TRUE ROMANCE.

Nothing is more romantic than the status change process on Facebook.

"Elizabeth said on Facebook that you two are in a relationship. We need you to confirm that you are, in fact, in a relationship with Elizabeth."

Yeah, baby, I love it when you talk Facebook to me.

BECAUSE YOU NEED TO KNOW.

If asking how many five year olds you could take in a fight is wrong, I don't want to be right.

www.howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com

NEW YEAR'S EVE 2005

I recently retold the story of my New Year's Eve debacle from 2005 to some friends, which reminded me that I had written about it. So here, for your amusement, is a recap of that terrible night.

"01.12.05

So now that I've come to terms with the events that befell me on New Year's Eve this year, I feel the best way to move on is to share my experiences with others. It’s a long-winded description filled with the word “ass.” Enjoy.

The night started out as any other. Playing board games at my grandparents' house and eating fried chicken (Chicken Shack, mmmmmmmmmm) with all my aunts and uncles and cousins. Come eight o'clock it was time to go have non-family related fun and drown my brain in a steady flow of alcoholic beverages (alcohol, mmmmmmmmmmm). I proceeded to join some friends at a "pre-drink" event before we went to "Posh," a somewhat posh bar in Ferndale. It was a good night. Good drinks, good friends, good music. I entered 2005 in good spirits and to that point the night had been stress-free and enjoyable.

And then, at some point, let's say 2:15 a.m. I felt like maybe I had sat in some champagne or beer because my ass was all wet. Hmmmmm...I reached back with my hand to investigate the wetness. Now, when you reach back and feel your ass, what’s the last thing you want to see on your hand when you look? I’ll tell you.

Blood.

Yikes. My ass was covered in blood. I immediately took further investigatory action. I felt between my boxers and bare ass, hoping to find it sans blood, thinking maybe I had sat in someone else’s blood. No such luck. My hand came back bloodier than before. That’s not good. I could now feel blood running down the back of my leg and I started to feel uncomfortable. Keep in mind; I was under the influence of numerous forms of alcohol so my brain was moving at a cumbersome pace. I went into the men’s room to have a look in the mirror. Several friendly patrons informed me I had blood on my pants. Thanks. It’s also soaking my boxers and running down my leg, dickmouth.

The bathroom trip confirmed what my hand-test had indicated. I was bleeding from my right ass-cheek. Apparently, at some point I either sat or fell on some broken glass. Or I was knifed. But at no point did I recall thinking, “ouch, I just cut my butt-cheek open.”

Now that I was sure of the situation it was time to deal with it. First order of business, find someone sober. I approached one of the club’s bouncers and tried to tell him my ass was bleeding. The club was loud, so eventually I had to turn around, point to my ass and shout, “My ass won’t stop bleeding!” He led me to some sort of back storage room. Things are sort of blurry from here. I do know for sure there was a basket of apples in that back room. I have no idea why they were there, but my secondary objective, aside from getting my ass to stop bleeding, was to eat an apple.

Once inside I immediately removed my dress shirt, pants and boxers, leaving me in a t-shirt and socks. Cock'n'balls swinging in the chilly nightclub backroom air. Well, they were less “swinging” and more like “cowering,” probably. Luckily, only some bouncers and waitresses and some old lady were back there. For the next ten minutes or so I tried to stop the bleeding with paper towels and willpower. No luck.

At this point I was incoherent and angry. I was marching around some back room basically naked. I was shouting at people about my nakedness, “It doesn’t even matter any more. It’s New Year’s Eve and my ass won’t stop bleeding. Can things get any worse? I just don’t care about anyone seeing my balls at this point. I’d just like for my ass to stop bleeding.” But it would not.

After a short while longer the paramedics arrived. They had a look and informed me they could take me to the hospital and give me a tetanus shot and maybe one stitch. In my incoherent state all I could think was, there’s no way I’m paying $400 for an ambulance ride to the hospital for a small cut in my butt-cheek (a drunk person can’t be responsible for knowing what their insurance will and will not cover, so I played it safe). I insisted that someone would drive me to the hospital. Yeah, at 2:30 in the morning on New Years Eve all of my friends should be in great shape to drive. So the paramedics allowed me to go find a friend. I put my blood pants on and went to look. One of the paramedics shadowed me through the club to make sure I didn’t just run off.

Eventually I found an angel, Stacey, who agreed to take me to the hospital. All we had to do was find Steve to give us the keys. Of course, after looking around for five or ten minutes we realized Steve had disappeared, leaving both of us rideless. I informed the paramedics that I was not riding in the ambulance, so they should just fix me up the best they could. Which meant one of those poor paramedics had to get on his knees and clean all of the blood off my ass while I shouted at everyone about how this wasn’t funny. He used a tremendous amount of tape to put on some gauze and at last, blood was no longer flowing unchecked from my tender flesh. I signed a waiver and went with nurse Stacey, my caretaker.

In the end, this story teaches us several things. One, your ass is a fleshy area that contains a lot of blood. Two, don’t sit or fall on broken glass or get stabbed in your ass. Three, no girl will have sex with a man who’s bleeding from his ass. At least I don’t think so.

The most painful part came the next day when I had to tear the tape off my poor ass. Thank heavens I’m a relatively ass-hairless individual.

Phew. That’s all.

In other news, yesterday I discovered that one of the scenes you see in movies and think “that never happens” actually happens. I was standing near the curb on the way to grab some groceries on a somewhat rainy night. And WHOOSH, a cab hit a puddle giving me a shower from the chest down. A good amount of wetness.

But after bleeding from my ass, nothing really bothers me anymore."

ONE GOOD SAYING.

When I was younger, I was always hanging around while my dad and my uncles were building stuff. My father is a real handyman, a do-it-yourselfer. He built a cabin, our garage, decks; he had a side business building jungle-gyms for people. And I guess he gets that talent from my grandpa, who was in construction for 50-some years. While I didn't get all of that ability (most of my work is done with duct-tape), I did pick up a great saying:

"Close enough for government work."

The original phrase "good enough for government work" was used to imply something would pass a rigorous inspection. It was good enough for your mother, father, son or daughter; it was good enough for your country. But since the original coining of the phrase, it has been altered slightly and taken on a meaning that's almost opposite.

"Close enough for government work," as my father and uncles and grandpa use it, means that while not perfect, it'll do the job. It was my understanding, reached by my own logic and zero research, that this stems from construction companies being rewarded government contracts at inflated prices, for work they would do in the cheapest, quickest possible manner. If someone refers to something as "close enough for government work," I understand it to mean, "it ain't perfect, but we can move on."

I love that phrase.

wikipedia explains it

J. PETERMAN

I have a friend, a talented artist, who earns part of his living by doing paintings for the J. Peterman catalog. If J. Peterman sounds familiar, it might be because Elaine worked for Peterman on Seinfeld. The company is not fictional, although renderings of the clothing they sell are based partially on imagination.

(painting not by friend, I don't think)

Granted, these paintings may have character and make the Peterman catalog almost a work of art, but I don't find them very helpful when shopping for clothes. If I was a cartoon shopping for a cartoon jacket, then maybe. But I'm not.

Don't you want to see what clothes look like in real life, where you actually exist? That's why we invented cameras, because paintings took too long and were only partially accurate.

HOW TO MAKE FAT KIDS NOT FUNNY.

Fat Kid Successfully Avoids Ridicule By Swimming With Shirt On

I've had several people send me this link, and you know what? Not funny. Sorry. How you manage to take an idea involving a fat kid and have it fall so absolutely flat is beyond me, but it did. Show me a fat kid eating a giant ice cream sundae, or trying to fit the most possible m&m's into his mouth, that's funny. Mock news reports featuring dickhead reporters taking jabs at a soft spoken kid, not funny.

