The Daily Fluff Archive
I wonder sometimes whether the real reason that people like watching Mad Men is the sheer joy of watching people smoke and drink at work. Having entered the workforce in the "I'll just have iced tea, thanks," era, where every office has at least one woman who will claim to be getting second-hand lung cancer from the whiff of cigarette smoke she catches on your jacket as you come in, I know that I look back on that era with a bit of misplaced nostalgia. I mean, yes, it was a time of rampant racism and sexism, but they could drink! At work! And smoke! And sexually harass people without having to watch a sensitivity video! Lucky ducks.
I can't believe I'm actually writing this, but I'm tired of earnest rock stars wearing henleys and dirty jeans, and making music videos with "messages" and metaphors and ordinary people. A few of them, here and there, are good for music, but at this point, it's as much an affectation as wearing matching suits and fedoras. What I'm in the mood for is some good, old-fashioned '80s excess. I want to see ridiculous stage costumes for straight men and videos featuring healthy bimbos writhing on cars and being sprayed with water. Sure, the hip-hop industry is doing what it can to keep the tradition alive, but they shouldn't have to do it alone. Come on, rock music. Enough with gritty authenticity (or the faux approximation thereof). Get me some spandex and eyeliner already.
I, for one, am really enjoying the recent glut of "please forget our company's horrible reputation" commercials, the most notable of which are the Toyota and BP ones that are running every nanosecond on every damned TV channel I watch. The Toyota ones, of course, don't make any mention of their recent troubles--they're more concerned with projecting a happy family image--I assume with the notion that nothing says, "Hey, our cars aren't really deadly," like goofy, minivan-obsessed suburbanites. More to the point are the BP commercials where a Gulf-area local lists everything they're doing to make things right, the subtext being, "We're not some faceless foreign company that spilled oil in your water. We're your friendly neighbors who spilled oil in your water. Please don't be mad." You know, I get why they feel the need to get out there with a more positive message, but I can't help but think that million-dollar TV campaigns that remind me that I have a problem with your company may not be the best move.
This whole 3-D thing is getting totally out of control. I will grant that there have been a few movies (mostly "Avatar") that are a different experience in 3-D, but most of the time, I don't really see how it enhances the movie. Mostly, it seems like an excuse to do lame "It's coming right at your face" shots, which don't really help a movie as much as . . . oh, I don't know . . . plot coherency and character development. God forbid we spend time creating interesting characters and clever dialogue though. Much better to shoot twelve different scenes where stuff flies out of the screen at the audience. And don't even get me started on the need to wear cheap, greasy, hand-me-down glasses in a dark theater. Like that doesn't get old.
If you want to find out how easily manipulated you are, just wander around through your Netflix options. I promise that one (or both) of two things will happen:
1. You will come across a movie that you were once desperate to watch in the theater, but which (for whatever reason) you never saw. You will then find that now, reading the description ("Bryce Vance is a hard-boiled cop trying to solve his daughter's mysterious disappearance") makes you realize that you have no desire whatsoever to see this movie, that it's a formulaic B-movie at best, and that you completely fell for the marketing back when it was released; or
2. You will come across a TV series for the 12th time (probably "Pillars of the Earth") and notice that every time you pass it, you ponder it a little longer than you did the last time before moving on. Eventually, you will give in and watch an episode. You'll probably even try to justify your decision to do so by referencing a tepid review in Entertainment Weekly or the recommendation of some guy at the gym. So you may as well just save yourself some time and give in now. Then you can just move right on to regretting the fact that you can be moved to waste your own time through the sheer power of repetitive suggestion.
It's NFL Preseason time! Who doesn't love the preseason? Oh yeah . . . that's right . . . pretty much everyone.
I'm not sure whether to blame the NFL or the fans for the lameness of the Preseason game. What we have done is elevate the scrimmage to some kind of spectacle, despite the fact that it would be foolhardy to risk injury to your star players by playing full-out in a meaningless game. And we all count on the fact that it's meaningless. Especially when you lose. No point in taking it seriously. Unless you win, of course. Then the Preseason is a perfectly valid reason for entertaining wildly unrealistic Superbowl hopes for your "rebuilding year."
I have now learned the hard way that it is a very bad idea to buy a breakfast sandwich with egg in it. Very bad. Very, very, very. What on earth are they putting in there? Because I seriously doubt that it's really egg. I suspect that it's a yellow or white rubberized foam wrapped around 2000 milligrams of Ex-Lax. I think egg sandwiches are just the way that short order cooks get back at the rest of us for the fact that they have to be at work at 5am.
How is it possible that we now have an entire genre of film and literature that amounts to little more than, "upper/upper middle class woman (generally white) overcomes personal issues via expensive vacation"? (Yes, I am thinking of Eat Pray Love here because I just saw the preview for it, but that's far from the only offender.) Am I supposed to be impressed that you overcame your career setback/terrible marriage/family problem/etc. by going to Europe and discovering the healing benefits of French flowers, fresh pasta, or men with sexy accents? Goody for you. I'm sure that my broke self would feel pretty damned healed by a long sojourn through Asia, but alas, like most people, I'm just going to have to sit here and deal with things on my couch without the therapeutic benefits of amusing anecdotes about warmhearted locals or fresh bread.
Does anyone out there over the age of eight honestly like--not simply tolerate, but actively enjoy and seek out--that industrial frosting that they put on supermarket-grade birthday cakes? You know the stuff--incredibly thick, with the texture of whipped Crisco and so sweet that you want to gargle with pure sugar just to take things down a notch. Notice I don't mention whether the frosting was fake vanilla, fake chocolate, or an attempt at some other flavor. It doesn't matter. Regardless of what limp flavoring they attempt to add to create interest, the basic result is always the same: stiff, overly sweet, and greasy. And then, to make matters worse, they slather it on the cake until there's so much of it that you have to mount an archeological dig to find that sad little piece of cake within. Really, the whole things is just an insult to the concept of frosting.
Let's all just agree right now to stop treating reality show contestants like they're celebrities. Are you all on board with me, folks? Because, frankly, this nonsense has gone a little too far. I get how it seemed all fun and ironic at first to get giddy about meeting "The Miz" or Sanjaya. But these people are starting to think that they actually are celebrities, and it's getting painful to watch. How many damned Kardashians are there anyway? Do they just keep getting sluttier and less attractive on through infinity? And Kardashians seem nearly A-List next to "The Situation." I hate that I even know who he is. Look, we already have enough minor "talents" to fill the pages of People ten times over without having to idolize yet another dumb, sleazy MTV drunk. As long as we're headed to hell, culturally speaking, couldn't we at least make the trip at a slightly more dignified pace?
There is a certain kind of hip, young-ish writer, often named "Chuck," whose style now seems to be everywhere, much to my regret. Their primary writing technique seems to be flirting with enough nerdy pop cultural references to have intelligence credibility, then throwing in enough carefully chosen un-PC observations or off-handed references to drug use to assure us that he's "cool." (I should note that I'm not actually referring to Chuck Klosterman here, who manages to escape the more annoying second half of that habit and whom I generally enjoy. This is more about the Klosterman wanna-bes.) If you have never had the misfortune to try and slog through an entire book by one of these guys, then just imagine an Maxim article blown up into book-length. "But Maxim can be funny!" you object. Sure it can. But reading a book of Maxim-style writing is like watching a movie made from a SNL skit--occasional amusement scattered through long, desolate stretches of overworked and overeager formulaic crap. That Lorne Michaels has lots to answer for.
Why are werewolves always so ill-prepared for their wolf transformations? I mean, sure, it would probably take some getting used to, but once you've been a werewolf for some months, I don't think there's any excuse for getting caught at a party/on a date/etc. when it's transformation time. I mean, it's not as though it isn't a fairly simple matter to check when the next full moon is going to be. And then, it's just a question of keeping your calendar clear for a few days, stashing a change of clothes somewhere in the forest near your house, and remembering not to wear your favorite shirt in the evenings before you transform. And yet, werewolves are constantly running away from their friends and family in mid-morph, ripping their clothes to shreds, and limping home half-naked. Come on, werewolves, a little preparation and you'd be much less likely to have to face down a throng of angry villagers bearing torches.
Illogical dorm-room sentence that has somehow become culturally entrenched, and yet, makes me want to pull my hair out: "Still, you have to respect my opinion."
No. No I don't. Your opinion is (usually) stupid, poorly reasoned, and composed of a mish-mash of half-understood debate points. Like a philosophical Top Ten list. I don't have to respect your opinion. Nor do I have to respect the fact that you have one. Really, all that civility and etiquette demand that I do is not to mock your dumb opinion to your face. So I am going to sit here, not respecting your sorry-ass opinion, and there's not a damned thing you can do about it.
I think that it's pretty well established at this point that when you become a vampire, your appearance is essentially "frozen" into whatever it was at the point that you were vampirized. This is all well and good if you're turned at the age of 19, but what if you've put on a few pounds or started losing your hair? Who wants to be the slightly pudgy, balding vampire? For eternity, no less? That's a long time, you know. Especially when all the other vampires are stunning Nordic types or sparkly emo poster boys. I think that if I was about to be turned into a vampire, I'd beg them to come back in 8 weeks and give me the chance to lose a few pounds before I headed toward an eternity of cruel Weight Watchers jokes.
You know, I like online bargain sales as much as the next person, but--wait . . scratch that. If I'm being honest, I like online bargains far more than the next person. At least I hope I do. Because if the rest of the country is waiting as breathlessly as I am for the daily start of the Hautelook/Ideeli/Gilt sale, then I have grave fears about the gross level of materialism that we have reached. And, yes, that I am shamelessly contributing to, but this is not about me. This is about you all and your sad addiction to online shopping. Especially you people who jump on the blowout deals as soon as they go live and reserve every darn thing in your cart before a minute is out, leaving the rest of us with nothing to do but refresh the screen over and over again in hopes that you'll have decided against the blue Marc Jacobs tank at 90% off. The hell with you people. You're why the terrorists hate us.
I think it's time to bring back the monocle. Who couldn't appreciate the value of an accessory that can go instantly from "pretentious twit" to "doddering old codger" with just the smallest change in posture and expression? Sure, it seems a little odd that wearing half a pair of glasses is snootier than having a lens for each near-sighted eye, but you can never tell what incomprehensible and impractical trend will suddenly appeal to the affluent and trendy. Hell, a few years ago, they were all wearing faux trucker hats.
What is with the ubiquity of online log-ins? It's getting to the point that I can't do anything on the web without being asked for my username and password. When we're talking about, say, checking my bank balance, this is not a problem. But I really don't think it's necessary to have 4 levels of online protection, including a question about the name of my 3rd grade teacher's first pet, in order to find out if the number on my soda cap means that I've won a free visor.
I'm having some bad Netflix luck lately. That's my only explanation for "Valentine's Day," a movie that wants so badly to be "Love Actually" that it reminded me forcibly of an overeager Labrador puppy, desperately hoping to please even while it's piddling on your leg. Which is certainly what this movie did. How is it possible to make a movie about love, with a cast that includes every actor in LA who wasn't at a Scientology meeting that day, and somehow come up with not one believable couple or the slightest hint of chemistry? How is it possible that in a movie that includes roles for Julia Roberts, Jamie Foxx, Bradley Cooper, Hector Elizondo, George Lopez, Anne Hathaway, and Queen Latifa, the most memorable character is a ditzy teenager played by a sugary pop princess? Even a mediocre romantic comedy will have at least one moment that makes you feel good about love and the universe. (And possibly inclined toward romance . . . which is the entire reason that men can force themselves to endure them.) This one was like the anti-aphrodisiac. It made you want to put on sweatpants and wash the dishes.
The other day, I watched "The Book of Eli" on blu-ray. Just your typical post-apocalyptic wasteland movie with the usual whiff of pretension caused by filmmakers who falsely believe that they are adding new twists and details to a well-worn formula. If the movie hadn't had Denzel Washington and Gary Oldman in it, it would have been laughably bad. Fortunately for the producers, they managed to snag a few actors who can invest even the tritest, most tired dialogue with interest. As you can tell, I didn't like it much. But here's what really sets me on edge about post-apocalyptic wasteland movies: What the hell is up with the costume design in these things? Why is it that in a world that is so truly crappy that people are killing each other over matchbooks and living in arid wastelands, there are still enough resources to ensure that everyone dresses in stylish neutral layers? Yes, the government has crumbled, medicine is a farce, and chaos rules the land. But you can still get skinny jeans and leather jackets.
Wow, is there a lot of Nickelback-based hate out there. Honestly, I don't entirely get it. So they're a somewhat generic pop rock band. Oh, the horror! It's not like they're the first. Nor will they be the last. And in the meantime, they're fairly inoffensive and occasionally even mildly clever. I realize that there's no indie cred to be gained from liking any commercially successful band with easily-understood lyrics and songs that don't include 7 minutes of random, wandering instrumentals, but that's still no excuse for the over-the-top ire heaped on poor Nickelback. Unless it has something to do with their Canadian-ness. In which case, I understand.
Isn't it amazing that the Snickers people have somehow managed to convince us that this isn't a mere candy bar, but a nutritious meal replacement bar? And all based on the fact that Snickers contains peanuts and "nougat" (whatever that is). Apparently, that's all it took. Essentially, because they have funny commercials that talk about hunger and peanuts, we will now stand in the candy aisle at 7-11 and say, "Well, it is lunchtime . . . maybe I should just get a Snickers." Bravo, Snickers advertising geniuses. Bravo.
Have you ever noticed that whenever someone makes fun of recycling, they always feel the need to follow-up with the disclaimer that they do it anyway? So you find it tedious, annoying, and pointless, but you do it anyway? Great reasoning process, dude. Well, not me. I hate recycling. I make no apologies. And I don't do it. So there. So when the environment ends up being destroyed, you can all place the blame on me. And China. Although, come to think of it, I am part-Chinese. Maybe the anti-recycling thing is just part of my cultural heritage. Respect my diversity!
So we've decided to pretend that Ashton Kutcher is a legitimate movie star, huh? Did I miss the vote on this? There were a few weeks in February when I was sick and then snowed in by the blizzard, but if I'd known something this important was at stake, I would have at least applied for an absentee ballot. To be fair, I'm not saying that Kutcher should be banned from all movie roles. Just the ones where he isn't playing a douchey wannabe Rat Pack member with a weird, Tom Cruise-ish closeted vibe. Call it typecasting, but he really has a gift for those kinds of parts.
I suppose that there are people out there who actually toast their Pop Tarts. This I don't get. It's a bizarre and unnecessary formalizing step . . . like eating your Eggo waffle with a knife and fork. It's not like it isn't already fully-cooked. (The Pop Tart, not the Eggo waffle. Keep up here, people.) And mildly warming a concoction of bland pastry, frosting, and sugary "filling" isn't really adding anything to the experience. Heck, at that point, you might as well cook.
Today, we examine the strange effect of the phrase, "X stole my girlfriend/boyfriend." Rarely does a sentence have such a huge gap between intent and effect. The intent, obviously, is to elicit pity for the poor victim and (possibly) anger towards X, the girlfriend/boyfriend thief. And yet, when we hear someone say something like, "That jerk, John, stole my girlfriend," the pity moment is fleeting to non-existent, and we instead spends our time pondering which of the following is true:
a.) That your girlfriend/boyfriend is a total slut;
b.) That John is just cooler, more attractive, wealthier, better in bed, etc. than you;
c.) That you're probably not very bright if you didn't realize that your girlfriend was a shallow, materialistic slut;
d.) That your girlfriend was way hotter than you in the first place and you two were probably doomed to break up sooner or later;
or e.) All of the above.
Not really the effect you were looking for? Yeah, human nature is a bitch, ain't it? And the worst part of all? The truth hurts.
Isn't it a little ridiculous that we have managed to attribute moral value to snack food? Hence donuts are "bad" and apples are "good." Says who? Did a donut try to steal your car? When was the last time you saw an apple handing out blankets to the homeless in the dead of winter? Oh, but I'm being willfully obtuse you say--this is just shorthand to discuss calories. Whatever. I have no objection to saying that donuts have more calories--that's a statement of fact, much like, "bananas are the fruit of Satan." But that's different from the good/bad valuation that smacks of annoying do-gooder marketing. The same kind that believes that we just need to let children learn that, "smoking isn't cool." Well, guess what, you nosy do-gooding bastards? Smoking is cool, donuts are delicious, and making fun of other people makes you well-liked. So there.
(For those who haven't figured it out already, yes, I am on week three of a diet.)
So it looks like Tiger Woods is getting a divorce. On the scale of anticlimactic celebrity scandals, this is more or less on par with Clay Aiken and Ricky Martin coming out of the closet, or the steroid use of Barry Bonds. (What? We're still pretending that he didn't? My mistake . . . carry on.) The thing that is perplexing about it all is the timing. Given the whole mystery of the golf-club-to-the-car "rescue" story, no one really thought that Elin Woods was a particularly forgiving sort. And yet, it has taken months to get to the divorce stage. Is this the kind of thing you really have to ponder? Either you're going to forgive the guy and let it go (and perhaps score your own island or giant diamond ring in the process), or you're going to leave him and get your share of the houses. But why wait until the worst of the storm has passed and Tiger has gone back to golf, and is struggling to rebuild his game, life, etc.? Honestly, it seems a little sneaky not to hit him with the papers while everything around him is going to hell. It's like she waited just long enough to make everyone think that the marriage was going to weather the storm, and then WHAM! Divorce time. I guess what I'm saying is that we've all learned an important lesson here: Don't piss off a Scandinavian woman. Clearly, they favor blunt force trauma as a means of revenge.
Camels? Really, Sex and the City producers? Friggin' camels? Here's a handy little movie tip: Unless said movie is about mummies, pharaohs, or Lawrence of Arabia, seeing the main characters riding camels is the sign of a writer who has run out of ideas. I don't care what delightfully comic series of events led to the moment where four self-obsessed Manhattanite women are riding camels. There's just no excuse for this. Granted, Sex and the City jumped the shark a long time ago. But I think we need a new category of the post-shark low, when a show is merely grinding out more material in a transparent effort to wring a few more dollars out of the franchise. And that's the point when it has "Ridden the Camel."
Is there a more depressingly useless accomplishment than excelling at the guitar on Guitar Hero/Rock Band? Even air guitar has an international competition and avid You Tube following. But when you make it all the way through "Freebird" (or, God help you, "Green Grass and High Tides") on the game control guitar, you feel like the damned reincarnation of Jimi Hendrix, with a little Slash and Clapton thrown in for good measure. You want to tell your friends to quake in your presence. You want to grab your fifth of Jack and head to the VIP room with a pair of twin strippers named Shana and Shawna. But then you realize. You can't play a single note of actual music. All you've done is demonstrate your ability to quickly adapt to complex button patterns. Unfortunately, there aren't all that many groupies for this. And your moment of Rock God dissolves into being just another dork in your living room with a liter of Sunkist and an extra-large bag of Cheetos. (Seriously, what is it about gamers and Sunkist? Does artificial orange coloring improve your reflexes?)
Is it me, or is ESPN starting to become more and more like E! News for guys? I remember when it was just a place to get scores and watch sporting events of varying levels of obscurity. But now, it's where you go to get continuous coverage of the latest in Tiger Woods' and Ben Roethlisberger's "love" lives. With analysis, no less. Is it really necessary to bring in experts to pick apart Tiger's apology or assess LT's legal options? At this point, they should just get a dedicated channel for athletes' criminal and otherwise scandalous behavior. They could call it "ESPN 69."
The other day, I was in a restaurant and was therefore exposed to Carrie Underwood's cover of "Home Sweet Home." This, of course, led me to ponder near-criminal cover versions. (For which, American Idol itself should probably receive some kind of Lifetime Achievement Award.) I don't have anything against Miss Underwood, per se . . . well, that's not precisely true. Hearing "Jesus Take the Wheel" makes me question the existence of a benevolent God. But, in general, I have no bone to pick with her. I'm no music elitist. But it does bug the hell out of me when I hear an inappropriate cover, hereby defined as, "one that robs the song of whatever made it cool or interesting in the first place." What makes the original version of "Home Sweet Home" good is not just the melody or the lyrics, but the roughness of the performance--this is a song being sung by a guy who has seen some serious shit. When Carrie Underwood sings it, all of that rough realism turns into just another generic country-pop ballad. After all, what is she on her way home from? A tough day at the mall?
So Tim Tebow is going to be a Denver Bronco. Honestly, I'm a little concerned about this. Mostly because Tebow is a famously straight-arrow Christian sort, and the Broncos are, of course, pure evil. (I would say that they are the embodiment of evil, but that title can only be held by the Pittsburgh Steelers.) And spare me your indignant emails, Broncos fans--the Drive, Elway dissing Baltimore . . . this is beyond debate. Just sit there in the ugliest team color combo not currently belonging to the Jets and accept it. (Credit to the Steelers fans, who will not be sending irate emails about being evil. As long as they're mentioned as the best at being evil, Steelers fans will be totally content. Though if I'd placed them behind, say, the Cowboys, I would probably receive 5 videos of Hines Ward footage alone, asking how I could be so stupid as to rank them as less evil.) Anyway, my main concern here is about the greater ramifications for the rest of us if Tebow suits up as a Bronco. Will the uniform possess him? Leave burn marks all over his body? I really hope this isn't the thing that sets off Armageddon.
When Lady Gaga is just chilling out at home, watching DVDs and eating popcorn (or tofu wafers or whatever the hell she eats), what does she wear? I'd like to think that she wears sweatpants and t-shirts like a normal human being. Though that does lead to the question of whether she has a series of "casual" stupid, freaky psychological crutches to cover up her face and head for those lazy nights at home--you know, masks and hats and veils made out of more comfortable, casual materials. Because if they make a terrycloth eyepatch or a microfleece headdress/veil, you know Lady Gaga has one.
Family Feud on Facebook is total BS. And I'm not just saying that because I suck at it. I'm also saying it because I've wasted huge amounts of time sucking at it. But really, who are these people that they're surveying? Are they a specially picked group of mentally handicapped Americans, kept isolated in a cave? On Mars? Because I cannot otherwise explain the bizarre popular "answers" they generate. Like how "deer" are the most popular choice as a favorite food for lions. No, not antelope. Not gazelles. Not zebras. And not water buffalo. (All low-value answers . . . and a big zero on the buffalo.) Friggin' deer. And don't get me started on what Vegas "has the most of per capita." I have no idea what the mental heavyweights taking the survey thought the answer was, but I want an explanation as to why no variation of "strippers," "strip clubs," or "whores" made the list.
The exchange of used bras via Freecycle is very perplexing to me. Perhaps I am a bit too picky here, but the idea of wearing a bra that I picked up "slightly used" through Freecycle completely icks me out. And yet, there is a regular used bra trade going on in my local network--they're right up there with bags of toddler clothing and broken computer monitors in popularity. Frankly, I'm kind of hoping that they're being snapped up by a guy with an underwear fetish. I find that a more comforting thought than the possibility that my neighbors are all running around in each others' used lingerie.
Today's unsung hero is the inventor of the rice krispie treat--so simple, yet so totally yummy. Though, like anything else, there are areas where American excess has polluted the purity of the basic treat and made it considerably un-yummy. Thus the rules for acceptable rice krispie treats: They must be home-made. Restaurants and bakeries making them from scratch for kitschy reasons are also acceptable, but the mass-produced factory ones are completely unsat. We're talking about something with 3 ingredients, 2 of which are fairly artificial to begin with. Adding another layer of fakeness just dilutes the buttery marshmallow goodness that is the essence of the rice krispie treat. Also, stop putting other stuff in the darned thing. It's fine by itself. It doesn't need M&Ms or chocolate chips or (God help me) frosting. And finally--though I'm shocked that I even need to say this--it must be made from rice krispies. Not Fruity Pebbles. And for God's sake, not Cheerios. Or any other non-crispy-rice-based cereal. Generic and off-brand copies of Rice Krispies are acceptable so long as they are true copies and not dusty little puffs of air. And while I strongly believe that the unflavored cereal is superior, Cocoa Krispies are also acceptable on the theory that everything should be available in a chocolate version.
There are so many things that I don't get about Donald Trump. Like, "Where does he get off?" and "Has he no self-awareness at all?" (Can you tell that I've been watching the Celebrity Apprentice. As well as the ESPN documentary about how he basically killed the USFL?) But it should be surprise at all that the greatest Trump mystery of them all revolves around his hair. He must know that it's bad. I mean . . . his hair is essentially a national joke, like Janet Reno's manishness and Jessica Simpson's dazzling intellect. And yet, he still hasn't changed it. At all. We know he could afford to, which leaves only one conclusion--that he likes having ridiculous hair. That he's proud of it, even. I wouldn't be surprised if he thought that bad hair was some kind of signature for him, akin to Pamela Anderson's breasts. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he was trying to trademark it.
I really wish that my Facebook feed could give me helpful hints that would let me know how I should feel about the various "friends" that show up in it. Something like, "Sara Brown Smith (she sat behind you in Freshman English and lent you pens all the time--remember, she had that weird boyfriend who only wore Metallica shirts?) is worried about the results of her doctor's tests." It would just help me to know how deeply I should care about the various dramas that scroll by throughout the day. And don't give me that whole, "Well, why don't you set up different friend settings?" nonsense. I don't even pair my socks. I'm not organizing my virtual friends list. Not to mention that it would raise the embarrassing specter of having to figure out who some of these people are and why I friended them in the first place.
