The other night I watched "Steal This Movie," the biography of counter-culture activist Abbie Hoffman. While a bit romanticized, the movie got me thinking. Abbie Hoffman's prime motivation was to make our country a better place -- to expand people's minds and fulfill the notion that one voice, if raised loudly enough, CAN make a difference. It was an inspiring movie, and got me thinking about my goals as a weekly columnist.
I should be providing you guys with weekly philosophical bones to chew on -- journalism with enough depth and meaning to make us all sit back, question ourselves and our pre-conceptions of life, politics, and the human way. I should be routinely bringing meaning and message to the masses.
Trouble is, it turns out that I don't have any kind of depth or meaning to any iota of my brain. So instead I'm going to babble about my cat.
Let's get one thing clear first. Yes, I'm a single guy and I have a cat. And no, I'm not gay. Forgive me for perpetuating that horrible stereotype there, but I know that somewhere in the Great Book of All Things Not Macho, cat owning has its own chapter. "Hey, baby, wanna come over and see my precious wittle kitty" has NEVER been a successful way to pick up girls. This I realize, and it's something I've come to terms with long ago. The reason why this stereotype doesn't apply to me? I don't own a cat. My cat owns me.
Rewind to ten years ago. It's the week before Christmas, and there's a -20 wind chill outside. I'd put it off for as long as possible, and I needed to go on a grocery run. Braving the cold and my freezing car, I shiver all the way to Hy-Vee. I shut off the car and open the door... and out of nowhere, this tiny ball of frozen fur jumps into my car, onto my lap, curls up in a ball, and starts purring.
That's how I found Chelsea 10 years ago. At that time, she could almost fit in the palm of my hand. Now she's a giant lump of lard that only awakens from her daily coma to go scratch up anything I remotely enjoy owning. She's a maladjusted walking attitude problem that doesn't play well with strangers, whines as bad as any child I've ever met, hacks up more hairballs than she has hair, and holds a black belt in claw combat. But she IS my precious wittle kitty, and I couldn't imagine the past 10 years without her. Until last Friday.
No, no, my cat didn't die... but I did fantasize briefly about killing her.
It was 10 minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off... and I was suddenly awake. More to the point, I was awake and in pain. Judging by the weight, my first guess was that a rather obese cat had just pounced directly onto my stomach and was presently sitting on my chest. Gathering the strength to wake up and push the cat off of me, I raise my head and crack my eyes open... in just enough time to see my cat go "Ptooey!" and SPIT OUT A DEAD MOUSE ONTO MY CHEST.
We've already established that I'm not gay, right? Good... keep that in mind while I tell you all that the next thing I did was SCREAM. Like a wee little girl. And leapt out of bed, shaking in a full-on cootie attack. Meanwhile my cat looks up at me like, "What?" Meanwhile the mouse looks up at me like, "Hi, I'm dead."
As creepy as it was, though, I'm somewhat impressed by my cat. I didn't think my cat was in any condition to catch anything other than a cold. (One of my closest friends, in fact, is convinced that the mouse led a long and healthy life in my messy apartment, contentedly died of old age, and my lazy ol' cat just happened upon the body.) However, since that fateful morning, my cat is now in full-on mouse patrol. Every time I see her, she's darting around, smelling, probing, hunting... it's like my own miniature Per Mar guard.
So I suppose the bad news is that my apartment complex apparantly has mice (yuck.) The good news is that, while I'm sitting here typing this, my best friend is pacing around my feet, ensuring that no rodent disturb me in mid-column. Either that or she's just hungry. Lessee... sigh. Yep, it's food time. Gotta go, my owner needs me.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Sunday, March 20, 2005
COLUMN: Morrie
They say you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. They (whoever "they" are) weren't kidding. His name was Maurice J. Kinser, but those of us in Rock Island simply knew him as Morrie.
To my knowledge, he was the first person I ever met in the Quad Cities. I had just arrived at Augustana, a wide-eyed 17 year old kid. After getting settled in the dorms, I went out for groceries, and on the way back, I stopped off at the Shell station on the corner of 18th Ave. & 30th St. for a Coke and a fill-up.
Now, getting a Coke and some gas might not seem like a big deal. But back then, it was my first day of independence. I didn't need my parent's permission to get the Coke, I didn't need to borrow the car or borrow some cash. I was officially on my own and ready to make my mark in the world. I could go buy my Coke and stay up til sunrise drinking it if I wanted to. No mere mortal Coke was this; it was the Coke of Freedom.
Triumphantly, I pulled to the station. That's when I met him. The man I would come to know as Morrie strolled over to the car, raised an eyebrow, and said simply, "Freshman?"
"Errr, yeah," I replied off-guard.
"Yeah, you look the part," Morrie said as he shuffled off to get my pop. That, right there, was my first dose of reality. I wasn't king of the world after all. I was just one of the masses. That grounding of my big-headed aspirations may have deflated my chutzpah a bit, but it also gave me immediate respect for one of the most colorful figures the Quad Cities has ever seen.
That's why I almost ran off the road last week when I passed the Shell station and saw that their sign had changed to simply, "Morrie, You Will Be Missed." I knew right then he was gone, and it suddenly felt like the passing of an era.
For 27 years, Morrie worked that Shell station. Time and again, he soldiered out in his Cardinals jacket into any kind of weather to duly work the pumps for me and probably a million other customers. I found myself going there all the time, especially after my parents lent me their Shell gas card for a semester, and ESPECIALLY after I realized I could put all the snacks and pop I could carry on that card! Only one person ever gave me static for taking advantage of such a great gift -- but that was Morrie for you.
One day, I woke up to find the Shell -- like so many other full-service stations of its time -- bulldozed to the ground. I thought I'd seen the last of the old guy then, but a couple months later, they built a new self-service, Express Mart-style station in its place... and who was back behind the counter but ol' Morrie himself, making the transition from attendant to clerk with ease.
Morrie embodied the stereotype of the "crochety old guy with a heart of gold." He shot straight from the hip, swore like a sailor, and wouldn't hesitate to tell things exactly as he saw 'em... and if you happened to walk in to the station at the same time a pretty girl did, you knew just to step back because you would NOT be helped first.
The last time I saw Morrie was about two weeks ago. I was on my well-documented health kick and walked to the counter with a Diet Coke.
"Diet?" Morrie held the bottle up to me, "Just what kind of (expletive) is this?" And when I laughed and told him about my plan to cut out sugary soda, he looked at me and said, "Well, it's about time. You're gettin' one hell of a gut there, buddy."
If anybody else on Earth had said that to me, them would be fightin' words. From Morrie, it was honest advice. He might have come across like a gruff old you-know-what, but behind that demeanor was a guy who obviously cared. He always knew my car, he always knew what I wanted before I walked in, and I'd never leave without hearing a "take care now, buddy."
It probably shouldn't have been a shock that he left us. He was never the healthiest guy on the block, and the only thing he loved more than his Cardinals were the umpteen cigarettes he'd go through all day. But something about Morrie seemed unstoppable.
They buried Morrie this week in his Cards jacket and Shell jersey. It's truly fitting, because if there is a heaven, he's up there right now, pumping gas for angels and telling Jesus to cut his hair and get a real job. Morrie didn't cure cancer or do anything to merit a headline, but to me and the other customers of the Shell, Maurice J. Kinser will forever be a Quad City legend.
To my knowledge, he was the first person I ever met in the Quad Cities. I had just arrived at Augustana, a wide-eyed 17 year old kid. After getting settled in the dorms, I went out for groceries, and on the way back, I stopped off at the Shell station on the corner of 18th Ave. & 30th St. for a Coke and a fill-up.
Now, getting a Coke and some gas might not seem like a big deal. But back then, it was my first day of independence. I didn't need my parent's permission to get the Coke, I didn't need to borrow the car or borrow some cash. I was officially on my own and ready to make my mark in the world. I could go buy my Coke and stay up til sunrise drinking it if I wanted to. No mere mortal Coke was this; it was the Coke of Freedom.
Triumphantly, I pulled to the station. That's when I met him. The man I would come to know as Morrie strolled over to the car, raised an eyebrow, and said simply, "Freshman?"
"Errr, yeah," I replied off-guard.
"Yeah, you look the part," Morrie said as he shuffled off to get my pop. That, right there, was my first dose of reality. I wasn't king of the world after all. I was just one of the masses. That grounding of my big-headed aspirations may have deflated my chutzpah a bit, but it also gave me immediate respect for one of the most colorful figures the Quad Cities has ever seen.
That's why I almost ran off the road last week when I passed the Shell station and saw that their sign had changed to simply, "Morrie, You Will Be Missed." I knew right then he was gone, and it suddenly felt like the passing of an era.
For 27 years, Morrie worked that Shell station. Time and again, he soldiered out in his Cardinals jacket into any kind of weather to duly work the pumps for me and probably a million other customers. I found myself going there all the time, especially after my parents lent me their Shell gas card for a semester, and ESPECIALLY after I realized I could put all the snacks and pop I could carry on that card! Only one person ever gave me static for taking advantage of such a great gift -- but that was Morrie for you.
One day, I woke up to find the Shell -- like so many other full-service stations of its time -- bulldozed to the ground. I thought I'd seen the last of the old guy then, but a couple months later, they built a new self-service, Express Mart-style station in its place... and who was back behind the counter but ol' Morrie himself, making the transition from attendant to clerk with ease.
Morrie embodied the stereotype of the "crochety old guy with a heart of gold." He shot straight from the hip, swore like a sailor, and wouldn't hesitate to tell things exactly as he saw 'em... and if you happened to walk in to the station at the same time a pretty girl did, you knew just to step back because you would NOT be helped first.
The last time I saw Morrie was about two weeks ago. I was on my well-documented health kick and walked to the counter with a Diet Coke.
"Diet?" Morrie held the bottle up to me, "Just what kind of (expletive) is this?" And when I laughed and told him about my plan to cut out sugary soda, he looked at me and said, "Well, it's about time. You're gettin' one hell of a gut there, buddy."
If anybody else on Earth had said that to me, them would be fightin' words. From Morrie, it was honest advice. He might have come across like a gruff old you-know-what, but behind that demeanor was a guy who obviously cared. He always knew my car, he always knew what I wanted before I walked in, and I'd never leave without hearing a "take care now, buddy."
It probably shouldn't have been a shock that he left us. He was never the healthiest guy on the block, and the only thing he loved more than his Cardinals were the umpteen cigarettes he'd go through all day. But something about Morrie seemed unstoppable.
They buried Morrie this week in his Cards jacket and Shell jersey. It's truly fitting, because if there is a heaven, he's up there right now, pumping gas for angels and telling Jesus to cut his hair and get a real job. Morrie didn't cure cancer or do anything to merit a headline, but to me and the other customers of the Shell, Maurice J. Kinser will forever be a Quad City legend.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
COLUMN: Oscars
Dear Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences,
I'd like my Sunday back please.
It was my own stupid fault, I guess. I could have been productive. My apartment needed cleaning. I had laundry to do. Hell, I'm sure somewhere there was a rerun of "Cops" I could have been watching.
But noooooo, I instead chose to suffer through all 183.5 hours of coverage of the Night of a Thousand Stars You Could Care Less About. Yes, look at them come down the glorious red carpet now. Ooh, it's What's-Her-Name, you know, from that one movie, looking oh-so-splendid in a dress by somebody I've never heard of. But enough about Joan Rivers' insightful commentary.
This whole Oscar craziness can be summed up in one simple phrase for me: I JUST DON'T GET IT. What is it about human nature that makes us want to sit and watch this tripe? I mean, just because somebody's an impressive actor doesn't mean we need to see them slowly exit a limo and spend the next 30 minutes posing for pictures and making forced chit chat with rotund interns from The Tonight Show. For people who are being celebrated for their craft of acting, most of 'em sure do a lousy job at acting like they enjoy themselves on the red carpet.
Eventually, though, all of the beautiful masses were finally herded into the Kodak Theatre and it was time to enjoy the historic and exciting 2005 Beyonce Awards. That's because Beyonce made an estimated 2005 appearances during the award ceremony itself, impressive for someone whose most acclaimed acting role to date was playing Foxy Cleopatra in the third Austin Powers flick. Yet somehow Beyonce weaseled her way into singing about 80% of the nominated soundtrack songs, including (no joke) the one in French. This had me wondering whether Beyonce actually knew French, or if she just learned the song phoenetically and had no idea what she was singing. I was going to make a joke about that... but then I realized how many times I've sung "In a Gadda Da Vida" in the shower... or known every line to "Macarena" other than what the words were.
(On a side note, I'm pretty certain the lyrics to "Macarena" go like this: "Come, dumb Americans, come and do our stupid dance now/Don't mind us while we point at you and laugh now/Heeey, stupid dance now!")
Once again, I could easily observe a trend in the Academy's voting this year, and that trend was to nominate only movies that I've not seen. My apologies go out to "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," because I DID see and enjoy that one, which immediately meant that it couldn't be nominated for Best Picture.
