Bill Gates is the King of All Nerds. Give me a second to come back off that limb. But just in case we’re not on the same page, I will offer this one more piece of evidence. I sent an email to a friend about the Superbowl this weekend but Microsoft Outlook was having none of it. The spellchecker popped up a warning that “Superbowl” isn’t a word. Well isn’t that just perfect? It did offer the helpful suggestion of changing “Superbowl” to “superb owl.” Software written by computer nerds for the biggest computer nerd ever doesn’t know what the Superbowl is but they readily know what a superb owl is? If you’ve seen Bill Gates with his glasses on you may justifiably conjure up images of a superb owl. In fact the resemblance to an advertisement from my childhood is uncanny. A one… a twohoooo…a three. A three.
For the rest of us men whose testosterone is in the range scientifically referred to as “measurable”, we are looking forward to the yearly tradition that is the Superbowl. (Bill, that’s a football game. Oh, sorry, a football is an oblong ball that you…sorry, a ball is …). Anyway, this weekend is the big game that we football fans have been waiting for all year. You know, the game between that one team and, um, that other team. Wait, don’t tell me. I think maybe the Steelers? Yeah, I just googled and they’re playing the Cardinals. At the beginning of the season I would have bet one of my favorite arms that the Cardinals wouldn’t make it to the Superbowl. I’m afraid the only reason to be on the edge of your seat this year is if the back of your seat is on fire.
The only thing I’m looking forward to this year is seeing Kurt Warner’s wife Brenda in the stands. Years gone by she has been a great source of amusement with her enthusiastic spiky gray haircut that looked abrasive enough to be hawked by Billy Mays as the perfect tool for getting off baked-on stains. What’s that? Brenda Warner is a babe now? The woman who would have looked perfectly at home in a burlap sack bounding purposefully across the finish line at the “Johnny Has Two Mommies” picnic, now has long blond hair and…I don’t want to start any rumors here…but perhaps more chestly attributes than before? If that’s true it would mark the first time in my life that I’ve been disappointed by large breasts.
I'm sorry…I promised myself I wouldn’t cry…
Wanna read more?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Thinking Inside the Box - by Philip
I rarely feel guilty about anything. Guilt is one of those emotions that is best acknowledged and then suppressed, like that impending fear that you’ve wasted your life or maybe like a craving for chocolate glazed doughnuts. Whichever. The point is that guilt has no inherent value other than to remind us to avoid certain behaviors that we don’t wish to repeat. Once we’ve learned that lesson and have adjusted our behavior, there’s no need to carry around that guilt any more, is there? So why, knowing that, do I continue to feel guilty about my love… of boxing?
That’s right, my name is Philip Dyer and I love boxing. Well, maybe “love” is too strong of a word. I’m never going to spend that crazy pay-per-view money to watch Oscar De La Hoya get his ass handed to him by “Sugar” Shane Mosley (again), but I certainly don’t change the channel when Wladimir Klitschko is pounding the crap out of a woefully unprepared Hasim Rahman. You know, for example.
But as I was watching the Mosley-Margarito fight last week, I had the same internal conversation that I have every time I sit down to a boxing match: Why do I like this? What is the appeal of watching two grown men try to pummel the crap out of each other? And BTW, I’m not suggesting that it’s better to watch two children try to pummel the crap out of each other, just that it seems odd that contemporary adults are participating in what appears to be such primitive behavior. Of course, they’re highly skilled athletes who work incredibly hard to hone their skills, but why do they apply those skills toward the sole objective of hurting another human being, rather than twirling a ribbon while dancing on a soft mat or sliding a large weight across an ice rink? Wouldn’t that be a better use of their skills? Anyone?
Still, the fact remains that I both enjoy boxing and feel guilty about enjoying it. It clearly satisfies some basic human instinct, but I can’t help feeling bad that I’m no better than those bloodthirsty ancient Romans who fed their lions a steady diet of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The scientific explanation is that we watch sports in order to vicariously experience some emotion that we are unable to experience in everyday life. It just so happens that this particular emotion is the adrenaline rush associated with pounding another human being into a sniveling puddle of goo, but the explanation is still valid. While the ability to kick someone’s ass is rarely useful on a corporate team-building retreat, we are just a few generations removed from that being the most essential skill required for our daily survival. Note that I said "rarely," Greg Applebaum. Consider yourself warned.
So here we are, caught between a deeply ingrained human instinct to inflict pain on others and our HR department’s policy explicitly stating that this is not acceptable breakroom behavior. They clearly don’t understand what it’s like to be surrounded by a bunch of engineers with spindly biceps who still live with their parents and drink tea while discussing their WOW guild’s eradication of a hostile faction of Night Elves. Wait, did I just perpetuate a hateful stereotype? It's a good thing I don't feel guilt. The point is that maybe it's helpful to society that we channel our instinct to beat up nerds into a less felonius hobby, such as watching boxing, UFC and rasslin'. I just can't help but think that it doesn't speak highly of us as an evolved species if we have those instincts in the first place.
Two things in particular happened during last weekend's boxing match that gave me a bit more pause than usual. The first jarring moment was when Mosley came back to his corner between rounds and his manager said, "Knock the grease off this dude then swim without getting wet." Huh? I don't think that I want to follow a sport in which people put those words in that order. The second big realization was that Sylvester Stallone was sitting in the front row watching the same fight that I was. I have always made it a goal in life never to belong to any of the same clubs as Sylvester Stallone. Well, I suppose that belonging to the "Academy Award Nominees Club" and the "Multimillionaires Club" wouldn't be so bad, but the "Formerly Married to Brigite Nielsen Club" is out of the question.
Knowing that boxing vernacular is becoming more and more inane and that I'm not exactly thrilled about the kind of company that I'm keeping as a member of boxing's viewing audience, is that enough to stop me from watching? Nope. I also know that there's no valid reason for me to continue popping these Reese's Pieces in my mouth, but there is apparently a large chasm between the things that I know consciously and the primal instincts that are really steering the ship. There's no way that I'm ever going to try to beat up someone to satisfy my caveman intuitions, so why not let another guy do it for me? Once I learn how to knock grease off of other people and to swim through gases and solids, I'll start doing it for myself. Wanna read more?
That’s right, my name is Philip Dyer and I love boxing. Well, maybe “love” is too strong of a word. I’m never going to spend that crazy pay-per-view money to watch Oscar De La Hoya get his ass handed to him by “Sugar” Shane Mosley (again), but I certainly don’t change the channel when Wladimir Klitschko is pounding the crap out of a woefully unprepared Hasim Rahman. You know, for example.
But as I was watching the Mosley-Margarito fight last week, I had the same internal conversation that I have every time I sit down to a boxing match: Why do I like this? What is the appeal of watching two grown men try to pummel the crap out of each other? And BTW, I’m not suggesting that it’s better to watch two children try to pummel the crap out of each other, just that it seems odd that contemporary adults are participating in what appears to be such primitive behavior. Of course, they’re highly skilled athletes who work incredibly hard to hone their skills, but why do they apply those skills toward the sole objective of hurting another human being, rather than twirling a ribbon while dancing on a soft mat or sliding a large weight across an ice rink? Wouldn’t that be a better use of their skills? Anyone?
Still, the fact remains that I both enjoy boxing and feel guilty about enjoying it. It clearly satisfies some basic human instinct, but I can’t help feeling bad that I’m no better than those bloodthirsty ancient Romans who fed their lions a steady diet of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The scientific explanation is that we watch sports in order to vicariously experience some emotion that we are unable to experience in everyday life. It just so happens that this particular emotion is the adrenaline rush associated with pounding another human being into a sniveling puddle of goo, but the explanation is still valid. While the ability to kick someone’s ass is rarely useful on a corporate team-building retreat, we are just a few generations removed from that being the most essential skill required for our daily survival. Note that I said "rarely," Greg Applebaum. Consider yourself warned.
So here we are, caught between a deeply ingrained human instinct to inflict pain on others and our HR department’s policy explicitly stating that this is not acceptable breakroom behavior. They clearly don’t understand what it’s like to be surrounded by a bunch of engineers with spindly biceps who still live with their parents and drink tea while discussing their WOW guild’s eradication of a hostile faction of Night Elves. Wait, did I just perpetuate a hateful stereotype? It's a good thing I don't feel guilt. The point is that maybe it's helpful to society that we channel our instinct to beat up nerds into a less felonius hobby, such as watching boxing, UFC and rasslin'. I just can't help but think that it doesn't speak highly of us as an evolved species if we have those instincts in the first place.
Two things in particular happened during last weekend's boxing match that gave me a bit more pause than usual. The first jarring moment was when Mosley came back to his corner between rounds and his manager said, "Knock the grease off this dude then swim without getting wet." Huh? I don't think that I want to follow a sport in which people put those words in that order. The second big realization was that Sylvester Stallone was sitting in the front row watching the same fight that I was. I have always made it a goal in life never to belong to any of the same clubs as Sylvester Stallone. Well, I suppose that belonging to the "Academy Award Nominees Club" and the "Multimillionaires Club" wouldn't be so bad, but the "Formerly Married to Brigite Nielsen Club" is out of the question.
