who dat? contest.
left column plotting comeback...
I'm not a quitter, but this Esquire article, THE LIFE LIST: 175 THINGS A MAN SHOULD DO BEFORE HE DIES, is trying my patience.
"And ours, Stee."
OK, we got to 100 last time. Only 75 to go. Plus cutting out the blatantly stupid attempts to be clever, we should be able to finish.
Do a spit take. My first girlfriend did a spit take one night. Ruined my grandmother's afghan.
Once, watch yourself on television, so that you know what you look like on television. Then stop. So this is to say that a real man would not want to be an actor, I imagine. Fuck your mom.
Sleep with someone you work with. In the boss's office. Then stop. Visit my office. Walk around the floor. Ah, look at all the lonely people. Then you'll understand why this will not happen.
Get an HIV test. Check.
Change careers. Still waiting for mine to start. But no, will not change.
Change diapers. Yeah, I have. And yeah, it is pretty gross. Less gross if it's your kid, I imagine. Right? I hope?
Get in touch with a long-lost friend. I do that a lot. I don't like to lose people. The few I have, they generally needed to get lost.
Call the person you think you've most wronged. Apologize. Hmmm. I'd really have to think about that one. I guess it would probably be a girl. And the one I'm thinking of, she probably would not take my call in the first place.
When appropriate, return a bottle to the sommelier. (But only when appropriate.) I could order a 100 dollar bottle of wine, receive a 4 dollar bottle of wine, and not know the difference. I'm not proud of that fact, it's just a fact. Like the fact that Esquire is a very stupid magazine.
Refuse to pay for a lousy meal. If the service was especially offensively rude, or the food was totally fucked up. But otherwise, I'd probably let it go, and just never go there again.
Stiff a bad waiter. Would.
Give a panhandler a hundred bucks. Maybe if I suddenly came into a lot of money, but right now? No way.
Take a vacation without a camera. I'm not a huge camera person anymore. I built a darkroom a few years back and used to shoot all the time, but I've slacked. And I know one day I'll come back to it.
Take a vacation without making reservations. I would so do this. Rambling is one of my favorite things. It drives some people crazy, but I like to let the wind blow me sometimes. Blow me. Ha.
Take a vacation without a guidebook. I don't even know what a guidebook is.
Let her drive. I actually generally like to be in control of the wheel. But if she's a good driver, great. All too many times, however, I've been in a car with someone and had this really unsafe feeling... and then boom, we've gotten into an accident. Most girls I've met would rather have me drive. On roadtrips it's great. I can drive with my knees so my hands are free to do other things... Like knitting, you dirty-minded people.
Roast a pig. I don't eat the white man's pork.
Learn to play the accordion. (At your house, windows closed.) What's next, making fun of mimes?
Punch a mime. (Just kidding. I made that up.)
Take a blond to the fights at the Garden. I once took a brunette to a women's tennis match at the Garden. These lesbians behind us traded lesbian porn and talked about Steffi Graff's ass the whole time.
Throw a punch. I can throw an ottoman.
Take a punch. I have. Not much fun.
Break up a row. A row of what?
Be the most charismatic man in the room. (Somewhere other than McSorley's, where such a thing can be achieved most every day.) OK, that's kinda funny if you've ever been there.
Patent something. Every goddamn invention I come up with has already been patented. Like the Topsy-Tail: that shit was SO my idea.
Sail, among the seals and orcas, through Alaska's Prince William Sound from Valdez to Whittier before it's too late. I did that! I was 10 at the time, but I did that. Motherfuckers.
See Aerosmith before it's too late. Oh that is just rich! You are so bad!
Call in to Firing Line and argue William F. Buckley Jr. into a corner, the bastard. Shit, I'm sorry. I keep forgetting not to write these ones down. My bad.
Kiss your dad. I kissed your mom last night, does that count?
Have a suit custom-made. Maybe when I buy my second suit ever, I'll do just that.
Have shoes custom-made. With my big-ol' honking feet, I almost need to.
Pass down your favorite cuff links to your son. Not owning favorite cuff links, or a son, I can't do that. But recently I gave my favorite illegal Mexican immigrant half-cousin my baseball mitt.
Hike the Grand Canyon. I would love to.
Eat food you've grown. I've smoked weed I've grown.
Eat food your neighbor has grown, without his permission, at night, and let the juice dribble down your chin. I once "ate" the daughter of my neighbor, without his permission, at night, and let the juice dribble down my chin.
Eat psilocybin mushrooms. No.
