Crazy Old People
The elderly are some really great people that have all done something spectacular. In the last ten to twenty years they have stopped accepting social change and simply ask us all to follow the rules of the road circa their childhood. I attribute grandparents for imperatively informing the younger generations that there are certain rules for every situation, commonly called etiquette.
It does not take someone long to realize the silliness of having three different forks or trying to set a platter down amongst the personal set of glassware in front of you. A lot of these issues are brought up in a wedding. Why, because when two groups of people that have a minimal level of comfort with each other there a level playing field is needed. It is like the Geneva Convention of social exchange. (With the same success rate)
I am midway into witnessing my second wedding planning. I enjoy it to this point, like all other spectator sports. Once it becomes an interactive experience I am sure my views and blood pressure will change. There are so many old relatives that just need to see traditions upheld that the bride and groom’s visions are at best, second on the list. So it seems, once your old, then you get to see what you really wanted to see when you got married forty years ago.
The phrase “the etiquette says…” is almost as obnoxious as listening to someone with a Cambridge accent. The rules of etiquette are just like our motor vehicle laws. No one follows them until they know they are being watched, or they see somebody else break them. Shame on them! One can not plead ignorance when they claim to be so proper. I find it to be tragically humorous when people argue over who should assume the bill/responsibility.
My favorite rule of etiquette is the bride’s family is to pay for the wedding. THE WEDDING. The groom’s family gets the rehearsal dinner. That’s huge. It’s like having to buy a new tux and then someone else chimes in “hey, I’ll buy your shoes.” It helps but really in the grand scheme of things it is a drop in the bucket. What is expected is that since the bride’s family fronts the bill, they get first dibs on everything.
The rules are much more closely watched during a meal of a formal event. Pass the salt and the pepper. Glasses to the left and when you finish your plate put the fork and knife at 4:00 to let the help know you are done. Only cut three pieces from your entrée at a time. Either back in England around 1200 somebody had too much time on their hands or they went to a reception where children were allowed.
Perhaps my least favorite rule is the thank you letter. I understand the written appreciation for a gift is nice. However I feel that my initial thank you was much more sincere and personable than a 4x5 card saying “thank you for the card and gift it was much appreciated. I also enjoyed getting to see you at the (fill in event).” When people read those blatantly insincere messages they still somehow feel better. “Oh, he really appreciated the gift. I thought his smile and hugs were all show. Now I can rest easily knowing that he truly was pleased with the gift.”
I want to start sending “you’re welcome” cards. This may take some time to catch on but I strongly feel that this gesture will let them sincerely know that I sincerely appreciate their sincerest gratitude for whatever gift to which I bestowed. As of now, it is the only load of crap occasion Hallmark has not guilt tripped us into.
I respect elderly people, most of the time. As long as they bathe and try to listen to the conversation I will most definitely let them sit down and enter a room first. Maybe the elderly hold onto etiquette since it is an excessive display of decadence. Decadence for them since it made them feel like aristocrats, fussing over the dire importance of such items as salad forks and butter knives.
The old world mentality manages to still survive decades of social change. Etiquette has long outlasted its good friend chivalry. Chivalry was a noble concept that eroded when women wanted more than a coat over a puddle or a chair tucked in for them. These social guidelines that are still in place are only still here for the same reason some families still have fine china from many generations ago. Both are only brought out when there is a special occasion amongst people with a special bond.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Girls, Girls, Girls
As many of you know, I tend to declare and embrace my perpetual bachelorhood. The truth behind the matter is I tend to dig my own grave more than I would prefer. In the past few weeks I have stepped up to the plate and took the pitches given and then walked my lame self back to the dugout in defeat.
Sometimes my motives are no more than maintaining simple dialogue. It must be simple for the reason of loud music or those meddling friends nearby, and who really goes out to have a profound conversation. I am sure people do have the immediately deep connection, just rarely is it one that is sporting the ever so exquisite mini skirt.
Occasionally I don’t even know I am hitting on a girl, and she goes and says she is not interested. Apparently when one is within a five foot radius of a young woman it is taken as a sexual advancement. Intentional or not, it is always good to know rejection could happen at any second. When accused of making advancements, I usually am unappreciative (most likely because they were unsuccessful). Example, she was in a band and I was intrigued (no, seriously), I asked a few too many questions and she dropped the line. “Well, my boyfriend…” Amazing. Boyfriend you say, he must be the drummer.
Another night in the city I was en route with my friend. For identity reasons let’s refer to him as Rohn Jossi. It is important to know he was the driver of the 95 Subaru Legacy. Anyway, we were approaching a parking lot near some bars and I noticed a black VW. I looked at the driver to make sure she was an attractive girl. Her story checked out. I purposely looked longer than normal to get her to notice me (I figured what would happen? I am in a car). I forgot I was in a 95 Subaru Legacy. She looks at me with disbelief that I, a mere peasant am looking at her Gucciness. I give back the nod indicating, yes I know I have no chance but at least I did not waste a beer on you. Meanwhile, Rohn saw this budding vehicular romance and chose to roll the window down. Forced to talk, (as she too amazingly rolled her window down) I muttered “yeah…that’s all I got.” “Yeah, right” she said. Then she looked at the passenger door of the Legacy, her face became repulsed with the sight of a non-German import. Rohn sees this and screams “don’t be dogging the Legacy. The Legacy lives on!!!” We then parked to go strike out with more girls.
I remember being in trouble with my mom when she had her back to me. “I have eyes in the back of my head” she always told me. Well I think there are other girls with those same powers. It has come to my attention mainly on long straight-aways when I am behind a girl for more than ten seconds. Yes, by nature I have looked at the trunk. However, the few times I am not, these girls catch my attention by unnaturally tugging their shirts past their butt. In moments like those I stand wrongly accused of gawking.
Then there was the job offer I just could not refuse or could I? Desperate for work, I called anything that seemed remotely respectable. The offer was to work for a public interest group that focuses on environmental policies. The term “canvassing” was used liberally. What that really meant was standing around street corners like a knob and asking people to care about the Earth they are destroying. I was interested.
The sole reason why I did not walk out of the interview was almost as amazing as the reasons to leave. I walked into a small room with folding chairs and eight people. Guess who was the only person dressed professionally? The rest of the tree huggers were wearing shorts, backwards hats, and sandals. Clearly, I was the only environmentalist there that was not representing the persona of pot head extraordinaire. One of the guys was fixing his sock and I noticed his house arrest anklet. This was a high caliber pool of applicants.
Then she walked in. Suddenly getting paid $300-500 a week seemed ok as long as Kat was my boss. She is tall, tan complexion; she was wearing an orange tank top, and her knock out punch- orange eye shadow. Kat is a beautiful girl, so beautiful that I would have willingly sacrificed my credit rating to take her out. I chose to try and make more money. I want to call her back and let her know that I will not be taking the position but was wondering if she was free to get together.
There is an old saying when you fall off the horse get back up on it. No one ever considers that maybe the horse is not interested in having you try and ride them. (Maybe the horse had someone try bareback and is hesitant to ride altogether) Nor do they mention that the horse will take joy in your fall and retell the story to all their horse friends as they chuckle by the oat bag.
As many of you know, I tend to declare and embrace my perpetual bachelorhood. The truth behind the matter is I tend to dig my own grave more than I would prefer. In the past few weeks I have stepped up to the plate and took the pitches given and then walked my lame self back to the dugout in defeat.
Sometimes my motives are no more than maintaining simple dialogue. It must be simple for the reason of loud music or those meddling friends nearby, and who really goes out to have a profound conversation. I am sure people do have the immediately deep connection, just rarely is it one that is sporting the ever so exquisite mini skirt.
Occasionally I don’t even know I am hitting on a girl, and she goes and says she is not interested. Apparently when one is within a five foot radius of a young woman it is taken as a sexual advancement. Intentional or not, it is always good to know rejection could happen at any second. When accused of making advancements, I usually am unappreciative (most likely because they were unsuccessful). Example, she was in a band and I was intrigued (no, seriously), I asked a few too many questions and she dropped the line. “Well, my boyfriend…” Amazing. Boyfriend you say, he must be the drummer.
Another night in the city I was en route with my friend. For identity reasons let’s refer to him as Rohn Jossi. It is important to know he was the driver of the 95 Subaru Legacy. Anyway, we were approaching a parking lot near some bars and I noticed a black VW. I looked at the driver to make sure she was an attractive girl. Her story checked out. I purposely looked longer than normal to get her to notice me (I figured what would happen? I am in a car). I forgot I was in a 95 Subaru Legacy. She looks at me with disbelief that I, a mere peasant am looking at her Gucciness. I give back the nod indicating, yes I know I have no chance but at least I did not waste a beer on you. Meanwhile, Rohn saw this budding vehicular romance and chose to roll the window down. Forced to talk, (as she too amazingly rolled her window down) I muttered “yeah…that’s all I got.” “Yeah, right” she said. Then she looked at the passenger door of the Legacy, her face became repulsed with the sight of a non-German import. Rohn sees this and screams “don’t be dogging the Legacy. The Legacy lives on!!!” We then parked to go strike out with more girls.
