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Takin' a Dump with Jaime Lee

2010-04-12T22:48:00.001-04:00

Jaime Lee Curtis made a name for herself playing memorable roles in classic films such as Halloween, A Fish Called Wanda, Trading Places, True Lies and many others. Now in her 50's, she seems content being the spokeswoman for Dannon Activia yogurt. In these commercials, Jaime plays host to various women who have no problem discussing their bowel movements with a celebrity. I normally ignore yogurt ads, but a light bulb went off in my head. These commercials are just begging to be spun-off into a full-fledged, daytime talk show. We can call it "Takin' a Dump with Jaime Lee".

Here's how I would envision the show: First Jaime walks out on a set decorated to look like heaven's restroom and bows to an appreciative audience. A monologue would be nice, but if she's light on jokes, she could just fart in the microphone a couple of times. And that would be okay, because it's what the show's about - open honestly about good digestive health. It doesn't matter if it makes a noise like trout flapping in the mud and smells like last year's Easter Eggs. It's the gift of a strong colon, courtesy of Activia (the show's sponsor, obviously).

It may take awhile to score the A-List celebrities considering Hollywood doesn't make movies about dropping your kids off at the pool (the [insert genre here] Movie series are notable exceptions). So to start, she's going to have to chat it up with housewifes and proctologists, all with some amazing anecdotes that will move you and your bowels at the same time. Now and then, a minor star could show up, promoting a new diet that will "have your cannon firing a 21-gun salute straight at Mr. Tidy Bowl Man's head". That's their description, not mine - even though I just wrote it and if I had the chance, I'd make them say it no matter how much they protest. Then it's two hours of maniacal laughter and then straight to bed for me.

Next up, we'll find out how an unfortunate case of explosive diarrhea gave Maya Angelou the inspiration for one of her greatest poems.

I'm going to be realistic and not pretend that this show would be for everyone. There are those of us who keep our bathroom habits tucked away in the back of the dresser drawer with the unmatchable socks and loud ties. That's fine. But if "Takin' a Dump with Jamie Lee" could inspire just one viewer to step back, look into their unflushed toilets and ponder, then it did its job. Yes, it did it admirably.

I won't divulge too many of my ideas for "Takin' a Dump with Jaime Lee". Some things are better left as a surprise. Now all I have to do is pitch this to the host herself. I've been trying to contact her, but she has yet to return any of my calls.

She's probably in the bathoom.

Stupid DMV is Giving Me Nothing to Complain About

2010-04-10T15:11:00.003-04:00

I'm big on waiting until the last minute to do things that need to get done. Renewing my driver's license was no exception. Despite having two months advance notice to submit my paperwork through the mail, I waited until three days past its expiration. Wearing my warm coat of pessimism, I drove down to my local DMV office. I had counted on leaving with the same feelings of unpleasantness I would have if I rested a hot iron on my nuts. So imagine my shock and chagrin when I walked out satisfied with the entire process. I am rather upset about that.

Lied to by cartoons, yet again.

It's widely believed that DMV employees are all direct decedents of Lucifer and enjoy spending long lunch breaks feasting on the souls of unborn babies. But those employees must have called out sick because the people I dealt with were fair, even-tempered and, dare I say, somewhat pleasant. I expected better of you, DMV.

My first stop was having my picture taken. The woman who manned the camera had the audacity to say "please" and "thanks". She made no snide remarks about any perceived facial deficiencies, unruly hair, or choice of smile. Even worse was her tone of voice. It was bereft of that condescending tone for which I had fully prepared myself. Sometimes I think there is no God.

I grabbed my numbered ticket from her and proceeded to settle down for a long, tortuous wait with obnoxious people. I looked around and found myself surrounded by quiet individuals minding their own business, waiting patiently and calmly. Where were the unwashed fatties? Where was that loud woman engaging in a "way too personal" cell phone conversation? Where was that one sociopath boiling-over with pent-up rage? They were nowhere to be found. I wasn't giving up just yet. I was going to commit myself to spending the next few hours finding that single dreg in this big vat of stew we call humanity. But before I could begin my search, my number was called. Unbelievable! How dare they make my wait minimal?

The woman who was to process my paperwork was my last hope. Surely she'd find a "t" that wasn't crossed or an "i" without its dot and send me back to start, dejected and small. Not so. She administered a quick eye-check, zipped through the form like a rocket-powered bureaucratic stallion, processed my payment without so much as a sneer and sent me cheerfully on my way. I was tempted to be irrational, like complaining about the TVs being "too rectangular" or the instruction signs using a font I find "highly offensive", just to goad them into being unpleasant right back to me. But by then I had given up all hope. I was a satisfied customer and I had to accept it. It made me want to puke bile in the pocket of my jeans and take it home with me as a sad souvenir.

As a part-time blogger and full-time complainer, I don't like my expectations shattered like a crystal vase. If it's all going to be handjobs and lollipops with them from now on, I fear my tiny little alcove on the internet is going to become infested with pictures of puppy dogs and flowers. And I don't want to even know the person that would appreciate that.

I may have to start writing letters to whomever it is that handles DMV relations*. I'm demanding longer lines, surlier staff and more unreliable pens. If they don't stop this alarming trend of efficiency, then hackneyed commentators such as myself will have to go out and find a real job.

*Basic research is overrated.

I Hate Talking on the Phone

2010-04-01T22:22:00.003-04:00

I just got the Droid. I like using it for many things. I just hate talking it on. It's not the phone's fault. I hate phone conversations in general. I have nothing personal against the people with whom I'm speaking. I just happen to get very antsy when I'm on the phone, like I want to be doing something - ANYTHING - else at that very moment.

I'm definitely not a "chatter". If I'm on the phone with you, it's all business. At least it had better be. I'm not down for idle chit-chat about how your kid is "so smart" because he learned to use the potty. Big deal. I can use the potty too. Sometimes I can even hit the toilet from the bedroom across the hall without so much as sprinkling even a drop of that tinkle. But no one calls me with kudos or to invite me to a parade in my honor. Just blah blah blah blah blah...

"So I was just dusting and I figured I'd call you to tell you I was dusting..."

I have a friend who has the nasty habit of needing mundane social plans re-explained to him every few days. It'll start off with a text message or two. I'll begrudgingly repeat myself. Then, after all the information has been given, he still insists on calling me to have that repeated vocally. I see him on my caller ID and I panic. I'll hide the phone in a closet, run into the basement and cower in a corner. I have to do that. He seems to know exactly how far away from the phone I was when I ignored the call. Can't figure out how, but he does...

Now I've explained my policy to him quite clearly and firmly. But it never works. Maybe he's drawn to my smooth-jazz voice that's playfully flavored with a side of bitterness. Or maybe he's just really bored and has literally nothing else to do. Doesn't matter: my rules are my rules and I can't break them - not for anyone.

I'm not completely heartless, nor do I think the phone is without usefulness. I'll take calls with the girlfriend while she's on a quick break. I'll speak to family to get the inside information on upcoming holiday gatherings. I'll even call an acquaintance in the hospital to make sure the doctors were able to remove that "thing he shouldn't have put up there". Anything else, however, doesn't need to be discussed over the telephone. It should be sent to me as a telegram instead.

Now, I do realize some people might be curious about the ongoing saga that is my day-to-day life. That's why I prepared this handy FAQ. If you feel the need to call me without any specific purpose or emergency, refer to it and save yourself the dime.

How are you doing?
I'm doing fine. How are you doing? I'll just go ahead and assume "fine" as well.
What's going on?
Nothing much. What's going on with you? I'll just hazard a guess that it's "nothing much" for you too.
How's work?
Busy. Or slow. Or both. How's work for you? Feel free to say anything here, I'm playing a video game while you're talking and it will not register.
Watch any good movies lately?
No. I only watch bad movies. Then I bitch about how they haven't released it on DVD just to fill space on my blog. Have you? Don't answer. I'm just going to say "that's good" no matter what.
Talk to you later?
Why? You're talking to me now. Isn't that enough for one lifetime?

P.S.: Ironically, I always thought I'd make a great phone sex operator. Go figure.

Five Interesting Interpretations of Great Songs

2010-03-29T23:03:00.003-04:00

There are plenty of good songs, but very few of those become great songs. They are the ones that go beyond being just music. They become part of the eclectic soundtrack to our lives. But therein lies a problem. What happens when we need a little more variety and contributions from the likes of Lady Gaga and Miley Cyrus just aren't making the cut? Why not just take those familiar tunes you know and love and listen to them performed in unorthodox - sometimes downright bizarre - ways.

