A Tournament of Lies

"Moose Out Front Shoulda Told Ya..."

2010-07-25T18:52:00.000-04:00

Sorry folks, blog's closed.

Read this for the full story.

Check out my new project over on WordPress.

Thanks for reading! :-)

What Would I Say To You Now?

2010-07-15T15:19:00.000-04:00

Over the past six months, I've undergone some pretty drastic changes. I've moved to a new city, started a new and totally unfamiliar job, and began in earnest the process of trying to piece together what exactly this crazy life of mine is going to look like.

As time has gone on, I've had to make some pretty important decisions regarding what things will stay in my life and what will be jettisoned. It's a process that I took on with trepidation but am now pleased to say has turned out remarkably well. For the first time in a really long time, I'm happy with things. It's not all looking exactly like I wished it would, but I am legitimately and seriously happy.

Back when I first started A Rapturous Verbatim--a blog whose title has, I've come to realize, been laughably ironic--I was not so much on the happy side. I was in the midst of my junior year at Princeton, and things were beginning to get a bit on the dicey side with the onset of my independent work. (I never did regale my faithful audience with the story of how I got the nickname "Fastest Thesis in the West," did I? Another time, perhaps.) I wasn't doing anything creative, and I wanted to have something just for me, something I could enjoy and create.

And, if you'll recall, in my very first post, I made what in hindsight is a stunning declaration:

I can't promise everything that ends up here will be polished or even fun to read. I can't promise that my ranting will go anywhere, that any ideas I come up with will ever come to fruition, or that anything I write here will make any sense.

How about that, huh?

It's funny the way things turn out. Before too long, I'd begun treating ARV like a clearinghouse for my most profound and well-reasoned ideas. It was a place to go to do seriously, thoughtful writing. It was an opportunity for me to take an idea and draw it out to its fullest without feeling the obligations of academic discourse.

It was also, ultimately, depressing as hell.

If you look back, you'll notice that within the first couple of months, I wrote not one but two posts declaring fresh starts. (That's right. Two fresh starts in the first four months. A real winner I had on my hands.) And even worse than that, most of the material in there was simply me bitching about how I haven't done enough writing lately.

As it turns out, that's still a legit problem. But over the last four years, I've discovered that whining about your problems doesn't actually, you know, fix them.

Fortunately for my faithful reading audience--and really, you guys are troopers--I figured all this out a couple of years ago. And so my response was to start up a new blog, one that would allow me to be a little lighter, more amusing, less polished (again), and more off-the-cuff. I launched A Tournament of Lies thinking that the two blogs would play off of each other but develop organically. I'd originally envisioned 1-2 posts per week on ARV and 3-4 posts per week (if not more) on AToL. I'd figured on it being a good way to showcase the two sides of my personality.

But, as I've said a few times already, things changed. Things have been changing. And to quote an old song by Mary-Chapin Carpenter (born in Princeton, no less!), "The old way isn't working anymore." As I've become less, shall we say, miserable, I've been neglecting ARV. (Or populating it with mostly book reviews, which it turns out not everyone digs.) All because I felt the blog had pigeonholed itself into a particular voice or style. And while my early AToL posts were fresh and funny, I've been noticing the same things happening over there lately too.

The straw came with my two latest AToL posts. I started by telling what I thought was a silly story--the kind of thing I'd originally intended the blog to do--but I realized that the story was getting more out of hand than I'd expected, for two reasons: a) it was running far longer than I thought it would (I do have a tendency to do that...), and b) it was less silly funny than sardonically funny, way darker than it seemed when I conceived the idea of writing it down (I tend to do that too, actually...).

Don't get me wrong: I think the story was totally worth sharing. But it didn't seem to fit the venue. It was too funny to be posted on ARV, and too dark to be posted on AToL.

Well damn it, now what?

My solution in the past had been to create a new blog, but we see how well that's worked out. I've run into the same problem again, where my style and tone have shifted so much that the things I'm writing don't seem to fit the molds that have been defined by what came before. It felt, I realized, like when I decided that it was time to abandon my old childish, immature Xanga from high school (which is still hanging around there somewhere on the Internet, if you go dig it out) in favor of what I perceived would be a fresh, mature perspective.

And now, dear readers, that time has come again.

I've come to the conclusion that A Rapturous Verbatim and A Tournament of Lies, fascinating and not-totally-ill-advised experiments that they were, have run their life spans to the end. After just over 100 posts on each, I just don't see how I can, in my present state, sustain these two blogs anymore and have them function the way I'd planned--or, rather, the way they've turned out. So the time has come to shut the door for good.

With the exception of one last forthcoming post, this will be the final entry posted on either of these two blogs.

Rest assured that I'm not dropping out of the blogging game. I've been hard at work over the past few days crafting the beginnings of a new, stripped-down project, one that I hope will better reflect me and my daily life and the things I want to write down and share with the world. My goal is to have it be devoid of the kind of defining characteristics that ended up strangling these two blogs as the years have gone on. But time will tell, I suppose.

So really, I'm seeing this as nothing more than the beginning of a new chapter. I have no intentions of taking down the blogs, since I feel strongly about keeping them intact as a landmark of a very specific period of my life. But the fact is, that period is over, and the time has come to move on and start fresh. There's more to say, just nothing more to say here.

Full details will be posted here when the new project is ready for primetime. Until then, thanks for indulging me around these parts for the past few years, and I hope you'll follow along to the new joint and keep up with things.

What would I say to you now? You'll just have to wait and find out.

Helmet Cup de Grace, Part Two

2010-07-11T12:39:00.001-04:00

In yesterday's post, I told the epic tale of my epic fail to turn lemons into lemonade during a 14-hour layover in Minneapolis. But this was only the tip of the iceberg, the Thursday night of a long Friday-to-Monday holiday weekend. Allow me to regale you now with the rest of the story.

4:15am. A full 15 minutes before my wake-up call, I was wide awake in bed. It was just as dark out as it was when I'd gone to sleep. And I was just as famished. (And no, 4:15am Central Daylight Time is no easier than 4:15am Eastern. It's an ungodly hour no matter what time zone you're in.)

On the upside, once seated on the plane, I closed my eyes just before the flight attendants began their safety spiel. And when I opened them? The wheels were touching the tarmac at O'Hare. Now that is what I'd call an unmitigated success. From there, all that was left was to get the rental car and trek the three hours south to Decatur.

(Let me spare you the details of that part of the story. I'll sum it up in one word: corn. Lots and lots of corn. And when the corn gets boring, you can always entertain yourself by scrolling through the radio dial and trying to find Lady Gaga amidst the Christian rock and preachers. You'd be amazed how entertaining that can be.)

Once in Decatur, things really did start to pick up. Having met the wedding party in Denver for the bachelor party, I knew they'd all be stand-up guys. And with a rehearsal dinner at a combination bar-and-bowling alley, what could go wrong?

Try having there be only one operating lane. And that lane hasn't been oiled in, oh, seven years at least. So much for that.

But really, though I'm being cynical, Friday was fun. I bailed early from the after-party on account of my exhaustion, figuring that I could get some extra rest and make Saturday count. And boy, did I ever.

(Fun fact: when you're in the guys' side of the wedding party, you get to hang out, watch sports, and order subs in the hours just before the ceremony. The ladies were insanely jealous when we told them this story. Just one of the perks of having a penis, kids.)

As for the wedding, it was spectacular. Bride and groom were beautiful, the pictures were entertaining, and the reception was off-the-chain. I know this because I woke up the next morning with a hangover the likes of which I have rarely experienced. It was so worth it.

But unfortunately, this meant a super-slow start to my day. A day that I had planned to spend sightseeing in Chicago. But since I wasn't going to be at 100% until much later than I'd planned, I decided to give up on all the sightseeing and focus exclusively on one thing: getting a burger at Kuma's Corner.

(I don't need to tell you about Kuma's. Just check out the menu on the Web site. FOODGASM TO THE MAX.)

When I finally left around 3:00pm CDT, I knew I'd be arriving in Chicago right around dinner time. And I was anticipating a super-long wait. All of which, naturally, had my stomach growling.

Finally I pulled up to building, and managed to luckily find a spot right up front! And only two kids waiting outside! It was almost too good to be true!

Except...um...it was.

Kuma's was closed. For July 4th.

Now, I know what you're wondering. Hey asshole, how'd you forget it was July 4th?! To which I answer: easily. Because it was on Sunday, the Federal holiday fell on Monday, and that was my day off of work. So I had conditioned myself to believe that the 4th was on Monday.

And with this, my spirit was officially defeated. But, just like in Minneapolis, karma wasn't through with me yet. Here's what else happened in the 24 hours before I finally landed again in Washington:

Let's start with the fact that I decided to go right to the hotel (which was a mile from O'Hare) rather than drop my rental car off, save a few bucks, and take advantage of the complimentary hotel airport shuttle. So instead of saving maybe $50-ish, I spent an extra $22 to park the car in the garage overnight. Ugh.
I had a marvelous hotel for the night, and the woman at the front desk told me I had a "city view" room, so I might be able to see the fireworks. Upon entering my room, I opened the shades and saw...trees. It took me three minutes to find the city skyline--and by "city skyline," I mean "the very tippy top of the Sears Tower, the only building visible."
- Sub-item: Fuck Willis. It will always be the Sears Tower.
The only restaurants at this hotel were The Capital Grille and McCormick & Schmick's, both way too upscale for me. So I opted to order a room service salad and burger for $33. And only after it arrived did I do some research and learn that McCormick & Schmick's has a bar menu...featuring a half-pound burger for $2.95. MONEY SAVING FAIL.
While I did see the fireworks from my window (all two hours of them), I decided I needed to get to bed. Which was easy enough. But you know what's challenging? Getting back to sleep when you're woken up at 2:00am by some drunk/angry/who knows? guy in the hallway pounding on a nearby door over and over and over again and screaming, "Debbie! Hey Debbie! Debbie, let me in! Hey Debbie!"
- Sub-item: Should I have called the front desk? Probably. But at the moment, I'd figured my only recourse was to go out there myself. And frankly, I wasn't prepared to walk into what I was sure was a domestic-dispute-waiting-to-happen.
And just when it should have been all over, I got on the plane to Detroit, my layover, and quickly learned the hour in the air would pass with a young girl behind me, kicking my seat and shrieking and howling in Spanish the whole. damn. flight. And, even better, that her mother was either mute, indifferent, or both. Puta.

I mean, let's face it. When a three-hour layover in Detroit is the highlight of your day, you know you're in trouble. But then, I was in trouble, on account of the fact that I realized, an hour before takeoff, that I had no ride home from the airport.

What more, karma? What more?!

Fortunately, for once that weekend, my luck turned. I was saved by my good friend Alicia, who graciously offered to transport me from National back to my home. (Thanks, 'leesh!) By the time my plane landed, the last snag had been unhooked. All that was left was to walk into the house, drop my crap on the floor, and face-plant on my sweet, glorious, horribly missed bed.

I mean, don't get me wrong. The weekend wasn't all that bad. But it's certainly given me something to think about next time a destination wedding invite arrives in my mailbox.

And to think, it all started with that darn helmet cup...

Helmet Cup de Grace, Part One

2010-07-10T12:58:00.007-04:00

One week ago at this time, I was in Decatur, IL, the soybean capital of the world (I kid you not). What brought me to such a corny, open place was the wedding of a good friend, a man in whose companionship I had the privilege of spending almost all my primary education. The ceremony was beautiful, the reception was a hoot, and the company I met were super friendly and engaging. All told, mission accomplished.

Of course, as you may have deduced, this was the weekend of the Fourth of July, and with four days free and only two days of obligations for the wedding, I decided to be a little ambitious and add some fun times into the mix.

(And by "add some fun times into the mix," I mean, "make up for the fact that I stupidly didn't realize my flight to Chicago went through Minneapolis and left me with a 14-hour layover since I can't read "pm" and "am" correctly. I suck.)

So, being in Minneapolis from 5:30pm until 7:00am, I decided I needed to make the most of this. (A wise choice, as it turns out, because if I'd been stuck in the hotel I chose for the whole time, I'd have gone blind from the utterly garish combination of aqua blue walls, sunflower yellow comforter, and orange shag carpeting.) After a little research, I discovered two solid stops that were reasonable enough to make: a hamburger joint called The 5-8 Club that serves a burger called the Juicy Lucy, a Minneapolis specialty; and, of course, a stop at Target Field to see a Twins game and visit my 16th Major League ballpark.

At the start, the plan looked good: arrive at 5:30pm, complimentary shuttle to the hotel to drop off my bags and check in, shuttle back to the airport, light rail to the ballpark for the 7:05pm start, watch the game, get my obligatory helmet cup, light rail back to the airport, taxi to The 5-8 Club (which closes at midnight), get my burger, taxi back to the hotel, and sleep until I needed to get to the airport around 5:30am. I'm sure I'd be exhausted, but it'd be so worth it, no?

Well, funny story...

Everything went swimmingly until I got to the park. Don't get me wrong: Target Field is super nice. I'd never been to the Metrodome, but just passing it on the way there in the light rail, I got the sense it's not nearly as grand as it appears on TV. Plus, outdoor parks always trump the indoor places, if for no other reason than the views. And though I was seated in literally the top row of the stadium, the field did not look too miniscule, and the straight-ahead view was pretty spectacular:

By the 4th inning, I was itching to accomplish my helmet cup goal, so I alighted from my seat, the Twins ahead 2-0 behind Carl Pavano (!) and his superb pitching (!!), and began to make my way towards the long-lined ice cream stand.

Then, as I was next in line, disaster struck. I overheard the server telling the woman in front of me that, alas, there were no helmet cups. (Shock.) Then, an even more dastardly twist: they were shipping in from China and had gotten held up at the port. So there might not be any in the stadium at all. (Horror.)

Believe me, my friends, I left no stone unturned. I left the line and walked through every. concourse. in. the. stadium. looking for a stand that had helmet cups. All four levels, two laps each. Plenty of time to observe that, while the park is sleek and nice and has some interesting Minneapolis touches, the walkways distinctly felt like...well...being inside a Target store. (Still not sure how I feel about that.) But most importantly, I had run clean out of ice cream stands.

The result: no dice. Operation Sixteen was not going to be succeeding that day.

Now, you may think me overdramatic here. I was crushed, sure, but I was still at the park, and the game was still solid, and it was only a minor hiccup, right? Why should I let something like that bother me?

Because with that one little bad karmic stroke, things went downhill.

First off, the Twins blew the lead. In the bottom of the 9th. With two outs. And two strikes. The damn closer gave up the tying run, and then the 10th inning reliever gave up another run in the 10th. They were one strike away from a victory, and ended up losing 5-4.
Secondly, since the game went into extra innings, it took almost four hours. Which necessitated taking a cab right from the stadium if I wanted to get to The 5-8 Club before closing.
My cab driver was incompetent. He expected me to give him directions and know where this place was. Hey jerkwad: this is your town, not mine. I've been here 4 hours. Shouldn't you know where things are?!
You may have noticed I have not linked to The 5-8 Club's Web site at any point in this post. That's because when I arrived, at 11:20pm, the place was closed. Lights off. Empty parking lot. They were supposed to be open until midnight. I hadn't had dinner. So yeah, I'm pissed. No link for you. Jerks.
Did I mention my cab driver was incompetent? He had no idea how to get me back to my hotel. And I had to tell him at one point that we were going the wrong way. I did. How does he not know that Bloomington is south of Minneapolis, and that heading towards downtown is going the opposite direction?! Asshat.

And so I returned to my hotel at midnight, due to awaken at 4:30am, in a sour mood, having had no dinner, and unable to sleep because of my hunger. On the upside, the decor of the room was far less of an eyesore with the lights off. Small blessings, I suppose.

So concludes Day 1 of my trip. There are more misadventures to come, so stay tuned for the rest of tale in tomorrow's post!

Hairy Potwasher and the Pavlov of Poop

2010-06-23T23:04:00.002-04:00

In my last post, four short weeks ago, I made a point of talking about the perks of living on my own. But that statement, I've come to realize, needs a slight amendment.

See, Karen's return to Texas has left me living on my own within my room. But in the windowless basement that serves as my home, office, and vampiric playground, there is another bedroom. And that bedroom is rented out to someone who...well, let's just call her She Who Shall Not Be Named. (This is not, I promise, just me being coy. I just feel like maybe, if I'm going to slaughter the shit out of this person, it's best not to publicly out her by name.)

(Yet. If things get worse, anything's fair game. You heard it here first.)

What I can tell you is that this person is, to put it lightly, a train wreck. She's in her mid-thirties, just returned from time abroad in Costa Rica, and has moved to the DC area in order to take a shitty job teaching douchebag wannabe-dropouts in an especially economically crappy and gang-ridden part of Alexandria. Clearly, a winner.

But I'd be callous if I was only judging her based on her choice of profession. The truth is that I judge her based on three distinct qualities: inconsiderateness, laziness, and slovenliness.

How inconsiderate is she? Try getting woken up most mornings at 6:45am because the person in the room next to you has decided the only way to make sure the door is closed is to slam it as hard as possible. Multiple times, too, since she always seems to forget something just when you think she's finally gone.

How slovenly is she? Try a kitchen counter that went unwiped for over two weeks. Or a stovetop that's had the same stain under the burners for over a month. (I know it's disgusting, but I'm sorry, it wasn't my mess, and I'm not her fucking father.)

But the real kicker is trying to describe just how lazy she is. Because she takes this to a WHOLE new level.

She's committed the standard egregious sin of not replacing the toilet paper roll when she uses the last of it. She's also refused to clean her hair out of the shower drain, resulting in a clog that slowed drainage enough for me to need to remove the hair myself. (Fun fact: I'm still traumatized over what I saw.)

But if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a half-assed job at doing the dishes. And man, does she deliver.

Never mind that she leaves dishes lounging in the sink for days before finally cleaning them. Never mind that we haven't had dish soap for about three weeks and she never once offered to go buy more. Never mind that dishes disappear at will because (I think) she brings them into her room and lets them languish in their filth for weeks before bringing them back into the kitchen.

Forget all that. What really grinds my gears? Drying rack abuse.

The drying rack is designed, oddly enough, to let things dry. And once they are dry, those things are meant to be put away until their next use. They are not meant to sit there and wait until the next time they are to be used, because that only leaves less room for the next round of dirty dishes. Which results in more dishes piling up in the sink. Which keeps the vicious cycle going.

Today, I found two pans, one pot, and a collander in the drying rack. They'd been there for days, and I'd finally reached my breaking point. I took them off the rack and placed them atop the washing machine, hoping above all hope that when she went to change over the laundry that was in there, she would put the pans away.

But later this afternoon, I found the laundry changed...and the pots back on the drying rack.

