4' 11" x 4' 11"

in order of importance...

1) mrs b doesn't like being mentioned on The Metz.

2) mrs b doesn't approve of her image appearing on the Metz in any form.

3) mrs b doesn't read The Metz.

so keep this quiet, won't you?


all i know is i think this is what pregnancy should look like.

big, round, bathed in natural light and prominently featuring a jar of horseradish.

Welcome All Corpse Rapists!

my christmas present finally arrived!

The Metz is now the number one google result for "corpse rape".


and they said i'd never amount to anything.

Some Pig

today, following thousands of years of jewish tradition, the family and i celebrated jesus' birth by taking a trip to the local multiplex. i took the boys to see charlotte's web while the mrs headed off to get her dreamgirls on before going to the movies becomes impossible.

when charlotte said her final goodbye to wilbur, jb took it pretty hard.

you probably don't have to strain yourself to imagine what that did to this lifelong softie.


i am not ashamed to admit that the dead spider and swelling music would have normally been more than enough to coax a tear or two from my eye - despite the overall mediocrity of the movie - but to see that my son was so upset from what was going on, that he got it, and was loudly sobbing his way towards another step in his emotional maturity, totally set me off. i was able to stifle any audibly sympathetic sobs, but could do nothing to stem the river of emotion snot that began to drip from my nose.

and despite having to pull my hat down low so no one would see my red eyes as jb, ab and i walked out of the theater (actually, as i raced them out before the corny sarah mclachlan song that played through the credits could get me going again) we all know, there is nothing sweeter than emotion snot.


except trader joe's mini peanut butter cups. those things are fucking awesome.

He Said "Kumquat"

we were walking home from our friends' house down the block this afternoon, when i noticed my next door neighbor's kid - about 12 years old or so - and a few of his friends standing on our lawn, violently pulling as much fruit off our kumquat tree as they could hold, and then hopping our minihedge into the street and having a little point blank mini-citrus war with their bounty.


as we walked towards the house, and as i processed exactly what was going on, i noticed that there were dozens of squashed kumquats on the pavement and all over the sidewalk. this had obviously been going on for a while, and would continue as long as they didn't see us walking up.

they didn't see us walking up.


it was right then and there that i had my first crisis of conscience as a homeowner.

the "i don't want to be a dick" side of me instantly thought "it's just kids having a little fun. you did plenty worse when you were a kid. you can't tell them not to do that. do you really want to be 'the grumpy neighbor'?"

the "grumpy neighbor" side of me made his case, too. and he did it pretty rationally.

"these little fuckers aren't showing you any respect. if they feel comfortable coming onto your property and fucking with your kumquat tree, next thing you know they'll be breaking into your house and fucking with the fruit you buy at the market. or pissing on your toilet seat! or selling your wife's jewelry for meth money. THIS HAS TO STOP AND IT HAS TO STOP NOW!"

i was frozen. for a guy who thinks on his feet pretty quickly, i didn't really know how i should handle this.

i thought about it as we got closer to the house, and after what seemed like a lifetime - but in actuality was probably as long as it took me to take about 5 steps towards my home - decided upon walking up casually, pulling my own fruit off the tree, throwing one at the kid playfully and saying "come on. if you really want to do this that badly, come find me and ask me."

at the exact moment i came up with my brilliant compromise, mrs. b hit the lock button on our car remote. i imagine her reasoning was that the beep would let them know we were coming and to cut that shit out. kind of like a hillbilly firing his rifle into the air to scare off a bear, only with more teeth.

as soon as they heard the car squawk, they knew the jig was up.

two of the kids casually strolled off into the street, making sure not to allow for any eye contact, and my neighbor's kid sprinted off around the corner of my house, and i guess hopped the short stone fence before i could say anything to him.

for some reason, this cowardly retreat really pissed me off.

unfortunately, the bird had flown. the kids were gone, they knew i was on to them, and any lecture at this point would involve ringing their bell, getting the parents involved and probably making more of the whole situation than i needed to.

as i walked into the house, i kind of heard the kids walking back out into the street from their hiding places. i had given up without a sound, and they were free to skateboard without fear of getting a lecture.

or so they thought.

as mrs b and i sat down in the living room and exchanged "what the fuck are you going to?" looks, we heard noise coming from the boys' room - which faces the street. jb was climbing onto the sill beneath the window, unlocking it and sliding it open.

he was going to finish the job that his old man couldn't.

