Flights of Fancy Pants

That's a paddlin...

2010-02-23T22:30:00.002-05:00

Boost Mobile - you took a seminal childhood memory - the glorious, groundbreaking, and influential Super Bowl Shuffle - and you turned it into a bleary-eyed zombie-eaten corpse of itself. It burns, IT BURNS! Between this, the GI Joe movie, and a recent glimpse of my 3rd grade school picture, my childhood has really taken a beating this year. It's a damn good thing I'm an adult and I don't have to deal with that sort of...

Home purchasing - oh, wait, that's right, I have to do THIS, instead. I'd take a thousand locker shoves from Geoff Terman before I'd go through this again.
Mortgage broker: So if you get me this statement, and a copy of the checks, we should be good to go.
Me: Great! Here you go.
MB: I'm sorry, I meant THIS statement, and a copy of the backs of the checks as well.
Me: OK! Here you go.
MB: Oh, did I forget to ask for a complete sexual history? I'll need that, as well. Oh, and a copy of the original statement, but notarized and handwritten.
Me: Here. Take this.
MB: Oooh, my mistake. It seems that now the underwriter needs the ORIGINAL statement that you faxed three weeks ago, but it needs to come from the fax machine of one Jerry Boseman, of Butte, Montana. Here's his number, if you'll just
Me: Who's the closer now, bitch?

Dan Brown - I wasted 5 hours to read your stupid book, Dan. And I want them back. If you're going to just write the same damn story over and over again, at least hide some of the redundancy. And your obsession with large, hulking evil men who are all devilishly handsome and inhumanly strong speaks volumes about your...interests. I'm not knocking it: all I'm saying is, you're super gay. Own it. And stop publishing.

Sarah Palin - you're a retarded hypocrite.

The Colbert Report

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Skate Expectations

Booyakasha.

Festus - you're the size of my thumb right now, but evidently that's enough to make Wife nauseous for six weeks. ENOUGH. If you're going to be this big a pain inside the womb-a, G-d help us when you claw your way out in August. And if you think it's unfair that I'm already complaining about you and you're not even born yet, well...good luck in the Fancy Pants Clan, my fine little whatever-you-are-that's-not-really-a-person-yet-but-has-a-heartbeat-and-toes.

The Olympics - you are not interesting unless someone is crashing. And while there have been some great spills, everything has to have a heartbreaking story. I've got my own crap to deal with, Canada and NBC. I don't need to hear about how the Nordic Combined team all bonded over their shared experience of being adopted and then sold to a cult but then rescued by loving grandparents from Sweden who only wanted their grandson to be great at something, since little Tommy, Roy and Deke can't even read. Wake me when Community's back on.

February - go away, now. This month I have:
- received a black eye from Child,
- broken my own glasses with a lamp,
- had sharp stabbing abdominal pain that mysteriously disappeared after a quick run to the ER,
- dealt with the mortgage nonsense you read about just 30 seconds ago,
- had to deal with 3 feet of snow, and the narrowed streets and the awful drivers and the new and varied potholes and the leaks and the worrying about the new house and whether it's flooded and will we know before we move? because the seller sure isn't going to be forthcoming with that information,
- and now the melting of the snow, which means watch out for enormous falling icicles that will impale you and your loved ones! Hooray! And,
- Black History Month. Not that I'm opposed to blacks getting their own month, but history is boring. We have a black president! Let's hear more about him! Although...

Barack Obama - you are being a real big pussy, Mr. President. Sack up, slap Harry Reid in his old white face, and have Glenn Beck waterboarded. You are the leader of the free world, one of the smartest men to ever sit in the Oval Office, and you let Congress handle health care? Maybe you ARE retarded. In the meantime, own your agenda, and tell the Republicans where to shove their teabags. I know there's room for them all on Sarah Palin's chin. And now that she's working at Fox, it's not like she's got anything better to do.

Wait, don't go! I'm not through demeaning you yet?

2010-02-09T17:29:00.001-05:00

I had a really crappy assistant, who I fired in November. She couldn't schedule a meeting, she thought she was better than her position but did nothing to prove it, she couldn't spell, and she had some special power for pissing off volunteers. And finally, I said enough, and she was gone. I'm assuming she's working somewhere else, but HR is shifty. She could be buried in my yard. There was some fresh dirt there the other day. Anything's possible with HR.

In the meantime, we interviewed some new candidates, and hired one. Ridiculously overqualified, but she said in the interview that she wanted a place she could grow and stay for years and years. Hey, she said so in an interview, it must be the truth, right?

Wrong. The falseness of that optimism astounds me, a week later. I am shocked at my naivete. It's like the time I heard loud noises from my parents' room, and I assumed they were having sex. But then what was the dead moose for, Dad? And the bullet holes in the TV? Answer me that, Mother!

Anyhoo, it was going great. She really was amazing - she was serious, read up on information on her own time, didn't use her work phone for personal calls...she even called me sir. SHE CALLED ME SIR, dammit. I can't even get Child to call me sir. Now that he's 2, he only refers to me as "the bald one, with the glasses and the fear." Sass gets you nowhere but a paddlin', boy.

Last week there was some bad weather, and my assistant is nowhere to be found. She doesn't answer the phone, she's not responding to e-mails, nothing. The woman sitting next to her is worried, even a little frantic - they've already bonded (see? Wonderful!).

Finally, around lunch, HR receives an e-mail: "After much thought and consideration I have decided not to continue working at ______. Thank you." NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

I had plans! We were going to be a team! I had t-shirts, and hats! And now it's all ruined.

Was it the sexual harassment? Because I told Wife she's not allowed to call you anymore. Was it the pantsless work environment? Because I can wear a kilt. It's scratchy, but if you come back I'll deal. I won't scream at the wallpaper anymore, and if you want, I'll even throw out my dead bat collection, even though it was voted "Best Dead Bat Collection" at least year's holiday party.

At least tell me what I did wrong. I mean, it could literally be anything.

And now, I have to deal with a temp who rolls his eyes every time I ask him to stop using my desk for his earwax ball. I don't care if you work better with it over here, buddy. It's getting all confused with my earwax ball, and that will simply not do.

Your Joke is Funny, Because #1 - Wait, Where are You Going?

2010-02-02T17:12:00.002-05:00

I like jokes. Like this one:

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Interrupting cow.
Interru-
MOOOOOOOOOO.

A. Mazing.

But I also enjoy jokes of the more practical variety. You know, the "pranks," as the young folks say, on their Tweets and internets and whatnot. So I tried to bring this joy and whimsy to my office, which is not really known for its commitment to whimsy. Frolicking, absolutely - but not as much with the whimsy.

A coworker with a notoriously messy desk was out of the country for a month. She has been cajoled, harassed, poked and prodded to clean and organize her workspace for years, but there has been no change. So I said, "Hey, wouldn't it be a hoot if we took everything off her desk, and hid it? So when she comes back, it will look like her desk is clean! Whaddayasay, guys and gals?" And everyone in the clubhouse shouted "Hooray!" and carried me off for ice cream sundaes - in the sense that my boss and his boss both agreed this would be a fine idea.

The stage is set for a quality office prank, one that would not harm anyone, or result in the death of any minority or small fuzzy animals. And it would be funny, and we could laugh, and reminisce in our old age about how we put one over on old X.

And then my boss' boss, as is I suppose her duty, proceeded to suck the very life and humor out of the plan.

First, she ran it by HR. HR thought it was a terrible idea (surprise! God, I hate Toby).
Second, she called X. And told her what we were going to do. By then, however, it had changed into some sort of favor we were doing.
Third, she scheduled time on her calendar, as well as on mine and my boss'.
Why did she need to schedule time? Because Fourth, she decided that we were going to reorganize X's office for her, as a kindness.

I don't need to tell you what kindness does to funny. That's right, it beats it like a small child, then spits on it as it walks out the door. "Take that, funny. No one loves you." Kindness is SUCH a douche.

My joke on X became a joke on me, and my need to bring humor into inappropriate settings. Like, say, a meeting with my boss and his anal compulsive neat freak boss. I felt like an 8-year-old who's halfway done before he realizes that this is SO not worth the $1.50 his mother bet him that he couldn't clean his room in less than an hour. Only because I was in my office, I couldn't wet myself and light my bunk bed on fire.

Well, not at the office, at least.

Jewy Mannish

2009-12-31T14:19:00.002-05:00

I don't know if you guys knew this, but I am a manly man. Burly. I have hair on my chin-y chin chin. I have so much hair I need to use Nads. Not, you know, on my nads, but still, if you had to remove unwanted hair, you'd have to use a product called Nads, wouldn't you?

Anyhoo, the Bears beating up on an old man on Monday night emboldened me and my manness. And my manness had taken a hit recently, due to staying home, mommy-style, with the Child all week, and not being able to fight in the War on Christmas this year because of some lingering laziness.

The Fancy Family was presented with a crisis this week - our gloriously large TV stopped working. And now we were supposed to "talk," and "be a family," and "not ignore each other's slowly intensifying rage." So quickly I responded, and determined what the problem was - the lamp needed to be replaced. And instead of succumbing to the whim and schedule of some electrician, I decided to fix it...myself.

I could build up more suspense, but I don't want to screw over my readers who are afflicted with heart conditions. It was super easy, and took about 5 minutes.

But my manness has returned! Yay!

But it still isn't working, which means that I need a new color wheel, which, from the internets, seems to be a much more complicated process. But with my manness, I shall overcome. Or cry trying.

In the meantime, it's back to "pretending to listen to Wife's crazy patient stories." Wait, that shouldn't be in quotes.

HOU

2009-12-18T13:48:00.005-05:00

We're buying a house in Pittsburgh. I cannot decide if, long term, this makes me happy or excited or what.

I know it's the most adult thing I've ever done (other than that movie I was in that's now all over the internet. Just google "cable guy," and "karl hungus." You can't miss me.), and that includes fathering a child. This is all documents and numbers and investments and steel flashings and junction boxes and sconces. So if I wasn't bald already, I'd be losing my hair.

And that's on top of the fact that we're taking a seriously permanent step. In Pittsburgh.

Now, I love being able to afford a house, and daycare, and student loan debt. And Child loves his grandparents, and all the kids he gets to beat up at school. And Wife loves her best friend.

But I just bought a house in a city in which I have no real friends, and has a subpar music scene, and the only book store within walking distance is closing in three weeks, and whose communal commitment to education is, shall we say, somewhat less than I'd prefer.

A house means we're here at least another 5 years. 5! Years! That's a long time to have to call someone about great Community lines instead of relating them in person, or having just one person who likes to drink beer and ogle college chicks like a dirty old man (and no, my father-in-law doesn't like to drink beer). So as much as being an adult is cool and all, and now I get to play music however loudly I want to, I'm still not sold on this whole Pittsburgh thing.

Also, whine whine whine, blah blah blah. I bet this was a hoot and a half to read. Well Merry Hanukah to you too.

Where have I been? Where have YOU been?

2009-12-10T14:54:00.004-05:00

An entire month. Thanksgiving, the FancyPants signature holiday (gluttony, sloth, wrath, football, and stuffing), and not a single word. What kind of a dick blogger am I, anyway?

Anyhoo.

I'm a big fan of the Chinese custom of naming years. Year of the Monkey? Who didn't throw some feces, am I right? And how about that Year of the Grinning Dragon? If I had a nickel for every snotty British prep school kid I lit on fire that year...(why yes, that WAS a Harry Potter reference. Thanks for playing)

For the past few years I've been naming years in a typically FancyPants kinda way. 2008 - Year of the Baby. 2009 - Year of the Turducken.

Some classics, by the way:
2001 - Year of the Syphilitic Dodo (Bush gets sworn in, 9/11, war, C's in law school. What an awful, shitty year)
1993 - Year of the Colored Jeans
2004 - Year of the Unicorn-Copulating Griffin (in terms of improbable events, cf. Red Sox World Champions, and the FancyPants wedding)

So comes 2010. My Naming Committee sits, and ponders suggestions.

The Year We Make Contact: too Arthur Clarke-y.
Year of the Book: Given my ability to keep current on a measly blog, I doubt we're seeing this Year until sometime in the 2060's.
Year of the Baby II: too expensive. Do you know how much those things cost in upkeep? Screw that noise.

Finally, we've come to a decision:

2010: Year of the House.

More details to come.

Oh, and in case you hadn't heard, BRANDON JENNINGS.

The Bears? SO not jerkin

2009-11-09T21:34:00.004-05:00

Rod Marinelli continues to live up to his porno name, and bend us all over some piece of furniture that people are bent over for sex in a very uncomfortable place. Like a Volkswagen. This time it was the Cardinals, scoring and scoring until I just couldn't take it anymore.

So, for the first time, I switched off a football game, and began watching a movie about grrrlpower and the super wonderfulness of best friends.

Josie and the Pussycats is a tremendously underrated movie. The cast alone - Rachel Leigh Cook, Rosario Dawson, Parker Posey, Seth Green, Alan Cumming of all people - makes it worthwhile. Then there's the satirical product placement, and the catchy pop punk.

But most of all, there is Tara Reid, in all her empty-headed glory. Sure, now she's unattractive and boozy and weird looking. But back then, she was a ditzy goddess, a walking blond joke. A female, live action Ralph Wiggum:

"These walls are mushy!"
"The tough make lemonade!"

And so on.

So no, I'm not ashamed.

The real question, though, is whether I'm overreacting. After all, the Cardinals are a solid team. So, it turns out, are the Bengals. And Crybaby is playing pretty well.

But my real concern is that I don't recognize my own team. A pass-happy team with terrible defense? I didn't realize I was rooting for the Oakland Raiders. If we use our first round pick next year on a receiver, I'm going to start freaking out.

Oh, that's right - we don't have a first round pick. We sent it to Denver with the Neckbeard.

Which brings me to my other problem with this season. In Bizarro world, Bizarro Fancy Pants is deliriously happy. The Bears are undefeated, with a 2-headed rushing monster - Matt Forte and (I can't BELIEVE I'm writing this) Cedric Benson. Neckbeard is under center, throwing short, sensible passes to people on his own team. Which is fine, because we're running all over everyone, and the defense is lighting people up. Mike Singletary turned down some absurd head coaching offer out west to come back to Chicago and coach the defense, and ever since their first game when they separated Aaron Rogers' legs from the rest of his body, no one wants to play them. Tommie Harris is a model citizen, because the only thing he's more afraid of than Coach Singletary is making Brian Urlacher angry.

And Rod Marinelli is lying dead in a ditch, or doing 50 chicks in a movie, or something completely unrelated to football, per the restraining order.

See what's going on there? There are a bunch of Bears having solid seasons - they just seem to be playing for other teams. And the current Bears don't resemble any Bears team that has ever worn Bears jerseys. Thus, Josie and the Pussycats.

Honk if you love hugs!
Honk if you love rainbows!
Honk if you love Pussy...cats!

Also - read this.

OW MY DEFENSE - ooh, cookie!

2009-10-27T22:15:00.002-04:00

If you wanted to curse your own football team, what would you do in the offseason? Spit in a voodoo witch's soup? Slaughter a baby goat in the endzone? Wear Packer green and yellow without showering until they kick you out of your Overeaters Anonymous group?

Or...hire Rod Marinelli? Ding ding ding! Come on down, Chicago Bears coach Lovie Smith! Seriously, is there anything about last year's Detroit Lions - record-breakingly bad 0-16, coached by one Rod Marinelli - that you'd want to bring to your team? Other than Rod's winning smile, I mean. Seriously, check out his pics online - he's dreammmmmy.

But if there's anyone in the world that wanted to see Mr. Marinelli on the opposing sideline, it would be Cedric Fucking Benson. And the only person he'd want to see more would be the guy who trashed him to the rest of the league last year - me. Er, make that EVERY SINGLE BEARS FAN OVER THE PAST 4 YEARS.

So what did CB do? He fucked us all, is what he did. Crybaby Sulkypants looked positively Rexy, throwing a couple more picks while Matt Forte continued his assault on fantasy football owners, by running for nothing on way too many attempts. Is there a sophomore slump for running backs that I'm not aware of? Or is it just the curse of Rod fucking Marinelli?

He has wrecked the Bears defensive line. Singlehandedly. Could it be injuries to Urlacher, and the departure of a few quality safeties? Maybe. Could it be the complete disappearance of one Tommie Harris?

All I know is, the Bears had a defense last year, and then they hired Rod fucking Marinelli, and now they have 11 seahorses. I love seahorses! But I hate losing. So go away, seahorses.

Cedric Fucking Benson! What the hell?

Yeesh

2009-10-22T11:28:00.003-04:00

OK, that last post sucked. It was angry, mean, and not at all funny. So I apologize to you, the last 4 readers I have.

I'm still not apologizing to Grossman and Gershon, though. They're permanently off my Arbor Day card list.

In the meantime, I'm the Guy with the Office that Smells Like Soup. I brought soup to work today (a fine, hearty vegetable soup - quite delicious) and for some reason I thought it would make the trip from home to office in my work bag without spilling.

I was wrong.

Now, my bag hangs on my door, inside out and reeking of acorn squash and turnips. My entire 4X4 office is awash in soupy aromas. It's comforting, but also weird. I'll just add it to my list of weirdness. I'm now the Guy...

Who is Really Sarcastic? Or Maybe Just Angry All the Time?
Who Crosses the Line
With the Messy Desk
With the Weird Music
Who Writes Inappropriate E-mails - Funny, But Way Inappropriate
Who Doesn't Root for the Steelers
Who Loves Beef
Who Made that Gross Bird Inside a Bird Inside another Animal

and now, I'm also the Guy Whose Office Smells Like Soup. So yay, right?

Frummies and Bears, why must you torment me so?

2009-10-21T21:59:00.005-04:00

The Falcons are a good team. No one denies this. And yet once again, there were the Bears, with an opportunity to pull out a quality win. And there was Sulkypants, throwing the ball to the other team. Seriously, we could have just kept the Sex Cannon, and had a whole lot more fun, and more draft picks, and more of the sexy.

We've had years of ridiculous luck - 2003, when we had an actual streak of overtime victories via interceptions returned for TD's comes to mind. This is not that kind of year. Urlacher's out, Mike Brown is long gone, and some guy named Roach is playing in the middle. And where's Matt Forte? Can someone let him know that the season started? Because it's going to be a race to see who kills him first - Bears fans, or fantasy football players. Someone tried to convince me this year that Forte should have been drafted first overall, ahead of Adrian Peterson, or Peyton Manning, or Drew Brees. That person is now immersed in alcohol as he comes up with a way to tell his wife that they lost their life savings betting on a Bears running back. So good luck with that, buddy.

Have I ever told you why I hate frum Jews? Not all of them - there are at least 4 that I quite enjoy. But the rest are a big pain in my butt, and often capable of performing ridiculous acts of chillul Hashem - that would be besmirching G-d's name, and embarrassing the Jews, for those non-Ivrit speakers. 2 quick stories, all of which have happened in the last week:

1) We're looking to buy a house, because I want to have a lawn so I can yell at kids on my block who walk on my lawn, and I can say to them "hey! Get off my lawn! And go get a haircut, hippies!" Seriously, there are hippies everywhere in Pittsburgh.

Anyhoo, we found this house in a great location. Unfortunately, it's a complete dump, with wallpaper peeling off the walls, unfinished basement, a kitchen that looks like it was imported from the nearest crack house, and really, really ugly paint jobs in every bedroom. It's owned by a frum family with 5 kids and another on the way, and they have used that house, I mean in every way. But it's got potential, and a great back yard, and again, the location is fantastic.

So we go to make an offer. And we're working with an agent because, despite my experience as a real estate attorney, I don't actually know anything about buying a house. We give them a call to let them know to expect our offer, and they want to sit down with us first. We go to the house, and they proceed to try to talk us out of using an agent. "What do you need an agent for?" the husband says. Which, fine, I understand they don't want to add to the cost of the transaction, and I appreciate that.

But then, he says "which shul do you go to? Oh, I know so-and-so there, we're very close! Why don't we just work this out, the two of us?" See, because I was wearing a kippah, so obviously I don't need any sort of real process. In fact, why don't we just knock back some Slivovitz after kiddush, and we can bang it out before Mincha? Who needs an appraiser, or an inspection? Not us, because we're all Jews here, right?

False. We offered 40,000 under asking price, because when you're trying to sell your house for twice what you bought it for less than 5 years after you bought it, and it's blatantly clear you didn't put any money into it, then you don't get the courtesy of a real offer. Ass.

2) Every year, Maccabi Tel Aviv plays an exhibition basketball game at Madison Square Garden against the Knicks, as a fundraiser for Migdal Ohr, an Israeli orphanage. And it's great, and lots of Jews go, and Maccabi always loses.

Evidently this year, though, the coach wasn't ok with losing. In fact, he had some issues with the way the refs were calling the game, and they T'd him up, and ejected him. Usually, coaches in that situation will, you know, be ejected.

But not Pini, no sirreebob. He decides this doesn't really apply to him. He's not going anywhere. Security, the refs - no one can convince him. Finally, Rabbi Grossman, head of the orphanage, comes down out of the stands. Great! The rabbi will be the voice of reason.

Not quite. And maybe I should be more upset with Gershon than I should with the rabbi, because let's be honest, Gershon was a lot more embarrassing to the Jews than the rabbi was. But to me, the rabbi's actions were prime examples of what some rabbis do when confronted with non-Jewish rules: they try to explain why Jews aren't subject to those rules. Whether it's tax laws, or child abuse, or keeping Shabbos instead of rioting about a parking lot, or assaulting women in pants, or making women sit in the back of the bus (if they're allowed on the bus at all), or exploiting illegal immigrants to overcharge for kosher meat, there has been a really awkward and embarrassing string of rabbinic activity in the last year or so.

Maybe it wasn't fair to preface this by saying how much I hate frum Jews. Instead, I'll say that I really hate the disturbing absence of holiness in our religious leadership, and fear for the future of religious Judaism.

Oh, and that Pini Gershon is a douchebag.

And...we're back

2009-10-13T16:27:00.004-04:00

The holidays are over, finally. And no, that's not an excuse for not writing more. You know what's great, though? I don't have to apologize - thanks to Yom Kippur, I'm clean as a whistle (which, by the way, makes no sense at all, if you think about it), so you can kiss my blogger ass.

No, that's the escape key. Wait, if you just mo- no, that' s my elbow. Turn ar- why is your foot there? It's just - if you'll stop - forget it. Just lean toward your monitor, and kiss the screen, and imagine my ass.

You're welcome.

Anyhoo, there was some crazy nonsense this past week. First, this happened:

And I have to say, it was GLORIOUS. We didn't get actual shots of the finished product because you know, holy Sabbath and all, but all the layers were there, and the stuffing was moist and delicious, and it was just...fantastic. I'm very happy to have done it, and now I'll probably never do it again. What a pain in the ass. Maybe for Child's wedding, if he happens to marry a vegetarian whose best friend growing up was a little duckling named Nibbles. That would be worth it, just to see if she laughs or cries.

Then, Neckbeard scares the birds living under his chin by throwing for over 300 yards against the Patriots, of all teams. What, exactly, is going on in Denver? Is it really just the change from Bernie Berrian, Bobby Wade and Desmond Clark to Brandon Marshall and Eddie Royal? Probably. It could also have something to do with that whole offensive line thing, but what do I know.

And finally, Cedric Benson - who, admit it, you all thought you tossed him some pocket change outside the supermarket last week - broke the Ravens' streak of not allowing a 100-yard rusher at 39 games.

CEDRIC! BENSON! I know, right? Left is right, up is down, and people who haven't done really anything are winning Nobel Peace Prizes.

Yeah, about that...they know he's not Morgan Freeman, right? Peace really had a crappy year for them to honor Obama. And I love the guy! Rush Limbaugh's head would have popped right off when he heard the news, if hadn't already sold it for Vicodin. Glenn Beck wept for days and days, gnashing his teeth and doing that whole bug-eyed thing. But Jebus, that was too much. Oh those Europeans, so silly, so smelly.

Jeff Reed you're my hero!

2009-09-22T22:40:00.003-04:00

I have to admit, I was worried.

Living in Pittsburgh, I am awash in Steeler fanaticism. Everyone, from checkout ladies to Catholic priests, wears a Steelers shirt the Friday before games. And they are not afraid to shout out at random cars "LET'S GO stilLERS!!" which is unnerving if you're trying not to run people over. So forgive me if I was a bit worried about the Bears having to play what I assumed to be an unstoppable juggernaut. After all, the Steelers came back and beat the Titans the week before, right? And the Titans are really good, right? Add to that all those Sulkypants interceptions against the Packers, and Urlacher's absence, and you've got what looked to be a recipe for disaster.

But I forgot something.

On Rosh Hashannah I pray. I pray HARD. Because if you only go to shul once a week, and spending most of those hours mentally undressing lady parishioners, you have to use the High Holy Days to build up some credit. And I took a bunch of crap from my in-laws about the impending blowout, so I was feeling especially uneasy about hearing how the Bears blew it for the next three years, until the two teams play again. So I used my time with the Lord to pray for a victory.

Here's how the conversation went:

Me: Oh Lord, Ruler of the Universe, great, mighty, and possessing fantastic mystical superpowers, please hear my prayer.

G-d: Yep, you've got the G-Man on the telephono.

Me: King of kings, verily I seek your beneficence.

G-d: Righto. What can I do you for, brosephus?

Me: Please guide the Chicago Bears to victory this very day against the Pittsburgh Steelers.

G-d: Dude, it's totally Rosh Hashish. You sure you want to use your lifeline on this? Because I gotta tell ya, you skate on thin ice as it is. You may need that favor for, oh, I don't know, that time in May when you lose your wallet at the Pirates game.

Me: I didn't lose my wallet at the Pirates game.

G-d: Man, you're talking to the Master of Disaster! Literally! You think I give a hoohaa about your idea of time? I'm talking NEXT May. The future, mano e mano. I totally blew your mind just now, didn't I?

Me: Truly I am in awe.

G-d: Bet your ass. So, what's the dilly-yo?

Me: I'm still going to have to pray for the Bears to whup the Steelers this afternoon.

G-d: Ya, I'm gonna say...nay. Sorry, bra.

Me: Come on! Just do me this one solid and I'll be all about the praising and the supplications this year.

G-d: You do realize I can tell when you're lying, right? Look, I'm not saying the Bears will lose, I'm just saying it won't be a blowout.

Me: I don't care. I just want Child to understand the glory of rooting for the Bears.

G-d: Right. I don't think you have to worry about that one being a football fan.

Me: What's that?

G-d: Uh, nothing. Forget it. So, one Bears victory, coming right up. Ooh, that reminds me about something I owe Jeff Reed...

Me: Oh, and can you throw in a Packers loss? A loss at home to the Bengals would be hilarious!

G-d: No problem, I fucking hate that team. Fat bastards, the lot of them. Plus, did you know that Aaron Rogers has a two inch penis? True story.

So there you have it. G-d loves the Fancypants, and hates Jeff Reed. Which is good enough for me. Oh, and

OK, fine: Jay Cutler, aka Crybaby Sulkypants, also played an instrumental role by taking what the defense gave him, and throwing 2 touchdown passes. Kudos, sir.

How many kicks to the groin? 4! UPDATE: 5!

2009-09-14T22:29:00.003-04:00

Oh, Crybaby. Here are the rationalizations that I conceded to you, hours before kickoff:

- your receivers suck (no offense, Devin Hester).
- there's a ton of pressure on you as the Second Coming of Sid Luckman.
- your first game is at Lambeau, the belly of the green and yellow and fat, fat beast.

And yet somehow you still (still!) found a way to fall short of my hopes and dreams.

Let's tally, shall we?

1st quarter: You were lucky to have thrown just the one interception. You were basically begging the Packers to pick off your throws. Did you not realize that you were playing tackle football and not, for example, 500? Because with that helmet over your whiny sulky face, I couldn't tell if you were calling out numbers on your throws.

"Hey, Nick Collins, this is right to you, so you only get 150 if you catch it. Al Harris? This one's tough, worth 300."

If that's the case, then maybe you're just stupid, and I feel a little bad. Not a lot, but a little. Let's move on, shall we?

2nd quarter: 2 more picks, which I almost didn't notice, because I got to do my safety dance, thanks to Danyelle - Danielle - Daneal - Danieal - Dan Manning.

In the 3rd quarter it looked almost like you knew what you were doing - the beautiful throw to Hester, the other scoring drive, the lack of throwing to the other team - so I started to give you the benefit of the doubt.

Ah me, and my naive, wild-eyed optimism.

4th quarter, and you better thank Patrick Mannelly that you weren't the worst player of the game. Mr. Mannelly, I'll have you know, is a graduate of Duke University, so not only does he make awful decisions as the long snapper, but he also hates black people and rapes strippers.

So he makes an amazingly bad call to fake a punt deep in his own territory, and the Packers get to score. And still - still! - the Bears are in a position to win the game, right until the end.