"AFRICA" - TOTO

Though the song almost didn't make it onto the album, Toto's "Africa" hit number one in 1983. It was a huge departure for the band, but it's one of their most recognizable songs. So recognizable, in fact, that Slovian choir "Perpetuum Jazzile" decided to tackle it with the grace of a linebacker strapped to a rocket. They had everything: raindrops, human drum-machine, "spirit fingers", you name it. As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti, this performance will give you a whole new appreciation for both the song and the continent.

"BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY" - QUEEN

From the moment the song hit the radio, Bohemian Rhapsody was a huge hit for Queen. Although close to six minutes in length, it was never edited for commercial radio. The song also enjoys the distinction of hitting the top of the charts again in 1991, shortly after Freddie Mercury's death. And while having Mike Myers and Dana Carvey pantomiming it seems like a fitting tribute, it does not hold a candle to having Jim Henson's beloved Muppets give it a go.

"THRILLER" - MICHAEL JACKSON

To describe Thriller to you would be a waste of time. You know it, you've heard, you've danced to it, you love it. Now how about taking that song and translating it to Mario Paint's music editor and see if we can't show that Michael Jackson a thing or two about making music (may he rest in peace).

By the way, I'm aware that this isn't actually the SNES Mario Paint but a recreation of its music editor that was put on the web. No letters, goofy ass!

"SANFORD AND SON THEME" - QUINCY JONES

Great songs don't always come from the radio. Many television shows have memorable ditties that you catch yourself singing at work while working the photocopier, daydreaming about lunch. And few were better than Quincy Jones' classic, upbeat melody for "Sanford and Son". Though the show, and its star, are long gone - the music lives on in this high school's quirky brass band. The only thing that would have topped this? Them doing "What's Happening?"

"BLACK HOLE SUN" - SOUNDGARDEN

When Chris Cornell spent 15 minutes writing this song, he didn't think his bandmates were going to like it, let alone it hitting number one and staying there for seven weeks. Meanwhile, two Moog enthusiasts (collectively known as "The Moog Cookbook") decided to introduce this song to their outer space instruments with wonderfully surreal results.

Electric Dreams: The Movie DVD Has Forgotten

2010-03-28T16:43:00.006-04:00

D.C. Cab, Girls Just Want To Have Fun, My Bodyguard, Just One of the Guys, Midnight Madness: That was just five examples of semi-obscure 80's movies that have made the leap to DVD over the years. But why no love for Electric Dreams? It's a fun, music-filled, geeky amalgamation of science fiction, technology and romance. With our current economic climate, rising gas prices, depletion of the ozone layer, and lower standardized test scores, we can't afford NOT to have this classic 80's flick on DVD.

(NOTE: Maybe it's time to remind readers that the this is an American blog. Yes, I am aware Electric Dreams has been released on DVD in Europe and surrounding regions. But I'm just a "Region 1" consumer with "Region 2" aspirations.)

Electric Dreams tells the story of a dorky architect named Miles (Lenny Von Dohlen) who purchases a home computer to help him construct buildings out of jigsaw puzzle pieces (trust me, it makes a little more sense in the context of the movie). In his spare time, he pines after upstairs neighbor and cello player, Madeline (Virginia Madsen). Since having a computer in the 80's was the same as taking an unspoken vow of celibacy, he hides it from her. All is going well with the ruse until he hacks into his company's mainframe and pours champagne all over it when it overheats. Everyone knows that electricity and alcohol are the basic elements of the creation of life (take THAT, God!) and home computers are no exception. Soon, the newly self-aware computer (who adapts the voice of Bud Cort for some reason) also becomes infatuated with Madeline. Even though it'll be almost 20 years until USB-powered genitalia would come on the market, it stops at nothing to sabotage Miles and win her for itself.

Hot "Girl-on-Computer" action!

While Electric Dreams drives to be a fairly straightforward "love-triangle" romantic comedy, it's that quirky computer that real sells the movie to techno geeks such as myself. You think your brand-new computer is the pinnacle of innovation and power? Rubbish, my friend. Pure, unadulterated rubbish! The Pinecone computer (1984 model) has the following capabilities:

Interacting with appliances and door locks
Downloading terabytes of data over a modem in mere seconds
3-D modeling
Paging you while you're at a concert, even when you turn the beeper off.
Witty banter
Emulating the musical stylings of Culture Club
Viewing and recording live television
Love
Revenge
Demonic Possession
Self-destruction
Full-color monitor

I bet your "oh so powerful" [snicker] computer can't do any of that. Can it even write love songs while you're on out on a date? I didn't think so! Trash that shit!

Why would you hook up your toothbrush to the computer? That's just dumb!

The movie's injection of rock video into the plot, meanwhile, appeals to a completely separate 80's demographic. To watch Electric Dreams is to watch MTV before the record companies and drunken frat boys told them what to air, with little snippets of story shoehorned in. Do you like Giorgio Moroder, Philip Oakley, Heaven 17, Jeff Lynne, and Helen Terry? Then you have the scariest record collection imaginable.

Twenty-six years have passed since the release of this movie and fourteen years since DVD has come on the market. Yet, still no Electric Dreams. It's as if the people at MGM were ashamed they ever put their name on this film and are actively sweeping it under the rug like it was their own personal "Star Wars Holiday Special". But there are those of us who still enjoy the sweet combination of pop music montages and "retro-futuristic computer fairytales" and would like to see this quirky film shown the digital treatment. Maybe then I can watch it, realize it wasn't as great as I thought and shut the hell up about it.

Allow me to play you out with an Electric Dreams "twofer":

Is Your "Google Finger" Broken?

2010-03-24T23:53:00.004-04:00

Greetings and welcome to 2010. We're living in a technological wonderland where you can look up anything from a wide array of different devices. Knowing that, maybe it's about time we stop asking other people questions that we can answer ourselves much faster.

Now when I register my complaint about needless questioning, I'm not picking on people who are in the middle of some remote desert and just want directions to the nearest cactus. I'm aiming squarely at colleagues who are sitting in front of the computer on the same high-speed network as I am with the same access to the internet. That doesn't stop them from asking me, as an example, the name of that actor in some movie. Sure, they'll "assist me" by providing some ridiculously vague information along the way as I fire up another browser tab. They can't translate the "brain-pattern gibberish" in their heads into English, so it turns into a game of monotonous elimination (just like that game, "Guess Who?") until we figure out the answer. What none of these offenders realize is that they can just get the answers themselves in a fraction of the time, with the added bonus of not interrupting my work-flow and not turning me into a wildly-firing cannon of sarcasm.

As bad as that is, I just love people who ask me for the time at work. We're all quietly tooling away on our Windows-based computers until someone asks, "Hey, anyone know what time it is?" Ummm....

That's what time it is, freak!

Another great technical achievement the entire world seems to ignore is built-in spell check. The versatile tool isn't limited to fancy word processors anymore. Almost every program that requires text-input (including email) has a little feature that underlines your spelling boners in shameful red. Right-click and viola! You have a list of likely replacements, usually including the one you want (unless you really spazzed out on the spelling). Yet, people still feel the need to ask others how to spell fairly common words. I left grade-school relieved, knowing I no longer had to be pressured into impromptu spelling bees. Don't make me relive that horror, people.

There are two arguments to discredit my rant that I will try to address right now. The first one: "Maybe they aren't computer savvy." Bull! The needless questioning often occurs at work. The job requires you to know how to use an internet browser. If you can open up your work programs, you can easily cue up a search window and leave everyone else the hell alone with your inane, trivial curiosity.

Second: "Maybe they just want to make conversation." Well, find something better to talk about! It starts with someone asking about the weather. Then I have to pull it up (because, again, their "Google Finger" is broken) and suddenly it turns into a discussion about how it ALWAYS rains (even though, in our area, it doesn't) and the funny things their cat does to sunbeams. I wouldn't mind so much if I were allowed to slit my wrists at work while I'm hearing this crap, but the company frowns upon it.

Am I being harsh? No. My mission in life is to help others help themselves through condescending ridicule. It's mean, I know, but it works. I once got someone to stop using "you're" and "your" interchangeably with this award-winning method. Now shes a success in life, slightly more attractive and her farts don't smell half as bad as they used to.

Unfortunately, with both my busy lifestyle and lazy lifestyle gobbling up my most of my free time, I no longer have time to educate and/or make others cry. That's why I'm eternally grateful someone created an online tool that sums up the point I was trying to make much quicker and way better.

On an unrelated announcement: I am glad I was finally able to work the phrase "spelling boners" into a post. My bucket list is one step closer to completion.

