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So I’m driving in to the office today, flipping through the radio stations, and as I flipped past WYSP I hear Howard Stern yell “Goddamn Clear Channel!” I didn’t bother to stop and hear what he was whining about, but it got me to thinking how much I really hate Howard Stern.
I mean, completely aside from the blasphemy (which bothers me more and more as I age, to the point now where when I catch myself saying “GODDAMN IT!,” which happens roughly every 14 minutes, I usually then apologize to some unseen being), Stern is simply unfunny, boring, and completely uninteresting. I’m fully in favor of freedom of speech, but Howard is simply reflecting some of the worst things that humanity has to offer. I guess I’m just not sure how he sleeps at night knowing that he’s justifying the horrible behavior of the lowest grade of America.
On the OTHER hand, people around the world seem to be taken in by him as well, to the point that the citizens of other countries apparently think that most, if not all, Americans are like him. Which amuses me to no end, because there’s nothing I like better than being underestimated. I’m not being sarcastic; I can’t imagine anything I enjoy more than the look on a person’s face when he thinks you’re dumb or untalented and you prove him wrong.
But to get back on track: does Howard Stern have any really redeeming value? I can’t see it. He only has two subjects that he seems to bring up constantly: women, and how to get them naked, and why Clear Channel and the FCC are causing him great personal anxiety. Not exactly NPR-quality material, there.
Also, it troubles me that he’s as old as he is, and he continues to get women to show up on his show and take off their clothes. I’m not jealous; it just skeeves me to hear someone in his 40s or 50s saying things like, “Oooh…yeah, go ahead and take that off. Wow, you do have magnificent breasts. Robin, aren’t her breasts great? Mmmm…” It’s like watching your father snort cocaine off a stripper.
Plus, I don’t see the point in discussing breasts that I can’t see. If they’d just stop blurring out the fun parts of his late night TV show, I might be more interested.
OOH! OOH! Further UPDATE on the whole Manbag Situation: So I went to Old Navy yesterday to get a nice black stylish fall jacket (which I found, incidentally, and bought me one for $58) and some pants (I got a nice pair of light brown bootcut corduroys) and I happened to find (along with some shirts) a really cool canvas messenger bag on sale for $9.99! It’s a little big, but I think anything smaller would clearly be a “manpurse” instead of a “manbag,” and would probably get me a “manbeating” on the streets of Boston this weekend.
I have to find some things to put in it, though. At the moment all it has in it is my cellphone, sunglasses, and lunch. What do chicks put in purses? I don’t really need to put makeup in there (though it does make me look pretty, I get funny looks from my coworkers), and I have no current need to carry tampons. Perhaps I could throw a book in there, and randomly pull it out to show people how intellectual I am. I’ll have to get some dorky reading glasses, though, and if I added dorky reading glasses to my current outfit people will think I’m a particularly tall lesbian. Can’t have that.
So I hear that Microsoft has released a new Service Pack for Windows XP. I imagine I should probably get around to installing it on the new computer that’s purring away in my Unnamed-Room-That-Used-To-Have-The-TV-In-It, but I hesitate to do so, for the simple reason that ever since the last time I ran Windows Update on my work-issued laptop, it takes roughly 17 minutes to open Internet Explorer for the first time. And that interferes with my ability to read Achewood, which is really the only thing I do at work other than fail to update this website regularly.
Has anybody out there installed the latest Service Pack? I’d love to have your feelings on it. After installation, have you noticed any of the following symptoms:
- Slow processing speeds?
- Inability to read amusing cartoons featuring stuffed animals?
- Shortness of breath?
- Inability to download “BangBus” videos?
- A not so fresh feeling in, you know, “The Area?”
- Eyeball lacerations?
Please leave comments below regarding the above.
In other news, HW and I are going to Boston for a long weekend! I’m looking for suggestions of cool things to do while we’re there. My parents said something about going to the Boston Public Library, but at the mention of the word “architecture” my eyes kinda glazed over and my forehead landed in warm quesadillas.
Beantown native Rod suggested I check out George’s Island and try to get it on in one of the prison cells – I mean, look for ghosts. The only things I really have planned is that at some point, we will be finding a bar to watch the Red Sox play the Oakland As whilst surrounded with the Fenway Faithful, and on Sunday morning we’re gonna get up at the buttcrack of dawn to go watch my buddy Doug run in the Boston Athletic Association Half-Marathon to benefit some kind of hiv.