And then the defense breaks down and gives up the touchdown pass, because let's face it, Nathan Vasher needs to be shifted over to safety to cover his slow ass. But there's plenty of time, and crazier things have happened.

That's right, it's time for pick #4! Come on down, Crybaby Sulkypants! Join the pantheon of great Bears quarterbacks! Amazing arm, guy! It's you and Jeff George, all the way!

And finally, just as a final thanks for the 2009-10 memories, Urlacher is out for the season with a dislocated wrist. I swear I've seen linebackers play in casts before. Are you telling me that he was able to play entire seasons - and make Pro Bowls - despite the undiscovered and virulent STDs he picked up from Paris Hilton, and yet a simple dislocated joint puts him out for the year?

G-d this season is going to suck.

Weep for me. I SAID WEEP.

2009-08-31T18:08:00.003-04:00

We parents are a shifty bunch. We make single people feel bad about their freedom, and all the sex they get to have, and we allegedly do not (I'm not implying anything, I'm just saying people I know keep having kids, so SOMETHING'S got to be goin' on, right?), and all the sleeping in they get to do. And even within our own tribe there are hierarchies and prejudices - working moms, non-working moms, fathers who are more and less involved, parents who can't wait to smoke up until their kid is asleep and end up hiding in a closet with their bong made out of a PBR can - cataloging these subgroups is way too much trouble.

But I'm here today to dispel a particularly insidious and effective myth. And that is the MYTH OF THE GUILTY DAYCARE DROPOFF.

The conventional wisdom goes something like this: Mom or Dad drops off Child at daycare or preschool, and Child proceeds to pitch a fantastic fit. Screaming, lunging precariously out of teachers' arms, full-on tantrum on the floor with punching and kicking and snot and tears. Mom or Dad, after bearing this outburst with a saint's patience, kiss their child goodbye and walk out the door, looking to one and all like they've made a tremendous sacrifice -

"Good for you, helping your child learn the value of independence, and time away from his/her parents! It's so tough, but you're a modern parent! You HAVE to work, otherwise you'd totally be with your child 24/7. You must be a VERY strong person. I am in awe, sir/ma'am!"

Balderdash.

That tantrum is a point of pride. Sure, we have to look all distressed and anxious as we walk away - gosh, I hope s/he's ok without me! However will s/he handle the day without his Mumsy-wumsy? But deep down, we're cheering. Because that conniption is Exhibit A of our child's love.

If you're walking out of preschool, and your little Emma Bailey Aiden McFeminism-Smith isn't turning beet red and passing out, you're obviously a crappy parent. Maybe if you were more fun, or had better, non-plastic toys constructed by union workers at carbon-footprint-free factories, and fed your child hormone-free organic fruits and vitamin-infused soymilks and -cheeses, s/he would actually be said to see you go. Instead, they're all excited to go and bite that Asian kid, then hurt animals in a blatantly proto-serial killer sort of way.

Here's a hint if you want that awe-inspiring tantrum when you drop off your kid - tell him you're never coming back, and that his Mommy doesn't love him.

Oh, the tears will flow like rivers! And everyone will know what a great parent you are. Jealous much?

Bits of tids (because it's a word, right, and I switched it around. BLAM! - Funny)

2009-08-20T22:49:00.004-04:00

I know, 2 posts in one week, I'm totally spoiling you. But when I saw this, and then I read this, how could I not write something?

Some of you might think that the return of the pill-popping good ol' boy is a bad thing for the Bears. Some of you Krazy Israeli are actually concerned. But not me. Because, you see, any possession that puts the ball in FavRUH's hands is one less handoff to Adrian Peterson the Greater. And it's one more pass floating past an open receiver into the welcoming arms of Charles Tillman, or Nathan Vasher. It's gotta be tough for FavRUH, with all those young'uns running around all fast-y like, and he's got to gun it in, just like he did in the field back in Mississip, only some of those blurs aren't on his team, and then he's sad, and only the pills can make it all better.

What I'm saying is, now the Bears can beat the Vikings, even with Crybaby Sulkypants as our QB. So hooray for that.

A quick Turducken update - I've successfully boned a duck. They're oilier, so it was more slippery, which made it more difficult, but also more satisfying, see what I'm saying? Notwithstanding the sexual innuendo, I made a kickass recipe with curry, garlic (15 cloves, bitches) and soy sauce. But it did call for not just boning, but also skinning, so that's not going to happen again. But I'm now ready, I believe, to prepare the Holy Grail of Gluttony for the Family Fancy Pants in October.

Finally, I went to the emergency room this evening, because some angular man-child put his elbow through my chin while we were both jockeying for position to catch a frisbee during an Ultimate game.

Now, were we keeping score? We were not. Did I need to scrap with the guy for the disc? Not at all. Did I make the catch? Fuck yes I did.

So I get a tissue from one of the other players, and I throw some water on my chin, and I ask my team - "Does it look like I need stitches?" Now, I don't know all the players very well, but I hope none of them are med students, or doctors, because they all said no. They didn't even equivocate - "well, I'm not sure, but maybe you want to go home just in case." Nope. "Looks like a nasty cut, but I think you're ok." So, did I keep playing through the end of the game? Hells yeah.

And then I got home. Wife looks at me like I'm Massive Headwound Harry

(Linda Hamilton can for sure kick my ass, but she's totally a man. If you catch her in the right pose, you can see her junk through her skirt. Seriously - frank and beans, people)

So I go in to the bathroom, and finally get to see the gaping wound in my chin with my own eyes. And we head off to the emergency room, where I get 6 (6!) stitches. So for all you frisbee players, next time you can see bone through a cut, it might need stitches. Hippies.

Nerdiness

2009-08-17T09:35:00.005-04:00

If you're all of a sudden gripped with a powerful urge to give me a wedgie and take my lunch money during this post, maybe you should skip it and come back some other time.

I'm just warning you now.

Okay then.

Here I go.

I saw G.I. Joe last night, and it confirmed my worst fears. Because, you see, it wasn't completely terrible.

I mean sure, Stephen Sommers can't direct traffic, let alone a movie, and his action scenes could have been so much sweeter. And Channing Tatum, the Mumbling Doofus, is a terrible Duke (and plotwise, he was a terrible character - always screwing up, letting the enemy escape...hell, Marlon fucking Wayans as Ripchord was a bigger hero, and he was the comic relief!). But the explosions were bright and shiny, and the effects were pretty sweet. Even the ninja fights were cool (especially the little kid ones - tiny psychopathic killers are the cutest!). No, it wasn't the footage or even the inane dialogue that killed it for me - it was what they did to Snake Eyes.

For G.I. Joe nerds, Snake Eyes is the Man. Silent, deadly, and a super fantastic ninja, he's the pinnacle of nerd love, for those of us who don't get down with superpowers. So when I first heard there would be a G.I. Joe movie, my first gut reaction was, "Great. How are they going to mess with Snake Eyes?" Just a further example - when I linked above to the Snake Eyes Wikipedia page, I first had to read it all, and then close my office door and perform ninja moves until I calmed down. Snake Eyes is AWESOME.

So he's all scarred, and had this thing with Scarlett, and that's why he doesn't talk and is all supercool. So what does Stephen "Moronface" Sommers do? He gives Snake Eyes a vow of silence, and hooks up Scarlett and Ripchord, who was most recently seen in Norbit and Little Man. And for this, I will never forgive Moronface. God, I hate him so much.

Is happiness a warm gun, or an electrified fence?

2009-08-10T08:42:00.002-04:00

Sorry for the posting gap again. I've been debating whether or not to purchase a semi-automatic rifle, to protect my family from the roaming hordes that have begun terrorizing my neighborhood.

Let me take a step back.

I grew up in the suburbs (Glendale, WI, represent!). To me, people who looked their car and home doors were paranoid, or feral cityfolk. I thought you only had to worry about such things in places that also had sidewalks, and streetlights, and stoplights that kept working after 9 pm. Only suckers had to fence themselves off from their neighbors, was my firmly held 9-year-old belief.

Eventually, though, I moved to various cities, and learned the value of keeping my stuff safe. I also learned to never make eye contact on public transportation, to not flash your lights at a car without its lights on at night, never wear red or blue in public unless you want to be get wacked in a drive-by, and fuck the po-lice.

But for whatever reason, I thought Pittsburgh, specifically Squirrel Hill was different. It's the midwest! People are nice, obey speed limits, and are afraid of bridges and tunnels. Kids play ball in the street. People let you skip in line. Fathers will let you walk their young, nubile, naive daughter home at night, because you're such a nice-looking boy.

So I got sloppy. And I forgot the first rule of home safety - never expose bright shiny things to the seedy criminal element.

What I'm trying to say is, some fuckers stole our stroller.

It's not a TV. It's not a car. It's only the means by which I transport my child. No, these people aren't vile, scum of the earth. They are the lint from within my sweaty armpits. They are the goop from an infected ingrown toenail. They are weeping sores upon the testicles of society.

So what do I do? I'm locking everything up, tying everything down. I'm getting bulletproof glass for my car, and hidden machine guns in the headlights. I'm going to run an electric current through my grill so anyone who touches it gets 20,000 volts up the ass. I'm teaching child Kung-Fu, and giving Wife brass knuckles and a spiked bat. I'm having motion detectors put on my house, so anyone who approaches within 300 yards sets off piercing alarms and spotlights. I'm also training release the hounds with bees in their mouths so when they bark they spit bees at you (thanks, Homer, once again, for your brilliant insights).

So do I buy a gun, or what? Am I that guy? Do I have a rocking chair I can move to my porch and from which can eye suspiciously each and every passerby? Do I put my Glock in a locked case next to my bed, or get a thigh-holster and become a cowboy? Or one of those under-the-armpit bra-type thingies? Ankle holster? Attach it to an apparatus around my head? I need some good advice about joining the NRA.

Oh, and I have a kippah tan. That's right, because I'm bald, and whiter than Francis McKenzie Smithson, center for the Ku Klux Klan iter-racial basketball team (team name - the Alabama Pale Horses).

Tidbits, and mini-Paddlin'

2009-07-27T19:06:00.002-04:00

First, to the Paddlin':

Sarah Palin - quitter. Wuss. But I am psyched to see that she still can't avoid the press, and continues to sound like an idiot. Man, the 2012 Presidential race can NOT come fast enough.

Congress - again with the pussiness. Pussyness? Pussitude? Either way, they're a bunch of mincing little girls. You knew about the torture of innocent civilians, you greenlighted an entire war based on little or no evidence, and yet somehow the idea of giving the middle class better healthcare is beyond your reach? All 535 of you are as useless as Pope Hat condoms, contraception for Catholics. Jerkweeds. Pikers.

House Hunters: Wife watches this show. I can't figure out why. Maybe it's watching Iowans choose between McMansion A, B, or C, all for under $55,000. After all, who doesn't love feeling superior once in a while? But it's on more often than Law & Order and CSI: Whatever put together, and she can't get enough. You know who I want to see buy a house? Nobody. I. Just. Don't. Care.

Limes: You're not fooling anyone, you know. I see right through you. You have exactly one use - stuck in the bottle of a Corona to make it taste less like pee (seriously, have you ever drunk a Corona without a lime? It has to be Mexican urine. I'm convinced. I don't know what this means about sticking a lime in there and drinking it anyway, but those ads are just so compelling!). But Lime-ade? Wrong. False. Incorrect.

You are a garnish! Lemon won this war, like, centuries ago. You had your chance. You could have been lemon. But you blew it. We all know the old story of the Last Supper: Jesus had you on one side, and lemon on the other. And what did you do? You made some crack about his beard, and he went with lemon, the silent and tastier citrus. Then you sold out lemon to the Romans, and they crucified him.

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore, but my point is, shut the fuck up, lime. Go wait by the Corona.

Fantastic new Scientology ads: these have been popping up on my RSS feeds, and I have to say these are misplaced on the Paddlin' list, because they are hilarious.

Awesome! Hooray L.Ron Alien Man!

Recently I've noticed that I really want to be Scottish. This isn't new - I've been obsessed since I saw Braveheart for the first time. It's the accent, the liquor, the opportunity to wear plaid skirts without being a Catholic school girl (although if I do get reincarnated, not a bad choice, if you're listening, Hindu gods...).

But mostly, it's the music. Idlewild, Reindeer Section, Broken Records, Frightened Rabbit - but not Belle & Sebastian. I'm wussy enough as it is - if I started listening to them I'd probably have to start wearing eyeliner and keeping a dream journal.

Finally, a Turducken update: I have mastered the boning - that is, de-boning - or the removal of all bones, there, that's completely empty of bestial innuendos - of a chicken. What I found is that you just have to suck it up and dive in. Just get in there deep, using your fingers to probe around, and find the sweet spots. Crap, I let the sexual innuendo back in, didn't I?

Oh well. Next up - duck. I'm not going to do a practice turkey, because it's expensive, and Wife doesn't like turkey, so I'd be eating the damn thing myself. And I just don't like white meat.

Hey, at least I posted, right? Maybe next time you'll get some sort of structure, or focus.

Today I am a pencil/Madoff and Jackson, an exercise in connecting unrelated events

2009-06-29T15:36:00.006-04:00

For too long I lived without a grill of me own. I had to rely on the generosity of others to roast meats over an open flame, fueled with charcoal or propane or lighter fluid and deodorant.

But no longer.

For yesterday I received a belated Father's Day present - the Char-Broil Commercial Series 500. 48,000 BTUs, 680 square inches of cooking area, and big honking knobs to crank up the juice.

Do I know if that's a lot of BTUs? I do not. Do I know what a BTU is? I'm guessing it has something to do with temperature, since I've only ever seen it on grills and air conditioners. But I don't care. Because now I can grill anything I want, anytime I want.

Grill a steak? You betcha.

Burgers and hot dogs? Natch.

Chicken? Why not.

Salmon? Okay...

Vegetables? I mean, I guess, if I was out of meat...

Tofurkey? Get the fuck off my blog, commie.

________________________________________________

I'm sorry Michael Jackson died. He had a fantastically successful life, and he loved children. LOVED little boys. Adored them. And now he's dead. So...that happened.

________________________________________________

Bernie Madoff was sentenced today. 150 years. Not bad for the guy who wrecked the Jewish philanthropic world, shut down entire foundations, and bankrupted whole families. I feel...nothing, strangely. No elation, no satisfaction. To me, justice isn't really served. Yes, he'll suffer, and probably be violated in interesting ways in prison, but it's just not - I guess I'm looking for more visceral retribution for his victims. So here's what I came up with:

A global manhunt. The complete list of Madoff's victims would have joint access to his fortune, and they would use it to hunt him down. They could participate directly, or hire a proxy to do the actual hunting. And then day by day, hour by hour, they would close in on him.

And after a few weeks, or months, they would corner him in a Taiwanese alley. His clothes shredded, his face scarred from a thousand thorns and brambles, his eyes alight with fear and recognition.

And then they would take turns kicking him in the crotch.

First, what network wouldn't pay millions to broadcast that? Second, raise your hand if you would watch that show. I would Tivo it, and then rewatch it every time some politician lied or I was just feeling down, or slighted in some way. "Well at least Madoff took it in the nuts on live TV," I could say, and feel better about the world, and dead pop star pedophiles.

Sugar? Why yes, thank you. Gluk WOOOOOOOO zzzzzzz

2009-06-24T13:08:00.002-04:00

Wife is a harsh mistress. She rules with an iron fist, demanding this and expecting that. "Stop wandering around the supermarket without pants," she says. "Don't feed Child Soylent Green! It's PEOPLE!!!" "Go make me some pie, and feed the dog, bitch. We don't have a dog, you say? Get off your ass, find a dog, and give it some Kibbles. Do I have to think of everything?"

Golly I love her.

Her nemesis is Big Sugar. Oh, she loves the sweeeeetz. There is no bigger fan of ice cream, or cake, or cake with ice cream and an apple pie chaser. But she's got what the ancients called "self-control," and has rigorously and effectively controlled her intake.

But she cannot do this alone. No sirbob. We are a team - just check out my jersey and matching sneakers. Thus I too must limit my enjoyment of the desserty goodness. And Child, who gets exactly one cookie a week (that she's aware of). If Wife spies either Child or I gorging on an extra cookie or brownie or pint of ice cream, she deploys her most potent weapon - the repulsed eyeroll. Subtly different from the exasperated eyeroll, in that it contains all of her disdain and aggravation with our respective food choices.

Obviously, this is less than ideal.

But there are domains, locales where I can enjoy a Swiss Cake Roll in peace. There's my office, and in the basement behind our laundry machine, and Papua New Guinea (LOVE those Papua New Guinean cannolis!). And occassionally I partake.

The problem with randomly mainlining sugar is that your body and your brain are completely unprepared. I'm moving along through the week, energy levels barely exceeding "lethargic," and then

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(inhale)
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myheartsoundslikeahelicopterthupthupthupthupsomedayI'dliketorideinahelicopter,maybe...
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Enough already with the gnashing of teeth

2009-06-17T09:51:00.002-04:00

I'm pretty clear where I stand on baseball - far away. It's the only sport that's been improved by ESPN's commitment to the Holy Highlight Reel, because everything that is not a Web Gem or a Goliath-ic home run is boring as hell. More than any other sport its history is defined by cheating, gambling, racism, drugs, and the persistent popularity of chewing tobacco.

Which is all fine, by the way. It's a sport, not a religion, and these people - owners, players, what have you - have been trained that they are above the law, and as fans we'll continue to look the other way as they rape, pillage, embezzle and sometimes murder their way through polite society.

Let me be clear - I have no problem with this.

What I do have a problem with is people like Howard Bryant. Howard is shocked! that Sammy Sosa lied about using steroids. And he's furious at...someone. Obviously at Sosa, but not just for lying and cheating - you see, it's Sammy Sosa's (and others like him) fault that steroids ruined baseball. Because we should rely on some man-children who never finished high school to make sound moral judgments in the absence of clear guidance from any sort of rule book.

Baseball's problem - aside for being an excellent sleep aid for insomniacs, and a fantasy for overweight lefties who are convinced they could have been professional athletes - is not its players, who do everything possible to be great, including break the arbitrary and randomly enforced rules imposed by society and the game. The real issue is that people like Howard Bryant expect it to be different somehow than the way it's been for over 100 years.

What I enjoy most about Bryant's hissy fit is its hypocrisy. If you want, you can play along, using SNL's "Really?!? With Seth & Amy."

Really? Sports journalists are upset at being lied to? About steroid use in baseball? Really? How many wrote bestsellers about the home run race between Sosa and McGwire? How many saw their readership expand because of baseball's return to popularity. And really? Not a single journalist thought to ask why Brady Anderson hit 50 home runs after not being able to lift a big boy bat the year before?

And journalists? Really? Shouldn't we be blaming you for the steroid mess? Isn't there something about truth and facts being an important part of reporting, um, truth and facts?

So I'm blaming Howard Bryant for the steroid issue. It's just as convenient as blaming Sammy Sosa, and I bet Howard Bryant even went to college.

(Political correctness note - I'm not saying Sammy Sosa is stupid. I'm saying that he didn't attend a university, because he was drafted out of whatever the Dominican Republic equivalent is of high school. And I'm making no comment whatsoever on Sammy Sosa looking kinda dumb, with the gigantic ears, and the goofy smile.)

A little relief. Oh, and Steve Martin? You, sir, are boring.

2009-06-11T16:28:00.003-04:00

My brain feels much better this week, thanks for asking. Not because I've finally invested in some pipe cleaners, but because I cleansed the Tucker Max from my mind with some good, decent reading. First with J. Maaaaaaaaaarten Troooooooost's "The Sex Lives of Cannibals," which is not about sex, or really about cannibals, but is about being a weird Dutch guy living on some tiny island in the South Pacific. You wouldn't think a book about swimming in tides of shit and running over dogs with your car would be uplifting and interesting and funny, but you'd be wrong. So wrong. Are you ok with living a life that is so wrong, and so incorrect? I feel badly for you, being wrong and all.

After that I read Steve Martin's teeny book of New Yorker Essays, "Pure Drivel." I'm a snobby, elitist prick, which you know from reading this blog. This is further reinforced by my love for the New Yorker, despite my deep, committed hatred for that particular city and many of its inhabitants. Because I'm a snobby elitist prick I quite enjoy the humor essays, and chuckle at their wit and whimsy.

So I was shocked (shocked!) when I realized, halfway through Steve Martin's book, that I hadn't laughed out loud. I laugh out loud at anything I think is funny, whether I'm watching TV, a movie, or even thinking funny thoughts all by myself in my office (note to office-working folk: if you laugh randomly, loud enough for people outside to hear you, they will start to fear you, and HR will begin keeping a file. Something to think about). So not laughing, at Steve Martin, of all people, was a concern. Not for myself, but for Steve Martin.

And why is it not Steve, or Martin? Why must it be "Steve Martin," always and forever? Discuss, and let me know your thoughts.

But I digress.

I realized - and this is something I should have realized long ago - that Steve Martin, star of the Jerk, the Man with Two Brains, L.A. Story, Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, All of Me, and one of the greatest standup comedians of all time (up there with Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, and St. Thomas Aquinas) is not funny anymore.

And this isn't a recent development. He hasn't been funny since sometime in the 90's. It's like he decided to take his legacy and drag it outside by its hair, beat it to death with a rusty shovel, and leave it broken and empty in a ditch along the highway.

This was the experience I felt reading his book: here was I, looking to Steve Martin for funny and weirdness. I bounced in my chair, breathless with anticipation. And there was Steve Martin, reclining in a chaise lounge, one leg crossed tightly over the other. He had on a cardigan, khakis, and very expensive shoes. While he looked around the room for someone more interesting to talk to, he would let random sentences slip out of his mouth, like he was doing me a favor by acknowledging my existence. And this is what he said:

"I don't know if you know this, but I'm Steve Martin. Yes. THAT Steve Martin."

"So I was in Cheaper by the Dozen, and Cheaper by the Dozen 2, if that means anything to you. They were brilliant comedies. I know because I was in them. Me - Steve Martin. Prematurely white hair and all."

"I've written these...well they're trifles, really. I wrote them while sitting upon the toilet. Shitting, as it were. They're hilarious. The very fact of your not laughing proves you're an imbecile."

"That last bit? With the words writing the words? That's a metaliterary concept I adapted from Michel Foucault, who was jealous of my brilliance, and laughed always at my quips."

"I won't talk about standup comedy. I deconstructed it, rebuilt it, and ruined it for everyone else. Now all you have are my high- and lowbrows, what with the New Yorker bits, and the Pink Panther reboots.
"You're welcome."

"Could you get me another gin fizz? I'm Steve Martin, and I'm not quite inebriated. I like to be inebriated when I mix with the rabble."

"Do you have any young women I could deflower? I'm Steve Martin, and I don't date ladies over the age of 18 years, six months, and a week or so. I like to have my way with them in unspeakable ways, and have them thank me. 'Thank you, Steve Martin, and your lush coiffe of no-longer-prematurely-white hair.'"

"Yes, I am quite wealthy, thanks for asking. But that won't prevent me from making Pink Panther 3 - that's the one where I'll exhume Peter Sellers' corpse and eat it on film. They've offered me $20 million. I'm holding out for more. But I've written these - they're not comic manifestos, per se, but they will redefine the humorous arts for generations to come."

Sad.

I punched myself in the self-respect

2009-06-01T08:46:00.003-04:00

4/6 of the Fancy Family came to visit last week, to play with Child and take pictures of Child and look at Child and smile at Child and to carry Child around on a golden throne, fanning him with gigantic fern leaves. I have no idea how they got those things past security on the plane, but there they were.

Brother Z also brought with him a book. He finished it while he was in town, and since he laughed repeatedly while reading it, I thought it would be worthwhile to spend the 2 or 3 hours it would take me to read it.

I was wrong.

If you don't know who Tucker Max is, you're a better person for it. Not because he's a debauched individual with no morals whatsoever - those people are hilarious, and necessary for any decent party. No, it's because he's a terrible writer, and not funny at all. The parts of the book that made me laugh out loud were when he quoted his friends, who are evidently much funnier than he is, even with their crappy nicknames (Slingblade? Really? That had a shelf-life of about 3 minutes).

Max has a website, and a devoted fan following of date-rapists and people who are too stupid to get Bill Simmons jokes. I won't link to it here, because it's easy enough to find if you want to make yourself dumber, or if you want your girlfriend to dump you. Which hey, that's your call.

I guess the real concern is that I knew who Tucker Max was before I read the book. I knew what I was getting into. So why in G-d's name did I read it? I think less of myself now for having it in my house. I hid it from our babysitter last night, so she wouldn't think I hated women and minorities and myself. I refuse to let Wife read it - even the funny parts - because I want her to keep believing that men, for the most part, are decent, and not vile talking penises. Which they are, but most have a few more scruples about keeping it under wraps (no pun intended - my G-d, it's even got me making puns. I'm going to go stick forks in my eyes now).

Why did I read this book? Why haven't I burned it? Well, because it's not my book, and Brother Z may want it back. But I read it because...

Nope. I got nothing. I can't deny this concerns me. A little, but still.

Me fail English? That's unpossible!

2009-05-19T10:52:00.002-04:00

Remember when I said that I got the Apple i-...thingy? And it was fun, because it's...good?

I'm not so shure anymore.

Cawse you can put gaems on it, and I bawt a game called beg- bezh - bejeweled, where you move things near other things and then they explode and yay! there are more things, and that's good, because it's fun.

I lik to play the game, and I play lots. LOTS. Some of the times it takes many minuts to play a game, and then it's late, and I'm tired and I yawn. Like now. Where I work, in my work room at my work place, I yawn, and people look at me.

So its good, and its' fun, which is good, but I think there's another thing. I think I usd to be better at talking and thinking and riting. Wife helps me with my laces, but I bought velcro so now it ssscccrrraaaappppes, and that's fun. But Wife says that I used to know my laces, and now I dont, and that's sad for her, which is not good. She says my Apple is a bad. That is not good because she is Wife, and has smart.

So I am try to play not more, and maybe I will find the smart again. Is it under teh bed? Nooooo. Is it in my hair? Noooo. IS it in my Apple? NOOOOOO.

Im'a need me a bonin knife

2009-05-04T22:21:00.003-04:00

Did you know that this is the Year of the Turducken? How have we made it to May and I have not shared this with you?

So 2009 is the Year of the Turducken on the Midwestern Heart Disease Calendar. Just as last year was Year of the Baby - and so it was - this year shall be the one in which I make a chicken, wrapped in a duck, wrapped in a turkey.

Damn right.

Do I have sufficient culinary experience? Nay. Do I have the intestinal fortitude to try this at home?

Maybe not. But I'm committed. I even started the research.

First: I have to learn how to debone. For this, I evidently need a boning knife. According to the Meat Man, this is the best one. And you listen to the Meat Man. So I'll have to get that.

Then I need to practice deboning. At first, it will probably happen to quickly, and with minimal satisfaction. After months of trying, though, I may be able to hold off for more than - that's right, there was the obligatory deboning/boning joke. Haha, sex is funny.

But back to the Frankenstein of Poultry. 2 days! That's how long it takes to make. Because you need to build the thing, and then it needs to cook for like 9 hours. There is one bright spot, though: I thought I was going to have to learn to sew, and it turns out that's not the case. So hooray, I suppose.

Wife is a little skeeved out by my enthusiasm for the project, and swears she won't try it. This is kind of a problem: not that she would make all that big a dent, but with 2 lbs of chicken, 5 lbs of duck, and 12 lbs of turkey, not to mention stuffing, that's over 20 pounds of food right there. And I alone could only eat maybe 15 of that.

So if anyone wants to come to Pittsburgh, and eat the animal that by all rights should have been created by G-d in the first place, there will be a heaping pile of turducken for you, probably sometime in the fall. I'll be shooting for Memorial Day, but it's just not gonna happen. I don't even have a boning knife yet.

I'm a deadbeat blogger

2009-04-26T22:39:00.003-04:00

Has it really been three weeks since I've been here? Other than some dust on the furniture, it doesn't look like much has - oh damn, is that cat poop? It's everywhere! Nasty! Bad kitty!

Since I've been gone, the Hebrews were lead out of the land of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, Jesus woke up from his three-day hangover and walked on water that he changed into wine just as the Romans were crossing, drowning them all in zinfandel.

I also got one year older. And if there's one thing I learned in my newly acquired year, it's that blogging is a responsibility, not just a privilege. I also was taught not to accept candy from strangers, and that Child is not a football, not matter how oval-ish he looks when he curls up potato-bug style.

But that's a-ok, because I've found my parenting bible. This British guy is here to teach us all how to be perfect parents, and we need to listen, and devote our lives to his gospel. In just a few short notes, here is the Truth:
a) do nothing.
b) watch your children rule the world.
And there you have it. Read the book and the blog if you like, but like First Citiwide Change Bank, it's really very simple ("how do we make money? Simple: Volume.").

