I was Martin: "Yan can cook and so can you!"

I'm not sure if anyone else thought Martin Yan was as cool as I did. The way he chopped just about anything brought a smile to my face. He even knew it, staring into the camera as if he were saying, "I can cook and so can you! (P.S. I love you)". Actually come to think of it, he did say it. You could only feel the love if you were as much of a fan of cooking as he was. His jovial behavior and his relentless smile were enough to bring happiness to my childhood. I mean really, you didn't actually think I came up with this unbelievable smile on my own, did you?

No matter how successful Martin Yan is, he still hasn't shared a secret with you that I feel is necessary to even begin to understand his beautiful personality. Of course he didn't whisper it into my ear as the way I always dreamed he would, but after reminiscing on youtube by watching videos of him I began to take away even more meaning from Mr. Yan. Not only do his eyes tell me that he will always be there for me but he also told me that he shares my pain. The pain that is embodied in the everyday struggle of Martin vs. Marty. I don't expect you to understand. It is something that he and I (and every other Martin (first names only please)) share. Although he always goes by 'Martin', at the end of the day when he can finally put his scarily sharp knife down and throw his apron in the hamper he can also put away the inaccuracies and the expectations that 'Martin' has brought him. For those quiet hours he can be himself and look at the world through a more honest set of eyes. Marty's eyes.

"Hi, Rob Johnson Channel 2 News, pleasure to meet you!"

9 years of caddying really took it's toll on me physically, but mostly mentally. I 3-peat'd like Michael Jordan did (only he did it twice and at something totally badass) as Honor Caddy of The Year. I can say that the politics (who got the well-paying loops) pissed me off to a degree that has not been matched since. I'm talking about thoughts of murder in the 1st degree. But I knew the money was well worth it and it really wasn't work. The worst that could happen in a round of golf is that some old guy would yell at you for losing a ball. Since my mind wandered into thinking about things like "I wonder what kind of excuse I'd give if I had diarrhea right now", I knew that I couldn't complain too much about the job. Then again, I think I wonder about that excuse in almost every social situation I'm put in. I can talk for hours about the stupid shit that happened at good ol' Ridgemoor Country Club (I still have to Google it to make sure I spell it right) but I want to spend more time on a specific individual.

Rob Johnson was a guest of a guy that I caddied for regularly for the Invitational which is easily the biggest event of the golf season. Everyone gets to invite their buddies and lie about their handicaps and talk shit about who's sandbagging. It's pretty entertaining but like most things in life, I didn't take it seriously. I was more concentrated on making fun of Mr. Rob Johnson and that's pretty much it. After the first hole, during the first time I caddied for him, he turned to me and asked "Hey man, are you going to practice your standup comedy routine the entire weekend?". My reply was quick, "Do you think you could get me on the Channel 7 News or do I have to go through 4 boxes of Crest White Strips first?". (He was on Channel 7 at the time and later that day I learned that he had quit the day before and was going to be on Channel 2.) "Marty, you wish you looked this good". I was pretty relentless the entire weekend. Rob Johnson apparently thought the idea was to tell everyone he was far better than he actually was and we quickly found ourselves in last place. Rob liked to brag about how well-dressed he was. White and red striped shirt, black shorts, black socks, white Adidas golf shoes with red and black lining. You're right Mr. Rob Johnson, I do wish I looked that good.

The thing about Rob Johnson is that I had never seen him on TV. I rarely watch the news and I had only known he was a big time anchor because everyone else told me. Treating him like just another dude was not a problem. After working my way through his physical defects (which he thought were positive attributes) I started to comment on how mindless one can be to be a news anchor. Fake smile, read some lines like you actually care, and crack a corny joke right before the half hour is over. Not hard. I was pretty successful at ripping him apart until I asked "Hey Bobby J., do you and Mr. Food go out after work and pound some brewskis?" I was just expecting an answer like "Yea, all the time" but instead I got a full fledge description of how much of a creepshow Mr. Food really is. (I'm actually not even sure his name is Mr. Food, it's the fat white guy with the beard that shares recipes sometimes). That story was alright but then Rob Johnson started getting into some X-rated stuff. Some about him, some about the other idiots he works with. After feeling like a 12 year-old that just saw a boob for the first time, I decided to let up on Mr. Johnson. The last thing anyone should want to know is how their beloved news anchor gets their swerve on.

Rob (to fellow golfer) - "Hi, Rob Johnson Channel 2 News, pleasure to meet you!"
Marty - "Dude are you fucking serious? That's how you introduce yourself? You've got to be kidding."
Rob - "OK, if I get you a cranberry vodka will you make fun of someone else for the next few holes?"
Marty - "No, because I'm going to get one either way."
Rob - "Just wash my ball, and do me a favor, stop smiling like that when you do it. I'm married."

Dopplegangster: Marty

Wait until I find your dopplegangster on the hipster party pics!

At night the boneyard comes alive.

Three things that I'm deathly afraid of. (Besides Todd at night).
1) Being naked around insects. They make me hit the high notes.
2) My fascination with the smell of the black shit under toenails. Anyone's toenails.
3) Chipping my teef.

Daily Oral Language

40 hours of watching The Wire has not gone to waste. Easily the best part of the entire series.

LuLu and Ariel

Isn't a college degree supposed to make life easier?

The Wire.