***

Also, I think I'm getting the hang of blogging. Just write every thought in your head here. Awesome.

PLAYOFFS? PRACTICE. PLAYOFFS?

Every time I think I forgot about these, something reminds me. This Allen Iverson press conference rant is one of the the all time greatest:



And the Jim Mora playoff rant isn't bad either:



I may have done this post before. If so, that's because it's awesome.

TWO GIRLS, ONE CUP.

The "porn" craze that's sweeping the nation. What is it? Some sort of terrible video that will make you scream, gag, flinch, vomit and possibly ruin you. From what I gather, it has something to do with two girls, one cup, mouths, some puke and some shit.

Here is my friend Enveris watching it:



And here are The Roots:



While I'm tempted to watch it, I'm also afraid. As my new roommate so aptly put it, "some things you can't unwatch." What if I watch it and it ruins women for me? Every time I see a woman, all I can think of is girls puking in one another's mouths and eating shit? I don't want that. Or even worse, what if I watch it and I like it? And from then on, to get aroused, I need to see a girl eating a big log and washing it down with a 32 oz. big gulp of puke?

No, I'm not going to watch it.

SOULJA BOY!

I'm not going to lie. I crank that Soulja Boy. And I superman that oooooohhhh!

Is it wrong that I love this? Is it wrong that I watch it five times a day and still can't really do the dance? Is it wrong that UT Football also loves this?



No. Soulja Boy is universal.

THE JINX.

As part of my current job, I sometimes write posts for the Nike Football Blog. Because it's not really an open forum, the posts have to be positive and focused on what's good about the players sponsored by Nike. So whenever I have the chance, I get in a plug for my Detroit Lions. Last week I put the spotlight on rookie Calvin Johnson.

Calvin Johnson Post

And then, it seems, he went and laid an egg. In reality, he had a very average game. 5 catches for 51 yards. And he almost (almost don't count) snatched a jump ball out of the air for a TD. But he didn't have the breakout game I predicted.

Someone else wrote a post that same week about rookie Adrian Peterson. Peterson had been on a tear, breaking records left and right. His stat line after the blog feature? 14 rushes, 3 yards. Awful.

Maybe having a feature in InsideNikeFootball.com is a jinx? If so, sorry Calvin. We really needed that game. Damn you, Jason Hanson. Damn you, Jason Witten.

SLOW COOKING FOR SINGLES.

Today I received an e-mail that made me feel slightly less confident in myself. The circumstances leading up to the e-mail are as follows:

1. A couple of months ago I bought a crock pot.
2. I love slow cooking chili, stew and just about anything that can be slow cooked.
3. I received an e-mail from my gay uncle entitled "Crock Pot Cooking Recipes"
4. I sent said uncle an e-mail that said "You must have heard I got a crock pot. Thanks for the recipes."

His reply left me a little rattled:

"Your welcome Jim,
no one told me [about the crock pot purchase],
I just thought they were
good for us single folks
enjoy

G-Dude"

First, a fifty-something-year old man should know the difference between "your" and "you're". If you're not homeless and you're not retarded, you owe it to yourself to sort these out.

Second, when he thought, "hmmmm, who, like me, is a single, grown man who would appreciate these crock pot recipes?" he thought of me. While it's true that I am a single (well, was single) grown man who happens to love slow cooking, I think this should come as a surprise to most people. For instance, I would say to you "I love slow cooking," you would reply, "No! You? I never would have guessed that, ever."

And G-Dude? His name is Gordon, so I get it. But he's also a gay man. So is it Gay Dude or Gordon Dude? Either way, I think it's time to give up referring to yourself as a dude.

I guess I should just come to terms with the fact that slow cooking is loved by many different types of people. As it very well should be.

***

In unrelated news, last night I was granted a viewing of an episode of Elimidate featuring my friend Kristyn. She gave us a behind the scenes narration of how it all worked. It's debatable which was the most memorable moment in the show, Kristyn pulling the guy out of the hot tub and straddling him to make out, or her referring to the other two girls and holding up her left then right hand, while saying 'fatty or skank? fatty, skank, fatty, skank..." Brilliant.

THANKS BRANDY.

It's 11:06 on a Saturday night and I obviously have many important things to do--one of which is reading my friend Brandy's blog. One of her posts actually made Dr. Pepper come out of my nose. It burns so good.

Check out Brandy's short blog entry about the 8-limbed Indian toddler.

TWO THINGS FROM PORTLAND.

This sign, on the back of a stall in the Portland airport, shows one of the only official known uses of the term "number two," long known to be slang for "shit" or "poop." Not only does the instructional sign use the terms "#1" and "#2," but clearly defines them for those unfamiliar. Liquid waste. Solid waste. Thanks sign.


The second photo is of the not so great sushi restaurant where we ate on the way to the airport (possibly part of the reason I ended up in a position to take the previous picture). Why was this not a great sushi restaurant? Perhaps because it's sandwiched between a Supercuts and the Companion Pet Clinic. Not exactly the kind of place you want sharing space with your raw fish restaurant. If you can guess what kind of hair is in your california roll, your meal is free. Cat? Dog? Human?

Not pictured: To the left of the Supercuts was a Cash'n'Go check cashing place (do you call that a store? a shop? a business?). The Supercuts was probably psyched to end up in the storefront right next door. Because everyone knows after hippy meth addicts cash their checks, they'll probably want a cheap, generic haircut before going on a two day bender. Gotta look sharp.

Also not pictured: On two separate occasions Portland Embassy Suite hotel employees trying to talk us into going to a sweet drum and bass show. I don't even know what that is.

BACK ON TOP!

Detroit has again been ranked the nation's most dangerous city. Ambitious Flint, MI came in third, just behind St. Louis. I grew up 20 minutes outside of Detroit and in my life have spent probably ten days in the actual city. Why? Because there's nothing there; there's no public transportation--the People Mover doesn't count--and once you get outside of the main downtown area, you can tell things aren't so hot. Liquor store next to titty bar next to Church's chicken next to burned down house, on a street lined with torched cars sprouting trees through the front windshields. Not a pretty picture.

The rise back to the #1 most dangerous city in the nation probably starts with our corrupt mayor. Couple that with the complete abandonment of the city by business and commerce (except for GM, which seems trapped in those towers) and you're looking at a city on the verge of collapse. The Ford Field, Comerica Park, the casinos and a revamped waterfront were supposed to be the start of a renaissance; but when the economy sucks, none of that really matters. Money = safety. It's a simple equation.

Home sweet home.

Of course, some people might tell a different tale. I'm "from Detroit," but really I'm an outsider there. Born and raised in the suburbs, nice and safe. Which is why I'm a coward with zero "street cred."

I AM NOT A SMART MAN.

My hands sweat a lot. As a consequence, my laptop is often covered in an unpleasant, sticky dirt-sweat skin. So before I started working this morning, I decided to do something about it. I'm in Portland, staying at the Embassy Suites, so I don't have my normal electronic cleaning spray. Instead, in some sort of early morning fog, I took some napkins, wet them down and then added some of the nearest cleaning solution I could find. Shampoo.

Now, at the time, my brain was telling me that shampoo is the same as soap, which is the same as whatever that blue stuff is that I usually use to clean my computer. So I scrub off the laptop, then go at it again with a wet napkin--sans shampoo-- before drying it with yet another napkin. Not the most sophisticated of cleaning techniques, but I thought it would be sufficient for clearing my computer of my dirty hand-slime.

What it actually did was break my touch pad. I'm not sure if the shampoo washed something off the touch pad, formed a protective film over the touch pad or if I simply used too much water, thus drowning the touch pad. But one thing was certain, touching the touch pad no longer caused the arrow to move on the screen.