If you're lost in the wilderness, and need more than just parenting advice but a true guide for every aspect of your life, and a means of connecting with the Eternal, I also have an answer for you: Zombie Bible. Even if you're not down with eating the brain and groaning incessantly, this book will change your life, and how you see G-d. So buckle up, and prepare to convert.

And as for presents - because I know you're all curious - I got some great ones. An iPod Touch, which I'm a little afraid of (and that's how I know I'm old), a book, and some ice cream.

I've written about this before, about my completely rational and not at all disturbing fixation on Ben and Jerry's Brownie Batter (and if there is a better title for an anally fixated gay porno, I'm glad to read suggestions in the comments). But that was over a year ago, when I lived in Boston, aka the Ice Cream Land of Plenty. Now I live in Pittsburgh, which is a post-apocalyptic wasteland devoid of ice cream options in comparison. When we first moved here I sought out the Brownie Batter via the Pint Locator, a handy and a little stalkerish tool available @ Ben & Jerry's website.

Lo and behold! There was one location, a Circle K, that carried my chocolatey goodness. But it was somewhere I didn't recognize, i.e. out of the two mile radius between my house and my office. I filed the information away, and promptly forgot about it.

But Wife, that magnificent lady o mine, did not. For my birthday, she traveled to this mythic retailer of "convenience," and cleaned them out.

On my 32nd birthday, my true love gave to me...FIVE PINTS OF ICE CREAM.

Your 2009 Chicago Bears, led by No. 6, Crybaby Sulkypants!

2009-04-05T23:18:00.003-04:00

I wanted to start this afresh and really state my opinion about this Bears trade, so if it goes completely the other way, I'll get credit for the reverse jinx. And I hope I am wrong.

But I'm not.

In case you don't care about football (and if you don't, you should really skip this post and wait another two weeks until I write about something else, because this will just bore you), The Great Neckbeard, Mr. Kyle Orton himself, was traded along with the Bears' near-term future for one Jay Cutler, a whiny depressive diabetic with a rocket attached to his right shoulder.

We've had some good times with the Neckbeard here. Evidently the Bears locker room greatly respected him, I'm assuming just for his facial hair prowess, and not for any sort of football-related skill, because that would have been a hallucination. Kyle Orton is many things - a quarterback from Indiana, a former second stringer to Rex the Sex Cannon Grossman, a man who had to grow a beard on his neck because he doesn't have a chin - but skilled at leading a professional offense is not one of them.

It's possible that some of that mediocrity is attributable to his wide receivers, the group of whom receive a big fat "meh." But as much as I love the Neckbeard, the quarterback takes the heat, because he's the quarterback.

So now enter Jay Cutler. Great skillz, no one denies this. But there's the small matter of his being a whiny bitch. Some of you are from Chicago, or have spent time in Chicago, or know what a Polish sausage is (no, not that one, pervs. The other one). And you all know that whiny bitches aren't exactly favorites in the City of Wind and Big Shoulders and Dear G-d You're Not Going to Leave Your 10th Kielbasa On Your Plate, Are You, Waster?

So how exactly is this trade going to help the Bears? I have no idea. In fact, it makes them less interesting. Consider: before this trade, the Bears quarterback situation had drama, and characters, and laughter, such laughter! Who would start next? Who would drastically underthrow Hester, or fumble the ball on a snap? Who would be buried in a ditch by Matt Forte? You never knew, and that was all the excitement you needed when the team was in no way actually competitive! And it took your mind off the sneaking suspicion that the defense was now skating by on reputation alone.

And now? Now you've got talent, obvious and considerable talent under center. You have a solid running game. So there are no more excuses, right? If the offense sputters, it will do so just like every other team - not because the team leader was out nailing the female population of Northbrook every night, or because he was compensating for the loss of Amazon rainforest by cultivating dense lush facial hair - because the quarterback simply blows. So fans will look to the defense, as they have for generations in Chicago. And all they will see is the ghost of Brian Uhrlacher, tinted green with the envious knowledge that now Hunter Hillenmeyer is officially a better linebacker.

So in anticipation of a new era in Chicago, please join me in welcoming the new starting quarterback, Crybaby Sulkypants. Every time he cries a box of tissues will be donated to the United Way, and a dress to the Pretty Ladies Who Are Only Men on the Outside Society.

My support group is lousy with nymphos

2009-04-03T15:06:00.004-04:00

I am not a nice person. I make a good show of it, smiling and not tripping small children and whatnot, but deep down I am a cruel bastard. I can't help laughing at Holocaust jokes. My preferred style of driving could generously be described as "predatory," especially here in the non-Midwest. My Child's temper tantrums? Hilarious.

Which is why I didn't provide my 64 NCAA tournament predictions. Not because I'm lazy, or too busy. In the past two weeks I've had this page open not less than a dozen times, ready and willing to fulfill my end of the blogger-bloggee bargain. You know what I said to myself? "They're not worth it. They don't appreciate your acumen in putting UCLA in the Final Four, or choosing Villanova to get upset by Portland State." That's not the kind of valuable insight you deserved. So you didn't get it. Suck on that, reader.

As I watched 30Rock last week, I was reminded again of my not-so-secret evil-ocity. Glory be to my fantastically large HD compatible TV, 55" of Japanese magnificence: it allows me to watch Planet Earth on a 1:1 scale, and to actually see the puck while watching hockey (see? Someone in America DOES watch it). It also allows me to pay inordinate attention to things like Tina Fey's scar. And while I watched it morph and wiggle around smirks and grimaces and other attractive Tina Fey expressions, I wondered whether I was a little too fixated by it. And I was concerned.

Later that evening, though, I was watching Demetri Martin's show, and my mind started wandering, and then my eyes started wandering, and I noticed the mole on his neck. And I was disappointed that it was blurry, because then I couldn't get the full impact of the mole-ness. All of which led me to two conclusions: 1) Demetri Martin's show, while humorous, is not actually funny; and 2) it's not so much that I fetishized Tina Fey's scar, it's that I have an inordinate curiosity about random celebrity blemishes. Which then leads back to my being less than a saintly individual. which leads me to my next post...

A question, then 64 answers

2009-03-16T23:16:00.002-04:00

What do you do if you find something that's so absurd, so ridiculously hilarious, you feel bad sharing it with others?

Wife was looking for a phone number. Forgetting it was in her phone, she went to the internets and looked up the individual in question. What she found was...epic. A glorious monument to the possibilities of chaos and the World Wide Web. It was in every way more fantastical than she or I or you could have imagined.

I don't mean to suggest that this individual had some sort of Flash-infused ultra-narrow bleeding-edge of the envelope home page. In fact the truth is just about the complete diametric opposite. What we found was this person's soul, writ carefully and purposefully on a web page.

This person - we'll call the individual T-Bone, because it's gender-neutral and silly - was specific in their interests, passions, and character traits and flaws. And this is no Blogger account, nor was there any sort of innovative or even substandard derivative design. If I had to compare it to anything, it would be Creed's blog, but without the serial killer vibe. Wait, scratch that - with all sorts of serial killer vibe emanating from the screen.

On T-Bone's proto-blog there are links to favorite quotes, which in itself is not unusual...but the three or four paragraphs on why T-Bone thinks archiving quotes as a concept are interesting, and why sharing them is helpful for the reader's edification is pretty out there, as a form of entertainment. Or how about the autobiography, which literally begins with a birthday, and a physical description. And goes on for about 5 or 6 pages?

This is how the Genesis conversation happened in my head:

T-Bone: what's a blog?
T-Bone's head: a blog is a place on the internet that's all yours. Do with it as you wish.
T-Bone: Well, like, what should I put on there?
T-Bone's head: Got me. Why not tell the universe a little about yourself, and talk about some of the things you like?
T-Bone: OK. I like my family, and I think the environment is important. Should I put that on there?
T-Bone's head: Sure. There are lots of people who feel the same way you do, they'll be interested to read what you have to say on these pressing and culturally relevant topics.
T-Bone: Great! I also enjoy role playing games and fantasy novels and writing fan fiction about Transformers, which I still collect. Are there other adults with spouses and children who collect Transformers, who might want to read my stories?
T-Bone's head: Well you know I love everything Transformers. Throw 'em on! You'll get zillions of hits in no time! Oh, and the more detail the better!

I wish I could share T-Bone's thoughts with you. I really do. But it would be mean. Meaner even than the previous paragraphs, where I shared just a few little bits with you. Sorry.

Also, you'll be interested to know that I shall share my NCAA tournament picks with you on Wednesday night. The simple act of reading them will fill you with wonder at my prophseying skill, and you shall marvel at my insight into futures untold.

"Oh my Lord, is that Davidson's music?" Proof positive that as of Monday night, I have no idea who's even in the Madness this year. How about Brandeis, are they a 12 or 13 seed? McGill? They a 7 seed?

Cookie dough ain't just for dumped, weepy chicks anymore

2009-03-11T22:06:00.004-04:00

Ordinarily, the Fancy Pants dining room table is chock full of goodies after Purim. Israeli chocolates, unidentifiable candies, and hamentaschen of all levels of quality.

Most of this is thorough unimpressive to me. I 'm not a big dessert or snack person. What I like, I love, but if it's not in that narrow category, I can do without.

So imagine my shock and glee when I open up one of the bags...and therein lay a small plastic container of chocolate chip cookie dough. Not unnecessarily roasted, not surrounded by superfluous vanilla ice cream, just straight up dough, in a cup. The only improvement would have been if it had come in a cone, like the aforementioned iced cream, or like ground meats should be.

I'll explain: I believe the overheating of food into some sort of crispy or chewy new food is a surrender to convention, and a waste of precious time and fossil fuels. Steak tartare, sushi, dough of any kind - these are my basic food groups. I was raised to chase my roast beef down and pin it to my plate before I was able to eat it, because it was still screaming for help. I was raised to mock those who fretted about uncooked meats and eggs, to wonder what it is an oven was for other than storing dishes.

I spent months eating brownie batter - it's even my favorite ice cream. My favorite dessert? Chocolate pie, which is not cooked at all but refrigerated, raw eggs notwithstanding. Second favorite? Wife's mundels, which aren't double-baked like mundel bread. They're not even fully single-baked. The official term is NFC - Not Fully Cooked. Baked just long enough for the chocolate chips to get all gooey and melty.

If you mention nuts or fruit, you can get up and walk away.

There's a new standard for shalach manos. Take your tiny liquor bottles, your whimsical and poorly-structured Purim poems, your fresh-baked whatsnot. Just give me some flour, some raw eggs, some sugar, some vanilla, and mush it up and shove it under my door.

For those of you who bake your own fortune cookies, or send entire meals (spaghetti, anyone?), you're in a nutty class all by yourselves. But you know what would really put you over the top? Some challah dough in a single-serving tupperware. You'd have my undying gratitude.

What did WE send, you ask? Did we go all out, and craft some clever package neatly wrapped and zanily captioned? No, because the Fancy Pants are fancy, but we are also quite lazy. So no food for anyone. Sorry. Maybe if more of you provided some raw stuff, we'd be more inclined to return the favor.

And don't come with that "raw vegetable" crap. That would result in obnoxious retribution of a completely immature nature. So save yourself some time and aggravation, and give us a box of cake mix, a couple of eggs, and some oil, and get out of our way.

Oh, in case you were curious, Child was James Bond.

Why is everyone trying to kill my Judaism?

2009-03-04T22:14:00.002-05:00

Jews are under attack from all sides, at all times. Whether it's Nazi zombies, or zombie Nazis, or Hugo Chavez and his Venezuelan Anti-Semite Tumblers, or the Inquisition -

there's always someone out to get us Chosen folk.

Recently, though, there have been slings and arrows from unlikely places, namely: Amazon.com, and the rabbi at my synagogue.

Amazon, a glorious Eden of cheap books and the most random crap available for purchase outside a flea market, has come out with Kindle 2: The Forest Strikes Back.
The whole "library in a tablet" thing is fantastic, six days a week. But on the holy Sabbath, when I'm trying to avoid having an Important Conversation with Wife, or trying to be distant to Child so he'll learn to constantly strive for my approval and therefore go on to become wildly rich and successful, I need to read books. And since G-d Himself banned electricity ("Thou shalt not flip the light switch." "Lord, what's a light switch?" "Silence, heretics! Go get Me some more veal!") I can't be reading some computer thingy on Saturdays.

"But what about the trees, and the environment? We need to love Mother Earth!" Ordinarily, yes. But Reading Is Fundamental, or do you hate literacy as much as you hate G-d?

So Purim is coming up. It's a very spiritual holiday, filled with laughter and joy and binge drinking. It's like Halloween and fraternity rush week all rolled into a tidy vomit-filled package. I have the additional pleasure of speaking fantastically inappropriate truths while I'm drunk.

"Wait wait wait. You are SO in a relationship. He just happens to be marrying your suitemate in the summer. But you've got plenty of time before then."

And that's the one I can remember. Imagine the hilarity of the zingers I've forgotten!

Well the rabbi at my shul wants to take that all away. He's very much against all drinking on Purim, not just the excess. This, despite the Talmudic obligation, and the plethora of other sages who say that even if you don't get drunk, you should have a little, you know, just to ease the pain.

But no, not at my shul. This is the pull quote from the e-mail bulletin: "Please remember that ________ is alcohol-free on Purim and is always smoke-free. That includes inside the building and anywhere on the grounds. Anyone found violating that policy will be escorted out of the building and off the grounds by the security staff."

First of all, there is no "security staff." There's the rabbi, and the assistant rabbi, and some larger high school kids. Second, alcohol-free?? So all the kiddush wine, and the kiddush club whiskey and vodka stash, that's all being poured out on the street, Elliot Ness-style, right before Purim? I think not. Let's not be reactionary here. Just step away from the bottles, and go read about kinky Esther and her feminine wiles.

He may know hookers, but he also knows international finance

2009-02-20T14:17:00.003-05:00

Do you remember Eliot Spitzer? He's most famous for his love of dirty hookers, but he also was governor of New York.

Here's a reminder:

Mrs. Spitzer, by the way, is my nomination for saint. See how she totally didn't stab her pathetic husband in the brain, then dance over his expiring organs? Saint Silda, patron saint of patience and sleeping on the couch.

The fallout from Spitzer's impressively bad decision-making is ongoing. First, he cost himself a chance of ever running for President. He cost himself the Attorney General's spot in Obama's Cabinet, which might be a step fown from NY state governor, unless you consider that being governor of New York, your only responsibility is that Mike Bloomberg's morning quadruple espresso is delivered piping hot promptly at 7:14, as stipulated by the New York city charter.

Spitzer also cost himself any future victory in any argument with anyone, ever.

"Did you pay the electric bill, Eliot?"
"Actually, Silda, that was on your pile of bills to pay."
"Oh that's right, I'm sorry. You're too busy writing checks to more hookers. Don't worry, El. I'll feed, clothe, and love our children. Go pay some disease-ridden sex slave 20 bucks to pee on your bald ugly head."
"Yes dear. Sorry honey."

Man, Spitzer family dinners must be awesome.

Another consequence of Spitzer's indiscression is a run of really annoying, mildly offensive David Paterson parodies by Fred Armisen on SNL:

Why I added it here I'm not sure. Maybe because I've been slack on my video clips, and I felt bad. To compensate with something actually funny, here's the Upright Citizens Brigade, and their Bucket of Truth.

Upright Citizens Brigade

Bucket of Truth

Joke of the Day
Stand-Up Comedy

Get Funny Ringtones
More Funny Videos

Anyhoo, David Paterson is annoying and nowhere near as impressive as Eliot Spitzer. As a country, we lost some serious brain power when he had to resign and retire to a life of constantly being reminded of his love for dirty whores.

Fortunately, all that time being ignored by his wife and family have left him with some free time. And evidently he's putting it to good use, by writing to us from beyond his political grave. Spitzer's been writing for Slate.com, and it turns out he still knows what he's talking about.

It's a shame that we should lose his expertise simply over some silly misunderstanding about adultery and prostitution. At least he paid his taxes, right? That puts him one up on half of Obama's Cabinet. Plus, he hates corporations, and if we're going to do this socialism thing right, we need people who know how to hit companies right in the financial testicles.

And Spitzer knows a thing or two about testicles.

So here's my suggestion to Obama. On your desk, you've got the red phone for national security emergencies and late-night pizza deliveries (Bush's contribution to the speeddial list), your white phone for Congress, your green phone for Treasury, and your pimp phone for Canada, America's bitch.

I suggest adding another phone - your double-secret Dirty phone, for getting calls from disgraced experts. Douglas H. Ginsburg. Tom Daschle. And Eliot Spitzer. That way, we can still benefit from their knowledge, while you get deniability about your relationship with them.

And worse comes to worst, you can always have Secret Service shoot them.

Why yes, this IS a copout

2009-02-16T22:28:00.003-05:00

Some of you may have noticed that I don't write so often. I've made excuses before, but when you get right down to it I'm just lazy. Too lazy to create the funny, too uninspired to dream up the haha. And I apologize for making you wait for my random flashes of brilliance: you deserve better.

I was thinking this as I read the Great Ali's recent post, which kindly offered to provide interview questions, per these rules:

If you would like to participate in the ME interview, here are the rules.

1. If you want to be interviewed, leave me a comment that says “Interview me”.

2. I will respond by emailing you 5 questions (I get to choose the questions).

3. Update your blog with the answers to the questions and let me know when you have posted it.

4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When other comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

And like I said, I've been grossly delinquent in my own originality, so I'm swiping Ali's who swiped someone else's, and so on. Plus, who doesn't love to be interviewed about themselves? Probably the Dalai Lama, but he's disqualified because he spends too much time with Richard Gere, who loves to talk about the Lama. It's all "Lama this," and "Buddha that." Get a room, Ricky and Lama!

Here then, Ali's questions, and my answers:

1. What is your favorite movie?? Now tell us the one we REALLY want to know...the movie that you are embarrassed to admit that you love and can watch over and over and over?

Pulp Fiction, and here's a little story by way of illustration:

The first time I saw this movie I was in Boston, visiting some friends from my summer Israel trip and checking out colleges. This girl invited me to stay at her place for the weekend (clue no. 1), and we hung out, going out with her friends, giving each other backrubs (clue no. 2) and generally having a good time. But I was stupid, and so I made no move in any sort of romantic/boob-ish direction. The last night I was there, we went to go see Pulp Fiction. I hadn't seen anything like it in my entire life. The dialogue, the blood, the music, the sodomy - it was genius. Sometime during the movie, I felt a hand on my upper thigh (clue no. 3). My friend had abandoned subtlety.

What did I do? Here were the thoughts in my head:

"Wait, did she? Oh man, she did. That's her hand, and it's on my thigh. It's up there, man. Oh my god, is Zed raping Marcellus Wallace? Um, I have to make out with this girl right now. Or do I? I'm staying at her house, we're going there right after this. Do I say anything? Is there anything I could say that wouldn't sound like I'm rejecting her very generous and insistent offer? Maybe if I say nothing, and act like I don't notice her hand, which is now pretty much massaging my hip, and moving ever closer to - holy crap, that was HILARIOUS! Man, Samuel L. Jackson should be in like, every movie from now on. OK, just play dumb, and watch the rest of the movie, and you can hook up at her place, where there's a bed, and it'll be more comfortable anyway."

Only your favorite movie would compel you to put off the perfect hookup situation. Or maybe your especially screwed-up priorities. Did I mention how few girls I dated in high school? No, fewer. Fewer. Yeah, that's about right.

As for the movie I'm embarrassed to love? There is no shame in loving Say Anything... because John Cusack is awesome. On the other hand, there is a little shame in having a strange fixation on Ryan Reynolds, and being able to watch any movie he's in. Van Wilder? Funny. Waiting? Strangely absorbing, and hilarious. Definitely, Maybe? Unconscionable. And yet I cannot turn away.

2. If you could have any superpower, what would you choose? And what would your superhero name be? any ideas what your costume might look like?

The power to kill a yak from 200 yards away, with mind bullets. That's telekinesis, Kyle.

My name would be Motion, and I would wear no cape. My logo would be a stencil of me kicking Isaac Newton in the crotch as he sits under his apple tree. Where's your equal and opposite reaction to that, bitch? That's what you get for taking credit for gravity. Are we supposed to believe that it didn't exist before the 18th century? Screw you and your stupid wig.

3. What is your biggest pet peeve? What is one thing that you do that might drive other people crazy?

I hate being reminded to do something I already know that I have to do. It's not that I don't know I'm supposed to replace the garbage bags in the garbage can - I just don't care enough to do it right now.

And since I have always believed I know more than I actually do, this pretty much extends to anyone telling me to do anything. I could be lying in a pool of my own vomit, and you could come by and say "Hey, you should roll over, otherwise you're going to choke to death." My immediate internal response will be to inhale puke, just to spite you. See? Now I'm dead. That's what you get for trying to help me, dickface.

What might drive people up a wall is when I don't do things I'm supposed to do. It might be even more aggravating when I snap in response to your demand that I stop being so oblivious. That might bother people. Like Wife. Possibly. One can never really know for sure.

4. Choose one moment in your life you could go back and do over...what would you do differently?

I'm guessing your first suggestion would be the Pulp Fiction scenario mentioned above. But I've got a least 6 or 7 of those puppies in my past, so how to choose one? I could choose the day I decided against going to Michigan and to go to YU. I could choose the day I decided to stay in business school and not switch to English. I could choose any number of screwed up interviews, or professional decisions. Or how about the time I spent a summer at this other camp because a girl convinced me to come, only to get there and find out she was already dating the guy who is now her husband?

We'll go with the summer I spent in Israel, because I blew not one, not two, not three, but six different hookup opportunities in less than 9 weeks. Because I am the MASTER, that's how.

5. Create the playlist you would choose if you could hijack a radio station and be a dj for an hour:

"This or That" - Black Sheep

"10 A.M. Automatic" - Black Keys

"The Wolves (Act I and II)" - Bon Iver

"The Teeth Collector" - Pretty Girls Make Graves

"God" - The Dodos

"What?" - Tribe Called Quest

"Looking for Astronauts" - The National

"Da Mystery of Chessboxin'" - Wu-Tang

"Holland, 1945" - Neutral Milk Hotel

"Boom" - The Roots

"You're No Rock'n'Roll Fun" - Sleater Kinney

"All Fires" - Swan Lake

"Definition" - Black Star

"Gun Street Girl" - Tom Waits

"The Greatest Man that Ever Lived" - Weezer

"New Partner" - Bonnie "Prince" Billy

"The Bleeding Heart Show" - New Pornographers

Because I'm a snob.

So then, if you'd like to be interviewed, say so in a comment, and verily I shall ask you 5 questions. Kindly post them on your blog, or if you have none, write them on a postcard in lipstick and mail it to me, and I'll do my best to transcribe it here.

It's my party, I'll eat meat if I want to...

2009-02-03T17:04:00.002-05:00

Get ready, we're going crazy with the homonyms this week...

My streak of bringing championships to cities is safe for one more hometown. My presence in Pittsburgh compelled the Cardinals to ignore their tried and true passing game for 3 quarters, almost forgetting that Larry Fitzgerald existed until it was too late. For those of you counting at home, this is my championship tally:

Chicago, 92-95 - Bulls 3peat.
New York, 96-99 - Yankees 3peat.
Boston, 99-08 - Patriots win 3 Super Bowls, and the Red Sox win 2 World Series.
Pittsburgh, 08-present - Steelers, Super Bowl win no. 6.

My offer to Seattle, Cleveland, Cincinatti, and Dallas still stands - if you want any of your teams to win a championship in the next few decades, pay me several hundred thousand dollars, and I will gladly move to your city. Because I want to spread the love.

Steeler fans truly believe they are the craziest. And pound for pound, in terms of sheer volume, they may be right. But Red Sox fans are just as passionate, and Patriots fans just as annoying. Yankee fans are, if anything, worse, because they expect all that cash to buy them wins. And Red Sox fans are getting to that point, but still get to burn off 86 years of misery, so they get a pass for say the next year. After that they can be snooty and proud all they want, but they have to concede that they are the new Yankees. A fair trade-off for all that success, I say.

A quick word about the actual Super Bowl "party" I attended. As some of you may know from my weepy phone calls, the menu was dairy. Furthermore, I was asked to bring a salad.

I'm not normally an angry person, and I like to believe I give people the benefit of the doubt. But the whole thing seemed like a setup. The hosts know me well. They are all too aware of my disturbing fixation on raw animal flesh, preferably fried or ground up and shoved into some sort of bun, or maybe a wafer cone. And yet there I was, picking up a forkful of ziti and trying to keep from sobbing. I don't know the complicated physics behind the equation, but everyone knows that

Football = meat.

It can = poultry, or ham, or fish (although that too is a reach unless it's well fried beyond recognition as such), but football does NOT = leafy greens, or kale, or jicama, or any other roughage. I could have sworn I had moved back to the Midwest when I came to Pittsburgh - the clear disdain for nonfatty foods, the pleasant bovine-like expressions on drivers obeying speed limits, the suspicious looks cast at people with foreign accents - but now I'm not so sure.

As for the other crappy party, I want to say this: for a group of people who are allegedly supportive of taxes, and using them to generate revenue for use by the federal and state governments, the Democrats sure are forgetful when it comes to actually paying those taxes.

If I wanted people who were out to cheat the government to run the government, I would have voted for McCain. Right now it's a little embarrassing. I guess it's something that Daschle is stepping down, but don't they have a vetting process for this? If you were a White House staffer, trying now to push through a massive stimulus package that both cuts and raises taxes, wouldn't you want to be sure that your political appointees knew H&R Block's phone number? I would think that would be a priority. But what do I know.

In Steeler Country, no one can hear you belch

2009-01-21T22:23:00.003-05:00

I thought I would totally be down with Cally. I thought I could groove on their laid back vibe, float happily on their self-righteous extreme liberalism, gorge myself on their free-range tofurkey.

How very wrong I was.

I can never live in California. Not even San Diego, allegedly possessing the most wonderful weather on the planet. False. There is no snow, there aren't even clouds. There is only sunshine and smiling, tan people. And do you know why everyone is smiling? Because it sure as hell ain't natural. We had to shop for food for Child while we were there, and the supermarket we entered had a larger vitamin department than its food department.

But now I'm ready for Child to be rejected from every top university. It's because we abuse him by neglecting to provide him with invaluable supplements and boosters and Power Gels. There are Achievement Supplements (15 drops a day adds 1.6 IQ points, on average), Attention Focusing Minerals, and Brilliance Boosters! Whether this will lead to an epidemic of teenagers trying to inject extract of exotic insects sometime in the future, only time will tell (now that's a fun sentence to read out loud. Go ahead, try it. I'll wait.).

So for fear of superhuman overachieving insect junkies, we're not moving to San Diego. Also because it allows certain relatives to subject their 5-year-olds to acupuncture. Now don't think I'm one of those old-school folk who think acupuncture is hoodoo. One of my good friends is an acupuncturist, and he's not even one of the weird ones. But maybe wait on the needles until your kid is old enough to read? Perhaps. Just a suggestion.

A quick word on La Jolla. There are certain cities and neighborhoods whose property values make no sense whatsoever. Case in point - Skokie, IL. It should cost about $1.25 for those ugly ass houses. What an eyesore (sorry, Arica's parents. But then, that's why you're moving, isn't it?). Or Brooklyn. Or any of the non-Manhattan boroughs, for that matter. Someone would have to pay me to live there. To be fair, I'd make the same demand to live in Manhattan, but at least I understand why people like it there. It's exciting, and fun, and you never know who's going to assault you, or in what new and interesting way. Also, someone should take an eraser to Florida, and just start over. It's no wonder most of the residents are elderly - they're the ones who can't see how hideous their neighborhoods are.

But La Jolla makes sense. It's the most beautiful, most expensive place I've ever been to, and it's completely understandable. At least until an earthquake shakes it all away. But until then, you've got mountains, and coastline, and weather, and really hot women.

As much as I love Brother S, and new Sister...S (what can I say? They both have names that start with S), I can't live in LA. My profit motive just isn't that strong. Not even with Jeff's Gourmet Glatt Kosher Sausage Factory. And not even considering how great a gay porn title that would be. Because seriously, you should stop reading this right now, fly to LA, fill your mouth with a hot beef injection of cased meat, and feel awkward about how much you enjoy it. Then go back for more. Then get on a plane and go home, because you can't afford to live there.

Wife and I also went to Rodeo Drive, for Wife's Pretty Woman montage. I think we went into one store, and that was because we were lost, and needed directions. It's a little bit ridiculous.

Child, in case you were wondering, was fantastic. He slept, he ate, he flirted with anyone who made eye contact. He's a complete baby whore. Strangers don't even need candy to entice him into their cars. All they need is to play peekaboo, and he's gone. "Parents? I have parents? Hey look, a sketchy guy in a baseball hat! dadadadadadadadadadadadada!"

