My Kind of Town, (Chicago Is) - Frank Sinatra Live in London 1971

I'm posting this video because Greenberg is leaving NYC and moving to Chicago in a few weeks. Since he shared the news, I've made sure make sure to tell him every single day that he's making the "biggest mistake of his life." Not because he won't thrive there, but because I'll miss him. Chicago is a great town. It's just that it's not that close to a coast, you know? You're landlocked. No ocean horizon to gaze upon or beach in which to do cartwheels. And that could be weird full-time. I mean, what if there's some sort of catastrophe and you need to escape into open waters? I don't know. Other than that, I think it's a great town.

Anyhow, I'm also posting this because it's strange. Frank's hair, in particular, is strange. Talk about a terrible toupee. Didn't this guy have a friends and family? Of course he did, he was a popular dude. The Friends and Family Program is supposed to be honest with you when you wear or do stupid shit, and this hairpiece is ridiculous! Is it a case of the Emperor's New Clothes? Perhaps. In 1971, Sinatra still remembered the words to the songs, hit the notes, and was still nailing broads ad nauseam. At this time, I think he was smooching a very young Mia Farrow, if I remember correctly. You can tell he's still "got it" with his cheeky performance. Did she pretend not to notice the ferocious wig? Even though they were rocking an almost identical Rosemary's Baby 'do? Apparently.

Two Documentaries You Nerds Will Love

1. Taking a page out of the book of the BBC's Up! series, Nova's Doctors' Diaries follows a group of doctors from Harvard Medical School until 21 years later. Fascinating. And recommended by Greenberg. Spoiler alert: Harvard Medical School is tough. 
2. We Shall Remain: After the Mayflower on PBS about the Wampanoag tribe's resistance to the English in New England. Since the material covered is so old, it's obviously devoid/light on photographs / ephemera and heavy on re-enactments to accompany the narrative. Normally, I can't handle re-enactments because the acting is so very horrible (take America's Most Wanted, for example), but the actors in this documentary are amazing you lose yourself in the story. Spoiler alert: it's a sad story. 

Any Publicity is Good Publicity. Right, Hos?

You know you've finally made it when somone scribbles on the men's bathroom stall wall that you're a whore.

What?

Men's Bathroom, far right stall wall, 3/18/09



A colleague of mine who happened to be taking a D in the last stall (that's generally the dumping stall of choice for both sexes it seems) got his phone out (not un-gross, but it was an emergency) to text Greenberg, "Did you write that Anne is a whore in the men's bathroom?" He hadn't. 

Me? Are you sure? Really? 

So of course, Greenberg and I immediately ran down the hall with my camera so Greenberg could document the flattery, and I could post it here. I'm slightly insulted that they left the "e" off of Anne (could they be referring to some other whore?). Other than that, I'm proud to be celebrated, you know, and on someone's mind while they were doing a doody at work, I guess.

The fact that the scribble is in decidedly "girly" handwriting (ye olde circle instead of a dot over the i) and I work in an a "professional" office--not a Junior High School--makes it all the more puzzling, but I never said I didn't work among lunatics, folks. No shortage of lunatics here. We may have a surplus. 

I'd write more, but I've got some whoring to catch up on, you know. Gotta bone up on boning some dudes and whatnot. I've got a repuation to uphold, afterall!

Yours,
Whore

So You Say Someone Has Just Called You an Ugly Dumb Retard

I don't know what to tell you. It hurts, for sure. But beauty comes from within. Or so they say.

And even if it doesn't, let's say it really doesn't. What the hell are you going to do?

Let's just believe it does.

Plus, the person who said that to you probably has ridiculously long and distracting nose hairs. And where's the beauty there? Am I right?

RIP, Indian Fridays

A few weeks ago we came up with this thing called Indian Fridays where a 4 or 5 of us actually leave the office for a real lunch instead of the usual cramming Subway down our pie holes at our desks. Most of the kids craved Indian food, so Indian Fridays began. Our third Indian Friday at Baluchi's on Warren Street was today. 

It was also our last. 

When do Indian Fridays turn into Mexican Fridays?

When a cockroach crawls out of the naan. 

Indian Fridays was a fast and furious blip on the screen for sure, but high on excitement and weirdness, including a disturbing obsession our waitress (who reminded us of a poor man's Selma Hayek) had for: 

1) Greenberg

2) Telling us how hot she was 40 lbs ago when she looked even more like Selma Hayek.

***Spoiler Alert: The roach dies in the end, splattered beneath Betty's boot under the table. ***

Chubby Selma Hayek: It wasn't in the bread. It was in the basket. Not the bread. The basket. 

Mexican Fridays here we come. 

You Eat with Them, You Excrete With Them: They're Your Co-Workers

Long before 9-5 moved to 8-6, American workers have been spending too much time together cooped up in cages scrabbling for our white picket fences. We know far too much information about each other that we'd prefer not to know.



Right before the holidays, Greenberg came back to his desk from the john very disgusted and extremely disappointed in the human race:




Anne. Anne. Anne?