Instead we get a bunch of movies that I could care less about. "Million Dollar Baby"? I'll take a pass on watching girls who can beat me up. "Finding Neverland"? Given recent news events, I think it's best to steer waaaay clear of Neverland, thanks much. "Ray"? Well, that one I did see, and it's the most heart-warming tale of a philandering heroin addict this side of "Sid and Nancy."
I suppose there were some worthwhile moments about this year's Oscar telecast. Scarlett Johannsen jumped at least three places up my list of Women I Enjoy Obsessing Over, and Johnny Depp reincarnating himself as an Argentinean cowboy made me happy in the notion that even the coolest people on Earth can still occasionally make horrible, horrible mistakes.
But the whole thing was just soooo boring. I just wanted an excuse to stare at Renee Zellweger (yum) and the aforementioned Scarlett Johannsen (double yum,) But they both did their things in the first hour, and it all went downhill from there.
Maybe it was a fine telecast. Maybe I just didn't appreciate the subtle nuances and grand majesty of the Oscar spectacle. Maybe I was just bummed at the shocking snub of "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle." Frankly, I wouldn't know, as I fell asleep on the couch sometime between P. Diddy and Julia Roberts. I can't even remember who won Best Picture of the Year. I think it may have been Beyonce.
I'd like my Sunday back please.
It was my own stupid fault, I guess. I could have been productive. My apartment needed cleaning. I had laundry to do. Hell, I'm sure somewhere there was a rerun of "Cops" I could have been watching.
But noooooo, I instead chose to suffer through all 183.5 hours of coverage of the Night of a Thousand Stars You Could Care Less About. Yes, look at them come down the glorious red carpet now. Ooh, it's What's-Her-Name, you know, from that one movie, looking oh-so-splendid in a dress by somebody I've never heard of. But enough about Joan Rivers' insightful commentary.
This whole Oscar craziness can be summed up in one simple phrase for me: I JUST DON'T GET IT. What is it about human nature that makes us want to sit and watch this tripe? I mean, just because somebody's an impressive actor doesn't mean we need to see them slowly exit a limo and spend the next 30 minutes posing for pictures and making forced chit chat with rotund interns from The Tonight Show. For people who are being celebrated for their craft of acting, most of 'em sure do a lousy job at acting like they enjoy themselves on the red carpet.
Eventually, though, all of the beautiful masses were finally herded into the Kodak Theatre and it was time to enjoy the historic and exciting 2005 Beyonce Awards. That's because Beyonce made an estimated 2005 appearances during the award ceremony itself, impressive for someone whose most acclaimed acting role to date was playing Foxy Cleopatra in the third Austin Powers flick. Yet somehow Beyonce weaseled her way into singing about 80% of the nominated soundtrack songs, including (no joke) the one in French. This had me wondering whether Beyonce actually knew French, or if she just learned the song phoenetically and had no idea what she was singing. I was going to make a joke about that... but then I realized how many times I've sung "In a Gadda Da Vida" in the shower... or known every line to "Macarena" other than what the words were.
(On a side note, I'm pretty certain the lyrics to "Macarena" go like this: "Come, dumb Americans, come and do our stupid dance now/Don't mind us while we point at you and laugh now/Heeey, stupid dance now!")
Once again, I could easily observe a trend in the Academy's voting this year, and that trend was to nominate only movies that I've not seen. My apologies go out to "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," because I DID see and enjoy that one, which immediately meant that it couldn't be nominated for Best Picture.
Instead we get a bunch of movies that I could care less about. "Million Dollar Baby"? I'll take a pass on watching girls who can beat me up. "Finding Neverland"? Given recent news events, I think it's best to steer waaaay clear of Neverland, thanks much. "Ray"? Well, that one I did see, and it's the most heart-warming tale of a philandering heroin addict this side of "Sid and Nancy."
I suppose there were some worthwhile moments about this year's Oscar telecast. Scarlett Johannsen jumped at least three places up my list of Women I Enjoy Obsessing Over, and Johnny Depp reincarnating himself as an Argentinean cowboy made me happy in the notion that even the coolest people on Earth can still occasionally make horrible, horrible mistakes.
But the whole thing was just soooo boring. I just wanted an excuse to stare at Renee Zellweger (yum) and the aforementioned Scarlett Johannsen (double yum,) But they both did their things in the first hour, and it all went downhill from there.
Maybe it was a fine telecast. Maybe I just didn't appreciate the subtle nuances and grand majesty of the Oscar spectacle. Maybe I was just bummed at the shocking snub of "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle." Frankly, I wouldn't know, as I fell asleep on the couch sometime between P. Diddy and Julia Roberts. I can't even remember who won Best Picture of the Year. I think it may have been Beyonce.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
COLUMN: Laundry
I'm nearly out of excuses. I've played with the cat. I've made dinner. I've watched American Idol (Go Scott! Boo Mario!) and 24 (Go Jack! Boo terrorists!) And now, I'm sitting and writing this column. Sooner or later, though, I'm going to have to face the ugly truth: My underwear reserve is down to one, and I need to get off my butt and go do a load of laundry.
I hate laundry more than any other household chore I can think of. One would think, living in the age that we do, that modern science would have invented self-cleaning, self-folding, and self-ironing clothes by now. Yet while science fritters away on such frivolities as medicine and energy conservation, we poor schmucks are left having to lug a basket full of stinky clothes down a flight of stairs in order to spend our hard-earned quarters just to make our laundry spin around in a variety of unexciting ways until -- presto, cleanliness.
There has GOT to be a better way. To add insult to injury, I live in an apartment complex, which means that I have to share our washer and dryer with an assortment of neighbors. Why is this a big deal, you ask? Apparantly you didn't see Dateline the other night.
Or 20/20. Or 60 Minutes. You know, one of those primetime shows that makes its ratings by telling you that a particular place, thing, or activity -- probably one that you know and enjoy on a regular basis -- is, in fact, a Deadly Time Bomb that can, and most likely will, kill you if you're not careful. What thing? They'll tell you after this important message from Ballpark franks (Mmm. They plump when you cook 'em.)
On this particular episode, the Unknown Terror of the Day turned out to be washers and dryers. You might think they're mankind's friends, but nooooo, they're seething cauldrons of doom. It turned out, much to the grossness of everyone watching, that your average laundromat dryer contains trace elements of no less than five people's... doodie.
Doesn't that make you feel good, communal laundry-doers? Next time you smile at your neighbor in the hall, just think about what you guys might be sharing beyond that occasional cup of sugar.
There are certain facts in life I'd rather not know -- that was one of them.
Enough excuses. Doodie or no, I'm off to the washing machine... Or am I? I just walked downstairs, and someone has left their clothes in the washer and forgotten to empty it. What's the protocol for these situations? I'm in a rush, but do I go ahead and pull their clothes out?
That's kind of rude, and let's face it, there's some spooky dudes in my apartment complex whose microscopic doodies should be the least of my worries.
No, this is EXACTLY the excuse I've been looking for to put this off for another day. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the 24-hour Wal-Mart to fetch myself some clean undies.
--
On an entirely unrelated note, I've got to say one serious note real quick. When I was a kid, I never thought I wanted to be a journalist -- until I started reading pieces that made me laugh and think at the same time. And while I respect a great number of writers these days (Sarah Vowell, Dave Barry, David Sedaris, etc.,) there was one man who first made me realize that journalism could be more than who what where when why. Dr. Hunter S. Thompson lived by his own rules, and this past Sunday, he died by his own rules, and our world is a worse place for it. His assorted fears and loathings pointed out the greatest absurdities in our society, and we can only hope his twisted legacy continues to influence rebel journalism for years to come. Hunter once wrote, "Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final." We may be down one legend, but the good fight carries on. Rest in peace, Dr. Gonzo.
I hate laundry more than any other household chore I can think of. One would think, living in the age that we do, that modern science would have invented self-cleaning, self-folding, and self-ironing clothes by now. Yet while science fritters away on such frivolities as medicine and energy conservation, we poor schmucks are left having to lug a basket full of stinky clothes down a flight of stairs in order to spend our hard-earned quarters just to make our laundry spin around in a variety of unexciting ways until -- presto, cleanliness.
There has GOT to be a better way. To add insult to injury, I live in an apartment complex, which means that I have to share our washer and dryer with an assortment of neighbors. Why is this a big deal, you ask? Apparantly you didn't see Dateline the other night.
Or 20/20. Or 60 Minutes. You know, one of those primetime shows that makes its ratings by telling you that a particular place, thing, or activity -- probably one that you know and enjoy on a regular basis -- is, in fact, a Deadly Time Bomb that can, and most likely will, kill you if you're not careful. What thing? They'll tell you after this important message from Ballpark franks (Mmm. They plump when you cook 'em.)
On this particular episode, the Unknown Terror of the Day turned out to be washers and dryers. You might think they're mankind's friends, but nooooo, they're seething cauldrons of doom. It turned out, much to the grossness of everyone watching, that your average laundromat dryer contains trace elements of no less than five people's... doodie.
Doesn't that make you feel good, communal laundry-doers? Next time you smile at your neighbor in the hall, just think about what you guys might be sharing beyond that occasional cup of sugar.
There are certain facts in life I'd rather not know -- that was one of them.
Enough excuses. Doodie or no, I'm off to the washing machine... Or am I? I just walked downstairs, and someone has left their clothes in the washer and forgotten to empty it. What's the protocol for these situations? I'm in a rush, but do I go ahead and pull their clothes out?
That's kind of rude, and let's face it, there's some spooky dudes in my apartment complex whose microscopic doodies should be the least of my worries.
No, this is EXACTLY the excuse I've been looking for to put this off for another day. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the 24-hour Wal-Mart to fetch myself some clean undies.
--
On an entirely unrelated note, I've got to say one serious note real quick. When I was a kid, I never thought I wanted to be a journalist -- until I started reading pieces that made me laugh and think at the same time. And while I respect a great number of writers these days (Sarah Vowell, Dave Barry, David Sedaris, etc.,) there was one man who first made me realize that journalism could be more than who what where when why. Dr. Hunter S. Thompson lived by his own rules, and this past Sunday, he died by his own rules, and our world is a worse place for it. His assorted fears and loathings pointed out the greatest absurdities in our society, and we can only hope his twisted legacy continues to influence rebel journalism for years to come. Hunter once wrote, "Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final." We may be down one legend, but the good fight carries on. Rest in peace, Dr. Gonzo.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
COLUMN: NASCAR
Say it ain't so.
It turns out that your humble columnist is not the strapping hulk of intellect and sophistication that you've assumed. It turns out that I am not the upwardly mobile, well-read embodiment of class that I've assumed. It turns out that I'm going to face a snide sneer from the red wine drinking, art appreciating, highly cultured masses.
It turns out that I... (shudder)... like NASCAR. A lot.
So that's it for me, then. No longer shall I be welcomed with open arms into deep philosophical discussions about the essence of human existence. No longer will I need to know that a soft Neufchatel is best served with a medium-bodied Vins de Pays d'Oc. Now I simply need to know that a brat is best served with a can of MGD, or, for the truly exotic moments in life, I need merely unscrew me a bottle of Boone's. Hoo-ey, them's good eatin'.
I am well on my way to true redneck-dom. Somebody hand me a Toby Keith CD and PBR me ASAP, I might as well get it over with now.
As I've mentioned before, I spend my weekend nights DJ'ing at a club in the District. On a good night, I'll make it home by sunup. This means that while you responsible people are off doing whatever responsible people do on a Sunday morning, I'm snoring away until the crack of noon or so. Then I get up, crawl to the living room, and flick on the TV. But what to watch? Meet the Press? C-Span? Educational programming? Noooo, not when I can watch cars drive around an oval for 3 hours.
All it took was a few races last year to get hooked. Now NASCAR is my own weekly crack habit, and I couldn't begin to tell you why. I know nothing about cars, other than where the key goes and who to pay to fix them when they break. I like to consider myself an environmentalist, yet here I am endorsing a sport that wastes gas and rubber while pointlessly polluting the air, the roads, and anyone within earshot.
The only reason I'm addicted to NASCAR is because it's a 180 mph soap opera... with gnarly wrecks. You've got the quintessential good guy (Dale Jr.,) and the quintessential bad guy (Tony Stewart.) You've got the old warhorses at the end of their reign (Rusty Wallace and Mark Martin, both in their final full seasons of racing.) You've got the reckless, hell-raising new guys (Kasey Kahne and Casey Mears) trying to steal the show. You've got smart guys who you want to pummel (2004 cup champ Kurt Busch,) and dumb guys who you equally want to pummel (Elliott Sadler and his stupid Cajun accent.) And, most importantly, you've got your guy to root for (for me, it's the #48 car of Jimmie Johnson, robbed from the 2004 cup and destined to win 2005.)
Until now, only my closest friends knew about my NASCAR fetish. The other night at a trivia contest, my team and I were surprised with a category on NASCAR -- and even more surprised when I nailed all the answers. "Uh, I saw something on SportsCenter," was all I could say.
Whew, that was close.
