Mathletics

So there's this thing called CrossFit.  It's a workout thingy that I do.  I'm not entirely proud of it, mostly because it is a thinly-veiled cult, but it is a good way to stay in shape.  And the Kool-aid is fantastic.


Anyway, this gym regularly profiles its members on the website.  As such, I was given the opportunity the answer some questions on what I like about CrossFit.  This is what happened:


http://www.crossfitintegrity.com/sunday-july-4-2010-athlete-profile-cullen-gallagher/

Yes, that is a picture of me.  Yes, I am pale and awkward looking.  No, those weights aren't fake.  It's only 135lbs, keep your panties on.

Hey Emma Stone, Sorry I Was So Awkward

Hey Emma Stone, sorry I was so awkward.

My stupid hair and I were sitting, minding our own business, waiting for a meeting at Imagine Entertainment on the afternoon of Friday, November 20th. I was quite nervous, as this was my first "Hollywood" meeting. Furthermore, I was in the offices of the guys behind "Arrested Development" which is probably my favorite thing ever made by anybody. Well, except boobies, but even though it only ran for three seasons, I've seen far more AD than boobies. Somebody's baking frownies :( :( :(

Anyway, I was playing with my iPhone when I heard someone check in for an appointment. I thought, "Wow, that girl sounds like Emma Stone." I realized a scant twenty seconds later that the one place that a girl who sounded like Emma Stone may in fact be Emma Stone is the reception area of a Hollywood production company. I pulled myself away from Cartoon Wars just in time to hear you--the real Emma Stone--chatting with your friend about chicken and waffles. So that's when the awkwardness began.

"I love chicken and waffles!" I blurted out. Wow. That was fucking retarded. My voice was at least three octaves higher than normal, probably the result of me trading my balls for that flop sweat pouring from my forehead. We had a quick discussion about the guy who invented chicken and waffles (seriously, I have plenty other more interesting things I could have talked about--Star Wars, Magic: The Gathering, my retainer, fantasy football--however I chose to discuss your lunch), which culminated in this exchange:

Emma - "It's so weird loving someone you don't even know."

Me - "I've got a little bit of that going on right now..."

OK, now I realize that this may have sounded stalker-ish, but honestly, I thought that was funny. You didn't really laugh though and I don't blame you. It's about as bad as me saying, "It's also weird that I cry in the shower." Yeah, it's true, but it doesn't make it appropriate.

You, to your credit, were very nice to me. I assume it was because I was meeting with a production company and I was neither immediately recognizable nor attractive enough to be an actor, so you must have assumed that I was a producer of some sort. Unfortunately I shattered that illusion rather quickly. You asked what I did and I mentioned that I was a pilot in the Air Force. Again, you seemed really interested and instead of playing it up (because honestly, how cool is it to be a goddamned pilot?), I responded with Debbie Downer shit about how much I hated the military. Later when you told me that the new city I was moving to was your favorite city ever, I just whined about how I missed Seattle. Seriously, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Looking back, I even think that you were giving me an open to invite you out next time you were in town, but I totally missed that. So, um, awesome. Even after that, you kept talking to me and asked what I was doing at Imagine. I said I was, "working on a story or something." Then I was going to ask what you were doing, but halfway through the question I stopped myself and said, "never mind, I shouldn't ask about gossip." I know that was weird, but I figured you might think that I would ask too much about a project you were working on and then go back and write it on some website or talk to TMZ about it. I won't, don't worry. Unless you count this, in which case that was very clairvoyant of you. Anyway, the moral of that whole thing was that the worst part of over-thinking something is that it looks like you aren't thinking at all.

At this point, I feel pretty bored typing this, so I can’t imagine (Imagine—get it?—teehee lol!) how bored you are reading this. Watch this adorable video and please begine making associations with me:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnd we’re back!

