Dangerous, Dirty, and Unfun

This happens to me, quite literally, EVERY TIME!

This post is dedicated to my new mortal nemesis. You’ve met this person before. He probably bumped into you this morning. Or you probably heard her loudly exclaim her surprise and start giggling to her pal every time she was met that rare and wondrous, several-thousand-times-in-a-lifetime event: the train going forward. That’s right. I’m referring to the Person Who Is Always Taken By Surprise When the Train Starts or Stops Moving.

I don’t know what made this particular villain the way he is. Think about how rare it is that on any given train, there’s a grown adult who is riding the subway for the first time ever. That’s the only excuse for stumbling every single time the train overcomes its inertia and locomotes forward, right? And you’ve got to think that even if this non-child, who somehow managed to get his pants on, who ostensibly was able to tie her shoes, who was able pass through the threshold of the electronic turnstile, was in fact riding the subway for the first time, he would be able to infer that A) there are poles and straps all over this moving metal box for some reason, B) everyone around me is holding a pole or a strap for some reason, and finally C) the last time this machine went from stopped to not-so-stopped, I went hurtling backwards for some reason. I’m not even saying that every subway rider should have a basic grasp of Newtonian physics. Just the most cursory understanding of the logic behind cause and effect.

And yet a day doesn’t go by where you don’t encounter the Person Who Is Always Taken By Surprise When the Train Starts or Stops Moving. I had one today. She and her boyfriend were standing in front of me, and at every stop from Kenmore to Park Street, this girl reacted like an innocent newborn first encountering the glory of the bright morning sun. And by that, I mean she was knocked off her feet like she just got checked by Scott Stevens.

What pole?

Now, precious readers, I understand that in our daily lives, we’re all forced to suffer fools at every turn. And normally, I’m happy to shake my head at some poor, ignorant getting tossed around the train like a plastic bag in the wind. But in a crowded train, where everyone else can muster the physical and mental faculties to steady themselves when an event as routine as a train moving occurs, it’s a certified nuisance when one person is standing on one foot with their hands in their pockets and then bounces around in their own game of man-sized Plinko. Is it too much to ask for people to plant their feet? Or grab the pole? Or, heavens forfend, both?

And if you’re going to flop around the car like a marionette being operated by an angry chimp, could you do the universe a favor and sling your oversized Sherpa bag over your shoulder instead of letting it dangle off your elbow and smash everyone in a five-foot radius? Ugh. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: we’re living in a society, people!

Sorry, guys

Right off the bat, I’m going to admit that this post is not about monkeys. Hail to the Chimp is just my favorite fake Simpsons movie, and I needed a vaguely presidential-sounding title for this post.

My buddy Nick, the Official Philadelphia Correspondent for Dangerous, Dirty, and Unfun, is a teacher, and today expressed to me a concern that he didn’t have the knowledge of our nation’s presidents befitting a professional who could be asked a random executive-related question by an inquisitive young mind at any time. Thus was born the Presidential Challenge. Basically, we both agreed to grab a piece of paper, number it 1 to 44, and try to put all of the U.S presidents in order. No time limit, but no cheating! It was an eye-opening experience, to say the least.

Eh? Eh?

You can view my list to the right. I scored a 33 out of 44 presidents. That’s 75 percent! I think that’s pretty good, but I feel like a made a series of unforgivable errors along the way that unnecessarily hampered my progress. Here they are, in ascending order of egregiousness.

1) I forgot Benjamin Harrison. This isn’t terrible in itself, since all of those Reconstruction-era presidents are pretty forgettable. However, comma, I feel like as an American, it’s the least I can do to be able to name all of the presidents.

2) I forgot John Quincy Adams. I remembered Andrew Jackson, but not his mortal nemesis. And you’ll notice that I forgot the grandson of a president, and the son of a president. I probably couldn’t tell you one of either of those guys’ policies, but I should have remembered them as answers to trivia questions.

3) I forgot Grover Cleveland. Born in Caldwell! New Jersey’s president! The only president elected to non-consecutive terms! How could I not remember! I was seriously considering not even posting my list, because I didn’t want the whole wide Internet world to know that I forgot that Grover Cleveland even existed. But I’m bigger than that, precious reader. You deserve to know.

And because I love you, here’s that chimp I promised.

# This is obviously excellent news.

# Fire up Boston Blazers! This radio spot has been coming up a lot on Pandora recently, and it’s an effing delight. These days, you so rarely come across a hokey, old-school style jingle. Bravo, Boston Blazers. Dangerous, Dirty, and Unfun salutes you.

