I wish I didn't have to write titles for these blogs

OK, so the delivery dude delivered his delivery, and boy is it cool. Roger's "PVR" allows you to record your fav T.V shows onto a hard drive to view when you please. You can set it for example to tape Survivor every Thursday...or 24 every Monday for the rest of time. You can pause and rewind live T.V. which is kind of useless but cool nonetheless. You can tape 2 programs at the same time. You can then transfer your recorded shows onto a video. Anyhow this is very cool technology. I may never leave the house again.

And obviously nothing interesting happened today.

Tonight I am going for A.Y.C.E. sushi, if you'd like to join, you're welcome!

And back for perhaps a final showing is the ever-embarrassing segment:

Life is...

the instant humility of looking up at the sky on a starry summer's night, realizing you're but an insignificant speck in a sprawling universe. Your problems and worries and idiosyncrasies, once so all-consuming, disappear before the majesty of it all.

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p.s. new look?

Randoms

OK, good weekend I must admit. Fun, social weekend. Did I manage to be drunk 50-70% of the time? Perhaps. If not, I made a valiant attempt. Saturday night was interesting - it kept going and going and I only got to sleep around 5:30am. Can I get your opinion on something... which accent is sexier, South African or Spanish? Confused? Good. Funky rave chicks are easy to talk to. My clothes smell of the wacky stuff. Liverpool won, Harry Kewell back to his best, good on ya son. Played soccer Sunday night, decent team performance, scored a goal and we won. Craved sushi afterwards. Wandered the streets like a drug addict until I found my dealer - Ajisai. That waitress is pretty cute. But that fried tofu is f'n fantastic. My eyes are bigger than my stomach - never go shopping when you're hungry. Leftover sashimi anyone? That stuff tastes awful the next day. CFA studying is awesome, really...if you're trying to fall asleep in 10 seconds flat.

OK, and to end off the random post of the week:

"I read this article a while back, that said that Microsoft employs more millionaire secretary's that any other company in the world. They took stock options over Christmas bonuses. It was a good move. I remember there was this picture, of one of the groundskeepers next to his Ferrari. Blew my mind. you see shit like that, and it just plants seeds, makes you think its possible, even easy. And then you turn on the TV, and there's just more of it. The $87 Million lottery winner, that kid actor that just made 20 million on his last movie, that Internet stock that shot through the roof, you could have made millions if you had just gotten in early, and that's exactly what I wanted to do: get in. I didn't want to be an innovator any more, I just wanted to make the quick and easy buck, I just wanted in. The Notorious BIG said it best: "Either you're slingin' crack-rock, or you've got a wicked jump-shot." Nobody wants to work for it anymore. There's no honor in taking that after school job at Mickey Dee's, honor's in the dollar, kid. So I went the white boy way of slinging crack-rock: I became a stock broker."

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p.s. Is there anyone better than Van Gogh?

PEACE.

another short one...

OK, so I kind of got caught up watching the Count of Monte Cristo on T.V. hence no bloggage tonight. Good movie by the way. Guy Pearce does the snivelling rat part really well. I'm expecting to have a great weekend, and I wish you all one too. And if on this weekend you are faced with adversity of any kind, just stand up straight, look right ahead and say "Do your worst!"

(except of course when you're being questioned by the police.)

I leave you now with a fondly remembered and oft-repeated quote from the movie:

"Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome. Do your worst, for I will do mine! Then the fates will know you as we know you."

have a good one folks.

A short one.

Hi there,

Well there is not much new to report on this end of the world. In about 30 mins I will get to watch Liverpool-Benfica in the Champions League, and am very excited. I just love the beautiful game - watching, playing...it does not make a difference. Go REDS! Crouch in the 35th, 44th and 69th!

Kudos to Jetboy for a much revitalized blog, now allowing anonymous comments so please go there and mouth off.

Poker news: Good week. Up over $1700 in 7 days, playing for 2-3hrs per day. But seriously, it is time to give it up and concentrate on more urgent issues - I make joke, obviously. This kid has bills to pay.

I have a friend in town from Madrid for a few weeks, and I want to show him a good time - so I will be out and about, bars, lounges...you name it I am there. Come out and join us. I plan on being drunk and rowdy about 50-70% of the time. If I don't appear to be rowdy it is your job to buy me more drinks. I hereby appoint you Supervisor-In-Charge and C.E.O. of the Marty Drunken Rampage Project. Neglect your duties at your own risk.

cheers.

Reasons never to leave the house on a Saturday night.