I remember being in trouble with my mom when she had her back to me. “I have eyes in the back of my head” she always told me. Well I think there are other girls with those same powers. It has come to my attention mainly on long straight-aways when I am behind a girl for more than ten seconds. Yes, by nature I have looked at the trunk. However, the few times I am not, these girls catch my attention by unnaturally tugging their shirts past their butt. In moments like those I stand wrongly accused of gawking.
Then there was the job offer I just could not refuse or could I? Desperate for work, I called anything that seemed remotely respectable. The offer was to work for a public interest group that focuses on environmental policies. The term “canvassing” was used liberally. What that really meant was standing around street corners like a knob and asking people to care about the Earth they are destroying. I was interested.
The sole reason why I did not walk out of the interview was almost as amazing as the reasons to leave. I walked into a small room with folding chairs and eight people. Guess who was the only person dressed professionally? The rest of the tree huggers were wearing shorts, backwards hats, and sandals. Clearly, I was the only environmentalist there that was not representing the persona of pot head extraordinaire. One of the guys was fixing his sock and I noticed his house arrest anklet. This was a high caliber pool of applicants.
Then she walked in. Suddenly getting paid $300-500 a week seemed ok as long as Kat was my boss. She is tall, tan complexion; she was wearing an orange tank top, and her knock out punch- orange eye shadow. Kat is a beautiful girl, so beautiful that I would have willingly sacrificed my credit rating to take her out. I chose to try and make more money. I want to call her back and let her know that I will not be taking the position but was wondering if she was free to get together.
There is an old saying when you fall off the horse get back up on it. No one ever considers that maybe the horse is not interested in having you try and ride them. (Maybe the horse had someone try bareback and is hesitant to ride altogether) Nor do they mention that the horse will take joy in your fall and retell the story to all their horse friends as they chuckle by the oat bag.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Rumors, Oooh Nasty Rumors
A short while back I ran into someone I went to high school with. Now the precursor to this tale is that I have no qualms with my tenure there but I do remember which people were maturely stated, dill holes.
I have not reached the ten year reunion time, nor am I that close. The lesson many people must know is that which lies ahead. Whenever I run into someone from high school, they usually were not my best friends. As logic would have it, I actually talk to my friends once in a while.
So when they come into my plane of vision, it is just like in the terminator with that red screen with the shifting cross-hair. Their id is matched. A run down follows in my head;
First name: Jag
Last name: Off
Last seen: class of 99
Description: big fan of Dr. Martins, spitting chew on the carpet, excessive levels of cologne, Napoleon’s complex.
That’s how it goes. Do I say hi to these schmoes? Sometimes, but really they would only expect me to stroke their ego. It’s not a matter of who’s better than whom, or who dated the librarian’s daughter (which she was oh so hot- until the make up came off), this is about common respect. Which is sometimes just comes in second to good old school spirit.
Why do we have such an animosity towards people we went with to high school? Is it the 327 votes short of homecoming queen? Finally hitting puberty in our junior year? Or maybe it is an even more pressing matter like residual prom hangover/bitterness. I won’t deny mine. The reason why I went to prom as a junior, in case it sucks at least I can redo it the following year. Well, junior year was just the appetizer for the main course of betrayal and for desert how about what most people had, sexual frustration.
The people I am most interested remain to be the same. What exactly are the dance team girls up to? How many finished cosmetology school? Which one actually did not join a sorority? Most importantly, I want to make sure their ideals are still the same. Do they still appreciate the ugly? For without the ugly the dance girls would not look nearly as stunning.
We use to have pep rallied for the dance team going to the state competition. They danced against two other teams. One time we had to actually celebrate them getting second; out of three teams. I heard their spirit fingers just weren't jazzy enough.
Back to the moral of the story, keep your mouth shut. (I know I should talk) The reason for that being the more you talk the more get embellished by some dumb box when really you meant nothing more than “wow, I would not have expected.” Remember these were the same people that assumed anyone new to the school was probably gay. Yeah, because you know those homosexuals, can’t just commit to one thing they’re always so flighty.
So, one of the guys I graduated with is now in prison. It is easy for some to say he was mixed up with the wrong people and strayed from the path of the righteous Catholic he never was. This may just be a blessing in disguise. The parochial system couldn’t teach this air head how to read so maybe some special one on one instruction is needed. Please, if you are getting upset about the air head remark let me support it once more. When you forget what page the class is on that is normal. When you forget what chapter the class is on you are an official blockhead.
In other news, many of the teachers that taught me have been caught in love affairs. The allegations were always there, office flirting. Laziness sets in and before they knew it, the private detentions were deemed unacceptable barring doctor’s note. All that happened just when the Catholic community was celebrating their five week anniversary of no sexual conduct cases.
Who would have thought a Catholic high school Melrose place could exist? What would Jesus do? Most likely not the biology teacher, the music teacher, or the health teacher. (Side note: Teaching health is a blatant sign that all efforts to avoid all academic realms of the school have failed and now one must choose a curriculum they can understand. Chapter 1: Why showering daily is important)
I believe we are on the verge of another golden age for our own social circles. I also believe that these golden ages are the results of when people with genuine concerns for the integrity of man need a vacation from all the drama we bring onto ourselves.
A short while back I ran into someone I went to high school with. Now the precursor to this tale is that I have no qualms with my tenure there but I do remember which people were maturely stated, dill holes.
I have not reached the ten year reunion time, nor am I that close. The lesson many people must know is that which lies ahead. Whenever I run into someone from high school, they usually were not my best friends. As logic would have it, I actually talk to my friends once in a while.
So when they come into my plane of vision, it is just like in the terminator with that red screen with the shifting cross-hair. Their id is matched. A run down follows in my head;
First name: Jag
Last name: Off
Last seen: class of 99
Description: big fan of Dr. Martins, spitting chew on the carpet, excessive levels of cologne, Napoleon’s complex.
That’s how it goes. Do I say hi to these schmoes? Sometimes, but really they would only expect me to stroke their ego. It’s not a matter of who’s better than whom, or who dated the librarian’s daughter (which she was oh so hot- until the make up came off), this is about common respect. Which is sometimes just comes in second to good old school spirit.
Why do we have such an animosity towards people we went with to high school? Is it the 327 votes short of homecoming queen? Finally hitting puberty in our junior year? Or maybe it is an even more pressing matter like residual prom hangover/bitterness. I won’t deny mine. The reason why I went to prom as a junior, in case it sucks at least I can redo it the following year. Well, junior year was just the appetizer for the main course of betrayal and for desert how about what most people had, sexual frustration.
The people I am most interested remain to be the same. What exactly are the dance team girls up to? How many finished cosmetology school? Which one actually did not join a sorority? Most importantly, I want to make sure their ideals are still the same. Do they still appreciate the ugly? For without the ugly the dance girls would not look nearly as stunning.
We use to have pep rallied for the dance team going to the state competition. They danced against two other teams. One time we had to actually celebrate them getting second; out of three teams. I heard their spirit fingers just weren't jazzy enough.
Back to the moral of the story, keep your mouth shut. (I know I should talk) The reason for that being the more you talk the more get embellished by some dumb box when really you meant nothing more than “wow, I would not have expected.” Remember these were the same people that assumed anyone new to the school was probably gay. Yeah, because you know those homosexuals, can’t just commit to one thing they’re always so flighty.
So, one of the guys I graduated with is now in prison. It is easy for some to say he was mixed up with the wrong people and strayed from the path of the righteous Catholic he never was. This may just be a blessing in disguise. The parochial system couldn’t teach this air head how to read so maybe some special one on one instruction is needed. Please, if you are getting upset about the air head remark let me support it once more. When you forget what page the class is on that is normal. When you forget what chapter the class is on you are an official blockhead.
In other news, many of the teachers that taught me have been caught in love affairs. The allegations were always there, office flirting. Laziness sets in and before they knew it, the private detentions were deemed unacceptable barring doctor’s note. All that happened just when the Catholic community was celebrating their five week anniversary of no sexual conduct cases.
