I know you all wonder what the hell it is that I do with myself when I’m not living through/writing about the experiences that turn into posts here on the blog. Thus far, I’ve kept all that shrouded in mystery for various reasons. No more! I’m ready to bare my soul.

Just after posting the last one earlier today, I was thinking something along the lines of:

That Eddie Murphy sure looked good back in the day.
Mmm hmm. I wonder when that song came out.

I don’t think I need to tell you what happened next. (Hint: Wikipedia.)

The wiki entry for Eddie Murphy is less interesting than you might imagine. Unless, of course, you are not me, in which case you might imagine the wiki entry for Eddie Murphy would be about as good as … I dunno … Vampire in Brooklyn. It did get me to thinking, though, about life. Haha. I mean, life as summed up in a wiki entry table of contents. Eddie’s looks like this, for example:

• 1   Biography
  • 1.1   Early life
  • 1.2   Stand-up comedy routines
  • 1.3   Saturday Night Live
  • 1.4   Early acting career
  • 1.5   Singing career
  • 1.6   Legal woes
  • 1.7   Career slump
  • 1.8   Comeback and image makeover
  • 1.9   Personal life
  • 1.10   Charitable work
• 2   Awards/nominations
• 3   Filmography
  • 3.1   Television
  • 3.2   Movies
• 4   Films
  • 4.1   Salary
• 5   Discography
  • 5.1   Albums
  • 5.2   Singles
• 6   References
• 7   External links

“Legal woes,” “Career slump” and “Charitable work” struck me as the funniest. But I began to wonder what my wiki entry TOC would look like. Would mine be any better?

• 1   Biography
  • 1.1   Early life
  • 1.2   The marching band years
  • 1.3   Getting an AB in English without ever reading Dostoyevsky
  • 1.4   Crappy, underpaying job number 1
  • 1.5   Legal woes
  • 1.6   Crappy, underpaying job number 2
  • 1.7   Crappy, underpaying job number 3
  • 1.8   Crappy, moderately paying job number 1
  • 1.9   The move to Boston
  • 1.10   Indescribably sucky, well-paying job number 1
  • 1.11   Career slump
  • 1.12   Comeback and image makeover
  • 1.13   Personal life
• 2   Awards/nominations (imaginary ones DO TOO count)
• 3   References
• 4   External links link

Dayum, that’s grim.

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Nooooo, Eddie Murphy isn’t dead. Rick James, silly.

It was recently suggested to me that CMG Unite needs a theme song. It was also suggested, rather urgently, that “Party All the Time,” the masterful collaboration between EM and RJ, be that theme song. I can get behind that. I mean, I AM always out romancin’.

Rick doing air drums and acting downright giddy orgasmic over Eddie’s performance makes it worth a gander. Watching a bunch of black dudes dance like Richie Cunningham really makes it priceless.

What I want to know is, where are all the tranny hookers?

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I have, at long last, found my calling. No surprise, it includes hard, cold steel and a ninja-based marketing campaign.

If only there had been a darts club in high school, maybe I would have lettered in something besides band.

Did I mention? I rock at darts.

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There is a major motion picture shooting in and around Copley Square, where I work. (We’re still calling this “work,” right? Okay, good.) From what I hear, the movie stars Kate Hudson and some dude named Dane. It’s about a beautiful but quirky girl who does some stuff then gets the guy.

I haven’t mentioned it before because doing so would be contra my efforts to appear cooler than I am. At all times. (Fortunately for me, it is not terribly difficult to appear cooler than zero cool.) I generally attempt this feat by feigning disinterest in everything around me, when—in actuality—the mere sight of Sno-Balls in a man’s pocket is enthralling to me.

Anyway, I have been doing my best nonchalant thing every morning on my way to work, as the movie crew makes itself comfortable in my environs. I mean, I look in the general direction of the hubbub. I don’t want to seem like one of those people who’s too cool to acknowledge the damned thing. I just don’t gawk or lollygag.

This morning, though, the craft services hive was set up on Boylston near my bus stop. Holy mother of god! They were grilling up tuna steaks the size of baseball gloves … like 8,000 of them. Even at 9ish o’clock, they smelled amazing. I could not hide my fascination.

I began wondering why I didn’t put more effort into becoming a movie star. I mean, first, the trailers (with bump-outs). Now, sporting equipment–sized seafood? Then I remembered … I’m very shy in crowds. I don’t know much about filmmaking, but crowds somehow seem integral to the process. Also, I have this unnatural love of food. I don’t know what’s up with me, but my body wants it every day. It’s weird. Doesn’t lend itself to my ass being blown up on a giant screen. Then there’s that whole “I can’t act” thing.

WhatEVer.

We get free mugs here at my work. Really bitchin mugs. With decals. I shit you not.

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I don’t want to get all meta on you, but (Em Em’s recent foray notwithstanding) I’ve been thinking about the process of blogging quite a bit lately. This here blog was ostensibly conceived as a low-pressure way to get me writing so that my “real” writing might become more frequent. Of course, to the chagrin of the world at large, it has become an end in itself. I’m not entirely sure why this is so.

