ONE-SHIRT TAX.

One of my favorite things about living in New York, nay in the world, is having someone else do my laundry. For over two years now, since I first discovered the service, I've been dropping my clothes off at the laundry mat and picking them up the next day; clean and crisply folded.

At first I thought this was a bit extravagant. Then I did the math: For one large bag of laundry (about two weeks) it costs around $15. Considering it would probably cost around $6 in quarters, not counting detergent and fabric softener, I'm only paying $9 extra. I figure that it'd take me around 2 hours to wash and fold my clothes. So basically, I pay $9 to avoid spending two hours of my life doing something I really don't enjoy? Sign me up. That's a deal I'll take every single time. And I suck at folding clothes.

But recently I've been reconsidering using this drop-off service. The problem is a new "one-shirt tax" that seems to have been implemented. Now, almost every time I drop my laundry off there's a shirt missing when I get it back. And not crappy old shirts. We're talking rotation shirts; shirts that I wear at least once a week. There were only about nine shirts that I considered rotation-worthy and TWO of those have disappeared. They're not even fancy shirts. Just shirts I like.

It's very sad, to think that I may have to give up this magnificent convenience in order to save my shirts. I really like going to the laundry mat where the woman recognizes me and thinks my name is Tim and I think hers is Jean. Or Joan. I already know the first time I'm folding a rotation shirt, I'll think of Jeannie’s smiling face and say out loud to the shirt, "I hope you appreciate this." I also hope that one day I see a little Korean man wearing my Roots t-shirt over an old long-sleeve UofM t-shirt, carrying my favorite black half-zip sweater.

What will win out: my laziness and distaste for laundering or my love for some shirts?

Eh, I can always buy more shirts.

Also, further proof that Google is awesome:



Aaaaargh! is right.

THE T-9 MISHAP.

This is a story that happened awhile ago. It starts with one friend, Homeless Joe, sending out an invitation to a party he's hosting. He sends it to everyone he knows, which happens to be about one million people. Shortly after that another friend "hijacked" the e-mail and invited everyone on the list to come to her comedy show before the party. Perhaps a bit taboo, but well-intentioned, since some of us were going to the show anyways.

Homeless Joe was a little irked that this had taken place and sent me a text message saying "that broad hijacked my e-mail." Having just seen the e-mail, I texted back "saw that," as in "I'm aware this has taken place." Only I did it using T-9, a function on your phone which allows you to type faster by guessing words from the combination of keys you punch. This time, T-9 got it wrong and I didn't notice; instead of texting "saw that," I had texted "say that," which Joe interpreted as "send an e-mail back chastising her for hijacking your e-mail list." So he sent out a fairly harsh, but very tongue-in-cheek, e-mail calling out the comic friend and jokingly telling people not to go to the show.

Several people didn’t know Joe was friends with said comic, failed to pick up on the sarcasm in his e-mail and responded that he shouldn’t be such a dick. The comic friend did not respond, nor did she ever, leading Joe to believe she was really mad. He then felt bad and sent an e-mail apologizing to everyone.

The story doesn't really have a good ending, since everyone just let it drop after that. But the one-letter mistake that set off this chain of events makes me laugh.

Saw that.
Say that.

LOSING IN THE SPEED ROUND.

In the quest for employment I've been forced to do the thing I hate second most (the first is cleaning bathrooms) in the world: cold-calling. Already being phone averse, I really don't like not knowing who I'm going to talk to. And I detest being on the self-end of a self-promoting phone call. Anyways, the good news is that most creative recruiters don't answer their phone, so I get to do one of my favorite things in the world: leave a message. It makes me feel like I've at least tried, although I think I get about a 25-percent response rate.

One of these returned phone calls was from a big agency that I had heard was hiring. At first I was excited, thinking, great, maybe I can get in here. Then the man on the other end of the phone sprang a speed-round phone interview on me that went something like this:

MAN: So tell me about what you've been doing.
ME: I was at McCann for five years and I've been freelancing for the last year.
MAN: Have you ever won any awards?
ME: No.
MAN: Ever come close to winning any awards?
ME: I don't think so. I haven't really entered anything.
MAN: Do you have a lot of packaged goods experience?
ME: No. Do cars count?
MAN: No. I think we'll pass for now, we're looking for something specific.
ME: There were some packaged goods ads in my portfolio, did you see those?
MAN: I didn't see them. I'll look and if I like it we'll give you a call back. Goodbye.
ME: (to dead phone) What the fuck?

