Snarky Invective

Welcome, Artful Men

By jim | Published: March 11, 2010

Hey there, ass bird. Welcome to my damn blog. I’ve pumped up the manliness as far as it will go in celebration of my guest post going live on Art of Manliness, so spill a cold beer on your stupid face and learn how to read, penisankle.

Do you have a mustache? Does your mustache own a gun? Do you own a gun that shoots mustaches? You’re gonna need it, taint clavicle.

If you haven’t punched yourself in the face by now, or driven a Camaro through a solid brick wall while forcing a cougar to punch itself in the face, then you’re probably only half the man you’re going to need to be to slog through the drivel that my usual readers are subjected to.

Yeah, bitch.

Just to get ready for this post, I smeared myself with lard and leaped unarmed into a vat of starving alligators, screaming at the top of my lungs. I might have sustained a bite or two, but every one of those scaly sonsabitches is pregnant right now, and guess who ain’t returning calls.

Why don’t you see if those flaccid penises that you call ankles can sustain your weight as you reach up to the top shelf for the extra hot man sauce? This blog is exploding like hot snakes out of a barrel that is full of equal parts snakes and TNT, baby, and there’s no turning back now.

If the prancing newborn butterflies that you call ears can sustain swearing, or worse, an Australian person’s accent, then watch the following video while I oil my mustache with boiling grease.

That about sums it up, worm balls. Come on back every day for a brand new helping of writing, or subscribe via RSS or email at the top right, and maybe try not to crap your skirt hem next time.

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Smooth Operator

By jim | Published: March 10, 2010

Last night I did one of those really groovy maneuvers where I fell asleep watching a television program and then slept right through until 3AM, whereupon I woke up to find that I missed hanging out with some friends who were in town. I’m sad that I missed my friends, but at least this might put me back in the good graces of the Hermit League.

Reclusive and abusive, Paul heads up the Hermit League

Only yesterday, a carrier pigeon delivered a note scrawled on a piece of bark that read “We’re onto you, Hodgson”. I assume it was from the Hermit League, as pigeons have horrible handwriting and can’t even manage a scrawl.

Now I feel I have to explain to my friends why I didn’t hang out with them. They all know that I relish my time alone the way an alcoholic relishes a free six pack, or the way a relishaolic really relishes relish, so it’s going to be a bit of a tough sell to explain that I didn’t just lurk at home for the sake of a good lurk.

In this situation, a lesser man might be tempted to resort to subterfuge. He might tell what’s known as a white lie. For those not familiar with white lies, that’s when you lie to someone, then lie to yourself about why you lied. The second one makes the first one okay, kind of like sleeping with a one night stand a second time a few weeks later to make it seem like you are legitimately dating, not just getting sluttier when you drink.

But no, I have a policy against lies. They’re for amateurs.

For more on this topic, I recommend stripping down to a martini and a pair of satin boxer shorts, slicking your hair back, and dancing around your home to Sade’s “Smooth Operator“. Be sure to do the kind of dancing that involves a lot of shoulder movements. Trust me.

I did get outside a little bit yesterday, first to go to the cyclist training cave before dawn and second to clean my mountain bike. Upstairs Cutie, my neighbor, came outside while I was scrubbing said mountain bike and grumbling because the car wash place declined to let me use their pressure washer (jerks).

She stopped on the walk on her way past to ask if I were about to go for a ride, asking in a tone that suggested that I was standing next to a snarling puma with a saddle in my hands. I said I was just cleaning it this time, and even offered to let her help detail my bike, but she declined. Little did she know I was about to use my new can of spray lubricant.

Some people just don’t know how much fun bikes can be, I guess. Oh well!

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The Tax Preparer Across the Way

By jim | Published: March 9, 2010

Some parts of the following account may not be appropriate for small children, or those with any aesthetic sense whatsoever for the written word. Consider yourself warned.