Really, though, where this thing went careening off the rails was when I started talking to your friend. I noticed that you and I were excluding her a bit, and since I was failing so miserably at flirting, I figured that I would include her (yes, that was flirting. I know...). I'm very inclusive; I've always said that about myself. Well, stupidly I did not introduce myself. I know we had been speaking for over fifteen minutes and introductions would be customary, but I was more concerned with the fact that I had sweat through my shirt which, to be honest, already looked and smelled like a homeless guy's grundle. Also, I knew who you were, and I figured you knew that I knew who you were, and I knew you knew I knew who you were, so I skipped you and asked your friend:

Me - "And what was your name?"

Her - *mumbles something incoherent*

Me - "Shuh?"

Her - No, Sug. Like Suge Knight. Short for Sugar."

OK, at this point I think I should mention that Sug seems like a cool enough name, but pardon me for not getting it on the first try. She seemed peeved. In retrospect, she was quite peevish. It was like she was Princess Leia and I was Han in Ep. 4. See, I told you I was cool. Anyway, at this point I felt the need to make an unfortunate joke about Suge Knight. It was a reference to this an incident in which he was shot in the leg at a party. I got it slightly confused with the time he got in a fight at the Vibe Awards. Despite the fact that my joke was topical humor from four years ago, I decided to say anyway, "Sug, huh? So did you also get shot at the Vibe Awards?" Um, so neither you nor Sug had any idea what I was talking about (Google it!), and you replied, "Wait—what? You want her to get shot in the leg?"

No, no, no no noooooooo, no. That was not what I meant. I was about to explain that when that lady came over to ask you what you wanted to drink. At that point I decided it was best to not talk for awhile, and you and Sug whispered secrets and giggled, most likely about me. So that went well. After that I went back to looking at my phone and working on my werewolf drawings. I texted five people to let them know I was talking to you. My friend Kyle wanted me to tell you, "It's SUPERBAD that you're making me as stiff as one of the zombies in ZOMBIELAND." I told him I would say that to you, but I never did. Does it count now? I would have said it because, honestly, how much worse could it have been? But instead, I sat sweating under that heat lamp I chose to place myself under. Also, I never saw Zombieland and I didn't want you to figure that out. As penance, may I present two pictures of Zombie Cats:

So you're probably wondering why I came on here to write all this. Well, I have a proposal. I want to prove that I'm not as awkward as I came off. I don't want to date or anything, you're much too young and you always wear your hair over that one eye, so I'm convinced that there must be something wrong with it (see attached photos).

Instead I want to meet under similar circumstances and take another stab at small talk. We can meet alone (no offense to Sug, but I really feel like she was the reason things went to poorly. She's a game-killer) on a neutral site to talk. I figure if you need to go to another production meeting somewhere or even if you need to go the ophthalmologist to get that wonkey eye checked out, I could just meet you in the reception area and we could take another shot at the small talk (should I have used the word 'shot'? I know what sort of flashbacks that must bring for Sug). I believe this to be the most equitable recourse to our situation. If you are unable, maybe you could talk to Michael Cera for me. He's an actor I'm sure you know, and I was thinking he could help me film a re-creation. I know Jonah Hill was your love interest in Superbad, but I feel Michael Cera would bring the right level of awkwardness to the role of me. You would be played by Isla Fisher. She's another redhead, but she's actually much higher on my list. Can you imagine awkward I would have been had you been her?

So Emma, if it is you please contact me (lanceuppercutt@gmail.com) with the name of the city I am moving to. You should probably remember since you said it was totally your favorite city ever. Let me know if you want to meet at some neutral reception site so I can have a second shot or if you just want to get me Michael Cera's contact information. Also, if you have any contact information for the following people, it would be much appreciated: Kate Beckinsale, Jessica Biel, Megan Fox, Angelina Jolie, Isla Fisher, twenty other hot Hollywood starlets, and lastly you. OK, well I think this has been productive. Thanks for indulging one guy's awkward attempt to become less awkward. Remember, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Funny thing about my back, it's on my cock. Haha, see that's from Superbad. Do actors ever quote movies they were in? No? OK. But you should. It's a very funny movie. Well, good talk.