So I did what any insane person would do: repeated the same action, with the expectation of a different result. Back went the pans back on top of the washing machine. And, stupid me, I went off to work believing they'd be put away when I returned.

Naturally, there weren't. They were put back on the drying rack.

And my blood pressure was back through the roof.

I told this story to Karen today and she suggested I stop being so passive-aggressive, which was a fair critique. I opted to take the high road, to approach her and ask her if she could put the pans away now that they were dry. So I did. Just like that, too, with no snark or sarcasm to speak of.

And what happened when I went to put my glass in the sink tonight before bed?

I saw the pans. Still on the drying rack. And I was beyond livid.

I felt sure I'd exhausted all my options. How can you possibly make a thirtysomething with the maturity level of Lindsay Lohan realize that she's being a bitch and needs to change her ways? What ever could hope to foster some kind of change?

That's when Karen came up with the next brilliant suggestion: drop a deuce in the toilet in the morning and leave it there for her to find when she gets home. And every time I find a pan not put away or a mess not cleaned up, she'll have to interrupt her first morning pee by flushing my stanky shit down the toilet.

Will it get her to change her ways? Who knows. But considering that all the other attempts have failed, I'm actually considering this one. And hoping it's not as shitty an idea as it may seem.

Anything But Boring

2010-05-26T23:43:00.003-04:00

One of the fun things about living alone is that, when the time comes to load up on food and beverage, you don't have to ask anyone's permission before whipping out the greenbacks. Hypothetically, you can buy whatever your little heart (or larger stomach) desires, and there's not a damn thing anyone else can do about it.

Unfortunately, my recent solitariness was an unforced decision, so while I've enjoyed the ability to buy my foodstuffs at will, I've also noticed during my treks to the fridge that there are plenty of previous purchases remaining from the days when Karen was here.

Now, I have a thing about wasting food. (I know what you're thinking, and yes, I genuinely do believe that's a big part of the reason why I look the way I do, but stay with me here, okay?) It goes back to many, many years ago, when I lost my appetite one night at dinner and got a mighty parental guilt trip for wanting to throw away three-quarters of an uneaten hot dog. Since then, my plates have almost always been spotless, because I just can't bear to be wasteful.

So when I looked in the fridge and saw several perishable items that were approaching their date of perishing, I felt an obligation to send them to my gullet as opposed to the garbage.

One such item was a bottle of Simply Limeade (which, if you haven't had it, is delicious). Karen and I had acquired it for use in making margaritas, but the tequila was gone and, since I'm not much of a tequila guy anyway, I wasn't inclined to get more. But I am a vodka man, the one connection to my Polish ancestry that my ancestors must actually be proud of, so upon discovering the remaining limeade, I retreated to the Internet to discover what drinks could be made with vodka and lime juice.

Turns out there's a drink made from just those two ingredients: the gimlet.

I made my first one last night, true to the proportions I'd found in all the recipes I saw online: four parts vodka to one part sweetened lime juice.

I'll say that again, so that it sinks in: four parts vodka, to one part lime juice.

I made a single gimlet in a glass that couldn't possibly hold more than 12 ounces, and I didn't even fill the glass. And let me tell you, my friends, I wasn't a third of the way through it and I was feeling it like I couldn't believe. The thing was an absolute powerhouse. And the best part? The limeade was so sweet that it didn't even taste too liquor-ish. What a deadly concoction!

So tonight, I tried to temper things a bit by mixing one that was a bit gentler: this time, equal parts vodka and limeade. And guess what? Halfway through, the stuff still gave me a feeling of noticeable impairment. (Intoxication is probably a bit too strong a word.) I was stunned. How did the gimlet do it!

I've yet to figure out an answer to it, but I can't tell you how excited I have found something that can balance my old standby, the screwdriver.

But if you'll excuse me, I need to go run to the store now to grab some more fixins. And more limeade.

"There's One in Every Family, Sire. TWO in Mine, Actually..."

2010-03-16T18:36:00.000-04:00

He inspires strangely Nabokovian angst, making everyone in sight groan exasperatedly, "Really?...Really?! Yeesh!"

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch. (Seriously. Me saying "Yeesh"? You all know I have no problem working way bluer than that.) But while much of my tenure in DC has been good--including but certainly not limited to my work, which I was very nervous about at the onset--I am already growing weary of something on which I think all corporate peons can relate to me.

I am currently entering week four of a five-week intensive classroom training session to be a background investigator. It was insanely overwhelming at first, but as I've become more comfortable with the material, built a rapport with my instructors, and made some nice friendships amongst my classmates, it's become easier and more pleasant. That last part is particularly helpful since, of the thirteen people who are in this session, at least eight of them are in their twenties as well. Yay peer group!

Of course, the problem is that there were still four other people in class who are not our age. And while I'm not exactly a fan of broad stereotyping, the truth is that this job, which is very much computer-intensive, is proving to be much more of a challenge for the old folks than it is for us young whippersnappers.

Consider this: of the four elder statespeople, two of them combined at one point during the first week to generate easily 90% of all the questions asked of our instructors. Now, don't get me wrong: I've asked my share of questions myself, and I certainly don't judge anyone who does because, for the most part, there really are no stupid questions--especially when you're learning something new and radically different for the very first time. But when we were shown a program three days ago, and you still don't know how to open a damn file? Well, sir, maybe this job just isn't for you.

What's really interesting is that this whole thing proved too much for one of this dynamic duo, who resigned from our class and switched positions in the company to better accommodate his abilities. (And I sincerely wish him all the best.) But as it turns out, question askers are like testicles. When one of the testicles needs to be excised--for whatever horrid, unfortunate, devastating reason--the lone nut psychically takes over and performs double duty, so that the, er, output doesn't suffer any noticeable change. So it is with question askers. With his partner in crime gone, the lone confused older gentleman somehow managed to pick up that slack and ask even more dumb questions than he did before.

And so he has become...That Guy.

You know what I mean...

That Guy who takes three and a half hours to do what everyone else was able to complete in roughly two hours.

That Guy who mumbles, hums, and narrates to himself while he struggles in the seat behind you, distracting your attention while you try desperately to beat the goddamn poker game on your BlackBerry.

That Guy who insists upon talking to you when you're trying to read because God forbid you have one quiet moment to enjoy your book, damn it.

Yup. That Guy.

I could go on but, really, I think we've all known someone like that. Hell, maybe you are That Guy yourself. If you think you might be, please, do us all a favor and STFU already. We'd really appreciate it.

Of course, I bet I know what you're all wondering. Who is That Guy?

What? I didn't mention it right off that bat? I thought I did. Hmm... Well, it's probably best to just keep it hidden away to myself.

But believe me, he's there. And who's got two thumbs and can't freaking wait to get out of classroom training as a result?

This Guy.

Radio Gaga

2010-03-15T23:08:00.002-04:00

I know, I know.

I have been horribly negligent around these parts. It's true, I get it. I have excuses, but like the old expression goes, excuses are like assholes: everyone's got one, and they all stink.

So you probably don't care that, since my last post, when I was just getting myself acquainted with the greater DC Metro area, life has been a veritable whirlwind of emotion and, generally, awesomeness.

Where to begin, where to begin. Well...

After one week of working I managed to find myself feeling like I was in way over my head but it was okay because so were the rest of the people in my class and a lot of them are really nice so it was good to think that I might make some friends after all but I was still lonely because I missed Karen really bad and was hoping she would find something soon so she could come up here but then she told me she felt like she'd have better chances finding work if she was local so I talked to my landlord and he was cool with her coming up here to stay so she took care of her stuff down in Texas then packed up her car and drove up here and that made both of us really super happy and it's been general domestic bliss ever since except for the fact that we both suspect my roommate is resentful of the two of us for some strange reason but despite that we haven't really let us get it down and instead we've channeled our energy into improving the state of my humble basement including but not limited to getting these sweet stainless steel coasters from Bed Bath & Beyond as well as nifty household stuff like a pizza stone and a pie plate that we were going to use to make a chocolate pecan pie for a Pi Day party on Sunday but Karen got sick last week with what we thought was a cold but ended up being a sinus infection and she hasn't started shaking it until today so we had to buy a pie from the store and no one showed up anyway but that was fine because Emily and Sam are really good people who let us borrow their futon mattress so neither of us has to sleep on an air mattress anymore and besides between they two and my Princeton friends in the area and Steph and John who are also super cute and oh yeah can't forget about Alicia who comes over for dinner and 24 every Monday night and did I mention that Karen's watching 24 too and I think that's super sweet and I couldn't be happier right now and really feel like my life nay our life is beginning to fall into place really really nicely and it looks just as great as I'd always imagined.

There, I think that about sums it up.

Well, except for one thing.

Turns out I've undergone an interesting and somewhat alarming change since I've gotten here. One that I never anticipated I would ever experience. One that took me quite by surprise.

It all started when Karen insisted upon playing me the video for the ubiquitous Lady Gaga hit "Bad Romance". Now, at first, I thought the song was silly, and it drove me nuts every time I realized that it had gotten stuck in my head. But after a few such instances, it was hard to deny that the song was getting into my brain. I fought it for a long while. I kept it buried deep inside, but it was getting harder and harder to refuse.

Could this really be happening? Could I... ...actually like "Bad Romance"?

I tested the waters of my newfound admission the weekend before last, as Karen and I ventured into downtown DC on a museum double-date with Steph and John. While in the car on the way to lunch, I bet John a dollar that he couldn't find "Bad Romance" on the radio before we got to the Olive Garden. Equipped with Sirius XM, he began flipping through the channels.

Friends, it took him a mere ten minutes. Found the song, and we listened to it in its entirety.

Later that night, on the drive home, we tried again. This time it took us fifteen minutes, but there it was once again.

And so it was done: I had to confess I was a fan.

The final blow came the next day. We were in Target, searching for coasters (in what proved to be a frustratingly elusive effort), when we wandered into the music department. Karen was slyly suggesting that I might want to buy something, and I was not fighting this suggestion. And yet, every time I walked past either the L or the G section, it was nowhere to be found. The moment of reckoning was clearly not to be. Another time, perhaps?

Then, as we had just given up, we walked past one final end cap--and there it was. Askew, out of place, and glaring at me behind that black vinyl sleeve. The piercing eyes of a woman declaring proudly, "I'm a free bitch, baby."

How could I not buy it?

And so a page has been turned. I'm not going to be ashamed of my purchase. And, in fact, every person I've mentioned it to has agreed with me that it's good stuff!

So if you're looking for me in the near future, my sincerest apologies. I'll try to be better about blogging and keeping up, and I'll do all I can to make my online presence more clearly felt.

Know this though: you can call all you want, but there's no one home, and you're not gonna reach my telephone.

Home Is Where the Arf Is

2010-02-20T23:43:00.000-05:00

This post is a bit longer than the posts you're used to seeing on this blog. I'm sorry about that. But trust me--you're going to want to stick with this story. It's a good one.

Earlier today, I drove from my house in New Jersey to my new home in Northern Virginia. I'd already moved the vast majority of my things in at the end of January, but I went immediately from moving in to taking a two-week siesta in Texas, so I needed to still bring some things down from New Jersey before getting my new DC life going.

So this morning was, as you can imagine, pretty stressful. I, as a rule, tend to forget at least one or two things, no matter how thoroughly I double-check, so I was trying to be as careful as possible.

At last, I found myself standing in my room--not empty, but substantially barer--taking one last look at everything before I departed. My mom strolled in as I was pondering, walked over towards my guitar, and immediately lifted an aged but no-worse-for-the-wear stuffed dog off a pillow laying on the floor. She gave me a look and said, "And what about Wraggles?"

There's a little more backstory necessary here. (Again, I urge you to bear with me.) Wraggles was a gift from my aunt, received almost twenty years ago when I was just five years old. He was a replacement for my former beloved stuffed animal, Snuggle Bear (yes, the fabric softener spokesplush), which I'd lost on a family vacation to North Carolina. I was very attached to my stuffed animals, so the unceremonious loss of Snuggle Bear had affected me powerfully, and my aunt felt that perhaps if she was able to attempt, in some small way, to replace him, I might start feeling better. Well, it worked like a charm. I immediately adored Wraggles. And while over the years my taste for stuffed animals undulated like a rolling tide--at one point, I slept with no less than four--many came and went from my bedside but Wraggles always remained.

So when Mom asked me "And what about Wraggles?" I was a bit torn. He would be coming with me, sure--that much was non-negotiable. But my current residence has a certain temporary feel to it because, with Karen's DC job search in full swing, it'll be only a matter of time before we strike out and look for a place together. So as much as I wanted Wraggles to join me, I didn't feel like now was the right time.

And so I told Mom he was staying. Then I asked for a moment alone with him, which she gladly obliged. Once she'd left, I clutched my plush pooch, gave him a big hug, and said, "Don't you worry. I'll come back for you. But for now, you hold down the fort here." I went to replace him on the caseless pillow on the floor, but it just didn't seem right. And as I'd stripped the bed to have the sheets washed, I couldn't replace him there either.

So instead, I opted to give him a significant, if less cushy, vantage point:

There I laid him, and with that, I took another load out to the car, leaving only my guitar and my computer bag behind.

Now, my mom had been helping bring stuff out to my car as well, but my dad and my brother were both in the garage working on fixing the shocks on my brother's truck. So I had a pretty good idea of where everyone was while I was in the car arranging things to be transported. When I went back into the house, my brother and father were still in the garage and my mom was, I assumed, back inside.

Once I got inside, I heard my mom's voice call out to me, "Changed your mind?" I didn't know what to make of this, so I asked back, "What do you mean?" At that point, I deciphered that her voice from coming from my room, so I went immediately there. As I walked in, she looked at me, then pointed, and said, "About that."

"That," dear reader, being this:

I giggled a bit. After all, it was pretty cute. So I looked at my mom and said it was very cute. But what she said next was far from cute: "What are you talking about?" Oh, you know, Mom. The way you moved Wraggles so he'd be sitting on my bag like that. "I didn't move him." Yeah you did. I left him on my desk. "Dave, I didn't move him." You had to have. "I really didn't." Oh, come on...

But then came the pièce de résistance: "I swear on my mother's grave."

Talk about a gut check. My mom lies about lots of stuff (hell, we all do), but I learned a long, long time ago that if I wanted to get the truth out of my mother, I'd only have to ask one question. Back when my grandmother was still alive, that question was, "Do you swear on your father's grave?" Then it became, "Do you swear on your mother's grave?" Either way, the result is the same: my mother will lie about a lot of things, but she will never swear on her parents' graves if she's telling anything less than the truth.

In other words, she did not move Wraggles.

Of course, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that my brother or father had moved him--perhaps on her request. But in my mind, I'd already ruled them out: they were in the garage the whole time, and besides, Dad would have had better things to do, and my brother probably would've just picked on me for still keeping a stuffed animal around (even though he, manly man that he is, moved his old blankey to his new house when he got married). And besides, it would be a loophole for Mom to be able to swear on their graves and not be lying--but again, I figured that was a bit too deceptive and tricky for such a serious oath.

Nevertheless, after I loaded up my guitar and computer case, I asked my brother and my father if they'd gone inside during my last trip out to the car. And neither one of them did. Nor did they have any clue why I would ask something like that.

So Mom didn't move Wraggles. Dad didn't move Wraggles. My brother didn't move Wraggles.

And there was no one else home.

So what exactly happened?

Truth be told, I don't know. But what I do know is this: even if there is a plausible, rational explanation for what happened, I can't shake the bizarreness of what transpired. Somehow, Wraggles was meant to come down here with me, no matter how temporary my present situation. He was like the Hobbes to my Calvin, vital and essential. Or perhaps, as Karen suggested, he needed to be there so that no matter what happened, I would have something to hug--because really, don't we all need to be able to just do that sometimes?

But really, none of that matters. What matters is that, after seeing what happened, and not being able to explain it, I became convinced of one very obvious thing: there was no way I could leave him in New Jersey.

So he did come with me this time, temporariness be damned. And before long, he had a new fort to defend:

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

It Must Be Love

2010-01-29T11:11:00.003-05:00

Me (11:07): http://selleckwaterfallsandwich.tumblr.com
Me (11:07): i have NO IDEA why i find this cool
Me (11:07): but i do
Karen (11:08): hahahaha
Karen (11:11): ok, this is brilliant
Me (11:11): i know!
Me (11:11): but WHY?!
Karen (11:12): 1. Tom Selleck
Karen (11:12): 2. Waterfalls
Karen (11:12): 3. Delicious Sandwiches
Me (11:12): it's all so clear now
Me (11:12): how could i have missed it?
Karen (11:13): no idea

Lest We Lose Sight

2010-01-20T18:02:00.003-05:00

Last year on this day, the United States of America celebrated a highly momentous occasion--a day that, regardless of how you feel about the year that has transpired since, ushered in a new and progressive era for our great nation.

Unfortunately, while our attention was fixated (perhaps rightfully so) on the inauguration of our first black President, we lost sight of another incredibly important occasion. An annual festival that, like last year's inauguration, is about black and white, but also about so much more.

This year, it may be easy to slip into the routine again. To be divisive and disagree over progress or a lack thereof. But let's not lose sight of those we overlooked one year ago.

I encourage you all, my dear readers, to take time to celebrate today and give credit to those things that we tend to look at adoringly all winter long but never quite give their proper due.

With that in mind, let me be what I hope is one of many to wish you all a very joyous, safe, and happy National Penguin Awareness Day.

And if you see Danny DeVito today, give him a hug. Old penguins need love too.

Driven to the Edge

2010-01-02T12:30:00.003-05:00

(If you're expecting a New Year's Resolution-related post, you are barking up the wrong tree.)

I understand that the holiday rush, despite its best intentions, can tend to bring out the worst in people. Between the stress, pressure, and impatience, it's sometimes hard to find that holiday cheer that we all so desperately crave at the turn of the year.

But despite that understanding, there is one holiday phenomenon that I simply cannot explain: the proliferation of insanely shitty drivers.