Who would have thought a Catholic high school Melrose place could exist? What would Jesus do? Most likely not the biology teacher, the music teacher, or the health teacher. (Side note: Teaching health is a blatant sign that all efforts to avoid all academic realms of the school have failed and now one must choose a curriculum they can understand. Chapter 1: Why showering daily is important)
I believe we are on the verge of another golden age for our own social circles. I also believe that these golden ages are the results of when people with genuine concerns for the integrity of man need a vacation from all the drama we bring onto ourselves.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Only the Good Die Young, so I Retired at 23
It seems not too long ago I was leading a prosperous corporate life. Then I had a revelation. What would I rather do than go to central Georgia? Answers: a) join a health club b) live back at home c) drink Coors Light or d) anything. Well, I will let you decide the answer I chose.
So I cashed in my hundreds of dollars in my former 401k and headed off to Arizona for an early retirement. As luck would have it, my money ran out around the Midwest. Which is a blessing in disguise since I would prefer frostbite over sweating from the back of my knees. I still managed to wake up and take my vitamins (2 hot pockets) and start my day like any other walking heart attack.
Somewhere between the chuckles of Cosby and Golden Girl reruns on TV Land I got the nerve to play tennis again. After the mid-day set, I liked to go home and watch the people drive back from work and say to myself, phew! I am glad I got myself out of that when I did.
Sleeping late was great, but there was still a lingering problem. Sometimes it's hard to stay up past 9:30 when you know you'll just end up sleeping through Regis and Kelly. Plus, what about my income? Some may think I am naive to retire at 23 but when you know that the government has your back with such fine programs as social security and Medicare it's just down right silly to worry about nickels and dimes.
I started to give back to the community in the past month. I did some projects like cleaning the gutters and dewinterizing (yes it is a word) the pool. Both tasks easily cleaned my sinuses.
If you ever, ever are thinking of getting a pool- don't unless you can afford for some other schlub to clean it for you. Even with a cover on it, our pool turned into the largest freaking bird bath in the county. A week later and the former floating compost heap is ready for summertime fun.
It is not a heated pool, so I love to invite people over for the first time to swim and tell them it is warm. "Are you sure it's warm?" "Oh, yeah I was in it yesterday. If you never have seen the face of instantaneous shrinkage, I recommend it is quite humorous.
People asked me if I regret my retirement decision. No I do not. That all may very well change if I run out of money. I have a lot ahead of me this summer. There are festivals pretty much every weekend. And where there is a festival there most definitely is a church bingo tent. Maybe I'll go play and amaze them with my unbrittle bones and perhaps pick a recipe or two on how to make a good casserole.
If you don't slow down sometimes you may realize that life already woke up, shuffled to the elevator, rode the bus to the pharmacy and just passed you by without you even knowing what you missed out on.
It seems not too long ago I was leading a prosperous corporate life. Then I had a revelation. What would I rather do than go to central Georgia? Answers: a) join a health club b) live back at home c) drink Coors Light or d) anything. Well, I will let you decide the answer I chose.
So I cashed in my hundreds of dollars in my former 401k and headed off to Arizona for an early retirement. As luck would have it, my money ran out around the Midwest. Which is a blessing in disguise since I would prefer frostbite over sweating from the back of my knees. I still managed to wake up and take my vitamins (2 hot pockets) and start my day like any other walking heart attack.
Somewhere between the chuckles of Cosby and Golden Girl reruns on TV Land I got the nerve to play tennis again. After the mid-day set, I liked to go home and watch the people drive back from work and say to myself, phew! I am glad I got myself out of that when I did.
Sleeping late was great, but there was still a lingering problem. Sometimes it's hard to stay up past 9:30 when you know you'll just end up sleeping through Regis and Kelly. Plus, what about my income? Some may think I am naive to retire at 23 but when you know that the government has your back with such fine programs as social security and Medicare it's just down right silly to worry about nickels and dimes.
I started to give back to the community in the past month. I did some projects like cleaning the gutters and dewinterizing (yes it is a word) the pool. Both tasks easily cleaned my sinuses.
If you ever, ever are thinking of getting a pool- don't unless you can afford for some other schlub to clean it for you. Even with a cover on it, our pool turned into the largest freaking bird bath in the county. A week later and the former floating compost heap is ready for summertime fun.
It is not a heated pool, so I love to invite people over for the first time to swim and tell them it is warm. "Are you sure it's warm?" "Oh, yeah I was in it yesterday. If you never have seen the face of instantaneous shrinkage, I recommend it is quite humorous.
People asked me if I regret my retirement decision. No I do not. That all may very well change if I run out of money. I have a lot ahead of me this summer. There are festivals pretty much every weekend. And where there is a festival there most definitely is a church bingo tent. Maybe I'll go play and amaze them with my unbrittle bones and perhaps pick a recipe or two on how to make a good casserole.
If you don't slow down sometimes you may realize that life already woke up, shuffled to the elevator, rode the bus to the pharmacy and just passed you by without you even knowing what you missed out on.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
A Visit to Phat Camp, I mean Fat Camp
Not too long ago I ordered a pizza. I know, shocking news to many of you that know my diet. To my surprise there was a flyer for a pizza-eating contest that weekend. Now besides a contest for tallest person that can’t dunk, I figure this competition that was made for me. I managed to draw my roommates to the event as spectators. Yes, spectators. Gluttony is not just an individual activity anymore.
Now when I signed up for this I had to be one of the first fifty people to call. I ripped that flyer off the box and called like I was the last future fatty wanting to chomp my way to infamy. “Hi, yeah I am just calling to see if there is still space available to be in the contest. Is there room?” Just for a visual effect imagine a six foot five inch guy hovering over the phone just waiting for his big break to becoming an official loser. Believe it or not, there was still space available on the list, phew.
I get to the venue/carryout parking lot and sign in. Apparently my competition is not as large as originally thought. There was speculation that I would be a contender that lost to either a 300-pound man or a 100-pound Asian girl. That was not the case this time.
For those youth sympathizers you should be pleased and worried that there in fact was an “under 12” division. Parents actually brought there eleven, ten, eight, six and even four year olds to compete in this event. I don’t know if I ever have witnessed one specific event that can cause such a psychological complex like urging a little four-year-old girl to “eat as much as you can sweetie.”
Two rows ahead of little Suzy, there was Peter and Omar. These two kids were almost as entertaining as their parents. See these boys were at the age where they can actually hold onto a piece of pizza, sorry Suzy. Omar’s dad was chanting at him to eat as much as he can before the sunsets. Dad was reminding him, “free pizza for a year, chew, chew swallow.” Apparently the father did not have a large enough opportunity to heckle his own son in little league. Li’l Omar brought home the title of junior pizza king of the Washington area. Moments like that should keep us all striving for parental acceptance.
Now by the time the heavy weights came to rumble, my roommates were persuaded to compete. A major reason for this was when the store manager told us “I need all of you to play. I don’t care if you win. Just beat Habib. He has been here for two hours and keeps demanding a chair. Really, you have to beat him, please.”
Let me introduce you to Habib (no joke it was his name). He was about sixty years old, gray hair, big frame glasses with the librarian rope around his neck, maroon pants, and a blue-gray shirt. If that doesn’t paint a picture, let me give the rest. Habib has a brown tie that stops a third short of the belt buckle. In his ears he had orange earplugs as to muffle the words people said when they commented on the two overflowing suitcases he carried every step he walked. It is very possible that he is the quintessential grand opening contestant that goes from contest to contest scavenging on whatever is free.
When the whistled blew I had three minutes to eat as much cheese pizza I could. The first minute I was nearly choking due to Habib sitting down with six cokes and opening three immediately to wash the pizza down. My roommates then turn on me and demand me to eat faster, I quickly reminded them that I was sober I could not eat just cheese pizza so quickly.
The end tally had me at four pieces in three minutes, which is respectable in some bloated circles around the globe. It turns out that my roommate actually won. He tied this portly man that could floss with a drinking straw. The title was shared because both chose to not go for an “eat off.” I totally understand, don’t want people thinking you’re a pig (which my roommate is definitely not). Two champions were named, the title belt under joint custody with elastic band.
In a world where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, this stayed true here. Everyone got to walk home with their pizza that was left over and also one free pizza voucher. So the losers kept slim with a pizza, and the winner stays another diet coke away from Atkins by getting twenty-six pizzas.
When it comes to free food in the American society there is no happy medium, just an extra large with a side of wings.
Not too long ago I ordered a pizza. I know, shocking news to many of you that know my diet. To my surprise there was a flyer for a pizza-eating contest that weekend. Now besides a contest for tallest person that can’t dunk, I figure this competition that was made for me. I managed to draw my roommates to the event as spectators. Yes, spectators. Gluttony is not just an individual activity anymore.
Now when I signed up for this I had to be one of the first fifty people to call. I ripped that flyer off the box and called like I was the last future fatty wanting to chomp my way to infamy. “Hi, yeah I am just calling to see if there is still space available to be in the contest. Is there room?” Just for a visual effect imagine a six foot five inch guy hovering over the phone just waiting for his big break to becoming an official loser. Believe it or not, there was still space available on the list, phew.
