| You know there's a bedroom below you... |
[Nov. 23rd, 2009|12:36 pm] |
The other people in our building don't really hang out with us for reasons that I don't fully understand. We (and by that I mean Eric) made a good effort at engaging the girls upstairs on a social level but it never really went anywhere... mostly because one of them wants to bang Eric, and they both think that I want to bang both of them (not entirely true). The only time that I've met the girls downstairs is when we invited them to hang out when we were barbecuing and they leeched our wifi instead of hanging out with us. So suffice it to say that none of the 5 people that live above or below us ever stop by just to say hi.
Let me set up the scene. It was Friday morning around 1:30 AM and Chris, Shaun and I were all hanging out on my deck. Shaun and I had had a few beers, but Bacchus had not taken us into his sweet, sweet numbing embrace yet. Chris had been drinking all day and was sufficiently inebriated, but wasn't anywhere close to belligerent black-out Chris Coury. Basically we were drunk enough to do something mildly stupid but not so drunk that we could blame it entirely on the alcohol. So, for reasons that even rabid Big *W* fans won't fully understand, we decided to submit each other to a rigorous series of fitness tests...
 (this was the best picture I could find)
We quickly found out that my massive shoulders aren't just for show and I smoked Shaun 21-14 in handstand push-ups. Pwnage. Then, for reasons that even I can't really remember anymore, Shaun coolly declared that he could do jumping-jacks for at least 10 min, to which I called "bull shit." My phone has a stop watch on it, so we threw down. He quickly had to take off his (actually it's Chris' XL) sweater even though it was about 35 degrees out. Chris and I continued our conversation coolly to try and break his spirit, but his resolve remained strong. Shaun was just rounding the 6 minute mark (aka Crampville) when my downstairs neighbor’s boyfriend popped his head around the corner of our shared stairs and said
"You know there's a bedroom below you, right?"
I knew that there was a bedroom below our deck because we looked at that unit and didn't take it because it has bigger bedrooms in lieu of a deck. I knew that there was a bedroom below our deck because when we had a barbeque and she came up to use our wifi "just to email the landlord real quick" she complained about the person above her playing music too loudly... when we had an iPod playing that you couldn't even hear in our kitchen. The fact that there was a fucking bedroom below our deck was well established.
Nonchalantly, I looked at him and said "Yeah, I know," and coolly went back to my conversation with Chris. But I forgot that Shaun lost what little common sense he had left when he shaved his head. Without the boyfriend even asking us to keep it down, Shaun just quit jumping, mid jack, and started apologizing.
Fucking fail. I couldn't believe that he just gave up that easily. But before my fury could fall upon his bald little head, my actual downstairs neighbor (the girl whose boyfriend was complaining) came up to join her BF in making a scene. She peeked her head round the corner of the doorframe and just looked at us with some (obviously rehearsed) look combining shock, horror and confusion and queries-
"What were you guys doing?"
Shaun started trying to explain how we were just kidding around and didn't realize how late it was to be starting a jumping-jack contest, but she cuts him off-
"You guys were having a... <dramatic pause> jumping-jack contest?" The feigned look of appall on her face only gets more dramatic.
Trying to remain cool and in control, I didn't give in to her theatrics. I simply told her that yes, we were indeed having a jumping-jack contest and that it was now ruined because Shaun had stopped right when his spirit was about to break. I tried to keep my tone as annoyed and as matter-of-factly as possible to show that I wouldn't let her bully me out of my shenanigans. But my friends weren't having it. They quickly apologized, said they would leave soon and that it would never happen again.