To me, NASCAR represents everything I hate about beer-swillin', flag-wavin', butt-kickin' America. NASCAR is a red state sport, and I'm a blue state kinda guy. Let's face it - the drivers I root for probably would have beat me up in high school. Yet, none of this can stop the hairs on the back of my neck from rising whenever Darrell Waltrip ("D.W." to us fans) yells "Boogity! Boogity! Boogity!" to kick off my Sunday.
So I guess this is the start of my decline. I'm steppin' out of the closet with my undersized t-shirt and my beer helmet primed. By this time next year, I'll be chewin' my Skoal in a double-wide with a 3-legged dog I'll name "Nugent." Or maybe I'll still be my cynical self who simply disappears from view for a few hours every weekend. All I know is that this Sunday, when the 2005 NASCAR season kicks off in full with the Daytona 500, I will NOT be available for brunch.
Boogity! Boogity! Boogity!
It turns out that your humble columnist is not the strapping hulk of intellect and sophistication that you've assumed. It turns out that I am not the upwardly mobile, well-read embodiment of class that I've assumed. It turns out that I'm going to face a snide sneer from the red wine drinking, art appreciating, highly cultured masses.
It turns out that I... (shudder)... like NASCAR. A lot.
So that's it for me, then. No longer shall I be welcomed with open arms into deep philosophical discussions about the essence of human existence. No longer will I need to know that a soft Neufchatel is best served with a medium-bodied Vins de Pays d'Oc. Now I simply need to know that a brat is best served with a can of MGD, or, for the truly exotic moments in life, I need merely unscrew me a bottle of Boone's. Hoo-ey, them's good eatin'.
I am well on my way to true redneck-dom. Somebody hand me a Toby Keith CD and PBR me ASAP, I might as well get it over with now.
As I've mentioned before, I spend my weekend nights DJ'ing at a club in the District. On a good night, I'll make it home by sunup. This means that while you responsible people are off doing whatever responsible people do on a Sunday morning, I'm snoring away until the crack of noon or so. Then I get up, crawl to the living room, and flick on the TV. But what to watch? Meet the Press? C-Span? Educational programming? Noooo, not when I can watch cars drive around an oval for 3 hours.
All it took was a few races last year to get hooked. Now NASCAR is my own weekly crack habit, and I couldn't begin to tell you why. I know nothing about cars, other than where the key goes and who to pay to fix them when they break. I like to consider myself an environmentalist, yet here I am endorsing a sport that wastes gas and rubber while pointlessly polluting the air, the roads, and anyone within earshot.
The only reason I'm addicted to NASCAR is because it's a 180 mph soap opera... with gnarly wrecks. You've got the quintessential good guy (Dale Jr.,) and the quintessential bad guy (Tony Stewart.) You've got the old warhorses at the end of their reign (Rusty Wallace and Mark Martin, both in their final full seasons of racing.) You've got the reckless, hell-raising new guys (Kasey Kahne and Casey Mears) trying to steal the show. You've got smart guys who you want to pummel (2004 cup champ Kurt Busch,) and dumb guys who you equally want to pummel (Elliott Sadler and his stupid Cajun accent.) And, most importantly, you've got your guy to root for (for me, it's the #48 car of Jimmie Johnson, robbed from the 2004 cup and destined to win 2005.)
Until now, only my closest friends knew about my NASCAR fetish. The other night at a trivia contest, my team and I were surprised with a category on NASCAR -- and even more surprised when I nailed all the answers. "Uh, I saw something on SportsCenter," was all I could say.
Whew, that was close.
To me, NASCAR represents everything I hate about beer-swillin', flag-wavin', butt-kickin' America. NASCAR is a red state sport, and I'm a blue state kinda guy. Let's face it - the drivers I root for probably would have beat me up in high school. Yet, none of this can stop the hairs on the back of my neck from rising whenever Darrell Waltrip ("D.W." to us fans) yells "Boogity! Boogity! Boogity!" to kick off my Sunday.
So I guess this is the start of my decline. I'm steppin' out of the closet with my undersized t-shirt and my beer helmet primed. By this time next year, I'll be chewin' my Skoal in a double-wide with a 3-legged dog I'll name "Nugent." Or maybe I'll still be my cynical self who simply disappears from view for a few hours every weekend. All I know is that this Sunday, when the 2005 NASCAR season kicks off in full with the Daytona 500, I will NOT be available for brunch.
Boogity! Boogity! Boogity!
Sunday, February 20, 2005
COLUMN: DMV
It's been a harrowing week, dear readers. Since my last missive, I've stared sheer terror in the face, and somehow, with only sheer grit and brute machismo, I have survived.
That's right -- I had to go to the DMV.
It all started off so innocently the other night, getting off work and going out to a club with some friends. Upon getting carded at the door, the bouncer looked at me and said, "You know, your license is expired." Oh, phoo. (But I used vocabulary a bit harsher than "phoo," I'm afraid.) Once again I had retained my crown as The Most Irresponsible Person of Earth. It turns out I had been running amok for almost 30 days on an expired license. (My mom is rolling her eyes as she reads this right now, I know she is. It's not your fault, Mom. You tried.)
The next day, my mission was simple -- make it to the DMV and back in a 60 minute lunch break. What can I say, I'm optimistic.
Over here in Illinois, the DMV used to be at Cityline Plaza, a convenient five minutes from both work and home. But someone at the facility -- realizing that the word "convenient" goes against everything the DMV stands for -- had the good sense to move it to the furthest corner of the QC (a distant land the natives call 'Silvis,') in a complex so confusing it defies description. After a brisk 20 minute drive, I was there. Or was I? Wait, did I just pass the turn? Should I go back...? No, maybe it's up here... oh, PHOO! (Actually, perhaps closer to, "How the phoo do I get into this phooing parking lot, you phooing phoophooers?")
There should no longer be need for people to take a driving test when they get their license; if they can make it inside the DMV parking lot, they've already proven themselves worthy behind the wheel. After taking a quick course in cartography and consulting my Magic 8-Ball ("My sources say NO,") I made it into the parking lot and triumphantly strutted into the DMV...
...for exactly two paces. Then I was in a line. In fact, it was the line to find out which line I needed to stand in next. Ahead of me were two people who I'll just call The Worst Case Scenario. The first was a 16 year old girl who was obviously making her first trip into Hell. As she shuffled awkwardly in line and pulled the Rules of the Road out of her purse for a final once-over, I remembered how hard I'd studied for my first written driving test, only to arrive to find out the questions were like, "A person crosses the street in front of you. Do you: (a) slow down, (b) speed up, (c) honk your horn and proceed as normal, (d) run them down as penance for their insolence."
The other lady in front of me might have been a nice woman... 20 years ago, when she might have still been alive. Now, here she was at the ripe old age of 127, trying and failing to pass her vision test. And getting upset. And demanding a supervisor. And eating up the rest of my lunch hour. (When I'm in a rush, I have NO sympathy, folks, not even for the Little Old Lady From Pasadena.)
Finally, it was my turn. I did the eye test while the DMV worker appeared to be reading a magazine of some kind. She was paying so little attention that I could have just made up stuff: "X, E, Y, Pi, one of the symbols off Led Zeppelin IV, a Volkswagen logo, E..."
Then the coup de grace. The new driver's license photo. Every year, it's cringe-worthy, but this time, it aspired to new levels of bad. Like Nick Nolte mugshot kinda bad. If driver's license photos came with captions, the only two that could apply to my new pic are: (a) "Hey, buddy, got any crack?" or possibly (b) "Hey, buddy, want any crack?" In the mirror, I think I look marginally okay. In my driver's license, I now look like a lazy-eyed, unshaven, double-chinned, messy-haired refugee from Losertown.
It's such a horrible picture that I'm almost looking forward to 1/5/09 when I can go back to the DMV and change it. On second thought, phoo that.
That's right -- I had to go to the DMV.
It all started off so innocently the other night, getting off work and going out to a club with some friends. Upon getting carded at the door, the bouncer looked at me and said, "You know, your license is expired." Oh, phoo. (But I used vocabulary a bit harsher than "phoo," I'm afraid.) Once again I had retained my crown as The Most Irresponsible Person of Earth. It turns out I had been running amok for almost 30 days on an expired license. (My mom is rolling her eyes as she reads this right now, I know she is. It's not your fault, Mom. You tried.)
The next day, my mission was simple -- make it to the DMV and back in a 60 minute lunch break. What can I say, I'm optimistic.
Over here in Illinois, the DMV used to be at Cityline Plaza, a convenient five minutes from both work and home. But someone at the facility -- realizing that the word "convenient" goes against everything the DMV stands for -- had the good sense to move it to the furthest corner of the QC (a distant land the natives call 'Silvis,') in a complex so confusing it defies description. After a brisk 20 minute drive, I was there. Or was I? Wait, did I just pass the turn? Should I go back...? No, maybe it's up here... oh, PHOO! (Actually, perhaps closer to, "How the phoo do I get into this phooing parking lot, you phooing phoophooers?")
There should no longer be need for people to take a driving test when they get their license; if they can make it inside the DMV parking lot, they've already proven themselves worthy behind the wheel. After taking a quick course in cartography and consulting my Magic 8-Ball ("My sources say NO,") I made it into the parking lot and triumphantly strutted into the DMV...
...for exactly two paces. Then I was in a line. In fact, it was the line to find out which line I needed to stand in next. Ahead of me were two people who I'll just call The Worst Case Scenario. The first was a 16 year old girl who was obviously making her first trip into Hell. As she shuffled awkwardly in line and pulled the Rules of the Road out of her purse for a final once-over, I remembered how hard I'd studied for my first written driving test, only to arrive to find out the questions were like, "A person crosses the street in front of you. Do you: (a) slow down, (b) speed up, (c) honk your horn and proceed as normal, (d) run them down as penance for their insolence."
The other lady in front of me might have been a nice woman... 20 years ago, when she might have still been alive. Now, here she was at the ripe old age of 127, trying and failing to pass her vision test. And getting upset. And demanding a supervisor. And eating up the rest of my lunch hour. (When I'm in a rush, I have NO sympathy, folks, not even for the Little Old Lady From Pasadena.)
Finally, it was my turn. I did the eye test while the DMV worker appeared to be reading a magazine of some kind. She was paying so little attention that I could have just made up stuff: "X, E, Y, Pi, one of the symbols off Led Zeppelin IV, a Volkswagen logo, E..."
Then the coup de grace. The new driver's license photo. Every year, it's cringe-worthy, but this time, it aspired to new levels of bad. Like Nick Nolte mugshot kinda bad. If driver's license photos came with captions, the only two that could apply to my new pic are: (a) "Hey, buddy, got any crack?" or possibly (b) "Hey, buddy, want any crack?" In the mirror, I think I look marginally okay. In my driver's license, I now look like a lazy-eyed, unshaven, double-chinned, messy-haired refugee from Losertown.
It's such a horrible picture that I'm almost looking forward to 1/5/09 when I can go back to the DMV and change it. On second thought, phoo that.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
COLUMN: Internet
It's been a very rough 48 hours.
I got home the other day to find a true emergency. I had no lifeline. My umbilical cord to the world had been severed. I was all alone in the universe, left with only my inner voice and sheer gut instinct to survive. I was Tom Hanks in "Cast Away."
That's right -- my internet service was down for two whole days. This can NEVER happen again.
Suddenly I had no news, no sports, no weather... no porn. My life was thrown into turmoil, and the fact that I lived through the ordeal to talk to you today is sheer testament to the human spirit and mankind's ability to overcome adversity.
After discovering the dilemma and having a good panicked cry, I set about attempting to piece my life together without cyberassistance. I had to re-learn every facet of existence as though I'd awoken from a ten-year coma.
First off, I needed to re-establish contact with my friends. But how would this be possible without being able to access Instant Messenger? I thought about it for a while, and then took action. Thankfully, just as I was on the roof of my apartment with a blanket, some lighter fluid, and a copy of "Smoke Signals for Dummies," I remembered that there was an easier way. It turns out that I possess an antiquated device by which -- get this -- you can push in the correct seven-digit code, and if your friend also owns one of these ancient creations, it will emit a ringing sound on their end. The user can then pick up the device and speak through it, hearing the party on the other end. I believe they call it a "tele-phone." It's just like Instant Messenger, except you have to go to the trouble of speaking, and with complete words, too! (This "speaking" thing became challenging as I didn't know how to pronounce "LOL!" or "ROFL!")
The rest of the weekend followed in the same manner. I had to watch that picture box thing in the living room to find out the news and sports. I had to walk all the way to the window to know the weather. I had to spend two entire days without receiving ANY e-mails alerting me to discount Viagra, cheating housewives, or Nigerian princesses who wanted to give me large sums of money. Worse yet, if I wanted to hear some music, I had to go a store and (gasp) PAY for it! Oh, the horror.
How on Earth did I exist before the internet? I must have functioned at least somewhat well, though I couldn't begin to tell you how. Surfing the net is the first thing I do in the morning, and it's the last thing I do at night. And it's not like I go to weird places -- just the usual news, sports, weather, etc. I mean, you've got to get your news from somewhere, right? I mean, sheesh, it's not like I work for a newspaper or something. Cough.