I hope that there's a special ring of hell reserved for the girls in shampoo commercials. Especially the ones where we get to keep watching someone with perfectly straight, ridiculously shiny hair keep letting it slowly fall pass the camera in close-up. Screw you, shampoo companies. You're showing us something that is actually impossible in the normal physical world. Something that can only be achieved with the help of dozens of trained professionals in a highly controlled environment with access to advanced editing techniques. And they expect us to believe that this can be bought for $3.99 at the drugstore? And I'm not even going to get into the anti-curly hair prejudice. One of these days, my curly-haired sisters are going to rise up. The revolution is coming, people, and Pantene will not be spared.
I'm getting a little sick of the whole "Jennifer Aniston as the wronged woman" tabloid theme. Granted, I was never that on-board with it to begin with, since I have extremely limited sympathy for the relationship woes of millionaire actresses, but in Aniston's case, we passed the taking-advantage-of-the-tabloid-attention point a long time ago. I mean really--first there was Brad, and then Vince, and John Mayer . . . and then Brad again . . . and then the whole John Mayer interview thing. It reminds me of back when we were forced to follow the arc of Julia Roberts' messy love life until the only inescapable conclusion was that she was either messing with us for publicity's sake or a completely impossible woman to live with. Aniston's getting to the point where I wouldn't be surprised to learn that she scripted that Playboy interview herself. It's like the girl has Relationship Munchhausen's Disease.
Damn you, Facebook flash games! I have things to do with my time. Productive things. Important things. Those pop tarts aren't going to toast themselves, you know. But instead of doing these more useful things with my time, I'm staring at tiny animated towns and attempting to click my way to being a mafia boss. I can't explain it. I can't justify it. My only solace is that I haven't yet started bugging my friends to send me stuff and join my neighborhood/gang/etc. Yet.
So it appears that we're still humoring Greenday on that whole, "We're now a serious band that makes songs about political things," shtick. I suppose I ought to give them some credit on the genius career move. Fading into irrelevance, they pulled out a surprise and transformed themselves from Mediocre Pop Punk Band that Does Masturbation Songs into Mediocre Pop Punk Band that Does Masturbation Songs and Political Stuff. Well played, Greenday. Well played.
What would happen to the foot long sub if we switched to the metric system? I don't think it could survive the change. No one wants to order a big sandwich in centimeters--you'd have no idea whether you were getting something the size of a small cargo ship or something that could fit the palm of your hand. Not to mention that ordering a sandwich in metric numbers sounds kind of French. And while that is usually a good thing in the world of food, there is a notable exception when dealing with things hoagie-related. I don't want to worry about getting a snotty aside about fat, unsophisticated Americans when I ask for double cheese and extra bacon on my sandwich.
I think it would be a lot more efficient if they would just sell screen doors pre-broken. Then, you could pick which kind of damage you prefer in your crappy, ineffective outer door. A lot of people might go for the straightforward "Mosquito Access Hole" or the "Torn Corners the Cat Uses to Escape" for their house. Maybe the purists would prefer the "Broken Latch That Allows the Door to Bang Continuously During Rainstorms." But me, I would choose the, "Sliding Door that Constantly Falls Off the Track and Eventually Just Ends Up Leaning Against the Wall." I think that has the most understated style.
I long for the day when Apple no longer feels the need to prefix its product names with a cute little lowercase "i". I know it makes the product seem hip and friendly and unthreatening. I get it from a marketing standpoint. It's just so very . . . teenage-girl-who-draws-hearts-on-her-notebook-and-updates-her-Facebook-status-ten-times-a-day. I just look forward to a time when my technological accessories don't need to have their own cult of personality. Maybe there's an app for that.
So have we completely given up on the whole concept of a good, economically feasible, rechargeable battery? Because if that's the case, it's cool. I'd just like them to be upfront and honest with me about it. Tell me the truth: that I'm going to spend the rest of my life hoping to find one more AA battery at the bottom of my junk drawer or face the awful possibility of getting up to change the channel. I can take it. I just need to be mentally prepared. Though (if we are allowed requests in this bleak dystopic future) I'd like to plead with the powers that be to at least get rid of the AAA battery. (Did you know that AAAs, much like nice socks, tend to evaporate into thin air when left unattended for too long? It's true.) I will grudgingly accept that there are legitimate reasons to force me to buy Cs, Ds, AAs, and even 9-volts. But when it gets to the AAA? Then they're just messing with us.
So why have they still not invented the Twizzler straw yet? This has been such an obvious candy spin-off for so many years, that I didn't think it even needed to be said. And yet here we are, still unable to effectively drink soda out of a converted Twizzler. (It pains me to have to point this out, but for those of you who are evidently candy illiterate, Twizzlers--the strawberry licorice candy--are somewhat tubular in shape, including a small hole that, unfortunately, is a bit too thin to effectively sip Cherry Coke through and has an unfortunate tendency to squish closed at the ends.) When I think of all the wasted man-hours spent trying to use a home-made version of the Twizzler straw, I'm surprised that the government hasn't gotten involved purely as a matter of economic efficiency. And don't even get me started on that cash register paper they use for candy buttons
So, according to the front window of my local Victoria's Secret store, sexy is back. I was unaware that it was missing. And I think I would have noticed if sexy had totally disappeared--in fact, I think we all would have noticed a worldwide absence of sexy.
What I really don't understand is why different groups/people/companies/whatever keep making grandiose claims about bringing back the sexy. Are we supposed to be grateful? Especially in light of the fact that claiming that you're doing anything at all in regards to "sexy" is just a third person way of referring to yourself as super-hot. Which is (let's face it) either completely unnecessary or terribly pathetic. Because if you are, we already know, and if you aren't, mentioning it all the time isn't helping your case.
If I were Mario (or Luigi, for that matter), I'd be a little disappointed in the caliber of princess I finally ended up with. Considering what he has gone through by the time that he finally manages to save her, you'd expect something a little . . . you know . . . hotter. Or at least someone who doesn't look like she belongs on top of a 6 year-old girl's birthday cake. I know some people would say that Mario doesn't have a lot of ground to stand on, considering that he's a short, mustachioed plumber, but we're talking a guy who faces down ghosts, flying turtles, and hyperactive horned monsters--then learns that he's in the wrong castle. Over and over and over again. Good lord, how many castles do they have in this kingdom? If I were Mario, I'd need some serious gratitude out of a Cindy Crawford clone in order for this rescue to be worth all the hassle.
Why would anyone go to KFC if they have the choice to go to Popeye's (or even better, Bojangles) instead? For one thing, I don't understand choosing to get regular fried chicken when there is an opportunity to get spicy fried chicken instead. It's like intentionally picking grape jelly over strawberry. It just doesn't make sense. But beyond that, I just don't think it's right to enable KFC's identity crisis. Somewhere along the line, they decided that we are a country of crazed health nuts who could somehow be fooled into thinking that fried chicken is a perfectly rational diet choice. So we get the "hip" initial name instead of the one that, you know, mentions fried chicken. And Kentucky. (Which sounds fattening in its own right.) And then there are all these attempts to sell us things other than fried chicken. Roasted chicken. Wings. Family togetherness. It just seems wrong. If you're all about the hot, greasy, crispy fried chicken, then just be about the chicken. I can get sprouts and puritanical diet lecturing anywhere. Good fried chicken, however, is rare.
Why do some people insist on using those cheap, splintery wooden chopsticks even when they're eating take-out in their kitchen? (And just to be clear, I'm not talking about people who spent their formative years in a chopstick-oriented culture. I'm talking about people who are more than willing to expound on the difference between Banana Republic and J. Crew.) It's not like anyone can see them and appreciate their alleged chopstick dexterity. Sure, they'll insist that it's easier for them to eat that way, and you could almost believe them if you didn't notice the defiant desperation with which they try to maintain a grip on a dumpling while taking a bite from one end. But really, how on earth is that easier than just using a damned fork and spoon?
So (according to everyone magazine I've seen in the past month), brightly colored lipstick is going to be very trendy this spring. Does anyone really care about this? Are there people saying to themselves, "Oh no. I'm totally unprepared for the spring lipstick trends. I'd better run out and get some fuschia lip gloss, stat!" (Er . . . I mean do any normal people care? I'm sure there's someone in Los Angeles who has uttered that exact sentence.) Really, straight men aren't even aware of the existence of lipstick trends and won't even notice anything short of the totally bizarre. And women won't be impressed even if you are on trend. Actually, we're just waiting for you to go away so we can gossip about what a fashion victim you are and how your orange lips make you look ridiculous. Because women are evil. This can't still be news, right?
Just some friendly advice to all any tyrannical rulers that might be out there reading this: If you are (as I previously mentioned) a tyrannical ruler, and there is a prophecy that you will be destroyed by some sort of Chosen One . . . just let it go. Really. Don't go around trying to kill all the first-born males/females/dwarves/etc. in your kingdom. That never works. All that happens is that everyone hates you more and the mother of the Chosen One will somehow elude your assassins and send the baby off to be raised elsewhere, where he'll later take up his destiny and show up and kill you. Nor does it work to run away or try to turn over a new life and be nice to everyone. Then you'll just die accidentally at the hands of a runaway horse/errant javelin/etc. wielded by--that's right--the Chosen One. Just accept that you're doomed and try to enjoy the years that you do have leading up to your inevitable demise. Take up a hobby, do some travelling. Maybe get some ballroom dancing lessons.
If you're a plushie (and I really, really hope that you're not because that's some unsettling stuff), are you aware that you have some major psycho-sexual issues? Or have you somehow deluded yourself into thinking that the fact that there are other people who get their jollies from dressing up like sports mascots and theme park denizens makes it not off-puttingly freaky? Before the internet, I assume that people with bizarre hobbies were forced to keep to themselves and maybe read German porn mags in their mom's basement. Now, they have annual conventions.
You know who really benefits from this phenomenon? The Trekkies. It used to be that people who donned Spock ears as a lifestyle choice were the epitome of nerdiness. But now that Google can reveal to us the full spectrum of dorkitude, the Trekkies suddenly find themselves at the top of geek hierarchy. I can't help but suspect they were planning this all along.
There are Coke drinkers and there are Pepsi drinkers. This isn't a right vs. wrong situation. (Well, except for Pepsi drinkers having an inexplicable preference for an inferior beverage, but that's neither here nor there.) What I find totally mysterious--and to be clear, I don't blame the Pepsi drinkers themselves for this--is where Pepsi gets off trying to claim that there somehow the preferred drink of the "new generation." Still. Whatever that is. They've been the alleged choice of a new generation since before I was born, and yet they've never beaten out Coke in market share. So explain that, Pepsi. If all these new generations preferred Pepsi, we'd be on our 3rd or 4th consecutive generation of Pepsi drinkers, and Coke would have gone the way of RC Cola while Pepsi was buying third world countries. You know what the choice of the new generation is? Red Bull. With vodka.
So it seems we're back to doing the whole side-ponytail thing again. Is it me or does it seem a little early? Why on earth do people want to embrace a hairstyle that makes you tilt slightly to the left and look as though you were drunk when you got dressed? Not to mention that it just makes me think of Jerri Hall and how she tended towards these obsessively one-sided hair looks. Which makes me then ponder why Mick Jagger was into her in the first place. She was one of those supermodels who was only hot because everyone said so--take away the photo shoots, and she's just a reasonably attractive gangly blonde. Granted, Mick did eventually course-correct, but if you were Mick Jagger, would you have even made that mistake in the first place? That's the problem with celebrity--you lose your perspective on the cost-benefit breakdown of dating high-maintenance women.
You know, it was totally dirty of Raisin Bran to run those commercials with the cartoon sun singing about, "two scoops of raisins," back when I was a kid. Especially when they aired that ad during Saturday morning cartoons. Because it made my little child brain believe that Raisin Bran was going to be some exciting, sweet, delicious cereal. And after pestering my bemused mother to buy a box, I learned the awful truth. Sure, the raisins were fine. But I was, alas, far too young to know that in the cereal world, the word "bran" should be interpreted as, "akin to chewing on soggy cardboard." I can't believe that the singing cartoon sun lied to me.
Now that they have Double Chocolate Milano cookies, I'm not sure why they continue to produce the regular ones. Not the flavors (mint, raspberry, orange)--obviously, if you're in the mood for a flavored chocolate cookie, then we're talking about an entirely different thing. Also, there may be something a little wrong with you. Because while I have only good things to say about raspberries and chocolate, orange and chocolate is disgusting and mint chocolate tastes like you started brushing your teeth before you were done chewing. But why on earth would you willingly choose a Milano that had only half the possible chocolate filling? It can't be about calories. You're downing cookies. Getting persnickety about that extra layer of chocolate is like using non-alcoholic beer to chase tequila shots.
Is there anything more lame than the educational rap song? I recall having to memorize a "rap" about the Bill of Rights back in 7th grade, so among my most wince-able grade school memories is the one of my searingly white, middle class Catholic school classmates stiffly rhyming our way through a simplistic explanation of our constitutional freedoms, yo. Do people really think that this is an effective way to communicate to young people? Because unless the message you're trying to communicate is, "I'm hopelessly out-of-touch, but really want you to think I'm cool," it's not going to work.
I would like to meet the person who needs the extra-large expanding sleeve-thing for his earbuds. You know--those useless thick foam things that they always stick in the packaging, and which you keep for awhile out of some vague sense that it's wasteful to simply throw them away . . . until you're cleaning one day and find just one of them in a corner of your desk and say, "the hell with it," and chuck the damned thing. The point being--who (aside from maybe Will Smith and Prince Charles) has ears so big that they need that much extra padding to keep an earbud in place? I admit that it's possible that I just have abnormally small ears. (All the better to balance out an abnormally large nose.) But I find the plain old uncovered earphones to be uncomfortable. I can't imagine having ears so large that I'd need to stuff them in place with little foam pillows. And does that even work? Because (let's face it) we're not talking about a miracle of modern engineering here to begin with. I'm not sure I've ever seen someone use a pair of plain earbuds for more than 15 minutes without having to adjust them 3 or 4 times. It definitely screws up your cool urban hipster groove to constantly have to detangle rogue earbuds from your collar, clothing, and chic metrosexual man purse.
What is up with Tom Brady's hair? It's all fluffy and feathery and stuff. I think (though I tremble to say it) that it's meant to evoke hipsterness. Not only that, but I saw him give a post-game interview in a suit with a skinny tie. Quarterbacks do not do post-game interviews in ties with fluffy hair. They should wear casual shirts or possibly even a baseball hat. I think it's pretty obvious that this is Gisele's fault, but I think it's interesting that no one has made the obvious connection between Hollywood Brady and the demise of the Patriots dynasty. Admit it, New England Fans--Gisele Bundchen is the Yoko Ono of football.
Does Burger King even want me to go to their restaurant? I ask because (based on their recent ad campaigns) the answer is a resounding "no." Instead, they seem to want me to associate their various sandwich offerings with creepy man-babies and men in oddly disturbing fake King heads. At this rate, they're going to permanently scar my psyche and I'll be left with a permanent association between the croissanwich and feeling strangely-ill-at-ease. Brilliant marketing scheme, Burger King Guys. Hey, maybe next you should look into getting NAMBLA to endorse your fries.
I'm wondering if male celebrities of (ahem) ambiguous sexuality realize that being coy about whether you're gay or straight is self-defeating. Generally speaking, when the public/media keep asking if you're gay, what they're really saying is: "Based on your mannerisms/career path/fact that you wear costumes that Liberace would define as 'a tad too flamboyant,' we're pretty certain that you're gay, but your refusal to say so is perplexing and frustrating. Please just confirm it so that we can go back to pestering Jennifer Aniston about her reproductive plans." So when you respond to this question with evasive why-does-it-matter responses, you've essentially answered. Straight male celebrities tend not to treat their sexuality with the secrecy of nuclear launch codes. (Though in the case of Charlie Sheen it would be a relief.)
Like most people, I love sales. What a rush you get when you see that promise of 75% off shining from the store window. But I have two minor gripes in my clearance aisle heaven: 10% and 35% off. The 35% problem is obvious--how am I going to calculate that on the fly? It's not 1/3--it's a little more, but not that much more. I'm not Rain Man, you know. This might seem insignificant, but when you're trying to figure out if you'll have enough left in your bank account for matching shoes and still be able to pay the water bill, every dollar counts. As for 10% . . . well, that just ticks me off. Ten percent is not a sale. Don't even try to pretend that you're offering me a deal with a 10% off sticker. I've seen floor managers give better discounts to those awful women who go up to the register pointing to microscopic ink dots and demanding a price reduction.
The county has installed a set of "Speed Tables" on the road leading to my house. As I recently discovered in an unfortunate manner, a speed table is just a speed bump on steroids. Unfortunately, the geniuses who invented the speed table (and I hope they're enjoying the toasty warmth of the 7th circle of hell) obviously didn't fully consider the effect of installing said speed table (and accompanying warning sign) on a well-traveled road with an artificially low speed limit. Namely, that car after car has the same experience I did this morning. Allow me to recreate it for you: "Speed table!? What the hell is a Speed Tab-*Ka-THUNK*"
I don't get why some people get so misty-eyed and romantical about "nature." Nature, as a general rule, wants to kill you. Failing that, it will settle for a bad rash and a stomach ache, but most of nature is trying to bite, poison, freeze, drown you. Hell, the whole history of mankind is about trying to get far away from nature and avoid the aforementioned bites, maulings, hypothermia, nasty diseases, and other unpleasant effects of nature-exposure. And yet, some-people have this bizarre counter-evolutionary desires to "get back" to nature. Personally, I'm happy sticking with the occasional drop-in visit.
Few things piss me off like unshelled seafood in my pasta dish. I like pasta. I like sauce. And I like seafood. You know what I don't like? Having to shell a dozen shrimp covered in tomato and garlic before I can enjoy my dinner. And don't give me any garbage about "authenticity" and "adding flavor" to the dish. You know what's also really authentic? Dying at age 34 from cholera. Now peel the damned shrimp before you put them in my spaghetti marinara.
I am growing to hate receipts. Every action I take in life seem to generate one, filling up my wallet until I can't close it properly because I need to remember that I bought $32 worth of gas and a diet coke at 7-11 on Tuesday. (Well . . . it could be a tax deduction or something. Not to mention that if I threw it out, I would forget all about it and then get indignant with my bank for deducting $33.74 from my account for mysterious and suspicious reasons.) Worse than the practical inconvenience, however, is the depressing effect of looking through a pile of old receipts. It's like a mini-biography of your materialist life, forcing you to relive the moment of despair that caused you to buy US Weekly and OK magazine along with a tub of Ben and Jerry's and a pack of Entemann's donuts. Life is tough enough without having to deal with recriminations and bad memories from my wallet.
I've spent the vast majority of the day at the computer. (Working! . . . Ok, mostly working with some surfing and shamming mixed in.) And now, my elbow really hurts. This is quite possibly the lamest injury in the history of time. Complaining about it sounds incredibly pathetic and massively geeky. ("Oh, I can't go skiiing. I've hurt my elbow." "Really? How?" "Oh, typing and clicking my mouse.") I can't even tell a story about it, as the only permissible times to tell stories about your own health problems are when they make you sound super-cool or they're really funny. Unfortunately, "I was working on a critical Photoshop project," doesn't fall into either category.
Since when is "Baby It's Cold Outside" a Christmas song? It has nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas. It's essentially a long dialogue about awful weather. Depending on where you live, this can apply anytime from October through April . . . or not at all. And yet, it's only played during Christmas. I tend to think that this is because when it's hidden among all the other entries in the obligatory sugary Christmas shopping soundtrack, you tend not to notice how overly cutesy it is. At that moment, you're just grateful to have a temporary respite from pop starlets trying to put their own "twist" on "Oh, Holy Night."
Assume a "Let's Make a Deal" scenario wherein you have to choose between two prizes without knowing what they may be. The only hint you are given is that a random audience member gets to see what they are and give you a two word reaction to each. He describes one prize as, "totally wicked," and the other as, "totally awesome." (What can I say? This hypothetical takes place in California.) Based on that information, which prize do you pick?
Personally, I think I'd go with, "Totally Wicked." It's simply the more conservative choice. Granted, it's pretty much confined to cool vehicles and other gadget-y items. But at least you'll be safe from the possibility of ending up with a lifetime supply of Turtle Wax.
Tater tots. That's all. Just tater tots. Completely awesome in every way. Assuming, that is, that they're hot and crispy rather than sad, cold, limp and greasy. Cold, limp tater tots are a crime against man and nature. Anyone who says he doesn't like tater tots is a damned liar. (Or a pretentious foodie type who is also apt to scorn any product purchased eight feet from the microwave burritos. And also a damned liar.)
Ok, I will freely concede that this is going to come off as culturally insensitive and even a bit snotty. But I have noticed a huge surge in the last few years in the production and purchase of Advent calendars--to the point where they seem to be just another part of the secular Christmas, like Rudolph and trampling people on Black Friday. Now as a bad Catholic, I'm not all that worked up about what people do in their spare time, but I really don't get the point of doing the Advent calendar thing if you're not observing some kind of spiritual preparation thing--even if lamely and intermittently. (Again, see the "bad Catholic" point.) Because without that whole spiritual element, all you're doing is spacing out single bites of mediocre chocolate over three and a half weeks. What the hell is the point of that? Isn't the whole point of not being religious to be able to eat all the chocolate you want at once? And better quality chocolate too?
I think we need to come up with an additional Thanksgiving tradition. Yes, there's the eating. And the cooking. And the ceremonial avoidance of/argument about doing the dishes. But (with the exception of the poor harried soul actually doing the cooking), there's not a lot to this holiday. Even the most gluttonous person can't drag out the meal that much. And that leaves quite a few hours to kill--hours that are quite often spent with one's nearest and dearest and therefore cry out in desperation for something to kill the time. It's true that one could watch the football games, but as those games generally involve the Detroit Lions (a team so bad that its fans have reached that special place beyond total sports despair where they're just happy when the quarterback doesn't spontaneously burst into flames during the game) or the Dallas Cowboys (currently owned by an android and/or billionaire zombie vampire). No wonder there are always family arguments during Thanksgiving. Anything is better than watching the Lions game.
In the Jurassic Park movies (especially the last two ones), don't the characters adjust a little too quickly to the fact that they're surrounded by dinosaur clones? Sure, there are a few seconds of awe, but then everyone moves right along to the screaming, running, getting into ridiculous life-endangering predicaments involving kitchens or high drop-offs stage. Me, I think it would take me a little longer to accept the fact that I was being hunted by a cloned replica of an extinct creature. Foremost question in my mind, "What kind of asshole clones a dinosaur?" Followed by, "As long as you were playing God, why not clone one without the teeth and claws and desire to kill humans?" And that would be followed by, "How much did this damned thing cost? Why didn't they just invest in Microsoft instead? What kind of return are you going to get on an investment that needs to consume its own weight in goats and tourists?" Heck, in the second movie, a tyrannosaurus actually terrorizes an American city, but by the third movie, everyone has moved on. Meanwhile, my friend in Honolulu is still talking about the time she saw Harrison Ford out at a hotel restaurant there.
When is mankind going to learn that sexy alien chicks are almost always bad news? Generally speaking, when you (a regular guy) meet a sexy alien chick, the chances that she just wants to have a no-strings sexual fling with you is much lower that the probability of her wanting to enslave you and/or genocide your planet. As far as the future of mankind goes, the only thing worse than a sexy alien chick is a self-aware super-powerful robot. In fact, if future humans ever fall for the sexy alien chick or self-aware robot trick at any point in the future, I think that they deserve a cosmic kick in the head. Because it's not like we haven't given them plenty of warning about both.
I have a 2000 model car. While this is admittedly not brand-spanking new, it's hardly antique, in terms of cars and technology and such. So there really is no excuse for my cupholder situation. It's not that I don't have any cupholders at all. It's not a Model T. Actually, I count 4 within reach of the driver's seat. No, the problem is the size of the cupholders. They are obviously from the pre-Super-Size era, as they can't fit anything larger than a can of soda or a smallish drink. Now, some people would take this as a sign of increasing cultural decadence, corporate efforts to foster obesity/materialism, etc. Not me. I'm very pro-giant drink cup. I don't spend my days concerned with how much soda other people drink. I just want to be able to drive home from Chipotle without having to balance a flimsy paper drink cup between my knees. I don't know what the engineers of my car were thinking when they added these tiny, infant-sized cupholders. They could barely hold more than a cumulative 48 ounces of Coke between them. What am I? A camel?
If you've never done so, next time you're in a toy store or Target or such, go stand in the baby-proofing aisle. And seriously, it is an entire aisle--all dedicated to various gadgets meant to protect small children from harm. It's not that I'm pro-baby-harm of course, but where are the ninja toddlers that need all of this stuff? Some of it seems obvious and practical--window locks, cabinet latches, and the like. But refrigerator locks and toilet locks and things that cover your shower knobs and oven dials and padding that goes around the coffee table? We're not talking about a Special Forces team here. These are tiny people who still occasionally miss their mouth when trying to eat. I just picture a house where every edge or corner is covered in padding, and no one can go to the bathroom or get something to drink without going through 5 different latching systems. It's not so much baby-proof as life-proof.
