My inability to make decisions always comes to the forefront while shopping for personal hygiene products. Shampoo, deodorant, shaving cream and especially toothpaste. I know what I like, just a simple, minty paste. No gel, nothing that feels like sand or burning in my mouth, just the most average joe toothpaste available.
But then I get in the aisle and my brain gets confused. Which is more important to fight, cavities, gingivitis or plaque? Which brand is better? Do I need whitening or not? So many questions. And then, this time, there was an answer. Crest Pro-Health Total Care Toothpaste.
There, seemingly, was the perfect toothpaste. The shiny package claimed that this toothpaste fought every mouth ailment known to man. My decision was suddenly made. So what if it looked like a slightly fancy toothpaste, it does everything. Surely it can't taste that bad, it's mint. But then I used it. Ugh. Awful. Unbelievably bad. And to make sure it was awful, my girlfriend tested and confirmed that Crest Pro-Health was, indeed, terrible. The only way I can describe it is that it leaves you with a minty, rotten-milk aftertaste. If you like your mouth, do not ever buy this toothpaste.
It's good to know that pirates are still hard at work, taking hostages, raiding ships, etc. And it's interesting that they're not referred to as terrorists. Seems like most pirate activities are pretty similar to terrorism, the only difference being that pirates operate on the water. People hate terrorists, but we still have some sort of affinity for those sea loving rascals, the pirates. Arrrrrr.
I don't really remember the exact day or year I was born, but according to my parents it was June 18, 1978. Which makes me 30 years old as of last Wednesday. I don't feel much different, but apparently people think it's a "big birthday." The best gift I received was from my girlfriend, who secretly put together a birthday video for me. Not some sort of dirty sex video, as I had hoped, but a touching 30 minute video starring my friends and family. She shipped a Flip around the country, carried out secret gatherings and was all around sneaky to gather as much as she could. The result, while a bit long, was a total surprise and blew me away. Thanks.
And to thank everyone who participated, I used said Flip to put together a little video of my own. It's considerably shorter.
All in all, it was one of the best birthday weeks I've ever had. So far being 30 is awesome. Take that, 20's.
So I've taken a long time off. Mostly due to laziness, partially due to spending time working on irateads.com, partially due to other events in life. So here, to kick off what could be another period of active blogging, is a video I cut together with highlights of a recent weekend trip to Michigan.
Events included:
Manathalon Start with five pushups, sprint 25 yards, slam a beer, sprint 25 yards, pick up a hatchet, while running, throw the hatchet at a stack of wood (time off your score for sticking it in the wood), sprint to finish line. Winner: Me
Shooting & Shots Five cans sit on steps of a ladder, with an air rifle, shoot the cans off of the ladder. You must take a shot of beer before every shot you take. Judged on accuracy. Winner: Me
Tire Throw Throw a car tire as far as you can. Winner: Not me, Jamie possibly.
One Man Canoe Race Chug a beer, get in canoe, race to the other side of a river, touch a log with your oar, row back. Winner: Me.
Axe Throw Throw an axe at a tree from different distances. If the axe sticks you get points, based on how far you are from the tree.
Other Games:
Poker Tournament Pool Tournament Hot Dog Eating Contest Getting the drunkest contest Various points awarded for other man-like things, such as hitting a bird with your car
Planned Games That Never Got Finished Due To Time & Drunk:
Last Halloween my friend dressed as one of the greatest songs ever made. The result, finally available on YouTube, is one of the greatest performances in modern history. The best part, to me, is that he just doesn't quit. If the song had gone for 20 minutes, I think he would have danced for 20 minutes. Enjoy.
The original:
And now one featuring my favorite type of mascot. The crazy walkin' inflatable mascot!