Parts of it are so obscene that the actual actions will be replaced with much cleaner ones so as not to offend any younger readers. My general feeling, not to put anyone off, is that adults who are easily offended can go fornicate themselves.

Hang on. I should have said above, “can prepare their own federal taxes” as that is the phrase I have chosen for the sake of cleanliness. My bad.

Well, anyway, this weekend I participated in a track racing training class over the course of two beautiful spring afternoons. A pilot friend of mine was there with another buddy of his whom I had not met previously. They also sought their track certifications.

After the races that comprised the end of the day Sunday, we all gathered our crap and headed for our cars. There I found my friends loading their bikes into my pilot friend’s car, a flight bag with pilot’s cap laid atop it conspicuously placed nearby for all to see. After all, your chief concern as a pilot is letting everyone know you’re a pilot. It’s only by coincidence that this occasionally requires you to fly a plane somewhere.

These gentlemen related the following story to me.

It seems that the previous afternoon they were at one of their condos, whose windowed wall faces a hotel across the street. A girlfriend screamed in the rear of the house, and then ran into the kitchen to find my friends. She told them to look outside.

Across the way they saw a naked man at the window of his hotel room aggressively preparing his tax return and staring at them. They related that there could be no doubt that he knew that the details of his personal return were on display for all to see, as well as his method of filing.

He had a certain wide-legged stance, like a sprinter stretching before a run… or so I am told.

They called the hotel and the situation seemed to dissolve. There was general laughing about the whole matter, and it was generally assumed that the tax preparer across the way had been put into a financially responsible mood by the sight of the girlfriend, or at least the idea that she might be seeing his finances.

Later, the pilot was on the deck of said condo enjoying a cigarette — or, for the sack of non-offensiveness for those former smokers among us, sniffing a delicate rose — when he noticed the tax preparer on his balcony across the way peering aggressively at him. The pilot stared back. After a while nothing came of it, and my friends and the girlfriend all went out and enjoyed an evening together.

The next morning, they awoke to bright sunshine and, again, the screams of a girlfriend. They all rushed to the window to find the man across the way having his taxes thoroughly inspected by a second gentleman in broad daylight on his hotel room balcony. So thorough was this group attempt at tax preparation that the new gentleman was on his knees, and his head was being urged forward by the first gentleman’s hands.

The general consensus based on this new display was that it was, in fact, my pilot friend who was so financially remarkable.

No matter who helps you with your personal finances, let’s remember that they are personal details. You might wish to share them, but not everyone necessarily wants to see!

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Hugs for Fish

By jim | Published: March 8, 2010

It brings me no joy to report that the War On People currently being waged by animals has had another shocking clash somewhere in Wisconsin. It seems people just can’t put themselves near dangerous wild animals these days without those animals acting exactly as you’d expect.

This calls into some question the viability of the charity I started some time ago, Hugs for Fish. I’m currently in talks with a logo designer to help out with some branding for the project using Tits the Fish as our mascot.

After all, I think it is widely known that girls give the best hugs. My theory is that it is their breasts that make the hugs so nice, so I wanted my logo to look like a fish capable of a great hug. Tits the Fish was really the only choice, though, awkwardly enough, he himself is male.

Also there are some logistical issues with getting down into the water and not drowning while delivering said hugs to said fish, who, admittedly, are not only fairly skittish but very fast swimmers. I’m sure that with time and boatloads of your money, though, these issues can be ironed out.

And by ironed out, I mean to say “considered briefly by yours truly while participating in either bicycle riding or beer drinking”.

Speaking of bicycle riding, yesterday I rode quite a lot and it was glorious. I started out the day riding a short loop around the city with the pace group for the ING Marathon wheelchair racers. My two teammates and I were some of the few of the 25 or so riders not in bright yellow jackets.