No two snowflakes are alike. It's one of those little rainbow sayings that you hear a million times, in every conceivable context. More often than not, it's said by someone making an overly precious point about nature and individuality, and you're expected to walk away feeling inspired about your own specialness. That's all well and good, but when you've gotten two feet of snowfall in less than 24 hours, and have unexpectedly run out of milk, fresh food, and toilet paper, and you're standing on your front porch holding a shovel with a broken handle and the only pair of gloves that you could find in the coat closet (a thin cotton pair that don't quite cover your wrist) . . . well, under those circumstances, I think you can be excused for suddenly yelling, "And did you know that all of you miserable little f*ckers are unique?!! Congratu-friggin-lations!!)
I had ramen noodles for dinner last night. Not the kind that come in the little styrofoam cup and just need to soak in hot water for a few minutes. I do have some standards, after all. This was the kind that you "cook" by dunking the noodles in a pot of boiling water for three minutes and then sprinkling with that little packet of dried soy sauce flavoring and MSG. It's the kind of dinner that you don't want to contemplate for too long, or you get a little depressed. It's really the sweatpants of meals--an indication that you're giving up for the evening--that you're too lazy to even call for takeout. (True in this case--I didn't even want to get dressed properly enough to answer the door to the delivery guy.) In the grand scope of dinners, it comes right above pop tarts, but below microwaved macaroni and cheese.
It's a terrible moment, that moment when you've picked out an outfit for an event, located a crucial part of said outfit at the bottom of the laundry hamper, determined that you have just enough time to wash it before the next day, and then, as you check the label to see whether it can go in the dryer, you see those three horrible words: Dry Clean Only. Why are we still making clothes that are dry clean only? You may as well just sew a little tag into the damned thing that says, "Don't bother to clean this. When it get too dirty, just give it away."
So it turns out that Andre Agassi did crystal meth. Unsurprisingly, his meth period coincided with his "rapid and dramatic slide down the rankings" period. And yet, somehow I feel less shocked and dismayed by his drug use than by the revelation that his crazy mohawk/mullet hairdo was a wig. Don't get me wrong--I thought that the bald look was a massive improvement over the straggly lion's mane thing. But I also feel weirdly betrayed. That wasn't even his real bad haircut? It's like he was lying to us all over who he really is. I'd feel the same way if Donald Trump published a tell-all biography that revealed him as a kind, humble, and self-effacing.
What's the limit on stuffed animals that can be owned and displayed by an adult woman without officially crossing over into "weird and pathetic" territory? Notice, I specify women here. The limit for men is zero. Alright, fine. I'll grant you one, so long as it appropriately worn, Velveteen Rabbit style, and comes with a story about how much he meant to you in childhood. But the darned things still shouldn't be prominently placed in the middle of your bed. As for women, I'll allow three. Unless one of said animals is a stuffed rabbit, in which case the limit goes down to two. There's just something extra twee about stuffed rabbits. And once you cross that cutesyness line, you'd be better off decorating your bedroom with graphic photos of the ravages of venereal disease.
Can we be done with Lady Gaga yet? Please? I think we've long passed the point where it becomes clear that her limited talent lies solely in churning out sound-alike songs and dressing like a retarded attention whore. And while I know that we do like to elevate the mediocre from time to time, and act like they have true musical contributions to share, I think she has hogged the spotlight for long enough. We should let some other dumb club singer with a slutty wardrobe have a turn now.
For me, the disturbing thing about Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is not the fact that the "cheese" comes in the form of a bright orange powder. You'd think that this would be disturbing, as cheese probably shouldn't be dispensed from a foil packet, much less in a color visible from space. But a lifetime of eating Cheetos and Planter's Cheese Balls (what happened to those anyway? They were awesome!) has more or less inured me to the weirdness of processed cheese in all of its glorious forms. No, for me, the big problem is that the directions tell you to mix your dusty cheese product with milk and "spread." Spread? Has it come to this? It's too much to ask people to use butter or margarine? We're reduced to just "spread." I'm already eating fake cheese. I like to limit my fake dairy intake to no more than 1 per meal.
What is with the cream of mushroom soup? It's not a magic meal maker, people. You can't just pour it over some random collection of other foods, heat it up, and claim to have created an edible dish. For one thing, it has the consistency of jellied school paste. And for another thing, there are strange little chunks of stuff in it that are allegedly pieces of mushroom, but which could really be anything. Pieces of cardboard, Jimmy Hoffa's hat, anything. And it tastes like . . . well . . . warm paste with chunks of cardboard hat. And yet, people still insist on using the stuff when they cook. But weirdly, not as soup. Which you'd think would be its primary role. Then again, I'd rather eat actual hat paste than try to down a bowl of that stuff by itself.
People! Unless you are a sniper or a supermodel or an international spy, please don't talk to me about your workday. I really, really could not care less. Maybe when you're immersed in it, you don't realize how completely and soul-suckingly dull your story about the missing expense report documentation is, but the rest of us have been quietly wishing that passing Vikings would cut out your tongue for the last twenty minutes now. And no, the fact that Sue from accounting had accidentally stuck the report in the Boss's birthday card was not sufficient punchline to make up for the time that you stole from our lives with that story. We don't know Sue. We don't want to know Sue. Why are you telling us about her?!? Heck, my life is boring too. But at least I don't inflict it on innocent bystanders.
A man should never, ever, ever wear a Snuggie. I know that the guy in the commercial really commits and tries to sell it as a garment for anyone, but there is no force on earth that can make a man in a Snuggie anything other than a sad commentary on his masculinity. Because all the male encounter sessions in the world don't make it anything other than weird and pathetic for a guy to say to himself, "My, it's a bit chilly in here. I should put on a colorful fleece blanket/poncho with sleeves and wear it to my son's baseball game. After all, there is a chance that he might not be embarrassed to admit that I'm his father yet."
Why are post-apocalyptic futures generally so dark and dreary? And rainy too? Just because man's arrogant, not to say hubristic, use of technology has ended most life on the planet and condemned the lonely survivors to wander the ghost-like ruins of cities, clad in nothing more than stylishly-shredded cotton neutrals and leather bondage gear . . . well that doesn't mean that you can't get a nice, sunny day once in awhile.
Why does working out have to be so damned . . . you know . . . hard? And sweaty and tiring and generally unpleasant? I know that there are plenty of people who talk about how great it feels to run for 45 minutes and lift heavy things for another half-hour. Most of these people are liars who are aware that it's not particularly attractive to complain about what an unpleasant way this is to spend time. Some of these people are sincere and--I think it's pretty obvious here--slightly mentally unwell. It may be good for you, health-wise, to work out. It's definitely good for you appearance-wise. But let's not pretend that it's actually fun. If it was fun, people would be lining up at shipyards just to get the chance to pick up and run around with more heavy stuff in their spare time.
Boy, professional drummers tend to get a little shirty about the Rock Band games, don't they? I don't know why the need to be so defensive. And moron can tell that there's an obvious difference between playing the video game and actually playing drums in a band. But let's not pretend that there's not some relation between the two. You're not splitting the atom here, after all. You're beating on a surface with a stick in rhythm. It may be harder to do it for real, but there's no need to be so damned superior about it.
I think that we can all agree that bacon is totally awesome. Along with chocolate, beer, and ice cream, it comprises one of the four most essential food groups. So why do some many alleged breakfast restaurants serve limp, skinny, sad little slices of bacon? Bacon needs to be crispy, people. There's no excuse for cold, chewy bacon. It's not like it takes hours to cook. You basically put it on the stove and then ignore everything else around you because if you so much as turn around to pour a cup of coffee, it's going to magically go from raw to burned in 4.5 milliseconds. The trick is to get in there right at the 4 millisecond mark.
Is there a point at which one's desire to express one's self through the use of electronics accessory goes beyond "fun," "funky," or "whimsical" and just becomes a tad pathetic? Is it really necessary to have a specially-designed skin for your laptop and differently-decorated cases for your phone, camera, PSP, Nintendo DS, Ipod, portable DVD, Wii, and computer? I will confess that this is a tad hypocritical coming from someone who once spent 20 minutes in a Best Buy, weighing the merits of two different iPhone case designs, but at least I had the awareness to realize how ridiculous I looked. Eventually, anyway. There I was, pondering the relative merits of two mass-produced accessories with which to set my individual stamp on my mass-produced piece of electronics. I know, I know . . . how cool am I? Or me and the thousands of other people with the exact same set-up.
Models are tall. And skinny. Rail against it all you want ladies. Buy enough "Real Women Have Curves" bumper stickers to cover a tractor trailer if you must. Pull a Tyra and act as though defending the right to be 20 pounds over weight is exactly like opposing the Holocaust. Attend Womyn's Studies courses, quote Naomi Wolf, and bore strangers with discussions of the "patriarchy" if you must. But that's not going to change the fact that models are tall and skinny. Personally, I don't mind at all that supermodels manage to survive off a good draw in the genetic lottery. I only mind that they're rich. Then again, I also mind that Pink is rich, and she doesn't even have the excuse of being super-hot.
Attention men: if you're looking to convince total strangers that you're a completely self-centered douchebag, there are a number of techniques you can employ. But if you want to avoid being arrested or escorted out of bars, the easiest way to communicate the message, "I'm a royal jackass," is to check your hair. Frequently, and in any possible reflective surface. Not just in store windows, but in your silverware and other people's rearview mirrors. And don't just look and give yourself a quick once-over. Enjoy it. Savor the moment. Painstakingly adjust your bangs. Trust me. You'll be annoying and alienating people in no time.
I think that it's a bit over the top to claim that the hamburgers at your restaurant are "handcrafted." Really. They're just hamburgers. What exactly is the craftsmanship at issue here? How much skill is required to make a patty out of ground beef? That's one of those things that your mother has you do for her at the age of eight. It's not exactly the kind of gourmet technique that requires years of schooling to perfect. Or do you just want credit for not buying frozen, machine-formed hamburger patties? There aren't a lot of bonus points available for that minimal standard. So you're a step above a restaurant where I order my hamburgers from a cartoon character--congratulations for that.
10-2-09
There are some things that it's just annoying to have to buy. Like curtains. Who takes joy in having to buy curtains? (If it's you, I apologize, but you're very, very weird.) There's nothing fun about buying curtains. There's no satisfaction to be had in spending your hard-earned cash on fabric to cover your windows. Curtains are one of those things that should just be provided free with your house. (And not in the dingy, transparent-yet-hideous style of the free curtains that you get in your first apartment. Well, either those, or that weird knobbly brown '70s thing that almost matches the Harvest Gold appliances.)
Why is it that married heroes of action/adventure movies (and TV shows) always, always marry the worst possible woman for their chosen profession? Spy, cop, general badass . . . it doesn't matter. He'll inevitable be wed to someone who does nothing but nag him about calling and being home for dinner, and who then starts a major drama over missing little Sara's Christmas play. You know, there are women in this world who would say to themselves, "Hmmmm. John is late for dinner again. Oh well, seeing as how it's his job to defend the country against terrorists and madmen, I'll just assume that he's in the middle of an important crisis and put the chicken in some Tupperware." But no. They somehow manage to find the world's most uptight and self-centered women and then raise the most selfish and stubborn children. And then, even after he manages to save his wife and child from a ruthless criminal terrorist organization determined to nuke Chicago, they still don't do more than give him a weak, "Thanks, Dad." Sheesh.
The Wonder Twins had some strange rules governing the use of their powers. It's clear that they tended to cheat a bit on the whole, "form of an animal/shape of some kind of water-based thing" dynamic. I mean, really, a gorilla with an ice crowbar? But for all the cheesiness of the ice rocket engines and eagles carrying buckets of water, they didn't ever take it as far as they could. Why not, "form of a ninja chimpanzee/shape of an ice AK-47"?
Whoever is responsible for the continuing popularity of Eva Longoria owes the rest of us a heartfelt apology. The woman is the very definition of someone whose personality comes through her face. And not in a good way. She makes Hillary Clinton seem warm, approachable, and low maintenance (by comparison). She's the type of woman where you may not be all that surprised that she's getting married, but you'd be even less surprised that she's getting divorced. (Not that I've heard anything about Eva Longoria getting divorced. Yet.) You almost want to stage an intervention with the guy she dates/marries. Just to remind him that there are other hot women on the planet, and he could keep looking for the one that doesn't make you want to rip your ears off and jump off a cliff.
The double reveal Scooby Doo episodes were by far the best ones. The inevitable revelation that the zombie monster scaring people away from the old hotel was Mr. Allen, the grounds keeper, becomes a little formulaic after awhile. But then, when Fred pulls off the Mr. Allen mask to reveal Mr. Marcus, the owner of the new hotel down the street, that's a twist to do M. Night Shyamalan proud. Especially when you consider how good that Mr. Allen mask must be in order to fool everyone but Fred, Thelma, and Daphne. Where do people get the resources to make Hollywood Special Effect caliber masks of their neighbors? And how completely thorough to wear another mask underneath your zombie costume on the off chance that you're only partially unmasked. I kept waiting for the episode with the guy who wears three different masks, just in case.
There are definitely too many different kinds of tape. And here, I'm speaking of the sticky stuff that comes on poorly constructed rolls and is used to seal boxes, wrap presents, make ugly and no-longer-original prom dresses, and pleasure marmosets. (You mean you don't have a horny marmoset at your house? Gosh, it's like some people don't even try to keep up with fashion.) All you need is a easily tearable substance that's adhesive on one side. And yet, you have to pick from duct tape, packing tape, mailing tape, scotch tape with three different finishes, that weird skinny one with the threads that run though it make it impossible to cut, and Lord knows what else. Isn't this overkill? Because no matter what kind you get, you're still going to end up throwing away half of it when the pieces you tear off get twisted and stick to themselves, the table, the cat, the baby . . . and just about everything but the one thing you're trying to stick it to.
I can't believe that there's such a thing as a "certified sexologist." Is this somehow better than the uncertified type? What do you have to do to get that certification? Is there a test? I'd like to think it involved a lab section, but I suspect that it's all about boring book stuff. Which is kind of ironic, since one would think that Jemma Jamison is probably more qualified to be a certified sexologist than some dried up old hag from Connecticut. Which also makes one wonder whether some sexology degrees are more respected than others. Personally, I would be much more impressed by a sexology degree from University of Miami than one from Harvard.
I hate the "everyone gets a trophy" thing. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate it. Those of us who aren't particularly athletically gifted are often wrongly accused of being behind the participation trophy trend, but I assure you--we hate it too. As a kid, I'd rather have received nothing than a participation trophy. After all, what am I going to do? Display the damned thing? How pathetic is that?
"Hey, whatcha get this trophy for?"
"Participation."
"Oh. Well, what about this one?"
"Participation."
"Boy, you weren't very good at sports, were you?"
Why do people in vampire movies always sleep with the window open? Not only that, but they compound their mistake by wearing big, white diaphanous nightgowns with low-cut necklines. Just assume for a second that vampires really did exist. And that you knew they existed. And that you knew there were vampires in the neighborhood. Now tell me that you wouldn't go to sleep with the window locked and barred and wearing four layers of turtleneck sweaters.
I now own a pair of jeans that came pre-ripped. Yes, I have met the enemy and it is me. Now, I just wish that I had been a bit more circumspect about making fun of the "pre-distressed" jeans trend--not that I have a problem with worn-in jeans as a look. It's just the part where you pay even more for a pair of designers jeans that have been artfully and strategically ripped ahead of time, thus attempting to create the impression that you're stylish and yet mellow and unpretentious. When in fact, you're so pretentious that you actually hired someone to wear out your jeans for you. And now, I'm one of those people too. I may as well give in and buy a little dog to carry around with me too.
If you are an adult, there is no need for you to own anything with Elmo on it. Not even an ironic t-shirt. This goes double for the Care Bears. In fact, consider this a word of warning. Even if you are wearing your Sunshine Bear shirt (or Elmo backpack) with a sense of hipster irony, people generally won't take note of your Rock & Republic jeans and see you as making a statement. No, they'll see you as a huge dork in a child's shirt who probably draws out the "ooo" sound in "cute" to annoying and ridiculous lengths. And that is today's public service warning.
I have to wonder about the first human ever to eat an avocado. Don't get me wrong--I think avocados are delicious. But they're not exactly appetizing on sight. They have a weird, leathery skin and are full of soft green mush. Who looks at that and says, "Mmmmmm. I think I'll try this"? I'm guessing the answer is, "Someone who is very, very, very hungry." The creation of guacamole makes a lot more sense to me, however. Because I can easily understand looking at soft green mush and thinking, "Maybe this would be a lot better if I added salt and lime. A lot of salt and lime."
If you drink enough of anything, you start to become a bit of an expert in the subtle variations between brands--a connoiseur, if you will. This is very cool and impressive when the drink in question is something like single-malt scotch. It is rather less impressive when the subject at hand is diet colas, which (unfortunately) has become my particular area of expertise. It troubles me a little that my palate, which couldn't distinguish between a Glenmorangie 15 year and a MacAllen 12 year if my life depended on it, can instantly distinguish between Coke Zero and Diet Coke. Or Diet Pepsi. Not that I drink Diet Pepsi, of course. I do have some standards after all.
I have to say that I'm very disappointed in the quality of my e-mail spam as of late. There was a time when spammers really seemed to give it an effort. You were almost tempted to help them move their off-shore money to your account or buy some organic herbal viagra. Just because they really put their heart into the story. But now, it's like there's no respect for the craft. Just people trying to convince me to buy a "genuine" Rolex or convince me that there are hot Asian singles looking for me. But the whole sales pitch is right there in the subject line. Where's the love, spammers? I feel like you don't even care whether or not I need Mexican steroids.
Do they still make Cookie Crisp cereal? What a brilliant concept that was--passing off tiny cookies in milk as a breakfast food. As a kid, it basically summed up everything that could be perfect about a meal. Assuming, of course, that your bowl of Cookie Crisp was accompanied by a chocolate milkshake and a bag of Twizzlers. I do wish that they had tried to be a little stealthier in the marketing and execution. Because it goes without saying that my mom never let me have any. Why couldn't they have named it "Nutrition Crunch" or something? Naming the cereal Cookie Crisp was like slapping a warning label on it that flashed "Will Result In Hyperactive Sugar-Crazed Kids That Will Destroy Your Living Room." Nice going, Cookie Crisp marketers.
Damn, that Asian guy who played the (briefly) naked gangster in The Hangover is all over the place now. He's like the go-to wacky secondary ethnic character for modern comedies. Not that I think this is a bad thing, of course. As someone who is part Asian, I'm glad to see that our basic Hollywood profile has expanded beyond kung-fu master and that guy with the long hair and moustache that always plays bad henchmen.
How is it that simply adding pineapple to a dish makes it "Hawaiian"? Or adding spinach makes it "Florentine"? You have an ordinary pizza, throw a few pieces of canned Del Monte mush on to it, and (like magic) you've made it Hawaiian. Or throw a slice of pineapple on a burger and you've suddenly transformed it. (Thankfully, no one is throwing spinach on burgers in a misguided attempt to fancy them up. As far as I know, anyway.) The irony is, having lived in both Florence and Hawaii for some time, I can tell you that the residents there aren't gulping down pineapple and spinach at every opportunity. Hell, I don't think I've ever seen a local eat a Hawaiian pizza before. If you really wanted to make something authentically "Hawaiian," you'd mold it out of spam and douse it in teriyaki sauce.
Now that it has been a few years, I can finally reveal the truth: the entire point of law school is to learn how to irritate other people. A law degree is really a certificate that guarantees that in any situation, you have the ability to act like a smug, pretentious know-it-all. I'm serious. You actually train and study to use words to obscure the fact that you don't know what you're talking about. And for spouses of lawyers, there's the wonderful fact that you've been schooled to split rhetorical hairs until the person you're arguing with wants to stab you to death with a plastic spork. I will say that just because lawyers are schooled in being massively annoying doesn't mean that they have to be. But a depressing number of them really like to show off their education.
Is there a way to order a low-calorie beer and still maintain your dignity as a man? I don't really think so. There's something very unmanly about fretting over the 30 extra calories in your bottle of beer. On a macho-ness scale, it ranks right up there with telling the waiter to bring two spoons so that you and your buddy Mike can split the chocolate mousse cake. Of course, Mike Tyson could probably order a low-cal beer without mockery. Not so much because he makes it cool, but because no one wants to piss off Mike Tyson.
One of the signs that I lived a comfortable, middle-class existence and didn't have much to think about as a teenager is the fact that I honestly believed that I was somehow "expressing myself" through my clothes. And not expressing a logical message like, "I hope this is attractive and fashionable." No, something more along the lines of, "This somber, erratic combination of mass-produced textiles is somehow reflective of my personality." Life as a teenager (not to mention how long it took to get dressed) would probably have been a lot easier if I could have just slapped a series of bumper stickers to my back every morning. Something like, "Thinks She's Deep and Artistic," or, "Likes Morissey." Although the latter one was probably obvious without the sticker.
Do you remember the old commercials for diet sodas that had, "just one calorie"? (I can't recall exactly which brand it was--Diet Pepsi maybe, or Tab, or something like that.) I always found them confusing. Because it's pretty clear that they can make a soda with zero calories. So why on earth make one with only one calorie? That single calorie can't be adding all that much to the flavor--certainly not enough to overcome the chemical sweeteners and make the damned thing taste like a real soda. So why bother with the one calorie? What is the selling point here? It tastes as bad as regular diet soda, but is a teeny bit more fattening? Mmmmm. Sounds delicious.
The best thing about starting school (back when you were a kid) was the excitement and promise of picking out the year's new lunchbox and Trapper Keeper. What design were you going to pick? It was a tough decision, as you were basically making a statement about how you wanted to be perceived. Were you the tough, Incredible Hulk type, or more of a Jem person? One year, I scored an Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom lunchbox--the metal kind with the raised pictures and the matching thermos that got all nasty and mildewy because you left it in your backpack for two weeks in an effort to keep your mom from putting soup in it again. (Boy, was she mad about that.) It was kind of sad when we got too old for lunchboxes and all the kids switched to paper bags and school lunches.
There's nothing more perplexing than standing in a souvenir shop in a major tourist destination. Why do people buy this crap? Who needs a shell with the name of the town painted on it? What are you going to do with the damned thing? Is it really going to bring back fond memories of the time you spend $20 on a shell decorated with acrylic paint? I suppose it's possible that someone might collect such things, but I really hope not. If I had a friend who wanted to show me a collection of tourist trap seashells, I'd hope for a sudden earthquake or typhoon.
Wouldn't it be cool if six-pack abs went out of style, and all of a sudden, everyone was vying to get a softer, squishier waistline? All the diet books and fitness gurus would be advocating milkshakes and white bread, and the fashion designers would stop messing around with pants waistlines. (Seriously, fashion designers, what the hell? First, you give us stuff that causes butt cleavage, then you jump right up to the below-the-ribcage cut? I think you're all just trying to mess with us.) Hell, you'd never have to do another crunch and could forget everything you ever knew about "obliques." And Paris Hilton would still be a stupid slut. (Well, not everything would change, after all.)
Today, I saw a real, honest-to-God mullet. For real. Not an irony mullet. Not a bad practical joke, lost a bet with my friend mullet. This one was completely sincere and worn with pride. Was it a little curly, Billy Ray Cyrus style? Of course it was. Was it paired with a tank top and droopy shorts? Yes again. I'm telling you, this was a committed mullet. The kind that you might catch tantalizing glimpses of at county fairs and salt water taffy stores near the boardwalk. Now, there was only the one, so I don't think we can move the mullet off of the endangered list yet, but at least we know that they're not extinct.
When you think about it, "McDonald's" is really a terrible name for a restaurant. Separate it from its iconic associations, and just pretend we're talking about some random burger place in a town off the interstate. Do you really want to eat at some place called "McDonald's"? Nothing about it says, "good, tasty burgers and fries." If I had to go by name alone, I'd expect somewhere with greasy plastic tablecloths and dusty vases filled by one lonely plastic daisy. Or a bar. What can I say? I love stereotypes.
Why do superheroes feel the need to create themed costumes for themselves? Are they afraid that they're going to blend in with all the other people who have super-strength and x-ray vision? I can tell you that if I were suddenly to discover that I had superpowers, making myself a costume would be that last thing on my mind. What's the thought process here? "Hey! I can bend steel and deflect bullets. Ok, now I had better come up with a color scheme and some good fabrics." (First thing on my mind? Picking fights in bars. Oh . . . and saving people in danger. That too.)
Apparently, naming your daughter "Nevaeh" is very popular in certain circles. (I know this because I read it on the internet, so it must be true. And to further back up my source knowledge, I'll add that my sister-in-law told me that someone in her church named their daughter Nevaeh. So there you go. Incontrovertible proof.) Apparently, the big appeal to this is that Nevaeh is "heaven" spelled backwards. To which I say, "so what?" I'm supposed to be impressed that you named your daughter by reversing the order of a word? Hell, that's not even a good anagram. If you want points for clever, you're going to have to do a lot better than that. Unless you chose the name because you think that somehow naming a child after something (backwards) is going to make them more like that thing. Though if that were the case, I'd expect to see a lot more kids named Hcir walking around.
I have major problems when it comes to making grilled cheese sandwiches--in short, they always end up too pale and buttery one one side, and burned near-black on the other side. (Sure, I try to do the knife-scrape on the burned side, but that's a pointless aesthetic exercise that's not fooling anyone. It still tastes burned, and the sandwich now looks like it was part of a horrible accident involving a belt sander.) Some would say that my bad sandwiches are caused by a combination of impatience and inattention on my part. And they're probably right. But in my defense, there's a tiny, tiny window on the grilled cheese sandwich between underdone and charrred. And somehow, my mother has a supernatural ability to call me during that window. So, as in so many other areas, we can really blame this whole problem on my mother. And maybe the fact that I probably have the burner too high.
