The cable and internet have been down in my apartment for a few hours now and I'm about to run through the fucking wall head first. Here and there I'm able to bareback on my neighbor's wireless signal, but things aren't looking promising. Fortunately for the loyal List readers I'm a consummate professional, filing reports from the battle zone.

I'm not saying it's the end of the world, but I was gonna go see "The Road" this week and now I think I'll pass if I even live that long. I don't need to watch a movie about the apocalypse, I'm living through it. I wonder how many cans of green beans the old lady downstairs has in the cupboard?

Turns out the cable guy can't get here till tomorrow (Waiting for the Cable Guy). My girlfriend has a gun in the closet with only two bullets left. If the guy doesn't get here soon to fix this shit I'm hoping she has the courage to do the right thing and take me out first.

Now here's a holiday that Americans deserve. How many other days of the year do we give ourselves the chance to eat way too much, lay on the couch watching sports and fume with barely concealed disdain for our loved ones? Two fifty? Three fifty tops?

Being that it's almost Thanksgiving, I figured I'd put together a few recommendations for the inevitable Yankee Swap you'll begrudgingly take part in over the next few weeks. The gifts for these things almost always suck. Christmas ornaments, a giant nutcracker, OOHHH a Starbucks card!, DVDs, a bottle of booze.

If one has to participate, one can suppose that those things are all pretty safe bets. But ask oneself this: would one be excited about taking any of those home? One would not.

Here's a little tip for everyone, just go to the ICA museum store and pick out something somewhat decent. That Gin and Titonic ice cube set or some weird little book that whoever can put on their coffee table to feign having cultured interests. Maybe the Dylan Christmas album if your group is ironic or whatever. But do the rest of us a favor, fuck off with that ceramic Dunky's cup that looks like a styrofoam cup please.

People have been making stupid predictions for about as long as people have been talking. Over the past century or so there have been some pretty notable ones:

"Who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" -- H. M. Warner, Warner Brothers, 1927.

"I think there is a world market for maybe five computers." -- Thomas Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943.

"We don't like their sound, and guitar music is on the way out." -- Decca Recording Co. rejecting the Beatles, 1962.

"If I make a website dedicated to calling bullshit on minor social grievances, a lot of people will read it and everyone will finally like me." -- Me, crying in bed at night, 2009

It's no secret that no one has any idea what they're talking about when it comes to anything.

Yeah, so a while back we called Lady Gaga a "busted Jersey skank with a few funky beats. Like Blossom with an eating disorder." And while that's all still pretty true and pretty awesome and this daffy bird's performance art project is about as contrived as my years studying poetry in grad school, we're gonna have to print an official correction based upon further evidence coming to light, namely that "Bad Romance" jam. That shit makes me want to put on a pink Darth Vader mask and dance karate Jean Baudrillard's skeleton in the nuts with a pan flute.

Sorry to anyone who may have been offended by it, or anything, ever.

Just a sample of some of the Google searches that have pointed people toward our fine establishment the past couple days:

I would never advocate people hurting one another (unless some guy sort of looks at you funny on the street or something, in which case he was asking for it). But if there are any, say...bears or sharks out there reading this site , please eat this chicken hawk piece of shit's face off. Thanks!

If I've learned anything from the increased length of a certain part of my anatomy (penis) and my full head of lustrous, magic hair, it's that all you need to do to fix any conceivable problem is to send some asshole a hundred bucks a month over the internet.

I've got a friend who's smoked for twenty years and he swears by these things after about a week in, so maybe they do work, but I'm still skeptical. My schedule is already pretty filled up with constantly recharging the batteries of a dozen different bullshit devices already, now I've got to plug my dukes into the wall as well? This shit is like a condom for your lungs, and feels just about as natural.

There's just no such thing as a healthy cigarette, and wanting to kill yourself is part of the charm of smoking in the first place. If I wanted to live forever I'd buy a pill for that off an infomercial.

Walmart is running a new commercial that continues the tired tradition of mythologizing our interventionist policy in the Middle East, showing troops in the desert who are elated when it begins snowing, (fulfilling a child's wish back in the US.) It suggests that the troops should be in our thoughts this Christmas. This is to say that by our thinking about the troops here, we are supporting them there, where they are being shot at and getting their limbs blown off by land mines. Perhaps by our thinking about the troops and therefore supporting them, Santa Claus will get in his sleigh and drop a magical force field around them which is impermeable to machine gun fire!

It's unclear how certain Americans still manage to be manipulated by this preposterously simple minded and deeply flawed message after all these years of it being abused by our government and whatever other entities seek to profit from war (thereby of course doing exactly the opposite of supporting the troops). In reality, there are two ways to support the troops. One is by sending them more troops, decreasing, perhaps only slightly, the dangerous environment in which they are operating. The other one is to pull them out of the Middle East completely and bring them home to their families and station them here in the US so they can protect us in case anyone attacks us which no one ever will.

