Required Reading

2014-03-29T02:47:00.000-04:00

Hi. I hope you still read this.

I just wanted to say hey and that all is well. I hope the same can be said of you. The format of this will probably be sloppy as it's the first one I've done on my phone. Consider any typos or formatting mistakes like the hilarious deleted scenes from your favorite shows during the closing credits.

So I just wanna name some things I like. I like my brother sticking to his program and making a genuine attempt to restart his life. I like my other brother still having his shit together. Keep it up. I like my friends having kids even though I've been severely attention starved.

I like knowing comics who make me laugh more via texts or on a trip home from Atlantic City than they do on stage. I also like when those comics use their WaWa gift cards to pay for dinner on the way home from AC. Thanks, Lou.

I like knowing that it's about the process, not the results. I like sharing my passion for making people laugh with likeminded people. I dislike using the word passion. I like people like Open Mike Eagle and the Hellfyre dudes getting some recognition. And I like that someone like Slug, who has more than enough to worry about, takes the time for me and my silly ass questions. Make funny. Got it.

There's no real narrative to this one, but I was reading my last couple posts and realized they were (understandably, I think) pretty heavy. So I wanted to try to balance that out a bit. Admittedly this isn't my most complete post, I just wanted to touch base and say hi.

2013

2013-12-23T04:07:00.001-05:00

So. 2013. You certainly happened, didn't you?I set out to write some grand, all encapsulating account of my year. The attempts at this have taken the form of a hackneyed letter to a 2013, a stream of consciousness that stretches the definition of "conscious" and other less notable variations. Instead, I'm just gonna type things and leave 'em here.

My first instinct is to tell this year to go fuck itself. First it took my mom from me, and then, yesterday, my grandmom. In the last few days I was bargaining with some unknown entity to let my grandmom make it to 2014, as if that would somehow take the sting out of losing her. It obviously wouldn't, but I at least would have the moral victory over 2013. But in a weird way, I'm kinda glad that I can wrap up all my anger and direct it towards one specific year. Don't go getting any ideas, though, '14. Keep your filthy claws off the rest of my family and friends.

But if I were to do that, I'd have to erase the good things that happened. And those good things have provided just enough distraction so that I don't drown in my thoughts. At the beginning of this year, I set a goal that I'd have my own comedy show. I didn't tell anyone, because, frankly, I had no idea if/how I'd accomplish this. Not that it was some Herculean task, more that I was so clueless as to how to go about it. Then, I asked for a show. And I got it. Then, a few months later, I was asked to do another show. And I did. Along the way, other people asked me to do their shows. And that's all I've ever really wanted. A chance to be funny for people.

Even through the darkest, bleakest times of not just this year, but my life as a whole, there was value to be found. Shared pain tends to bring people together. I'll never be able to articulate how much it's meant to me to reconnect with family members I'd grown apart from. Whether it's a drunken night on the town after a set at Helium, a fake Thanksgiving with three generations of relatives or getting a chance to sit down and have a real conversation with my ridiculously determined, smart and beautiful cousin, I've relished every single minute of it all.

I don't want this to be depressing. God knows I have enough posts to cover that ground. I just had to get some of these thoughts out and this is the best medium for it. I've tried exploring these things in my sets, but in order to get to the pay off that life is inherently filled with potential and promise, I have to take the audience down some pretty dark fucking roads. And that's something they've let me know, resoundingly, they give zero fucks to participate in. Duly noted.

Normally I have some cute little final paragraph that sums things up and leaves everyone feeling Zestfully clean. Not so here. I was kicked in the nuts by life several times this year. But even taking that into account, I think I'm still ahead of the game in the grand scheme. And there are way, way, way more people that have had it way, way, way worse. So I really don't want this to come off as me complaining or fishing for sympathy. Sympathy, as a currency, has a remarkably short life span. Invariably it's gone before you're able to spend it. I have no interest in sympathy.

As usual, I've wandered way off my intended path. So I'm just gonna say merry Christmas (or whatever your thing is), happy new year and be nice to everyone. We need it. Now I'm gonna go drink some fancy beer and watch some Degrassi.

PS. I'm two days late, but happy birthday, mom. I'll be funny on the next one.

Calmedy Part Whatever (A Comic's Lament)

2013-05-13T04:37:00.000-04:00

Calmedy Part Whatever (A Comic's Lament)

What do you do when you tell a joke? I'm not talking about a joke that your Uncle Bob told you at cousin Katie's wedding over the weekend and you're filtering through your own unique perspective Monday morning to your captive coworker audience. I mean a joke that you came up with from scratch. It developed, was nurtured, hatched and successfully born entirely in your cranium. Did you rewrite the set up? The punchline? How many times each? Did you obsess over the wording and placement of certain wordings? Did you entirely over think everything about the joke to the point where it wasn't even a joke to you anymore? It just became a collection of words that, if you didn't fail miserably, might elicit an approving grin from 1/10 people you tell it to. That is, if you summon the courage necessary to tell it in the first place.

No? Ok then.

"I heard a joke and I thought you could use it!" This is the worst thing that I hear on an almost daily basis. It's my fault for telling people that I do comedy. It made me a magnet for people's best intentions. I know that people are only trying to help me when they try to give me jokes that they either came up with or heard on the Tonight Show. But the thing is, it's insulting. On a few levels. The first and most obvious being that you're telling me that I can't write my own material. I can. And do. Exclusively. So does every other comic. The ones that have people write for them are the ones whose jokes you're trying to give me. They're incredibly famous and have earned that right.

The other level it insults me on is that you're telling me that you know what is funny and I don't. Again, I know you don't mean it that way. But you're basically saying "Hey, I've never performed or written comedy on any level, but I'm betting I'm just as good if not better than you are at it!" If I went to local restaurant (because, let's be honest, that's where I am right now) and said to the chef "Hey, I've never cooked professionally but here's some unsolicited advice!" he would have every right to tell me to go fuck myself. But I can't do that.

And therein lies our next problem. I have to accept everyone's advice/criticism with a good nature, lest I seem like I'm some stuck up know it all. I'm far from knowing it all. But I know way fucking more than you do. Because I do this. That's why I do it. So I can know things. That's why anyone does anything. But when people give me their pointers after a show, I'm tempted to ask them when the last time they did stand up was. Again, if I go to your job and start offering unsolicited critiques on the specifics of your performance, you'd be perfectly within your rights to tell me off. But I can't do that.

And the best part is, I knew this going into doing stand up. And the fact that I'm bitching about such a ridiculous thing should tell you what a great gig doing stand up is. I love it more than anything I've ever done. And if my ego having to take a couple lumps after each show is the price I pay for doing something I truly love, so be it. There's no gun next to my head, forcing me to stand on stage and tell jokes to people. I can quit anytime I want. I can also bitch about it when I want. But I can't bask in one aspect while ignoring the other. As many people that come up to me with criticisms, there are just as many, if not more, that tell me how great I was. Even when I wasn't great. And just one person saying that completely wipes out 10 people offering their advice. Being a comedian is all about finding your voice. And that means I can't please everyone. I can only please myself and hope it matches up to others' expectations.

I guess what I'm saying is thank you to everyone who's tried to make me a better comic. Whether it's from your unsolicited advice or encouragement. Thank you.

Hi, mom. Ditto.

The Ram and the Wall

2013-04-25T05:10:00.000-04:00

Preface: I haven't done this in a while. Well, I mean, I've written things. Like my name and stuff. But as far as cohesive streams of thought, I've been limited to one or two line jokes about jerking off on deer (sorry). So this will probably be kinda disjointed. Pretty sure I used that word wrong. Wrongly? In a wrongish fashion. Wrongedly. Also, I realize how absurdly pompous it is to write a preface to a fucking blog post.

Some stuff has happened. My mom died last month. I'm going to write about that. My brain has felt constipated with thoughts and ideas for longer than I care to admit. So this is my enema. You'll want to stand down wind. Or up wind. Whichever.

I'm trying to tie a bunch of things together so that I can cover as much ground in one post as possible. I've written and re-written this several times. So that's probably not gonna happen. So here's just some things?

I don't recommend anyone going through what I've gone through in the last month or two. If at all possible, you should make sure that your mom never dies. Never ever ever ever ever. In fact, make sure that nobody you care about dies. Ever. That shit is no good. And if you happen to already be prone to bouts of anxiety and depression, well, you can forget about sleeping for at least a month or so. And eating. And having a general desire to live. That doesn't mean I've been suicidal or anything like that. It's just that in the days and weeks immediately following, I felt this giant question mark hanging over my head at all times. I don't know what the question was or how to answer it. It's still there, and will always be there. It's probably always been there. It just took something truly fucking awful for me to notice it. But it's gradually faded to where I can mostly ignore it. Or at least deal with it on my terms when I'm ready to deal with it. Whereas when I was in the thick of the awfulness, it was like a ram constantly headbutting my side. Now, with the aid of perspective and whatever else I've gained through this horrible time, there's a buffer zone between me and that ram that cushions its headbutts.

That doesn't mean I've learned any profound life lessons. If anything, I'm more confused and unsure about everything than I was before. But I'm comforted in admitting just how unsure and insecure I am about life. I don't mean any particular aspect of life. The whole thing. Because I have a sneaking suspicion most, if not all, people have those same questions and insecurities. And sometimes it takes the worst fucking thing you can imagine happening to give you the perspective that you need.

I wrote and delivered my mom's eulogy. I knew I was going to do it before she passed. The only concern I had, which I had when I did the same for my friend's grandfather (and still have) is that people would think I wasn't as affected by her death. That because I was able to put my thoughts into a semi-cohesive form and stand in the front of the church and deliver them, that it meant that I had graduated to an understanding of death that others hadn't. Not true. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I'm as, if not more, confused than anyone about death. But if you know me, you know I like to talk. In fact, if I had to rate myself, I'd say I'm a very good talker, a so-so writer and a horrible editor. I don't know when to shut the fuck up. I think I believe that if I just keep talking and talking (or writing) that I'll eventually come to some wall where I can go no further. I've been talking for the better part of 29 years. No wall yet.

There was one benefit to writing and delivering the eulogy. As I wrote it, I literally felt a physical release of pressure from my body. Once when I wrote it and again when I spoke it. Of course, I've never received a gift I couldn't find fault with. And with this it was that I felt selfish. Like, ok, I got relief from doing this, but what about everyone else? Where does their relief come from? Is it ok to tell them I felt that relief? I realized that any relief felt in this situation is ok. All these questions and doubts just come with the territory of being the overlord of overthinking.

I'll try to wrap this up by getting my Wayne Dyer on with some advice for anyone going through anything like I've gone through:

It's ok. Everything is ok. Nothing is wrong. Even in the darkest, most awfulest of times, it's ok.

Surround yourself with good people. This seems like common sense, but I think it made the difference between which side of the void I ended up on.

Talk. Talk and talk and talk. Write if you want to/have to. Keep trying to hit that wall. Even if you hit it, it won't hurt nearly as much as you think it would.

Embrace the ram.

Ok. That's it. Gonna try to take my own advice.

Thanks, mom.

Calmedy (part 2) (no Gary Glitter)

2012-08-20T05:58:00.000-04:00

What up. Since I last wrote about calmedying, some stuff done happened. I was in a calmedy competition. That was cool. So, I gots some thoughts about things. That's what this is gonna be.

I told some jokes at Helium, arguably the biggest comedy club in Philadelphia. The line to get in was around the corner. About a half an hour wait. The place was very close to sold out. Meaning about 250+ people. Much more than the 15-20 people (on a good night) I'm used to performing in front of. Of that 250, I had about 25-30 friends and family that had come to see me. For the first time. I watched from the back as they filed in. I was still working on my set for that night, as I saw them wave to me. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing. But I am editing and revising my jokes up until the very second I step on stage. And even when I'm in the process of telling jokes, I'm making executive decisions on what stays and what goes.

I decided to say hi to those that came to see me. I tried to use my humor to deflect any apparent nervousness. Don't think it worked. When the show started, I went into watch mode. I was listening, but I wasn't hearing. I took a gamble. I wrote some last minute Chick-Fil-A jokes. The gamble being that it would be something that few (if any) other comedians would be talking about. Because the trade off of having fresh, timely material is that the jokes are unpolished. In my case, it was the first time I'd be telling them. I was the 10th comic to go on. So far, so good.

I made my way to the green room. Did the customary awkward introductions with the host and the other comics waiting to go on. I was starting to really feel at ease. Changed into my stage gear. Went over my notes while cracking jokes. And then it happened. Albeit muffled through the stage door, I heard the words "Chick-Fil-A." I was going on next. I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying, but the look on my face must've said it all. The host gave me some pointers on how to play it off. Then, something weird happened. An odd sense of calm washed over me. I felt as though "these are your jokes, regardless of what anyone else has/will say. Do them." The comic wrapped up, the host went out. I had about a second to shake the preceding comic's hand before I heard my name being announced.

This probably sounds pretentious. But it's true. When I'm on stage, I remember very little of what I say and do. I think it's because my brain is concentrating so hard on making the sounds I make make sense. But I was cognizant enough to hear the laughs and reactions I got that night. I'd been worried that I wouldn't make it to the 4:30 mark. That was the minimum you had to do, or else you'd be disqualified. I could live with being DQ'd due to going too long. But for not even making the minimum? No way.

