Schitthaus.com

Remember how I said I’d be writing more frequently? Well, I have been. But I haven’t been posting things. I guess because I’m a lazy bum, or a royal procrastinator, or an over-editor. Really any combination of the above works. So I’ve got some stuff to post. Print it up and head to the bathroom, because it’s time for a post purge!

I’m also thinking about disabling the comments because 1) no one uses them and 2) I get spam comments out the ying yang. But, if you’re looking for tramadol I’ve got 250 friends I’d like to introduce you to. Where do I get all of this drug stuff from? I haven’t really posted about drugs, have I?

A few months back I wrote about Knocked Up and how it was actually a chick flick in disguise, or a reverse chick flick. They set you up with some dick and fart jokes, the regular guy gets the chick, then totally trashes his life for this chick who is really just a bitch that he happened to impregnate, which eventually is what makes him happy all along. I felt betrayed and hurt that the man who brought us Anchorman was fucking us over with a movie that basically said that the only way to find happiness was to sell out completely. It made me want to run around in the summer sun and drink milk.

So, with great trepidation, I decided to check out Forgetting Sarah Marshall, the latest movie from the Judd Apatow camp. The ads showed a forlorn guy (Jason Segel from How I Met Your Mother fame) trying to get over his hot ass (but kind of cross-eyed) tv actress ex-girlfriend (Kristen Bell aka Veronica Mars) by going to a Hawaiian resort where he just so happens to run into his ex who is there with her new rock star boyfriend Aldous Snow (played to narcissistic perfection by Russell Brand, some British dude I never heard of). There was certainly a lot of potential for reverse chick flick action.

Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed Knocked Up, but the whole reverse chick flick thing left me kind of hand-shy. I didn’t want to get smacked and scolded about how I’d never find happiness until I gave up everything I loved to make some ho happy. But I had read some things online, and the buzz was convincing enough that I decided to go see it. I was not disappointed.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall (which in my head I’ve called Forgetting Sara Silverman about a hundred times) is a date movie for sure, but it’s not a chick flick. Sure Peter Bretter, a slacker musician that happens to score the fake CSI knock-off that his girlfriend Sarah Marshall stars in, is lazy and goofy, but he’s a good guy. Where Knocked Up made Seth Rogen look like a stoner loser that couldn’t get his life together, this movie shows Peter as a guy that knows where he wants to be, but is tied down by stability: an easy paycheck, a stable, long-term relationship, a comfortable couch. As the movie progresses, a couple of flashback sequences show how Peter was a pretty great boyfriend that happened to suffer from the occasional bout of laziness. Another flashback sequence showed how Sarah really wasn’t all that great. Besides being hot and all, she was mostly a very selfish girlfriend who got worse the more famous she got. Did you see what they did there? They made the guy look good and the girl look bad! What can I say? I like my movies fair and balanced, just like my news.

Back to the plot, after the break-up and a string of unfulfilling one night stands (the best kind of one night stands, really), he jets off to Hawaii to a resort that Sarah always talked about. Well, wouldn’t you know, she’s there on vacation, too! Awkward… Fortunately for Peter he gets bailed out by the exotically hot, yet unappealingly tan, front-desk clerk Rachel (Mila Kunis).

He spends the first part of his vacation wallowing in misery and alcohol. Then he mans up and asks out Rachel, who is a low maintenance free spirit that appears to be hiding out from real life in Hawaii. Rachel takes Peter out for a good time, even coaxing him to do a song from his work-in-progress Dracula rock opera at a local bar.

As Rachel and Peter get closer Sarah realizes that her great new relationship with Aldous isn’t all she hoped for. He’s incredibly shallow and self-centered and doesn’t cater to her like Peter did. Sure, he fucks like Superman, but she starts to pine for Peter, particularly when she notices the burgeoning relationship between him and Rachel.

The rest of the plot you can probably figure out for yourself. Even though it’s a little on the predictable side, the story manages to keep you entertained with the little twists and turns that flesh out the rest of the story.

I’d say the strongest part of the movie is the supporting cast. Apatow regulars like Jonah Hill, Paul Rudd, Bill Hader, and even the girl that put the period blood on Jonah Hill’s leg in Superbad are all here. The resort workers are a riot, with the South Central LA refugee bartender who wants to take Peter snorkeling because it’s “sea turtle fucking season and they get it on for three hours,” and the gigantic but sweet chef that puts the whipped cream or berries on your waffles.