Brother S's wedding was fantastic. Smorg, molten chocolate cake, good scotch, smoking band, crazy, crazy people. And also beautiful bride, and flowers, blah blah blah. The corniness was effectively countered by wildly inappropriate honeymoon suite care packages. I feel dirty just thinking about what was in that bag.

And now we're back in Pittsburgh, where evidently a local sports franchise is competing in a high level match of epic proportion. I will say this for Steeler's fans: they're not nearly as annoying as Patriots fans. But I will miss rooting against those cheating, model banging bastards. Wait a minute - who said I have to stop rooting against the Pats? Or any Boston team, for that matter?

G-d, it's great to be back on the East Coast. Excuse me while I go chisel my car out of the ice and pay $15 for an avocado.

That's right, I eat avocados. What, you wannafightaboutit?

Random thoughts while I prepare to give Child jetlag for his birthday

2009-01-08T22:31:00.003-05:00

At this time last year, Wife was clutching her enormous belly and trying not to poop out a baby on our nice white couch. Our couch was located in our apartment in Boston, which we could no longer afford.

And now...Child is a year old tomorrow, Wife's belly is so taught you can bounce quarters off it, and I'm gainfully employed by one of the few non-profits not completely decimated by Bernie Madoff and his band of Shylocks - making Jewish stereotypes persist for another thousand years! - living in an apartment we can afford in Pittsburgh.

This is not a list of resolutions. Nor is this all cheesy about Child somehow surviving his first year with me as his father. If you want me to be honest with you, this is a post crafted out of guilt and obligation to cover my ass while I jet off to LA for a week to watch Brother S may a girl that's WAY out of his league. Don't you feel the love all over? Sorry, that's a rash. You should get that looked at.

A friend mocked me this week for not watching one of the 754 bowl games. It could be that I was instead watching the Devil Wears Prada (how come no one told me that's not the movie where Anne Hathaway gets naked?). Or it could be that college football is a poor excuse for a genre of sport. It's nowhere near as compelling as the NFL, the skill level is exponentially lower, and the BCS system is so bad that Obama won the election simply by saying he'd fix it. There might have been other reasons, but I don't remember what they were. Something about hope, or dope. Were we promised a bong in every home?

Anywhoo, college football blows unless it's overtime. They have the single greatest overtime system in sports. Better than hockey's shootout. Better than your extra innings. Better than your closest-croquet-mallet-to-the-testicles-wins croquet. Even better than cricket's Animal House-style ass-whacking Rochambeaux. It's exciting, each team gets a fair shot, and the score runs up absurdly into the 70-64 range. Plus there's no punting, and we all know punting is for pussies who play rugby.

Meanwhile, I'm reading Beckett and this guy Gary Lutz. If you've ever read either one, you will wonder why the hell I'm reading both at the same time. Well Watt is funny, no doubt about it. But it's also dense, and boring, and not a whole lot's happening right now. So sue me, I got antsy. So I picked up Lutz only to discover that he treats English like a salad. He tosses some verbs here and there, and thinks adjectives are just super over anything, without regard to context, or definition. So you'll get a sentence like

"I disturbed the pages of my newspaper, spoiling them, melancholizing them with sudden prosperities of eyesight, despecificating the stories until all that was still binding in them was a vague and ungiving sense of people motioning dimly toward me from within their own cumbersome towns."

What the fuck does that mean? It makes me feel stupid, and jealous, and exhilarated. Turns out, I enjoy things that make me feel like an idiot.

E.g., being a dad. Child went through a period of eating nothing but frozen pancakes and waffles. Couldn't get enough. And then we got a note home today - "Please do not send any more frozen pancakes or waffles. They make him scream." Well alrighty then. Of course, Child will eat just about anything if you distract him with fun toys like paper, or a magnet. So we tag team him for dinner - Wife shoves food into his mouth, and I try to do the weirdest, most bizarre things I can to keep Child's attention until he realizes he's full. He lets us know by vomiting.

On Sunday we get on a plane to fly across the country. Child has flown before, but never for this long. Can anyone tell me how much Benadryl - aka baby heroin - will it take for us to make it to LA with our sanity intact? One bottle? Three? In the meantime I'll try to remember funny things about the trip, and maybe when I return I'll regale you with tales of the Left Coast, and all their vegan hilarity.

Don't be that guy.

2008-12-30T22:29:00.004-05:00

I always learn something new around holiday season. Last year it was "leaving your Hanukkah candles in front of your turbo-jet heater will not only blow them out, it may end up causing your rug to catch on fire."

The year before that, it was "always know your audience before you make a joke about Jesus" (My favorite? Jesus walks into a hotel with 2 planks of wood and some nails. He says to the receptionist, "can you put me up for the night?").

This year it was all about holiday parties. As a Jewish Communal Professional, and the husband of a liberated, working lady, I attended many holiday parties. Some where cheesy, JCC-based affairs where kids drew horribly on their own faces to win oily treats. Others were formal dinners for day schools, who tried valiantly to convince their parents and donors that everything was ok while we ignored the asbestos dropping out of the ceiling and into our salads. I'm totally sending Child there - he needs immunities, and we're supposed to expose him to stuff like chickenpox. Asbestos is the same thing, right? Just like mercury, and lead, and whatnot?

But in other settings, "holiday party" is a euphemism for "Christmas party." Don't patronize me, Christian coworkers. If I'm going to a party with a gigantic pine tree shoved into the corner of a living room, and there are stockings on the mantel, and red and green tissue paper strung up all over the place, and fat bearded guys in Coca-Cola red ho-ho-ho-ing over the Ipod, then even I know it's Christmas time.

Here then, are some lessons I learned while attending Wife's office "holiday that celebrates Christian traditions and Jesus" party:

- if you're going to make jokes about Christmas creep, don't wear a kippah.

- if you're going to wear a kippah, don't go around demanding gifts in Jesus' honor. "What, I'm Jewish, he was Jewish, we're like the same person!" doesn't work. Even if you've grown out a beard, and are wearing a robe and sandals. Even if you made your own crown of thorns. If you turn water into wine, then you should at least get first crack at the Christmas tree cookies.

- Don't refer to the holiday as Xmas. It's weak. And it makes baby Jesus cry.

- Tell funny stories about your spouse to her/his coworkers, but not the one about how she stripped her way through PT school. Because some people will remember that gem through their drunken haze, and will ask her about it at work. Which segues nicely to...

- Don't be the first one at the party to get drunk.

- Don't be the first person to take your pants off.

- Don't be the first person to suggest swirling some Ecstacy into the punch and "letting nature take its sexy, sexy course."

- Always hold on to the car keys. That way, no matter what you do, even if you get locked out of the house, you can sleep in the car.

- Don't compare male PTs to nurses. They don't appreciate that.

- Don't compare male nurses to dainty ladies. They have no problem hurting you in front of your spouse.

- Always thank the host. Especially if she's your spouse's boss. And she was nice enough to help you retrieve your pants from the bushes out front.

- If there is a Yankee swap, hold off on loudly mocking the scarf that looks like it was knitted by a blind arthritic thumbless freak. It was probably made by a coworker.

- If you don't like what your spouse ended up with at the end of Yankee swap, don't challenge the male nurse to a wrestling match for the Barnes & Noble gift card. You will lose.

- If you do take your pants off, remember to wear underwear. Ideally not a leopard print thong.

I found these lessons to be useful. If you feel they will ruin your good time, feel free to ignore them. Just remember: flowers can only make up for so much. Ignore enough of those rules, and you may have to shell out for jewelry. Maybe even real gold.

A quick update on the No Fear Player of 2008 - Old Rambling Man made a good case (albeit not in the Comments) for honoring Congress, but I don't like handing out awards to multiple people - trophies are expensive, and I'm trying to save up for some real jewelry for Wife so I don't have to sleep in the car anymore.

So your No Fear Player of 2008 is... Sarah Palin! I have to say, I'm giving this to her in honor of her becoming a grandma, and also because I appreciate her efforts in setting back the Republican Party a good 12 years. So thanks, Sarah! Good luck with the whole Alaska thing.

NFPOTY 2008

2008-12-18T16:03:00.003-05:00

There was some serious competition for this year's No Fear Player. And unlike last year, where OJ conquered the hill of douchebags in September with his audacious kidnapping and grand larceny, this one has come down to the wire.

Here then, are the nominees:

Gov. Sarah Palin (R-AK) -
- Helped the Republican establishment sink John McCain's Presidential bid;
- Spent upwards of $150,000 in public funds on clothes for herself and her family in less than a month;
- Repeatedly offended the letter "g" by excluding it from its rightful place at the end of words;
- Caused Tina Fey to have a serious identity crisis;
- Brazenly talked up abstenance-only sex education while her daughter was getting nailed by Levi Johnston;
- Used her developmentally disabled baby as a political prop.

CEOs Rick Wagoner of GM, Alan Mulally of Ford, and Robert Nardelli of Chrysler -
- killed the electric car;
- made really crappy, unreliable, inefficient, gigantic cars and trucks, allowing generations of small-penised men to feel good about themselves. Well, maybe that's not the worst thing;
- demanded a bailout from the federal government without any sort of plan to make their companies better;
- Flew in separate private jets to their first senate hearing to request money because they "don't have any;"
- made Michiganders look to their 3-9 Wolverines and their 0-14 Lions for comfort.
- turned Detroit from a decrepit, depressing city with no future into a decrepit, depressing city with no future.

AIG CEO Edward Liddy -
- took $150 billion in taxpayer money, used it to wipe his ass;
- after receiving all that money for financial assistance, then took his executives for spa junkets and massages. Of course, he shelled out extra for the happy endings;
- after getting caught on camera on one of said junkets, went back to the U.S. senate and requested more bailout money. Which he received;
- Got so much money so easily from the federal government that Wagoner, Mulally and Nardelli thought they for sure deserved some of that cheese.

And finally, Mr. Bernard Madoff -
- killed Jewish philanthropy;
- dug it up, raped it, and killed Jewish philanthropy again;
- stole $50 billion from individuals, corporations, and charities;
- turned the Palm Beach Country Club into a den of greed and hubris, instead of the den of elitism and snobbery it had once been;
- Together with Jack Abramoff, made Jewish non-profits long for the days of Michael Milken and Ivan Boesky (look them up, and reminisce about a time when financial malfeasance was nice and comprehensible);
- defrauded the nice little old ladies of Hadassah out of $90 million;
- caused 2 family charitable foundations to shut their doors, and renege on millions in committed grants.

Personally, as a Jewish Communal Professional, I say Madoff. But, as an American Taxpayer, I could easily see Liddy or the Detroit Three winning. I could also include Bob Babich, who has turned a once-mighty Chicago Bears defense into a toothless, blitzing-addicted paper tig- um, bear, but that might be a little too petty for this year.

The winner will be announced as soon as I blog again, because I trust very few of my 4 readers to vote, and also because I'm tempting you with an unusually quick follow-up post. So look out for that.

Don't tell me I don't love America.

2008-12-02T21:44:00.002-05:00

Thanksgiving, according to a wise man, is a special night.

It is my favorite holiday. Better than Passover, better than Kwanzaa, better even than Hobo week. And don't tell me that's not a real week, because Google says it is. And if you've never gotten down in August during Hobo week, then you have not lived. But despite all that frivolity and bindle-weaving, Thanksgiving is the best.

Is it the history of brutal oppression of an indigenous people? Maybe. Is it the awful football games? Doubtful. Is it the airing of grievances over heaping piles of white and dark meat, fueled by liquor and stuffing? Bet your ass. Mostly, though, it's the quintessential America-ness of the day.

You can have your 4th of July, your Memorial Day, your Arbor Day. Thanksgiving is the only one that combines gluttony, sloth, greed, wrath, lust, pride and envy. I don't know what it means that I associate America with the seven mortal sins. Could be that I just love Brad Pitt. Or maybe it's that I celebrated this holiest of days by participating in all 7 capital vices.

Gluttony - this is almost too obvious, but to wit: I ate an obscene amount of turkey, fought viciously against Brother A for the stuffing, and inhaled an entire chocolate pie. "Good pie, Ma." Damn skippy it was. And that was before Friday night, where the family dined on raw beef and leftover turkey.

Sloth - so much turkey, so much napping. And as for those terrible football games: did I watch them? Hells yeah. What am I going to do, get off the couch to find the clicker to change the channel? That sounds an awful lot like work, buddy.

Greed - this is the one I'm most embarrassed about. So you know how some malls opened Thursday night at midnight to bring in Black Friday early? And you sat at home wondering how unbelievably avaricious some whackos could be, how addicted they could be to good deals? Yeah, that was me and my family. Ostensibly the idea was to go at night, so we could have fun on Friday. That didn't actually work out, and we ended up going at night and during the day. This led to...

Wrath - wherein I cursed the gods, my own brothers, my wife, my child, capitalism, and the other whackjobs shopping at 3 in the morning, and almost stabbed a poor checkout girl with a cufflink. Plus the sleep deprivation gave me a nice short fuse right up until the holy Sabbath.

Lust - I'm just saying, Thanksgiving does some weird things to your brain. One minute you're staring at the perfectly cooked turkey, all gold and stuffed with stuffing, and then next your shirt is across the kitchen, you've got gravy all over your naked belly, and all the stuffing is gone.
(Note: that came out a lot more disturbing than I thought it would be when I started writing it. And yet...I'm not deleting it. So I guess the lesson is that I have no shame.)

Pride - Carving the turkey is a grand tradition in my family, passed down from my grandfather to me and Brother S. And I have to say, I carved the shit out of that turkey. It was magnificent. There was nothing left but gristle and bone, because I have the hands of a surgeon.

Envy - I'm pretty certain that, in the end, Brother A got more stuffing than I did. And I had to leave all that extra beef in Florida to be consumed by the rest of my family. And Brothers S and Z got some sweet-ass clothes. Should I care? Shouldn't I, who has talked up socialism and disparaged the free market all these months, let it go?

I should. And maybe if I'd been able to eat some more turkey I'd be ok. But you know what? While the rest of the country is gorging on leftovers this week - turkey sandwiches, turkey loaf, turkey burgers, turkey soup, turkey salad, turkey jerky, turkey stew, turkey chips - I've had to subsist on non-turkey roughage. And that's not cool.

My resolution for next year? Ether for the brothers, turkey for me. And lord help Child if he ends up liking dark meat instead of white...

Do you know where I can get a hot beef injection, now that Iowa is closed for kosher business?

2008-11-20T23:10:00.003-05:00

Best Kosher? Gone.

I will forever miss those fantastic bagel dogs and mini corn dogs. Now I'll probably live till I'm 95. What the hell am I supposed to do with those extra years? I should probably stop wasting my money on M.U.S.C.L.E. toys.

Goddamn the Rubashkin family. First they make me care how cows die. Now they interfere with my meat intake. What's next, I'm going to start eating more salad because I find out that beef isn't healthy? I should say not. This is America, not Holland. Stupid Dutch people.

Not that Pittsburgh's got great meat anyway. I'm from the Midwest, where cows are robust but easily duped into being killed and chopped into cutlets. I lived in Chicago, where it's a rite of passage to befriend a calf, raise it as part of your family, and then slaughter it and eat it raw. Because they're committed to the carnivorous lifestyle. And because if they want to catch up to Milwaukee in the percentage of morbidly obese adults, they'll have to suck down more Polish Sausage.

Even when I lived in Boston meat was decent. Romanian pastrami was made by the local butcher, who flew in tiny Romanian grandmas to properly spice the meat, and paid them in calls from their grandchildren and shelled pistachios.

But here, the meat sucks. And it sucked before the whole Agriprocessors embarrassment. And it will continue to suck until they admit that Pittsburgh is not, in fact, a mid-Atlantic city, whatever that means. It's a Midwest town, complete with a stagnant economy, declining population, and tons of fat, cigarette-smoking children. Revel in your middle America-ness! It will make everyone feel better. Maybe I'll even get some decent cold cuts soon.

A side note: I'm not sorry for the lack of postings recently. I have a real job, that requres actual brain power, so I can't make up the funny as often as you'd like. I am sorry, though for the lack of downright bizarre posting. There aren't enough weird people here, so I find my weirdness dissipating. It doesn't last all day anymore. So I'm working with a team of scientists to come up with some sort of solution until I sucker my whacko friends into moving here. I'll keep you posted on those results.

Also, the Bears suck in a completely uninteresting way.

Cows will not rest until we're all dead, and blah blah Bears lose

2008-11-10T19:51:00.005-05:00

I spent the last couple of days in agony. Agony because I was felled by a sinister plot hatched by our bovine nemeses.

I've written of this threat before, but evidently even I am susceptible to overlooking this clear and present danger to our American way of life. "Sure, they're always mooing, prophesying our doom, and seeing our extinction in their vacant black-eyed stares, but we eat them! Aside for some e.coli and Mad Cow, does anyone among us really suffer?"

I am here to tell you that I am on the bloody, smelly front in this gruesome struggle. Because I am one of the many who suffer from their vile biological weapons. And now I have to sleep on the couch because of it. Don't you see? These dopey bastards are attacking marriage, the fundamental pillar of our nuclear families!

I am lactose intolerant. This does not make me a bigot. I mean sure, I hate tall people, and men with very tiny chins. Women who can't pronounce the letter Q. Elderly folk who don't think it was better when they were young. And P.Diddy. But I am no racist. My intolerance is biological, according to my doctor, Nick Riviera.

Milk has its place. Milkshakes, cereal, mixed with Nestle Quik - not Ovaltine, because that's the devil's chocolate. Swiss Miss is a dirty whore.

Cows have developed this chemical as a weapon against the human race, to debilitate us so they can conquer us all. Lactaid is no shield - eventually our bodies acclimate to its power, and we are again relegated to the bathroom for hours, leaving it a dead zone, where nothing may grow again.

For three days after eating ravioli, an "innocent bystander," I was a noxious geyser of unpleasantness. Wife banished me to the basement. I haven't seen Child in a week. Someone with a deep voice was making Wife laugh hysterically last night - I can only assume Child has gone through puberty in my absence.

Once I warned you never to abandon the consumption of beef in all its forms. I come to you again with another responsibility:

Stop eating dairy. Stop drinking milk, stop eating cheese. Do not support the amoral, venal practice of keeping cows alive just so they can poison us with their parmesan cheese, their ice creams. It's a sacrifice, no question. I love pizza, and ice cream, and Wacky Mac macaroni and cheese. But I will not abandon my species for some cheesy fries. And neither should you. So put the mozzarella stick on the table, and back away.

Meanwhile the Bears lost to the Titans because their defense is intimidating in name only. You argue their run defense is amazing, and held Chris Johnson and LenDale White to under 30 yards total. I counter with the fact that KERRY COLLINS picked them apart like a three-day-old Thanksgiving turkey carcass.

Here's a fun fact about Kerry Collins that I don't think you knew - three months ago I was walking along the street when a homeless guy asked me for change, then fumbled the quarter I handed him. That man? Kerry Collins.

So don't tell me that the Bears defense is so great. They're getting by on reputation alone, and that's not even so stellar anymore. They're the new Ravens, which were the old Bears. So that means that in a few weeks Brian Urlacher is going to kill someone, then get away with it. That should be exciting.

Rex Grossman had another typical Sex Cannon-y day - 50% completion rate, 1 TD, 1 pick, 30 cheerleaders knocked up. Maybe a new nickname would be better: the Quarter. Flip it 5 million times, and half the time it comes up heads, the other half it gets picked off or fumbles the ball.

Election Eve highlights

2008-11-05T22:12:00.002-05:00

- Did you know that BET had election coverage? Say what you want about men with dreads in suits, but that guy could really break down an exit poll.

- CNN's holograms were a waste of money, and effort and completely sweet. I just can't wait for all the newscasters to do their thing via hologram. Not so much because it would change how they did it, but then they'd all be wrapped in a pretty purple aura. Because, like, auras are awesome.

- I was disappointed by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. Was 2 hours of coverage really too much to ask? They couldn't pull it off with some more guests, or more Rob Riggle pants-less time? But Colbert was hilarious, so it's all good.

- What I missed from Fox's coverage? Weeping. I wanted tears, and questioning of Jesus' majesty, and ridiculous denial:
"Just remember, folks, they thought Dewey had defeated Truman. And Dewey wasn't even bla- I mean liberal!"
"People lie in exit polls all the time. Is it so hard to understand how that dishonesty could extend into the polling booths as well? Voters actually lying to the government about who they want as president? For shame, America."
"Barack who? No, that guy is McCain's butler. McCain's just letting him give the victory speech because he's busy drinking mint juleps and watching Sarah Palin pick up pens off the floor. MMMMMM, Governor Tight-Ass indeed. What was that? We're on the air? ... I don't believe you."

- Has Al Franken won yet?

- I think it speaks volumes for Alaska that they still might reelect Ted Stevens. Let it go, folks. He's going to jail, I don't know how much he can get you in earmarks and wasteful projects while he's being ass-raped by Jojo.

- As a Jewish community professional focused on continuity and strengthening Jewish identity, I can't tell you what a marketing coup it is having Rahm Emmanuel as Obama's chief of staff. This is sure to bring in at least another three hundred dollars in donations. Maybe even 350.

- I'm not sure, but I think Wife let Child vote for her. We had touchscreens here in Pennsylvania, and Child was in the B-Jorn, and his hands were waving all over the place as they are wont to do, and all I'm saying is they spent a lot of time in that booth.

- John McCain gave a gracious, respectful concession speech. Who knows how things could have turned out for him if all of his campaign speeches had been like that?

- There was talk about what Sarah Palin would be doing now that the election is over, and she tanked McCain's campaign. Analysts gave 2 choices: a presidential run in 2012, or Hollywood reporter. Which I guess for her skillset there's really no other choices.

- Oh, I don't know if you heard this, but Obama is going to be the next president of these United States. I don't know what this means for the country, but I do know one thing for certain: his will be the most-mentioned middle name since Franklin Delano Roosevelt. We should just start calling him BHO and get it over with.

- And no, now that this is over I have no idea what I'm going to write about all the time. Probably porn. Yeah, porn it is.

Is it...is it over?

2008-11-03T22:29:00.003-05:00

24 hours from now I will be drunk. It will either be a wonderful, champagne-bath-style drunkenness, or a miserable "dammit 4 more years of white people" drunkenness. Either way, I love beer.

2 years! We've been reading about these two men for 24 months, 104 weeks. And it's only been a couple of months with Governor Yokel, but it's seemed like decades. I can't even handle Tina Fey's impression of her anymore, I want to smack both of them.

I'm not going to link to any of the recent articles. I'm not going to refer to time spent as a community organizer, or a POW. I'm not going to talk about reverends, or Alaskan secession, or plagiarizing British parliamentarians of the 1980's.

All I'm going to say is that you should vote tomorrow. But I'm not going to get all mushy and "hooray for the process!" like the fifteen e-mails I got today from people who are just trying to be up for democracy.

If you're going to vote for John McCain, curl up with your favorite Matlock rerun, and stay the fuck home.

Like I said before, I'm not rehashing the reasons you should vote for Obama. If you don't know them already, then you're either a hermit or opening up the newest KKK chapter in your area (franchising is a wonderful way to support your community, folks!). And if someone asks you who you voted for, it is not in fact private. Shouldn't you be proud of your vote? Shout it from the rooftops! Own it! If you're afraid of change or black people or someone who's smarter and more charismatic than you, just say so. Or if you hate old people and Vietnam veterans and soldiers in general, and think Jeremiah Wright was criticized just because he was speaking truth to power, then you should be proud of that, too.

Either way, vote for Barack Obama. You know you should.

Oh, and the Bears beat the Lions. Shocker. Even without the Neckbeard, and with the Sex Cannon leading the charge, it was still Matt Forte carrying us all home in his warm embrace. What a man.

Programming note: I wanted to liveblog tomorrow night, but it turns out I have friends and am going to watch the returns with them. I'll try to remember each sizzling hilarious detail of the evening, but as mentioned above I shall be trashed, so don't expect Shakespeare. But do expect random appearances by unicorns, Alan Greenspan, and a few former popes. Happy Election Day!

Once you go black...

2008-10-29T22:47:00.002-04:00

I was all set to write about my No Fear Player of the Month, Senator Ted Stevens, R-AK, who was found guilty on 7 felony counts of corruption and bribery. What makes him so gosh-darn indefatigable is that he is persisting in his Senate campaign. And because it's Alaska, home of rocks, oil, and Governor Tina Fey, he may be the first senator ever to serve his term from a jail cell. So hoorah to you, sir.

So I was going to snark all over that. And then I saw this:

He's dashing, he's daring, he smells like...our new President. Three cheers for the bus driver, bus driver man.

When I heard he was going to do this, I had several reactions. First, I wondered at the vast sums of money that allowed him to buy all that time: he's raised over $600 million in less than 2 years. That's 600 million dollars. 600. Million. He has so much money he's buying ad space in video games. He has raised so much money he's funding the next bailout. Obama has brought in so much cash he's making it rain, and he can afford to actually create precipitation instead of just throwing singles at strippers.

The next thing I thought about was how unbelievably self-indulgent the ad could be. The possibility of a front-runner for leader of the free world, having most of the country's attention to say...what, exactly? Would he take a crap on a picture of John McCain on camera? Hell, with that kind of money, he could pay McCain himself to appear in person and be pooped on, and still have enough left over to sway undecided voters in Virginia. Or would it just be footage of him speaking in that sweet sweet baritone, as Nubian princesses rubbed baby oil over his chiseled torso? Either way, it wasn't going to be pretty, and might just be the bump McCain needs at this late date to get back into the race.

So I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. It wasn't too self-aggrandizing, it wasn't all that messianic, and he wasn't on camera nearly as much as he could have been. And while I thought Bill Richardson's beard was pathetic, for the most part the endorsers were pretty good.

Was it a transformative experience? No. Do I think it will change people's minds? Sure, why not. If you thought Barack Obama was a Muslim socialist who eats the hearts and livers of gentle white folk while listening to Public Enemy and snorting blow off an American flag, then you might be persuaded by the video. And it put to shame McCain's increasingly nasty message, given that McCain and Palin came up exactly not at all. So in that sense it was a clear plus for Obama.

What I would have liked to see - and it would have been underhanded, dirty, and hilarious - is 27 minutes of backroom footage of Palin trashing her meal ticket, and criticizing his campaign strategy.

"Oh, dat old guy doesn't know his yass from his yelbow, donchaknow."

Lord, she's appalling. I know she's got lots of kids, and an adoring husband who loves her but hates America and wants Alaska to secede, but I really want her to catch a football with her nose, Marcia Brady-style. That would make my day.

Don't get all huffy and say she doesn't deserve it. She's earned the broken nose. Just ask John McCain.

Oh, and Simon Rich? Screw you too.

2008-10-27T23:57:00.003-04:00

In my rush to get all political and such, I forgot something. Simon Rich has written a new book. Is it crappy? Is it yet another pus-filled boil upon the once-unblemished chin of humanity?

It is not. Once again Simon Rich, son of a bitch that he is, has written another funny book.

I hate you, Simon Rich. You and your book deal and your nonsense. Your unseemly and inappropriate way of taking up too much space in my brain. I have better things to do, Simon Rich, than to fixate on your career and successes. As I'm sure you've got better things to do than to worry I'll jump out one day and stab you in the shoulder, but not very deeply, because halfway through my thrust I'll realize what a stupid idea it is to stab you, and create a whole mythology over your oeuvre, tragically cut short by a maniac who can't end a sentence when he knows he should, I mean here's good, anytime really would be fine, ok then.

But it doesn't matter. I'm still going to obsess over your youthful and overly-precious skill, and you're going to have to remain paranoid about receiving a frightful shock, and maybe a not-so-attractive scar.

If you didn't want some weird not-so-old guy cursing you and making voodoo dolls of you from couch lint and pages of the New York Times, you shouldn't have been all funny and interesting. I'm not sorry at all.

8 days and counting

2008-10-27T23:30:00.002-04:00

Need I remind you that there are 8 days between birth and circumcision?

That while 7, in the context of the world being created in 7 days, renders 8 as the supernatural, the "beyond worldly bounds?"

I think I do.

There are 8 days until Election Day. Some of you are angry because your candidate is old and likes boobs so much he made them his VP candidate. Some of you are strutting around like you forgot what racism is. And some of you are like me - terrified with a small but hardy center of quiet optimism.

Before I get to me, I want to say a few words about gridlock. If you think the government is bad, or at best incompetent, you want gridlock, so they can do nothing. This is George Bush's position, as dictated by Karl Rove and Dick Cheney: leave the government with nothing, and it can do nothing. Thus the free market reigns.