Pass up an opportunity to attend the Burning Man festival. I have. And I will again and again.
Join a picket line. Never have. My dad was on strike all the time, being a teacher. I thought it looked very very boring.
Volunteer at a soup kitchen. I never have.
Write a sensuous letter to a prison inmate. (Use somebody else's name and return address.) Fuck with prisoners: now that's fucking hysterical.
Swim beyond the breakers. As I said before: I don't fuck with the ocean, the ocean doesn't fuck with me.
Free ball. I suppose they mean go without underwear. That's cool, more than cool, for women. (Hell, it's incredibly sexy.) But for guys? No thanks. Maybe on laundry day.
Cook chateaubriand for twenty. I can make coq au vin for two. That's about it.
Perfect the mixing of a killer cocktail. Make this your signature drink. I can make a very strong Jack and coke. Plus, I can open a beer like a motherfuck.
Kill something bigger than you. No.
Sign over a full paycheck to the Make-a-Wish Foundation. Someday.
Call an old girlfriend, the tough one you promised yourself you'd never speak to again. Who hasn't done this?
Fake an orgasm. Why?
Contribute to the production of a woman's orgasm, repeatedly, and make this a higher priority than your own. Yes.
Repair a toaster. Um, can I go back to the above one again?
Coach a team. I probably will, and end up terrorizing and traumatizing the poor kids. Too competitive. End up benching 5 year-olds for the season.
Break up with a woman without another one in the wings. I have a lot to say about this, but I won't.
Pick the music for your funeral. I'd making it something really pretty. And then pick a piece that's ironic, like I Will Survive or some shit. Then something really specific and anachronistic, like the Chicago Bears' Superbowl Shuffle. Then something all spooky like a ghost song so everyone's all, He's Coming Back To Kill Us!!!
Commit an act of civil disobedience. How's yelling at a meter maid?
Commit a prank. I used to LOVE ding-dong-doorbell-ditching. And egging of course. But that's not really a prank, is it?
Buy a hat. What?
Make a million dollars. Oh, I will. Don't you worry.
Cheat death. I'd like to avoid him altogether.
When you get home from work and your kid wants to play ball, play ball. And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon. Little boy blue and the man in the moon...
Help a stranger. It depends with what. With a tire, sure. With killing his Uncle Freddy, probably no.
Get a shave, in a barbershop, with hot lather. I go to only barbers. I tried the fancy haircut places, but ended up paying 60 bucks for just the same fucking haircut. And get this shit: my barber gives you a massage with these vibrating gloves afterwards. But never a handjob. That's the only bad part.
Read a dirty magazine while getting a haircut in a barbershop. Have. But still no handjob.
Entertain the possibility that there is, indeed, a heaven and a hell, and treat people accordingly. I don't understand why one would need the threat of a shitty afterlife in order to treat people with politeness and dignity.
Feel no pressure to do a long list of things before you kick just because you read it in a magazine. Oh, well, phewww! That's a load off.
Except this: One last time with your first girlfriend. Jessica C. Last I heard she was in San Francisco. Doubt that's going to happen.
And this: Live large. Doing it, baby.
And, finally, this: Repeat. Repeat what!? This article!!!?? Please no!!!
...You wanna hear something scary: I'm reading poetry right now. Serious, dude.
Scary things across the water. You'd never know. Till they have their way with you. You won't catch me deep in the water. However much I wanna play with you. Come on, baby. Drive me out of my mind. If I come home alone with you. And see what you do. This is crazy. And nothing more I want to see... speaking of which. The other day I was at the Hollywood Athletic Club shooting pool with Chris Tucker's cousin, John Schneider from the Dukes, and Christina Ricci. Well, Christina was running high on something, at least that's how it appeared to me, and she kept trying these masse shots, doing scary things across the table, and I was like, "Yo baby, you're going to rip the felt". And she's like, "You wish you knew how it felt," and then busting up. So I was all, "Oh honey, I've known how it felt since before you were in 5th grade." I mean, not that I really knew what she was talking about, but I wasn't about to let this little girl punk me in front of Bo Duke. So she walks up to me and, I swear, puts her hand on my balls and says, "Feels like you're not getting much now." Well, I wasn't exactly sure what she meant by that either, but I chose the high road and ran to the bathroom. When I came back I asked Chris Tucker's cousin where Christina Ricci was because I had thought of a great comeback and he says, "Fool, that wasn't Christina Ricci. That was John Schneider's girlfriend." Boy, did I feel like an ass, but really, it wasn't my fault when you think about it, was it?
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