But let’s not forget the newlywed that is deathly afraid of his new wife’s insatiable sex drive played by Jack McBrayer (30 Rock’s Kenneth). I fucking love that guy. The way he always plays the innocent makes me really wonder what he’s like. I like to picture him as a black metal listening sex fiend that spikes his YooHoo with absinthe. He’s a scene-stealer, for sure.

Another interesting aspect of the movie is the relative nonchalance of the sexual matter in the movie. None of the love scenes seem exceptionally lascivious, but they seem very matter of fact and true to life, besides the acrobatic first scene with Sarah and Aldous, which is just ridiculous. The movie even manages to make a blowjob not look totally filthy, which is a rarity in the movies. Something that was once very taboo and solely the realm of sluts and hookers in movies is used in a very commonplace way, much as it is used in peoples’ regular sex lives.

I definitely recommend seeing this movie. It’s a genuinely funny movie with a heart. It’s not the greatest movie of all time or anything, but it’s nice to see that someone made a date movie that’s not a chick flick. But don’t think that they forgot you, ladies. You see Segel’s dong something like three times. Yep, full frontal dongage. Fellas, you’ve been warned.

 So there I am, hunched over the toilet in Fogo de Chao, desperately trying to alleviate the pressure in my stomach by pulling the trigger. I gag but nothing comes up. I feel like I may burst.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Okay, let’s be honest, I could be happier. I could be not deathly full and not trying to make myself throw up. I could be receiving a b.j. whilst playing NCAA Football on the PS3. But despite my urgent stomach pains brought on by my own gluttony I still couldn’t help but smile. Damn, that was a tasty meal.

While on an airplane and flipping through the in-flight magazine, some of the more typical steakhouse ads had been replaced with ads showing smiling fellows holding skewers of meat. “Tell me more about this, smiling man,” I said to the magazine, because apparently I do that from time to time.

Upon further inspection I found that this fellow was a full-fledged gaucho barbecuist at a place known as a Brazilian barbecue. Now I consider myself a fairly well rounded epicurean. I am familiar with many cuisines from around the world, but I have to say that all I really knew about Brazil you could fit on the back of a postcard: soccer, fine women with super-bundas, City of God, Carnival, and that a Brazilian wax is the polite way to request a landing strip from your local neighborhood aesthetician. I knew nothing of their food, but being a junkie for anything barbecue I decided I had to find one of these places and get some meat off of a skewer.

Not more than a month or two after my initial encounter with these ads, my college roommate Andy told me we had to go try this place called Fogo de Chao that just opened up in Baltimore, that it was a Brazilian barbecue, and that you basically get pummeled by a tidal wave of meat. Well, surf’s up. We made the reservations and made our way.

Before I get to the actual Fogo de Chao experience, allow me to dispense some words of advice for the first timer. First, make sure you’ve got plenty of room for food, because there will be a lot there, it will be delicious, and you will want to keep eating it. Second, do not take your lady there if she is vegetarian. (And if you’re a man and you’re a vegetarian I suppose we don’t have too much more to say to each other.) Even if she just sort of likes meat a little bit, it will be a waste of your time and money. This place was designed for red-blooded carnivores. Third, and this is important, DO NOT DRINK YOUR FACE OFF BEFORE GOING! See, when Andy and I get together and there is booze around you might as well put “Louie Louie” on the hi-fi and back up. Someone is getting drunk. This is normally not a bad thing, but you need that gastric real estate for meat.

Thanks to Andy’s wife Christy who served as our designated driver, we made it down to Pratt Street to Fogo de Chao. We pull up to the curb, hand the keys to the valet, and make our way inside. This is a seriously nice looking restaurant. Dark wood seems to be the interior theme. This is not a Golden Corral. It may be all you can eat, but it’s a nice place, so try not to look like an asshole when you go, okay? The lobby was chock full and the restaurant was bustling. You will more than likely need to make reservations. After a few moments we were led to our table. I do not remember this walk. I do remember that there was what appeared to be a salad bar on our right as we made our way in. A walk to the salad bar was, while not out of the question, not really high on my priority list. I have come for the meat, and tons of it. Not to mention that gauchos were scrambling between the tables at breakneck speed while holding sharp metal skewers of meat, so I decided to sit this one out. The wife came back and gave me the scouting report. “Even the salad bar is full of meat,” she reported with bemusement. The ladies returned with white asparagus that I think was wrapped in some kind of cured meat. There was also cured meat by itself and some cheeses, I hear. I’ll have to remember that.

