So after pulling my hair out deciding on the 58 inch versus the 72 inch, spending over 90 minutes wandering the labyrinth (which translates to Ikea in Swedish), lugging hundreds of pounds of wood into a 21 year old jeep that puttered like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, shvitzing the wood up a flight of stairs like I’m in a sweat lodge, ruining my hands putting the two bookcases together, I discover that the small dining room that we had planned to turn into a glorious library is actually a really small dining room that won’t fit more than a single chair, and that not only are the bookcases tall, they are also so thick they encroach into more than half the space of the dining room. Which means that two giant bookcases make the room look like a school library, with barely enough space to fit a small child between. And it echoes, boy does it echo.

But I built those things with my own two hands, and can’t nobody take that away from me.

Unless I have to take them apart and return them, in which case I will be begging Ikea to take them away from me.

Thought you’d all like to know…there’s a more advanced way to effe with ads in the subway and around town. I’m still a huge fan of the old school, color in the front tooth. I’m even 100% down with the cookoo arrow through the head. OR… the word “POOP” written over someone’s face. I can dig them all. But this fine person has taken the time to make available printable cold sores to put on the beautiful airbrushed faces of our latest media campaigns. Download em here!

Living in Los Angeles forces you to develop a relationship with traffic. You either accept it as a part of your daily life and therefore amicably come to terms with the fact that the “free” in freeway is meaningless, or, you decide to battle the beast. This involves constantly changing lanes to “beat” the traffic, employing a one-fingered gesture and other expletives and becoming consumed by what is now widely know as road rage.

As a 35-mile commuter, each way, what does Tuffie do when it comes to traffic? Sure, it’d be nice to think I’ve chosen the former relationship with the brutal stop-and-go, but really, I’d be kidding no one. Sixty-five miles per hour in the fast lane? I don’t fucking think so. That’ll earn you a couple flashes of the brights and some close tailgating until you recognize your proper place in the highway’s five lanes.

When you regularly make the same daily commute (two years and counting), things get more interesting as you begin to recognize the vehicles/people around you each morning/afternoon. For instance, I don’t shake my head and flare my nostrils anymore when I see that neon green motorcyclist’s ass crack pass me by in the carpool lane. That’s because I see that shit about three times a week and have long stopped wondering why he doesn’t just tuck in his freakin’ shirt or why the cop policing the carpool lane doesn’t pull him over for indecent exposure.

That said, do I ever feel any sympathy towards my fellow commuters who are doing the same daily drive as me on mornings when maybe they didn’t get up early enough for a cup of coffee and so aren’t yet bringing their A game? Not a chance. Get with the program people and get the hell out of my fast lane.

Tuffie’s Picks:
Best License Plate Frame: Fat People Are Harder to Kidnap
Best Bumper Sticker: My Wyoming Has an East Infection.
Best Personalized License Plate: As yet to be discovered…
–Want to challenge a Tuffie Pick? Let me know your “bests.” I doubt they’ll be better, but it’ll be fun.

I’d like to congratulate the high school kid who just came to my door. He brought his A-game, attempting to sell me the LA Times by weaving it into a thoroughly engaging story of self-empowerment and a down on his luck kid trying to pull himself up by his own bootstraps.

He cleverly outmaneuvered my “I already get the paper” tactic with the surprising “we talked to the hispanic guy who delivers the paper, and he says this building doesn’t get any.” Damn, that one threw me for a loop. Bravo. Unfortunately, he didn’t expect my “my girlfriend gets it at work, brings it home”, or my brusk “but thanks, good luck, buddy.” But still, it takes balls to walk these dark streets trying to con folks out of their cash.

To those on the teen grift, I salute you.

They got these little babies at the bodega near my place. When I bring them home, my girlfriend shreaks and repeats over and over “JAPANESECANDIES JAPANESECANDIES!!” They are almost as amazing as flowers in that regard; not quite, but close.

I have no idea what the true name of these candies is, but one thing is for sure, those bulging grapes on the wrapper are no joke. Those fuckers are more grape than anything you’ll ever know my friend. I can’t be sure but I think the grapes used to make these came from an actual cartoon grape tree on a cartoon grape orchard (in Japan of course). They get about 800 of them and squash them down into little purple rectangles.

The texture is kinda funny, softer than starbursts, not as soft as gummi bears, and totally different than an egg sandwich. Once out of their royal platinum wrapper, they have a two-tone appearance. I’m not sure what the deal is here, I suspect the lighter purple zone is for “grape” and the inner darker purple area is “MORE grape”. These come highly recommended, get two packs.

I work in Jersey. There are some great things about Jersey, the hamburgers at Arthur’s for instance. Fat n juicy.. mhhmmm. But there are also some terrible things about Jersey. Walking toward me down the street were two classic Jersey meatballs, orange from fake tan, blown out Gotti hairdos and man-Juicy suits for the gym. As they got close I could see them smiling; presumably at how funny I looked to them; pale, glasses, nerd shoes. I too found them pretty funny, they had pretty eyebrows. We passed without a word, just all smiling at how funny looking we all were.

Hate is a strong word. I thought of a lot of toys that started out in the favorite category and got demoted as I became a pre-teen and discovered fire. Sadly enough for the nerds on eBay, lots of my classic GI Joe guys would end up with very pointy hands, characteristic of injuries from automatic pencil sharpeners. I definitlely used my dad’s vice grip in the basement as a car crusher for some sucky Hot Wheels cars. And the giant black Cobra airplane got its first and only test flight out of my third floor window. After all the wreckage of those poor toys, there was really only one I truly hated. Scooter. (more…)

Three’s Company themed party sounds lame. Super double lame. That is, until you see that girls are dressing as a cross between Chrissie and Rollergirl. But this party is not for me. Because I am not single. It matters not how many girls are dressed in tight-fitting(which is a mixed blessing) 70s attire. I don’t care to see how many guys were able to find an early 80s sweat suit, or leisure shirt. I am no longer “on the hunt”. And so this party, while visually intruiging, is dead to me. I’m not going to engage in small talk, searching for the few people who 1) are worth having a conversation with and 2) who are willing to have a conversation, as opposed to go look for someone attractive and available to “talk” to.

I always used to think it was being old that made parties lose their sparkle. But nope, it’s not being single. Why chat up some pretty girl with conversation not fit for a pair of wiser-than-their-age 12 year olds, if not to try to create/discover/manufacture a love connection? Can’t have a real conversation about the war/environment/true meaning of the movie Babel at a party, it’s too loud, too much booze, too many people bumping into each other.

So next time I will leave my members only jacket at home, stay staring at my computer, where I belong.