I was left holding the phone and wondering how a one-minute conversation could be enough to convince someone that I wasn't a good candidate for a job. After the shock wore off the anger set in. Who the fuck was he? Congratulations on getting a job as the gatekeeper for your creative department jerkoff. But if that's how you evaluate talent, it's no wonder your agency has been in decline for the last...how long have you been in charge there? An award can't tell you someone's personality, potential or capacity to develop great creative. Shit, any jackass can grab onto someone's shirttails and get their name on an award. He didn't even take the time to look at any of my work before calling. Ridiculous.

Anyways, that's just me being bitter. If he had offered me a job I'd be singing a different tune, one about how I was going to work for one of the best agencies in New York.

But I'm not. Jerk.

THE MYSTERY OF THE MALE CHEERLEADER.

It's a problem that has forever plagued generations of non-male cheerleaders: why on god's green earth would you want to be a male cheerleader? In the interest of science, I've developed some hypotheses (in the form of a top ten list) as to why someone might choose this as an extra-curricular activity:

10. You were the lucky recipient of that coveted cheer scholarship.

9. It's less gay than the dance team. Or is it?

8. Your team needs you.

7. Both of your moms were cheerleaders. It's a family tradition.

6. You tried other sports, but there wasn't enough shouting through cones.

5. Pom-poms!

4. Football players love cheerleaders.

3. In the event you're straight, you get to hang out with a bunch of female cheerleaders, hold them in the air (sometimes by their bottoms), and look up their skirts.

2. Channeling all that spirit in any other way would be flat-out dangerous.

1. You're just that good at back-flips.

I guess someone has to be a male cheerleader. Or do they?

TYPE-O POSITIVE.

Here's a typo that made water shoot out of my nose when I read it. And if you know me, you'll see why I liked it so much. It's not because I like correcting grammar and spelling in peoples' e-mails. Try to read the whole thing, don't just look for the typo (which I did immediately).

It's from a new book coming out, called 'Glamour Girls,' and the authors solicited various fashion people for quotes on just what is a Glamour Girl. The following comes from such a girl and includes one of my favorite typos ever:

"A GLAMOUR Girl has a certain magic about her, when she walks down the street, or walks in a room, all heads turn, she's an eye catcher, you never forget her. She has a certain sense of style, poise and confidence, a unique way of saying and doing things that sets her apart from the rest. She's a trend setter and a trend spotter. It's hard to describe a Glamour Girl but you know it the minute you see her. She has pizzas."

Indeed she does.

JESUS ON WHEELS.

Last weekend, for a friend's birthday, we did something I haven't done since approximately fifth grade. Roller-skating. Yes, as fully-grown people we went to a club that once a week turns into a roller rink. The Roxy, an icon of New York nightlife, was right up there with Studio 54 during the heyday of disco. And they've continued on as a dance club six nights a week. But one night every week, one special night (generally Wednesdays), they shut down the dance floors and have a roller-skating party.

My initial feeling towards adult roller-skating was that it would be absurd. Every weekend they have a roller-skating dance party in Central Park. I've walked by it many times and often stop to watch this circus. Though captivating, the idea of a bunch of adults on roller-skates still seemed silly. The only thing I remember about roller-skating is that twenty years ago I loved it; but then I was also ten years old, sporting a mullet and wearing spandex shorts with a fluorescent green stripe down the side. Never trust a ten-year old's judgment.

Friday came, and not only had I agreed to go skating, but because it was asked of me, I agreed to wear a costume. So, dressed as Jesus and sure that I was going to need numerous glasses of whiskey to feel at ease, I went to the Roxy. When we got inside, we had a table right on the edge of the rink and the rest of our group was in costume, so I started to feel better. Then something surprising happened: I took a spin around the rink--and it was fun. The more the night went on, the better I got at roller-skating. And even though I was doing nothing more than going in circles, I found myself not wanting to sit down. During the whole night I only had about four beers, while I did about four hundred laps around the rink. Roller-skating Jesus was a popular figure and skating fast in such a crowded rink was good and dangerous.


