I’m tired of whoring myself out. So I’m going to whore out these people. I was hoping to get this posted by Cyber Monday, but there’s still plenty of time before Christmas/the end of Hannukah to make your wallet a little lighter.
I was the last copywriter Ellen worked with before quitting advertising to start her own hand-made clothing and accessories brand. Make of that what you will. And buy some of it.
To be honest, I have a difficult time keeping up with the name Ami is playing under, often with his brother Gavri’s help. The guy gets flown around the world to promote peace and brotherhood through music. You can buy some of it.
The Wife’s twin’s husband is a solo pianist. That title sums up my entire understanding of what he does. That and the fact that I hear he’s often the number two requested artist behind some jerk named Yanni, whoever that is. So you might want to buy some of it.
Happy whatever-excuse-you-need-to-buy-shit day. And to all a good night.
I got a PS3 a few weeks ago, to compliment the Wii. It was a momentous occasion. Like a gamer Bar-Mitzvah. Today, I logged onto the Playstation Network, requiring me to choose a gamer handle. It’s MannieShevitz. Here’s why:
Every Friday night is the start of the Jewish sabbath. This means kosher wine. My father is something of a kosher wine connoisseur. Every Friday night, we had several bottles of merlots and cabernets. Good stuff.
However, when most people think kosher wine, they think Manischewitz. Manischewitz is a venerable brand nearly synonymous with the Jewish holidays. They sell a product they claim is wine. It comes in a bottle that looks like this:
It is not wine. Oh, it contains fermented grapes, but I wouldn’t use it to wash the tires on my car. It tastes exactly like alcoholic cough medicine. At my first job, after someone made a casual reference to Manischewitz and I ranted all over them for the next twenty minutes, it was unanimously chosen as my new nickname.
From then on my email signature read “Mannie Shevitz”.
It is a foul, gut-wrenching concoction of diabetic-inducing sweetness that can best be described as spiked Dimetapp. It is a sickening viscous liquid from which the stuff of nightmares is painted. All it takes is a glance at the bottle, or a whiff of it’s cloying aroma, to induce sheer terror in the beholder.
I had videos I was going to show. Multiple. There was too much awesome on the internet this week not to do a double or triple Friday Feature. But right before I sat down to upload them I found this:
What the fucking fuck. That’s a motion-sensitive wrist-mounted flame thrower. That’s….oh my gd. Screw those other videos.
Look, when I was little, I pretended to be superheroes. Y’know how? By wearing a towel like a cape. This kid made a gdamned operational flame thrower to be like an obscure marvel villain. I can’t even convey how incredible I think this is. Just watch it again.
By the unbeating heart of Zombie Jesus that shit is amazing.
One of my favorite books of all time is The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams. It contains this quote-worthy gem (among many, many others) from protagonist Arthur Dent:
“I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle.”
I can relate. The Wife has been working nights pretty much non-stop for over a month. Those are 12 hour shifts, mind you. Minimum.
I, meanwhile, have only been absent from the office for two of the last 28 days.
This means that on Monday morning (Or sometimes, like today, on Sunday night) The Wife will say to me “see you Friday”. And that is what she means.
Not “I’ll see you for five minutes here or there, or I’ll be asleep when you get home, but we’ll really get time to actually have a conversation and maybe share a meal on Friday”. No, she means she really, actually, literally will not see me again at all until five days later.
We seem to be having tremendous difficulty with our lifestyles.
So, we’re both a little run down. Which might be why, despite the fact that we both actually had this weekend off, despite the fact that we were treating ourselves to video games, the guy at the counter only got halfway through ringing them up before looking at the two of us and going “What do you look so miserable for?”
Dude. We’re thrilled. We just don’t have the energy to smile right now.
I know you guys are used to exciting, nail-biting, read-it-through-your-fingers-it’s-so-intense topics on this blog, but I just wanted to warn you up front in case you couldn’t handle it: this post is about my bathroom. Specifically, the lighting in my bathroom.
See, our appartment bathrooms have those silly vanity bulbs for light. The kind that surround the mirrors in cliche movie star dressing rooms. And they are bright. A mere forty watts a piece, but those babies do the job. So well in fact, that for about three months The Wife and I have been surviving on just one of them. Yesterday, that lone survivor went the way of his illuminary bretheren. He’s in a better place now. (The garbage.)
Thing is, we had forgotten just how bright our bathrooms were when we moved in. Allow me to illustrate. See, yesterday morning, our bathroom looked like this
And then The Wife replaced most (MOST!) of the bulbs and it looked like this:
I flicked the light switch, screamed in agony as my corneas bled, and tried in vain to the find the “screen brightness” button before remembering that -despite the fact that I spend 95% of my life on a computer- the real world still does not respond to hot keys.
My new morning routine will contain the three S’s: sunglasses, shower, and shave, In that order.
There may also be a fourth ‘S’ in there, but that will depend on what I had for dinner the night before.