My major beefs boil down to three specific driving types, all of whom I have encountered already today:

1) The Drifters -- The drivers in small neighborhoods and side roads who decide that, because there's no double yellow line and no other drivers on that particular road, they can simply drive right down the middle. Which is all fine and dandy, until another driver comes up from the opposite direction. Inevitably, no matter how long or straight the road, the Drifter will not see you coming until the last second, at which point they will veer sharply to their right. Inevitably, a look of contorted rage--how dare you take your fair share of the road!--will be visible on their faces as you pass by.
2) The Highway Robbers -- Most commonly found on multi-lane roads, but you will occasionally find them in neighborhoods too. These are the folks who are pulling onto a highway, either from an on-ramp or a store parking lot, and simply can't resist coming over, even if the timing is inopportune. As if that wasn't bad enough, they will often proceed to drive at a rate far below the speed limit--after all, it is the slow lane, isn't it?--and force you to accelerate past them angrily. And the worst part? They are often so oblivious to their own inability to find the gas pedal that, should you look over to shoot them an angry look as you careen past, they are often found blissfully staring straight ahead, often singing along with some tune on their radio.
3) The Routiners -- We are all guilty of this from time to time. There are certain parts of our drives, such as the first turn or two out of our driveways, that feel like routines. We know the traffic, we know the situations, we can do them with our eyes shut. The problem is, the Routiners, I suspect, actually do perform these parts of the drive with their eyes shut, because whenever a glitch in the pattern appears--say, for instance, someone looking to make a left into the street that you yourself are looking to make a left onto--they do not sway from their expectations, acting as if you weren't there and nearly causing a catastrophic and insanely silly accident.

Dishonorable mention goes to those drivers who, out of some twisted sense of altruism, forgo their right of way, especially on main thoroughfares, to let someone from a side road turn onto their street. Your courtesy was doubtlessly appreciated by the person turning, but not so much by the few cars behind you that had to slam on their brakes to avoid a multi-car pile up.

Want to be really altruistic? If you're one of these drivers, park your car in your driveway and leave it there.

Good Thing I Quit Grad School, Part 5299

2009-12-19T00:40:00.001-05:00

I gotta tell you, folks. I didn't really think I'd be getting a new reason so quickly. I almost don't know how to react.

I guess it wasn't clear enough that grad school wasn't for me when my potential thesis imploded in my face. Oh good heavens, no. We needed a clearer sign, a more obvious sign.

Something that made me overlook the unbearable stress and the long hours and the lack of good ideas and the challenge of finding motivation and the frustrations of teaching and the pressure of publication. You know, all that made leaving seem like a good idea, but the payoff--oh, the payoff!--still seemed so sweet. Tenure! Research! Comfort! Leisure! Joy!

Sure, it's a bitch of a road to get to the end and finish your dissertation, but once that Ph.D. is superglued to the end of your name, surely the riches of the academic life are to follow. And how could one possibly resist the allures?

I'm sorry, what was that?...

...Yeah, that'll do it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pat myself on the back for a little while.

(Thanks to Karen of Current Rewind for the link!)

Good Thing I Quit Grad School, Part 5298

2009-12-07T21:02:00.005-05:00

I am what you'd call a recovering academic. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, but when you're an academic and you're stuck in a pattern of self-defeating soul-suckery, sometimes admission just isn't enough. When you're in that deep, you need to get out.

Fortunately, I've come out the other side and lived to tell the tale. And sure, there have been moments where I've had my doubts, wondered if I made the correct call. Today, however, was one of those days that reassured me I did, in fact, make the right decision.

When I was still fresh-faced and bright-eyed (i.e. first semester), I wrote a paper for a science fiction seminar on Coheed and Cambria. It felt like the right choice to me: it was sci-fi related but off the beaten path, and it allowed me to bring in multidisciplinary elements instead of merely writing about a book and some articles. As I developed the paper, the whole thing felt incredibly strong to me, and I was really proud of the ideas I was coming up with.

The general thesis, in two sentences, was that Coheed and Cambria--by utilizing music albums, online forums, comic books, and other nontraditional media to share their saga--were essentially the science fiction pulps of the new millennium. If writing was dead, or dying, in that millennium, their music represented both a rejection of writing and a vehicle through which sci-fi plots could be conveyed to the masses.

I loved it. I turned it into my Master's thesis. I had for a while considered revising it into an article. The only problem was, I had written it with only four of the five planned albums in the series completed. Then I left grad school before the final chapter was released and the whole idea was shelved.

Good thing. Today, Coheed announced the plans for the new record:

With “Year of the Black Rainbow,” we will be releasing a deluxe package that includes a NOVEL OF THE SAME NAME. Not a graphic novel, but a full 300+page prose novel, which will tell the origins of Coheed and Cambria, and much more. There will be no mystery to this story, you will be able to explore it like never before.

As a Coheed fan, I am stoked by this. But if I was still a grad student, I would be pissed.

A novel. Not a comic book, but a novel. Like, just words on paper. The most traditional storytelling medium ever invented.

And...boom goes my thesis.

Good thing I got out of the academic game! Otherwise, I'd be singing "What did I do to deserve this?" from now until the blood red summer.

What Happened to the Funny?

2009-12-03T21:08:00.002-05:00

That's actually a hypothetical question.

I gotta tell you: I have no idea.

See, my two blogs operate in very different ways. With A Rapturous Verbatim, I tend to spend at least a day or two (if not more) ruminating on the topic I discuss before I ever sit down to start writing. So while I really do try hard to make sure that I post with some kind of regularity, the frequency of updates there is just not going to be that high. Truly profound things just don't happen every day, you feel me?

This blog, however, is and always has been about embracing the sudden, the random, the brief, and mostly the funny. It's lighthearted and unserious, and was started with the simple mission of allowing me to post things that didn't involve long stretches of contemplation. If I saw something and thought it was silly, or said something to someone that I thought was funny, then bam--Tournament time.

So it would seem logical to assume that, as it's been exactly one month since my last post, nothing funny has happened. That's not exactly true.

My focus has just been in a different place lately, is all. I pursued a job opportunity, which I eventually got (!!!), and have focused on steeling myself for the big transition.

I've also been trying to get back into the swing of my weight loss scheme, which has stalled out a bit lately what with impromptu vacations and the impending holidays.

And really, the funniest thing I've done lately is make a semi-drunken video of me dancing to Phoenix's "Fences," but that was also to make someone very special happy, so...that's more of a private thing.

So take heart, all two or three of you that actually read this. I have not abandoned you, and I promise I'll be back to form soon.

How I Met My Doppelgänger

2009-11-03T19:12:00.007-05:00

One of the many fine television programs Karen and I watched during my fortnight in Texas was How I Met Your Mother. It's her favorite show, so it was a no-brainer that we'd watch at least some, but since both she and I believe in treating the people who make the series right, we decided to watch it from the start and work through it sequentially. It's been slow going, but awfully rewarding.

One of the things you get to see when you follow this method is the development of the series' voice, the way in which it slowly finds its groove and, if its talent is strong enough, settles into it. Such is the case with HIMYM, but I have not gotten far enough to really see it reach that point yet.

Nevertheless, Karen treats me occasionally with wonderful snippets from later episodes, just so I know what I'm missing. And today, she shared with me a speech from the most recent episode, delivered by Marshall (portrayed by the incomparable Jason Segel), that she insisted captured me in an eerily accurate way.

I watched the video and, I have to say, I agree.

Aww. Look at you. Had a girlfriend for five minutes and think you can play with the big boys. Adorable. Son, I’ve been in a relationship since you had a ponytail and were playing Dave Matthews on your momma’s Casio. I’m a good boyfriend in my sleep. I can rock a killer foot rub with one hand and brew a kickass pot of chamomile in the other that would make you weep. Hell, I’ve forgotten more about microwaving fat-free popcorn and watching Sandra Bullock movies than you’ll ever know. But thanks for your concern, rook.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that, yes, I do believe I will be seeing this series through to its end. What can I say? It speaks to me.

Don't Mess With Schnauzers

2009-10-24T11:53:00.003-04:00

As a result of a set of events that, frankly, would never, in any world, be blogworthy, I have found myself in deep East Texas for the past week, and will continue to be here until next Sunday. And while, yes, I am mostly here for a person--people, really, since she does, after all, have parents and siblings and one damn cute nephew--I am also here on a fact-finding mission. My task: to catch a glimpse of what her everyday life is like in this place that was once foreign to me.

If I've learned anything in my short few days here, it's that, with the exception of feeder roads along the interstates--which have to be the most amazing things I have ever seen--things are not all that much different than they are in New Jersey. It's a bit slower, there are more wide open spaces, and I've seen farms a-plenty, but there's enough commerce to make my Northeastern heart skip a few beats. And though it will surely seem blasphemy to my loyal Jersey-based readers, I would rather live in San Antonio than spend another day in New York City. There, I said it.

I'd like to think my open-mindedness has played a huge part in making me feel welcome and comfortable here. The point at which I knew I must have been doing something right was when her dog Riesling pounced on me and pawed at my crotch when I got in the door. Just like old times!

Perhaps the nicest part of the trip has been how natural it's all felt, despite being bereft of major activities thus far. San Antonio was the exception, yes, but the rest of this past week has consisted of running errands, watching movies, catching up on TV, and generally spending time with each other. And you know what? I love that. Couldn't ask for more.

So, unsurprisingly, Thursday night was spent in front of the TV in our pajamas, doing the cute cuddling thing (cue the "aww"), enjoying the NBC comedies. The DVR allowed us to never run out of quality programs to watch, and as a result we stayed up until 1:35am. And I, still feeling the cuteness, requested she tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, to which she happily obliged.

As we made our way back toward my bedroom, Ries departed from her spot on the couch and started walking around. She'd been on the couch for a few hours with us, presumably asleep, and had woken up when we went to go to bed. So she paced while we moved, and as we poured glasses of water, she trotted slowly into my bedroom for a few minutes and then marched right back out. Adorable.

So I crawled into bed, pulled my sheets up to my neck, and...felt wetness. I stopped, alarmed. I'd felt this before--this will be a story for another time, I promise--so I asked her if she felt something on the sheet. Sure enough, she did. So I immediately jumped out, looked down, and found a large spot on the quilt, soaked through the sheets, mattress cover, and feather-top.

I love ya, Riesling, but damn it, pooch, why'd you have to pee right where I slept for three nights!

Which brings me to my next Texas first: I've never done laundry at 2:00am before. And just in case you were wondering, no, that's not something I'd like to repeat any time soon.

The Truth Hurts

2009-09-30T19:35:00.003-04:00

After I attended his engagement party this past weekend, I've been trying to maintain better contact with Jeff, my best friend from high school. We went to different colleges halfway across the country from each other and, unfortunately, slipped slowly out of contact over time. But some things just don't go away without a fight, and though he has moved from Wayne to South Bend and now to Denver, clearly our friendship is one of them.

So as I watched Jeopardy! this evening, my ears couldn't help but be perked up by one of the Double Jeopardy! categories: "Steve Buscemi films." Jeff is a big time fan of Buscemi's work, so my immediately response was to text him and let him know that he may want to turn on his television and catch it.

Our exchange, however, took a bit of a turn. Here's how it went:

Me (7:14:09 pm): Don't know what time Jeopardy! comes on by you, but there's a whole category on Steve Buscemi films in Double Jeopardy! tonight.
Jeff (7:16:06 pm): I dont know either now that i think dunno if ill be out of work b4 it tho dont be in such a hurry to get a job they suck
Me (7:31:47 pm): Try living at home with your parents and having no social life or career prospects. You'll WISH you were working.
Jeff (7:32:25 pm): Touche salesman

Granted, missing Jeopardy! is not, in most cases, a terribly lamentable offense. But it's nice to know that I can feel like the benchmark of twentysomething misery for all my friends. At least I'm doing something well.

Why Grammar Matters, Part 48,732

2009-09-23T20:55:00.003-04:00

I know that the Internet is really the last place I should be looking if I'm expecting to find sound grammatical structure and respect for Standard Written English. But every now and then you see something that makes your eyes bug out of your head so badly that you just can't write it off as a simple typo. Tonight was one of those nights.

An acquaintance of mine on Facebook, who shall remain anonymous, was attending a concert this evening. And so he posted a status update declaring, "MJ at Summer Jam, Obama on the text...Yall should be afraid of what imma do next..."

A friend of his (whom I do not know) read this and understood that he was rhyming in an urban style. And, since he is presumably not a fan of this style, he wanted to make clear to said acquaintance that he wanted nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, the friend did not realize that in order to turn that particular verb from the present to the present participle, one must double the consonant at the end in order to keep the vowel sound from becoming long.

Even more unfortunately, the friend also decided to post entirely in capital letters.

Which means the friend told my acquaintance this:

"WELL SINCE YOUR GONNA START RAPING...... YOU SHOULD STAY AWAY FROM ME... ITS BETTER FOR THE BOTH OF US..."

Truer words may never have been spoken. More accurately spelled ones, maybe, but truer? I think not.

In a related story, if you need to find me this evening, I'll be crying tears across the pages of my Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary.

This Is Worth a Vacation Post; or, Dinner Jealousy, Part One

2009-09-13T10:27:00.011-04:00

Unless you've been living under a rock--or don't check out my Facebook or my Twitter--you know I'm posting live from sunny Florida! I've spent the last few days at the Magic Kingdom and Epcot, and have relocated from Disney's Pop Century Resort to my uncle's timeshare at Westgate Vacation Villas. All in all, the R&R has been marvelous, the parks have been stellar, and personal satisfaction is higher than it's been since, oh, April 23.

So why, you might ask, am I taking this opportunity to post a blog when a) I'm on vacation, and b) I don't really post regularly when I'm home, sitting on my ass, doing nothing? Fair point, sirs and madams. The fact is, it's worth posting just to share with you, my few dear readers, the details of a spectacular meal I ate last night.

My love for California Grill goes back to my humble days as an employee of Preakness Gourmet Deli. My old boss, John McKnight (RIP, sir, you went way too soon), heard I was headed to Walt Disney World and suggested a few choice restaurants--one of which was a very nice California-style bistro/grill located atop the Contemporary Resort. I talked my mom into going, and she graciously allowed the meal to go forward even though she balked a bit at the prices. But I learned that day that you pay for what you get--and what I got blew my young mind.

Fast forward to eight years later. I've been to California Grill a few times since, but now I am of age, and therefore capable of taking advantage of the glorious wine list. So last night, Mom and I enjoyed another highly anticipated meal.

Before I get to the meal, allow me to stress that we are on the 15th floor of the Contemporary. Which means, when you look out the window next to my table, you see this to your left:

...and this to your right:

Glorious, no? And all this before the menus even came to the table.

It's not fair to anyone involved for me to go into graphic detail about the foodgasm I experienced during the meal. But suffice to say it was so incredibly delicious that I requested a copy of the menu, so that I could share it most accurately.

Here's the rundown:

Sushi: Spicy Kazan Roll...Crab, Shrimp, Bay Scallops, Tuna, and Fireball Sauce
First Course: Heirloom Tomatoes with Buffalo Mozzarella, Red Onion, Micro Basil, and Minus 8 Reduction
Main Course: Seared Ostrich Filet with Buttery Potato Puree, Wild Mushrooms, Globe Carrots, Fig, and Honeyed Port Reduction
- paired with a 2006 Frog's Leap Napa Valley Zinfandel

Jealous?

And to top it all off, I considered having for dessert the warm Valrhona chocolate cake, with molten center, house-made salted caramel ice cream, and caramelized golden pineapple. But I resisted, just barely. I opted instead for a glass of the Glenmorangie 10, a delicious Northern Highlands scotch with a rich palate, a very smooth finish, and one of the sweetest, most glorious noses I've ever experienced in a scotch.

Bottom line, it was a dinner made in epicurean heaven. Sure, it cost a bit more than I'd be comfortable paying on a regular basis, but hey, isn't that what vacation's for?

And the kicker is this: we still have one more sexy dinner left to go! Monday night is Le Cellier--and if last night's dinner was any indication, I'll have a lot to say about that meal as well!

Self Esteem? Wii Don't Need No Stinkin' Self Esteem!

2009-08-30T16:50:00.002-04:00

Mom's birthday was on Friday, and in keeping with sacred family traditions, she was pretty dodgy about what she wanted. She insisted she didn't want anything (which, while it may be true, is nevertheless unacceptable), and then acquiesced to admitting that a bottle of her preferred port would suffice (which it wouldn't).

A few days before the big day, however, she saw a commercial for Wii Fit. She had no idea what it was or how it worked, but she associated physical fitness with video games and her eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning. She picked my brain on it a little and, after receiving what she felt were satisfactory answers, insisted we go pick it up the next day.

Now, me, I'm psyched by this. I've been wanting a new Wii game--and, in fairness, excuses to play my old Wii games--for a while, and what better way to accomplish this than through the ever-popular excuse, "...but it's good for you!"?

But Mom had designs on one-upping me. Because, clever woman that she is, she realized that her birthday was at the end of the week, and she could use this as an excuse to make someone else pay for her new toy!

And that someone else, naturally, ended up being me and my brother. Happy birthday, Mom.

Since, however, we spent her birthday and the day after working a garage sale--which, if you followed my Twitter or my Facebook, you would know went just fucking spectacularly--today was the first day that we could give Wii Fit a proper test run. So while she got her hair done, I dusted off the Wii, calibrated the Balance Board, got the Internet running on it again, did a system update...you know, all those things Mom would never give a shit about, but nonetheless maximized the performance of the console so that she could enjoy her gamin--um, I mean, fitness experience most optimally.

But what kind of son would I be if I gave it to her cold? Oh no, this called for a test run.

So I load the software, set the Balance Board up, and follow the on-screen instructions. Cake! It starts asking me questions like height and age, and I dutifully oblige. Then, the big moment: step onto the board! I do, and, per instructions, relax my shoulders and stand naturally. A charmingly high-pitched voice counts down, chants "Measuring!" a few times, and then brightly declares, "All done!" And with that, they give me my results.

My balance, as it turns out, is a little off: I lean to the left. A touch surprising, since I tend to favor my right side, but okay, no big deal.

Next, my BMI.

BIG DEAL.

I'm not about to divulge what the device told me on the Internet--that's why I locked my fucking profile with a password post-haste, because it's my shame and mine alone, damn it--but let's just say it wasn't pretty. And as if that wasn't demoralizing enough, the little Mii figure next to the scale blew up like a balloon as the scale went up. So now, not only do I feel like a fat bastard, but my avatar looks like one too. Thanks, Wii Fit! I didn't need my body-image issues reinforced at all today!

But hey, at least they let me set goals. However, since they'll only allow you to set a maximum weight loss goal of 20 pounds, let's just say I'll be setting quite a few goals before Hot Air Balloon Mii gets deflated at all. Bastards...

You'd Think I'd Have Learned

2009-08-21T14:37:00.003-04:00

Some things never change. Other things don't change even though we wish they would. Today's missive falls under the category of the latter.

Since Mom and I are both home during the afternoons, we've had to become accustomed to each other's habits. Me, I like keeping to myself. I'll run errands in the morning, but when it's afternoon, I want to sit my fat ass down and apply for jobs, fuck around on the Internet, watch TV, read, and write. It's me time.