When I saw the blinking light, signaling I'd done 4:30 worth of jokes and witty banter, it was the greatest feeling I've had in comedy up to this point. Because it told me that, at the very minimum, I was qualified to stand on a stage for 4 minutes and 30 seconds. I could relax. A few of my friends were seated (to my chagrin) at one of the front tables. But after the blinking light, that became an asset. I was more relaxed and could play to that side of the room, focusing on my friends in front. That's something I picked up in my high school theater class. Looking at someone specifically to play to an entire side of the room. Thanks, Ms. Tindall. Sorry for the hard times I gave you.

So, I did my jokes. They got laughs. Good laughs. I saw the solid "wrap it up, b" light and got the fuck off the stage. Was congratulated on a good set in the green room. Went outside, and was greeted by a comic I respect. He gave me props, and that meant a whole lot to me. I didn't advance in the tournament. But after my set, I felt good enough to know that I belonged in the competition, and wasn't just lying to myself. That's one thing about comedians: we're brutally honest. With others, and most importantly with ourselves. You don't have to tell us we suck. We know it. Before you do. But the flip side is that when we do good, we also know it. The trick, I'm learning, is not to let on too much that you know how well you did. The experience from this competition has me hungry to surpass the feeling of just doing good and advance in the next tournament. That hunger is what is telling me that I'm making the right decision by going all in on being a comedian. Without concrete promises of money or success, these gut feelings are all we have to go on.

To everyone that came to see me, thank you. I may have told you individually or as a group. Either way, it's just as sincere. Your continued support and belief in me helps guide that gut feeling. There are times, like other comics, I assume, that I don't feel very funny. All I have to do is think back to what you've said to me and all doubt is erased. A misconception about comedians is that we're never serious. On the contrary, I'm incredibly serious. That's why everything is so goddamned funny to me.

Peace,

Album Review: Mike Eagle - 4NML HSPTL

2012-07-16T09:56:00.000-04:00

Way back when, in the infancy of my flooding the webbernetz with my very important opinions, I had a (non-paying) gig writing album reviews for a hip hop website. One such album I reviewed was by none other than Master P's little brother, p/k/a C-Murder. It wasn't my choice. Not that I didn't like No Limit. But C-Murder was to No Limit as, say, Scott Norton was to nWo Hollywood. Yeah, technically on the roster, but...c'mon. So I did what any too smart for his own good 17 year old would do. I wrote an incredibly mocking, scathing review. I think that was the last review I wrote for that site. What does the No Limit B-squad have to do with Mike Eagle's new 4NML HSPTL? Read on...

I had that C-Murder album for weeks before I reviewed it. It got to the point where I was getting forwarded angry emails from the people at No Limit/Priority from the website's owner. They wanted to know where the album was, and why they bothered sending the CD if I wasn't going to review it. Because I just didn't care about it, it was next to impossible for me to write about it. Similarly, I've had 4NML HSPTL for a few weeks now. My lack of a review to this point has nothing to do with not caring. I planned to review it before I even heard it. I figured that since I'm familiar with Mike Eagle's previous work, it wouldn't be too difficult to find an angle from which to write about the new album.

Boy, was I wrong.

And that's a good thing. Last year, I described Rappers Will Die Of Natural Causes as "extroverted introspection." This go around, the target audience is a room full of fun house mirrors where Mike alternately sees distorted and all-too-clear reflections of who he is and where he fits in the psych ward that modern hip hop has become. It's not a bunch of "woe is me" as much as it's "who is me?" The best way I can think of to describe the conceit, as I see it at least, is if Jackie Draper was a b-boy with a penchant for They Might Be Giants and Twin Peaks...he wouldn't have needed that goddamned dragon. This album would provide him with plenty to talk about.

That doesn't mean this album is all backwards talking and cloaked rhetoric. Mike takes to task those responsible for the country's miserable financial state in the bluntly titled "The Financial Crisis That Wouldn't Go Away." Thankfully, a sense of humor isn't considered contraband in the 4NML HSPTL, so Mike and Has-Lo are able to riff on everything from trap rappers to female Gucci Mane enthusiasts on "Your Backpack Past."

4NML HSPTL is Mike's most focused, cohesive album to date. It's also his most personal. Whether one is due to the other is debatable. Considerable credit should go to UK producer Awkward, who scores the entirety of the HSPTL. I say score because throughout you hear repeated synths and and bells and other weird sounds, that kind of clue you in to the context of the album at that particular point. Much like a movie's main theme will be reprised at key points. Even the more upbeat, dance-y beats seem to have ominous chords lurking just behind the curtain.

I'd be remiss if I didn't touch on Mike's song writing. I'm telling you, this guy has the pop sensibilities to write an album that would keep him (and Johnny Gill) from having to be mad at The Weeknd. He proves it on songs like "DanceBill" and "One Day." The choruses from both songs will be stuck in your head for the foreseeable future.

Navigating through 4NML HSPTL can be challenging upon your first visit. And while it may not make you feel any more comfortable, repeated trips through its halls are endlessly rewarding, even if only on a surface level. Mike Eagle is like a walking, rapping MC Wikipedia, in that every song contains a reference to something that makes you wanna hit up google or youtube. Pop culture shout outs. Dance songs about that vague feeling of disconnection. Half chicken/half brontosaurus bears. They're all somewhere to be found in the 4NML HSPTL. Check in.

For more info, check out: www.mikeeagle.net

calmedy

2012-07-02T05:43:00.000-04:00

Hello. Been a while. I'm writing this at 4:50am on a Monday. Not sure I'll even publish this. If you don't believe me, I have about 20 other posts written in a similar time and place that will likely never see the light of day. Some of them are actuall quite good, too. Anyways, this is just gonna be a lil refresher course to bring yall (and myself) up to speed on what's been going on the last few months.

So, I guess the biggest development is that I've been doing stand up comedy the last couple of months. As in, in the real world. Not the internet. Where the feedback is immediate and uncomfortable. But it can also be incredibly gratifying and intoxicating. I'm still very much a novice, so what I relay shouldn't be taken as the professional's guide to stand up comedy. It is merely, humbly, one person's experience thus far.

My first time, I don't remember being nervous. I remember being wet. Very wet. From the rain outside. But nervous? Not really. Because adrenaline was shooting through my veins at an unsustainable pace. And yet, it did sustain. For a few hours, even. I'm not sure what the joke was that got me my first laugh. Afterwards, another comedian kinda "big leagued" me, as though he didn't have time for me and my simple questions. Another complimented me on my set, while correcting me on one of my punchlines. And a random person outside let me know he thought I was funny. Even if none of that had happened, I think I still would have left the bar that night with the same conclusion: "This is it. This is what I want to do."

It is. I know that makes me sound like an overly optimistic sap. Trust me, I have no delusions of building some comedic empire based off of my wits. But, I know that that goal is something worth working towards. And it's work that I want to do. For much of my life, I've been given suggestions (like many of you reading this, I'm sure) as to what people think I should do. I'd demure, as to not offend. But part of that was because I simply didn't know what I wanted to do.

One of my favorite things about doing stand up, to this point, is getting unexpected laughs. I don't mean jokes that you don't think are funny getting laughs. As an example, recently I told a joke that had the word "twat" in it. And I told this joke to an overwhelming crowd of 9 people. And one of them happened to be an elderly grandmother who was there with her granddaughter. And I'll be damned if she didn't burst out laughing at the word twat. And why shouldn't she? Twat is a funny word, regardless of age. My point is, that kind of threw me off, and made me have to deal with a situation I didn't plan for. That's the kind of stuff I really like about telling jokes to complete strangers. The unpredictability.

This is getting to be kind of self-aggrandizing and meandering. So lemme make sure I say what I need to say.

I don't know what I expected when I told people I was doing stand up comedy. It's not like I expected my friends and family to tell me not to bother. Certainly not. But, I think I kind of anticipated a decent amount of apathy. I wouldn't blame 'em. This is one of those classic pipe dream type deals. But that's not what happened.

The overwhelming response I've gotten from people in my life has been incredibly positive and supportive. I've been especially touched (nh) by people that were kind of on the fringe of my day-to-day life, people that I maybe hadn't talked to for a while, taking a legitimate interest in what I was doing. Part of it might be the allure of doing something as interesting as stand up comedy. But I think part of it is also a genuine desire on their part to see me do well at something I enjoy. And that's meant the world to me.

So, this is to you. If you've come to see me tell jokes, thank you. Even if you've continually promised to see me and it's yet to happen, thank you. That you're even thinking about me means a lot. If you've simply asked me how a set went, thank you. If you've reassured me that I am, in fact, funny, after a particularly rough night, thank you. If you've ever held me and told me I'm hilarious, thank you. If you've volunteered to organize a bus trip to see me tell jokes, THANK YOU. If you're a comedian who took the time to answer my annoying questions, thank you.

Re-reading, this post is very self-indulgent. Fuck it. It's my blog. If I can't indulge myself, what's the point? It's funny. People tend to have a misconception of me as being someone incapable of genuine sincerity. I guess because I use humor in a lot of situations. That's kind of frustrating to me, because that's the only way I know how to communicate, through humor. So I have to do things like writing a blog to convey my appreciation for people taking the time for my silly comedy.

I can't promise that I'll always make you laugh. Hell, I can't promise that I'll always be funny. The only thing I can (and do) promise is that I'll try my damndest to make you laugh. To make your shitty day just a little less shitty. To maybe take your mind off your problems, and put 'em onto mine, so you can laugh, if only momentarily. That, I think, is the purpose of humor. It's an immediate reprieve from responsibility. Both for the one delivering it and those receiving it. And if I can be just a small part of that going forward, I'll be happy. Of course, if I can do that while being incredibly wealthy, all the better.

Thank you (sincerely),

My Breakfast With Sylis: Reviewing Andy's Diner

2012-02-19T05:31:00.000-05:00

Here's a fun lil' fact about me: I love diners. No. You don't understand. I. LOVE. DINERS. I don't know if it's the night owl hours they keep, the readily available breakfast at any time of the day or the general air of sexual permissiveness they support. At any rate, my priorities are God, country, diners, etc... (don't worry, family is pretty high up on my "etc..."). There is nothing like a good diner. A place where you can kick back after a night of whiskey and bad decisions, get some pork roll and maybe break down a bathroom door or two. Conversely, there's nothing as bad as a bad diner.

And so, it is with a heavy heart I present my review of Andy's Diner.

Please understand that this pains me to write. I am a huge proponent of local businesses. I will gladly pay a little extra to support the local guy over the conglomerate every time. So long as the differential in quality is relatively negligible.

That brings us to my recent experience at Andy's Diner in Conshohocken, Pennsylvania. I've eaten at Andy's a handful of times since it opened a few years ago. And while I was never wowed, I always left thinking it was serviceable. Damning with faint praise?Sure. That all changed with my latest excursion.

Andy's is a 24 hour diner with a bar/pub attached. Convenient if you're trying to get your eggs within walking distance of your kegs. Being that they are legally required to stop serving alcohol by 2am, the bar area becomes somewhat of a dead zone at that point.

To my specific experience...

I approached Andy's main entrance and observed the host (whom I recognized from my previous trips to the diner) and another employee enjoying a cigarette by the front door. Despite my passing directly by them, neither came to the host desk to seat me. A waitress who I happened to make frustrated eye contact with sat me. She then signaled for the host to come inside, which he did approximately 5 minutes later. Perhaps this was his break.

The waitress who sat me did not wait on me. She seemed to fall off the earth, actually, as she was the only waitress I didn't see pass my table. The waitress assigned to me seemed to have every customer in the diner as well. This, despite the plentiful staff and relatively low amount of guests at 3:30am. Odd.

I ordered a coffee and ice water. I received my coffee only. Perhaps there's a shortage of ice water I don't know about. I ordered my food at the same time as my beverage(s). 2 eggs, scrambled. Scrapple (aka pig's asshole, but it's delish, trust). Home fries. White toast. I decided I'd remind my waitress of my ice water order when she came to check on a refill for my coffee. I never got that opportunity. Not for lack of time. No. I waited approximately 20 minutes for my food. 20. Minutes. For eggs, scrapple, home fries and toast. At 3:30am. Ok.

And by the time my food came, I was so inwardly amused and befuddled by everything that I ordered an orange juice just to see if it'd come before I finished my meal. Ah, yes. My meal. The focal point of my early morning pilgrimage. Oh boy.

The home fries are best described as home cake. Over cooked and singed to the point of being welded into a dry, flaky mass. I'm not a ketchup guy, but the exception was made here. The scrapple was...scrapple. I mean, it's quite literally the inner ring of a pig's anus. The eggs were adequate, if not underwhelming. I've had some debates over this, but I prefer my eggs to err on the side of fluffy. It's a matter of class (peace to the 1% who get that reference). I have to award points for creativity on my white toast. It was a variation of white toast that's best described as totally burnt. Brilliant re-imagining on a breakfast food staple.

The waitress did come by to ask if I needed anything. I was too timid to ask for a vat of water to choke down the home cake and "white" toast. I opted for a coffee refill, which she was quick to accommodate. Interestingly enough, as I was composing my notes on my...meal(?)...I noticed the waitress seemingly watching me. I wonder what she saw. She then produced a check. Slow with the food, quick with the check. I felt right at home.

