Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Billboard's Top Ten - Volume 3

I have insomnia. Fuck you all.

There are a few things that are wrong with the Best Friend. She doesn't drink alcohol. She likes to talk about her dreams at length. She's not very fond of dogs. She has appalling taste in music. But she's my friend and she gets free Mets tickets every now and then through work, so I put up with it.

Of these flaws, the one we are most at odds about is her shitty taste in music. I know this. She knows this. I tell her this at every given opportunity because (in case you haven't been paying attention) I'm a bit of a music Nazi. Naturally, she finds my "Billboard Top Ten" posts hilarious because she actually likes these songs.

Crank Dat (Soulja Boy)- Soulja Boy (Billboard Ranking - 1)

I almost thought that I wouldn't be able to write one today because all the songs on the top ten seemed like ballads or Kanye West songs (and even though he sucks, his lyrics aren't especially ridiculous). But then I saw this little ditty perched atop the list at number 1, and, even though I had never heard of this "Soulja Boy," the moniker gave me a feeling that his lyrics might be just as...clever--he did not disappoint.

Soulja boy off in this hoe
Watch me lean and watch me rock
Super man dat hoe (Does this mean...knock her out?)
Then watch me crank dat robocop (Like, do the robot?)
Super fresh, now watch me jock
Jocking on them haterz man
When I do dat soulja boy
I lean to the left and crank dat dance
I'm jocking on yo bitch ass (I always thought "jock" meant to copy. Like "jocking someone's style.")
And if we get the fightin
Then I'm cocking on your bitch (I hope he cocks on my bitch too.)
You catch me at yo local party
Yes I crank it everyday
Haterz get mad cuz
I got me some bathin apes (They're probably mad because their's didn't bathe and they smell.)

I'm bouncin on my toe
Watch me super soak dat hoe
I'ma pass it to arab
Then he gon pass it to don loc (Why does the Arab have to pass the hoe to Don Loc? Is she not into Middle Eastern dudes?)



Tuesday, October 16, 2007


My mother has decided that October will be a sick month and she quits her job. Come November, she’ll cash in her incessant wails about sore joints, fatigue, toothaches, and “I think the Shingles might be coming back” in exchange for complaints about boredom and languid days. She’ll scour the Korean newspaper for another job hemming jeans, stitching collars, sewing missing buttons and we’ll get our dry cleaning done for free again until she is convinced that her valvular heart disease is back.

Her impeccable timing means that we are unemployed together and she has made it her full-time job to ask me inane questions—Are you applying for jobs? Do you have any interviews? Where do you want to work? What kind of job are you looking for? How is the job market?—and I fantasize about tipping the refrigerator over on top of her and watching her feet shrivel away like the Wicked Witch of the East.

The Chef, my impromptu skateboarding coach, finally cracks after over a month and sends me a text message: Hey, how’s unemployment? I’m not sure if it’s him because I deleted his number weeks ago in an attempt to train myself to play “the game.” His ego has probably become a bit bruised wondering why I haven’t contacted him. Little does he know that there were many drunken nights where I regretted deleting his number and just as many hungover mornings I was awash with relief that I did.

The number starts with 516. I don’t know many people with Long Island numbers, but I reply with a casual comment about my newfound addiction to Californication on Showtime On-Demand knowing that he was the one who recommended it to me. His response will confirm that it’s him, and it does. I ask him if he had fun camping out in front of the White House to protest the war (but really just to smoke pot and pretend he’s a hippie with his vegan best friend) and whether he got around to downloading any Jeff Buckley, and I realize that I actually missed him a little after all.


Monday, October 01, 2007

Until next year...

I could wax poetic about how everyone screws up and being a real fan is about supporting your team through the rough times, but I won't. I won't because I'm too fucking pissed off to give a shit about a bunch of overpaid losers who just completed the second worst collapse in baseball history (so pathetic, that they can't even fucking win at losing), and I had to watch it to a chorus of jeers from my Yankee fan-infested office because I had to work all weekend.

Yeah, I felt guilty about it at first, but then I read this:
It is not crucial that your team win championships or earn playoff berths every year. That's not what being a fan is about. If it were, there would eventually be no fans. But at some point, you have to be able to trust your team to follow through on its position in the game, in the standings, in your hopes. You have to be able to count on a team that has led its division consistently for virtually an entire season to finish the job. Yes, it's a job. The Mets' job was to win a division which was in their firm control as late as the second week of September.

They did not do their job.
So, to answer all my Yankee fan friends who have asked: No, I'm not turning my back on them. Yes, I'm still a Mets fan. But, just like they kept their "2006 NLDS Champs" banner on the top of their homepage until yesterday, the banner in my head will read "2007 History-Making Fuckups" until next season.