Now I'm not an unreasonable person; I get that having a jumping-jack contest on my deck at 2am on Thursday ( really Friday morning) is not neighborly behavior. And she was probably already fed up from all of my loud guitar playing, shouting at Oliver about SSBB, party throwing and wrestling in the kitchen that has occurred over the past few months. She probably hates us even though we haven't changed our wireless password since they started to borrow it. I'm not mad that she could have the gall to come up and complain about my noise making (even though I have never complained about loud neighbors before), I'm more upset about how my friends didn't have my back. If I could expect anyone to support one of my outrageous principled stands, it would be my half-drunk friends. If I can't depend on them to stand up for me in front of my wussy neighbors, could I ever depend on them to help me save the kingdom from an evil wizard or save NYC from awakened Babylonian gods? The world may never know. And now, your Video Moment of Zen:
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| The Amazing Area 51-ification of Colin |
[Sep. 23rd, 2009|09:32 am] |
| [ | Posting from: |
| | 39 Darling st | ] |
| [ | I feel: |
| |  godly | ] |
| [ | Listening to: |
| | Lots of Ska (duh) | ] |
Ah, *Wrestlemania*. It's moments like this that I sit back and reflect on all the hours that I've spent hiding away from homework in the depths of your awesomeness. Let's all take a moment to raise our glasses and silently thank the Gods (flying spaghetti things), the Mods (me) and the Clods (rabid readers) that make the Herculean effort that is the Big *W* happen.
How many times have we all come together to laugh at my inability to get a girl? How many times have we spiritually united the human race through comments that run the gamut from insightful to insincere? Lord knows that there have been to many epicly awesome pictures (ex: see above) to ever count. While keeping the entire epicacity of the essence of *Wrestlemania* in mind, let's all sit back, relax and pay tribute to what scientists are already calling "the coolest fucking shit ever":
my beard.
I mean honestly, take a moment to bask in its glory, to stand in its awe and to upload it into your cold, emotionless robot hearts (Michael!). And this picture doesn't even capture its full ruggedness either! It has filled out quite nicely and even required several trimmings in the month or so since that photo. But how did it all start? Every ancient civilization has myths and legends about the creation of CJak's Beard, but the real origins are shrouded in mystery.... UNTIL NOW!!!!!
Seriously, the Big *W* team wishes that there was a fucking awesome story behind it, but the story sucks. I didn't feel like shaving one week right around the end of Summer I because of all the "studying" (aka LotRO playing) I was doing. While it isn't unusual for my personal hygiene to leave something to be desired, the half-beard was almost an instant success. After about two weeks of wallowing in my own scruffy self pity, a girl asked me if I was growing a beard because that would be "really cool!"
...and that's how it all started! But to my surprise, the new beard wasn't exactaly getting me any chicks <gasp!>. So I took it one step further. In possibly the boldest move of our generation, I went from this:
to this:
overnight. (Editors Note: Notice the cauliflower ear on the hairless version?) While scores of admirers and well-wishers have approached me and asked me "Colin, how did you do it? How did you become so awesome and rugged virtually overnight!?" To the uninitiated peon I simply reply, "By growing a beard and cutting my hair, stupid." But for you rabid *Wrestlemania* readers, as an apology for not posting for most of the summer, I'll let you in on the real, Top Secret, Area 51 truth: Aliens abducted me, probed me, put me in a time-capsule where I aged three years overnight, probed me again for good measure and then let me go.
Crazy huh? On a side note, you've all just had your minds erased to leave no lasting memory of this information. Sorry about that, the regulations around here are teh lame. Anyways, I've spent just about enough time running away from my reading assignments and map quiz so this is where the ride ends! *Wrestlemania* thanks you for your time and wishes you well in any future endeavors that you undertake. And now, your Video Moment of Zen (that hopefully won't get taken down by the powers that be):
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| Oh shit |
[Jul. 19th, 2009|08:10 am] |
Two days ago I took a shit. This isn’t exactly newsworthy or even noteworthy as I have taken many shits before and will, in all likelihood, continue to shit for a good long time. Even though the bowel movement itself didn’t distinguish itself from the scores of dumps I’ve taken before, the reading material that I happened to browse during my minutes on the crapper did oddly effect my week. Until just now I couldn’t quite figure out how (or why) Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul touched me, but I’m just about ready to take a crack at it.