Saying I had fun is not the same as saying I'm going to become a regular. First, the Roxy was closing for good the next day, so I won't ever be back there. And second, the skating culture is still a bit out of the realm of normalcy. You could tell there were regulars there. Guys who go every week and pick up girls by simply skating by and holding out their hands, like Superman offering to take Lois Lane for a quick flight around the rink. There were old women doing crazy old dances in the center of the rink. Gay guys in love. Skating breakdancers. Dangerous zoom around the rink at breakneck speeds guys. And there were also plenty of inexperienced, once every twenty years skaters.


Overall, I have to say it's the most fun I've had involving roller-skates in the last ten or fifteen years. I recommend getting a group of friends and heading to a skating rink near you.

MY MAKEUP, MY MAKEUP.

For almost twenty years now, whenever I hear the word "lines" or "makeup," my brain immediately says the words "five minutes people, five minutes," forcing my mouth to say outloud one of the following two phrases:

In a strange giraffe-voice, My lines, my lines, I can't remember my lines.

Or in a warbling, high-pitched voice, My makeup, my makeup!

The source of this madness is, of course, a commercial for the Detroit Zoo that ran constantly in the 80's.



I don't think I'll ever shake this involuntary reaction to the words "lines" and "makeup." And I'm not sure I want to.

HEAD KICK AND CAVEMEN.

As a soccer player, I've seen some gruesome injuries. I once had a guy point at me from the sideline and say "I'm going to break your leg." Then a few years later I watched a guy kick right through my lower leg, snapping both bones in half. Ouch. This one is pretty bad and doesn't involve a leg breaking. Instead, England Captain John Terry attempts a diving header and takes a boot to the face. Had to be rushed to the hospital and almost died...



In better news, on the heel of yesterday's post I read an article stating that the Geiko Cavemen might be getting their own ABC sitcom. I'm not sure 30 minutes of these guys would be as funny as 30 seconds, but they're pretty funny.

Caveman Sitcom Story

And check this out. Party at the caveman's house.

I have a feeling the caveman fad is going to burn out soon. Enjoy it while it lasts.

WAH WAH WAH. SHUT UP.

In a world that's becoming absurdly PC, it's only a matter of time before humor and fun disappear completely due to the never-ending stream of offended people. More and more, advertising has been the focus of groups looking to make their whining voices heard. In crystal clear recognition of this trend, Geiko has even released a campaign mocking the ridiculous lengths to which advertisers must go in order to avoid stirring up controversy. Their "caveman" campaign is not only funny, but disturbingly relevant.

Just in the last week there have been two examples that caught my attention.

The first was an open letter written to Volvo asking them to choose one advertising agency over another. Why? Because Arnold, the offending agency, has apparently "created ads for other clients that denigrate fathers." Huh? "National newspaper columnist and talk-show host Glenn Sacks is behind the push that started Feb. 27....Other male groups, including HusbandsandFathers.org and Fathers and Families, are supporting the effort."

(click here for the full story)

Apparently some dads are offended that commercials are making jokes about them. Wah wah wah. My question is this: when did dads become pussies? One of the sole responsibilities of being a father is to teach your kid no to be a crybaby; that there are different types of people and not everyone agrees and that sometimes you gotta take your lumps and that's okay. This ridiculous protest infuriates me as a man, as a human with a father, as a consumer and as an advertising professional.

The next example strikes at something near and dear to my heart. The Pizza Hut "Book It" program. Since I was a boy (1985, to be precise), Pizza Hut has sponsored a reading program the encourages kids to read by rewarding them with a free personal pan pizza for achieving goals. But is now facing opposition from "child-development experts who say it promotes bad eating habits and turns teachers into corporate promoters."

(click here for story)

Well boo-fucking-hoo. Guess what? Reading is important. And guess what else? Kids like pizza. They're going to eat pizza anyways, because it's delicious. And so what if Pizza Hut gets to spread a little good will? They're doing something positive for the community, they deserve a little recognition.

As a man who loves pizza and a former participant in the Book It program, I'm shocked that some fool wants to rob our youth of this glorious tradition. At our elementary school we had a giant caterpillar; every time you read a book you got to put another circle on the caterpillar. During the Book It program, this "book worm" would wind around the school. It was fun and I hope in the future my kids get to earn a free pizza for reading some books.

Would you rather have a world where kids are encouraged to read AND get to eat delicious pizza, or one where we have skinny illiterate hungry children? Would you rather see a satirical portrayal of fathers or an actual world where dads are crybaby bitches?