Leave suggestions in the comments, along with the XP Service Pack stuff, and I’ll try and sort all that stuff out. I expect to be able to post something amusing tomorrow, and MAYBE something over the weekend, but with any luck I’ll have PLENTY of truly disturbing pictures taken on the trip that I’ll post early next week.
I have received a note. It does not, unfortunately, read, “Bubba has big titties.” (That’s an inside joke that 3 of my readers will get. Maybe.) Instead, it actually reads:
Now, one would think that “catching typos on the front of official mailings” would be rather important to the Republican Party of Delaware, but apparently not. I considered contacting them to discuss the possibility of hiring me (at significant cost, obviously) to proofread everything they send out, but
- the last thing I need is my liberal hippie friends finding out I’m working for the Republican Party,
- Republicans, despite being the party of the wealthy, are notorious tight with a dime, and
- I was afraid the phone conversation would go something like this:
Them: Republican Party of Delaware, how can I help you help us help Bush?
Me: Greetings! I wanted to make you aware that there is a significant typo on the front of the mailing I have received from you.
Them: Oops. Um…our, uh, bad. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might send us some money anyway?
Me: Har! No, I wanted to propose to you that you hire me to proofread all of your future mailings. For the low, low price of $100,000, you will get the leading [amateur] linguistic expert in New Castle, Delaware!
Them: Uh…Kerry has horrific hair.
Me: Yes, it’s rather pouffy, isn’t it? But that’s neither here nor there. Can we meet and work out an agreement in which you will give me a lot of money?
Them: Uh…Kerry has prostate cancer!
So you can see we wouldn’t really get anywhere.
So in the end, I simply decided to post the image online and make fun of it, to the entertainment of all. You are entertained, right? Oh. Dammit.
Okay, I had another kooky dream. This one was a DREAM WITHIN A DREAM, if you can imagine. It was like one of those where you keep waking up, and keep waking up, but you’re never really awake. Truly bizarre.
Anyway, in this one, the dream within a dream was that I was auditioning for yet another production of Brigadoon. Why, I can’t say. You’d think I’d’ve had enough of it, but my subconscious is a wily bastard. Anyway, the audition dream ended as I “woke up,” and said to my wife, “Hey, I need to find out when the Brigadoon auditions are so I can go do that!” (I should mention at this point that I “woke up” in Sarah’s car, in a Goodwill parking lot.) Then I realize, Oops, it’s Thursday! And auditions were on Wednesday! Oh well, I’ll call the director and see if arrangements can be made.
At which point Sarah and I ran into the music director, whose name escapes me, and asked her about it. She revealed that it was in fact FRIDAY, not Thursday, auditions were 2 days ago, the cast was already set, and rehearsals were starting that very evening. Damn.
So I decided it might be fun to call the director, who I spontaneously realized was a guy I had known from college who at one point was kicked out of school for something involving him punching a police officer. (I hesitate to repeat his name, in case there’s, you know, an active investigation into the matter.) I didn’t have his number, but Sarah called him on her cell phone, listened for a moment, and then hung up. I asked,
“Did you reach him? What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Someone answered the phone on the other end . . . it sounded like they were being beat up,” she replied.
Then a short black guy who was remarkably similar to “Ezal” from “Friday” (played by the inimitable Anthony Johnson) appeared and asked us where we got the large number of church-style folding tables we were standing near.
“Um . . . well, they aren’t ours.”
“Do you know,” asked Ezal, “if anybody’s comin’ to get ’em?”
“No idea, dude. I’d say they’re all yours.”
Then I awoke.
Analysis, please. I think it indicates that I’m very, very sick.
In the vein of yesterday’s political-type column, go take the World’s Smallest Political Quiz and post your results! I scored rather highly Libertarian, although admittedly the test left out certain things like foreign policy and environmental policy, areas where the Libertarian party and I tend to, um, differ. Check check it OOOOOUUUUUTTTTTT.
And thanks to Brian “D-Train” Dellinger for the idea. He is a rad man.
Oh, and: Update on Hearn’s Manbag Dilemma: I’ve decided a better solution is to simply wear sport coats wherever I go! I need to develop a collection of stylish jackets and thereby have many extra pockets for my wallet, my phone, my sunglasses, a coupla packs of condoms for when I go to Woody’s . . . I mean . . . um . . . nevermind.
At my company, in order to track how many hours we spend working on various projects for various clients, we have a phone system that we use to enter our hours. (Yes, you heard right: one of the largest computer companies in the world still uses a phone system to enter time sheets. Sad, really.) This is not terribly significant information except for the following interesting fact: we have signs here at work, with the official company logo and EVERYTHING, that read in large, block letters:
Do the right thing.