We were seated and asked for our drink orders. Might I recommend the national drink of Brazil, the caipirinha. A caipirinha is a spiritual cousin of the mojito. It features cachaca, (I can’t do the funny looking c thing that looks like an evil c with a beard, but it’s under the third c. Just try to imagine it.) a liquor which is made from sugar cane, much like rum. There is also a preponderance of lime and sugar in there, too. I also think that there may have been some mint, but I am not 100% positive as my memory of the drink was fuzzy. What I do remember, though, is that the drink was damn tasty and very refreshing.

At this point the most observant people at your table will notice the disc card sitting next to their plate. One side is red, the other is green. Like most well adjusted children you have probably played Red Light, Green Light. The concept is pretty much the same.  Green means “bring on the meat, gaucho, I am not afraid.” Red means “please stop, sir. Have mercy!” Feeling as though I have waited my whole life for this moment, this circumstance in which I command the flow of meat to my plate in as great of a quantity as I wish, I flip my card to green.

Let’s just say that if these gauchos wanted to have a career in drag racing that they’d be naturals. As soon as the card hit the table four gauchos came up to the table, each with a different skewer of meat. Fogo de Chao serves 15 cuts of meat: top sirloin, bottom sirloin, filet mignon, beef ancho (a spiced ribeye), leg of lamb, pork ribs, pork sausage, chicken, and babies. That’s all I remember, but their website says they’ve got another seven kinds of meat. They will also cut the meat off of different sections depending upon your desired doneness, which really impressed me since they’re literally shaving this meat off of a huge hunk. How do they do that? All of the meat that I had was delicious, tender, juicy, and perfectly spiced. It was everything I hoped it would be.

Then there’s the cheese bread, which is worth the price of admission alone. I am dead serious. They bring out this basket of what looks like little biscuits or popovers and you’re thinking “aw, isn’t that cute.” Then you put one in your mouth and you get punched in the face with a roundhouse of flavor. Holy shit. Seriously. By the end of the meal I was so full but all I wanted was to taste the crispy on the outside, moist/chewy on the inside, “hey, is there bacon in the bread, too?”-ness of that bread one last time. This bread will make you drop kick your mom. Even if the meal was just alright, which it was certainly better than that, I would go back and drop the cash just for the bread.

After a couple of rounds of meat dueling with the gauchos (not nearly as hot or gay as it sounds) the men at the table were looking mighty defeated. There was much rubbing of stomachs and “holy Lord, I have never been so full in my life”s going around. The girls were not finished and they were ready for some dessert. I looked at my wife in horror and disgust. How could she possibly have room for anything else (besides the cheese bread)? She advised that since the girls went to the salad bar and had something besides meat they were not as full, and therefore ready for some dessert. Or maybe she has a tapeworm. The tiny bite of key lime pie I had was very good, so you’ve got that to look forward to if you make it the whole way without bursting.

So all was well and good, then the bill came. I was in no condition to handle finances at this point, I just handed the wad of cash to wifey and told her to handle it. I did not receive much change. I’m not 100% sure, but I think dinner is somewhere in the $42 - $45 range. The caipirinhas were a little pricey, I think. But I don’t remember how much those cost, either. If I were to make a guess I’d say $7 or $8, but they’re a very labor-intensive drink, so I’ll let them slide on the cost. For the two of us we dropped about $120 with tip, but it was totally worth it. The restaurant also features what appears to be a very nice wine selection if that’s your thing as well.

