Hark, your savior is born

Birthday High Line jaunt

Get em next time

I sit here before you as a cautionary tale highlighting the perils of sports gambling. No, I didn’t lose my life’s savings or have my legs broken by an overzealous bookie. I made the old wear-the-winner’s-jersey-for-a-day bet with a fellow at the office. So, yeah, now I’m finishing up my excruciating day in a Robinson Cano jersey. Could’ve been worse—if the Series had gone seven games and the Yanks had won, a side clause of the bet would’ve kicked in and you would’ve seen me at their fucking parade. Small favors.

Turning 29 this Saturday. I was going to go out hellraising, but my rheumatism is acting up again.

Record oil profits

I was just in the kitchen at work explaining the Wawa milkshake to some incredulous coworkers. Introduced around 2005 or 2006, these machines seem to be at the cutting edge of three-minute milkshake technology. It must’ve taken decades of research to refine this sweet baby (you can even choose shake thicknesses, for heaven’s sake), but where did Wawa get the money to finance such a project? Meatball subs?

So THIS is why they introduced gas pumps at selected locations. I reckon that the shake machine is the realization of years of record oil price profit reaping. Majestic.

Conceivable

Halloween is weird. I’m traditionally not too into either the holiday or Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, stemming back to a time when I ate too many RPBC one Halloween and threw up. Still, I suppose it can be fun. This year, the Laser and I, in a display of nauseating cuteness, went as the Dread Pirate Roberts and Buttercup (respectively). Somewhat hampered by my lack of an Inigo to duel left-handed with, we nonetheless did Fred Savage proud.

I just now realized the Buttercup/Reese Peanut Butter Cup connection. I don’t know what this means.

Dual mind blades

This weather has me feeling a little bummed out—a condition which, it should be noted, seems normal enough, and not reason enough for its own disorder. However, at lunch, I was paging through this Raymond Carver biography that I will be reviewing for Time Out, and that short story writer’s grappling with alchohol made me feel much better. Well, sad for him, but better for not being him. I’m reading it in tandem with his story collection, Where I’m Calling From, where the stories are arranged chronologically. It’s perfect for supplemental reading.

This post is boring. I’m going to find an exciting picture to zazz it up.

Shields shall be splintered

The Laser and I went camping (sort of) this weekend. I say sort of, because we went to Malouf’s Mountain, where city cowards like ourselves can get a campsite with all the necessities already there (tent, chow box, fire-starting compost [which Laser insisted on referring to simply as "poop"]). While it did get a little chilly, the whole thing—from the scenic Metro North train ride, to sleeping in jackets, hats, gloves, etc was great. They’re open until the end of October, but if you don’t go this year, hit them up next. (They have spots for real campers, too.)

As I was talking to my brother on the phone yesterday, he was watching the Eagles in the midst of their humiliating defeat to the hapless Raiders. As Oakland moved down the field, he says to me, “I think I’m going to cheer for the Raiders. I don’t even like this Eagles team that much.” Got a text later that read, “Go Raiders.” Pretty funny. Going to see him and the old man tonight for game four.

Oh, almost forgot somehow. Met Terry Gilliam last week. I was interviewing him for his forthcoming movie, The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus (Heath Ledger’s last film). Pretty amazing dude, with a singular sartorial sensibility. Somehow we went from his movie into Malthusian agricultural crisis. The publicist said that he talked about it for the rest of the junket, laughing and talking about how he had “failed” to help curb population growth, because he has three kids.

Reviewed Daniel Nester’s book

Spoke to Palin

“The Last Book I Loved” on the Rumpus.

RIP Cap’n Lou

Sad day, yesterday. Wrestling icon and Cyndi Lauper video actor and Super Mario Captain Lou Albano left us bereft of spiritual leadership. We will endeavor to carry on, Captain Lou, and do your will and use rubber bands on our beards.

In happier news, I saw Spike Jonze’s Where the Wild Things Are last night, and, although you may have heard things to the contrary, I thought it was pretty excellent, once you get used to James Gandolfini’s voice in a big Muppet. It’s beautiful, really, and seems pretty true to the book. Made me think of times when I had Atari, and played this space game, and just left it on and constructed a pillow space ship and pretended to fly through space, with the screen being my spaceship window, or whatever. Or also the time we recreated the Alamo in my friend’s yard, using bales of hay as fortifications. Before the internet, every day you had to escape into your brain in order to stave off boredom, and it was awesome.

Everyone wish Laser a happy birthday. She’s 28 and awesomer than ever.

Pretty funny?

This is all actually fucked up. You know that guy is completely traumatized now. Japanese have an odd sense of humor. A friend of mine I showed it to had this to say:

“Makes me wonder if Americans are really so engaged with the issues of the day, and if not, whether your industry could use another heartrending father-son sniper spree. I mean, that was engaging.”

Just don’t call it Rocktober

The spirit of Hrbek lives on.

The baseball playoffs, they’re finally here and, if last night’s marathon between the Twins and Tigers is any indication, is going to be a good one. My parents have tickets to the Phil’s game today, but I can’t go, cause, I guess, it’s 2pm on a Wednesday. What the fuck guys? Who can go to those games? The unemployed, is who, but I reckon most of them don’t have playoff tickets in the old budget.

My roommate Colin St. John, of Colorado, is a big time Rockies fan. That should make for some interesting banter around the apartment. “Hey dude. Have you seen my orange juice? Oh also, Todd Helton is old. Yeah dude, real old. Hey fuck you too, buddy.”

Lastly, I’d just like to say that I believe the Twins can beat the Yankees. No, I haven’t been cudgeled over the head with a tire iron. Mauer (.366, 28 homeruns, friend of my compatriot Basement Neil) is a game changer. They just need to keep it close, as they showed last night.

*Update*

Colin: i wrote a poem called you guys are going down

Me: Hit me

Colin: alright its pretty short
you guys are going down, bitches
suck one
- colin st. john

Conservapedia

I saw this linked on the Rumpus today. Apparently right-wing Jesus kooks have their own wiki now, and it’s called Conservapedia. Within these hallowed web pages is a further travesty, called the Conservative Bible Project, which aims to correct the “liberal bias has become the single biggest distortion in modern Bible translations.” Looks like the intelligencia is at it again, and this time they’re perverting the word of the Lord with their welfare-loving word constructions. This whole thing is worth reading, but I think my favorite guideline to a satisfactory bible translation is #6:

Accept the Logic of Hell: applying logic with its full force and effect, as in not denying or downplaying the very real existence of Hell or the Devil.

Really? It’s quickly followed by another great one, at #7:

Express Free Market Parables: explaining the numerous economic parables with their full free-market meaning.

This conservative Jesus wouldn’t heal the lepers. No, He would lecture them on free market idealogy while encouraging them to take some “personal responsibility” for their condition and get a job. Awesome.