Are You Kidding Me With...

Tom's of Maine Toothpaste

The first time I ever used Tom's of Maine toothpaste I almost threw up. That's how I wanna start this off. I almost threw up. And not because of a disgusting taste. In fact, I think if Tom's of Maine toothpaste had any less taste, I would actually fall asleep while using it. No, in fact, the reason for my unpleasant visceral reaction was full blown sensory overload at the bland, pasty horror that had penetrated my mouth. My body convulsed and my natural reaction was to double over and attempt to forcefully eject not only the contents of my masticatory apparatus, but also of my now Tom-tainted insides.

What is your fuckin problem, Tom? Do you know that your toothpaste feels like heartbreak? That upon touching the coated bristles to my teeth I die inside? Or are you so wrapped up in your comfy Northeastern lifestyle that you've let your mental investment in your paste wither and crumble?

Fall is Imminent!

Look at that picture. Tell me that shit doesn't get you excited! There's no two ways about it, folks. Autumn is my favorite season. Yes, I love the scenery, and the cool, crisp air, and the fact that my underwear is no longer clinging to my inner thighs like a wet napkin. But those are just the concrete foundations of my passion for this truly remarkable time of year. What I really get amped about are the things that Fall enables me to do. Like drink Pumpkin Spice Latte's from Starbucks (yes, I feel gay ordering them), and wear hoodies all the time, and light candles that smell like desserts. This is the meat of the season, man.

Look at these things. These are Pumpkin Spice Kisses. Are you kidding me? By the end of the season I am going to look like the mother from What's Eating Gilbert Grape. But I don't care! And that's why I love this time of year. The clothes, the treats, and the reckless abandon of all ethical standards.

The Trouble with Flossing

My feelings towards flossing are perfectly synonymous with my feelings towards war. It's tragic, but necessary. I have a difficult enough time mustering up the ambition to drag my near unconscious body into the bathroom to brush my teeth before bed, so the thought of having to wrap string around my index fingers and perform this additional bizarre task is a daunting one. I understand the satisfaction of a kernel of corn being propelled from your incisors against the mirror like a speeding bullet. It's the best. I just wish it was easier, and less miserable.

Sicko of the Week

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

Oh, Mahmoud. Why do you insist on being such a depraved little sicko? You are skating on thin ice, fella. The Holocaust never happened, huh? Tell that to Liam Neeson in Schindler's List. And do you really think it was a wise idea to test fire three short-range and two mid-range missiles just two days after Barack told you to wisen up and come clean with your nuclear ambitions? I think you are taking advantage of President Obama's usually calm and friendly demeanor. Your behavior as of late, though, is forcing him to unzip his Brooks Brothers trousers and give you a glimpse of his Executive Branch. But you've just seen the tip thus far, Mahmoud. Do not make Barack take out the whole branch.

To see Mahmoud in a new, refreshing light, check this out.

Five Albums for the Deserted Island

As it turns out, you are being banished to a desolate body of land surrounded on all sides by a seemingly infinite body of water. The conditions are grim. Your diet will be restricted to a humble variety of fruits and nuts. Actually that sounds kind of nice. Your diet will be restricted to the regurgitated matter of komodo dragons, with the occasional banana. Not ripe. For beverages, urine spritzers abound. In order to keep yourself busy, you will invent games to play, such as Count the Leeches, and Identify That Wound (a classic). But one luxury has been granted to you. No, you can't bring a Razr Scooter! But you can bring five CD's, which can be played in the stereo you find buried under that pile of stinky conch shells! Things are looking up!

Ahhhh, decisions to be made. Only five!? Yes, selfish. Five's the limit. Alright, well here's what I'm bringing:

Michael Jackson - Thriller (Cause you know imma be dancin, son.)

Nine Inch Nails - The Downward Spiral (I'll always be a sucker for these fellas.)

50 Cent - Gent Rich or Die Tryin' (Which hip hop album to bring was probably the toughest decision I had to make. I'm still a bit on the fence. I like the party feel of Get Rich but feel rather morose about not picking Life After Death by Biggie. Hmm...)

Radiohead - Amnesiac (Duh.)

The White Stripes - Elephant (I won't be letting my dire situation stop me from playing air guitar.)

Alright, folks. Let's hear it. What are you bringing?

The Atrocity of Jimmy Fallon

What has the world done, James Fallon, to deserve the toxic sludge which you so abundantly purge onto us every weeknight at 12:35? Watching you is like flossing with razorwire. Your awkward jokes are papercuts to the eyeballs. How do you slumber, James? How do you wake?