My message is simple: stop being so sensitive, you're ruining America.

SOMETHING NICE.

Again, I'm late on a story. Last night I was out for drinks and I overheard people talking about something that made my heart smile. Apparently, during the tsunami two years ago a family of hippopotamuses was washed out to sea. Only one hippo survived, a one year old baby hippo. When he was rescued and released into a wildlife park, he dashed to the side of a 130-year old tortoise. Now the hippo thinks the tortoise is it's mom and the tortoise doesn't seem to mind being thought of as such.



Learn more and see pictures of Owen and Mzee, a hippo and tortoise who are friends.

Boston police, idiots?

I'm a little late on this, but better late than never...

First, I have to say that I respect all officers of the law. They do a job that I don't want to do. It's dangerous and probably doesn't pay all that well. That being said, on with the show.

Two times in the last month or so, I've seen news reports on particularly retarded behavior undertaken by the police. And perhaps not coincidentally, both have taken place in the greater Boston area.

The first absurd course of action was taken when Boston police departments got reports of blinking devices around the city. These devices were, as you might know, some sort of light-bright boxes designed to promote the new Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie. Granted, not all citizens are familiar with the Moonenites and apparently, some people thought these might be BOMBS. Including the police. Now, maybe it's just me, but if I'm a terrorist and I want to bomb something, I would not put lighted characters giving the middle finger on my bomb. Seems like that might attention; you know, ruin the surprise. In the end, the Boston Police Department did what any rational person would do. They BLEW UP the devices. What? Don't you have some sort of bomb detecting dogs or monitors? Couldn't your bomb squad look at the device while putting their own explosives on it and determine "uh, yup, that's just some batteries and lights." The same devices were places in other cities, NY, LA, Dallas, Chicago, etc. and only Boston felt the need to blow them up.

So imagine my surprise when a month later I read this headline, "Police blow up foul-mouthed CD's that blared in church." Where, you ask? Why Boston, of course. Are you kidding? Apparently CD-players taped to the bottom of church pews began playing pornographic messages during mass. While this might be offensive (or funny) Boston police also felt it was a blow-uppable offense. "The bomb squad blew up two players outside and kept the third one to test for fingerprints or DNA and trace its components," said police Capt. Gary Johnson. Again my question is, can't you determine if something is a bomb without blowing it up? I mean, I know blowing shit up is cool, but you're not ten years old anymore.

I guess in the end the moral of the story is this. Do not wear or carry any sort of electronic device around Boston. If someone calls the police and says your iPod was flashing, there's a good chance the police might have to blow you up.

Good luck, Boston.

BEING A MAN.

One great thing about being a grown man is that I can go to the grocery store whenever I want, buy a box of Lucky Charms and eat them.

When I was a kid, we weren't allowed to have "sweet" cereal. Instead, we had Cheerios or Rice Crispies or Corn Flakes, which we were allowed to put sugar on. What sense does that make, forcing your kids eat healthy cereal, then allowing them to heap five scoops of sugar on? We would eat the cereal, then scrape the spoon along the bottom of the bowl and eat the mounds of sugar that didn't dissolve in the milk. Delicious.

But as a grown man, I don't have to do that. But if I want to, I will. I'll just go buy some cereal I don't really like and put tons of sugar on it. Then, if I want, I can just spoon the cereal into the trash and eat the milk-sugar.

Being a man is awesome.

THE REAL BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS.

I was emptying my spam folder on gmail and whatever tool they have to generate link options thought I might be interested in this:

http://www.recipesource.com/main-dishes/meat/pork/spam/00/rec0017.html

Yes, it's the SPAM breakfast burrito. And while my family was very middle-class growing up, having been raised on a healthy diet of Spaghettios, Hamburger Helper (it makes a great meal), fish sticks and hot dogs, we never got into SPAM. Not only that, but our non-SPAM lifestyle coupled with all the SPAM jokes left me with an unfair anti-SPAM feeling. So to be fair, I felt I should do some research. I found out that SPAM stands for "Spiced Ham."

"SPAM is a canned precooked meat product made by the Hormel Foods Corporation. The labeled ingredients in the variety of SPAM are chopped pork shoulder meat with ham meat added, salt, water, sugar, and sodium nitrite." "The ingredients are ground to a medium-coarse texture. Spices are then added to enhance the product's natural flavor. After the blending process is completed, the meat is mechanically filled into cans, sealed, and cooked in a retort oven."

