A strange place to be.

Ok, I think that finally, after 12 years, I am a real New Yorker.

I was on the subway platform with my girlfriend, and we were watching a giant rat try to jump up into a little hole in the wall. He was having a hell of a time, and we were pretty sure he wasn't going to make it. And the train was coming. As the train got nearer, he started trying harder and harder, but still wasn't able to get there. Just as the train was about to flatten the little guy, he made one last effort and disappeared into the hole, safe. We cheered.

We actually cheered for a rat. I know that I will never be a REAL real New Yorker, and that I'll always be one cool piece of New York information short to really qualify. I get that. But I think I made a significant step. I think that maybe after you've lived here long enough, you realize that (to New York City) you are on exactly the same level as a rat.

Bless me Blogger, for I have sinned.

It has been one week since my last Blog entry. Here's what you missed.

• I got almost nothing done as a direct result of reading a book entiled, "Getting Things Done."
• I ate 4 or 5 child-sized corn muffins. Call it five. And by "child-sized" I don't mean "sized for a child." I mean, "the size of a child."
• I thought about doing a lot of stuff. And BIG stuff. I mean, I thought about doing some stuff that would have changed all of us forever. Yeah. One of these days I'm gonna get around to actually doing that stuff. I just have to finish reading that "Getting Things Done" book so I can get to the chapter where it tells me to do it.
• I watched the same rerun of "Celebrity Poker Showdown" at least three times. (If you're wondering, it was the championship round between Colin Quinn, Bonnie Hunt, Brad Garrett, Jason Alexander, and Malcolm Jamal-Warner.)
• I just lied to you guys about how many times I watched that episode. It was, I believe...well, let's leave it at 'more'.
• I'm probably not done watching it, either, so get off my back.
• I watched the season finales of 2 of my favorite shows, 24 and Alias. Woe, alas. Now I'm going to have to watch even shittier television.
• I mentally made fun of Alias. Sacriledge. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. But when a girl's been a spy for 4 or 5 years, and her spy power is still limited to, "Get dressed sexy, give the bad guy a boner, kick him in the neck, steal secret doohickey from him," you'd think she might want to expand her spy repertoire.

I can't think of any more right now. But I apologize to you poor souls who checked here, only to find that I am exactly as lazy as I have always known myself to be. I promise to be floggin' the blog with far more blogularity.

Miraculous!!

Everybody relax! Pope John Paul II is on the fast track to sainthood. I had no idea there was a fast track for that sort of thing. I always thought fast tracking was for Wall Street or maybe getting a script approved for a really trashy but topical movie of the week. But who says the Vatican isn't hip and with it? Other than...uh...everybody. Ok, let's move on.

Anyway, in order to be canonized -- which isn't as exciting as that word seems to imply -- you have to have performed two miracles. It used to be three, but...umm...they blew that rule off. (It's almost hard to believe that so many people have lost their faith.) So, one miracle while alive, and one after death. Great.

Here's the funny part. JP2's miracle while alive? There was a cardinal who had major throat problems. The pope massaged the guy's throat, and he could speak again! Sort of! After one touch by the pope, followed by just 7 short months of rehab, the man could speak again!

And now, after his death, I have experienced several miracles that can only have been caused by the former pope. Read on, and be amazed!

• I had a cold for a little while. But then, all of a sudden I got better! Weird, right? Usually when I have a cold, I die from it, but NOT THIS TIME, NON-BELIEVERS!
• I had a salad recently, and it was just too delicious. Seriously, this was not an earthly salad. Plus, it may have contained Romain lettuce, which sounds like Rome if you aren't too picky. Bravo, JP!
• I saw Star Wars Episode III on opening night, and it wasn't as terrible as the other 2 prequels! How can you explain that, Mr. Man? The spirit of the former pope clearly grabbed the demon that lives in George Lucas's writing hand, put him into a hammerlock, and refused to allow Jar-Jar Binks to speak for the entire film! Amen, brothers and sisters.
• Iraq is free, and there is peace in the Middle East. Uh. Sigh. Ok.

If you are still not convinced that JP2 should be on the fast track to sainthood...uh...that's fine.