Happy Sack

2010-03-21T20:43:00.003-04:00

McDonald's has certainly faced it fair share of controversies over the years. We've all read the stories about the obesity epidemic, libel lawsuits and employee turnover rates. But no one seems to focus on the real issue of importance: Why isn't McDonald's putting Happy Meals in those boxes consistently anymore?

"Happy" Meal

"Sad" Sack... OOO! My Little Pony!

Anyone who has been to a McDonald's at least once in their lives are familiar with the concept of the Happy Meal. A child is served one burger, four - maybe five - individual french fries, a tiny cup of ice with a squirt of soda, and most importantly, a toy. All of this was stuffed in a house-shaped cardboard box. It's sturdy construction and convenient handle enabled the busy child to carry it with ease whether they're skipping over to the playground or imagining they're fighting robot Communists in another galaxy. These boxes were colorfully decorated with tons of activities. Many of them were even perforated to form a playset for the toy that had been contained therein. A fifteen-minute meal turned into hours of playtime.

The Happy Meal remains largely unchanged, except now they're coming in a lackluster, fun-free paper bag more often than I care for. Childhood, I declare you legally dead.

In my younger days, I imagined the great technological leaps sure to come in the 21st century were going to transform the Happy Meal boxes into something seriously bad-ass. But instead of that tricked out box with LED lights, sound chips and kung-fu grip I envisioned, we're just getting that sad looking sack of grease and meat. You can tell it's made from old newspapers. If you jostle it, grab it too tightly or even look at it crossed-eyed, it'll rip and spill your food onto the cold pavement below. Ain't nothing "happy" about that! It may biodegrade must faster than the box in a landfill, but only because it's too ashamed of itself to exist longer than it needs.

McDonald's needs to re-evaluate its commitment to their loyal customers and reconsider ditching the cheap bag. Bags just aren't fun to play with. That's why they put those warning on the plastic ones. If you gave it to a child, he'd die of boredom.

Stop It, VH1!

2009-07-18T09:59:00.021-04:00

Video Hits the First, I respectfully request you cease immediately. Don't even act like have no idea what I'm talking about. You know what you're doing. Just please, stop it. You are on the verge of causing irreparable harm to millions of viewers.

I can't, in good consciousness, blame you for the choices you made over the past couple of decades. Sure we all appreciated the adult contemporary videos, but we were more than happy when you switched gears and filled the void of music history and pop-culture trivia nuggets your sibling, MTV, abandoned. But suddenly, you woke up one morning and realized trashy reality shows are ratings gold. Television executives need to eat, right? While I do not agree with your lifestyle change, I'll support it. But then you went too far.

Here's what I take strong umbrage with: You are pretending your line-up of "bimbo parades" are genuine human-interest stories. Need an example? Two words: CHARM SCHOOL. So what you have is a bevy of trashy women selected for their inability to curb their psychotic behavior. Oh and their resemblance to third-rate porn stars and willingness to openly engage in bizarre sex-acts you used to have to fly to Amsterdam to see doesn't hurt either. Okay, I'm with you so far. But then you shuttle in Ricki Lake (who needs a few words with her agent) and, with the straightest face I've ever seen, she purports to be turning these girls' lives around. No winks to the camera. No self-awareness. Just Ricki genuinely depressed and disappointed because she couldn't stop "Random Bim 371" from using her vagina as a public ashtray the previous night. And everyone thought Jerry Springer took his delusions of humanitarianism (pretend or otherwise) to the extreme...

Ricki thinks that, one day, these "women" will make a difference. Yeah, maybe in your STD test results.

Honestly VH1... Maybe these women need help but you and I both know that you're just exploiting them. Stop pretending otherwise. It's insulting to our intelligence. Give your audience some credit. An example from a recent episode: You act like you're doing New Orleans a humongous favor by sending your four remaining Charm School finalists down there to help with the reconstruction but then send them out drinking the night before. They already have FEMA for ineptitude, thank you anyway. Sure, a playground was rebuilt by the end, but I have the sneakiest suspicion there was some off-camera assistance from those who know the difference between a swing-set and a stripper pole. To top it off, Traci Turnblad begins crying because she's bummed-out that she has to send one "girl" home and thus will not be able to teach her not to do crazy, slutty things like forgetting to wear panties to a baptism. Sorry Ricki, but they're not giving away Noble Prizes for most creative public queefing anytime soon. Scale back your expectations a tiny bit.

Content: 90% Post-Consumer Recycled Goods; 10% "Love Stains"

Charm School isn't the only one of your shows under scrutiny here, Mr. Hits One. Don't even get me started on Brett Michaels' alleged search for "romance". Again, he lies to the camera with a straight face and nary a hint of scrotum. We've been there before - I won't repeat myself. But then Rock of Love gives birth to the demon spawn that is Daisy of Love. Hey, Daisy is looking for love too! Will she find happiness with "Violent Douchebag", "Loud Douchebag" or "Sensitive Douchebag"? Oooh, I can't wait to find out!

Hey, don't judge me for judging them. This is how YOU present them to the viewers, you red-headed stepchild of Viacom.

To your credit VH1, you do occasionally re-run some programming from your so-called "Golden Age". Like last night, you had a marathon of the greatest one-hit wonders from the 80's. Maybe you still care. Or maybe your regular performers were all out getting treated for Chlamydia. I don't know and I won't look too deep into the occasional thrown bone.

I see you rolling your eyes at me, Hit Videos Uno. I'm not lecturing without love. Okay, I don't "love" you but I respect and recognize that, in this economy, sometimes you have to film floozies at a bar sticking shots into their body cavities to pay the bills. But you're 24 now and old enough to start owning up to your deceitfulness. Start realizing that you are presenting the abnormal underbelly of society. Stop painting them as everyday people. It's an important responsibility and you cannot take it lightly. Because God knows we don't need a generation of girls thinking that "alcoholic hooker" is a legitimate career choice.

P.S. - Off-topic but still important: Can we wait until 2011 before doing another "I Love the New Millennium"? The first series felt so incomplete. Okay, that's it. Now go take a shower. You reek of bodily fluids and José Cuervo.

Celebrity Death Week

2009-06-28T13:05:00.045-04:00

So get this: I was in the middle of writing a post about Michael Jackson when my girlfriend called me up to inform me of the latest celebrity death: loud pitchman Billy Mays. Since it's been an out-of-the-ordinary week of celebrity demises, I have decided to expand this by giving some quick attention to the other famous people who died this past week. Let's start with:

If you looked up "sidekick" in the directory, you'd find a bunch of words describing what a "sidekick" is. On the other hand, if you have one of those "special people" dictionaries for the illiterate that has pictures instead of words, you may find a photo of Ed McMahon.

McMahon died on June 23rd, 2009 at the age of 86 during which he had been dealing with financial problems and failing health.

Although forever remembered as Johnny Carson's right-hand man, it should be noted that he ushered in a new era of insufferable talent shows with his stint on "Star Search". And lest we forget, would any of us be the same had we not been exposed to TV bloopers and/or practical jokes? I think not. Also notable but rarely seen was Ed McMahon knocking on your door presenting you with a check from the American Family Publishers sweepstakes.

BILLY MAYS

HI, BILLY MAYS HERE TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT MY UNTIMELY DEATH ON JUNE 28TH, 2009 AT THE AGE OF 50. HAVE YOU EVER WONDERED HOW STRANGE AND EERIE IT'D BE IF YOU COULD WALK AWAY FROM A BOTCHED PLANE LANDING AND THEN DIE THE NEXT DAY FROM POSSIBLY UNRELATED CAUSES. WELL WONDER NO MORE BECAUSE I'M HERE TO PRESENT YOU WITH A REVOLUTIONARY CELEBRITY DEATH THAT WILL CHANGE THE WAY YOU THINK ABOUT MORTALITY FOREVER. FASTER THAN THE "DOOHICKEY"! MORE POWERFUL THAN THE "THINGAMABOB"! AMAZING! BUT WAIT - THERE'S MORE! ACT NOW AND I'LL THROW IN NOT ONE, BUT TWO PARAGRAPHS ABOUT FARAH FAWCETT'S DEATH - ABSOLUTELY FREE! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? CALL NOW!

FARAH FAWCETT
Jill Munroe, one of Charlie's most versatile angels, might have fought crime with good looks and fabulous hair, but it was Farrah Fawcett that had the world lift its collective heads up from their CB radios to take notice. Never before or since has anyone given such a crap about a poster. Yet it was that iconic Farrah Fawcett photograph pinned to the walls around the country that seemed to say, "Hey boys, it's a little chilly in here."