It occurred to me that there is a spectrum of city cycling safety/danger. On the safe end you have the very careful and usually older riders who stop at every light and point out every dip or crack in the road’s surface to one another. They are very safety-minded people, and can often be seen going down the road in dayglo clothing with mirrors affixed to themselves. In groups, they will all be shouting “HOLE!” or “CAR BACK” or “QUILL STEM!” to one another.

As Wikipedia notes, they are sometimes known to “serious” road cyclists as “Freds”.

On the other end are fixed gear hipsters who for some reason believe themselves to be at war with traffic. They like to charge out in front of cars on bikes with no brakes, creating a rush of adrenaline for themselves and a general hate of cyclists in general among drivers. They also eschew helmets, cycling specific clothing, and riding for any reason other than as a lifestyle statement.

What this statement is, however, can be hard to discern. These people are known to those of us who are BikeSnobNYC fans as “NüFreds”.

The majority of riders are somewhere in the middle, of course, and people can exhibit traits of either end of the spectrum depending on circumstance.

Now, if I could just get these damned fish to slow down I could hug them properly and this charity thing would be gathering steam!

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Numbered list articles, how I hate you!

By jim | Published: March 5, 2010

It has been said that every man has a fatal flaw… that in every heart lurks a vice that just cannot be given up. My fatal flaw, of course, is that I am a reclusive buffoon. Or is that two?

However, as a reclusive buffoon who has given up smoking as well as hiding behind his mailbox to scare the bejesus out of his neighbors, I can speak authoritatively on eschewing habits which were once very dear to you.

My love affair with coffee, I say with a jittery tear in my eye, is as rich and aromatic as ever.

It’s not just the coffee itself. I can make that at home, though the coffee at my favorite coffee shop is much better than what my Mr. Coffee produces. No, I like being known by name to all the employees. I like being secretly in love with the tattooed girls who work there. I even like seeing hipsters arrive in packs of 80’s mopeds. Yes, I like coffee shop atmosphere.

My favorite coffee shop has three locations. Two are situated on either ends of my neighborhood, on North Highland Ave. My apartment is nestled nearly exactly between them, like a weird scrolly tattoo between the breasts of the most earnest hipster chick.

Extra points for misspellings, girls. Your beautiful, sweatheart!

I even like reading actual printed books and local newspapers. Sure, printed newspapers might be going the way of the cassette tape, but at least they don’t print nearly every article in numbered list format.

Which brings me to the bean of this roast: oh, how I hate the numbered list. I’m not sure why it bothers me so much to see content presented in that style, but it does. It might be because I’ve tried to write articles that way for pay before and failed miserably, but it also sort of jabs me in a place deep inside where the fires of Fahrenheit 451 still burn bright.

Or at least, they would… if I could read. I hire a massage therapist to read classic works of American Literature to me while working the knots out of my love handles, and, as you know, this blog is merely typed willy-nilly with my elbows and dictated in a sing-song voice.

One day I left my dictation software on while I took a call from my accountant, and inadvertently wrote this poem:

Oh god
wait, they are taking how much
no i reported that
horse balls
jesus

I think that says it all, really. Have a great weekend and I’ll jabber atcha on Monday!

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The Rewind Bugle

By jim | Published: March 4, 2010

Occasionally things happen to me that I find hard to accurately describe. Granted, it might be because I have the writing talent of a mature rhubarb, but there are many series of events in life that cause a man some consternation.

Like when someone asks you to kiss them hello at a dinner party, so you do, and then they say “No, on the lips,” so you do it again, and then they tell you they have bad breath. You know who you are.

Or when a police officer pulls over a car that is weaving in and out of its lane only to discover, inside, half a bottle of whiskey and a woman who has peed herself.

Or when someone says loudly at a party, “I can’t believe we had sex that time!” and laughs, and someone else says “Um, it was twice” and then the first person says “Haha, what? No it was only once!” and then the second person gives a detailed account to a room steadily growing more and more attentive that indicates clearly it was, in fact, twice.

If variety is the spice of life, some of us are quite spicy indeed.