I don’t possess any vital information that must be relayed to the hoi polloi. I don’t delve into things that are terribly personal, so it’s not much of a catharsis for me. I don’t crave the money and power that come with a highly successful blog. Okay, I do, but that hasn’t really panned out as of yet.

On the flip side, there are a lot of drawbacks to being a blogger … even a less-than-successful one who’s addicted to ellipses. There’s a lot of pressure. I mean A LOT. Okay, there is some. A mild amount. Nothing that a handful of Xanex and a box of merlot won’t take care of, but still.

People suddenly start giving you material. When something funny/interesting/amazing/bloody happens in your presence, you are expected to turn it into an anecdote post-haste. Friends just go around shouting “THAT’S going on the blog!” Add alcohol and this phenomenon is amplified.

People also begin to expect you to be like your blog … in my case, I am told, this means funny and/or pervy. There are worse things, I suppose. I could be expected to be profound all the time. Or insightful. That would kinda blow.

Anyway, I digress.

You also have to worry about the ethics of posting. I mean, entertaining stories often involve hapless third-parties. And there’s a fine line between bemused observer and misanthrope. Some of the third-parties are people I know and genuinely like … respect even. The fact that my wee brain must reduce people to archetypes in order to parse the outside world is my failing not theirs.

Then there’s the idea that telling countless strangers something personal necessarily cheapens it. I don’t know if I believe that, but it’s worth losing sleep over now and again, right?

So, with all this, why do I do it? I don’t know. I was kinda hoping by this point in the post it would have come to me. Alas, that is not the case. I can say that having a blog gives me a forum to talk about whatever the fuck is on my mind at any given moment, which is nice. Often times, as you know, this amounts to, “I wonder what Beck’s is eating for breakfast today.” Sometimes it is a tad deeper.

Lately, I’ve been reveling in the wonders of city living, how living in a city brings you into contact with people in this very intimate yet detached way. Like this morning, on the bus, I saw an intriguing man—a gentlemanly, old black man. He was disheveledly academic and wise looking. Ossie Davis meets Cornell West.

As he stood to get off at his stop, he caught me watching him, and he gave me this face that said, “It’s okay to look at me for a bit too long. I know things you do not.” It was a great face. When I, for shame, turned away, I noticed a package of Hostess Sno-Balls in the pocket of his tweed blazer.

Naturally, I smiled at the incongruity. I also thought, Wow, I know something about him that his wife of umpteen years might not know … an illicit Sno-Ball addiction. I bore witness to a package picked up at the bodega—hastily, furtively—on his way to work. “What do you mean, Alvin likes Sno-Balls?”

I suppose that’s all I can come up with for now. I blog so I can tell you about Alvin and his Sno-Balls. Shh. Don’t tell his wife.

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I know I’ve been posting about my cuchacha a lot lately, and, for that, I am heartily sorry. I apologize, specifically, to my brothers who read this blog with some regularity. This is shit no brother needs to know about his sister. Still, a story this compelling has to be told. It’s a writer’s duty to go to the dark places of the human soul.

So, today I found myself once again in my ob-gyn’s office … having a routine exam re-performed. I’ll remind you of one inept drawbridge operator and a willful cervix, and we’ll leave it at that.

It was a different woman today. She was all breezy confidence. Tall and good looking, but not too good looking. You know the type. I felt warm and safe.

She lifted the “modesty cover,” beneath which, naturally, I was nekkid as a blue jay, and said, “A study recently found that most patients don’t like it when their doctors tell them personal stories.”

I thought, Sure, I believe that. (See Wonky Cervix post.)

“I guess patients think it’s more to ease the doctors’ nerves than theirs.”

Mhmm.

“But I just have to say,” she continued, “I’m getting one of those next week.”

As she said “those,” she pointed to my cookie in a way that felt mildly … I dunno … accusatory.

I was pretty sure she was referring to my “haircut” shall we say. (The word “Brazilian” was apparently more than she could manage.) Still, I laid there in disbelief for a good 45 seconds before I could sputter out a response.

“What percent of people did you say don’t like it when their doctors relate personal information?”

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I can’t believe I forgot to tell you! This past weekend I spotted a famous celebrity at the beach. It was quite exciting for me, as my life is so seldom touched by fabulocity.

Who was this uberstar, you ask? None other than China’s biggest porn star. And I do mean biggest.

I screwed up the nerve to go and ask him for his autograph, but he insisted he didn’t know what I was talking about. He was all incognito and shit … undercover as a husband/father of two/kite flier extraordinaire. I realized maybe his wife didn’t know about his real profession, so I relented and left with only this picture to remind me of the special day.

If you bump into this man on the street, please don’t approach him or scream, “I LOVE YOUR WANG!” as he is deep in character. Outting him might jeopardize his future in the industry. We wouldn’t want that now would we?

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Was this some HR person’s idea of a joke? I mean, what exactly are the core competencies of this job, I wonder?

Isn’t there another way to capture the awesome power and responsibility of the guy who oversees all the guys with knives … using the lovely device known as alliteration? How about deli director? Chief of cold cuts? Big-shot butcher?

Meat manager just sounds so boom-chicka-waow-waow. Hmm. I suppose it’s silly to expect more class from a company named BJs.

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