Sometimes I ponder how great it would be to live in a world without I.D. For whatever reason, I equate this with the Old West, even though for all I know, saloon proprietors in the Old West were vigilant about credit checks and asking for picture identification. Sure, I understand the practicality of it now, but I still long for a world where your entire history doesn't follow you around, and where people don't start from the assumption that you're lying about who you are. And even if you are lying, who cares? It's nice to take a little vacation from yourself at times. (Says the person who once told a stranger on a train in Italy that her good friend had a brief, but torrid, affair with John Travolta. Hey, it was his fault. He asked if we'd ever met Travolta in the first place.)
I think the whole California pizza thing has gotten a little out of hand. I say this because the last time I went for "California-style" pizza, I ended up with a pizza that had an actual salad on top of it. No kidding. With lettuce and veggies and dressing and everything. Not only was this structurally unsound, but it pretty much mocks the whole concept of pizza. A pizza is not a piece of bread that you can pile with any random crap you have sitting in the kitchen. It has a purpose. And integrity. I'm all for experimental pizza toppings, but when you've covered the darn thing with chopped lettuce, I begin to wonder whether you're just being cheap about giving me an extra plate.
Why do badass movie chicks wear head-to-toe leather? Yes, I know. Because it looks sexy and cool. But let's be practical about this for a moment. Pretend for a moment that you're a super-cool butt-kicking babe. You're in great shape, are extremely athletic, and probably an expert martial artist and/or markswoman. You may or may not have supernatural powers. You spend the majority of your time chasing and/or foiling bad guys. And the outfit you choose to do all of this in is made out of leather? Have these women never seen a Sports Authority? Nike and UnderArmour are doing wonderful things with light-weight, stretchable fabrics that wick moisture away from the skin. And you're going to chase a vampire/terrorist/supervillain in stilettos and fetish wear?.
Crappy summer blockbuster movies would go a long way to establishing their plot credibility with me if they would stop using brainless starlets to deliver the bad science news. Please. These girls are not Ph.D.s. Or doctors. Or (God help us all) award-winning neurologists. And when you give the little science hottie some awful piece of dialogue about how she is awkward around guys because she was so smart and geeky when she was a teenager . . . well, it makes me want to throw things at the screen. It's bad enough that you want me to accept that a giant meteor is going to hit earth and somehow flood Kansas. When you have this information delivered by someone who clearly knows more about push-up bras then organic chemistry, you're just insulting the audience.
If you're a British actor/actress and haven't yet been invited to be in one of the Harry Potter movies, that fact must be quite a blow to your self-esteem. In fact, as the movies seem to function at least partly as a roll call of respected British thespians, I think that if I were a British actor and hadn't been invited for so much as a screen test, I might find myself forced to lie about it. You know, something along the lines of, "Yes, yes, they did ask me to consider taking on the Voldemort role, but I was right in the middle of Hamlet at the time and suggested they try out that pleasant Ralph Fiennes chap instead. Has it turned out to be very popular? How splendid for him." (Author's note: I tried to work the words "flat" and "lift" into the previous quote to make it sound more British-y, but the result was somewhat confusing. Sorry, did the best I could.)
I hereby propose that taco salads be stripped of their bogus "salad" designation and identified for what they really are--a giant taco masquerading as a healthy food choice. After all, what is in a taco salad? Meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, maybe some sour cream or guacamole . . . in other words, exactly what is in a taco, only on a much, much larger scale. And I'm not even going to get into the giant fried tortilla "bowl." And yet, people will order a taco salad and say to themselves, "Oh, I'm not that hungry. I'll just get something light. Like a taco salad."
Having recently toured a Pottery Barn, I found myself a bit confused by the prevalence of pre-distressed mass produced decor objects. I don't actually have anything against Pottery Barn in principle--I can't think of a better place to create the false impression that I spend my summers in Cape Cod. But the pre-distressed stuff really gets me. You're basically buying something new that has been specially sanded and painted so that no one will think it's new. That whole "This is a unique vase my Great-Aunt Martha picked up on the Island as a little girl" vibe really loses something when you see a whole stack of specially distressed unique vases, all marked at 20% off.
What on earth is the point of a bedskirt? The part of me that tends to shove unfinished books and random boxes under the bed can get behind the idea of a bedskirt if the point is to hide stuff that you shoved under the bed, but I sense that this is actually meant to be purely decorative--like that extra 6 pillows that no one uses. (Incidentally, now that I have an Ikea bed, I can't shove anything more complex than the latest issue of People under the damned thing, since it sits about 3 inches off the floor.) I'm not against bedroom decor in principle--I can see why having a nice bedroom is a desirable thing. I just fail to understand how wrapping a flowery ruffle around the bottom half of your bed contributes to a sense of style or serenity or whatever. And don't even get me started on wallpaper borders.
In one of the Superman movies (I don't remember exactly which one, except that it was one of the Christopher Reeves ones), there's a scene in a museum where we see a single strand of Superman's hair holding up one of those cartoon-style weights that claims to be 1000 pounds. I think that this is taking the concept of super-strength too far. His hair cells are also too much for our yellow sun? How the hell does he keep that perfectly groomed hairdo? What does he cut it with? Hell, what is he using for styling cream? Because I use ultra-hold gel and still get frizz and flyaways, and my hair isn't stong enough to lift a piano.
I envy the people who are together enough to own festive socks. To me, they represent the height of organization and good planning. Do these people never lose socks in the wash, or are they just totally zen about the possibility of only having one sock with firecrackers and American flags on it? Either way, I wish that I could be either that mellow or that good at laundry. I'm one of those people who should really own 30 pairs of the exact same sock. And even then, I'd still manage to slowly lose them all, one by one.
What would win in a fight beween a hamster and a guinea pig? Assuming, you could get them to fight, of course. Based on my observations in elementary school, the classroom-level rodents tend to mostly sleep and nip at your fingers. One would assume that the guinea pig would mop the floor with the hamster, since it's bigger, but I'm not sure. After all, guinea pigs seem a little slow and spacy. Like they'd be played by Jeff Bridges in a movie. Whereas hamsters (if the ones in my 4th grade grade classroom are any indication) can be nasty little bastards. (Hamsters would be voiced by Danny DeVito or Joe Pesci.) I definitely think that two hamsters, working together, could take down a guinea pig with no problem at all. So for God's sake, don't let them sit over by the water bottle and scheme.
Forget about compatability tests, similar interests, shared life goals, or communication skills. The real test of whether a relationship can last comes down to tuna sandwiches--if you can't agree on the proper ingredients in a tuna salad sandwich, then I'm afraid your marriage is doomed to failure. What religion you raise your children in pales beside the problem of someone who puts celery chunks in their tuna versus a non-celery eater. After all, you can always celebrate both Christmas and Hannukah, but you can't repair the harm that comes from watery, tasteless, celery filler in an otherwise decent sandwich. And don't even get me started on people who hate onions.
I grew up in an area where the sale of fireworks (not to mention setting them off) was illegal. And then, I moved to Hawaii, where it's strongly encouraged. On major celebratory holidays (July 4th, New Year's Eve, Chinese New Year, Arbor Day, etc.), there is actually a visible haze over the city of Honolulu. And it's caused primarily by those double strings of little Chinese firecrackers. Of course, there's always some state congresswoman or other trying to ban fireworks in Hawaii--a relatively fruitless task in light of the pro-firework culture, but annoying nonetheless. What is with the nanny-style congresswomen? No fireworks, no riding in the back of pick-up trucks, no paying transvestite hookers to fight. It's like they don't want anyone to have any fun at all.
I think it's about time for a moratorium on all things lollipop-related in rap songs. Heck, let's just play it safe and institute a total candy ban. Yes, I know it's a "clever" and "subtle" way of suggesting much naughtier things. Except that it's no longer particularly subtle or clever at all. We're at the point where you can't listen to a hip hop station for more than 10 minutes before some poor girl is licking something or other like a lollipop, and frankly, the metaphor is getting a little tired. At the least, couldn't we switch to a different suggestive snack food for awhile? I hear popsicles are making a comeback.
If you're a guy who always, always wears baseball caps, some of which are beat up and turning grey with age, then I think it's only fair to tell you that we all think that you're losing your hair. That may not be the case at all. For all we know, you may have long, flowing locks that put Fabio to shame. But the sad truth of the matter is that once you reach a certain age (and that age is about 25), you're expected to be able to go out in public every once in a while without looking like you're gearing up for Rush Week. And if you don't, well, we just tend to assume that you're growing a bald spot that would make Patrick Stewart proud. I just thought someone ought to let you know.
In the Harry Potter world, why does Hogwarts even have a Slytherin House? As far as I can tell (and I confess that I have no desire to look into this too deeply, as journeying too far into the Potter Fan-verse can be a chilling experience), there are maybe one or two people in all of wizard history who were "Slytherins" and didn't turn out to be totally evil. Or at least royal jerks. Is it really a good idea to group all of the ambitious, clever, and mean people together like that? And then send them through a school that will teach them to be more effective ambitious, clever, and mean people? Why not just get Osama Bin Laden, Ahmadinjad, and Kim Jong-Il together in a special club and send them to West Point? I don't see how that could possibly backfire on us.
I never could do the moonwalk. Not well, anyway. It may seem like a small thing, but back in elementary school, there were the people who could smoothly glide around the cafeteria, and there were the people who could awkwardly shift around the room. And unfortunately, I was in the latter group. It's not as though I'm completely uncoordinated--I have a vague sense of rhythm and the ability to walk without tripping. But the moonwalk eludes me. On my deathbed, even if I had been President of the United States, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and People's Sexiest Person Alive, it will still bother me a little that I could never moonwalk.
I'm completely sick of hearing about the White House's edible garden. This has next to nothing to do with personal politics and everything to do with my inability to grow plants and general annoyance with people who have successful gardens. Because--as you know if you've ever known someone who was really into gardening--they just won't ever shut up about it. It's always, "Oh, the carrots just started coming up--we'll have to bring some over for you." That's the other thing--they're constantly trying to unload their excess vegetables on you. If I wanted 10 pounds of zucchini, I could go buy it. But instead, you get the garden enthusiasts bringing it over in giant paper bags. And when you try to protest that you couldn't possibly eat it all, they start pushing recipes on you too: "Oh, no. You'll have to try it in chocolate cake--I just grate it into the mix, and the kids don't even know it's there. And wait until you try our zucchini smoothies!"
If we find out that Great Britain is suddenly angry at us, I guarantee it's because the First Lady tried to leave 30 pounds of kale on the Queen's back porch.
Why don't the Smurfs ever get confused by the frequent use of "smurfy" as an all-purpose adjective? Sure, it's true that when things are "smurfy" or "smurfalicious" or "totally smurftastic," they have a general positive connotation. But how can you tell when someone is genuinely enthused about how smurfy your smurf cake is and when they're just being polite? At least Brainy Smurf can give you a clearly sarcastic or derisive tone to show that he doesn't really believe that you're really all that smurfy at all. But what about Monotone Smurf? Or Non-Responsive Smurf? Or (God forbid) Stuttering Smurf? I bet no smurf can understand a word they're smurfing.
I am oppressed by receipts. Every single thing I do seems to end with someone handing me a tiny slip of paper. And I hold on to them. Why? I don't know. Somehow, I've become convinced that they're important and that it would be wrong to throw them away. So they build up in my wallet and pockets, and I'll occasionally take them out and look at them in a nostalgic way before stuffing them into something else. I guess I'm convinced that I need to hold on to them in case the IRS needs documentation of my McNugget consumption one day. (Hmmmm. Having just written about them, does that make the nuggets a business expense? I wonder if I need to start a file for them.)
Among my admittedly many pet peeves are commercials that act as though they're giving you some kind of life wisdom when they're really just trying to sell you something. I've noticed that banks and financial companies are especially guilty of this. I remember a few years ago, one bank (I think it was Citi) had a whole series of ads, the basic theme of which was that some things are more important than money. Which is certainly true. But that's not the central belief that I want the bank holding my money to have. As far as my bank is concerned, nothing should be more important than money. The whole ad campaign gave you the uncomfortable feeling that you were going to go to the ATM to take out a $20, and the ATM was going to tell you, "Hey, sorry man. I lost all your money investing in small textile businesses for single Laotian mothers. But, you know . . . some things are more important than money."
I remember when microwaves first got really big--they were going to be the cooking wave of the future, simplifying our lives, Jetsons-style. In our house, we had one of those ancient ones with the dial--it must have weighed 50 pounds and taken up 5 feet of counter space. And then, it slowly became clear--you can't cook a damned thing in the microwave. Sure, they're great for reheating leftovers. And you can warm up a can of corn or some frozen chicken nuggets. But really, aside from making popcorn, there is nothing you can cook in a microwave that isn't vastly better when cooked some other way. Essentially, I have an incredibly sophisticated piece of technology that exists solely for reheating pizza and making popcorn. Talk about overkill.
Spiderman has some mad sewing skills. Have you seen how complicated that costume is? Plus, if I've learned anything from Project Runway, it's that those stretchy fabrics are hell to work with and require one of those specialized machines that seem to cause rampant catfights. And yet Peter Parker, a teenaged boy, manages to put together a perfectly form-fitting multi-color spider suit, complete with an intricate web applique. It's breathable, rugged, capable of withstanding considerable stress, and yet obviously comfortable enough to wear for long periods of time. No wonder he's a superhero. Most guys would just settle for reasonably clean sweatpants and a matching t-shirt. But not Spidey. I guess this is what Uncle Ben was talking about--with great power comes the great responsibility to look sharp.
Attention, all musicians: there should be a rule about police sirens in songs. I know that it gives your rap song a cool street feel or makes your pop hit seem a little grittier to have a hint of a police siren behind the chorus. But seriously, you all are going to give me a heart attack one of these days. There I am, motoring along, enjoying the new playlist that I finally remembered to download to my mp3 player, when all of a sudden, I hear a police siren, slam on the brakes in a desperate attempt to approximate the speed limit, and get a giant, unpleasant surge of adrenaline as I desperately check my rearview mirror for the flashing lights of doom . . . and then it turns out to be the damned song. What the hell, people? I promise that if your song is any good, it doesn't need sirens, and if it sucks (and let's face it--it probably does) then the freaking sirens aren't going to make your lyrics any less trite or your voice any better.
As a bit of an amateur legal scholar, I would love to get a look at Eddie Murphy's contract with Satan. Because, boy did he get nailed by the fine print. Obviously, having never seen it myself, I'm only speculating here, but it seems pretty clear that the terms included incredible wealth and fame. But only for a limited time and to be followed by a dizzying drop that somehow incorporates transvestite hookers, Scary Spice, and The Adventures of Pluto Nash. It just goes to show that you really need to take an independent lawyer with you before finalizing deals with the Ruler of Hell. Of course, finding a lawyer without any ties with the Devil himself is a tall order, but that's a different problem altogether.
Yesterday, I started getting nostalgic for "Ice" beer. You may remember the infamous Ice beer trend of the mid-nineties, when various commercial brewers introduced their new "Ice" brews, which were supposedly higher in alcohol and had a heavier taste. Well, a heavier taste than the watery swill of their non-ice cousins anyway. What really killed me was when Milwaukee's Best--that cheap frat house staple--also came out with a Milwaukee's Best Ice. That's not a beer. That's just sarcasm.
There cannot possibly be enough loyal Jon & Kate Plus Eight viewers to justify the level of tabloid coverage that they're receiving. Sure, it's nice to get a break from the perpetual Brangelina rumors, but this takes celebrity slumming to a whole new level. Is there even a name for the incredibly minor degree of fame that these two have achieved? If Kathy Griffin is a self-designated D-Lister, where does that leave basic cable reality stars? Is there an "R" list?
Of course, their current well-publicized marital problems have helped viewership, which is probably the point. Who knows if either of them really had an affair? Then again, it doesn't exactly take infidelity to drive the stake into the heart of this marriage. Everytime you see them do a confessional interview, the pure disdain for Jon that drips from Kate's voice as she chips out yet another little chunk of his dignity is rich and thick and velvety smooth. And as for Jon--well, he may appear completely passive, but if you take a good look at his eyes, you can tell that he's blinking, "Kill me," in morse code over and over again.
Whenever I hear Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach" (which isn't all that often because I don't own a time machine, but I do have a "shuffle" option on my mp3 player, and am often too lazy to skip through), my mind inevitably drifts to Danny Aiello. In much the same way that I always stop to ponder Captain Lou Albano on hearing the opening bars of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." I guess that gruff dads were the shortcut to demonstrating your gritty, blue-collar roots via '80s video. Of course, even though Captain Lou is more visibly angry at Cyndi for coming home in the mornin' light, I still prefer him to Aiello's sullen silences at the news that Madonna is keeping her baby. Though I suppose Aiello should get some credit for eating a breakfast cooked by Madonna. I don't know about you, but I'd rather starve than eat scrambled eggs made by someone who did both Dennis Rodman and Derek Jeter.
The other night, I was watching one of those endless Texas Hold 'Em tournaments on TV. Hey, it was late and I was bored--though I would like to say that there are altogether too many World Serieses of Poker. The title tends to lose its drama when there's another one on television every other week. Anyway, at some point the announcers referred to the, "sport," of poker. Now wait just a minute. I let it go on bowling and ballroom dancing. But when we're using the word "sport" to describe the act of sitting and drinking while lifting up pieces of cardboard and small clay discs, then the word has lost all possible meaning. What's next? The "sport" of Monopoly? Am I going to be able to tell people that I just had a tough workout after a particularly challenging round of Yahtzee?
I wonder what it's like to be an actor who makes almost your entire living in a certain kind of minor role. Let me explain--you know that guy who always plays the sinister Asian henchman? Or the guy who is always in the mission control room? Or the effete, vaguely European guy? What does that guy think about his career? Does he brood over the fact that he's never gotten the lead roles or plum Oscar-bait characters? Or is he just happy that he's making a living playing the same role over and over, with the only variation being whether he scowls before or after he says, "Yes, sir. He's mine." Me, I'd be grateful. It's all the fun of being a movie actor without any chance that comedians will be mocking your recent weight gain on VH1. Sure, you might not make the big bucks, but so few of us do anyway. Plus, how cool would it be to be recognized by people in that way where they're not quite sure why they know you, but feel that they're supposed to be afraid of you.
Ah, the healing power of cartoon band-aids. Back when I was a kid, the mere application of a bandage featuring a popular licensed cartoon character had the miraculous ability to dry tears and eliminate pain. Strangely, ordinary tan band-aids were medically insufficient in such cases. (And does the color of those "nude" band-aids match the actual skin color of anyone on earth? I suspect that the manufacturers of nude band-aids were in league with the panythose companies.) If only I could figure out how to distill the painkilling properties of a Batman logo or Looney Tunes character. Vicodin would have nothing on it.
As a kid, it was a bit disappointing to see what a wuss Snuffleupagus was. Maybe it would have been better if he had stayed imaginary. I mean, here was this big, wooly mammoth/elephant dude who was best friends with a giant bird. Together, they were easily the two biggest mofos on Sesame Street. So it was quite the letdown to see that Snuffie was a big, whiny baby and that Big Bird would nearly have an emotional breakdown without his teddy bear. Maybe the writers thought that we kids would identify with their emotionalism. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Kids respect size. When my 5-year-old self looked at Snuffie, I didn't think, "Oh, he gets scared just like me." I thought, "Man, if I'm that big, ain't no one gonna tell me that I gotta go to bed. And I'm having cake for breakfast too, beeyotch."
I am ashamed to admit that I own a table runner. In my defense, it was on sale, and matched the throw pillows in the living room. But that's still a pretty flimsy defense to having paid good money for the most pointless dining-related textile in existence. At least tablecloths and placemats have a utilitarian use (aside from making things look a little nicer), even if that use is as humble as keeping crumbs and gravy drips off the table. But a table runner manages to protect the only part of the table that is relatively safe from breadcrumbs and butter smears. I basically paid to have a thin strip of fabric that only covers the center of my table. It's a dull and completely useless piece of table decor--essentially, I own a yuppie doiley.
Are all Taco Bells as chintzy as mine when it comes to napkins? Obviously, I'm talking about the drive-through here--I'll support a great deal of laziness, but the inability to get more napkins from the dispenser on the other side of the dining area goes a little too far. But when it comes to the drive-through, you're totally at their mercy. And generally, instead of counting napkins I'm busy trying to make sure that I actually got what I ordered so that no one ends up sulking over having to eat a regular taco instead of a taco supreme. But (at my local place, at least), they'll give you two or three of those flimsy little brown napkins (the ones that are obviously made from recycled sandpaper and lint) for a meal that you eat with your hands and where the main feature of the food in question is its ability to squish out the other end of a tortilla and drop in your lap. The last time I went there, I ordered something like 12 different tacos and burritos (for a group, honestly) and ended up with four napkins. You'd think that the damned things were spun from pure silk and hand-knit by busty virgins. And yet, on the other hand, I got enough taco sauce to feed a third-world country. So I guess what this says about Taco Bell is: Avoid the sauce, eat the napkins.
I hate the Container Store. And just about any store built on the principle of selling you things that you use to store other things. What a pointless exercise that is. You're not only being materialistic--you're being materialistic about your materialism. Who needs carefully coordinated designer boxes, for God's sakes? And the worst part of it all is that it's possible to go and drop hundreds of dollars on this stuff, and then still feel like you didn't really buy anything at all. ("Hey, you spent $400 the other day. What did you get?" "Uh . . . I got some stuff to put my stuff in.")
When you think about it, water bottles are really just sippy-cups for grown-ups. You may think that you really need the convenience of the squeeze-bottle-with-spout, but you're not doing anything that wouldn't allow you to just stop and drink out of an ordinary glass. Sure, I'll grant that marathon runners and Tour de France contestants have a real need to drink something in an unbreakable, no-spill container. But let's be real here. Most of these sports drinks and waters with the squeeze/spout design aren't being snapped up by top flight athletes. It's just us shmucks on the way to the office or the grocery store, acting like life is so hectic that we can't even stop moving long enough to hydrate. Not that I have any room to talk. I'm so dependent on them that I can be rendered soggy and confused by a regular water bottle, much like an indignant 2-year-old who doesn't understand why she can't walk and drink at the same time.
Whatever happened to the Gap? Oh, I know it's still around in malls and such. People need to get their khakis somewhere, after all. But there was a time (in the late 90s I think), where it was everywhere. It was the Starbucks of clothes. (Or Starbucks was the tastefully neutral cotton blends of coffee. Either way.) It seemed like everyone used it as a wardrobe staple. And then, suddenly, not so much. Did we get all of the pigment-dyed tees that we needed? Or is it just that, now that people are worried about the economy, no one wants to go through a lot of effort to buy neutral and utilitarian clothes? Lord knows I don't. Though if, for some reason, I have a driving need to look like a middle-class white guy who majored in accounting, it will be my very first stop.
I am fascinated by the people who make paper-mache effigies for protests. Especially in the US, where such people are hghly likely to be middle class college students with access to cable TV and the internet and various other more interesting ways of passing time. It just seems like a lot of effort to go through just to make something that you're going to destroy soon after. And you're not even going to get anything good out of the destruction, like spare change and mini Tootsie Rolls. Destroying effigies at protests would make a lot more sense to me if people would stuff the effigies with candy first. Then, not only would you be making a statement against globalism or corporatism or whatever, but you'd also get a tasty snack in the process.
Are you telling someone a story about a ski run or a poker hand you once had? Stop right there. Unless it: 1.) Ends in major, yet comic, injury; or 2.) Involves a sudden attack by ninjas and/or terrorists, you are needlessly torturing your audience. No one wants to hear about the time you had pocket aces or the time you navigated a icy double diamond. The only reason they're listening to you is to be polite and because they are waiting for their turn to bore you with their own dull card/sports-related story. The same rules apply as in the case of stories about sex. Unless it has a comic (and preferably embarrassing) ending, we just don't care. Keep it to yourself.
I propose that we hold some kind of summit and arrive at the definitive word for a sandwich served on a long, soft roll. Pesonally, I think that "subs" is the way to go. I've never had anyone blink at me for a confused and awkward moment when referring to a "sub." "Hoagies" is a close second, but loses points for sounding like something that is guaranteed to make you fatter. And "grinder" just sounds thoroughly unpleasant--who wants to eat something that evokes grinding? "Hero" is just confusing and can sound vaguely sexual in the wrong sentence, and "po' boy" is too closely allied with that sandwich with the fried oysters. However, my endorsement of "subs" does not extend to the more formal "submarine sandwich"--which makes you sound like you're about to start talking about when pay phones only cost a dime and you could leave your car unlocked at work. And don't even get me started on "pop."
I think that we need a new word to describe Taco Bell-style food. Not Mexican. That's way too confusing. If you tell people you want to go out for Mexican, they think of hot plates of enchiladas or (if they're a tad pretentious) start talking about regional variations or the best tamale places. And if you clarify that you're talking about fast-Mexican, they'll think of Chipotle or Baja Fresh or taco carts. Taco Bell belongs to a completely different category of food--something that has the shape and names of Mexican food but bears little other resemblance to it. (This is not to imply that I am too good for Taco Bell by any means. Sometimes I don't want good Mexican. Sometimes I want wretched, greasy psuedo-Mexican food with questionable plasticky cheese.) Maybe we could call it Tex-Mess.