Like the countless other 90’s spin-offs of the inspirational (and lucrative) collection of essays Chicken Soup for the Soul, Writer’s Soul intentionally targets a specific audience. Like Teenage Soul, Women’s Soul, Mother’s Soul etc. Writer’s Soul attempts to wrest cold hard cash from those that identify themselves as both a writer and in need of a spiritual recharge. I understand this, I’m not stupid. That’s why it troubled me when I finally realized that I had read one Writer’s Soul essay and leafed through a handful of others. “Wtf did I read that for?” I asked myself, “I think these books are dumb.” The bathroom had plenty of other crappy (pun) books that I could have read, and it seemed unlikely that aliens would use their mind control rays to force me to read that particular book in a fiendish attempt to destroy all refined forms of literature. Deep in my twisted and perverse subconscious there had to be a good god damned reason that I grabbed that stupid book.
But why? “I’m not a writer so why would I read an ‘inspirational’ essay for stupid fucks that don’t know how to write?” asked my keen inner monologue. Sure as shooting I read it though and I couldn’t figure out why. Yeah I’ve written a few songs, attempted fan fictions on occasion, posted on a music blog and owned, maintained and profited from *Wrestlemania* for years, but none of that counts as “writing,” right?
Since 10th grade I’ve written *Wrestlemania* as a hobby, writing only about what I want to simply because I enjoy doing it. What started out as something extremely juvenile, poorly constructed, and seldom read gradually turned into something read by friends and well-wishers that approached actual writing. Now (this update is a perfect example) updates can take weeks to form in my head and days to get down on paper. Believe it or not I actually spend hours laboring over the language, style and content (don’t forget the Moments of Zen!) of the Big *W*, probably to a fault. Somewhere along the line I started actually “writing” updates instead of just posting them. Right about now, you, the rabid *Wrestlemania* reader, may want to ask me “What’s the fucking point brah?” Good question, because I do have one. I may not be a Hemmingway, a Steinbeck or even a B-list online videogame journalist, but the fact of the matter is that somehow I became a writer in some, very limited, capacity. It may not be literature or high journalism but it is writing and apparently it’s what I like to do. I can’t believe it took reading an essay on the shitter to make me realize that. And now, your Moment of Zen:
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| Kit Carson 4 Life! |
[May. 27th, 2009|07:22 pm] |
Great men (but not women) have filled the annals of history with great last words. “Don’t give up the ship!”, “Does Jefferson live?” and other memorable lines survive just from my 11th Grade history class. But it wasn’t until I stumbled upon Cracked.com’s 11 Most Badass Last Words Ever Uttered which turned me onto the epic last words of Che Guevara, Voltaire, random serial killers and accused witches. My personal favorite was North County’s own Kit Carson who immortalized the phrase “I wish I had time for one more bowl of chili.” My thoughts exactly Kit.
All this talk about dying and last words reminded me of some writer (90% sure it wasn’t Oscar Wilde) that my sister told me about who composed his dying words months before he actually bit the bullet so that he knew they’d be quality. Isn’t that badass? So here at *Wrestlemania*, we’ve come to the conclusion that it’s never too soon to start thinking about your dying breath… even if you’re in your twenties.
But what does one look for in a good set of last words? Should it be funny or serious, terse or longwinded, pessimistic or inspiring? What about that indescribable characteristic that will make posterity look back and say “Holy shit bro, siq last words!”? And exactly how many allusions are too many? I’m going with Chaucer.
These are the ponders that I’ve been pondering over the last few hours. I mean, I only get one shot at my dying words, so I know that I can’t fuck around with this. I don’t want to go out shitting my pants like a total bitch. I want to go out with the same stylish flair that sums up my rock-n-roll lifestyle… but that’s about all that I’ve come up with. Oh, and it should have LOLcats, lots and lots of LOLcats.