Knowing that boxing vernacular is becoming more and more inane and that I'm not exactly thrilled about the kind of company that I'm keeping as a member of boxing's viewing audience, is that enough to stop me from watching? Nope. I also know that there's no valid reason for me to continue popping these Reese's Pieces in my mouth, but there is apparently a large chasm between the things that I know consciously and the primal instincts that are really steering the ship. There's no way that I'm ever going to try to beat up someone to satisfy my caveman intuitions, so why not let another guy do it for me? Once I learn how to knock grease off of other people and to swim through gases and solids, I'll start doing it for myself. Wanna read more?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
25 Things I Hate About Me - by Philip
Okay, I don't actually hate these things about myself, I just wanted to capitalize on the popularity of the movie that has a somewhat similar name. Wait, I'm just being told that this movie wasn't actually very popular at all. It was, in fact, a box office disappointment. Well, this was a big waste of an opening paragraph.
Back to business. The list below is the result of my Facebook friends bombarding me with their "25 random things about me" lists. I decided to post the list on this blog as a result of the following logic: This blog contains things that I have written. I wrote this list. Therefore, this list must be on my blog. That makes sense, right? Could someone mock up a Venn diagram to show how this works? Anyway, here it is, dammit.
1. Until 2 weeks before I was born, my name was supposed to be Lisa and Douglas was going to be Laurie. Or maybe vice-versa. Obviously, that didn’t work out.
2. I majored in Soviet Studies but haven’t once used that degree for anything. Well, I did once ask a young Russian boy how old he was, but he answered me in English.
3. I bought my first computer in 1981 at age 13. It was a TRS-80 with 4k of ROM. Not RAM… ROM.
4. I don’t believe in wacky twin stuff, but every once in awhile something weird happens between my brother and me.
5. My favorite song of all time is “What I Got” by Sublime.
6. When I was 11 years old, I roomed with Harry Connick Jr. at summer camp.
7. I hate the taste of kiwi. (The fruit, not the people from New Zealand. But them too, probably.)
8. I can almost never tell when a man is good-looking, which I consider a major personality flaw. Hugh Jackman? Really?
9. I believe that, by definition, nothing supernatural ever occurs.
10. My mind automatically rearranges words and sentences, which helps me totally kick ass at Word Jumbles.
11. I think that horoscopes are ludicrous, but I still read mine anyway. It’s right beneath the Word Jumble in my paper.
12. I have a fondness for symmetry.
13. I almost got kicked out of a Mendocino bed and breakfast once because Ted Danson made a reservation that night for President Clinton. The Clintons didn’t show, so I got to stay in the room above Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen, who has the sexiest voice in Hollywood.
14. I apparently enjoy name-dropping.
15. I have studied, French, Spanish, Latin, Russian and Japanese, but my best foreign language by far is Japanese, which I speak at a 6-year-old’s level.
16. I’m the only liberal in my family and have therefore never minded being the only person in the room who is right. Or left, as the case may be.
17. Based on #16, it would also appear that I’m a bit of a snob.
18. I value honesty above all other characteristics, but recognize the value of bending the truth a bit for etiquette’s sake.
19. I can usually tell within just a few seconds of meeting someone if I’m going to like him, but I still keep an open mind for a little while.
20. I place such a high value on fresh breath that I carry gum with me everywhere. I feel naked without it. I also feel naked without clothes, but who doesn’t?
21. My favorite spice is tarragon.
22. I can’t stand that clicking, smacking noise that a dry mouth makes, so when someone on NPR is making this noise, I change the station immediately.
23. I won a baking contest at age 19, but I’m probably the worst cook in my family.
24. I watch way too many forensics shows.
25. My pinky tips are crooked. It’s congenital. (You're welcome, Jessica!) Wanna read more?
Back to business. The list below is the result of my Facebook friends bombarding me with their "25 random things about me" lists. I decided to post the list on this blog as a result of the following logic: This blog contains things that I have written. I wrote this list. Therefore, this list must be on my blog. That makes sense, right? Could someone mock up a Venn diagram to show how this works? Anyway, here it is, dammit.
1. Until 2 weeks before I was born, my name was supposed to be Lisa and Douglas was going to be Laurie. Or maybe vice-versa. Obviously, that didn’t work out.
2. I majored in Soviet Studies but haven’t once used that degree for anything. Well, I did once ask a young Russian boy how old he was, but he answered me in English.
3. I bought my first computer in 1981 at age 13. It was a TRS-80 with 4k of ROM. Not RAM… ROM.
4. I don’t believe in wacky twin stuff, but every once in awhile something weird happens between my brother and me.
5. My favorite song of all time is “What I Got” by Sublime.
6. When I was 11 years old, I roomed with Harry Connick Jr. at summer camp.
7. I hate the taste of kiwi. (The fruit, not the people from New Zealand. But them too, probably.)
8. I can almost never tell when a man is good-looking, which I consider a major personality flaw. Hugh Jackman? Really?
9. I believe that, by definition, nothing supernatural ever occurs.
10. My mind automatically rearranges words and sentences, which helps me totally kick ass at Word Jumbles.
11. I think that horoscopes are ludicrous, but I still read mine anyway. It’s right beneath the Word Jumble in my paper.
12. I have a fondness for symmetry.
13. I almost got kicked out of a Mendocino bed and breakfast once because Ted Danson made a reservation that night for President Clinton. The Clintons didn’t show, so I got to stay in the room above Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen, who has the sexiest voice in Hollywood.
14. I apparently enjoy name-dropping.
15. I have studied, French, Spanish, Latin, Russian and Japanese, but my best foreign language by far is Japanese, which I speak at a 6-year-old’s level.
16. I’m the only liberal in my family and have therefore never minded being the only person in the room who is right. Or left, as the case may be.
17. Based on #16, it would also appear that I’m a bit of a snob.
18. I value honesty above all other characteristics, but recognize the value of bending the truth a bit for etiquette’s sake.
19. I can usually tell within just a few seconds of meeting someone if I’m going to like him, but I still keep an open mind for a little while.
20. I place such a high value on fresh breath that I carry gum with me everywhere. I feel naked without it. I also feel naked without clothes, but who doesn’t?
21. My favorite spice is tarragon.
22. I can’t stand that clicking, smacking noise that a dry mouth makes, so when someone on NPR is making this noise, I change the station immediately.
23. I won a baking contest at age 19, but I’m probably the worst cook in my family.
24. I watch way too many forensics shows.
25. My pinky tips are crooked. It’s congenital. (You're welcome, Jessica!) Wanna read more?
To All Deess Girl I Loave Befores - by Douglas
The following conversation most likely did not take place between Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias as they joined musical forces in 1984 to create “To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before”. Willie and his agent greet Julio in an executive studio. Julio kisses the agent’s hand slowly and with great effect, then shakes Willie’s hand, leaving a smudge of spray tan that Willie can’t seem to wipe off.
Julio – Haylo, my frienss. We will write the love song, yes? Nobodies sees this coming but it will be the hit, no?
Willie – Hell yeah, Pepe LePew! I can knock this one out in my gat-damn sleep!
Julio – LePew? I am Esspanish, not French.
Willie – Whatever. A frog’s a frog, am I right? So here’s what I’m thinking…
Julio – Did something just move in joo beards?
Willie – You do not want to make eye contact, Hoss. I don’t know what that is but it opened up a can on Hank Jr. last week. So lookit, I think we ought to go cutting edge with this song. Just make it a whole boobie ballad thing.
Julio – Frogs? Boobies? This is the mistakes. I should nevers have thought joo could write the song sophisticated enough for the womens.
Willie – Sophisticated? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Agent - It means complex and intellectually appealing.
Willie - Oh.
Agent – Now gentlemen, I’m sure…
Julio turns on her with an intense stare and orders, “Joo looks into my eyess!” The agent looks into his eyes then puddles to the floor where she writhes and purrs.
Julio – (wheeling back on Willie dramatically) This is but one examples! I unnerstanss the womens. I celebrate the womens. I can tell joo the stories, my frienss. I have made the love on the stage of the Sydney Opera House and drank the champagnes out of the button bellies of the twins unnarwears models.
Willie – Well good for you snail breath! I once snorted a whole friggin' 8 ball out of a hooker's butt hole.
Julio – Maybe joo should stop making sexes with the goats long enough to read the books! Maybe then joo knows the difference between the France and Esspanya! I knows better than to work with the crazies like joo!
Willie – Crazy? Bitch, you don’t know the half! Hell, I wrote Crazy!
Julio – (softer, amazed) Joo…joo write the crazies? The Patsy Clines Crazies? I am loving the Patsy Clines Crazies. I beds many womens with this song. My frienss, we will write the song togethers.
Willie – You got it, French fry. Hell, I just about got this knocked out in the crapper before I come in here. (Pulls some toilet paper from his pocket and looks at writing on it). I got one little problem though. I can’t think up a word to rhyme with “Budweiser”.
Julio – I thinks about this. (Pause) Oh jess. Joo says, “Budweiser…sodomize her”.