1. You might find yourself standing in line for a club on the coldest night of the year.
2. You might find yourself standing in line for 1.5 hrs for a club on the coldest night of the year.
3. You might find your toes frozen and imagine them breaking off like twigs while waiting in line for 1.5 hrs for a club on the coldest night of the year.
4. You might be forced to wait in line for 1.5 hrs for a club on the coldest night of the year, only to hear the bouncer (who you could easily murder at this point) say "we're at capacity" when you come within 4 feet of the front of the line.
You then might choose 1 of 2 options:
a) bludgeon the bouncer to death with the back of your shoe and spend your remaining years locked inside a prison cell with a 6ft. 5", 350lb cell mate named Bubba, who has a penchant for sodomy.
b) decide, after waiting in line for 1.5hrs for a club on the coldest night of the year, to say "the hell with it" and exit the line, an option that might have been more appropriate about 1.25hrs earlier.
5. After exiting the line, you might return to the spot where your car used to be and find strangely enough that everything is there but the car.
6. After cursing the tow companies, their thieving employees, policemen, parking laws and anyone within a five mile radius, you might be forced to go pickup your car from the lot.
7. After picking up the car, you might be forced to remember how you spent $150 for a night in which you waited in the freezing cold like a bum for 1.5hrs, and then paid someone who stole your car an obscene amount of money for the privilege of driving it home.

Life is grand, isn't it? Next Saturday I'm watching SNL reruns all night.

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Yes, this really did happen, and yes, I am pissed.
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It's all about biology.

OK, so I was watching a dating show called Matchmaker the other day. I know, I have a lot of time on my hands, so sue me. Anyhow, this guy was hooked up with this smoking hot blonde, who had the face of an angel and the body of Jessica Alba. I will call her Angalba. On top of those ridiculous stats she was sassy like Natalie Portman in "Closer" - in short, the perfect girl. And Angalba is all over him from the start, like Jetboy on a bag of chips. I kid, I kid.

So he's playing it cool, and the more nonchalant he is, the more she starts acting up, trying to get his attention. When she leans in to slap him playfully, he acts like he's just been stung by a bee. By the time they get to the beach (hello gratuitous bikini shots!), she is basically throwing herself at him. Hmm, I think. He could be onto something. She's basically the hot girl in the club, who needs attention to validate her fragile self-image. Everyone's insecure, it's just a matter of who shows it and who doesn't. Like a cat on a string, he gives her a little attention then pulls back, making her work for his affection. Suddenly he's the one being chased. (Hmm, that cat-string theory is great, I should trademark that.)

Anyhow, at dinner my image of her falls apart. He's still doing his schtick and Angalba has moved on to nibbling his ear and kissing his neck, reminding me of a cute little bunny.
Then she says something like:

"Hey, I dig you, you're really cool, you're a great guy. You're super hot. I'd love to see you again. Now tell me about me. What do you think?"

Him: I'm intrigued. (I'm thinking, this guy is classic!)

Algalba (whiny): More about me!
(at this point she wants to be told she has the face of an angel and the body of Alba, and it's also the point where I think, jesus I was right!)

And I'm already getting embarrassed for her when she blurts out the following:

"I'm the type of girl who's really independent and I take care of myself financially, I mean like really well. But I just want to know, should we hook up, would you be able to support me? I mean, I'm not looking to date some broke dude. I need my Gucci watches and Prada bags."

Now I'm really embarrassed for her, and now she just seems pathetic. I mean, who says that on a first date? But really, it's all about evolution. She needs shelter and protection. She needs someone to return at night with a dead deer carcass over his shoulder while she boils the water and tends to the potatoes. Most girls just aren't as straight forward. There are some insights to be learned here, but I will not repeat them.

And that is my random post of the month. Love it or leave it.

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A Valentine's Tale.

Happy fucking Valentine's day folks! You know, I wish I didn't have to resort to swearing, but nothing conveys sarcasm or disillusionment quite like a well placed swear word. Here is how this useless little holiday came about, or at least my version of it:

In January 1910, the CEO's of the nation's biggest candy companies, card companies and novelty item manufacturers met in a basement in Arkansas to discuss the upcoming seasonal slump in their respective businesses. For some reason the period from February to April each year brought about horrid results, and they could not figure out why. This year they had been summoned by Mr. Hallmark for an emergency meeting. With a gleam in his eye and a spring in his step, Hallmark rose from his seat and began to speak. He stopped and glanced angrily at Mr. Hershey, who was unsuccessfully trying to clean the ever-present chocolate smudge from his rosy left cheek. With an apologetic look, Mr. Hershey indicated he was ready.