We rose up, significantly less wealthy and more full than when we came. The clientele seemed out for a good time, especially the table of strippers behind us with one of them wearing a tiara. I think it was her birthday. Or she may have been crowned Miss Funbags USA. (Do you like how I remember a detail like that, but I can’t remember significant details like the bill?) I don’t think I’d call Fogo de Chao a good date restaurant. But I would say it’s a good celebration restaurant, for birthdays, promotions, or finally running enough change through the Coinstar to be able to pay for a night at Fogo de Chao. That’s certainly worth celebrating. It’s a bit loud what with all the gauchos running around and strippers in tiaras clucking, and you will not be in the mood to bone after eating there. But it’s a great place to go out with friends and eat heartily. When you go, tell them Josh sent you. Granted, it’s not going to get you any special treatment, but I always wanted someone to say that when they went somewhere.

And please, don’t judge the guy in the next stall over. Trust me on this one, you may be joining him sooner than you think.

What up, ya’ll. Yeah, I’m back, now don’t go getting all goobery on me. Can’t really say that I had a good reason to not write except for maybe that I didn’t really have a good reason to write. Or so I thought. It’s hard to come up with massive posts about pooping and other such trivialities on a regular basis. So here’s the deal. I’m not going to break my neck and only post when I have long ass features. I’m going to do a little more “quick-hit” kind of things and just try to get some content going, but I promise I won’t regale you with dumb ass stories about my pets and stuff, because even I have a hard time getting excited about that stuff. But I’ll still have some features, just not as my regular posts. I have a couple in the pipe (my butt) that are almost ready to post (pull out of my butt), even.

I just want you to come back regularly. And, if you like it send some friends my way. And if you don’t like it eat your own poop. Either way is good with me, really. It’s a win/win on this end.

So that’s the deal. Sorry I’ve been gone so long, but I’ll try to make sure I don’t go running out on you like that again. I know how baby gets lonely. Stay sassy.

One of the reasons I started this whole thing was to be able to talk about significant cultural events: the end of The Sopranos, Barry Bonds becoming the MLB Boom King, shitting at work… You know, the important stuff. So, thanks to 5 lads from Oxford, England I am forgoing my travelogue to talk about yet another significant cultural event: the release of a new Radiohead album.

That’s right, Radiohead has released their seventh proper studio album titled, gaily enough, In Rainbows, but you won’t find this thing where most proper studio albums reside. Sam Goody don’t got it. (Does that place even exist anymore?) Best Buy doesn’t have it. So where can you find this thing? Right about here.

Without a contract with a record label, Radiohead has opted to take the power back and release it themselves over the intarwebz as a download and as a discbox to be released in December, which just sounds bananas. More on that later.

And how much will this download cost you? What would you say if I told you “however much you want,” is that something you might be interested in? In a marketing scheme that is certainly not RIAA approved, you can pay anywhere from $0.00 to a million-trillion dollars for this thing. Well, thank you very much, gentlemen.

So now that you have the tools to get it, just what did you pay (or not pay, as the case more than likely is) for? In short, ten tracks of excellent Radiohead music.

Radiohead is quite a conundrum of a band. From their humble roots as guitar rocking brit-poppers to breathtaking visionary pop virtuosos on the grandest of scales to general documenters of electronic fart noises, Radiohead has run the gamut over their fourteen plus years. Each new album has been the source of great anticipation resulting sometimes in magnificent bliss, sometimes in mild (or great, depending on the day) disappointment. Regardless, no matter what you always got the same thing: Radiohead doing whatever the hell they felt like, and doing it thoughtfully with great effort and detail. No matter your thoughts on any of their albums, you have to hand them that. These guys put as much of themselves in their work as any great painter, chef or San Fernando Valley porno star.

This is the same band that made one of the best albums of all time, OK Computer. (Really, can this even be disputed? I’ve listened to that album hundreds of times and it still gives me chills.) Then, as a follow-up, decided to do just about everything in their power to alienate all of their fans by doing a complete 180 and making rather inaccessible electronic music. I remember the first time I played Kid A. I said aloud “What the fuck is this,” ate some mushrooms and put on OK Computer again. Mission accomplished, Radiohead.

Over time I learned to appreciate Kid A (and it’s follow-up, Amnesiac). You could even say I like these albums a good deal, actually. But every mention of a new song or album always brought with it the same questions: “Did they remember how to play their guitars for this one?” “Is this the return to OK Computer form?” “Who moved my cheese?”