In an effort to consolidate writing archives I have spread over a few websites, I'm going to start posting entries from the past on this page. Though I'll be tempted to, I won't edit them. I'll start with some of the oldest posts first and work my way up. And if for any reason you want more, you can check out all of them at thelordoursavior.com
4/24/01
Amazingly enough, sometimes I don't have anything to say. However, I will seldom let that stop me from talking, so here's a little insight into human nature for you:
No matter who people are, or what they do for a living, they truely believe that they have the most important job. And, not only is their job the most important, but the also believe that they and others in their field are somehow elite. For instance, I worked evenings for several years in a mall. As a part time worker in an organization you are able to see the culture without ever fully committing yourself. This allowed me to observe the actions and rituals of the "Mall Lifers." Lifers seldom work in the same store for more than a few years before migrating to a new store. No matter how much they move, they seldom leave the confines of the mall community. Those who "get out" of the life mostly trasfer to the same store in another mall. Collectively (and keep in mind there are exceptions to every rule) Mall Lifers all smoke, which enables them to take smoke breaks together. It is at these smoke breaks that one can observe the elitest attitude held by Lifers.
Example:
KB TOY STORE EMPLOYEE: Dude, you should have seen this guy that came in to the store today.
WETZEL'S PRETZEL WORKER: Yeah?
KB: He was looking around, then he dropped a box on the floor and I had to pick it up.
WETZEL: What an idiot.
KB: And then he asked me if I had any Pokemon Battledome games in stock, and I was like, no dude, but we do have Pokemon Stadium.
WETZEL: (laughs and throws cigarette butt in bushes outside mall entrance)
KB: Man, the dumbest people come in the store sometime.
Then those two go back inside, where they are apparently kings. Could have been that man looking for the Pokemon game was the CEO of some company, or a famous scientist. Anyways, it is always amazing how the mall lifers convince eachother that they are the ilk of society. Whatever ilk means.
(in retrospect, I completely misused the work "ilk." And I misspelled "truly" and "transfer." How I've grown as a writer.)
There's nothing more disorienting than waking up in the morning to find that your nose is gushing blood. This morning I woke from my post-snoozing half-sleep dream to find my nose dripping blood onto my pillow. I immediately leapt from my bed and did an arm-wipe check of my nose. There was definitely blood, a lot of it. What better time for every one of the 30 mini packs of tissues I keep laying around to disappear. After digging an old paper towel from the trash, I plugged up the nose. It continued to bleed at a steady clip for about 10 minutes, soaking about 5-6 tissues with a bucket of blood. Then it stopped. Just like that. There was barely any evidence in my actual nose that this trauma had taken place. Only the trash can full of bloody Kleenex and my constant fear that blood would again start shooting from my schnoz remained.
photo from lunch when my nose started bleeding again
So fearing a brain tumor, I went on WebMD to see what was up. The general information on nose bleeds didn't really give me any reason to worry, but it also didn't give me a definitive answer as to the cause of the blood fountain. Luckily, I have figured it out. Because I have such a super-human body, my immune system and life sustaining capabilities are sometimes too great. My body temporarily lost its focus and produced entirely too much new blood. The solution? Open the flood gates and drain the extra blood. If not, I probably would have exploded, like an over-inflated balloon. I just need to pay more attention to how much blood I'm making.
In related news, my college roommate used to get these gushers on the regular. And last year, about this time, I was out to lunch with co-workers at a job I had just started in CT. We were sitting outside at a picnic table near a little shrimp shack on the water. Awesome day, getting to know my new work friends. Then...BAM...massive nosebleed that wouldn't stop for the duration of the lunch. Try explaining to your new co-workers that it's not from cocaine. Weird.
One saying I've always stood by is "famous is famous." Meaning, it doesn't matter how you get famous--just get it. Of course, there's a difference between the fame achieved through serial killing and that achieved through rescuing 1000 babies from a burning building, but most of the inbetween nets out to just plain famous. A shining example of this theory has come to light in the last few weeks (and yes, I'm going to refer to the Spitzer scandal again).
Ashley Alexandra Dupre.
Ashley has been on the famous is famous plan for awhile, as is evidenced by her appearance on Girls Gone Wild years back. Everyone knows, showing your tits is one way to jump-start your fame. Here's a special look at her GGW stint, with some sort of special VCR slow motion/rewind treatment added in by an ambitious YouTube user who, no doubt, is also trying to get famous.