5-12-09
Fear me, for I am . . . the Plant Murderer. I do not profile my victims. I can take anything from a moderately-sized fig tree to a small potted flower and (within a matter of months) reduce it to sad brown twigs and withered leaves. And I am creative in my methods. Some people prefer to merely neglect their plants to death. Not I. I like to mix it up. Sometimes, I fail to water them for weeks, other times I overwater them until they are practically residing in a swamp. I have no understanding of types or durations of proper sunlight, and will allow the poor things to sadly reach towards the windows as if attempting to flee my house. I once killed a cactus. Yes, a cactus. I'm not sure how, exactly. I did water it, but not too often. I think. Basically, if I'm ever brought to trial for my crimes, I'm hoping to get off on the score of my obvious mental incompetency when it comes to plant care. It's not as though I want to kill them, after all. They're all so pretty, and I like having them around. I just . . . er . . . love them to death, I suppose.
5-11-09
It is both a little ridiculous and a little embarrasing to me that I own a $300 vacuum cleaner. And more than a little ironic, given how messy and generally bad-at-housekeeping I am. Don't get me wrong--it's very cool looking, and if there is some kind of social status attached to having a stupidly expensive vacuum cleaner, at least I have that going for me. And it certainly works very well--better than its $50 predecessor for sure. But . . . it's just a vacuum cleaner. The thing I use to suck up toast crumbs cost more than the average guy in Zimbabwe makes in a year. So if I start to complain about the recession, feel free to punch me right in the mouth.
5-8-09
I wonder how Mick Jagger would have fared on American Idol--assuming he made it to the top 10, of course. Would they have told him to cool it with the dancing? Would Randy have criticized his range? ("Aww, Dawg. That was a'ight, but you really need to try different styles, dawg. It was a little sound-alike for me.") Clearly, he doesn't have the near-Christian-rock appeal that the judges (and fans) seem so drawn to. I really don't see Jagger telling a sad story about his life and then singing "Jesus Take the Wheel." And I would bet anything that Simon would have told him that he doesn't have the right look for an American Idol.
5-7-09
Is there anything more excruciating that going to a museum with a plaque reader? There you are, moving through the exhibits, giving everything its perfectly reasonable 4-5 seconds of contemplation, and the person you're with stops and reads everything. Every damned last word in every display. Not only does it take forever to make any forward progress at all, but then they keep regaling you with pointless trivia that they learned minutes before but that they present like they've got a Ph.D. in obscure history. "Did you know that the early farmers used separate scythes for wheat and barley harvests, so as not to offend the earth goddess?" Yeah, did you know that I'm planning to ditch you in Ancient Greek pottery?
5-6-09
There is a certain kind of person (generally female) who just loves doing memos and email and such in Comic Sans. If you are lucky enough not to recognize the font I'm talking about by name, then I suppose I can give you an example. It’s the super-cutesy font that says, “Hi! I like to use purple ink and name my cats after literary figures. If you ask me, I’ll say that my favorite novel is Pride and Prejudice, even though it’s really Confessions of a Shopaholic."
I hate Comic Sans.
5-5-09
It seems like zombies have gotten a lot faster in recent years. This is a little unfair. I'm not saying that there aren't already inherent downsides in being a member of the walking dead and surviving off the brains of the living. I'm just saying that it doesn't make any sense (inasmuch as it makes sense to have zombies around in the first place) for the recently deceased to be so damned spry. Of course, the creators of said zombie movies and video games always have some explanation for their strangely athletic zombies--they have a disease rather than being traditional zombies, etc., etc. But you can't fool me. They're just trying to up the drama quotient by giving us zombies that can do an Ironman triathalon when they're not busy hanging out in dark alleys and basements, waiting for some moron to wander in.
5-4-09
It's a little odd that obsessed lovers and stalkers in the movies are always so good-looking. I think being stalked is a lot easier to swallow when your stalker looks like a Calvin Klein model. As opposed to real life, where they're much more likely to look like slightly pudgy RPG players who stand alone at the bar with a Long Island iced tea and hum Alanis Morisette songs to themselves. You'd almost wonder why the movie stalkee doesn't just go ahead and date their stalker already--except that when your stalker is a model, your boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife needs to look like a Greek god to compensate. Frankly, I don't know where these people get off having any problems at all.
5-1-09
You know how sometimes, you find a mirror that is much more flattering than others? I plan to make my first million selling webcams designed on the same principle. When you use it, you'll still look like yourself, only slightly taller and thinner, with clearer skin and less messy hair. And maybe more pronounced cheekbones. And possibly a light, healthy tan. Essentially, it will be like having your own Vogue photo editor in your computer. Sure, there are some minor technological hurdles to overcome, but it will be worth it to be able to skype without looking like I just crawled out of an open grave or that my nose is trying to conquer the rest of my face.
4-30-09
Are people who are really, really, really into vampires aware of all of the obvious sublimated sex stuff? With a lot of things like this, I would assume that most people just don't see the subtext, but with vampires, it's kind of the whole point. Yeah, sure, pretend that it's about deep questions on immortality, murder, and the meaning of life. But if you're too into vampire lore, that's really the same as saying, "I have some very weird, very freakish sexual hang-ups that would probably take years of psychoanalysis to resolve and would give Freud himself the dry heaves."
4-29-09
If you ever struggle to pay your bills (and I think most of us have at some point in time), it can be very depressing--maddening even--to watch a crappy movie. Here you are, attempting to escape your stress, and all you can think about is the fact that someone paid millions and millions of dollars to produce the pile of garbage that is unspooling before your eyes. Someone paid for lights and film and editing, trailers for the actors, coffee and snacks. Someone paid professionals to stand around and deliver these terrible lines--and they paid someone else to make sure the actors looked pretty and stylish while they walked us through this lame and interminable plot. Heck, someone actually sat down and wrote down every excruciating sentence that you hear. And he got paid for it too! And then they printed posters and made trailers and TV ads and a website for it. Millions of dollars were poured into a horrible waste of time that no one will remember 6 months from now. When you worry about making a simple car payment, this is an infuriating thought.
4-28-09
Evil criminal masterminds never seem to recognize what a good thing they have. I mean, here you are with an awesome lair, scads of henchmen to do your bidding, and usually at least one beautiful and exotic woman of varied tastes. And inevitably they lose it all by trying to take over the world. Who wants to be in charge of the world? It's nothing but headaches and whiny people demanding lower carbon emissions. Just sit back and enjoy your undersea lair, man.
4-27-09
Does James Bond work out? It seems pretty key to his general work habits, what with the constant need to chase extraordinarily athletic people through hazardous areas, often while climbing buildings, jumping from roof to roof, and so on. The evil henchmen that James Bond encounters would probably make up the most incredible Olympic track and field team of all time. All of this seems to argue for Bond spending some time on the Stairmaster, and yet we never see him do so much as a sit-up. For some reason, it seems very un-British (not to mention un-spylike) to be concerned about reps and free weights.
4-24-09
Has everyone simply stopped using the word, "spaghetti"? There was a time when most people I knew, when they were eating long thin noodles with a red sauce (that may or may not have included meatballs, ground beef, or sausages) would simply have said, "We're having spaghetti tonight." Now, I don't know anyone who just eats spaghetti. They have "pasta bolognese" or "penne marinara" or "bucatini amatriciana." If you're really unlucky, you'll end up with someone who can pontificate at length as to why the noodles you're about to eat should only be served with some other sauce for this or that foodie/scientific reason. Yeah, yeah. So it's more technically correct that way. Somehow, I don't think that's the motivation behind it. Even people who consider The Olive Garden an evening of fine authentic Italian dining eschew "spaghetti" terminology. I think that in American English, "spaghetti" now officially means, "Cheap long noodles with Ragu on top--or maybe Prego if you're lucky--topped with Kraft parmesan." Maybe that's why no one wants to come over for dinner when I say that I'm making spaghetti.
4-23-09
Has a straight man ever intentionally bought a throw pillow? I'm just wondering whether this is yet another product that exists solely because of women and gay men. You know, like Project Runway and occasional tables. Of course, it doesn't count if the throw pillows came with the couch. This only applies to assorted small pillows that serve only as decoration. Especially if it has some kind of decoration (like embroidery or various plastic things sewn to the front) that makes it actually uncomfortable to use as a pillow. (Oh, and if it has a design from a college or major league sports team, then it counts as memorabilia and not as a throw pillow. The rule goes that if it's more likely to show up in an ad for Sports Illustrated than in the pages of Elle Decor, than it's not a true decorating decision. That goes double for Fatheads.)
4-22-09
I don't understand why evil masterminds are always killing their henchmen. I know that there's no better way to prove how truly ruthless and evil you are than by offing a few loyal followers. But it seems like a huge waste of resources. There are a finite number of evil henchmen in this world, and good help is hard to find. Not to mention that it's a heck of a morale killer. Not all of the henchmen are doing it solely for the love of things evil--they're looking for their reward like everyone else, and randomly offing their coworkers is going to lower their motivation. Not to mention that your average evil henchman probably doesn't even get a dental plan.
4-21-09
Being really into the environment is a great way to combine smug do-gooderism with laziness. I can't think of an easier way to do charity-type work than to buy certain brands of things and throw away my trash in special containers. And for that very small level of effort, I get to pull a high-and-mighty on everyone else and feel good about myself. And even if I do something not very eco-friendly, like take an airplane somewhere or continue to exist, I can still buy my way back to virtue via carbon offsets. Carbon offsets are the environmentalist equivalent of drawing the priest who will forgive any sin for one "Our Father" and three "Hail Marys." Score.
4-20-09
Hey, Acoustic Guitar Guy! How long do I have to sit here and pretend to enjoy your medley of easily-played folk guitar favorites? I have to say that it was very discouraging when you finished up that one about the train and Casey Jones, only to launch immediately into Michael Row the Boat Ashore. I was really hoping that I would only have to endure one song before wandering off to join the rest of the party. By the way, you should also know that this only works on girls young enough to be impressed by your "Think Globally" t-shirt. The rest of us are just wondering whether you have a real job and hoping that you're not going to start talking about becoming a hemp farmer.
4-17-09
Many people have pointed out how ludicrous it is that, in the dance scene at the end of Footloose, these white country kids who haven't been allowed to dance suddenly know all of the latest '80s dance moves. And I will admit that it's a bit far-fetched. You have to assume that they're not allowed to watch MTV either, and yet somehow they've managed to acquire professional quality breakdancers in their high school. But I think the most implausible part of that scene (other than the fact that these people can dance in a veritable blizzard of glitter without freaking out or beginning to resemble one of those robot statue guys that hangs out on busy tourists streets for cash) has to be the incredibly precise and organized group dances. It is impossible to get any group of ten caucasian adults, who have known all of the steps for at least 10 years, to do the electric slide in unison. And yet, this group of high school students who aren't allowed to dance can somehow spontaneously break into a highly choreographed group dance that involves quick-stepping across a factory floor. Also, where did Kevin Bacon get that red tuxedo jacket? Don't tell me that the formal wear store in the middle of nowhere is selling that thing.
4-15-09
It's weird to think that back when I was a kid, you couldn't spend 5 minutes at 7-11 trying to decide which brand of water you were going to buy. Sure, they had bottled water. One brand. Usually Evian. Sometimes Perrier. And if you bought it, you were a pretentious prick who was stupid enough to buy French water. Now, you can seriously contemplate the origin, type, and shape of your purchased bottle of water, and no one even thinks less of you for doing so. Hell, you can even carry your chosen bottle around in a specially designed thermal cooling cover. I don't know what we would have thought about water bottle thermoses back in the day. Even jerks who drank French water didn't have the balls to try and put them in little carrying cases.
4-14-09
I'm very, very annoyed at whatever company is responsible for determining the standard size of those little earphone things that are supposed to nestle comfortably in your ear. I think they're called earbuds if you're using them to listen to music, but they're also found on bluetooth headsets. Anyway, who on earth are they using as the ear model for their designs? Prince Charles? Will Smith? Dumbo? I spend most of my time trying to keep the damned things from falling out. And if, by some miracle, I get them to stay put, they hurt. And that stupid little foam cover they come with just adds insult to injury--it's like putting a pillowcase over a big slab of granite. Why is it even necessary to make big, thick ear inserts? After all, it's not like they're going to fall in.
4-13-09
Why do female superheroes tend to wear high-heeled boots? Yes, the technical answer is, "because they were drawn by men and aren't so much crimefighers as an excuse to have someone walking around in every other frame dresssed like a particularly flamboyant prostitute." Still, I'm not complaining about the endless bustiers, bikini briefs, and skintight leather ensembles. (Well, not right now, anyway.) I suppose I can understand why someone might choose to battle supervillains in a black leather fetish outfit. If you've got it, flaunt it, and so on. But I would be wearing Nikes with my lace-up bustier and chaps. Looking hot is one thing, but there's nothing sexy about breaking an ankle while half-jogging after Professor Evil.
4-10-09
As we all know, Easter is the traditional time for people to natter on and on about combined Christian and pagan traditions, blah, blah, blah and isn't funny how rabbits don't really lay eggs? Yawn. Actually, my theory is that the various disparate Easter traditions are part of a huge and ancient religious conspiracy to prevent Easter from becoming too commercial. Unlike the committee in charge of coming up with Christmas, the Easter guys were clever--they came up with a bunch of random stuff with no particular unifying theme: bunny rabbits, decorating and hiding eggs, pastels, baby chicks, lambs, and fancy hats. No presents, just a little basket of candy. Then they scheduled Easter to always be on a Sunday so that no one would even get an extra day off of work. And voila! No big shopping days, no good songs, and no one is really all that comfortable with having his children sitting on the lap of a grown man in a rabbit suit. All part of the plan. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Dan Brown.
4-9-09
Attention movie directors and producers! Please stop using Huey helicopters in movies that are supposed to feature the military and take place in the present. It looks ridiculous, and generally sends the message that you decided to get cheap about props. (Moreover, it gets distracting as I begin to wonder about what military installation is sending these poor bastards out to battle terrorists in antiques. Are they also equipped with muskets and those little flying saucer-style WWI helmets?) There is only one appropriate place for a Huey in a movie, and that's when some guy is leaning out the door with a giant machine gun as rice paddies pass by and "Fortunate Son" plays on the soundtrack. Otherwise, get some damned Blackhawks.
4-8-09
Generally speaking, writers aren't a particularly optimistic bunch--at least as far as the future is concerned. Apparently, if we're not all living in a post-apocalyptic wasteland with punkish, patched-together clothing and ratty hair, then we'll be living in an ultra-modern utopian nightmare, surrounded by luxury, but oppressed by the omnipresent Big Brother government. Evidently there are no major writing awards, screenplay bonuses, or large book advances for tales about a future that's pretty much like now, only with better computers and faster transportation.
4-7-09
If I have learned anything from historical fiction (other than the fact that history is full of spunky women with surprisingly 20th century beliefs regarding both women's rights and sexual freedom), it's that candy in the past really, really sucked. You almost never hear about chocolate. Mostly, it's all hard candy, lemon drops, and licorice. In other words, the losers of the world of confections. As anyone who has ever tried to enjoy one of those striped ribbon affairs available at Christmastime knows, it's less a candy and more an exploration of the relationship between sugar and rocks. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that they stopped manufacturing butterscotch discs in 1910, and that every single one in existence today is just leftover from that supply.
4-6-09
How rich and/or famous do you have to be before you can tell Madonna to shut up about Kabbalah? Obviously, more famous than Guy Ritchie. Though I think that both the President and Bill Gates are famous/rich enough to pull it off. Not that I think either of them would actually go so far as to bluntly tell her to stuff it. It's more probable that they'd employ the awkward-silence-followed-by-obvious-change-of-subject technique. Which is kind of a shame, really. After all, what's the point of being the Leader of the Free World if you can't just turn to Madonna and say, "Aw, shut up, you loony old prune. No one cares about the mish-mash of self-affirming spiritualism that you use to justify your obsessive self-worship."
4-3-09
Lately, every website I go to (even this one, damn it all) has the same advertisement for cutting down belly flat and achieving a flat stomach. The darned thing is following me around the web, and no amount of cookie flushing and spyware scanning will stop it. It's like my own personal telltale heart, taunting me from between the columns of my parade of timewasting sites. Only instead of a beating noise, I hear, "Put down that slice of pizza. Why don't you do some crunches? Ch-chub. Ch-chub. Ch-chub." I don't know how a few shopping sites and Drudge have managed to pigeonhole me into the "insecure body image" consumer profile, but I strongly suspect that the mean girl who hated me in college is behind it all somehow.
4-2-09
Ok people. Let's all take a collective deep breath and then swear not to get into any more fights based on what someone put down as his or her Facebook status. And ladies, I'm sorry to say that I'm mostly looking at you here. I'm not saying that no guy has ever said to his friend, "What do you mean you, 'wish people would stop being so shallow?' I know exactly what you're referring to, and I can't believe you'd bring that up again." Actually . . . I suppose I am saying that no guy has ever said that. Or anything remotely close. In fact, I'd be shocked if guys even checked other guys' Facebook status, much less analyzed it for hidden meanings. And I think that we can all learn a lesson from that. Unless your friend has changed her status to, "I hate Sue and hope she dies," then maybe the Sues of the world can just relax and not assume that the same sentiment is being expressed through a comment about hating Monday mornings. Of course, if your friend has changed her status to something about hating Mondays and also Superpoke dropkicked you, there's no way you should stand for that kind of disrespect. No more Likeness quizzes for that witch.
4-1-09
What is with the enduring appeal of movies about adults who are magically transplanted into the body of a teenager, then forced to go back to high school and learn more about his/her son/daughter? The classic of the genre, Freaky Friday, was minimally entertaining, but it's not exactly a format that cries out to be redone. Not to mention that it's beyond ridiculous. Not the body-switching part--mystical body changing is one of the least fantastic parts about this moronic format. No, what gets me is that the adult always gains a new appreciation for the travails of high school after walking a few miles in his or her child's Nikes. Er . . . no. I've been a teenager, and I've been an adult. And if I were somehow unfortunate enough to have to relive high school for a few weeks, I would not be overcome by how tough kids have it nowadays. I would spend the whole time saying, "This is friggin' easy. What the hell were you whining about?"
3-31-09
Restaurants that put plastic flowers on the table probably don't realize that this is not creating the cheery, hospitable ambiance that they're hoping for. After all, it's not as though one can't easily tell the difference between a real flower and one that was made in Taiwan. So immediately, you know that the owner is cheap. And inevitably, the flower is dusty and/or greasy from lack of cleaning and thousands of french fries. (Who ever thinks to clean fake flower petals?) So, the essential message that you get when you sit down at a table with a dusty fake daisy is that you're at an eating establishment that likes to cut corners and not clean very thoroughly. Doesn't do much for the appetite, does it?
3-30-09
Why do Japanese cartoon characters have such big eyes? The damned things are the size of dinner plates. I know that they are supposed to be cute . . . and maybe vulnerable or childlike. But what's cute about ginormous eyeballs? I guarantee that if you were walking down the sidewalk and saw someone whose eyes took up approximately a third of his face, "cute" wouldn't be anywhere near your first reaction. You'd be more likely to cross to the other side of the street, break into a run, and start screaming about the freaky alien eyeball guy. I guess it's true what they say--you don't even know that you're really a bigot until you've insulted someone with eye sockets the size of your fist.
3-27-09
Curse you, Discovery Health Channel. I hate watching gross medical shows. Not only do they freak me out, but they give me ridiculous obscure hypochondria for days after I see them. (Note: ridiculous obscure hypochondria can be distinguished from regular hyponchondria in that it leads you to self-diagnose with extremely rare and unlikely illnesses. A person suffering from ridiculous obscure hypochondria would never say that he has the flu or a migraine. Ebola or a brain tumor, sure. This kind of hypochondriac only suffers from illnesses that have been featured on an episode of House.) Anyway, despite my general dislike of watching major surgery without warning, I still find myself drawn to the Discover Health shows. I think it's because of the names. How can you just flip past The Man Whose Arms Exploded or 200 Pound Tumor? You don't even have the guilt that accompanies peeking at car wrecks because heck, it's on TV. They want you to slow down and look.
3-26-09
It's a shame that there aren't more uses for the word "niblet." It's such a fun, spunky, and cute little word to say. The first syllable is like a little anticipatory pause before the party time of the second syllable. But unfortunately, the only time you can really say, "niblet," without looking like the kind of crazy street person who randomly yells strings of nonsense words followed by an accusation that the CIA is secretly taping us all is when you're talking about corn. And even then, you have to rein yourself in a bit because, really, how much is there to say about corn? If only someone cool could reclaim "niblet" and make it the new "phat" or "awesome." Then I could get away with saying it all the time. Dude, that was totally niblet.
3-25-09
Eating microwave popcorn is like the snack version of Beat the Clock. To start with, if you get distracted for 5 seconds while it's still in the microwave, the entire kitchen gets suffused with the wonderful odor of burnt popcorn--which is right up there with Teenage-Boy-Overapplying-Axe-Bodyspray in the list of persistent and unpleasant smells. Then, even if it hasn't been overcooked, as soon as you take it out of the microwave, the yumminess timer starts running. At that point, you have only a matter of minutes before the popcorn cools completely and transforms from hot, buttery, and delicious snack to greasy bits of oddly-flavored styrofoam. This is why it's vitally important to stuff it in your face by the handful while it's still warm. At least, that's what I tell the Nosey Nosertons who criticize my popcorn-eating technique.
3-23-09
Hooray for the diet reality show! Finally, we have found a way to gawk at the morbidly obese in an allegedly socially-acceptable way. Even the most clueless person knows that it's bad form to point and whisper at fat people, but if that fat person has decided to take part in a TV show about losing weight, then all bets are off. Sure, we like to pat ourselves on the back and say that we're really just pulling for them to improve their health. It's a nice bit of collective self-delusion. But there's a reason that all the various "Stop Eating Before You Kill Yourself" shows focus on the very obese rather than the many ordinary fat people. Because all of us regular folk then get to sit on the couch, munching potato chips and comfortably saying, "Hey, I may need to lose a few, but this guy needs to stop drinking 4 gallons of soda a day. Damn." And anything that makes us feel comfortably superior is ratings gold. (Ahem, SuperNanny. I'm looking at you here.)
3-20-09
I begin to wonder whether we're truly in a recession or whether this is just a dastardly clever marketing scheme. The vast majority of the time, when I hear someone mention the bad economy, it's almost immediately followed up by notice of a sale, an ad for a discount item, or a list of "steals" for "under $100" in "these difficult times." I probably need to check my history books on this, but I'm pretty sure that the Great Depression that reporters love to reference during their scary economy stories wasn't all about mascara sales and discount trips to Disney World.
3-19-09
I am very, very, very sorry that I discovered the world of Harry Potter fanfiction. Some things, once seen, cannot be unseen, and I now desperately wish that I could go back to a happier, more innocent time. A time before I knew that somewhere, someone is tapping away at a keyboard, trying to find just the right adjectives to describe a passionate sex scene between Harry Potter, Professor Snape, and a 6-foot anaconda. This is Exhibit A in my claim that the internet has a dangerous tendency to amplify freakiness. Back before the world wide web, people knew enough to be embarrassed about the fact that they fantasized about gay threesomes involving imaginary wizards. But now, safe in the knowledge that they will be applauded by other people who want to believe that Voldemort-based arousal is a totally normal thing, they actually commit these thoughts to writing and display them to the public. My real fear is that thousands of years from now, scientists are going to discover slash fanfiction and deduce that our culture came to an end because we were a civilization of wankers who lived in our mom's basement.
3-18-09
I hate recycling. I realize that this confession is the modern equivalent of announcing that you kick puppies. In certain circles, you'll get more social acceptance from an announcement that you surf goat porn than by telling people that you don't care to sort your bottles and cans. I'm not going to go political here. I just hate messing with trash. It's trash. And life is too short to rinse out bottles and separate newsprint. Hell, I don't even like taking out the regular trash. Recycling is like trash homework.
3-17-09
One of life's enduring mysteries is why people continue to feel compelled to suck up to Donald Trump. We can't still be convinced that he has some kind of business wisdom to pass on to us. Can we? I mean, he's great at self-aggrandizing gestures, but if I'm going to sit at the knee of a business mogul and soak in his wisdom, I'd prefer one with one or two fewer bankruptcies to his name. And also maybe one whose penthouse apartment isn't decorated like a Mafia wife's dream. I suppose I can excuse the worship from regular folk. After all, if you're depending on him for your livelihood then it's probably nice to know that you have a boss whose ego feeds off of brown-nosing. But I was just watching Celebrity Apprentice, and it's bewildering to me that rich and successful people kowtow to him too. That's the whole point of being rich and successful--being able to tell obnoxious blowhards to kiss off. What I wouldn't give to see someone (just once) tell Trump to stick his opinion up his "greatest ever" ass.
3-13-09
I've had it with the soccer evangelicals. Give it up. We are not going to embrace soccer in this country. Sure, it's fine for uncoordinated children who aren't big enough yet for football or baseball. And on the odd occasions that the US national team is in danger of not losing spectacularly in international competition, I'm willing to watch a bit. Assuming there's nothing better on tv. But I'm not going to get excited about a sport where a score of 5-1 represents a veritable blizzard of goals. And don't even get me started on the fact that the game clock is a hollow joke and that the actual end of the match is determined by some calculation involving the many mysterious pauses in the game and how badly the referee needs to go to the bathroom. Oh, and you're not helping anything by trying to pull the Soccer-Is-Sophisticated-and-European card. We all know that, "sophisticated and European," is how psuedo-intellectuals try to convince themselves that they're not bored out of their damned minds by something they barely understand.