Willie – Hell fire, Perrier! (scribbling on the toilet paper) I think we got us a winner! (gets up and drops toilet paper on still-writhing agent) Run this upstairs and tell the boys to put some keyboard under it. Me and Hula Hoop here’s gonna go do tequila shots til they’re ready for us. Wanna read more?
Julio – Haylo, my frienss. We will write the love song, yes? Nobodies sees this coming but it will be the hit, no?
Willie – Hell yeah, Pepe LePew! I can knock this one out in my gat-damn sleep!
Julio – LePew? I am Esspanish, not French.
Willie – Whatever. A frog’s a frog, am I right? So here’s what I’m thinking…
Julio – Did something just move in joo beards?
Willie – You do not want to make eye contact, Hoss. I don’t know what that is but it opened up a can on Hank Jr. last week. So lookit, I think we ought to go cutting edge with this song. Just make it a whole boobie ballad thing.
Julio – Frogs? Boobies? This is the mistakes. I should nevers have thought joo could write the song sophisticated enough for the womens.
Willie – Sophisticated? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Agent - It means complex and intellectually appealing.
Willie - Oh.
Agent – Now gentlemen, I’m sure…
Julio turns on her with an intense stare and orders, “Joo looks into my eyess!” The agent looks into his eyes then puddles to the floor where she writhes and purrs.
Julio – (wheeling back on Willie dramatically) This is but one examples! I unnerstanss the womens. I celebrate the womens. I can tell joo the stories, my frienss. I have made the love on the stage of the Sydney Opera House and drank the champagnes out of the button bellies of the twins unnarwears models.
Willie – Well good for you snail breath! I once snorted a whole friggin' 8 ball out of a hooker's butt hole.
Julio – Maybe joo should stop making sexes with the goats long enough to read the books! Maybe then joo knows the difference between the France and Esspanya! I knows better than to work with the crazies like joo!
Willie – Crazy? Bitch, you don’t know the half! Hell, I wrote Crazy!
Julio – (softer, amazed) Joo…joo write the crazies? The Patsy Clines Crazies? I am loving the Patsy Clines Crazies. I beds many womens with this song. My frienss, we will write the song togethers.
Willie – You got it, French fry. Hell, I just about got this knocked out in the crapper before I come in here. (Pulls some toilet paper from his pocket and looks at writing on it). I got one little problem though. I can’t think up a word to rhyme with “Budweiser”.
Julio – I thinks about this. (Pause) Oh jess. Joo says, “Budweiser…sodomize her”.
Willie – Hell fire, Perrier! (scribbling on the toilet paper) I think we got us a winner! (gets up and drops toilet paper on still-writhing agent) Run this upstairs and tell the boys to put some keyboard under it. Me and Hula Hoop here’s gonna go do tequila shots til they’re ready for us. Wanna read more?
Allergic to Allergies - by Philip
Just to let everyone know, our mom is now reading the blog, so I'll be making an effort to clean up my language. My topic today is allergies, so I'll begin by saying that allergies can be a total female dog. A real intercoursing pain in the gluteal region. Thankfully, Douglas and I have never had to deal with allergies in any significant way. We are each mildly allergic to only three things: As Douglas mentioned earlier, he has a rather disgusting inability to digest lactose. I won't reveal what his other two allergies are in case the people who own that restroom that he desecrated want to get revenge on him by putting codeine or avocados in his soy latte. Actually the avocado soy latte with codeine sprinkles is the drink of the month at Starbucks, so Douglas should probably go to Dunkin' Donuts for awhile. My allergies are penicillin (hives), eggplant (mouth itches) and mushrooms (see Douglas's lactose intolerance post).
Wanna read more?
I was born with the eggplant allergy, but that didn't stop me from eating my grandmother's fried eggplant because, well, it was fried and I'm from the South. I became allergic to penicillin at age seven when a doctor, who was a total rectal entryway, pumped me full of the drug after insisting for a week that I just had the flu, when any chimp with a stethoscope would have known that I actually had pneumonia. I later became allergic to mushrooms while living in Japan when I ate a bad batch of defecation-ake mushrooms. Okay, maybe that's taking the language cleanup a bit too far. As with Douglas's intolerance for dairy products, it took several unpleasant bathroom visits and one trip to the doctor to figure out that my beloved mushrooms had conspired against me.
But last year at age 39, I seem to have developed a new allergy. This is the really annoying kind that causes a runny nose, itchy eyes and lots of sneezing (as opposed to the really fatal kind that causes anaphylactic shock). I thought at first that I just had a cold because I had never had allergies like this before, but a friend of mine pointed out the error of my self-diagnosis and suggested that I try allergy medicine. I took it just to prove her wrong and it actually cleared up my symptoms. The end result is that I have a whole new allergy and a friend who acts all roostery around me now.
My other three allergies are easy to deal with. I just avoid eggplant, mushrooms and particularly aggressive bacterial infections. But this new allergy floats in on the air and makes me slightly miserable for a week or so before going away. I consider it my own little period, but without all the... okay, there's nowhere I can go with that comparison that will end up well. I still haven't figured out what I'm allergic to, but I'm not sure it matters since it would probably require me to move to Flagstaff or Boca Raton to get away from it and I'm not quite ready to pull my pants up to my nipples yet.
When I lived in Japan, a lot of people were allergic to cedar trees and I was completely unable to sympathize with them as they sniffled and sneezed for several weeks each year. One Japanese man even asked me, "What is the English word for a man who is allergic to cedar trees?" I told him that it's, "a man who is allergic to cedar trees," but he didn't believe me. He clearly thought that I just didn't know the answer and was lying to him to get away from his spigot-like nostrils. Now that I am whatever that word is, I finally understand their pain, at least for two or three weeks out of the year. A different Japanese person asked me if I thought that air was delicious, but I never found out what that meant.
Of course, the reason that I'm writing about this topic now is because my new allergy is currently rearing its ugly head. It's not actually that big of a deal except that I sound kind of nasally so my phone calls now primarily consist of people asking me if I'm sure that I'm okay. It also keeps me up at night since I have trouble sleeping when I don't have free airflow through at least one of my nostrils, but at least I now have a newfound appreciation for the comedy stylings of Craig Ferguson. Who knew that Scottish people could be so entertaining?
One other thing about allergies that I'm sure you've noticed, Dear Reader, is that each passing generation seems to have more allergies than the last. My daughters are both allergic to nuts (Hey, no testicle jokes! These are my daughters we're talking about!) and Lauren is even allergic to chocolate. Can you imagine? While that sounds horrible, when she's an adult it will be much better for her to come home from a hard day's work and drown her sorrows in a bowl of steamed broccoli rather than in a pint of Chunky Monkey.
Now that I think about it, I'm actually kind of urined off that I'm only allergic to healthy things. I wonder how much healthier I would be today if I had been born with an allergy to Milk Duds and deep-dish pizza. Hmm... maybe I can make myself allergic to them now like I did with the mushrooms. I'll think about that right after I finish eating this box of Prostitute Prostitutes.
Monday, January 26, 2009
A Wrecked Tile Dysfunction - by Douglas
My wife and I have been picking out tile for our kitchen for about five years now. This is how large purchases (anything over $20) go in our family. If it were up to me, we’d be flat broke and tripping over our expensive and mismatched material goods. If it were up to the missus, we’d position our sleeping boxes as near as possible to a bus stop so we could get a ride to the vacant lot where our vats of money were buried. We’re sort of Jack Spratty like that but we make it work. However, at long last, I think I can say with some certainty that there is a half-decent possibility that we might get our kitchen tiled next week. No, I’m serious this time.
First of all, after a grueling search that has caused many tile peddlers to dive, trembling uncontrollably, behind their laminate flooring displays at the site of us walking through the door, we have found the perfect tile. This miracle tile has the same colors as our counter tops while still matching our cabinets and appliances. Second, a representative of a local flooring company has come out and measured the room and provided us with a quote. Third, my wife has pulled up all the despised linoleum in the kitchen, quite possibly with her teeth. None of those facts alone would tilt the odds beyond 50/50 but combined together we’re up to at least 60/40.
Now, true to form, there are a couple of reasons to believe that we will spend the foreseeable future preparing our meals on a tileless bare slab. The tile must know that history is not on its side. For instance, we spent two years buying our entertainment center which then sat unfinished in our garage for several more months while we shopped for the perfect wood stain. I feel certain that my corpse will remain a prominent fixture in the office of some unwitting embalmer for at least a year while my wife finds a coffin that is tastefully fashioned yet understated without being too gloomy. Also battling against a finished floor is the fact that the tile quote, while perfectly reasonable, is still a lot of money. My initial reaction was to ask if they were covering our floor with black tar heroin or the foreskins of spitting cobras.
But, having looked before we leapt and caveat emptored ourselves to the satisfaction of even Hans Blix, we may just end up with a tiled floor yet. “Don’t worry,” I’ll say to our company who are concerned about my wife staring unblinkingly at the floor, “she isn’t having a petit mal seizure. She’s just imagining how the tile would look adjacent to the dishwasher.” That Mona Lisa hint of a smile speaks volumes, and I know she can’t wait to feel those tootsies on the new floor. Although I did notice that the linoleum, while brimming over the top of one of our garbage cans, is still in large enough strips to glue back down, if need be. After 18 years of marriage, I’m convinced that was not an accident. Wanna read more?