"HEY!" he yelled.

the skateboarding stopped. the kumquat warriors turned and looked at the five year old with fire in his eyes.

"YOU DON'T THROW THOSE THINGS ANYMORE! THEY BELONG TO US! THEY'RE NOT YOURS, SO DON'T TOUCH THEM!"

they got the message loud and clear. and after all, in the end, isn't it the message, not the messenger that matters?

A Hanukkah Story You Don't Have To Be Jackie Mason To Appreciate

the other evening, on the first night of hanukkah, the boys organized a fierce game of dreidel on our kitchen table. and as they played, mrs b and i took a moment to just sit back and drink in the scene.

we watched them chat and fool around and ask each other questions and tell little private jokes and crack each other up mercilessly with impolite words that dealt with their favorite bodily processes. and every so often, my pregnant wife and i would both hear some silent cue in our sons' conversation and turn to each other at the same time with a "can you believe this shit?" look on our faces.

and then, suddenly, the game slowed to a stop and out of the blue, they both started to tell us the story of hanukkah, without sparing a single detail. they told us about the maccabees and how they wouldn't give up even when it didn't look like they were going to win the fight. they told us about how everyone had to come together to clean the temple and how you should be a good person even if other people are so bad. they told us about how the oil was only supposed to burn for one night but ended up lasting for eight days.

and then ab picked up the dreidel, looked us both dead in the eyes and began to explain exactly what this thing he was holding in his hand meant. forget about the whole "made it out of clay" bullshit. this kid was ready to bring the thunder.

"there are four hebrew letters on the dreidel," he told us with as much gravitas as a pre-k'er can muster. "they are nun, gimel, hay and shin. and do you know what they stand for?"

"tell us," my wife and i managed to whisper through the lumps forming in our throat.

"they stand for 'ness gadol ha'ya sham'. and do you know what that means?"

mrs b shook her head, probably because she couldn't speak. i couldn't even shake my head.

"that means 'a great miracle happened there'."

and he nodded and he smiled.

and his brother did the same.

and mrs b and i tried desperately to rein in the tears of pride that were prepped and ready to pound down our cheeks like a hurricane, so our boys wouldn't think in a million years that they had made us sad instead of as happy as we'd ever been.

tonight, sometime around 11 pm, my twin boys will turn 5 years old.



and the more i think about what they did and said the other night, and what they do and say every day and the way it all began, the more i understand in my heart that great miracles really do happen. they happen in stories you learn in hebrew nursery school and they happen in kitchens over games of dreidel and they happen in delivery rooms and NICUs right after a doctor warns you that it's not the end of the world if your sons don't make any noise when they're born because, after all, they're 10 weeks early but don't worry because all the people you see gathered around you are there to make sure things go as smoothly as possible.


i have seen miracles and i have heard miracles, and if you're ever in the neighborhood, i can introduce you to a pair of miracles who are drinking their milk and watching spongebob in the other room at this very moment as i sit here typing with a dopey grin on my face and tears welling up in my eyes thinking about what an unbelievably lucky man i am.

Welcome To The Jungle...Today's Specials: Boars Head Oven Roasted Gold Turkey, $5.00/lb; Yoplait Whips! Yogurt, 3/$2.00; Organic Bananas, $.99/lb

god only knows what would have happened if 14 year old moe berg saw paul stanley - co-leader of his all time favorite band, kiss - sitting and enjoying a little nosh at his favorite deli, like 34 year old moe berg did the other day.


and it goes without saying that moe berg 1986 would have completely and totally shit his pants if he walked into the neighborhood supermarket and saw axl rose wandering around, eating out of a can of loaded baked potato pringles while his girlfriend pushed a shopping cart through the frozen food section, like moe berg 2006 did earlier this evening.


oh, who am i kidding? modern day moe berg thought it was pretty cool, too.

it's nice to know that a part of my youth is still lying latent in my adult bodyfat like a virus, still able to feel an honest to goodness 'holy shit' thrill when it comes within a grocery aisle's distance of someone who once hung on my wall.