I suppose I could've had it worse. I remember when I was little and my mom would tell me about the days before television. This just seemed incomprehensible to me at the time. In my 8-year-old brain, my folks were older than dirt (though I'm now older than they were at the time!) And while I pictured them having to pedal their stone cars Flintstones-style while dodging the occasional predatory pterodactyl, even as an 8-year-old I had just assumed that they pedaled into their caves and sat down to some TV.
But no, my folks lived at least for a while in the pre-television age. My mom once told me that when her family complained about wanting a color television set, my grandfather went out and bought colored gels that you affixed to the front of your black and white set, thus turning it into a color TV -- you just had to pick what one color you wanted.
All of this sounds patentedly absurd to me now... but suddenly I had a revelation. Someday, I'm going to have kids and tell them about life before the Internet, and they're going to look at me like I'm 10,000 years old. And then I can tell them about the good ol' days before compact discs... and home computers... and then I'll challenge them to a wicked game of Pong. And I'll win.
So I suppose I shouldn't whine about being net-free for a day or two. My computer didn't mind the break, and I actually got some stuff done around the apartment. Specifically, the thing I got done was to call my cell phone provider and sign up for the internet on my cell phone. You know, for emergencies.
I got home the other day to find a true emergency. I had no lifeline. My umbilical cord to the world had been severed. I was all alone in the universe, left with only my inner voice and sheer gut instinct to survive. I was Tom Hanks in "Cast Away."
That's right -- my internet service was down for two whole days. This can NEVER happen again.
Suddenly I had no news, no sports, no weather... no porn. My life was thrown into turmoil, and the fact that I lived through the ordeal to talk to you today is sheer testament to the human spirit and mankind's ability to overcome adversity.
After discovering the dilemma and having a good panicked cry, I set about attempting to piece my life together without cyberassistance. I had to re-learn every facet of existence as though I'd awoken from a ten-year coma.
First off, I needed to re-establish contact with my friends. But how would this be possible without being able to access Instant Messenger? I thought about it for a while, and then took action. Thankfully, just as I was on the roof of my apartment with a blanket, some lighter fluid, and a copy of "Smoke Signals for Dummies," I remembered that there was an easier way. It turns out that I possess an antiquated device by which -- get this -- you can push in the correct seven-digit code, and if your friend also owns one of these ancient creations, it will emit a ringing sound on their end. The user can then pick up the device and speak through it, hearing the party on the other end. I believe they call it a "tele-phone." It's just like Instant Messenger, except you have to go to the trouble of speaking, and with complete words, too! (This "speaking" thing became challenging as I didn't know how to pronounce "LOL!" or "ROFL!")
The rest of the weekend followed in the same manner. I had to watch that picture box thing in the living room to find out the news and sports. I had to walk all the way to the window to know the weather. I had to spend two entire days without receiving ANY e-mails alerting me to discount Viagra, cheating housewives, or Nigerian princesses who wanted to give me large sums of money. Worse yet, if I wanted to hear some music, I had to go a store and (gasp) PAY for it! Oh, the horror.
How on Earth did I exist before the internet? I must have functioned at least somewhat well, though I couldn't begin to tell you how. Surfing the net is the first thing I do in the morning, and it's the last thing I do at night. And it's not like I go to weird places -- just the usual news, sports, weather, etc. I mean, you've got to get your news from somewhere, right? I mean, sheesh, it's not like I work for a newspaper or something. Cough.
I suppose I could've had it worse. I remember when I was little and my mom would tell me about the days before television. This just seemed incomprehensible to me at the time. In my 8-year-old brain, my folks were older than dirt (though I'm now older than they were at the time!) And while I pictured them having to pedal their stone cars Flintstones-style while dodging the occasional predatory pterodactyl, even as an 8-year-old I had just assumed that they pedaled into their caves and sat down to some TV.
But no, my folks lived at least for a while in the pre-television age. My mom once told me that when her family complained about wanting a color television set, my grandfather went out and bought colored gels that you affixed to the front of your black and white set, thus turning it into a color TV -- you just had to pick what one color you wanted.
All of this sounds patentedly absurd to me now... but suddenly I had a revelation. Someday, I'm going to have kids and tell them about life before the Internet, and they're going to look at me like I'm 10,000 years old. And then I can tell them about the good ol' days before compact discs... and home computers... and then I'll challenge them to a wicked game of Pong. And I'll win.
So I suppose I shouldn't whine about being net-free for a day or two. My computer didn't mind the break, and I actually got some stuff done around the apartment. Specifically, the thing I got done was to call my cell phone provider and sign up for the internet on my cell phone. You know, for emergencies.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
COLUMN: Wellness
It's certainly a new day for all of the employees here at the paper.
Like many other businesses in the Quad Cities, our company has recently installed a Wellness Program for employees as part of our exceptional health insurance coverage. I'm all for helping people, so this can't be a bad thing, right? Right?
I mean, let's face facts -- we newspaper employees tend not to be known for our physical prowess. The only person who gets a workout around here is Little Timmy who rides his bike delivering your paper every week. At least, I assume we have a Little Timmy. (I couldn't tell you what happens to my column after I press the "send" button. For all I know, our newspapers could be delivered by magical pixies. But I bet those pixies are fit and trim.)
The rest of us sit here in the office watching our midsections get fatter and fatter from these wonderful things called "food days," which we have roughly 5.4 times per week.
Food days around here are nothing shy of inspirational -- all of the four major building blocks of unhealthy journalistic living are always represented: crock pot sausages, cheese cubes, things that are salty, and Krispy Kreme. You see, as we newshounds spend most of our days sitting in front of a computer monitor, a steady diet of fat and carbohydrates is thus needed to replenish our posteriors with the fatty cushioning necessary for an 8 hour type-a-thon.
But the times, they are a-changin'. Here's how our new Wellness Program works as I understand it: A nurse comes by the office, studies us, and then vampirically sucks out a vial of our blood for careful analysis -- only to return at a later date to chastise and berate us all for not existing solely on a diet of wheatgrass and seaweed. Well, maybe not seaweed, because I bet it's salty, and salt is bad for you. Just like sugar is bad for you... and carbs are bad for you... and fat... and cholesterol... and pretty much anything that tastes good.
The other day I had my Wellness screening. Little did I know that "wellness" was a term far, far removed from my current condition. The screening process was a blur for me; frankly, I'm trying to block it out. I havent even had my return visit from the nurse yet, but two words from the initial visit have already stuck in my mind.
The first was the word "OBESE." I don't like this word much, especially when it's directed my way. Chubby, chunky, big-boned... these are words I can live with. "Obese," on the other hand, brings to mind people who need to be cut out and lifted from their houses on a crane. "Obese" is the word that makes Richard Simmons cry. There are many, many things I want to experience in my life; having Richard Simmons cry over me is not one of them.
As if that wasn't bad enough, the other word I heard at my screening was "HYPERTENSION." Man, I'm just falling apart.
Shameful truth time: I'm 6'0" and my weight clocked in at 230 pounds. Even for me, that's ridiculous. In fact, it's dead wrong, and I've got the official identification to prove it. My driver's license states in clear terms that I weigh 155 -- and I'm sticking to it. Really, any number of things could have happened during my weigh-in. Perhaps when no one was looking, an 80 pound child climbed onto my back. And hey, I had my keyring in my pocket at the time, that's got to weigh, what, 20 pounds or so? It's simple science.
Sadly, the even simpler science is to look down at my belly and realize that either I'm in my third trimester... or maybe, just maybe, I've become a tad bit overweight.
I just don't understand how this happened. I mean, I'm not an idiot. I only occasionally splurge on a Big Mac -- the rest of the week, I limit myself to burgers that weigh no more than a quarter pound. And just like the doctors advise, I drink my 8-10 glasses of fluid every day; is it a crime that my fluid preference happens to be Coke? I even pay attention to television messages. The Snickers company for years assured me that "those calories help keep you going," and that remains my mantra to this day.
Sigh. Okay, fine, Wellness Program, you did your job. You've officially guilted me into trying to get healthy. Instead of being care-free, thanks to you, I'm now in a state of constant fear for my physical well-being. Bravo. So farewell, Big Macs, it was good to know you. Goodbye, Coca-Cola, I shall miss your glucose drip of confidence. Adieu, mayonnaise, we've had some good burgers together.
Wish me luck, Quad Cities, as I enter the new terrain of Wellness. Here's hoping it ends with "I feel well" rather than "oh well, I tried." More details as they unfold.
Like many other businesses in the Quad Cities, our company has recently installed a Wellness Program for employees as part of our exceptional health insurance coverage. I'm all for helping people, so this can't be a bad thing, right? Right?
I mean, let's face facts -- we newspaper employees tend not to be known for our physical prowess. The only person who gets a workout around here is Little Timmy who rides his bike delivering your paper every week. At least, I assume we have a Little Timmy. (I couldn't tell you what happens to my column after I press the "send" button. For all I know, our newspapers could be delivered by magical pixies. But I bet those pixies are fit and trim.)
The rest of us sit here in the office watching our midsections get fatter and fatter from these wonderful things called "food days," which we have roughly 5.4 times per week.
Food days around here are nothing shy of inspirational -- all of the four major building blocks of unhealthy journalistic living are always represented: crock pot sausages, cheese cubes, things that are salty, and Krispy Kreme. You see, as we newshounds spend most of our days sitting in front of a computer monitor, a steady diet of fat and carbohydrates is thus needed to replenish our posteriors with the fatty cushioning necessary for an 8 hour type-a-thon.
But the times, they are a-changin'. Here's how our new Wellness Program works as I understand it: A nurse comes by the office, studies us, and then vampirically sucks out a vial of our blood for careful analysis -- only to return at a later date to chastise and berate us all for not existing solely on a diet of wheatgrass and seaweed. Well, maybe not seaweed, because I bet it's salty, and salt is bad for you. Just like sugar is bad for you... and carbs are bad for you... and fat... and cholesterol... and pretty much anything that tastes good.
The other day I had my Wellness screening. Little did I know that "wellness" was a term far, far removed from my current condition. The screening process was a blur for me; frankly, I'm trying to block it out. I havent even had my return visit from the nurse yet, but two words from the initial visit have already stuck in my mind.
The first was the word "OBESE." I don't like this word much, especially when it's directed my way. Chubby, chunky, big-boned... these are words I can live with. "Obese," on the other hand, brings to mind people who need to be cut out and lifted from their houses on a crane. "Obese" is the word that makes Richard Simmons cry. There are many, many things I want to experience in my life; having Richard Simmons cry over me is not one of them.
As if that wasn't bad enough, the other word I heard at my screening was "HYPERTENSION." Man, I'm just falling apart.
Shameful truth time: I'm 6'0" and my weight clocked in at 230 pounds. Even for me, that's ridiculous. In fact, it's dead wrong, and I've got the official identification to prove it. My driver's license states in clear terms that I weigh 155 -- and I'm sticking to it. Really, any number of things could have happened during my weigh-in. Perhaps when no one was looking, an 80 pound child climbed onto my back. And hey, I had my keyring in my pocket at the time, that's got to weigh, what, 20 pounds or so? It's simple science.
Sadly, the even simpler science is to look down at my belly and realize that either I'm in my third trimester... or maybe, just maybe, I've become a tad bit overweight.
I just don't understand how this happened. I mean, I'm not an idiot. I only occasionally splurge on a Big Mac -- the rest of the week, I limit myself to burgers that weigh no more than a quarter pound. And just like the doctors advise, I drink my 8-10 glasses of fluid every day; is it a crime that my fluid preference happens to be Coke? I even pay attention to television messages. The Snickers company for years assured me that "those calories help keep you going," and that remains my mantra to this day.
Sigh. Okay, fine, Wellness Program, you did your job. You've officially guilted me into trying to get healthy. Instead of being care-free, thanks to you, I'm now in a state of constant fear for my physical well-being. Bravo. So farewell, Big Macs, it was good to know you. Goodbye, Coca-Cola, I shall miss your glucose drip of confidence. Adieu, mayonnaise, we've had some good burgers together.
Wish me luck, Quad Cities, as I enter the new terrain of Wellness. Here's hoping it ends with "I feel well" rather than "oh well, I tried." More details as they unfold.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
COLUMN: E-harmony.Tom
Today we welcome you to Episode #9126 of Shane Feeling Sorry For Himself About Being Single. This week's episode takes place in our hero's lonely apartment, after a night of being so lazy that he didn't change the channel on HBO, instead opting to watch a CRCSSB (Cheezy Romantic Comedy Starring Sandra Bullock,) which invariably results in a rather pathetic pity party afterwards.
These are the moments that try one's soul. Or at least make one's soul do really, really stupid things. Coincidentally, that's the same moment that I decided to place an online personal ad.