Dinosaurs

A long time love of mine, Dinosaurs are arguably the coolest things to have ever existed. Seeing Jurassic Park for the first time was a fairly major plot point in my life. Between the Velociraptors eating that cow, the Brontosaurus sneezing in that girls face, Laura Dern fisting that steaming pile of Triceratops shit, and the funny cigarette dangling from Samuel L. Jackon's lips as he tries figure out Newman's password, this movie was the sickest thing I had experienced at that point in my life.

That Tyrannosaurus Rex... What a tyrant that thing was. If you don't move he can't see you. I have tried to employ this line of defense when encountering people I don't want to see at the bar. Less successful off the island. But one of the many valuable lessons I've learned from JP.

I've gotta give it to the Raptors when it comes to favorite dinosaur, though. Not only is their name utterly terrifying, but I get a strange rush of adrenaline when they jump on those stainless steel table tops. I am interested to hear what your favorite dinosaurs are, and WHY.

Perhaps maybe you prefer these Dinosaurs... That's fine too.

What Do You Think of...

T H E B L U E P R I N T III

I don't want to say HOV is back, because frankly I'm not sure he ever went anywhere. Or rather, the Jay Z entity never went anywhere, but the lyrics... and the flow... I don't know if there's any denying that they took a brief, relaxing vacation.

Let's face facts, folks. The Jigga Man has not put out anything that exhibits the fire of the Black Album since, well, the Black Album. The material that was created between then and now, while undeniably peppered with some genuinely fly goods, just didn't have that Jay Z sickness that was so prevalent in tracks like Lucifer, Public Service Announcement, and What More Can I Say. The majority of the Black Album and especially, for me at least, those particular songs, were just so brain meltingly good that you really didn't hesitate over any attempts to vocalize that Jay Z was the most talented rapper doing it.

This proclamation is heard less frequently these days, and the spotlights have shifted direction in that for the past year or so, the focus has been less on HOV the Rapper, and more on HOV the Enigma, the Entrepreneur. But with Blueprint III, it feels like Mr. Carter is lubing up the hip hop defibrillators to send a shock wave of electricity through the atrophying circulatory system of his recently sleepy flow. The singles we're hearing on the radio are irrefutably money, and it's exciting to hear HOV exercising that spicy, audible swagger again.

Snoozin' in the City

As I strolled down the street in Chelsea this afternoon, I came upon the large, sleeping form of a homeless man, who was lying in an unconscious state wedged between a doorway and the entrance to the 23rd Street Subway station. "So what?", you might be asking. "This is hardly a blogworthy find, Eric." Well hold on a second, I'm not finished. This sidewalk slumberer differed from the countless others that pepper the streets of Manhattan in that he looked so incredibly comfortable.

Using a fluffy, grease stained rag as a pillow and several pages of the New York Post as a blanket, this gentleman truly looked like he was having a genuinely pleasant nap. He had removed his big black Reebok sneakers and was nuzzled up in his corner as if tomorrow was Christmas morning. Gone were the traditional facial expressions of agony and defeat, replaced with a subtle, somnambulant smile of cheer and nocturnal giddiness. I considered taking a photograph with my cell phone to visually convey to you the delightfulness of this snooze, but I didn't want the flash to wake him.

Seeing this old chap catching some afternoon Z's made me want to rush home to get under the covers and do the same. I have no doubt in my mind that he woke feeling refreshed, vivacious, and ready to carpe diem. Buona notte, big fella.

Godiva Truffles

There are three boxes that, if I see them, make me liable to physically harm anyone trying to prevent me from reaching them. These boxes are: pizza, Dunkin Donuts, and Godiva Truffles. While the first two are somewhat lacking in class and sophistication, the third is pure, delicious snobbery. Is there anything so amazing as these little balls of sinful delight? Ugh, sheer decadence. They make me adore flavors that I don't even like, like coconut, and banana. Yeah, that's right. Godiva makes a fuckin Strawberry Banana truffle. It takes the form of a dark chocolate shell with white chocolate cross-hatching lusciously draped across the top. Give me a gun. Meanwhile, the Spring Raspberry truffle tastes like you are getting a hand job in a field of fresh fruit. It's unreal.

Savoring has never been my strong suit, but with these, to eat more than two in one sitting is really not appropriate. It would be like buying an 15 year old Scotch and drinking the whole bottle in one night. (I had to learn the hard way.) The French Vanilla Truffle? Oh, man. Rich, French vanilla cream enrobed in dark chocolate with toffee coated hazelnut pieces sprinkled about its exterior. Biting into this thing and tasting the filling is pretty indescribable. If someone sucked God's dick, this is what would come out. It's ethereal. You can buy this shit at Barnes & Noble. Go see what I'm talking about.

*Pecan Pie Truffles. Tell me you wouldn't steal someone's child for a box of these.