But we must forge onward in the awkward party conversation that is life, even if we suddenly remember what our friends genitals look like.

It is at these times that I believe a bugle would serve me well. I would carry it on a strap around my body, and when presented either with a person whom I find distasteful or a situation I do not want to be in, I would hold it aloft and let fly with a mighty note.

This would be a signal to all assembled that the last five minutes of life are to be rewound, and this time through I will shut my mouth or go elsewhere — possisbly both, and that everyone who hears it should forget about my many faults.

I am scouring ebay for such a bugle as we speak. Believe it!

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Coffee Shop Pariah

By jim | Published: March 3, 2010

There are many pitfalls related to spending as much time at home as I do, but as a professional hermit I have found workarounds for them all.

One of the worst and most debilitating problems with working from home in addition to lurking there is that your work hours dissolve into your regular hours with no clear delineation between them. This typically results in nothing whatsoever getting done.

Office denizens pray and wish to be able to work from home, and should they finally be allowed to telecommute, the phrase “working from home” often comes with a wink that means “I’m not doing a damned thing”.

But the only way to make it work is to actually get up and do stuff. I rise from my animal skin pallet at seven AM on the days that I sleep in, and at 5:25AM on days when I am scheduled to be tortured by my coach in the cyclist training cave.

Casting my teddy bear and sleeping rifle aside, I eat breakfast, get dressed, and then type some aimless drivel into the internet by banging on a keyboard with my elbows and babbling incoherently in a sing-song voice into my dictation software, tilting my head side to side all the while.

Then I leave my apartment, get into my car, fire it up, and tear around the block at speeds in excess of 70MPH, screeching to a halt again in the same exact spot. Finally, I come back inside and plop down at my desk, for I am at work.

But sometimes the concentration that I pour into my working life can take its toll, and I need a break. Occasionally, I go into my living room and turn on my Xbox and television so that I can shoot internet enemies while listening to children prattle endlessly in cascading waves over voice chat. More often though, I grab whatever book I am reading and head to the coffee shop for some reading and people watching.

There is, after all, a much higher chance that a pretty girl will wander through a coffee shop than through the pixelated battlefields of Afghanistan.

So, yesterday I grabbed my book, a banana, my notebook and a pen and headed down to my favorite coffee shop. I always bring the notebook and pen in case I should have any ideas that I want to write down. As I write this it contains only a single drawing of a fish with plump female breasts.

Introducing... Tits the fish!

When I got there, all seemed as normal. Heavily tattooed barista cutie: check. Posters for bands, art shows, and art shows featuring bands: check. Array of white Mac power supplies fanning out of every outlet: check — but what’s this? A guy on a black PC laptop? Sir, have you no shame? Can you not see that your power supply is made of black plastic?

Shaking off my horror, I found a seat in the corner. Score! Rarely is the corner seat not occupied in this coffee shop. I treasured it warmly.

As I settled in, I was instantly glad I had worn a cap as it allowed me to hide in my prized corner seat from some musicians whom I knew but didn’t wish to speak to. One was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that looked like what Gandalf the Wizard would wear had he taken up folk singing.

I call this one Leave me alone, short people

These minor concerns I was able to shake off, and I got down to reading my book. In this case it was David Sedaris’s “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim”, and as is often the case with Sedaris, I began to laugh nearly immediately.

My laughs drew the ire of a nearby laptop pilot. She peered at me over her computer, her eyes glowing red as the apple on the laptop glowed white. I picked up my phone and fired off a derisive twitter update to show her how nonplussed I was, but when I went back to reading I only laughed harder.

I realized this wasn’t going to work. The atmosphere was making me even more susceptible to laughter than I usually am, and reading Sedaris there was a fool’s game.

So, I picked up my banana peel and my notebook containing Tits the Fish and walked away, stepping gingerly over the white power supplies.

A timid hipster approached me. “Do you mind if I grabbed your seat?” he asked.

I turned to look longingly at my corner home one last time.