I know I sound like a total asshole. But I have this problem with incompetence. I truly believe the people working at Andy's Diner are capable of putting together a fine breakfast. And I understand that at 3:30am you may not be on your A game. And I'm not asking for out of this world quality and service. I'm asking for competence, damn it. Competence. It's what this country was built on. Being slightly above mediocre, yet not setting the bar at an unattainable height. And I don't want to single out any one person. Especially my waitress. They have the least control over the product. I know that. But they also have the most control over a customer's overall experience. A good to great waitress can make a mediocre meal seem much better than it actually is. And I bet my waitress was probably at the end of a long day, maybe after having worked at another job. So I'm not holding her up as an effigy.

I write this review with the hope that the owner or manager of Andy's Diner will read it. Maybe implement the changes in areas that require them. That's what's cool about the internet. I can have a shitty experience, write a review of it on my shitty blog, and the owner of the place the shitty experience occurred in can take my constructive criticism and better his business. In theory, anyway. I intend to re-visit Andy's in the future. I look forward to writing a review that is the polar opposite of this one. Maybe I'll even get some ice water.

Til then, this is Sy, reminding you to take some time to eat out with the one you love.

PS. My 10oz orange juice cost $3.30. Sup with that, Andy? You gotta be ballin with those prices!

The Stuart Pankin Drinking Game

2012-02-16T23:48:00.000-05:00

Ed. note: We at Required Reading do not endorse/condone/advocate binge drinking in any shape or form. Even if it is in honor of a character actor whose heyday was the late 80s-mid 90s.

I can hear you now. "Who the hell is Stuart Pankin?" Well, who the hell are you? Seriously. Did you play Michael Douglas' buddy in Fatal Attraction? How many installments of the Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century trilogy did you appear in? Cause Stuart Pankin was in all three. Yes, that includes Zenon: The Zequel, bitch! Oh, and was that you flexing that raw acting prowess in a little film called Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves, alongside none other than some Ukrainian ex-pat actress by the name of Mila Kunis?

Now that we've established just who the F Stuart Pankin is, let's get to the drankin'!

So, you probably don't recognize the name. But if you were anywhere near a TV in the last 25 years, chances are you're familiar with Stuart Pankin's face. And while he's appeared in a few notable films (the aforementioned Fatal Attraction and Arachnophobia chief amongst them), Pankin has buttered his bread as one of the go-to character actors of his generation. A quick glance at his TV credits is like encyclopedia of what shaped my youth. (Funnily enough, I found these credits on Wikipedia, which is nothing like a real encyclopedia.)

Check it: Barney Miller, Chips, The Golden Girls, Family Ties, Who's The Boss, Knots Landing, Family Matters...and it goes on and on. Not to mention, he voiced Earl Sinclair, the patriarch of the family on ABC's innovative Dinosaurs.

Pankin has an over-the-top style, which lead him to be cast as everything from someone's crazy, over-the-top uncle to someone's zany, over-the-top brother. Naturally, his characters tend to share many of the same off beat quirks.

And so, armed with this information, I present:

The Stuart Pankin Drinking Game

The rules are simple. You can NOT plan to play this game. That's cheating. Ideally, you'll be absent mindedly watching TV. Maybe a character says something like "You know, Steven, my sister and her zany, crazy, over-the-top husband are visiting this week." This is your first cue. Chances are about 78% that this will lead to a Stuart Pankin Drinking Game opportunity. Upon visual (or auditory, as his voice is boisterously recognizable) confirmation, the game begins.

Stuart Pankin	You
Enters a room loudly	Take a drink of beer
Lights a cigar, despite others’ objections	Take a shot
Gives someone a bear hug, to their chagrin	Chug your beer
Slaps someone on the back, in a chummy way	Take two shots
Plays the bagpipes while people are asleep	Chug your beer, and your friend’s beer
Gives a monologue about how he’s misunderstood and he was “just trying to help.”	Keg stand until he’s done and everyone says “aww”

This is just to give you an idea of what to expect. Feel free to make your own additions and alterations. I think it's time Stuart Pankin is recognized as the cultural cornerstone he is. And there's no better way to celebrate a long and successful career than by getting 100% fall-down blotto!

Cheers, to you all. And cheers to you, Mr. Stuart Pankin! May you bring us the happiness and joy you brought to this lucky young lady way back in 1988!

syPod shUfflin'

2012-02-15T02:34:00.000-05:00

Ed. Note: This is a new feature, which I'm blatantly ripping off of The Onion's AV Club. For more information on how you can help your local The Onion's AV Club, please visit www.avclub.com

As alluded to in the above note, this here is a fancy new feature. The premise is simple. I fire up the old syPod (my vain pet name for my iPod, being as my name is Sy..and..well, I've already spent too much time explaining this)....anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yes. The point of this post. So yeah, I put the old syPod on shuffle, and the first 5 songs that play get highlighted in this very prestigious space.

I'll drop random factoids, personal anecdotes relating to the songs, and maybe even shoot some t-shirts into the crowd. Cause who the hell doesn't love a free t-shirt? A caveat: my collection of songs is kind of ridiculous. Not ridiculous in the "wow, there's a lot of songs here!" sense. Rather, ridiculous in the "my God, why would anyone admit to having that song on their iPod?" vein. (Note to self: two points for two separate and correct uses of vain/vein in consecutive paragraphs!) I hope this venture is as informative for you as it is embarrassing for me. On we go!

Song: Mrs. Robinson

Artist: Simon and Garfunkel

Released: April 1968

Ah, a fine song to start with! It's not my favorite Paul and Arty tune, but that's mostly due to its ubiquitous use in just about everything ever. As a stand alone song, it's quite nice. Its prominence through the film The Graduate has lent it a tone of bawdiness that, in my opinion, betrays its themes of hope, despair, and, ultimately, the foretelling of the celebrity worship that would continue to this very day ("Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?/A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.") It's light on production, with simple, yet memorable lyrics that make it easily digestible. This makes it one of the best examples of a pure pop song I can think of.

Song: Rabbit Run

Artist: Eminem

Released: October 2002

Maybe I should credit this song to Eminem's 8 Mile character, Jimmy Smith, as it's rapped from his point-of-view. As we now know, this movie spawned the monster hit Lose Yourself. But I say this song, as much as any other on the soundtrack, exemplifies what Mr. Mathers was trying to get across in the film. The hunger, the anxiety, the sense that the clock is moving faster than your pen can write. In some way, we all can relate. It's that feeling that as much as you're doing, you're not doing enough. Eminem's rhymes are in a foot race with the beat, and an impending sense of failure is hot on his heels. If I had to point out to a current Eminem fan why I've been disappointed with the majority of his output over the last decade, this song would be exhibit A. The pitfall of having his talent is that he can be "good enough" and get by, but I like to think he knows that when he gets down to business, he's as good, if not better than anyone.

Song: Heaven

Artist: Last Emperor

Released: 2003

Ah, yes. The Last Emp. From West Philadelphia, born and raised. A cult favorite of the indie backpacker movement of the late 90s/early 00s, he was signed for a minute to Dr. Dre's Aftermath label. Accordingly, his album never saw the light of day. This is one of his signature songs. Sampling the main theme from the Otto Preminger film Exodus, Emp waxes on what he expects to see when his run here is done. If nothing else, it provides food for thought and some truly beautiful music to listen to. So fresh. So fly.

Song: Sussudio

Artist: Ol' Dirty Bastard

Released: 2001

Oh, you have no idea how happy I am this song popped up. Few people know of it, and even fewer know WHY it exists. If I recall correctly, there was a Phil Collins tribute album by the R&B/hip-hop community. And why not? Phil is funky. I don't remember any of the other covers except this one. And really, what else do you need when you have Ason Unique paying homage to the Genesis gawd? Just...just listen to it. It's incredible.

Song: The F Word (RJD2 Remix)

Artist: Cannibal Ox/RJD2

Release: 2001

Man, this is a gem. Cannibal Ox (Vast Aire and Vordul Mega) released a critically acclaimed album in 2001 called The Cold Vein. It put fledgling indie hip-hop label Definitive Jux on the map. Honestly, I don't even remember how the original version of this song sounds. RJD2 did such a great job with capturing the emotions of Vast Aire's unrequited angst. Its structure is kind of peculiar for a rap song by a duo. Vast handles all the verses while Vordul doesn't so much provide a hook as he does a mantra wedged in between Vast's therapy sessions. RJ uses driving guitars and fading drums at exactly the right moments to create an instant classic for anyone who's spent time in the friend zone.

Well, that's the first installment. I noticed it's heavy on hip-hop. I listen to a lot of stuff. Just so happened to be hip-hop that popped up on the first 5 plays this time. I'm sure with each edition the genres will vary in reflection of my eclectic listening habits.

Peace

90

2012-01-31T12:45:00.003-05:00

My grandmom is going to be 90 at the end of February. 90. That is, like, really old. But she's still very much with it. After a recent visit with her, I kinda just stopped and thought for a while about what it means to live that long.

(Warning: the self-aggrandizing thoughts of a deluded blogger lay ahead)

I have a hard time seeing myself alive past, say, 35. Tack on another 55 years and I mean..wow. That's a lot of living to do. And when I think about the things she's lived through, and continues to live through, it absolutely astounds me. Even in the last few years, she's buried her husband and her two oldest sons. And that is something that is incredibly difficult at any age. I don't know that I have that kind of inner strength or resolve.

I don't know what the average age of death is right now. But I'm sure my grandmom has passed it. But the average person, let's say, will live to be somewhere between 70 and 80. And in that span of time, the average person will meet a situation in which they must make a life altering, or saving, decision. In the course of that 70-80 years, this will happen, for the average person, maybe, MAYBE 4-5 times. I'm excluding those whose professions put them in danger every day. Cops, fire fighters, soldiers, etc...

But if you agree with my premise of how many times we are actually in danger, or something life changing or crucial to our very being will happen to us, it kind of helps shape your perspective on things. Because that means that, ultimately, all those little things we get pissed off about just don't matter.

Yeah, in the short term it could be the difference between being up a few bucks or Ramen noodling it for a few weeks. But it won't be something you remember for the rest of your life. I try to keep this in mind whenever I start to get worked up over something that, frankly, isn't important.

And those things you can't control, fuck 'em. I don't believe in fate. But I do believe that some things are out of my control. And also, I know that in the grand scheme of things, I matter very little. I mean me as one human being. It's true. Now, the things I do, write, say and what have you, yeah, those things could matter. But me, myself? No. And that's something important to keep in mind. Because when you take the emphasis of how things affect you, you open yourself up to a world that is remarkably, beautifully unaware of you. And I've found that all those pressures that I thought were being placed on me by the world and by outside forces, they were coming from me. The calls were coming from inside my head.

I think it also helps you to see the world unselfishly. The phrase "it's not about you" is something I keep in the back of my mind. I make a conscious effort to enter into every situation with as few presuppositions as possible. This, in turn, keeps my ego in check and allows me to actually gain something from my experience, rather than shape my experience to fit whatever ridiculous idea I had going in.

If you're still reading at this point, I hope you were able to glean something from this. If nothing else, appreciate the elderly. They've been where we've been, and are living blueprints to help negotiate our ways through the mundane and insane. So if you're lucky enough to have your grandparents still living, give them a hug and a kiss. And fucking listen to what they have to say. Because even in adult diapers, they are way, way smarter than us.

Happy birthday, Grandmom.

Your Guide To 2012

2012-01-03T01:25:00.000-05:00

Well, hey there, kiddies! Been a while. How were your holidays? You're right, I don't care. Me? I spent New Year's Eve avoiding Chinese people as I didn't want things to get awkward at midnight. It's not really their day, is it?

You don't realize it, but I gave you all a gift this year. I didn't subject you to any of my year end lists. You're welcome. See, I'm not a dick like most people. I'm a dick like me. And I know my opinion doesn't mean shit to most of you, so I figured I'd save us all the trouble and just fore go the whole "year end" thing.

But you're not getting off Scot free. Never understood that saying, as most Scots I've met are such filthy, mangy beasts that they have no use for our material possessions anyway. Most wouldn't know how to trade or barter if their disease ridden lives depended on it. Seriously. Scottish people are just the worst. Truly awful, foul smelling human beings. If you can even call them that. But I digress.

See, I have some powers. And I've chosen to use them, typically, for evil. But in this instance, and in the spirit of giving, I've done you all a great service. See, I can travel into the future. I'm all about the element of surprise, so I don't often employ this power. But for you, dear reader, I made an exception. Now, I should note that everything is subject to change, given the whole "Free Will" thing that us humans possess. Ugh. But I'm pretty sure I nailed everything. So without further Gerard Depardieu, I present:

Sy's Handy Dandy Guide To 2012

So, here's the deal. My time travelling abilities are limited to specifically compartmentalized sections. ie. I see everything as it relates to, say, entertainment, at once. And then I start over and see everything about sports, and then politics and so forth. Yeah, it's a weird clause. Almost impossible to believe. But hey, I don't see Dr. Who around here, so take what I'm giving you and be grateful.

So that's how it's gonna go. I'm gonna break it down by categories. Everybody tucked in? Good. Great. Grand. Wonderful. On we go!

2012 In Entertainment

Bieber Marries Kardashian

It's true. In a move that isn't all too surprising, given the lack of stability in Kardashian relationships, The Biebs marries into our favorite American-Armenian family! Believe it or not, least surprised of all is Justin's current flame, Selena Gomez. She's quoted as saying she's "suspected this all along." All of Hollywood turns out for this romantic June mega-event. Of course, due to certain laws being what they are in California, the marriage is held in New York. It is simulcast on every major broadcast channel, as well as a few "cutting edge" cable channels.

