Hancocking the Blogosphere

Recently inspired by some riveting travel blogs (mostly my own, circa May 2009, peep the archives), I recently embarked on a journey to the other side of the world on my first ever blog signing tour. It's kind of like a book signing tour except rather than inscribing my name on the inside cover of a 200-page paperweight, ahem, I mean paperback, I take a large sharpie marker and doodle my childhood memories all over your laptop screen. A vast improvement to your personal computer I assure you. Who wouldn't want "Daddy yells at mommy while ignoring me" rendered in perfect felt tip chiaroscuro as their permanent desktop?

And for my especially good looking blog followers, my blollowers, (but let's be real, I have a dearth of those. Good looking people don't read blogs. They get laid.) they get a nice wet kiss on their laptop screen too. You might be wondering if I don lipstick for the occasion to leave a nice lasting impression of my face labias. The answer is no. But I do eat a generously frosted cupcake beforehand which allows me to leave a nice pair of sugar lips beside my rendition of "Kindergarteners throw erasers at my face...when I was a fourth-grader."

The Boogie Brown's Get Down International Spectacular Blog Signing Booty Shaking Body Snaking Tour (that's the annotated title) was extremely extensive and extravagant. I went to two cities. Well actually, two airports. Well, actually, two airport parking lots. Those of Newark Liberty (not to be confused with the equally dreadful New York Liberty) and Narita International in Tokyo, home to their cartoon mascot Kutan. She, he, or it is exactly what I think about when flying to Japan: a cutesie giant potato with arms, legs, and goggles ready to navigate the open skies. And let me just say, there is no sarcasm here. I really do think about giant potatoes when I'm high in the sky.

More insights from my travels later, so in the meantime, konichiwait.

Blog Entry

There, I wrote one. Satisfied, world? Sheesh!



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In other news, The Get Down's stable of summer interns has been mysteriously unlocked, and all the interns unexpectedly liberated, causing undue mayhem in our offices. While we continue to round up said interns with our lassos and free-pizza-bait, we hope you continue to enjoy our previous entries (start with July 2008 and work your way up) until we resolve this pressing matter.

Sincerely,
Boogie Brown

Dealbreakers! Part Deux!

Cruzin, the bruised craisin responsible for all this broken deal talk, has generously contributed her own list of DB's as she calls them. She is a master DB spotter, so read carefully. Enjoy!

He eats a turkey leg while shitting...DB!

He only engages in sex while dressed up as a beaver...DB!

He's one of the wiggles...DB! (see picture for the Wiggles)

The carpet don't match the drapes...DB!

He takes laxatives as his source of fiber...DB!

His dog makes out with his penis...DB!

His penis makes out with the mirror...DB!

He uses proactiv on his ass...DB!

He's always fooled by and has a conversation with someone's voicemail greeting that goes "Hello [pause] Who is this? [pause] This is a recording..."...DB!

He wears socks with sandals...DB!

His web browser automatically clears its history...DB!

He hits me...DB!

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Note: Despite the crass humor invoked in today's blog entry, the persistent problem of domestic violence is no laughing matter. To find out more information on how to stop domestic violence, visit the website for the National Domestic Violence Hotline or visit your local library and learn more. Let's break the silence and end domestic violence.

Dealbreakers!

A few months ago, an article in the nytimes discussed how some people end romantic relationships based on their partner's disagreeable taste in books. "Ugh, I noticed that he read more Camus than Sartre, so I deleted his number," exclaimed one woman who refused to be identified. While this may seem harshly judgemental, petty, and elitist, it can't be denied that we all have our own set of deciding factors that determine if someone gets the bed or the door. Whether it be books, movies, attire, mannerisms, there will always be something that sounds our alarms, forcing us to cry out "NEXT!" These are dealbreakers. There's no comprising here. Comply or fly. I've assembled a list of some of my dealbreakers below. What are some of yours?

Dealbreakers!

Their feet are bigger than mine (Men's 10).

They're pretentious enough to say that they only listen to music without lyrics in it.

They own more cats than they have personal hygiene products.

Their bookmarked websites include dealingwithVD.com and rushlimbaugh.org.

They wear crocs to the grocery store.

They wear crocs.

They have a playlist on their iPod entitled "Best of Yannis, no really, it is."

They have a picture of George Bush in their office and it is completely free of dart holes, bullet holes, or any other holes made from a sharp or explosive object.

They walk around with a bluetooth headset on their ear regardless of whether or not they're talking on the phone.

Their tan melts off in the heat of the subway station.

They only read books with an Oprah's Book Club sticker prominently displayed on the front cover.

When they talk about recession, they're talking about their hairline.

They didn't roll their eyes during Titanic. Instead they cried.

The only thing they collect is alimony.

You could run a hose through the gap in their teeth.

They're still wearing skorts.

They have an unfinished tattoo of Brittney Spears on their back.

