell, I still love my birthday but it really is a douchey thing to send an e-vite telling your friends to meet at a bar that you would never go to if it wasn't your bday and have them buy you drinks. Last year, I went to a bar that I have only been to once... five years ago on my birthday.

I totally understand how a birthday isn't a big deal anymore. As a child, it's one of the only things you have to look forward to every year. As you get older, there are lots of exciting things to look forward to - pay day, vacations, quality time with the girlfriend and dogs, the new Woody Allen movie - all the great things in life.

As you grow up, a birthday is just "another day." When I was younger, a couple friends of mine and I wrote a terrible screenplay about a man who is depressed about his upcoming birthday and decides to live the day like he's a kid again. He leaves work, plays miniature golf, drives a corvette, orders the biggest sundae you've ever seen at a fancy restaurant and finally asks the girl out that he's been pining for his whole adult life. There's also scenes where he reconnects with his brother, has weird flashbacks about the shoes his father used to wear and has a come to Jesus moment while on a golf course with Robert Loggia.

The point of that movie was supposed to have you look at your birthday in the same way you did as a kid. Take advantage of the one day a year that is solely for you. There is no other day where that happens. Your birthday is you and you alone. You have to share Christmas/Chanukkah, Valentine's Day, Fathers Day/Mothers Day, Secretaries Day, New Years, Halloween, Thanksgiving, MLK day, Simchat Torah, 4th of July, Boxing Day, The Super Bowl, The Oscars, Labor Day, Memorial Day and the day the new Iphone comes out.

I can't do something big for my birthday every year, I know this. This year, I'm going to take it easy - make some dinner at home with my lady, open a nice bottle of wine that we labeled 07-21-14, watch a movie, cuddle on the couch with the dogs, and listen to my girlfriend fake snore when I attempt to make out with her.

Taking it easy on my bday might be a sign of things to come. Maybe I'm maturing and realizing that I don't need to go all out every July 21st? Maybe I'm just done with the hassle of planning and executing the "great day of birth?" Maybe I'm like Danny Glover in the Lethal Weapon franchise and am "getting too old for this shit?" Maybe, nowadays, the most fun thing I can do is be with my girlfriends and the dogs watching movies instead of bumping elbows with strangers in a crowded bar? Maybe it's because I need to rest my old bones for the huge Las Vegas party I'm already starting to plan for next year's birthday? Yeah, that's it.

Fridays Off

I recently started a new job and it's been great. The work is challenging, the people are nice and the best part... it's only four days a week! Even better than that, it pays better than my last job, and is one less day a week. Win/Win! The coolest part about having a "free" day weekly is all the stuff I'm able to get done on my off day. I can write, set up appointments, have lunch with friends, spend quality time with the dogs, clean the apartment - the possibilities are endless. So endless, in fact, that I wind up doing the exact same thing every Friday... Nothing!

Now, it's not like I'm waking up super late or staying in bed and sleeping the day away. I'm getting up early with my girlfriend to walk the dogs. She, like most other people in the world, go to work on Fridays - what suckers! We wake up around 6:30 AM and take the dogs for a mile and a half. Yeah, that's right - 6:30 AM! What are we, farmers?! And you read that correctly, a mile and a half! That's like a full marathon! What are we, Kenyans?!

We get back a little after 7 AM and then it's a great start to the day - A cup of coffee and internet browsing. I check email, fantasy baseball scores, news of the day and, of course, have to check what celebrities kicked the bucket in the middle of the night. I like to stay up to date with my celebrity dead pool. So far this year I've received points because Sid Caesar and Casey Kasem took a dirt nap. I'm currently in 4th place but if Jenna Jameson goes six feet under, I'll jump up to 1st. And because she's a famous porn star, I should clarify the last sentence. I did say six feet under, not under six feet.

While I'm drinking my coffee and screwing around on the world wide web, I have lofty goals. I say to myself, "Once I finish this cup of joe, I'm going to get so much work done."  The problem is once I finish a cup of coffee, I start realizing that I should actually do something worthwhile. The problem with that is I don't want to do anything. The solution to that is to make another cup of coffee. I did say to myself that I would work as soon as I finish my cup of coffee, but I never said after my first cup. The way I look at it, I can make pot after pot of coffee and I'd never have to do anything. Well, I'd have to do at least one thing, and that would be to clean up all the diarrhea I've expelled after drinking a half gallon of coffee.

I do wind up drinking a lot of coffee on these Fridays but the weird part is, I don't like the taste of coffee. I do very much like the taste of sugar and milk though so really my coffee is pretty much equal parts sugar/milk/coffee. Why drink it, you ask? Because it seems like the thing you're supposed to do. I like having caffeine in the morning but the thought of drinking a Jolt Cola right after the sun comes up doesn't appeal to me. The "adult" thing to do is to drink coffee and I'm a full fledged grown man. It shouldn't matter that I like my coffee like I like my women... Sweet, decadent and the ability to put me in a diabetic coma.