Farrah Fawcett died on June 25th due to complications from anal cancer. If that weren't tragic enough, the news and subsequent tributes about her life were overshadowed by another celebrity's death that same day...

MICHAEL JACKSON
Just like most news outlets, I have given the lion's share of attention to Michael Jackson.

"King of Pop" "Wacko Jacko" "Spelling Bee Champion" Michael Jackson has gone by several monikers over his long career. Now he can add one more: "Deceased Celebrity".

Michael Jackson died on June 25th, 2009 at the age of 50. He leaves behind a legendary catalog of pop music and a warehouse full of tabloid headlines. Perhaps also a few scarred boys, allegedly.

Those of you too young to remember the explosion of "Michael Jackson Mania" following the release of Thriller would be surprised to learn that the musician was once lauded for his talents instead of celebrated for his insanity. For a short-time in the early 80's, nothing else mattered or existed except for whatever is was Michael Jackson was doing that will blow your musical mind. But I suppose the combination of fire and the Pepsi subsequently poured on his head by production staff to douse the flames did something to his internal wiring - because shortly thereafter, he just went loony.

There is no such thing as bad publicity, especially when it keeps a performer in the public consciousness in between record releases. But five years of reports over Michael's eccentric lifestyle is hard to trump by something as mundane as a record release - even if it is the long-awaited follow-up to the best selling record of all time. "Tonight at 11. Bad is released amidst rumors Jackson enjoys playing Billiards with his penis." "Our top story: Jackson's new album flies off shelve, but is he spending his fortune building a roller coaster to Liz Taylor's house? Find out in our exclusive investigation." Of course, I made those up since they are far less strange than the actual rumors and I didn't want anyone not familiar with MJ to think I'm being silly.

In hindsight, it was hard to blame the media for the negative attention given to Jackson. First, Michael himself planted some of the early stories of bizarre behavior (i.e. him sleeping in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber - which he disseminated to the press to promote "Captain EO"). Second, he designed his ranch with the mindset of a 12-year old boy. (Admittedly, if I had designed his ranch, I'd keep the arcade but would replace the zoo animals with porn stars.) Third, even when buried up to his fake nose in allegations of child molestation, he still insisted on traveling around with an entourage of young boys. There are normal people who would naturally distance themselves from anything that may remind people of what they are being accused of, and then there's Michael Jackson. When Michael was photographed with his boy scout troop, he never made a statement along the lines of "Look at the boys that I WON'T be molesting tonight." It's as if O.J. carried along a knife collection to his murder trial. Then again, O.J. didn't introduce the Moonwalk to viewers of the "Motown 25th Anniversary Special" either.

Fans and apologists have long cited Michael's traumatic childhood under the heavy, swift hand of father and manager, Joe Jackson. Far be it from me to trivialize child abuse, but I'm not buying it. Even if the beatings and mental abuse were a catalyst in Michael's behavior, psychotherapy is a heck of a lot cheaper than giraffes and hush money. You should have gotten help Michael, not nose jobs and a chimp.

The body of Michael Jackson (what was left of it) expired on June 25th, 2009 - but the legendary musical contributor died sometime in the early 90's. It's a damn shame, but we'll always have Thriller.

I think we've all had about enough of celebrity deaths. What we need now is a celebrity birth to even the universe out a bit. Ellen Pompeo? Gisele Bundchen? Kendra Wilkenson? Meh, none of them are Gweneth Paltrowy enough. Perhaps a good meal and early bedtime will just have to suffice for now.

Gamestop: 1; My Intelligence: 0

2009-06-06T13:31:00.018-04:00

I don't know why I ever walk into a Gamestop. On top of the numerous alternatives available, I don't even play video games all that much anymore anyway. I suppose it's the ubiquitousness of the chain that keeps me from patronizing the more deserving vendors, much like how you go to masturbate but your hand gets distracted popping pimples on the way down.

"Would you like to reserve 'Baby Square Dance Challenge' for $5 and guarantee yourself a copy?"

One morning a couple of weeks ago, I had to make a stop with a couple of co-workers before we went back to the office. They wanted to get a sandwich before driving back. While waiting, I noticed the Gamestop storefront, practically begging me to come in and get taken down a notch. I relented, but I really wanted to play the new Punch-Out!! game for the Wii that evening. Mentally preparing myself as best as I could, I entered...

If you've ever walked into one Gamestop, you've walked into all Gamestops. They're all the same: walls of display boxes laid out in some pseudo-alphabetical arrangement, demo kiosks scattered about the floor and a couple of workers behind the counter selling open-box games as "new" to unwitting customers. My plan, as always, was to just walk up to the counter, as for what I needed and get the hell out as quick as possible lest they talk to me. Part of me is afraid of their condescending "expert gamer" remarks like "ur lame a$$ cant rokket jmp in TF2- L0L noob". I am more afraid, however, that they try to pad a $50 purchase into a $100 purchase. It's not that I can't say "no", it's just that I'm appalled that I look like the type of person who might be interested in the nonsense being peddled. I asked for my game and the employee promptly plopped in on the counter. I went for my wallet and soon I heard those dreaded words: "Would you like to buy the Official Punch-Out!! boxing gloves for $27?" Ah crap...

"Take that, air!"

I'm not above game-related chotchkies. I just spent an additional $20 on The Sims 3 for the green plumb-bob USB drive. But that doubles as something useful. The gloves would sit in the closet (next to my toy guitar and hollowed-out steering wheel) inviting visitors to ask, "Why do you have boxing gloves? You don't even know how to throw a punch you big tub of hairy jelly." Of course I didn't want to buy them. Apparently, the employee had a gun trained to head from Gamestop HQ. That's the only reason I can offer up as to why he felt he needed to flat-out LIE to me as a follow-up to my denial. "You need them for playing the game", he said with a face so straight, I would hesitate playing poker with him. Let me explain two things: (1) Punch-Out!!, even on the Wii with those whole motion-control shenanigans, is still best played with regular game pad controls and (2) No, you don't "need" it. Some people enjoy using endless gratuitous gadgets to play Wii games. Some people also wear helmets while folding laundry. Where do we draw the line? Should I have the Gamestop clerk talk me into wearing overalls, growing a mustache, putting "ah" sounds at the end of words, and eating mushrooms until Jesus gallops into my room atop a purple unicorn and promptly melts into the carpet every time I fire up a Super Mario game? I'm a man, dammit! This ain't cosplay you game-jockeying game-jockey.

With the boxing glove purchase clearly declined, the employee felt it was time to get really somber. "I don't know if you know this yet", he started, "but they're going to be releasing a follow-up to Wii Sports. Now this is going to come with an add-on to the Wiimote that'll make it 10 times more accurate. If you want, you can put a deposit down now and be guaranteed a copy. If you don't, I can't tell you what's going to happen." Perhaps I paraphrased a little, but slap in the nutsack five times if he wasn't sounding like he was talking his own grandmother off a ledge. I know Gamestop gets its undies moist when a large number of people throw money down on a game that has not yet been released, but if I reserve a game with them that just means I have to return to the store and augment my purchase with some "Wii Sports 2 Official Athletic Supporter" that I really need to play the game properly.

Perhaps you think I'm a monster for picking on the underpaid workers for following strict company policy. Don't worry, I know this guy was really desperate to push stupid crap for the sake of keeping his job. But maybe this is where Gamestop needs to take a step back and reassess their customer service guidelines. If we don't stand up to their practice of peddling junk as "game enhancers", it won't be long before they just take dumps into paper bags, slap a Tri-Force sticker on it, call it Hyrule Fertilizer (right) and sell it alongside the new Legend of Zelda entry.

Just make sure you put down your deposit. There's only a few million copies to go around.

All Aboard the Douchebag Express

2009-03-29T11:32:00.009-04:00

Never before have the words "change at Jamaica" been so musical to my ears.

The Long Island Railroad is a mixed-blessing. On one hand, it serves as a quick and convenient mode of transportation for New York City outings eliminating the hassle of having to take your car and limiting your alcohol intake as a result. On the flip side, there are usually drunker, louder people coming home with you. I'm sure there's a graph somewhere outlining the "Post-Midnight Budweiser Theorum" that states for every quiet drunk who's only interested in passing out on the ride home, there's an oppositely obnoxious guy cracking the same bad joke loudly so that some commuter 30 rows down can pay him undeserved attention.

Watch the gap, mind the douche.

Last night, my girlfriend and I meet a couple of friends down in the Village to see a concert and pay way too much for cups of beer. We started drinking early and continued well into the evening when our feet were taking the brain's orders to walk straight as mere optional suggestions with room for improvisation. At around 12:30, my eyelids were losing the battle to gravity (I only had four hours sleep the previous night) and my sentences were so fragmented, you needed a flak jacket to have a conversation with me. The train was beginning to look more and more like my own personal Xanadu.