If I may steal a bit of thunder, it's my pleasure to introduce to you, for the first time in public, Mr. and Mr. Kardashian-Bieber-DeGeneres(it's complicated)!

The magic was evident from the very start. Congrats, fellas.

CBS Goes Defunct

Facing growing pressure from advertisers to give them "more boobs", "funnier farts", and "fartier boobs", Les Moonves, CEO of CBS Corporation, makes the unprecedented decision to wholly disband the company, effective May 23, 2012, coinciding with the end of the current sweeps period. Moonves cites the "unstoppable behemoth" his successful Monday night comedy line up had become. Specifically pointing out that Two And a Half Men was intended to be an "innocent star vehicle for a recovering alcoholic, cocaine-fueled sex addict" and instead degenerated into a "barrage of one-off dick jokes and 22 minutes of indictable child labor and sex law violations." Specifically, Moonves states "Nobody should, in 2012, be subjected to material referencing Ryan Stiles' penis. That's specifically why we fought World War II."

CBS is quickly bought by NBCUniversalCatholic Church(oh yeah, that happens, too), who use the 24 hour platform to run "Best Of the Tonight Show" in perpetuity. While this move is initially lauded, as the Tonight Show has a rich history dating back to Jack Paar, Johnny Carson and Steve Allen, it's quickly made clear that they meant their definition of the "best" of the Tonight Show. We are subjected to 24 hour loops of Jay Leno showing us typos (which his staff create) and Jay Walking. A lone bright spot in the otherwise dim future of this channel: during Jay Walking, we get concurrent footage of Steve Allen actually rolling around in his grave! He still has it!

The 90s Are Back! (Again!)

As it's wont to do, that pesky decade that just won't go away, the 90s, rears its head again in 2012. Encouraged by the ratings of reruns of popular shows such as the Wonder Years, Doogie House, MD and Growing Pains, Hollywood quickly sets the wayback machine for the era of glow sticks and Cat In The Hat...er...hats.

However, not content with just running the same episodes we've seen a hundred times already, the studios band together to produce new episodes of these beloved series. Actors are let out of their contracts so that they can return to their sitcom roots. Even Martin Scorcese stops taking Leonardo DiCaprio's phone calls until he agrees to reprise the role he was born to play: Luke Somethingorother on Growing Pains. Turns out Marty just couldn't get enough of that wacky Boner and his zany antics.

Even notable curmudgeon Dave Chappele is drawn out of seclusion when he's assured that "things will go right this time." Dave returns to the Hollywood that he once shunned to resume work on his briefly lived, rarely aired mid-90s ABC sitcom, Buddies. Tragically, Dave Chappele takes his own life after a half an hour on the set when a Caucasian stage hand asks him to "do the crack head!" from his Chappele's Show. RIP Dave.

Know what show doesn't come back, though? WINGS. Why? Because Steven Weber is a big jerk who nobody likes! That's why.

That's all for the installment. There's just too much mind blowing stuff happening this year to fit into one post. In fact, I haven't even touched on what happens in the music industry or the cinema. Sorry, I meant movies. I always forget that I'm the only one who still calls movies "the cinema."

Ridiculous(ness)

2011-11-22T23:12:00.000-05:00

Ah, MTV. That bastion of integrity. The molder of minds. The universally accepted metric for that which is both normal and popular. I'd like to state from the jump that this is not going to be a "y dusent MTV play muzik nemore?!?" rant. There are enough of those out there, and they all suck.

This also isn't going to be a "lol Rob Dyrdek suks!" diatribe. I don't find him particularly entertaining. But that doesn't mean I think he's a bad person. This is about a giant media conglomerate willfully profiting off of a human being's death.

As most reading this know, Ryan Dunn, who came to...um...prominence(?) on MTV's Jackass, died this past June in an automobile accident. Police reports state that he was driving his Porsche 911 GT3 between 132 and 140 mph on his way from a West Chester, PA bar. So, ya know, we can draw our own conclusions about what the cause was. And while I find it hard to have sympathy for someone who puts both himself and others (he was with passenger, not to mention other drivers on the road at the time) in such immense danger, it doesn't change the fact that a human life was lost. It's not an insulated, singular repercussion. He had friends and family, and their loss is very real.

Anyone familiar with Jackass knows what it's all about. Guys doing stupid shit for giggles. It's a slapstick formula that has its roots going back to the Three Stooges, Marx Bros. and further than that, some cave man who accidentally lit his nuts on fire. Meaning, as long as there have been humans, there have been humans doing stupid shit. That will never change. The Jackass crew made an empire of their stupidity. At its height on MTV, Jackass was arguably the most popular show on television. Cable or broadcast. People were tuning in every week to see just how these numb skulls would debase themselves. And somehow, they managed to continuously set the bar lower and lower. And America kept fervently limboing under that bar.

MTV and its parent juggernaut, Viacom, were only too willing to reap the financial gain from these Jackasses. And that's okay. MTV had a platform. The Jackass guys had a product. They combined, people made a lot of money, and it was all good. The standout stars were clearly Johnny Knoxville and Steve-O. Eventually, the TV incarnation of Jackass made way for a spin-off of sorts for former professional skate boarder Bam Margera. It was, after all, Bam (along with his CKY crew, which included Ryan Dunn) that brought most of the excitement and original stunts to the Jackass TV show. Also getting spin-offs would be Chris "Party Boy" Pontius and Steve-O as the "Wildboyz" and Dunn himself, on a twisted home "improvement" show called "Homewrecker."

I point all this out to show that the Jackass crew had an extensive relationship with MTV. Not only was there a lot of money made on both ends, but there must have been some personal relationships as well. Whether it be with MTV producers, executives or what have you.

Fast forward to the present day. Rob Dyrdek, he of his own MTV shows "Rob and Big" and, currently, "Ridiculousness" is another former skateboarder turned MTV darling. "Ridiculousness" is basically to "Tosh.0" what Gus van Sant's "Psycho" was to Hitchcock's "Psycho." A shot for shot remake.

That's not my beef. Dunn filmed an episode of "Ridiculousness" before he died. What likely takes place is Dunn and Dyrdek watch clips of people doing stupid things (perhaps inspired by Jackass) and laugh at what happens to them. It's harmless enough until you consider 1) what Dunn did for a living and 2) the way he died. At the very least, running this episode posthumously is irresponsible.

But it gets worse. MTV has been running previews of this episode, touting it as "very special." And it immediately precedes a tribute to Dunn by his friends and Jackass co-stars. That, to me, is what makes running the episode of "Ridiculousness" in unbelievably poor taste. I don't blame Dyrdek or Bam or Knoxville. I blame MTV. It's akin to a company losing an employee in a freak accident, then having their coworkers gather to watch other people nearly face a similar fate by doing what the fallen employee did, as a matter of entertainment.

There is ample opportunity to have a frank, open discussion about responsibility, both self and to others, in the wake of Dunn's tragic death. To me, that is as striking of an offense on MTV's part as anything. It's not so much what they're choosing to do, but what they're choosing not to do. Losing someone, regardless of circumstances, is a tragedy. To lose them in vain, when there is a chance to clutch onto a silver lining, as slim as it might be, that's an avoidable tragedy. I hope MTV doesn't make that mistake.

Occupy My Street

2011-11-15T02:12:00.000-05:00

Allow me to preface this by saying that I try to abstain from overtly political posts. This blog is intended to be funny. Whether it succeeds or not is up for debate. I ask your indulgence on this topic, however.

Look, nobody with a rational brain thinks that corporate America are angels. But this is the worst possible representation of the opposition.

As I watch these protests, what I mostly see is young white people. And the people that I personally know who support this are young white people. Most with college education. The same people who, without the system they're railing against in place, would not have that precious college education.

And when I see them espousing faux revolutionary rhetoric, it angers me. Because they're, for the most part, afforded the luxury of protesting. Hey, I'd be down there too. If it wasn't for my shitty, menial job. The job I took because I had no choice. Well, that's not entirely true. I had the choice of having a job that is, frankly, beneath my skill level, or starving to death. But see, I want to make something of myself. And rather than crying about shit, I have a job I hate. And I save the money I make from that job I hate. That's America.

My grandparents worked hard. Goddamn hard. So I can only imagine if I told them that I was going out to make a difference and they asked me what I was doing, I said "I'm going to yell at the top of my lungs at a building that won't hear me." My grandparents are both deceased, but I can feel the whooping they'd put on me if I said that.

What's happened is protests have become fashionable. Mike Myers is showing up, and he's not sure why. Questlove is tweeting about it. He's closer to being the 1% than the 99%. Sorry, Questo. You've put major work in on some major artists' records. Royalties being what they are...we both know it's true. All the Boots Riley RTs in the world can't change that.

So, what do I want? I don't know. But I know that what I've seen so far is horrible. All these "Occupy" movements seem to be formless forces fueled by empty ideology. There have been no plans to deal with any of the very foreseeable consequences. And that's what has lead to the horrible acts of brutality in Oakland. The preventable trauma in Philadelphia. You, the 99%, are to blame for this. If you want the glory of standing up to Wall St., then the other side of the coin says that you MUST accept the brutal reality of what you've allowed to happen. If you are in solidarity with the chants and the tent cities, then so too are you in solidarity with the lack of protection for your women and lack of a peaceful exit plan. In all the interviews I've seen, people are referring to their fellow protesters as "brothers" and "sisters." A noble colloquialism, to be sure.

Occupy Philadelphia got Mayor Michael Nutter, on Twitter, to proclaim that he, too, is part of the 99%. Unfortunately, this happened only a day after the reported rape of a 25 year old Occupy Philly protester. Which of her "brothers" and "sisters" were there to protect her?

Again, to be perfectly clear, I don't disagree with the message. But I must ask of those taking an active role in this demonstration, what do you wish to achieve? Are you there to be a part of something? Are you there to be seen? Are you there because you're angry that you don't have a job? Do you agree with your general assembly's manifesto? Did you vote on it? Do you truly believe you are accomplishing something?

Or do you just feel better after a few hours of verbally venting your frustrations? If so, there's nothing wrong with that. This country has been in a shitty state for a long time. There's a lot of people pissed off. I'm one of them. And rightfully so. But I believe it's important to separate your personal anger from the goals of a larger group that may not necessarily represent your point of view. You know the old saying about being judged by the company you keep. I fear for the safety of those that have been swept up in the rhetoric of these Occupy groups. As I wrote this, I watched the NYPD raid the Liberty Square area of the original Occupy Wall St. group. And I got the sense that a lot of those people didn't realize how serious of a situation they were in, until it was too late.

I've said nothing of the uneasy feelings I have about OWS and their subsidiaries collecting and dispensing funds. That OWS has apparently tried to repeatedly implement a governing body to control their funds sits very uneasily with me. That the OWS general assembly has repeatedly voted this down, yet it still comes up for vote, that disturbs me even more.

I'm all for power to the people. That's where it belongs. But it must be exercised responsibly. Unlike algebra, a negative vs a negative does not result in a positive. Often, it results in a much greater negative. That is what I see us dealing with here. To surmise in the most hacky and cliche way possible, absolute power corrupts absolutely. Checks and balances, yo.

More than anything, what disturbs me are the boundaries that have been drawn. Apparently, we're either the 99% or the 1%. If I could choose, I'd choose the 1%. Hell, why not? That shit would be awesome!

But it's this divisiveness that worries me. Must we be the 99 or the 1? Outside of this discourse, what do those numbers mean? Should we really define ourselves (and thus, in a pointed manner, our neighbors?) in such a way? If my neighbor, whom I've known for years to be an upstanding person and a dear friend, happens to make an amount of money that lands them, however unwittingly, in a certain bracket that eludes me, must I rail against them daily? Is that my obligation for landing in the 99%?

Is the entirety of the human race split on some Lucy and Ricky shit? Is the very act of being born a human a commitment to one side or the other, based on circumstances you couldn't possibly control?

If so, I must respectfully recuse myself from the human race. A difficult choice, but one I deem equally vital to my soul and my sanity. I find myself to be neither the 99% or the 1%.

I am the none percent.

Take A Look At My (Cloud) Girlfriend

2011-11-09T01:20:00.000-05:00

We here at Required Reading are not in the business of advertising. If that were the case, I'd advise you to click that pretty little banner you see above. I'd tell you how easy it is to click that banner, and how I'd get a small bit of money each time you clicked it. I might even point out how much effort each of these seemingly effortless posts take. And how I embark on this Herculean task for you, my dear reader. And that to click on a banner really isn't asking all that much, is it? SO JUST CLICK ON THE GODDAMN BANNER!

Sorry. There was a point when I started writing this. Oh yeah, I remember now.

Are you a single fella? Looking for that special someone? Nightlife not your scene? Don't auto-erotically asphyxiate yourself just yet, Johnny! The answer lies over yonder jump!

Your saving grace has arrived in the form of Cloud Girlfriend! What is Cloud Girlfriend, I assume you ask? Well, why not let them tell you all about it!

So, what I got out of that is that you create your own personal Kelly LeBrock (look it up, kids) and *poof*, she's your new Facebook girlfriend. Them what runs the Cloud Girlfriend..."service"...seem to be selling it as a "community." The word "community" is online speak for "hey, there are girls here, too!" Not buying it.

