January 20, 2010 12:21 a.m.

I have to post this somewhere.

November 22, 2009 8:15 p.m.

"Shoot him again. His soul is still dancing."

The film Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans has just been released, and I think that we can all agree that I need to see this movie, probably immediately. Putting aside that it is directed by the brilliant and probably crazy Werner Herzog. Forgetting for a moment that it appears to star the Leaving Las Vegas Nicolas Cage, and not the National Treasure Nicolas Cage. Utterly ignoring its implicit claim, however tenuous, to the sensibilities of the insane over-the-top original Bad Lieutenant. Or even the return of Val Kilmer. Watch this trailer and tell me that you don't have a strong desire to catch this flick promptly. Because then I will know never to hang out with you.

November 19, 2009 9:53 a.m.

Everyone has a past. I was reminded of mine when my friend Mike wrote the following e-mail about his new interest in an the 80's band Loverboy and their song "Working for the Weekend":

I was not necessarily a big fan of this song when it came out, or even years later when 80's rock started coming back to the radio. Second, I generally do not care for cover bands. Nevertheless, I totally rocked out when I heard a cover band play this song a couple of months ago at the Clarendon Grill. Now I can't stop listening to the original. Am I just nostalgic? Also, is that Will Ferrell playing guitar? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7E82ozXyNjk&feature=related

My response:

I saw these guys live in ’83 at the Brendan Byrne Arena in Jersey in ’83. I am not even kidding. I had seventh row seats. I was there for the opening act, a band called Zebra, a Rush wanna-be group that had some moderate success during the nascent days of MTV (you know, back when they played videos). You can look them up on YouTube--their “hit” was “Who’s Behind the Door?”, and I used a lyric from it for my high school yearbook quote. I wish I was making even part of this up. Having been there, though, I can attest to the fact that women loved these guys. By the second half of the show the first twenty rows had essentially rushed the front of the stage. They would have stepped over their grandmother to catch a drop of sweat from the bass player. Totally incomprehensible in retrospect.

Someday I'll be telling my kid, "I saw Def Leppard in '82 back when Rick Allen had two arms." I'm pretty sure it won't end well.

November 13, 2009 9:54 p.m.

For six years, every time I go grocery shopping, I see this and it makes me smile. And I don't even like yogurt.

November 5, 2009 8:19 p.m.

Dear Mom:

Howdy. Thanks for dressing me up like a gay cowboy. I really appreciate it. I guess they don't sell assless chaps at Babies R Us. You know, I think I'm a little young to be trying out for the Village People. Just a thought.

Love, your son

Dear Mike:

I know we haven't met yet, but this isn't me. You have to trust me on this.

Cheers, Jude

October 10, 2009 8:17 a.m.

Everyone has a plan unitl they get hit. My last fifteen minutes.

The concept behind this little project of mine was simple. Occasional semi-factual accounts of my recent past, to-wit: my last fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, my previous fifteen minutes is pretty much the same as any randomly selected fifteen minutes of my life since my son was born: a combination, in no particular order, of sleep, baby, work and fantasies regarding sleep. It's all a very good time, and very sweet, but it's not the tone I'm lookoing for. Before my son's arrival, I promised myself that I wouldn't write anything here unless I had something to say that wasn't either sentimental or cliche. It turns out this pretty much eliminates everything having to do with babies. So, in breaking what I'm certain is only the first of a series of promises regarding my son, I need a new plan. So, I'm going freestyle. Well, that didn't take long.

Acting Class

It turns out that spending time with the boy has given me the opportunity to work on some thespian exercises. The following is directly from the script of Pretty In Pink, the John Hughes film about a plucky girl in thrift store clothes who falls in love with a boy fron the country club set. In this scene, a young James Spader is playing a rich, good-looking, self-centered and arrogent, but secretly insecure, leader of the rich kids. Andrew McCarthy is playing Andrew McCarthy. Spader, who is upset that McCarthy is dating a girl from the other side of the tracks, is telling McCarthy that their friendship is in jeopardy. [For maximum effect, you can watch it here, at the 4:30 mark.]