Enter your time daily.
“Do the right thing?” It’s as if they want to us to think that failing to enter our time every afternoon is similar to stealing server components or stabbing our coworkers with pens we swiped from the stationery closet while the secretary’s back was turned.
It’s just odd, is all I’m saying.
In other news, our two mainstream Presidential candidates are going to argue on national TV on Thursday night, likely making it impossible for me to get my weekly dose of Joey, Willngrace, and URR! My enthusiasm is absolutely without bound. Okay, all sarcasm aside, is there anybody out there who cares less than I do? I mean, seriously. How can anybody in good conscience vote for either of these two idiots? A guy I know is thinking of getting a bumper sticker that says “Accept Kerry,” which drive me nuts because
- I’d like to vote for a candidate that has more to offer than simply “I’m not that guy you hate,” and
- Personally, I think Bush is a better candidate than Kerry, his 17th century views on homosexuality and religion notwithstanding.
Another guy I know mentioned the other day that he found it strange that people can simply vote “the party line,” i.e., entirely Democrat or entirely Republican. This same guy is going to vote for Kerry simply because he despises W. I find it FAR more disconcerting that people are willing to vote for a guy simply because he’s the lesser of two perceived evils, despite the fact that I wouldn’t trust him with running an Arby’s.
I have 3 words for everyone:
THIRD. PARTY. CANDIDATE.
How the hell is anything going to change in this country if everybody continually votes for one of two guys who are so similar that I think they share toothbrushes? Voting for third party candidates isn’t “throwing your vote away,” any more than voting for any other losing candidate is. The more that we as a nation vote for people who we actually think would make good presidents, the more the major political parties will have to sit up and take notice.
Also: DOWN WITH BIG GOVERNMENT! Libertarian party++!
I think I need to start carrying a purse. A “manbag,” if you will.
You’re probably sitting there wondering, “Well, obviously. Matt’s finally coming out of the closet.” To which I respond, “You, many gay men, and the entire world’s female population, WISH!” No, I need to start carrying a purse so I look a little less like a Russian speed skater and a little more like Paul Hamm. Or at least Mia Hamm.
The issue at hand is that I lost like 40 pounds over the course of the year by careful dieting, periodic exercise, and a serious morphine habit, so I’m having to buy new clothes; I was able to buy a couple pairs of pants at Old Navy in size 36×34, which I haven’t worn since my sophomore year of college. I’m extremely stoked to be wearing these sizes, except that when you get to wear smaller waists, you also have to deal with less room in the pants for your butt and thighs.
And despite my loss of poundage, I still have the basic bone and muscle structure of a starting defensive lineman for the Steelers, so having less room for Tha Booty leads to the following unfortunate occurrences:
- Mild constriction on the junk. It’s not painful, but it’s a constant reminder throughout the day, and every time I stand up I have to discreetly make minor adjustments, which is pretty much impossible, because there’s simply no way to ensure that one’s yambag isn’t twisted upside down without having to do that little dance. All the guys reading this are nodding their heads. (All the girls reading this are throwing up into their mouths.)
- Anything that’s in my pants pockets sticks out rather dramatically. “Hey Hearn, is that a cell phone in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” Well, both, Dad!
I figure the first problem is pretty much unavoidable; those of us who are, shall we say, “gifted,” just have to put up with a certain amount of pressure. The second problem I think I can do something about, if I just start carrying all my personal possessions in a little bag. You know, something I can put in my desk when I get to work, along with the sneakers and socks I wear to get into the building because these pumps are horribly uncomfortable.
I’m hoping someone out there has some suggestions for what sort of bag. Should I just get something simple, like brown leather? Should it have tassels? Should I pick up something with lots of sequins to go with my evening-wear? Decisions, decisions.
I love Wikipedia. LOVE it. If you aren’t in the know about it (because you live in a well and like to make disturbing videotapes and show up 7 days later and kill . . . uh, nevermind), Wikipedia is an online encyclopedia that is constantly updated and edited by regular folks like you and me! In fact, you can read the plot synopsis of Brigadoon I submitted here.
In the past few days, I have learned all about:
It’s amazing, the amount of well-written information you can find there. I’m considering sending in an article about myself, but I’m not sure how best to describe myself. (Admittedly, most of my friends would have no problems describing me, and in very strong words, frequently using the words “ego” and “needs a frickin’ off switch.”)
In other news, the play is coming along nicely! Get full details about it over at the Chapel Street Players website, where you can get tickets, and get directions to the theatre, and whatnot. We open Friday, and I can safely say I remember 90-95% of my lines! I’m all kinds of amusingly seductive. Plus I wear cool pants.