When Hail to the Thief was released I expected little. In fact, I even resigned myself to another album of noisy, atmospheric bleep-bloop futurism. I was almost looking forward to it. Then the chorus to “2+2=5” exploded out of my speakers with potent guitar fury that hadn’t been heard from the band since the beginning of “Airbag,” starting off an album that seemed to pull the best parts of all of their meanderings together. The album may have been sprawling and imperfect, but it was fucking awesome nonetheless (critics and Allmusic.com be damned) and oh so welcome, complete with a couple of songs I would deem classics (“There There,” The Balls.). Definitely a worthy exercise for everyone involved.

If there’s one thing the release of Hail to the Thief taught me about new Radiohead albums is that you shouldn’t really expect anything. You’re going to get what they’re going to give you. Just sit back and enjoy it. This brings us to In Rainbows, the aforementioned seventh proper studio albums so coyly released with hardly a peep.

Tracking the progress of this release went a little something like this for me, tracked by posts and news on Pitchfork. Thank you, sirs (and ma’ams):

1/19/07: Radiohead working on album.
4/18/07: 10 second clip of new song. It’s all happening!
6/13/07: “WE ARE NEARLY THERE…” Thanks, Ed.
8/15/07: No new Radiohead album in 2007.
—Dead air due to wedding and honeymoon—
10/8/07: Holy crap! Radiohead is releasing an album in two days!!! Visit site, find out it’s free, “buy that bitch” and wait for the download code.
10/10/07: Wake up early, download, and Pod it to listen to at work.

That’s about it. That seems to have taken a long time, but seriously, those sneaky bastards! I was well ready to not even think about that album until the new year, yet here we are with ten new Radiohead tracks. Life is pretty decent.

“Enough with the exposition, already! Tell me, is it good? Is it worth the money?”

Well, of course it’s worth the money, you cheeky git, it was free! I would’ve been glad to give them a little scratch for it, but I didn’t have a little scratch. And I certainly didn’t have a shitload of scratch for the discbox. So I’ll just try and catch them on the flip side with either the discbox (that’s around Christmas bonus time) or when some dudes in suits put it on the shelves in proper form with pretty album artwork. They may even do the dual release with the fancy packaged version and the regular version. I’ll probably buy both of them, too, so no, I don’t feel bad about getting a freebie on this one. They still owe me from the concert I got tickets for that got stormed out back in 2001, too, so I’m karmically fine with all of this.

Speaking of the discbox, it’s a music wanker’s and Radiohead-phile’s (pretty much the same thing) dream, consisting of the new album on cd and vinyl, as well as a bonus cd with more new songs and extra junk as well as lyric booklets, all wrapped up in a hardback book with a slipcase. I just got a nerd boner. But busting the nerd nut will cost you 40 pounds (that’s $80 to us Yanks).

Now let’s talk about the music. In Rainbows combines the best elements of all eras of Radiohead in perfect proportion: small swaths of drum machine (or drum machine sounding drums, courtesy of master drummer Phil Selway), lots of guitars (! a little loud, a lot soft), moody atmospherics… You name it, if you liked it it’s on this album.

The first sounds you hear are the frenetic drum machine handclaps of “15 Steps.” The rest of the song plays as a study between light and dark with airy guitars battling brooding basslines. The following 9 songs run the gamut from upbeat distorted (dance?)rockers (“Bodysnatchers,” a spiritual descendent of OK Computer’s “Electioneering”) to emotional chillers (the closing track “Videotapes,” which has nothing to do with your mom in German scheisse videos). The bulk of the album resides somewhere in between. The prevailing sound of In Rainbows is acoustic or clean-toned electric guitars with a shuffling beat (“Weird Fishes/Apreggi” and “Jigsaw Falling Into Place,” two stellar examples). While most Radiohead albums are best listened to at night or in winter, this one could actually be a nice soundtrack to a pleasant summer drive, your next workout at the gym, or some hardcore pound fucking sweet love making in the afternoon. That is, if you don’t have any Slayer available.