Lance Uppercutt Wants To Fight The War

WarBlog 6
1 February 2007

Hatred. Dark. Cold. Breath hits the air and freezes, falling and swirling as it dissipates. Sleep until hungry; begrudgingly trudge through unyielding mounds of snow to the chow hall for what passes as food. Eat until tired; slip on the ice back to your tiny, frigid room without windows that you hate. Days turn imperceptibly to nights, nights to days. Seconds turn into minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days and nights again. Sleep until hungry, eat until tired. Seconds, minutes, hours. It's impossible to tell how long I've been a prisoner in communist Russia—a year? Two? Oh, 30 hours? It felt longer.

Well, it's not exactly communist Russia, but it used to be. I've been shipped to Manas, Kyrgyzstan for the remainder of the deployment, destined to fight that other war, the one in Afghanistan just a few hours away. The bleak horizon to the north points to barren Kazakhstan and the enormous rugged mountains to the south lead to hundreds of miles of impassable terrain. There is no escape from the cold tents, the dirty latrines, or the solitary hours spent huddled in bed praying for an end to the cold. Manas is a wonderful cure for the will to live.

Nearest I can tell the purpose of a military is to make you hate anything and everything in your life and then focus that hate onto the enemy. They're doing a bang up job at the first part, but I can't for the life of me figure out who my enemy is supposed to be. I'm not sitting in a foxhole aiming rounds at Al Qaeda members, I'm not battling insurgents in Iraq, I'm battling my own mind's inability to understand what I'm still doing in the Air Force, I'm fighting my urge to go crazy. I hate everything. I hate Manas as I hated Turkey, probably more so. I hate the cold and I hate the useless mountains without ski lifts. I hate the food I eat and the books I read. I hate that I'm not a better man. I hate that the Cavs are becoming a terrible basketball team. I hate existentialism. I hate Jessica Biel for not knowing that I exist. I hate my worthless space heater. I hate that I flirt with this girl I work with (the one with the perfect nose) despite having no more than a passing interest in her. I hate that she reciprocates because it means I'll have to tell her at some point that I don't really like her. I hate that she told me that she once tried to take me home with her but I was too oblivious or drunk to notice. I hate missed opportunities. I hate my prison cell of a room. I hate waiting for my plane to be de-iced. I hate that I can only get two beers a day and that neither of them are free. I hate the BX and everybody on this base. I hate that I can't remember enough Russian to thank the guy who mops the floors. I hate the Air Force and I hate the C-17. I hate not being in Seattle and I hate not having a TV. I hate that I haven't had a decent conversation in three months. I hate all the things I'm flying into and out of Iraq and Afghanistan. I hate the ammunition, I hate the soldiers, I hate the diplomats, congressmen, and generals, I hate the fuel trucks and the helicopters. Most of all I hate the fucking Red Bull and Starbucks Espresso Double Shots and Girl Scout cookies.

The only bit of cargo I can't find it in my heart to hate are the emergency patients we routinely bring out of the combat zone. I don't hate the marine with burns over every part of his body except what his body armor covered. I don't hate the special operator with the hastily stitched and stapled gash that started from the right side of his face and continued down to the left side of his beltline. I definitely don't hate the grunt with the head wound whose two best friends died when the Humvee he was driving hit an IED. I do hate that he asked me—and whoever else would listen—where his buddies were. Were they okay? You can't expect yourself to answer those questions, but you also can't help hating yourself for knowing the truth and withholding it. I don't hate these pieces of damaged cargo, but I do hate that it's been so long since I could remember what they're dying for.

I figured I could sum up all this hate with a single counterpoint of something that I love—or even like—and this would turn out to be a pretty endearing passage in an otherwise tirelessly vain exercise in self-pity. Except I can't. My mind is numb and my blood is running cold from the useless nature of my work. Here in my government issue room, in my government issue running suit, under the government issue watch cap that hasn't left my head in days, my government issue brain is crapping out. While I'm stuck here, isolated from anything or anyone I used to care about, I can no longer think of anything that means shit to me.

Sign me up for war, I guess that means I'm ready to die. And I hate it.