While this was terrible and kept me from doing the work I needed to do, there was something worse: the prospect of having to go to IT and tell them that I broke my computer. How? By washing it off. With what? With shampoo. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my brain told me that my hair and my computer were of a similar enough build that I could use the same substance to wash them both.

A few hours later, I guess after the shampoo dried off, the touch pad began working again. Thank lord.

BAD IDEA, GOOD IDEA.

BAD IDEA: This stupid campaign for a Good Day New York.


Do "The Good Day."

The instructions, in case you can't read them are as follows:

1. push to the left, push to the right
2. roll forward, roll back
3. clap your hands

Not only is that a terrible dance, but there's no way you can believe their claim that "everybody's doing it." I would venture to say that no one is doing it. And no one will ever do it.


GOOD IDEA: Taking a nap in a box.


I'm pretty sure this could become a viable business. Rent out your box to sleepy executives. If there's one place no one will look for you taking a nap, it's in a box down the block from your office. Plus, there's something about the smell of cardboard that makes me sleepy.

WHAT TO DO WITH A TYPEWRITER.

One of my friends just bought a typewriter on eBay, which made me think that maybe I wanted one. While I was shopping for said typewriter on said online auction site, I realized that I would probably never use it--except to write notes to my roommates.

Notes like:

"Clean the fucking bathroom."

"You drank my milk."

"Want to go in on a toaster oven?"

And I think the novelty of leaving pages with one type written comment as notes around the apartment might be just fun enough to warrant the purchase.

BEWARE THE DEVIL.

For reasons I'll discuss later, I haven't been a huge fan of Halloween for years now. Yet on Friday night I found myself in a hot dog costume, accompanying my roommates on a one-block bar crawl. This consisted of six bars that are within one block of my apartment.


Things were going well until we entered Julep, stop #2 on our tour, to find all of the patrons standing about three feet from the bar. There was a woman in a devil costume on the bar, presumably bartending. Pleased that there was no crowd, I ignored the warning signs and made my way to the bar to order.


What I said was, "one PBR, please." But what the devil-woman must have heard was "please pull my head toward the bar, straddle my shoulders, and begin to wildly buck up and down in an attempt to snap my neck."



The shock of almost having my face bashed into the bar and the focus I had on keeping my teeth in my mouth distracted me, enabling her to spin me around, rip up my hot dog costume and like a hell-tiger wearing clothes too tight for its body, scratch at my tender belly. Notice my glasses have been smashed down so they are now on my upper lip and I'm holding out my wallet, which originally had been removed to purchase one lonesome can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.



Then, perhaps to cleanse the wound, the wannabe-sexy satan poured an ample amount of vodka down my stomach and into my pants. Exactly what I don't like. I had now decided that this was no longer fun. The devil proceeded to pour a large quantity of vodka into her own dirty mouth, grab my cheeks and spit the vodka into my mouth. I didn't want the vodka; in fact, I immediately felt my stomach turn and my mouth began to water in a pre-vomitous manner. At this point, I was actively trying to escape.



But the devil was not finished. I was still stunned and ready to throw up, but the crowd was cheering and about 5% of me thought, hmmmm, I bet she thinks I'm having fun, I should go with it. She spun me around, bent me over the bar and began to whip me with her belt. The first one or two strikes hit my ass, which hurt a little, but were nothing compared to the final lash, during which she somehow extended her reach, allowing the belt to wrap between and under my asscheeks, snapping violently at the back of my balls. If you've never been whipped in the back of your balls with a belt, pray you never will be.


In pain, shock and shame I broke free of the devil. In passing I informed my friends I was going to throw up and made for the bathroom, where I retched so violently I broke blood vessels under my eyes.


It was the most memorable, most horrible thing that has ever happened to me involving a repulsive she-devil, a belt and a hot dog costume. It's possible that I threw up my soul into the Julep bathroom and that the devil now owns it. I can only hope the alcohol in the vodka killed whatever form of hepatitis and herpes were spit into my innocent little mouth.

DISAPPOINTMENT AND CONFUSION.

The Disappointment.

Yesterday, after a day of sleeping off an eventful Friday night, I was lying on the couch talking to my roommate, who had moved her bedding from her actual bed to the living room floor. We were trying to decide what we should have for dinner. Seeing as we were still both a little hung over, the obvious choice seemed to be McDonalds. There's something about a Big Mac--once I start thinking about it, I can't stop until I'm eating it.

After that decision was made, we also decided that in the interest of supreme laziness and avoidance of doing anything remotely healthy we would not only get McDonalds, but we would also have it delivered. Yes, in New York you can have the unhealthiest food on the planet delivered direct to your door.

I phoned the nearest McDonalds, only to be informed that you have to order from their "call center," or some sort of delivery headquarters. They take your order and then send out the troops, bearing slabs of sawdust meat pressed between sleek caramelized buns. But as soon as I had I told them my phone number, the dream was over. 248. Not a New York number. Not one person (out of four in my apartment) had a New York phone number, which McDonalds apparently requires in order to process your delivery order. The result was six blocks of walking and much sadness.

Thanks a lot McDonalds. Thanks for nothing. Actually, thanks for the Big Mac, the Chicken McNuggets and the bbq sauce.


The Confusion.

Daylight savings time normally takes place on the last Sunday of October. Not this year. No, this year it takes place on the first Sunday in November, according to the internet. Could someone please tell my phone that? This morning my phone independently decided to fall back, bringing me joy in the form of an extra hour to lounge around. Much to my surprise, when I returned home from beating the hell out of diabetes through a five-mile walk, I discovered that it was not 12:30, but 1:30. Meaning I had missed a half-hour of the Lions game and squandered precious sitting still time.

Thanks a lot phone.

Speaking of the Lions, 5-2 bitches! Halfway to the promised 10. Perhaps Kitna truly has been touched by the hand of God.

Isiah's Enabler

In my haste to criticize Isiah, I failed to mention anything about the role James Dolan has played in all this. Thanks to The Hawk, who forwarded on this article Lord Jim:
For the NBA's most confounding franchise, the spotlight is on a tempestuous owner and a much-maligned coach.

SWEET ISIAH.

Zeke. Number 11, a legend in Detroit sporting history. Leader of the original bad boys. Cheek-kissing comrade of Magic Johnson. How your star has fallen. After an illustrious career as a Detroit Piston, Thomas went on to become part owner and EVP of the Toronto Raptors. After a four-year stint, he was run out of his post with the Raptors following allegations that he gave NCAA basketball players tickets and other merchandise and...wait for it...inappropriate conduct with team staff.

Which brings us to the present situation. Thomas has recently been found guilty of sexually harassing Anucha Browne Sanders, who was awarded $11.6 million for her troubles. Before I move on to Thomas, let's talk a little bit about Sanders. I understand being a woman in the work-place is difficult. But $11.6 million? Ms. Sanders claimed, "What I did here, I did for every working woman in America. And that includes everyone who gets up and goes to work in the morning, everyone working in a corporate environment." How noble. The best response I have seen to that was in NY Metro, where another woman asked, "So I suppose you're going to share that $11.6 million with less fortunate working women?"

No, I don't reckon she will.

What I don't understand is, how can Isiah still have a job? Seriously? He's basically taken a once-proud Knicks organization and driven it into the ground. The ridiculous contracts he's handed out to ridiculous players (see Jerome James) has handcuffed the team. He ran a proven winner in Larry Brown out of town. And as a coach hasn't really fared much better. His management of the Knicks, on a basketball level are almost laughable.