Girls Gone Wild apparently didn't launch her career the way she envisioned it would, so she took the less-traveled "become a high-priced whore involved with a government official and then get busted" path to fame. This scandal has vaulted her into the limelight and the offers for fame-related gigs are rolling in.
She appeared topless on the cover of the Post. $1 million offered by Hustler to do a nude spread. $1 million was originally offered by Girls Gone Wild for a non-nude spread; then they found they already had Ms. Dupre in their archives. Imagine the luck. Whoever found that bit should get a bonus.
And what's more, she is starting to achieve the type of fame she probably wanted in the first place. As a musician. She's posted songs on Amie Street, where users can buy tunes for $0.98 each. Artists take home 70% of that fee, leaving Ashley around $0.69 per--insert 69 joke here--song sold. As of ten days ago, estimates were that over 300,000 people had visited the site and listened to the song. Who knows how many people bought that piece of crap. And how many hits do you think her MySpace page got? A shit-ton, that's how many.
So is Ashley famous? I would say so. First, I'm blogging about her, as are hundreds of other worthless web-writers. Second, she's on television weekly, if not daily. That might not last long, but most people will remember "Spitzer's whore" for a long time. And third, her song and other web items get a ton of hits. For reference, check the hit counter on this blog on the top right, then compare that to her 300,000 hits. That number over there is not how many people have been here today. That's the total number of people who have been here, ever. And I'd wager it's 1/3 me checking to make sure things look right, 1/3 the same six people (you know who you are, and you're appreciated) checking in, and 1/3 accidental hits from people who quickly click out of it.
If I were to start my own state, I already have my top officials lined up; two guys who, together, can bring my land the prosperity it deserves--and the corruption that goes along with it.
From my home state of Michigan, let me introduce Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, who was just indicted today on eight counts, including perjury and obscruction of justice. All to cover up a scandalous interoffice affair. KK could end up serving YEARS in prison, unless he somehow manages to get every official in Detroit fired or murdered.
And of course there was the alleged Manoogian Mansion Party, where it was rumored Kwame and his boys got down and dirty with some strippers and such. Of course, the police officers in charge of investigating these allegations were fired and consequently sued the city of Detroit, which settled for $8.4 million. A hefty price tag for a little Mayoral get-together. And if that wasn't enough, there's also suspicion that Kwame and company had a stripper from that party murdered. A lead investigator on the case stated, "I suspected that the shooter was a law enforcement officer, and more specifically, a Detroit Police Department officer." My man knows how to get it done.
If only he had been around to advise the other half of my dynamic duo. Recently resigned from public office, he narrowly beat out Jesse "The Body" Ventura as my selection for Governor of my imaginary state. Introducing the former Governor of New York, Elliot Spitzer. Elliot has fallen on hard times as of late. But I'm sure if he were united with Kwame, serving together in a state that prizes both victory and corruption, the two would usher in an unprecedented era of opulence. Not since Roman times has the world seen such ravenous orgies and celebrations. And since I would be the president of my imaginary state--yes, my state has a president--I would preside over all these affairs. There would be no need to cover up scandal, because cultivating scandal would be a matter of public policy. If there's one thing the public craves, it's scandal.
Recently, I find myself getting shocked every time I touch metal. It doesn't matter what shoes I'm wearing, or if I have a wool sweater on or where I'm at. Sometimes the shock is so shocking it produces a blindingly bright flash. People can hear the shocks from ten yards away. We're not talking little sparks here, I'm dealing with some serious voltage. It's gotten to the point where I flinch before I touch my computer or DVD player. I use my sleeve or notebook to try and open doors. Is it possible that I'm becoming some sort of electricity man? Will I soon be required to get a costume and fight crime? Why is this happening to me? Why, God, why!?
Everyone has secret songs; songs they're ashamed to admit they love, but deep down they can't get enough of. For some reason I've developed an affinity for these two songs. My secret country songs.