We always try our darndest to find the most sequestered part of the train, but loud douchebags have a super keen sense of smell and can pinpoint the passenger who'd be most bemused by their antics all the way from entrance of Madison Square Garden. That's when three drunken assholes decided to sit their typical Long Island girlfriends in the seats near us. At first I didn't think it was all bad considering one girl's breasts were a sneeze away from popping out. But then, as libations dictate, the guys have to impress their women by being the self-appointed train comedian. I wanted to just let the alcohol quietly run its course, not attend some "open mike" performance.

I probably wouldn't be writing this now if these guys were halfway entertaining (or if barely-covered-boobs girl sneezed). But the whole discussion between the ladies and the douchebags consisted of arguing over the name of the burger joint where the one girl worked. The eatery in question was named after a classic Belushi sketch from early Saturday Night Live. If you know what I'm talking about, you'd know the name would be intentionally misspelled to emulate the accent used by late Not-Ready-For-Primetime Player in the aforementioned bit. Not surprisingly, irony was lost on the most vocal of the Douchebag Trio and arguing the supposed proper spelling and pronunciation of the restaurant's name suddenly became his shtick. The pointless and cacophonous bantering went on for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, another girl was taking pictures of the whole exchange (and probably me with my eyes half-closed) because nothing screams "I have no personality" more than showing people pictures of your friends talking loudly on a commuter train.

What makes me the quintessential drunk is that, even at my most inebriated, I can think rationally. I'm still fully aware of the consequences of any and all of my actions. I'll still dance like an idiot on occasion, but I probably won't ever wake up in a holding cell trying to piece together the blood stains on my shirt. Last night, though, the rational part of my brain had to work overtime. I was trying to figure out the best way to get the assholes to stop hovering and screaming over our seats that would lead to minimal retaliation. I really, really wanted to punch one of them. Nothing fancy, just a quick cock to the bridge of his nose. Sadly, life is not an Adam Sandler movie where someone just slinks away after being shut-up with the business end of a duke. So I started thinking of angry, but non-violent solutions. I wanted to stand up and scream, "The bimbo is right! It's call what it is and why are you even arguing? She may have a limited vocabulary due to overexposure to MTV reality shows but I think she knows the name of the place she works you big old bag of douche!" Again, the way it played out in my head did not end well. Ultimately, outside the "I'm want stab this dude with the promotional Onion pen" comments my girlfriend made, we just had to sit and bear their asinine conversations and flash bulbs until the train pulled into the Jamaica station. We jumped off that car like it was seconds away from blowing up and made a mad dash for the sanctuary of the nice, quiet train to Long Beach. It was great. No talking, just quiet detoxing.

I awoke this morning with the feeling of extreme fatigue. Coffee took care of that. But as I sip my Sanka, I'm left wondering about the mornings of the loud, annoying asses that made half our train ride one big fingernail down that proverbial chalkboard. Are they shaking their head remorseful for their drunken cries for attention? Are they looking at the photos referring to themselves as "extremely awesome" in some deluded fashion? Actually, I don't really care so long as I'm in a different zip code from them.

Lazy Resolutions for Dummies

2009-01-18T14:00:00.017-05:00

The dawn of a brand new year is a time when many of us take stock of our lives and vow to make changes for the better. While admirable, many set the bar too high and fall back into bad habits. Not me though. I went ahead and made resolutions with that same metaphorical "bar" resting comfortably 30 feet below sea level. You won't find any "lose weight" or "quit smoking" promises to myself; only simple goals that can be easily reached. Bang! Instant self-esteem boost.

Below are but a small sampling of the vows I've made to myself for 2009, guaranteed to be free from the musky odors of blood, sweat, and/or tears.

Think less, speak more.
Where's the fun and excitement that can be had from conversations if I play what I'm about to say in my head before uttering them out loud? Filtering easily misconstrued words and/or flat-out offensive thoughts from sentences I'm about to utter is a form of self-censorship that I, as a red-blooded American, can no longer tolerate. Don't get me wrong - I'm not setting out to be an insensitive ass. I'm just aiming to save valuable time for everyone involved when I congratulate a slightly overweight person for being pregnant before actually checking to make sure said person is female.

Plan
I've written up plans for a couple of woodworking projects, some more-involved blog posts, a road trip across county and some stupid purchases. And now that I'm done planning it all, I don't have to actually try to tackle any of them. Because while "planning" is all the fun, "doing" is three times the work. You know what's better than working? Staring at the walls. I am currently planning on concentrating both on the north wall and the one opposite it with the ugly light fixture. I would change that fixture, but I never planned on doing that.

Slap more random YouTube clips in my Blog instead of writing.

"The Little House on the Prarie" ending, for no good damn reason - other than to add length to the post.

Point out all the plot holes and inconsistencies
Watching a film or television show is ten times more fun when you have someone around you making note, in real time, of every single error in the finished product. I want to be that "someone" - a walking IMDB "goofs section" if you will. "Her cigarette keeps changing lengths!" "There are no palm tree in Canada." "How can any of these people afford an apartment in NYC when they hardly ever go to work?" "Is it possible an advanced race of alien beings run an operating system on their motherships without proper virus protection?" I really think I can turn this into a business if I work hard enough at it. I can hire myself out for private screenings and succeed where the script supervisor failed. The only problem with this is that I really don't plan to work hard enough at it.

Develop more advanced bodily noises
A hearty belch is always the best compliment one can give to a fine meal. But the melodic burp I came up with that ends on a nice crescendo has been lauded as a "compliment followed by oral sex*". And I don't intend to stop there. Farts will be thought of less as a rude releasing of body gasses and more "performance art piece for the masses" once I'm done. Right now I'm working on the "rocket ship" (push yourself up off the chair as "ass gas" is expelled) and the "oscillating sprinkler" (during a long one, turn the body in a semi-circle and then sputter back to original position.)

*Entertainment Weekly, Nov. 16th, 2007

Play more video games
With the economy the way it is, no one can afford for me not to play video games. So as a civil duty, I shall shirk all responsibilities and relationships to fire up the Wii, PC, Xbox 360, what have you and go to town eradicating whatever menace happens to be menacing the menaced. And when the wall has been impaled with my last controller thrown in frustration, only then can the healing process begin.

Know when to end my posts
Right about... now.

Intervention For People Who Still Use AOL

2008-12-02T19:09:00.016-05:00

You've Got Spam

Got bless AOL (nee America Online). It's the internet service provider that refuses to die despite being rendered moot by a maturing* online community. While the media is throwing around the buzz phrase "Web 2.0" (which means nothing, by the way), AOL can best be described as "web beta 0.1". I admit I'm am making an educated assumption since I haven't used the service in over five years simply because it makes about as much sense as riding a bicycle inside a moving vehicle.

*In content, not spelling, grammar or attitude.

I wouldn't really care all that much if my mother wasn't so married to AOL, despite having a broadband connection that works perfectly fine without that little faceless running man cocking everything up with his bloated internet suite. When I go to visit the parents, she'll show me something she found online and I have to constantly scroll around to read a single sentence inside the shrunken browser window embedded in the shrunken AOL window. This is all not helped by the fact that she's still using 800 x 600 screen resolution. I often try to convince her to use one of the many stand-alone browsers with little success. The Commodore 64's still in the closet. Why don't we try to browse Amazon.com with that while we're at it?

Another reason I'm begging people to ditch the AOL is because, without fail, many users will tell me that their computer takes a good hour to boot up, but don't want me to disable AOL from auto-starting (along with its "let-me-hold-your-hand-idiot" internet security programs it insists on bringing to the party). As if it takes so much effort to double click that ever-present triangle that the interminable wait for Windows to start paying attention to your input is justified. Again, they don't even have a dial-up connection. They're using broadband, yet are still paying AOL money because, I suppose, they feel bad for them (or got tired of being "mindscrewed" by over-eager retention agents not too long ago).

"As a Prodigy customer, I can't begin to understand your addiction..."

The fact of the matter is that most services AOL used to offer in its exclusive little playpen can now be had for free. If chat rooms are your thing, child molester, you can still utilize them through their website. And if you simply must use your AOL email address, it's yours for the taking with all the same features you used to creatively misspell words and forward tired jokes as before. Heck, it still even says "You've Got Mail" in case you forgot to put that movie on your Netflix queue.