Update: I found a great picture of your mom on Wikipedia!
In which Comcast finds itself on my s**tlist and redeems itself
Subtitle: Also, Stefan leaves me a rude message on my cell phone.
I’m watching TV th’other day, minding my own business, when suddenly I see it: commercial. For Comcast. Who is offering DVR (Digital Video Recorder, like Tivo) cable boxes. For $10 a month. So I quickly changed my shorts and trotted downstairs to get online and order.
The ordering process was simple; I entered my account name and some other info to verify that I am the actual Matt Hearn of whom the angels frequently extol greatness, clicked a bunch of stuff, and voila, I had printed out receipt saying that a technician would select from the mornings of 9/8, 9/9, or 9/10, I’d start getting charged $10 a month, with no startup fees.
Which is why I was surprised when I received an email from Comcast saying they would be stopping by on Sunday, September 12th, and I was going to be charged a $21.02 service fee.
Long story short, I wrote back, dropped the words “fraud” and “Better Business Bureau,” and they rescheduled me for this morning, plus dropping the set-up charge. Sure enough, just about 11am, a nice fellow stopped by and installed my new DVR, just in time for football season to commence. To say I am stoked by this turn of events would be rather an understatement.
Mmmm…user-controlled instant replay.
In other news, Stefan T. called me today from Korea to alert me that on his birthday last month, I failed to post a lengthy ode on how kickass his home country is. He intimated that I must remedy that situation post haste or risk losing his friendship for all time. I respond well to terroristic threats, so here you are, Rojo, in the style of e.e.cummings:
canada is cool
canada is cool
that big maple leaf reminds me of tepid sugar water
aunt jomama
pouring it over thick waffles with canadian bacon
and scrapple
mustn’t forget the scrapple
or hearnwife will cut me
cut me deep
i also like rush
they are a hell of good band
i am changing my name to geddy lee
i have never actually been to canada
so all i know of her people are those i see on tv
and stefan
who is an angry drunk
he drew on my face when i passed out in his bed
so hearnwife cut him
cut him deep
I’m going to have a seizure.
The only time that blogger screws up is when I forget to cut and paste my work to a text file before posting it.
Lengthy, largely unfunny column lost to a java exception. I mean, you really aren’t any worse off for not getting to read it, since it was about the most boring thing I’ve written since that time I drank a six-pack of jolt cola and filled 3 spiral notebooks with poems entirely written in binary code:
0110110110100010110.
0101; 0101110111?
01101110111100100! 01010101!
0110! 0110, 0100110111!!!
Number of girls I was dating when that occurred: zero. And I’m sure you’re surprised.
So, it’s now September 7th, and I haven’t posted since August. Still, you gotta admit, considering in the past I’ve let you down for months (being a matthearn.com reader is kinda like being a Philadelphia sports fan), I think getting weekly updates of boring crap is a pretty major accomplishment. Even if most of my posts are explanations of why I never post. But that’s gonna change, I promise you! I’m taking October off from most of the stuff that keeps me hell of busy, so I should be able to write more frequently. Of course, my life will be so boring I won’t have anything useful to write about, but it’s not like you come here for quality prose.
Other website-related stuff: apparently one of my various readers came here the other day and got a pop-up ad for a marital aid of some kind. I haven’t signed up to have anybody install pop-ups in my joint; has anybody else experienced this? I hope nobody hacked my jaunpiece. I’d hate to have to choke somebody.
So on Labor Day (yesterday, remember? Yeah, you were drunk. Admit it) my sister and I were going through old family albums to laugh heartily at such amusing things as:
- My father’s perm, circa 1979. Someday I’ll scan those pics in for all to ridicule.
- My mother’s Farrah Fawcett-Majors wispy flip things from approximately 1981.
- My sister’s mullet from about 1982.
Oddly enough, my hair always looked magnificent.
Speaking of Labor Dabor festivities, this here is the conversation of the week, which occurred yesterday afternoon at my parents’ BBQ. It’s paraphrased because I can’t afford to be recording everything people say to me all the time just in case something is funny.
David T: We’re going to revoke your father’s “Straight Man License.”
Me: Why?
DT: Straight guys are supposed to know all about grilling. That’s what they do, operate grills. And yet your father turned off the grill without cleaning it first!
Me: So what you’re saying is, a gay man would leave it unclean as well?
DT: No, gay men have the same grilling skills that straight men do. Except afterwards, we garnish.
It’s all about presentation.
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