Something Like That, Tim McGraw
My heart don't forget a song like that. I might get the chorus tattooed on my back. In related news, I have a friend who worked on a Frito Lay commercial shoot with Tim McGraw. He showed up really late, apparently coked out, and bailed early. Didn't talk to any of the people there and was a real ass. I guess that good ol' boy polish wears off when you become a millionaire.
Gone Country, Alan Jackson
Now this one I'm truly ashamed to love. I mean look at Alan Jackson. Really look at him. He IS country. Look at 'dem boots.
First, I'm sorry you got caught. You're sort of a fool and on some level, I bet it feels like a relief. But your strategy, post-bust, seems to be a bit scattered. Currently, you're resigning as governor of New York. Why? Because you happen to enjoy the company of a lady. Granted, it's a lady who is not your wife. And it's a lady whom you have to pay thousands of dollars to take care of certain man needs. But still, you haven't committed murder, have you?
You could have claimed that you hadn't been doing this long and you're ashamed. People love apologies and you'd likely have been forgiven within a year. Instead, you went down the old I've been seeing whores for ten years and I've dropped about $80,000 on all that ass route. Not what I would have picked. Perhaps you're setting us up for the pathetic "I have a sickness, I can't stop banging prostitutes" crybaby speech. Sorry. Not buying it. You're the damned Governor of New York. It's not like you're some schmo on the street who randomly just picks up hookers. You have to go out of your way to get these high priced whores and keep it a secret.
It seems to me that you're resigning because you can't handle the heat. Your actions hadn't affected your ability to do the job thusfar. In fact, a little weekend recreation probably enhanced your on-the-job performance. Am I right? But no, instead of standing up and being a man about it, you're going to run and hide in your mansion or wherever you live. Why can't you just admit it? You're addicted to pussy. You're a grown man and you like a little something on the side every once in awhile. I'm fine with that; you have a stressful job.
Anyways, I just wanted to say that I don't blame you (see above). And if you took a pro-prostitution stance and tried to run for office, I'd support you.
On a recent trip, I insisted my girlfriend only bring a carry-on bag. Difficult, I know, to fit everything you'll need for a weekend on the beach in one suitcase. A bathing suit, some flip-flops, a few t-shirts. But she did it. Imagine our surprise, then, when we were on our way to security and one of the female guards motioned for her to put her carry-on, clearly a bag of carry-on size, on this measuring plate. The plate was obviously too small for the bag. I think it was 22" x 14" x 9", which is approximately the size of no luggage ever invented. We were directed to go back and check the bag. And by directed, I mean that the security woman stood with her arms folded, staring at us, shaking her head "no," and not answering any questions. Watching from the bag-check line, we saw the security guard turn back about 10 more people, randomly letting some bags that exceeded her size limits slip by. It was infuriating.
So my insider tip today is to go buy stock in luggage companies (i.e. Samsonite). Because if they really enforce that luggage size limit, we're all going to need new carry-on bags.
It's over. And can I just say, good work. Since there is no more Wire to come, here's a rundown of what was good and bad about the last ever episode. I'm not going to sit and go through it scene by scene, but this is what I remember:
First, the mayor's sidekick, Norman, was classic in that office at the beginning. Carcetti ended up being a piece of shit, which is disappointing. There should have been some scene where Daniels marches down into his office and tells him what a two-faced typical politician he'd become. Maybe it would have shaken Carcetti up and he would have agreed to let Daniels do his job, as initially promised. Seeing the lady lawyer as a judge and Daniels as a lawyer felt lame and forced. But seeing them crown Valcheck commissioner was priceless.
In better news: Eat it, Cheese! After that blah blah blah speech about the game, he gets his card pulled by that tall raspy-voiced dude. Perfect ending to Cheese, and I'm glad that Raspy was the trigger man. I've always liked him. RIP Prop Joe.