As the scene opens, my one-month-old son is laying on couch in a onesie; he has just been fed, and he's looking out at me with those half-closed drugged-out eyes of a heroin addict who just scored a fix (or like Andrew McCarthy in most of the scenes in this movie). I'm sitting in a chair across the living room wearing an oxford with the first four buttons undone, holding a spit rag.

Me/Spader: I've seen your mother go to work on you, Blane. It's vicious. When Bill and Joyce finish with you, you won't know whether to shit or go sailing. [getting up out of my chair] Listen, I'm getting really bored with this conversation, Blane. If you want your little piece of low-grade ass, fine, take it. But if you do, you're not gonna have a friend.
My son/McCarthy: [moving his arms around until he holds them above his head, signalling a touchdown] La!
Me/Spader: Yeah, that's right. If you wanna make the choice, go ahead. I personally wouldn't trash a friendship over it, but I'm old-fashioned, so...
My son/McCarthy: [spitting up white formula through his mouth and nose like the android Ash at the end of Alien]
Me/Spader: [tossing the spit rag onto my son's lap] Why don't you take a shower? You look like shit.

And . . . scene. The kid is a natural.

September 11, 2009 10:42 a.m.

The times they are a changin', my friend. My last fifteen minutes.

So here's something interesting. I'm changing my kid for the first time, and there's Mexican black tar heroin coming out of his ass. And this prodigious output has continued. In other words, I've thrown away dirty diapers with a street value of at least fifteen thousand dollars, according to the chart I found at the Department of Justice website. And those are friend prices.

September 10, 2009 11:01 a.m.

Where snarky self-satisfaction meets sentimental reality. My last fifteen minutes.

I admit that the entire idea for this web page came about as a reaction to the here's-what-I'm-doing-right-now-blog-and-twitter nation, etc. I admit that it wasn't necessarily an original idea. I also admit that instead of commenting on this cultural phenomenon, I just endined up trying to do it smarter and with more restraint (with uneven success). Probably the only thing more pathetic than a person who spends his time publishing everything he just did or thought, is the man who spends his time making fun of that person.

That being said, I am now sitting in the delivery room with my lovely wife, waiting for her to deliver a little bundle of awesome. That's what I'm doing right now. I don't have a joke or anything, it's just that if you're going to have a blog titled "The Last Fifteen Minutes", you should probably take advantage on one of those occasions when something truly eventful is happening.

So instead of enjoying every minute of this special moment, I'm engaging in the kind of empty narrative and parochial commentary for which I have developed such a profound distaste. So, basically, on this one, I suck. Yay, me.

I am, for the moment, unredeemed.

August 30, 2009 9:53 p.m.

Reaching into the icebox and taking the lid off of my last fifteen minutes.

I have just discovered the greatest thing, probably, ever. Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked Ice Cream. A mere recitation of its constituent parts (chocolate & vanilla ice cream, brownie and cookie dough) fails to do justice to the poetry within. This ice cream is impossibly good. The guy who discovered the combination of peanut butter and chocolate was a hack. This recipe, friends, is real genius.

At no point does a man, in a state of nature, cease consuming this frozen confection until the pint is spent. As the first spoonful enters his system, the subject's body begins releasing endorphines, his eyes roll back in his head, and the reptilian core of his brain urgently states: "This is good. I should keep doing this as long as I can." On a molecular level, your body has been programmed to understand one thing: that it is better to be eating Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked Ice Cream than not to be eating Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked Ice Cream.

According to the American Psychiatric Association, addiction is "characterized by three major elements: (a) compulsion to seek and take the drug, (b) loss of control in limiting intake, and (c) emergence of a negative emotional state when access to the drug is prevented." In other words, we all scream for ice cream. To paraphrase an author writing about drug addicition: "At a certain point, [Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked] usage ceases to be a voluntary action: this is the onset of addiction. The positive reinforcement of the sensation of euphoria eventually alters the brain so that the use of [Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked] is obligatory." Exactly.

Now, I know that this product lists among its ingredients, in separate entries: sugar, liquid sugar, brown sugar and corn syrup. Also (again, listed separately): eggs, egg yolks and egg whites. I know that it contains heroic amounts of cholesterol, sufficient to permanently alter my body chemistry. But it's only at the bottom of the container that you can find the secret ingredient: a layer of fresh regret, laced with bits of real shame.