Dear Star Wars (epilogue)

I have a dilemma. I have no idea how good you were. I am too much of a fan to be able to tell. In a sense, you were very crappy. Or at least you have crappy elements. And yet I had a great time, and will likely see you again. Lots of jedis jumping around with lightsabers. (Note: if there was any justice in this shithole of a world, I would be a hilarious jedi instead of a comedian. Real life blows.)

I will not comment on the specifics of you, Star Wars, so as not to spoil people. But I will say this. I am very disappointed in the near total lack of costumed nerds that came to see you. It was the midnight show, opening night! Nothing? There was one adorable young lady dressed like Princess Leia from the original Star Wars. And there was one chunky, cheeto-encrusted gentleman who I can only describe as a "bathrobe jedi." And that was it. Totally pathetic in its almost total lack of pathetic fans.

Another thing I will say about seeing a nerd movie on opening night is that there is NO fucking nonsense. On that night, the nerds don't fuck around. No talking, no laser pointers on the screen, nothing. No one would dare, lest they get a lightsaber up the ass.

Oh, and I'll offer one critique of you, Star Wars. (This doesn't spoil anything major.) I think maybe yoda doesn't need to talk backwards in every single line. I really didn't need to hear, "Not if anything to say about it I have." That's not bad assed. It's just retarded.

Your fan,

Jeff

P.S. I applaud you for not allowing Jar Jar Binks to speak. It made life much easier for me.

Dear Star Wars (part deux)

Well, thanks for nothing, Star Wars. I have not received a ticket to any special sneak preview or premieres of you, forcing me to purchase my ticket like a chump. Well, if I am completely honest, someone else bought the tickets and had an extra one, so I didn't really do much work at all to see you. I didn't even know I was going until this morning. Regardless, I'm seeing you tonight at midnight.

Wait a second, Star Wars. Maybe that's why you didn't give me a premiere pass -- because I didn't prove my love for you in actions, only empty words. Just like the old proverb says, Star Wars helps those who help themselves.

I've been a fool, Star Wars. Once again, you have become my teacher. You magnificent bastard, I could never stay mad at you. See you tonight!

-Jeff Mac

P.S. If Jar Jar Binks bites the dust, I'd suggest leaving about 2 minutes of relatively unimportant action to follow that sequence. People are going to want to cheer and stuff.

P.P.S. I promise to make fun of people in costumes really hard, but only in my mind. No sense getting your ass kicked by an uber-nerd dressed like a wookie. That's the kind of thing that could haunt a person.

The Etiquette of Charity

I was walking down Houston Street on Saturday night, and I came across a homeless man sitting on a chair. He did own a chair, which I thought was a nice luxury item for him. On top of everything else, to be on your feet all day must make being homeless a real drag.

Anyway, he was sitting in his chair, just hammered. And around his neck was a small bucket held up by a filthy string. On it was scrawled one word:

TIPS

It raises the question -- what do you tip for absolutely no service whatsoever? Is it like with waitstaff where they factor the gratuity right into the wage? You don't want to stiff the guy. (Not that they don't make out like bandits. Cash only? Are you kidding me? Like they report everything they get!)

I went with 20%. I mean, say what you will but that guy was good. I've had people do nothing for me in the past, but never less than this.

I had a dream...

It wasn't that all men should be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character (although that would be nice as well.) Unfortunately, my dreams are not that linear.

My dream was that I saw a buffalo about the size of a poodle sniffing around what appeared to be the dead body of a young deer with a broken hoof. As I approached, the deer blinked and stood up. It offered its little broken hoof to me as if to ask me why it was in such pain, and couldn't I do something about it? I couldn't. I wasn't a veterinarian in the dream.

The deer was so cute. I want a deer for a pet. Or that little buffalo. Either way. I don't care what my landlord says about pets, I want one. And if it gets too big, I guess I can hunt it. Although, my apartment isn't really big enough to keep it very sporting. Eh, what am I, the deer police? I'm just one man trying to own a pet.

Finally, a paranoia I don't have!