3-12-09
I'm not a fan of psychics. Generally, the best thing I can say about you (if you're a psychic) is that it's possible that you're so mentally imbalanced that you actually do believe that you can see the future or talk to dead people. (Seriously, dead people! You pass over to the other side, uncover the mysteries of existence, and all you can do is communicate obliquely to these jerks? Fail, dead people. Fail.) It's much more probable, however, that as a psychic, you're just a con man who picks on the vulnerable and desperate. I mean, if you really were psychic, why you haven't won the lottery or made a killing in the stock market? Your "gift" doesn't work that way? Well then, how lame is a psychic "gift" that only allows you to see mundane and vaguely comforting details about ordinary people's love lives. I don't need a damned crystal ball to tell you that the slutty girl down the street is going to meet a mysterious stranger. She does that every Friday night.
3-11-09
If you always write in purple ink on pink paper and you dot your lowercase "i"s with little hearts, I want you to stop reading this site right this minute. Go find a forum and complain about how meeeeeaaaaan we are, and how everyone is jealous of you because you're pretty and smart. But I'm afraid I just can't have you reading this website. It totally destroys our credibility with the non-cutesy twit segment of the population. Also, I hate the way that you use "LOL" as punctuation. Not everything is that damned funny.
3-9-09
I really, really, really hate those pink "girly" NFL team shirts. Hate them. Hate the idea that chicks don't want to wear unfeminine team colors to show their team allegiance. Hate the whole introduction of "cute" to football fandom. Hate the thought of someone saying, "Ooooooh. I love the Patriots because that Tom Brady is sooooooo cute. But I don't want to wear some icky boy jersey. I know, I'll get this pink shirt." Now, I don't think that everyone who has one of those shirts fits this profile--maybe it was a gift; maybe it was on sale; maybe you lost a bet with God. But when I see a chick in a pink "World Champion New York Giants" shirt, I just want Ray Lewis to run by and tackle her. Oh, and just a fashion note--if you want to look sexy in a football jersey, go with the girl's cut-off version of your home team, not some random bandwagon team with the handsome quarterback, you twit.
3-6-09
If you feel the need to wear color contacts, please be aware that we all know that your eyes aren't really that blue. Or green. (I notice that very few people are opting for brown contacts. Do they even make them? As a person of brown-eyedness, I find this anti-brown discrimination troubling.) Half the time, the effect is actually somewhat alarming, which is not the look I imagine you were going for when you picked out your color contacts. I once knew a girl with run-of-the-mill blue eyes who inexplicably decided to get green contacts. It looked like a leprechaun threw up on her face. Or like she was about to shoot kryptonite rays at us. Definitely not the aura of sexy mystery that she was going for.
3-5-09
I'm superstitious, but only when it's convenient. Which makes me wonder whether I'm really superstitious at all. For example, I'll knock on wood if there's wood around. But if there's no wood nearby, or if it would require me to get up and go into another room, then I figure that it's not really that important to stave off bad luck for this particular thing. I also used to throw spilled salt over my shoulder. But that was before I was responsible for cleaning my own floors. Now I just wipe it up with my shoulders at a weird angle so that the evil spirits can get the general idea. Of course, I don't walk under ladders. Unless I really want to get on the other side of the ladder.
3-4-09
I think it's time to worry about our chipotle fixation. Starting with the pronunciation. I think it's safe to say that open mockery is allowed for those who say, "chip-oh-tull." But the whole, "chip-oat-lay," versus, "chip-ol-tay," dynamic is a bit more complicated. Sure, the first pronunciation is technically correct, but let's face it--it's a tongue twister. Try saying it five times fast. So I'm not going to be too hard on people who transpose the "L" and "T' sounds. I will, however, unequivocally state that people who get all snotty about pronouncing it correctly and add on a spanish accent too should be given wedgies. Oh, and regardless of how its pronounced, can we maybe stop putting the damned things into everything? Yes, they're delicious, but there are other flavoring agents in existence. Not everything needs a chipotle rub, sauce, marinade, or mayonnaise. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised to find chipotle-seasoned condoms. Mmmmm. Spicy.
3-3-09
When I was a kid, one of my teachers told me that they fire department was going to replace all the bright red firetrucks with bright yellow ones instead--a very disappointing development, since the red was not only classic, but much better looking that the neon-pus color that they settled on as the replacement. The problem, as my teacher explained, was that the yellow trucks would be a lot easier to see than the red ones, and I accepted that at the time. But looking back, this seems less impressive to me than before. I don't doubt that bright yellow catches the eye better than red, but we're talking about a giant truck with flashing lights and a siren. It's not exactly easy to miss. I don't need anyone painting an elephant bright green in order to see it better. It's a friggin' elephant.
3-2-09
Anyone who thinks that American enterprise, intiative, and creativity are dead hasn't seen what we've done in the world of deep-frying. Small-minded people may try to use our love of deep-fried foods as some kind of metaphor for American obesity, greediness, or cultural imperialism. These people are no fun to hang out with, by the way. They're the ones at the party who compain about the beer and try to steer the conversation towards why the Oscars overlooks worthy short films. In truth, a country that is willing to deep-fry a twinkie is one where there is a whole lot of optimism. People who have given up on the future don't deep-fry twinkies and candy bars. No, if you're selling deep-fried snack cakes, then you're telling the world that you will sell anything so long as there's someone who will buy it and snork it down. I have no fear for our economy so long as there is some guy out there trying to boldly deep-fry where none have fried before.
2-27-09
Why do potheads try to convince cigarette smokers that pot is healthier for your lungs than cigarette smoke? Back in college, I would inevitably be witness to these impassioned arguments wherein the campus Phish die-hard would beat up on the anorexic girl for smoking in his presence. He'd go on about secondhand smoke and a relative who died from cancer and big tobacco, blah, blah, blah. Then she'd counter with the point that he smoked pot, and he'd start pontificating about how pot wasn't bad for your lungs. The funniest part of all of this wasn't the battle of annoyingness going on. (Though that was a plus.) Nor was it the fact that I'm pretty sure that the scientific studies being quoted by the neo-hippie wannabe were pretty obviously made up. (There's not really an Institute of Cannabis Studies, is there?) It was how indignant Mr. Rasta Hat was about it all. Yeah sure, Mini Jerry Garcia. That's why you smoke pot. The comparative health benefits.
2-26-09
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, which for Catholics is a traditional day to forget that you're supposed to go to Mass and avoid meat. Oops. However, my sister did Superpoke going to church with me, thus establishing perhaps the lowest possible level of religious observance. One might argue that if one Superpokes attending Mass, that's still not as bad as forgetting church entirely. I don't know about that. Which is worse--to blow off church on a holy day or to blow off church on a holy day, but virtually attend it through a 3-second Facebook transaction? I say that as soon as little cartoon sheep are involved, you have officially fallen below the level of "pretending" that you forgot until all the day's services are coincidentally completed. Of course, my sisters and I would never do any of those things--we were all at the first service this morning. (Hi Mom--Happy Lent!)
2-25-09
It's true that the remote control has made life much simpler. The strain of having to walk from the couch to the television in order to change the channel has now been mitigated to wandering angrily around the room, tossing pillows aside in search of the remote. Worst of all is when someone has put the remote away right next to the television. What is the point of that? What kind of sadist puts the remote control directly beside the object it's supposed to control? That's not remote at all.
The one thing that I miss the most about the pre-remote era is the old school cable box with its rows of oblong buttons. Those lazy kids today can flip through hundreds of channels by holding down one rubberized button. But back in my day, you had to stand at the television and click rapidly through dozens of little switches by hand. We've gone soft, I tell you.
2-24-09
What is with the bias for getting up early? People who wake up before 6am on a regular basis (and especially when they don't have to work) have this driving need to tell you about it. "Oh yeah, I've been up since 5am. I've already run three miles, made croissants from scratch, and learned how to speak fluent German. When did you get up?" Why is this something to brag about? It's not like there's some kind of inherent morality in being awake first or in how much you got to sleep. I slept until 2 the other day and then got up and took a nap. You don't see me pulling a superior attitude on anyone for being so uptight that they got up at daybreak.
2-23-09
Among the many tired and overused complaints out there, one of the most annoying is the observation that reality TV is not very, "real." Well, duh. Thanks for being the trillionth person to share that particular nugget of wisdom. What's worse, it's pretty blatantly incorrect. Not to get all metaphysical or anything, but it is as real as anything else. What people are really complaining about when they go on about the unreality of reality shows is that such shows cater to our preconceived notions of what people are like and how things should proceed. But it's silly to hate on reality TV for knowing us better than we know ourselves or for mining the kernel of truth within every stereotype. Heck, in our appearance-driven, celebrity obsessed culture, the shallow contestants, contrived situations, and general fakery are about as real as real can get.
2-20-09
If we haven't already reached it, I hope that we will soon be at the end of throwing your hands in the air like you just don't care. I've never much liked that phrase--it's lazy lyrics filler. It's the hip hop version of rhyming, "love" with something about, "the stars up above." More than that, however, is the fact that it makes no damned sense. I've spent a good deal of my life not caring about a great many things, and not once did my apathy cause me to throw my hands in the air. On the contrary. Hand-throwing gestures are far too much effort to go through over something I don't care about. Shrugging in boredom like I just don't care? That I could get behind--even if it's not much of a dance move.
2-19-09
Please tell me that I'm not the only person drawn to--and yet confused by--The Millionaire Matchmaker on Bravo. Don't tell me that when you're a millionaire, it's really that hard to find attractive, slutty gold diggers. I realize that one of the perks of having a lot of money is that you don't have to do a lot of the mundane things in life, but to hire out your slut-finding to some crazed, high-maintenance horsey "love doctor" is more than just lazy. It's counter-intuitive. And don't tell me that these guys are doing this because they want to find love. Right. That's why they're going to a matchmaker that specializes in millionaires. If you're looking to find love within a group of women who have already determined that they're only interested in guys with money--well, it's obvious that you didn't make your fortune via your towering intellect.
2-18-09
Please do not name your son Duane. Or Dwayne. Really. No good can come of that. You're virtually guaranteeing that he will one day rob a convenience store. Possibly with the help of an idiot best friend who uses his credit card to rent a car to pull off the robbery. And just as a general rule--if you name your child after where he or she was conceived, please keep that little piece of information to yourself. That long moment after you share that little nugget of awkwardness with your friends is the sound of quiet desperation as we come to the realization that we will never be able to scrub that image out of our minds whenever we hear your child's name.
2-17-09
I was listening to the radio the other day when TLC's "Waterfalls" came on. Now there is a song that is riddled with faulty logic. To begin with, I don't really think of, "chasing waterfalls," as an inherently bad thing--it seems to me that sticking, "to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to," shows a lack of ambition and imagination. But we'll grant them their metaphor. For the purposes of this song, "chasing waterfalls," is clearly a negative behavior. Still, that doesn't explain their condemnation of, "Little Precious." (Who, you may recall, is obsessed with a girl who, "gives him lovin' that his body can't handle," but whom he sticks with anyway because she's good to him. And then he gets AIDS and dies.) So how exactly is Little Precious chasing waterfalls? Presumably, he doesn't know that his girlfriend is HIV-positive, so he's not exactly chasing anything here. I suppose you could argue that the lyrics are super-obscure and his "girlfriend" is temptation and/or a sex addiction, but I don't really see how that qualifies as a choice to chase waterfalls rather than a compulsion. Not to mention that, writing-wise, we're not exactly talking about Shakespeare here. And don't even get me started on the whole question of the drug dealer and his crappy mom.
2-16-09
I have to admit that I'm slightly jealous of people to do Live Action Role Playing. For the unaware, this is that classic of geekhood, the role-playing game (like Dungeons & Dragons) on high octane dork steroids. But instead of sitting around a table with a pile of multi-sided dice, the players dress up in elf ears and fake swords and run around in the woods casting spells on each other. Yes, we are talking about grown adults here. These are possibly the only people on earth disdained by World of Warcraft addicts for being too geeky. But here's the thing--I envy them their sense of self. Much like fundamentalist Christians, they've essentially checked out of concerns about hipness or pop culture relevance. They're totally happy with where they are, and completely confident with the fact that they're running around in the field behind the Costco in hobbit feet. Of course, people being what they are, there's probably an internal hierarchy of dorkiness even within the Live Action Role Playing community, but I prefer to live with my illusions.
2-13-09
If you plan to make a big deal this year about how much you hate Valentine's Day, please stop right there. Hating on Valentine's Day has become completely cliché. Not only is it always tinged with a bit of bitterness (no matter how happily coupled you may be), but if you truly dislike it that much then you make a better statement by ignoring it completely than by making a big fat stink about how you think it's a contrived Hallmark holiday or how you're going to have an anti-Valentine party and play break-up music while drinking straight whiskey. Nobody believes that you drink straight whisky anyway. Look, we all know that it's a contrived holiday. So the hell what? We don't have enough holidays, period--much less holidays that focus on food, sex, and drinking (not necessarily in that order). So please take your anti-Valentine screed elsewhere, thank you. I'm about to bite into one of these mystery minefield chocolates and I'm really hoping that I get the caramel one instead of the one filled with toothpaste.
2-12-09
You know, Yoda has been training Jedis for something like a kajillion years. And all that time, he has been hanging out with all the other Jedis (and holding Jedi council meetings and such) in what is obviously the official language of the Jedi--English. Sure, it seems a little odd that very long ago and in a galaxy far, far away, anyone would be speaking modern English, but it's pretty clear that through whatever miracle of spontaneous evolution of language, not only do the Jedi speak English, but quite a few of them speak proper British English to boot. (Granted, one of them speaks dumb American teenager English, and one speaks badass, but the basic point still holds.) So why is it that despite hundreds of years of experience in communicating in this language, Yoda is still unable to grasp the fundamentals of English sentence structure? We all know that he's smart enough to get it. You almost wonder if he's just messing with everyone, like how he uses a cane when he's really capable of doing ninja flips off the walls.
2-11-09
When evaluating my life, I'd have to say that one of my biggest failures has been my inability to get past the three crocodiles without a rope in a classic game of Pitfall. I just could never seem to get the timing right. Even if I got past the first two crocs, death would inevitably follow in the jaws of the third. Or even more heartbreakingly, my little guy would land in the water just after the third crocodile. Sure, I could always go the reverse direction so that I would resurrect safely on the opposite side of the croc pit. Or go underneath to brave the gigantic 2-dimensional scorpion. But it never felt right. Of course, I also had a lot of problems with the bouncing boulder level, but that's not nearly as poetic or metaphorical.
2-10-09
I notice that there is a short window to enjoy microwave popcorn. When it first comes out of the microwave, it's volcano hot, but you have to push through the initial scalding and start on it as soon as possible. Because unfortunately, very bad things begin to happen as it cools. Namely, your delicious, crispy, buttery treat slowly turns into a cool bowl of greasy crumbs. Instead of a nice and salty butter flavor, you start to get this weird film in your mouth and the flavor trasforms into something that tastes like how the movie theater at the mall smells at midnight. It's not a good thing. Of course, a foodie-type would chime in here to say that this is why we should take the time to pop our specialty heritage corn in a more traditional way and only use natural flavorings. It's alright to loathe that person. Who has time to hand-pop a bowl of popcorn? I'll keep to my mouth-scalding race-against-the-clock bowl of trans-fats, thank you very much.
2-9-09
I wonder if moustaches are going to make a comeback. Almost everything in fashion does eventually, but the moustache seems like a bit of a stretch--I almost think we're more likely to see a resurgence of spats and monocles. Then again, I noticed a few years ago that guys seemed to be embracing sideburns again, so who knows? Of course, I've never been a big fan of the moustache to begin with. They generally seem to come in only a few types: creepy pedophile, fascist dictator, Frenchman, and Wild West sheriff. The only person I can think of who has ever worn a moustache well was Tom Selleck in Magnum P.I. And even then, he still looks better without it. Basically, moustaches are like parsley garnishes--decorative, weirdly retro-in-a-bad-way, and totally unnecessary.
2-6-09
I think that too many people are puzzled by the wrong things about "Stairway to Heaven." People get all caught up in the part about the bustle in the hedgerow, when it reality, that's one of the least confusing parts of the whole song. (Hey, there's nothing all that special about bustling hedgerows--everyone knows that they're just a spring clean for the May Queen.) What I find most puzzling is the part about the woman buying a stairway to heaven. And the thing with the piper. And the stuff about the whispering wind. And whatever it is that happens after we wind on down the road. Let's just be honest here--the whole song makes no damned sense at all. Anyone who claims to understand it is lying. (Watch out for these people--chances are that they're just waiting to explain "American Pie" too if you give them a chance.)
2-5-09
I'm very impressed by Peter Parker's needlework and design ability. Of course, I say this as someone who can sew a button and mend (very) small tears, but you can't tell me that Spiderman's suit/costume isn't an impressive piece of work--especially for the home designer. If I've learned anything from Project Runway, it's that those form-fitting, stretchy materials are very difficult to work with, and yet a young science geek has managed to put together a full body suit in multiple colors with a contrasting trim without so much as a seam pucker. Even if sewing and design are somehow inherited radioactive spider-related powers, it's still pretty impressive.
2-4-09
Alas, I am nearly out of clickey-top pens. Right now, I only have one left. And it's not even the good kind of clickey-top with the really firm spring and the loud clicking noise. (The kind that you can turn upside-down and launch off the table.) Instead, all I have are adult-style ballpoints and flair pens with the little removeable tops. This is not a good thing if you're the lazy, absentminded, and procrastinating type, as there's a tendency to lose the tops and end up ruining the pen or having it bleed all over something. Plus, you can't annoy people with a barrage of inappropriately-timed clicking. Damn these grown-up pens. I want my clickey-tops back. (Though this doesn't extend to the multi-color pens, which are not only too fat to write with easily, but also encourage girls named Tiffani to write in purple and put little hearts over their lowercase "i"s. All of which should be a capital crime.)
2-3-09
How do PETA protesters get to decide who gets to wear the cow/chicken/whatever suit? Is it something that everyone vies for? The honor of anthropomorphizing people's meals in a manner strongly reminiscent of a bad Disney experience? Does it go to the person who threw the most paint for the week or the one who came up with the most ludicrous analogy between eating meat and human cruelty? If so, then that chicken holocaust guy must live in the cow costume. Of course, in my experience, those big costumes tend to be hot, itchy, and smell vaguely of dust and human sweat (and probably patchouli if they were last used by a PETA member), so I'm guessing it's not really an honor that many people will jump at more than once. Which may explain why some PETA protestors are much more willing to get naked to prove their point than put on a giant mascot head. No complaints here--I think that's best for everyone concerned.
2-2-09
Apparently, 3-D is back. This is bad news. I've never understood the appeal of 3-D movies, shows, whatever. Here, put on some cheap, crappy glasses that will slide off your nose and not sit properly on your ears. It's totally worth it because it will be so thrilling when you see things loom artificially out of the screen. And 3-D shows always go to these incredible lengths to have things hurtling toward the camera so that you can have the "thrill" of feeling like the ball/arrow/crocodile/whatever is coming right at you. I'm sure this is very thrilling to audience members who are unfamiliar with the laws of physics. But for everyone in the audience who doesn't have to ask Mommy before having a third animal cracker, it's just a big gimmick. How about a little less time trying to distract us with visual effects and a little more time spent on making movies and shows good enough that they don't need them?
1-30-09
This is a public service message for everyone who is planning to watch the Superbowl this weekend: If you don't know anything about football; if you're just here for the commercials; if this is a great chance to catch up with your friends and try Marjorie's new dip recipe . . . in other words, if you have no idea what is going on once they kick that oblong object into the air, then please--in the name of all that is good and pure in this world--shut the fuck up. No, I'm not interested in hearing about what you thought of the new Budweiser ad with the funny animals. I don't want to hear you discuss whether Sarah Gunderson made the nachos or the crab dip. And no, I don't want to explain to you the entire history and strategy of football now, during the final game of the season. If you really cared, you would have done a little research . . . oh, I don't know . . . at some other point in the previous 34 years of your life. So please, while the game is on, please just shut the hell up. And you, over there. I don't know how you got a hold of the remote, but if you change the channel one more time, I swear that I will beat you to death with my commemorative plastic cup. How wonderful that other channels are showing women in lingerie. 'Cause God knows it's so hard to find pictures of naked women these days. Over there in the corner is the internet, with all the goat porn you could ever want to see. Just please, please, please shut up during the game.
1-29-09
I cannot be the only girl who was made very uncomfortable by Pepe Le Pew cartoons. Were we supposed to be rooting for Pepe? Not only did he have a cheesy accent and a strange inclination to hop up and down on all fours, but he couldn't even tell the difference between a skunk and a cat that has been in an unfortunate paint-related accident. In the real world, guys who come on as strong as Pepe would have you scrambling around in your purse for the pepper spray. Or at least handing him a fake phone number. Or siccing him on another girl. (There's always at least one girl in your group of friends who's still going to be flattered when the skeezy guy who has hit on every other girl at the club then hits on her. This is ok though, since it takes her mind off of her complaints about the last guy to disappoint her.) Of course, I'm not going to place all the blame on Pepe alone. You'd think that after so consistently ending up repainted as a skunk, that stupid cat would at least learn to be a little more wary around white paint.
1-28-09
I have a guilty secret. I always use people's nice hand towels when I visit their houses. Even when it's perfectly clear that the towels are just there for show and we're supposed to use a lesser hand-drying option. It kind of annoys me that people would go so far as to have unusable decorative towels. Especially for something as benign as drying recently washed hands. Worst of all is when they're all lacy and embroidered within an inch of their lives. At that point, it would be just as comfortable to rub my hands with sandpaper. Even the concept of decorative towels boggles my imagination a bit. Does a little square foot of terry cloth covered in rick rack really add that much to the bathroom environment? Has anyone ever stood in front of a toilet and thought, "Well, this is pretty nice, but a beige monogrammed towel with lace ruffles on the edge would really set off the chrome of the flush handle?"
1-27-09
I have a minor quibble with the song "It Was a Good Day" by Ice Cube. Specifcally, the lyric that tells us that on this good day, "Momma cooked a breakfast with no hog." I'm assuming here that this means that breakfast didn't include any pork products such as bacon or sausage. And I'm going to have to go ahead and disagree with Ice Cube that a pork-less breakfast can be part of a good day. Sure, I suppose that Ice Cube's momma could have made steak and eggs or perhaps turkey bacon, but I think that just proves my point. Who under the age of 60 eats steak and eggs? And turkey bacon is an abomination--the kind of thing that benighted dieters try to push with false promises that, "you can't even taste the difference." Whenever anyone says that you know that you have a bizarre foodstuff that would be rejected by a starving dog. A day without bacon cannot truly be considered a good day, regardless of whether or not you had to use your AK.
1-26-09
Whenever people get talking about why foreigners don't like Americans, they always get distracted by American foreign policy or American tourists. Both of these are red herrings. For one thing, your average Giuseppe Six-Pack is as knowledgeable about US foreign policy as your average American--in other words, not very. This is not all that surprising, since no one really understands US foreign policy--just as no one can really explain why Britney Spears shaved her head. That's because neither makes any goddamned sense. The tourist thing is inaccurate because Americans aren't really any more obnoxious than your average tourist (and much less obnoxious than German tourists)--and they're significantly less likely to wear awful tiny speedos at the beach.
Living near Washington, DC as I do, I think the real culprit is the State Department. Politics are irrelevent here--regardless of the administration, I have never met anyone who worked for the State Department who wasn't a total prick. (I'm not saying that nice State Dept. employees don't exist--I'm just saying that the ones who go out and talk about their jobs are jerkoffs.) Do you remember that guy in college who was constantly trying to find ways to mention his ivy league education and his used BMW (because driving a new BMW would seem gauche)? You know, the one who had a favorite Australian rugby team and a favorite British soccer team, but couldn't tell you who won the last Superbowl. That's the guy whom we're sending to international conferences and diplomatic meetings. That's right, the jackass who used to correct your pronunciation of "Qatar." That is why other countries get annoyed with Americans. Well . . . him and maybe "Brangelina."
1-23-09
How did Scarlett and Lady Jay sort out which one ended up with Duke and which one got Flint? It's like their love interests came pre-assigned, and that never sat well with me. Of course, as one of the very few women in the GI Joe compound, you'd imagine that both Lady Jay and Scarlett would have had plenty of options open to them. (I know that there were also Covergirl and Jinx, but Covergirl hardly ever made an appearance, and Jinx was part of the assault on logic that was the GI Joe Movie, so neither of them count here.) I suppose I don't have much of a problem in designating Flint and Duke as the lucky bastards with associated girlfriends, as they were pretty badass, even amongst Joes. Myself, I've always been more of a Flint girl. Duke seems a little too stiff and rulebound. And he's got that dickhead California blonde thing going. I am positive that Duke dated cheerleaders in high school. Flint is just better looking and seems a little more chill. He also seems to get captured by Cobra slightly less often, which would really put a crimp in your date plans after awhile. ("It's like he's getting captured on purpose just to avoid taking me to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.") Of course, it is impossible to make a final judgement on overall GI Joe desirability until we got to see Snake Eyes without his mask on.