Alas, these are just the ramblings of a sober bloggist who hasn’t had enough caffeine. Unless I want to die saying “It was me. I did all the poops,” this subject deserves a lot more beer and attention. Oh, what about, “Soy locos por los CornBalls!” Do you think that would be too obscure? I’ll get back to you guys after I do some serious drinking (Simpsons did it!). And now, your Moment of Zen:
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| She tries so hard... |
[May. 20th, 2009|08:57 pm] |
| [ | Posting from: |
| | Au Bon Pain | ] |
| [ | Listening to: |
| | Op Ivy bootlegs | ] |
Everyone, this is Tim:
He's drunk and wearing a Street Fighter IV headband. Sometimes we call him Tim Othy for kicks. We went to Poway High together and do a pretty good job of staying in touch and talk almost weekly about. Topics range wildly, but we usually focus on the things that piss us off, like stupid people, blue condoms and crappy video games, and often Collegehumor.com comes up since we're both somewhat avid fans of the site. The articles are often insightful and the original sketches can be quite humorous. Yet I digress.... or do I?
This evening I got a text from Tim: "Lol, your mom's into american idol too?"
Since I just started telling all of my friends a funny anecdote about my Mom and American Idol, I figured that I had just told him so I texted back: "yeah i was in theater with one of the guys on it zomg" When I realized that I hadn't told Tim that story yet... but I had submitted it to College Humor's weekly "Parents just Don't Understand" column a few days ago!!
Bam! Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen, I've been published on Collegehumor.com. What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Probably a lot of hookers 'n' blow, then die in a blaze of glory at 30. But I don't really have any concrete plans other than going to DisneyLand and then Amsterday to celebrate. Or should I go to Amsterdam first? Whatever, now that I'm a published internet author up there with the likes of Strong Bad and Daxflame, I think I do deserve a hard earned break from the rat race of school and life. So I'll see you bitches later! And now, your Moment of Zen:
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| Life in the old lane |
[May. 13th, 2009|09:05 am] |
| [ | Posting from: |
| | Library | ] |
| [ | Listening to: |
| | Skatastic! | ] |
A while back I got pizza on Newbury St. with Eric and Desmond. While we ate our slices I heard this 30 something guy having a conversation with his lunch companions that went something like "See, everyone talks about Pearl Jam and Nirvana, but Sound Garden is so underrated! Chris Cornell is a fucking genius!" It instantly reminded me of the Simpsons episode where Homer volunteers to drive the school carpool and lectures all the kids on how rock achieved perfection in 1977. I couldn't find the clip... so here's another one from the same episode that also illustrates my point:
With Rancid releasing what some allege to be their final album, I've been feeling pretty old lately. I wonder how long it'll be before I'm walking down the street wearing a BR shirt and someone snickers at my "dinosaur band" shirt (... if that doesn't happen already). How many more years will I be able to use my "scoot-it-away-now" parody of a famous Chili Peppers song in wrestling practice? Am I going to be that teacher with ancient band posters hanging in his room that lectures kids on what good music is?
The fact that Brian and I can't wrestle around for more than a half hour without feeling like we're "too old for this", despite the fact that we're both in our "early twenties", only compounds my fears of becoming "that old guy." I'm only 21 and my best athletic years are behind me, what else do I have to look forward too? I mean, look at those guns
not bad at all... Even now, every time I hang out with Bobby we always manage to talk about the "good old days" when we still competed. How long is it before I'm standing around telling kids about that one time back in 1965 when I tied the senior Captain of my high schools local rival! Did you know they had ties back in those days? That was before overtime... (please tell me someone gets that joke).
But alas, there's but naught that my decrepit old bones can do! This is why I whole heartedly support euthanization, and demand one if I somehow manage to not die in a blaze of glory before I'm thirty. I hope you all enjoyed this very, very emo first *Wrestlemania* of the summer! I'll talk to the staff and try to get some more hilarious posts for later. And now, your video Moment of Zen:
PS:Bonus points to anyone that can guess who the wrestler in the blue shirt is
EDIT: (5/14) Made the video actually work. Watch it. |
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| Chicanery for Two |
[Apr. 20th, 2009|10:34 am] |
| [ | Posting from: |
| | ABP | ] |
| [ | Listening to: |
| | Elevator music | ] |
In case you (the uninitiated reader) do not know, my hair is irresistible.
