I think so.

Recently my friend Dan told me he wanted to edit a trailer of “The Bucket List” and change around the story a bit. I wasn’t optimistic it could be done, but he didn’t take “wasn’t optimistic it could be done” for an answer. So we got together and made this:

If Jackie Stallone isn’t in your life yet, I recommend reading Eliot’s guide (which includes many more photos), then watching this video, which was my first introduction to the human equivalent of a car wreck that is Jackie Stallone. In the video, Jackie Stallone details her patented “rumpology,” which is the reading of ass auras. She deigns not to explain her powers, but when you’re the person that brought Frank Stallone into the world, a certain amount of leeway must be given.

In the late fall of 1999, Elijah Wood, of the movies, ruined my bathroom visits forever.

And no, I’m not talking about him filling my seathole or any other such chicanery.

Technically, I guess it was really James Schamus, who wrote “The Ice Storm,” who did it. For, you see, in that film there’s a brief speech that Wood makes to his classmates about molecules that has haunted me ever since I heard it. Honestly, I can’t go into a restroom now without my mind instantly flashing to that bit of knowledge he dropped on an unsuspecting movie audience. I warn anyone who doesn’t want to be grossed out every time they enter a restroom to read no further.

OK, you still with me?

Here’s what Wood said:

“Because of molecules we are connected to the outside world from our bodies. Like when you smell things, because when you smell a smell it’s not really a smell, it’s a part of the object that has come off of it, molecules. So when you smell something bad, it’s like in a way you’re eating it. This is why you should not really smell things, in the same way that you don’t eat everything in the world around you because as a smell, it gets inside of you. So the next time you go into the bathroom after someone else has been there, remember what kinds of molecules you are in fact eating.”

Adds new meaning to the phrase “eat shit,” no?

I entered the bathroom at work the other day and was greeted with a particularly foul odor. My bowels dictated that I brave the fetid room and I soldiered on. Every stall is equipped with a can of air freshener, though for some reason most shitters decide not to take advantage of this. I was unsure if I was breaking protocol or not, but the smell was such that I held the can aloft and sent a spray over the top of stall in the direction of the foul beast that had produced it. The thought of offending the progenitor of the smell crossed my mind, but I was ready with the ultimate shut down:

“Hey, guess whose shit stinks? Yours.”

I just put up a profile of Paul F. Tompkins, one of my favorite comedians, which you can read here.

If you’ve already stumbled across the absolutely horrific/amazing car crash of plastic beauties and the worst dudes ever, known as hotchickswithdouchebags.com, then I imagine some of the following images will not be new to you. If you’re not famliar with the site, then be prepared to have your corneas scarred for all eternity. I spent some quality time with the site yesterday, and laughed more than I have in a long time.

The concept is that people wade through the muck and mire of myspace, facebook, and other photo sites in search of the greasiest, nastiest, most mind melting douche bags, juxtaposed alongside sexy, scantily clad, heavily made up ladies and send the photos to the site’s editor, who posts the photos with his commentary. The editor’s idea of “hot chick” seriously differs from mine, though his radar for douche bags is second to none. Over the brief period of the site’s life, he has developed a stringent set of rules that define a douche bag, and has single-handedly introduced a new nomenclature to classify the different douches.

This is Cro-’bagnon, who inspired a rash of haikus from readers, my favorite being from The Douche of Earl:
No fake ‘n bake, that.
Mandana usurped by gel.
Love your geico ads.

Pictures go up constantly, and an increasingly growing number of readers and commenters have joined the HCwDB democratic society, helping to name the douchebag, his arm candy, and pointing out what makes the photo particularly douchey. Each week a vote is made, and a douche is elevated to the status of “Douche Bag of the Week.” At the end of the month all the ‘bags are pitted against each other, and a new “Douche Bag of the Month” is crowned.

Here’s Donkey Douche. His purple lips, absurdly orange skin, open necked shirt complete with fake dog tags, and ludicrous tough face made him a popular favorite from his first appearance. He ascended quickly from ‘bag of the week to ‘bag of the month, crescendoing with a coveted position in The Douchebag Hall of Fame.

“Warthog” is a personal favorite of mine, though he was never able to crack ‘bag of the week status, despite possessing many classic hallmarks of the douche bag. Check the Jesus bling, mandana, guyliner, bleached hair, orange skin and shiny shirt. He’s got everything going for him.

These two, like The Warthog before them, did not go far, but I find them to be particularly hilarious. Seriously, just look at those faces. The greasy dude on the right has by far the most amazing set of follicles and plugs I saw on the whole site, and the rock horns of his companion speak volumes.

And then there was The Trainwreck, the douche that everyone could agree on.

Words cannot do this man justice.

So instead I’m going to give the last word to someone who I believe is a true “hot chick,” Joanna Newsom. Joanna, what do you make of all this?

After receiving a bike in the mail I was quickly reminded that some of my best thinking happens when I’m exloring new areas, such as Queens.

Here’s the esb from the Pulaski Bridge, which connects Brooklyn to Queens.

I rode around without any destination in mind, and eventually found myself on the Queensborough bridge, which about halfway across I realized was headed for Manhattan.

It was near this point that it became very obvious I was not going to Brooklyn.

I rode on and tried to find a bike path along the water. It took me awhile, but eventually I found it. I took this down to the Williamsburg bridge:

And then made my home.

Last night I found myself atop an old abandoned building in Brooklyn, staring out across the East River at one of the most amazing views of Manhattan I’ve ever seen.

Photos by my friend Dan.

To get to this spot, Dan led me on a path through a hole in two fences, along a three foot wide ledge, then up a gigantic staircase that led to the roof.

Recently, Chelsea Peretti, one third of the comedienne coven variety shac, started a series on superdeluxe exploring her failed relationships called “All My Exes,” that, after two episodes, is now one of my favorites. I highly recommend watching these (nsfw language).

It appears my finding output in New York is not just limited to photos, clothes hampers, and “Inside the Actor’s Studio” vhs tapes. While walking home from the grocery store, I saw a familiar fro lurking in a pile of trash.

It was a perfectly playable telesync bootleg of “Knocked Up,” and the quality was surprisingly good. Here’s a screenshot:

I could get used to this. The humidity here, on the other hand, is not something I’m used to. It’s so oppressive that it’s raining outside and I am sweating inside (literally).