The premise of this really is somewhat brilliant. It preys upon the idea that women will want what they can't have. So if little Jessie Johnson down the street sees you're suddenly "in a relationship" with Mary Muffdiver, well, shucks, she's gonna wonder what makes you so great and want to take a run at you herself. The morals of it are dubious, at best. The whole thing has a creepy "help me find my lost puppy" feel to it that I can't shake. It's a virtual rope-a-dope.

There are also practical dilemmas in place. The good thing about the Internet is that you can trick people with things like Cloud Girlfriend. The better thing about the Internet is that there are people, like me, who are more better at the Internet than you. Thus the awkward "So, you created a fake girlfriend on Facebook?" conversation will likely negate any cool points you momentarily gained from having a "girlfriend."

Now, there's another even ickier aspect to this. It stems from the people running Cloud Girlfriend. It's as simple as this: nobody wants to be alone. Even if we are a loner, Dottie. A rebel. At the end of the day, we all want someone to hold us and tell us we're funny. Some find that other half, others don't. Even if you don't find that someone, there's a good chance you're not so desperate as to create a fake girlfriend. But as Jan Brady taught us, sometimes you need to meet George Glass.

And that kind of breaks my heart. That someone would be so desperate for people to believe that someone could love them, that they would invent an entire person just to meet some impossible criteria that belongs to a third party. The loneliness and daily pain that someone like that must face. To reach the point where they believe the only person who'd love them is...well, themselves, albeit in a split personality role. Incredibly sad.

The makers of Cloud Girlfriend are banking on this poor, desperate person. I try to stay somewhat morally ambiguous, but to profit or prey on the misfortunes of others...well, that shit ain't cool. I wonder if they ever considered what kind of person would be using their service. Here's a hint: it's not Johnny Football Hero. It's more likely to be the guy who's been mocked and tormented for no reason other than being himself. The guy who is fully willing to lie to himself about his Cloud Girlfriend, in the hopes that the real girl of his dreams might take notice of his new found Casanova status. The guy who hopes to God that none of his friends find out about his new "girlfriend's" non-existence. Because he's suffered so much ridicule up to the point where he decided to create his own paramour.

I don't know what it is to be in that guy's shoes. But the thought of it makes me incredibly sad. Nobody should ever think of themselves the things that that person likely thinks. And nobody should ever feel like their only chance at a relationship is with a figment of their own imagination (with a little cyber help from the fine human beings at Cloud Girlfriend).

In an ideal world, we all meet the woman/man of our dreams. And we know instantly when we've met them. And we get married and raise our perfect children in a perfect house in accordance with our perfect lives. But this world isn't ideal. There are wars, disasters, inexplicable cruelties and websites like Cloud Girlfriend. And while I certainly don't equate a website with the aforementioned horrors, I find it hard to believe that, in the long run, it is doing any great service to 1)those who use it and 2)those who profit from it.

If you find yourself thinking something like Cloud Girlfriend is your answer, think of this: With Cloud Girlfriend, you're basically dating yourself. Don't you deserve better than yourself?

Fan Mail

2011-10-25T04:26:00.000-04:00

Man, I loved this whole thing from start to finish. Your writing style is amazing. I've dealt with bullies & nasty racism for 12 years. The emotional pain was excruciating & I don't think I'll ever recover. However, the side effect was a blessing. I too developed a broad sense of humor & was a counselor & campus ministry leader in high school. I held positions that required confidence. The only thing was I never had confidence, I only faked it. I cant assert myself verbally or stand up for what I think is right. That's why I admire who you are & the character you molded yourself to be. I'm glad to know there's someone I can relate to. Never change yourself for anyone & never stop being a cynical ass hole.

That's a comment from my I'm A Cynical Asshole post. To be honest, that's one of my least favorite posts. It's not funny, it's not clever and it's way too honest for my liking. I wrote it at a time when I was hurt. And being hurt oft leads to overly emotional outbursts. Having distanced myself from the piece, I think I somehow managed to avoid that. But the responses it evoked, both in the comments section and in real life (you know, like, outside of the internet) are something I could never have expected. The above selection in particular touched me. To think that there is someone who would read the silly little words I type, and that they take something positive out of it, something that might make their life just the slightest bit better...it's too much for me to fathom.

I don't know the person who made that comment. And I'd prefer not to. Selfishly, it's better to help a complete stranger than a friend. Or maybe it's easier for me to deal with the complex problems of someone who's not so intertwined with my daily life. Trust, I have plenty problems that I avoid answering. I'm sure most of you can relate. Physician heal thyself and all that.

I recently had the honor to eulogize a friend of mine's grandfather. Frankly, the family felt that they couldn't do it. They would be far too emotional. And there were others considered before me. They, too, felt as if they wouldn't be up to the task. When asked, I immediately accepted. You know that saying "anything I can do to help?" Well, that was what I could do to help, and I knew it. See, I was detached enough to be clear, while still being close enough to bring a human element to it. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. To summarize an incredible life in a concise 5 minutes in front of their grieving loved ones. A Herculean task if ever I'd been charged with one.

It's funny though. I wrote in a purposely upbeat manner. I deliberately avoided certain words and phrases. I'm seldom ever pleased with my first draft. That goes for blogs to papers to music reviews. But this one...this one I knew I got right on the first try. I read it from start to finish exactly one time. The morning of the funeral, I was blindsided with the task of reciting a poem that someone didn't feel up to reading. Ok. I'm a pro. I read it over a few times, making sure of my inflections. I was nervous about being seen as a hog, taking up too much time. I actually tried to get someone else to read it. Then I was informed that I was the sole speaker. In other words, if I didn't do it, it wouldn't get done.

I read the poem. I damn near lost it on the first line. Some pro. Then I beseeched the room for its indulgence as I read my own thoughts. I blacked out at this point. The only things I remember are my legs shaking uncontrollably and my friend's uncle loudly chiming in with each anecdote I relayed. I'm told everyone clapped for me at the end. I have to take their word for it, because I don't remember that.

Why do I tell you this? Because several people came up to me afterwards and told me how surprised they were by my eulogy. How eloquent and poignant I was. How they didn't know I had that in me. How skeptical they were of me doing the eulogy.

I tell you this story to say this: You can change people's perception of you. It doesn't matter what it is. Chances are what people see you as is not what is inside of you. YOU determine your perception. It's entirely in your hands. Your story is still being written, and you have the amazing gift to craft your own ending. Do it.

On a personal note, I'd like to express my immense gratitude to a group of people who took me in as one of their own and entrusted me to send off their hero. I can never repay the faith you showed in me, but I hope my words did something to ease your pain. Someone's watching M*A*S*H reruns forever and he's happy.

What's So Funny?

2011-09-05T04:27:00.000-04:00

When I was in grade school, one of my teachers told me I'd make either a great stand up comedian or cult leader. Thus far, I've played it down the middle, not committing wholly to either. At that age, I never understood why people told me I should be a comedian. To my young brain, the idea of standing in front of people, their eyes expectantly burning through you, waiting for words to spill out of your mouth that change their mood, it just seemed gross to me. What kind of masochist would put himself through that, I thought.

To a degree, I still feel that way. To my way of thinking, if humor is discussed, it ceases to exist in that situation. Sure, you can then turn the situation humorous by commenting on the lack of humor, but why go through all that? Having said that, I decided to write about humor. The laughs stop here. You've been warned.

Everyone considers themselves the "funny one" of their group of friends. Why? Why is being funny so important? To me, it's just something that some people can do well. I feel self-conscious about declaring myself to be funny. Yes, I am funny. I've come to terms with that. Whereas some use humor as a defense mechanism, my main goal when I open my mouth is to make myself laugh. I truly don't care if nobody laughs at one of my stupid jokes. If I think it's good, and I understand why I think it's funny, I'm going to say it. Of course, if I think something's funny, there's a good chance someone else does as well.

One of my favorite running gags is making Polish jokes in front of my Polish friends. I know what you're thinking. "Polish jokes? Really? That's as hacky as it gets!" And you're absolutely correct. That's what makes it funny. To me, anyway. See, I'm also Polish. And so when I make a Polish joke in front of my Polish friends, they, without fail, have to point out to me that I'm Polish. This is what I find so funny about the situation. That, after years, they don't see that the joke is my being Polish and making Polish jokes. And when they feel the need to remind me that I'm Polish, as if I'm so dumb that I forgot this fact, well, they're just piling onto the layers of humor at work in the initial hacky Polish joke.

When scenes like the above play out, I wonder whether anyone else is thinking as much about the unspoken jokes at play. There is definitely a level of smugness to my thinking. It feels like I'm the only one in on what the real joke is. And I can't lie, that gives me a weird, sick satisfaction. I guess that's what comedians do. They dissect a joke to its core, exploring exactly what makes it work, until it's a bunch of words haphazardly arranged in a sentence.

"It's Only In Bad Taste If It's Not Funny"

This is an adage I've adopted as something of a mantra. There are some situations that I refuse to joke about, but for the most part, everything's fair game. I don't know if this thinking has led to my desensification or vice versa. As I've written here before, sometimes, during a horrible tragedy, the only thing my brain will process is a joke to cope with what I'm experiencing. It could be a coping mechanism. Or maybe it's just a cop out mechanism. When people get mad at me for those jokes, I just tell myself that they're not looking at the situation as a whole. To me, part of the joke is that I'm such an asshole to make that joke in the first place. Also, there's humor in someone's reaction is to make a stupid joke in the face of trauma. I absolutely understand people not thinking it's appropriate. We all handle things differently. But hey, I don't judge you for crying like a pussy.

"...But Who's Funnier?"

Joke wars. I hate 'em. Fucking HATE THEM. What's a joke war, you ask? It's when two (or more) people just have to keep trying to top one another. Humor should be spontaneous, organic and effortless. Or at least, seem that way. When you're only telling a joke or being funny in response to whatever funny thing someone else just said, the illusion is gone.

Don't get it twisted. I have certain friends I hang out with where there's at least 4 or 5 genuinely funny motherfuckers. Like, funnier than me. And when we get together, the lolz pour like nectar from the Greek gods. But it's all natural. Nobody feels pressured to "out joke" the last guy. Maybe it's because this particular group shares similar comedy sensibilities.

The same can't be said for some other friends of mine. One in particular seems to think there's a competition between us. There isn't. How bad is it? It got to the point where he once asked some girls, flat out, which one of us was funnier. Both said I am. But that didn't matter. Things were just so awkward at that point that any attempt at humor from that point on was deflected by the tension. Like I said, humor is at its most potent when it's allowed to flow freely, weaving in and out of a conversation without constraints of contests and one upsmanship.

"Mean People Suck (So Do Mean Comics)"

As I've gotten older, what I find funny has evolved. Or I'm just getting soft. Either way, I just don't find any place for mean jokes in humor. If I say something that's insulting to a particular person or race or what have you, it's because I'm intending for myself to be the butt of the joke. That I'd say something so insensitive is the joke. I know some people won't see it that way, but I promise, that's my intent.

I think humor is such a great thing because it has the power to lift people's spirits. The only other quality I can think of that has that power is empathy. But really, empathy's a crock of shit and you know it. So when people use humor as a means to put people down, I see that as a sign that they just don't get what humor's all about.

Actually, I could expand that to cover any ulterior motive employing humor. Whether it be to denigrate someone or to get laid. And trust me, humor is NOT an aphrodisiac. Need proof? Louie Anderson. Humor, at its purest essence, is about making people laugh. Whether it be others or yourself.

A misnomer about people who crack jokes is that we don't take things seriously. On the contrary, I find that we analyze and over analyze everything to the point where we unearth the ridiculous aspects of the most serious, mundane events. Sometimes the only thing we can make sense of is the nonsense.

If you've read this far, you probably over think things as much as I do. There is no good reason for thinking about what makes things funny as much as I do. There's a joke to be found in there somewhere, but I've thought far too much about it to see it.

Peace

Allow Me To Re-introduce Myself

2011-08-23T04:29:00.000-04:00

My name is Sy. It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you. Every now and then, though, I just...don't....feel like writing. It's not so much writer's block as it's "writer's not giving a fuck." But, in keeping with the self-centered theme I've neatly established here in my own little corner of the webs, I believe a little re-introduction is in order. Let's, yeah?

Know how when a TV show starts a new season, they'll do a recap to catch everyone up to speed? That's kinda what this'll be. More or less a list of what I like and what I absolutely will not tolerate. Consider it a Cliffs Notes to my psyche.

First, what I enjoy.

1. Kangaroos

Why, you ask? Well, they have awesome accents, they have built in fanny packs and they won't hesitate to knock a motherfucker out. Also, any friend of Jerry O'Connell is a friend of mine.

A Roo made it rain in the Outback. Up yours, Paul Hogan!

2. Barbershop Quartets

I enjoy most manners of acapella singing, but I'm especially partial to Barbershop. It hearkens back to a simpler time. Where voting was a male privilege, the Irish were to be derided and/or bludgeoned and the streets ran rich with whiskey and all variations of flavorful pies.

3. Girls Who Get Jokes

This isn't one of those "girls aren't funny" things. But, on the whole, certain humor tends to escape most women. They'll laugh at Isla Fisher falling over because OMG HER PURSE WAS TOO BIG FOR HER! But that same girl could watch an entire season of Arrested Development and keep waiting for the jokes to appear. Come on! Then again, if my penis bled for a week every month, I'd probably lose my will to chuckle, too.