# I usually resist things that are so overtly twee as this, but I have a hard time resisting a cute girl and a ukulele. I’m not as big a Neutral Milk Hotel guy as I should be, and I think it’s not unfair to admit that Jeff Mangum has a lousy voice. It’s true! Which is a shame, because once you put his lyrics in the hands of a mellifluous voice, you realize how beautiful they are. Listen to “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea.” Gorgeous!

# Finally, give me a fucking break, Texas.

. . . but I think it’s time to hand the reins over to our dolphin overlords and pray for mercy.

While our elected leaders have trouble even counting to the number 60, these half-fish/half-mammal killing machines have devised a hunting system so intricate that I had to watch the damn video twice to figure out how it worked. And if you’re reading this, dolphin masters (and I have no doubt they’ve already mastered all of the world’s languages), please don’t lump me in with the rest of those devils who have polluted your oceans and ensnared your brethren in tuna nets. I’ll name names!

It used to be that I read this satirical Onion article and laughed. Now, I can only marvel at its prescience, and weep for humanity’s fate.

Actually, this is a great idea NOT in action, but it should be!

Think of any generic bar you’ve ever been in, and think about the thought that went into designing it. If you’re a bar owner, you’re going to focus on the bar. You’re going to focus on the places where people are going to sit down and eat and drink. You’re going to focus on the dance floor, or the Big Buck Hunter Game, or the mechanical bull, or whatever. These are the things that make your bar what it is.

But in any physical space, there are forgotten areas. The corners. The spaces along the wall between tables. The surface underneath the bar. My question is, why aren’t these spaces filled with coat hooks?

This might not apply to my loyal readers in San Diego and Fort Lauderdale who can leave the house any day of the year in culottes and flip flops, but up here in the Cradle of Liberty, it gets COLD. In the winter half of the year, there’s no getting around going out to the club wearing your heaviest coat. There’s a fair number of places you come across that have a coat check, but in my experience, that’s less than half. So you get there, ready to hoist some brews or dance with some fly tinies, but before you can get down to business, you have to figure out a place to stash your coat. Which leads to an entire evening of anxiety, as you wonder whether Tommy from Saugus is going to pull what he thinks is his coat—it’s not his, it’s yours!—out of a huge amorphous blob of wool and nylon in the corner, and even if he does find his coat, he’s either spilled the rest of his gin and tonic on yours, if he hasn’t already knocked it onto the ground into a not-quite-yet-dried-up puddle of Bud Light because let’s be honest, you’re not out dancing at a place that’s particularly diligent about mopping up spills as the course of the evening progresses.

Do it next time you’re out. Go to the bar, look around, and count all the different places where there should be a place for one to hang one’s coat. There’s enough for everybody!

It all started when the Official Girlfriend of Dangerous, Dirty, and Unfun decided she no longer wanted to be the Official Girlfriend of Dangerous, Dirty, and Unfun any more. Then my beloved home state of New Jersey punched civil rights directly in the solar plexus. And finally, I had to watch, in the bitter cold, in the den of ultimate evil, as the hated terriers of boston university vanquished the heroic Eagles of Boston College in a Hockey East matchup.

I've got my eye out for you

Blech. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if I slipped on a banana peel or got my foot stuck in a bucket or something. Let’s try to make next week a better one, ok guys?

Merry Christmas, treasured readers. If you’re reading this blog, it’s painfully apparent to all with eyes to see that you’ve been good boys and girls this year, so I won’t even bother asking if Santa treated you well. Of course he did!

Hopefully you’re all enjoying the day with your families and gifts and Christmas hams and whatnot. Unfortunately, that’s not the case for everyone. There are presently thousands of American soldiers, either in combat in Iraq or Afghanistan, or stationed elsewhere overseas, who can’t enjoy the holidays with their families. This isn’t a guilt trip, obviously, just a call for all of us to reflect on how blessed we are, and if that’s your type of thing, maybe offer up some words to the close and holy darkness for our soldiers and their families.

I also promised my friend Sam that I would pass along this request while you guys are still drunk on holiday cheer and good will. She works for Americorps for like, sweatshop wages, and is in charge of recruiting volunteers for the Phipps Volunteer Tutor Project. So if you live in NYC, and you’re interested in helping out some underprivileged kids, I’d advise you to check out that link. And also, merry Christmas!

I’ve never done the whole “using wi-fi on a bus” thing until right this second. It’s sort of cool, I suppose. On the one hand, the connection is wicked slow. But on the other, my ass is usually doing zero miles per hour while I sit on it and go through my Google Reader, but now I’m blazing down 84 at like 70. It’s interesting to think about for about three seconds.

h/t nintr