To Be Fair, This Doctor Knows What He's Doing. He Is A True Professional And Very Talented. Also, He Takes Terrific Pictures Of Fetus Peckers.

last week, at the end of mrs b's super 4d sonogram, the perinatologist turned to us as he waved his magic wand over my wife's gigantic belly and - despite the fact that we've been in his office every two weeks for the past two months or so - asked whether or not we knew what sex our son-to-be was.

before were finished telling him we did, he removed a fresh print from the machine with a flourish and handed it to me.

'this is one for the dad,' he said with a satisfied smirk.

it was a super 4d sonogram shot of the kid's 30 week old junk.


now, i'm sure there's an anthropologist out there somewhere who could tell us all that, once upon a time, cavemen or other highly evolved simians felt a surge of pure, male animal pride the first time they got a look at their newborn son's cock 'n' balls. but i've got to tell you, the idea that this doctor thought that i'd start hooting and beating my chest once i saw that little black and white dong did nothing but creep me out.

now that i've got that off my chest, here's another picture of the kid, minus the genitals.

don't worry, bud. daddy's not going to show anyone what you're packing until the day you really piss him off. then he's showing everyone.

Our Second Choice Is "Ted McGinley"

"daddy," said ab to me tonight as we walked in from our trip to gelson's. "is david hasselhoff a word?"


"actually," i replied with an incredulous laugh, "david hasselhoff is someone's name. where did you hear the name 'david hasselhoff'?"

"on the spongebob movie," said the boy.

there was a pause as he contemplated something for a moment.

"you know what, daddy?"

"what, bud?"

"david hasselhoff would be a good name for the baby."

i'm not going to argue with him.

that said, here is the first public direct-from-the-womb sono-photo of david hasselhoff berg, due in about two months.


all he needs is are snug red swim trunks and i think we're in business.

If You Look Closely Enough, It's Kind Of A Metaphor For The War In Iraq. Only This Ends With Birdshit In My Mouth.

ask anyone who knows me. i am certain that i am the smartest person in north america.

no joke.

i'm quick on my feet, a good problem solver and i have more random information packed into my brain than louie anderson's got ass packed into his pants. you've heard of a know-it-all? i'm the guy a know-it-all thinks should tone it down a bit. and ken jennings can suck my balls.


that said, a few nights ago mister brilliant ended up eating most of a birds' nest and chugging a keg's worth of stagnant, filthy rainwater due to my abject stupidity and lack of foresight.


our story begins with one of those out of the blue, late autumn southern california rainstorms that are normally kind of thrilling in a 'the seasons are changing' sort of way.

actually, scratch that.

our story begins two years ago when a family of partridges built a respectably sized nest in the rain gutter along my back patio, adjacent to the door that opens from my bedroom. being a considerate, kind man of the earth, over the next few months, i dismissed any and all suggestions to remove the nest. i figured i wouldn't like it if someone just came along and tore my house out of the ground. why should i do it to these poor birds? even if their loud avian sounds woke me in the middle of the night? even if months' worth of their shit cascaded out of the sticks and branches onto the wood like the world's worst cake icing above my doorway. even if there was no sign of the birds for weeks and weeks. those birds will never know how lucky they are to have picked a host like me.

anyhow, by the time it had been determined that the birds were no longer making their home within a part of my home, the nest and the gutter in which it was stuffed was too disgusting to even think about getting near unless i was actually forced to. the notion of touching this thing and accidentally cracking the outer crust and unleashing a pandora's box of shit germs and bird fever and microbial whatchamacallits prevented me from even thinking about doing it. (said the lazy, wimpy man.)