First of all, after a grueling search that has caused many tile peddlers to dive, trembling uncontrollably, behind their laminate flooring displays at the site of us walking through the door, we have found the perfect tile. This miracle tile has the same colors as our counter tops while still matching our cabinets and appliances. Second, a representative of a local flooring company has come out and measured the room and provided us with a quote. Third, my wife has pulled up all the despised linoleum in the kitchen, quite possibly with her teeth. None of those facts alone would tilt the odds beyond 50/50 but combined together we’re up to at least 60/40.
Now, true to form, there are a couple of reasons to believe that we will spend the foreseeable future preparing our meals on a tileless bare slab. The tile must know that history is not on its side. For instance, we spent two years buying our entertainment center which then sat unfinished in our garage for several more months while we shopped for the perfect wood stain. I feel certain that my corpse will remain a prominent fixture in the office of some unwitting embalmer for at least a year while my wife finds a coffin that is tastefully fashioned yet understated without being too gloomy. Also battling against a finished floor is the fact that the tile quote, while perfectly reasonable, is still a lot of money. My initial reaction was to ask if they were covering our floor with black tar heroin or the foreskins of spitting cobras.
But, having looked before we leapt and caveat emptored ourselves to the satisfaction of even Hans Blix, we may just end up with a tiled floor yet. “Don’t worry,” I’ll say to our company who are concerned about my wife staring unblinkingly at the floor, “she isn’t having a petit mal seizure. She’s just imagining how the tile would look adjacent to the dishwasher.” That Mona Lisa hint of a smile speaks volumes, and I know she can’t wait to feel those tootsies on the new floor. Although I did notice that the linoleum, while brimming over the top of one of our garbage cans, is still in large enough strips to glue back down, if need be. After 18 years of marriage, I’m convinced that was not an accident. Wanna read more?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Hot Button Issue - by Philip
The Oscar nominations came out recently and the film with the most nominations by far was "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button." My initial reaction was, “Huh?” This was followed by, “Seriously, what movie actually got the most nominations?” I concluded with, “Wait… were there two Benjamin Button films this year?”
But apparently it’s true. The Academy saw fit to nominate Benjamin Button for Best Actor, Supporting Actress, Art Direction, Cinematography, Costume Design, Editing, Makeup, Music, Sound Mixing, Visual Effects, Adapted Screenplay, Directing, and the ultimate prize, Best Picture. As a comparison, Benjamin Button was nominated for five Golden Globes –usually a reliable bellwether for the Oscars– and didn’t win any of them.
So why does the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences think that this film is deserving of so many nominations? One possibility is that many Academy members are senile has-beens who watch only a tiny percentage of the films for which they vote, causing them to cast their ballots based on buzz and how much they liked the commercials. But that couldn’t possibly be true, right? Right? So maybe Academy members actually believe that Benjamin Button was the best movie this year. I saw the movie last week and can confirm that it wasn’t.
Don't get me wrong – Benjamin Button is a good movie, but it's just not in the same class as the rest of the nominees. Well, actually it was better than "The Visitor," which shouldn't have finished in the top 20 films of the year, let alone the top five. (Meow! Bitch line starts behind Phil!) The main strike against Benjamin Button was its appallingly long running time – 2 hours and 47 minutes. Several times during the movie I thought, “Okay, we get the point. You can move on now.” If I were editing this movie (which would have been a terrible business decision since I’ve never done that before), I can promise that the final release would have come in at least a half hour shorter. And my friend Steve would have probably sung over the end credits because I owe him a favor.
Also, even though I’m an unapologetic fan of Brad Pitt –I’ve had a bit of a man-crush on him since Thelma and Louise (Don’t worry, Mom. We haven’t acted on it yet.)– it seems impossible that there weren’t at least five better performances than his in the entire 2008 film anthology. He was very good under the challenging circumstances of portraying a man who ages backwards (How did he manage to shrink his body that much?!), but Philip Seymour Hoffman should have made the list instead for "Doubt," rather than garnering a Best Supporting Actor nomination. (What does a brother gotta do to qualify as a lead actor in this town?) Pitt’s performance was undeniably good, but it wasn’t the kind of tour-de-force that one would expect for an Oscar nominee.
However, in my ongoing efforts at backpedaling, I do think that some of Benjamin Button’s nominations were well deserved. For instance, Visual Effects might be the closest thing to a lock for this film because of the seamless work they did in placing Brad Pitt’s heavily made-up face on children’s bodies. Before my brother makes a joke about the European Catholic church in the 1700s, what I meant was that they used a computer to put Brad Pitt’s face on other people’s bodies, which is the exact opposite of what I did on my match.com profile. Of course, the baby Button did look like the unholy love child of a Ron Mueck sculpture and an ugli fruit, but it will still probably win that category, if for nothing else than to keep the film from going 0-for-13.
Even though I’m baffled about Benjamin Button's overachievement, I have to hand it to the Academy for nominating "In Bruges" for Best Screenplay. That was the funniest movie that I saw this year, despite being more violent than a DMX concert. (Does it make me look cool that I know who DMX is? I just Googled +rap +violent and he’s the first thing that came up.) So hear me now, Academy President Sid Ganis, if "In Bruges" wins that award, I’ll happily forgive all of this year’s excessive Buttoneering. But if it doesn’t, I’m totally gonna go all Ice-T on your ass. Ice-T is still relevant, right? Wanna read more?
But apparently it’s true. The Academy saw fit to nominate Benjamin Button for Best Actor, Supporting Actress, Art Direction, Cinematography, Costume Design, Editing, Makeup, Music, Sound Mixing, Visual Effects, Adapted Screenplay, Directing, and the ultimate prize, Best Picture. As a comparison, Benjamin Button was nominated for five Golden Globes –usually a reliable bellwether for the Oscars– and didn’t win any of them.
So why does the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences think that this film is deserving of so many nominations? One possibility is that many Academy members are senile has-beens who watch only a tiny percentage of the films for which they vote, causing them to cast their ballots based on buzz and how much they liked the commercials. But that couldn’t possibly be true, right? Right? So maybe Academy members actually believe that Benjamin Button was the best movie this year. I saw the movie last week and can confirm that it wasn’t.
Don't get me wrong – Benjamin Button is a good movie, but it's just not in the same class as the rest of the nominees. Well, actually it was better than "The Visitor," which shouldn't have finished in the top 20 films of the year, let alone the top five. (Meow! Bitch line starts behind Phil!) The main strike against Benjamin Button was its appallingly long running time – 2 hours and 47 minutes. Several times during the movie I thought, “Okay, we get the point. You can move on now.” If I were editing this movie (which would have been a terrible business decision since I’ve never done that before), I can promise that the final release would have come in at least a half hour shorter. And my friend Steve would have probably sung over the end credits because I owe him a favor.
Also, even though I’m an unapologetic fan of Brad Pitt –I’ve had a bit of a man-crush on him since Thelma and Louise (Don’t worry, Mom. We haven’t acted on it yet.)– it seems impossible that there weren’t at least five better performances than his in the entire 2008 film anthology. He was very good under the challenging circumstances of portraying a man who ages backwards (How did he manage to shrink his body that much?!), but Philip Seymour Hoffman should have made the list instead for "Doubt," rather than garnering a Best Supporting Actor nomination. (What does a brother gotta do to qualify as a lead actor in this town?) Pitt’s performance was undeniably good, but it wasn’t the kind of tour-de-force that one would expect for an Oscar nominee.
However, in my ongoing efforts at backpedaling, I do think that some of Benjamin Button’s nominations were well deserved. For instance, Visual Effects might be the closest thing to a lock for this film because of the seamless work they did in placing Brad Pitt’s heavily made-up face on children’s bodies. Before my brother makes a joke about the European Catholic church in the 1700s, what I meant was that they used a computer to put Brad Pitt’s face on other people’s bodies, which is the exact opposite of what I did on my match.com profile. Of course, the baby Button did look like the unholy love child of a Ron Mueck sculpture and an ugli fruit, but it will still probably win that category, if for nothing else than to keep the film from going 0-for-13.
Even though I’m baffled about Benjamin Button's overachievement, I have to hand it to the Academy for nominating "In Bruges" for Best Screenplay. That was the funniest movie that I saw this year, despite being more violent than a DMX concert. (Does it make me look cool that I know who DMX is? I just Googled +rap +violent and he’s the first thing that came up.) So hear me now, Academy President Sid Ganis, if "In Bruges" wins that award, I’ll happily forgive all of this year’s excessive Buttoneering. But if it doesn’t, I’m totally gonna go all Ice-T on your ass. Ice-T is still relevant, right? Wanna read more?
