Meanwhile, Down at The Ol’ Office…

Orlando:
I like the Jets.

Lauren:
Me, too.

ME:
You like the Jets?

Orlando:
Yes. Yes, I do.

ME:
The New York Jets?

Lauren:
Those Jets.

ME:
I like the Jets slightly more than I like a hairbrush up my asshole. But only slightly.

Lauren:
I thought that was every Wednesday at your house.

ME:
Not anymore.

Lauren:
No more Hairbrush Wednesdays?

ME:
Nah. Now it’s Curling Iron Thursdays.

Lauren:
Nice. I hope you leave it unplugged though. Safety first.

ME:
Where the fuck is the fun in that?

Lauren:
True.

ME:
Plus, you get those curly ass hairs that women love. Seriously, bitches are all about the curly ass hairs. Like Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction. Sexy shit. Literally.

(collective groans)

Lauren:
Why do you always have to one-up people?

ME:
Because I’m so fucking good at it!

———-
EDIT
———-

SOHAIL (via text message):
And I’m not there to stop you.

REPLY:
No. No you are not.

Assorted Malarchy

(image via Reddit)

— I love offensive memes. So, one that manages to criticize religion so poignantly? Dare I say, a godsent

— I’m at a complete loss for words.

— How come I never had teachers like this?

— Impressive: an electric car that doesn’t look like a piece of shit. Even more impressive is the price tag on this baby.

— Why is no one manufacturing these? Hmm… I’m off to fetch a patent application.

— Peter Griffin via Twitter: “Boob” is the perfect word.

— In honor of the 14th anniversary of the untimely demise of one Christopher “Biggie Smalls” Wallace, here’s footage of a 17-year-old Notorious BIG freestyling on the streets of NYC. “It was all a dream…”

Holding Out Hope for a Flying DeLorean with a Flux Capacitor

Hello, humans. It’s been a while. And truth be told, it’ll probably be another good while before the next self-indulgent rant. Not that this will fit that description. Shit. Now I’ve probably gone and gotten you all hot and bothered for some dark, sardonic wit.

Sorry to disappoint.

I’ve been doing some thinking (don’t worry, I won’t let it happen again). I think I hate this city. I think I don’t belong here, and I think there aren’t enough redeeming qualities to warrant any affection or devotion to this city. The city of my birth. My proverbial hometown. Perhaps I’ve merely outgrown Miami. But I’m not quite sure when this would have happened. My best guess? I outgrew this city the second the doctor spanked my sexy, amniotic-fluid-covered ass.

You might be saying right now, “Well, Marc. You should move, then. Get out of there if you don’t like the place you’re living in.” And my response is twofold. Fold One: don’t end a sentence in a fuckin preposition, unless you’re looking to get grammar-slapped. And Fold Two: you’re probably maybe sorta absolutely right.

But I have a confession to make. I’m scared to leave. Not out of some immature fear of failure. But because I’m afraid I’ll never stop moving. I’m afraid of ending up a sad, cranky drifter, going from city to city, never finding a place where I feel I belong. Which would mean, of course, that maybe I just don’t belong here at all.

Maybe the problem isn’t the city or the state or the country or the planet. Maybe I’m in the wrong time period. The wrong era. I own a turntable. I write on a typewriter. I hated Transformers. I drink cheap wine. I think modestly dressed women are sexy. I don’t understand this world, or why people do the things they do or think the things they think. Or hurt the people they hurt. And all these ideas I have about love and life and everything worth living for just seem foreign in this place. This world, it seems, is no place for a man willing to give everything to be everything to someone.

And without that? Well, I can’t seem to find much else worth fighting for.

Now it appears I owe myself some sort of punishment, as I’ve just ended a sentence with a preposition. A pox upon me and my home. Wherever that may be.

Drunk and blogging…

CONTEXT:
I’ve been drinking since 8:30. It’s Tuesday. I don’t have to go back to work for another week. I’m slightly depressed (nothing another beer and some Lebowski can’t fix). And let’s just say if my self-worth were a stock, now would be the time to buy.

Oh, and I have no internet until January 5th. So this is coming to you via the quasi-miraculous marriage of the iPhone and AT&T’s 3G network. The latter of which, as it happens, is pretty shitty in my new apartment. But we’ll see how this turns out. (I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar errors)

Just for shits and giggles, here are some things you might not know about Marc “Black Jeezus” Velazquez…

ONE: I’m deaf in my left ear. Well… almost deaf. I don’t know if that passes as a disability, but it’s certainly altered the way I live my life. For instance, I always try to stand or sit to someone’s left if I can. Otherwise, I have to lean my good ear in to hear what’s being said, which might look a little strange to the outside observer. I always sleep either on my back or on my left side, lest I fail to hear my alarm. And the audio in my car is set to favor the right side.

I’ve been to one of those doctors about it. An altorhinolaryntholigist, or a rhinolarinaltologist or some other unnecessarily long name. He cut a tiny hole in my eardrum and drained out all the fluids and demons and potato bugs and all the other shit that was in there. I had perfect hearing for about a week, and then it was right back the way it was. Still, a week is pretty good, considering the fact that at least three “faith healers” weren’t able to produce even a microsecond of results. Science WIN.