See? Over the years I have grown all to accustomed to complete strangers diving hand first into my billowing majestic mane. At first I minded, but I quickly noticed that it's usually cute girls that do it and it gives me a chance to use my patented line "You know, most people ask first!" Despite the fact that no one ever asks, it usually does the trick and gets a conversation started so I kinda stopped caring eventually. I got a little disturbed the first time that a guy did it to me, only to instantly discover that using my stock joke can (and does) take him down a notch and make me look all the cooler in the eyes of his female companionship. The point is, I've got used to people touching me without asking... which I think is a little sad.
However, I have never gotten used to strangers touching my toys without asking me.
I've had a few parties at my Hemenway St. apartment over the last two semesters and at first I was slightly embarrassed about my Transformer collection and my comic book posters. Taking down the posters would have been too much effort so at first I just cleverly hid my robot warriors. I put my hats over my Grimlock bust, discretely transformed Soundwave into tape deck mode etc, etc. Eventually as my self confidence grew I left them out in their full majesty for everyone to see. Sometimes that didn't work out too well with one comical instance of a girl looking up at me and saying "Wait, why do you have so many action figures?" but I was okay with that risk.
But you know what I'm not fucking okay with? Every emm-effing time I have people over I wake up to find all of my Transformeres in the wrong places and halfway through pathetic attempts at transformations. Devil Gigatron (pictured above) gets this, head and shoulders above his brethren, the worst. Not only is he large and has a lot of small moving pieces, but he has about a dozen different transformations. Early in the year I would put him into Hand mode, Bat mode or even my personal favorite Double Dragon mode only to return and find him an indistinguishable mess of arms, wings and missile launchers. This alone has kept me from bringing my beloved God Fire Convoy to school.
Often I'll catch assholes in the act of defiling my prized collection. In a unique and impressive mixture of contempt and confusion, I'll glare at them until they notice my presence. Usually they just look up and smile at me, then fervently return to the mischief. When I explain to them that I'd rather they not fuck my shit up, I get a whole bevy of excuses ranging from the didn't know that I lived there (goddamn Freshmen) to "It's okay, I know what I'm doing!" despite an assload of evidence to the contrary. One time Nick Friend even brought up the upcoming Transformer movie to try and change the subject. Christopher Coury seems to be the only one that respects my authority and has even cautioned retards against fucking with my shit. He regulates and it makes me happy. If only the rest of humanity would show some compassion by leaving my hardworking tools of mass destruction alone.
I would ramble on incoherently for another page or so usually, but I have to get back to salvaging what remains of Black Convoy. And finals, I kinda have to study for those. In conclusion, I'm more comfortable with complete strangers pawing and groping me than I am with them playing with my action figures. Happy 420 everyone. And now, your Moment of Zen:
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| It's a road I have not found... |
[Apr. 11th, 2009|10:57 am] |
| [ | Posting from: |
| | InfoCommons | ] |
| [ | Listening to: |
| | Pandora / Youtube | ] |
Let's be honest, the last few posts have more or less been about my comically tragic failure of a love life. All of you rabid fans love it and think it's hysterical, and that's great because I enjoy the attention. Still, I really don't want to turn this into a place where I just whine about how much my life sucks and how girls are so confusing... that's what my emo ukulele songs are for. I really feel like *Wrestlemania* is in a phase where its verging on becoming some kind of website and I need to spend my time honing my blogging skills in this critical period. That being said, we all need to pull together as blogger and bloggees because I've found my future wife!
Her name is Emily, she likes hamsters and does pretty fucking epic acoustic Bad Religion covers. She strikes that perfect balance in covers by staying true to the original source material while still infusing her own style and making it unique. Musically she actually is really good but she's also a good showman... and by that I mean she really cultivates that "I'm a cute girl that's into punk!" aura very well. Although she can over do it a little bit: Oliver and I both agree that she really could just use a tripod instead of having her boyfriend walk the camera round her and do close-ups while she makes "hott" faces.