It's not like I waste my entire day doing nothing. After partaking in seventeen Buzzfeed quiz's asking, "What vegetable side dish are you?," I hit up the living room and watch whatever late night talk shows I DVR'd earlier in the week. Sometimes I get lucky with a Don Rickles or Steve Martin appearance. Most of the time I get confused as to why I set my DVR to record Tom Green on Craig Ferguson. First of all, why is Tom Green on a talk show and second of all, how the hell did Craig Ferguson get a show? I ponder questions like this as I slip into a sugar crash induced slumber.

When I wake up five hours later, I'm reminded of all the things I was supposed to get done on my day off. Clean the apartment, do some laundry and wash some dishes. Seems like a very simple thing to do with all the free time I have. You know what, I'm going to take care of that right this second... Actually, maybe I'll wait a little while. After all, there is a new quiz I can take that will let me know, "What 1990's failed TV Show are you?"... Oh, I hope I get Cop Rock!

The Bored Cup

Every four years, something happens that unites even the strangest of strangers. It's an event that transcends languages and dialects. It brings everyone together despite geography, cultures and religions. I'm, of course, talking about U2 albums but the same can be said about the World Cup. The World Cup is the Olympics if the Olympics only had one sport that Americans are bad at and using your hands is a no-no. In that way, the World Cup is very similar to my sex life.

The World Cup is just one big ol' month of soccer. Actually, it's just one big ol' month of futbol. There's a weird thing happening where some countries call it futbol and others call it soccer. I understand that here in America it's called Soccer because we already have football. This doesn't make sense because football is played with hands. We can't call it handball though, because there's already a sport called handball which is racquetball without a racket. What's the different between a racket and a racquet? A "q." What's the difference between Daniel Craig and every other James Bond? Different "Q's."

Everybody makes a big deal out of the World Cup. People analyze every matchup, every player, every time slot. Fans "ooh" and "ahh" with every kick. Viewers yell at the screen when someone fakes a brutal injury. Now I understand that The World Cup is a big deal and the matches are intense and climactic, but it's normally two hours that result in 3 scores. If you're watching 2 hours of basketball, there will be more scoring than Leonardo DiCaprio at the Victoria Secret's Fashion Show.

As much as soccer (futbol) bores me, I'll still watch when the USA takes the field. Maybe it's American pride, maybe it's the thrill of competition, maybe it's because there's nothing else to do on a Sunday in June. If I'm going to watch though, I'd rather watch in a bar. Same thing can be said about the NBA All-Star game, opening weekend of NFL Football, and a 22 minute video of buff men in tighty-whiteys doing push-ups. (I once spent happy hour in the Castro section of San Francisco.)

I know that I want the USA to win. I also know that the USA has no chance to win. Soccer (futbol) is one of the few organized sports that the USA doesn't excel at. We kick ass in basketball, swimming, gymnastics, track and field, baseball, football, skiing, skating, snowboarding, skateboarding and waterboarding. Once the USA is out of the tournament I just don't care. That is unless the Germany team is still in it and I can go against them. I can cheer for Germany to lose The World Cup for a couple great reasons.
1) What they did to Jews in World War II.
2)  Dirk Nowitzki doesn't play soccer.

I probably will watch a few non USA matches and I probably will appreciate the athleticism, determination and intensity of the players. The greatest athletes in the world are soccer (futbol) players. They run the equivalent of a marathon in 120 minutes. All over the world they are revered as Gods among men. They have cool names like Pele and Ronaldo. I should like soccer (futbol) but I find it difficult to enjoy. Maybe it's because I wasn't very good at it as a kid. Maybe because when I was growing up there weren't any professional soccer teams to cheer for. Maybe it's because I like to use my hands more than Helen Keller did. There are many reasons that I don't like soccer (futbol), but I think the main one has got to be that everytime I write the word soccer (futbol), I have to use parenthesis. I'd never have to do that with basketball (basquetball) or football (succor).

When the girlfriend's away...

My lady just celebrated her birthday. I'm sure it was a lovely day for her. For starters, she had to get up at 4 AM, so she could take a four and a half hour long plane ride from Los Angeles to Nashville. She then got to celebrate her day of birth by working till midnight. This might all sound pretty bad on a normal day, let alone your bday, but she did have one positive thing going for her on this magical day. She didn't have to spend it with me. Now, I'm sure she loves me, and I know I love her, but everyone deserves a spousal break every now and then... especially her.

