I Know I'm Not as Bad as I Think I Am...

First of all, let me update my handful of fans...

I was lying in the MRI tonight, listening to a scratched-up hospital copy of Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy, wondering what, exactly, the fuck is going on with my knee.

Don't get me wrong, from the first note, I was rocking out, but I was definitely thinking too much about my mortality during "Over the Hills and Far Away"...


And here's where I ended up (in other words, settle your bets, Party People):

In answer to the question, "what the fuck is up with that lump that X-rays can't see but anyone staring at my pale-ass legs can't miss?" I came up with three possibilities:

• Goddamn Cancer - at which point, I am totally going to rub it in my so-called doctor's face for being so fucking wrong!!! Matt 1, Medical Community ZERO! ROTFLMAO!
  
  
• My Unholy, Unborn, Very, Very Tardy Twin Brother - they thought I was twins, and it took him long enough, but he decided to hide out in my legs until it was time to poke his tiny demon horns out from under my right kneecap (as an aside, this does not surprise me one bit)
  
  
• A Brazil-Nut-Sized Glob of Faceless, Formless Pure Fucking Evil

No explanation needed on that last point.

For those of you keeping score at home, the lump of Pure Fucking Evil would still be better than cancer.

Because then I could chop that lump up and mail it to my enemies.

And for those of you freaked out by my careless use of the word "cancer," I would like to point out that there are a bunch of fictitious witches freaked out by the word "Voldemort"...


So there.

What's my point?

All this morbid thinking has really gotten me in a pensive mood...

As often happens with pensive moods, I'm as introspective as can be.

You know what question bugs me the most?

It's this one: Who am I, really?

I've got a ton of possibilities, of course...

But am I as bad as I think I am?

I know I've got issues.

But am I...

A crappy e-mail penpal?

The inevitable, erratic, wedding-ruining friend?

"That guy," one too many times while we were all out at dinner?

And after a lot of thinking, I've come up with my answer:

Yes, yes, and yes.


But I take solace.

In a world where Rasputin, Bukowski and Evel Knievel raised a high bar for ruining lives, being fucked up, and causing others to gaze in horror, I am but a tiny sapling, hoping for a bit of sunlight in a forest full of giants.


Besides, minutes after my MRI, I was eating hamburgers at J. G. Melon, up on the Upper East Side.

Those of you who know me know that the Upper East Side is my second-least favorite neighborhood in New York (after the Upper West Side) but I worked through it.

After all, J.G. Melon's burger is supposedly one of the 20 Hamburgers I'm Supposed to Eat Before I Die (although I'd contend that hamburger is the third-best in Manhattan and the fifth-best in the five boroughs)...

As morbid as that list sounds after an MRI for a mystery lump, I went ahead with the test.

And I still have to ask: what the fuck are they talking about?

Fuckin' A, Peter Luger's Lugerburger (which placed 2nd) is a veritable tour de force of burgery goodness.

It deserves its spot, and if you're in New York, you can pretty much start and end your list right there...

But putting J.G. Melon ahead of some other NY burger places is crazy.

Shit, if you insist on staying on Manhattan because you're afraid of graffiti, the smell of urine and getting robbed in Brooklyn, then you could at least go to the Corner Bistro in the Village.


J.G. Melon's burger was good. Not great. But good.

Oh, it was tasty.

And I could have eaten twelve.

But it didn't change my life.

All you fancy lads out there, if you really claim to like burgers, you should hide the large bills in your wallet, hop on the J train, and discover that heaven is sitting on a bun in Williamsburg Brooklyn.


Unless of course, you're Hindu, in which case we're slaughtering, chopping and cooking your god.

That's probably not your idea of Heaven...

Sorry about that.

Frankly, I'm sorry Jesus doesn't taste better, because then we'd be even.

(As a Catholic, I can confirm He's very bread-like, with a touch of wine and more Mystery...)

While I'm offending people, feel free to be one of those jerkoffs who claim to be burger fans but who then send me an e-mail saying the Luger Burger is not as good as you expected.

Then, criticize the LugerSauce...


Next, sit back and wait for me to reply to your e-mail.

Expect the word "cockholster" to appear prominently in the aforementioned e-mail.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

I was trying to redeem my unredeemable life but I got sidetracked by burgers...


It happens.

So I'm out at J. G. Melon, and I'm listening to the two cockholsters behind me ramble on about their trips to London, Paris and Bordeaux...

And I look around me, at the bar full of aimless white yuppies, elbowing me in the back as I try to eat my burger, as they pretend their lives mean something while they pound overpriced Bloody Mary's at the bar...


And it hit me: I may suck, but these people really suck.

I may brood about my immortal soul and my lack of social graces and the fucked-up lump on my knee, but at least I don't use phrases like, "I make too much money to fly coach" and "dude, we are doing it right tonight" and "I don't see why anyone would want to go to... Portugal."

For the record, I use the money I save flying coach to party like a rockstar, "doing it right" involves more than a Heineken and a couple of women laughing at your jokes but hitting on other guys, and while I've never been to Portugal, I do know they have tasty fish, good wine and really enthusiastic soccer fans.

If my kind of "fucked-up" is bad, and these people are right, then I want to be wrong.

I may not sleep at night, but I wouldn't want to wake up as one of them...

I know. This rant came from out of nowhere.

Like you, I often ask if I'm some kind of self-hating yuppie, self-hating white guy, or self-hating insert-arbitrary-label-here...

I think I'm just paying attention.

And that's fine with me.