Friday, January 23, 2009
Fatbook - by Douglas
Everything I thought I knew about Facebook was wrong. I’m not so unhip as to not realize that it is a social networking website. Then again, I did just say ”unhip”, so most of you are already picturing me sitting in a Barcolounger in my sansabelts . Well, at least you are now. The point is that I understand the fun and usefulness of keeping in touch with friends and family, in or out of town, at any time you want. That’s exactly the kind of thing I would love to do if I were a teenager.
But I’m 40. Signing up for Facebook at 40 is a drastically different experience than signing up for Facebook as, say, someone who can stand up from a couch without first kicking a leg like a baseball pitcher. Add a friend or two, maybe join a group from your high school, and the next thing you know you are looking at scores of friend requests from old acquaintances, the majority of whom you haven’t spoken to for 20+ years, and many of them not even that much back then. In no time, you have a few dozen friends and several communications asking for photos of you and the family. It didn’t take me long to realize that Facebook.com for my generation could just as aptly have been called Whogotfat.com.
Now maybe I’m a little more sensitive to this topic because the answer to Whogotfat.com is Me.com. Or Me.net. I never really know. But it was comforting to see a few pictures of old friends with jowls or perhaps sporting a natty mumu. However, a completely unreasonable number of old classmates have maintained their youthful appearances and stubbornly refused to allow their stomachs to drape cozily over their belts. I call these people “the ones who belong on Facebook.” The rest of us are sending lame responses like, “Post pictures? I am completely USELESS with these computer thingies!” Or, “I am just ate up with viruses so I’d better hold off on that.” Which reminds me that I really need to change the job title in my profile from "Computer Programmer" to "Drooling Carny."
.jpg){kind=link}
But at least all of my original apprehensions about setting up a Facebook account were way off base. I thought I was going to be the old guy surrounded by kids pointing and laughing at me. Turns out there are heaps of people my age on Facebook, but most of their drivers licenses are just far more accurate in the “weight” column. I did manage to find a picture of me looking up at something –maybe a bird or approaching meteor– that took away a good number of my chins. So my profile and I are off and running. Yes, figuratively, smartass.
Just one word of warning – if you’re one of those svelte bastards wondering why I haven’t responded to your Facebook message, the answer is simple. It takes much longer than you think to Photoshop cheekbones onto your more recent pictures. But I think it’s time to finally start my New Year’s resolution because I know what’s coming next with an instinct reserved only for those with fragile self-images. A message from an old classmate that begins, “Hey, it’s been great catching up with you on Facebook! Say, me and the wife live a couple of time zones away so we were thinking about biking to your place to try out the local rock climbing! And I’ve been dying to know what you’re looking at in your picture. I think it’s a hot air balloon but the missus is guessing it’s a vengeful God yelling at you to lay off the Krispy Kremes.” It’s God all right. He’s asking me real nice not to put Vaseline on the rock climbing wall.
Wanna read more?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
You Are A Filthy Liar - by Philip
Unlike my obsessive brother, I am not a big fanatic of Lost or any other TV show. Except for House. And also The Office. And maybe 30 Rock and My Name Is Earl. And don't forget the now-canceled Pushing Daisies. Heroes is pretty good too. So are Big Love, True Blood, Entourage and Dexter. Can't forget The Daily Show, The Colbert Report and The Rachel Maddow Show. But other than those few programs, I don't obsess about TV shows the way my brother does with Lost. Oh, and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Psych, but seriously that's it.
The point is that I wasn't glued to my TV screen tonight watching Lost while my children set fire to my collection of Anne Murray albums. I mean Playboys or some other stack of manly items. To be fair, I was overseas when Lost began and it looked too complicated to try and get into it beginning with the second season. Going out to buy the first-season DVD would have required an effort, so I just decided to keep that hour of my weeknight schedule clear.
Well, my lack of effort has finally paid off because I got to see the hottest new show of the season tonight – Lie To Me. After watching the series premiere tonight, I have only one thing to say: It must be stopped now. This show is all about detecting the subtle clues that give away when people are lying. This will ruin everything! Dr. Paul Elkman, the inspiration for this new show, has said that the average person lies three times in every ten minutes of conversation. If that's true (and if Mr. Elkman had been talking for more than 3 minutes and 20 seconds when he said this, there's a good chance that it isn't), then all of humanity is in a huge amount of trouble. What if everyone who watches this show learns how to tell when people are lying? Then they'll know that I actually didn't get to second base with Lisa Turnbaum in the 8th grade and that yes, that skirt does make you look fat.
The point is that I wasn't glued to my TV screen tonight watching Lost while my children set fire to my collection of Anne Murray albums. I mean Playboys or some other stack of manly items. To be fair, I was overseas when Lost began and it looked too complicated to try and get into it beginning with the second season. Going out to buy the first-season DVD would have required an effort, so I just decided to keep that hour of my weeknight schedule clear.
Well, my lack of effort has finally paid off because I got to see the hottest new show of the season tonight – Lie To Me. After watching the series premiere tonight, I have only one thing to say: It must be stopped now. This show is all about detecting the subtle clues that give away when people are lying. This will ruin everything! Dr. Paul Elkman, the inspiration for this new show, has said that the average person lies three times in every ten minutes of conversation. If that's true (and if Mr. Elkman had been talking for more than 3 minutes and 20 seconds when he said this, there's a good chance that it isn't), then all of humanity is in a huge amount of trouble. What if everyone who watches this show learns how to tell when people are lying? Then they'll know that I actually didn't get to second base with Lisa Turnbaum in the 8th grade and that yes, that skirt does make you look fat.
This simply won't do. Lying is not only one of the most basic tenets of humanity, but it's perhaps the highest expression of our evolution as a species. Do other animals intentionally mislead each other? Well, yes, some do, but they aren't nearly as good at it as we are. Forget about opposable thumbs, making our Aunt Rita believe that we actually do love the fuzzy Christmas sweater that she hand-knitted for us is what actually separates us from chimps and voles. That, and they tend not to knit.
Many police investigators have complained about what they call the "C.S.I. Effect" that the popular TV show (and its two lame spinoffs) has had on their efforts to apprehend criminals. Since so many people are watching these annoyingly ubiquitous forensics shows, they all know that they have to wear shoes that are 2 sizes too large to the crime scene, burn all of their clothing afterward and always, always dispose of the body in a vat of acid. See how easy crime can be, kids? Now imagine the effect that this liar show will have when the victims are not just the criminal investigators of the world, but ALL OF HUMANITY ITSELF!!
Everyone lies. Hell, I've made half of this stuff up already and I intend to make up lots more stuff before the end of this post. Even when people aren't lying, they're often actively misleading and intentionally omitting some things. Think about the last conversation you had. Were you 100% honest about every single thing you said? Did you tell someone that her baby looks cute when it really looks like Winston Churchill? Did you tell the story about Billie Joe from Green Day spilling an entire triple-foam latte on your shoes at the Oakland Airport, even though that actually happened to your friend Keith? Did you fart and blame it on someone else... again? Seriously, Ryan, you need to stop doing that. If everyone can tell when you're lying, what would happen? The end of life as we know it, that's what!
That's why "Lie To Me" must be stopped. After just one episode, I already know about the grimace, the sneer, the look to the left, the hand over the eyes, the finger on the nose and the single shoulder shrug. I'm now feeling much more able to spot lies, which is not a good thing. I don't want to know when people are lying to me and I especially don't want them to know when I'm lying to them. Once everyone knows how to spot lies, I'm going to have to start limiting all of my conversations to less than 3 minutes and 20 seconds, or I'm going to have to start being honest all the time. No more little white lies to smooth out socially awkward situations or to stop your girlfriend from finding out that you may have had sex with her sister after that John Legend concert. Is that the kind of world that you want to live in? Be honest... for once.
Oh, and Family Guy. How could I forget about Family Guy?
Wanna read more?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Inauguration's Over - by Douglas
Season five of Lost starts tonight. Just typing that caused my right nipple to shoot across the room and ricochet into my coffee cup. The left one looks concerned and maybe just a little jealous. But oddly enough, we aren’t here to talk about my nipples. Lost starts tonight so…dammit there goes the other one! Aw crap, I think I just rolled over it with my chair. There is no way that can be re-attached now.
If you’re like me you have already threatened your entire family with bodily harm if they utter so much as a cry for a fire extinguisher outside of a commercial break. If my son wants to hang from the ceiling fan without admonishment, tonight is the night. My wife could cheat on me with the entire New Orleans Saints offensive line so long as it’s on the side of the couch I can’t see when I’m watching TV. My daughter could lay waste to the liquor cabinet then ask to go joyriding and I’d toss her the keys with a reproving, “Shush!”
OK, I think I’ve made my point. Oh, and if you’re an elderly relative, please don’t exert yourself or do anything that might frighten you into a heart attack prior to 10:00 central. I’m asking nicely. Wanna read more?
If you’re like me you have already threatened your entire family with bodily harm if they utter so much as a cry for a fire extinguisher outside of a commercial break. If my son wants to hang from the ceiling fan without admonishment, tonight is the night. My wife could cheat on me with the entire New Orleans Saints offensive line so long as it’s on the side of the couch I can’t see when I’m watching TV. My daughter could lay waste to the liquor cabinet then ask to go joyriding and I’d toss her the keys with a reproving, “Shush!”