I find it shocking that I'm still pleading with people to ditch their AOL in a large, metropolitan setting where broadband is smacking us all in the face as we walk down the street. But I suppose I should start planning those interventions. Cue the zippy xylophone music. Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding...*

*Not getting the "ding ding's"? It's a TV show on A&E. I felt I had to explain since I assume that many have never heard of it seeing how they still get unsuspecting people to go on it without them knowing what's going to be behind the door of their "final interview".

Get in Line

2008-11-23T08:10:00.018-05:00

It's true I might be a little OCD and disorganization is a fingernail on the blackboard to me. It's also true I might be a teeny bit cognizant of humanity's inherent "sneakiness" and how it seeps out whenever there's an time-saving opportunity to take advantage of. But regardless of the reason, people who can't queue properly on a simple line gives my blood pressure a rude goosing.

Someone here apparantly has their own agenda... jerkface!

On second thought, forget my disorders - it's all about my laziness (or rather, my distaste for having to do unnecessary work). A line consisting of a group of people waiting for service in a clearly definable order of arrival is one of the simplest social tools we have. Without even blinking an eye, I can tell how many people are going to be helped before it's my turn. But when people decide that standing in one spot is just too damn much for their Attention Deficit Disorder to handle, suddenly I have to stay attentive and remember who arrived before me and who came around after me. And when I have to start paying attention to people, the blog community as a whole suffers.

I can't quite put my finger on the origins of my dislike for "line laxity", though it's been present most of my life. I do remember, however, a recent outing to a local department store that inspired this posting. Despite the presence of an obvious starting point (i.e. a woman standing patiently with an arm full of merchandise followed with me directly behind her), this old woman decided that she'd embark on her own personal line - backwards, no less. Newcomers were confused. Which was the correct course? Now we had two lines for a single goal, one of which was pointing in the direction of housewares for some unknown reason. Finally, the cashier directed us to one spot in an effort to quell her overwhelming desire to go on a shooting spree. The second line's leader didn't like this new arrangement and was quietly vocal about having to conform to someone else's standard of waiting. She was so busy complaining, in fact, that she neglected to go up to the cashier when it was her turn, holding up everyone else. They should give free internet access to social idiots like her so she can do her shopping on-line and save the rest of us from the aggravation.

Interestingly enough, some people's resistance to necessary crowd control fuels an entire industry of velvet rope (right) and numbered-ticket manufacturers. For all my reservations about the foibles of the impatient shopper, someone somewhere is putting together a digital display emblazoned with the words "now serving" and will be able to feed his family by doing so. So I can't, in good conscious, wish for an end to line disorder. But I don't have to loath it any less either.

Things I Hate About Halloween

2008-10-31T08:59:00.018-04:00

I have a rather complicated love/hate relationship with Halloween. On one hand, I enjoy the novelty of the day as well as its status as the first celebration day in the "Hallow-Thanks-Christmas Holiday Trifecta". On the other hand, well... I'll explain:

Mangling of the phrase "Trick or Treat"

No, it's not "Trick of Treat", "Trick and Treat" or, God help me, "Tricking Treat". The conjunction you need there is "or", as in "give me a treat OR I will vandalize something you own, probably your house but maybe your car or lawn donkey as well".

I'm not needlessly getting bogged down in semantics here. In some cultures, greeting home owners with the incorrect phrase gives them the legal right to spit in whatever they throw in your goody sack.

Fun diluted by paranoia

I don't know if this is so much a problem now, but back when I was still Trick-or-Treating (or at least when I was young enough to not look pathetic doing so), news reports warned of all the weirdos who'd do something horrible to the candy they were giving out. We didn't have Snopes.com back then to tell us that it's just a twisted urban legend.

Granted, there were reports of a couple of children dying after eating ingested candy (in the 70's), but it turned out to be part of an intricate cover-up for a targeted murder, not a random act by a sicko. Other coincidental deaths are always attributed to poison candy before any facts are presented. Furthermore, the sharp things supposedly found in candy is usually put inside the treats by the child as a goof. Kids are so stupid sometimes.

There's nothing wrong with being cautious, but when I hear about some poor child who had to stay home while his friends are out on the one day they're actually allowed to accept candy from strangers, I get angrier at the news outlets for their constant spreading of misinformation. Damn liberal and/or conservative media!

The poor design of licensed-character children's costumes.

It's an insult to the intelligence and an affront to a child's imagination when they put the picture or logo of whatever you're supposed to be on the costume's shirt. Kind of kills the illusion, doesn't it?

Here's an example: Suppose you were a stupid child in the early 80's and, after being rescued from the well you had fallen into for the fourth time in as many days, you suddenly decided it'd be a great idea to go as Scott Baio as his Chachi character from Joanie Loves Chachi. After mom stops sobbing uncontrollably, your parents go out and get you one as pictured to the right. Notice the problems? First, the Chachi chacter never broke the fourth wall and wore the name of the show as part of his wardrobe. Secondly, there's no padding to protect from the beatings the child would surely receive from other children, and possibly some homeowners. Lastly, "WTF?!" Perhaps that mouth-breathing child should have went with the "Atari Asteroids" costume instead:

Better, but there are still issues. The head says "space debris", the body says "fun VCS cartridge" and the legs say "none of the above". Then there's the tragic story of the child from Nebraska who wore this and was shot in the face by a floating triangle...

That's about it for my bitching about an otherwise fun holiday. I'm going to go pick up a couple of bags of my favorite "fun-sized" candy and hope to God no kids come around so I get to keep it all to myself.

Craigslist is Balls for Job Searching

2008-10-27T14:40:00.010-04:00

As you may have gathered, I've been unemployed now for the past couple of months thanks to an economy that's less stable than a drunk walking down a steep incline (...meh). During the course of my exhaustive job hunt, I threw a few resumes, complete with cover letters, to ads posted on Craigslist. And nine times out of ten, I'm forced to realize that my time would have been better spent addressing those emails to the kitchen wall.

Our diverse team of experts would like to talk to you more about sexual-enhancement drugs.

I won't say that Craigslist is "littered with deception". There are legitimate jobs posted on the site, I'm sure. But when I send out a resume for a perfect-sounding opportunity and then receive the same automatic reply time after time directing me to a website that tries to sell me questionable goods and services or wants me to join those "oh-so-lucrative" (note sarcasm) internet survey panels, I am forced to just assume anything and everything job-related on Craigslist is only up there to jerk us around.

Some people say that searching for work is a full-time job in and of itself. Therefore, I should continue pressing along despite the time I waste giving some shyster another lead. But by that comparison, it would be like your boss asking for a thirty-page report, and when you walk into his office to hand it in, he promptly tosses it in the trash while asking you to buy Girl Scout Cookies. You'd throw your hands up in despair if your crushed spirit hadn't already paralyzed your arms.

There is a positive side to this though. My bullshit-sniffing ability has strengthened as a result of all this heartbreak. I can tell, from a good nautical mile, which postings are complete crap without even looking twice? Does the ad talk about how wonderful it is to work for their company without actually saying what the job is? Probably a pyramid-scheme. Does the title say "work from home"? Next! Reply to a free email account such as Gmail or Yahoo? Probably wasting precious seconds reading past the first line.

It's not always so easy to detect crap listings, however. My favorite example was a job posting that described their work environment as "fun" and decided to prove it by attaching a joke list normally found forwarded to your inbox by the last person you know who has an AOL email address. I gave it some thought before coming to the conclusion that, even if it was legit, I'm sure the company that composed the listing is clearly insane. I wouldn't put it past them to think that "forgetting" to cut a paycheck for two weeks in a row is a hilarious thing to do. Or worse - they'd probably find that lame "drunk walking down an incline" joke I cracked in the first paragraph gangbusters. And when they were done laughing at that, they'd forward to all the employees pictures of cats falling off of or into things, the last one having a caption that states "Bonuses are suspended - ROTFLOL!!!!1 But, seriously, you won't be getting a bonus this year."

Meanwhile, my job search continues. I now stick to sites dedicated solely to job searches such as Careerbuilders and Monster.com. Craigslist is still useful, but only to see if any lonely, desperate women posted pictures of themselves topless in the "Casual Encounters" section.

Her-Sponsor-oes

2008-10-06T07:00:00.004-04:00

Dear NBC:

I understand your dilemma. Less people are watching your sponsors' advertisements and you need to find away to counter that. I begrudgingly accept you have to inject thinly veiled advertisements into the shows themselves. But in the September 22nd episode of Heroes ("The Butterfly Effect"), you may have taken the concept to a new level. Allow me to remind you of this scene, which takes place in an African desert:

MATT: Your cell. I got to use your cell. I got to call home.
USUTE: No service here. Should have gone with Sprint.