and so, i forgot all about it.

time passed.

the seasons changed. leaves fell. gutters were clogged further.

and then, a year or so later, the skies opened up.

at first, i was soothed by the sound of the falling rain as i prepared to settle in for a nice night's sleep. that was before i noticed the rainwater slowly dripping in over the top of the bedroom door that opens up onto the patio, and into the hot zone.


looking out through the door's glass, i saw that rainwater and filth was cascading over the edge of the gutter closest to my room, onto the door, over the weatherstripping and into my house, just two feet or so from my bed. and much like some experts were able to identify osama bin laden as the culprit the instant those two planes hit the world trade center on 9/11, i knew in a flash exactly what i was dealing with here and exactly what i would have to do.

fast forward to me, 15 minutes later, soaked from head to toe in a cold driving rain, tippy-toed on top of a ladder in my backyard at 11 o'clock at night with latex gloves on, blindly fishing around like a cataract patient trying to find the ring she dropped in her toilet.

to make a long story a bit shorter, i was attempting to do what i could to alleviate the jam as efficiently as possible, without actually manhandling the nest and coming into contact with whatever putrid stew it had devolved into. and being a very smart man, i planned to do that by unplugging a secondary leaf tumor a few feet down from the nest and paddling the water towards the gutter drain, a few dozen yards down away from me. no more blockage, no more nestwater pouring down, no more leak into my home.

that was the plan.

unfortunately, as my plan was set in motion, and i reached as deep and far into the totally full gutter as i could without falling, the weight of my right arm displaced all the water that had collected there, and immediately sent it off in three directions - 1) down towards the drain like i had planned, 2) over the edge of the gutter and onto the top of my head, and 3) towards the nest.

and as soon as that tiny tsunami hit the nest - the nest i had avoided for two years due simply to how absolutely disgusting it had become and which by this time was floating in a soup of dirty rainwater, rotting leaves and other sediment - it popped it up and over the end of the gutter and onto my face.

in an instant, i felt the nest break apart on my nose. i felt pieces of it in my hair. i felt more pieces of it in my eyes. and worst of all, i felt most of it in my mouth. tiny sticks and bundles of hair and feathers and shit germs and eggshell shards and wormheads, resting between my lips and my teeth.

the next thing i remember i was standing soaking wet in my bathroom, stripped to my boxers drinking orange listerine in giant gulps like a wino with my wife and inlaws trying to stifle their laughter from the hallway.


i've showered probably 7 or 8 times since that night but i will never truly be clean. and i will never be able to convince anyone that i am smarter than they are ever again. not as long as they have this post as evidence.

I Have Registered For Hanukkah At Vendome Liquors

in 8 days, the boys will be 5 years old.

holy fuck.


in about two months, they will have a new brother.


super holy fuck.


have you ever heard the future sneaking up on you while you while you weren't paying attention? it sounds a lot like your heart beating.


all right, then.


that's all the philosophy i think we should have to stomach for now.


as penance, tomorrow, i will tell you the story of how i ended up choking on 10 gallons of stagnant rainwater and most of a bird's nest the other night while my father in law watched, undoubtedly thinking to himself, 'that has to be the stupidest person i have ever seen.'

He Never Ate Goat Face

as The Friendliest Guy In The World, my friend albert carvajal basically defied you not to grin along with him as he bopped his way through life, oblivious to every bit trouble lurking in the world.

as The Most Optimistic Guy In The World, my friend albert carvajal essentially willed himself to become an award winning filmmaker, despite living his life in a world basically set up to prevent him from ever doing anything close.

as The Most Trusting Guy In The World, my friend albert carvajal lived his life taking anything and everything anyone ever said to him at face value. after all, why would anyone ever waste their time saying anything they didn't mean?

----

i've already gone over the shitty story of how albert carvajal died. if you've never read the article i stole from the new york observer about 'bert in that same post, i kind of wish you would. it really captures what knowing him was like.

very smiley.

and it is certainly less smiley every time i think about how albert died literally following his dream to a place where his friendliness, optimism and faith were a liability.