She got to celebrate her birthday without me, but she was surrounded by co-workers, put up in a nice hotel, given a per diem, and got to experience the culture of one of the coolest cities in the United States, Nashville. I, on the other hand, got to hang out all by myself with two needy dogs and DVR filled with crap that I've been putting off for just this occasion. There are many fun things I can do while the GF is away, and only a couple of them include touching my own penis.

For starters, I can eat donuts for breakfast! If I had my way I'd eat donuts for breakfast every day, and probably lunch and dinner as well. When my lady is around, I can have a donut every now and then, but would have to hide the evidence if I ate them more than once every few months. This week, I can let my freaky donut flag fly by popping those little buggers in my mouth the way Homer Simpson would after coming off the Atkins diet.

Another cool thing I can do when she's not around is watch afternoon baseball. When I'm "working" from home and decide to take a three hour break to watch the Rangers, Rays or Twins lose (this happens a lot this season), my girlfriend doesn't like that. When she gets home from a hard day of actual work and finds me sitting on the couch and screaming at a left fielder to "dive for the fucking ball" it makes her a tad angry. If she's going to slave away all day to bring home the bacon, the least I can do is pretend to help out. Now matter how many strikeouts Yu Darvish gets in a game, it still won't help me find a job. It might get me 70 bucks in my fantasy league though.

Speaking of that, I can be on my fantasy baseball site all day. I don't have to click away to job board sites every time my GF walks by the room. This week I've proposed 6 trades, add/dropped 4 players, changed my lineup every 18 minutes, and read about 1600 blogs on which starting pitchers are destined to have Tommy John surgery in the next 3 weeks. By the way, if Mark Teixeira gets another home run while riding my bench, I'm going to set my computer on fire.

One more advantage of my little princess leaving me by my lonesome is that I don't have to keep up with my set of household chores. The bed will not be made every morning, the dishes will not be washed, the pillows and blankets will not be put away, the laundry will not be laundered and my stinky body will not be showered. In fact, I don't have to shower for a week if I don't want to. The only time I'm showering in the first place is when I have someplace to go. When she's away, I never have to go anywhere. I can watch Arnold Schwarzenegger movies and wallow in my own filth for six straight days.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my girlfriend and would do anything for her, but when she's not around there's nothing she needs me to do. Right now there's only one thing that needs to be done... Bring on another dozen of glazed twists!!!

Ghostbusters Art Show

A couple friends and I are attending a super sweet event today. Since we're one day removed from Memorial Day, you'd think that we're going to the Veterans graveyard by UCLA and paying our respects. Maybe we're going to the VA hospital and visiting the heroes that ensured our freedom and independence. How about taking my lazy ass to the Military recruitment center and signing up to fight for the dear ol' U S of A? Nope - I ain't doing none of that. Today is the day that I attend an art show celebrating the 30th anniversary of "Ghostbusters."

"Ghostbusters" came out in the Summer of 1984. I was just a wee lad but I remember seeing it in a movie theatre with my Camp Chai camp mates. I remember eating popocorn. I remember being scared of Slimer. I remember being in awe of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. I remember having a crush on Sigourney Weaver. I remember wanting to be Bill Murray. And I remember laughing my little balls off whenever Rick Moranis appeared on screen. Up to that point, I had never seen another movie that was as funny and exciting as "Ghostbusters." And I had seen "Grease 2" twice by then!

"Ghostbusters" was a game changing movie. Groundbreaking special effects, top notch comedy, edge of your seat suspense, and family friendly with a little edge. It's one of the few movies that kids and adults can see together and both enjoy it just as much as the other. My brothers and I dragging my father to this movie wouldn't have made him hate us forever. That only happened after we took him to see the Andrew Dice Clay classic, "The Adventures of Ford Fairlane." I don't think he's ever fully gotten over that.

As I gear up to go see some art, it occurred to me that I'm not very well versed in the art world. I've been to the Getty museum out here and checked out a few museums in Europe a couple years ago. While in Paris, my lady and I went to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. It was very cool to see the most famous painting in the world but I bet it won't be nearly as cool as seeing Annie Potts answering a phone on Canvas.

I haven't seen "Ghostbusters" in years but I imagine it still holds up. The cool part about this art show is that it'll make me want to watch the movie again. After all these years, it should feel like visiting an old friend. Hopefully it won't be like that old friend who did lots of drugs in college and remembers weird details of stories that didn't actually happen. I don't care what Sammy says, I never mistook his walk in closet for a bathroom and urinated all over his neatly pressed suit the night before the Fraternity Formal.

I am excited to bear witness to this historic art event and I hope it's as exciting to me as the first time I saw the movie. Even if it's not that great, it still has to be at least twenty times better than "Ghostbusters 2." What a piece of crap.