Yes it's humorous to think that a man walking the desert in some undeveloped region of Africa likes to extol the superior coverage of Sprint over other service providers. So what if it cheapens the dialogue and the more astute viewers are left wondering if the show had been written by marketing instead of competent storytellers?

Thanks to you NBC, I've been inspired to write Heroes fanfiction. Here's a snippet of my latest work:

CLAIRE: Sylar, what are you doing here?
SYLAR: I was driving my Nissan, eating some Jack-in-the-Box when I saw your General Electric light bulb on.
CLAIRE: I'm calling for help. Where did I put my Nokia cellphone with Sprint service.
SYLAR: No need. I'm on your side now. I brought over a bottle of Coca Cola and a selection of Hasbro board games. Would you like to play while we listen to some tunes courtesy of Warner Music Group?
CLAIRE: Domino's Pizza?
SYLAR: Wal-Mart, T.G.I. Friday's, Sony.
CLAIRE: Random House!!! McDonald's, Texaco!! (she throws Toll House cookies at his face).
SYLAR: Arrgh!!! Citibank!!!

Go ahead. Tell me it's brilliant.

Weirdo's Ode to a Game Show

2008-10-03T07:08:00.011-04:00

Due to economical circumstances beyond anyone's control, I have found myself watching a lot of game shows for the last month. I now know more about "Dumb Dora" that Gene Rayburn and Brett Somers combined. But that's not what this post is about.

"I received a poem today, Rayetta. Would you like to touch me?"

An interesting question popped into my mind when I began watching an episode of Card Sharks (the original Jim Perry NBC version where you lost money on doubles, not the wimpy Eubanks* CBS version where they called it a "push" and gave you a hug). Seems the announcer would begin every show with a poem. Here's an actual example:

"Sevens and Eights may not tickle your palette; but aces and deuces can sure fatten your wallet?, on Card, etc. " (See for yourself.)

So my question is: Who were these socially awkward aspiring poets laureate who wrote ridiculous rhyming couplets to game shows? Is it possible to be that starved for companionship?

*Nothing personal against you, Bob. We still love you.

We've all gone through that phase where we fancied ourselves the next Alexander Pope (except for those of us who called them "song lyrics"). But even those embarrassing love sonnets (or, excuse me, love songs) we wrote to our sophomore English teacher after catching a glimpse of her hair glistening playfully in the sunlight (we've all done that, right?) is not as pathetic as declaring your admiration for a deck of cards. I will just keep telling myself that.

Granted, people also wrote poetry and short stories about Whammies to Press Your Luck, but at least they got an awesome t-shirt for their effort. I don't recall any such reward being offered from Card Sharks. The only compensation was Jim Perry giving credit to the poet with that unspoken subtext warning others not to invite him or her to gatherings.

In the interest of full and honest disclosure, though, I openly admit that if Card Sharks were to have sent their viewers a deck of those humongous cards in exchange for opening prose, I definitely would have been firing off poetry too. They would be awesome on poker night, especially if I invited my short friends.

Dawn of the Attatck of The Deadly Squirrels

2008-10-02T07:00:00.005-04:00

Two weeks ago, my girlfriend was walking out of her office when a squirrel jumped on her and then quickly off again to go scurry off and do whatever it is these animals do. Unharmed but shaken, she proclaimed that the squirrel had the foul stench of bloodlust in its breath. I accused her of exaggerating her peril slightly. Unamused by my lack of concern, she accused me of being a "squirrel sympathizer". That stung.

A week ago, I was at my mother's house preparing the deck for a new coat of paint when I looked towards the back and saw a squirrel with that unmistakable look of mischief. It was a lot closer in proximity to me than I was comfortable with. Carefully, I threw down the broom and frantically ran inside to collect my testicles. I cautiously peeked through the blinds before returning outside to see if Rocky had scurried away yet. It had not, until he caught my eye and gave an evil wink before cockily walking off.

"I'll kill you good!" - Squirrel

I think I know what we're up against here. We're on the eve of a Squirrel Revolution. Don't dismiss these warnings. If you do nothing but sit there and laugh at me while throwing peanuts around, it'll be too late to prepare yourself.

The fact is, we've been at constant odds with nature ever since settlers opened the first Wal-Mart on Plymouth Rock in 300 B.C. when they defeated the dinosaurs in an Ultimate Fighter cage match. The animals, at home in the grass, trees and rolling hills, had to displace themselves to the cold concrete of the mini-mall. All of them were unhappy about this change but none of them had the discipline to reclaim their land. That is, until the squirrels learned a few tricks along the way down the winding path of evolution.

Humans, they know, are fearful of any rodent. But the adoration we have for their attractively bushy tails leaves us at odds with our emotions. Once we're lulled into a false sense of security by watching that "cute" squirrel nibble on something while standing on hind legs, that's when they'll go for the throat. And soon thereafter, those tiny little Molotov Cocktails will start flying from seemingly out of nowhere followed by the ear-shattering sound of high-pitched giggling.

You've been warned. Beware the squirrels.

Marketing Breast Cancer Awareness Month

2008-10-01T07:00:00.010-04:00

Today is the beginning of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, an annual social campaign to promote education and information on the disease, as well as raise funds to help find causes, development treatment and, hopefully, find a cure. It was founded in 1993 by Evelyn Lauder (Senior Corporate Vice President of Estée Lauder). Since then, the number of companies supporting the drive has grown dramatically.

I certainly applaud the underlying intentions of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and I have absolutely no intention of criticizing any community effort to help alleviate the devastation of a serious disease. However, over the years, the message has been diluted by those few commercial and profit-driven factors that range from slightly questionable to downright repulsive.
The disease that's also a sure-fire marketing campaign.

I suppose it's nice when companies decorate their products in pink to show their support for Breast Cancer and then take some of those proceeds and donate it to charity. Of course, the new packaging and the ad campaigns to announce that new packaging aren't free. As a matter of fact, they'll spend more on rolling out a "pink movement" than they would just cutting a check to Breast Cancer research without all the hoopla. But then how would that help them move their product?

A certain yogurt company whose name I won't mention (it rhymes with "go play") asks its customers to mail in pink lids to help support the fight to find a cure for Breast Cancer. Seriously? They want you to mail garbage to them before they cough up a check? Obviously, you'll have to buy the yogurt first and, since you mean well, you'll probably end up buying more of that particular brand. Ka-Ching! It's no wonder October is like a second Christmas for some corporations (especially to those products that don't make particularly good gifts).

The organization Breast Cancer Action has coined the term pinkwashing to describe companies that use chemicals shown to have a link to breast cancer (ahem... Estée Lauder) but then turn around and heavily promote the cause instead of changing manufacturing methods. BCA currently has its sights set of that certain yogurt company with the pink lids for their use of milk from cows treated with rBGH*, a synthetic hormone.

* The FDA ruled rBGH treated milk safe for human consumption, but there's a raging debate from consumer groups over the effects of the increase of insulin-like growth factor 1 (IGF-1), which has been linked to some forms of cancer, including breast. I invite you to judge for yourself; I'm too lazy to do it for you.

Symbolic items that do little to nothing.

How many afflictions and/or world issues have ribbons themselves help cure/solve? The answer is none. Same goes for "pinking up" everything around you or putting magnets on your car.

There's nothing wrong with showing your concern and support. But again, ribbons (and other "awareness" chotchkies) are only symbols, not tools. They are often manufactured and sold by small companies trying to cash in on a social movement. You never know what portion of the proceeds are actually going to the cause (if any at all).

A lot of well-meaning consumers buy these ribbons (or the wrist bands) in tiny gas stations or convenience stores. The counter displays housing these items often provide no literature or references for further education about the disease itself, only a price tag. Again, who is that helping, those with the disease or someone else's profits?

All the eggs in one affliction's basket

Breast cancer is a serious disease and education about early detection and treatment is certainly warranted. But one has to wonder why an entire month is spent on one form of cancer when heart disease continues to be the number one killer of women in this county (almost eight times more than breast cancer). And topping the cancer list: lung.

This may be overly cynical and potentially offensive if you don't agree but I still urge you to think about this: What other time can an unrelated company openly refer to breasts in relation to their product and get away with it? If they're so concerned with women's health, why not promote education and donate proceeds towards all the health risks? Because, like it or not, breasts are still linked to sexuality (even if subconsciously) and sex sells.

Would a company sink so low? One only needs to think of all the other cancers that don't get consumer product attention but are just as deadly. I guess lungs and colons aren't attractive enough to move inventory.

