The Raving Reviewer

Review: No Crack Hand Cream

2011-12-22T14:39:00.000-08:00

I recently came across an Ebay listing for "No Crack Hand Cream." In the title it says "Try it once[;] you won't be disappointed." I must, however, take issue with this. For years, I have been using a variety of hand¹ cream that did in fact contain crack. As you probably have guessed, I can type 300 words per minute as a consequence. Granted, most of what I type is pure drivel. As for the piano, I play a mean² piano. I can wear down a piano in about a week--right down to the ground.

That said, when I found the listing, I couldn't imagine not being disappointed with a crack-free variety of hand cream. And yet, disappointed I wasn't. Perhaps this was because I never bothered to buy the filthy stuff. Or, perhaps it was because, at the time, I was far to erotically engaged to be of any use to anyone, let alone a dealer of hand creams. But this is the subject of another post.

1 not just for my hands? You really are sick bastard.^↩

2 by "mean," I of course mean average. I mean, I average average. Or rather, I average, I average average.³^{^↩

3 Drivel, obviously.⁴^↩

4 A footnote of a footnote? really?⁵^{^↩

5 Meta-commentary? Really?⁵^{^↩}}}

Review: Chess

2011-12-16T13:35:00.000-08:00

According to www.chess.com, chess is 99% tactics. It appears that www.chess.com is run by a couple of chess masters. But then the question is: how did they become chess masters? Most likely, it revolves around a clever long-term strategy: a strategy of convincing everybody else that chess is all about tactics rather than strategy.

Comparative Review: A Crumpled Napkin Vs. An Empty Jar of Mayonnaise

2010-09-19T10:42:00.000-07:00

It is unwise to be impaired in one's reasoning by the limitations of logic, insofar as a measurement of unreasonable meaning ends the measured means to the end of reason that is intended by logic or whatever other means that might be reasoned to be meant to the end of achieving this end. Hence, my approach to the crumpled napkin / empty jar of mayonnaise conundrum. But I shall leave the measurement of unreasonable meaning to others, for whom time has no end.

An empty yet unclean jar bespeaks a nameless indulgence, shamed here and forevermore by this filthy vessel. This jar has whored itself out one last time. "Recycling" is such an unused euphemism. I will go back to some store. But how can I go, when this obscenity in glass can offer me no better way to wipe my now bleeding eyes?

A crumpled napkin then: disgusting. I'll never wipe my eyes with this!

An empty jar of mayonnaise? I suppose I could fill it up with blood.

At last, dear reader, I hope this review has been both helpful and informative.

Review: A Slight Deafening of the Ear

2010-08-28T07:45:00.000-07:00

In 1766, it was a well-known fact that a slight deafening of the ear had its detractors, no less than its supporters, no less than those for whom the question in question was little more than a dull, throbbing silence--inflamed, perhaps, by the vehement whisperings of some nameless provocation, whose purposed gesticulations betrayed their own irrelevance with theretofore unknown deliberateness. Why, then, should 1767 then have borne a lovechild whose elbows (metaphorically speaking) should be little more than knees of the arms? There is no sound answer to this admittedly baffling question. Perhaps, then, we may be relieved in our present mode of consideration that no such event took place. No, for 1767 was nought but the barren and childless prelude to 1768, which is perhaps where this review could better have begun.

In 1768, then, it became common for a slight deafening of the ear to bring itself about autonomously. This was, not unlike its present forms, a sort of defense mechanism to preserve the mind in the face of an environment densely riddled with nonsense. But it was not the only such defense mechanism. Indeed, dear reader, you yourself may even presently find yourself experiencing a slight blinding of the eye.

But a history is of little significance for those who can bear no memories. I assume that you are such an individual, dear reader. What were you doing at 12:37 in the afternoon, three days ago? What was the second sentence of this review? I assume that your silence speaks for itself.

When no opposing voice is heard, assertions assume a glorified, if reckless existence, unquestioned to presuppose their own justification. A slight deafening of the ear, then, is a path to this kind of truth.

But, as any avid reader of my reviews shall know, I have long condemned truth for its arrogance. So, too, must I condemn the slight deafening of which I write, for no good can come of it. The true is hardly good, and the goods.... well, I've got the goods, but they'll not remain true.