I know it sounds cliche, but I honestly look for a sense of humor in a girl before anything else. Well, obviously not her tits, of course. But after them, yeah, a sense of humor is absolutely crucial. Because if my style of jokes doesn't play well with her, then I can't be myself. And I have to dip into another persona that I'm not comfortable with. And my comfort comes before all else, natch.

4. People Who Give A Shit

This might seem obvious, but it warrants a mention. This goes for musicians, politicians and everyone in my life. I don't care if we agree or disagree. Chances are, we're gonna disagree more often than not. And that's ok. In fact, that's great. It shows that you care about what we're talking about. The argument is just a byproduct of passion. It's the ones who go through life riding fences, never committing one way or another that sadden me. I might not believe in a lot, and what I believe in could fluctuate with the wind, but when I say I believe in something, I believe in it with every possible cliche you can dream up. Those that do likewise get never ending props from this guy.

And now for those things which I could do without.

1. Sharks

Fuck sharks, man. They kill people. Shark Week is like King Neptune dedicating a week in the ocean to rapists and mass murderers. Wouldn't happen. Yet, here we are, every year, celebrating these douchebags that can't even swim backwards without dying. Some predator that is. If only there was a cool ass marsupial with human like qualities that we could all cherish. One that could box and maybe teach us how to love again. Kangaroo Week 2012. Let's do it!

2. ~~Serious~~ Self-Important People

Look, I know this world sucks. I get it. Believe me, I do. But there is an inherent silliness to it, as well. The absurdity of life itself should be enough of an oar to paddle through the serious bullshit. This may seem contrary to my praise of people who give a shit, but I don't think so. You should have things you care about, but at the same time, but there's far more in the world that's more important than your problems. So, really, I guess my problem is with self-important people who can't look beyond their own problems to see the bigger picture.

Do I want more money? Yeah, of course I do. Do I wish that girl had called me back? No doubt. But to sit there and bemoan those problems when there are people a stone's throw away who are worried about where their next meal will come from...well, that just ain't me. I always laugh when people bitch about rain when they have houses, cars and umbrellas. Meanwhile, there's a homeless person a few blocks away that has none of those options. Is some of that their own fault? Probably. But would those people complaining have the nerve to complain about the rain to that homeless person's face? I doubt it. Like I say to people, it ain't about you.

3. People

Let me explain. I think people are generally, genuinely good. If given a choice to do good or evil, 99% of us will choose good 100% of the time. But every day, the best of us do some evil shit, without even realizing it. Present company included. There are mitigating factors in those decisions, of course. But when you sit back and look at the effect we can inadvertently have on each other, it makes you think for a second before you speak or act. An offhand comment might be just that to you; but to the person on the receiving end, it's something that'll linger for days, weeks or even months. And we won't see the inner ramifications, but that doesn't mean they're not real.

What I'm saying is that, in our attempts to maintain our own level of comfort, we sometimes push others beneath the surface. And we don't always help them come back up. Again, not out of malice, but, rather, that we didn't realize we did it in the first place. I try to be cognizant of the unintentional harm my jokes can have. I don't always catch myself, but I try. That's the most we can be asked of, right? To try?

I'm not self centered or naive enough to think this missive will make a difference. But at least I know I wrote it. I tried. The most that can be asked of me. Or so they say. But if one person reads this far, and it causes them to reconsider something they may have said or done to someone, then this hasn't been a total waste of effort. And I'm ok with that.

Oh yeah, I forgot. One more thing I hate.

Peace

Real Sitcoms: Perfect Strangers Part I

2011-07-28T04:06:00.003-04:00

Ah, sitcoms. That little half-hour slice of conflict, comedy and resolution. They're as American as hot dogs and birth control. As a product of Reaganomics, with both parents working, I was more or less raised by TV. And I turned out TV. It was TV that taught me that any situation can be handled with a perfectly timed one-liner and a knowing wink to the audience. TV encouraged me to pursue whatever crazy get rich quick scheme I hatched that particular week. What harm could there be? At the very worst I'd be back where I started from, but richer for having gone through the experience and wacky mishaps.

Life, however, is a cock block of imagination. Like the fat friend that ain't getting any, it likes to interject itself where it doesn't belong. And now, the real world (no Miz) has gone back in time and rubbed its greasy, smelly paws all over our favorite TV shows.

In the first of an ongoing series, I present: Real Versions Of Sitcoms: Perfect Strangers.

Meet Larry Appleton. Conservative, mild mannered and practical to a fault. Looking to start over in Chicago after convincing the Wisconsin legal system that he's learned his lessons and has gone through the program, all he wants to do is stay low key and focus on work. If he focuses on work, those urges can't find him. That's become his mantra. Needless to say, a job as a teacher seems out of the question. His fondness for taking pictures remains, however. Some guys just never learn!

Everything is going swimmingly for our protagonist. His life resembles something as close to normal as it ever has. He even manages to find a girlfriend. A girlfriend, his own apartment and no more urine samples? What more can a single, reformed guy ask for?

Int. Larry's Apartment

We find Larry alone, talking to an unheard voice on the phone as he attempts to unwind after a long day at work.

Larry

Yes, I understand it's summer. But surely there are "blizzards" in Chicago year round. What's that? What does the Farmer's Almanac have to do with anything? Listen, I have to be very careful with how I choose my words here. Do you know of any snow in the immediate forecast? Say, within the next hour or so? Yes, I have the TV on. Why? (Growing more frustrated) The weather report has very little to do with this conversation....COCAINE! I WANT SOME GODDAMN COCAINE OK?!?!

Larry quickly hangs up the phone, realizing the jeopardy he's put himself in. Exhausted at his attempt to unwind never getting off the ground, he falls asleep on his couch. If he thought he was going crazy before he fell asleep, what awaited him when he woke up would only serve to confirm those suspicions.

Larry, groggily opening his eyes, is immediately confronted by the dark, curious eyes of a strange man staring back at him.

Larry

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Larry's startled shriek in turn leads the stranger to mirror him, as they both run around the apartment, searching for suitable hiding places. Larry jumps in his laundry basket, while the stranger oddly chooses to do a headstand on the couch, burying his head in the cushions, not unlike an ostrich in the sand.

Larry (from the laundry basket)

I should warn you. I know 3 different forms of defunct martial arts. (Whispering, to himself) Please don't call my bluff, please don't call my bluff...

The upside down stranger pulls his head out from the cushions, a quizzical expression on his face. He seems intrigued by Larry's posturing, and poses a question in a thick Eastern European brogue.

Stranger

Defunct? You know defunct?

Larry

Um..yes?

Stranger

Oh happy day! You know defunct? I KNOW DEFUNCT! Who is your favorite?

Larry

My what? I think there's been a mis..

Stranger

Mine is the Mr. George Clinton and his Parliament! (Singing) WHO GOT DA FUNK!!!! WE WANT DA FUNK!!!!!

At this point, Larry is wondering if perhaps that blizzard hit after all. How else to explain the lederhosen clad European butchering P-Funk songs in his living room?

Larry

Um, if I may interrupt, who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my living room?

Stranger

Oh, cousin. They said you had the humor sense! It is I, Balki! I come to visit like we talk about in letters!

Larry

Cousin? Balki? There must be some mix up. I just moved here and...

Balki

Yes! You tell me that in last letter when you invite me to come meet you in Windy Town! (Pulling a piece of paper out of his hosen, reading from said paper) 'I would love nothing more than to have you stay with me during your time in America. Sincerely, Cousin Larry"

Larry

Mind if I see that?

Larry looks over the letter, and his face settles into a look of resignation as he realizes his older brother, Mark, had set him up. And now he not only had a long lost cousin he'd never spoken to before, he apparently would be LIVING WITH HIM! These are just the kind of things that happen to Larry Appleton. Then again, maybe having some familial, if not familiar, company could serve him well. Keep him on the straight and narrow in the big city. But how will he manage the language and culture barrier while living with this...Perfect Stranger?

Stay tuned!

Note: This is the first of a few parts on this entry. I decided to break up the story into different parts cause ain't no one tryna read all that in one sitting. Be on the look out for Part II. As Good Ol' JR would say, business is about to pick up!

Shoutout to Open Mike Eagle(@Mike_Eagle)for the inspiration for this idea.

IWISYDHT: Confessions Of A Superhero

2011-07-25T02:25:00.000-04:00

There is not one American child who grew up wanting to be something other than a superhero at some point in their childhood. Most of us grew out of that fantasy when we realized how impractical codpieces were. Others carried it on, and are known as LARPers, or Live Action Role Players. LARPers are the creepy guys at the park that make the guy in the trench coat with candy seem like a good babysitter.

And still others, such as those featured in Matt Ogens' fascinating documentary Confessions of a Superhero, found a way to make money pretending to be superheroes. At least on the outside, anyway.

Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and the Incredible Hulk stalk Hollywood Boulevard, specifically the area outside of Mann's Chinese Theatre. Don't go looking for Lou Ferrigno, Lynda Carter, Christian Bale or Christopher Reeve. (Side note: Lynda Carter, Lou Ferrigno and Christopher Reeve were popular actors in the 80s. The 80s were a decade when your parents did cocaine. Cocaine is what your parents did because Four Loko wasn't around.) No, the faces portraying these characters are decidedly less familiar. Although, Superman does bear quite a resemblance to Mr. Reeve.

These are four struggling actors. Each one hopes that they'll be discovered on the street, which will lead to their big break. Fine theory, although I have to question The Hulk, seeing as he's wearing a giant fucking rubber head.

Ogens' film follows each actor individually as they go about their business. We get to know some more than others. Some we learn too much about. And at least one of them we walk away from the film having learned absolutely nothing of any real value about.

Superman (aka Christopher Dennis)

Mr. Dennis is the film's focal point. He bears the most resemblance to the character he portrays. It's kind of creepy. But far less creepy than his apartment. It's quite literally filled floor-to-ceiling with Superman paraphernalia. I have no doubt that he sometimes signs his checks as Kal-el. Outside of his obsession with all things Man Of Steel, Mr. Dennis comes off as a nice guy, who might be just a bit confused about his life. See, he repeatedly tells us he's the son of actress Sandy Dennis. He talks about how he and his mom were estranged, but reunited on her death bed and he promised her he'd commit himself full time to acting. Nice story. Except for the fact that Ms. Dennis' family is interviewed in the film and say with 100% certainty that she never had a son. Whoops.

We follow Mr. Dennis and his girlfriend, a PhD psychology student (more on her in a bit), to a Superman celebration in Metropolis, Ill, where our Superman fails to win the $1000 grand prize in the look-a-like contest. As they announce the winner's name, you can see his eyes recognizing that his heart is breaking. It's one of the realer moments in the film. Back to his girlfriend. The way she discusses Mr. Dennis, it seems as though she's more interested in studying him than being his wife, which she agrees to when he proposes to her at the Superman celebration. Overall, though, Mr. Dennis comes off as very likable, if not a bit deluded in his aspirations.

Batman (aka Maxwell Allen)

I don't know where to start. Ok. He bears a striking resemblance to George Clooney. Considering he's the worst Batman this side of Val Kilmer, that's probably not a good thing. Mr. Allen tells us that he's had a troubled life. He's been a mafioso bodyguard. An amateur boxer. A stunt driver. A stand-in for Clooney. And he's killed people. Yeah. He drops that gem on his psychiatrist, as he's fully dressed as Batman, completely oblivious of the irony. When the psychiatrist presses for more information, Mr. Allen gets more vague. The bewildered doctor asks if this is a confession, to which Mr. Allen tells him that there's no trace of what happened. Because it was the 80s. Really. When reminded that there's no statute of limitations on MURDER, Mr. Allen finally goes quiet. His own wife instructs us to believe 50% of what he says. One thing we do know, Batman got a temper. We see him accosting tourists for tips (which is a no-no) and ultimately getting arrested. His last scene is him proclaiming that some people deserve to get beaten down, and that's his job. Ok, that does it. I'm officially Team Joker.

Wonder Woman (aka Jennifer Wenger)

The preacher's daughter from Tennessee, Ms. Wenger moves to LA and marries the first man she meets within two weeks. Not surprisingly, we witness her stormy marriage and eventual separation. Her introduction to us is misleading, as she proclaims "sure, a doctor saves lives, but are they remembered? People in the entertainment industry are forever here." She's not as useless as this statement would lead you to believe. In fact, she's quite sweet. She's a horrible Wonder Woman, as she sometimes doesn't even have a cape. But that doesn't stop Superman from taking her back to his place for a shower. Yes. That really happens. Other than that, she's kind of forgettable. Not a good sign if she wishes to stand out in Hollywood.

The Incredible Hulk (Joe McQueen)

Easily the most likable and identifiable of the group. He has no real pretenses of being a leading man. He just wants meaningful work as an actor that doesn't require being in a suit that reaches 130 degrees. Oh, and also, he's a brother. Attn: Hollywood executives. Stop trying to remake The Hulk. This guy is your answer. Cast a brother as a giant ass angry dude out to fix them what's wronged him, market it as a horror movie to middle class white people, and you'll make enough money to make Harry Potter seem like a flop. Mr. McQueen comes from North Carolina, arriving in LA, as luck would have it, in the midst of the Rodney King riots. As he puts it, he did what any other country boy would do, headed for the hills. He remained homeless for the next few years, and when we meet him, he only has a modest apartment, seemingly sleeping in a sleeping bag on his living room floor. But considering where he came from, that's an accomplishment, and he recognizes that. Of the four featured actors, only Mr. McQueen receives a "real" acting gig during the film. He plays a sidekick in a kung-fu spoof movie that may have never came out. But his joy when he learns he's been cast in a real movie translates through the screen, and you celebrate his small victory with him.