The young'uns provided some of the best and worst of the finale. Without a doubt, Michael going Omar on that old guy was one of the best surprises of the show. When we first met Michael, he seemed like he would make it out. Quiet, strong, confident. But I suppose he had to look out for his family however he could. I guess when you've got nothing left to lose, you end up Omaring (new term coined). Either that, or you end up as the saddest, but probably truest part of the wrap-up. Young Dookie borrowing money from Mr. P and then, yeah, shooting up. We hate to see it. Kid just got eaten up by the streets.
I loved seeing Chris in the yard with Wee-Bay. Wee-Bay is to Avon as Chris is to Marlo. And now they're pals. Nice.
On the other side of the law, we got a perfect parting scene from Kima and Bunk. Kima at the scene, doing her job as Bunk strolls up. She tells him to watch his step, which prompts a barely comprehensible, cigar-muffled tirade. Classic Bunk.
Daniels fought a good fight; his scene in the elevator with McNulty was nice until he left and uttered that awful, scene-ruining "to be continued..." I wanted to see McNulty get strung up. In the end they celebrate him, which I thought was a total waste of film. You need to punish idiots for doing idiot things, otherwise other idiots will think it's okay.
There was one glaring omission, and I'm sure they did this on purpose, but Scott needed to eat some serious humble pie. McNulty served him up a little dish, but what we really needed was for Gus to jam a whole pie into Scott's terrible, lie-spitting mouth. Drag him through the streets, let the people throw stones. He's a despicable character and I can guarantee that Wire fans the world over were aching for Scott to get his. Gus did what he could, I guess.
And no Clay Davis? Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit.
Here, in its entirety, is the final six minutes. Watching Scott take that awards makes me furious, but seeing Bubs at dinner warms my heart. Love and hate...
I'm not sure where, exactly, I picked up this book. I know I have it because I read e, a short novel by Matthew Beaumont, and it cracked me up. It was a story set in an ad agency, told entirely through e-mails sent between characters. The format made for a fast, hilarious read.
But when I opened this book, The Book, The Film, The T-Shirt, I was shocked to see that once again he had chosen to tell his story in a very fragmented style. The narration was from the POV of just about everyone involved in the story, which was--surprise, surprise--once again set in an ad agency. Which means most of the characters are the same types, many of the interactions are similar and to be honest, it didn't feel authentic this time. While the e-mail book was a nice gimmic and made for a great read, this book quickly started to annoy me. So quickly, in fact, that I struggled to make it to page 60. I put it back on the shelf shortly thereafter.
It should come as no surprise, then, that the book wasn't even listed on BarnesandNoble.com. I seldom put down a book, and never before page 100, but this was pure trash and I'm amazed it found its way into a bound version. The best part of the book? The cover, which was well-designed enough to fool me into thinking, wait, this might be good...it's not. Also, he looks like a real douche:
Looking to cash in on the popularity of recently, fictionally deceased gangster Omar Little, my associate and I have developed a spin-off series starring Omar and other stars of The Wire. If you work for HBO and would like to purchase the idea or hire us as writers, let me know. We're wildly available for such projects.
Little Angel: Series Synopsis
After meeting his death, Omar Little, a Robin Hoodesque, homosexual robber, murderer, and drug dealer finds his soul in a bind. He can't get into Heaven, because we all know they don't take gays in Heaven. And because of his strange code of ethics and his refusal to just be pure evil, the devil won't take him either. So he's banished to limbo, wandering the earth and trying to earn his way into Heaven by way of being an avenging angel.
His earthly associate is Bunk, a play it by the numbers detective, who takes down the criminals Omar doesn't see fit to take with his shotgun. Omar and Bunk have a love-hate relationship. Bunk doesn't like having to take anything from Omar, a former criminal and murderer, but he can't let the criminals Omar turns him onto go free.
Omar roams the streets. Criminal fear him. Citizens fear, but respect him, unsure if he's real or a ghost, avenging angel or wandering madman. He subsists entirely on a diet of Newports and Honey Nut Cheerios, which he either steals or accepts as gifts from those thankful for his brand of justice.