I get to the venue/carryout parking lot and sign in. Apparently my competition is not as large as originally thought. There was speculation that I would be a contender that lost to either a 300-pound man or a 100-pound Asian girl. That was not the case this time.
For those youth sympathizers you should be pleased and worried that there in fact was an “under 12” division. Parents actually brought there eleven, ten, eight, six and even four year olds to compete in this event. I don’t know if I ever have witnessed one specific event that can cause such a psychological complex like urging a little four-year-old girl to “eat as much as you can sweetie.”
Two rows ahead of little Suzy, there was Peter and Omar. These two kids were almost as entertaining as their parents. See these boys were at the age where they can actually hold onto a piece of pizza, sorry Suzy. Omar’s dad was chanting at him to eat as much as he can before the sunsets. Dad was reminding him, “free pizza for a year, chew, chew swallow.” Apparently the father did not have a large enough opportunity to heckle his own son in little league. Li’l Omar brought home the title of junior pizza king of the Washington area. Moments like that should keep us all striving for parental acceptance.
Now by the time the heavy weights came to rumble, my roommates were persuaded to compete. A major reason for this was when the store manager told us “I need all of you to play. I don’t care if you win. Just beat Habib. He has been here for two hours and keeps demanding a chair. Really, you have to beat him, please.”
Let me introduce you to Habib (no joke it was his name). He was about sixty years old, gray hair, big frame glasses with the librarian rope around his neck, maroon pants, and a blue-gray shirt. If that doesn’t paint a picture, let me give the rest. Habib has a brown tie that stops a third short of the belt buckle. In his ears he had orange earplugs as to muffle the words people said when they commented on the two overflowing suitcases he carried every step he walked. It is very possible that he is the quintessential grand opening contestant that goes from contest to contest scavenging on whatever is free.
When the whistled blew I had three minutes to eat as much cheese pizza I could. The first minute I was nearly choking due to Habib sitting down with six cokes and opening three immediately to wash the pizza down. My roommates then turn on me and demand me to eat faster, I quickly reminded them that I was sober I could not eat just cheese pizza so quickly.
The end tally had me at four pieces in three minutes, which is respectable in some bloated circles around the globe. It turns out that my roommate actually won. He tied this portly man that could floss with a drinking straw. The title was shared because both chose to not go for an “eat off.” I totally understand, don’t want people thinking you’re a pig (which my roommate is definitely not). Two champions were named, the title belt under joint custody with elastic band.
In a world where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, this stayed true here. Everyone got to walk home with their pizza that was left over and also one free pizza voucher. So the losers kept slim with a pizza, and the winner stays another diet coke away from Atkins by getting twenty-six pizzas.
When it comes to free food in the American society there is no happy medium, just an extra large with a side of wings.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
The Five Senses of Spring
The snow is long gone and now we are on the verge of nights in the beer gardens and days at the ball game. Spring tells us a lot about ourselves. Take the first time you put your shorts on. Wow, I guess eggnog is really fattening, or I did not think it was possible to get any paler. Regardless, its time to roll down the windows and embrace the tell tale signs that embody how our five senses know its spring.
Close your eyes. Well metaphorically, I still would like you to read on. It is only a matter of time before we all give each of our sentences the precursor of “what?” Until then the sounds of spring can lift one’s spirits like saline implants. In the middle of winter we hear nothing, maybe the sloshing of snow onto the curb. Come spring, we have the birds chirping, children without court supervision laughing, and of course some yahoo blasting his car stereo from five blocks away.
It really does not matter when the birds chirp, it is when Raul slows down and you can hear the bass from his Ford Festiva reverberate over the tactfully sexual lyrics. The neighborhood is going to hell in a low riding bike’s hand basket.
The sounds perhaps are ever-present but it is when we roll down our windows or ride our bikes. I can fondly recall the time when I heard some children laughing uncontrollably in a front yard. I looked over my shoulder to witness their joy only for it to end abruptly when attempted my first unintentional summersault from a bike over a parked car. It was a failure.
Contrary to popular belief, the feeling of spring is not love. Spring is not the season of monogamy. The way the flowers solicit their pistils to the bees, well let’s not talk about that. The feeling of spring is irritation.
There is nothing better than breathing through one nostril for ten weeks. Allergies are fascinating to me. How is it that I can be sick yet still go out and socialize? I always find it funny how people walking down the street, sneeze into their hand (don’t spread the germs) and inconspicuously brush their hip.
Snot aside, rubbing one’s eyes is another tell tale sign of irritation. How does something called ragweed control so many people? Allergies are getting out of control nowadays. I am allergic to hay fever. I don’t think it is right for one to be effected by something they cannot explain.
I grew up with one of my friends being allergic to everything. Whenever we had a cub scout outing we had a laundry list of things that Greg couldn’t do. It basically came to us making him unofficial photographer. The kid was allergic to egg, milk, bees, work, but when I heard he was allergic to grass that baffled me. “How can that be possible? You walk to school. You walk to school by walking on grass. How long does it take you to get down the driveway and pass the hedges? Are you really allergic or do you just not want to dive for the ball in the outfield?”
The scent of a freshly mowed lawn is very refreshing, to many folk except the aforementioned allergy king. Before the lawn is mowed, there is other work to do. Spring-cleaning outside is one of the biggest chores for a kid. Never will you see a kid negotiate for either money or extended curfew more than at this time. Parents know too, that these tasks smell horrendously, that is why for twenty bucks and two movie tickets they hire out their migrant children.
No longer than ten minutes into it I grab underneath some dead leaves and discover a “missing” toy. “Oh, that’s where my baseball went. Why does it smell like death?” It really is strange how the dead leaves of last fall make for a coffin to anything beneath it. I never have gone grave robbing but raking the back yard is close enough.
I always knew it was springtime when mom would come back from the grocery store with some Popsicles. Those things were like gold on a stick for kids. Remember the day you had your first dreamsicle? The name alone, dreamsicle just embodies the attitude of the youth. “What’s in a dreamsicle?” I said. “Well Mike, its an orange Popsicle (score) with vanilla ice cream inside.” “WHAT?!! You can do that? Who was this person to make my dreams into a tasty smooth confectionary treat? I would like to meet them and proclaim them to be the greatest person to walk this green, rash causing grass.
There is only one way for spring to get better than a dreamsicle, women’s fashion. No, I don’t wear it, sober. Once I hit adolescence, dreamsicles where a thing of the past. I now had noticed the ever so wonderful, sundress. People always say bad things only happen to good people. Hello, there is not an article of clothing that better shows the ease and relaxation of the spring season like a sundress. Now for the not so philosophical truth. I think girls in sundresses are so so so attractive.
It’s the little things in life that are important. During these months it is how it should be metaphorically, impossible to sweat the small stuff.
The snow is long gone and now we are on the verge of nights in the beer gardens and days at the ball game. Spring tells us a lot about ourselves. Take the first time you put your shorts on. Wow, I guess eggnog is really fattening, or I did not think it was possible to get any paler. Regardless, its time to roll down the windows and embrace the tell tale signs that embody how our five senses know its spring.
Close your eyes. Well metaphorically, I still would like you to read on. It is only a matter of time before we all give each of our sentences the precursor of “what?” Until then the sounds of spring can lift one’s spirits like saline implants. In the middle of winter we hear nothing, maybe the sloshing of snow onto the curb. Come spring, we have the birds chirping, children without court supervision laughing, and of course some yahoo blasting his car stereo from five blocks away.
It really does not matter when the birds chirp, it is when Raul slows down and you can hear the bass from his Ford Festiva reverberate over the tactfully sexual lyrics. The neighborhood is going to hell in a low riding bike’s hand basket.
The sounds perhaps are ever-present but it is when we roll down our windows or ride our bikes. I can fondly recall the time when I heard some children laughing uncontrollably in a front yard. I looked over my shoulder to witness their joy only for it to end abruptly when attempted my first unintentional summersault from a bike over a parked car. It was a failure.
Contrary to popular belief, the feeling of spring is not love. Spring is not the season of monogamy. The way the flowers solicit their pistils to the bees, well let’s not talk about that. The feeling of spring is irritation.
There is nothing better than breathing through one nostril for ten weeks. Allergies are fascinating to me. How is it that I can be sick yet still go out and socialize? I always find it funny how people walking down the street, sneeze into their hand (don’t spread the germs) and inconspicuously brush their hip.
Snot aside, rubbing one’s eyes is another tell tale sign of irritation. How does something called ragweed control so many people? Allergies are getting out of control nowadays. I am allergic to hay fever. I don’t think it is right for one to be effected by something they cannot explain.