Review: Geox "Shoes"

2009-11-14T10:18:00.000-08:00

Breathing takes time and time costs money. Money costs more money and more money takes credit. Credit demands low-risk behavior and low-risk behavior can be accomplished if and only if one is on bare feet.

But I'm a risk-taker. I take the kinds of risks that no bare-footed person would ever dare. So, I needed some shoes. But, since my shoes were likely to incite me to take bigger risks, I was not likely to have the credit necessary to finance the money to pay for the time that it takes me to breathe.

Fortunately, however, my new Geox shoes do all of the breathing for me. Hence, I don't have to worry about any of these things anymore. I can just be my risky old self, flirting with foot injuries and taunting hippies with sharp surfaces underfoot.

UPDATE:

After approximately six months, my Geox "Shoes" have mostly disintegrated, rendering them laughable as footwear. At this point, they consist mostly of holes rather than shoe. They have, however, become considerably more breathable. I often think about them when I walk down the street in my new Clarks, my feet gasping breathlessly for air.

Review: Addiction

2009-11-14T10:13:00.000-08:00

I look around me and there are empty cartons of cigarettes and gallon-jugs of wine: perhaps the gravest testament to my addiction. But it is not the nicotine or the alcohol, as you might have presumed; it's the savings.

It's the savings that led me to drink. Indeed, it's the savings that drove me to beat my wife. One day, I asked the question that should be obvious to any man in my position: "why am I paying someone else to do this?" Perhaps it was vanity or the pressures of fashion. Or perhaps it was the tennis elbow I sustained from the many smackings I'd delivered over the years, with such grace, to the riff-raff.

Ah, how the savings beckon me as I belly-crawl my way out from under the toppled bookcases that are used to make my presence known to the prying staff (not my employees, mind you!). As the weight of a set of encyclopedias threatens to crush into oblivion the last of my many fingers, the savings to be had by purchasing these hefty tomes, which once filled me with a flirtatious giddiness, now reveal their true, duplicitous nature. Ah the treachery of knowing what I might have spent!

I would escape, once and for all, this foul reality, but the savings, unfortunately, are everywhere I intend to be. So, I must go to the uninteded places: high-end perfumeries (are the only ones that come to mind). There are no savings to be had here.

For most addiction, there is a kind of cure in that the sufferers try to find God in a some sense. But here, too, I am bombarded with the savings. "Jesus saves," they say. So, there is no consolation in the divine. It is as frail and vulnerable to the addiction as we. Perhaps this is the allure of the savings. Perhaps we believe that we can approach the divine by appealing to its faults. But fault, even with humans, is precisely what one doesn't want to admit. You may appeal to my faults, but insofar as I deny them, you haven't approached me. In fact, you've put me off. I believe the divine shares my attitude. But this is just an example of what I mean.

Review: This Cup of Coffee

2009-08-25T18:43:00.000-07:00

Out of the hellish vortex that is New York and into the purgatorial morass that is New Jersey, I find that life is but an empty cup to me now. I need a refill.

Moments later....

The coffee is pretty strong. Of course, it's not as strong as a bear. I usually just have a bear keep me awake, but under the circumstances, I suppose this coffee will have to do. Although, as a veteran of "Advanced Latte Training," I'll just say that this cup of coffee is clearly the work of an amateur.

Review: The Latest Thing

2009-05-30T23:21:00.000-07:00

The latest thing is also the newest thing. The newest things also tend to be fashionable. Perhaps that's why one can be "fashionably late." However, being late is not necessarily a desirable quality in the case where one is not the latest. For example, to be late (in the sense of missing one's period) tends to be regarded negatively. If one were positive about being pregnant, one would simply say "I'm pregnant!" rather than saying "I'm late." Similarly, stating "the late Mr(s). So and So" tends to imply that Mr(s). So and So is dead rather than merely late. Perhaps that's the penalty for failing to be fashionable. Ironically, the things that are described as "late" tend to be the opposite of the "latest" thing. That is to say, death and pregnancy are nothing new. However, lateness tends to defy degree. I.e. one cannot usually be a little bit dead or pregnant. One tends not to be the deadest or most pregnant among others who share the affliction(s).