Doesn't sound half bad. Why all of the negative press? To get a better frame of reference, I had to find out what another mystery meat was made from; a mystery meat that I've enjoyed from time to time.

"Bologna is a cooked, smoked sausage made of cured beef, pork, or a mixture of the two. A typical recipe for this sausage uses seasonings such as salt, sugar, pepper, and spices, plus a curing mixture that includes sodium nitrite to prevent botulism...large manufacturers may use almost any part of the carcass, including organ meats, trimmings, and end pieces from other meat processing...it's pureed so the machines can pour into casings. Like other sausages, bologna is covered in either a natural casing made from the gastrointestinal tracts of cattle, sheep, and hogs, or a synthetic casing made of collagen, fibrous materials, or even plastic. All bologna is cooked and smoked to pasteurize it, so it's ready to eat when you buy it."

Sounds like Bologna and SPAM have a lot in common. The main difference being that SPAM is cooked after it's in the can, while Bologna is cooked before it's packaged. A good reading of the book "The Jungle," by Upton Sinclair, would tell you that all processed meats should be avoided. But health standards have improved and based on experience I trust my processed meats. And I just remembered that hot dogs are made from similar questionable ingredients in the same puree, pour and cook manner as SPAM and bologna. And I love hot dogs.

The verdict: I'm going to give SPAM a try. I'll let you know.

THE OSCARS.

Last night, since it's been a few years, I went to a friends and watched the Oscars. Yes, I attended an Oscar party. No, I did not bring a manfriend (Clint was in LA, ha-ha, shut up). I wanted to give the Academy Awards another chance. There's so much hype and people get all excited about it, so I figured perhaps my belief that the Oscars were a self-serving load of bullshit propagated by Hollywood to make itself feel even more famous was wrong. Maybe they're entertaining and funny.

With an open mind, I nabbed a two-litre of Hawaiian Punch and trudged through the falling snowball snow to the home of our gracious host. There was a good crowd on hand and they were already well into their Oscar night (I didn't get there until around 9:30), complete with Oscar prediction sheets, caramel corn and sushi. Luckily, many of the folks in attendance were my friends, which allowed me to talk with people while the torturously slow and dull ceremony dragged on. It seems my previous feelings were correct: that little statue must be limber, because the Oscar sucks his own dick.

First, applause for choosing Ellen to host the show. While I've never been a huge fan, Ellen is second only to Oprah when it comes to female talk-showish hosts that women and gay guys are addicted to. She fell out of favor awhile ago when she came out, so Hollywood was saying "sorry Ellen, we think it's okay now, you can host our show." How very PC of the Academy. But from what I saw, she only did one funny thing, which was to give Scorsese a script. Which opened the door for Clint Eastwood to quip, “where’s my script? I saw you give one to Marty. Now my feelings are hurt.” Both funny moments.

But everything else was fairly awful. Mainly, the Academy's obsession with montages. The foreign film montage, the “people who died” montage, the “movie this bitch worked on” montage, the “how writers are portrayed in movies” montage. Enough already. You're Hollywood. You're telling me that for your biggest award show you can't come up with something more original than cutting together old footage to music? The only cool thing that they did was hire the acrobats from that car commercial to make shapes—notably the one for Little Miss Sunshine. The best part of the entire night was when some foreign lady referred to her Oscar as "this doll." That, my friends, is comedy.

Anyways, it turns out that I don't care that much about the Academy Awards after all. I care enough to read the list of who won for best picture, best actor, etc. But to sit for five hours and watch that jackass Chris Connelly interview people backstage? Nah. I think next year I'll sit at home and read a book. Or maybe I'll do some stretching and try to suck my dick instead of watching Hollywood suck its own.

SOMETIMES.

Oreo cookies and a glass of milk really hit the spot.

And that spot is my mouth, followed by my stomach and so on.

WHAT CAN BROWN DO FOR ME?

How about for starters, actually ringing my buzzer? I understand it's going to take five minutes out of your busy deliveryman day, but it would be great if Brown actually tried to deliver the package. Putting a sticker on my front door just doesn't cut it. On Brown's tracking site, it says they tried to deliver the package TWICE on the final day. Once, in the afternoon, when my roommate was home sick from work; so maybe he was sleeping. But then they say they tried again at 9pm? When all three roommates were home (that includes me)? Nah, I ain't buying it. No way. I was sitting in the living room, right next to the buzzer.

