Comic Strip

Once I saw the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last week, I thought there would never be a catchier song in my head than the one that goes "Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka, he's the famous chocolatier..." and so on.

I was totally wrong. Turns out the ridiculous songs that were playing in the, um, gentlemen's establishment where my friend Bob celebrated his upcoming nuptials were way, way more catchy (and hysterically funny) than anything about a dude who makes chocolate.

Among the lyrical gems were refrains like: "Titties and ass," "There are some whores in this house" (or something like that), and "Wait'll you see my dick." Seriously.

Then of course we decided that a little mixing and matching could provide some excellent songs for let's say, oh, i don't know, a transvestite strip club.

Titties and ass. Titties and ass. Wait'll you see my dick.

We were lucky enough to have an authority in our entourage, and he pointed out that this style of music is known as "ghetto tech" and comes mostly from Detroit. I like to describe it as a modern-day, more-techno-ish 2 Live Crew. And as the funniest music naked girls have ever danced to. Or done anything to, for that matter.

I just hope that on the drive back to North Carolina, something from my iPod gets into my head and gets stuck there. Otherwise, I'll spend the next week walking around places like the grocery store, humming the tune in my head, inadvertently advising strangers to wait to see my dick. And we can't have that now, can we?

All About Balls

Maybe it's the delirium from a seven-hour car trip back from Vermont to New York. Maybe it's the well-over 200 beers we drank while in Vermont. Whatever the reason, there's a thought I can't shake.

We (me, Bret, Ogle) stopped in Springfield, Mass., at the Basketball Hall of Fame, on the way back. (Hence, the seven-hour trip instead of five.) And at the entrance to the museum, they have a list of prohibited items.

Among them are the usual suspects: large bags, handguns, food, drink, weapons of mass destruction. You know, garden variety prohibitions, really. But the last thing on the list?

Basketballs.

Basketballs! No basketballs allowed at -- and if you were paying attention you remember that we were clearly inside a building dedicated to the celebration of this -- the Basketball Hall of Fame! When does this come into play, this people carrying things they're coming to learn about into the place where they're going to learn it?

I don't recall anyone trying to sneak paintings into the Museum of Modern Art. And definitely not at the Museum of Natural History. Excuse me, sir. You're going to have to leave your triceratops outside the museum. Thank you.

Well, since you read the title and thought this whole thing was going to be about testicles, I'll stop disappointing you now. But still, it's weird.

Thoughts on Hands-On Notetaking

You know what I never do anymore? Write myself notes on my hands. This was a staple of middle and high school and proved occasionally useful in college as well. If you need to remember something, simply jot it down on the ol’ left hand (unless you’re a lefty, I guess).

But now I never do it. I was just reminding myself to remember – always a dubious proposition – that I need to bring my friend back his Sopranos DVDs this evening when I go to his place for a poker game. Then I thought that since he had mentioned ordering pizza, I should bring the coupons that came in the mail today.

Coupons. Sopranos.

Sopranos. Coupons.

Remember to remember. And then I thought, why don’t I just write that down on my hand? But then I imagined later, mid-poker game, having to explain to someone what was written on my hand. And why those two words contained so many of the same letters, which is kind of weird anyway.

Also, if you were sitting across the table from me, “coupons” would look a lot like “suodnoc” … and what the hell does “suodnoc” mean? I’d look like a crazy person, with made up words written on my hands. I simply can’t have that.

Although it would be funny to write “NOT CRAZY” in big letters on your hand and then just not acknowledge it until someone else brings it up. Then, when he or she asks, “Why does it say ‘not crazy’ in big letters on your hand?” you can just respond, in total deadpan, “So I remember I’m not crazy.”

Then let your gaze linger on them for an extra half-second. I bet that would totally freak someone out.

How the hell did I get off on this tangent? I forget.