Yes?




Nanners!





What? (typing, not turning around)




I have to talk to you. I just saw something very disturbing.




Yeah? What?




Anne. (implying that I should turn around for this)




What happened? (I turn around)




Let's say that a massive Budweiser horse, one of those Clydesdales, managed to get up here to the 28th floor, plow himself into the men's room, barge into the second to last stall, and unload the biggest pile of crap--a pile--and after that, manage to turn himself around in there and then proceed to piss on it, and then simply gallop out of there without flushing it, and leaving it there for everyone. It's above sea level. It's absolutely disgusting. Who does that? Who does that and doesn't flush it? I had to sit in the first stall to do my business and sat there with my shirt sleeve up to my nose. I'm very upset. This is very disturbing. Anne, it's not good. Someone DOES have a fucking problem. Who doesn't flush? I DEMAND to know who it is. I want a DNA test.




Wow. Gross.




Want to see it?




Kinda.




5 minutes later, I'm walking down the hall to the men's room with 5 guys to see the poo pile. They all go in together as I waited outside.




"MAN!! OH MY GOD!" I heard through the door.


Then Greenberg escorted me in for my tour while the dudes watched the door. Greenberg held the stall door open with his giraffe arm and sure enough, I saw exactly what Greenberg had described. Certainly something you wouldn't expect to see in an professional office john, more likely what'd you'd see on a farm, in a Mobil station, or what'd be at the bottom of a Bonnaroo port-o-potty. Rough. And clearly the stench was foul, I mean, the doody was above the water level, man. Totally hitting the air. It might as well been all over the floor. I wanted to flush it. But Greenberg thought it'd end up on the floor that way. "It's too much! It can't be done!"




Then we ran stood outside and grabbed a couple male employees and told them to look at it.



Well, I did.




"Guys! I have to tell you something. There's a big doody in the second to last stall. Go look at it."




"OH, SHIT!"




and




"OH MY GOD!"




They said respectively.



The End.

Weird Wedding Photos Part MLVMCCVMCV

Ok...Don't look now, but is there a super creepy guy standing behind me with a gloved hand on my shoulder?

Speaking of weddings and gloves, we recently had a discussion in the office about wedding rings. Greenberg was pestering another fella about why he doesn't wear his wedding ring, and he was explaining that it nothing to do with fidelity, it's just that he's not a ring guy. Not a jewelry guy. I can understand this, because despite their bizarre and wonderful 40 years of marriage and commitment, my folks aren't wedding ring folks. They own wedding rings, and keep them in the respective jewelry repository accoutrement on their dressers, but for whatever reason, whether it be comfort or size (as in my Dad's case, someone always working on cars, or my Mom's case: someone who has thankfully--but to her chagrin--gained a few pounds since her 96 lb wedding day) my parents haven't been into rings. One day, I asked my Mom about the lack of ring thing, and she told me the story of some friend from the club who was at the gym one day showering after a workout. She needed to adjust the plastic shower curtain, and while she was messing with it, she slipped. The wedding ring on her finger got caught on one of the clips, and as she fell, the shower curtain ring which was snag on her wedding ring literally de-gloved her finger. Let's just say that there was a lawsuit, and I understand why folks don't wear wedding rings. Live and let live, folks. Do whatever you need to do. I just want you to be happy. Can't we just be happy?

She's Pressin' Charges: WWGD?

You may remember my post, Yellow Bellied Crackers, about a memorable trip on the subway recently with Greenberg.

The next video begs the obvious question:

What would Greenberg do?

Other than immediately decompose into liquid stool?

My dear friend Antoinette, who describes herself as "chocolate," and me as "vanilla," always says, "A chocolate fight isn't over until somebody grabs somebody else's weave. "

Would Greenberg know to grab her weave?

What she grabbed Greenberg's weave???

A few SUCKMYDICKs seem like a walk in the park by comparison, don't they? Of course.

Yellow Bellied Crackers

In New York, you don't know when a crazy person's diatribe is directed at you until you do. I took the subway home from work with Greenberg last week, and all was fine on the 5. But when we transferred to the 6, a little bit o' hell broke loose. There was a casually dressed black guy shouting about crackers and pistols and pussies at someone, and I assumed it wasn't us. You tune things out as part of your survival kit here. But he got closer. And finally he was in Greenberg's face shouting more about those things:

"Crackers. Crackers got it made! Crackers all over the internet, and I still get the pussy. My pistols loaded, yo. Crackers. CRACKERS!"

I thought to myself, "Wish this cracker had it made."

Greenberg stared straight ahead, motionless like a beetle or a turtle or one of those animals that plays dead to avoid being stabbed with a shank on the subway. I muttered at Greenberg's and my reflection in the window across aisle, "I think he's talking to you."

Greenberg did look especially crackery that day with his stupid briefcase and terrible canary yellow short sleeved golf shirt, but other than looking like an asshole, he didn't do anything to my knowledge to deserve such a tirade. So there we sat, Greenberg still as stone--and I wondering how the hell I'd defend myself, as Greenberg clearly wasn't going to be helping me out any--while Mr. Angry went ballistic, walking and talking, occasionally accentuating his prose with in-your-face gestures.