Mom's version of me time consists of watching TV on the big screen in the living room. And while she is more than entitled to do so, it becomes somewhat inconvenient because Mom's hearing ain't what it used to be. So she watches TV loudly. Really loudly.

Which is fine if she's watching Mystery Diagnosis or Little People, Big World or afternoon baseball.

Not so much if it's A Baby Story.

The other day, I heard screams coming from that TV the likes of which I'd never heard before. And, like an idiot, I went out to see what all the ruckus was about. So I opened the door of my room, turned left, and stared directly at the largest TV in my house.

And what did I see? Why, a baby crowning, of course!

Naturally, I ran screaming back into my room, which my mother just couldn't understand. Quoth her, "You're going to see that eventually someday!" Exactly, Mom. Someday. When it's my wife, and my own flesh and blood protruding from her loins. Not some crazed stranger who consented to be on TV, and an unwilling newborn half-hanging out of her mercifully pixelated cooch.

All of which confirmed for me that it's best if we leave each other be in the afternoons. That is, until this afternoon, as I was playing poker on my BlackBerry and getting my ass handed to me. In my frustration, I naturally swore a few times and got the rage out of me, but my mother overheard me and asked me what was wrong. I told her she'd laugh if I explained, but she insisted, so I again left my room to go tell her.

And after I told the story, what was the first thing I heard from the TV? "This will involve dilating her cervix so that the doctor can use this needle to puncture the amniotic sac and break her water."

GAH!

All of which has me convinced that when it is my wife, and it is my flesh and blood entering the world, the first thing Daddy's gonna do is hire someone else to work the video camera.

The Customer Isn't Always Right

2009-08-05T14:04:00.002-04:00

I know for a fact that the Starbucks Coffee Company will not live or die as a result of the three dollars they just received from me--three dollars for a Caramel Macchiato, sitting in a cup right next to my laptop right now as I sit waiting in their E. College Ave. location. Nevertheless, I felt exceptionally good about the money I spent on this drink, for a reason you might not suspect.

Having worked in food service and retail for approximately six consecutive years in my teens, I understand that it is an unforgiving profession. Whether you in your travels want to admit this or not, the people behind the counter or register are, occasionally, trying to serve you as best they can. Sure, they can be cold and rude and unhelpful on occasion, but if they really were that ineffective or foul-tempered all the time, they wouldn't be employed for very long. What I'm trying to get at here is that sometimes, the clerk's shitty mood is actually the fault of the customer--perhaps not you, but someone behind you that has left an indelibly crappy mark on his or her day.

Case in point: an older woman (perhaps in her 50s or 60s) came up to the counter and asked the clerk something in a voice I could not hear clearly. He responded that they only do samples three times a day, but that the cookies are available for purchase if she was interested. The woman proceeded to launch a passive-aggressive tirade explaining that she would never come back to that Starbucks again. She even went so far as to tell the children that were accompanying her that the store was "stingy," and when stores are that cheap, they don't deserve her business. She proceeded to take her drinks and leave.

I was intrigued by the exchange, and particularly by the manner in which the clerks and baristas handled both themselves and the situation. They were professional, straightforward, and polite--all while simultaneously remaining unwilling to kowtow to the rude and unreasonable requests of this snarky woman. I was, as I typically am, thrilled to see people refuse to acknowledge those who believe they are, for no good reason, more deserving or privileged than others.

All of this I observed while seated at the very table I am at now. I'd been here for about a half hour, and was sitting waiting for Darrell to arrive and help me pass the time while Karen defended her Master's essay. I had bought no drink and was simply planning on mooching the free Internet and killing time in peace while spending no money. But the interaction between the staff and the woman was such that I couldn't keep out of my chair.

I went to the counter and ordered a Caramel Macchiato. Then I asked the barista making my drink what had happened. Turns out she was a "regular" whose orders were exceptionally demanding and complicated, whose children left messes at all the tables they used when they came in, and whose sensibilities were apparently incensed by the clerks refusal to give all her children a sample of one of the cookies. Upon hearing the entire story, I told them in no uncertain terms that the only reason I'd purchased my drink was because of how marvelously they had handled the situation--right down to the clearly sarcastic but absolutely deserved "Have a wonderful day, ma'am!" the barista delivered as she left.

I didn't buy the drink because I thought Starbucks desperately needed my three dollars. But I felt good about spending it because I understand how difficult the situation must have been for them, and they handled it with aplomb. Little Miss Demanding was entirely in the wrong, trying to take advantage of the outdated mantra that the customer is always right. What most people these days fail to realize is that the expression, while generally true, does have its limits. And when you ask a place of business to just give you something for free, they are well within their rights to refuse--and when they do, it is you, and not them, that are wrong.

So kudos to the men in black and green for defusing the situation well. They've been laughing about and discussing it for the past fifteen minutes, and it's been great to overhear them because even now there's no malice, just disbelief and frustration. It's a nice reminder that they're not just obnoxious douchebags who want nothing to do with you--they're flesh-and-blood humans with a job to do who only want to do it as easily, effectively, and quickly as possible. And sure, we're all pretty jaded when it comes to service and retail because of the Clerksian notion that just because they serve you doesn't mean they like you. But how much of that do we bring on ourselves because we selfishly think we're entitled to something special because they're the server and we're the customer?

If I learned anything from my time at Trader Joe's, it's that good retail is not a one-way street: it's an exchange. A clerk's attempts to serve you well only succeed if you are willing to give a little bit back too. That's not some radical, brilliant notion either--just good old fashioned common sense and human decency. Wouldn't it be great to see those things making a comeback?

The Brave Little Toaster

2009-07-18T11:22:00.002-04:00

My family has had a long, illustrious, and somewhat infamous history with toasters. Yes, toasters. Not toaster ovens, for those are far too complicated for us to handle with any kind of competency and, though we may not know much, we at least know our place. Besides, if we can't handle "adjust the setting, push the button," I doubt we're ready for such an upgrade.

But our other problem is that, for some reason, we have historically never purchased toasters new. Rather, we have inherited them "gently" used from other locales. Our current toaster, for instance, was once my grandmother's, and after she passed away four years ago, we took it to replace the one we had, which was (unsurprisingly) on the fritz. For four years, it has served us admirably well.

It does, however, have one interesting quirk: if you adjust the setting mid-toast, it does not take kindly, and will erratically elongate or shorten the toasting cycle at its own mechanical discretion. And since I do not like my Eggos to resemble hockey pucks, I am forced to watch my waffles diligently and pop the button whenever I feel they are at the peak of their warm fluffiness.

This morning, however, in an act of appeasement, I let the first two waffles toast to the end of the cycle. Sure, they were a little crisp, but at least I had the prospect of my third waffle to satiate me. As I ate, I placed the third waffle into the slot, depressed the button, and went to enjoy my pucks.

No more than ten seconds later, the button popped my waffle up. Alarmed at how quickly it finished, I went and felt the waffle thoroughly. (I'm sure you're giggling right now. Trust me, I am too.) Sure enough, warm at the edges, but cold in the middle. Back in for more, I declared! Once more, I depressed the button.

I didn't even sit back down again when the button popped once more. Only this time, my insolence had clearly angered the toasting gods.

For my waffle was not sitting in its slot, awaiting my approbation. No, it had been flung completely free of the toaster, and was sitting a foot and a half to the left of the enraged appliance.

So naturally, I just sat back down with the waffle and ate it quietly and contentedly. Was it perfect? No.

But holy shit, I do not want to piss that toaster off again...

Merging FAIL

2009-07-01T17:16:00.002-04:00

I have defended New Jersey drivers for quite some time. I'm not about to risk my credibility by saying we're the best drivers in the country, but a) we're a hell of a lot better than Maryland drivers (who suck...A LOT), and b) we drive crappily, but we drive crappily better than any other crappy drivers out there.

Despite this, New Jerseyans do have an issue with one particular driving maneuver, and I've never understood why.

Merging, contrary to popular belief in the Garden State, is not that fucking hard. Really now. It's like a zipper--one at a time, just like they taught us in elementary school--and the farther behind the merge that you begin to "zip up," the less of a bottleneck the merge itself becomes.

Today, while driving east on I-80 coming home from State College, I experienced one of the most abysmal merges of all time. The highway already had a solid white line between the left and middle lane, and most traffic was in the right two lanes. One mile before, a large orange sign indicated that three lines would be reduced to one. Thinking ahead, I switched into the right lane. My job was done.

But since most of the driving public isn't as smart as me, they took the impending merge as an opportunity to spread out further, from two lanes into all three. So now, when the first lane merged over, where it had earlier been empty, it was now a disaster in and of itself. Awesome.

The second part of the merge was even better, though, because with two lanes of impatient motherfuckers trying to get one inch ahead, I should have expected the worst. But I didn't. So when I saw cars shifting quickly into the shoulder just ahead of me, I was alarmed.

Then I noticed why. Someone had rear-ended another person. But it wasn't someone merging in who got hit. It was two people who were in the same lane the whole time. Someone merged in, the car in front stopped, the car behind didn't.

Now, for a little deductive reasoning. If we examine the rules of merging above, we have to conclude that the person who failed was either a) the one who merged in when they shouldn't, or b) the guy who wouldn't let someone else merge in appropriately. So who's the only innocent one? The guy who got rear-ended. There's no justice.

Sure, I got a road-raging laugh out of it, but it's kinda sad too. It's not really that hard, folks. Just remember: it's like a zipper.

I'm Proud of My Lower Abs

2009-06-22T16:47:00.002-04:00

I know what you're thinking. He's fucking with us. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell he's got body-image issues. He doesn't really mean this, does he?

I hate to break it to you, but I do mean it. But not because of their amazing definition (which is nonexistent). No, I'm proud of their resilience.

As part of my summer of self-improvement, I've taken to long walks on a (mostly) daily basis, and I've been trying to work some kind of muscle-building exercises in as well so that I can build lean muscle--which will, presumably, also make me less fat.

Two weeks ago, I decided to start with some abdominal work. I had a relatively simple routine that I'd read about a while ago, and I decided to kick it into gear and see how I felt. I started with the upper abs, then the obliques, the middle abs, and the lower abs. On the first set, I got through 50 reps, so I figured 50 across the board would be no sweat.

BIG mistake.

Because after 200 crunches, which were relatively straightforward, I got to the lower abs. Muscles that, I'm almost positive, I've never used before in my life. So color me surprised when the first 10 hurt more than the other 200 combined. But I persisted. No pain, no gain, right?

Well, I sure as hell hope I gained enormously because by the time I was done, I was in a lot of fucking pain. Oh, sweet merciful heavens. I could barely move. I was sore for days.

But after I was able to move again, I got back on the horse. Knocked the reps down from 50 to 30 (baby steps, after all), but I've been at it for well over a week now, and whenever I do those lower ab reps, they don't hurt nearly as badly. I can get off the floor on my own! I'm capable of hopping right back in two days later! Amazing! Boys, I'm really proud of you!

Now, if we could just work on the spare tire, the love handles, and the man boobs, we might be getting somewhere...

An Exchange for the Ages

2009-06-12T01:26:00.003-04:00

Me (1:20): and i will say this right now
Me (1:20): i will be in Canada tomorrow night
Me (1:21): and if i can't find Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final in Canada...
Me (1:21): i will lose ALL FAITH IN HUMANITY
Me (1:21): TV DON'T FAIL ME
Karen (1:21): yeah... that just wouldn't be right
Me (1:21): i may go over the Falls in a bucket on Saturday morning if that happens
Me (1:21): just warning you
Karen (1:22): please don't
Karen (1:22): the snakes at the bottom will kill you if the fall doesn't
Karen (1:22): but the fall will
Karen (1:22): so the snakes will just attack your dead body
Me (1:22): but will they skip across the water to reach my bloody carcass?
Me (1:23): thereby creating...wait for it...
Me (1:23): ...snakes on a hydroplane?
Karen (1:23): Jesus H. Christ, you went there.

(What's really sad is that almost anyone who actually reads this blog knows I was working on SOME kind of Snakes on a Plane pun from the moment that second message hit my screen at 1:22. And it didn't take very long, did it?)

My Man-Up Moment of the Day

2009-06-11T11:44:00.004-04:00

No one ever likes admitting that they're wrong. It doesn't matter if it's a minor detail or a substantial, life-changing matter, changing one's mind too often is made to feel like a sign of weakness--we often judge ourselves by our stringent adherence to that which we believe.

But today, I had a revelatory moment. One that was so earth-shaking, that so devastatingly impacted me to my core, that I can't ignore that I've been changed forever. And I need to share this with all of you, so that I can get it out in the open and begin to move on.

Here goes...

...I don't hate Kohl's anymore.

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.

I know! I was shocked too! But there's an explanation. See, I've been tagging along on errands the past two weeks for lack of much else better to do, and I find that tagging along usually entails some kind of personal benefit.

In the past, I've been reluctant to go to Kohl's because, as a fat dude, I've found trying clothes on is like Chinese water torture. I submit because clothes are, you know, a pretty important part of daily life--as I noted to my mother during this very trip, "It's socially unacceptable to walk around naked, and it's personally unacceptable to walk around unfashionable"--but it never feels good trying to squeeze into something that slips on effortlessly at home but feels more like a sausage casing in the store. (And the worst of all is shopping for pants. Self-esteem FAIL.)

But I'm a bit more svelte than I've been in recent years (I used that word loosely, mind you), and while comfort has always driven my clothing choices, I do like looking good. And since Gap, Old Navy, Chaps, and other such preppyish brands are the ones I like most, I've discovered that Kohl's is actually a haven for things that look good and, shockingly, look good on me.

It helps, of course, that three of the five things I purchased were orange. (And before you all have coronaries, the other two have black in them, so at least I was consistent.)

But after buying five articles, and being pretty darn excited about them, I had to confess that I don't actually hate the store anymore. In fact, there was nothing unpleasant about the experience at all. Son of a bitch, I'm changing! How empowering! How exhilirating!

...well, at least until I try to the clothes on. Fingers crossed--I may still hate this place yet.

------------------------

P.S. Happy birthday, Dad!

Shameless Promotion

2009-06-09T09:22:00.003-04:00

You may or may not know who the artist responsible for this song is, but that's not really important. There's a story behind the song, which I imagine is pretty darn important, but I don't know it so I can't retell it.

He has a very well-thought-out blog, which you can read here, and it features a whole bunch of links to his other work. He's a rather talented writer, a brilliant thinker, and a not-half-bad photographer.

But if you poke around there at all, you'll figure out one thing really quickly: Adam is one hell of a musician.

And it is with that in mind that I use my little corner of the Internet to second the plea he has Tweeted and Instant Messaged today: "If you have nothing to do for seven and a half minutes, you should go listen to my new recording... Pretty please?"

Click here to listen. It's really quite beautiful, and it might just be the best seven and a half minutes of your day.

Enjoy!

Survivor: Unemployment

2009-06-08T10:44:00.000-04:00

I've been home for a week now, and I'm pretty much already sick of having nothing to do.

It seems like I should be living the dream, right? Living at home with very few responsibilities, staying with parents who understand how shitty the economy is and how badly it's crippling my job search, and having lots of free time to work on reading, TV watching, and creative projects. How is that not the life, you may ask?

The answer is that, as I've learned the hard way, when you're used to have some sort of structure for a very long time, it's hard to get accustomed to not having any. No one's making me read or watch or write, so I do it on my own time--which means that, if I'm not feeling it, I'm not doing it. And if I'm not doing that, I'm not doing much else. Thus, boredom sets in right quick.

On the upside, with Mom and I both home without jobs, we have some opportunities to do some fun stuff. (This weekend, we're going to Toronto to see a Blue Jays game--#14 on my list of stadiums attended!) But there's only so far I'll be able to go before I start feeling the monetary pinch, and I wonder what'll happen when I have to hedge my desire to start a fulfilling career with my desperation to make some cash and eventually move the hell out.

So if anyone has suggestions for how to make the most out a day where you have zero plans and expectations, I would love to hear from you. I'll be here waiting--not like I've got much else to do anyway.

Since We're On the Topic of Terrible Ideas...

2009-06-01T23:25:00.002-04:00

...who the hell thinks it's a good idea for me to have a BlackBerry?

Apparently, my parents.

See, when I got my Master's, I didn't really want to make a big deal out of it. Sure, it's a great accomplishment, but I didn't want anyone to think I was just having another celebration because I wanted some gifts or recognition out of it. That just ain't me. But my parents wanted to do something nice for me, and far be it from I to stop them.

Originally, the plan involved making sure the repairs to my car were completely covered without me having to put out any money out of pocket. But since my body guy rules and Progressive is a fine, upstanding, easy-to-deal-with company, that isn't likely to be an issue either.

Then the cell phone bill came into town. Fortunately, I was in Princeton at Reunions when it arrived--otherwise, my dad would have called and ripped me a new asshole for running a $113+ text messaging bill. Ouch. So as soon as I got home, heard the news, and got the odor of smelling salts out of my nose, I decided the best course of action was to head to the AT&T Store post haste and upgrade my plan to unlimited texting. Because let's face it: $120 a year beats $120 a month any day of the year.

Upon arrival, Dad immediately started ogling the BlackBerries. I had to laugh a little because, if you know my dad, you know he adores technology, but I just couldn't see what he would actually need a BlackBerry for. (Except, of course, because it's cool.) But we looked, we compared, we discussed--man shopping. And just as we were about to go up to the counter to change the plan, he asked me The Question:

"So...do you want one?"

Far be it from I to stop him.

So tonight we went back and got it. And it's the coolest fucking thing EVER. I can't wait for my first experience blogging from my cellular telephone. Or the first time I Tweet from my cellular telephone. Or any more of the amazing things I can now do with my cellular telephone with an unlimited text, picture message, video message, and data plan.

WIN.

I Have Seen the Face of Death

2009-05-25T17:20:00.005-04:00

Actually, I've seen it twice. In the span of five minutes.

First, I read my friend Liz's blog, in which she recently posted the final picture ever taken by a very famous Japanese nature photographer. Before he was mauled to death. By a bear. This picture is exactly what you think it is, but it still doesn't make it any more horrifying.

Darrell and I looked at this before heading to Emily's place for a Memorial Day barbecue, the centerpiece of which was Karen's grill, lovingly delivered from Toftrees for Emily's future enjoyment. Today was the christening, which entailed re-hooking everything up and making sure it all was working right so that we could grill all the deliciousness we've planned to.

And who was in charge of lighting this grill? Of course, it was me, Mr. I Guess The Handyman Genes Never Quite Made It To Me From Dad's Seed.

After a few failures, I did what my father would never do: called for help. So I got Karen on the phone, solicited her advice, and hung up. I did what she said, clicked the ignition button a few times, failed, tried a few more times, and was about a second away from giving up when--

HOLY FUCK!