This is not how I roll. When the first whispers of an all Blue government arose someone asked me what I envisioned as a successful first term for Obama. Here's my list:

- Socialized healthcare. Not universal, socialized. Because we're socialists, and now we have all of the power. What are you going to do, suckas? Go wait in line for bread.

- Subsidized day care. Because more women working means more taxes coming in. Plus, as much as I have some problems with Hillary Clinton, there's something about a lady in a pantsuit...

- Does Hilary have one or two L's? Does she know? Does Bill? I bet Chelsea knows.

- A new GI bill. And not one based on 1945 costs, I'm talking free college for soldiers, and people who commit to an equivalent length of service to the country. And if the schools don't like it they're free to give up their Defense Department grants.

- North Dakota and South Dakota will be joined, and there shall be Dakota. Because really you're both useless as states, but it just wouldn't be fair to hand you over to Canada like you deserve.

- A commitment to alternative energy and infrastructure that includes internet access in every home. Where will all the money come from? What a silly question; we're Democrats! We're going to tax the shit out of rich people and corporations!

- For the first 100 days, every abortion in the country is free. Especially in Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, Wyoming, South Carolina, Dakota and Texas. Not because we hate babies, but because we hate your babies, almost as much as you hate your women. Except Sarah Palin, but she's Tina Fey-sexy.

Sure, there are dozens of other important issues, like bailing out some more investment banks, or nationalizing the search for a cheap, safe hydrogen engine. But those things can wait until a second term.

Huts, Bears and election fatigue

2008-10-19T22:46:00.003-04:00

I know, I'm sorry. I meant to post, but then I had this thing, and then my alarm was broken, and I got my foot caught in a bucket, and, well, anyway here I am.

This being the Jewish holiday season there just hasn't been all that much time to get my act together and write something, what with holidays coming every other day, and family flocking in and out. Rosh Hashannah - bam, the Balloon Man and his maiden fair. Succos comes, and the whole Fancy Pants Crew arrives, short one brother and one fiance and one dog. We really missed the dog (and of course the fiance and the brother. What are we, savages?).

Everyone has "their" holiday. Jesus has Christmas, seemingly everyone on my block has Halloween, Brother A shares Thanksgiving with the mighty Chocktaw tribe. Every Jewish mother has Passover, and if you want to share that's fine, just know that by taking their one week of glory you're breaking their heart, and the hearts of every mother who's ever slaved over a hot stove for the brisket you love so much. No, it's fine, take Passover. Here, here's my pancreas, do you want that too? How about my corneas, I hear they're worth lots of money in the black market.

Sorry, it's just that you can't channel a Jewish mother and stop after one guilt joke. You have to keep going until it's a whole thing.

Anyhoo, I've come to realize that Succos is my holiday. My family comes to stay with Wife Child and me, and every year I go out and I build a temporary structure with tarp and poles and bamboo mats. This year I had to get all new material, because for some reason I left my stuff in Boston, in Krazy's basement. Now he has two succahs. Surprise!

Let me say, for the record, that my succah this year was magnificent. The royal blue tarp set off the "holiday" lights perfectly, and the decorations purchased by the Old Rambling Man and the Mac Lady were beautifully done up. The weather held up, and our dining was phenomenal, if I do say so myself.

You may wonder, then, why I have provided no pictures of this glorious structure. That is an excellent question, reader. Give yourself a pat on the back! Round of applause for the astute reader! Huzzah! For s/he's a jolly good fellow, and all that!

Right. So the succah was blown over by a gigantic wolf looking for some piggies.

For all I know that could actually be the story, because I went out on Friday afternoon to set the table for the holy Sabbath, and lo and behold, the succah had fallen over. Tipped right over the table that Wife hates so much because it's huge and ugly. Yanked the nails right out of the 2X6's used as a base. Crushed all the pretty decorations. Sullied the royal blue tarp, which it turns out were actually quite effective sails. Next year we're entering the design into the America's Cup race.

So for next year I'll be taking suggestions on how to build my succah. And if you suggest a Kit, well then you can kiss my ass. I am a man: I have crafted the wheel, and invented fire. I can grow a mustache over the course of seven years. I can open jars with my bare hands.

So I'll use a kit for my next succah. Just as soon as I get my bikini line waxed.

Some of you may wonder why I didn't have anything rageful and hilarious to say about last week's Bears game, and Lovie Smith's squib kick decision. And I have to say, I was a little disappointed in myself for not taking the time. But then today happened, and now I feel like they're useful bookends on this season.

First, Neckbeard is playing way above his pay grade. WAY. What's with all the throwing? And the catching? And the yardage? Maybe it's secretly the Sex Cannon back there, but he's had a lobotomy, which since he's such an idiot in the first place it's actually made him a smarter player, and that's why whoever is under center is so good. Because otherwise, honestly, I have no idea what's going on.

Then there's the defense, the one that gave up the game-winning drive in Atlanta, and 41 points to the Vikings. Atlanta makes sense - three of our top four corners are injured (and yet somehow not Mike Brown, but it is still early in the season), and that's going to put a dent in anyone's Cover 2 defense. But 41 points to the Vikings? another 100+ yard game for Adrian Peterson the Greater? Not going to win many games like that, guys.

Finally, this is the second straight game that Kali Hester has gotten hurt on a return. He is our one reliable offensive threat, and yet Lovie keeps putting him in situations where he gets injured. How about larger pads? Or a gun, Last Boy Scout-style?

Either way, get him some blockers, man.

On a less funny note, I decided not to finish either of the books I was reading these past couple of weeks. Liberal Fascism and The Bulldozer and the Big Tent are so ridiculously biased and focused on right-left that they were equally insufferable. And that's sad, because I like Todd Gitlin. I think he's got great insight into modern media. But when it comes to politics he's just another Republican-hating liberal. Which is fine, I don't like them so much either, but I guess I'm just sick of all the election insanity. I mean, did you see the last debate? Obama is playing from so far ahead it will be a KKK miraKle if he loses. He knows it. McCain knows it. Hell, by this point I'm sure even Sarah Palin has figured it out, although her flow chart's probably written in crayon (sorry, forgot she's a lady. "Written in lipstick." Better?).

The whole debate was McCain trying with his wiggly eyebrows and awful, exaggerated facial expressions to get a rise out of Obama, and it didn't work at all. And do you know why? Because Obama is in the lead, and he's also not a whacked-out former POW who loses his temper at the drop of a hat.

Until, I don't know, there's some book that explains the current stock market train wreck in small words that I can understand, I'm not reading any books on politics. I'm going to read more books like Samedi the Deafness, with weird crazy plots with unreliable narrators who admit to being chronic liars. Fantastic and confusing. I have no idea if I "got it."

Happy 5769. Haha! That's funny, because 57 is a funny number. Because of Heinz, and ketchup, right? Ketchup! Hilarious.

If you're president and you know it raise your hands - oooh, sorry John. Debate #2, live from my couch

2008-10-07T21:17:00.003-04:00

Wife has decided she's not going to vote for a man who can't wash his own hair. Although she's a bit freaked by Barack's flippity floppity ears, so it might come down to the wire.

Tom Brokaw has teeny tiny eyes. They make his face look massive.

At 4 minutes, Barack Obama made the first attack on McCain, associating him with George Bush. That didn't take long. Why not put him in the same picture as Atilla the Hun, get it over with?

That's right, I dropped Atilla the Hun on your unsuspecting ass. Where else are you going to go for that kind of hilarity?

Does John McCain know that buying all those bad mortgages will, you know, raise spending?

Does anyone still believe that McCain talking to Joe Lieberman means he's reaching across the aisle? He barely has to reach across the jacuzzi. Wow, that's a G-dawful image. Sorry.

Can we all admit that both McCain's and Obama's voting records are in favor and against earmarks? And they're for and against regulation?

I have fifteen open bottles of tequila, just waiting next to my computer. When the hell is John McCain going to say "maverick?" Screw it, I'm changing the game to drinking every time Obama says "middle class."

Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Osama Bin Laden and clean coal walk into a bar, and order beers from the bartender. Who gets served? Bin Laden, because the other three don't fucking exist.

The one disappointment I have about this debate is that Tina Fey won't show up. Golly gee whiz she's sassy.

Hasn't Tom Brokaw worked a debate before? Time limits are for Senate debates, Tommy. And how can you even see those lights with those beady eyes?

It's about 10 pm, and so far the most impressive thing that either candidate has said was John McCain's correct pronunciation of E-Bay. It's not as impressive now that his running mate tried to use it to give away her plane, but still, that's what we're dealing with here. For the love of G-d, guys! John, did you know Obama's been calling you a felon? Barack, don't you remember McCain's most recent ads are barely hidden racist propaganda, and he's constantly misstating your positions? Get angry! This is so damn boring.

So the economic discussion is over, and McCain hasn't collapsed into a quivering sweaty heap, so he wins. Now on to foreign policy, where McCain is strong, but no one cares because they're too worried about getting evicted from their homes.

"My friends, this nation is the greatest force for good in the history of the world. Ronald Reagan, reform, earmarks, he'll raise your taxes, I know war, I know victory in Vietnam, surge, steady hand on the tiller." That is your pull quote for John McCain.

What does it take to coddle a dictator? Are there fluffy bunnies and daffodils involved? Must we play with his footsy-wootsies? Does he get a bubble bath?

You have to admit, "Bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran" has a nice bounce to it.

Unfortunately for McCain, no one cares about Iraq anymore. Which is too bad, because someone should tell him that the surge is working - I don't think he's heard.

No, there won't be a cold war with Russia, because if they try to take back the Ukraine and Georgia, we're going to bomb the shit outta those Russky bastards. Yeah! America! If I could raise my arms I totally would!

(Patriotic note: I know why Senator McCain can't raise his arms, and all about his torture in Vietnam. He was a war hero, and suffered terribly. So here's what I'll do - if he doesn't mention his time as a POW again, I won't talk about his awkward gesturing.)

Wow, serious Israel question. But it neglects the fact that if Iran attacks Israel, Israel might just nuke them. Not that Israel has nuclear weapons or anything.

Dammit! We almost made it through the entire debate without someone dropping a g. "Scrimpin?" Really, Barack? You're leading by 8 points nationally. You're ahead in Pennsylvania, Florida, Ohio, Missouri, Colorado, and New Mexico. Do you really need, at this point, to be stealing tactics from Tina Fey?

We deal now with countries that most Americans can't find on the map. China, Russia, America... Oh, and John? Your generation saw the separation of the continents and the extinction of the dinosaurs by meteor, so I think these challenges are actually right in your wheelhouse. Because you're old, get it?

I've got to say, while McCain didn't lose his head, he didn't really get in any good shots at Obama, so McCain lost. But maybe now we'll get to see another one of those patented Krazy McCain Kampaign strategies. I'm hoping he decides to stop referring to Obama by name, and just calls him "The Great Brown Harbinger of Death and Higher Taxes," which of course he will declare while in blackface.

What is sexier, Kyle Orton's neckbeard, or Ann Coulter's long shapely legs?

2008-10-06T16:36:00.003-04:00

Yesterday history occurred: Neckbeard threw for more than 2 touchdowns in an opponent's stadium. This is what is defined as a pass-happy attack in Chicago. As long as we keep winning 34-7, though, I'm pretty ok with the outcome.

Everyone got in on this one, as they should have. Playing the Lions is really just about stat-padding until they wash the Millen stink off their franchise. Alex Brown was a monster, Forte ran and caught and did not fumble - all three indicators that he is not Cedric Benson - and Kali caught a TD pass, which is a nice change from having to weave through all 11 defenders himself.

That's...that's all I've got on the game. What? When the Bears play well, there's not much to say. They didn't squeak it out despite 4 turnovers like they did against the Eagles, and even though the Lions are in the NFC North, they're not really a rival. To be a rival they'd have to play football, and not Whiny Bitch Brigade, which I'm told is what the Cubs are playing these days (my love for Chicago extends into Soldier's Field and a little bit into Skokie, and that's about it).

Meanwhile I'm halfway through my conservative reading, and what I've learned most is how conservatives think of liberals. Jonah Goldberg is very much caught up in what liberals and conservatives use to name their policies and selves. His argument, if I understand it correctly, is to say that all of the things that liberals today hate, and refer to as fascist? They started out as left-wing ideas. That leads to the fear of conservatives, which is that all those awful policies will come back under the guise of contemporary liberal politics. "See?" Goldberg says, "All those things you hate about us? Well, well, you did them first, so there! Thbbbbpttttt."

The problem is the difference in the way liberals and conservatives look at the past. Liberals, or progressives, are constantly looking for change, and new ideas, for good or bad. They tend to give less weight to the past, and historical evidence. Conservatives by definition are on the other side of the coin. They like how things were, and aren't all that big on change - hence, "conservative." And that's what makes them racist, or chauvinist, or what-have-you - because racism and sexism and prejudice were all okay in the past. And if you want things to be the way they were, and not change, then you have to answer for all those things you think are so great.

I really thought I wouldn't make it through Ann Coulter's book. I admit I never brought it out of my house. I was embarassed to carry it, even though it's a library book so she didn't get any royalties or anything. I didn't know that "If Democrats..." was basically a greatest-hits collection of her pull-quotes on everything from Bill Clinton to abortion. So in structure it was not unlike a book by George Carlin, or Jerry Seinfeld.

Brother A and I talked about who would be Bizarro Ann Coulter, the left-wing equivalent of her fire-breathing anti-choice madness. All we could come up with was David Cross, the stand-up comedian.

But here's the thing: Ann Coulter is not funny. She thinks she is, but she isn't. So the outrageous things she says are just insane and inflammatory, as opposed to the crazy things David Cross says that are jokes, and thus laughed at.

There are a couple reasons I came up with for why Ann Coulter isn't funny:

1) She's hot. Not drop-dead model style, but I have no problem saying that I would have sex with Ann Coulter. She's got a great body. She can yell whatever crazy crap comes into her head while she's naked, and it wouldn't matter much, because she probably looks pretty good naked. And therefore, she's never had to be funny until she wanted to be for her career, or to get on TV. And now that she's trying, it doesn't really work. Less talking, more nudity, Ann.

2) She's religious, and completely unconflicted by it. You can be a religious comic. Wasn't Bill Hicks a reverend? Doesn't Stephen Colbert go to Mass every week? But those guys are conflicted about their religion. And if they're not, their personae have no problem mocking religion in general, and sacrificing some seriousness for laughs. Coulter, though, has no sense of humor about religion, or Jesus, or the Catholic church. That's why it's not funny when she says that Bill Clinton should die - according to the Bible, she's completely right to say that. That makes her religious; it also makes her not funny.

3) She seems sincere. If she doesn't actually believe what she says, she'd almost be better off being more transparent about it. But I don't believe she's insincere, because then her entire career would be a performance piece, a work of art to rival any of the great masterpieces of human history. Hers would be the Taj Mahal of performance art. And she's just not that good. And therefore, again: not funny.

4) She goes back to the same well too often. Ann Coulter has three jokes: Bill Clinton and blowjobs, Ted Kennedy and drunk driving/murder, and liberals are godless traitors. Boring. Mix it up, Ann! If you're too predictable, then you won't be funny. Unless your audience is staring at your boobs. But fortunately for us liberals, we've been rigorously trained by our coconspirators the feminists not to stare at womyn's chests while we're talking to them, so your powers have no effect on us.

And maybe that's why we don't think you're funny.

2 for the price of none - rejection, I knew ye only too well

2008-10-03T13:37:00.002-04:00

You're such a wonderful audience, you're so great, I'm back for an encore today.

Let me say a few words about rejection. Personally and professionally I am intimately familiar with the word no. My interaction with the ladies before Wife was a multi-car pileup of unrequited adoration, a wonderfully varied story of friends and friends and friends and not a lot of heavy petting. And even when I did get the girl when I was starting out, it was always before they decided they liked bases 2-3 (4 being right out, as in the counting for the Holy Hand Grenade).

Later, I moved into the Friend Zone, where I established a truly magnificent estate, with rolling hills and endless vistas of really good friends with great smiles, heartbreaking eyes, and empty black hearts. Women, as a gender, have some serious creativity when they want to let you down easy. Or just let you down. Now they're all great stories -
"What the hell are you doing!" "
What if you have a really good friend that you want to be more than just a friend? Oh, that's sweet, you thought I was talking about you? Of course not, silly!"
"I know I said I'd go to the dinner with you, but I thought you were asking for a ride home. No, I'm not deaf. Why do you ask?"

ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

This is the part where Wife would come in and say "but you won in the end! Look, you've got me! And Child!" And all this is true. But for all the ladies who came before, you all sucked.

This wonderfully tragic trend continued into my professional life. Bizarre, convoluted scenarios played out around my job applications. Firms closed up shop, partner meetings were called for the first time in a firm's 50-year history, one firm swore they'd "have a final decision next week" for six months. For years I worked connections, networked, pressed flesh and put my game face on for crippling rejection after horrific blows to the ego.

Until yesterday.

Through a process of 12 - 12! - meetings, conversations with every one of my references, writing samples, and call after call from helpful connections, I got an offer for a job I really want. It's a community job, working for the Tribe in pursuit of "continuity," whatever that means. As for details, well, given the almost complete lack of filter I use on this site, certain things will have to remain a mystery, if only to protect myself and my organization. Suffice it to say that, just like when Wife gave in and decided to date me, this is well worth the wait, and the misery, and the stress, and the waiting, all the waiting.

As for all those other law firms and organizations? I happily wish you a year of venereal disease and flat tires on highways in the middle of traffic.

What'd I miss? And G-d Bless Eleska

2008-10-03T13:05:00.004-04:00

I've was out of town, and then celebrating the new year, which is the Year of the Kreplach. Meanwhile, I stop blogging, and the whole world goes to hell. Financial markets crash, Sarah Palin puts together a coherent sentence, the Brewers make the playoffs, Child develops a crazy multicolor rash from putting everything within reach into his mouth...a simple e-mail would have sufficed, Planet Earth.

But first things first: last night's vice presidential debate blew. Boooorrrring. Biden didn't call Palin "little lady," and Palin didn't freeze at the first mention of Afghanistan. Sure, she was tight, but this is just the fourth time she's appeared before a camera, right? I mean, she wasn't a news anchor or anything. She hasn't held any sort of executive position before, you know?

She used the word "maverick" almost as often as she talked about "how we do tings up dere, in Eleska." She was like a Bears Superfan, except without the gigantic swinging belly.

Biden, for his part, did not snort in derision, at least into the microphone. And he also didn't screw up too many facts, which is a nice switch for him. But all he had to do was not get in the way of the McCain snowball, now gaining force as it rumbles further down the mountain.

If I could sum up the past few weeks of polling, it would go thusly: "Huh, Palin is a chick! And she's hot! That's cool, I like hot chicks. Whoa, when she opens her mouth, she sounds like George Bush. I may be drunk, and about to have the bank foreclose on my house, and watching my nest egg disappear by the second, but I don't think I like George Bush. Let me get out my 401- wait, where did that go? Well let me check my medical insur- no, can't afford that either. Wow, Bush is a DICK! Palin must be a dick too!"

So that's settled.

I went to business school as an undergrad, majored in finance. So everyone in my major classes wanted to be an investment banker, because that's where the money was. Lots and lots of money, for lots of crazy hours, but hey, it's a buttload of money, right?

And now the investment banks are gone. Sure, Goldman is still there, and JP Morgan, but they're not i-banks anymore. Now they're... something else, I guess. Either way, I just feel bad for the guys coming out of my program this year. Where will they go if they want to be gigantic douches? Not everyone can be a hedge fund manager, and accounting is not nearly so flashy. And law school, while rife with douche, takes more work, and Daddy only said he'd pay for college, so that cuts out grad school.

I guess the thing we should be concerned about is all that douche overflowing into other sectors of the economy. So if you're parking valet gets all snooty about parking your Civic, just take a few breaths before stiffing him on his tip. Remember, just a month ago he was making 500K and snorting coke off silicon tits in a Soho martini bar.

I'm not going to even bother going into the whole collapse, mostly because I have no idea whether it was because of deregulation or encouragement by the government of banks to increase their subprime mortgage business so poorer people could own their own homes. All I know is that the market lost $1.2 trillion dollars of imaginary value last week, and that's not a good thing.

So if you could all check under your imaginary couches, and in the depths of your pretend purses and dream glove compartments, I'm sure we can find that money. Maybe we can even give some of it back to my old classmates. I don't know about you, but I'd like the guy parking my car not to have a death wish.

They call it the "forward pass."

2008-09-22T21:19:00.003-04:00

23 used to have wonderful connotations.

Prince says there are 23 positions in a one night stand. And he would know.

23? Michael Jordan's number. I hated the Bulls, and even I know he was a pretty good gambler.

First time I smoked the reefer? Dos. Tres. That's 23 in Spanish, as translated by my tutor Chad Johnson.

Last time I hooked up with a lady under the legal age of consent? Yes, I was 23. But she was very mature. And quite busty.

But now, 23 is an odious number, rife with unpleasantness. Because, you see, the Bears forgot that in football, the ball can be advanced down the field via not one, but two methods: by carrying it as one runs jauntily toward the end zone, or in a play whereby one player, usually the "quarterback" throws the leather-encased ovoid to another player, ideally one on the same team.

So at the end of what was a well-wrapped victory, with a tidy bow and all, former Bears passer Brian Griese threw the ball on 23 straight plays. And he led the Buccaneers back from a 10-point deficit, and to victory in overtime.

Now, I'm not a football coach. I am not a former pro football player, nor have I ever participated in organized football at any level. But if I'm ahead by ten points, and I've held the other team to 47 yards rushing, I might suspect that the other coach will call some pass plays. Maybe.

After the Colts win Lovie Smith talked about keeping safety Mike Brown in the secondary so he wouldn't get hurt, like he's done the past few seasons. And the Bears picked off Griese three times, which is something.

23! Twenty! And three! Straight! Pathetic. I was ready to write this game off after Kali went down, but they had the game in hand. And then...

Dos. Tres.

Bastardos.

What do you think he saw? The other side of the mountain, the other side of the mountain...

2008-09-19T11:12:00.002-04:00

I am a liberal. A progressive, if you will. I believe women should have choice. I don't believe the free market can be trusted to do much beyond make rich people richer. I believe felons should have the right to vote. I believe in amnesty for illegal immigrants. I believe in higher taxes for the rich, and comprehensive, intimidating regulation for coporations. I think the net should be neutral, and the death penalty should only be used when the system no longer discriminates against poor people. I believe day care should be government subsidized, and college should be cheap. I think the massive government subsidies that currently flow to oil companies should be diverted to innovative alternative energy companies, and that public school teachers should be paid more than garbagemen unless they're not actually good at their job, in which case they should be fired.

I believe that conservatives are both selfish and more optimistic about human behavior and instinct. "Why should the government handle social security? If the market can't handle it, I'm sure the next generation will be generous with their money." Which, if you have money, makes sense. The problem is all those pesky people who don't have money.

But whatever. That's not what this is about. This is about an experiment I'm doing. Recently I read "The Shock Doctrine" by Naomi Klein - a serious book about disaster capitalism and its proponents on both the left and the right, but mostly on the right - and "The Great Derangement" by Matt Taibbi - a less serious book about how the modern American is delusional, and that's why the modern American is both religious and may vote Republican.

I enjoyed both books immensely, for different reasons. One of those, however, was that they merely reinforced my own prejudices against conservatives and Republicans. I like to think of myself as open-minded, so this bothered me.

Then a fantastic solution presented itself: why not balance the books with two right-wing books? It's perfect! I'll find one serious conservative book, and one crazy conservative book, and I'll read those, and see if I can actually appreciate any part of either of them. I looked around, and found two books: "Liberal Fascism" by Jonah Goldberg, and "If Democrats had Brains They'd be Republicans" by Ann Coulter.

So today I began "Liberal Fascism." I haven't gotten very far, but I've already noticed a couple of things.

1) I'm embarassed to be seen reading this book on the bus. My ride takes me through two college campuses, wherein reside hundreds, nay, thousands of nubile young ladies, many of whom fancy themselves liberal. The sheer volume of Obama pins and stickers supports this. Not that I'm trying to date any of them, but I'm still screwed up enough to want complete strangers, albeit hot ones, to like me. Beyond that, I like being a liberal. I like the lifestyle. I like all the smart people I get to hang out with. I like the comedians. So projecting an image of myself that doesn't coincide with my internal conception of who I am, even if it's simply by reading a conservative book, makes me a titch uncomfortable.

Also it has a picture of a smiley-face with a Hitler mustache, which I think is just tacky.

2) In neither of the liberal books did the author feel the need to proclaim his or her patriotism. First because Naomi Klein is Canadian, so she doesn't need to love America - Dick Cheney's opinion notwithstanding. Second, well, I don't know why, but I would guess because the default is that if you live in America, on some level you love the country and its ideals. If you didn't, you would leave and move, say, to Canada.

Jonah Goldberg, like many conservatives it seems, needs to proclaim his love of America loudly, and often. He doesn't even make it through the introduction before referencing his love of America and all its citizens, even the crazy leftist Commie homos. Well, maybe not the Commies. Or the Muslims. But you get the point. His patriotic declamation comes in the midst of a paragraph where he might be seen to be criticizing part of American culture. This gives further weight to something conservatives do a lot in public - say that people who aren't conservative or Republican hate America, because they're criticizing it. Maybe this book will do something to explain the "obvious" connection between criticism and hatred.

3) Jonah Goldberg, as it turns out, is not actually Jewish, as I had guessed from the name. Which maybe goes to his claim that the Holocaust could never happen here, because this is America. Which is what they said in Germany. And Spain. And England. And France. And Italy.
(No one says this in Russia or Poland because, let's face it, those are prime anti-semitic plots of real estate.)
But he can be excused for this because he loves America so much, and America can do no wrong.

See? There goes my prejudicial sarcasm again. The point of this exercise is to balance that out a bit. After all, I'm against legislating health, like banning trans fats and speed limits and narcotics. I deplore the victimization that is a constant tool of the left, which only makes us look like a bunch of whiners. And I'm ashamed at my own conceit that liberals are, well, we're just smarter, is all.

So we'll see how this goes. Although Ann Coulter, man, I just hope I have the stones to carry that book in public. If only to see the wide-eyed contempt as I ride past Pitt and CMU.

R.I.P. David Foster Wallace

2008-09-15T14:32:00.003-04:00

On Saturday David Foster Wallace hung himself in his home.

He was one of my favorite writers, if only because he was so obviously more talented than I could ever hope to be. He was almost the polar opposite of Kafka or Isaac Babel, in his need to fully flesh out every aspect of his message, whether in an essay or a novel. Where their sentences are terse, with unfathomable depth, Wallace's are long, and struggle to convey every conceivable emotion and fact. The mystery in Wallace's writing is all on the page, if you've got the eyes to see it, and the mind to comprehend it.

Infinite Jest is an enormous, heavily-footnoted book. It has become the 21st century version of Ulysses - even if you've finished it, you didn't understand it. Not that anyone would believe you if you say you actually read the whole thing.

The lyricism in Wallace's writing is all mathematical and angular - his sentences don't so much flow off the page as march in robotic perfection. Despite that seeming lack of aenima his characters live and breathe, their words come naturally and true. Reading his stories makes your head crack open and leaves your brain and soul exposed, allowing you to pick through the mess and say to yourself, "wow, who knew I had all that inside me?"

His work is harrowing and beautiful and now there won't be any more.

"Sure, we know what you have to say, but what are other people saying about stuff?"

2008-09-10T11:40:00.005-04:00

I ramble. It's genetic. So instead of another post all about me and what I think (although it is my blog, so if you're reading, it's your own fault for being interested in the weird things in my head), here are some things that other people think about things I'm interested in:

And no, I'm not going back to make that paragraph more comprehensible. Go diagram a sentence, and parse it out. First one to finish gets a second apple at snacktime.

After having very specific and one-sided opinions about the respective conventions, I wanted some hard numbers to feel good about myself and my politics. Thanks, Slate! Now I know for sure that Republicans don't care about the issues affecting real Americans!

For those who don't know, Michael Ian Black is funny. Even his permanent slot on the "I Love the ___'s" VH1 shows give me chuckles. So I RSS'd his blog so I could read his funniness, and I enjoyed it. His commenters are slobbering fans, and that's why I'm nixing it off the required reading, but if he is even talking about Sarah Palin, you know it's important. Or at least possibly hilarious.

Did you want to know if Sarah Palin hates Jews? Me too. Turns out she does. Hooray!

I know it's late, but FreeDarko - usually devoted to liberated fandom and the glory that is professional basketball - took some time off this offseason and wrote some posts about the respective conventions. Check this out about the RNC.
Sorry about the italics. I'm not emphasizing to the exclusion of other links, although I do love my NBA talk mixed with a fine philosophical paste. So maybe I am pushing this one harder. You will love FreeDarko! You will obey my dog!