My favorite song on the album, which is pretty tough to pick since they’re all good, would probably be “All I Need.” A bassy synth that sounds similar to something out of a Peter Kruder production meanders over a perfect beat with bell and piano flourishes. Thom Yorke uses his low, seductive pseudo-croak to weave a sinister sounding song of obsession, telling the object of his affection “I’m in the middle of your picture lying in the reeds.” Oh, so that was the creepy dude with the lazy eye that was following us around! With about a minute to go all of these little parts reach a crescendo indicative of the very thing that made me like Radiohead in the first place: the uncanny ability to play the right notes and parts at exactly the right time and bring it all together to make the hair stand up on the back of my neck. This song harkens back to the sound explored in “Talk Show Host,” from the Romeo + Juliet soundtrack, and not coincidentally one of my favorite Radiohead songs of all time. Total classic.

Listening to Radiohead in the post-OK Computer era, one gets the feeling that these albums were not easy, let alone fun, to make. Even Hail to the Thief, with the exception of songs like “There There,” has the clinical sheen of Kid A and Amnesiac in the production. While I love that album, it doesn’t sound like the work of a group of friends making music together. Where Hail to the Thief came off as an intense and cathartic audio exercise, In Rainbows feels much more, dare I say, serene. There’s a sense of relaxation and even fun that informs each of the tracks in a way that hasn’t been heard since the more earnest pop moments of The Bends. Perhaps the lack of pressure from a studio and freedom from deadlines allowed them to just relax and make the music the way they wanted to. And maybe Thom Yorke got all of the crazy electronic atmospherics out of his system on his solo album The Eraser, allowing for an album that sounds much more like a group effort, and the music is all the better for it. Upon each listen of In Rainbows, it seems as though Radiohead is actually enjoying making music, which is quite a breakthrough for a band that seems to take themselves so seriously. In Rainbows is a breath of fresh air in the midst of all the new music wankery we’ve been suggested to, and is a welcome addition to anyone’s music collection. So what are you waiting for? Go download that bitch! And if you don’t like it you’re stupid.

A couple odds and ends from around the Intarwebz for you.

Deadspin is having their second annual Deadspin Hall of Fame nominations. They’re announcing candidates every day, but my must-win candidate is up for a spot. Who is this guy? A’mod Ned of Florida International University. You can just call him Ned, though. But why is Ned hall of fame worthy? Because during the brawl between Miami and Florida International last year dude came out on crutches. That is what you call “having your teammates’ back.” He’s actually become quite a folk hero, spawning numerous (semi-poor) photoshops and fierce campaigning replete with a video. Click and vote or Ned is going to crutch all the way up from Miami and beat you with his crutches.

Stumbled across a new site called FilmDrunk.com (through WithLeather.com). Pretty cool movie site. Saw some new trailers (Jack Black and Mos Def in a Michel Gondry movie… I’ll fox with it.) It’s kind of like MoviePoopShoot.com. Not really, I guess. Who am I kidding, I just wanted to type MoviePoopShoot.com. It’s definitely worth checking out for movie updates (as well as nude Jessica Biel in movie updates, infinitely more important).

He also mentions that Grindhouse is going to be split into two dvd’s with, get this NO FUCKING TRAILERS!!!!!!! Are you kidding me? No Machete? No Thanksgiving? Eat a dick, Weinsteins. Fuck you in the asshole til it’s purple donkey asshole. Needless to say, if you didn’t get to see this in the theaters you will not get the full awesome experience and you will be extra bummed. There may be a “deluxe set” released later on. Maybe if we bitch loud enough they’ll do it from the get go. Gets to bitchin! I can’t tell you how mad this made me.

Speaking of movies Superbad was Super Fucking Awesome. I’ve already said too much. Go see it. It’s truly a vagtastic voyage. I’m probably going to watch it again this weekend.

There’s a second installment of Cautionary Tales of Swords, and it’s funnier than the first. In case you didn’t know, swords will cut your fucking throat wide open. That’s the truth.

Thanks to Andy, for allowing me to regress into Nerdery (the state, not the place of employment. They’ve closed down.)I just got to thinking about this and wanted to post it. Unless you’re Gip, I don’t know for sure if you’ve seen the Aqua Teen movie, but here’s the best part. And it’s completely not related to the plot. You’re welcome. Have you seen the DVD for this thing? Two disc, deluxe 80 minute deleted movie on disc 2. I guess I have to buy it. Read along while they sing, and crank it up!