Mr. Hallmark: Fellas, every year at this time we are forced, due to lack of funds, to cancel polo games and hunting trips and scale back our purchases of Cuban cigars. In some cases, we have even had to reduce the number of Thai prostitutes we import to service our carnal desires. (at this remark, the other CEO's recoiled in horror) Tonight this ends!

Mr. Hershey: Hear, hear!

Mr. Heart Shaped Balloon: Right-0! Jolly good!

Mr. Hallmark continued: This savage time, so far from Mother's Day, Father's Day and Christmas has been our Achille's heel for too long. So I propose we start a new holiday, one so deviously clever that it will pressure husbands, boyfriends, wifes and girlfriends to spend ,without hesitation, their hard earned dollars on the unnecessary shit that we peddle so relentlessly. I call it... Lover's Day!

Mr. Hallmark laughed loudly and joyfully, as if he had just figured out how his Thai hooker did that little ping pong trick she does so artfully.

Mr. Hershey: Lover's Day? Damn dude, that's some cheesy ass shit. It does have a nice ring to it though. But hang on a second, people aren't going to buy our crap just because we make up a holiday. It needs some class, it needs to be official, you know. It needs some actual meaning.

Mr. Heart Shaped Balloon: By golly I think I've got it. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane!

Mr. Hershey and Hallmark expected this sort of inane remark from Balloon. He did, after all, make balloons for a living. Sometimes they wondered how much of the helium he ordered was for personal use. However this time Balloon was actually onto something.

Mr. Heart Shaped Balloon: Well how about naming this holiday after a saint? Those damn saints have so much street cred it's off the hook.

Mr. Hershey: Fo shizza ma nizza.

Mr. Heart Shaped Balloon: We'll call it Valentine's day, after St. Valentine.

Mr. Hallmark: I love it. Now, I've been thinking. Profit reports come out at the end of February, so obviously it would be better if Valentine's Day came before then. And since 14 is the number of Thai prostitutes currently waiting in my bed to ravage me, let's make it February 14th.

Mr. Hershey and Mr. Heart Shaped Balloon: Tremendous old chap!

And there you have it. A tradition was born. That year Hershey, Hallmark and Balloon recorded record profits, and raided the streets of Bangkok like never before.

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PEACE OUT.

Teen Week

I love Teen Week on Jeopardy. It makes me feel like a fucking genius.

Maid of the Mist

I have just seen a portion of the Grammy's and I must say, Christina Aguilera is like a Vegas weather report - she just gets hotter and hotter. I remember when I used to think Britney was the finer of the two, but she's gone all trailer trash and got her fat ass married to K-Fed, who is possibly, and I'm not exagerrating here, the dumbest, dullest human being on the planet. He makes Carrot Top look like Stephen Hawking. But Christina has talent to spare, and that just makes her even sexier. And I'm not one for the goyisha look, so this is some compliment.

Anyhow, rabid obsessions aside...I'm in a good mood, so the rants I were preparing will have to wait. The source of my good mood? I have no clue. Nothing's changed since yesterday. I did have an interview in which despite all my preparation, I was thrown a curveball which basically forced me to maneuver my way through the questions like a blind man through a cactus plantation. I have no idea what that means. But it was sort of fun. At no point did I want to run yelling from the room, so I have to consider that a good omen.

The question in question concerned promotional economics, and if you have no idea what that means, well let's just say I won't be seeing you in my corner office anytime soon, except perhaps when you deliver my morning coffee. And maybe again when I call for you to hold the portable potty, so that I don't have to leave the desk to relieve myself and waste valuable time. I must warn you though that like a trip on the Maid Of the Mist, don't expect to leave in dry clothes. Ponchos are recommended.

PEACE.

Hey now...

OK, I've really gone off the blog wagon recently, humble apologies. There will be some juicy post soon, that I can promise, with a fair dash of certainty. Interview week continues for me, those stories coming up tomorrow. However I continue, for now, with:

Song of the Day:

I Won't Back Down - Tom Petty. This song seems pertinent right now. Good ol' fashioned song writing.

"Well I won't back down
No I won't back down
You can stand me up at the gates of hell
But I won't back down
No, I stand my ground
Won't get turned around
And I keep this world from draggin me down
But I stand my ground and I won't back down
I won't back down"

Quote of the Day: (um yeah, this was my yearbook quote.)

"If you see what is small as it sees itself, and accept what is weak for what strength it has, and use what is dim for the light it gives, then all will go well."
-Lao-Tsu, Tao Teh King

Do you know who that is?