Some of you may know Michael Ian Black from his work in Wet Hot American Summer. Others may know him from "The State" or "Stella" . And some of you may know him from "I Love the New Millennium"or some other crappy VH1 nonsense. Either way, he's also a blogger, just like me, this lady, and the fifteen homeless guys I pass on my way to "work."

His commenters are pathetic, his posts hilarious, and recently he's gotten political.

Finally, the story that has been circulating the internets for a few days now, and has made its way to me via several different conduits. The New York Post has the story, as does Jewlicious.

Basically, a professor from the Fancy Pants alma mater has gone from he to she. Surgically.

Some of you may know that the FPAM - hell, what's the difference: Yeshiva University - is a tad...religious. Or at least they like to frame their marketing materials that way. Thus there is something of a brouhaha over the matter, although there are currently two Fancy Pants siblings at the school, and there have been no rioting reports as of 7:30 pm EST.

I think this is fantastic. Aside from the discomfort foisted upon the rabbis, there is the exposure of a true alternative lifestyle to a bunch of sheltered kids who think being a transvestite is just something people do on Purim.

So glory be to you, Professor Ladin. Enjoy womanhood and the opportunity to fondle your own boobs whenever you want. I have no idea what the Jewish legal issues may be, but I bet they're a lot fuzzier than Rabbi Tendler wants them to be.

Rushing is Matt's Forte (see that? That's a pun. Laugh at it.)

2008-09-08T23:12:00.003-04:00

Before I get to the Bears' win in week 1 of this new football season of the National Football League (does anyone actually call it the NFL anymore? Is this because the league is now old enough to be addressed with dignity and respect, or because people were forgetting what NFL stands for?), a quick word about two different quarterbacks.

Goodbye, Tom Brady. Kissing Suzy Kolber says it best - as usual - but it's important for me to emphasize the glory of Tom Brady's reverse-engineered knee. Not only do we not have to hear about the Patriots this year - except in the context of "What if?" - but we also don't have to hear about "18-1," which is almost as annoying as "1918." Oh, to be in Boston to hear the wailing, and the gnashing of teeth. Even Steeler fans are less overbearing. Although that could be because Pittsburgh is actually a football town, and Boston always has been and always will be the home of the Red Sawx...and some other teams. It could also be that the Pittsburgh accent is less grating. Either way, seeya next year, Tom.*

* - Please discount entire paragraph if Matt Cassel turns out to be the Second Coming. If that happens, well, that's 2 Apocalypse horsies, only 2 to go.

The above note is dedicated to the Kinney and the Sweater-Wearing Hippie. Enjoy your football season now, suckas!

Staying in the AFC East, we turn to Old Man Fav-ruh. I am still adamant in my glee that he is gone from the Bears' division.

HOWEVER. Perhaps going to a less prominent media market would have been a sweet relief (I hear Tampa Bay has a great QB retirement plan). But no, he had to be traded to New York, where any and all exploits - great and thoroughly average alike - will be picked apart and glorified ad infinitum ad nauseum, until Peter King gets lockjaw.

Essentially someone needs to kneecap Brett Fav-ruh. Or tell him about the super-cheap Vicodin in Toronto.

There was something else I wanted to talk about...something having to do with a neckbeard slowly choking the life from one Peyton Manning...

Oh yeah, Matt Forte ate some tiny horses for dinner last night.

I have to admit, it's weird writing about a complete and thorough domination by the Bears that really didn't have a lot to do with one Devin "Kali" Hester. But I'll take it.

Some fun facts:

This was the first time the Colts have lost before November since 2005. Losing in September and October is known as "being the Detroit Lions."

Kyle "Neckbeard" Orton threw no touchdowns, but no picks, either. The family of nuthatches living just below his chin celebrated by not crapping down his jersey.

Matt Forte needs a nickname. It's early, but I'm thinking "Walter Payton Mark II." It'll have to be shorter somehow, but we'll work on it.

After the game Brian Uhrlacher was interviewed by Random Female Sideline Reporter, and she asked him whether he thought before the game that the Bears could pull of an upset. Before he answered Uhrlacher took a long look at the lady, like she'd just farted on his plate of ribs. After he finished glaring Uhlracher just said "who said it was an upset? We came here to win." Then he grabbed her head and ripped it right off her body. Former girlfriend Paris Hilton says that Bri-bri is so cute when he's angry!

Cedric Benson spent last night offering sexual favors to elderly men in exchange for table scraps. At least he ate well.

The guys in the booth referred to Bears' TE Desmond Clark and WRs Rashied Davis and Marty Booker as "weapons." I giggled, until I realized he was serious.

On his way out of town Lovie Smith left a flaming bag of dog crap on Tony Dungy's front porch. The bag was made of a program from the 2007 Super Bowl, and Rex Grossman's right testicle. Never fear ladies, the Sex Cannon has 8 more.

How do Republicans spell President? P-O-W. RNC, Day 3.

2008-09-04T21:58:00.002-04:00

It's not a Republican gathering until old white people start dancing to "Celebration." And...done. It's sexy, but for my grandpa.

I caught the tail end of Cindy McCain's speech. Was she sedated? She didn't even get a chant going. Michelle Obama might have her hands full with Gov. Tina Fey, but she would eat Cindy for breakfast.

Wait, who was a POW? McCain? No way. Did - did other people know that already?
(I know I made a similar joke last night. But seriously, how many frigging times to we have to hear McCain is a war hero? Can't we just stipulate it, litigation style?)

"Country first." I know Republicans love this new motto, but what about Jesus? Don't they love Jesus too? And low taxes? What about the troops? If the troops and the country sat on opposite sides of the room, which way would McCain go?

Super fancy rising dais. The Republicans have obviously spared no expense. Or that would have been the case, if they'd had McCain descend in a jetpack.

Has anyone figured out what the rationale is behind the pictures they keep putting up? Is there some sort of order? Are they supposed to coincide with cues from the respective speeches? Because if so, whoever is in charge should be fired. It's completely incoherent.

It only took 3 days, but someone finally mentioned George Bush. Not by name, but he is technically still president, so odds are that who McCain was referring to. W0w, McCain doesn't even mention George H.W., just in case anyone mistakes one for the other. At least...GHWB was #41, right? That wasn't McKinley, or somebody? How many presidents have we had anywa- USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!

Sorry, had to chant there. What was I saying? Oh yeah, it's official - everyone agrees George Bush is a douche.

Mrs. McCain looks amazing for 96. I didn't know she was 3 when she had John. (And there's you're one old man joke. I'll try to avoid the low-hanging fruit from now on.)

Wow, crazy pro-choice protesters. Those were some fancy underwears. McCain handled it well, I think. He didn't yell at them to get off his lawn, or say that underwear was slinkier in his day. (Seriously. Last time. I swear.)

Silly John. The Republicans don't want to hear about the recession, or the war, or any unpleasantness. Leave it to the Democrats to face reality. Just go back t- USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!

Damn, lost my train of thought. I love this country.

The biggest unexpected problem that McCain will have with Gov. Palin is that she brings almost too much energy to the bottom of the ticket. He doesn't quite match up. Although he was a POW, so he's got that going for him. In case you hadn't heard.

Yep, Palin knows what things actually cost. That's why McCain picked her, so someone in his administration would have that knowledge. But I bet he knows what he pays for his Viagra! Haha!
(That one doesn't count. I was mocking him for being impotent, not old. It's completely different.)

When does it get awkward for McCain and Palin to preach change to the very party that they want to challenge? You know, the one that's been in power for 8 years. If the crowd ever figures out how to chant "cognitive dissonance," this hoedown will really get started.

The benefit to the Republicans about the economy being an issue is that the words "Guantanamo," "torture," "waterboarding," "Abu Ghraib," or "bin Laden" don't have to come up.

Yeah, fight those corporate fat ca- wait, aren't we corporate fat cats? Weird. Isn't this the Republican convention? It's like we're in the Twilight Zone!

Yeah, go Neevys! Yay Michigan! Yay Wimmers! Yay Pennsylvania! All we need is Ohio, and we're set. Yay Oh- nope, New Hampshire.

Wait, is he talking amnesty? The daughter of a migrant worker is an American? Don't tell Texas. Or Arizona. Or Iowa.

Yay culture of life! Yay war!

It's annoying, I admit, that McCain mentioned judges and Obama, the con law professor, did not. Cause it's, you know, important.

How exactly do you rave about personal choice thirty seconds after talking about being anti-choice? At what point does this bec- USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!
I think I remember what I was saying...something about Commies and their something something.

If you're out of work, how do you pay for community college? And who is going to pay for the "retraining?" Say what you will about Obama's abstract claims in his speech, but McCain is just as vague. No, I will not make a joke about him not remembering the details. Not even if you ask really nicely. I won't do it, I won't say that he's probably not even wearing matching socks. I'm just not that hard up for a funny.

Do the Republicans even bother listening to the Democrats before they refute them, or do they simply take talking points from 10 years ago and reuse them? Although maybe if the Democrats finally put up a fight, the Republicans would actually have to respond with new lines.

FINALLY he mentions drilling. Those people have been dying for a "Drill, baby, drill!" chant.

Is it 1960? Are we back to conflating Russia with Iran? I just want to know before I go and waste money on a red shirt that I'll just have to burn in a year or so.

McCain sounds completely out of place and insincere when he talks about domestic policy. But he does foreign policy well.

ENOUGH WITH THE GODDAMN LICKING OF THE LIPS.

Wow, that was the fastest turnaround from bipartisanship to knocking Obama I've ever seen. Upwards not downwards, forward not backward, and always whirling, whirling towards the lowest common denominator!

I would love the transparency and accountability if the policies I got to see and have accounted weren't so, you know, Republican.

I'm sorry, but standing in front of a video of the American flag while you speak is cheating. It is. I could stand up there and get an ovation. I'd have to be naked and doing my "Rhumba of Sauciness," but still, people would clap. Some would even stand.

McCain spoke well. Not President well, but certainly good enough for everyone to wish Sarah Palin was still speaking.

Seriously, Palin vs. Obama would be a real contest. That would be a campaign I'd be afraid of.

Finally, it's all over. Did you know football started tonight? Quick prediction - the Bears will be average. YEAH, MEDIOCRITY!

NowI can go back to posting randomly, and reintroduce myself to Wife.

"Hi honey! I'm right out here...just toss me a key to the new lock, and I'll be right in...honey?"

America, F*** Yeah! - RNC, Day 2

2008-09-03T22:00:00.004-04:00

I'm switching tonight from CNN to C-Span, because I want to actually hear the speeches. First up - America's Mayor and America's Cross-Dresser, Rudolph Giuliani.

Gee, you think he'll say something about executive experience vs. Washington experience?

I'm just curious how he'll mention 9/11 without mentioning George Bush.

Left wing media? Hollywood celebrities? That's right, this is the GOP. If you don't mention the vast left-wing conspiracy at least once, you have to hang out with Ron Paul. Maybe that's why his convention had more people last night than the actual Republican convention.

It's September. Day 2 of the RNC. Does Rudy really need to tell the obscure story of how John McCain was shot down over Hanoi and tortured? Is there someone in Montana who doesn't know the tale?

Haha! Community organizer. That was good one.

Booooo, machine politics! If you really want to cheat, Democrats, become friends with the guys who make the voting machines (that would be Diebold, substantial donor to the GOP).

C-Span found a black guy in the audience! What's the under on how much he's on camera? 15? 25 times a day?

Who are the folks up front in the cowboy hats? I don't have a joke, I'm just curious.

Will the crowd keep chanting "zero" when Gov. Palin takes the dais? I don't know if the whole experience argument is going to be so effective now.

"Change is not a destination, just as hope is not a strategy." That was a quality line, I admit it. Zing.

Yeah, oil! Thanks, Exxon reps! THAT'S who the cowboys are. "Drill, baby, drill!"
(Serious note - I was pissed at first by the Democratic flip-flop on off-shore drilling. And then it occurred to me that they were just doing what they're supposed to - representing the will of the people. People want drilling, they get drilling, even if it's useless).

Islamic terrorism! Boooo! And THERE is your 9/11 mention. Now I know it's a Giuliani speech.

What's a hockey mom? Is that like a soccer mom from the North, or with fewer teeth?

Yeah, 300 foreign policy advisors! Who wants a leader with people who give him advice that he actually listens to?

I'm sorry, Rudy, I'm not a Georgian. I really feel Azerbaijani.

Is the mayor of New York mocking Obama for allegedly saying that Wasalla isn't flashy? Gotta love that blue collar background, Rudy.

A speech at the RNC trumpeting working women? Am I high? No, just really really drunk. All in all, though, that was quality. Sharp jabs, humor. Damn you and your fancy words, Rudy Giuliani.

No pantsuit for Gov. Palin. Do you think she even owns one? Did she have to burn every one she owned to accept the VP nomination?

Seriously, she's Tina Fey. It's crazy.

Is it that amazing that McCain would rather lose an election than lose a war? Wouldn't that be a baseline position for a presidential candidate? Maybe I'm just a crazy idealist.

Why does she keep saying "our nominee for president?" Why not use his name?

Did she just say that victory in Iraq is in sight? That arena might the only place in America right now where those words wouldn't get you laughed out of the room.

Again with the lip licking. Aggravating.

Bristol, Willow, Trig and Piper. No one knocks her Yuppie-ish name choices? How about a Joe, or a Claire? Those are Commie names in my book (The book is called "Commie Names for Your Red Baby - From Karl to Mao." Pick it up at your local independent bookstore).

How can she be an advocate for special ed and mothers if she's against money for day care?

Todd Palin is a man's man. Oil man, fisherman, snowmobiler. Piper, get that baby away from me, she's talking about my snowmobiling!

Republicans talk about their pride in America a lot. Why are they so defensive? We get it, you love America. We believe you. Really.

Were there visual aids at the DNC?

Good line about the bitter religion and gun- clingers. She's a solid speaker.

Can you mock the Washington elite with John McCain, multi-term senator, at the top of the ticket? Ah, who needs consistency.

Yeah, Sarah? You're not going to get applause by knocking the good old boys at the RNC. Don't forget, they ARE the good old boys.

Hey, she knows what E-Bay is! She should teach McCain.

I think I like her speaking style better than Hillary Clinton's. If only her positions weren't, you know, a wee bit crazy.

Strong words against Russia. You gonna back that up?

Don't worry, America. Alaska has plenty of oil and gas. For about a year or so. Available right quick. In a decade. Maybe.

And that was the biggest round of applause for alternative energy at a Republican gathering ever. All kinds of stereotypes are being torn down tonight.

She was doing so well. I was impressed. But the "and [Obama]'s worried about someone reading [Al Qaeda] their rights." That's cheap. Beneath her, really. And then the line about using change to promote his career? Why? Why not offer an actual, substantive response? Screw that noise.

I know she's trying to speak truth to power about McCain's maverick-ness, but the problem is that the people in the cowboy hats? Sitting right in front of her? Yeah, those are the power.

Hey, did you know John McCain was a POW in Vietnam?

I may hate her politics, but boy do the Palins make a lovely Christmas card.

Whoa, John McCain showed up! I've never seen a presidential candidate make a surprise appearance after his VP candidate speaks!

The upshot is she gave a great speech. But we knew she would - she's hilarious on 30 Rock.

Day 1- I mean 2, in the uberhip Minnesota environs

2008-09-03T11:36:00.003-04:00

I really did want to liveblog the RNC like I did with the DNC last week. Really. But Wife and I had to paint our new apartment. And unlike other couples, we don't just talk about improving our new digs - we actually go out and do it. Some people may sit down on a Sunday morning over their mimosas and New York Times and talk about colors and brushes and whatnot. Only the Pants Wearer and his intrepid spouse put family values and warm inviting color schemes over politics. Let's see my opponent do that.

I mean, if I had an opponent. Which, as far as I know, I do not. Except maybe our mailman. I hate that bastard.

Anyhoo, I figured today, for your enjoyment, I would un-liveblog last night. To maintain a dispassionate objectivity I have read exactly one article on the night's spectacle, and that only to learn who spoke: George Bush, Fred Thompson, and Joe Lieberman. Herewith, then, are my imagined reactions to the speeches they gave in my head.

President Bush:

I wonder how that little dialog went? "Mr. President, we'd love for you to give a little talk for the good people of Minnesota. But we're sure you're very busy, what with the whole last year in office-senioritis thing. So don't worry about actually coming to the convention."
"Are you sure? Cause after I play some golf in the morning, and write a stern e-mail to Russia about the treaty that they're not, you know, doing their thing for, holding up their end of the bargain, I'm pretty free for the next four months."
"No, sir, really. You don't even need to show up in the state. We'll set it up all nice for you in the White House, and we'll do a live feed."
"Sweet! I don't even have to put pants on! Can I mention how close John and I are now, after all that we've been through?"
"Maybe talk about the war, or Gustav, or something not related whatsoever to Senator McCain. In fact, if you don't mention a single thing on which the two of you agree, we'll send you a whole bag of Whatchmacallits."
"'Whaddayacallit? Whatchamacallit!' You know I love that commercial? Condi, call the FCC, I want to watch that fucker right now."

Does Bush even know who Sarah Palin is? Does John McCain? Because the Republican leadership has NO idea.

Fred Thompson:

experience, war hero, experience, POW, ready to lead, Sarah Palin, actual governing, corny Southern idiom, John McCain - Stallone+Chuck Norris+Ronald Reagan, war hero, experience, did you know that John McCain fought in Vietnam? experience, corny Southern joke. The end. As far as I know he didn't take a nap at the podium, so the speech was considered rousing and vigorous.

Joey Jewy Lieberman:

The one thing I did hear was that he spoke about loyalty. Excuse me while I clean up the vomit on my keyboard.
McCain is my friend. He didn't abandon me just because I support a wasteful war. In fact, that's WHY he likes me. Take that, Connecticut High quarterback Tad Whitestone. Try and give me a wedgie now, see how quickly Mr. War Hero Presidential Candidate kicks your ass.
Sarah Palin? Experience up the ass. Fights corruption once everyone hears that something is corrupt. That's efficient - if she'd gotten ahead of the people, no one would give her credit, except those who value ethics and integrity.
(Factual note - you know all that hullaballoo about Palin fighting against the Bridge to Nowhere? Yeah, she John Kerry'd that: she was for it before she was against it. But don't criticize her about that, it's in her past, and it's not nice to scold a lady. Cause if you remember, Sarah Palin is a woman. And women vote for women, right? Right? Because otherwise, why the hell is she on the ticket?)
Democrats don't love America as much as Republicans do. That's why I'll be a Republican as soon as they let me. I may have to convert, but whatever. It's worth it. And John McCain is the man to lead us into new and more exciting wars, like with Iran, or Jordan, or Syria, or the Palestinians, or Hezbollah, or the Labor Party, or Tzippy Livni - wait a second, sorry about that. Sometimes I get my countries mixed up.
(Jewish note - don't think I don't love and adore Israel, and support and burn for its right to exist and be secure in its borders. But maybe supporting military action that, in the long run, is against Israel's security interests might not be the best way to protect her. But then, I'm not a neoconservative, so what do I know.)
Oh, and all the bubbes in Boca? Don't forget, Barack Hussein Obama is black. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

I love the 4...th day at the DNC

2008-08-28T22:02:00.003-04:00

How did David Strathairn get the nod to narrate Obama's biography video? Is it because he was so great as a blind guy in Sneakers? Or a guy who loved to watch chicks play baseball in A League of Their Own?

Right, the whole Edward Murrow thing in Good Night & Good Luck. Now it all comes together.

Michelle and Barack are a cute couple and all, but who goes to a community meeting on their first date? Cheap people, that's who. That would have been a dealbreaker for me.

Woohoo, student loans! Give it up for Pell Grants!

This may be the wrong night to ask this question, but I'm really curious: who is more defined by the prominence of his ears, Barack Obama, or Stephen Colbert? Is Colbert's whackjobness attributable to that rogue appendage? Seriously, it's trying to escape his head.

I have to apologize, I didn't really focus on the biography video. Solely based on the music, though, Obama's life was really depressing. I didn't know they had black kids in Dickens novels. Maybe pick some Kanye or Presidents of the United States of America, something to get the booty shakin'.

Thank Hillary Clinton? Check. Bill? Check. There, that's done. Now let us never speak of them again.

Again with the licking of the lips! Where's the Bert's Bees sponsorship when you need it? Or would that put Obama too close to the Big Wax lobby?

Clock it - just four minutes of positivity before the first knock on the Republicans.

"8 is enough." I loved that show. Makes for a good chant, too.

I'm not ready to take a 10% chance on change - now that's a buuuuuuurrrrrn.

The problem with bringing up the "nation of whiners" quote is that McCain can quote Obama directly - not his proxie - on how people are "bitter," and thus cling to "guns and religion."

I don't get the whole "footage of TV screens" thing. Doesn't CNN have access to those feeds in Maryland and Times Square? Watching TV watching TV is just weird.

Hooray! Real, substantive policy!

10! 10 years to wean ourselves off Middle Eastern oil! Which would be more impressive: Kennedy's man on the moon prediction, or energy independence? It's damn close, that's for sure.

Um, Barack? Ixnay on the eanclay oalcay and uclearnay owerpay. Not exactly the crowd to talk up Big Coal and Big...what, Uranium? Big Atom? Big Nuke? We've got to come up with some cheeky reference to the nuclear power lobby.

Whoa whoa whoa. The whole point of being a Democrat is so I don't have to worry about personal responsibility. If you're going to start making us do stuff, we're gonna, you know, not...do...stuff.

Un. Fucking. Believable. I know I'm supposed to keep up with the funny, but my sweet Lord this is an amazing speech. Did I say that Biden might be ready to speak on Thursday? After this, the bar is set way too high for anyone but Barack Obama to speak on Thursday. Obama's speech in 2004 was incredible, but this...wow.

David the commentator asked me what I have against John McCain, why I hate heroes. I had some good lines ready - I fear the elderly, he's been eating out of Bush's hand ever since 2000, that I want a president who knows where he left his car keys, let alone the difference between Shias and Sunnis.

But you know what? Fundamentally it's about presence, and ability. Barack is presidential, and John McCain is not. Barack Obama has the wherewithal, the intelligence, and the integrity to succeed at the most powerful job in the world, and John McCain does not. John McCain is a war hero, no question. But Barack Obama is the next commander in chief.

But if Obama ends up giving us more empty rhetoric, and doesn't accomplish anything, I will rake him over the fucking coals. And they won't even be clean coals. Dirty, polluting coals, sprayed with plastic and Saudi Arabian oil.

My lovely lady Hump Day: Day 3

2008-08-27T21:49:00.004-04:00

Fantastically planned move to have Hillary stop the roll call vote and have an "acclamation" in favor of Obama, which is basically the honorable way of saying "sure, I know I got more delegates, now that Florida and Michigan are here. But I will be run out on a rail if this goes on. And something tells me I'm going to be back here in 4 to 8 years."

And Bill Clinton the mensch! Whodathunkit? He could have saved everyone a whole lot of trouble if he'd just stopped being a prick five months ago. Who knows? Maybe then Hillary would be speaking on Thursday.

That, by the way, is my new favorite "thrown under the bus" idiom. Not "she'd be the Democratic presidential candidate," but "she'd be speaking on Thursday." It works in other situations, too. "Did you hear Morris got promoted to Regional Director? Man, I knew he was ready to speak on Thursday, but I didn't think it would be this soon. What a dick." "Oh, honey, straight A's! Well look who's going to be speaking on Thursday!" Admittedly the meaning gets lost in there at some point. But I'm going to break it out randomly, see if it plays.

The movie about the soldiers is poignant, and inspiring. What else am I supposed to say? That Speilberg hasn't made a truly great movie in years? That Schindler's List was overrated? Excuse me while I go outside and drown some puppies.

Why is it that only CNN gets to be in the building? Why does Chris Matthews have to fight off hoboes to do his show? Aside from him being a gigantic tool, I mean (there's a guy who's never going to speak on Thursday. ZING!). But you don't think it would make great television to have him inside, trapped for hours with all those former Clinton supporters? He'd have lost a testicle by this morning, at the latest.

I was just thinking to myself this morning that McCain should announce his VP candidate this week, and lo and behold! Who's wicked smart? Yeah, the guy over here in the pants. That's right.

What if Biden declines the nomination? Would that not be the biggest hoot?

Who is Quincy Lucas? Whoever she is, she LOVES Joe Biden. Yaaaayyyyy! Forget Michael Buffer, I want Quincy Lucas announcing my entry into any and all rooms from now on.

Sure, he was elected by acclamation, but I love the insertion of pointy-headed regulation-talk to make things official. Further proof that the Democrats, despite their celebrity candidate, are still the party of nerds.

If you're going to name your son Beau, you better have another one named Luke. And you better buy them an orange muscle car with a Confederate flag on the roof. And convince them to run moonshine past that evil, sweaty Boss Hog.

Have I not been paying attention before? Do all public speakers lick their lips? Because if that's the case, it's a lot less disgusting than I thought. Wait - no, it still looks all snake-y. Buy some chapstick, drink some water.

Is it really that big a deal that Biden takes the train home every night to Delaware? Housing prices are insane in the District. Or is it that he's not flying? Does this make him the first green Vice President?

McCain has a lot of friends. All kinds of Democrats claim him as a friend. But if all my friends got together and trashed me in a convention-like format, I would find some new friends.

"That's not change, that's more of the same!" I love cheers! Whoa, there are even signs! Someone's looking to speak on Thursday (see? It's catching on, you'll see).

The crowd is just looking for something, anything to chant. If Joe Biden wanted to bring the house down, he'd start "We've got spirit yes we do, we've got spirit how bout you?" And that would be the greatest convention moment in history.

Biden clocked in at under a half hour. Now that's change you can believe in.

Wait, what's that? Is that...why, that's Barack Obama's music! What's he doing at the Democratic convention?

Joe Biden's speech was good, but there is no doubt whatsoever about who's speaking on Thursday. Barack Obama makes me want to find some old white Vietnam veteran and kick him in the shrapnel.

DNC Day 2: this time, it's...Tuesday

2008-08-26T21:41:00.005-04:00

A quick note from last night. It turns out that Michelle Obama's dress was green, not blue. There are two ways to look at this: the first is that I obviously failed kindergarten. The second is that maybe she was making a very subtle point - green is the new blue. Does that mean the Democrats are now the Green Earth Party?

Mark Warner's lips are very chapped. He keeps licking them. And an interesting point from the Old Rambling Man: "Democrats aren't as good looking as Republicans." I don't know what this means for the Democratic party. But he's not wrong.

Joe Biden's daughters? Genetically engineered Aryan hotties. Is that how they're grown in Delaware? Why am I only finding out about this now? I could have been rejected by all kinds of hot blond chicks!

I'm sorry, I'm not going to watch all of Ted Strickland's speech. On Comedy Central Lewis Black is spitting his rage-filled anger, and that's more interesting than some governor.

And...I'm back.

Bill Clinton is taking his time getting to his seat. Maybe it's because Deval Patrick is speaking, and Clinton is sitting so far away he thinks he's snubbing Obama. Oh wait, I just read he's skipping Obama's speech. Stay classy, Bill.

I'm forgoing links during the convention because I'm "liveblogging," which means I'm too lazy to give these posts any sort of editing or fanciness, despite the site's name. I guess I could tell you that the pants I'm wearing are fancy, but I'm not actually wearing pants.

I think I'd move to Montana just to have Brian Schweitzer as my governnor. He's awesome. From his shuckling to his bolo tie, he's like Cowboy Santa. No, this is better - he's Frank Caliendo! Except he isn't a drooling idiot. The pointing, the jokes about McCain's houses: he's on fire! He should have picked a state people have heard of.

When I grow up I want to be a Petrodictator.

With all this talk about Hillary's awful singing voice, I kinda want to hear it. Just to know, you know?

I thought Chelsea was a redhead. Maybe her hair just looks blond against her mom's orange suit. Not really a power color, more "look at me! Look at ME! LOOK AT ME, DAMMIT!"

Bill Clinton's brain: "why isn't Hillary a proud wife? Oh, right, I forgot."

If I was ever to attend a presidential convention, I'd definitely be one of those whackos with the buttons and the hats and the bumper stickers everywhere.

Michelle Obama's brain: "Just stay on message Hillary. I don't want to have to bust your ass on live TV."

"Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantsuits?" Catchy. They should write a crappy book and some crappy movies using that phrase.

Hillary's speech sounds, well, presidential. Anytime now she's going to get around to Obama, right? Right?

Ah, there it is. Only took 10 minutes. Not bad.

Say what you will about Clinton, but she's put more substance in her speech of support than anyone else has so far.

Fifteen minutes in, her first mention of Bill. Snuck it in just under the wire.

I would bet that Clinton is still speaking, but the Daily Show is on, and I need to know what's going on at the convention.