“It’s not mine anymore.”

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I Fought the Law and… Got More Laws

By jim | Published: March 2, 2010

I left my windowless hermit lair this morning before dawn, heading to the cycling training cave to put in the hours that will hopefully manifest themselves later in the season in good performance, or, failing that, at least reduced fatness.

My brain, acting for all the world like an uncaring hunk of cheese, refused to climb into any sort of altitude of rational thought, and when the exercise started it sank even deeper, as is often the case.

But slowly, after my workout, once I jolted it awake with some fruit, a bagel, some hot coffee and loud southern rock, it began to consider a few things.

Firstly, as I posted yesterday, I have some dim views on the practices of some of my fellow cyclists, though I embrace them as brothers personally, and, it must be said, awkwardly.

Secondly, the band Blackberry Smoke is awesome and I enjoy their music even more the louder I turn it up.

Third, and most importantly, our local Atlanta Critical Mass is an event that I have enjoyed immensely on more than one occasion — even taking a date on it once — but I fear that ultimately it will do detriment to the very thing it claims to advocate. I’m concerned that the actions of a few well-meaning but thoughtless hipsters will ultimately make life worse for cyclists who aren’t wearing white belts or riding camo-colored Aerospokes.

This very thing happened in New York City recently, as BikeSnobNYC pointed out, and the events of our local Mass last Friday indicate to me that we may be heading in the same direction.

To sum up the video of last Friday’s incident, cyclists were blocking an intersection so that everyone could ride through in a big lump, or “mass”, ignoring all traffic laws in the process. This enraged a gentleman in a black SUV, who got out of his truck and berated everyone after threatening to run them over and even slightly contacted one cyclist.

It does not appear that anyone was injured, thankfully, and the gentleman was wrong to threaten, let alone actually hit someone with his car, but outside of that, most of what he was saying is right. Bikes, when on the road, are vehicles, and should act accordingly.

Sorry guys, it’s the truth. I know you are connected to the zen experience of riding your uncomfortable track bike without a helmet and imagining yourself doing barspins while cute girls with weird hair look on, and I support that cycling ideal. I am imagining myself doing nearly the same thing, only with me it’s the podium at the Tour de France and the girls are closer to my age and have less tattoos.

It must be said, there is almost nothing more incredible than riding down the city’s streets with a few hundred other cyclists when the weather is nice. Cruising along at a parade pace with no reason to hammer or stay on the leader’s wheel, I have enjoyed more than one Mass very much. But it’s just not legal to block up the city’s streets without a parade permit or run red lights, and sooner or later The Man is going to get wise and do some legislating.

You don’t see gun advocacy groups getting together and blasting off rounds in Piedmont Park, do you? They’d probably love to, but they know it’s illegal and that they’d ultimately be doing damage to their cause.

Hell, I’d love to get together on a Friday and fire off a fully auto AK-47 while riding my bike around the park with cute girls and their weird hairdos looking on, just to combine a few awesome activities, but I don’t think I’m going to get a chance.

It’s also illegal for car enthusiasts to ignore traffic laws and speed limits in the wee hours of the morning, even if they are possessed at the time by very, very loud southern rock music. Or at least, so I am informed by the local constabulary. Who knew?

What I’m saying is, let’s all just ride safe and smart and keep from getting hurt, and maybe try not to piss off the cops. The law is, by definition, on their side.

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The Black History Month Alleycat

By jim | Published: March 1, 2010

Black History Month AlleycatOn Saturday night I participated in the Black History Month alleycat held at Pal’s Lounge on Auburn Avenue. We raced from checkpoint to checkpoint, where we were asked some questions about Atlanta-specific black history. I would like to have learned more about the questions, but I was too busy jumping back on my bike and hauling ass to try and keep up with my fellow riders to learn anything.

I think a slower-paced ride with a less racing and more learning would be an excellent idea for February 2011, but I feel old just typing that out so forget I said it.