"WHY DON'T YOU SUCK MY DICK?" he asked Greenberg.

More babbling about crackers, the internet, pussy, and pistols. Suddenly we arrived at 23rd Street, which was one stop from where we got on, and Greenberg's stop. Mr. Angry made his way to the doors. Greenberg definitely wasn't going to get off here, I thought to myself.

The doors opened, and Mr. Angry shouted, "HAVE A NICE DAY!" at Greenberg. And right before the doors closed behind him, got in another, "SUCK MY DICK!"

The doors closed. Everyone on the train breathed an inaudible but palpable sigh of relief.

"That was my stop!" Greenberg exclaimed.

"I know," I reassured him.

"What was that guy's problem?"

"I think he wanted you to suck his dick."

The train laughed. Greenberg added, "Nothing to worry about, everyone--just an old roommate of mine."

More laughter. A woman sitting across from us chimed in, "Did you stick him with the rent?"

I got off with Greenberg at the next stop (a stop earlier than my own) and walked with him a few avenues to settle him down. He was a big target with that stupid yellow golf shirt on, afterall. Crackers.

One Man's Nightmare, Another Man's Dream

Gay Pride Weekend is afoot here in NYC, and to get in the spirit of things, I enjoyed an insightful discussion with Greenberg about homosexuality this morning over a nice hot cup of green tea. Antioxidants! What I learned is that it's quite clear that straight chicks are way less threatened by lesbianism than straight dudes are of homosexuality. (Insert idiot's voice here: YEAHHH BECAUSE LESBIAN SEX ISN'T GROSS IT'S HOT, DUH) They get all wonky and weird and terrified about the idea. Perhaps because there's that meat sword flying around jabbing things in its path, but I digress. So back to Greenberg. He said, "It's just amazing to me, because a straight man's biggest fear, like say when he goes to prison is, "Man, I so hope I don't get fucked in the ass," and yet there's a dude out there who's thinking, "Man, it's Friday night, I just got paid, and I hope I get fucked in the ass."

Discuss.

Just One Reason Why Greenberg is a Maniac: In 3 Parts

Enter one size 11.5 dirty Bass Weejun that Greenberg wears everyday and refuses to shine.




















Hole-y shit! Is that an enormous hole? Is that green chewing gum? Is that gross? And possibly terribly cold/wet when it hits the winter pavement?























According to Greenberg:

1 Avery #5260 label = Shoe is fixed.

Two Can Anne Web Traffic History Was Made Today

I had a whopping 4,702 visitors to my blog today, a new and unbelievable record. Why, you ask? Is it the edgy coverage of hot topics of the day like, say, my post on bacon bits? Is it perhaps the extra mile I go to describe some a-hole du jour? Is it my played out series, Weird Wedding Photos?

No, no, and no.


Today, 99% of the 4,702 folks who clicked on my blog today were googling for the video of two girls eating caca from a cup. Since I haven't posted the video, clearly they were disappointed. Waa waaaaaa...

What about that 1%, you ask? Well, they were less concerned with the poop show and more concerned with "What happened to McDonald's Southwest Chicken Salad." I was able to help them out there, at least.

Two Can Anne: Your #1 News Source Sort Of.

34 43.59% two girls one cup
9 11.54% 2 girls one cup
4 5.13% 2 chicks in a cup
3 3.85% two girls-one cup
3 3.85% 2 girls one finger
2 2.56% two girls one finger
2 2.56% two girls one cup video
1 1.28% two girls and a cup
1 1.28% 2 girls one cup video
1 1.28% two girls one cup original
1 1.28% two chicks one cup video
1 1.28% two girls one cup official video
1 1.28% two girls in one cup
1 1.28% two girls and one finger
1 1.28% 2 chicks & a cup
1 1.28% 2 girls and 1 finger
1 1.28% two girls and cup real or fake
1 1.28% 2 girls 1 finger video
1 1.28% two girls and cup
1 1.28% tow girls one cup
1 1.28% two girls one cup
1 1.28% 2 girls and a cup, the real one
1 1.28% what happened to mcdonalds southwest chicken salad
1 1.28% two girls one cup link
1 1.28% two girls one cup real video
1 1.28% two girls and 1 cup

Wow, Greenberg is Blowin' Up!

Remember Greenberg, from calamari and celebrity sightings galore? Well, apparently the Drew Barrymore Collective (fansite) is irate! And they're fighting amongst themselves about the validity of Greenberg's (unflattering) story featuring their muse. I don't know what the big deal is about a broad, celeb or not, allegedly doing a line of coke in a men's bathroom, who cares? Sniff it if you've got it, I say. I'm not one to judge. But isn't this information superhighway stuff fascinating? People are hating on Greenberg! Anyway, if there's one thing I know about Greenberg, the kid doesn't fabricate. He steals calamari destined for other diners and eats it in the bathroom sink, but he owns up to it. Eventually.