And as if this mass of failures wasn't enough, he now embarrasses the organization with this sexual harassment case. What happened to the time-honored tradition of settling out of court? I guess Isiah is too proud to spread around a little hush money. It's this arrogance, proudly displayed in smug-grin form, that will ultimately be his downfall.

In the paper this morning, he was quoted as saying, "I don't think the things that have gone on will affect the way people feel about me?" What things would you be referring to, Zeke? The near-criminal mishandling of a professional sports organization? Or the $12 million you cost MSG for your unwelcome advances? Are you a fool?

Good executive. Bad executive.

Perhaps it's time Isiah sign up for the Joe Dumars School of Management. Seriously.

Not seriously, in case you were wondering, yes, there is a site with Isiah pick-up lines.

And to be fair, I'm pretty sure I'd have been fired about ten thousand times if rigid sexual harassment policies were enforced where I work. What? You're not supposed to forward around pictures of nice tits? Come on.

PAYBACK IS A BITCH.

The odd news section on Yahoo.com never fails to turn up a winner. For instance, yesterday I read about this:

A Half Moon Bay man was sentenced Friday to five months in the San Mateo County jail for gunning down an ostrich after the flightless bird pummeled him and a friend in front of a group of women as they trespassed on a coastal ranch.

The killing of Gaylord, one of several ostriches on the ranch that were a popular attraction in the seaside community, has traumatized the owners and left them bereft of a $5,000 pet, Superior Court Judge John Grandsaert said at sentencing in a Redwood City courtroom.

"Everybody likes to go see the ostriches," Grandsaert said. "You went and decided to kill them."

First, the judge generalizes that "everybody" likes to go see the ostriches. That may or may not be true, although I bet some people do not like that. Then he continues--in good English, I might add--to add that the defendants "went and decided to kill them." Hold on judge. They only killed one ostrich; the ostrich that had attacked them.

The main problem in this is the uneven distribution of justice on the parts of all involved. First, that ostrich should not have kicked those men in front of their girls. It's just common sense. You don't go humiliating a couple of drunk guys trying to score with some ladies. I mean, can't a couple of guys get drunk on Halloween and trespass on an ostrich farm anymore?

OSTRICH JUSTICE > HUMAN OFFENSE

Feeling wronged and humiliated, the two men then sought to dish out some justice of their own. Granted, revenge is a great and necessary part of our society, but a few kicks does not give you the right to gun down the assailant.



How can you look at that sweet face and shoot it with a shotgun? And a rifle. Seven times. The two men made an example of Gaylord and it's likely that the rest of those flightless birds will think twice before kicking drunk trespassers again. Nonetheless,

HUMAN JUSTICE > OSTRICH OFFENSE

And then in the final act of inequity, the judge dished out a seemingly light sentence for this cold-blooded revenge killing. If they had killed a dog you can bet they'd have received a heavier sentence. Isn't the life of an ostrich worth more than that of a dog? An ostrich is taller. And more rare. They can also live to be up to 75 years old. That makes them about 6-7 times as valuable as dogs.

JUDGE JUSTICE < HUMAN OFFENSE

The good news is that the ostrich farm has gotten tons of publicity and this tragedy has reminded people of how much they like to go see the ostriches.

Here's the news.

LIFE IS MORE THAN MERE SURVIVAL.

Sometimes you forget how great television used to be.



And then you remember. Thanks Tina.

HALO 3.

Sadly, or maybe not sadly, I have stopped playing video games. I'm not even sure if "playing video games" is the correct way to say it anymore. I still own a PS2 and have,in fact, purchased two video games in the last six month. Neither has ever been in the machine, but it felt good to buy them.

Over the last month I've been exposed to what I can only call "brilliant advertising" for Halo 3. It has moved me from a point of "what's Halo?" to the brink of purchasing Halo 3, which would require me to buy an Xbox 360 if I wanted to actually play it.

So here is a sample of the campaign that is making me rethink my abandonment of the gaming experience:

I love the simple piano music and the details of the model. It's brilliant that they actually built a gigantic diorama of the battle. For me, it makes the game feel like more than a video game; it makes it feel like a toy. It reminds me of when I was a kid. I used to set up and play out giant battles with GI Joe figures and Transformers on a an alien couch landscape or in the branches of a Christmas tree.

On the Halo 3 website, you can tour the diorama, zooming in and out of sections, watching videos, seeing little descriptions of characters or weapons and taking screen shots of the battle.

Check it out: HALO 3 SITE And here's a mock documentary about the building of the set.

In the end, I'm not buying Xbox or Halo 3. No matter how much I think I want it now, I know if I got it I would play it for about an hour, get frustrated and quit. At best, I'd sit and watch my friends play it for a few hours. I think the experience of owning the game would ruin my love for the advertising.

I suck at video games.

WHERE DO NINJAS VACATION?

Coming back from Myrtle Beach today I was standing in the longest security line in America (what airport only opens one security line?), which gave me ample time to observe this sign.



My phone took a crappy picture, but the basic message was, "These Common Items Are Prohibited." I found it strange that they considered the following to be common items: butterfly knives, switchblades, brass knuckles and chinese throwing stars. Chinese throwing stars!? I guess a lot of ninjas fly in and out of Myrtle Beach. I didn't even notice.

LOST PANTS WORTH $65 MILLION.

I read a blurb about this in the paper this morning and really didn't believe that it could be true. A man sued a local laundry mat for $65 million over a pair of lost pants. Of course, when I got to work I had to google this and find out more. Turns out the guy suing is a JUDGE. Not only that, but the found his pants. After the case was taken to court, the judge declined settlement offers of up to $12,000.

Now, to be fair, I understand that when you feel wronged by a business you want some justice. But this is ridiculous. Write a letter. Boycott that business. Spread the word. Or accept one of their settlement offers. You have to be a little reasonable.

I really can't say anything more about this. My parents own a not-so-lucrative small business so things like this bring out the fury. And you don't want me to bring out the fury, do you? No. You don't.

Judge Sues Cleaner for $65M Over Pants

MEGATRON AND BUMBLEBEE.

If you don't know, I love sports. I love football. Which unfortunately means I also love the Lions. About a month ago, for work I got to go to Pasadena to work with some NFL players. One of them was Detroit Lions #1 draft pick CALVIN JOHNSON. It was pretty great, although the nervousness prior to that day gave me the inability to eat food sickness.

Anyways, here's me and Calvin, hanging out.


The best quote I've heard so far about Calvin Johnson comes from Detroit WR Roy Williams:

"He's a good athlete, he's big as hell, he's Megatron."


Hence the new nickname: Megatron and Bumblebee.

The Art of Feedback.

Another brilliant seminar offered by my company. Here's the long and short of it, as advertised in an e-mail entitled, "The Art of Feedback":

"Company University will be hosting a class on 'The Art of Feedback' on Thursday September 19th from 10-1 in the Screening Room Conference Room

Self awareness is at the heart of effectiveness. To become aware of how our behavior affects others in the workplace, feedback is critical. This gift of feedback can help us become more effective if we let it. This workshop introduces specific techniques to prepare participants for receiving feedback constructively and willingly, allowing participants to grow and develop within their position and ultimately within the organization.

This session is open to all employees; we will conduct another session later on in the year on giving feedback which will be open to managers only.

Space is limited so please RSVP to this email if you are interested in attending. Breakfast will be provided."

At first I thought it was a seminar on how to tactfully provide feedback to others, but NO, that's a seminar reserved for management. This seminar is to teach you how to receive feedback. The title is really misleading. It should be titled, "How To Do What The Fuck We Tell You And Like It."

I'm offering an alternative seminar in The Art of Feedback. It's much shorter. Here are the notes:

If it's positive-

Daaamn right. You're just as good as you thought you were. Feel free to buy yourself a beer or maybe some new DVDs (or shoes for the ladies) to celebrate someone recognizing brilliance.