--which is Manspeak for, "I'm staring down the maw of a giant fireball that came inches away from singeing off all of my facial hair!"

But hey, at least the grill's lit now.

Once my breathing was restored to normalcy--and after I called Karen back to assure her that all went well and I had not, despite my best efforts, burned my face off--I decided that two near-death experiences (even if one was only vicarious) was still too many for one day. So I grabbed another beer, took a long swig, and told Emily, "Hey, there's a picture on the Internet I need to show you..."

Then, as I'm attempting to show Emily the aforementioned picture, she replies, "Make it quick. I need you to cut the melons with a really, really big knife."

Who the hell thinks this is a good idea?

Farewell, Dear Friend

2009-05-19T20:03:00.004-04:00

Even though graduation has happened and the diploma is mine, for real and for true, I find myself sitting in my office. Not because of any nostalgic longing to hold on to my academic responsibilities--oh, fuck no. I'm here because it's the only place around that seems to have consistent Internet access.

Ironically, I'm here to avoid the very thing about which I am posting. Once Emily and Darrell decided to bail on hanging out this evening, I needed to go someplace where I didn't feel I'd slip into the trap of sitting on my couch watching TV. It's not that I don't love TV--I've professed often that my cable bill pays for itself by virtue of ESPN HD--but I feel like being slightly more out and about, more in touch with things.

But tomorrow, the journey ends. Tomorrow, I have to pack up my glorious cable box, the spiderwebs of component cables, and the universal remote that has been oh so good to me. In order that I don't get billed for another month's worth of service, it must be dispensed with before the end of the business day.

In less than 24 hours, my beautiful TV will be relegated once more to the indignity that is--[gulp]--basic cable. And so, I offer this humble elegy for my LCD love.

It's been a great ride, my friend. I can't wait to see where the future takes us. I know it will be hard at first, but I promise you this: my Wii will still have component cables plugged in. My DVD player will still upconvert. It will still make use of the highest quality HDMI audio and video. I will not let you simply waste away. We will get through this, I promise. Just stay strong.

...aww hell, I promised myself I wouldn't cry...excuse me...

You Can Take the Internet from the Boy...

2009-05-14T11:10:00.005-04:00

It's been a relatively uneventful past few days. Which is pretty much precisely how I like it. Ever since classes ended on May 1, and my work was submitted on May 4, I've been lazy as hell and loving every second of it. Someone once said something along the lines of, "The joy is not in having nothing to do. It's in having lots to do and not doing it anyway." To that person I say: bullshit. My idle hands couldn't be happier right now.

So after a brief jaunt home and a lovely drunken blowout on Tuesday, I woke up early Wednesday morning and decided to take a mystery trip. Though there were a few hiccups (which I will of course detail in a later post), it went off without a hitch. Unfortunately, the downside is that, while stuck in my wireless-free apartment or out of town, I had no Internet access for about 36 hours. No big deal, right?

Yeah, tell that to my Twitter.

So in the interest of catching up on my Internet tendencies without flooding my own Twitter page with about twelve thousand consecutive @replies, I will herein post a series of short comments on some of the things I missed on the World Wide Web over the past two days:

Wait a second. Jack White has another side project?! For God's sake, man, I understand that The Raconteurs are better than The White Stripes, but each new supergroup will not be better than the last, I promise you!
A great story about why the Yankees haven't made the World Series since 2003. Couldn't have anything to do with pitching, could it?
Texts From Last Night is quickly turning into my favorite site on the Internet ever. My Life Is Crap, you need to step up your game.
I'm genuinely curious to see if any Twitterers or Facebookers actually respond to Karen's offer of a Sega Saturn. I'd take it, but I'm a bona fide, certified Nintendo geek.
If this qualifies as a one-way ticket to Hell, I'm truly fucked.
I know I already addressed TFLN, but this is just fucking spectacular (NSFW).
Seriously considering buying tickets to Kevin Smith's performance at Carnegie Hall. Anyone else interested?
In a related story, I love that Kevin's hockey jersey is #37, even though I should expect nothing less.
I know where this area code is...ROFL!
After receiving three text messages and seeing the remaining 140 characters of Karen's Tweet on Amaretto spent on "mmmmmm (etc.)," I think I may need to pick up some Disaronno from the Wine & Spirits Shoppe on the way home from campus today.
This eBay auction must have shown up on my Twitter feed at least seven or eight times in the last day. I'M NOT GOING TO BUY IT, DAMN IT.
Scare quotes rule. "Accidentally." Suuuuuuuure...
New York Times article on absinthe confirms my original suspicion: the Lucid set with glasses and a spoon was a good value, but in the future, I should really purchase Kübler.
It's friends-only so you'll have to take my word for it, but when people you know Tweet texts from last night, they're much better than mere anonymous TFLNs.
OFF-TOPIC: The radio station in Mackinnon's just started playing "Eruption." AWESOME.
Everyone's semester grades are ending up far better than expected, myself included. I like this trend.
Finally reached the top of my feed! Not sure if I'm happy or sad...

Well, that was exciting. Or not. Time will tell. But since I do need some more excitement in my life, it's time to head to Hulu and catch up on this week's 24.

Writing Where I Oughtn't

2009-05-04T10:26:00.002-04:00

It's almost over. By the end of today, all of my formal academic responsibilities will be done with. I'll have successfully completed all the work for my classes, and will only have a small assignment and a set of student papers to grade until I can put this strange chapter of my life to bed.

Despite the relative urgency of the mock thesis proposal that looms over my head, I'm posting on my blog. It doesn't much matter that I've under-read woefully and have only 2 out of 8-10 pages completed. I still run over to my blogs to type away the idle hours.

Which has me pretty darn pleased, if I may say so myself. I've said before that I'm glad grad school didn't kill my love of reading, but I'm even more excited that it hasn't destroyed my desire to write. In fact, I'd argue it's actually ramped my motivation to write up even more.

I've been discussing several of the creative projects that have been bouncing around my head, and it feels like the more I talk about them, the more viable they seem. Each one feels like something worth seeing through, and that's an incredible feeling. I can only hope now that each one ends up the way I see it in my head.

Until then, I probably should click back over to Microsoft Word every once and a while. Five hours left, after all.

I Love My Parents, I Don't Like Being on Fire, and Other Truisms

2009-04-29T09:53:00.003-04:00

Who doesn't love Facebook? It's a masterful procrastination tool, a great way of keeping in touch with friends you otherwise wouldn't have wasted your breath on, and by and large is the reason most people my age spend way too much time on the Internet. And while I have grown to like Twitter, the fact that you actually (presumably) know everyone that's Facebook friends with you makes the announcements far more urgent. It's instant content at its craptacularly finest.

But this whole fandom thing? Either I'm getting old or my cynicism is creeping up on my recent bout of optimism, but I just don't follow it anymore.

At first, it was marvelous. It gave me an opportunity to become fans with some of my favorite artistic personalities -- the Dave Matthews Band, Jimmy Eat World, The Decemberists, Kevin Smith -- and, because of the personal nature of Facebook, you could hold on to the illusion that maybe, just maybe, these people were actually listening to you. Amazing!

Then the tide turned. I have to say it was probably a few weeks ago, when the recommendations box suggested I become a fan of Sleeping. Okay, that's fine. I do love sleeping. Fair enough. I won't add it -- I've always been a bit more selective about my Facebook associations than others -- but I get it.

Next came "I Love My MOM." (Yup, emphasis on the MOM. That's just asking for trouble.) This time, I was confounded. Because really, unless your mother did something awful to you as a child -- the kind of awful that gets said mom on the news, and the same kind of awful that few people ever find themselves capable of -- you're going to love your mom. Ditto to "I Love My DAD." Once again, it's pretty self-evident.

I think the straw for me was "Not Being on Fire." Seriously, what the fuck? Are there really enough people who have been on fire before that we passionately need to embrace not being engulfed in flames? And sure, in my Facebook comment stream, Tina made a case that was equal parts preposterous and legitimate (PREPOSTIMATE!), but I still don't buy it.

Just don't burn me at the stake for hating. I'm not a fan.

When Epigraphs Attack

2009-04-15T11:29:00.003-04:00

It's no secret that my motivation has been plummeting ever since the light at the end of the Master's tunnel became bright enough for me to see. And even though I've only got a few more days left to pull together (what I hope to God will be) the last seminar paper I'll ever write, I still sit here and procrastinate because I'm unwilling to get the job done.

This has led me to two of my favorite pastimes: baseball (which is back...huzzah!) and reading for pleasure. Both of these things have caused me a little bit of grief as of late.

Considering the latter first, I realized yesterday during a spate of Web surfing that Chuck Palahniuk's most recent book, Snuff, was finally released in paperback. I immediately decided (as I'm wont to do) that a trip to the Barnes and Noble was necessary. I went. I saw. I purchased. Not a problem, right?

Not until I brought it home and decided to start reading it right away. (I really hope my professor doesn't read this...) So I open it up, look over the title page, and flip it to the epigraph.

And what is that epigraph? An excerpt from Act I of John Webster's play The Duchess of Malfi.

The same play I'm writing that aforementioned seminar paper on.

Apparently, the universe was trying to tell me something. Something I didn't listen to, since I proceeded to read the whole book in one sitting. (LibraryThing review forthcoming, for those interested.) And for the record, I regret nothing.

As for my other obsession, let's just say I'm in the midst of an operation -- yes, for those of you curious, Operation 9 -- that should fix a glaring problem with my fandom. In the interest of not sabotaging the success of this mission, I'll not divulge too many details at this time. But suffice to say that details will be forthcoming (likely on Friday morning), along with a backstory and a complete explanation as to why I've been so surreptitious.

Until then, the consider the alert level at orange. Just don't ask me what that means.

Quality Quote Clearinghouse #1

2009-04-02T13:49:00.002-04:00

The postmodern world is occasionally not a horrible thing. When one lacks easy access to pen and paper, for instance, one can whip out their cell phone and type out the ridiculous line they just heard, so as to remember it for posterity.

The problem is, when I reach a certain number of "drafts" in my Message menu, I get a little weirded out. They're just sitting there, waiting to be shared, but mostly going untouched. And their number, like bunnies, is multiplying. This must end.

I've thrown a few quotes up on my Twitter lately, but I need to clear out my phone and my brain and put a few beauties up here. Credit given where I can, though some may hate me for attributing it to them. (That's the risk you take saying silly things around me. Deal.)

------------
"There's no mistaking for the lush feel of a vagina."
-Karen, regarding drunken gentlemen who fuck couches when they're trying to fuck women
------------
"It's not that bad. I had pants on!"
-Alicia (like that attribution really shocks anyone)
------------
"Prepare to suck the cock of karma!"
-Kung Fu dude from Pineapple Express (included for being the only line in the movie that actually made me laugh out loud)
------------
"I literally just LOLed. And then I ROFLcoptered a little. It was awkward."
-Darrell, in response to what I thought was a rather clever text message of mine
------------
"Loose slots? We've got 'em!"
-a billboard for an Indiana casino
------------
"I don't know how to write phonetically. I didn't take that class."
-an anonymous Penn State senior, lamenting her inexperience at writing her name down so that the people at graduation would pronounce it correctly
------------

Can't make this shit up, folks. And if my life is any indication, this won't be the last time I do something like this. Hope you LOLed a little. Just watch out for those low-flying ROFLcopters.

Welcome to God's Country, Pop. Ignorant Assholes

2009-03-30T11:13:00.002-04:00

Despite my general hatred for most things Pennsylvania, I've actually been an outspoken advocate for the city of Pittsburgh. In my three visits there, I've made a few trips to Kennywood (which is one of my favorite parks), taken in a baseball game at PNC Park (which is a surprisingly gorgeous park for such a subpar team), and enjoyed some of the fine waterfront dining establishments that the city offers. Sure, it may strike some as "dirty," but most cities are, and the idiosyncrasies of the place, in my mind, add to its charm.

The problem from my standpoint is that, from State College, the easiest way to get to Pittsburgh is via Rt. 22, a four-lane highway that treks alternately through mountainous beauty and spots of civilization (typically marked out by Walmarts and McDonald's, unsurprisingly). Once you get past the hideous fog at its start near Hollidaysburg, the drive is actually quite nice. But there are landmarks along the way that one wishes one could unsee.

No, I'm not talking about the super-sketchy 1940s "pool and lounge" that looks like it's been abandoned for decades. Or the Tattoo Barn. Or Climax, which is (I shit you not) the world's only drive-thru strip club -- rather ironically located in a town called Congruity. (Why oh why are there not more of these?)

I'm referring to a set of billboards, one of top of the other, that are about the most ignorant and incomprehensible things I've ever seen in my short, cynical life.

On top, we have plain text against a green background. Nothing striking, except its argument: "Global warming is all about money and politics -- NOT science!"

Okay, fair enough. It's funny because it's trying so hard to be politically charged, all while offering nothing of substance except bile. And given its location in central-western Pennsylvania, it's easy to associate it with the stereotypically bumblefuck atmosphere.

But juxtaposed with this stupidity, directly underneath, is a billboard that manages to trump it in every way imaginable.

The text: "Abortion is this generation's HOLOCAUST!" The image: a grey background atop, with a graveyard of crosses below, most adorned with Stars of David atop them.

Just ask Alicia how enraged I was to see these things. While it's impossible to recreate the instinctive and genuine ire these billboards arose in me, one comment was rather worth repeating: "Are we still in the United States of America? How does this happen?"

Granted, I shouldn't be surprised that things of this nature would appear in a place notoriously known for inflammatory religiosity and intellectual backwardness. But it sure does explain a lot. Like why next time I head for the Steel City, I think I'll stick to the interstate.

O Sweet, Glorious Irony!

2009-03-23T11:42:00.003-04:00

I've had Guitar Hero: World Tour for a mere five days now. I've already logged twenty hours of playing time.

As far as I'm concerned, my productivity coming to a screeching halt is the gravest concern that I'll be dealing with in regards to the game over the next six weeks.

But last night, as Darrell and I enjoyed a gig just a few short minutes after the start of my apartment complex's "quiet hours," a knock at the door beckoned yet another concern.

It's official: my incessant Guitar Heroics have already pissed off the neighbors.

Unfortunately for said neighbor, she failed on two counts. Firstly, because when trying to ask someone to stop the noise, it's probably best to be as civil and humane as possible. Try, say, "Could you please quiet down? We live right downstairs and it's late." Or maybe, "Do you think you might wrap it up soon? It's after quiet hours."

Not, "Will that banging ever stop?"

Which is an issue because, secondly, if there's anyone in the complex who has no claim to complain about annoying noises emanating from someone else's apartment on account of the annoying noises coming from her own, she's the one.

I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the "Will that howling ever stop?" conversation.

This Time, I Sing Amazon's Praises

2009-03-18T11:31:00.003-04:00

Let's dispense with a few things, right off the bat.

One: I know I totally have a hard-on for Barnes & Noble's online store. That has not changed. I still stand by the awesomeness of bn.com.

Two: I know in that very same post linked above, I crapped on Amazon a little bit. They deserved it. Especially after they shipped my semester's worth of textbooks in SEVEN separate boxes. That's just a bit excessive.

Three: I know that, while I haven't posted about this in any of my blogs, I have gone on record numerous times in opposition to Guitar Hero and games of its ilk. I don't need some fucking computer telling me I don't know how to play a song that I could totally play if I had, oh, a real guitar in hand. (I mean, Jimmy Eat World tweeted the other day [March 14, 2009, 10:55am] that they couldn't get through 20% of "Sweetness" on Expert -- and they wrote the damn song!)

All that having been said...

Amazon e-mailed me on Monday morning with an extremely enticing deal. The Guitar Hero: World Tour full band set, on sale for $119.98. A savings of $70.

Anyone who followed my Twitter, my Facebook, or my discussions pre-seminar knows that I actually did ruminate extensively over my decision. Should I get Rock Band instead? Is it worth the investment, even at the price?

In the end, I said yes. Pulled the trigger. Placed the order. I then figured on needing the 5-9 days it would take to ship it to let the purchase regret really sink in. But I figured wrong.

Last night at 5:38pm, I got an e-mail from Amazon saying my order shipped. A little over a day, but still not bad. Then I look at the shipping estimate. March 18, 2009. "That's tomorrow!" cried yesterday-me, who couldn't help but think there was a typo there somewhere.

But there wasn't. FedEx had my package in Lewisberry, PA -- just south of Harrisburg, which is a little over an hour south of State College -- so next-day delivery was a totally reasonable possibility.

This morning, as I sat in office hours, I decided, what the fuck? Let me track it. Clicky-clicky...oh, how nice. It's on my doorstep!

It took Amazon less than 48 hours to receive my order and put the product on my stoop. That's pretty darn impressive, especially since I decided to take the free shipping to save a little more coin. A small price to pay for my soul, since I anticipate my productivity plummeting as of about 4:00pm today.

Holy Crap, It Worked!

2009-03-13T18:27:00.002-04:00

Back in my Princeton days, whenever I thought I was the laziest, most unmotivated student in the joint, there was always one person I could count on to make me feel procrastinatorily inferior.

His fervent refusal to make headway on perhaps the most quintessentially Princetonian of all assignments was so legendary, in fact, that I created a Facebook group to celebrate his effort at effortlessness.

It was called, "I Am More Concerned about Ruben Pope's Thesis Progress Than Ruben Pope Is."

It was so beautifully conceived and masterfully executed that, recently, Ruben texted me. His friend had seen the group and told him, and I quote, "Your buddy should send that Facebook group description to the Hall of Fame for Satire. I'm inviting my friends to join it."

I was excited that the group was to gain additional exposure, but, as has always been the case, I wished that it would have resulted in the paper's successful completion. That was the whole idea of the group in the first place and, like all good satires, this one was aimed not for the cheap laugh but for the betterment of society.

Today, I received a missive that led me to believe I needed to check the records of the Mudd Library. And sure enough, when I did, my heart skipped a beat.

Do you believe in miracles? He actually did it!

I'm speechless. And sad, since the finest satire I've ever created has now served its usefulness. But really, I'm glad I, and twelve others, don't have to be concerned anymore.

No Wonder They're Bankrupt!

2009-03-12T21:57:00.003-04:00

I don't know a lot. But I do know this.

The phrase "multi-sensory haircutting experience" is one that never needs to be said. EVER.

And yet, there it is.

I'd do what I normally do best in this space, which is to pick apart that article and make jokes about how completely asinine this idea is, but words are actually failing me. This concept is so fucked up to me that I can't even type out anything to live up to its ineptitude.

I need a drink.

Merry Marchmas!