For further reading, I invite you to check out the Breast Cancer Action site and the book, Pink Ribbons, Inc.: Breast Cancer and the Politics of Philanthropy by Samantha King. Finally, go to the American Cancer Society for further information about treatment, support and links to donate.

Put Your Shirt On, Dude!

2008-09-30T07:00:00.006-04:00

It is officially autumn in the northeast United States. If there were ever a time for guys to walk around the neighborhood shirtless, this definitely isn't it.

Granted, we live near a beach and the weather has not yet dropped to seasonal lows. But we're also not literally on the sand and there are people walking around with long sleeves and jackets. Going shirtless now is the same thing as saying "I'm drinking these 24 cans of Budweiser all by myself and, if I have time, I'll scream at my woman for no reason while I wait for the cops to arrive."

"Hey sir, nice chest full of tats! I would never have seen them if you were wearing a shirt. I can tell from fifty feet away that you have poor conversation skills and would probably fly off the handle over the littlest setback. Yes you may think I am judging you unfairly in a condescending tone, but it's so much easier than becoming your casual acquaintance and then getting a call at 4am to bail you out of jail because of some petty bar brawl."

Learn it, know it, live it.

It's not just the "twentysomethings" who put me off with their self-imposed shirtless policy. I once assisted my neighborhood church with their community theater production. One of the guys who worked backstage, and had to be close to fifty years-old at the time, would often walk around with his flabby chest exposed in full view of women and children. We would half-jokingly tell him to put his shirt back on lest he scarred the young performers for life. To be honest, I was more concerned with my own awkwardness when I would have to talk to him and his crazy nipples were pointing at me as if they had a life of their own. I swear they were trying to bite me!

We finally asked our cantankerous backstage helper once too often to put his shirt back on and he completely flew off the handle. And there you were, thinking my outrageous stereotypes were without precedence.

And before you ask, the answer is no - as in "No, I don't have a problem if women want to walk around topless."

A Barely Appropriate and Incomplete Tribute to Paul Newman

2008-09-29T07:00:00.004-04:00

It's odd for me to do a remembrance for a celebrity on this blog for two reasons. First of all, I don't tend to celebrate famous people (only mock) and, secondly, I always assumed he'd never die. He was one of those guys who, even into his eighties, put men a quarter of his age to shame. But here we are...

The one thing everyone noticed about Paul Newman was his ridiculously intense, blue eyes. Eyes come and go in my book. You can replace them with Gobstoppers and I would never know the difference. But the blue light that came from his iris would precede him, often by a good hour. As a matter of fact, there is ample evidence that those blue rays guide astronauts home. That's probably why Apollo 12 touched down in his grotto in 1969. Yeah, I know, "citation needed".

Since 1954, Newman appeared in over fifty movies, and yet I've probably only seen a smidgen of them. Nevertheless, he often commanded the screen whenever he walked in from stage left (or his dressing room - whatever) and all the other actors, mere scarecrows with Gobstopper eyes. I'll be damned if I didn't break myself away from the gripping storyline of The Hudsucker Proxy to utter, "hey, that's Paul Newman!"

Even with all the filming, directing and producing, he still had time to feed you well with his line of salad dressings and pasta sauce. The post-tax proceeds of these ventures went to charity. It's been said that he would deliver the packages to grocers himself in his race car, but only by those who like making stuff up. Yes, even though he is remembered as a humanitarian as well as an actor and race enthusiast, truck drivers are better equipped for such things.

Paul Newman died at age 83 on September 26 at his home in Westport, Connecticut of complications from Lung Cancer. He leaves behind his wife of fifty years, five daughters, an impressive catalog of work and a beam of blue light that left his face twenty years ago and is hovering somewhere in the troposphere.

I Have a Cold, Not a Meth Lab

2008-09-26T09:18:00.010-04:00

My girlfriend is getting sick, which means I'll probably be getting sick soon too. At any rate, she had asked me to pick up some cold medication to help alleviate the symptoms. I was warned that I will need to bring ID and I have to ask for it from behind the counter. "Why?", I asked. "Are they afraid I'm going to get all hopped up cold medication?" Apparently, they are.

Many popular, over-the-counter cold medications contain the decongestant Pseudoephedrine, which has been recognized as a usable precursor to methamphetamine. While the ingredient is being slowly phased out in favor of phenylephrine, the sale of medications that still contain Pseudoephedrine are strictly regulated. As a result, it's easier for a toddler to buy booze than it is for anyone to purchase Sudafed.

To procure the cold medication, I had to go to the front counter and ask for it with the same nervous shame I would have if I were buying sex toys from a church bizarre. I had to produce my driver's license for scanning and then sign an agreement saying, in essence, that I won't be using my Tylenol Severe Cold medication to get myself or anyone else loaded. The only thing they didn't do was give me a body cavity search, which is good because I would expect a fancy dinner first.

After the inquisition was over, I looked at my receipt. On it had the amount of Pseudoephedrine I had purchased along with my daily limit. Should I go over this limit (which I estimate would only be attainable if I had planned on having a cold for one year straight and decided to buy in bulk ahead of time), I would be red-flagged and possibly brought up on misdemeanor possession charges. Lock-up's a bitch - especially when you're sneezing during the mug shots.

I can understand the concern but it seems more like another "Drug War" battle that affects the honest citizens. It has been almost three years since testimony was heard to call for the reduction of Pseudoephedrine use in OTC medication, but yet the replacement, Phenylephrine, hasn't been fully phased-in after all this time. We're still forced to jump through inconvenient hoops for remedies as if we're buying a gun while wearing a trench coat. I just want to stifle the sniffles, not start a drug empire in my garage.

Meanwhile, I think I'm starting to catch the cold my girlfriend has. I wish I had a job so I can call in sick.

Worst. Local Commercials. EVER!

2008-09-25T08:48:00.016-04:00

Advertising on television is still the best way to get your brand out to a captive audience (the ones without DVRs at least). A lot of research, time and money goes into all of those memorable ads you talk about the day after the Superbowl. This post is not about those commercials. It's about the local spots you see outside the peak viewing hours, cheaply made and horribly acted. They'd be forgettable if they weren't so ludicrously bad. Observe:

The Divorce Lawyer

Attorneys get a bad rap sometimes. But then you see a commercial like the one above and you find your opinion of the profession suddenly dropping even lower. "You want revenge? Blood? Devastation? Armageddon? Call my law office now and buy me a new boat!"

The Credit Mack Daddy

Old, white, small business proprietors - STOP rapping! I can't begin to list the hundreds of reasons why it's a bad idea. Do you think the young poseurs of America are going to lift their heads up from the Jay-Z CD liner notes to think about applying for a car loan?

Eagleman Insurance

Uninsured motorists - beware! If you go out driving, a large bird will attack your car and lay an egg on the roof. But don't be too nervous. That egg is full of great rates! Still scary though.

Dial-An-Insult

In the nineties, there was a 900 number for anything you can possibly imagine. And if you were especially masochistic, you can pay someone money to insult you over the telephone. Children, get your parents permission to be taken down a peg or two.

1-800-2SellHomes

"Emily, while we're here shopping for clothing I was somehow reminded about great ways to sell your home. Now I want you to respond to my advice with absolutely no emotion. Ready? Go!"

Frankie & Johnnie's

I say I say I say I say I say - what did I just say about old white men trying to be hip!? At least I know who to turn to when I can't decide between furniture or a fried chicken meal. Now I can have both! Let 'em have it!

Postscript: Yes, I know I left out the Norton's Furniture commercials with the raspy-voiced, scary guy. I decided to give that one a rest for a while until it's old again. Right now - too obvious.

Clay Gay

2008-09-24T18:06:00.010-04:00

Two posts in one day? I've never done that before. But I couldn't help myself. This is big news. Everything your read in the paper for the past 10 years? Forget all of it. This is all you need to know forever. Seriously, strap yourself into whatever you're calling a chair these days. While you're at it, send the kids to grandma's and yell at the dog for no good reason. Also: cancel your dinner plans, dump your significant other, quit your job and terminate your insurance policies. Nothing's important anymore except for what I'm about to tell you.

Ready? No you're not. But I don't care. Here it is.... Clay Aiken, American Idol runner-up for season 2, has announced that he is... wait for it... gay.

I know you were probably expecting something more earth shattering but you should know by now that some pseudo-celebrity's sexual preferences is more important than anything, ever. How were we sleeping at night without knowing this? Pretty poorly, I assume.

Clay, you put the "Fab" back in "Fabulous". I have no idea what that means but it sounded nice and uplifting.

In unrelated news, Guinness has announced that a new world record was set for the most utterances of the phrase "well, DUH" in a single day.