If it's negative-

First, try not to pay to much attention to what they're saying. Look like you care and nod your head as if you agree with him/her. In the meanwhile, you should already be thinking about the e-mail you'll send them when you're THEIR boss.

When you're free of whatever asshole was talking down to you, immediately find someone who likes you and talk shit about the person who criticized you. If it's really bad feedback, I suggest going off site to a pub and having a beer while you badmouth the supervisor who didn't appreciate your hard work.

When you get back to the office, you should update your resume and track down your Monster password so you can post it. Once you have given your job hunt a little kick-start, feel free to return to whatever work you apparently weren't doing right. However, you should only work about 60% as hard as you were working before. If they want something to criticize, give it to them.

Please note:

At my seminar there would be no free breakfast.

DAMNIT DR. PEPPER

Dear Dr. Pepper,

I love you. Your cool, sharp flavor is something I think about whenever I'm thirsty. Your thick brown goodness is almost a meal in itself. But your ads, your ads are terrible. It would be better if you didn't do any at all.

Today I saw the new one, where you have a fat football player do some sort of dance on the field. It's embarrassing. The fact that it's just plain awful isn't even what bothers me. The part of your marketing program that bothers me is your claim to have "23 favors."

23 completely indistinguishable flavors.

When I went to your website to see what these 23 flavors are, you informed me that it was "proprietary information." Why make a claim of 23 flavors if you can't tell me what they are? It almost makes me nervous. Who mixes together 23 things and drinks it? I think the only other place you find 23 flavors is in the water that leaks out of trash bags. And then there's Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. Is that 25 flavors? Or is it 23 flavors, from which we can deduce that cherry and vanilla are amongst the original 23 ingredients?

The truth is, I don't give a rat's ass how many flavors are in it, I like the Dr. Pepper flavor. Why not claim to be one flavor: Dr. Pepper flavor.

Thanks for your time and deliciousness.

THE SPIRIT OF CAMPING.

Last weekend I went camping with my friend, Tom. It was a last minute effort to get out of the city on a holiday weekend. Not very well planned. His family lives in Connecticut, so he went out there early to see his mom and reserve a campsite at a nearby state park. Once the reservation was confirmed (you actually have to drive out to the campground or reserve by mail two weeks in advance), I got on the train and went to CT. After a stop at the grocery and liquor store we made our way to the park. Lush, rolling hills. Fields of knee-high grass, perfect weather.

The view from the Leatherman's Loop Peak

Tom went in to pay for the site and get our permit and came out looking dejected. It seems that in the time between when he had reserved the site that morning and the present they had given away our site. Why? Rick, the camp-master, apparently thought our reservation had been voided. Even though it was sitting right on the counter, lacking the word void or any relative thereof.

As we watched Rick operate it became clear that although he looked slightly like Albert Einstein, he was not in the same ballpark mentally. After about a half hour of sorting through stacks of reservation papers, he decided that since it was 4pm and a family with children hadn't shown up we could have their site. The logic? They have kids, why would they wait until so late in the day to show up? I can only think of 1000 reasons.

The campsite we ended up getting.

Regardless, the matter seemed settled, so we went to the site. It was not the hike-in site we had reserved, so now that we didn't have to carry our supplies a mile through the hills we felt foolish for not bringing beers, ice or anything besides a jug of water, six hot-dogs, some trail mix and a fifth of Makers. We set up camp, gathered a little firewood and took a hike. It was a great day for hiking; hot in the sun, cool in the shade of the woods. The trails we took had many exaggerated "points of interest" to visit. If you ever make it up there, I recommend skipping the "magic stairs" and the "CCC Camp." Do, however, check out the view from the Leatherman's Loop peak and the wigwam. And if you're feeling daring, but not too daring, check out the Leatherman's Cave. You'll feel slightly cheated.

Tom exiting the wigwam or hut of some sort.

The hike ate up a few hours of the day and was a good outing. We saw a rabbit while speaking to a Hell's Angel and his large breasted girlfriend. That sort of made us all friends. At least he couldn't stab us after seeing that little rabbit. At the end of our hike we were tired and hungry. Approaching our site we could see that the family had turned up after all. Their tents were set up and they had been so kind as to throw our possessions on the ground next to our tents. Thank you very much. That's exactly what I would want done with the items I had set on the picnic table. Yep, just toss 'em right there in the dirt. It was a passive-aggressive way of saying "get the fuck off our site."

This is where the spirit of camping comes in. Or rather, the complete disregard for the spirit of camping. The spirit of camping is one of camaraderie, of sharing, of trust. You can feel free to leave your stuff on your picnic table or in your tent. Other campers won't fuck with it. It's an unwritten law. If someone is camping nearby and they forgot to bring hot dogs, you share yours. You offer a beer to a passerby. You strike up conversation and invite neighbors to join you at your campfire. You help when you can and get help when you need it.

Not this family. Apparently this was their first time camping. That, or they were complete assholes. They returned from their hike as we were packing up our stuff. The wife managed to make minimal small talk, during which we explained how our site had been given away, which led to theirs being given away to us. She said, "Sorry." And walked away as Tom added, "I guess we'll just drive back to New York City." The husband passed by with just a nod of his inconsiderate jackass head.

But the spirit of camping was watching. It wouldn't let us drive back to the city, not after we had come all that way. As we were putting our tents in the car a woman walked by with her kid and mentioned she had heard about the situation. She was pretty sure her friends would let us throw up our tents at their site and join their group. So that we did. Not only did they let us join them, they offered up fresh corn on the cob, some slices of a roast, beers, and glow-in-the-dark necklaces. We cooked our pathetic hot dogs on their grill; we shared their campfire, talked, laughed, got reasonably drunk and did what campers do. I can only describe them as well-prepared, blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth, generous folks. I'd welcome them to my campsite any time.

A special thanks to Jim, Tom (yes, two of them had the same names as us), Big Walt, Jimbo's super old father, George and their families. The spirit of camping is alive and well.

And if you ever want to take a group of people rock climbing, talk to me. Camping Jim leads climbing expeditions in the NY-CT area.

ABSURD AND ABSURD.

Because I'm interested--and because it's part of my job--I've been following Team USA in the FIBA Americas Championship. It's currently round two and I'm watching a nail biter between the US and Puerto Rico. We're clinging to a slim twenty-nine point lead. Drama at its finest. Anyways, today I was checking up on the Brazil game stats (not that it was any closer) and was greeted on the FIBA Americas page by this badass FIBA mascot:


Huh. Nothing says basketball like a blue muppet in a backwards cap. With gold rings on every finger. And a sweet Lucky 7s necklace. Seriously FIBA, can't a cartoon muppet at least get some platinum? It's not costing you anything. And no earings?

Then I was browsing through an e-mail from Ad Age, an advertising magazine that sends out daily industry updates. In addition to the most recent buzz as to what's taking place in the industry, they sometimes offer what they consider to be helpful articles written by industry insiders. This was in the mix today:


You want one essential tip that will help you with your next phone interview? Never, ever, take tips from an article entitled, "How Can I Kick Some Serious Butt in a Phone Interview." If you're to the point where you're relying on a 200-word article to supply you with some magical formula to nailing a phone interview, you're a long ways from working in advertising. Hell, you're a long ways from working in anything. I mean, are you really going to ask Brad?


Really? Brad? Really? Come on now.

MASTER CLEANSE.

The master cleanse diet. Perhaps you've heard of it. Perhaps not. Basically, it involves a total halt to the eating of all foods. You survive on a regimen of salt water, lemonade (with Cayenne pepper and maple syrup) and a herbal laxative tea. Not for one or two days, either. For ten days.

