Author: Sean

I have meetings from 10 until noon, so you have to write the comments for today’s picture. Here’s some suggestions:
– An annoying rant about the annoyance of omnipresent advertising.
– Bitching about the cold.
– Something about food.
– Making fun of TV instead of turning it off.
– Football or sex.

Please email your comments to IdontGiveACrap@bugoff.com.

I’m always talking about moving, so much that I’m known as the boy who cried move. But someday soon I am going to leave my tiny apartment and possibly the East Village. I’m continuingly wrestling with the idea of moving to Brooklyn to gain space at the cost of convenience. On one hand, I didn’t move to the city to live in the sticks across the river. On the other hand, I’d like to be able to put on my coat in my living room without banging both my arms on the walls.

Tyring to keep an open mind, I went out to Ft. Greene last night to see Joslyn and her new beau, Martin, and see her new place. I liked the neighborhood, but what really impressed me was her local bar, Cellars at Dekalb Ave. and Vanderbilt. A husband and wife team own and run the place and because there are no employees, you are allowed to smoke indoors. The wife works behind the bar and will give you a plate of food if you look even remotely hungry. The clientele is friendly, too. My new friend, Willie, and I talked about parity in modern professional sports and the he tried to sell me on the lure of Broadway.
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SOTD: Penguin bashing.

In the background I’m talking to a pretty NYU student named Kate who is completely aware that Erik and Nene are trying to surreptitiously take our picture.
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Unbelievable time watching football at Reservoir. Here’s some pics.
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SOTD: Take a trip down memory lane.

“Do you have any idea of the street value of this?!” Name the movie.
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While I was on the way to work, a team of young people in matching red coats quickly turned a job shoveling the walk into a free-for-all snow battle. Cold and miserable, I shuffled by to work.
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Last night I saw “Big Fish” with EriCa. I won’t spoil it, but I will say, “thumbs up” and you should be sure to take a Kleenex. On a side note, Chuck Taylor’s are the worst shoe for deep snow ever created.
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If you like the song on the new Nissan Quest commercial, you should know that it is Modest Mouse singing “Gravity Rides Everything”. Although most people listen to shit music, some ad people have taste. See The Shins and McDonald’s.
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One sign that I’ve mellowed; the other day I said to someone, “He was a Marine.” She replied, “No, he was in the Navy.” I just let the whole thing go.
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SOTD: Michael Moore endorse Wesley Clark.

Because right now it is summer there, we went to an Australian bar last night: Surnburnt Cow, obscured by the doofusi in the photo.

The decor creates the oxymoron swanky-Austrailian and there is no pool table or wings, but I liked it very much. Trice, Tyler, and I talked about guitars and resisted special drinks. With the Sunburnt Cow, Micky’s, Zum Schnitzel, and Porch only within a few blocks of each other on C, I need to rememember to get over there more.
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Here’s a pic you have never seen before but will see again, thus creating Vuja Day.
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SOTD: http://www.awfulplasticsurgery.com

Lend me a hand. You really have to hand it to me for building the site with my own two hands. The back of my hand. Hands Across Generica. One in the hand is worth two in the bra. She said I had a slow hand, but I think she meant dimwitted rather than patient.

Hands are gross.
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Slow news day here at STC.com.
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SOTD: Take me to dinner.

Editor’s Note 3:03PM:
Ben and Erik claim this is the worst STC.com entry ever. I claim they are chowderheads.

In a weird way, meeting Mel Blount in person made him more supernatural to methan before when I had never seen him with my own eyes. After the show, he gave me an autographed ball for which my parents bought me a lexan case and I now have a little shrine to Mel in my living room. When I’m having a bad day–a broken pipe upstairs has soaked everything in my kitchen with brown water–I ask myself, “What would Mel do?” It may involve helmet-to-helmet contact or illegal hands to the face, but I’m determined to make it my next move as well. I think I’ll Terry Tate that neighbor near the mailboxes, leaving him unconcious on the tiles while his upended mail snows down upon him.
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Good football this weekend. Zero productivity.
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SOTD: Damn, no Arby’s Sauce

From left, Jen, Jan, Erik, Kerstin, Myself.