What else can Brown do? Well, since you're not actually going to deliver the package, at least write who it's for on the sticker. That way only one of us has to deal with with having to go to your super inconveniently located Customer Service warehouse. Three stickers, zero names on any. We could possibly have signed the stickers and asked to have it dropped in our lobby, but who signs? Do we just take turns trying? Do we write illegibly so he has to guess who signed it?

Now that we have to report to their warehouse, I've been trying to find out whom the package is actually for. You think this would be easy. But no, Brown seems to think no one would ever need to know this information. Their online tracking doesn't have a recipient name listed. Their phone-in tracking system, no name. Next step, try and call the Customer Service Warehouse center and find out who'll have the pleasure of humping over to the far west side in zero degree weather to get the package that they feebly tried to deliver. But can you find the phone number? Nope. Brown apparently only lists their UPS Stores online and on their site.

At this point, I'd like to fuck Brown in their brown ass and take a brown dump in their Brown mouth. I suppose my next step will be to call a UPS Store and see if they can give me the number to the inconvenient Customer Service Warehouse.

For a company that prides itself on convenience, this has been the worst delivery experience I've ever encountered.

What can Brown do for me? Nothing, apparently. I'll just do it all myself.

Helpful Math Lesson: UPS = awful.

A DOG IS LOOKING AT ME.

It's watching me through the window of the coffee shop I've adopted as my home office. And it asked me why I haven't been writing. When I replied that I didn't know, I didn't have anything to write about it said, "why don't you write about that man who yelled at his dog yesterday."

Okay.

Yesterday I was walking down the street in the extreme, bitter cold. I passed a man walking his Dalmatian, who had stopped and was drinking from a large puddle of garbage water. At first I thought it was disgusting, but then when I thought about it from the dog's point of view, I realized it was delicious for a dog. Water filled with all sorts of street and trash flavor. The man was trying to pull the dog away, but the dog wasn't having it. This caused the man to begin shouting at the dog.

"Will you come on! Come on! You can have all the water you want at home! If you're so thirsty you can drink water when we get home."

Yes, but not trash water.

THE FURY.

I've returned from my west coast hiatus relaxed, refreshed and excited to be back in the city. And then I left the airport to find that god has decided to punish me for my lethargy by making the world ridiculously cold. This, however, I took in stride. The cold is a chance to test your resolve. Leave the house, victory. Walk somewhere instead of taking a cab, victory. Lose your gloves and go barehanded, victory. It seemed that I was going to take my calm, California-made demeanor and run with it.

Until this morning. After sitting and waiting for 35 minutes to be interviewed for a job I only half-want, my interview was cancelled and rescheduled for tomorrow. Alright, annoying, but whatever. I left and walked to the subway (victory), where the machine refused to accept my Metrocard. Accepting my fate, I left that particular entrance and walked a block to the next entrance(victory), where a machine told me my card was "just used." No shit. Used unsuccessfully. Luckily, this entrance had a booth, where I could explain my situation to the MTA employee. He took my card, scanned it and said "it was just used five minutes ago." When I explained to him that yes, I had tried to use it, but the swipe machine was broken he explained, "well, looks like you'll have to wait ten minutes."

What?

I suggested, calmly, that he could just buzz me through the gate, since I have an unlimited pass. I've seen it done before. But no, he says, I would have to stand and wait. At this point I started to lose my temper and say things like, that's fucking ridiculous. I know you can buzz me through. This is absurd. You want me just to stand here? Yes, he said, that was the best solution. So for about two minutes I stood at the booth window, glaring at him while he helped other people. Then I realized that was stupid and childish. So I spent two dollars for a single use card and went home.

Welcome back to New York.

GUANTANAMO.

Today marks the fifth anniversary of the opening of the US prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Somehow, this atrocity of justice has been glossed over by the media and raises marginal, if any outrage in American citizens. For a country that is supposed to stand for freedom and justice, a country that supposedly fights against tyrranical abusive governments around the world, turning a blind eye to such an obvious miscarriage of justice is unforgivable. The United Nations has called for the closing of Guantanamo, but much like mounting the Iraq offensive, we've continued our actions with complete disregard for world opinion.