Denver = Changing hope into butterflies and sunshine

2008-08-25T22:43:00.000-04:00

I like the Joe Biden pick. I think he'll reassure Americans who are uncertain whether Obama shares American values, like whiteness and not-blackness. "Don't worry," Biden says to the silent vast American majority, "sure, Obama is black, but I'm here, and I'm white. Super-pale, Delaware-style white. The kind of white you only get in Wal-Mart, or on an albino buttock."

Also, there's his foreign policy experience, complementing blah blah blah.

Michelle Obama is speaking now, and the only thing that got a bigger applause than her mention of Biden is her shout-out to Hillary Clinton. Because from one angry woman to another, that sort of public recognition really means something.

Random thoughts about her speech:

- she's got crazy strong shoulders. Like former swimmer style. She could totally kick Cindy McCain's ass in a Jell-O wrestling match.

- CNN's camerawork is awful. Cameras boucing everywhere, and the sound is mixed way up so the ovations make the speakers shudder.

- I think I've made it pretty clear that I support Obama, but if I hear the word "hope" after November 4, I'm going to punch someone.

- I know less about fashion than I do about string theory, but even I can tell that Michelle's blue shirt clashes with the blue background. She's like a disembodied head with linebacker shoulders.

- Is it wrong of me to imagine Michelle Obama with an afro, and to prefer that to her actual hairdo? Does that make me racist?

- Michelle is a good speaker, but she forgets to wait for laughter and applause. I think it's because she knows the jokes are cheesy, and people are only laughing because they paid thousands of dollars, and they're going to fucking laugh whenever they want.

- A lot of people in the audience are crying. Would I also break down into tears of relief and joy if a Jew were the presidential candidate of a major political party? I think I would, if someone kicked me in the testicles. I would cry many, many tears.

- Where is Obama that he has to appear by satellite? Does he really have better things to do? Or is he getting that last intravenous injection of HOPE from the scientists who genetically engineered him? What the hell is he doing in Kansas City? And who the hell are the Gerardos? Are they another Obama family friend who hates America? Because that would be a bad choice for a visit just before the convention. I'm no genius, but even I know that.

- That last bit? With his daughters talking to him, and he can't respond because he can't hear them? But they keep making cute comments? Just as annoying as eavesdropping on a spotty cell phone conversation.

"Where am I? In Kansas City. Kansas City! Who? Malia? Is that you? Sasha? Did - Malia, don't hit your sister. Sasha? Are you - Michelle? Did you - did you finish the speech? Is everyone - is there clapping? Michelle, you didn't tell the Mexico story, did you? Sasha, it's your bedti - What's that? Can you hear me now?"

I hate that guy.

Why I'd be the best leader for Greenland

2008-08-22T11:35:00.002-04:00

In all the hubbub over Georgia trying to convince Russia that no means no, a bunch of other states want to move out of Mom and Dad's basement, despite the free rent. Greenland's story is the most compelling to me.

First, you have the first public act of sarcasm in human history. I knew about the Vikings and their love of funny hats,

but who knew they were so edgy? Now they're like the Janeane Garofalo of ancient empires.

The one thing that connects these in utero nations is their need for a leader. Someone with the fiery charisma and wild-eyed antisocial nature to really bring their new independence into sharp relief. And that is why I think I'm the perfect new king - or prime minister, or premier, I'm not too choosy about titles - for Greenland.

Other candidates may have stronger backgrounds in diplomacy, or management. But what I bring to the prow of the Greenland schooner is iconoclasm.

You want crazy ideas? Deal with these: I don't think Cypress is a real country. I think Vladimir Putin, deep down, wishes he'd never abandoned his ballet lessons. I believe dragons are the solution to the world's dependency on oil. Bunny rabbits represent all that is evil and unholy. Penny loafers are ugly, but make excellent doorstops.

It's this sort of nowhere-near-center thinking that will make Greenland a power player in the 21st century. With my firm hand on Greenland's mane I shall lead its gallop past other upstarts like Venezuela, Gibbon, and Papua New Guinea. Who will know how to deal with our truth? Together, Greenland, we will captivate the imaginations of the 24-hour news networks, and the PR will be fantastic, and unending. Tourism will skyrocket with my creation of the "Snow-Shoveling Championships," to take place annually until all the snow melts.

But then we won't need the snow, because the natural beauty of our great nation will finally be laid bare before the lustful eyes of the other nations. The U.N. will clamor to move its office to our southern coast, if only to make vacationing more convenient. Decades away, you say? Not if we start burning coal right now. Aerosol sprays, bans on recycling, subsidies for the use of plastics - as your leader I will do everything in my power to expedite global warming.

And when the seas rise, and the sun beats down mercilessly on the middle of the planet (now extending into southern Canada and the Russian steppe), people will flock to Greenland, and we shall be the new Global Empire. All this is possible if you make me your president, or "Snowman on High," or whatever your CEO designation may be.

Sure, there's a constitution to draft, and wigs to wear, and a war of independence and all that to be accomplished. And what of a national anthem (I suggest "Don't Stop Believing," by Journey)? But I hate wigs, and my penmanship is dreadful. Let's let the pinhead beareaucrats handle the details. In the meantime I'll be telling Denmark to go fuck itself, and leading a pack of Greenlanders toward the harbor, where we'll dump box after box of danishes into the icy Atlantic ocean.

Danishes, by the way, are my least favorite pastry. They're sticky, and they often contain fruit, which has no business within a sugary treat. So nuts to them, and nuts to you, Denmark. Greenland forever!

Bust shots at Big Ben like we got time to kill

2008-08-18T23:12:00.003-04:00

First, before I get to this week's half-assed post, I'm obligated to recognize a Mr. Hamburglar/B&D/Krazy/Tubby Bjornferdsentenstein for suggesting the Bob & Doug MacKenzie beer clip from last week. So there you go, Tubby. And for those of you who decided not to click on the fluffy bunny link, maybe you should check it out. Who knew bunnies had anything to do with witches?

Meanwhile...read this, because the birds and the bees, though their famed interaction may be exciting, don't always live happily ever after.

I had a decent idea to write about this week, about how much I hate Woody Allen. He and Philip Roth are equally responsible for giving Jewish men a bad name, and terrible role models. But then I heard that his new movie has Scarlett Johannsen and Penelope Cruz making out. So for that, Woody, I'll forget about the whole "marrying my adopted daughter" thing.

And I'm not going to write about the campaign, because nothing is happening. Forget the news - and I'm not even going to link to anything, because I don't want to encourage you - and their carping on every little misstep or not-so-surprising center moves by both candidates. August is for vacations and pining for the NFL, and that's it. Obama wants to name a VP? I'm all ears. But until the conventions in a couple of weeks, there's really nothing to talk about.

Oh, then there's that whole Russia-Georgia thing. I wish I could get worked up about Russia's imperialism, but I wouldn't be so sad if Hotlanta went Russky. Imagine the crazy Outkast album!

Beyond that, the only thing that anyone cares about right now is the Olympics, and all those medals by that guy with the gills. Much to the Madre's - and Wife's, for that matter - I'm not watching them. I'm not so down with China, ever since my Gap t-shirt got a hole in the armpit. Come on, you've got like 50 million child laborers - does not a single one know how to sew? You think losing the medal race to the U.S. is embarassing? How about all those crappy Nikes, and their uncomfortable soles? Now that's some national shame.

I could say it's all a joke, that I've been watching the epic gymnastics battle, and those beautiful opening ceremonies, but for some reason I find I've got other things to do. Who knows. Maybe I'm just overreacting, being a snotty liberal and all. I mean, there have been some unforgettable images coming out of China:

I'm sorry. I really tried to keep this light. But you know what? I'm really sick of the Olympics. I'd really just love to sit down and watch some crappy reality TV, but NBC's coverage has just been ridiculous. Just bring back the Office already.

I'm more European than an English Muffin

2008-08-14T22:22:00.003-04:00

I talk a lot of junk about hippies, and the Commies. But deep down, my heart bleeds for endangered fluffy bunnies and Mother Earth. And for our neighbors to the North, I give you guys some crap, but sometimes I think I wouldn't be better as a Canadian.

You see, I was born without a profit motive. As for money I just...I just don't care. So when it comes to corporations I'm at best ambivalent. Sure, they can do some good, but since they have no reason to exist other than to provide their shareholders with a return, sometimes they're downright evil.

So when I read Naomi Klein's (Canadian Jew!) The Shock Doctrine, it confirmed my paranoia. Klein has a real bone to pick with Milton Friedman, seemingly mild-mannered economist and sworn enemy of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his New Deal.

Friedman took a psychological experiment using electro-shock therapy and turned it into the dominant economic and political theory of the last 60 years. The idea is to shock a country or region into disorientation, either through natural disaster or war or some other traumatic event. With the public reeling, the government needs a quick fix. So Friedman trained economists from all over the world to step in and offer lessons in privatization, and corporate-friendly labor laws and taxes. He started in Chile with Augusto Pinochet, then moved through South America privatizing Argentina, Brazil, and Bolivia following the coups that occurred there. His acolytes promised new wealth, freedom, and democracy.

The only problem is that the coups were often funded and provoked by the CIA. And once the wildly unpopular economic plans were announced, and citizens were a little upset when their healthcare and wage protections were revoked, the governments invariably arrested and killed thousands of dissenters.

The privatizations allowed a few to become wildly rich, and the vast majority to become fantastically poor. Friedman's theory was tested in South America, and then unleashed in Indonesia, Poland, Russia, and Great Britain. The World Bank and the IMF were created to provide funding for underdeveloped countries, and they used that opportunity to make the loans contingent on extensive privatization. Eventually natural disasters were exploited, like the 2004 tsunami and Hurricanes Mitch and Katrina. In most cases either Friedman's students or corporate officers themselves who drafted the new economic regulations.

And then there was that whole Iraq thing. Friedman's followers are responsible for the incredible amount of contracting going on in Iraq, as well as in many other areas of the US government. Guys like Grover Norquist, who said that "I don’t want to abolish government. I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub." This is Grover Norquist, president of Americans for Tax Reform, invaluable adviser to Bush, and co-drafter of Newt Gingrich's 1994 Contract with America. For a guy who hates government so much, he sure has an awful lot to do with it. Although how are we supposed to take a guy named Grover seriously?

So aside from all that, the book was HILARIOUS. You'll laugh until you cry. And if you live in Canada, you'll probably drink yourself silly, comforted in the knowledge that your trip to the hospital for alcohol poisoning and cirrhosis will be paid for by a bunch of snooty Quebecois.

I guess my point is, hoooooooooray for capitalism.

MMMMMMMMMM - beer

2008-08-12T17:55:00.004-04:00

I'm from Wisconsin, where we're known for dairy products and beer. And sure, technically we are the main producer of neither cheese nor alcohol. But California can kiss my ass, because cheese is still ours. Let's see you ultra-hip San Franciscans wear foam cheese wedges. Maybe then we'll relinquish our smelly crown. Doesn't sit too well on your faux-hawk, now does it?

Whatever. At least we're still super fat.

But forget ice cream for a second. I'm here today to talk about beer. Glorious, wonderful beer.

I remember my first encounter with alcohol. Padre was hosting Bridge Night, because poker hadn't made its big splash on our naive Midwestern town yet. I wasn't more than 4, and came in to say goodnight to Padre and all his mustached friends. Next to his cards was a tiny glass of what I took to be chocolate milk. Padre drank chocolate milk for breakfast every day, and it made sense to me that he would also drink it at night, or at work with his lunch, or maybe from a sippy cup before he settled down for his nap.

But this was a new one on me: why would Padre be drinking such a tiny amount? And it was already warm! I asked Padre "can I have some of your chocolate milk before I go to bed?"

"N- uh, yeah, sure buddy. Just a sip, though, you don't want all that sugar to keep you up."

His friends grew quiet as they all watched me sip what I now know to be chocolate liqueur. "Ew, that chocolate milk isn't good anymore, Padre!"

Well that brought the house down. And I learned a valuable lesson: chocolate liqueur should never, ever be drunk. Ever. They were right to laugh at me. It's a silly, silly drink, good for little old retirees who have already killed many men, and so no one would dare laugh at their Nancy-boy cocktail.

So began a lifelong adoration of alcohol. I never really made it past beer, although Wife has matured to single-malt scotch. Now she sneers at people in bars who order blends, and ask for their 50$/shot Macallan on the rocks. "See that guy? With the ice? He shouldn't even be allowed to order. HEY PAL, WHY NOT LET ME PISS IN YOUR GLASS, IT'LL TASTE THE SAME." (Note: Wife may or may not actually have said that. But she's damn well thought it.)

Being from the great city of Milwaukee, when I saw this article I got immediately nostalgic. PBR is a legacy, one that used to reign over the Milwaukee skyline , like the Citgo sign in Boston

or some annoyingly huge building in New York.

And then I learn, after reading the whole thing, that PBR, Milwaukee's finest crappy beer, has moved to Chicago, of all places.

Well fuck you too, Pabst. I'm going to go drink Bud Light.

Ahhh who am I kidding, I hate the Belgians.

Sad. Happy? Happy.

2008-08-04T21:59:00.002-04:00

I've been reading a lot of depressing news lately. Like this. And this. Or how about this nugget? And Obama... Jesus, man, did you drop your balls in some hotel on the campaign trail, and then forget them on your way out the next morning? What the hell?

And don't get me started on this. Go have sex with a close relative, you 95-year-old hick.

But then I thought that you guys don't come here for the whining, and the tears, and the temper tantrums.

So instead I'm featuring Simon "the best excuse for nepotism" Rich, and....

THIS:

You're welcome.

Just let me laugh in peace, you fascists!

2008-07-30T22:55:00.002-04:00

I have a problem.

No, you know what? Screw that noise. I don't have a problem: all of you have a problem. I simply am more attuned to the daily joys of my life.

Here it is. When I think something is funny, I laugh. Is it a crime? Why must I bear the witheringly arched eyebrows of fellow coworkers, or Wife's bemused smile? Look, if we're going to watch Weekend at Bernie's, then I'm going to laugh. Andrew McCarthy is HILARIOUS.

Friends have said that, unlike me, they don't laugh out loud at the TV when no one else is around. What is that? I need an audience to giggle at The Office? Well, I have plenty of people around me at work, and they don't seem to appreciate my barely concealed laughter. And pretending I'm coughing doesn't really work unless my fellow attorneys think I've contracted the famous - and endangered - whooping cough. I can't speak for all of them, but there are at least...two? Three? that aren't complete morons.

But what, you may ask, am I laughing at at work? Aren't I spending interminable hours reading medical journals and e-mails between German biochemist lovers? In fact I am, and none of that is worthy of chuckles.

So I have to sneak the funny in through my headphones. I stole I mean paid for the download of Stephen Colbert's book, and let me say, he's a funny man. So funny, in fact, that he makes me snarf my apple juice. If, you know, I drank apple juice. Which I don't. Because I'm not 6.

Finally, there is the third category of things which I find side-splitting - the jokes I make to myself. Silently. In my head. Wife has the Dalai Lama's patience with this little idiosyncrasy because you know what? I happen to think that I am a laugh riot. A thrill ride of comedy, if you will.

I know. None of this supposed hilarity actually makes it here, to where you're trying to read it. I'm sorry about that. If, though, you lived inside my head, you would be laughing non-stop. Because therein I connect all the useless knowledge I have compiled, and much of it is quite humorous.

An example. Right now, Jon Stewart is interviewing some old political writer. He reminds me a little of the old guy from The Wedding Singer. You know, the one who makes fun of Adam Sandler's friend? Challenges him to a fight? Great tiny scene in a decent movie.

See, right there? I laughed out loud. But you couldn't, because you weren't in my head. And that's the upshot - the party? The one you're missing because you're too busy doing whatever it is you do? It's all up in my dome. You know you want in.

So, you know, get on that.

Two men enter, one man leaves: Phil Hartman vs. Will Ferrell

2008-07-24T19:30:00.003-04:00

For some reason I was watching Elf last week. Maybe because it was on. Maybe because I was hiding from In-Laws. Who knows. Either way, I'm not usually down with Christmas, being one of the Christ-killers and all, but I'm ok with that movie. Is it because of Zooey Deschanel? She plays her part, certainly. But really it's all Will Ferrell. And then I remembered a conversation I had in college, while he was still on SNL.

The question was: who is your better Everyman, Will Ferrell, or Phil Hartman? This was obviously before Will Ferrell became WILL FERRELL, but still, he's got a bit of that regular Joe appeal. He's awkward, his body is funny looking, and we know his body is funny looking because he has no issue whatsoever with letting the world see it. And then encouraging the world to giggle at untoned hairy chest. Plus he had Adam McKay as his own Cyrano, writing amazing characters and lines for him.

But Phil Hartman... Everyone who loves the funny loves Phil Hartman. He was plain, and brilliant, and dumb, and clever, and he did high comedy, and he did impressions.

Here, look at some clips of these magnificent comedic gods. And I know I forgot Robert Goulet, and More Cowbell, and Colon Blow. And I would have Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer but Lorne Michaels can sometimes be a douche, and there's no footage online that I could find in 10 minutes' searching. Let us also not forget Kap’n Karl. Alas, no video, but you should find it and bask in the glory of Phil Hartman as a saucy seacaptain, and pre-public masturbation Pee Wee Herman. But anyway, some highlights:

Phil Hartman, Frank Sinatra:

Newsradio: Real Deal Bill McNeal

The Simpsons: Troy McClure

Lionel Hutz, attorney at law

So I Married an Axe Murderer.

Will Ferrell, Perfect Cheer

Celebrity Jeopardy

Ron Burgundy, you magnificent hunk of mustache

Ricky Bobby

Mr. Mugatu

Now, because of his evil, whorish wife, we'll never know the kind of leading man career Phil Hartman would have had on the big screen. But I think he'd have been glorious. Will Ferrell, for all his above-mentioned regular...ness, is totally whacko. You can see it in his eyes. Phil Hartman, though, he could play anyone. Sea captain with a love for some painted-up french chick? He's your man. Radio personality with a god complex? Phil Hartman redefined the standard office blowhard. The only person who's come close since is Dwight Schrute, and even Rainn Wilson has a little too much Will Ferrell in him.

I freely acknowledge that this is some Freedarko-style argumentation, all potential over actualization. But if I want to cast a mild-mannered accountant who's sick of everyone calling him "Numbers," and eventually leads his office in a coup over the regional manager, I'm going with Phil.

Unless he has to get naked for some reason. Then it's all Will Ferrell.

That's a paddling

2008-07-21T22:29:00.003-04:00

- "Addy." The word is address. IF you can't spell it, maybe you shouldn't be earning 6 figures at some fancy law firm. And if you can spell it, maybe you shouldn't pretend to be a 14-year-old cheerleader.

- The heat. I'm on record as anti-sun, but this goes above and beyond. Really it includes anything that makes me sweat. The only times I'm ok with sweating is when I'm running, or I'm naked. Or I'm in a room with a bunch of fat Russian men. It's a sauna, people. Must you go right to the sexiest, hairiest interpretation?

Humidity is a big part of this, as anyone trying to convince you to move to Arizona will tell you. In fact, I'm more against humidity than heat. But I refuse to give it the satisfaction of its own bulletpoint. Take that, water vapor!

- Puberty. You'd think I'd have moved on by now, and let bygones be bygones given that I'm old, and a parent, and old. But my voice still cracks on occasion (the occasion being when I use sentences), I still get zits, and I can't stop noticing the different and wonderful ways that girls' bodies are so very different from boys' bodies. Maybe this means there's still a growth spurt in my future. Everyone gets one, right? At least now, as opposed to high school, I have to shave.

- Shaving. I try to get every hair. I do. But I miss entire regions, small but distinct swaths of facial and neck landscape that sometimes makes me look like an escaped mental patient trying to pass as an office intern. And it's always the same areas, no matter how carefully I focus on them. Maybe I should resort to plucking.

- Haircuts. That's not true at all. I love taking haircuts. I'd get one every week if I could afford it, baldness be damned. Those first couple of days I feel sleeker, more aerodynamic. Badass too, like elite soldier Buster Bluth.

- Miley Cyrus. What's wrong with you? Is this some sort of sting to get every male aged 12-40 arrested on kiddie porn charges (oh my gosh, did I just assist in the investigation?)? Didn't you learn anything from that High School Musical chick? Put some clothes on! Billy Ray, stop hosting your crap-ass TV show and pay attention to your daughter, Lord knows no one else was. This is obviously a cry for help. Or the epic finale of "To Catch 150 Million Predators."

- Harper's Magazine has this thing on its last page called Findings. It's telling that you're not even allowed to read the link without paying, because this is one super elite magazine. Basically it's a list of amazing scientific discoveries and knowledge that were made and found in the past month, or something. So fine, you've got your new info on starfish memories (not lasting more than a day, if you care). But then, they slip this in at the end:

There is evidence of time before the Big Bang.

No footnotes, no citations, nothing. Turns out, if you overcharge for a magazine that only comes out once a month, you can just make up crazy stuff, and the rich people will believe it. And then they mention it offhandedly at cocktail parties. "Hmmm, this is quite the piquant bordeaux. Oh, did you hear about that 'time before the creation of the universe' datum? Yes, I apprised Bipsy of that on our catamaran off Nantucket on Sunday, she nearly bit into her mimosa glass. Huhuhuhuh!"

Harpers, there's only one institution that's allowed to offer science without evidence - the government.

Oooooooh, it looks like you've been out in the sun too long, Harpers, cause you just got Buuuurrrrrrrrnnnned! (Stupid SNL/NBC, pulling their Youtube clips. Seriously, it was a really funny clip. Really.)

I've got gigantic blue balls

2008-07-14T23:10:00.003-04:00

OK, maybe the title was a little...jarring, but I really think I need your attention on this. Ever since Barack Obama won the Democratic presidential nomination, there has been a flurry of skittish paranoid - pardon the candor - pussiness.

It culminated recently with this New Yorker cover, which you can find here, but I can't seem to show the actual cover because I'm not so secretly an idiot.

This set off a flurry of craziness, laid out quite well here.

All of this makes me kind of want to vomit. I've had to talk other Democrat supporters off the ledge because of the Rev. Wright thing, the black thing, the Indonesia thing, the black thing. And I will admit, as Hendrik Hertzberg does, that the telecom immunity thing was a kneecapper. That one hurt. It was a baldfaced political move, designed to show he's "tough on terror," and easy on big business. The fact that his vote wouldn't have mattered one way or the other made it almost too easy.

So sure, liberals are upset. They're nervous. And not like 4 years ago, when they were afraid because their - OK, our - candidate was a sad sack of elitist, out-of-touch robot man. It's weird to be the frontrunner, huh? Everyone out to get you, your opponent pulling out all the stops just to take you down a peg or two. Not like last time, when...they...didn't...with the...Swift Boat...right. Nevermind.

But I'm going to put a stop to this, right here. Get off your collective khaki'd ass, Democrats. Barack Obama is a fantastic candidate. Smart, well-spoken, tall. He has great floppy ears. His wife is hot and spicy, and gives a mean pound.

Fist bump, people. That means fist pump.

And I know this didn't help us last time, but it has to be mentioned for the record: one of the best things about Senator Barack Obama as our Democratic presidential candidate is that he's not Senator John McCain. And watch, I can do this without mentioning that McCain is so very very old.

McCain - doesn't support off-shore drilling for oil. Wait, sorry, he does now, never mind. He wants to repeal the tax cuts that favor the wealthy. No, sorry, he's now in favor of making those cuts permanent. Which hey, that's cool, I like rich people. It's just that there are all those poor people, and they seem kinda important too, so maybe we should throw them a bone, or universal healthcare. Poor people, for the purposes of this post, is defined as anyone making less than $250,000.

McCain has an awful temper that makes him volatile in stressful situations. He's pro-life, he's a proponent of maintaining the war on drugs, and he's backed off of every reasonable position he's ever held, including illegal immigration. His solutions for global warming, social security, and health care are complicated: "hey, let's let corporations handle it! Then we can focus on what government does best - killing and oppressing people who aren't American. Unless they're Muslim, in which case full body cavity searches for everyone.

Yes, that's a tad heavy-handed. But you know what? Screw them. We own this election. We're going to put a Democrat in the White House - a black constitutional law professor. A liberal. An elitist, in that he's better than you, me, and anyone else you or I know. He's going to wipe the floor with McCain. It will be embarassing - first white man to lose a presidential election to a black guy and all.

So stop whining! This should be a 4 1/2-month party. Because unless Osama Bin Laden is the October surprise, McCain is going to go wee wee wee all the way home.

The lady in the...dress. Maybe pants. Or a skort.

2008-07-10T21:18:00.002-04:00

Objectively I would have to say that I'm an amazing husband. On a scale of 1-10, I'm at least a 9.5. Definitely over an 8 3/4. There's no way I'm less than a 7.

Fine, be that way. But I think we can all agree I'm over a 5, right?

Either way, one of the most frustrating things for Wife is that I have no sense of women's clothing. Sure, I know the cardinal rule of lady's fashion: "If you've got it, flaunt it." But beyond that, I know that plaid doesn't go with stripes. Or maybe it does sometimes. If the plaid clashes. I know clashing is bad, because it sounds like war. Which the song tells us is good for uabsolutely NOTHIN'!

So today while reading some German I thought about it. I have opinions about whether women look good in certain clothes. And then I realized something - I don't pay any attention at all to what women wear. Not their clothes, not their makeup, nothing.

I was shocked. So I tested myself. The hot Asian chick who sits three seats down: what is she wearing, without looking? A pants...suit? I turned, and she had on a skirt with a tank top.

I did, however, realize she wasn't naked. So I have that facility: I am aware that women wear clothes, because I know they don't walk around the office naked.

But anyone with the power of sight and not wearing x-ray glasses can figure that out. Is that all I've got? I started focusing on the outfits my coworkers were wearing. And immediately I could determine certain facts: I knew when something didn't fit right; I could tell when shirts and pants and skirts were too tight or too loose, and when each was either good or bad; I could determine if something looked bad or good.

And then I noticed something else. Anytime I noticed a nice outfit, or categorized a shirt as "tight-but-a-good-tight" the item in question was always worn by a good looking lady. And the ugly clothes? Worn by less than attractive women.

Aha! An epiphany smacked me in the forehead. No, that was my desk as I nodded off. Still, I became aware of the problem Wife had with my answers to her regular hotness concerns. And the answer? Herewith, in syllogism:

I think Wife is hot. Usually she wears clothes. Therefore the clothes she wears look good.

Obviously there are certain situations where even I can tell that Wife's outfit is not the best, or that her new pants don't fit. Like I said above, I can see whether clothes fit. It's those more nuanced determinations: "Should I wear this, or this?" "Does this go with that?" "Are you going to spend all night on the fucking computer or are you going to come to bed?"

And those are where the whole Husband thing comes screeching to a halt. But hey, at least I've got...stuff...

Well this is just disturbing.

2008-07-09T22:45:00.002-04:00

I've got nothing to say about this except you should read it. Then we should all head off en masse and find out where we too can sue George.

Different ways to "pop the question"

2008-07-08T22:30:00.004-04:00

To celebrate America's birthday Brother S proposed to his lady friend, and she accepted. So they're getting married, which is fantastic. But really it was the way in which the question was asked that makes Brother S the man he is (man? He's 22. Is he a Mormon?).

See if you can guess which was his method:

Brief tangent: I know there's been a lot of lists here lately. Too many, in fact. So if you want, I can cut back, and only write solid posts that aren't set off by any sort of bullet point whatsoever. Or I can not care what you think and keep writing whatever I want. Second choice? Excellent.

- Alien crop circles spelling out his special lady's name, and actual little green buggers singing the wedding march in harmony as he etches the proposal into thin air.

- Pixies, harvested from the nearby wood, build a mindbogglingly intricate scaffolding of pure sunlight and spiderwebs. The webs catch the morning dew in such a way that Brother S and his chiquita's names, birthdates, and future life together are mapped out in pristine droplets of rain.

- A personal show of fireworks exploding against an inky black sky, proclaiming to the gods themselves the passionate and unassailable adoration felt by Brother S for his maiden fair. Then the question, spelled out in colored flame to connote the burning love in his heart. Flashbulbs, confetti, and drunkenness ensue.

Brief note #2: There are many possible nicknames for the Future Sister-in-Law. LA Gear, for those 80's nostalgics...and that's the only one that comes to mind right now. I'm sure there are others. It may take me a while to settle on one. Let's all recall what happened when I rushed into naming something like, I don't know, this very blog. What a terrible name. But now I'm stuck with it. Goes to show that I'm often a moron.

- Mermaids construct, over decades, a coral reef that spells out the proposal. In calligraphic Latin.

- Buddhist monks craft symbols representing Brother S, the lady, the day itself, America, and the stores at which the couple will register. These symbols are then painted all over the body of Brother S, who performs a kabuki monologue entirely in Mandarin, wearing nothing but the Chinese symbols.