I grew up with one of my friends being allergic to everything. Whenever we had a cub scout outing we had a laundry list of things that Greg couldn’t do. It basically came to us making him unofficial photographer. The kid was allergic to egg, milk, bees, work, but when I heard he was allergic to grass that baffled me. “How can that be possible? You walk to school. You walk to school by walking on grass. How long does it take you to get down the driveway and pass the hedges? Are you really allergic or do you just not want to dive for the ball in the outfield?”
The scent of a freshly mowed lawn is very refreshing, to many folk except the aforementioned allergy king. Before the lawn is mowed, there is other work to do. Spring-cleaning outside is one of the biggest chores for a kid. Never will you see a kid negotiate for either money or extended curfew more than at this time. Parents know too, that these tasks smell horrendously, that is why for twenty bucks and two movie tickets they hire out their migrant children.
No longer than ten minutes into it I grab underneath some dead leaves and discover a “missing” toy. “Oh, that’s where my baseball went. Why does it smell like death?” It really is strange how the dead leaves of last fall make for a coffin to anything beneath it. I never have gone grave robbing but raking the back yard is close enough.
I always knew it was springtime when mom would come back from the grocery store with some Popsicles. Those things were like gold on a stick for kids. Remember the day you had your first dreamsicle? The name alone, dreamsicle just embodies the attitude of the youth. “What’s in a dreamsicle?” I said. “Well Mike, its an orange Popsicle (score) with vanilla ice cream inside.” “WHAT?!! You can do that? Who was this person to make my dreams into a tasty smooth confectionary treat? I would like to meet them and proclaim them to be the greatest person to walk this green, rash causing grass.
There is only one way for spring to get better than a dreamsicle, women’s fashion. No, I don’t wear it, sober. Once I hit adolescence, dreamsicles where a thing of the past. I now had noticed the ever so wonderful, sundress. People always say bad things only happen to good people. Hello, there is not an article of clothing that better shows the ease and relaxation of the spring season like a sundress. Now for the not so philosophical truth. I think girls in sundresses are so so so attractive.
It’s the little things in life that are important. During these months it is how it should be metaphorically, impossible to sweat the small stuff.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Selling Your Soul to the Devil/Michael Eisner
Believe it or not the majority of young Americans get their news from two sources; Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show” and “Sportcenter.” ESPN, which apparently stands for “everything sports network” has fallen further from greatness than the Chicago Bulls. However, both are laughing stocks that think they are doing the right thing for their fans.
In the late 90’s (I think) ESPN merged with Disney and the rest is history. Sportcenter went from a solid newscast with entertaining anchors to a broadcast for flunky comics who like a sport.
During a broadcast you can watch such segments as “fact or fiction.” This segment is where the so-called analyst/washed up athlete gives insight that any half sober mind could derive. They spend about five to eight minutes speculating everything that could possibly happen while dropping cliché sports metaphor after metaphor. “They are just going to have to play this series one at a time.” Can you play more than one at a time? Take your University of Georgia sprots degree back home bucko.
What is the most frustrating thing is that the analyst many times just doesn’t know which to pick, fact or fiction. Say either fact or fiction. The longer you take the more you perpetuate your dumb jock stereotype. If ESPN knew anything (ha!) they would realize the audience already knows that the analysts are only reading what someone wrote for them.
Our broadcasting talent is at the stage of passing the torch. Tom Brokaw is leaving the nightly news and whom is he passing off to, Brian Williams (an appropriate name for a monotone generic fill in). The same goes for Sportcenter. Dan Patrick and Keith Olberman were the Smothers Brothers of sports. They were smart, passionate, and tactful with their humor. Who do they leave us with? John Kruk, John Clayton (Perdue chicken man), and some other nameless yaps neither of whom probably own a pair of shoes that tie.
In a society where the only people on a newscast that actually demonstrate a personality is the weather and sports anchor these chaps have overlooked moderation like a freshman at their first party. The news desk has turned into that lunch table next to the cool kids. Saying any and everything to fit in and be liked by the rest of us. Think about it, why else would they say “Shaq-Daddy?”
Recently on SC they had the “sportcenter final exam.” For those uninformed this is where some athlete are asked tough questions about current events with the catch being all different types of sports. I am sure some charity gets money out of this because if they were being lame for the sake of being lame well that would be rather Disney now wouldn’t it?
Apparently Mickey Mouse likes to kick back with a cold one now and again. A beer maker sponsors just about every segment in Sportcenter. I have two favorite spots. The Coors Silver Bullet – Six-pack of questions. Wow, I don’t know who was the savvy mind that drew the connection between beer and a six-pack. I am glad somebody in the advertising world has the gall to direct market to the sororities across our nation.
My other favorite segment on the show is the Budweiser Hot Seat. Remember the adage of being in the hot seat meaning you were basically going to be verbally crucified? Well a journalist with integrity would ask tough questions and since there are none at ESPN they ask a handful of high school level questions. I could be wrong, maybe some athletes dread someone asking them “do you think the Cubs will go all the way this year?” Excuse me Troy Wingo do you have a towel? That question just made me sweat my fellas off.
Maybe I should not blame the journalists; maybe they are a direct reflection of the sports world. Born upon the principles of honor, integrity, and pure, bloody, tearful, joyous competition we have soiled all prosperity with ties of tragedy, scandal, and arrogance. There comes a transition in which we grow young to old, ignorant to wise, and in this case a transition from sport to business.
Sports have not been simply a game for quite some time. We used to let the game speak for itself and there was really no point to post game interviews. Fortunately Michael Eisner has given the sports world his herpetic touch to the industry. From here on out we’ll have our champions acquitted from all charges, brought to you by a frothy beer, and the understudy for Goofy will tell it only like the high glam diva of the sports world could.
We could only hope that the next malfunction at a sport broadcast involves the microphones.
Believe it or not the majority of young Americans get their news from two sources; Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show” and “Sportcenter.” ESPN, which apparently stands for “everything sports network” has fallen further from greatness than the Chicago Bulls. However, both are laughing stocks that think they are doing the right thing for their fans.
In the late 90’s (I think) ESPN merged with Disney and the rest is history. Sportcenter went from a solid newscast with entertaining anchors to a broadcast for flunky comics who like a sport.
During a broadcast you can watch such segments as “fact or fiction.” This segment is where the so-called analyst/washed up athlete gives insight that any half sober mind could derive. They spend about five to eight minutes speculating everything that could possibly happen while dropping cliché sports metaphor after metaphor. “They are just going to have to play this series one at a time.” Can you play more than one at a time? Take your University of Georgia sprots degree back home bucko.
What is the most frustrating thing is that the analyst many times just doesn’t know which to pick, fact or fiction. Say either fact or fiction. The longer you take the more you perpetuate your dumb jock stereotype. If ESPN knew anything (ha!) they would realize the audience already knows that the analysts are only reading what someone wrote for them.
Our broadcasting talent is at the stage of passing the torch. Tom Brokaw is leaving the nightly news and whom is he passing off to, Brian Williams (an appropriate name for a monotone generic fill in). The same goes for Sportcenter. Dan Patrick and Keith Olberman were the Smothers Brothers of sports. They were smart, passionate, and tactful with their humor. Who do they leave us with? John Kruk, John Clayton (Perdue chicken man), and some other nameless yaps neither of whom probably own a pair of shoes that tie.
In a society where the only people on a newscast that actually demonstrate a personality is the weather and sports anchor these chaps have overlooked moderation like a freshman at their first party. The news desk has turned into that lunch table next to the cool kids. Saying any and everything to fit in and be liked by the rest of us. Think about it, why else would they say “Shaq-Daddy?”
Recently on SC they had the “sportcenter final exam.” For those uninformed this is where some athlete are asked tough questions about current events with the catch being all different types of sports. I am sure some charity gets money out of this because if they were being lame for the sake of being lame well that would be rather Disney now wouldn’t it?
Apparently Mickey Mouse likes to kick back with a cold one now and again. A beer maker sponsors just about every segment in Sportcenter. I have two favorite spots. The Coors Silver Bullet – Six-pack of questions. Wow, I don’t know who was the savvy mind that drew the connection between beer and a six-pack. I am glad somebody in the advertising world has the gall to direct market to the sororities across our nation.
My other favorite segment on the show is the Budweiser Hot Seat. Remember the adage of being in the hot seat meaning you were basically going to be verbally crucified? Well a journalist with integrity would ask tough questions and since there are none at ESPN they ask a handful of high school level questions. I could be wrong, maybe some athletes dread someone asking them “do you think the Cubs will go all the way this year?” Excuse me Troy Wingo do you have a towel? That question just made me sweat my fellas off.