OK, I think I’ve made my point. Oh, and if you’re an elderly relative, please don’t exert yourself or do anything that might frighten you into a heart attack prior to 10:00 central. I’m asking nicely. Wanna read more?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Obaminaugurationomania - by Philip
Say what you like about Obama, but his name makes for some great wordplay. "Obamania." "Baracknophobia." "Hussein’t" you glad we have a new president? In a few years, someone will make a moderate amount of money selling a calendar with all of the punny headlines made from variations on our 44th president’s name.
Here are my musings on today’s inaugural festivities:
I have to start with Obama’s oath of office. Was it just nerves that caused the young Chief Justice Roberts to get the words wrong twice, or is it part of some vast right-wing conspiracy? You be the judge, because clearly Roberts isn’t very good at it.
Does it strike anyone else as odd that 2 of the 3 longest speeches were the opening and closing prayers? Rick Warren went so long that Obama actually looked up to see what the hell he was doing. Sorry, I mean what the “heck” he was doing. Warren even paused several times for applause – during a prayer. And the invocation unpredictably concluded with a long stream of rhyming jokes, just the way St. Paul closed all of his epistles to the Corinthians. I actually thought it was kind of cute, but I’m trying to stay in my curmudgeonly character here. Harumph.
What was with that enormous bow that Aretha Franklin was wearing on her head? She looked like a giant monochrome Christmas present.
Drinking game words: “sacrifice,” “44th,” and “ancestors.” If you had any of those words, you’re probably drunk right now.
How many thinly-veiled insults did Obama fire at Bush during his speech? “We will restore science to its rightful place.” “Our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions -- that time has surely passed.” “Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age.” It can’t have been easy for President Bush to sit onstage with all that unfriendly rhetoric being hurled his way. Sure, he deserved all of it and more, but I’m just sayin’.
If you search for the transcript of Obama’s inauguration speech, several of the top results are escort service advertisements (mouse over several of the linked words on that page) and the #1 result at the moment is pinoylottowinner.com, proving once again that porn and gambling are always at the vanguard of technology.
Perhaps the most fun moment of the inauguration for me happened right after the speech when the first commentator said, "Well, it was a good speech, but it certainly wasn't a great speech." I whipped my head around to confirm that, yes, I had accidentally been watching the inauguration on Fox. I switched to MSNBC where a woman was gushing that this was the greatest inaugural speech of her lifetime – maybe ever. At least some things never change. Wanna read more?
Here are my musings on today’s inaugural festivities:
Perhaps the most fun moment of the inauguration for me happened right after the speech when the first commentator said, "Well, it was a good speech, but it certainly wasn't a great speech." I whipped my head around to confirm that, yes, I had accidentally been watching the inauguration on Fox. I switched to MSNBC where a woman was gushing that this was the greatest inaugural speech of her lifetime – maybe ever. At least some things never change. Wanna read more?
Back in Black - by Douglas
Let’s set the comedy aside for a minute to congratulate Barack Obama on becoming America’s first black President. I frankly never knew that having a black president would make me feel so damn smug. But I do. I mean, has England had their first black Prime Minister yet? What about France or Russia? I really don’t feel like looking it up but I bet they haven’t. And let me tell you, smugness is just what this country has been missing for a while. Our dollar is worth half a cold crap. Our outgoing president is in more punchlines than George Michael and Oprah combined. And in far more languages. And our stock market is making us less rich by the minute. I was starting to feel pretty damn near average, global-wise.
But President Obama is going to change that all with his pigmentation. And just in the nick of time too. I have friends from other countries and it’s been nearly impossible to make fun of them lately. I no longer wax comedic about how the French love to get drunk on red wine and date rape cheese. Or about how Russians will plunge an icepick into your temple at the mere mention of Anastasia or Rasputin. Well, let the good times roll again – we are back on top! Wanna read more?
But President Obama is going to change that all with his pigmentation. And just in the nick of time too. I have friends from other countries and it’s been nearly impossible to make fun of them lately. I no longer wax comedic about how the French love to get drunk on red wine and date rape cheese. Or about how Russians will plunge an icepick into your temple at the mere mention of Anastasia or Rasputin. Well, let the good times roll again – we are back on top! Wanna read more?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Pop Culture Club - by Philip
I actually just wanted to make a few comments about some recent pop culture situations since, as the parent of a teenage daughter, I am the most qualified person on the planet to opine on the state of popular entertainment today. But since I titled this piece "Pop Culture Club," I kind of feel obligated to say something about Boy George's incarceration for the false imprisonment of a male escort who refused to have sex with him. But I actually feel too sorry for Mr. George to take a cheap shot at his expense. Seriously, how skanky do you have to be before a hooker just gives you your money back and leaves? Ooh... looks like I didn't feel too sorry for him after all.
Now a quick question: Whither SNL? Why are you so good at political satire and so bad at everything else? You sucked last night, SNL, even with the extremely talented eye candy, Rosario Dawson, at the helm. My daughter and I looked at each other in stunned disbelief at least 3 times during last night's show because the sketches were so damn awful. Kristen Wiig, I want to have your babies, but please don't ever do that Gilly character again. I say this because I care. And who the hell are the Fleet Foxes? Sure, their musical ability is fairly apparent, but I'd have preferred to listen to the SNL band instead, or maybe to watch Rosario Dawson doing her wardrobe changes. Is that one of the options? Please?
Here's another question: Is Jemaine Clement the greatest living geek or the greatest geek of all time? Yes, Bret is awesome too, but Jemaine is the man. Though the season opener didn't leave me humming any songs (unlike last season's "Most Beautiful Girl in the Room" episode), here's hoping that things will pick up now that they've laid the groundwork for the new season.
On another subject, I have mad love for both Toni Collette and Steven Spielberg, but are they really making a show about a woman with multiple personalities? There have been more shows about people with multiple personalities than there are people with multiple personalities. Sure, they will probably make the best show of its kind, but did the world really need another one of these?
For our next topic, "Push?" Are you serious, Djimon Hounsou? You're better than this. I mean, Chris Evans and Dakota Fanning I can understand, but you? Speaking of hugely lopsided talent-to-movie ratios, Steve Martin has finally answered the imaginary clamor to make a sequel to his Pink Panther movie. My daughter Lauren said it best when she saw the trailer and asked, "Aren't those all the same jokes that they did in the first movie?" Yes. Yes, they are. At least for every steaming pile of Pink Panther poop that Steve puts out, he makes a movie like "Shopgirl" or he takes a couple of dead guys out to eat at the Lapin Agile.
And finally, congratulations to the Pittsburg Steelers for making it to yet another Superbowl, and to the Arizona Cardinals for finally getting some ass in their britches. Go Cards.
Wanna read more?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Fear and Lactose - by Douglas
I was someplace around Butte La Rose over the Atchafalaya Basin when the lactose began to take hold. I remember thinking something like, "I'm sure the newspaper would have mentioned if my stomach was the site of nuclear explosives testing today." It was my third straight morning making the 50-something-mile commute between Lafayette and Baton Rouge with a homemade ultra-grande' cafe' au lait. I had already unwittingly tempted fate twice and she was in no mood to give up the hat trick. Suddenly there was a terrible roar and my intestines turned to a fiery hell overrun with skittish bats scrambling for a way out. And the bats were not to be refused.
At that point I had been a fervent dairy consumer for nearly thirty years. Beginning my first day at whichever of my mother’s breasts was not occupied by my twin brother, I would be perfectly willing to wager that not a single day had passed that I had not ingested something that first saw daylight jetting from the nipple of my mother or a cow. All of that was about to change, although I didn't realize it as I waddled in full clench into the rest stop men's room. Until you have been the most disgusting thing in the men's room at a rest stop, you do not know humility.
Now, lactose intolerance is not something that you self-diagnose easily or readily. I would have just as soon assumed I was allergic to sunlight or my own saliva. I was therefore destined to fail to digest dairy products several more times before the reality dawned on me. Numb and disbelieving, I stood frozen and rapidly progressing through the stages of grief. I was up to bargaining when I realized my symptoms had proved to be so initially explosive due to the sheer volume of milk I drank. I learned that I could handle normal amounts of dairy with only extreme discomfort and enough gas to offend the senses of soapless gangrenous lepers. A price I will pay without a second thought. Turns out I love dairy far more than I care about whether my family can breathe or whether I want my walls to remain their current color.
Now I buy Lactaid dairy digestion supplements in bulk at Costco and pop them, as instructed, with the first bite of dairy. Or at least whenever I think about it. And when I don’t, it won’t take long to realize I forgot. My wife will say something like, “Oh man, that smells hot!” Or increasingly more frequently, “I swear on everything holy that I will sew your ass shut in your sleep and whistle tomorrow morning while I scrub chunks of you off the tray ceiling!” Some things are just worth the risk. Wanna read more?