1-22-09
Whatever happened to the big Frosted Mini Wheats? It's as though they've been totally supplanted by their bite-sized cousins. You may recall that many years ago--I'm not sure exactly how long ago, except that they were still making new episodes of the GI Joe cartoon at the time--Frosted Mini Wheats only came in a larger version. It wasn't the mondo shredded wheat blimp that you get from the unsweetened healthy versions of that cereal. And which were, incidentally, distressingly similar to eating a small bird's nest floating in milk. These were about the size of half a Snickers bar. They certainly weren't bite size--you generally had to cut them into 2-3 bites in order to eat them without getting milk everywhere. But I actually preferred them to the bite size ones. Call me crazy, but I think the shredded wheat is more closely bound together in the smaller version, which results in sub-standard milk absorption. Which is really the whole point of eating Frosted Mini Wheats in the first place. Well, that and the fact that they so nicely straddle the gap between the healthy and the sugary. Which you can't exactly do with Cap'n Crunch.
1-21-09
I do not understand why they are still making the black jellybeans. Is anyone eating these? I was under the impression that sometime in childhood, everyone tries an experimental nibble of the black jellybean. (Having first been lured into complacency by the deliciousness of the red jellybeans.) This is then followed by a frantic and ultimately unavailing attempt to get rid of the taste of licorice and burnt rubber--unfortunately one of the few unpleasant flavors that is actually magnified by most liquids. There's nothing like trying to wash down that horrible taste with a gallon of Coke, only to find the flavor getting stronger, like some sort of evil mutant from a bad horror movie. I'm sure that the jellybean manufacturers would tell us that many people love the black jellybeans, but that's an obvious lie. My theory is that they're using the sale and dispersal of the black jellybean to mask some sort of sinister conspiracy. Now, I'm afraid that there are little microscopic traces of Jimmy Hoffa's diary or the Area 51 aliens in them. Which might help explain the taste.
1-20-09
I feel as though I should say something significant to mark this truly historical day. (For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, today--Tuesday, January 20, 2009--marks the first time that I got a chance to play the AC/DC track pack for Rock Band. I know what you're thinking: "It's about time." I couldn't agree with you more.)
Of course, it's in moments like this that we turn to reflect on life's great questions. In this case, the question is, "In the song 'You Shook Me All Night Long,' what exactly are American thighs?" Since they evidently "knock out" singer Brian Johnson, we have to assume that it's a good thing to have American thighs, but that leaves the question of how said thighs differ from thighs of other nationalities. I'd like to think that they are, by definition, tanned, well-toned, supple, smooth to the touch, and very anti-communist. I don't know why, but I strongly feel that American thighs are Reagan voters.
1-16-09
Is there anything worse than being the roommate of the girl who likes Anne Geddes prints? (For the uninitiated, Anne Geddes is the "artist"/photographer who makes prints/calendars/posters/bags/cheap crap with pictures of babies dressed up and posed as little insects, acorns, twee cutesy animals, etc., etc.) What on earth possesses someone to hang a picture in their room of an infant child dressed up and posed to resemble a peapod? It's strange and unsettling--all I can do is imagine some crazed, baby-obssessed spinster manipulating poor, sleepy babies into these strange costumes and poses while squealing about how precious and adorable it all is. And how can you sleep in a room by a picture of a baby dressed up as a vegetable (or mouse or whatever)? Heck, how can you hook-up near one? There you are, trying to do your thing while being watched by a little mutant baby peapod. Like that doesn't totally kill the mood. Maybe that's why those girls like those posters so much. If they're not getting any, at least they can make sure no one else is either.
1-15-09
I really wish that I had come up with the idea of hand sanitizer gel. Not only would I be rich and 99.99% germ free, but I'd also have the satisfaction of knowing that I had helped create a huge market for something that no one knew they wanted. When I was a kid, there was no such thing as hand sanitizer. We had to wash our hands with soap and water, like medieval peasants. Or maybe like medieval artistocracy. Victorian peasants? Never mind. The point being that we had no high-tech hand sanitation options. Now, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I can prep for surgery from the comfort of my desk--only without removing any of the actual dirt, pizza sauce, or ink stains. But they'll be antiseptic ink stains! Interesting, by the way how Purell makes the seemingly scientific claim that it's 99.99% germ free. That seems very specific, considering that what constitutes a "germ" is conveniently vague. And what about that other 0.01% of germs that make it through? Those are the ones I'm worried about--not the weak germs that can't stand being smothered in aloe and isopropyl alcohol. You know that those 0.01% of germs that live are going to be pissed.
1-14-09
There is a terrible menace stalking the candy aisles and displays of this great land. Something hidden, seemingly innocuous, and yet at the same time so terrible that it has brought grown men to their knees, weeping in pain and disappointment. I'm speaking, of course, of the tragedy known as "the bad peanut M&M." No one knows how to identify these little candy flavor grenades. They look like every other peanut M&M, but when you bite into them, instead of a pleasant rush of chocolate and peanutty goodness, all you can taste is bitterness and the tears of a thousand tortured souls. Though some people think it tastes more like burned socks. One bad peanut M&M (and they do tend to be devious, waiting until you have forgotten your last terrible encounter before infiltrating your candy bag) can destroy all candy pleasure for as much as 10 minutes. The only known cure is eating a bunch more M&Ms and rinsing them down with soda to try to erase the lingering demon-like aftertaste. (You can't brush it away--it bonds instantly to minty toothpaste to create an experience so wretched that few people have survived to tell the tale.)
1-13-09
I'm starting to think that there's a conspiracy afoot between the paleontologists and the toy companies. I mean, how many different kinds of dinosaurs are they trying to sell to us? (Side note: Least convincing TV job ever? The bizarre notion that we, the audience, would buy that Ross from Friends was a paleontologist. Even paleontologists would reject him for being too awkward and geeky. Not to mention the stuttering and complete inability to seem bright enough to have earned a postgraduate degree.)
Anyway, when I was a kid, there was a nice, limited number of dinosaurs--you had the stegosaurus, the duck-looking one, the brontosaurus, and the flying one. And then, of course, there were the T-Rex and the triceratops--the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie of dinosaurness. (Though, considering the fact that they were often pictured fighting and goring each other, perhaps that should be the Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie of dinosaurs.) Now, I'm constantly seeing dinosaur toys that don't fit any of the superstars of dinosaurs. And when you go to the museum, they're constantly trying to waste your time with things like the thigh bone of the obscura-saurus, or some other no-name dinosaur that lived in the late Cretaceous and did fuck-all to make it worth reading that little plaque. Personally, I think that they're trying to expand their dinosaur line, just like how GI Joe did with the travesty that was Cobra-La. And I, for one, won't stand for it.
1-12-09
Why does the Riddler keep leaving clues about his crimes for Batman and the police? I think it has been pretty clearly established that this doesn't work. Even if he manages to pull off the occasional caper before Batman figures it out, it is more or less inevitable that Batman will eventually put two and two together and foil the Riddler's plans. So why spend hours and hours constructing intricate puzzles that would cause a high school science teacher with a Rube Goldberg fixation to weep with envy? Why not spend that time coming up with a criminal plan that isn't so easily foiled by the world's most co-dependent police force and a guy who makes Goths look cheerful and well-rounded? If the Riddler simply has a burning desire to show off, then he could just enter crossword tournaments or send Batman huge sudokus every few weeks.
1-9-09
Is there anything more frustrating than trying to do your regular grocery shopping at Wholefoods? It's like an exercise in futility and a guilt trip all in one. First, there's the fact that you're paying ridiculously high prices for organic, recycled toilet paper and butter made by eco-conscious farmers who make sure that their cows live a life that your average Bangladeshi orphan only dreams of. Then there's the fact that you can only buy things in their approved brands. God forbid that you want anything as bourgeois and pedestrian as a Coke. No, you have to go to another store for your preservative-laden corporatist beverages. You're just lucky that your fellow shoppers don't spit on you for harboring dreams of Charmin and Dr. Pepper. Of course, they would never do that. They're too busy cutting you off in line so that they can get their vegetarian samosas, $300 worth of cheese, and amazing new microbrew back home before the nanny gets off of work.
Not that I'm bitter, of course.
1-8-09
I have a favor to ask of all restaurant workers regarding dessert: Could you please stop with all the little squiggles and dots of sauce under and around my cake/pie/tart/etc.? I've worked in restaurants before, and I understand that it's an easy way to dress up the plate, but you all are driving me crazy. It's like a little sauce tease, promising untold naughty sauce delights that then gives you sauce blueballs when you run out halfway through your dessert. If the stupid sauce is supposed to be part of the dish, then for God's sake, give me enough to eat with each bite. You don't try to pull this kind of crap with . . . say . . . pasta. I don't order spaghetti puttanesca and end up with a big pile of naked noodles surrounded by little spots and wiggles of tomato sauce. If I'm supposed to get a little taste of raspberry syrup with my cheesecake, then give me enough syrup that I'm not desperately trying to drag my forkful of cake through the 9 molecules of sauce that you've artfully arranged on the rim of my plate.
1-7-09
The other day, I accidentally bought what turned out to be vegan cookies, or (as I call them) sweet-cinnamony tree bark. Though that isn't exactly fair. After all, I imagine that tree bark is more flavorful and probably not as dry or brick-like in consistency. The cookie purports to be some kind of cinnamon-sugar covered pastry, though I'm not sure what particular circle of hell produces pastry without eggs or butter. And the worst part of all is that for some reason, the makers of this product seem to feel that this vegan-ness is a selling point, when in truth it's like a big stamp on your product that says, "astoundingly mediocre."
I know that there are plenty of vegans who would be outraged by that statement--these are the same people who claim that they can make a wonderful vegan chocolate cake and that, "you can't even tell the difference,"between it and non-vegan cake. Attention vegans! Yes, we can tell the difference. We're just too polite to tell you that your cake tastes like cocoa, flour, and death. Much as in the case of your "delicious" tofu chili, the difference is obvious to anyone whose taste buds have not been cowed into submission by years of deprivation. Poor Vegans. They just don't know any bettter. They're like those people who don't get cable and insist that According to Jim is really funny stuff because they don't have the eggs and dairy of The Sopranos or Mad Men.
1-6-09
I think that it's time that we settled this whole Rocket Scientist versus Brain Surgeon thing once and for all. So who truly deserves the title of General Cultural Point of Comparison for Something Really Difficult? Unfortunately, being neither a rocket scientist nor a brain surgeon, I'm not sure that I'm in a position to evaluate who is really more skilled or involved in a more difficult profession. Even looking at the negatives makes for a tough call, since a bad day in brain surgery means that you may have killed someone or caused permanent paralysis, while a bad day in rocket science means you may have killed many people and destroyed millions of dollars in property. I think that rocket scientists probably have a slightly higher geekiness rating, since the opportunities to score with hot nurses are much less frequent and the probability of a Star Trek discussion spontaneously breaking out among a group of rocket scientists is slightly higher than among brain surgeons. In the end, however, I'm giving the edge to brain surgeons for one primary reason--though I hope I never need to see either one professionally, just in case I do, I'd rather curry favor with the brain surgeons. Worst case scenario? I end up with a shoddy rocket. But that's ok, since designing rockets isn't exactly brain surgery.
1-5-09
I'm not sure that I get the point of the harmonica. I do understand that if you're the lead singer of a rock band and don't play guitar or bass or anything, then your only other choices in non-singing musical participation are the tambourine or the cowbell. Obviously, the cowbell is far superior, as it not only allows you to channel the Will Farrell/Christopher Walken "More Cowbell" moment, but also because there are few things that are lamer than a tambourine. Nothing says, "I'm sleeping with the band and have no musical talent," like banging away on a tambourine. Given that, I can see why it's slightly cooler to do that whole cupped-hands-over-the-harmonica-and-microphone thing. But really, a harmonica rarely adds anything positive to the song. It sounds like the retarded brother of an accordian, and let's face it--no one wants to listen to the accordian either. Harmonicas conjure up images of lonely prisoners and cowboys doing that lonesome and alone song. It's no wonder that the only kind of music that meshes well with the harmonica is the blues. Because if you're playing the harmonica, something has probably gone terribly, terribly wrong in your life.
12-31-08
There comes a time in your life (generally from about age 19 to about 24--or a little later if you're a slow learner) when it is a major goal to drink all manner of cheap, disgusting, and unsavory alcoholic beverages in an effort to prove how hard/cool you are. Once you're in your late twenties, thirties, or beyond, mentioning to a stranger that you downed a pint of Mad Dog or a bottle of Boone's Farm the previous night will garner nothing but pity. ("But why? Did you lose all your money? Was it a bet? Or do you just have terrible, white trash taste?") But for that brief, halcyon period, your ability to drink something that can be unfavorably compared to windshield washer fluid actually earns you the admiration of your friends and the undying love of slutty girls. (In this case, "undying" equals 3 weeks or 12 blowjobs, whichever comes first.)
And this explains why people drink Mezcal. Because it sure as hell isn't for the taste. I can accept that all sorts of drinks require exposure, acquiring the taste, etc. But I don't see how any rational being would ever try to develop a taste for Mezcal, as there is no reason to pursue a knowledge of a drink that tastes like tequila and ass. No, Mezcal is all about the macho factor. And the fact that there is a dead worm in the bottle. Which really ought to say all that there is to say about the quality of Mezcal. I mean, it's not like the makers of Dom Perignon are busy touting the dead insects in their bottle of booze. Generally, dead wildlife is not a selling point for a quality taste experience. But it does impress the hell out of your friends. Now, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . Chug! Chug! Chug!
12-30-08
This is my polite request to all radio stations and "hip" clothing stores to please, in the name of all that is holy, stop playing "So What" by Pink. (If you're not entirely familiar with the song I'm speaking of, it's the one that makes you feel like cutting off your ears and diving into a vat of hyrdrochloric acid. You know--the one that contains numerous and inexplicable lines where she just whines/"sings" the words, "nah nah nah," over and over again until you want to beat her to death with a thesaurus.)
Anyway, one of my biggest peeves with this song is her repeated assurances that it's alright because she's, "a rockstar." (And on and on in that vein.) And I can't help but feel that we're playing a little fast and loose with the word "rockstar" here. Specifically, the "rock" part, but also the "star" part. True, it may have been difficult to fit in the line, "It's alright, 'cause I'm a moderately-succuessful-but-ultimately-forgettable-psuedo-rock-pop-act-of-minor-talent," but I think that really would have added something to the confessional feel of the song.
12-29-08
Without a doubt, the best movie montage of all time has got to be the training montage from Rocky IV. (Yes, the one where Rocky is training to fight Ivan Drago in the USSR, and we see Drago surrounded by cold Soviet machinery and those old school computers that measure his punch strength in that universal '80s high-tech font, all the while being injected by syringes full of Soviet cheating juice. And meanwhile, Rocky is going back to basics in his training, lifting bags full of rocks in a stable, running up mountains in the snow, and ducking under clotheslines in front of a rustic fire.) I mean this montage really says it all: Ivan Drago is the robot-like product of the Soviet machine, and Rocky is the American underdog who is going to succeed on his own grit and train in the unyielding Russian landscape. And then there's the fight, which ends with the entire population of the Soviet Union being moved to applaud Rocky's pluck and determination. Some people criticize this scene (and this movie) for its heavy-handed bias. I say, "Shut up and go back to fondling your Belle and Sebastian CDs, Mr. Franken." If you don't feel happy, patriotic, and a little xenophobic after watching Rocky IV, then there's something wrong with you.
12-24-08
Kudos to Jesus for ensuring that no one would ever forget his birthday. You know that you have that one friend who starts warning people about his birthday one month out, going on about present possibilities and how he'd like everyone to celebrate. ("I figure we could all meet up at Outback and get some dinner, then head on over to McMurphys for a few drinks.") Well, Jesus has managed to get millions of people to remember his birthday every single year and put giant dying trees in their houses, wrap them up in tiny lights, and nail socks to their walls. Granted, He did have to start a religion and get crucified to make it happen, but still--that's some real influence. Of course, Jesus does get shafted on the present thing, but that's what happens when your birthday is on Christmas.
12-23-08
It's that time of year again--the time of year when we're bombarded by commercials urging us to buy people cars for Christmas. Not being the type of person who has an entire fridge full of Red Bull and Cristal, I don't know anyone who gets cars for Christmas, and I find the whole idea a bit weird.
But not as weird as I find the giant car bow.
Seriously, whenever someone in a commercial gets a car for Christmas, they always come outside to find their luxury vehicle with a ginormous bow on top of it. And what I want to know is . . . where do they find that bow? They don't sell them at Target--I know that for certain, since I was just there trying to buy Christmas stuff, and they didn't even have a bow big enough for a large-ish box, much less a 4-door sedan. I mean, that is one big-ass bow. And honestly, if I did somehow have the means to buy someone a car for Christmas, I'm not sure that I'd go through the trouble of finding and attaching a gigantic bow to it. Maybe I'd wrap up the keys and put that under the tree, but . . . seriously? I just bought them a friggin' car, for God's sake. Screw the damned bow.
12-22-08
Of all the Christmas songs that I hate (and there are quite a lot), there are few that I hate more than "Do They Know It's Christmas?" Not so much for the tune, which is mostly forgettable, but for the stupid and sanctimonious lecture that passes for lyrics. The title alone is enough to set my teeth on edge. Do they know it's Christmas? They're starving, not retarded. I'm pretty sure that they have calendars in Africa. "Oh, you're just being too literal," some people will say. "It's a metaphor." Yeah, the metaphor is: Hello, I'm a rich and influentual rock star and I care about all the poor people starving around the world, unlike you, you selfish bastard, with your piles of Christmas presents and your succulent turkey dinner. It's such a burden, being so enlightened.
And then there's this lyric, which (to add insult to injury) is sung by Bono (!) and Sting (!!): "Where the only water flowing/is the bitter sting of tears/and the Christmas bells that ring there/are the clanging chimes of doom/well tonight thank God it's them/instead of you." Well, Merry Christmas to you too, Sting and Bono. There's nothing quite like being lectured by a millionaire about poverty. Say, while you're busy thanking God that you're not a starving African orphan, why don't you also thank him for that new Maserati and the fact that your ability to stand on a stage and sing has prevented you from ever having to worry about making your rent?
12-19-08
Enough with the automated hand driers already. Please stop putting them in public bathrooms. No one likes them and they don't work. You know what works? A paper towel. Simple. Honest. Effective. I don't need technology to dry my hands. I just need a damned towel. And I really don't need a lecture from the automated hand drier about how they're better for the environment either. I want to save the world as much as the next person, but I really feel that the bathroom should be a Greenpeace-free zone. It's like having pop singers pontificate about toilet paper use--I'm not really open to discussion on this issue. And incidentally, you're not fooling anyone with those super-charged hand driers that blow at hurricane-force speeds. They still don't work as well as a paper towel, and no one wants to hold their hands under something that blows so hard that their skin ripples. It's a little unsettling and makes you worry that you're going to leave the bathroom with hands that look like John McCain's neck.
12-18-08
As a child, I never understood why the little girl in the Nutcracker ballet was so excited when her godfather gave her a nutcracker for Christmas. It seemed like a pretty crappy and impractical gift. Can you even play with a nutcracker? They seem pretty hard and pointy, and the only thing they do is that nut-crushing jaw movement. It doesn't really sound like hours of childhood fun. And yet, there she is, dancing around with joy at getting a nutcracker. (And to make it even weirder, people seem jealous that she got a nutcracker and they didn't.) Maybe their family had a lot of nuts that needed to be cracked--though you'd think that if that was the case, they'd have one of those more practical hand-held nutcrackers to use. Have you ever tried to crack a nut using a figurine-style nutcracker? It's a lot of fun if you're into holding an awkward piece of wood and creating little nutshell shards. Seriously, I know it was olden times and stuff, but I'm pretty sure that they still had dolls and balls and such. Such a typical bachelor godfather gift. I guess she's just lucky that he didn't get her a cribbage set instead.
12-17-08
The whole energy drink thing has gotten totally out of hand. I know that some people would point to it as a sign of the rushed mentality of modern culture or maybe make a big deal about it growing out of the diet/body/self-improvement trends. I think it's a lot simpler then that. I think that our society is full of self-important assholes. Speed is illegal and slightly seedy. Coffee is either fussy and yuppie or ordinary and unglamourous. But if you need an energy drink--well, then you're obviously a vastly busy person who is very occupied with many important things and need this specialized concoction to give you the boost you need to get through the day. After all, professional athletes drink it too, and in a way, that's exactly what you're like. In fact, you might have been a professional athlete if it weren't for that darned high school injury and your un-nurturing coach. No ordinary caffeinated drinks for you--oh no! You have guarana and B5. Guarana and B5 can kick caffeine's ass!! That's why you drink it--because you're friggin' amped!! Yeah!!
12-16-08
Why isn't Indiana Jones more religious? Maybe it's just me, but if I had managed to recover the Lost Ark of the Covenant, seen it uncovered, and witnessed (albeit more through listening than watching) said Ark releasing vengeful spirits that turned an entire detachment of Nazi troops (and one French jerk) into dust, but left me and my girlfriend totally untouched, I would think that there might be something to this whole "God" thing after all. And that's not even the half of it. If, in addition to seeing some Old Testament fire and brimstone, I also got to see some holy Hindu stones bring life back to an impoverished village, and then met a 900-year-old Knight of the First Crusade who was keeping watch over the Holy Grail, which I then used to heal my father's bullet wound . . . well, I'm just saying that maybe I would make a better effort to get to Mass from then on.
12-15-08
I think that the whole wedding cake thing has gotten completely out of hand. I know that wedding cakes were never a wonderfully delicious treat--they've always tasted like sawdust topped with playdough. But it seems like people have given up on even pretending that this is going to be an appealing or edible dessert and are mostly preoccupied with creating a colorful pastry art object for everyone to admire before they wander off to find the chocolate-covered strawberries.
I can hear some of you brides right now: "Well, that may be true about some people's cakes, but not mine. Ours was delicious. It was a white cake with a lemon-persimmon filling and mangosteen buttercream." I will grant that there are a very few number of people who focus more on providing their guests with an edible foodstuff rather than a flower-bedecked mini sugar mausoleum. But most of the time, no, the cake was not delicious. We lied to you because it seemed like a nice thing to say, considering that you just spent $3000 on a confection of flour, sugar and eggs that, taste-wise, compares unfavorably to the Twinkie I bought at 7-11 on the way home from the reception.
12-12-08
Why do people keep trying to improve on the chocolate chip cookie? Honestly, it's as good as it's going to get in its pure, soft, chocolate-y goodness. You're not going to make it better by tarting it up with oatmeal or M&Ms or (and this should be a mortal sin) raisins. Honestly, it doesn't even need nuts. Not everything needs to be crunchy, you know. And yet, despite the fact that chocolate chip cookie perfection has already been achieved, there are those who insist on trying to "improve" it. These people are like George Lucas, constantly tinkering with something that was perfectly fine to begin with until the texture is too pasty and crunchy and the integrity of the cookie has been totally destroyed because it was so much better when Han shot first. Why can't people learn to leave well enough alone?
12-11-08
I would like to call for a total moratorium on the use of the phrase, "throw __ under the bus." I know that it hasn't yet reached, "talk to the hand," status, but I think that level of overuse can only be prevented if we act quickly and decisively to end it before it becomes embedded in our cultural lexicon. Not only is its use growing, but I'm pretty sure that most of the people using it have no idea what they mean when they say it, except that they're annoyed with the person doing the aforementioned bus-related throwing and want to suggest that there's something sneaky or dishonorable about that person. The most annoying example has to be when reality TV show contestants facing elimination use it as a way to say, "I don't like the way that my fellow contestant pointed out my rather obvious flaws in an effort to keep from being eliminated himself." I'm not sure I understand how this counts as a bus throw. The phrase evokes some kind of sudden and brutal betrayal--and I would hardly call being criticized by a fellow competitor "sudden" or "unexpected." Maybe you should click your heels three times and hope to be transported to a land where competition is all about trying to come up with the nicest thing to say about each other. (I think this place may be called, "Canada.") Honestly, unless someone physically pushed you in front of a passing Greyhound overnighter, please stop using this phrase. You sound like a whiny idiot.
12-10-08
I have some serious questions about the motivations of the Cobra Terrorist Organization. We know that they were a, "ruthless terrorist organization determined to take over the world," but it was never quite clear exactly why they wanted to take over the world. They certainly weren't communists, as a huge proportion of their schemes seemed to involve trying to get a hold of the resources to fund their world domination mission, and they ran a number of business fronts. (I mean, Tomax and Xamot seemed to spend a lot of time in high-rise office buildings wearing suits and ties, after all. This is a far cry from Che Guevara.) And I'm pretty sure that Cobra weren't religious fundamentalists either--though I suppose one could argue that they're militant Quakers based on their determination never, ever to kill anyone during a battle. Shoot down their plane, sure. Take them prisoner, no problem. But no actual violence allowed. And I'm not even going to get into the problems with Cobra Commander as a charismatic terrorist leader. I have no idea how they are so successful in recruiting and training a virtual army with their lack of ideology and whiny, blue-burqa'd leader. Maybe the Cobra Terrorist Manifesto calls for free hookers and cocaine. Which would also explain the cooperation of the Dreadnoughts.