This wasn't my first romp with online personals. I tried it a couple years ago -- and in those two years, I've now received a whopping two responses to my ad. One was a girl in Cedar Rapids, who thought I sounded like her ideal mate. I went to her website -- yep, she was a witch. And I don't just mean she was ugly and scary -- she was an ACTUAL witch, with a website complete on spell casting, her favorite chants, and poetry that went, "acid rain falls upon the dark walls that surround my blackened heart," etc., etc. Yep, we were soulmates, alrighty. The OTHER response? It was from a guy... who thought I'd be the perfect match for the sister of his mail-order bride, who also desperately sought to leave Thirdworldistan to come to America.
In other words, I should've known better. But I heard an ad for this new service (let's just say it rhymes with "eHarmony.tom.") This site is a little different than the others. Before you can join, you have to submit to a personality profile, then the site matches you ONLY to people that match your personality. And who says there's no such thing as Love at First Mathematically Calculated Shared Trait?
So I took their little personality profile. Except that it wasn't little. Rather, it was an Undertaking with a capital U. 45 minutes later (no joke,) I had completed the questionnaire -- hundreds of ridiculous questions, most of which consisted of statements that you had to specify whether you really agreed or kinda agreed or disagreed or didn't care one bit.
Surely no one answers these things truthfully. "I have a high desire for sexual activity" was one of the statements. Well, sure, but if I admit to that, I'm gonna get matched with Dr. Ruth. "I like to look at people of the opposite sex" was another. Heck yes I do, but I shouldn't own up to it unless I want to come off like a leering pervert, right?
But I decided to try the honest approach and answer every question truthfully, ethics be darned. Do I like to look at people of the opposite sex? You betcha. True or false: "I am often jealous of other people's possessions." Fine, I'm a materialistic pig, I'll admit it. But at the same time, I stressed my good characteristics, too. Yes, I like to make people laugh. Yes, I consider myself creative. Err, yes, I suppose I do like astronomy (always a VITAL question to contemplate when picking out a soulmate...?)
So on and on I went, being completely honest and giving the most detailed description of my innermost mind that I could. Upon completion of the survey, I felt... hopeful. Hopeful that within hours, I would be matched up with my dream girl. Maybe someone with the looks of Katie Holmes, the creativity of Bjork, and the sheer intelligence of Leader editor Michael Romkey (hey, it never hurts to suck up to management.)
The next day I was frighteningly giddy to get home from work and check out my matches. While I was at work, the website was busy pairing me with my ideal personality matches not just in the Midwest, but all over the globe. I found myself fantasizing at work that day. Perhaps my soulmate was in Belgium... or Djibouti... or Silvis. Who could tell?
I got home and threw myself in front of the computer... and was greeted with this message: "We have matched your personality profile against our database of global users. At this point, we have been unable to find a user who matches your personality." NO ONE? IN THE ENTIRE WORLD?
Pooooooooooooof. I mean, I've always known that I was a weirdo. Now I had concrete proof of it.
Not only did the website deflate my dreams, it then had the nerve to tell me that I shouldn't look at this as a negative. Instead I should "take pride in discovering just what a unique individual I am." Swell... I'm a "special" little guy.
So online dating's not for me. Not that I deleted my accounts, 'cause I guess you never know. The personal ads are still up there... and eHarmony is still trying to match me with my personality soulmate. Go there and take the profile -- maybe we'll be hooked up and can commence with a scandalous cyber-liaison. You'd just better like astronomy.
These are the moments that try one's soul. Or at least make one's soul do really, really stupid things. Coincidentally, that's the same moment that I decided to place an online personal ad.
This wasn't my first romp with online personals. I tried it a couple years ago -- and in those two years, I've now received a whopping two responses to my ad. One was a girl in Cedar Rapids, who thought I sounded like her ideal mate. I went to her website -- yep, she was a witch. And I don't just mean she was ugly and scary -- she was an ACTUAL witch, with a website complete on spell casting, her favorite chants, and poetry that went, "acid rain falls upon the dark walls that surround my blackened heart," etc., etc. Yep, we were soulmates, alrighty. The OTHER response? It was from a guy... who thought I'd be the perfect match for the sister of his mail-order bride, who also desperately sought to leave Thirdworldistan to come to America.
In other words, I should've known better. But I heard an ad for this new service (let's just say it rhymes with "eHarmony.tom.") This site is a little different than the others. Before you can join, you have to submit to a personality profile, then the site matches you ONLY to people that match your personality. And who says there's no such thing as Love at First Mathematically Calculated Shared Trait?
So I took their little personality profile. Except that it wasn't little. Rather, it was an Undertaking with a capital U. 45 minutes later (no joke,) I had completed the questionnaire -- hundreds of ridiculous questions, most of which consisted of statements that you had to specify whether you really agreed or kinda agreed or disagreed or didn't care one bit.
Surely no one answers these things truthfully. "I have a high desire for sexual activity" was one of the statements. Well, sure, but if I admit to that, I'm gonna get matched with Dr. Ruth. "I like to look at people of the opposite sex" was another. Heck yes I do, but I shouldn't own up to it unless I want to come off like a leering pervert, right?
But I decided to try the honest approach and answer every question truthfully, ethics be darned. Do I like to look at people of the opposite sex? You betcha. True or false: "I am often jealous of other people's possessions." Fine, I'm a materialistic pig, I'll admit it. But at the same time, I stressed my good characteristics, too. Yes, I like to make people laugh. Yes, I consider myself creative. Err, yes, I suppose I do like astronomy (always a VITAL question to contemplate when picking out a soulmate...?)
So on and on I went, being completely honest and giving the most detailed description of my innermost mind that I could. Upon completion of the survey, I felt... hopeful. Hopeful that within hours, I would be matched up with my dream girl. Maybe someone with the looks of Katie Holmes, the creativity of Bjork, and the sheer intelligence of Leader editor Michael Romkey (hey, it never hurts to suck up to management.)
The next day I was frighteningly giddy to get home from work and check out my matches. While I was at work, the website was busy pairing me with my ideal personality matches not just in the Midwest, but all over the globe. I found myself fantasizing at work that day. Perhaps my soulmate was in Belgium... or Djibouti... or Silvis. Who could tell?
I got home and threw myself in front of the computer... and was greeted with this message: "We have matched your personality profile against our database of global users. At this point, we have been unable to find a user who matches your personality." NO ONE? IN THE ENTIRE WORLD?
Pooooooooooooof. I mean, I've always known that I was a weirdo. Now I had concrete proof of it.
Not only did the website deflate my dreams, it then had the nerve to tell me that I shouldn't look at this as a negative. Instead I should "take pride in discovering just what a unique individual I am." Swell... I'm a "special" little guy.
So online dating's not for me. Not that I deleted my accounts, 'cause I guess you never know. The personal ads are still up there... and eHarmony is still trying to match me with my personality soulmate. Go there and take the profile -- maybe we'll be hooked up and can commence with a scandalous cyber-liaison. You'd just better like astronomy.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
COLUMN: Shane
I like my first name a whole lot. My mom's got good taste.
Shane's an unusual name, I guess, but in a good way -- it's unique, but not full-on freaky like "Dweezil" or something. My name seems to fit me. But maybe everyone thinks their name fits them. Even Dweezil.
As much as I love it, though, I do have a couple of beefs about the name Shane.
(1) My name inspires the elderly to quote lines from the movie "Shane" at the drop of a hat. I've never seen the 1953 Western that inspired my name, but I know for certain that it ends with someone yelling, "Shane! Shane! Come back, Shane!" I know this because every morning, on my way to work and when I'm usually running late, the cantankerous old guy in my apartment complex will open his window and yell it to me like clockwork. At least, I'm hoping that line's in the movie; if it's not, I'm in serious trouble. (Oh, and just for the record: My mom hates Westerns. She just thought it was a cool name. She was right... on both counts.)
(2) Inexplicably, for reasons I will never be able to fathom, half of the free world calls me "Shawn." People who I've worked side-by-side with for almost a decade still call me "Shawn" to my face. I don't get it. Not one bit.
"Well, the names are so close," said a co-worker of mine who I once questioned after she wished Shawn a good morning. 'So close?' Well, I guess they both start with "Sh," but by that explanation, people should also be calling me Sheila or Shannon or Sheneneh. All I ever get is "Shawn." I suppose the only real difference is the vowel sound: Sh-AY-n becomes Sh-AW-n. But at the same time, I've never gone up to someone named John and mistakenly gone, "Hi there, Jane!"
At first I hated the Shane-Shawn thing. I'd go out of my way to correct people whenever they did it. But now I'm a beaten man. If somebody says, "Hey, Shawn," I invariably go, "Yes?"
If that wasn't confusing enough, my old college roommate was also named Shane. If we were walking to class and someone yelled, "Hey, Shane," we'd both answer. If they yelled, "Hey, Shawn," we'd both answer.
In college, we had two friends both named Linnea. They solved the problem rather democratically -- they split the name. At their own urging, one shortened her name to Lin, while the other went by Nea. And they wanted us Shanes to employ the same solution -- but I wasn't a big fan of being called simply "Sh," and no amount of money would be worth the nickname of "Ane." So we struggled on, being confused and confusing at the same time.
All of this brings me to my current dilemma. One of my favorite hangouts to spend my lunch hour is the taco place in the food fair at Southpark Mall. The staff is nice and those Potato Oles are more addictive than crack. But there's one thing about that place that annoys me: They take your order and then invariably ask, "Can I have your first name?"
I wish I could answer "NO!" I mean, just because I love the tacos doesn't mean I need to be on a first-name basis with them, does it? But I always give in and offer my name, and then I cringe because I know what's coming... "Shawn, your order's up." And I'm left there to debate whether they mispronounced my name or whether I'm about to grab some innocent Shawn's burrito.
About a year ago, I had a revelation how to get around the Shane/Shawn burrito feud. For the past year, I've been making up a new name every time I go to their counter. For a while, I was simple -- I was Bill, then Bob, then Doug. But I've been getting bored of making up boring names, so I've been trying to liven things up lately. The last time I sauntered up for a taco, I was in full control, I was in my element, I was... Joaquin, Taco-Eater. The time before that? Just call me Alejandro. At this rate, I'll soon be incorporating accents and back stories to go along with my Name o' the Day.
But the other day, I went back to the taco stand to discover a new employee behind the counter. One who looked confident, one who looked incapable of error. I was brave. "My name's Shane," I said with perfect pronounciation. This time, I would prevail. I knew it. I waited until my order was up. It was truth time, and finally the rest of the food court would know my true identity.
"Shawna, your order's ready."
Sigh. I give up. Back to Alejandro, I guess. All I know is that if they don't start calling me Shane, I may just have to stop going to Taco Jane's.
Shane's an unusual name, I guess, but in a good way -- it's unique, but not full-on freaky like "Dweezil" or something. My name seems to fit me. But maybe everyone thinks their name fits them. Even Dweezil.
As much as I love it, though, I do have a couple of beefs about the name Shane.
(1) My name inspires the elderly to quote lines from the movie "Shane" at the drop of a hat. I've never seen the 1953 Western that inspired my name, but I know for certain that it ends with someone yelling, "Shane! Shane! Come back, Shane!" I know this because every morning, on my way to work and when I'm usually running late, the cantankerous old guy in my apartment complex will open his window and yell it to me like clockwork. At least, I'm hoping that line's in the movie; if it's not, I'm in serious trouble. (Oh, and just for the record: My mom hates Westerns. She just thought it was a cool name. She was right... on both counts.)
(2) Inexplicably, for reasons I will never be able to fathom, half of the free world calls me "Shawn." People who I've worked side-by-side with for almost a decade still call me "Shawn" to my face. I don't get it. Not one bit.
"Well, the names are so close," said a co-worker of mine who I once questioned after she wished Shawn a good morning. 'So close?' Well, I guess they both start with "Sh," but by that explanation, people should also be calling me Sheila or Shannon or Sheneneh. All I ever get is "Shawn." I suppose the only real difference is the vowel sound: Sh-AY-n becomes Sh-AW-n. But at the same time, I've never gone up to someone named John and mistakenly gone, "Hi there, Jane!"
At first I hated the Shane-Shawn thing. I'd go out of my way to correct people whenever they did it. But now I'm a beaten man. If somebody says, "Hey, Shawn," I invariably go, "Yes?"
If that wasn't confusing enough, my old college roommate was also named Shane. If we were walking to class and someone yelled, "Hey, Shane," we'd both answer. If they yelled, "Hey, Shawn," we'd both answer.
In college, we had two friends both named Linnea. They solved the problem rather democratically -- they split the name. At their own urging, one shortened her name to Lin, while the other went by Nea. And they wanted us Shanes to employ the same solution -- but I wasn't a big fan of being called simply "Sh," and no amount of money would be worth the nickname of "Ane." So we struggled on, being confused and confusing at the same time.
All of this brings me to my current dilemma. One of my favorite hangouts to spend my lunch hour is the taco place in the food fair at Southpark Mall. The staff is nice and those Potato Oles are more addictive than crack. But there's one thing about that place that annoys me: They take your order and then invariably ask, "Can I have your first name?"