The first episode begins with the much ballyhooed showdown between he and Marlo. That alone would be enough to attract the entire Wire audience. Between Omar's likable brand of street justice, his frequent meetings with representatives from Heaven and Hell, and the gradual friendship that grows between he and Bunk, this is a sure fire winner.
One more episode?! Don't do it to us. Don't take away our Wire.
HBO, if you don't think I'm a dedicated Wire fan, please be aware that--much to my girlfriend's dismay--I watched last night's episode while drinking a Balashi in my hotel room in Aruba. It's a most enjoyable way to spend a Sunday evening. So when I write to you, I'm writing from the heart.
Last night's episode was pretty great, so I'll just jump to saying what we're all thinking:
With only two episodes left, we knew Lester's efforts were about to pay off. It was a little disappointing that there wasn't any sort of shootout and that there were no real confrontations. Show us Cheese getting pulled over and such. Show us the squad rolling up on Marlo and his reaction. We see the aftermath, when they're already in cuffs, but we've been waiting a long time to see this happen. Take your time and give us the goods.
One of the things that has stuck with me all season is a quote about Michael, from Marlo (I think it was Marlo): Puppy got big paws. Indeed he does. As much as we hate to see Snoop get it, I was glad to see Michael handle that. Too often Marlo and his crew have just acted without real proof of anything, dropping folks left and right (Bodey!) so when Snoop was once again just following orders and met her demise, it was fitting. She best watch herself, though. I have a feeling Omar is waiting whereever it is Snoop is heading.
And couldn't someone have told Marlo that Omar was looking for him!? Look at how mad he got. His name is his name! After seeing him so reserved all the time, it's great to see him get so fired up. Boy is fierce! (not fierce like Christain from Project Runway)
Kima dropped the dime, so McNulty's ball of yarn is about to unravel. Quickly. As in it has to unravel at light speed, because we've only got about 50 minutes left, and you have to share that 50 minutes with Marlo's rampage, Scott's downfall (come on Gus! Pull his card and pull it now!), Bub's newfound glory, Carcetti's whatever the fuck is happening with him and a host of other issues. And, was it just me, or did that preview show the emergence of a real serial killer mimicing McNulty's style? We can only hope Scott and McNulty resort to killing bums and get riddled with the bullets of justice for doing so.
The final Wire of all time is setting up to be a doozy. If only they could give us a 2-hour season finale. I already know I'm going to spend almost the whole episode checking my watch to see just how much more Wire I have in this life. If we're lucky, the universe will be struck by some sort of strange gas cloud which extends time and allows whatever program you're watching to continue infinitely.
While I was working on a Nike project about quickness, I had a discussion with someone about what quickness is; that led to a conversation about what the opposite of quick was. In my mind, one thing on earth represents the opposite of quick, and that is the cow. Cows are dumb and lumbering and, well, slow. My brain turned rabid, thinking it would be a great idea to do a whole campaign around "the opposite of quick." This brilliant campaign would not feature shoes or sports at all. It would just be two cows standing in a field talking, maybe not even about sports or shoes.
Then there would be a website, NikeMooz.com, that would eventually filter you through to a page that tries to sell you shoes. In the frenzied state that it was in, my brain forced me to make some "proof of concept" videos--simple examples of what the campaign would be like, proof that it would work. Here, for your viewing, are the results of said frenzied brain's output.
For the record, I actually bought NikeMooz.com. Was it a good idea? Probably not. But now it's out there, so I guess we'll see if anyone likes it. Anyone?
Apparently they're really getting ready to end The Wire. And the execs at HBO must not have read my last post on how to end it. Because they killed off Omar! Nooooooooooooo!
In what has to be the most disappointing turn of events this season, Omar met his demise at the hands of an ambitious youngster (who was about to set a cat on fire! Omar should have saved that cat). Hearts and hopes of audiences across America were dampened at the realization that there would be no showdown between Marlo and Omar. Omar would not deliver the style of street justice we had all hoped for. He didn't even get Cheese, which would have been sweet. Instead, he had an unglamorous, almost embarrassing death. But I guess that's the point of it. It's all just senseless violence. Would his death have been any more noble if it had ended in a blaze of glory? With that in mind, combined with the unexpected nature of his death, I have to say I sort of like wrapping up his end of the story like that. Sure, I wanted to see him creep up on Chris, Snoop and Marlo as much as the next guy, but I like to be surprised.