2009-03-08T19:07:00.004-04:00

Those who know my family understand how bad my mother's memory is. In fairness, she doesn't really forget the important stuff -- and with a family history of Alzheimer's, I feel we'd take such a thing very seriously -- but it's still lots of fun to pick on her when relatively simple stuff slips her tender mind.

Today, the "stuff" happened to be her driver's license. It seems she misplaced it sometime after work on Friday and hasn't seen it since. Now, yesterday, while driving to recycle (the Disneyland of Momville), she pointed out to me that she didn't have her license and wasn't sure where it was. So we know that she misplaced it between the end of work Friday and Saturday morning. A pretty small window, one that shouldn't contain that many different places.

Silly me.

While I spent the better portion of the morning (post-awakening, of course, which didn't leave much left) reading the paper, drinking coffee, and working on the crossword puzzle, she ran around frantically seeking out her missing ID. She tore through pocketbooks, all the pockets of clothes she'd worn, all the places she normally frequents -- yes, the laundry room got a thorough once-over. Alas, no license.

I observed all this with mild indifference and even less concern. Knowing my mother, these things tend to just work out. And besides, she wasn't freaking out too much, so why should I?

So given my lack of caring, imagine my surprise when my mother walks into the kitchen with her hands filled with clothing and other such paraphernalia. She plopped it all on the counter and presented it to me in sequential order:

a black Life Is Good hat featuring a guitar and the line, "Let's get together and feel alright"
a white t-shirt with an acoustic that reads, "There are things that come before guitar...I just don't know what they are."
three Disney World pins:
- a recreation of the famous Partners statue, in front of Cinderella Castle
- a Rock 'n' Roller Coaster pin shaped like a guitar pick
- Goofy laughing out loud, with the letters LOL underneath
and a $25 Starbucks gift card

After her presentation, she said, "Merry Christmas!" and ran off to continue searching for her license.

Turns out, in an effort to hide the swag she bought me from Disney World (which she'd planned to give me for Christmas), she hid them at the bottom of the ironing basket -- the last place she figured I'd look (and rightly so). Unfortunately, she never got to the bottom of the basket in all this time and, you guessed it, she forgot they were there. Until she found them today.

While looking for something that else that she forgot where it was.

Suddenly, the idea of Christmas in July doesn't seem like an unreasonable expectation.

(I'll close by sharing that she did end up finding her license -- in her car, right where she normally puts it. It just slid farther back into the console than it normally does, so she didn't see it upon first glance. Can't say that she isn't a creature of habit, even if that is to a fault.)

Why Is Twitter So Damn Addictive?

2009-03-04T12:09:00.004-05:00

At the risk of stepping on the toes of I Hate Everything, I have to lodge an only-kinda-sorta-serious complaint.

At its core, the concept of Twitter explicitly exacerbates our current cultural communication breakdown. People don't think through things, they just type out short bursts. Everyone follows one another instead of, you know, actually talking to each other. And it reinforces our attachment to technology at the expense of the real world: when it's so easy to post, you never know when someone important (broadly defined, of course) is going to say something that you'll clearly want to read.

And yet, like a car wreck, I just can't turn away from it.

Thus why I'm posting here. Because even though this blog is specifically designed for my less-well-thought-out ideas, I would probably need to tweet at least 9 times to get the entire content of this post onto my Twitter. (I just word counted it. Because I'm a sad, sad little man.)

But while I'm at it, you know...go check out my Twitter. And follow me too. You wouldn't want to miss out on any of my useless ramblings, would you?

I fear I'm a hopeless case.

If He Only Knew!

2009-03-02T11:07:00.003-05:00

My professor just made my day.

Reinforcing the notion that I'm the worst student ever, I failed -- despite having all day yesterday with no other responsibilities -- to successfully read one article and write a two-page critique of that article before going to bed last night. What I did do was read the first two sections of the article, write a crappy six-line introduction, and begin typing up a short list of quotes that I planned to examine.

This morning, I almost reset my alarm for an hour later before remembering, Oh shit, I still need to finish my critique. So up I was at 7:00am, out of the shower by 7:15am, and sitting in front of my laptop ready to roll at 7:20am.

And with my ride due to pick me up at 8:20am, what did I do with my hour? Why, watch SportsCenter, of course!

During the shittier highlights (Who gives a fuck about basketball anyway? Not this guy!) I managed to successfully read the remainder of the article and take down some more quotes, but I was still about a page-and-a-half and a lot of elucidation and coherence short of a true critique. With this, I went to class.

I then proceeded to select an advantageous seat (far from the professor) and turn my quotes and thoughts into a cogent response. It ended up two-and-a-half pages, and was surprisingly not as crappy as I'd anticipated it would be.

At break, I sent it to the office printer, produced a paper copy, and submitted it to my professor. Success!

But here's where it got really good. Because no sooner do I return to class than does my professor announce that I have "reminded" him that the critiques are due, and that everyone should hand them in.

Because I'm "the model student" of the class. And, given my excessive sense of "responsibility," the "goody-two-shoes" of the group.

Procrastination FTW!

Yeah baby, I still got it.

Janet Lyon Would NOT Be Proud

2009-02-26T12:06:00.004-05:00

One doesn't typically expect high Modernism and lowbrow humor to find common ground on a radio program like The Opie & Anthony Show, but I suppose I've learned in my life to be prepared for anything. Unfortunately, I just wasn't prepared enough.

As I'm driving to campus yesterday, a discussion about scarves on the show led to (I believe) Jim Norton telling comedian Bob Kelly that he hopes his scarf gets caught in something and decapitates him. Bob responded by explaining that it had actually happened, to the general disbelief of everyone else present.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, listening on my satellite radio, I knew it was true. It was explicitly mentioned in a presentation for a Modernism seminar I took last spring. The only problem? I couldn't remember the person's name.

Despite lacking the key information, I called the show. I figured it would take me forever to get on the line, and in that time I could park my car and pull out my laptop -- and, if I was lucky, borrow a wireless connection in order to look up the name.

I did not anticipate my call being picked up just seconds after I dialed. Fuck. "Who's this?" I told him it was Dave from Jersey. (Yes, I know I was in Pennsylvania. But this state has been on my shit list since I learned that the closest IHOP to State College is in Maryland and that I therefore could not partake in Free Pancake Day. Fuck you, Pennsylvania.)

But when prompted to tell him what I had for the show, all I had was a tenuous grasp. I told him I'd learned in a class that the story was true, that it was a dancer from the 1920s, and that she wasn't decapitated but was dragged to her death. She was friends with Gertrude Stein and her crew, but goddamn it, I wasn't near a computer and I couldn't remember her name.

"Thanks for your help." CLICK. Double fuck.

I just couldn't come up with the name. And for whatever reason, I couldn't get Eudora Welty out of my head, even though I knew it was wrong, because Eudora Welty was a writer, not a dancer. (It also doesn't help that she only died a few years ago.) A few minutes later, the show confirmed why that name was stuck in my mind.

It wasn't Eudora. It was Isadora. Isadora Duncan.

I got an A in that Modernism seminar, too. A seminar that was strongly invested in learning backgrounds and, yes, memorizing names and dates.

Methinks I need to rescind my English snob membership card after this one. Punching out.

Getting Back Into the Groove

2009-02-22T14:10:00.002-05:00

I'll be the first to admit it: for someone who really loves writing, and particularly enjoys spending time blogging, I'm pretty legendarily awful at updating in a timely manner.

The simple truth is that, when other things start piling up and I get stressed out about my condition, an activity that takes patience and brainpower is usually the first to go. Especially when I should, by all accounts, be working on writing that will, you know, justify the nice diploma frame I just invested in (because really, if that doesn't motivate me, nothing will [...and that's what scares me...]).

Anyway, this is my ceremonial, every-so-often-after-a-long-period-of-neglect post where I promise I'll be more diligent with my postings in the coming weeks. I swear.

As a gesture of good will, you can take a look over at my other blog, where I'm making better on the good-faith gesture that LibraryThing makes in me, by actually reviewing some of the Early Reviewer books they've sent to me. (Some of them are really good, too!)

Until then, know that I appreciate your endless patience while I deal with the mostly unfunny transition from the comforting craziness of grad school to the scary excitement of trying to find a job with a liberal arts degree in a shitty economic market.

Because really, what do I have to worry about?

When Did This Happen?

2009-02-11T23:15:00.003-05:00

Can someone let me know when it suddenly became okay to come into a quiet room, sit two feet away from someone who is keeping to himself, quietly reading a book, and strike up a lengthy and loud conversation about whom your roommate is fucking and how big your exes' cocks are?

Because I was under the impression that, you know, because of tact, that kind of thing was off the table.

Silly me.

Axed

2009-01-28T18:26:00.003-05:00

If there's one thing I do well while in State College, it's watching television. But since laziness is my m.o., the channel rarely changes. With the exception of the occasional Jeopardy! viewing, my pretty TV broadcasts mostly two channels: GSN (formerly the Game Show Network) and ESPN (currently the worldwide leader in sports).

Both channels, to my great surprise, show an astonishing amount of irritating ads. I say "to my great surprise" because GSN, like many daytime game shows, skew towards an older, more nostalgic audience. So I'm not astonished to find that they constantly advertise medications, diabetes testing supplies, and (how I wish this wasn't so) incontinence pads. My surprise comes more out of the realization that, for reasons unbeknownst to me, both channels are equally likely to broadcast those goddamn horrendous Cash4Gold.com commercials.

As I'm unwilling to give that particular site any more space here, I'll instead focus my fangs and venom on two other ads. The first is an ad for Axe Hair Products, featuring an attractive young woman narrating the scene at a gorgeous beach. Three male models are fitted with bad wigs. (My choice of word is critical here: "bad." Not "horrendous." Not "roadkillesque." Just "bad." Let's continue.) The models then proceed to try picking up chicks, to no avail -- because, as our snobbish spokeswoman tells us...

"If these gorgeous guys can't pick up girls with this hair, what hope do you have?"

Wanna know what I think? There's a long version and a short version.

The long version: I know I don't have the physique or the looks to capture the attention of 10s for an exceptional length of time, but I'd like to think that even without the perfect body, I have plenty to offer the pretty single ladies out there. But not every single guy has the same level of confidence or patience, even if they are better looking than me. So, as usual, the media presents the single-minded, stereotypical perception that looks are all that matter and if you don't look good, you're not worth a damn. To be honest, if a girl rejected me because she thought my hair didn't look good, I'd be happy to have avoided wasting my time on someone so shallow and self-centered. And as for the exceptionally smarmy phrasing of our intrepid spokeswoman's query, I've got a lot more hope in the long run than you do, because my personality and intelligence will hold out for substantially longer than your looks will.

The short version: Fuck you, bitch.

I feel better. I think I might have had a rant in me about the FinallyFast.com commercials -- why would the Web site's commercial feature predominantly Apple computers when the site's software, per the fine print, can't help fix problems on Macs? -- but I've mellowed out now that that's out of my system.

And I guess the FreeCreditReport.com toolbag's uppance will have to come another day.

Delicious, Delicious Paper...

2009-01-24T13:23:00.002-05:00

I find it hard to believe that in neither of my blogs have I ever posted once about WebMD. While I generally believe that the Internet is a fantastic resource that can effectively bring people together and spread information, WebMD often proves to me how easy it is for this to go horribly, horribly wrong.

The usual tales of WebMD woe involve looking up simple symptoms, only to find that you could potentially have a devastating disease. ("Headache? Probably a brain tumor!") But today, while searching for some possible solutions to my once-again-onset vertigo, I saw some head-related symptoms that made me just a little sad.

Some symptoms are completely plausible: "headache," "hair loss," etc.

Others, to my knowledge, are grouped there strictly because they are psychological in nature, despite not being strictly head-related: "mood swings" and "lack of pleasure" (tee-hee) are just a few of the symptoms there.

Then there are the ones that are stupid because they're obvious, such as "broken bones (multiple fractures)." Call me crazy, but if you know that there are multiple broken bones in your head, why would your first instinct be, "I think I'm gonna go on WebMD...maybe it'll save me a trip to the doctor!" (Perhaps the broken bones are affecting your judgment, in which case I have to wonder why a) no one is accompanying you, or b) if one is, why the hell are they letting you fuck around on the computer instead of, oh, getting you to an emergency room?)

And then, we enter the realm of the absurd. For instance...

"Coma" -- Pray tell, how is a person going to diagnose themselves as having a coma if they're in one? And if it's someone else checking for the victim, I must once more question the wisdom of cross-checking coma symptoms on a Web site instead of with, you know, a certified medical professional. Silly me.

"Fear of gaining weight" -- Isn't that a symptom of, oh, I don't know, life? Does anyone really embrace the chub?

"Craving to eat ice, dirt, or paper" -- This is what-the-fuck on so many levels. First of all, has anyone ever actually craved eating dirt or paper? (Ice, I've been told, is a common enough snack for some.) And furthermore, who decided to put those three particular selections together? I don't believe there to be a disease that results in me desperately wanting to snack on only ice, dirt, or paper. Nor am I aware of what it takes to make the jump from ice to paper.

I could go on, but it's all just making me dizzy again just thinking about it. I'd better go lay down for a bit before dinner...maybe take a look at the bookshelf and see what I might want.

"Good day to be alive, sir!"

2009-01-20T19:52:00.004-05:00

On this most momentous of Inauguration Days, I humbly give you this.

An actual exchange between two Princeton graduates:

Bob (6:41): stupid cold apartment
Bob (6:41): that's what happens when you leave a 85F shower into a 45F apartment
Me (6:59): GAH
Me (6:59): why is your apartment 45*?
Bob (7:46): because the Japanese don't believe in heaters or insulation
Me (7:48): sucks for you
Me (7:48): come back to America
Me (7:48): we have central heating AND a black President
Me (7:48): what now, world?

(10 points if you catch the reference.)

This One's For Liz

2009-01-14T19:28:00.004-05:00

Because Liz is one of the only people who will appreciate the awesomeness of this.

Several years back, Danielle introduced me to a game she and her family would play while watching Jeopardy! After the Final Jeopardy! category was revealed, they would make a preliminary guess before the clue came up. It's the kind of thing that's silly and fun and almost guaranteed to never result in a win, but is painless and effortless enough to continue attempting whenever the show's on.

One time, the stars aligned themselves and I was able to guess correctly...but there was a bit of an asterisk surrounding it. The category in question was "1950s Fiction," which is not exactly a broad, wide-reaching category. Plus, my favorite novel ever -- and my candidate for Greatest Novel Ever Written -- happened to be written in the 1950s.

1955, to be precise. Little book called Lolita. And sure enough, though I can't remember the clue verbatim, "What is Lolita?" was the correct response. I received back pats, but only half-hearted ones, since the category was so specific.

Tonight, I found myself watching Jeopardy! and chatting online with Danielle. Our exchange went as follows:

Me (7:19): the head still hurts
Me (7:19): i ate, i took Advil, i took the contacts out, i'm resting
Me (7:20): dunno what else i'm supposed to do
Me (7:20): Who is Eliza Doolittle?
Danielle (7:21): category?
Me (7:21): Characters in Plays
Me (7:22): thus, Who is Eliza Doolittle
Danielle (7:22): who is nathan detroit

Note the timestamps there. My guess came at 7:20pm. Then, at 7:23pm, came the clue:

"This woman wished to be taken to 'Bucknam Pellis...don't you know where it is? In the Green Park, where the King lives'"

HOLY FUCK, I GOT IT RIGHT.

And since "Characters in Plays" is such a radically wide-ranging category, this officially legitimates my previous success! And who cares if it's a completely frivolous little game? I'm still a champ!

(Yes, in case you were wondering, this has been the highlight of my day. How'd you guess?)

Credit for Drew Where Credit Is Due

2008-12-18T12:33:00.003-05:00

Two weeks ago, I received my highly-anticipated t-shirt order from the fine folks at Toothpaste for Dinner and Married to the Sea. I brought them home triumphantly for the holidays -- breathlessly awaiting how my parents would react to the Booze Time shirt -- and immediately threw them in the washing machine so I could enjoy them.

Two survived the trip unscathed. My long-awaited drinking shirt, however, was a casualty.

Turns out there was something up with the stitching on the bottom of the shirt. When it came out of the washer, well over two feet of thread was dangling from the undone seam, and though I snapped the thread off, it was still coming undone pretty easily.

My first reaction was to ask Mom if she could stitch it up like new. She said she couldn't, and that she only knew one person who could: Franny, an elderly woman that we work with. (And no matter how much Mom insisted that she would be down with it, there was no way in hell I was going to give an old lady with a heart condition a shirt with the word "motherfucking" on it.)

And because I'm mostly nonconfrontational, when Mom suggested I e-mail the company and ask for a replacement, I was naturally a little uneasy. Nevertheless, when faced with the prospect of never washing my drinking shirt -- which, though not totally unnatural, doesn't seem like a terribly sanitary idea -- or never wearing it again, I bucked up and e-mailed Sharing Machine.

Four minutes later, I got a reply. It was an apology, a request for my size and mailing address, and an assurance that a replacement shirt would be sent out tomorrow.

Signed, Drew.

Now, I don't know for sure if this is the same Drew who is responsible for the content of Toothpaste for Dinner, but as he and Natalie are known for keeping their business ventures small and close to the chest, it wouldn't shock me if that was the man himself.

Regardless, the fact that they responded ABNORMALLY FAST and that they offered to replace the shirt without question makes me want to personally give them a high-five. Someone out there still understands that you can't spell "customer service" without the "customer," and it's always nice to be reminded of that.

So if you're looking to get your favorite alcoholic, grammar bitch, or obsessive-compulsive academic a great Christmas gift this year, I suggest looking at the shirts on Sharing Machine and patronizing folks who'll do the right thing and treat you right.

Oh, and read their comics, too. They're funny as hell.

Marketing FAIL?

2008-12-05T15:14:00.003-05:00

McDonald's has a new pro-Chicken McNugget commercial, about rabid fans of the questionable food product that go by the title of "Nuggnuts."

Let's try as hard as we can, for a moment, to put out of our mind how utterly horrid this ad campaign sounds right from the start.

But am I the only one who watches these commercials, listens to the voiceover guy call them by their unusual moniker, and instead hears him calling them "numbnuts"?

It can't just be me.

Special Delivery!

2008-12-03T14:00:00.004-05:00

My stomach has been in knots all day today. So what better to lift my spirits than a surprise visit from the UPS delivery man!

(In fairness, I knew I'd ordered these things, I just hadn't expected them so quickly.)

So what'd I get? Take a gander:

First, for the grammar bitch in me...

And then, because I can't put enough clothing in my drawer that mocks the Bard...

And finally, the coup de grace. The shirt that I've been talking about getting for quite a while but never picked up.

Until now...

The day is already looking a little bit better.