In the annals of Jim history, we will find that I have participated in alleycats before and had a lot of fun. Typically I ride with my friend Bob, who knows every street in the city and is thus indispensable on these scavenger hunt style races where the route is so crucial.

Bob, however, had some girlfriend-related matters to attend to and couldn’t race, so I was on my own to tag along behind someone else. My knowledge of the city streets is relatively good, but not good enough.

If you don’t know what an alleycat is, it’s a style of bicycle racing which ostensibly mimics the workday of a bicycle messenger. Elements are often added to the race that have nothing to do with speed, such as answering historical questions or wearing 80’s clothing. Sometimes there are time bonuses for getting a tattoo during the race, or for holding a latte and being smug about indie bands while doing a trackstand in the middle of an intersection.

There’s little doubt that brakeless fixed-gear bikes are the clear popular winner in terms of style, but geared bikes with brakes are both faster and safer. You don’t see any videos of kids in skinny jeans riding road bikes in circles on Vimeo, but add some music and remove the gears and brakes and you’ve got yourself some hipster culture, son!

The legend goes that poor bicycle messengers in New York City and other places favored fixed gear bikes because the maintenance costs of geared bikes was too great. The alleycat aims to celebrate this spirit of simplicity.

I can understand the maintenance woes. I am forever replacing chains and adjusting derailleurs to get my geared bikes to shift correctly, not to mention spending a few hours this weekend with a toothbrush and some citrus degreaser on my mountain bike drivetrain.

Still, it is hard for me to understand why anyone would want to dart out into traffic the way my two riding partners did. Both faster riders than me, I was struggling to keep pace with them even though I had gears, but when it came to stopping at intersections I had them beat.

Their method seemed to be just to be to rush headlong into oncoming traffic. Whether this was due to some deep-seated wish for head trauma or merely the lack of good braking equipment I cannot say, but I did notice that I seemed to be one of the few wearing a helmet.

Cars would lay on their horns and stomp on the brakes, and my friends would loop and swerve to avoid getting hit. I couldn’t help thinking “no wonder drivers hate cyclists!”

I’m certainly guilty of coasting through a stop light or two when no one is coming, but I don’t split lanes and I certainly don’t whip into an intersection full of speeding death. I also never punch my hands down into running blenders, or starve an alligator and then attempt to copulate with it.

Excitement must always, it seems, come with a certain measure of risk or taste of the taboo. Some of these are acceptable to some and not to others. It is for this reason that I believe that fixed gear city riding is the bicycling equivalent of sexual fetishism.

For my part, I am boring and safe on a bicycle as well as in the bedroom. My turn ons include naked girls and bikes fitted with brakes. I also strap on protection before I engage in either one. Bor-ring!

Some girls have been known to complain about my practice of wearing a full-faced helmet to bed, but one cannot be too careful.

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How To Love a Day when You are Left Behind

By jim | Published: February 28, 2010

I love being up early in the morning, with the soft orange light hitting the high points of my Atlanta, light blue down below. The grass in the park is wet and things are quiet.

All the people who have stolen my car stereos or left me, which is to say the evil-doers of the city, are sleeping, presumably with lies in their hearts. For now, they pose me no threat. I can go get some hot coffee and a bagel without fear of a gaping hole in my dashboard or chest.

Over time, the fuzzy orange lines of the daylight get yellower and sharper as they slide down the buildings to the ground. By then, the day is on and morning is over and it’s a shame.

I think the best move is to spend as much time as you can in the fresh air, possibly on a bike, turning the quiet fire in your heart into forward motion and happiness. I may be left behind and stolen from, but my body works ok.

When the sun goes down, I reflect some, but not too much. I like to look at the stars.

Finally, I lock my doors and slip my body into bed to sleep safe like a hidden prize. If I feel a little bit beaten up as I slip off, that’s the mark of a good day.

I can get up early tomorrow and enjoy the morning.

Who knows how many there will be?

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