So you can petition your congressmen to do either of those things if you want to support the troops, or you can shop at Walmart and keep wishing for magic. Either one really.

Alternatively, you could make like the patriotic young ladies in the image up there and send them a nice, firm boner for Christmas. At least that's something they can use.

The shopping thing, not the Steely Dan song, but come to think of it... Anyway, imagine how soul-crushing life must be if you actually partake in this bullshit? For those not in the know, this is when WalMart and whoever else open their stores at 6am on the day after Thanksgiving.

People actually wait in line, starting at about 4am, so they can trample through the WalMart like a herd of elephants and snag one of the $6 dvd players that are on sale. I'm not done crunching the numbers and such, but I have to think that anything WalMart is willing to part with for $6 is probably a piece of shit.

Of course that's really the least of the issues here. Isn't it really more a commentary on the current capitalistic set up, where people who are poor because all of the manufacturing jobs that they qualify for have been sent overseas so in some perverse twist of fate, they are now literally trampling their fellow Americans to death trying to get their hands on the very products which have placed them in this situation? Well I don't know if that's entirely the case, but this dude outside of the Park Street T station has really informative pamphlets on this if you want to know more. Also says he used to be a writer. Not sure what that means. Anyway, Merry Christmas poor people!

Over here in the fantasy liberal land where I live we're not exactly fans of -- what do you call it? -- oh, right, blowing up other people in giant fireballs of destruction. But I know that serving in the military is a hard job, and I certainly couldn't do it. I couldn't even last eight hours in an office cubicle, never mind months in the desert or whatever. The mere thought of having to go out to a bar and socialize with people renders me a quivering mess of anxiety. 95% of veterans are the type of people who could eat little shits like me for breakfast then punch that breakfast in the face. My back hurts if I haven't had Starbucks in the last three hours. So, nice one, soldiers, protecting us from the evil doers and dragons that are perpetually poised to fall upon American soil and steal our women and money and our women's money.

But it's important to take a moment on a day like this to remember the real heroes. No, not the hard asses doing a tough job that probably isn't ideal. I'm talking about the brave men and women who go the extra mile. The ones who affix stickers to their cars, and stick little novelty American flags all over every square inch of their shit. The people who want everyone else to know very, very much how hard they support the troops. Bravo, sirs and madames. You're like these dudes you see walking around in pro sports jerseys, except the team you support is fucking America, land of the free, home to tons of kickass eagles and jets that fly over car races. You are the real patriots here, because the idea that your team could lose doesn't just seem unlikely, it has never even occurred to you. There's nothing more American than that.

Not knowing how to use chopsticks at least a little at this point in your life is embarrassing. Then again, if you've ever had the misfortune to come across the alien hieroglyphics that pass for most Americans' handwriting these days it's not exactly a surprise that we're lagging in our digital motor skills. Hands are pretty much for smashing emoticons into keyboards, holding cigarettes in front of our faces and wiping cheese off our jaw at this point.

But even worse than that is wielding chop sticks with an air of accomplishment and making sure everyone at the table sees you in action. John fucking Bonham over there doing stick twirls and shit. It's not really that commendable of a skill. Ten billion Chinese people do it every day. You haven't mastered the cello, just spent ten minutes squeezing wood between your fingers in just the right way.*

Your sensitivity to multiculturalism is commendable though. You a full professor of stuffing rice in your mouth yet, or just an instructor?




* he he

Goddammit. This should go over well. Thanks for breaking America in half again asshole.

Probably my own fault for turning on CNN but last night I was trying to find out whether Maine had overturned gay marriage (SPOILER: they did). Anyway, CNN, the worldwide leader in news, had Larry King and a former professional wrestler/star of Predator/former Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura to at least partially cover this story.

Hey, big election night tonight, is Jake the Snake booked? FUCK, get me Ventura!!!!!

My point is, Predator has two governors in it. Think about that before saying the pledge of allegiance in the morning, kids.

I can think of no gesture so empty, and so callous, as freeing your slaves after you die. I’m looking at you here, Thomas Jefferson. It is profoundly selfish, not to mention absolutely inhumane, to wait until your long life expires and THEN free your slaves. Now what, your wife has to work those fields herself? Your kids, too? So self-centered.

Being in a parking garage. Not instantly walking the eff out of there and going about your business. Noticing a car has its window down a little bit. A Toyota Fucking Corolla. Strolling up to the car to get a better look. Figuring out some way to work that slightly open window into getting the door open. Getting up in there. Realizing there isn't much of value to take. Taking some dude's dry cleaning off the hanger in the back anyway. Taking that shit with you. Dying of swine cancer.