- A bus pulls into town with a dozen sinister-looking guys in masks with guns. They corral everyone into the dining hall and proclaim that the entire camp has been taken hostage. Ransom will be four tons of barbecue beef, and 20 jerrycans of bug juice.

Sorry, that last one was Color War breakout. My bad.

- Brother S, having written an ode to his g-fry, has it translated into all known languages, and each copy is read simultaneously in a cacophony of love and betrothal. The resulting atonal poem becomes the one true method of declaring one's undying love for another, and must be pronounced before the beginning of each United Nations session.

- "Will U MarE Me?" is spelled out in barbecue sauce on the ground. The resulting swarm of mosquitoes gives the question a life of its own, a life of fleeting existence and vibrancy, but also itchiness.

- Already drunk, Brother S vomits on his woman. Looking up at her while wiping drool and chunky snot from his mouth, he flicks the ring at her, and says "you tell your pops that if it's not big enough, he can kiss my ass." Brother S completes the grand slam by passing out on his future mother-in-law's lap.

I think I'd have liked to see the pixies one, but I'll settle for the one he did. So Mazel tov, Hermano.

Screw you and your delicious, buttery popcorn

2008-07-03T00:13:00.003-04:00

I know you've all been wondering how my fantastic job is going. Whether it's the German e-mails, the medical journals, or the fascinating, mute coworkers, it's a constant battle not to swallow my monitor. So before I jet off to exotic Watertown, Wisconsin for Lady Liberty's birthday (don't forget to get her a present; I'm sending edible undies), I thought I'd treat you to some of my daily excitement.

Quick tangent: I have learned it was recently Canada Day. Well la-di-frickin-da. I hope all you folks up north had fun talking aboot the great history of your fine country, eh?

- 200 people on a floor, 1 water cooler. I'm not good with the arithmetic, but I think it's fairly predictable that those numbers make the "cooler" part a sad joke. If you're not going to offer us benefits, at least give us ice trays.

- Behind my half-cubicle sits an older man. At his semi-desk he has a footrest, an oscillating fan, and sundry personal items. He sits in an exquisite leather chair that reclines almost parallel to the floor. I don't know where he got it, I don't know what he had to do to get it. But I do know he's absolutely right in taking it with him when he leaves at night. If he leaves it...just once, that's all I need. I'll sit like a king!

- I'm diligent with throwing out holy socks. But what's the rule on the elastic? How far gone does it have to be before I have to throw them out? Does it matter if they're dressy or white? What if they're really long, so even if they sag they leave no blinding-white calf exposed to the world?

- There's a guy sitting next to me who looks like John Hodgman. Hey, there's another! Wait a minute...

Was that just a flimsy excuse to post footage of people funnier than me? Maybe. You'll never know.

- People who microwave popcorn at work, and don't have the decency to make enough for everyone, should be beaten with shovels. And I don't even like popcorn. That buttery aroma, though...it does strange things to me. I smell it, and I want to kiss Orville Redenbacher full on the mouth. Is that...is that just me?

- Not to fixate on a single topic, but office chairs that don't recline should be collected and burned on a pyre. There should be an evening of joyous revelry to celebrate the event: interpretive dance, jugglers, and bad coffee. Does it not sound glorious?

- The reason, then for my reclining chair obsession: someone stole my chair. The armrests were measured perfectly with my arms, it reclined easily, and had no weird stains. There it is, being used three half-cubes down on my left. That lady better watch her back.

- You know what? The lady chair-thief? She looks like John Hodgman too! Maybe it's all the fluorescent light...

- Today I had the pleasure of going through someone's personal e-mail. This individual decided to send the same document to twenty different people, in twenty different e-mails. Does he not know about cc'ing? If I ever have the pleasure of making his acquaintence, I'm going to poke out his eyes with my pinkie.

- I learned something. Ordinary inconvenience + wildly excessive response = joke, but does not always = funny. Discuss.

- Honestly, which is worse for you - Cheetos, or Snickers? Because that's all that's left in the candy machine. Well, that and trail mix. But I'm neither a sheep, nor am I from Vermont. So nuts to that.

- Happy birthday, America! For your 231st I'm wishing you a new president: a Muslim elitist effete Commie peacenik who won't wear a flag, salute a flag, or do anything but burn a flag unless he uses that awesome symbol to wipe his ass after a huge bowl of hummus and baby's blood.

Either him or Barack Obama. Whichever.

It ain't just for babies anymore

2008-06-30T22:12:00.002-04:00

I have to teach Child a lot. He didn't come into this world with the ability to swallow, for example. And forget about proper jump shot form. There are literally thousands of different tasks and abilities he'll have to master before he can take me on as King of the Castle, and he better get on it quick because who knows how long it will be before he's got competition.

Note: this is not a secret hint to my 20-odd loyal readers that Wife is with child. It just so happens that the Fancy Pants patented impregnating mechanism can only be held off for so long before it breaks through the gynecological defenses and captures the childbearing flag. (Further note: that last bit was way weird, even for me. But you know what? I'm leaving it in. Too bad.).

One thing I thought Child would have had down pat in the womb is napping. He had all that time floating around doing nothing - what else was he doing? Sure, all you holy folks will talk about him learning Torah with an angel, but let's face it - my kid would be sleeping through even that class.

But no, we had to teach him that he has to sleep every couple of hours, or his brain melts and his eyes fill with salty needles. Which is a shame, because napping is one of the few pleasures Americans deny themselves in pursuit of the, well, the American Way. Mexicans have their siestas, Israelis have their sha'at menucha, Italians have their June, July, August and September (ha ha! Italians. So lazy. I love stereotypes.). But Americans get...what, power lunches? Brunch? Other things that end in -unch?

Not for me, these non-idle pursuits. For a baby napping may be a vital time to recharge and grow and crap out the neck of your t-shirt, but for adults napping is a glorious luxury, a kind of blissful oasis in the middle of the day.

Ask around, and you'll hear some stories about the Fancy Pants and napping. That I once ditched Hebrew class to take a nap in the closet - that carpet was new, and quite cozy. That I slept through all of my econ requirements in college, and actually most of my major classes. But it was nuts-and-bolts finance, so you can't blame a guy, can you? Then there was the time I slept so often in one class that the teacher threw an eraser at my head. That incident, though, I consider an honor, because back in the day he was a world-class army sniper for the IDF, and he hit me right in the forehead. A fantastic shot. Must have been fifteen feet, easy. My point is that when I talk about naps, I'm kind of an expert.

What's my point, exactly? My point is that I want to bring back the nap. I want you people to tell others, and they'll pass it on further, and soon we'll have a whole Ponzi scheme built on the Andy Capp lifestyle.

Sleeping during the day, it's like you're stealing it. It feels naughty. You mess up the sheets which are still cool from not being used since the morning, the sun shines through the blinds - but not too bright, because you're not there to read. No need to put your clothes away, although I know some people are all about napping in their suits. Not me. Clothes go in a rumpled pile next to the bed, and I just crash for two, three, five hours until Wife wonders whether I'm in fact dead. Magnificence. It's a tiny slice of selfish indolence onto which I will cling until multiple Children decide it's time to play How Many Legos Fit in Daddy's Nose?

So that gives me like, I don't know, years.

And America goes 3 for 3 this week, and No Fear Players of the Week

2008-06-25T22:47:00.005-04:00

I've long given up on the United States Executive branch. Sure, Scott McLellan comes out with his memoir, and that's important. But it changes nothing. So for the past few months I've been ignoring the President and his puppeteer Cheney.

But I still held out hope for the other two governmental branches. After all, Congress is Democratic, and that counts for something, right? And the Supreme Court, well sometimes Justice Kennedy is a liberal, so hooray for that!

And then Congress gives the telecom companies a gigantic blowjob, and on the same day that they get the death penalty right, The Supremes go Dick Cheney on the Alaskan ecosystem.

I can swallow the cave-in by Congress. The Democrats are used to giving in, so this was more of a habit than anything else. Plus it has the added advantage of looking tough on terror in an election year, so hooorah. Hell, it even prompted Saint Obama to vote in favor of immunity. But the Supreme Court? It was Justice Kennedy's week to be a liberal! Ginsberg was fixin' for a fight! Souter got to stay up past 9! But no. Instead they gave away $2 billion that was due Alaska. Whatever, it's not like there were pictures, right? Wait a minute...

On the flip side, this does give us cause to celebrate our No Fear Players of the Week. Sens. Chris Dodd, Rusty Feingold (Wisconsin, Heyo!) and Barbie Boxer. I'm not going to give it up for the liberal Supremes, partially because Diana Ross still won't take them back as her backups, and also because David Souter still lives with his mother, so he cannot, by definition, be a No Fear Player. Ever.

The supposedly Democratic Senate has rolled over and offered itself up for abuse by the Bush administration too many times to count, and it's getting a little nauseous in here. So kudos to the actual Senate Democrats - Boxer, Feingold and Dodd - for having the stones to vote their party's platform. The rest of you spineless power whores can kiss my ass.

And now for something very special

2008-06-23T23:00:00.003-04:00

How many times have you thought of someone from your past and said "I wonder what happened to _____? Knowing her, she's probably a feminist poet who posts their missives on Youtube, and also helps organize a film festival in a foreign country?"

That's happened to me twice. And this time, I'm actually spot on.

Here to you I present Ms. Rena Sherbill. Former Lady Ace legend, current writer for the Jerusalem Post, film festival coordinator, and Def Poetry aspirant.

Bad. Ass.

Trafficking

2008-06-20T18:22:00.002-04:00

I knew it! I knew people read this thing! I totally got you to comment! Suckers!

But seriously, the problems of underwear afflict men all across this great nation, and its time someone other than GQ took it up as a serious topic. So you're welcome.

I was sick this week, sick of the lies, and the beatings, and the sleep deprivation. Mostly just the last one, which laid me up all day yesterday. So instead of reading German e-mails about hot and sweaty interoffice romance, I got to read interesting stuff, like this article in The Atlantic.

Now those of you who are familiar with the history of the Fancy Pants remember my...ambivalence regarding traffic laws. Whether it was playing Follow the Leader around West Rogers Park, ignoring speed limits on I-94, or simply running into stationary curbs on the side of Kedzie or parked cars in a parking lot in Newton, or trying to run down pedestrians in Coolidge Corner, I'm not too down with the law. So John Staddon's article is right up my alley. Despite the fact that he's British, and the Queen's homeland is used as the model, I think this article makes a lot of sense. Signs are a pain in the ass, and speed limits are too often arbitrary, and they change seemingly at random. So why can't this happen here, in the USA, one of the top nine countries in North America (I refuse to count any of the Caribbean islands. If they want to be part of a continent, they can form their own)?

When it comes down to it, this is all about truthiness. In the end, it doesn't matter what the statistics show, or what is actually safer. All that matters is that fewer signs feels less safe, and therefore anyone who dares to suggest getting rid of some or all of them must hate children, puppies, and Jesus. It doesn't help that rotaries would be part of the solution. Hell, even I'm suspicious that they're part of some sinister Communist plot to spell out "Yay Karl Marx!" on our road maps.

And they will never be "roundabouts" in these United States. Even more than rotaries, roundabouts make me want to take a bunch of tea and throw it in the nearest body of water. That includes my bathtub.

But I am all in favor of doing away with stop signs and speed limits. I've heard some of you - specifically those in Chairman Mao's Boston - yearn for more stop signs to protect your kids from the evil, gas-guzzling, earth-destroying cars. You know what? That's what leashes are for. And helmets. Children should be taught to fear cars, so they'll be less inclined to want to drive at 16, or even 36. Which will make for fewer drivers on the road, which will be good for the environment. So either way, taking down the stop signs is a good thing.

Lastly, a short word about pedestrians in general. In the city, there are sidewalks. Those are for people who aren't driving. If you must enter the street area, you should respect the 3- and 4-ton vehicles hurtling past you at high speeds. If you think some painted lines are going to overrule a green light, you deserve the broken hip. It's really a matter of physics. People are smaller than cars, and slower. If you see a car coming, don't walk in front of it, unless you have the light, or several layers of padding. Because I know I'm not stopping.

If we're in a roundabout, though, then the right of way is all yours. I think that's how it works. But for that you have to go to England, and pay fealty to Queen Whats-her-name. Sheila.

As the song says, they're everywhere

2008-06-17T23:14:00.006-04:00

I want to talk to you today about what's under the Fancy Pants: underwear. Everyone wears them, yet somehow they usually don't come up in polite conversation. Unless you're a precocious three-year-old, in which case it's more polite to talk about your Underoos than it is to tell the story of when you caught Mommy and Daddy "wrestling."

I could go all different ways with this topic. I could talk about how they have become optional, or the glory of the thong, or something along those sexy, sexy lines. I could even wax nostalgic about the aforementioned Underoos. I always loved Spiderman. I think I actually have those somewhere...

Instead I'm going to talk about the boxer brief phenomenon.

A young man's undie evolution proceeds thusly: diapers, Underoos, tighty whities. From there things branch out. Some people stick with the traditional whites. Others move on to boxers, or as Wife calls them, "useless shorts." A few - this number, according to scuttlebutt hearsay and locker-room gossip, is rising - move on to the leopard-print manpanty. But more and more guys are finding a middle ground with boxer briefs. I'll make the joke again: neither boxers nor briefs. Discuss.

For a long time I wore only boxers. It certainly helped that for years I wore clothes that were 2 sizes too big, convinced that my growth spurt would have to come eventually, right? Wrong. Instead all I have are pictures of myself looking like Tom Hanks after he turns back into a little kid in Big. Which would have been fine if I was a rapper, or 12, or a 12-year-old rapper. When you're 21, that look doesn't really attract the ladies. But I needed room for my boxers, and my junk (see Appendix: Offensive Mental Image #1). There's a...freedom that boxers allow, a liberation that stops just short of the notorious "freeball." And since this was a time before the upskirt shot gained prominence, I kept everything double-wrapped.

Then I got to law school. There I learned the importance of clothes that fit, and how pants are supposed to shape and cup the buttocks (see id.: Offensive Mental Image #2). But it's hard enough tucking in shirts (yet another upcoming sartorial post). Add the bulk of unwieldy overwashed cotton, and all of a sudden your hip-ass-groinal area begins to look a giant donut.

Please note that I refrained from making the easy sexist joke about a middle-aged lady's extra-wide hips. Because I'm all about political correctness.

So Wife, then going by Girlfriend, suggested boxer briefs. I admit I was skeptical, and a little frightened. Except for swimsuits, I hadn't worn such tight undergarments since I was seven. I worried about heat, and sweat, and constriction, and the "coal-diamond" effect (I worried my nuts would be compressed into a single ball, with which I could both cut glass and set in a lovely ring). Then there was the other problem: boxer briefs are sort of the San Francisco treat. But I'm a liberated guy, and it only took me four or five years to overcome that issue.

I've gotta say, though, that they've come in handy. My ass looks fantastic - or so Wife says - and the goods are protected, even cradled (see id.: Offensive Mental Image #3).

But I'll never totally forgo boxers. For one thing, there's the flap issue. When you need...access, boxers are a hell of a lot easier. One of the most awkward acts to perform in a men's room is to reach into your pants through your fly and start jerking around (no pun intended; I couldn't think of another word for "jerking"). And some boxer briefs don't even come with a flap; you have to find another...exit strategy.

I think the most pressing question is, "What the fuck, guy? I come here looking for the funny, and instead I get a barrage of sausage imagery! How about a warning next time?" Well you know what? That's 2 questions and an exclamation, so I'm not going to answer your rude question. What do you think of that?

But I will leave you with an interesting bit of trivia. The guy who wrote the first song in Juno also wrote this song, which is a much cooler underwear song than that "thong thong thong" crap. Barry Louis Polisar, ladies and gentlemen!

Wait, just one more page...

2008-06-14T23:23:00.004-04:00

If you're keeping track - and thusly I poke you, saying "Look over to your left!" - you'll notice that I finished two books in the past two days. That is not a typo. I know, I'm totally awesome. You don't have to remind me.

My point, though, is not to talk up my own reading skills (428 pages! 5 hours! I am the word master!). I'm here today to talk about the joys of reading a book cover to cover without getting up.

There are two categories when it comes to marathon reading: there is the Life-Changing Book, and there is the Fantastic Plot Book. Obviously the first category has elements of the second, but they are distinct.

The first Life-Changing Book I can remember reading cover to cover was Catcher in the Rye. All through college I'd read it about once a month, because I was a Salingerhead. That happens to a certain kind of angsty white guy who never really got into Dashboard Confessional because Chris Carraba never fell in love with anyone who was "roller-skate skinny." I even searched online for his uncollected stories, which I found at a website whose main page was entirely blank, except for these words:

"If you're here, you know what you're looking for. Click here to download them." Spooky, and awesome, and for the most part, kind of a letdown.

There have been others, but the most recent Life-Changing Book - not just a short story, but an entire book - was A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. I read it at Krazy's apartment, not once getting up from his fantastic leather chair. It is hilarious and sad. Also playful, messing with form and the fourth wall. It was my first encounter with experimental writing, and I was hooked.

This book also fit with my demographic at the time, i.e. "white guys 18-34 who like to think they're smart funny and dark in a secretly awesome way." Eggers, who has created an entire army of insufferable snarky pricks with his writing and the literary journal he founded, McSweeneys (name-checked in Juno, natch). I'm a little bit proud to be one of those assholes, hence the self-aggrandizing post. And blog. And so on.

So last night I started and finished The Raw Shark Texts, by Steven Hall. It's gotten amazing reviews, and I think it's already been optioned to be turned into a film. I'm not surprised. It's a Fantastic Plot Book. These works keep turning up in reviews: Moby Dick, Jaws, The Matrix. The last one is not the best recommendation - at least the last two parts of the trilogy - but overall it was enough to sucker me in to buying it.

It read like a screenplay, smooth and lean. The story is suspenseful, has a great love story, and has a fuck-with-your-head ending. It played with ideas and language in an interesting way, and I don't think I'm giving anything away by saying that the Beast is a shark made up of words, and eats memories. If I'd read Moby Dick I could say that The Raw Shark Texts is very similar in that it's not really about a fish. Great set pieces, snappy dialog, and a little bit of "Whoa." I was hooked.

So go out and buy the book. Instead of watching 8 straight episodes of Lost try reading The Raw Shark Texts. It'll knock you out.

Kafka didn't know from trials

2008-06-13T19:12:00.003-04:00

I had a hilarious post already written out. It was going to be about socks that lose their elastic, John Hodgman, and German. You'd have blown milk through your nose, I swear.

Only I had to set it aside, perchance to post it next week. Because this happened.

And if that wasn't bad enough, there was also this bit of "justice."

So as much as I'd like to work up a froth about the Supreme Court getting habeus corpus wrong so they could do right by the Gitmo detainees, right now I'm a little pissed at some of our nation's DA's. We'll do the less aggravating ruling first, Mr. "Pee on you" himself."

If you can't convict this guy, when you have video and direct testimony, you should retire. You have 6 - 6! - years to prepare, and not only can you not convince the victim to testify, but you can't even get her to retract her denial that it was she on the tape. Grab your gold watch, and go tell your grandkids about the pedophile who got away. Kudos.

As for Seattle...you know what? I can understand. I can see how a reasonably intelligent jury can't make up its mind. A man wanted desperately to kill some Jews, in a prominent location where he could do the most damage. He Googled Jews in Washington, and found the Seattle Federation. When he discovered that it was over 200 miles away, he packed some snacks, got directions on MapQuest, and headed out. On the way, to make sure they were in fine working order, he tested his two pistols.

Once he got to the Federation building he kidnapped a 14-year-old girl to gain entrance. As soon as he got in, according to victims' testimony, he started firing. He killed 1 and seriously injured 5. One of his victims, a pregnant woman who saved her fetus by stopping the fired bullet with her arm. Then, overcoming shock and blood loss, she convinced the man to call 911, and he was taken into custody. He plead not guilty by reason of insanity for 15 counts of murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, and related charges.

When asked why they couldn't come to a decision, one of the jurors was shockingly, if unintentionally, spot on. "We didn't understand the legal concept of 'right from wrong.'" Exactly.

So instead of comedy you get tragedy. Sorry about that. At least you got the Chapelle skit thought, right? He's always funny.

What's really important: Goodbye, Cedric!

2008-06-11T22:47:00.002-04:00

Sure, I could write about Mort Klein delivering this year's principles at the AIPAC conference. And I could talk about Obama choosing Jim Johnson to head his VP search, and then dropping him the day after when everyone else found out about his Countrywide problem.

But instead I'm going to talk about Cedric Benson. If you haven't heard, Cedric has been released by the Bears for getting busted - again - for DUI. At least this time it was on dry land.

I've given CB a hard time over his performance on the field. I've prayed for awful things to happen to him. Gonorrhea, spontaneous combustion, the gout - all of these maladies have been wished on Benson's head by me. And for the most part, he's deserved it. He has no breakaway speed, he can't pound the line, and he doesn't cut back. He also can't block very well, and he's not an effective receiver out of the backfield. And yet the Bears traded away Thomas Jones - who was not only better, but cheaper - to give Benson more carries.

And now what do we have? The Bears running backs (along with some interesting "personal facts") are:

Adrian Peterson the Lesser - never pretends to be AP the Greater, despite strong prodding by his wife, offensive line, coach, and fans.

Matt Lawrence (rookie) - eats a bowl of monkey intestines before every game.

Matt Forte (rookie) -
had a strong Heisman campaign

that I only just heard about this second.

PJ Pope - "PJ" stands for Pants, Jogging. His parents are surrealist fitness nuts.

Garrett Wolfe - played football to get back at his father Tom, who only understands brute force, astronauts, and white suits. Drink that Kool-Aid Acid Test, Pops!

Aside from APtL, I have no idea who these guys are. But I'm guessing we're going to see a lot of them this season. So let me make 2 bold predictions:

The Bears offense will once again rely on the sturdy, safe shoulders of one Rex "Sex Cannon" Grossman; and

I will not once wish we still had CB4 in the backfield. Goodbye, Boozie Fumblestein.

Weezer's new album - I'm so, so sorry

2008-06-05T23:52:00.001-04:00

This is what Weezer's Blue Album means to me: Pushing the limits of my badass Pontiac Sunbird at a cool 80 mph as I drive from Chicago to Milwaukee. It's December; the top is down. Krazy rides shotgun and gnaws on beef jerky. Above the roaring wind we scream the lyrics to "Surf Wax America." We pass Mars Cheese Castle as "Only in Dreams" hits its crescendo, and then it's time to start over again. Occassionally we'd even have a Jonas with us. He would be forced to sing the first track, proclaiming his name.

Weezer put out its Red Album on Tuesday, its follow-up to the frankly awful Make Believe, which came after the aggravating Maladroit, which was released after the crushing disappointment of the Green Album (Green and Red - and Blue - so named because they have no actual titles, just primary colors).

While I don't own Make Believe or Maladroit, I bought the Red Album the day it came out. I wanted to give Rivers and the boys one more chance. And while I'm not as angry about the album as this guy, I'm still really unhappy that I shelled out 13 bucks for it. I once thought there was a limit to how bad a Weezer song could be - at worst, they're filled with crazy hooks and killer harmonies that made the Blue Album so glorious.

The first two tracks gave me hope, though. Sure, "Troublemaker" and "The Greatest Man That Ever Lived..." are way too slick for classic Weezer tracks, but the base elements are there, and once in a while you get a snarky Rivers Cuomo joke, a real one, not just one he thinks girls 11-19 will swoon over. Then, though, comes "Pork and Beans."

Weezer has led off each of its last three album releases by releasing the "one-hit-wonder" song as the first single. Maladroit - "Dopenose." Make Believe - "Beverly Hills." And now, "Pork and Beans." Most bands release these crazy-catchy, but ultimately vacuous songs, and spend the rest of their careers running away from them. Cf. Nada Surf, who released the great and vapid "Popular" ("I've got my own car, I'm popular! I'm a superstar, I'm popular!" Yeah, you know it), only to overcome its - haha - popularity by releasing a surprisingly good Let Go. Only Weezer would not only put one of those songs on THREE consecutive albums, but do it after they're already famous. And "Pork and Beans," which name-drops Timbaland, and focuses on the band's indifference to popular opinion while still yearning for fame, is a worthy successor. It's catchy, funny, and empty of any substance whatsoever.

This makes it better than the rest of the songs on the album, which seemingly make a stab at sincerity. "Heart Songs," "Cold Dark World," "The Angel and the One"- they seem like heartfelt songs from the titles, right? They're actually awful treacly nonsense.

The upshot is that the awfulness of the Red Album is my fault. Savvy readers will have noticed that one album hasn't been mentioned - Pinkerton. It's Weezer's best, and it launched the pop-punk and mainstream emo movements, for good and mostly bad. So enervated by the Blue Album I bought Pinkerton the day it came out, and couldn't handle what it contained. The songs were raw, angsty, personal, idiosyncratic. No one at the time sang about their love of a lesbian ("Pink Triangle"), or underage Asians ("Across the Sea," "El Scorcho"). But Rivers Cuomo did, and it was a revelation. Most emphatically, in fact, to his fans, who had no idea what was going on.

So we turned on him. I myself handed off my copy to my grateful Brother A, who built his entire musical perspective on that album. This was a typical response - the album was slammed by critics, and sold poorly its first year.

Who knew Cuomo would take it personally? Weezer didn't put out another album for five years. By that time I'd rediscovered Pinkerton, even stealing it back from my brother. I added insult to injury by joining my peers in hailing it as a masterpiece, for too late for its creator to care what we thought. By that time, you see, Weezer was working on the Green Album. And the Green Album is a lot of fun - it's catchy, one of the best summer records ever. But there's nothing personal in it. It could have been crafted by a robot.

But it didn't suck. When Make Believe came out, and was terrible, Brother A called me out. "If you and your stupid friends had appreciated Pinkerton in the first place, this wouldn't have happened!" It's his position that I have to buy every Weezer album that will ever be made, as atonement for turning my back on good, honest, earnest music.

That's not going to happen. But I did buy the Red Album, and it is truly a hairshirt, property as penance. Wife asked me what I'm going to do with the CD now that I've listened to it. What I should do, as a music fan, specifically a Weezer fan, is wear it around my neck, so people can look at me and know that it is because of me that such an abomination exists. It could be my scarlet letter.

Or maybe I'll just pass it off on Brother A.

Come to China - watch gymnastics, get arrested and deported!

2008-06-03T21:22:00.004-04:00

I'm not going to write about Obama's victory, because it came months ago, and only real news people are going to treat today as if something significant happened. Instead, I'm going to write about a country that's crazier and scarier than America: China.

Yesterday China issued a legal guide for foreigners during the Olympics. Some of the rules are understandable - no attacking participants or judges, no smuggling drugs. But then there are some typically fascistic regulations that will give these Games a true Chinese feel. Only a few of these are actually made up.

1) Come to China, and see the entire country! You want to go to Tibet? Is that the new McDonald's sandwich, in honor of our very Special Olympic Games? It isn't? Well then the Chinese government has never heard of it. Why would you want to go somewhere that doesn't exist?

2) People with "mental diseases" are not welcome. Some examples: bipolar disorder, autism, Baron Munchausen's disease, that one disease where you say what you believe, regardless of the government's position. Tourettes, that's it.

3) The mascots are Syd, Ollie, and Millie. Chairman Mao help you if you bring up any of these.

4) These Olympics are sponsored by Coca-Cola, among other companies. If you try to bring Pepsi into the country, you will be deported to the nearest Myanmarese country. What's a Burma? Is that like a Tibet?

5) Athletes are free to express themselves using whatever means they deem appropriate. But remember, in polite company, a gentleman or lady does not bring up religion, politics, oppressive police states, Big Brother, air pollution, water pollution, noise pollution, rickshaws, Japan, Genghis Khan, Kublai Khan, Morty Khan, Hong Kong, Taiwan, child labor, capitalism, North Korea, Yao Ming, the internet, rock and roll music, smog, asthma, choking, lung cancer, and whatever that Tibet thing is.

6) You may root for whomever you please, but don't yell anything mean. Or obnoxious. Or racial. Or political. Or religious. Or using words. Some nice, encouraging grunts are really welcome.

7) You are free to root for the Chinese athletes.

8) If you have any problems please find one of the many volunteers on staff, who are there to answer any of your questions. If your questions are hard, or relate to a sensitive topic, one of the many undercover agents disguised as volunteers will detain you until an acceptable time is determined for your release.

9) Curfew is at 10 sharp. Lights out at 11. Stories at 11:30, but only if everyone's in PJ's.

10) If you're caught sneaking out of your Olympic village for a romantic tryst, to attend a protest, or to use the bathroom, you will be shot on sight. But what the heavily armed undercover agents dressed as volunteers don't know won't hurt you, so enjoy the thrill of sneaking out!