Maybe I should not blame the journalists; maybe they are a direct reflection of the sports world. Born upon the principles of honor, integrity, and pure, bloody, tearful, joyous competition we have soiled all prosperity with ties of tragedy, scandal, and arrogance. There comes a transition in which we grow young to old, ignorant to wise, and in this case a transition from sport to business.
Sports have not been simply a game for quite some time. We used to let the game speak for itself and there was really no point to post game interviews. Fortunately Michael Eisner has given the sports world his herpetic touch to the industry. From here on out we’ll have our champions acquitted from all charges, brought to you by a frothy beer, and the understudy for Goofy will tell it only like the high glam diva of the sports world could.
We could only hope that the next malfunction at a sport broadcast involves the microphones.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Ahh, Twins
Twins are the biological redo of our species and for many reasons we are fascinated by the way they really look alike in the same outfit (but different color). It all became cuter than all heck with Patty Duke. Then we got a special treat called the Olsen twins.
Their big breaks came when they were only nine months old. How does a set of nine-month-old infants look/act the part more than any other set of twins? Was the audition more than a session at Olen Mills photography studio? “Smile for the birdie.” “I think she grinned. Now, that’s our baby.”
Having a baby on a show makes as much as owning fish, as much as you would like they really do nothing besides take up space waiting for you to feed or change them. When the Olsen twins actually were able to speak (not have a voice dubbed over them) they were the icons of sugar substitutes.
I wonder this. At the age of nine months why do you need a set of twins? What exactly could Ashley do that made Mary-Kate a third down kind of twin? Could only one of them say “way to go dude!”? I am surprised that there was no complex to come from this. On the set of a family show not only does the show end perfectly but also so does the lives of all within…Blehh.
Mary-Kate and Ashley were so perfect for the era of family programming. When ABC gave them the start they were on TGIF (Tipper Gore’s Installation of Family values). Who else was on? Well, Urckle in “Family Matters.” That show took no more than a couple seasons to immortalize an American ideal- writing off a child. If you recall there was another daughter but ABC already had the ugly card with Urckle and he got laughs.
Full House brought many ideals back to the home. Many of those ideals were already mentioned, written, and played out in “The Brady Bunch”, “Family Ties” and even “The Cosby Show.”
I thank the Olsen’s for being the lone set of child stars not to be waking up and washing their faces in the gutter. They are reportedly worth almost a billion dollars. That is fascinating how they fleeced America’s allowances on such lame straight to video movies fluffy magazines, and wearing Osh Kosh B’Gosh for seven years. In a world of hard core, these two are the anti-viagra; they keep our lives soft and our ideals flirting with actual morals. Until they turn eighteen.
Here’s the issue with America talking about these girls in a sexual manner. Legally, it soon will be acceptable. Ethically, still wrong. Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are making the nation talk like they were on “Girls Gone Wild.” I am disappointed in us. This case alone makes America a bunch of hillbillies. Can a child not grow up before we have the urge to go R. Kelly on them? We watched them grow up. It is like raising a calf, naming and nurturing it only to send it to slaughter instead of milking the wholesomeness it provides.
There are a select group of horn balls that vocalize their inner thoughts as one (usually a girl) turns eighteen. “Man, I can’t wait until she is eighteen, finally legal.” Yeah, I am sure the only benefit of her turning legal is now that you will only be classified as a sex offender not a sex offender and a pedophile, creep.
On a brighter note, the twins got their star on the Hollywood walk of fame. The stars are actually bought by the stars proving that only in California are people dumb enough to pay for millions of people to walk all over them, well there is also the presidency.
I used to think took a lot of time and success to get on the walk of fame (Bob Hope, Humphrey Bogart, Lucile Ball) but I guess in the weeks between another comic book movie opening Hollywood needed something to waste our time with.
Mary Kate and Ashley are doing to greatest thing, going to college. Maybe then they will finally “find themselves” and stop mooching off their parents. I understand they are looking to study business and fashion. If all goes well for them they will be the first child stars to be thirty that can afford Applebees and not look like fallen GAP models.
Good luck girls, I’ll give you a call sometime before my morals return.
Twins are the biological redo of our species and for many reasons we are fascinated by the way they really look alike in the same outfit (but different color). It all became cuter than all heck with Patty Duke. Then we got a special treat called the Olsen twins.
Their big breaks came when they were only nine months old. How does a set of nine-month-old infants look/act the part more than any other set of twins? Was the audition more than a session at Olen Mills photography studio? “Smile for the birdie.” “I think she grinned. Now, that’s our baby.”
Having a baby on a show makes as much as owning fish, as much as you would like they really do nothing besides take up space waiting for you to feed or change them. When the Olsen twins actually were able to speak (not have a voice dubbed over them) they were the icons of sugar substitutes.
I wonder this. At the age of nine months why do you need a set of twins? What exactly could Ashley do that made Mary-Kate a third down kind of twin? Could only one of them say “way to go dude!”? I am surprised that there was no complex to come from this. On the set of a family show not only does the show end perfectly but also so does the lives of all within…Blehh.
Mary-Kate and Ashley were so perfect for the era of family programming. When ABC gave them the start they were on TGIF (Tipper Gore’s Installation of Family values). Who else was on? Well, Urckle in “Family Matters.” That show took no more than a couple seasons to immortalize an American ideal- writing off a child. If you recall there was another daughter but ABC already had the ugly card with Urckle and he got laughs.
Full House brought many ideals back to the home. Many of those ideals were already mentioned, written, and played out in “The Brady Bunch”, “Family Ties” and even “The Cosby Show.”
I thank the Olsen’s for being the lone set of child stars not to be waking up and washing their faces in the gutter. They are reportedly worth almost a billion dollars. That is fascinating how they fleeced America’s allowances on such lame straight to video movies fluffy magazines, and wearing Osh Kosh B’Gosh for seven years. In a world of hard core, these two are the anti-viagra; they keep our lives soft and our ideals flirting with actual morals. Until they turn eighteen.
Here’s the issue with America talking about these girls in a sexual manner. Legally, it soon will be acceptable. Ethically, still wrong. Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are making the nation talk like they were on “Girls Gone Wild.” I am disappointed in us. This case alone makes America a bunch of hillbillies. Can a child not grow up before we have the urge to go R. Kelly on them? We watched them grow up. It is like raising a calf, naming and nurturing it only to send it to slaughter instead of milking the wholesomeness it provides.
There are a select group of horn balls that vocalize their inner thoughts as one (usually a girl) turns eighteen. “Man, I can’t wait until she is eighteen, finally legal.” Yeah, I am sure the only benefit of her turning legal is now that you will only be classified as a sex offender not a sex offender and a pedophile, creep.
On a brighter note, the twins got their star on the Hollywood walk of fame. The stars are actually bought by the stars proving that only in California are people dumb enough to pay for millions of people to walk all over them, well there is also the presidency.
I used to think took a lot of time and success to get on the walk of fame (Bob Hope, Humphrey Bogart, Lucile Ball) but I guess in the weeks between another comic book movie opening Hollywood needed something to waste our time with.
Mary Kate and Ashley are doing to greatest thing, going to college. Maybe then they will finally “find themselves” and stop mooching off their parents. I understand they are looking to study business and fashion. If all goes well for them they will be the first child stars to be thirty that can afford Applebees and not look like fallen GAP models.
Good luck girls, I’ll give you a call sometime before my morals return.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Elton John Cries Foul as America Sheds Another Sequin
This hurts, it hurts like the time I fell that long distance when my stiletto heel broke while running to my Diva meeting. Ok, so I really didn’t have a meeting but this American Idol protest has hurt the nation. For those with willpower let me explain what the lemmings at the cooler are talking about.
One of the “really talented” girls was voted off American Idol. First let me say that although there are judges for this contest, “America decides the Idol.” Since there is no golden calf we get to choose from the best wedding singers sober enough to show. I digress.
The matter at hand is that a young black woman was voted off not too long ago. She was good and by good I mean she wasn’t a redheaded crooner, or a live action Lilo. To add insult to the injury of losing one talented gal, the next two closest to be eliminated were also…black.
What does this mean? Elton John says there is something “incredibly racist” about the way viewers vote on the Fox program. So this means…? It means that white supremacists are dumb enough to let their kids watch Fox too. It means black people have more important things to do than make Paula Abdul think she is wanted back in the spotlight.
Now let me ponder the statement Elton made. Who picks this future town fair act? AMERICA. We messed up our last presidential election what makes Hollywood think that we could handle this responsibility again? Let’s take the positive out of this situation. We now know that racists can operate a phone, yet still do not know how to read a book that’s subject matter does not pop up.
Fox should have a written ballot then. Then only the certifiable losers will vote. Racists will be too busy sitting on their own head.