Here's the only face-to-face we ever got from Omar and Marlo, a classic Omar scene:
All I have left to root for now is that Scott gets so thoroughly humiliated he decides to retire from journalism and resort to a sordid, detestable life as an advertising copywriter, where you never have to tell the truth and it's okay--or rather, it's your JOB--to make boring stories seem extraordinary.
Thumbs up to Bunk and Kima, who keep on doing good police work and won't climb on the bound-for-disaster McNulty deception train. If McNulty doesn't get strung up for this ridiculous masquerade, I'll be severely disappointed. After his spineless dealings with that guy who scammed his way to golfing at Hilton Head, I want McNulty to be explosed as a fraud almost as much as I want it for Scott. And how sweet was it when McNulty listened to the FBI profiler read him a description that was a dead ringer for McNulty's pathetic personality. I'm officially on the down with McNulty bandwagon.
I'm also getting a little tired of Carcetti's windbag act. So far, I've seen a lot of talk, a lot of reactive governing and virtually no leadership. He's getting eaten alive by the political system and Baltimore's problems and still doing a lot of talking. When he leaves for the Governor's office, the city will be just where it was before.
And how is it that there's no montage of Senator Clay Davis delivering shiiiiiiiiiiiit on YouTube? That's a video that's begging to be made. Can you imagine how specatular five years of shiiiiiiiit would be?
The preview for next episode make it look like it's going to be bananas, and I guess it better be, since we're wrapping up five years of story in the next two weeks. Until then, I leave you with the immortal words of Baltimore's favorite gay thug Robin Hood.
"Y'all ain't man enough to come down here and dance in the streets with Omar!"
Awhile ago I was at the bar having a discussion with some friends about the difficulties involved with dating, being nervous and sweating. One of these difficulties was the unavoidable accumulation of sweat on, under and around your balls. There was a minority arguing that girls were, contrary to common sense, turned on by a musky man ball smell down there. But I wasn't buying it. Sweat from my ass makes it down into that area. It's not a nice smell, and I'd like to make it as pleaseant as possible for a girl who may find herself in the area, as I'd like to encourage repeat visits. So the idea of Ball Wipes was born.
This invention isn't really an invention at all, but merely a repurposing of the wet-wipes you get after eating hot wings. We could hang Ball Wipes dispensers in bar and restaurant bathrooms. Then when it looks like you might have a girl's head near your naked balls in the near future, you can duck into the bathroom, drop $.25 in the machine and give your boys a quick onceover. It's the polite thing to do. And for the ladies who like that musky ball smell, we'll have ball-scented Ball Wipes. No reason you can't be clean and smell dirty.
Also, in disturbingly related news, I used to work with a guy who said that he thought his taint sweat smelled like vagina. He would also chew Nicorette while taking a dump every day. Special guy, really.
I'm going through some sort of New Orleans/Hurricane Katrina obsession phase, where I want to learn everything I can about the city, its people and the storm. I picked up this book a few months ago, in one of my typical book buying frenzies, and it had been in my on-deck stack. I was just starting it when I learned my sister was moving to New Orleans. Serendipity is a word I hate, but it seems to fit here. After finishing this, I bumped When The Levees Broke, a Spike Lee joint, to the top of my Netflix queue. So anyways, here's the review of 1 Dead in Attic: After Katrina, by Chris Rose.
Having just finished God Save the Fan, I was leery of starting another book that was basically a collection of personal essays on one topic. I wanted to be told a story, to be rewarded for the time I was investing. But after one plane ride and sixty pages, I was hooked.