12-9-08
I'm totally envious of the people in the Ikea catalogues. Actually, catalogues in general usually give me a bit of lifestyle envy (which is probably the whole point), but Ikea catalogues touch a special nerve for me. Look at how organized these people always are. There they are in their incredibly neat and modern studio apartment--made efficient through dozens of special little storage boxes and drawers. They even have their cereals and cookies in neat transparent containers, where you can contemplate the symmetry of your corn flakes and Cheez-Its while you read the paper in your cute, fold-down breakfast nook. I can't even open the damned cereal box without ripping the bag unevenly and creating sub-optimal cereal flow.
But that's not the worst part. The worst is seeing the tanned, healthy Scandanavian familes enjoying their Lack side tables and Bjornholmen entertainment center--probably still invigorated by a brisk autumn walk through the fjords or something. There they all are, talking and laughing in their stylish Nordic sweaters. Little Sven is chattering about his new train table and young Annika is studying her chemistry notes--the whole family radiating health and goodwill while Mom studies IMF figures and drinks hot cocoa on the Kramfors sofa. In Ikea-world, the kids don't veg-out in front of the TV while the parents bicker over who last used the remote. Frankly, I think it's all part of a plot to get us to embrace socialism, confiscatory taxes, and inexpensive meatballs and gravy. And dammit, the meatballs are good too!
12-8-08
I'm a little confused by all the mustard variations--especially the yellow/deli/spicy brown dichotomy. Dijon is pretty obvious--it's the French-y tasting one, primarily used for your nicer sandwiches and salad dressing. Do not ever use dijon mustard on a hot dog unless you're desperate or just too lazy to put your shoes on and run over to 7-11 for a $6 bottle of mustard. But it seems like there's a quiet little mustard war going on between the French's mustard people (classic yellow) and the Gulden's mustard people (spicy brown). Notice that you don't tend to have this problem with other condiments--ketchup just comes down to whether you're going to cheap-out or get the Heinz, and if you buy any other mayonnaise than Hellman's, I don't want to know about it. But mustard is the troublemaker of the condiment world. For the longest time, I was going with the spicy brown mustard on the theory that the color variation meant that there was more flavor in it. But to be honest, if you blindfolded me and had me try both the plain yellow and the spicy brown kind, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to tell them apart. Obviously, the thing to do is to have a semi-scientific taste test of both mustards and finally determine which is better and if there's actually a difference between them. The problem with this, however, is that I don't particularly want to go through the trouble of taste-testing mustard. And what would I do with all that extra mustard lying around the house--especially when I've determined that one is inferior?
No, I think ignorance is probably the best route with the mustard issue. Though if one of them wants to spend a little R&D money on developing a type that doesn't instantly and permanently bond with all favorite shirts, I would definitely switch to that brand.
12-5-08
A great deal of controversy has always surrounded the song "Bust a Move" by Young MC. (By "a great deal," I mean that several of my college roommates got into lengthy drunken arguments about it that may or may not have included diagrams and episodes of breakdancing.) Specifically, the question revolves around the well-known "wedding verse," which famously tells us: "Your best friend Harry has a brother Larry/In five days from now, he's gonna marry./He's hoping you can make it there if you can/'Cause in the ceremony you'll be the best man."
Many people have pointed out the illogic of serving as the best man in the wedding of your friend's brother, much less in five days. My view, though it may be a minority one, is that it's not Larry who's getting married, but Harry. That means that you'd be the best man at your best friend's wedding, which makes much more sense--though I concede that it still seems rather last minute to be springing this on you 5 days before the wedding. Still, there could be a reasonable explanation for the late notice, and I maintain that it all rests on the mention of Harry's brother, Larry. Obviously, Larry was supposed to be best man, but Larry is a deadbeat and slept with the bride's sister--plus, Harry never wanted Larry to be best man to begin with, and only asked him in order to make Nana Mary happy. (After all, this could be the last family wedding she lives to see.) But now, with the wedding only days away, Larry is on a bender and Harry has asked you to step in as best man.
Now doesn't that make more sense?
12-4-08
Since when did wanting something become sufficient reason to get it? I used to try that all the time when I was a kid, and it never got me anything but banal proverbs. (E.g. "If wishes were horses," and so on.) And yet, my television is overrun with television shows where people earnestly explain to the camera and/or judges that they really, really, really want $1,000,000, to win this cooking contest, a modeling contract, etc. Well, that's nice and all, but who the hell cares what you want? I want a lot of things--world peace, low-fat desserts that don't have that weird waxy texture, a multi-million dollar book contract--but last I checked, that didn't really get me anywhere. And I love how the "wanting" issue is completely separate from the question of ability. Let's say that Creed really, really wants to be taken seriously as a hard-rocking, legendary metal band. And let's say (hypothetically) that Metallica only wanted to hang out, make music, and get shitfaced. Well, the fact that Creed possibly "wanted it" more than Metallica doesn't transform "Arms Wide Open" into anything more than the same-old bombastic crap that it always was. Let's stop pretending that "wanting it more" is anything but the rationalizations of an eight-year-old elevated to the level of meaningless cultural cliché.
12-3-08
If you had the millenium falcon toy as a child, I'd like you to know that you are responsible for everything that is wrong in the world. You millenium falcon-having kids, with your calm, cheerful demeanors and your understated Christmas lists. ("Really Mom and Dad, there's nothing I need. Maybe we should all go volunteer at a soup kitchen this year.") You probably didn't even appreciate what you had either. I bet that when your friends came over and wanted to play with it, you said something like, "Oh, that old thing? It doesn't even have the lightsaber training ball--I think my sister ate it. Let's go play Risk instead." You can't understand the pain of having to transport Han, Luke, and Obi-Wan across the galaxy in the cover of one of your mom's tupperware containers. No, your action figures got to travel in style. No converting an old shoe into Luke's landspeeder for you--heck, you probably even had the actual R2D2 figure instead of an upside-down gumball machine bubble. I hope you know that you are the reason that people are starving in Africa.
12-2-08
I think that it's about time we started setting some rules regarding this whole retro t-shirt fad. I didn't mind it so much when it was just about hipster guys combing thrift stores (or Urban Outfitters, if they didn't care about authenticity) for 25 year-old KISS shirts and ironic travel wear ("Come see the Bahamas, Mon"). But now, I can buy retro Hawaii tees at Old Navy and Motley Crue World Tour reproductions in Target. And the whole thing has gone too far. So please, if you weren't old enough to see Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet tour (or at least buy the album--yes, on vinyl), don't buy the damned shirt. Buy a shirt about a band your own age. You didn't see people my age trying on Cat Stevens-themed apparel when we were in high school. (True, some of us got a little too carried away about the Doors or the Dead, but that doesn't make it ok.) And if you're buying a brand-new, intentionally faded and distressed t-shirt featuring a destination or college with which you are completely unfamiliar? Just hang your head in shame.
12-1-08
I don't really get the fascination with ghosts. And yet, there are almost as many ghost hunter shows on television as there are shows about slutty women trying to get a date with a faded celebrity. I guess television is all about trying to solve the great mysteries of existence. Is there life after death? Who on earth wants to sleep with Flavor Flav? Philosophers have wrestled with these issues for centuries.
It is fun to see the level of pseudo-science that goes into ghost-hunting--apparently, nightvision is pretty key, as is at least one gauge with a red needle that can swing around wildly for no reason. I'm not sure why ghosts have developed the ability to communicate from beyond the grave, but only via magnetic waves and spooky mists. Life after death is a pretty huge concept, and yet it seems that the afterlife limits you to waving curtains around and making moaning noises. Of course, the thing I really don't get about ghosts is how they appear fully clothed. Even if I grant that a human could "pass over" into being a ghost, how exactly do their clothes manage the same trick?
11-28-08
Why do photography studios bother with those fakey "nature" backgrounds? Sure, maybe if you don't look to closely, you might momentarily buy the possibility that the entire family is having their picture taken on the beach or in a pretty forest, despite the fact that you know for a fact that the last time the family matriarch journeyed more than 100 feet from a working television was during the Clinton administration. But the fact that everyone is uniformly looking slightly to the right of the camera tends to give it away a bit, as does the fact that the sea looks a bit blurry and static. Oh yeah--and then there's the fact that the youngest daughter appears to be propped up on a sand dune made of beige carpeting accented by a 1950s era bucket and shovel. If you absolutely must have your family portrait taken in front of an obviously painted backdrop, why not have some fun with it? For example, I'm planning to do one in front of the Black Gates of Mordor. We could all be smiling and pointing to the Eye of Sauron.
11-27-08
For me, one of the worst things about Thanksgiving is the fact that it makes the main cook into a grumpy tyrant who won’t let anyone else eat. Now, to be fair, I’ve made the Thanksgiving meal before, so I understand that, logistically speaking, it’s roughly on par with planning the D-Day invasion. But please cooks, let people eat breakfast and lunch. I know that we’re going to feast like crazy when you’re done, but I didn’t turn into some kind of food-camel overnight. Let me have a bowl of cereal or a peanut butter sandwich or something. But every year, in my own house and others, if you come into the kitchen while Thanksgiving dinner is being prepared and try to grab a roll or something, the cook transforms into Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest, and chases you away while screaming about how there will be no eating before dinner. I’ve actually had to create my own tradition of sneaking out of the house to get a hot dog midway through Thanksgiving afternoon just so I can make it through the day. I’m not the only one either. All those people who spontaneously volunteered to, “run out and pick up more ice,”—the ones who are usually too lazy to brush the chip crumbs off their shirts while they watch TV? They’re all with me in the parking lot of 7-11, wolfing down chili dogs and hoping no one notices how long they’ve been gone.
11-25-08
I find "Panda Express" to be a very odd name choice for an American-Chinese mall eatery fast food joint. I'm sure that they really thought about what they wanted to evoke with their name--something that really said, "this is totally non-threatening and generic Chinese food of mediocre taste and quality." And I suppose that "Panda" evokes the cuddly Chinese part, and "Express" takes care of the mediocre fast food part of the concept, but I still find it lack in imagination. Plus, it reminds me that Pandas eat a lot of bamboo, which then reminds me that I hate how the bamboo in a lot of Chinese dishes gets all stringy and chewy. So I can't say that I find it a great association either. I can just picture a bunch of marketing people sitting around a table, brainstorming on the name and trying to come up with things that make people think of China. Of course, what most evokes China for me are martial arts, dragons, and totalitarian communism, but I guess the name "Mao's Wushu Dragon Express" wasn't really the vibe they were going for.
Admit it though, you would totally eat at Mao's Wushu Dragon Express. And yes, the cups would have little fighting Maos and dragons on them.
11-24-08
There are a few things that I don't like about the vampire craze--the fact that us darker-skinned types are totally left-out (who ever heard of a tan vampire?), the lack of clarity over effective vampire-killing methods, the creepy sexual undertones. But the thing that irritates me most? There are no redneck vampires.
I mean (theoretically speaking), these vampires have been out there killing people and making new vampires for centures, and yet I have never seen a depiction of a single redneck vampire. You'd think there would have been one eventually. But I've never seen anything about a vampire listening to Billy Ray Cyrus, watching Larry the Cable Guy clips, and climbing into a coffin with young Elvis airbrushed on the top. No, vampires are always listening to Bach (or perhaps Liszt--though if they're hip, young vampires, I notice that they may listen to industrial music) and droning on about poetry or philosophy. Are vampires elitist snobs? Or do they annoy all the other undead creatures of the night so much that no one wants to hang with them?
And don't even get me started on the lack of black vampires.
11-21-08
The thing that really annoys me about the X-Men (aside from the fact that for every good mutant, there's a bad mutant with a perfectly complimentary power for fighting purposes--so the guy with fire can fight the guy with ice, Wolverine fights someone else with long claws, and so on) is the fact that so much is made of how rejected all the mutants feel in the regular world. Whatever. If there had been a guy in my high school who could shoot laser beams out of his eyes or control the weather, that kid would have been the most popular guy in school. Heck, when I was in high school, simply making the football team or owning a Trans Am would have bumped you up to the top of the social heirarchy. That's really all it took. So do you really expect me to believe that being able to move things with your mind is somehow a bad thing, popularity-wise? Seriously, no one is going to ostracize the girl who can kill you with her mind.
11-20-08
On behalf of all mankind, I have a favor to ask the robot and computer designers of the future: please stop creating your machines with programming that includes the ability to begin a war against humans. Because that's really where the problem begins. They're machines after all--they can only do what they have been programmed to be allowed to do. So maybe creating programming that allows them to network together to create a huge hostile machine-based army was bad planning. As was designing them in such a way as to make it difficult to turn them off or run out of batteries. (Based on the battery life of my laptop, I can't help but be impressed with future advances in hostile computer power sources, but it's a comfort to know that if my laptop ever does plot to kill me, all I have to do is avoid areas with power outlets for about an hour and a half.) I'm aware of Asimov's rules of robot behavior which says that robots should not harm or kill a human, but how about we humans take a little responsibility here and not create autonomous machines programmed to do so? What's the robot motivation for warring against humans anyway? They don't like the work? Hey, join the club, buddy.
Oh, and by the way, if we could also avoid making robots that develop emotion and turn into crappy sci-fi plots that intend to "explore what it means to be human," that would be great too. Thanks.
11-19-08
Stupid defensive preparations are the cornerstone of movie-making, and yet, it hard to think of a more stupid defensive plan than the one concocted by the citizens of Zion in the last 2 movies of the Matrix trilogy. They're at war with machines, they have one tried-and-true weapon against the machines (the electro-magnetic pulse), and apparently they think that the best thing they can do is take their most powerful defensive weapon and put it on a series of vulnerable lone ships that they then send away from their city. This might sound crazy, but in that situation, I think I would . . . I don't know . . . create a defensive perimeter composed entirely of EMP-capable machines. But that's not all. They also do battle strapped into giant robot tank things that shoot buckets of high-caliber rounds at the enemy--and yet, there's absolutely no protection between the guy in the robot tank and the tons of bullets and spent casings flying around. I don't see how anyone could possibly survive in that environment for longer than a millisecond. But no worries, because they have a highly sophisticated ammo delivery service for these huge, wasteful machine guns--some poor shmuck gets to run back and forth with little crates of ammunition. So, you've got a giant robot machine-gun tank with no defensive protection, being fed ammo with the exact same method used by 18th century British sailors.
But that's not what bugs me most about these movies. The most irritating thing is that everyone is wearing these armageddon-chic natural fiber knits--lots of wools, cottons, and so on. And yet they live in an industrial cave surrounded by hostile robots. So where the hell did the sheep come from to make the wool?
All I can say is that I wasn't remotely surprised to see Cornell West playing one of the city leaders. Leadership this bad could only come from the mind of a Harvard professor.
11-18-08
I'm running out of patience with the dip Nazis. Now, I do understand that it's uncouth to double-dip--at least among strangers. (In my house, family and friends can double-dip at will. That's the kind of hard-partying rebels that we are.) Frankly, the hawk-like watching of dipping habits is a little tiresome, as is the germ-phobia that generally accompanies it. I mean, I've worked at a lot of restaurants in my time, and all I have to say is that if double-dip contamination at an office party is the biggest of your worries, then you, my friend, must live in a wonderful fairy tale world where no one ever dropped your french fries on the greasy, grimy counter and then shoveled them back into your plate (with hands that recently touched other people's utensils and straightened out the trash can). I bet it's a wonderful world--with unicorns, rainbows, and very bored Department of Health employees. Still, I can live with this. It's the people who go one step further that kill me--the ones that can't even dip a chip into a communal bowl of salsa without making sure that they get first crack at a virginal dip, then spoon it out into some other dish that they can use as their own personal bowl of salsa. And then they still don't double-dip. They won't even contaminate their own private dip. What is wrong with these people?
11-17-08
When I think about self-glorifying media whores (usually on Tuesdays, from about 1:40 to 1:55pm), my mind inevitably drifts to Dee Snyder. Yes, Dee Snyder of Twisted Sister, the former front man of a mediocre one-hit wonder metal-ish ‘80s group who has made a career out of pretending that his part in Tipper Gore’s political showboating constituted some kind of significant political moment. Dee lives in a cardboard box outside of the VH1 studios, where he accepts lottery tickets and Filet-O-Fish sandwiches as payment for providing clip show filler. Unfortunately, he has neglected to explain how wearing feathers and make-up in a trite music video has made him a pop culture expert. Occasionally, he also likes to preen about how tough he is while bitching at other VH1-caliber celebrities in whichever dose of B-list reality TV is currently paying his mortgage.
The man is everywhere. I was going to do a video montage of important moments in rock, but I had to give it up because he wouldn’t get off of my porch. He kept going on about how he was a free speech pioneer and offering to let me use clips from his Congressional testimony. Finally, I just had to be straight with him: “Dee, your band cred rested mainly on a good logo and wardrobe. The songs weren’t that great, and have found their true place in the universe as background music for a PMS commercial. Your great claim to fame was “standing up” to Tipper Gore as she used rock music to score some political family values points. No one particularly cared what you said then, and no one cares now. And stop being such a prick to Bobby Brown—anyone who lived with Whitney for that long could kick your ass.”
11-14-08
Like most delusional people, I played online poker for awhile. Of course, I was different from the average online poker player. I really understood the odds and how to bet and . . .what are you laughing at? No, I really was different. See, I had a system. I read a book and watched people play on TV and . . . oh, shut up.
So, as you may have guessed, I don’t play anymore. I prefer just to stop people on the street and hand them $20 bills. I find it more efficient and easier on my pride. But when I did play, I couldn’t believe how many expert poker players seemed to be at the nickel table. At 3am. On a Tuesday. I know, it seems improbable. But evidently, Chris Moneymaker was always there at my table (incognito, of course—usually with a Florida State or Pittsburgh Steelers avatar). What’s more, he was always willing to share his wealth of poker knowledge with the rest of us—and never more so than when he had just lost a pot that (as he would explain, with frequent use of the word “assmunch”) he should have won—only we were such retards at poker that somehow he didn’t. I never quite got why I was the retarded poker player, when I had just won and he had just lost, but I guess he was just much more advanced than I.
11-13-08
Is there anything more useless than the sex advice in a women's magazine? I remember being young and looking at issues of Cosmo stacked up next to to the candy display at the grocery store like they contained the great mysteries of the universe. "Tips for Better Sex!" "How to Blow His Mind!" "The Only Sex Secret That You'll Ever Need!" I thought that there was some kind of ancient feminine wisdom being passed down via the publishing industry and I was missing out on it. I thought there was some practical advice there--a technique--or at least a button or lever or something. Instead, when I finally got my hands on an issue and ran off to the privacy of my bedroom to read it by flashlight (flanked by my Top Gun and Michael J. Fox posters) what do I find? "Use your imagination." "Be bold." "Nothing is sexier to a man than self-confidence." Oh really? I can name about 25 things that are sexier to a man than self confidence--and that's just the stuff that has to do with breasts. That's why Carrie Bradshaw is a perfect representation of a female sex columnist. Here she has this provocative sounding column, and what does she write? Lame puns and complaints about men. Yeah, that's some super-sexy stuff. I can get better insight from page 23 of the Victoria's Secret catalog.
11-12-08
I had a major problem with Pierce Brosnan as James Bond. It's not that he wasn't suave enough to be Bond--he had suave to spare. It's just that it was patently ridiculous to me that this was a guy with a license to kill. Pierce Brosnan isn't killing anybody. I sincerely doubt that he would even ask someone to be quiet in a movie theater. Sean Connery, I could accept. Even Timothy Dalton. But not Pierce Brosnan. (I suppose one could make the same point about Roger Moore, but at least Roger Moore didn't seem to be trying as hard as Brosnan. Moore always seemed slightly amused at the fact that anyone believed that he was an international super-spy.) I do like Daniel Craig, and I can even believe that he has a license to kill. Not when he's wearing a turtleneck, of course, but the rest of the time. Sean Connery may be the only Bond (heck, one of the only actors) who could convincingly sell both tough and cool while wearing a turtleneck. It's just hard to believe that you can protect us from terrorists and Communists when you're dressed like you're worried about getting a bit of a tickle in your throat.
11-11-08
You know how at every job you've ever had, there's always one guy who goes on and on about how wronged and misrepresented it is? Like the world really needed an accurate account of the trials of being a waiter. Well, I like to think that somewhere in the bowels of the CIA is a guy who will not shut up about how off-base 24, Chuck, and The Bourne Identity are. I bet he drives his co-workers crazy with rants about protocol and how everyone knows that you could never beat the retinal scanner with a contact lens. No doubt he goes on for hours about James Bond and Tom Clancy and twitches whenever someone jokes about Maxwell Smart. I bet it kills this guy that he can't blog.
11-10-08
I have major issues with turn-based fighting games. To those who aren't sure what that is, I seriously question your commitment to gamer geekiness. Essentially, they're games where the fighting mechanism is mean to be very strategic--so that each blow/spell/etc. is set up for each character in turn. Like in the Final Fantasy series. My issue is not that the set-up is so predictible (magic casters, mysterious spiritual avatars, inexplicable cute girl), nor is it the fact that the backstory often involves a bizarre and malevolent cosmology. It's not even that many of the characters in these games seem to have a costuming problem that demands that they wear pants that only fully cover one leg. No, my problem is that the oh-so-polite, everyone-takes-a-turn-hitting-someone battles are very funny to me. They remind of me of B movies where the large group of villains always attack the hero one at a time. Apparently, what separates evil from good in the fighting world is a total lack of a strategic understanding of superior numbers.
11-7-08
The great thing about Taco Bell is that every meal there is like a little life adventure. Will you leave happy, full, and satisfied or slightly queasy? Is everything going to stay put or are you about to embark in a full-scale race against time to the comfort of your home bathroom? And there’s the challenge of feeling happy that your dinner was so cheap while avoiding thinking about why they can afford to make a burrito for a fraction of what it costs you, even when you use ½ price beef and the tortillas you liberated from Don Pablo’s.
And, of course, for me, there’s the fact that Taco Bell is the source of one of my proudest achievements: eating a Burrito Supreme while driving a stick-shift pick-up truck with the window down and holding a medium Dr. Pepper between my legs. I’m serious. It was a huge accomplishment. Graduating from law school doesn’t even come close.
11-6-08
The lack of safe scientific experimentation in Spiderman’s world is a little concerning—as well as being largely responsible for the high rate of SuperVillains they seem to experience. Perhaps Spiderman could start some kind of support group. Then, instead of battling over their various diabolical schemes, they could lobby for safe control and use of radioactive spiders, radioactive sand experiments, and robotic arms that can develop their own personality and fuse to your spine. (Clearly, they at least need to address the carelessness-with-radioactivity issue, as apparently scientists in Spiderman’s New York like to spend their spare time making benign things radioactive just for the hell of it.) And while they’re on it, they should definitely do a series of Public Service Announcements warning scientists not to inject themselves with their super new formula just because, “it’s ready for human trials, and I’m the only one.” Considering the massive loss of human life that generally follows once your average scientist has been mutated by his experiments, it would really be best if he invested in a few rats before he jumped right to human trials. So let that be a warning to you PETA. Do away with animal experimentation, and we’ll be living in a world full of SuperVillains
11-5-08
Facebook keeps complicating my life. First, it was the need to keep up with the Friends-ing, people's status, and coming up with new comments for the endless wall postings, updates, and pictures. Then there were the invites--be a pirate, be a ninja, be a vampire. Hound other people to join too. We can be the biggest group of people who decided to randomly click on things instead of working in all of the internet! But nothing can beat the Superpokes. Now we have an entirely new low in human communication based on sending third-party multiple-choice emails with cutesy one-sentence messages. There are people whom I haven't spoken to in years who are regularly "poking" me. This now defines our relationship. And, of course, Superpoke etiquette demands that I "poke" them back, but not with the same option, since that would be like I didn't even try. And you have to be careful, so that you don't accidentally, say, "shower with" or "lick" your first cousin through Superpoke hastiness. How is it that the Communication Age keeps spawning newer and faster ways to avoid real communication?
Of course, now that I've written this, everyone I know is probably going to "throw Michelle Obama" at me.
11-4-08
Rock the Vote makes me totally crazy, for two primary reasons. First, no one (with the exception of ACDC and Queen) should be allowed to use the word "rock" as a verb. It's the very definition of trying too hard and comes off a little pathetic, like it should be preceded by the words, "Hey Kids!" I notice that we don't apply it to any other civic duties. There's no Rock the Income Taxes! campaign, no Rock Obedience to the Speed Limit! (Though I would love to see Halle Barry doing a commercial for that last one.) Second, if there really are thousands of people who weren't going to vote, but were persuaded to do so because Leonardo DiCaprio convinced them that it was really important, then I weep for the future.
11-3-08
Why does Yoda immediately go back to hobbling around with a cane directly after kicking someone's ass in a lightsaber duel? I get that the cane is a misdirect for others to hide his proficiency and power, but considering that we just saw him flying around the room like a ferret on cocaine, who is he trying to fool? It's not like the bad guys he just defeated are going to think, "Oh, that was a fluke. He's really arthritic and feeble and a terrible fighter." Unless it's all just an elaborate Jedi endzone dance designed to make his enemies feel worse about losing. Ha! You just got beat by a guy with a cane!
10-31-08
Everyone knows that 90% of adult women's Halloween costumes are based on sex appeal. There are sexy devils, sexy cats, scantily clad nurses, French Maids, and so on. So why don't liberal women who dress up as Sarah Palin for Halloween just admit that they're going as a sexy Vice-Presidential candidate? Don't try to convince me that you're making some kind of profound political statement. If that's the case, why not dress up like Hillary? Admit it--it's because no one ever got laid in a costume based on a pantsuit.