At that point I had been a fervent dairy consumer for nearly thirty years. Beginning my first day at whichever of my mother’s breasts was not occupied by my twin brother, I would be perfectly willing to wager that not a single day had passed that I had not ingested something that first saw daylight jetting from the nipple of my mother or a cow. All of that was about to change, although I didn't realize it as I waddled in full clench into the rest stop men's room. Until you have been the most disgusting thing in the men's room at a rest stop, you do not know humility.
Now, lactose intolerance is not something that you self-diagnose easily or readily. I would have just as soon assumed I was allergic to sunlight or my own saliva. I was therefore destined to fail to digest dairy products several more times before the reality dawned on me. Numb and disbelieving, I stood frozen and rapidly progressing through the stages of grief. I was up to bargaining when I realized my symptoms had proved to be so initially explosive due to the sheer volume of milk I drank. I learned that I could handle normal amounts of dairy with only extreme discomfort and enough gas to offend the senses of soapless gangrenous lepers. A price I will pay without a second thought. Turns out I love dairy far more than I care about whether my family can breathe or whether I want my walls to remain their current color.
Now I buy Lactaid dairy digestion supplements in bulk at Costco and pop them, as instructed, with the first bite of dairy. Or at least whenever I think about it. And when I don’t, it won’t take long to realize I forgot. My wife will say something like, “Oh man, that smells hot!” Or increasingly more frequently, “I swear on everything holy that I will sew your ass shut in your sleep and whistle tomorrow morning while I scrub chunks of you off the tray ceiling!” Some things are just worth the risk. Wanna read more?
Friday, January 16, 2009
Re: Haircuts and other reasons to consider suicide - by Philip
Okay, this is one of those weird twin things. I just got back from getting my hair cut and was about to write a ridiculously mundane blurb focusing on what a cheapskate I am for going to Supercuts every time, when I found this post by Douglas. We should totally put on purple tights and travel the world solving crimes by changing into animals and some sort of steam cloud or a bucket of water. I get to be the dude.
To respond to what Douglas wrote, I have the exact same speech memorized to tell my coiffurer, except that I use the shorter #4 clipper instead of the hippy-esque #6. As Douglas mentioned earlier, my hair does look a bit like a pissy porcupine stomping across a hurricane map, but I like it that way. That look requires no effort whatsoever to maintain, which plays right into my forté of doing as little as possible with my hair. Unlike my brother, Jayna, I am not a preening sissy-boy.
On to my mundane cheapskate blurb: What is going on with Supercuts? Don't they know that we're in a recession? They used to charge $12, then $14, then $15, then $17, then they started adding tax on top of the haircut price, and now they're up to $19 plus tax. The whole reason I go to Supercuts is because I don't want to pay more than $20 to get my hair cut. I've already established that hair appearance is not at the top of my priority list, so $20 for 15 minutes strikes me as excessive, especially when the guy sprays water in my eyes and keeps slapping me on the head with his comb. (The previous statement was not a euphemism in any way.)
I would start looking for a new place to get my hair cut, but that would conflict with my aforementioned forté. Hmm... what would Zan do? Judging from the photo, he would find the illegitimate offspring of Dorothy Hamill and Mr. Spock and then jab her in the eye with an ice-shiv and force her to cut it for him. This would of course be followed by lacquering it with some industrial-strength pomade. As soon as Supercuts goes above $20, I am totally going to do that.
Wanna read more?
Haircuts and other reasons to consider suicide - by Douglas
Maybe I'm vain. No, I certainly am vain. But I don't think I'm overly particular about my hair style. I have a normal routine involving some leave-in conditioner and a few minutes with my favorite blow dryer (blue, collapsible, practical and powerful). I part on the left and when I'm through styling I run a hand through so I don't look too polished. And then I don't really pay much mind to my hair for the rest of the day.
But the minute I leave the house to go get my haircut I am flooded with panic and anxiety. I start going over my lines. "I'd like you to use a clipper with a number six guard on the sides and back up to about here." Then I do a non-threatening karate chop just above my temple to indicate where the clippers should stop. "About a half inch off the top and blend in between please." I have these two lines memorized. I designed them specifically to avoid any confusion between me and my stylist du jour. (Technically and Frenchly, they would be my stylist du mois.) If I were captured behind enemy lines I would recite by rote my name, rank, serial number, and how I'd like my hair cut.
It is not for nothing that I repeat these lines before my nightly prayers. I have a very tight aesthetic window I'm working with. Too long and I no longer fit my conservative, 40-year-old caucasian image. Too short and I spike like a pissy porcupine. Not to mention, too short and my many swirls and cowlicks begin to resemble a hurricane tracking map. My anxiety is well-founded.
But my two simple lines have been re-interpreted and misinsterpreted more than the Bill of Rights. Usually, the stylist or barber or hair coordination consultant (whatever) will begin just as I requested but then, like Wilson floating haplessly away from Tom Hanks' raft, they veer tragically off course. Sometimes they take the clippers up beyond the karate chop. At that point, it's too late. You can't blend that in with just a half inch off the top. You're looking at a full inch, minimum. Other times, they take off the half inch first then their "blending" gets a bit overzealous and next thing you know I look like a chinchilla going to a Billy Idol concert. Or sometimes they go off on a tangent and whip out the thinners that will guarantee a large percentage of my hair will be too short meaning some will lie down like I want and others will stand up like I use viagra-infused mousse.
I know what you're thinking - I should just find someone good and keep going to them. If only it were that easy. I've done that several times and each time, my carefully considered instructions eventually erode and are replaced by the imagination of whoever's holding the scissors. "I think a mullet would really accentuate this guy's chins," they must be thinking. Or, "I can surely outrun this guy. Let's try cutting him with my eyes crossed!" It's inevitable and, since it takes a while for me to trust these people, it is always painful and emotionally draining.
If I happen to misidentify a poor haircut as something that might stand up successfully against Pee Wee Herman or a televangelist, I am corrected by my wife and teenage daughter who are physically incapable of masking their body language. I'll walk in from a haircut and their lips will smile, then part, with no sound finding its way between them. First one ear will weigh more and their heads will tilt back and to the side. Then the other ear asserts itself and their heads tilt slowly the other way. When they finally can speak they'll generally say, "So, what do you think?" At that moment I know exactly what I think. "She really got your bangs right this time," they'll offer, like Pat Sajak telling me I'll get the Wheel of Fortune home game.
So I am stuck with a series of one-cut stands. I'll get their names and promise to call, but I never do. The last lady was pretty good but there is a noticeable hump over and behind my left ear. Great, now I'm quaffimodo. Wanna read more?
But the minute I leave the house to go get my haircut I am flooded with panic and anxiety. I start going over my lines. "I'd like you to use a clipper with a number six guard on the sides and back up to about here." Then I do a non-threatening karate chop just above my temple to indicate where the clippers should stop. "About a half inch off the top and blend in between please." I have these two lines memorized. I designed them specifically to avoid any confusion between me and my stylist du jour. (Technically and Frenchly, they would be my stylist du mois.) If I were captured behind enemy lines I would recite by rote my name, rank, serial number, and how I'd like my hair cut.
It is not for nothing that I repeat these lines before my nightly prayers. I have a very tight aesthetic window I'm working with. Too long and I no longer fit my conservative, 40-year-old caucasian image. Too short and I spike like a pissy porcupine. Not to mention, too short and my many swirls and cowlicks begin to resemble a hurricane tracking map. My anxiety is well-founded.
But my two simple lines have been re-interpreted and misinsterpreted more than the Bill of Rights. Usually, the stylist or barber or hair coordination consultant (whatever) will begin just as I requested but then, like Wilson floating haplessly away from Tom Hanks' raft, they veer tragically off course. Sometimes they take the clippers up beyond the karate chop. At that point, it's too late. You can't blend that in with just a half inch off the top. You're looking at a full inch, minimum. Other times, they take off the half inch first then their "blending" gets a bit overzealous and next thing you know I look like a chinchilla going to a Billy Idol concert. Or sometimes they go off on a tangent and whip out the thinners that will guarantee a large percentage of my hair will be too short meaning some will lie down like I want and others will stand up like I use viagra-infused mousse.
I know what you're thinking - I should just find someone good and keep going to them. If only it were that easy. I've done that several times and each time, my carefully considered instructions eventually erode and are replaced by the imagination of whoever's holding the scissors. "I think a mullet would really accentuate this guy's chins," they must be thinking. Or, "I can surely outrun this guy. Let's try cutting him with my eyes crossed!" It's inevitable and, since it takes a while for me to trust these people, it is always painful and emotionally draining.
If I happen to misidentify a poor haircut as something that might stand up successfully against Pee Wee Herman or a televangelist, I am corrected by my wife and teenage daughter who are physically incapable of masking their body language. I'll walk in from a haircut and their lips will smile, then part, with no sound finding its way between them. First one ear will weigh more and their heads will tilt back and to the side. Then the other ear asserts itself and their heads tilt slowly the other way. When they finally can speak they'll generally say, "So, what do you think?" At that moment I know exactly what I think. "She really got your bangs right this time," they'll offer, like Pat Sajak telling me I'll get the Wheel of Fortune home game.