Being new is the latest thing. Being dead or pregnant therefore cannot be the latest thing, but merely late. They are not very fashionable, but they also defy being unfashionable, by virtue of the fact that so many people are forced into these situations.

Review: Pandora Radio

2009-02-23T01:29:00.000-08:00

God! Pandora's kind of needy! Are you still listening? Are you still listening to me? Look at me when I speak to you!

Review: Smack

2009-01-27T01:03:00.000-08:00

I got me some smack the other day. It was vigorous. My face is a sloppy mess now.

Finesse is not one of my children is what I tell myself. Were I not so loud and schizophrenic or quiet and hard to lay, as the case may sometimes be, this conviction would give me no trouble. However, trouble is what I've got. It sits in the tub with a downcast sort of attitude and asks me, with its puppy-like feet for eyes, "why do you despise these feet I have for eyes?"

I cannot bring myself to respond. But, sooner or later, I must respond. Trouble, left alone, will not go away. It will get worse and seek the trouble-maker out. Knowing my penchant for bathing, it knew exactly where to find me. I had made a mess of things. Unbeknownst to me, this mess became the trouble that now kept me from my relaxation. Somewhere, the smack must have been involved.

It displeases my toast to find itself unlubricated by the jam that I now find myself in. Sticky yet sickeningly sweet, the stuff that would have my present condition preserved begins to suffocate me. Though I'm in no position to give a toast, I have all the terrible puns a man could want. That said, I've no trouble meeting my maker, so long as I may believe that I, myself, am not trouble.

It is somewhere at this point in the story that I was smacked. The sobering hand of the humorless is often what saves the reader (you may rest at ease) from the litany of puns and miscarriages--claiming to be smiles--that befoul the air about the speaker stating such lines as these.

Review: A Review

2009-01-27T00:35:00.000-08:00

Rather than miring myself in the smotherings of a another clumsy pillowfight with That-Which-Tries-To-Kill-Me-In-My-Sleep, I thought it best to review a review for a change. Meta-commentary is an obnoxious thing, as are things too fashionably post-modern for them to truly be post-modern, so I'll just end this sentence right now.

The post-modern post, modern in its ability to actually be interpretted, is no more post-modern a post th(a/e)n it is modern.

smut.--->> 8-D

loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool

loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool loop pool !?@?&^&........

Review: The Empty Promise of Foie Gras

2009-01-24T14:42:00.000-08:00

To deepen my understanding of emptiness, I took upon myself the reviewing of this promise.

To say it is being held like a carrot in front of me is to overestimate my enthusiasm for carrots and to insult me in the loins.

I know I'm being manipulated. It is inherent to promises that this must be so. Foie gras... I cannot say. I can't believe it, but even if I could, it wouldn't matter. I would still be speechless.

Smugly, in the corner of my eye, drifting between the shadows as so often these familiar hallucinations daily do, that elusive spectre of gratification beckons me on. What otherwise might have been meaningless and empty flirtations with the confabulatory frame of mind are now focused and clarified, distilled into a concentrated obsession. It is a paranoia brought about by a promise whose emptiness I cannot comprehend but for the fullness of even the slightest drop of its truth.

Was that foie gras scuttling across my desk just now? What about that fatty lump, lurking just outside my window? I hear a sucking sound. Oh foie! Don't be so coy! I feel that I am like the irrelevant leaf of paper that is tossed about on the breezes of the soft, gentle banter between a schoolgirl and her imaginary white elephants.

It is offal.

Review: A Kangaroo

2009-01-24T01:46:00.000-08:00

To be frank, a kangaroo is little more than a wallaby wannabe.

Review: Small Business

2008-12-19T11:29:00.000-08:00

I am a small business owner. It is a for-profit affair with a non-profit attitude.* Needless to say, it's worth less than the paper it's written on.

*I figured what's good for the hookers is good for business.