I am still hungry.

August 17, 2009 10:34 p.m.

The doctor is in. Diagnosis: my last fifteen minutes.

I am gingerly removing the bandage where the bloodsuckers got to me. An early morning physical followed by a bloodletting at the lab. Now I remember why I have assiduously avoiding going to the doctor. It involves three of my least favorite things: needles, waiting rooms, and a stranger grabbing my junk. Good times.

I am cured.

August 15, 2009 2:03 p.m.

And there was much rejoicing. My last fifteen minutes.

Dude, you're not getting a Dell. My old Dell laptop is almost defunct, the Geek Squad having placed the "Do Not Resuscitate" sticker on its chart. Now operating only in Safe Mode, it cannot speak, it cannot listen, it has no memories.

And so I have returned home with a new Toshiba Satellite, with its sleek black design and backlit keyboard that make it feel like I'm driving a good German car. Just the physical act of typing on this splendid machine creates a sense of well-being and calm that normally only results from the judicious use of quality pharmaceuticals.

But before I say anything more about the Prosperous Mr. Toshiba, allow me a final word about the Unfortunate Mr. Dell.

My former machine was eventually consumed by the Blue Screen of Death, a deeply evil phenomenon about which I was previously ignorant. The BSOD arrives without warning, turning your computer screen . . . blue. Cryptic language appears informing the user that Windows has shut down to avoid damage to the computer. What could be the problem? Software? Hardware? Memory? Good question. If you look on Microsoft's website in search of answers, you are essentially told: "Do you have the blue screen? Wow, that's too bad. We really don't know what causes that. It could be anything. So, anyway, good luck with that." The Geek Squad, or whoever, can run diagnostics, but basically they don't know. What you do is this: try a bunch of things (system restore, uninstalling software, reinstalling the operating system, professional help, other voodoo) until something works. Or it doesn't. If it works, stop asking questions and just be happy your old friend is back. If it doesn't, well we're sorry--maybe you should call the manufacturer.

My takeaway from the dealings I had with these witchdoctors is that the computer repair business is as soaked in dishonesty and false confidence as the palm reading industry. I fully recognize that the previous statement may be the product of bias.

My laptop is dead; long live my laptop.

This time it will be different.

August 3, 2009 10:23 p.m.

We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by for my last fifteen minutes.

My possessions are causing me suspicion. What began as a friendly correspondence was undermined by my laptop's self-destructive bent. My computer is on suicide watch as I attempt keep sharp objects out of its grasp. I am writing this in "Safe Mode", which is like trying to play a sonata on Thorazine. I should have simply written a letter. The e-mail, apparently unsendable with my current technology, follows. Res ipsa loquitor.

Mike:

I wrote a reply earlier, by my laptop shut down like Bobby Bonilla with a minor injury in a noncontract year. So that was awesome.

Then I wrote another entire reply. And my machine crashed again before I could hit "Send". I reboot, and I am informed that Windows experienced an unexpected shutdown. Oh, do you think so doctor? And it shuts down again. Keep typing. Another blackout. Dear Everyone: The weather is great. Wish you were here. Love, Sisyphus.

Anyway. [generic "work is good" stuff].

The kid stuff is pretty much locked down. I know this because [playful comment about my lovely wife]. As reward for my diligence, I have literally weeks of guiltless Golden Tee. It's a sin to live so well.

Fruit for breakfast. Soup for lunch. A sensible dinner. You watched me smoke the last cig I had over a month ago. Not much point in drinkng, what with the joy of my existence bleeding out on the floor. Like a watercolor in the rain, as Al Stewart would say.

So, yeah, it's the best job in the world. That's what I tell you guys.

When my computer loses consciousness, by the way, the screen goes blue and white typeface explains that the computer is "dumping physical memory". Dumping Physical Memory. That sounds serious. It also sounds like a shitty liberal arts college band.

And now I'm done. So much time into it, I might as well post it on my page.

Fuck it, we'll do it live.

Jack

I am delivered.