Here, courtesy of Amnesty International, are some facts about Guantanamo:

No Guantánamo detainee has been convicted of a criminal offence by the USA in five years

3 men died at Guantánamo in June 2006 after apparent suicides. More than 40 suicide attempts in Guantánamo have been reported

Up to 17 detainees were under 18 years old when they were taken to Guantánamo; the youngest were as young as12 and 13 when they were arrested. To date, at least 4 are still detained. There was a 5th, but he was 1 of the 3 detainees who died

Only 10 Guantánamo detainees were charged. They were never tried, as the US Supreme Court ruled that to try them before military tribunals was illegal.

380 men have been released after years of unlawful detention without ever being charged or compensated

Nearly 400 detainees from 30 countries are still held at Guantánamo.

775 detainees have been held in Guantánamo since 11 January 2002. Their unlawful detention has forever affected their lives and those of their families.

Now, I'm in favor of preventing terrorism. But at what cost?

Can you imagine if some other nation, say North Korea, captured US citizens and said they were a threat to their nation and were being held as terrorists. Regardless of the validity of the charges, our nation would be enraged and quite possibly mount a military offensive to resolve the situation. But here we are, taking citizens of another nation and putting them in a military prison. No official charges filed. No evidence presented. No criminal convictions. Detainees are tortured, taken from their families and kept without justification. Just recently has a list of detainees been made public. It boggles the mind that the US acts with such ignorant impunity. I love this country. But how can we stand for truth, justice and the american way when black eyes like Guantanamo continue to exist?

Before you agree or disagree with me, just check out some of these articles:

Background
Index of AI articles

The Real Housewives of OC

I wrote this awhile ago and forgot to post it:

I've never seen this show. But I have seen a poster promoting the show. In fact, I sat and stared at it for almost an hour on my train ride to work. The longer I looked at these ladies, the more it seemed to me that they were transvestites. With the exception of the brunette in the center of the poster, each woman looked like she was possibly a man dressed in drag.



Especially the lady in the blue dress. Awful. If these are the kind of wives being rich and living in the OC gets you, I'll pass.

Ugh.

McAnnoying.

If I had to guess where it started, I’d say Grey’s Anatomy; this horrible new way of talking that many girls seem to think is clever and witty. Yes, I’m referring to the practice of adding “Mc” to a word and using it as if it were someone’s last name. The television writers who affectionately had female doctors refer to Patrick Dempsey as “McDreamy” have inspired a nation of wanna-be jokester ladies to start quipping that they or their friends are McSomething-or-other. Drinky McDrunk. Shoppy McShopShop. And so on. Well, ladies, you’re being Annoying McIdiots by continuing this trait and it makes me want to McPunch you in the face. Leave the “Mc” where it belongs, with nuggets and other McDonald’s creations. It’s delicious there.

2006 RESOLUTION REVIEW.

Here is a list of resolutions I made at the beginning of last year, along with an review of how successful I was at achieving them. The wording of the resolutions is unchanged from the original document.

(not listed in order of preference)

Less television. More reading and writing.
Success. After moving into an apartment that has no cable, I dramatically reduced the amount of television I watched. This lead to more reading and, yes, even more writing.

Keep a journal.
Fail. I think I successfully made one entry in a computer journal, a la Doogie Howser, but keeping a journal made me feel like an egocentric jerk.

Do at least one thing each week that I couldn't do in any other city.
Toss up. I did a lot of things last year, but not in the way I meant. I meant go see more art exhibits, more photography shows, more weird things, etc. I did see a lot of stand-up comedy, thanks mostly to Brooke.

Get back into shape. Join a gym.
Succeed. From June through October I was in good shape; then it all went to hell. But I did join a gym, so I think I can count this as a win.

Talk to family and close friends at least once per week.
Fail. My phone-aversion still dominates.

Make it to Aaron's wedding in Tahiti.
Fail. But I'm going to the USA reception in LA this weekend.

Go to bed and wake up earlier.
Success. Recently, I've been able to do this. I guess when I have to, I can be a grown man.

Improve massage technique through practice.
Fail. No steady ladies this year. Wow. That's sad.

Pay down credit cards.
Success. I'm 2/3 the way to done.