Review: The Green Dragon

2008-12-18T21:48:00.000-08:00

I was just thinking--which always leads to trouble. The thought, in retrospect, is inconsequential, except with regards to the trouble which now consumes my meals for me. I don't even know what it was anymore, other than my starvation, which it could not possibly have been, but rather hypothesized. I think--and will therefore be shortly starving, so as to fully come into my being, so they tell me. My troubles talk too much. This too is one of my troubles, and a bit of a transcendent one at that.

The point, if this dull wit of mine could ever be sharpened to meet that end, is that my greatest meals have been thoughtless enterprises--so blissful as to render me completely ignorant of the world. Consequently, however, these meals cannot be contained in the meager capacities of memory. When asked about my fondest memories, (unfortunately, nobody seems to give a damn about my fondest mammaries), I must respond inconclusively. My fondest memories tend to also be my haziest memories. The very best experiences are the ones I can't remember at all. There is a certain optimism one gains from this perspective: namely that no matter how life may seem, I can trust, with the utmost faith that there is some overwhelmingly fond experience that, by its very nature, cannot possibly be remembered.

So, when I say I have no recollection whatsoever of my last visit to The Green Dragon brewpub in Portland, this should compel you immediately to go.

If I am not so far beside myself that I can give a sober and accurate account of the events of any given experience, you can bet your ass it couldn't have been nearly as good as some of those other experiences, which are so vague in my memory that the line between recollection and confabulation is crossed more often than something clever, which I can't think of right now, that might be funny.

When I came to the The Green Dragon, I was eight years old, fully bearded, and in the company of a surprising unexpectedness, which was contained in the satchel under my arm. The crowd was wild, but I was rabid. I ate my satchel and was, perhaps predictably, surprised by what entered my stomach later that evening as a consequence. Nevertheless, I ordered their absinthe.

When I came to, The Green Dragon was eight years old.

Review: Icey Streets

2008-12-17T22:41:00.000-08:00

When it is time to remove a man's shoe, it is time to ask the question "why?", although this is not necessarily true in the reverse--except in a mosque, where there is no need for this question, but a very great need for the bare, perhaps embarrassed, foot, unfettered of the unbearable shoe.

I may be a charlatan and a swindler, a liar, a cheat and a thief, but I am still a gentleman. And being as I am and, independent of this being, absent of any mosque, I maintain the question "why?". Though I'm sure you've deduced by now that I'm among some great crowd of barefooted people, undoubtedly by myself--in some awkward pair of boots, you are mistaken, as so many of the metaphorically illiterate are. If you think, on the other hand, that this is some sort of metaphor, you should kill yourself for letting me lead you on. Perhaps then, you might say to yourself, this is just a bit of self-indulgent nonsense that passes itself off as meaningful prose. Here, too, you are mistaken. It is a simple fact that I am a gentleman and that I maintain the question "why." There is nothing more to it, other than your shame.

Shame is what grips the barefooted person, especially when caught unprepared for the kinds of realities that demand a shoe. This is why I like the ice. Though I feel betrayed by the very pavement that I've pounded with the certainty and eroticism that perhaps crosses a line, I will always love the ice for keeping those damnable hippies off the street and out of my bedroom.

Though I may slip, slide, fall, lose my balance, or be maimed by a collection of improperly labeled knives, I adore the ice for being so much like me. On the one hand it is cold, hard, and callous, on the other, ephemeral and frail: wholly dependent on its environment for its character. On yet another hand, its ability to gain control over thousands of pounds of car and to bring this to a crashing halt is something I must admire. On the last hand, I cannot emphasize enough how much I appreciate its effect on those damnable hippies.

Review: Merrel Traveler

2008-12-14T01:14:00.000-08:00

http://rover.ebay.com/rover/1/711-53200-19255-0/1?type=3&campid=5336170750&toolid=10001&customid=&ext=Merrel+Traveler&satitle=Merrel+Traveler

A shoe, like a woman, must be able to endure the pains of childbirth, the wetness of rain, and the impatient protestations of the little goldsmith whose lifelong effort towards repairing the intricate layers of filigree that comprise my golden carpets is frustrated anew by the constant trampling.