The above words must be heard by celebrities all too often, like an invisible chorus following them on their adventures. I know this because when I'm in the vicinity of someone famous, the chorus sings its usual tune. Such was the case on Saturday night, when we found ourselves in the presence of one Clive Owen. This guy is just darn cool, and you'll know that already if you've seen "Croupier", "Closer", "Gosford Park" or "The Bourne Identity". Anyhow, he seems like a really down to earth kind of guy, and was chatting with anyone and everyone who came up to him. He wasn't surrounded by an entourage either. But that could be due to the fact that no entourage would willingly follow him to the icy cold streets of downtown Toronto in the dead of winter. There is a certain sense of awe that one feels when encountering famous people, particularly actors. These days it's almost like being in the presence of royalty. As such they deserve their chorus... "Can you believe that's him? Is that really him? I thought he would be taller..."

Now it's back to interview prep and CFA studying...woohoo! Can you feel the excitement?!

David vs. Goliath

It was with great surprise to learn that my good name has been slandered on another blog, and it is with deep regret that I am forced to respond in kind.

Jetboy, your post was, as usual, riddled with blatant inaccuracies and thoughtless rhetoric, and though you might have figured these lies to go unnoticed (based on traffic to your blog), today you will be held accountable (a word you might not be totally familiar with). Your blog points to your domination at a game called Scene-It, which is based on movie trivia. While I must admit your knowledge of useless movie facts is impressive, we aren't even in the same class. Think Fiat and Mercedes. I will let the facts speak for themselves, since your "preciously and precariously intact" memory is as dependable as a sieve.

Game 1: Marto winner.
Game 2: Mart0 winner.
Game 3: Marto + Mad Russian winner against Jetboy + Jojo.

Though in Game 3 you had the lead for the majority of the play, the end result was one that you so often face - you lost. In fact, you're batting 0%. Now, you played a good game. That answer about Sally Field's TV sitcoms was both inspired and deranged. But the difference between playing a good game and winning the game is about as large as your T-shirt size. Oh snap! Anyone who, with a winning percentage of 0%, proclaims their domination is either delusional or completely delusional. I'm going with the latter.

In the game of Scene-It, as in a war of words, you are quite simply outmatched. Admit you are second best; you will sleep better for it.

Kind regards.

zip.....

OK kids, again it's too late to write anything meaningful. So I'll revert to my two features, and start a new one...Movie quote of the day:

Song of the Day:

Sweet Child O' Mine - Guns N' Roses. Just because those first few guitar riffs are classic. P.S. I hope everyone who reads this portion of the blog is downloading the songs mentioned. Otherwise, this is all a waste of your frikkin' time. C'mon people, expand your horizons a little.

Life is...

a boxing match. One day you're lying face down on the mat, drooling like an infant. Other days, you're standing over your bloody, unconscious opponent, waving your prize - a giant golden belt, which somehow makes you wonder whether all the training was worth it. After the match you get to mingle with the beautiful celebrities, like Gary Schandling and Lance from N'Sync.

which leads me to... :

Movie Quote of the Day:

"There was a moment last night, when she was sandwiched between the two Finnish dwarves and the Maori tribesmen, where I thought, "Wow, I could really spend the rest of my life with this woman".

bubkiss.

I must apologize for the lack of a solid post recently. I will try to add some spice in the coming week. It is late, and my mind is thinking of stunningly unoriginal blog ideas. Thus, I will leave you with a sample of some writing I did a while back: (p.s. after a lot of searching for something that wasn't too lame, I gave up...)

"Brad Fink was in a bad mood. And you didn’t want to be around Brad Fink when he was in a bad mood. His usually light brown eyes would turn a menacing black, and the rage burning beneath the stoic expression that he wore like a medal was almost visible. At age 15, Brad was already schooled on the intricacies of sarcasm, a weapon he never hesitated to use when he felt the need. His biting, cruel responses were directed at whoever happened to stand in his way; the wounded littered the school path like fall leaves in October. Brad’s mother had seen a marked change in his personality over the last two summers, and now it had reached worrying proportions.

Brad realized it too. He couldn’t help it. There was a deep anger that festered inside him, surging volcano-like to the surface at the slightest hint of distress. Joy eluded him, and laughter was a concept long forgotten. His best friends had deserted him, after repeated run-ins with Fink’s alter-ego. Although his IQ tested off the charts, Brad’s grades had taken a dive in the alphabet soup that is the high school grading scheme. "

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If you'd like to guess the context of this paragraph, go right ahead. Winner gets a Noddy badge!
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Life is:

writing something you can actually stand to read again more than once without puking on your shoes.