The term “bar hounds” doesn’t just refer to the dogs in the painting or the barflies I hang out with. At Sparky’s in Brooklyn, patrons are encouraged to bring their dogs into the bar. I went last night with the folks listed above, hoping to see some hounds, but there wasn’t a dog in the place. Luckily, there are over twenty types of beer on tap, including a few cask beers, to take your mind off the pooches.
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SOTD: I know it’s been out a long time, but I’m just now listening non-stop to the Pixies -Complete B-Sides.

“I’m not one of your fans.” My friend Kristen loves Mommie Dearest. Chicks are weird.

Inspired by the New Year, Queer-eye, Diedre, and a complete lack of space, I cleaned out my closet this weekend and replaced all the hangers. I’m ashamed to say it did give me a sense of personal satisfaction, but that maybe just because I was able to uncover my couch.
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Pete Rose is an asshole who should not only be banned from baseball, but other things like Pizza Hut and Carmikle Cinemas. Let’s not forget that the Hall of Fame is a hall of fame for men who play a children’s game. I love sports, but they are still just games. I could overlook degenerate gambling in say, a potential peace prize candidate. Accords are not children’s games. They are actually important. Batting well for the Reds didn’t save any lives, you big chin’ed, narrow-eyed goon. You were a paid entertainer and you double-dipped. Try shuffleboard, because baseball still doesn’t want you.
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Ninety-five people visited the website yesterday and not one emailed to ask if Tyler was alright. You people are cold.
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SOTD: Why I hate personal weblogs.

“It’s just starting to piss me off,” spat Tyler. He’d had a bad day crunching numbers and by now his eyes looked out of focus to me, but I couldn’t tell if that was due to the eight White Russians he’d had or the dozen Guinness in my belly. Actually, most of those beers had made it to the urinal by now and returning from my last trip to the bathroom, I noticed a Ford Mustang had taken a stool at the bar to the right of my seat. Tyler, seated in the stool to my left glared at the car while it tried to get an Amstel.

After I had sat down, our conversation became increasingly interrupted with Tyler’s exclaimations of disapproval for the Ford. It was an old model, ’93 or ’94, two-tone dull gray and Jersey blue. The tires and wheel wells still had some road salt from last weeks storm.

“Did it bump you on the way in?” I asked T.

“No…it’s an ASSHOLE!” he said loudly over my shoulder. The car heard and gave him a dirty look. The eye contact tipped my drunken friend. “You’re a no good rusty piece of shit!”

Before Tyler finished the sentance, as smooth and fast as a sports car half his age, the Mustang punched him in the eye—socked him 1950’s style in a way that would have made it’s daddy proud.

The blow quieted the bar like one loud beat of a snare drum and every one was surprised to see Tyler on the ground, especially Tyler. I glanced up from him to see the car headed out the door with a irate woman bartender yelling after him. Another patron and I put Tyler on a stool and inspected the damage. His brow had already swollen to the size of half a racket ball.

I left him and returned shortly with a bag of frozen peas from the grocer next door. While he iced his eye, I asked him why he picked a fight with a 1-ton stickshift. “I just hate those cars, man. See when I was young, one of them drove up on my sidewalk and crushed my bicycle. Ever since then, I… no wait, that was my neighbor’s Sentra. I just really loved that bike.”

“Well, now you can hate Ford Mustangs, too, because that one sure kicked your ass,” I told him as I bought the next round. Colleen just burped through the whole adventure.

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Thanks to Erica for the pic on the right.

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When I woke-up this morning, the perceived length of this first week back made me think today couldn’t possibly feel more like Friday unless it was freakin’ Friday. Or Freaky Friday. I certainly know what I would do if I was trapped in Jamie Lee Curtis’s body and it wouldn’t involve computer programming, which is what I am doing today. Unfortunately, it is Wednesday so that means we’ve got two more days until the weekend and we aren’t suddenly blessed with a great set of middle-age knockers to enjoy.
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SOTD: I like the cat in the pic halfway down in this article about an unlucky bird.