All things aside (we'll deal with her already having a boyfriend later) I really do think that she's perfect for me. Let's ignore the fact that I've had bad luck with girls that like BR and that I know almost nothing about her. I know all the important stuff and the rest are just going to be little surprises along the way that a healthy dose of stalking will fix! So get to work Big *W* fans! I'm not paying you to sit on your asses and read my blog, we all have to make sacrifices if we want this to happen!
All of here on the *Wrestlemania* staff just wanted to get that off of our chests and onto the World Wide Weberverse for all to see. We promise that this will be the last "I met a girl!!!1!" post for a while... I don't want Emily to get the wrong idea about my level of commitment to our relationship. Other than that, if you haven't already heard about my epic exploits that were too explicit to blog about, you need to give me a call now because I have some stories. Don't shock me bro! And now, your Moment of Zen:
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| No Subject |
[Mar. 18th, 2009|08:05 pm] |
This is Rong:
Rong reads *Wrestlemania*, Rong went to Poway High (oh six!), Rong is Asian, and Rong really tried to get me laid this weekend. I'm not gunna lie, I was a little surprised when I found out that he was coming up to visit me in Boston this weekend, but I was really stoked. All of his friends came out with him this time, but we did manage to get some alone time every now and again. One last piece of background, Rong of course has read and talked with me about the most famous *Wrestlemania* ever- the one where I almost asked out the DBZ girl at the game store.
Anyways, when I we met for IHOP in Harvard Yard the other day I figured it would be a good time to drop into the New England Comics branch there and see if they have Batman: Year One (don't ask why I need it...). They didn't have it, but the girl behind the counter was really helpful and she offered to have it held on reserve at or shipped from one of the other Boston area locations and it was the kind of situation that if I were supposed to leave a tip, I gladly would. So we walked out empty handed and Rong instantly turned to me and said
"Dude, you should really go back there and get her number!"
I told him that I appreciated his effort and that while she was really nice, helpful and surprisingly well read (in the comic sense) that she wasn't exactaly my type. But I did thank him relentlessly for keeping a good eye out and for remembering an awesome *Wrestlemania*. Later that night we went to get some Clam Chowda at Quincey Market with his Cornell friends and while they were parking the car Rong and I stepped into the Newbury Comics there. Now I hate Newbury Comics because it's fake, overpriced and staffed by morons... but I wanted the comic so I gave it a shot.
Since this store was huge we went up to the counter to ask if they could check if they had to comic and this pretty good looking redhead was working there. I smiled and nicely asked "Do you guys have Batman: Year One in stock?"
She looked confused for a second and then ventured "Is that a comic?" Apparently the absolutely dejected look I gave her revelaed my true thoughts- "Yes, oh god I hate coming to this place" - because she instantly responded "Right... I just started here" in a very apologetic voice. She must have stumbled through the computer system for a solid five minutes looking for it, the whole while "Homer vs. the City of New York" was playing on the TV.
I sang along to the entire "Checking In" song before I, in defeat, asked her to just point me towards the trade book section so that I could just look for myself... to which- remember she works at a comic book store- she asked "Trade books?"
Sigh. I picked up the compulsory copy of The Watchemen they had at the counter and said "they're thick, like this." At that, she pointed me in the right direction and I found the comic. I paied for it and vowed to never step foot in that place again. I was still shaking my head as we walked out, but before the door could even shut behind us Rong excitedly was like "Dude! You should ask her out. She was smiling and laughing like the whole time you were singing and stuff!" I appreciate the effort, but I'll hold out for someone that isn't a retard. And now, thank Chris Coury for your Moment of Zen:
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| Let's go! |
[Feb. 26th, 2009|09:22 am] |
From www.rancidrancid.com :
I know this is weeks old news for anyone that pays attention to the music industry, but Rancid is touring (rumored with Rise Against) and they finished recording their album. And boom goes the dynamites. And now, your Moment of Zen:
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