The Rickroll to End All Rickrolls

2008-11-27T21:41:00.002-05:00

I was at my brother's house, enjoying a plate of bacon and swiss quiche and roasted ham, and watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. There was really no reason for me to watch or being interested in the parade, but it was something to do while chewing. (My family was always fond of watching the Disney Very Merry Christmas Parade, before us darn kids got old and started sleeping through the whole damn thing.)

Float by float, band by band, crappy kiddy act by crappy kiddy act, everyone went by with little differentiation between them. Then came a float for Cartoon Network's Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. I'd never heard of the show, and it looked silly only with respect to the fact that the blue dude hanging out the window looked like a penis and we'd just made a penis joke. (This is my family, after all.)

Then suddenly, the music cuts out. And in its place, a very familiar beat -- accompanied by a rather striking man in a black overcoat with a disarmingly pleasing baritone.

My parents responded with mild surprise, followed by several affirmations that they loved that song. My brother and his wife just kinda watched with blank stare.

I was laughing my ass off and trying to suppress it.

Because I could have tried to explain, but that would have been futile at best.

Instead, I took out my cell phone, picked out as many people as I could think would appreciate it, and sent out the following succinct, direct, and extremely gratifying message:

OMG RICK ASTLEY RICKROLLED THE MACY'S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE ROFL!

This Thanksgiving, I was thankful for Rick -- and for his astonishing sense of humor and willingness to take part in such awesome. And, tangentially, to Eleanor and Caitlin, for appreciating it to precisely the level that I'd wished someone would have.

9:58pm

2008-11-23T21:58:00.003-05:00

I am so glad I stuck around to see the previews for season seven after the film.

Jack Bauer is going to be put on trial by Red Forman? That may be even more shocking than the not-so-shocking return-from-the-dead of Tony Almeida!

Definitely counting the days until January!

But that's about all I have to say about that.

9:59:57

9:59:58

9:59:59

10:00:00.

9:53pm

2008-11-23T21:53:00.002-05:00

Prescient words, Madame President.

Just remember one thing in a few months, though:

When Jack Bauer tells you something, fucking listen.

9:50pm

2008-11-23T21:50:00.001-05:00

Fuck you, Frank Tramell.

That is all.

9:47pm

2008-11-23T21:47:00.001-05:00

I know I said this before -- at 8:11pm, to be precise -- but Jon Voight, you are one creepy motherfucker.

9:43pm

2008-11-23T21:43:00.003-05:00

Dear small African child,

I understand that you are young and, as such, have not been around for the entire run of 24. So you don't yet know that, in any situation where Jack Bauer gives you a direction, the correct answer is to listen to Jack Bauer.

But can you explain to me why you would turn around and run away from Jack Bauer when the one other white guy you could trust was just killed?

I really hope you're not thinking of doing anything else stupid in the next 15 minutes. I'd hate to regret feeling for you these past couple of hours.

9:35pm

2008-11-23T21:34:00.002-05:00

Carl is a huge baller, and I respect the cajones it takes for him to take one for the team and not get off the land mine. But what amazing foresight to draw the terrorists towards him before stepping off the mine. Good man!

9:32pm

2008-11-23T21:32:00.002-05:00

Bauer's gonna try and disarm the land mine? He really is the most amazing person on the face of the Earth, isn't he?

9:23pm

2008-11-23T21:23:00.001-05:00

Touché, 24.

I predicted an ambush, and likely torture, but I did not see the portable lie detector coming into play. These guys, I like the cuts of their jibs.

9:19pm

2008-11-23T21:19:00.000-05:00

AA boy has just returned -- alone -- to his apartment, in order to decrypt the secret files that he sent to his hard drive. You know, the files that will incriminate his corporation.

I predict he will be ambushed and either severely injured or killed shortly. And probably just before the files finish decrypting.

9:15pm

2008-11-23T21:14:00.002-05:00

A helicopter? Really?

This show is making me lose all faith in the United Nations. I mean, I understand that not many people on the international stage care all that much about sub-Saharan Africa. And that lots of terrorist organizations are able to get their shit together without anyone figuring it out before it's too late.

But these guys have lots of guns, huge numbers of vehicles, an extremely well-contained and organized hierarchy of soldiers, and now, a helicopter.

How was this so surprising to the UN and the American Embassy? Do they have eyes and ears?

And furthermore, don't they watch 24?

9:11pm

2008-11-23T21:11:00.002-05:00

Ahh, now it's clear. President Daniels is all pissy because he didn't win re-election.

In the interest of preserving my thoughts, I will not retract my post from 8:33pm. But it is ever so slightly amended.

9:02pm

2008-11-23T21:02:00.003-05:00

I'm glad that 24 has decided to elect a female President because I presume this will break the show's streak of featuring women who are completely inept when it comes to political dealings.

The AA guy comes to President Taylor's son's place, spilling his guts about an extraordinarily illegal operation involving terrorists, -- terrorists that are probably being led by the freaking Candyman! -- and when that results in said President's son telling her she'll have to go on ahead of him, she gives him that look like he's not getting any pussy for a month for the inconvenience?

Why is it that women on this show have no sense of foreign relations? Don't they freaking watch 24?

8:54pm

2008-11-23T20:54:00.002-05:00

Dear UN representative scumbag,

Please read my post from 8:50pm. Your ass is next.

8:52pm

2008-11-23T20:52:00.001-05:00

AMAZING.

Bauer only needs his fucking legs to kill terrorists.

The man must be horrifying when his entire body is ready and available for use.

8:50pm

2008-11-23T20:49:00.002-05:00

If there's anything that 24 has taught me, it's that the bureaucracy of the United States Government is so great and all-consuming that it turns even the most hard-working person into a cold-hearted agent.

And if there are two things it's taught me, it's that fuckwits like him always get their comeuppance.

8:45pm

2008-11-23T20:45:00.001-05:00

Whoa!

So this whole child soldier storyline is Law & Order-style "ripped from the headlines"? Or so that lovely little Human Rights Watch PSA would have us believe.

Maybe Jack is a bit timelier than I'd previously accused him of being.

8:44pm

2008-11-23T20:43:00.002-05:00

Wait. One. Second.

Did Jack Bauer just lose a fight?

I mean, we all know it's little more than a temporary setback. And that the terrorist/insurgent leader's idea to keep Jack alive for just a little longer will blow up in his face by 5:00pm.

But still. Jack doesn't lose.

8:42pm

2008-11-23T20:41:00.002-05:00

The terrorists are currently hiding behind a wall of what looks like propane tanks.

I predict this will end similar to the Jack v. grenade launcher incident of a few moments ago.

Also, Jack Bauer's ability to kill with a) pistols, b) dynamite, c) knives, d) the enemy's submachine guns, and e) his bare fucking hands remains remarkably impressive.

8:38pm

2008-11-23T20:37:00.002-05:00

Nice to see that, even in the midst of an international crisis, there's plenty of time for gratuitous product placement.

I find myself overcome with the urge to use my Sprint/Nextel phone to look up stats on a Hyundai Genesis...

8:33pm

2008-11-23T20:33:00.003-05:00

24, last time I checked, is supposed to be a relatively contemporary show.

And we just went through a Presidential campaign where we elected arguably one of the most personable, charismatic leaders of all time.

And yes, I know he came into power because he was the Vice President and the second President Palmer was incapacitated during season six.

But come on, 24 writers. Do you really think the American people would really elect anyone who's as big of a douchebag as Noah Daniels is?

I hope he drops off the face of Bauerland after President Taylor's inauguration.

8:28pm

2008-11-23T20:28:00.002-05:00

It's Tom!

I mean, I know I shouldn't be all that surprised, since Noah Daniels is still the President -- at least until Madame President Allison Taylor is sworn in in just a few short hours -- and no one actually removed Tom Lennox from his post during season six.

But...it's Tom!

Tom Lennox is, like, the one guy on any White House staff that the viewer can always trust. He is to the President's staff what, say, Aaron is to the Secret Service. Or what Chloe is to CTU.

Good to see you, Tom!

8:25pm

2008-11-23T20:25:00.001-05:00

New rule: ALL episodes of 24 should include at least one gratuitous shot of a scantily clad hottie getting dressed. Extra points for extra cleavage, of course.

8:20pm

2008-11-23T20:19:00.002-05:00

Dear terrorists,

Good idea: If you're going to be kidnapping children to recruit for your people's army, selecting children who have been playing football (that's soccer to Americans like me) is probably a good way to get strong, athletic bodies.

Bad idea: Firing your weapons into the sky while loudly driving multiple Jeeps to surround them will probably draw more attention to you than you'd like.

Just a suggestion.

8:11pm

2008-11-23T20:11:00.002-05:00

Two things:

1) Jon Voight, why is it that all of a sudden the only roles you can get are playing patriotic Americans who are actually traitorous schmucks? Is it because you're so damn good at it, or because your daughter keeps getting headlines instead of you?

2) Why is every skeevy scheme in some other country inevitably tied to a large, private, multinational corporation headquartered in Washington, DC? Don't you think the government would have, you know, started looking into this shit by now? It's been at least ten years in the show's timeline, and no one else but me has picked up on this?

8:08pm

2008-11-23T20:07:00.001-05:00

I've already got a very bad feeling about this ambassador guy.

And apparently, so does Jack.

Given his track record, I'm gonna trust the Bauer on this one.

8:04pm

2008-11-23T20:02:00.001-05:00

Whew!

Only the "pre-game" setup piece wasn't in real time. The rest will be taking place between 3:00pm and 5:00pm and, per the soothing baritone of Kiefer Sutherland, occurring in real time.

I am comforted.

8:01pm

2008-11-23T19:58:00.001-05:00

Holy shit.

We have a bunch of young children shooting targets with guns in daylight. And then, instantly, we have them getting a pep talk around a campfire at night?

Was I naïve to think that this would be in real time?

The 24: Redemption Live Blog

2008-11-23T19:56:00.003-05:00

I've waited one year, six months, and two days for this.

Is it any surprise, then, that I've got the laptop in front of me, taking down thoughts and reflections as the most recent new episode of 24 -- the two-hour season seven prequel movie, 24: Redemption -- goes to air? Of course not.

I'll be trying to limit my commentary to commercial breaks, but I make no promises.

Oh yeah, and let every post over the next two hours be prefaced by a big ol' spoiler warning. Don't say I didn't prepare you.

Jack is back. It's go time.

Story of My Life

2008-11-19T14:47:00.002-05:00

Soundtrack FAIL

2008-11-09T12:36:00.003-05:00

It often seems that my life as of late has been consumed with Zack and Miri Make a Porno.

Sure, I've already written a post about the film, and, as promised in my last line, I was there on opening night, along with three good friends and only two other people in the entire theatre -- it was Halloween night, after all -- watching the vulgar magic unfold on screen.

I went into the film expecting to like it, and sure enough, Kevin Smith continues to not fail me. But as soon as the movie ended, I knew immediately that I wanted to see it again. And while I will confess that, unlike some of his other films, Zack and Miri does have a shockingly high compulsive-watchability factor, there was one very specific reason why I wanted to go back.

There is one scene, which I will not spoil, in which the background music plays such an integral role that I was completely and utterly drawn into the emotion in a way that very few other films I've seen before have done.

The song in question is called "Lift Me Up," by Live -- which I've learned through Wikipedia is an unreleased B-side to their 1994 breakthrough album Throwing Copper. The song was never released on any album to date, and so I presumed that, when the Zack and Miri soundtrack hits stores on November 11, the song would be on the soundtrack.

I was wrong.

And I'm rather dismayed because the song conjures up such incredible emotion that I know I would never be able to shake them if I were to hear the song again. Even more disheartening is that, for some strange reason, the song is pretty much impossible to find anywhere on teh Intarwebs.

So here I am, jonesing to hear this amazing song that was implemented perfectly in a film I adore, and all I can do is bow down to the directorial wunderkind that is Kevin Smith, wait impatiently for the distant DVD release, and hope that perhaps I'll get lucky enough to find the song during my cyber travails.

Sad. Face.

It's Snowing in State College

2008-10-29T12:06:00.003-04:00

Why is it snowing in State College?

I understand that we're in the middle of two substantive mountain ranges, and thus get all the crappy weather funneled our way. I also understand that it's snowing in both Eastern Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

However, it's also the end of fucking October.

I'm no crazy hippie environmental guy, but anyone who's looking at this and can honestly say that global warming isn't happening needs to see a proctologist stat because they're full of shit. Fall lasted for about, oh, three weeks. Tops. It's already too bitterly cold for a fall coat, and, oh yes, there's snow accumulating on lawns right now.

I had a friendly wager with some of my fellow students over when the first accumulating snowfall would come. I had November 24, and I was willing to concede that I was going to be a little too late. But four weeks late? Really?

Methinks Mother Nature needs to lay off the crystal meth.

The Problem with Porno

2008-10-21T17:13:00.006-04:00

I tend not to subscribe to the Obligatory State Fandom Rule, which clearly dictates that if someone famous is born in the same state as you, you have to adore them. I suspect this works more in less populous states, or at least in less overtly beloved states, but if you're from New Jersey, for instance, the law of the land is that you must love Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen, and Kevin Smith.

Sorry guys, but Bon Jovi has always been way too cheesy for my tastes, and Bruce never could sing and still can't. Kevin Smith, on the other hand, can write and direct a damn funny movie, and he was doing the "crude but good-hearted" flick long before Judd Apatow became a household name (and, with the exception perhaps of the unfortunate Jersey Girl, has consistently done it better).

So I'm incredibly stoked about K.S.'s upcoming feature, which grabbed my attention (and, apparently, the Weinstein Brothers' as well) by the title alone:

Zack and Miri Make a Porno.

Straightforward. Blunt. To the point. Gotta love it.

Unfortunately, that same title has been causing a number of problems with promoting the flick, including newspapers and TV stations who have flat refused to carry ads because of that pesky five-letter P-word. (No, not that one, you sicko.) And while I'm all about freedom of expression -- and especially in this case, as the usually-rigid MPAA approved a green-band (or all-ages) trailer for the film that includes its complete title -- I suppose I can understand why some people may not like that word.

Except when they say stupid shit like this:

Diane Levin, an education professor specializing in child development at Boston's Wheelock College, said the posters at city bus stops send a message to children that working in the porn industry is an acceptable occupation.

"It's drawing attention to a movie which is mainstreaming and normalizing pornography, saying if you need money, this is what you do," said Levin, co-author of "So Sexy So Soon: The New Sexualized Childhood and What Parents Can Do to Protect Their Kids."

The stick-figure images are especially appealing to youngsters, since "stick figures are something for children," she said.

Read the whole article here.

Consider me officially enraged.

I'm endlessly amazed at how little research talking-head academics do when cited for mainstream stories. Because, as a recovering academic myself, I know that the academy typically demands extremely rigorous research before anything is even considered a possibility for future publication.

So it's astounding to me that Professor Levin could level such a harsh charge against a movie that I'm almost certain she has not seen. (After all, it's not being released until October 31.) In fact, reading any of the copious available interviews with Smith regarding the movie -- which can be easily found using that most primitive of academic search engines, a little site called Google -- would quickly reveal that the film is not intended to glorify pornography whatsoever, and that it is instead both a skewering of the over-the-top world of internet porn as well as a thinly-veiled jab at his own experience independently making his first feature, Clerks.

And as for the bit about the stick figures, that too was part of the joke: just look at the freaking caption! "Seth Rogen & Elizabeth Banks made a movie so titillating that we can only show you this drawing." It's clearly not meant to try and attract children; rather, it's again a clever jibe at the MPAA, which felt that the original version, which still exists as the official Canadian poster, was too risque for all audiences despite it just barely toeing the line of inappropriate.

(If your virgin eyes can handle it, you can look at it here.)

It seems pretty clear to me that Smith has made a movie that's very clearly skewed towards adults and that is meant only for mature audiences. After all, anyone going to see a movie with "porno" in its title has to know what to expect from it. (This point, in fact, was a key part of Smith's ultimately successfully appeal to have the original NC-17 rating reduced to an [ironically] more advertising-friendly R.) And as I've already said, I'm all about freedom of expression, so if the MPAA is cool with it, I don't see why that single word should be such an issue.

Of course, there are parents who don't see it that way:

One complaint came from a man watching a game in September with his young son, who did not understand a suicide-squeeze bunt the Dodgers tried, Rawitch said.

"He was explaining to his son what a squeeze bunt was. Commercial break, the ad comes on, and the kid asks, `Dad, what does porno mean?"' Rawitch said. "Dodgers baseball has always been about family, and we've always been sensitive to the type of advertising that runs on our games."

So let me get this straight: it's perfectly legitimate to play highly-suggestive commercials hocking Viagra and Cialis during sports events, and that's less "family-friendly" than this commercial for a raunchy comedy? I smell bullshit. If this guy's kid watched one of those commercials and asked, "Daddy, how do I know if I have a four-hour long erection?" would he wig out just as badly? Or would he, like any normal parent, come up with a perfectly plausible explanation that doesn't reveal too much information and then quickly change the subject before the kid realizes this is something that's inappropriate for his age and thusly totally worth fixating on for the foreseeable future?

I'm not interested in turning this into a "parents should freaking parent" argument (though I stand by that thesis), and frankly I think this is mostly the case of the media turning a non-issue into a front-page story in the entertainment section. But what it continues to prove to me is that we are a country of raging hypocrites -- the kind who love our skin flicks and buy our perfumes and colognes based on how sexy the models look, but inexplicably wig out when we hear a single word, and one that isn't even a dirty word or a patently offensively word to boot!

"Porno" doesn't make us uncomfortable because it's a "bad word," but because we have a cultural rift over sex that is spiraling more and more out of control with each new day. We're trained from an early age that it is morally degrading and ethically wrong to think about sex or willingly seek it for pleasurable purposes. We're made to think it's ugly and awful and worth shunning. And we're told to ignore it, while on billboards and in even the most well-lit corners of the Internet, it grows and thrives and expands while we look at it through the slits between the fingers on the hands that cover our eyes.

It took a lot of balls for Kevin Smith to call his movie by this title precisely because it asks us to confront the issue head-on. And yet here we are, placing it on the pedestal of newsworthiness while pointing an accusatory finger at it and shouting, "Not on my bus stop!" It seems to me like Mr. Smith is making his point loud and clear, and he's getting lots of free press out of it, too. And if you care at all about freedom of expression, you'll support the cause by buying a ticket opening weekend. I know I will.

Zack and Miri Make a Porno is in theatres October 31.

------------------------

EDIT (10-22-2008, 4:00pm): Not to be a braggart, but I love being right. Click here to see Kevin Smith himself use the same argument I employed in the fourth-to-last paragraph.

Campaign Commercial Song Fail?