A proper shoe must be well-behaved, and modest. Its greatest feet must be two light and run down dogs of a uniquely satisfied pedestrian. A proper shoe must empower its owner to go where naked nature would not take him (or her, if we allow women to be rugged). A proper shoe must be forged to greatness in the fires of Necessity, Coolness, and Comfort, where the fate of every great hike or walk has already been determined. A proper shoe does not hesitiate at the mocking puddle, nor does it falter on the cold and callous ice or dancefloor. It must be self-posessed. It must be philosphical. It must demonstrate, to the boundless collection of inferior footwear that surrounds it, that there is no terrain that cannot yet be tread.

Perhaps this is why the Merrel Traveler may aptly be called the pedestrian's Range Rover. Its refined, yet rugged demeanor, composed in the face of adversity, yet sympathetic in the face of a screaming woman's blood-soaked hands, exudes an understated odor of the foot. It is the earth. It is toned, yet silent. It is muscular, yet free of the steroids that pervade its peers and indeed, to an overwhelming degree, the modern shoe in general.

Review: A Hemorrhoid

2008-12-13T22:21:00.000-08:00

It was a cold winter morning; I was Russian; and the street was a cloud of children in their respective delusions. Little did they know, in general. Nor could they hope to pretend to know, for they were children; and children are terrible actors. They were fooling nobody. This is not to say that I was somebody, but let's just say I wasn't being fooled either.

It might have been a sad sight, but I had been work*-hardened; my eyes were waterproof--no less than my pants. My pants, now that I've got you wondering, were made of a stiff military-grade wool which I'd soaked in Scotch Guard for three days. So when I say my pants were waterproof, I think you'll agree: it was an undeniable fact.

The hemorrhoid, as you can surely tell by now, induces a sort of mindless rambling. As it blocks the passage of shit (bull and otherwise) through the appropriate avenues, it is now forced out through other passages: notably those intended for communication. The expulsion of waste, being of such basic necessity, then supercedes any constructive discussion, until the source of the shit has been exhausted.

The hemorrhoid may take the form of an alarming amount of blood from various orifices, notably the ass, which may or may not make up the entire person. Alternatively, it may take the form of a disturbing little nub in the butt, the sensation of which resembles a small ass-raping. In either case, it will not be resolved. You may apply a number of creams, but chances are that you will continue expelling shit through your conversations, bleeding from most of your body, and walking around with that disturbing little nub we discussed. This builds character. Eventually you will find that you are also Russian, criticizing the children in the dead of winter.

If you like to kid yourself into thinking that things need not be so, you might try thisstuff. Or, otherwise, one of these.

*My work, I don't mind saying, is of an eroticnature.

Review: 2:34 a.m.

2008-12-10T03:04:00.000-08:00

It's 2:33, so I've already got a head start. One thing I have to say is that 2:34 does keep me waiting, which, naturally is a strike against it. On the other hand, now that it's here, I'm not so sure I want it anymore. Yes, it is a bit disappointing. It seems to me that 2:34 is not worth the wait, unless you're there already, which, in this case, I forrtunately was. Now that it's over, I can't decide if I am further disappointed or relieved. I suppose I generally want more out of a given time, but these things always seem to fall short. Perhaps it should come as a relief, then, that 2:34 was very low-key. I had low expectations going into it, but at least I wasn't terribly let down by it. It made no promises and it kept to itself. It acts as its own excuse, in a sense. On the one hand, one might complain how dull and boring 2:34 can be, but on the other hand, it is 2:34 a.m.; what are you expecting?

Con: Work done at this time tends to suck more than otherwise

Pro: There is a higher chance that the sucking will be of an erotic nature

Con: Kind of dull and boring

Pro: Very discreet, almost unnoticable

Pro: Lends itself well to starting a new career

Con: Lends itself well to losing one's mind (maybe "career" was an overstatement?)

Conclusion: 2:34 is a basic, run-of-the-mill middle of the night sort of time, with few bells and whistles (one would at least hope, if one were trying to sleep!) and a homey kind of coziness to it. Alternatively, its extremely low-key nature can also be very isolating. You might miss it if you're not paying attention, but if you are paying attention you may realize that you're the only one, which is not necessarily a good thing at 2:34 a.m. It may be a time to live or it may be a time to die, but for most it is a time to sleep.