Mr. Ogens never heckles his subjects. He could easily expose their false claims (a quick Google search is all it takes), but instead, he asks genuine questions, as if to allow the actors the chance to come clean. None do. But Superman seems to come close in regards to the mystery of who his mother is.

In the beginning, I felt an anger that these people weren't working "real" jobs. As the film progressed, I realized how foolish I sounded dismissing what they do for money as not "real." That's not my call to make. But there is something sad about people attaching their life to that of someone else. Only Superman seems to be genuinely content with what he's doing. That could be more resignation and acceptance that he'll never be the leading man he sees himself as.

But if he (and anyone else) is happy with what they're doing, and there are people who enjoy what they do, then that's all that matters. Confessions of a Superhero is a perfect example of four people, of differing temperaments and personalities, willing to fake it until they make it.

This Is Not About Amy Winehouse

2011-07-24T02:40:00.000-04:00

I lied. It kinda is. At least, as a jumping off point. As everyone (except, as it seems, her father, which is incredibly sad) knows, Amy Winehouse died today at age 27. It took less than a tenth of a second for the "OMG JIMI, JANIS, MORRISON, KURT NOW AMY" tweets. This was immediately followed by the inevitable jokes, of which I supplied my fair share. It's not out of any malice or joy in her death. It's just...what I do. If I could explain it, I probably wouldn't do it.

There are a lot of separate points to this post, one not necessarily having anything to do with the next. So I'll attempt to address each individually.

Amy Winehouse Died, Yo!

This is the most immediate point. An incredible talent and unfortunate addict, she left behind family and friends, as well as an enormous amount of unfulfilled potential. Potential is nontransferable. What she left behind will not be rolled over to, say, Adele or Joss Stone. It's just...gone. Never to be realized. A few weeks ago, video surfaced of a performance by Ms. Winehouse in Serbia. Incoherent, stumbling, muttering nonsense and scratching at her arms. As I watched it, I said to myself, "Well, this isn't gonna end well." But really, how many times has someone said that about her? It's just a coincidence that this time, these performances were all too prophetic. In a way, her talent was a contributor to her downward spiral. There will always be people willing to look the other way in the name of talent. If she was just Amy Winehouse from Southgate, with all the addictions she had, she likely wouldn't have been surrounded by so many witting (and unwitting) enablers. That list stretches from friends, to record labels to managers to fans. Yes, fans.

We love to watch what we shouldn't. Car accidents. Eclipses. Public breakdowns. None of us put the drugs in Amy's system, but the constant attention lavished upon her antics did nothing to help her. You could call her entire career a public scream for help. But there were a lot of people who made more money from her being a mess on stage than healthy and dealing with her demons. I'm not exonerating Ms. Winehouse, or alleviating her of any personal obligations towards her own well being. But that's another point entirely. This particular point is about disease (namely: addiction and greed) winning out over talent and genuine care for another human being. That is the tragedy here.

White Lines (Don't Do It)

Here's where the idea of personal accountability comes in. If I choose to eat fast food 24/7, and don't exercise, I've surrendered the right to place blame on others for my decisions. I enter McDonalds knowing the risks I'm assuming. That is both my right and my responsibility. If I become addicted to the McRib (and let's be honest, we've all been there), the addiction that stems from those choices I made is my cross to bear. I may become addicted to the point of needing others to intervene, but the initial decision to try the McRib (and the knowledge of its addictive nature and what could happen) lays squarely on my shoulders.

In 2011, we've all gone through the travails of addiction. Be it first hand or with a friend or loved one. It could be an addiction to gambling, sex, food or, in Ms. Winehouse's case, drugs. So I won't get into my personal experiences, except to say I believe in the tough love approach. I will not enable an addict. If that means distancing myself, advocating their removal from my life or being hated by them, so be it. My love for them will not allow me to in any way help them get what they want.

I believe that when someone crosses the line into addiction, a personality split occurs, kind of like what happens when someone is involved in a traumatic event. Which, I suppose, addiction is. There's the addict, and the person within the addict. The addict is a selfish hustler who will do anything to get what it wants. The person is scared shitless, feeling helpless and despising themselves for what they've allowed to occur. They are not stupid or delusional enough to not see how they're hurting the ones around them. But the addict is in their ear, justifying the means so long as it gets to the addict's desirable end.

Tough love is a concept that works great in theory. But in practice, when you're looking at your son or daughter, whom you've raised to the best of your abilities and you see them struggling, you just want to ease their pain. And so you do things you know you shouldn't. You rationalize it when you see that smile they showed you as a child on Christmas, reminding you that there is a very real person wrapped up in this addict. I suppose if it was easy, everyone would practice tough love.

This started as a meditation on personal accountability for addicts. I'm not sure how I veered off, but I'm ok with it. Onto the next point.

Oh The Outrage!

As I said in the intro, I've had my share of jokes about Amy Winehouse. It's become such a natural process for me when someone dies, I've stopped questioning why I do it. I think it has something to do with how ridiculous the concept of death is to me. To be here one day, vital, contributing and looking forward to tomorrow, only to be nothing but a collection of rotting flesh and subject for lamentation is something that I'll never understand. Think about this for a second: at some point, every single person who has read this blog will be dead. Few of our deaths will make sense. Why put a curfew on how much time we're allowed to spend on this massive blue merry-go-round? Imagine the things we could accomplish with ever lasting life! So many diseases cured, life's greatest mysteries solved. Perhaps if we were allowed to determine when we've had a good enough run, there'd be less problems in the world, not more. Of course, humans being the egomaniacs we are, few would be honest enough to pull the trigger at the point where they're no longer contributing.

Anyway, so, yeah, I make jokes. But these are the same jokes I've made about Amy Winehouse during her life. And no one seemed outraged then. What's the difference? You might say she's not alive to defend herself. Well, she never heard any of my jokes about her when she was alive to defend herself. She might not've been coherent enough to defend herself anyway, so that's probably a moot point. If I didn't make these jokes, and put on a long black veil and boo-hooed myself to sleep over someone I've never met who wasted her life, I'd be a hypocrite. And that's far more outrageous than consistently being an asshole.

And for the record, my jokes are not intended to shock or offend. In fact, most everything I say is tongue-in-cheek. I'm as much poking fun at those who derive real pleasure from making crass comments as I am at the deceased (or whomever is the subject of the joke). There's a saying that nothing is in bad taste as long as it's funny. Of course, sensitivities being what they are, your mileage may vary. So if you're taking my joke on the surface and disregarding the context, I can see how some might be offended. Context being something that doesn't always translate well to the written word, perhaps I should focus on being more straight forward.

I do offer this, in closing. How many of us snickered, judged and took an unconscious sense of superiority as we watched Amy Winehouse collapse before us over the last 5 or so years? How many of us showed genuine concern when her toothless, disshelved spector stared back at us from the tabloids as we went about our business in the checkout lane? How many of us wrote to her manager, or record label, placing an emphasis on the human over the performer? How many jokes were made about her throughout her life that never reached her ears, which we wouldn't dare utter now that she's dead, only out of fear of others judging us?

Amy Winehouse is not a microcosm of anything. Her death is many things: sad, tragic, unfortunate, too soon. But it is no more any of these things than the death of the man who died due to the recent heat wave. Hers was more public, sure. But it still only counts as one death. The tragedy lies not in the death, rather, the avoidability of it, and all other death.

Are You There, Sylis? It's Me, God.

2011-07-19T01:42:00.000-04:00

Note: I've started writing this post in some form or another several times over the last few weeks. They were all scrapped due to my utter inarticulate...ness? Here goes nothing.

It's the oldest question in the world: is there a God? Should god be capitalized? Does he care? Or, should I ask if she cares? Would he/she care if his/her name was capitalized? After all, if you're god, I think you'd be accomplished enough to not worry about the semantics of your name when it's printed on The Watchtower. If there is a god, he/she is definitely Anti-Semantic. Deal with it.

I'm always up for a good debate. And this is probably the best one you can have. But it seems people are incapable of using the rational brain that god allegedly gave them when it comes to discussing that very god.

I should clarify, this isn't about the existence (or lack thereof) of god. If there were clear, concrete evidence on either side, this debate would cease. People don't debate the existence of trees, rocks and Lady Gaga, do they? No.

The point of this post is about the uncomfortable discussion of whether there is or isn't a god. In the interest of full disclosure, I was raised Roman Catholic. If you don't believe me, I've saved the guilt to prove it. As I've gotten older, and put a lot of thought and energy into the idea of what god really is, I've realized I just don't fall in line with any one set of beliefs. That's not to say I think the Catholic Church is right or wrong. I'm not nearly smart enough to make that decision.

I recognize that I don't know everything. Hell, in the grand scheme, I hardly know anything. Same as most people. So I try not to speak with a tone of authority on these matters. Yet, when someone is speaking in favor of there being a god, they are telling you that, yes, 100%, there IS a god. They speak with such conviction and authority, surely they must have absolute proof to make such an important, life altering claim. So I ask them what their proof is. And invariably, the answer is faith. Well, faith is a great thing. I really mean that. It can be all we have to get through the day at times. That the next day will be better. Sometimes we need faith to trust that our significant other isn't fooling around on us. But I'll be god damned if I'm going to base my entire life, and thus my after life, on the notion of faith.

Again, let me be clear. I am in no way denigrating anyone's belief system. This is a cold, disappointing, horrible world. And whatever it takes to get through is ok by me. I find most major religions to have some fantastic points. But I just don't find myself lining up with any one belief system enough to submit myself wholly to it. If others do, that's great. And frankly, in a way, I'm envious of them. It's got to be incredibly comforting to have the knowledge that you're on the right team. I wouldn't know.

So, I suppose my question is faith. If one can use faith as an argument for god's existence, then surely the opposing view can use it as well, right? And if that's true, then aren't we just bogging ourselves down in a philosophical circle jerk that will never end? We're using the same weapon to shoot each other, and nobody is conceding defeat. Because of faith. Something this frustrating is considered a good thing? Again, to my uneducated brain, any god worth her salt wouldn't make it so hard to follow her. If she did, she's a tease, and nobody likes a tease.

What I picture god as being is the supremely confident being that needs no worship or praise. It is self assured. Its existence is validation of its greatness. Genderless, nameless, formless. It takes no part in our suffering. It understands that we will never understand its ways, and thus doesn't press the issue. It's not some temperamental brat subject to human whims of anger or hurt ego. It does not inflict harm upon its creations to prove a point that it knows we could never understand. For it to strike down upon us would be to strike down upon itself. Also, it's not for sale. It can't be bought by our pathetic bartering for its favors. It knows we will go back on our word. And we will offer an apology that means nothing to it. If we choose to acknowledge its existence, it doesn't care if we're in a mosque, synagogue or church. It doesn't care if we're on our knees, or if our hands are clasped in the proper fashion.

I would think it would prefer we do good to each other because it's in our nature, as it created us, to do good. Not to chase the carrot on the end of the stick. It doesn't need you to get offended by what others say about it, but it understands why you do. It wishes we didn't kill each other in its name, but again, understands that we as humans don't understand, and thus we kill. There is nothing a human can say against it to offend it, as we're its own creation. There are zero human qualities to it. That's what makes it perfect.

All of this could seem ridiculous to you. Again, it's strictly my idea of what god is. Even the name god...that's a human thing. God was around before any life form, time immemorial. I bet dinosaurs had no need to name their origin. Humans, though, we need to categorize things. "This is a shoe, that's a book, this is a god." It offers comfort through its certainty.

I sense I've gone a bit astray with my intention when I started writing this. So let me wrap this up with minimal meandering. I think there is far too much evidence to call everything coincidence. Whatever you believe in, if it gets you through your day, week, year or life without harming others, then I'm truly happy for you. But I think we all need a bit of open mindedness when it comes to discussing god (among other things) and a realization that not everyone believes what you do. That makes them no less religious or spiritual.

god bless you.

sy

My Dinner With Steven

2011-07-17T02:19:00.001-04:00

They say you should never meet your heroes. Chances are they'll destroy whatever preconceived notion you have of them. Being that I'm a fan of comedy, I had no such fear when I intrepidly tweeted Steven Weber the other night.

A little background, for those unfamiliar with Mr. Weber's filmography. He rose to prominence in the mid-90s as the zany, wacky Brian Hackett on NBC's Wings. Remember "Must See TV?" Yeah, Wings was right before that. And then he parlayed that into trying to do a better job as Jack Torrance than Jack Nicholson did. One good thing that the TV remake of The Shining did was put to rest the eternal debate of who the finer actor was: Steven Weber or Jack Nicholson.

Oh, and remember how NBC rolled out those two shows that were about Saturday Night Live? One became incredibly successful and critically acclaimed. The other, Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip, was the one Steven Weber was on. He basically played the same role that Alec Baldwin portrays on 30 Rock, except he boldly decided to not be funny in his portrayal.

So, as most know, I've decided my main purpose on Twitter is bothering celebrities. I bait and bait and troll and troll, and they don't respond. Diddy, in particular, is an asshole. So imagine my surprise, when, I sent out this little nugget the other night:

@TheStevenWeber

Well, this is not the sly, wise cracking Samuel Webbing I remember from WINGS! Seriously thinking about unfollowing!