2008-10-07T22:55:00.002-04:00

A less caustic observation made while watching tonight's debate:

ABC News has selected a recent Matchbox Twenty single to play over their commercials for further political coverage. As they show glimmering, smiling images of the candidates, they play the chorus on repeat: Let's see how far we've come! Let's see how far we've come!

Moving and inspiring, for sure. Good thing they didn't play the line that comes directly before that one:

I believe the world is burning to the ground!
Oh well, I guess we're gonna find out!

Eep. That's not so good. Surely the second half of the chorus has a more uplifting message, right?

I believe the world is coming to an end!
Oh well, I guess we're gonna pretend!

Guess ABC News didn't realize just how appropriate their choice of song was to our current situation...

Fill in the Blank

2008-10-07T21:37:00.005-04:00

Fuck ______.

1) The United States Postal Service. Maybe I'm directing this towards the wrong party, because Tower "aren't they defunct?" Records is the site that shipped my stuff out, but I don't understand how anything that is shipped on September 30 can't arrive on October 7.

I've been waiting for the new Margot & the Nuclear So and So's albums, Animal! and Not Animal, for months now. I figured if I ordered them a week before their release date, they might end up on my doorstep in time. But no.

And not only "no," but apparently I can't track the packages once they leave Tower's warehouse because, according to their shipping FAQs, the USPS doesn't have tracking numbers on what Tower ships. I'm not sure I believe this (because I've used USPS tracking numbers before), but the bottom line is my discs are floating around somewhere and I have no way of checking to see where they are. This angers me.

2) Pennsylvania. I know I've said this quite a bit, but I really do have a legitimate explanation for this one.

As a direct result of my inability to get something shipped expediently, I have considered the possibility of going out to a store and purchasing Animal! and Not Animal, just so I can listen to them now. (I'd sell the shipped copies at some later point down the line -- and I know that's not a financially feasible decision, but just let me go on here.) Unfortunately, when I check the Best Buy website and try to order Not Animal for in-store pick-up, I quickly get told that no store within a 100 mile radius of State College has the disc in store.

However, when you type in my ZIP code in New Jersey, all seven stores that come up seem to stock it. How curious! Why can't I go home yet?

3) The debate. This is maddening as fuck. I understand that the whole thing is scripted, and that's the problem. Listening to Tom Brokaw prattling on about how they're not following the rules should be the most irritating part about watching this. Instead, I'm just pissed that no one will directly answer a fucking question. And we wonder why the voting populace is so goddamn ignorant.

Oh, and John...I'm not your damn friend! Stop calling me one!

Canine Crisis!

2008-09-23T15:14:00.002-04:00

I'm a pretty patient guy. I'm relatively quiet, and I like alone time and, especially, sleepy time.

So imagine my dismay at having been awakened twice this week by the sound of a dog in the apartment below me howling like crazy.

If it were just baying briefly, I suppose I would understand. But the mutt's howling carries on for hours at a time. This morning, for instance, he started crying out around 8:30am, and continued to do so until almost 11:00am.

Now, I'm not really sure how to deal with this, so I need some friendly advice from anyone who might actually read this blog.

I'm not a big fan of confrontation, so I really don't want to go down there and get all up in this guy's/girl's grill. By the same token, I could call the main office of the complex, but they tend not to get involved in inter-tenant relations. I could also call the cops or the SPCA, but I feel like those are both extreme reactions.

So...what the hell do I do?

Great Success in E-Commerce

2008-09-13T11:52:00.003-04:00

The online world, as you may have noticed, has not been terribly kind to me lately. I am pleased, however, to offer an unquestionably strong recommendation for a website that sells books, movies, and assorted other print products.

And no, it's not the one you're expecting.

Barnes & Noble is like the reliable, friendly neighbor who's always willing to lend a hand when you need something done around the house. Sure, they may not have everything, and they may not be able to give you exactly what you need right at that moment and for the most reasonable compensation, but damned if they aren't at least consistently willing to give it a try.

I make this comparison because I've been a Member for nearly three years now. For the low price of $25, I score 10% discounts (at least) on all purchases, and, as I recently discovered, an instant upgrade to Expedited Shipping on all my online orders, whether or not those orders total $25.

This is a far better offer, in my view, than Super Saver Shipping, because Amazon, God bless their souls, may offer everything under the sun, but can often drag their feet when processing your order. So while the 5-9 day shipping estimate is often correct -- and more times than not, the order arrives in less than 5 days -- it takes longer than it should to get the order shipped.

Consider my experience with Barnes & Noble today. I needed to buy a book (Marina Lewycka's Strawberry Fields [or Two Caravans]) and a DVD (the 1997 adaptation of Mrs. Dalloway starring Vanessa Redgrave). Upon making my purchase, I realized I didn't know which credit card I'd used.

In mere moments, I was on the phone with 1-800-THE-BOOK, talking to a real, living, breathing human being who helped me confirm my order was placed correctly. I then checked my e-mail. At 11:17am, I received my order confirmation. And at 11:35am, another e-mail, telling me my order was scheduled to ship.

18 minutes. To receive and pack my order. That's fucking impressive, no matter how you slice it.

Perhaps Amazon has overstepped its bounds a bit in an effort to be the world's foremost online retailer. I love their pricing, I love their selection, and I've never had a problem with their services. It's just that, for books, movies, and music, Barnes & Noble just seems to take care of its Members better. So even if it costs a couple bucks more, I feel like I'm getting a better value for my money, and that's something you don't find often nowadays -- and especially not in e-commerce.

21st-Century Computer Failures and Why They Should NEVER HAPPEN

2008-09-02T16:10:00.005-04:00

The Decemberists make me happy. Facebook allowing me to be a fan of The Decemberists also makes me happy.

Receiving a notice through the Facebook fan page that Decemberists tickets are going on-sale early for fan members makes me very happy. Learning that one of those shows is in Montclair, NJ (mere miles from my humble abode) makes me extremely happy.

You know what doesn't make me happy?

When the pre-sale ticketing is done through a shitty, cut-rate website that can't handle the server traffic for a group of people trying to buy tickets to an indie concert.

I understand that The Decemberists are becoming so popular a group that the "indie" moniker just isn't gonna cut it for very long anymore, and that's fine. However, for right now, I think it's fair to say that The Decemberists cater to a rather specific musical niche -- namely, the folksy, classically-influenced, sea shanty-tinged narrative pop-rock crowd. They have just over 11,500 Facebook fans (as of this writing), as compared to, for instance, Dave Matthews Band, who have well over 200,000.

When DMB wants to do a pre-sale, their fans have an easy time navigating this. And all the pages on their websites load properly. I know this because I've done it before. Me, and easily millions of other people.

The Decemberists don't have numbers nearly into the millions of fans looking to order pre-sale tickets. As such, it is completely inexcusable that MusicToday's servers should repeatedly drop connections on the day of the pre-sale.

It's the 21st Fucking Century (with a capital F, even). How can you host a major website (which apparently caters to lots of fans of lots of lesser-known but still rather reputable bands) and still have your servers go kaboom when a bunch of people try to buy tickets? How can not handle what is, in the long haul, a less-than-substantial spike in your traffic in the middle of the afternoon?

The Decemberists make me happy. Going to see them live for a third time makes me happy. MusicToday, you do not make me happy. To thee I say, go screw.

------------------------

EDIT (4:44pm): Although it took over an hour for things to go smoothly, the page finally reloaded and I was able to secure my much-desired tickets. This does not, however, forgive the hour of cybershit I had to muck through to get said tickets.

Conclusion: thank you, MusicToday, but you're still on my shit list.

What I Learned in Vegas, Part I

2008-08-21T12:18:00.004-04:00

The first in an occasional series of observations made during and after my first trip to Sin City.

There is nothing in southern Nevada but Las Vegas.

This is an extraordinarily difficult concept for those who've never gone to Vegas to understand. Particularly those who, like me, live near a major city and are used to the notion of what a metropolitan downtown should look like.

Las Vegas's dirty little secret is that, besides The Strip, there is nothing around. This is not an exaggeration. Upon flying into the Valley, if you able to look out the windows on both sides of the plane, you will spy sand and distant mountains on one side, while huge casino-hotels with mountains in the background are on the other side.

The example of New York City is instructive here. When one flies into Newark-Liberty, to the left is the most famous skyline in the world, and to the right is...well...Newark.

But the thing about the New York skyline is that the entire island of Manhattan is filled with enormous buildings, punctuated here and there with larger structures (such as, say, the Empire State Building). And Newark, while grody as hell, represents some semblance of what one might consider at the tail end of some crazy asshole's definition of civilization.

The skyline of Vegas, on the other hand, almost exclusively consists of one street. And sure, the Palms, the Rio, and the Trump Tower are just a few examples of buildings that aren't literally on The Strip, but when you get outside a few blocks radius of Las Vegas Boulevard, you find long flat stretches of single story businesses and houses, as if the suburbs are the city.

It's a lot like an old-school frontier town from early wild-west movies. Except that, instead of a general store, saloon, barber, and other such quaint businesses, you have enormous fucking bright shiny hotels. And then...nothing.

Whether nothing is better than Newark remains to be seen.

Not So Fast, Delaware...

2008-08-10T22:03:00.006-04:00

I may have just given Maryland the what-for, but don't you dare think that your neighbor to the southwest will be shouldering all the blame for today's horrendous drive home. I saw some things on your roads today that would never have flied in the Garden State.

Firstly, I don't quite understand how so many people could be wanting to get back into Maryland, god-awful hole that it is, that the entire southbound length of I-95 in Delaware could be a parking lot. And this is not hyperbole or even slight exaggeration. I sat in a tiny bit of traffic leading up to the northbound tolls, but it was a fairly clear (kinda sorta) run from there.

However, a look to my left at any given time revealed the whole highway at a standstill. It was stopped from the tollbooth all the way up to the 95/495-295/NJ Turnpike split before the Delaware Memorial Bridge. For such a tiny state, there sure are a lot of people stuck there -- mostly, unsurprisingly, just trying to pass through.

But this traffic revealed one of the most ridiculous traffic anomalies I've seen in some time. Because for those of you who've never had the (dis)pleasure of driving down I-95 through Delaware, you should know that it's approximately 10 miles in length. And since Delaware's a small state with not a lot going for it, they need to make as much revenue as possible from people trying to race through those 10 miles as fast as possible (as if anyone could blame them). As such, the road is fucking crawling with cops, most of which are usually busy citing impatient drivers.

But today, there was only one cop on I-95. He was a Delaware State Trooper, located just past the only rest stop in the state, his car pointed towards the traffic as if prepared to nab anyone driving a mere single mph over the limit.

Time for a pop quiz.

You are a Delaware State Trooper, positioned to nab speeders in the manner described above. To which side of the highway do you point your car?

(a) towards the side of the road where traffic is progressing at a smooth rate

(b) towards the side of the road where traffic is at a goddamn standstill?

If you guessed (a), you're probably thinking way too logically to be a viable candidate and should consider a different career. If, however, you guessed (b), you should probably apply to join your fellow like-minded go-getters of the Delaware Highway Patrol. Way to work hard, boys.

I mean, I-295 through Burlington County is hardly an exhilirating or visually appealing drive, but at least I didn't hit any traffic on any of the New Jersey roads I drove today. What seems to be the problem with the Delmarva?

I Long for a Defined Jaw

2008-08-05T20:04:00.004-04:00

As I mentioned to one of my patients earlier today, I'm pretty confident that there's no fat man or woman on Earth who is genuinely happy with being fat. I say this with roughly fifteen years of experience on the matter -- yes, it's true, there was a time when I was both skinny and cute, and what the hell happened to those days is anyone's guess.

And while my "M.lb." plan got sidelined by a number of different logistical problems that come with the being-home-and-not-in-State-College-for-the-summer territory, I've been making a concentrated effort in recent weeks to genuinely slim down. Specifically, by jump-starting my progress with the no-carb plan (which I know isn't a valid long-term weight-loss plan and is probably terrible for me, but if you were sick of being fat and something worked really well, you'd do it too) and then parlaying it into good old-fashioned exercise when I return to Penn State.

In the week and a half since I've been carb-free, I've noticed myself losing. Tomorrow's the official weigh-in, but I'd guess I've lost around five pounds or so, if not a little more. And while my voluptuous man-tits, bulbous ass, and cottage-cheese gut are the three things I'd most like to see vanish as a result of my most recent effort, I determined while in the car today that there's something to be said for the weight that sits in one's face.

Me, I've had a double chin for some time. This may shock many of you -- in fact, it shocked me. I only discovered this double-chin when I realized that the chin-neck area of my body is a nebulous, indistinct area. My chin doesn't get clearly defined so much as the edge of my soul patch slopes at an indiscriminate angle that ends somewhere below my Adam's apple.

And yes, I know that means it's my neck that really disappears, but my jaw is what really suffers because, contrary to popular belief, my face is not round, but rather square. Much more like, say, the left-bottommost Mii face than the left second-from-top that I currently use.

Perhaps this is the source of my complete lack of self-confidence! The epitome of the man's man is the tight-lipped, square-jawed Clint Eastwood-style motherfucker who takes no shit and pulls no punches. This is what I secretly strive to be! I ache to be listened to and respected without question, to have my many moods tolerated with impunity! The key is in the jaw, and my jaw, beneath layers of unsightly cellulite, possesses the definition necessary!

If that's not a reason to lose weight -- besides, of course, my obscene personal vanity -- then I don't know what is.

The Triumph of Dumb Luck

2008-07-25T19:45:00.004-04:00

After a week of 5:00am and 6:00am wake-ups, I felt like fate was sitting on my chest while I lay on the floor, squirming but unable to move. Unfortunately, my plan to come home at 1:30pm today and take a nice long nap was side-tracked by my brother's own idea that I should help him move a heavy, awkward bookcase in his house.

Prior to actually venturing over there, however, I needed to take care of a few menial tasks -- not a lot of time, but enough time for my brother to keep calling home and asking me to bring this and that thing that he forgot. By the third call, I was pretty pissed, and when my father admitted that he had no idea where he would be able to find two Romex connectors and that I'd just be better off stopping by the hardware store on the way there, I was pretty much at the end of my rope.

I pulled up next to Jones' Hardware and, upon traveling through the door, was instantly transported to a different time, a time when you couldn't see the walls for all the crap hanging off the hooks, a time when two guys could stand at the counter and talk like men, cursing and blathering, bullshitting while another guy waited behind them, appreciating the candor and in no rush to interrupt.

But alas, interrupt I did, to get the pieces I needed. As Mr. Jones went to fish out my connectors, the young guy he was bullshitting with said, "Well, I gotta go, but see what you can do with these," at which point he deposited two blue pieces of paper on the counter. Piqued, I leaned in and took a gander at what they were.

Mets tickets. Two, to tomorrow night's game against the St. Louis Cardinals, to be precise.

(And I know, I know, I'm a diehard Yankees fan. But I do love baseball, and I have been meaning to see a game in Shea Stadium before it too gets the kaboom treatment.)

So I leaned in and casually asked the guy, "How much you asking?" Before he could answer, I had my phone out to call my brother and ask him how high he'd be willing to pay.

And before the phone could even ring, the guy looks at me and goes, "They're yours if you can use them."

At which point I responded, "Damn straight I can!" and snatched them off the counter.

I mean, none of this changes the fact that my brother is disorganized and doesn't manage his time well and needs to pull his head out of his ass when it comes to getting shit done around his house. But hey, at least I've got plans tomorrow night -- and baseball trumps naps any day of the week.

Joba Chamberlain: Reliever, Starter, ...Actor?

2008-07-23T16:10:00.006-04:00

Within the last ten minutes, the YES Network has proven to me that, beyond the shadow of a doubt, I am going into the wrong profession.

I learned this by watching Joba Chamberlain in a commercial for some product. I don't remember the product -- I vaguely recall it may have had something to do with the Yankees chain/lanyard he strapped around his neck halfway through -- but I left the commercial thinking, "Wait a second. Someone actually got paid to come up with this crap? Probably a lot, too. Son of a bitch, what am I waiting for?!"

Here's the setup: our noble young phenom, sporting an untucked #62 jersey that probably has The Boss in a seizure fit right now, throws a baseball at a chalk outline of a strike zone on a brick wall. He, obviously, throws a strike. But for the good Hutt, this is not enough.

He straps on the aforementioned device -- go on, let that image sit in your head for a little while -- and throws again. Once more, a dead strike. But this time, the pitch goes clear through the wall, shocking the young children on the other side who look out the new hole, wide-eyed and radiant, and declare, "It's Joba Chamberlain!"

Not, "Hey Joba, why the fuck did you put a hole in our wall?" or "Hey asshole, why don't you throw at a brick wall in Boston if you're gonna bust shit up?" -- either of which I certainly would have said.

And how does Joba reply? With a huge, caricatured wink that instantly made me think of all the horrid late-'80s/early-'90s TV commercials hocking kid's crap that usually came in an assortment of violently neon colors.

So even though I can't remember what the product was, I came away with the following lessons:

If you're not knocking down buildings with your pitches, you're not throwing hard enough.
This product, even though it goes around your neck, will make you throw knock-buildings-down hard.
Just because you can throw a ball knock-buildings-down hard doesn't mean you can act worth a damn.

Perhaps Joba would be well-suited to look at other great examples of athletes-turned-actors that failed.

Michael Jordan -- He may have made the Looney Tunes' basketball team look like the Portland Trail Blazers during the game scenes in Space Jam, but in dialogue with Bugs Bunny, he made Mr. What's Up, Doc? look like freaking De Niro by comparison.
Shaquille O'Neal -- Steel proved that Shaq-as-super hero was almost as convincing a performance as Shaq-as-legitimate foul shooter.
Alex Rodriguez -- In his latest commercial for the Boys and Girls Clubs of America, he pretends that he actually likes all the kids that surround him. Enough said.

Seriously, Joba, stick to throwing the high heat and being the big cardboard cutout that greets me with an enticing-looking iced coffee when I walk into my local Dunkin' Donuts. As for me, I'm off to go enroll in marketing courses.

Open for Business!

2008-07-21T16:49:00.005-04:00

Welcome to A Tournament of Lies!

There's not much here yet, but feel free to poke around, make yourself comfortable, and take a gander around my other, more spare, less furnished corner of the Internet.

Here you will find me muse on things far different from those you're used to from A Rapturous Verbatim. Whether that's good or bad remains to be seen, but I sure hope you enjoy what I try to do here.

One of my goals here, I confess, is brevity. And in the interest of proving that I'm committed to brevity, anyone who wants to know more about why I need another place to blather on stupidly should be directed here, where all your questions will be answered.

Let the dual-voiced mayhem begin!