This still does not remedy poor Sir Elton John. Elton, apparently never noticed any words of hate. How could he? Lookin’ that good strolling down the street wearing more sequins than a disco ball. “I am Captain Glam, what ever you say bounces off me and sticks to you- BAM!”
Back to the parallel we may have missed. American Idol is such an obnoxious part of our society but it still manages to be present in our culture. Likewise, racism is an unending tragedy for our society that we cannot seem to suffocate. In a perfect world we now associate these two together and they destruct each other. Look at it this way. From now on American Idol has a racist undertone that it can’t avoid. Although it appears, Fox probably does not want to come off racist and the racists probably don’t want to be apart of any Fox programming. Death and discredit by association. It is like the high school mentality: “It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s the losers you carpool with.”
It is rather silly to think a Gloria Estefan sing along further jeopardizes our fellow man’s pursuit of equality for all and individual prosperity. It is ok America don’t blame yourself for this. Blame the media. Maxwell, out.
This hurts, it hurts like the time I fell that long distance when my stiletto heel broke while running to my Diva meeting. Ok, so I really didn’t have a meeting but this American Idol protest has hurt the nation. For those with willpower let me explain what the lemmings at the cooler are talking about.
One of the “really talented” girls was voted off American Idol. First let me say that although there are judges for this contest, “America decides the Idol.” Since there is no golden calf we get to choose from the best wedding singers sober enough to show. I digress.
The matter at hand is that a young black woman was voted off not too long ago. She was good and by good I mean she wasn’t a redheaded crooner, or a live action Lilo. To add insult to the injury of losing one talented gal, the next two closest to be eliminated were also…black.
What does this mean? Elton John says there is something “incredibly racist” about the way viewers vote on the Fox program. So this means…? It means that white supremacists are dumb enough to let their kids watch Fox too. It means black people have more important things to do than make Paula Abdul think she is wanted back in the spotlight.
Now let me ponder the statement Elton made. Who picks this future town fair act? AMERICA. We messed up our last presidential election what makes Hollywood think that we could handle this responsibility again? Let’s take the positive out of this situation. We now know that racists can operate a phone, yet still do not know how to read a book that’s subject matter does not pop up.
Fox should have a written ballot then. Then only the certifiable losers will vote. Racists will be too busy sitting on their own head.
This still does not remedy poor Sir Elton John. Elton, apparently never noticed any words of hate. How could he? Lookin’ that good strolling down the street wearing more sequins than a disco ball. “I am Captain Glam, what ever you say bounces off me and sticks to you- BAM!”
Back to the parallel we may have missed. American Idol is such an obnoxious part of our society but it still manages to be present in our culture. Likewise, racism is an unending tragedy for our society that we cannot seem to suffocate. In a perfect world we now associate these two together and they destruct each other. Look at it this way. From now on American Idol has a racist undertone that it can’t avoid. Although it appears, Fox probably does not want to come off racist and the racists probably don’t want to be apart of any Fox programming. Death and discredit by association. It is like the high school mentality: “It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s the losers you carpool with.”
It is rather silly to think a Gloria Estefan sing along further jeopardizes our fellow man’s pursuit of equality for all and individual prosperity. It is ok America don’t blame yourself for this. Blame the media. Maxwell, out.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Pee Wee League Scalpers
Before America loses itself in another stellar performance enhanced baseball season I remind the readers that American ballparks are not the only place to pay $7 for ten ounces of beer. I recently made it out to RFK stadium in DC to see the next youth movement, Freddy Adu.
In all fairness to American soccer, this is the best option. Immortalize a player that actually is the age of the core audience, fourteen. If the soccer community impaired Freddy from playing at higher levels, he may have lost interest in the game and tried catch or throw something.
MLS is the wave of the future. Yes, I just said that. I was sitting at the DC United game and whenever there was an announcement, the stadium would here it ten seconds later in Spanish. It is refreshing to know that at least one sport in America recognizes the most recent census results.
However, what are we to do with these kids? This is becoming a recurring event. News from high school newspapers that some recent grad from Puberty High is going to forego four years of higher education and random hook ups for a six plus figure income.
This is just a test, with these “extreme” cases of youth athleticism. Our society is ok with these fourteen-year-old phenoms playing professionally mainly because they are athletes for secondary (if that) sports. Golf and Soccer are probably as nationally popular professional billiards and bowling when they first started to attract obese Middle America.
Golf and soccer? We are more than willing to sacrifice these sports’ reputation for the chance for improvement. The kicker is not watching an absurdly talented youth competing. The joy comes in watching a player young enough to play in a father son/daughter tournament beat the snot out of well trained and conditioned
professionals.
When does this get really exciting? I want to see a fourteen-year-old football player, or better yet a NASCAR driver. Imagine that media hype. Mom has to ride in the car, since they would still be on their learner’s permit. The kid would not be afraid of a wreck since the human body can repair three times faster than a thirty-year-old (not a scientific statement, just a guestimate). This would be the greatest metaphor to perpetuate the circle of life.
Soon we will have to buy tickets for our children’s little league games. Not the LLWS, but the regular joe polyester uniform league. The other danger in this craze to make a pubescent juggernaut is the parents. Now the other parents of the solid yet not phenomenal players will go even blinder on the reality of their child’s mediocrity.
Youth sports are a society where there are two types of athletics. The local and the traveling teams were distinguishable like they were the jocks and the greasers. How far we have mutated the summer dream of excelling past their peers. It has become the goal to surpass their parents’ peers. The same kids that used to say “my dad can beat your dad…” are now saying, “well my son can beat… you.”
Parents of young children now take the smallest flicker of innocence as a foreshadowing of innovation. “Little Billy can toss a whiffle ball from the porch to his dad in the swimming pool. Tomorrow I have him meeting with a coach for his batting stance, never mind the fact he is only five.” When exactly does a parent discover this genius or athleticism? Somewhere between playing baby Jesus in the Christmas pageant and thumb sucking, perhaps.
In moments like this, I wonder where is Doogie Howser? Not Neil Patrick Harris but a genius doctor that is barely old enough to drive his Porsche. Maybe the genius doctors are smart enough to realize their cash cow will come soon enough. Maybe the intellectual deities are afraid to have their journey with zits and braces made into a public spectacle. Maybe there are child labor laws that only apply to those who can be liable for mistake not a missed goal. Regardless of the law we will exploit them, after it is all for the children. Mommy and daddy know best and now they get 17%.
Before America loses itself in another stellar performance enhanced baseball season I remind the readers that American ballparks are not the only place to pay $7 for ten ounces of beer. I recently made it out to RFK stadium in DC to see the next youth movement, Freddy Adu.
In all fairness to American soccer, this is the best option. Immortalize a player that actually is the age of the core audience, fourteen. If the soccer community impaired Freddy from playing at higher levels, he may have lost interest in the game and tried catch or throw something.
MLS is the wave of the future. Yes, I just said that. I was sitting at the DC United game and whenever there was an announcement, the stadium would here it ten seconds later in Spanish. It is refreshing to know that at least one sport in America recognizes the most recent census results.
However, what are we to do with these kids? This is becoming a recurring event. News from high school newspapers that some recent grad from Puberty High is going to forego four years of higher education and random hook ups for a six plus figure income.
This is just a test, with these “extreme” cases of youth athleticism. Our society is ok with these fourteen-year-old phenoms playing professionally mainly because they are athletes for secondary (if that) sports. Golf and Soccer are probably as nationally popular professional billiards and bowling when they first started to attract obese Middle America.
Golf and soccer? We are more than willing to sacrifice these sports’ reputation for the chance for improvement. The kicker is not watching an absurdly talented youth competing. The joy comes in watching a player young enough to play in a father son/daughter tournament beat the snot out of well trained and conditioned
professionals.
When does this get really exciting? I want to see a fourteen-year-old football player, or better yet a NASCAR driver. Imagine that media hype. Mom has to ride in the car, since they would still be on their learner’s permit. The kid would not be afraid of a wreck since the human body can repair three times faster than a thirty-year-old (not a scientific statement, just a guestimate). This would be the greatest metaphor to perpetuate the circle of life.
Soon we will have to buy tickets for our children’s little league games. Not the LLWS, but the regular joe polyester uniform league. The other danger in this craze to make a pubescent juggernaut is the parents. Now the other parents of the solid yet not phenomenal players will go even blinder on the reality of their child’s mediocrity.
Youth sports are a society where there are two types of athletics. The local and the traveling teams were distinguishable like they were the jocks and the greasers. How far we have mutated the summer dream of excelling past their peers. It has become the goal to surpass their parents’ peers. The same kids that used to say “my dad can beat your dad…” are now saying, “well my son can beat… you.”