The quality kind of sucks, so you may just want to wait for the DVD after all. But I may have just saved you some money.

That’s about all from me. Just getting ready for football, the wedding, the honeymoon, and, most importantly, the bachelor party. If any of you knows where we can rent a donkey for the evening, holla at your boy.

Oh, you can now contact the site at josh-at-schitthaus-dot-com. Feel free to e-mail for cheers, jeers, advice, or lusty gruntings. Your correspondence may be included for a new feature. I know, awfully enticing…

With a little thanks to eBay, and my inability to throw anything away, it is time to relive the glory days.

That’s right, bitches. I’ve got the N64 up and running. Goldeneye is fully operational. And Ourumov is still VERY angry. So, who’s up for a little partay/Goldeneye proximity mine curse fest? Anyone? I think I’ll bring it along for the bachelor party. Have to find something to do before the entertainment arrives, right? Goldeneye on a monstrous tv would probably be funner than a monkey with five dicks.

That is all for now.

Whatever the fuck THAT means!

It’s Friday, and I’m finishing up my first week back to work post-vacation. Before I recount all the fascinating details, I’d like to examine the concept of vacation. First, a definition:

1. a period of suspension of work, study, or other activity, usually used for rest, recreation, or travel; recess or holiday: Schoolchildren are on vacation now.
2. a part of the year, regularly set aside, when normal activities of law courts, legislatures, etc., are suspended.
3. freedom or release from duty, business, or activity.
4. an act or instance of vacating.

Remember summer vacation as a student? Man, that shit was the Truth. Three months to do whatever you liked, enough time that it was possible to be bored with it. Once you become a working stiff, you relish any time you can get. Eurotrash bishes get about three months even after school is over. I’m jealous, but if I have to look like that, I’ll manage. I’ve worked the same job long enough to have two weeks to my disposal, and I use one of those during the holidays and one during the summer. I look forward to that week off for months leading up to it, then the week passes by too quickly, then I’m stuck back at my desk avoiding work.

My summer vacation spot of choice since about 1998 or so has been the Outer Banks, specifically the areas of Duck or Corolla. It used to be a trip I’d take with friends from school, but lately it’s been a family affair. The one thing that has remained constant is the alcoholism. Breakfast used to be a top shelf Marg (1800 and G.M. with a splash of lime juice) at around 2 PM. That was before the young’uns were involved. Why must kids wake up at 7:30? Because they don’t work, so they don’t know how much sleep they’re missing. Bastards. I may not have been up for the fresh food, but I was still awake before noon on most of the days. Breakfast now means a reheated homemade sausage biscuit, mug of coffee, and some fruit juice. Most of my time was spent in the pool, and I’ve come to realize what a glorious concept the “Adult Swim” is. I hated it when I was wee, but LOVE it now! No need to bore you, so I’ll hit the high notes:

1.The Duck Deli is the shit. It’s blown up (along with the whole urrea) so you have to go at an off time. Get a plate of smoked chicken wings while you wait for a pulled pork sandwich. Wash it down with a Sweet Tea. I’ve had at least one meal there every single time I’m down there. If I had my way, it would be my every day lunch spot.

2. Meridian 42. I’d like to tell you this place is good. Tried to get in for dinner at 6:15 on a Thursday with no reservations. We were told they might could squeeze us in around 9:30. Bitches. Check the menu, you’ll want to eat there real bad. I know I sure did. Next time I won’t screw around. Rather than hop from place to place we ended up at:

3. The Black Pelican. Don’t mind the website, it’s cheesy and the menu doesn’t include their new stuff. I’ve been here almost as many times as the Duck Deli. Good seafood, reasonable prices, and they have wood-fired pizzas if you can’t make up your mind. Heidi and I had the Tuna Tatake appetizer (Marinated Gulfstream tuna with a flying fish roe, served on seaweed salad, with Japanese soy and wasabi on the side). I hope you weren’t thinking this was a seared dish, cause that shit is served raw. Damn tasty. I decided to be daring with my entree and try something new. So new you won’t see it on their website. Shrimp sauteed with peppers and onions in a Tabasco-butter sauce served on a mound of jalapeno-cheddar grits. I wasn’t Gung-Ho about it until I took my first bite. Highly recommended, even if you’re not the biggest fan of grits.