I wish I could answer "NO!" I mean, just because I love the tacos doesn't mean I need to be on a first-name basis with them, does it? But I always give in and offer my name, and then I cringe because I know what's coming... "Shawn, your order's up." And I'm left there to debate whether they mispronounced my name or whether I'm about to grab some innocent Shawn's burrito.
About a year ago, I had a revelation how to get around the Shane/Shawn burrito feud. For the past year, I've been making up a new name every time I go to their counter. For a while, I was simple -- I was Bill, then Bob, then Doug. But I've been getting bored of making up boring names, so I've been trying to liven things up lately. The last time I sauntered up for a taco, I was in full control, I was in my element, I was... Joaquin, Taco-Eater. The time before that? Just call me Alejandro. At this rate, I'll soon be incorporating accents and back stories to go along with my Name o' the Day.
But the other day, I went back to the taco stand to discover a new employee behind the counter. One who looked confident, one who looked incapable of error. I was brave. "My name's Shane," I said with perfect pronounciation. This time, I would prevail. I knew it. I waited until my order was up. It was truth time, and finally the rest of the food court would know my true identity.
"Shawna, your order's ready."
Sigh. I give up. Back to Alejandro, I guess. All I know is that if they don't start calling me Shane, I may just have to stop going to Taco Jane's.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
COLUMN: Nipple
I'm a sucker for end-of-the-year wrap-ups. Every aspiring journalist within 50 feet of a word processor falls for it -- the opportunity to write a few brief paragraphs in a feeble attempt to sum up the past twelve months of humankind's existence. Well, this year, I've noticed a trend. In reading these wrap-ups, it becomes painfully obvious what the most critical news story of the year has been.
Iraq's a mess. The election was a headache. And yes, according to one of our own columnists, global warming turns out to be a huge myth. Now, while I know some endangered coral reefs who might want to have a little chat with that columnist, it turns out its all quite irrelevant.
Yes, there's only one story that's invariably turned up in every single year-end wrap-up that I've read. I'm speaking, of course, of the titanic debacle of Janet Jackson's right nipple (otherwise known as "The 1.4 Seconds That Rocked Our World.")
Unless you live under a rock, you know what happened. Miss Jackson (if you're nasty) chose a rather inopportune time to showcase the latest in nipular jewelry -- smack at the end of the MTV-produced halftime show at last year's Super Bowl. And, from what I understand, a few people (hereafter known as "the red states") threw a full-on hissy fit, causing the FCC to have a collective stroke, "moral values" to become a campaign hot button, and faster than you can say "wardrobe malfunction," Bush wins the election. That must've been one mighty nipple.
I wouldn't know, because I, like approximately 50% of those watching the Super Bowl halftime show at the time, was busy blinking my eyes. That's how long it lasted. It was, in fact, just long enough for me and my friend Jason to go, "Hey, is that her...?" And presto, we're in commercial break.
Were any of you honestly offended by that? Could any of you honestly focus your eyes on it before the cameras quickly panned away? Could that 1.4 seconds of immorality have actually had an adverse reaction to you or your loved ones?
People are complaining that the Super Bowl is family entertainment and should thus be free of immorality. Yes, the Super Bowl should be revered for the wholesome entertainment it is -- I especially like the wholesome bits when a player's knee gets bent in half by bloodied, snarling opponents jumping on top of him.
Face it, football is a grisly game. How can you say that Janet's display was any more immoral than watching one guy give another guy a concussion? People have been KILLED playing football... but, admittedly and thankfully, none of the dead were partially nude at the time.
Double standards aside, the backlash from Nipplegate is that the FCC is now clamping down on anything remotely resembling an immoral act. CBS got fined over the Super Bowl; Howard Stern left for satellite; and Britney Spears, already visibly upset that Janet got the idea first, has been banished to Siberia.
Folks, if we're not careful, next year we'll be seeing the triumphant return of Barney the Dinosaur in primetime and the launch of ABC's next big hit, "Quite Contented and Obedient Housewives."
In fact, the only good thing about this reactionary craze is that, fingers crossed, we may have seen the last of Dennis Franz' naked butt on "NYPD Blue." It's not immoral, it's just kinda gross.
Meanwhile, the Super Bowl folks have told MTV pretty much exactly where they can go with their wardrobe malfunctions, and have instead this year booked the family entertainment of Paul McCartney for the halftime gig.
Let me break it to ya, gang. While it's a safe bet that he'll likely be keeping his nipples to himself, Paul McCartney is not family entertainment. The definition of "family entertainment" is, as such, entertainment for the whole family. And if you've got family that's under the age of 20 or so, they're probably not going to be too entertained by old Paul McCartney.
In today's world, an errant boob flash should be just that. It wasn't particularly immoral; it was just particularly stupid. Let's move on.
Iraq's a mess. The election was a headache. And yes, according to one of our own columnists, global warming turns out to be a huge myth. Now, while I know some endangered coral reefs who might want to have a little chat with that columnist, it turns out its all quite irrelevant.
Yes, there's only one story that's invariably turned up in every single year-end wrap-up that I've read. I'm speaking, of course, of the titanic debacle of Janet Jackson's right nipple (otherwise known as "The 1.4 Seconds That Rocked Our World.")
Unless you live under a rock, you know what happened. Miss Jackson (if you're nasty) chose a rather inopportune time to showcase the latest in nipular jewelry -- smack at the end of the MTV-produced halftime show at last year's Super Bowl. And, from what I understand, a few people (hereafter known as "the red states") threw a full-on hissy fit, causing the FCC to have a collective stroke, "moral values" to become a campaign hot button, and faster than you can say "wardrobe malfunction," Bush wins the election. That must've been one mighty nipple.
I wouldn't know, because I, like approximately 50% of those watching the Super Bowl halftime show at the time, was busy blinking my eyes. That's how long it lasted. It was, in fact, just long enough for me and my friend Jason to go, "Hey, is that her...?" And presto, we're in commercial break.
Were any of you honestly offended by that? Could any of you honestly focus your eyes on it before the cameras quickly panned away? Could that 1.4 seconds of immorality have actually had an adverse reaction to you or your loved ones?
People are complaining that the Super Bowl is family entertainment and should thus be free of immorality. Yes, the Super Bowl should be revered for the wholesome entertainment it is -- I especially like the wholesome bits when a player's knee gets bent in half by bloodied, snarling opponents jumping on top of him.
Face it, football is a grisly game. How can you say that Janet's display was any more immoral than watching one guy give another guy a concussion? People have been KILLED playing football... but, admittedly and thankfully, none of the dead were partially nude at the time.
Double standards aside, the backlash from Nipplegate is that the FCC is now clamping down on anything remotely resembling an immoral act. CBS got fined over the Super Bowl; Howard Stern left for satellite; and Britney Spears, already visibly upset that Janet got the idea first, has been banished to Siberia.
Folks, if we're not careful, next year we'll be seeing the triumphant return of Barney the Dinosaur in primetime and the launch of ABC's next big hit, "Quite Contented and Obedient Housewives."
In fact, the only good thing about this reactionary craze is that, fingers crossed, we may have seen the last of Dennis Franz' naked butt on "NYPD Blue." It's not immoral, it's just kinda gross.
Meanwhile, the Super Bowl folks have told MTV pretty much exactly where they can go with their wardrobe malfunctions, and have instead this year booked the family entertainment of Paul McCartney for the halftime gig.
Let me break it to ya, gang. While it's a safe bet that he'll likely be keeping his nipples to himself, Paul McCartney is not family entertainment. The definition of "family entertainment" is, as such, entertainment for the whole family. And if you've got family that's under the age of 20 or so, they're probably not going to be too entertained by old Paul McCartney.
In today's world, an errant boob flash should be just that. It wasn't particularly immoral; it was just particularly stupid. Let's move on.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
COLUMN: Albums of the Year
It's something I came to terms with long ago: I'm a music nerd, and proud of it.
Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to learn to play an instrument. Drums, keyboard, guitar... I tried them all. Only problem? As a musician, I suck. But as a music fan, I'm one of the elite. When I'm not working or sleeping, you can usually find me haunting the stacks of every record store in town. It's so bad that sometimes when the employees at Borders can't immediately answer a music question for a customer, they look to see if I'm lurking around... that is, if I haven't already barged in and attempted to help the customer first. Yes, I'm THAT annoying.
My unhealthy obsession with music has led me to become a weekend club DJ (at 2nd Ave. in the District,) run a website for music nerds (excellentonline.com), and become an entertainment correspondant for the Dispatch/Argus/Leader. And every year, I've had to sit green with envy because Sean Leary, our entertainment editor, gets to write a year-end column where he gets to unveil his picks for the top records of the year. Me? I just get to tell my cat, and frankly, I don't think she cares as much as she should.
So this year, I can finally throw down my trump card. Ha ha, Sean Leary, you're no longer the only nerd around these parts with a column! So please indulge me as I bid the year adios with a list of the 10 records of 2004 that you really, really ought to own.
10. THE TRASH CAN SINATRAS - Weightlifting - In 1990, the perpetually unknown Trash Can Sinatras put out my favorite album ever. 14 years later, they're back with their fourth, and it rings with the same intelligent austerity that makes this Scottish pop band a mainstay on my favorites list.
9. EMMA - Free Me - Could this really be the same Emma Bunton who five years ago was better known to the free world as Baby Spice? Yep, and her new solo record is a mature throwback to 60's pop that wouldn't sound out of place in an Austin Powers flick.
8. OF MONTREAL - Satanic Panic in the Attic - Ignore the title; as with everything the band does, it's tongue-in-cheek. Easily my favorite band today, these art school kids from Georgia routinely re-create "Sgt. Peppers"-era psychedelia in their lo-fi basements.
7. TEARS FOR FEARS - Everybody Loves a Happy Ending - The duo reunites for a comeback album that's equally as good, if not better, than the records that made them such a powerful force in the 80's. I just hope it's not really an ending.
6. LORETTA LYNN - Van Lear's Rose - If somebody told me five years ago that Loretta Lynn would make my year-end list, I'd have thrown myself off to the dogs. But along comes Jack White of the White Stripes, who wrote and produced most of this record, recreating the Coal Miner's Daughter as a gruff, blues-rock tour de force.
5. KANYE WEST - College Dropout - Wait, a rap album that's not about thug livin' and big pimpin'? Jay-Z's right-hand man comes out with a solo debut of jaw-droppingly honest lyrics on the struggle and triumphs of the common man, without all of the posing and faux glamour of today's rap scene.
4. THE KILLERS - Hot Fuss - While most of today's bands were mired in garage rock and an unhealthy love for the Velvet Underground, the Killers took their love of Duran Duran and 80's new wave and snuck out the year's most confident debut record.
3. BRIAN WILSON - Smile - The most famous album-that-never-was finally gets its due. Intended for a 1968 Beach Boys release, "Smile" was shelved in the haze of Wilson's unsteady mental state. 30 years of therapy later, Wilson (with the help of some talented young musicians) finally gets to exorcise his demons and re-record his lost masterpiece. Had this come out as intended, it would have changed music history.
2. THE LIBERTINES - The Libertines - One of the top bands in England but strangers to the U.S., The Libertines spent 2004 making UK tabloid covers that Britney could only dream of. The group managed to squeak out their 2nd album in 2004 before calling it quits in a maelstorm of drug abuse, legal trouble, and band strife. The record, produced by The Clash's Mick Jones, is the powerful diary of a band on the edge of greatness, then falling wildly off the precipice. A must-own zeitgeist of an album.
1. THE POLYPHONIC SPREE - Together We're Heavy - And the best record of the year goes to a 28-piece, robe-clad group of Texan rockers who sing anthemic orchestral odes to the Sun. Sound crazy? It's borderline, trust me. But the end result is an album that swells with life, optimism, and gives hope to mankind's effort to prevail over adversity. Don't believe me? Go buy it, I dare ya.
Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to learn to play an instrument. Drums, keyboard, guitar... I tried them all. Only problem? As a musician, I suck. But as a music fan, I'm one of the elite. When I'm not working or sleeping, you can usually find me haunting the stacks of every record store in town. It's so bad that sometimes when the employees at Borders can't immediately answer a music question for a customer, they look to see if I'm lurking around... that is, if I haven't already barged in and attempted to help the customer first. Yes, I'm THAT annoying.
My unhealthy obsession with music has led me to become a weekend club DJ (at 2nd Ave. in the District,) run a website for music nerds (excellentonline.com), and become an entertainment correspondant for the Dispatch/Argus/Leader. And every year, I've had to sit green with envy because Sean Leary, our entertainment editor, gets to write a year-end column where he gets to unveil his picks for the top records of the year. Me? I just get to tell my cat, and frankly, I don't think she cares as much as she should.
So this year, I can finally throw down my trump card. Ha ha, Sean Leary, you're no longer the only nerd around these parts with a column! So please indulge me as I bid the year adios with a list of the 10 records of 2004 that you really, really ought to own.