Parents of young children now take the smallest flicker of innocence as a foreshadowing of innovation. “Little Billy can toss a whiffle ball from the porch to his dad in the swimming pool. Tomorrow I have him meeting with a coach for his batting stance, never mind the fact he is only five.” When exactly does a parent discover this genius or athleticism? Somewhere between playing baby Jesus in the Christmas pageant and thumb sucking, perhaps.
In moments like this, I wonder where is Doogie Howser? Not Neil Patrick Harris but a genius doctor that is barely old enough to drive his Porsche. Maybe the genius doctors are smart enough to realize their cash cow will come soon enough. Maybe the intellectual deities are afraid to have their journey with zits and braces made into a public spectacle. Maybe there are child labor laws that only apply to those who can be liable for mistake not a missed goal. Regardless of the law we will exploit them, after it is all for the children. Mommy and daddy know best and now they get 17%.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Digging from one side of the Earth to the other-
Have you ever ridden on a rickshaw? I did, it was the largest one I have ever seen. Actually it was the Chinatown bus from Washington DC to New York City. This was for no ordinary weekend; this was for New Year’s Eve in New York City.
The ticket informs you to arrive 30 minutes before, after that your seat is no longer a guarantee. These folk mean business, however I learned that business does not always mean there is organization.
As the line forms around the corner, the local news channel arrives, so does the initial disappointment/lesson. They overbooked the bus- kind of like they overbooked their own country.
Enter the old Chinese woman and the four generations that follow her, they simply ignore the societal concept of “the line” (If you have been to Disney and dealt with foreigners you know what I am saying). Now, they take the three front rows- with their dog! Perhaps a preventative measure in case we get stranded and times get desperate, who knows.
There are a few ways to pass time while on the road - read a book, listen to music, talk to a buddy, or count the number of waffle houses until the destination. In this case there was a movie. This was not an epic, a comedy, romance or even a thriller it was all in CHINESE! I was completely lost. Fortunately the eight-inch screen gave way to the closed captioning for the patrons. I almost tried to decipher the story but each bit of caption just looked like firework wrapper.
It wasn’t but a few moments after Jet Li saved the people from the underground mafia that we stopped to fuel up. As I exit I for fresh air I realize that I am in Jersey and might as well take a hit off the exhaust pipe.
Our driver gave us strict notification of a fifteen-minute window until departure. Never in my life have I seen so many people willing to buy a truck stop hot dog in fear of when the next meal will come. “Has it been fifteen minutes?” A man asked. “I think we have a enough time, but who knows which calendar the driver is using.” I replied.
The excitement is building as we get through New Jersey and enter New York. The streets were littered with people and laced with the scent of the last Thursday’s trash. Ahh, I love New York. Then I got off the bus at about 9:00 PM, mind you once again, on New Year’s Eve.
Once I stepped foot off the bus and felt like I was on location for the next Jackie Chan movie. I and the two other sheltered white folk shared a cab to Time’s Square (which was the nicest cab ride/driver I ever had). Ten dollars each, and suddenly I found myself in the heart of the greatest celebration. Now if I could only find my friend.
The celebration itself was great; NYC was a more than hospitable “town” to visit. Re-hydrated and ready to leave the city I went back into Chinatown. I was very unsure of how well the thirty-minute honor system worked in this Chinatown so I arrived at least forty-five minutes early.
My cab door was almost opened by this man who quickly asked me to buy a ticket, for what I had no clue. He then explained it was for the bus to Washington DC. Getting on the bus I noticed one thing, a vile stench coming from the back of the bus. No, there was not a toilet there, but someone obviously hit up the Chinatown market for some “fresh” groceries.
It was so bad smelling that I could not remain silent about it. “What is going on? Did someone die in the overhead space? Why couldn’t you have just bought the sweet and sour chicken?” Fortunately I was alone in my feelings. I was sitting next to a German student that was part of the “Nannies for Green card” program. She was a cute (by European standards) bus companion.
Just before we left the city we stopped by the barber. Apparently the driver knew a man that was mid-cut and needed a lift to DC. This exclusive club allows only for those who can tell time in Chinese. It really is no place for a curly haired guy to go. Although I would love to see if the barber could handle the tumbleweed atop my scalp opposed to the plethora of straight dark brown hair.
After that makeshift pickup we zoomed back to DC only to stop whenever the hoodlums in the back of the bus acted out. There always has to be some degenerates at the back of a bus.
I woke up thinking we made it in record time, but alas, the rather disgruntled driver stopped to go school bus driver on the aforementioned hoodlums. “Don’t push the buttons.” “Which buttons? These buttons?” Great, keep it up nimrod. It is always is wise poke the panda. They appear soft and cuddly but when that bamboo shanks left and well…I digress.
It really is amazing how travelers’s can create their own fear and enjoyment. Sixty-five dollars later, I have countless memories of my state of the art rickshaw ride, not to mention packets of soy sauce.
Have you ever ridden on a rickshaw? I did, it was the largest one I have ever seen. Actually it was the Chinatown bus from Washington DC to New York City. This was for no ordinary weekend; this was for New Year’s Eve in New York City.
The ticket informs you to arrive 30 minutes before, after that your seat is no longer a guarantee. These folk mean business, however I learned that business does not always mean there is organization.
As the line forms around the corner, the local news channel arrives, so does the initial disappointment/lesson. They overbooked the bus- kind of like they overbooked their own country.
Enter the old Chinese woman and the four generations that follow her, they simply ignore the societal concept of “the line” (If you have been to Disney and dealt with foreigners you know what I am saying). Now, they take the three front rows- with their dog! Perhaps a preventative measure in case we get stranded and times get desperate, who knows.
There are a few ways to pass time while on the road - read a book, listen to music, talk to a buddy, or count the number of waffle houses until the destination. In this case there was a movie. This was not an epic, a comedy, romance or even a thriller it was all in CHINESE! I was completely lost. Fortunately the eight-inch screen gave way to the closed captioning for the patrons. I almost tried to decipher the story but each bit of caption just looked like firework wrapper.
It wasn’t but a few moments after Jet Li saved the people from the underground mafia that we stopped to fuel up. As I exit I for fresh air I realize that I am in Jersey and might as well take a hit off the exhaust pipe.
Our driver gave us strict notification of a fifteen-minute window until departure. Never in my life have I seen so many people willing to buy a truck stop hot dog in fear of when the next meal will come. “Has it been fifteen minutes?” A man asked. “I think we have a enough time, but who knows which calendar the driver is using.” I replied.
The excitement is building as we get through New Jersey and enter New York. The streets were littered with people and laced with the scent of the last Thursday’s trash. Ahh, I love New York. Then I got off the bus at about 9:00 PM, mind you once again, on New Year’s Eve.
Once I stepped foot off the bus and felt like I was on location for the next Jackie Chan movie. I and the two other sheltered white folk shared a cab to Time’s Square (which was the nicest cab ride/driver I ever had). Ten dollars each, and suddenly I found myself in the heart of the greatest celebration. Now if I could only find my friend.
The celebration itself was great; NYC was a more than hospitable “town” to visit. Re-hydrated and ready to leave the city I went back into Chinatown. I was very unsure of how well the thirty-minute honor system worked in this Chinatown so I arrived at least forty-five minutes early.
My cab door was almost opened by this man who quickly asked me to buy a ticket, for what I had no clue. He then explained it was for the bus to Washington DC. Getting on the bus I noticed one thing, a vile stench coming from the back of the bus. No, there was not a toilet there, but someone obviously hit up the Chinatown market for some “fresh” groceries.
It was so bad smelling that I could not remain silent about it. “What is going on? Did someone die in the overhead space? Why couldn’t you have just bought the sweet and sour chicken?” Fortunately I was alone in my feelings. I was sitting next to a German student that was part of the “Nannies for Green card” program. She was a cute (by European standards) bus companion.
Just before we left the city we stopped by the barber. Apparently the driver knew a man that was mid-cut and needed a lift to DC. This exclusive club allows only for those who can tell time in Chinese. It really is no place for a curly haired guy to go. Although I would love to see if the barber could handle the tumbleweed atop my scalp opposed to the plethora of straight dark brown hair.
After that makeshift pickup we zoomed back to DC only to stop whenever the hoodlums in the back of the bus acted out. There always has to be some degenerates at the back of a bus.
I woke up thinking we made it in record time, but alas, the rather disgruntled driver stopped to go school bus driver on the aforementioned hoodlums. “Don’t push the buttons.” “Which buttons? These buttons?” Great, keep it up nimrod. It is always is wise poke the panda. They appear soft and cuddly but when that bamboo shanks left and well…I digress.
It really is amazing how travelers’s can create their own fear and enjoyment. Sixty-five dollars later, I have countless memories of my state of the art rickshaw ride, not to mention packets of soy sauce.
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