I read an article today about national ID system, where everybody would have an ID card (gasp!). And people are FREAKING out about this. I mean, the conspiracy people are FREAKING.

Uh...why?

What are they going to do to me with an ID card? Even if it had a super secret microchip that they could read via satellite?

But they could TRACK you!

Yeah, uh, where? I mean, if it's the job of some poor son of a bitch to track my movements between my bed and my couch with an occasional trip to the deli or to a comedy show, god bless him. Good luck. Any outrage I might feel at being observed is surely avenged by the fact that my life couldn't possibly be less interesting, and that dumb fuck HAS TO WATCH. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!! I win! I so win!

I feel the same way when people suggest that there is some sort of a tracking chip implanted in the new 20 dollar bills. Uh, so? What then? So, let me understand this -- I'm supposed to be worried about someone tracking what I do with my 20 dollarses? Hell, I'll fucking TELL them. What, am I buying subversive groceries? All they had to do was ask.

I wish that I WAS worried. If there was some crazy government organization that wanted to track my movements (and also could come up with a reason to do so) that would mean that the world was far more interesting than it is now, and there would be aliens at Area 51, and Nazi UFOs underneath the North Pole being piloted by Bigfeet. Sadly, this is not the case.

And I mean that. It is sad. I wish the world was that exciting. Instead, we have to have jobs and shit.

Please, New World Order, please take over. I would MUCH rather be hiding out in a cave like in Red Dawn than all of this nonsense.

Wolverines!!!!!!

Why, oh cake? Why?!

Why can't they make cake that is good for you? Or, more specifically, good for ME. I'm not talking about cake that isn't that bad for you, or is better for you than most cake. I'm saying, why can't they make it so that it's better for you than portobello mushrooms and steamed vegetables over rice?

I'll tell you why. Because the government is trying to keep us down, man. And by "keep us down" I mean, "keep us eating bad cake instead of imaginary good cake." If we were all in olympic-style good shape from eating genetically engineered supercake, how could they keep us down? That's right! They couldn't.

But if we are weighed down and flabby and in sugar comas, we're sitting ducks. Fat, fat ducks.

I don't want to be a fat duck. I'd rather not be a duck at all, to tell you the truth. I've never liked ducks. You feed them bread, and they all practically kill each other trying to get more than the next duck. That's no way for a bird to spend its time.

I'm getting off track. The point is this: some people say you can't start a blog entry with no plan in mind. Those people aren't completely wrong. Plus, I enjoy cake. And I wish that you could bake individual slices of it so that you don't have to eat a whole cake over the course of the 2 days that it stays fresh. Not that I can't do it, mind you. Oh, I can. I just don't want to. And by "don't want to" I mean, "want to really badly, but am feeling like it's going to kill me if I keep eating this way."

Whoo. I really should watch the sugar intake. It makes me a little loopy. As if I need to tell all of you that. I thank you. Good night.

Giacomo wins Kentucky Derby!!!!

Giacomo -- a 50 to 1 underdog -- won the Kentucky Derby today, proving once and for all that no matter how dramatic the victory, nobody gives a shit about the Kentucky Derby.

Dear Star Wars,

I love you very much. I'm not asking you for anything, because that's not what friends do. Love is not proud or...uh...kind? Whatever that thing is that people read at weddings.

My point is this: If -- I'm saying IF -- you were to give me a pass to an advance screening of you, I would give you a glowing review right here on this blog. FOR FREE! I would do that for you, Star Wars, because even though you are not a person, I believe that you have the power to get me in to see you. And I can't wait any longer.

As a child, I would have eagerly sold my entire family into slavery for Star Wars figures. But now, I am a man*, and am unable to buy and play with toys anymore without it being a little weird. But I can still go and see movies. And if you give me a pass to an advance screening, well, I'll be less likely to have to sit next to some Bill Gates-looking douchebag dressed like Han Solo.

I thank you. May the force be with you. Unless, of course, you don't give me a free pass. In that case, you can go straight to hell.

*You there, stop laughing!

A problem that I am unlikely to have...

I think the most stressful thing about commissioning a sculpture of yourself would be selecting a hairstyle that deserves to live forever.