The book is a collection of Chris Rose's articles, originally written for the Times-Picayune, a New Orleans newspaper. And it wasn't at all what I expected. I thought I'd have to wade through story after story about WHY things went wrong and WHO was to blame and HOW this could have been prevented, etc. Though there are traces of these themes laced throughout his stories, he didn't use his column as a forum for complaining about logistics and tactics. Instead, he told stories. Stories about people. Little moments that let you know that New Orleans wasn't just about the number of people displaced or dead, but it was about the actual people, one at a time.
Even his story about trying to decide what to name the book is telling of life after Katrina. 1 Dead in Attic: After a phrase he saw spraypainted on a house in the city's 8th ward. Simple, true and terrifying to think about. Your mother or great aunt dying alone in her attic. And no one to come get her. You just have to scrawl your message on her collased home and hope that eventually someone will give her a dignified burial. He writes this about a title he almost used instead:
"I was preparing a follow-up to 1 Dead in Attic, another collection of stories that I was going to call Purple Upside-Down Car, a declarative observation my four-year-old son made from our car during a tour of the Lower 9th Ward that I clung to as the perfect metaphor for the whole of New Orleans, not just some wasted, toppled vehicle lying in a field of debris down on -- get this -- Flood Street. The irony in this place could kill you."
Each and every story touches you in some way and brings you vividly into New Orleans as Rose saw it post Katrina. Stories about people, about refrigerators, about love and loss, about sports and steaks. His tales are heartwarming and heartbreaking, humorous and depressing, endearing and frightening. The writing is conversational, yet elegant. I put down the book feeling like I knew the people, the city, the sorrow and the hope of New Orelans. What more can you ask for?
This sign should be placed near the bike rack of any food delivery man. Please don't ever show up at my house and not have change for a $20. Is this your first day on the job? Seriously? Are you trying to screw yourself out of a tip? I think this subtle reminder would help.
This has been floating around today, so I went to check it out. What an uplifting tribute to Obama. I think. See, I can't understand the words, which would have been solved by the subtitles--had the subtitles not also been in Spanish. Maybe it's just me, but I think if you speak Spanish, you'd understand the words. Is the deaf Spanish YouTube audience so large that this was necessary?
Or is the whole video a plant by the Republican party? Maybe the words actually say things like, "Viva Obama! He'll build a wall between Mexico and the United States. Viva Obama! He'll deport you and all of your illegal immigrant friends. Viva Obama! He'll put your children to work in factories." I don't think they're saying that, but they could be. Dirty Republican politicians.
This is a perfect example of why a blog is a blog and a book is a book and a blog should not be a book. Someone decided the founder and editor of Deadspin had cultivated a large enough following to warrant the publishing of what is essentially a collection of mildly amusing, poorly crafted essays. The end product is merely good to keep in your bathroom and read while taking a dump.
Glaring examples of the thrown-togetherness of this book are the numerous "glossaries" he uses as filler. They list players, or owners, alphabetically, followed by a three or four sentence summary of his thoughts on said person. He occasionally repeats the same entry in multiple glossaries, which is absurd to me. Come on. Put your glossary at the end of the book.
The other thing that bothered me was his blatant self-aggrandizing attitude. As if his view on the sports world is so radical it's almost dangerous. He even puts "blackballed by ESPN" on the cover of the book. Congratulations, rebel. He did make some interesting points about ESPN being an evil empire; points that were almost good enough to make me question my undying loyalty to and gratitude for the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network. But alas, most of his thoughts were just well written versions of the same thoughts had by the average sports fan.
Overall, there are plenty of funny bits, but that's it. Funny bits, no bigger idea. No opening essay laying out his argument for "How Preening Sportscasters, Athletes Who Speak in the Third Person, and the Occasional Convicted Quarterback Have Taken the Fun Out of Sports". No wrap-up with his vision of "How We Can Get It Back." When I read a book, I want to be told a story. Not led down a meandering path by half-baked anecdotes that basically lead nowhere.
I will say the writing is pretty good, and his little essays would be good pieces where they're meant to be--on the internet, where I can read them instead of doing my work. I can't very well sit at my desk and read a book at work. Or maybe I could.