TWO: I’m what some would call a “Renaissance Man.” Some might call it a polyhistor. Or homo universalis, if you will. Basically, I’m good at a lot of things. I’m a drummer. A writer. A math-head. An engineer. A music aficionado. I can draw. I can fight. I can bring a woman to fruition. I’m well-versed in the sciences. I can solve a Rubik’s Cube in under 2 minutes. I can make one hell of a grilled cheese sandwich. And I can program the shit out of any VCR.

The only thing I can’t do is dance. But I’m working on that one. Any help would be greatly appreciated.

THREE: Among my greatest fears are rats, gypsies, and the impending robots vs. humans war. I’m sure a number of you skeptosauruses out there might underestimate the viability of that last one, but I for one do not intend to sit idly by while cyborgs take what’s rightfully mine. It’s one of the reasons why I started working out. And why I plan to procure a firearm as soon as I possibly can.

FOUR: I’m part of a dying breed of male homo sapiens who appreciates unshaven female genitalia. Not to say that a shine-box doesn’t have its merits, but once in a while I’d like to be reminded that I’m performing cunnilingus on an adult female. Call me old-fashioned if you must.

FIVE: Upon intense reflection, I don’t think I believe in love anymore. Or at least, not the idea of “love” as portrayed by literature, popular opinion, or Hugh Grant movies. It seems to me that people think love is some universal concept, the definition of which is roughly agreed upon by everyone. Clearly this is not the case. It’s all that matters and yet it’s not all that matters. It’s the greatest thing in the world and yet it’s the cause of untold misery. It’s what makes life worth living and yet, sometimes, it just makes you want to die. The more I think about it, the more the idea of “love” seems to resemble people’s idea of god. And if I truly fancy myself intellectually consistent, I can’t pick and choose which unfounded claims to dismiss, regardless of how nice they may sound.

Perhaps if my own experiences with love so far hadn’t been precarious disappointments, I’d be singing a different tune. But it is what it is. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. On a related note…

SIX: It’s obvious to me that things, as a whole, are getting worse and worse. And they are never going to get better again. With every second lived, every character typed, every word spoken, I am slowly approaching the moment of my demise. We all are. And from a cosmic perspective, the Andromeda galaxy is on a steady collision course with the Milky Way, and one day they’ll crash, and their contents will violently smash into each other until they’re no longer recognizable. If our own sun hasn’t gone out by then.

The best thing I or anyone else can hope for is to make life as tolerable as we can for us and for those around us. And if I’m lucky, maybe there’ll be someone to help me along the way and do me the honor of bearing another generation of miniature cynics to pass along my message of futility and doom. One can only hope.

I think I need another beer.

I Feel Like Punching a Mall Santa in the Face…

It’s that time of year where I neglect the ol’ blog. Holidays and whatnot. I’m actually writing this on an 11-inch Macbook Air at the Aventura Apple Store, where a bunch of soccer moms and foreign dudes with pointy shoes look like they’d be willing to fight each other with knives and zip-guns over the last iPod.

On the subject, Christmas, for those not yet aware, is still a crazed beast with an insatiable hunger. Every year it seems to be a bigger fucking deal than the last. Exponentially. Last year it was 150% more crazy than in 2008. This year, it’s 150% more crazy than it was in 2009. And next year, it’ll be… you know what? I’m sure you all know what “exponentially” means. Moving on.

Maybe it’s my unabashed heathenism, but the bitterness and cynicism is strong in me this time of year. This is supposed to be the “happiest season of all,” and yet everyone looks like they desperately need to down a bottle of chill pills (which, curiously enough, are on sale at GNC for $39.95 a bottle). Ultra-conservatives would probably blame this on the brazenly fictional “War on Christmas.” I wish that were even partially true. Then maybe my desire to punch Saint Nick in his jolly gonads wouldn’t be completely out-of-context.

I’m sure I’ll get around to writing shit of substance again, but it’ll have to wait, as, alas, I’ve just moved into a new apartment and will have no access to the interwebs until the 5th of January. Fuckin’ AT&T. Now I know how Anne Frank must have felt.

I know, I know. Too soon.

Feeling a bit like a trendsetter today…

This morning I did something I don’t normally do, and I’m about to drop a fashion-knowledge bomb on you humans (particularly the male humans) and tell you what’s what. And here it is…

Button up the top button.

Let me tell you something, fellas. The top button is your friend. The top button will open up new social and professional doors for you. Just try it. Button that shirt up to the top and you’ll instantly out-class any swinging dick in the room, I guarantee it.*

Your neck might feel a little snug, but it’s totally worth it for that classy badass look. I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person to do this, but I can tell you that I definitely rock the hell out of it, and you can too.

So consider this an official Black Jeezus PSA. The top button… it’s not just for hipsters and Latin Kings anymore.

(*Disclaimer: You should probably wear pants as well, otherwise I waive my guarantee. You may also want to have a personality, too.)