If you know me, you know eating isn't my favorite thing. Some days I even consider it a hassle; deciding what to eat, going to get it, actually eating it. I just can't be bothered. Many are the day I've longed for a pill that would provide the same result as a meal. Yet, despite this occasional aversion to eating, I still like food. Chicken wings, pizza, cheeseburgers, anything BBQ or fried, McDonalds, anything soaked in butter, ranch dressing, beer, dr. pepper, steak, milk, salt, hamburger helper. My tastes are for food that will one day lead to my untimely death.

If anyone needs to cleanse their insides, it's me (well, perhaps Brandy needs it more). So I took great interest in tracking the progress of my friend and associate as he attempted to flush his system of all the accumulated shit. Literally. The result seems to be positive, though I'll let you decide for yourself.

Follow the adventures of Nicholas.

Note: It would have been helpful for Nick to provide before and after pics of himself as well as a poop by poop visual tracking of his excrement.

Could I do it? My non-eating lifestyle would lend me to believe I could. Instead of having to make a decision about eating, I would just drink some lemonade. But I don't quite have Nick's resolve. The things I do like, I like a lot. One thing I definitely do not like is having to shit frequently. Even worse is having to dump out strange things that could possibly make me bleed and cry. When Nick decides he's going to do something, he does it, no doubt.

I can barely decide what I'm going to do from one day to the next.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Perhaps.

That's about how committed I am to any one thing.

BAD KIDS. WORSE PARENT.

After arriving at the airport this evening to find that my flight had been re-delayed (an annoying story for a different time), I made my way to the seating area outside my gate and found a nice quiet place to sit and catch up on some work. No less than five minutes later, a big fat woman and her three fat kids decided the best place to wait would be in the row of seats behind me.

To be fair, there was some reasoning behind her choosing these seats. The same reason I picked them: they're kind of isolated from groups of people. And that's just the type of waiting area required for fat, loud, crybaby kids. It just happened to be my unfortunate luck that I had chosen to sit there first. I didn't see the "fat shouting crybaby kid area" sign.

Normally, I like kids; I think they're funny. But I guess once they reach a certain age (probably about 8-9?) they become loud and obnoxious and--though this may not typically be the case--obese. Of course the loudest of the kids and the mother decided to sit directly behind me, as close to my ears as possible, to ensure maximum annoyance. They began with a ten-minute back and forth about why the girl couldn't have a laptop. The mother's reasoning?

"Well, you could have had a vacation to Las Vegas or a laptop."

Now, I'm not parent, but I'm pretty sure Las Vegas vacations are for adults. If you bring your kids along, they'll have fun because they're kids and there are pools. That's all kids need. But don't pretend that you "gave" them this vacation instead of a laptop. I'm not fooled. That's just poor logic.

Then, after some nonsense babble from the young girl (something about how a girl asked God to kill her brother but she really just wanted her brother to get better and blah blah blah, I tuned out the moral), came the part that made me realize a child is only as bad as its worst parent. A one-way conversation that almost ended with me punching a 45-year old woman in the mouth.

Keep in mind that I couldn't see what was taking place, but this is roughly the conversation that took place and my rough estimation as to what was happening:

MOM: Lauren, your doll is crying. Stop that. Lauren.

I can't hear the doll crying. The youngest girl is lying on floor doing something to her doll that I can't see. She also makes a whining noise.

MOM: Stop doing that to the doll. Stop it. Stop.

Kid apparently does not stop.

MOM: Stop that. Stop doing that to his leg. Stop. The doll wants to sleep. Let him sleep.

The kid doesn't stop; the doll doesn't sleep.

MOM: Stop now. Look at the doll's leg; it's all red. Look what you did to his leg.

Kid continues doing something.

MOM: Stop that right now.

No stopping.

MOM: I'm taking the doll. The doll is mine now.

Mom possibly takes doll. Kid whines. Mom possibly returns doll to kid.

MOM: Lauren, stop that. Stop now. Let the doll sleep. Stop.

Lauren continues.

MOM: Stop mistreating that doll. Look at that leg. Look what you did. Stop it. That's it, it's my doll, I'm taking it.

Mom retakes doll, maybe.

MOM: It's my doll now. You can't take care of it, it's my doll. No, it's my doll. It's mine now. It's my doll.

Mom possibly returns doll, possibly keeps holding doll, kid makes a little crying noise.

MOM: Stop that. Stop it now. Stop. Stop. Lauren, stop that. You're acting like a spoiled little brat. Stop it.

Kid must have gotten the doll back.

MOM: Give me the doll. Give it here. Give me that doll. It's my doll now, no, the doll is staying with me. No. Stop.

If you think this is annoying to read, imagine some fat lady shouting it in your ear. And you might think I'm exaggerating the length of this exchange. But I'm not. It was probably even longer, because when I left the area in a fog of fury it was still taking place. I could see no end to this sequence of ridiculous discipline--if you can even call that discipline--so I had to get up and leave before I shoved that fucking doll in the mom's mouth. It probably would have been better for all involved if I had just taken the doll from both the mother and the daughter, since neither of them seemed to be able to handle having it around. Maybe then they could be quiet and not incite murderous feelings in others.

Holy hell. That was awful. But now I'm alone again in a quiet area several gates from that fat family.

Hopefully they'll sit next to me on the plane.

ADULT DANGER.

Being an adult does not make you immune to the dangers of fireworks, especially when beers and a parachute soldier are involved.

YOU KNOW WHAT?

You know what I don't ever want to hear about again?

Barry Bonds breaking the home run record.

You know what I think would taste good on pizza?

Fried chicken.

You know what?

I like you know what.

JOHN AND SEBASTIAN.

I've been watching a new HBO show, John From Cincinnati, since it started. And until about three episodes ago I was really liking it. It's random, kind of funny and pretty mysterious. Then--and I'm not sure if it was written in the script or a director decided this should happen--Sissy, the mother/grandmother on the show became a complete nut job. I don't care if you want a character to be overly protective and prone to fits of hysterics, but sometimes she has to shut the fuck up. All she does is scream and shout and kick things; she's constantly pissed and flustered. There's nothing endearing about that. There's not even anything entertaining about that.

Nevertheless, I still like the show. And even though I think it's a common assumption that John is some sort of Jesus, I'm waiting and hoping there's some strange twist we didn't see coming. My guess right now is that the stick figures are foreshadowing that if John is indeed Jesus, the rest of the characters will become John's apostles.

In other news, troubled basketball phenom (or former phenom) Sebastian Telfair is taking steps to clean up his life and make a new start in Minnesota.

"I have not been charged with anything," he said. "I've been in some unfortunate situations where I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I fully take responsibility for that. I grew up learning how not to be in those situations." Telfair also said he's moved out of New York City and into Las Vegas in order to stay out of trouble and "concentrate on basketball."

Um, nice try Sebastian. But don't you think that if you wanted to stay out of trouble you could find somewhere more appropriate than Vegas? Like, sayyyyy, Minnesota? I bet you could stay out of trouble there. No one goes to Vegas to stay out of trouble. People go to Vegas to FIND trouble. It's like the world headquarters for trouble (or maybe the US headquarters, I'm pretty sure Amsterdam is Europe's).

The only logic--and it's pretty poor logic--that I can see in this is that Telfair has placed too much stock in commercials claiming, "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." I don't believe that should be taken literally.

WILL POWER AND ANGER.

Recently my roommate went home for the weekend and I volunteered to watch the little dog, Ralph, who lives in our apartment. I did this freely and of my own free will, thinking it would be good bonding time for me and the little fellow. He spent years living with only ladies, so a weekend alone with the boys would do him some good.