So I am stuck with a series of one-cut stands. I'll get their names and promise to call, but I never do. The last lady was pretty good but there is a noticeable hump over and behind my left ear. Great, now I'm quaffimodo. Wanna read more?
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Who wants to be a Slumdog Millionaire? - by Philip
I went to see "Slumdog Millionaire" today to see what all the Golden Globe hubbub was about and let me just begin by saying that the hubbub was very well deserved. One of our local movie reviewers, Mick LaSalle, gave this movie a lukewarm review because of the "gimmicky" flashbacks, the pacing of the first 90 minutes of the film, and the fact that the lead character, Jamal's, current situation is mirrored in exact chronological order with his extraordinarily challenging upbringing. I'm trying to phrase this in a vague way in an attempt not to give away as much as Mick did about the plot line. Maybe I should have mentioned that above when I included the link to his review. Oh well, it's too late now.
Mr. LaSalle is 100% correct about the extremely coincidental timing issue, but that doesn't require nearly as much suspension of disbelief as you might think. About the rest of the story, he's just plain wrong. Other than this convenient chronology, the story of "Slumdog Millionaire" is as flawless as I have ever seen. You should trust me on this because I've, like, studied screenwriting and stuff. I left the theater thinking that this movie was perfectly constructed, and that's even after suffering through the de rigeur Bollywood dance scene. Oops, I've said too much. Dammit, I wish that the internet would allow people to go back and erase things after they've written them! All my stupid eraser does is leave smudges on the screen.
Also, even though the advertisements bill "Slumdog Millionaire" as the "feel-good movie of the decade," there is still some suspense going into the final showdown. You know it's going to end well, but there are a number of ways in which that could play out. You'll know more quickly than others how the story will end if you happen to be a big Alexander Dumas fan, but again, I've said too much. Stupid eraser.
The bottom line is that every minute that you waste reading this review could, and should, be spent watching the movie. It's practically a lock to win the Academy Award for Best Picture, so go see it now and avoid that post-Oscar rush.
Wanna read more?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
American Idle - by Douglas
Yes, I spelled it that way on purpose because this damn show is going to render me idle until a winner is crowned. If you found the following in your fortune cookie, would you believe it? "You will be captivated by thousands of tone deaf children singing at four people, of whom you barely recognize one." Sure, they'd never get that all on one fortune but let's suspend some disbelief. I'd sooner fall for the suggested lottery numbers on the flip side. But dammit, here I go again!! Idol started last night and I was shushing my sick four-year-old who was asking me to help blow his nose.
Speaking of ignorance and sickness, I harken back to that beautiful moment last year when Paula critiqued Jason Dreadlock on a song that he had yet to sing. If anyone should not be on live television it is Paula Abdul, but God bless those Fox execs, she'll be on three nights a week live in primetime. The Flying Walendas had less risky jobs. That in mind, I'd like to make a few 2009 Paula Predictions to get on record early with the inevitable wackiness.
1. Paula will do something on the air that will cause her or someone else to need stitches.
2. She will drop the F bomb on the air and not realize it until after the commercial break.
3. An observant viewer will discover that a dancing Paula has wet herself a little.
4. Will refer to a contestant whose name she can't recall as "the big, gay one".
5. She'll be caught coming back from commercial licking something off the table.
6. Wardrobe malfunction.
7. Will accidentally refer to Randy as "Emelio".
8. She'll appear in a cast one week but not the next.
9. Will burst into tears while talking about a pet.
10.There will be vomit.
Now, remember, this is Paula Abdul. I've seen her fall asleep during a live interview, so none of these is out of the realm. By the by, my favorite moment from last night's show was when Ryan Seacrest raised his hand to receive a high five from a blind guy. Yes, Ryan was left hanging. Wanna read more?
Speaking of ignorance and sickness, I harken back to that beautiful moment last year when Paula critiqued Jason Dreadlock on a song that he had yet to sing. If anyone should not be on live television it is Paula Abdul, but God bless those Fox execs, she'll be on three nights a week live in primetime. The Flying Walendas had less risky jobs. That in mind, I'd like to make a few 2009 Paula Predictions to get on record early with the inevitable wackiness.
1. Paula will do something on the air that will cause her or someone else to need stitches.
2. She will drop the F bomb on the air and not realize it until after the commercial break.
3. An observant viewer will discover that a dancing Paula has wet herself a little.
4. Will refer to a contestant whose name she can't recall as "the big, gay one".
5. She'll be caught coming back from commercial licking something off the table.
6. Wardrobe malfunction.
7. Will accidentally refer to Randy as "Emelio".
8. She'll appear in a cast one week but not the next.
9. Will burst into tears while talking about a pet.
10.There will be vomit.
Now, remember, this is Paula Abdul. I've seen her fall asleep during a live interview, so none of these is out of the realm. By the by, my favorite moment from last night's show was when Ryan Seacrest raised his hand to receive a high five from a blind guy. Yes, Ryan was left hanging. Wanna read more?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
News of the Day - by Philip
Since I am the twin who reads more than just the sports section of the newspaper (note to everyone under the age of 25 -- newspapers are like web sites that you hold in your hand), here are a couple of fun news items from today.
Scientists at Stanford University have successfully obtained stem cells from adult male testes. They're hailing this as a huge breakthrough in stem cell research, but it's really the biggest non-item of the day. The researchers may as well have said that they found a trove of stem cells in the anuses (ani?) of giant wooly mammoths living on the moon because they have just as much chance of sticking a needle into those as they do into the testes of a willing adult male.
In fact, the researchers didn't even bother posting an ad saying, "University research study: Get paid for letting us stick a needle in your testes!" because they didn't have enough money in their multi-million-dollar endowment to entice any takers. Instead, they used tissues from biopsies that had already been removed from patients for health reasons. I'm surprised they even found those since many guys would rather die of testicular cancer than undergo that procedure.
I'm glad that scientists are looking for more sources of stem cells, but they really should look for sources that they have at least some chance of harvesting. Oh, and for those of you who think that they can just keep looking for stems cells in biopsied tissues, of course that's the only possible end result of this research. But willfully ignoring that fact allowed me to write the entire article above, so there.
One other news item from today states that researchers have determined that people who regularly get fewer than 8 hours of sleep are more susceptible to catching colds. In a related note, every single American over the age of 14 currently has a cold. Saturday Night Live, I am awaiting your call.
Wanna read more?
Friday, January 9, 2009
Quantum of Solace - by Douglas
To prove the utter worthlessness of this blog, I am now going to review Quantum of Solace. This is a completely meaningless exercise since it is now showing in only a handful of violiently unsafe theaters and will not be released on DVD for months. So any recommendations about whether you should see the movie are essentially anachronistic. OK, I just wanted to say anachronistic. And I'm not sure I did it correctly.
So I love the new edgy, actiony stuff happening in movies lately. Maybe credit The Matrix or whatever but it really hit it's peak with the prior Bond movie, Casino Royale. BTW, they called it Casino Royale because of the metric system. That movie had the most exciting opening sequence I've ever seen. After half an hour, I had to reupholster my couch for a variety of reasons. I was expecting Bond to judo chop Asians and make wry faces at hot, well-armed babes until they puddled under his registered deadly body. But shaken martinis and anatomically-correctly named villainesses are now a secondary consideration to helicopter shots and enough explosives to overthrow any Central American country. Daniel Craig was bouncing from scaffolding to construction beams like flubber on meth. And the same could be said for the latest Batman efforts. Now that I'm way off on my tangent, it appears that this actioning-up of tired movies seems to have affected Disney as well, based on the poster of "Race to Witch Mountain" that I saw. I barely recall this series of movies as a teeny smidge thrilling for my elementary senses but now it looks like The Rock is blowing up spaceships with his eyebrows. Not counting on that to displace Twilight.
I've done some serious digressing from reviewing Quantum of Solace. My feelings are that they asked Michael J. Fox to funnel some double espressos then shoot all the action sequences. I had no idea what was going on most of the time. And the movie was clearly written with the instructions, "Don't spare the flying glass. Wrap up the Casino Royale stuff. Give the lady something in her past to be pissed about. Don't let her schtup Bond to prove we're turning a page in the Bond series." I guess I feel the need to be snarky because of some movie-reviewing stereotype. If I hadn't seen Casino Royale, I would probably have enjoyed this more. But don't feed me red velvet cake and expect me to go running back to twinkies. Well, that's not the best example. In fact, I'll be right back...
Wanna read more?Thursday, January 8, 2009
First Post - by Douglas
So I'm blogging. It boils down to math really. The Good Lord gives us one mouth and two ears so we should listen twice as much as we talk. But He gave us two hands to type with so the ratio is up to 3:2. Now add to that the fact that my brother Philip will be blogging here as well and that just makes the ratio go up to 6:4. So I mean, the choice is obvious.
OK, so anything is fair game. If you have a suggestion and we can figure out how to incorporate email into our blog, please use that to send us a topic. Word to your mothers. Wanna read more?
OK, so anything is fair game. If you have a suggestion and we can figure out how to incorporate email into our blog, please use that to send us a topic. Word to your mothers. Wanna read more?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)