Acquire fishing rod, reel and tackle. Go fishing.
Fail. Although my brother got me a fishing pole to use in San Diego. I tried fishing with it in Mexico, but only succeeded in breaking the line.

Play more golf.
Success. More than 2005, yes. But still not enough.

Play some soccer.
Success. I played in two co-ed leagues and played in several pick-up games over the course of the year. It's fun.

Be more assertive.
Toss up. I'm still a coward, but I'm getting better.

Visit friends in England and California.
California, success. England, fail.

Reduce amount of fantasy sports played.
Success. I've reduced the quantity, but replaced it with bigger, better, more expensive leagues.

Remember birthdays and send cards.
Maybe 4 out of 27. Fail.

Grow new appendix.
Unknown. I need an x-ray to confirm this, but I'm pretty sure I did it.

Improve portfolio, get better job, do better work.
I'm going to say fail. I'm very critical of my career and I'm not where I want to be yet. Shit.

Complete at least one non-work related creative project.
Fail. I would say I've completed many blogs, which are sort of creative projects. But Homeless Joe says these don't count, and I'm inclined to agree.

Do something charitable.
Toss-up. I give change to homeless people, especially bent-over-guy, who lives by me. I also tried to launch a fundraising idea for the homeless (and by tried, I mean I talked about it to a few people) and had no success.

Have more fun while drinking less.
Fail.

Learn new music.
Success. Thanks mostly to Heather, Shannon and Christos (sign up for Christos' MP3 of the day).

Buy a good black suit.
Fail. Didn't need it.

Overall, I failed. But the fact that I even had a list of resolutions and that I did some of them should be considered a victory. I win.

THANK YOU LORD JESUS.

For ten cent wings and for Jessica Alba playing football in a bikini.

MANUAL.

During each of my last two train rides, I've seen people reading the manuals for things they own. Last night a guy was sitting and reading the manual for his Honda Accord. People actually read the manuals? If you don't know how a car works, you shouldn't have bought it. The manual is there for you to look at when something goes wrong. But this guy was reading page after page, like it was a mystery novel. I guess your car is a pretty important purchase, so knowing more about it wouldn't hurt, but reading the whole manual? Strange.

Then this morning there was a guy reading the manual for his Texas Instruments Financial Calculator. I'm not even sure what to say about that. He didn't even have the calculator out, so he wasn't trying out different things or following instructions. He was just getting some more knowledge about calculators.

If I had to write a manual on not being a nerd, the first page would simply say:

Stop reading manuals. Including this one.

The book would be one page long.

WELCOME TO 2007.

We'll open 2007 with a little story from Santa Monica, CA, courtesy of the Hawk:

"Leaving the grocery store, I saw a woman w/ an ohio state sweatshirt pass by, and instinctively said "yuucckggghhh". She heard me, yelled "excuse me?"... I said Ohio State is disgusting, and she gave me the finger!

Ha.

GO FLORIDA.

Gator chomp."

It's great that he actually told her Ohio State is disgusting. It makes me feel proud, even though Michigan got stomped in the Rose Bowl. Oh well. You can't spell Lloyd without two L's.

The only good story I have from New Year's Eve this year took place at 4:45 am. Laying awake on an air mattress in a friend's guest room, I was listening to the party wind down. At some point I heard the last people leave. Then came the sounds of glasses and bottles being shuffled around. It quickly went from that to the sound of loud crashing, like someone was cleaning up by collecting all of the bottles around the house and throwing them into the sink. I listened for about ten minutes, becoming more and more disturbed by the loud, awful crashing noises of glass breaking. I kept thinking, "Man, this girl must be really wasted or really mad to clean up by breaking all of this glass."

Eventually I had to get up and go see what the situation was. Turns out, there was no cleaning taking place. Instead, there was a dog party, involving two dogs who had been trying to get at the appetizers on the kitchen counter. Unfortunately, the appetizers had been shielded behind a wall of beer bottles and wine glasses, which were now shattered all over the floor and sink. I reprimanded the dogs and pulled them into the guest room, effectively ending their glass breaking party, and went back to bed.

The next morning, amazed that no one else had been curious enough about the repeated shattering of glass to get out of bed, I asked my brother if he heard it. His answer? Yes, he heard it, but he thought it was Beth cleaning up.

Both of us must have strange ideas of what cleaning sounds like.

I better accomplish something in 2007. That's my resolution. Accomplish something. Anything.