10. THE TRASH CAN SINATRAS - Weightlifting - In 1990, the perpetually unknown Trash Can Sinatras put out my favorite album ever. 14 years later, they're back with their fourth, and it rings with the same intelligent austerity that makes this Scottish pop band a mainstay on my favorites list.
9. EMMA - Free Me - Could this really be the same Emma Bunton who five years ago was better known to the free world as Baby Spice? Yep, and her new solo record is a mature throwback to 60's pop that wouldn't sound out of place in an Austin Powers flick.
8. OF MONTREAL - Satanic Panic in the Attic - Ignore the title; as with everything the band does, it's tongue-in-cheek. Easily my favorite band today, these art school kids from Georgia routinely re-create "Sgt. Peppers"-era psychedelia in their lo-fi basements.
7. TEARS FOR FEARS - Everybody Loves a Happy Ending - The duo reunites for a comeback album that's equally as good, if not better, than the records that made them such a powerful force in the 80's. I just hope it's not really an ending.
6. LORETTA LYNN - Van Lear's Rose - If somebody told me five years ago that Loretta Lynn would make my year-end list, I'd have thrown myself off to the dogs. But along comes Jack White of the White Stripes, who wrote and produced most of this record, recreating the Coal Miner's Daughter as a gruff, blues-rock tour de force.
5. KANYE WEST - College Dropout - Wait, a rap album that's not about thug livin' and big pimpin'? Jay-Z's right-hand man comes out with a solo debut of jaw-droppingly honest lyrics on the struggle and triumphs of the common man, without all of the posing and faux glamour of today's rap scene.
4. THE KILLERS - Hot Fuss - While most of today's bands were mired in garage rock and an unhealthy love for the Velvet Underground, the Killers took their love of Duran Duran and 80's new wave and snuck out the year's most confident debut record.
3. BRIAN WILSON - Smile - The most famous album-that-never-was finally gets its due. Intended for a 1968 Beach Boys release, "Smile" was shelved in the haze of Wilson's unsteady mental state. 30 years of therapy later, Wilson (with the help of some talented young musicians) finally gets to exorcise his demons and re-record his lost masterpiece. Had this come out as intended, it would have changed music history.
2. THE LIBERTINES - The Libertines - One of the top bands in England but strangers to the U.S., The Libertines spent 2004 making UK tabloid covers that Britney could only dream of. The group managed to squeak out their 2nd album in 2004 before calling it quits in a maelstorm of drug abuse, legal trouble, and band strife. The record, produced by The Clash's Mick Jones, is the powerful diary of a band on the edge of greatness, then falling wildly off the precipice. A must-own zeitgeist of an album.
1. THE POLYPHONIC SPREE - Together We're Heavy - And the best record of the year goes to a 28-piece, robe-clad group of Texan rockers who sing anthemic orchestral odes to the Sun. Sound crazy? It's borderline, trust me. But the end result is an album that swells with life, optimism, and gives hope to mankind's effort to prevail over adversity. Don't believe me? Go buy it, I dare ya.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
COLUMN: The Letter
My holidays finally are complete. Today, I received The Letter.
My great-aunt and -uncle live in Hollywood. They might be the only ones on my mom's side of the family who ever escaped the Midwest to go live the Bright-Lights-Big-City life.
And we get to read all about it ... in their annual Christmas letter.
Do you have anyone in your family who writes one of these things? My aunt's is always one typed page, photocopied and mass-mailed, summing up their year for friends and family. I suppose the thought is to share with loved ones their highs, lows and in-betweens. Instead, what comes out is like reading a Cliff's Notes version of a really, really, boring book -- all the trappings of a soap opera, just without the intrigue, jealousy, evil twins, Luke, Laura, Bo, Hope, and/or mad tycoons with devices that can control the weather.
I love my great-aunt and -uncle, I truly do. But does that mean I need to know how the shopping was on their road trip to Colorado? I certainly don't need to know that they took a different route to Colorado this time, or that my uncle got a speeding ticket on the way back. Yet they feel the need to share, each and every year, and I soak it in with morbid fascination.
When I first started receiving The Letter, three years ago, I felt as though I were finally a man -- on equal footing, an independent thinker, a fellow adult. I no longer sit at the kids' table and now can finally partake in the good news of my uncle's improving golf game.
This year, The Letter got me thinking. Should I, too, send out a Christmas letter? I guess I'm not traveling on a cross-country shopping spree or even getting a speeding ticket. But still, I live my life regardless, and surely there are tales to be told.
Therefore, this year, I'm sending out my 1st Annual Christmas Letter, and it goes something like this:
MERRY CHRISTMAS 2004! Oh, hello, friends and family, and join with me as I bid adieu to yet another year of blessings and good cheer from the Island of Rock!
Where did the time go? I spent most of January catching up on my television watching. February soon followed, and with it a huge change in my life, as I bravely decided to change my television-watching position from the left side of my couch to the right.
In April it was road-trip time, as I commenced with my annual out-of-state spring shopping trip. I departed Rock Island on the 5th, and after an arduous and trying journey, 15 minutes later I arrived at sunny NorthPark Mall, in the far-off land of Iowa.
Tragedy stuck in May, however, as I lost five of my closest Friends all in one week. While Ross, Rachel, Chandler, Monica and Phoebe are no longer with us, I still reminisce about them fondly (usually every night around 6:30.)
My other Friend, Joey, moved to California to pursue his acting career, and while I still hear from him once a week or so, he's just not quite as funny as he used to be.
Summer was tough as I bravely fought through rerun season, but August brought unexpected joy and a new addition to the family with the birth of my first kidney stone. I've named the little fella Rock, and while the delivery was every bit as painful as I'd imagined, oh, was it worth it!
The fall season is my favorite time of the year, and 2004 was no exception. Between ``Lost'' and ``Desperate Housewives,'' I barely found time to enjoy my passion for golf. My game appears to be improving this year, however, as I challenged and defeated both Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus in ``Tiger Woods PGA Tour 2005'' for Xbox.
In October, I finally figured out a way to earn a little more money. As incredulous as it may be, it seems that a local newspaper out here is willing to pay me to write a weekly column for them on whatever gobbledygook I can spew out! So far it's pretty easy, and they havent caught on to my scam yet! I just babble about my ``wacky family'' and holidays and stuff, and they keep on paying me! The editor must be a real big [editor's note: fantastic individual to work for.]
Well, that about wraps it up for 2004! Many hopes and dreams exist for an exciting 2005 -- starting with a new couch position for me! Love, Your (circle One: Son/Nephew/Cousin/Grandson/Friend/Work Colleague), Shane.
My great-aunt and -uncle live in Hollywood. They might be the only ones on my mom's side of the family who ever escaped the Midwest to go live the Bright-Lights-Big-City life.
And we get to read all about it ... in their annual Christmas letter.
Do you have anyone in your family who writes one of these things? My aunt's is always one typed page, photocopied and mass-mailed, summing up their year for friends and family. I suppose the thought is to share with loved ones their highs, lows and in-betweens. Instead, what comes out is like reading a Cliff's Notes version of a really, really, boring book -- all the trappings of a soap opera, just without the intrigue, jealousy, evil twins, Luke, Laura, Bo, Hope, and/or mad tycoons with devices that can control the weather.
I love my great-aunt and -uncle, I truly do. But does that mean I need to know how the shopping was on their road trip to Colorado? I certainly don't need to know that they took a different route to Colorado this time, or that my uncle got a speeding ticket on the way back. Yet they feel the need to share, each and every year, and I soak it in with morbid fascination.
When I first started receiving The Letter, three years ago, I felt as though I were finally a man -- on equal footing, an independent thinker, a fellow adult. I no longer sit at the kids' table and now can finally partake in the good news of my uncle's improving golf game.
This year, The Letter got me thinking. Should I, too, send out a Christmas letter? I guess I'm not traveling on a cross-country shopping spree or even getting a speeding ticket. But still, I live my life regardless, and surely there are tales to be told.
Therefore, this year, I'm sending out my 1st Annual Christmas Letter, and it goes something like this:
MERRY CHRISTMAS 2004! Oh, hello, friends and family, and join with me as I bid adieu to yet another year of blessings and good cheer from the Island of Rock!
Where did the time go? I spent most of January catching up on my television watching. February soon followed, and with it a huge change in my life, as I bravely decided to change my television-watching position from the left side of my couch to the right.
In April it was road-trip time, as I commenced with my annual out-of-state spring shopping trip. I departed Rock Island on the 5th, and after an arduous and trying journey, 15 minutes later I arrived at sunny NorthPark Mall, in the far-off land of Iowa.
Tragedy stuck in May, however, as I lost five of my closest Friends all in one week. While Ross, Rachel, Chandler, Monica and Phoebe are no longer with us, I still reminisce about them fondly (usually every night around 6:30.)
My other Friend, Joey, moved to California to pursue his acting career, and while I still hear from him once a week or so, he's just not quite as funny as he used to be.
Summer was tough as I bravely fought through rerun season, but August brought unexpected joy and a new addition to the family with the birth of my first kidney stone. I've named the little fella Rock, and while the delivery was every bit as painful as I'd imagined, oh, was it worth it!
The fall season is my favorite time of the year, and 2004 was no exception. Between ``Lost'' and ``Desperate Housewives,'' I barely found time to enjoy my passion for golf. My game appears to be improving this year, however, as I challenged and defeated both Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus in ``Tiger Woods PGA Tour 2005'' for Xbox.
In October, I finally figured out a way to earn a little more money. As incredulous as it may be, it seems that a local newspaper out here is willing to pay me to write a weekly column for them on whatever gobbledygook I can spew out! So far it's pretty easy, and they havent caught on to my scam yet! I just babble about my ``wacky family'' and holidays and stuff, and they keep on paying me! The editor must be a real big [editor's note: fantastic individual to work for.]
Well, that about wraps it up for 2004! Many hopes and dreams exist for an exciting 2005 -- starting with a new couch position for me! Love, Your (circle One: Son/Nephew/Cousin/Grandson/Friend/Work Colleague), Shane.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
COLUMN: Christmas Carols
Fa la la la la, la la la la. Please make it stop.
The other day I was out running errands and must have heard no fewer than 2,304 songs of holiday cheer. Yes, it's Christmas, I know, but must I be assaulted by merry Muzak each and every time I walk into a store? I pity you poor cashiers who must by now know every subtle nuance to the Trans Siberian Orchestra.
No other holiday comes complete with a stockpile of tunes, especially tunes that nearly everyone on Earth can sing along to. But does anyone really pay attention to Christmas carols? I sure don't. The words are so stuck on auto-pilot in my brain that I simply sing along festively, regardless of lyric. For all I know, the song could go, "Deck the halls with piles of doodie" and I'd be none the wiser. I just smile, nod, and hum along.
So I decided to take a moment and actually pay attention to the words of some of these songs, and I've come to some pretty shocking conclusions.
Some carols start off fairly innoculously. "We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Good tidings we bring to you and your kin." Aww, that's awfully sweet of you... UNTIL: "Oh, bring us a figgy pudding; we won't go until we get some, so bring some right here!" Well, ho ho ho to you too, buddy. The song's basically saying: "Merry Christmas. Whatever. Make with the pudding!"
And call me dumb, but what exactly even IS a figgy pudding? Can anything other than pudding be 'figgy'? "Why, Mrs. Brown, that dress you've got on is simply FIGGY!" Wrong, play again. I can safely guarantee that the only time I've ever ingested fig is when it's safely tucked inside of contained, sterile, pure Newton-y goodness. I don't even know what a fig looks like. Is it a fruit? A vegetable? Do they make figgy Pudding Pops? These, folks, are the questions that keep me up late.
Meanwhile, the closest cousin to "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" is another tune that makes pretty limited sense: "Here We Come A-Wassailing." Despite considering myself somewhat learned, I fear that I've never come a-wassailing in my life. A wassail is, in short, an old British custom where villagers would show up at a farm, fire off guns to ward off evil spirits, and drink toasts to the farmer's cows in hopes of increasing their yield. Very jolly, indeed. But you must admit, it's a bit catchier than "Here We Come A-Shooting To Get Drunk & Watch Your Cows Do the Nasty."
Other Christmas carols just plain lie. "I saw three ships come sailing in on Christmas day in the morning." Fine, I'm with ya so far. "Pray, whither sailed those ships all three? O, they sailed to Bethlehem." Well, if you saw three ships sailing into Bethlehem, you might want to put down the frankencense every once in a while, kids. Why? Check out a map. Bethlehem's nowhere near water.
But who's to argue? Go ahead and sing "Deck the halls with boughs of holly" (even though doing so is simply a Pagan ritual to keep witches at bay.) Sing of your old pal Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (even those Rudolph was invented by a marketing rep for Montgomery Ward's who hoped his red nose could be used to sell refrigerators.) Sing of the manger and the little town of Bethlehem (though many historians believe that Jesus was born in a house in Nazareth, then taken to a cave in Bethlehem some time later.) And have a Merry Christmas (though the only thing pretty much all historians can agree on when it comes to Jesus is that he wasn't born on Dec. 25th.)