And I got this in return:

"@SylisP Well, this is not the sly, wise cracking Samuel Webbing I remember from WINGS! Seriously thinking about unfollowing!" ...the fuck?

For those not familiar with Twitter, Steven Weber quoted what I said and replied "...the fuck?" So, yeah, that energized me. I figured, hey, this guy is allegedly a comedian, he probably gets what I'm doing and is playing into it. Cool. Let's have some fun! So I tweeted:

@TheStevenWeber Don't play coy. You were our answer to the harsh reality of Paul Reiser. Now you're working blue? No sir! NO SIR!

To which I got this:

@SylisP ...anybody else seeing this? She's 70 and wearing a tube top!!!!

Me:

@TheStevenWeber What in the name of Thomas Hayden Church has happened to you?

Him:

@SylisP Everyone hates you.

Ouch. This is where I'm figuring he's catching feelings. But why? If he's really that upset at my gentle ribbing, all he has to say is "Hey, asshole, I banged Crystal Bernard." Whether true or not, there's nothing I could ever say to top that. The guy has a very active career, doing something I only wish I could do. And yet, here he is getting bitter on Twitter.

Me:

@TheStevenWeber I'm gonna have a word with the head of 4am programming at the USA Network about this!

Him:

@SylisP How will you be able to do that from your toll booth?

Me:

@TheStevenWeber WE GET A 23 SECOND PHONE CALL FOR EVERY 6 SHIFTS WE WORK! SO....IN THREE WEEKS, IT'S GOING DOWN!

Him:

@SylisP Even when you shout, it's not funny. Tell mommy to come pick you up. You have choir in the morning.

So he's clearly taking some of this to heart. Ya know, like the fact that a show he did 15 years ago is still on in syndication. What a wicked burn that was by me! So I decide to smooth things over with a reference to Andy Kaufman, that someone of Mr. Weber's show business experience should get:

@TheStevenWeber Just so you know, we were all part of a "happening." Everyone was in on it. #andykaufman Seriously, loved WINGS.

That's when he blocked me from following him. He. Blocked. Me. From. Following. Him. Because I made jokes that HE decided to make public by responding to them. And the kicker is, I got a few followers of his to follow me based on all this nonsense. This will likely be the only time I get to say this, but: I beat Steven Weber. So since his followers were now following me as well, I decided to take one last parting shot:

I think when I invoked Thomas Hayden Church @TheStevenWeber thought I was coming at him #Sideways. #Ether

Update! Steven Weber has not only blocked me from following him, he's deleted all of his tweets towards me. Almost as if someone realized they were being an unfunny douchebag that doesn't understand how interacting with human beings works. I know the tweets that I got from complete strangers were somewhat vicious. I can only imagine what people were saying to him.

Fuck it. You win, Steven Weber. But then, you always do. I've moved on. What up, Diddy?

IWISYDHT: Playing For Keeps (1986)

2011-07-08T00:52:00.000-04:00

Playing For Keeps (1986)

I'm a sucker for teen movies. Horror, comedy, drama, it really doesn't matter. Because, you see, the vast majority are written by people so far removed from their own teenage years, and even further removed from what current teenagers find relevant. Unintentional hilarity is sure to abound.

Playing For Keeps is a recently discovered gem, lost amongst its more highly regarded 1980s teen comedy brethren.

The most noticeable part of this movie is plastered front and (left) center on the cover of the DVD. I'm sure it wasn't that way on the original posters. Indeed, a young Marisa Tomei made her debut in this very film. And I have to say, she looks almost exactly the same here as she does now. And I mean that in the absolute best way possible. She hasn't aged a day.

In the opening credits, however, she gets fifth billing, behind such silver screen luminaries as Daniel Jordano, Matthew Penn and Leon W. Grant.

Anywhoser, we start by getting edgy cross color shots of what I'm sure are supposed to be NYC landmarks, but could just as easily come from Des Moines. They have bridges in Des Moines, right?

Oh, good. We have a narrator. Some guy named Spikes. Yeah. Spikes. Plural. Oh, he's best friends with an Italian and a black guy. And the black guy can dance. Not stereotypical at all. Apparently Danny, the Italian kid, is a real dream. A go getter. And a bit of a trouble maker. Oh, and he's also the valedictorian and class president. Ok. Fair enough. A multi-tasker.

Side note: This movie was written and directed by Bob and Harvey Weinstein. So, ya know, let's assume they know what they're doing.

So ~~Barbarino~~, sorry, Danny, is giving the commencement speech at Ben Franklin HS. I know at least a million people who went there. And everything's going swimmingly until...

HE GOES ON A PROFANITY LACED, ANTI-AUTHORITY TIRADE!!!!

Ok, so either this is the least disciplined school ever, or Danny, who, mind you, is the CLASS PRESIDENT AND VALEDICTORIAN, is bipolar with a touch of Tourette's and a dash of megalomania. My money's on the latter.

So now these guys - Danny, Spikes and Gregory Hines - are playing a game of Christopher Columbus, against their arch rivals, the Flyers. None of the Flyers looks like Ron Hextall, so I'm guessing the names are a coincidence. The object of Christopher Columbus is to hide in the urban jungle. Once capture, you become the property of the other team, and are subject to ritualistic torture and repeated rape. Actually, that's back when they called it Leif Erickson. The Flyers are the best rapist in the game. So they have something in common with their NHL counterparts after all.

So some guys get raped, the black guy rides a unicycle (which is never mentioned again, which is a shame) and Marisa Tomei gives him her panties. We all know how much white guys love seeing black guys with their sister's panties.

This all has nothing to do with anything, of course, and has been a complete waste of all of our time. So Danny ~~Zuko~~ finds a deed to an old hotel that his dead aunt owned. Or something like that. Look, I've watched this movie 4 times today and have gotten to the bottom of three bottles of Captain Morgan 100 Proof in the process. So the details are all kinda running together at this point.

Time for the obligatory old evil white guys in business suits looking to buy everything in the world. I wasn't sure these guys were evil until the heavy, sinister synths kicked in. Thanks, guy who scored this shit show!

So Danny is trying to get his friends in on this hotel deal. But Crockett and Tubbs ain't having it. Danny needs to sell them on it.

CUE OBLIGATORY 1980s MUSICAL FANTASY/MONTAGE 1!

Spikes dreams of being the athletic director at the hotel, with his girlfriend bringing him some sort of chocolates. Everyone has their own dreams, but, come on, dude, you can do better.

The black guy, whose name is Silk (not the Shocker), fantasizes about his silhouette shuckin' and jivin' as he shoots red lightning bolts from his hands at various whores. Clearly a commentary on the effect of crack cocaine in the African-American community during the 80s. Kudos, Weinsteins.

So, yeah, they're in. But they need money to pay off the back taxes! Dilemma~! To the bank! Uh-oh, I sure hope there isn't...

ANOTHER EVIL WHITE GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT!!!!

Aw, shucks. Darn the luck! A guy who looks like Danny Devito on a bad day shoots him down for his loan. So they send the trickster black kid to con some money off a sweet, old white woman. Not racist at all. Cause now Spikes innocently, and of course against his moral fiber, asks a mean old white guy (but not evil or in a business suit) for money. See? It's the same!

Never fear! Crazy Legs has a backup plan! And it involves dressing up as boy scouts and...and...and...

OBLIGATORY 1980S MUSICAL FANTASY/MONTAGE 2!

That's right. We are exactly 21 minutes into this movie, and we've already had two musical fantasies/montages. Now that takes balls!

Now they have enough money to pay the taxes. Yay! But Danny's sad to leave his kid sister behind. Aww! Conflicted emotionz, yo! The best part of this movie so far happens, as a random Phil Collins song starts playing. I'm so desperate for a glimmer of hope, I'm not going to question it. Carry on, Phil.

This farmer's a lady! A beeeeaaaauuutiful lady! PLOT TWIST! They arrive at the hotel and OMG THIS PLACE IS A DUMP! THERE AREN'T ENOUGH MUSICAL MONTAGES IN THE WORLD TO SALVAGE THIS PLACE!

They encounter a squatter, who, naturally, they assume is a ghost. He identifies himself as Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Oh wait, he can walk. Wrong guy. Ya know, up to this point, Marisa Tomei has had little to no impact on anything. This parts her last on my list of characters in this movie I wish to bludgeon with the film reel it was distributed with.

Ok, so we're literally only a half hour into the movie at this point. And I know my readers. 94% gave up reading this about 20 minutes ago. Flash forward time: Danny wants the hotel to be for kids only. He seems to have done a lot of cocaine. I envy him. The townspeople are distrusting of these ruffians from the city. The possibly dead old guy squatter has assumed a role as the defacto father. Head white asshole in business suit wants to buy the hotel for himself. Surely he won't tear it down. Yes he will, and don't call me Shirley. This movie has done more damage to my brain than that case of Four Loko I mainlined into my veins back in October.

Oh, dissension. Some want to give up, some don't. Not sure who's on what side. Not sure what side I'm on at this point. I'm thinking suicide if this movie doesn't get to the point. Quick. Now they're doing karate in a field. I think the black kid has a knife. Sorry, the movie's racism has seeped into me.

Oh, here's hot, not-a-man farmer girl again. She's also a banker. Of course she is. But wait, I thought all bankers are...ugh, I don't have the energy for this shit anymore. Old white guy at paint store won't sell paint to black kid. Probably the least offensive thing in this movie to this point.

Hey, they have Kate Smith's God Bless America on the jukebox in this movie. Another veiled reference to the Flyers? If you haven't heard that before, here it is. It's far more interesting than this pile of retarded dog shit.

That's one huge bitch. But damn, she could sang. Oh, back to the movie. Um, notamanfarmerbankergirl wants to help. Or she doesn't. I don't know. I don't care. I just want this to fucking end.

Flash forward: They're fixing the house. Hijinks ensue. I pray for the sweet embrace of death so I can shuffle off this mortal coil. For an 80s teen comedy romp, there is a disconcerting lack of titties shown. Jussayin. "I'm So Excited" is playing now. Remember that episode of Saved By The Bell? I'd rather watch that episode 20 times in a row than this movie. And I can do that, cause I own the DVDs of every season of Saved By The Bell. Except the College Years. Fuck that shit.

Super flash forward to the end: some people end up in jail. The old guy breaks out of jail. They have a party. The black kid sings a version of Stand By Me over the closing credits with such soul that it's reminiscent of Paul Robeson belting out Ol' Man River. I manage not to shoot myself in the face watching this movie.

If you made it this far, as a reward, ladies and gentleman, Mr. Paul Robeson:

Album Review: The Silversmiths "A Tandem Of Giants"

2011-07-01T12:04:00.000-04:00

The Silversmiths

"A Tandem Of Giants"

Rappers are not social creatures. They are, by and large, insecure, defensive, greedy monsters who will die before giving another rapper time to shine on their song. This mentality makes two MC rap groups the equivalent of a circus side show attraction. It's usually one MC clearly out classing the other, while neither has the space to do his thing the way they would on a solo song. Groups like Organized Konfusion and OutKast managed the delicate balance of featuring each rapper's strengths, while truly complementing each other's style.

The Silversmiths have done their homework on these blueprints and their latest album, "A Tandem Of Giants", is the fruit of that labor.

MCs Sankofa and Jon?Doe, with producer Agent Orange, form a three headed monster that wields cohesion and focus that Cerberus and Ghidorah only wish they had. The worst thing a two MC rap group can have is too many similarities between the MCs. Yes, there should be a certain amount of like mindedness, but if you can't tell one from the other, your attention fades to the point where both become the same bland, generic rapper.

Sankofa and Jon?Doe will never have this problem. Their voices alone set them apart. Jon?Doe spits with a semi-nasal sense of self importance that makes you want to listen to what he has to say. And once he has you, he doesn't betray that trust. His subject matter never varies from what every other rapper talks about, but he wraps that matter in acid tongued wordplay and bizarre cultural references that illustrate how seriously he takes his job as an MC. Nothing is haphazard in his words.

This is one thing that make his Silversmiths partner, Sankofa, similar. But in contrast to Doe's stabbing vocals, Sankofa's booming voice comes down from on high with the authority only someone who's been through the rigors of independent hip-hop can speak with. At times reminiscent of Chuck D and Lyrics Born, Sankofa can fast rap as well as any Percee P or Twista, but it's used more for practicality than a cheap party trick.

As for the beats, producer Agent Orange deserves a ton of credit for never getting redundant, yet staying consistent, over 17 tracks of differing rap styles. The Silversmiths run the gamut of rap subject matter. From how much better than you at rapping they are, to your significant other's preference for them, to lamenting how much rap really sucks anymore. Again, what sets them apart is just how clever they are. In the hands of a gifted rapper, as is the case here, the same old same can sound new.

While their individual styles are definitely born of the late 90s indy rap heyday, there's something distinctly old school about the way the Silversmiths dish the mic back and forth. Remember how Run and DMC used to be able to spit just a couple of words, then pass off to the other, rather than each guy do a whole verse? Clearly Sankofa and Jon?Doe remember that.

As I said up top, rappers aren't social creatures. They don't play well with others. But these guys, The Silversmiths, are not your average rappers. They are weird Giants amongst conformist normals. The courage to be different is admirable; the skills to make it listenable, however, is deserving of a fan base, and I hope they get it before, like other giants, they go extinct.

PS. Jesus Christ. The last track, "What A Way To Go Out", is the hardest fucking thing I've heard in a long time.