The first day went great. We went for a walk and aside from the fact that he kept eating grass and rubbing his face on urine-soaked walls, we were getting on just fine. I've taken him for walks before and am no longer annoyed that he has to smell everything. Other dogs seem to understand the concept of walking as a form of travel, while Ralph sees it as a thirty minute, one block smell tour.

Anyways, it was a Saturday. It was hot outside and I really had nothing to do. So I sat around the apartment watching television. Ralph sat with me. I thought he would be anxious and want to play or something, but that's not Ralph's style. Ralph is more like a cat than a dog. He walks around the apartment, occasionally tries to eat trash, but mostly just sits and watches you. Today I wasn't doing anything, so he got tired of watching me and went to sleep instead. He slept basically all day. But so did I. After a long day and night of lounging around, I figured it was time for bed. In order to keep the trash safe, I put the trash-eater into his cage (where he lives all day when no one is home) and went to bed. The time: 2:30am. No sooner had I turned out my light, than the crying began. Little yelps coming from the next room.

At first, I resolved to let him yelp for 10 minutes or so and he would probably get tired of it and go to sleep. But no. Yelp yelp whine cry yelp. Until 3:00am. At that point I thought maybe the little guy had a legitimate gripe. It was hot, so he was probably thirsty. I got up and let him out. He bolted straight to the kitchen, only not to the water. He ran to the middle of the floor and began licking it. Annoyed, I grabbed him up, grabbed his cage and moved it into my room. I thought maybe he just wanted a person in the room with him and he would go to sleep.

This did not stop the crying.

Next logical problem solving step: let him out. He probably just wants to sleep in the bed with me. Wrong. Apparently what he wanted to do was run around my room, crying, sit by the door snorting in anger, climb onto my bed to lick my hand and basically do anything but sleep. Shit, he had slept all day; he just wasn't tired. At around 6am, after some on and off sleep, I put him back in his cage and went to sleep.

The next morning, after a few good hours of slumber, I got up and let the fuzzball out of his cage. As soon as I cracked the door, he bolted into the kitchen and began licking the floor again. Whatever was on that floor was like a drug to Ralph. All night long, all he could think about was getting back to that spot on the floor to lick it. Maybe if I had let him finish his first bout of floor-licking he would have gone right to sleep. But I've never really owned a dog, so I don't know how they work.

Regardless, it was a rocky first night. One in which I learned I can not lie still and listen to a dog cry, which makes me feel weak. I also learned that when something is keeping me from going to sleep it makes me very angry, which does not bode well for any children I may have in the future. They better learn to cry quietly from their cages.

In related news, my other roommate dropped a chicken parm sandwich on the floor that night.

THE HELMET DEBATE.

Should you wear a bike helmet?

In today's uber-safety conscious world, this question continues to find it's way into beer-soaked conversations. When we were growing up we never wore helmets. Now parents make kids wear helmets when they ride bikes, skateboard, rollerblade and eat lunch. My opinion has always been that kids don't need helmets and parents are being over-protective.

This point of view has also led me to believe that adults don't need helmets either, since we're smarter than kids. Logic says yes, you should wear a helmet, since in an accident it could save your life. Pride says no, you look like a huge nerd and only idiots crash their bikes.

Almost immediately following a discussion I recently had with a friend, our mutual friend crashed his bike:

me: how'd you crash?

Ev: what crash?

me: bike crash.

Ev: what?

me: was that a lie? shannon is a dick.

Ev: ha.

me: skulled.

Ev: no its not a lie....
i crashed.
i got all scraped up.
it sucked.
i was on the bike path by the beach...
going to fast around a bend, and hit a patch of sand.
the wheels slipped out from under me, and i went sliding for about 10 feet on my skin.
and bounced my head off the ground.
i didn't like it.

me: yikes.
we just got done arguing about helmets

Ev: I have been a big proponent of helmets are stupid....
but wear one cause everyone says i should.
i guess now i agree with them.

me: looks like everyone is right.
damnit.
but that's probably the only time you'll crash like that. you can stop wearing one, based on the odds.

Ev: but i am an adult and was going between 15 and 20 miles an hour.
little kids go slow, and are close to the ground...
i wrecked a bunch when i was a kid....
i didn't need a helmet then...

me: I never wore a helmet in my life.
that's not entirely true
football, hockey, broomball, white water rafting

Ev: i know...i agree....but......i'm glad i had one on last week....

me: i was thinking though, about lifejackets, another of the "I'm an adult so I don't need this" item

Ev: i need that...

me: if you wrecked your boat and got knocked out, you'd drown for sure.

Ev: i'm a terrible swimmer.

me: you are a rock.

Ev: you won't get knocked out if you wear a helmet.
wear a helmet instead of a life jacket.
i gotta go.
i'm gonna be late.
see ya.

Luckily, I don't own a bike or have a kid, so I don't have to worry about this. If I did own a bike, I would wear a helmet while riding it in the city. Too many cars and pedestrians to crash into. My helmet would have flames on it, since I would ride at blazing speeds. And when I have kids, I'll let them decide if they want to wear a helmet or not. Maybe in the future helmets are cool.

DIRTY BASEMENT PORNO STORE

Every day on my way to work, as I exit at the subway system, I walk by a porno store whose entryway is in the subway station stairwell. And miraculously, one-third of the time I see professional-looking grown men exiting said store during regular business commuting hours.

This made me wonder:

Are you really buying porno at 9am on your way to work?

That's a pretty bold move, to do your porno shopping at the subway stop many of your co-workers probably use to commute. Running into a co-worker following your skin-flick purchase probably gives rise to an awkward situation.

"Hey Bill, did you just come out of that dirty porno store?"

"Um, no."

"Yes you did, you have a bag of pornos in your hand."

"These? They're not for me. They're for my friend who likes porno."

"Whatever, pervert."

And if they don't work in the neighborhood, my question is this:

How far do you have to travel from where you live and work to comfortably visit a porn shop?

One block? One mile? It sort of makes me sad. I like porn as much as the next guy. But these are 45 and 50 year old men. Maybe they don't know about the internet yet, but it's got to be pretty degrading to be getting that old and still buying porno from some dirty basement store.

Who knows, maybe they sell stamps down there.

BROKEN ENGLISH.

Who knew that in Brazil they spoke Portuguese? At a bbq this weekend I was talking to a nice girl from Brazil and she was explaining that some parts of the english language are hard to pick up on; that there are some words she can't hear the difference between. Like man and men. Or beach and bitch. They're too close.

And then she asked a question that almost prompted me to propose to her on the spot:

"So I don't get it. It's foot and feet. Why isn't it boot and beet?"

I love you.

MOVING PAST THE PENNY.

Are we still living in a world where the value of something has to be broken down to the hundredth of a dollar? Was my pasta and Dr. Pepper today really worth $8.07? No, it was worth $8. Maybe $8.25. Let's start rounding to the nearest quarter. Then I wouldn't sound like the jingle-jangle man stomping around with ninety-three goddamn cents in my pocket.

The penny was invented during a time when a dollar was worth a lot; when spending a whole dollar on something was a real investment. You used to be able to buy a beer at the saloon with a nickel. Now a beer costs five dollars. So do the math. In today's world, five dollars = an old-time nickel. Meaning one dollar = an old-time penny. Meaning one penny today = fucking worthless.

I'm pretty sure we could figure out a fair value for everything on earth--a value that doesn't involve nickels, dimes or pennies. Except for candy.

You probably would still have to price individual pieces of Laffy Taffy or Bazooka Joe gum at $.05. You'd just have to buy a minimum of five. Problem solved.

IRAQI RAMBO.