3. One of my duties in the house is to assist with the cooking whenever possible/asked. Last year we made the discovery of Tommy’s Steak Seasoning. I don’t know who Tommy is, but he’s got a market conveniently located across the street from the aforementioned Duck Deli. It’s a gourmet market so they have lots of neat sauces, salsas, marinades and seasonings. They also have “gourmet market” prices. For all the rich arrogant holier-than-thou fucks down there it’s no problem. For the regular folks, be choosy about what you buy. That steak seasoning is expensive, but it’s worth it. We had enough to rub down about 12 big steaks with plenty left over to bring home. It’s very close to Chicago Steak seasoning (99 cents when your local CVS has it), but I think Tommy puts in a secret ingredient. Actually, I think I just figured out Tommy’s true identity. Maybe he has something to do with the Hamlette from my first post.

4. You’re probably thinking I should’ve gotten a shirt like this to commemorate my trip. Close, but I have two things to mention not directly involving food or alcohol. First, I got a new kite. I already had two (3 if you count the butsed one) but stunt kites aren’t “set it and forget it.” I wanted something mindless and fairly cheap. Enter the parafoil. Just call me Max.

5. Next, I give you a cornhole. Now, I give you Cornhole . This is the best backyard game since horseshoes because it’s so similar, yet you can actually score points without any divine intervention. For official rules, regulations, and other assorted goodies, check out the official page.

6. Finally, if it’s wet outside Cornhole is out. We faced this situation at the beach and had to improvise. It started out as the good ol’ game Caps but it quickly turned into a brainstorming session. Take two red plastic party cups, tape them on opposite edges of a long smooth glass top table. Tape two straws vertically to simulate goalposts. Two on two, teammates sit together, each player gets one shot. Slide the cap flat side down much like you would a paper football. Try to slide it off the edge and into the cup. One point if you sink it. If you shoot second and happen to knock your teammate’s cap in, that’s two points. If you shoot second and get both yours and your teammate’s cap in… well, figure out your own bonus cause it never happened for us. Here’s a picture from one end of the table to get an idea. It’s a work in progress, but it kept us occupied. Comments and suggestions are always welcome.

So that’s what the fuck has been goings on. Summer is almost over, wedding season is about to start. Bring on the open bar!!

Yeah, yeah. I know, I’ve been slacking. I blew my proverbial post wad. Cooking up some other stuff, but wedding and honeymoon plans are taking over. But I had to pass this along. HT to Sussman at Deadspin for posting it over the weekend.

Bear with me. The gears are turning.

*The following is a special feature to Schitthaus.com by Middle East correspondent and all-around sweet dude, the Notorious G.I.P. This thoroughly-researched and completely factual article is the fifth and final installment in what surely will be an award-winning series of educational pieces about his experiences in the Holy Land. (The following report includes absolutely no fabrication or embellishment.)

As-salaam alaykum.

Well, now that I’m over my 24-hour stomach flu (Who knew that you’re not supposed to eat raw meat off the ground?), I’ll bring you up to date on the latest news from the West Bank and beyond.

Before you bad-mouth the U.S. government…

In theory, the PNA Ministry of Foreign Affairs should be the Palestinian government’s official (and professional) face to the outside world. But instead, I find myself yearning for the sterile bureaucracy of the United States. Here’s why:

-The bathrooms here are more likely to conjure the image of a Calcutta bus station than of the U.S. State Department.

-The bodyguard is about 5’6” and wears jeans and a t-shirt to work, while the maintenance man wears a snazzy suit and tie.

-My boss’s office is on the fifth floor, yet his office number is 402.

-The internet hasn’t worked for a week.

But the strangest thing I’ve seen occurred the other day when the dirt lot outside of my office caught on fire. Yes, the dirt caught on fire. Amazing.

Word Skillz

In my time here, I have successfully learned how to say such Arabic phrases as “I need the key to my office” and “I only speak a little bit of Arabic.” Practical, yes, but the statements are neither exciting nor funny. By the time I leave, I will make sure that I find out how to say something much more appropriate like, “Did you see that guy kickin’ them boxes?”