The pronounce the H in words like "whom," "what," and "whim."

They wear anything made out of hemp.

You don't know what's dirtier, their hair or their feet.

They make Manute Bol look obese.

They are perpetually stuck in Jeopardy land and say everything in the form of a question?

To protect their eyes from harmful UV rays, they've decided to wear sunglasses at night.

They DVR Gossip Girl.

When greeting a person, they kiss the air on both sides of that person's face.

The word "lotion" has never once made it onto their shopping list. See elbows for confirmation.

They still have pillowcases featuring all five members of New Kids on the Block plus a plush doll of Marky Mark.

Their last name is Palin.

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Thanks to Cruzin' (cranberry-raisin that's bruised) for the idea.

The Subway Stalemate

Subway rider 1: Excuse me, that's some nice nail polish you got on your toes there.

Subway rider 2: Gee thanks.

Subway rider 1: It really compliments your skin tone nicely. May I ask what color it is?

Subway rider 2: Yes, you may ask.

Subway rider 1: Umm, ok, what color is it?

Subway rider 2: Pig's blood.

Subway rider 1: .......................................... [clears throat] I thought so! Really, I thought to myself "that's pig's blood," but then I thought it might be goat blood but then I really thought the hue was more piggish. You can also tell because of the extra bit of texture. When will I learn not to second guess myself and go with my gut?

Subway rider 2: Probably never.

Subway rider 2, anticipating more trivial conversation, looks up at Subway rider 1 who for once has nothing left to say. Awkard silence fills the 6-inch gap between them as the train rumbles on for another five stations. The seven minutes that transpire feel more like an eternity. At the City Hall stop, Subway rider 1 picks up a briefcase and prepares to exit. Subway rider 2 looks on with hesitation.

Subway rider 2: Uh...bye Mayor Bloomberg.

Subway rider 1: Bye now!

Subway rider 1 forces an uncomfortable smile, the kind that most people reserve for when they silently pass gas at a dinner party.

End scene.

Social interaction on the steel trains beneath our fair city remains a confusing and unsettling prospect. Social interaction in any environment can be stressful (ever try flirting with your sky diving instructor while they're strapped to your back and you're both plummeting to the earth at 180 miles per hour? "I think we're falling for each other" is a terrible line). But compounded with the particular characteristics of the subway, and you've got a veritable shitfuck on your hands. (Shitfuck? What's that? A dildo made of feces??)

You would think that an enclosed space overcrowded with human beings literally pressing up their bodies against each another would be conducive to social interaction. Sounds like a typical Saturday night in the LES, right? But it's not, it's different. Instead, we remain completely isolated and detached, like a bunch of commuting North Koreas in the United Nations of mass transit. So when a passenger finally decides to break the communication blockade, it's shocking, jarring, and downright mindboggling (not to be confused with mindscrabbling, mindtabooing, or my childhood favorite, mindkerplunking). It's like talking in the men's room.

[Admittedly though, there really are some characters on the train that you just wanna talk to and ask them, "Why are you wearing Uggs in the middle of July? What is the purpose of your life? Really, what is it 'cuz I am out of ideas."]

Because of this non-social environment, a particular form of conversation often takes place when the silence policy is broken. One person breaches the social divide and makes initial contact, while the other person's anti-social alarm goes off "Stranger-danger, Will Robinson!" This causes the latter to be reserved but cordial, limiting responses to monosyllabic words like "fuck" and "you." The initiator then realizes that they've done wrong and attmempts to retreat from the conversation. But all is futile because they're still on the train together, standing inches apart with nowhere to go. It'd be too awkward to move to the other end of the car, and the next stop is still an eternity away. They both look at each other in silence; neither wants to speak but they can't help but notice the other person now, nervously waiting for them to say something. They're impossible to ignore! Like a pink elephant sitting on your chest swearing he's hetero! The social contract of non-social derecognition has been broken and can nay be repaired. This is officially an upside down awkward turtle with an inappropriate boner kind of moment. And such is the way of the Subway Stalemate.

And the resolution of a Subway Stalemate is always the icing on the awkward cake. When the train finally finally arrives at your stop, do you acknowledge the other person and say "g'bye" or do you immediately hurl yourself through the window of that burning building of a situation and run away for dear life? The former regards the other passenger as a human being, while the latter regards them as one of the four horsemen of the apocalpyse. Decisions, decisions...

Subway Rider Rule #635: In order to prevent forest fires, wait I mean Subway Stalemates, consider boarding trains only while wearing a full suit made entirely of hardened dog poo. This is a surefire way to deter all potential mates from stale-ing with you. Alternatively, you can wear a beard made of live bees and make buzzing noises with your mouth. Or you can stab a person in the throat as soon as they utter a word to you...mentally stabbing them that is, with the dagger called emotion. If everyone followed this crucial rule, then we'd all be able to maintain our complacent, isolated, estranged (opposite of eharmony) selves.