These fucks. This whole fucking thing. I can see getting your shit took if it actually has some value here, but we're talking about my 2nd and 3rd string GAP button-downs. Not exactly a high street value. Fuck you very much Boston Medical Center Parking Garage. I hope someone steals all your doctors.

Is it just me or is stealing a man's dry cleaning a little weird. Not to be racist or whatever, but that shit is also just a little bit gay. Like literally. Anyway, at least I only had to sit in the dentist chair for 4 hours while the half-wit pussy Dr. Jigsaw mangled the shit out of my face bones with a drill. It could have been a worse night I suppose.

Don't we all spend enough time going through the motions with our friends, families, loved ones, careers, meals, landscaping, hygiene, etc? Exercise or don't. How about that maybe?

I just walked by a homeless dude I've given change to many a time in Harvard Square burning through a sheet of scratchies like his fucking house was on fire. Except he doesn't have a house, but you know what I mean. This shit was about as depressing as watching a homeless guy burn through a sheet of scratch tickets.

The look on this guy's mug though. Sweet merciful Mcgillicutty. Like a Japanese pederast at a hentai convention. I made the mistake of looking my man in the eye on the way through and -- Mary Fucking Mother of God -- those buzzing peepers froze me in my tracks like Medusa.

On the plus side though at least I understand the thinking behind that whole government bailout of the banks that went down a while back now. Except instead of taking my money and pissing it away on golden umbrella holders and diamond encrusted butt plugs like those crooked banker cunts, my man here just takes the money and then pisses in the corner over there by the CVS. Call it even I suppose. That's just basic economics at work.

Anyone who turns on ESPN for even five seconds should always be prepared to get milk-blasted in the face by the fertile, swinging teets of the List Wolf. But even knowing that I was sort of taken aback by what I just saw. Some slick reporter in driving gloves sets up outside the Eagles stadium with a crowd of fans gathered behind him to hype the upcoming game. So far nothing too egregious (although clamoring to get on screen from the back of a crowd at one of these things is pretty bad). So the douche tosses back to his back-slapping boys in the studio, but before he does he holds up a prop for all to admire and takes a bite while the crowd cheers for it. If you can't guess what it was then you've probably never heard anyone talk about Philadelphia for more than zero seconds. That's right, dude was chomping on a Philly Cheese Steak.

That's weird enough in the first place. Why would a reporter decide to get a quick snack in at that moment? I mean aside from most reporters' reflexive, ingrained penchant for knee jerk cliche. But he was wielding this shit like a conquering knight hoisting Excalibur over a crowd of trembling serfs. And to make things worse, he took the phoniest bite I've ever seen before in my life (and I've been out to dinner with plenty of dudes on secret chaz trying to tough it out through a fancy dinner), then he flashed this proud, self-satisfied, shit-eating grin.

Come to think of it, he could just as well have literally been eating a shit sandwich with cheese so long as it was excrement of the homegrown Philly variety, because that's what they were worshiping here. Not the food itself, but the idea that it comes from somewhere some people happen to be tangentially related to in some convoluted way or that comes from a neighborhood they've walked through a few times.

Every region has something like this. Buffalo makes the best chicken wings oh my god guys! And the tacos in Southern California? You have never lived until you've tried one! Bratwurst in Chicago am I right? New York City Pie!!!111!! And the South has like, what, Mountain Dew baby formula? Not sure on that one. In Boston we've got seafood and beans. We even called this dump Beantown for a while. (Think about that one for a second). But Philly is the absolute worst. We get it already dudes. You put cheese-whiz on the steak. When they cut to a shot of a crowd in Boston at some sporting event you don't see kids jumping in front of the camera with lobsters clamped on our tits.

The world, in case you haven't noticed, has become very small. And while regional differences still exist, it's safe to say that by this point the recipes for mass-produced, bourgeoisie comfort food aren't top secret anymore. I could walk down the street right now and find a half dozen restaurants with an African born German chef who trained at the top sushi restaurants in Paris serving a traditional Spanish peasant's stew he learned about traveling through Italy. It's probably not that hard to mimic the drizzling fake cheese over shaved steak techniques we all remember so fondly from some turd-water diner in Philly.

It's the same instinct at work here that is responsible for a lot of List-worthy behavior. Just because you have fond memories of something doesn't mean it was the same life-changing shit for everyone else. Just because your first time trying something happened in a specific location doesn't mean those were the ideal circumstances under which all subsequent similar experiences must be held in comparison.

The first time I ever learned how to jerk off was by playing around with some sun tan lotion accidentally when I was young. That doesn't mean it's ok for me to get a boner every time I smell coconut for the rest of my life. I mean, I still do, but it's not ok.