-----

one boring afternoon at work, my friend chad and i were killing time by making prank phone calls using different soundboards, like this one. or this one.

(i know. very mature.)

anyhow, one of the calls we made was to albert from "howard stern".

(be warned, there's a touch of NSFW audio.)



albert being albert, after a tiny bit of uncharacteristic but understandable skepticism, honestly thought he was talking to howard stern. after all, why couldn't something like that happen? why couldn't his cell phone ring out of the blue with a call from a famous media personality.

why not?

in albert's world, anything was possible.

and that's why i am certain albert fell asleep each night faster than you or i could ever hope to, and i am even more certain he did it with a smile on his face larger than you or i could muster with a dozen extra teeth.


capicu, papi.

A Look Into The Crystal Spalding

ny times, december 7, 2006:

"steve francis was booed for a careless turnover and a missed 3-pointer. stephon marbury was booed simply for checking back into the game. and with two minutes left, the 'fire thomas' chants — dormant for the last few weeks — rained down again.


'the fans are the fans,' thomas said, 'and they’ll do their thing.'

-----

ny times, december 15, 2006:

"at the moment the buzzer sounded to close out yet another dismal performance by the hometown team, plastic beer bottles, food wrappers and d batteries showered the players, who seemed not to care in the least.

'that's new york for you,' said thomas, 'you have to admire their pluck. did i use that word the right way?'"

-----

ny times, january 6, 2007

"with the team's home losing streak stretching well past the point of heartbreaking, perhaps league officials shouldn't be surprised that knick fans have taken to openly urinating onto the court at 'the world's most famous arena' during timeouts.


'i saw penises of all shapes, sizes and colors aiming in my direction tonight,' remarked a soaking wet thomas at his post-game briefing, 'it just goes to show you what kind of melting pot this city really is.'"


-----

ny times, march 10, 2007

"it's hard to say which was the more shocking incident during the most recent double digit knick home loss. was it the moment that center eddy curry was shot by a sniper from the upper deck of madison square garden? or was it the ferocity with which courtside regular woody allen raped his corpse?


'woody showed us all the kind of spirit that put new york on the map,' chuckled the coach, 'the same kind of spirit that lifted us all after 9/11.'"

Don't Judge Me Until You've Walked A Mile With My Tivo, Okay?

despite what i do for a living, i don't watch very much tv at all. but thanks to my new discovery, this could be about to change in a big way.

as of yesterday evening, mrs b has her 'law and order' and i have 'assy mcgee'.



a hard boiled cop/human ass who plays by his own rules and speaks like robert evans and sylvester stallone raised a child. as far as i'm concerned, it's perfect television and as long as cartoon network keeps making it, i'll keep watching it and laughing loud enough to worry my sofa-bound wife in the other room.

the only problem i've encountered with my new found entertainment crush so far is that there have only been two episodes produced to date. the one i've embedded above and the one i've embedded below.



i tried to convince mrs b to watch the second one with me, so she could see what i thought was so funny, but she was instantly as horrified as i've ever seen her become after seeing something on tv. and this is a woman whose favorite pre-bedtime show regularly features things like children chained in school basements or toddler skeletons buried under little league ball fields. apparently in her world, it's all right to air a show in which a sex offender rhapsodizes to the cops about how he loves to masturbate while he looks at his big collection of children's clothing, but laugh out loud at one animated, headless ass mumbling while he pisses on the floor and something's wrong with you.

May I Suggest William Kennedy? Or At The Very Least, Jennifer Crittenden?

it was announced today that britney spears topped yahoo's list of searched items this year.

that said, i have an announcement of my own.

over the past 52 weeks, not one person has found their way to The Metz after searching for "britney spears".

"patrick ewing's penis"? that's another matter entirely.


in other news, ab told mrs b the other day that he wants to be a writer when he grows up, "just like daddy". after posts like this one, i truly hope he reconsiders his role model.