I'm not too sure anyone really cares about what I've been doing since graduating. To be honest, if you did care, I wouldn't be able to give you a real answer. I hibernated most days in Chicago and I don't really see too much of a difference here in Urbana. Since it has been cold out and there isn't much to do in the 'real world' that is Urbana, I've watched a few seasons of The Wire. I must say, it is pretty awesome. Out here on our own, Dan and I often run into problems that leave us puzzled and sometimes disgusted. We often find ourselves saying, "If only Encyclopedia Brown was here...". But he isn't. We do what we can, when we can, to stay on top of the mysteries that unfold in our apartment.

Above is a picture of our toilet bowl. I know, quite disgusting indeed. Pay closer attention to the wall to the left of the toilet. Notice the Jackson Pollock-esque drips of brown.

The Wire has taught me how to handle situations like these. Detective Jimmy McNulty has taught me to never back down from a dirty job and I'll be damned if I let him down. 

We first reenacted the scenario that we thought was our best explanation. Dan picked up some burritos from Chipotle with extra hot sauce and a dozen warm chocolate chip cookies from Insomnia Cookies. I ate them as fast as I could and waited. You know most of this job is waiting. 13 minutes passed after I was done eating, I felt my stomach rumble as if Stone Cold Steve Austin (3:16) was in it giving Vince McMahon a Stunner. After rushing to the bathroom I pushed violently (with my right cheek raised) to try to see if this could be how a postmodern piece of art could be created on our wall. 9 tries later and it had proved negative.

The only other thing I could think of was a wire tap. It just didn't seem like a good idea. Tapping phone lines is probably the last way to figure out how shit spray got on the wall. Instead, I miked the bathroom to listen in on any foolery that was taking place. To my surprise all I ended up hearing was farts of all varieties. By the way, good one(s) Dan, keep them rippin. For now, this case is closed. 

Girl talk.

This couldn't have worked out any better.

Penn Station East Coast Subs

My first posters.

Click to see what Kevin, the Penn Station cashier, thought our names ought to be.

New Year...or is it?

To be completely honest, I'm not too sure what the big deal is with this thing everybody loves to celebrate called "New Year's Eve/Day". I'm convinced that I will never understand all the fuckery that goes along with celebrating the night we all have to change one number, the last number for the dates on our checks. Honestly, what's the big deal? I mean why not celebrate it every day? If you are lucky sometimes you can change more than 1 number when writing the date (on checks, it's the only time I can actually think of that I write the date)! EXCITING! Anyways, I'm glad I went out and celebrated because I learned a valuable life lesson.

We are all searching for our 'savior' to sweep us off our feet and some are looking harder than others. Since I consider myself a respectable young man, I know that the chances of finding my 'better half' at an event where my sole intention is to drink myself into happiness and to not pee my pants before I get home, are very slim. As many people set aside January 1st 12:00AM (0000 military time) to make a move on the person they've been creepshowing all night, I stand back and watch. Before it was simply because I was either at a celebration where no one's New Year's Resolution was to forget all of the criticisms and shithead comments I made to them in the previous year (you know the one that ended the instant before) or I was someplace that was filled with dogs that called themselves girls. But these days I am wiser. It must be all that Hermann Hesse (who I'd like to give a shoutout to, What up funky fresh? Holla atcha boi!) I've been reading. I know not to have any expectations of any holidays because they all end with heartburn (from the little savory sausages smothered in BBQ sauce and also the blonde bombshells that just wouldn't look my way) and a whole lot of "What was I thinking coming to this fucking shit?"'s. So last night as the clock was ticking down (or is it up? I guess it just depends on how depressed you are) I stationed myself a Stretch Armstrong's arm length from all of the girls with mustaches and other easily avoidable disfunctions. I ended up where I had been most of the night, at the snack table (laugh it up Todd). As the clock struck midnight and everybody pretended to be excited for the 'New Year' I had an epiphany. As I helped myself to the dozenth mini-dog and umpteenth cookie, I surveyed the field to see who else had figured out New Year's is a bunch of bullshit. Of course there were the usuals, Ivica and Josh, but then I looked to my immediate right and I finally felt what Michael Jackson felt when he looked in the mirror after he went skinny dipping in a olympic-sized pool of bleach. I'm assuming his initial reaction was 'Oh, fuck...what have I done?" but who knows, maybe he loves being neon white. I was no longer alone at the snack table. As I slowly put down my toothpick and backpedaled, I knew it was too late. I was now the snack.

Most people, especially girls who desperately want some action know that they can dupe some sorry sonofabitch into making out with them. I mean c'mon it's New Year's, everyone is doing it! What happens when these girls realize on December 31st at 11:58PM (trust me, these bitches are good at tricking themselves) that they aren't going to make out with anyone? Answer: They retreat to their base...the snack table. You may be tricked because these wildebeests are not likely to spend too much time prior to midnight on New Year's Eve munching down snacks. Nope, they are putting in that time because they know the reputation of New Year's Eve. They are pulling down their blouses just a few more inches and sucking in their stomachs just a few more inches, in hopes of getting, well, "a few more inches". But don't you dare think that their mind isn't on that snack table. The only thing you can see in the reflection of their eyes is the cheese dip and tortilla chips. Luckily, I made it out alive but I did wake up with rug-burn behind my ears. Yea, I don't get it either.

Look at these blood suckers, waiting to make their move.

Since I learned such a valuable life lesson this past New Year's Eve my original resolution to avoid all future New Year's Eves is out the window. Instead, my resolution is to avoid the snack table at the next New Year's Eve party. So, brothers and sisters, when that ball is about to drop at the beginning of 2009, run as far away from the snack table as possible. You don't want your 2009 New Year's Resolution to be celibacy (because of the nightmares). Until then...