Today I watched the movie trailer for the new Rambo movie, John Rambo. And can I say, holy shit. As if we need more of this shit. I like a good war machine movie as much as the next guy; give me a gritty ApocolypseNow-Platoon-Full-Metal-Jacket-Band-of-Brothers, guns-blazing, hero-making action adventure. But watching this and thinking of the other Rambo films made me think, holy shit. Holy shit, isn't it amazing how we can cheer for an American who goes in and slaughters some foreign soldiers we know nothing about.

Imagine if other nations could rival the talent and resources we have in Hollywood. What kind of movie would they make in the Middle East? I can tell you the plot:

Iraqi Rambo lives with his family in a war-torn area; we watch as he struggles to make a living. Americans bomb his village repeatedly, claiming to be hunting terrorists. When Iraqi Rambo's daughter is killed in a fire-fight, his teenage son tries to raise awareness. He takes his story to American journalists, provoking the ire of the military. But before the story breaks, he's abducted by US troops and taken to a secret island base where terrorists are held without trial.

Now Iraqi Rambo is angry. There had been all sorts of tails about abductions, but Iraqi Rambo had kept his nose out of it. No need to stir up trouble. His daughter was killed. He forgave. But now they have taken his son? No sir.

Iraqi Rambo flies to Cuba, the home of this alleged base. After scouting out the area, he recruits a few locals to help him rescue his son. Against all odds, he wages war on his son's captors. He heroically slaughters dozens of American boys men in gruesome fashion (reference John Rambo preview). And in the end rescues his son and some other local boys, leads them out of Cuba and back home, where they're happily reunited with their families.

Ah yes, Iraqi Rambo, I'm sure he would be a big hit here. Consider this my copyright notice. Warner Brothers? Paramount? Anyone?

KNOCK KNOCK.

I generally hate user-created videos on YouTube. But after having a discussion about knock-knock jokes, I stumbled upon this gem. Enjoy, or don't.



"...and the priest is my dad and he's not a priest..."

“Conflict Resolution” Seminar - Second Session

That was the title of an e-mail I received today at work. This was the content:

"Due to the high number of requests we have added a second session of Conflict Resolution.

On June 7th, [place of employment] will be presenting a seminar on Conflict Resolution presented by our EAP providers. This session will start at 2:30 pm and last for one hour in the 2nd Floor Conference Room. Snacks will be served.

Seminar Overview

In this interactive session the topics discussed include learning to manage opposition, conflict clashes, discord and disagreements which are critical skills for personal and professional success. In order to best develop these skills you will also learn your personal conflict resolution style.

Focus Points:

What is conflict
Characteristics of Conflict
Responses to Conflict
Personal Attitudes Toward
Dimensions of Conflict
Effective Ways to Handle Conflict
Problem Solving
Communication Rules

If you are interested in attending please respond to this email. Seating is limited, responses will be accepted on a first come, first serve basis."

My immediate response was to copy it and paste it into this blog. My second action was to read it through again and try to understand what it's all about. Could there really be that many people who can't resolve conflict on their own; so many that they needed to schedule a second class? Could there really be that many people who think going to a class will actually make them proficient at dealing with other people? This is shit you should have learned in the class called The Last Twenty Years Of Your Life. I'm considering taking the class just to see exactly who in my company qualifies as "a huge pussy."

There's only one logical reason I can see for sending out this e-mail:

Fire anyone who replies asking to sign up.

When they walk in to the meeting, hand them a box and a note that says pack your shit and get out. Then we'll see what their "personal conflict resolution style" is. That, my friends, is conflict resolution class.

THE FURY AND THE PROFESSOR.

"When he's mad, nobody in the world can stop him. He was mad. He was pissed off."
-Richard Hamilton on Rasheed Wallace

It's just plain fun to watch.

In unrelated news, my brother is now a full-time professor. Congratulations on being the world's first Professor Therkalsen.

SPACE.

Courtesy of The Hawk:

"This is perhaps the most confounding issue I've ever thought about in life, ever.

Universe to Disappear From View?

My major question always is... if the universe is EVERYTHING... how is it expanding? Think about that for 5 seconds w/o your head hurting, I dare you."

Alien head...in your head...that guy knows what I'm talking about.

MORE WORDS OF WISDOM.

Until last week, I'd never really heard Tommy Lasorda speak. This is a classic mix of his press conferences. Not for children.



The man really, truly has no filter.

WORDS OF WISDOM.

This morning on the train I had a little knowledge dropped on me by a crazy man with a crazy beard and a crazy cane. As a girl sat down near him, he turned to me and said:

(please read in crazy-man voice)

"Look at that pretty girl. She looks pretty good for being retarded. (pause) Never met a pretty girl that wasn't retarded. (pause) Never met a pretty girl that wasn't a government agent. (longer pause, crazy laugh) Fashion models are too expensive."

Yes, sir, they are.

THINGS YOU SHOULD NOT DO AT THE SAME TIME.

Come on, seriously? You can't wait until you're done taking a dump to eat your Fritos? The worst part is that I work with this person. Never again can I accept a friendly Frito offer without wondering if I'm talking to the snacking shitter.

STREET-FIGHTIN MAN.

"summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy."

Yes, Mick Jagger, it is. The temperature in the city reached 82 yesterday and it felt a little like summer in the afternoon. Then, as the evening wore on tempers were on the rise. While sitting outdoors and finishing the fourth of four pints, I heard behind me some shouting. Naturally, I turned around to see what the fuss was all about.

A fiery Welshman was shouting at an Italian guy, who I'll refer to as Mario. Mario was backing away as his friend--call him Luigi--was trying to separate the two. But the Welsh fellow was getting in their faces, shouting (the only word of I could decipher was "oy!"). The Welshman finally broke by Luigi, only to be greeted by a punch to the head from Mario. This stunned the Welsh, allowing the two Italians to retreat further up the street.

Once he regained his wits, the Welshman, henceforth referred to as Pedr (Welsh for rock or stone), decided on the most logical course of action: take off your shirt and charge after the two retreating Italians. When he caught them, he attempted to return fire, but was easily knocked off balance by a backpedaling Mario. Mario then dealt several close-fisted blows to turtle-on-his-back Pedr before standing up for some kicking and stomping.

Again, Mario and Luigi tried walking away. But Pedr was unrelenting. Now in the center of the street, he kept after Mario. Before long, he took a surprise punch to the jaw from the formerly peaceful Luigi. Then a punch from Mario, who continued to try and walk away. They went around the corner; luckily we had just finished our beers, so we could get up and join the following crowd. When we reached the corner, a shirtless Pedr was shouting at Mario and Luigi, who kept pushing him away. By this time I had taken my camera from my bag, set it to camcorder mode and began taping.

This, thanks to a having the wrong memory card, is all I captured. Notice the peace maker, still trying to hold Pedr back. Amazing.



It was just after this that the retreating Italians decided to stop retreating and just give Pedr what he was looking for, which was apparently ten yards of double face punching, followed by two--I shit you not--TWO flying karate kicks to the head. The fight came within a few feet of me, which would have made for amazing footage had I not been using the wrong memory card. Result, five seconds of pushing caught on tape.

After this flurry of action, Mario and Luigi, feeling they had made their point, again attempted retreat. And again Pedr gave chase. He was clearly "nothing can hurt me, not even flying karate kicks to my face" drunk. But before he could take more punches the police arrived. They corralled Pedr, talked to him for a bit and amazingly let him go. I guess they thought he had been punished enough.

Also, I apparently missed some punk rockers who dropped a giant jar of banana peppers on the sidewalk, shattering it. Without discussion, they quickly fell to their hands and knees and began eating the spilled peppers. If you live by one rule, it should be don't eat food off of New York city sidewalks. Nobody told those guys.

Welcome to summer in the East Village. Or spring. Whatever.