In the end, it's all semantics. You can't change the fact that it truly IS the most wonderful time of the year, and any holiday touting peace on Earth and good will towards men is to be cherished like none other. So be joyous, have a wonderful time with your families, and I wish you all a truly Merry Christmas.
Now gimme some pudding.
The other day I was out running errands and must have heard no fewer than 2,304 songs of holiday cheer. Yes, it's Christmas, I know, but must I be assaulted by merry Muzak each and every time I walk into a store? I pity you poor cashiers who must by now know every subtle nuance to the Trans Siberian Orchestra.
No other holiday comes complete with a stockpile of tunes, especially tunes that nearly everyone on Earth can sing along to. But does anyone really pay attention to Christmas carols? I sure don't. The words are so stuck on auto-pilot in my brain that I simply sing along festively, regardless of lyric. For all I know, the song could go, "Deck the halls with piles of doodie" and I'd be none the wiser. I just smile, nod, and hum along.
So I decided to take a moment and actually pay attention to the words of some of these songs, and I've come to some pretty shocking conclusions.
Some carols start off fairly innoculously. "We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Good tidings we bring to you and your kin." Aww, that's awfully sweet of you... UNTIL: "Oh, bring us a figgy pudding; we won't go until we get some, so bring some right here!" Well, ho ho ho to you too, buddy. The song's basically saying: "Merry Christmas. Whatever. Make with the pudding!"
And call me dumb, but what exactly even IS a figgy pudding? Can anything other than pudding be 'figgy'? "Why, Mrs. Brown, that dress you've got on is simply FIGGY!" Wrong, play again. I can safely guarantee that the only time I've ever ingested fig is when it's safely tucked inside of contained, sterile, pure Newton-y goodness. I don't even know what a fig looks like. Is it a fruit? A vegetable? Do they make figgy Pudding Pops? These, folks, are the questions that keep me up late.
Meanwhile, the closest cousin to "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" is another tune that makes pretty limited sense: "Here We Come A-Wassailing." Despite considering myself somewhat learned, I fear that I've never come a-wassailing in my life. A wassail is, in short, an old British custom where villagers would show up at a farm, fire off guns to ward off evil spirits, and drink toasts to the farmer's cows in hopes of increasing their yield. Very jolly, indeed. But you must admit, it's a bit catchier than "Here We Come A-Shooting To Get Drunk & Watch Your Cows Do the Nasty."
Other Christmas carols just plain lie. "I saw three ships come sailing in on Christmas day in the morning." Fine, I'm with ya so far. "Pray, whither sailed those ships all three? O, they sailed to Bethlehem." Well, if you saw three ships sailing into Bethlehem, you might want to put down the frankencense every once in a while, kids. Why? Check out a map. Bethlehem's nowhere near water.
But who's to argue? Go ahead and sing "Deck the halls with boughs of holly" (even though doing so is simply a Pagan ritual to keep witches at bay.) Sing of your old pal Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (even those Rudolph was invented by a marketing rep for Montgomery Ward's who hoped his red nose could be used to sell refrigerators.) Sing of the manger and the little town of Bethlehem (though many historians believe that Jesus was born in a house in Nazareth, then taken to a cave in Bethlehem some time later.) And have a Merry Christmas (though the only thing pretty much all historians can agree on when it comes to Jesus is that he wasn't born on Dec. 25th.)
In the end, it's all semantics. You can't change the fact that it truly IS the most wonderful time of the year, and any holiday touting peace on Earth and good will towards men is to be cherished like none other. So be joyous, have a wonderful time with your families, and I wish you all a truly Merry Christmas.
Now gimme some pudding.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
COLUMN: Cleaning
I'm living a lie.
For weeks now, I've presented myself as a fairly normal 30-something bachelor in full control of most if not all of my faculties. It's time to come clean. I've got a shameful secret, and what other time than the holidays to face my demons and share my dark truth. The shocking revelation, dear readers:
I was born without the tidyness gene.
There. It's out in the open. Shun me if you must. I deserve it. I cannot keep a clean apartment, try as hard as I might. If I tried at all. Which I don't.
Let me ask you, friends, how is it capable for one man (and one cat) to generate so much trash in the course of a mere couple of weeks? I will never understand it. I throw out the trash, and -- BAM -- within a day or so, it fills itself again.
My theory is that the cat must be having parties while I'm at work. How else could one possibly explain the pizza boxes that stack up night after night? The dirty dishes that just seem to stay in the sink without ever washing themselves? The pile of clothes on the floor that inexplicably seems to grow larger with every passing day? The piece of decaying fried chicken that's currently in the middle of my living room floor?
Ewww. Really? Decaying fried chicken? Yuck, that one really IS the cat's fault. Hang on a second, let me take care of that...
There, all better. Chicken is back in the trash. See? I really AM capable of cleaning after all... and now I'm beat. That's enough cleaning for one evening.
My rule of thumb is simple: obey logic. And logic tells us that there's no point in tidying up. I mean, it's only going to get messy again, right? Therefore, by simply NOT tidying, I'm saving myself time and energy best spent doing other important stuff. Like watching TV (though I prefer the term 'conducting cultural research.')
So pity me, friends, as I'm destined to live alone and hermit-like in my unkempt apartment for the rest of time. Or at least for the next two weeks, because that's when my parents are coming up for a visit.
Don't get me wrong, I adore my folks... I just tend to adore them more when they're not in my apartment. To the outsider, my mom might seem like your average, mild-mannered homemaker. Don't let her fool ya. Behind closed doors, she becomes Supermom -- faster than a speeding lintball and able to clean tall buildings in a single whisk. My mom is a clean freak, dust is her Kryptonite, and my apartment is her nemesis.
I brought it all on myself. I asked for a DVD rack for Christmas. Rather than venturing out to DVD-Racks-R-Us, my awesome dad -- who I'm convinced could show Bob Vila a thing or two about construction -- is building me one, complete with hinges and doors and quite possibly an icemaker and functioning toilet by the time he's done with it.
But this means they're going to want to come here and install it. I already had to take my apartment's terror alert to Def Con 1 earlier this month when my dad wanted to take some wall measurements. My plan worked flawlessly -- the parents came up, my apartment looked alright, we had a nice visit, my mom said, "See? Your apartment isn't that bad. You worry too much."
In fact, what REALLY happened went something like this. My mom calls (Def Con 4.) "Your father and I are coming up in two days to take measurements." (Def Con 3). "Okay, mom, but my apartment is a real mess (ho ho)." (Def Con 2). I then hang up the phone, go directly to my boss, fall to my knees, and beg for the next day off. Safely on vacation, I then call all of my friends and bribe them with pizza and beer to come help me clean. After a day's hard work, my apartment has moved from "legally condemnable" to "a real mess," and I once again deftly avoid being disowned by my family.
The hard part? They're coming BACK. Which means I have to somehow maintain this state of cleanliness for weeks on end. How have I done so far? Well, I wasn't kidding about the fried chicken on the floor if that gives you a clue.
So... if you're fans of my column, wish me luck. If you're my parents, stop reading this now and laugh at your loving son's colorful and creative way to tell a tall tale. And if you're one of my friends, the pizza should be here at 7, don't be late, and you'd best bring gloves and protective eyewear.
For weeks now, I've presented myself as a fairly normal 30-something bachelor in full control of most if not all of my faculties. It's time to come clean. I've got a shameful secret, and what other time than the holidays to face my demons and share my dark truth. The shocking revelation, dear readers:
I was born without the tidyness gene.
There. It's out in the open. Shun me if you must. I deserve it. I cannot keep a clean apartment, try as hard as I might. If I tried at all. Which I don't.
Let me ask you, friends, how is it capable for one man (and one cat) to generate so much trash in the course of a mere couple of weeks? I will never understand it. I throw out the trash, and -- BAM -- within a day or so, it fills itself again.
My theory is that the cat must be having parties while I'm at work. How else could one possibly explain the pizza boxes that stack up night after night? The dirty dishes that just seem to stay in the sink without ever washing themselves? The pile of clothes on the floor that inexplicably seems to grow larger with every passing day? The piece of decaying fried chicken that's currently in the middle of my living room floor?
Ewww. Really? Decaying fried chicken? Yuck, that one really IS the cat's fault. Hang on a second, let me take care of that...
There, all better. Chicken is back in the trash. See? I really AM capable of cleaning after all... and now I'm beat. That's enough cleaning for one evening.
My rule of thumb is simple: obey logic. And logic tells us that there's no point in tidying up. I mean, it's only going to get messy again, right? Therefore, by simply NOT tidying, I'm saving myself time and energy best spent doing other important stuff. Like watching TV (though I prefer the term 'conducting cultural research.')
So pity me, friends, as I'm destined to live alone and hermit-like in my unkempt apartment for the rest of time. Or at least for the next two weeks, because that's when my parents are coming up for a visit.
Don't get me wrong, I adore my folks... I just tend to adore them more when they're not in my apartment. To the outsider, my mom might seem like your average, mild-mannered homemaker. Don't let her fool ya. Behind closed doors, she becomes Supermom -- faster than a speeding lintball and able to clean tall buildings in a single whisk. My mom is a clean freak, dust is her Kryptonite, and my apartment is her nemesis.
I brought it all on myself. I asked for a DVD rack for Christmas. Rather than venturing out to DVD-Racks-R-Us, my awesome dad -- who I'm convinced could show Bob Vila a thing or two about construction -- is building me one, complete with hinges and doors and quite possibly an icemaker and functioning toilet by the time he's done with it.
But this means they're going to want to come here and install it. I already had to take my apartment's terror alert to Def Con 1 earlier this month when my dad wanted to take some wall measurements. My plan worked flawlessly -- the parents came up, my apartment looked alright, we had a nice visit, my mom said, "See? Your apartment isn't that bad. You worry too much."
In fact, what REALLY happened went something like this. My mom calls (Def Con 4.) "Your father and I are coming up in two days to take measurements." (Def Con 3). "Okay, mom, but my apartment is a real mess (ho ho)." (Def Con 2). I then hang up the phone, go directly to my boss, fall to my knees, and beg for the next day off. Safely on vacation, I then call all of my friends and bribe them with pizza and beer to come help me clean. After a day's hard work, my apartment has moved from "legally condemnable" to "a real mess," and I once again deftly avoid being disowned by my family.
The hard part? They're coming BACK. Which means I have to somehow maintain this state of cleanliness for weeks on end. How have I done so far? Well, I wasn't kidding about the fried chicken on the floor if that gives you a clue.
So... if you're fans of my column, wish me luck. If you're my parents, stop reading this now and laugh at your loving son's colorful and creative way to tell a tall tale. And if you're one of my friends, the pizza should be here at 7, don't be late, and you'd best bring gloves and protective eyewear.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
COLUMN: Flu
There are lots of tragic stories in the news. Flip through this very issue and you'll likely find tales of political strife and personal woe. But no story has depressed me more than the one that's been taking center stage in our news pages over the past month: Unfortunately, friends, there is still not enough dead influenza virus available for you to willingly inject into your body, through your skin, by means of a very sharp metal needle. I know, it's awful.
ARE YOU PEOPLE ALL INSANE?!
However, before I begin my rant, I need you all to do something for me. I need you to put down this copy of the Leader (after, of course, reading it cover to cover and giving your hard-earned money to our advertisers,) walk promptly to the nearest item made of wood in your home, and then knock on that wood, on my behalf, as loudly as possible.
I say this because I know far too well that the gods of karma never smile upon me, and the second I go making fun of flu shots is the moment that I'll feel that tickle in the back of my throat, and by the time you read this, I'll be stuck in bed unable to eat and/or breathe. So please, knock that wood. The flu sucks.
Gods of karma aside, I do make the conscientious choice to take my chances with the flu. Why? Is it due to my strong religious convictions? Perhaps a paranoid distrust of the medical profession?
Naw, I wish I was that weird. I'm not getting a flu shot for one simple reason: I'm a needle-phobe.
Now I'm not so foolish as to discount you folks who are in that "high risk" category of catching the flu. You guys should all go get flu shots right away, and you have my permission to call me a big whiny baby all the way there and back. You people deserve the lollipop that the doctor gives you afterwards. Or is that only for kids? I wouldn't know, because I've done my best to avoid a shot since I was in junior high.
My needle fear grew at an early age; my mom claims to this day that it all started when she took me to the doctor, I had to get a shot, and some Nurse Ratchet type told me it would be "just like a little bee sting." Well, I'm deathly allergic to bees, and that statement didn't do a whole lot to ease my 6-year-old mind.
It's one thing to be afraid of shots as a kid. It's another altogether to scream so loud at a vaccination that you break all of the blood vessels in your face and you walk around purple for a week -- that's how well I cope with needles. (...and I wonder why I don't get all the girls...)
My folks, bless 'em, did everything in their power to get me through this irrational fear, up to and including bribery. Whenever my mom picked me up from school with a big chocolate milkshake waiting for me, I knew there was trouble. And when she would sit me down and have the Drugs-Are-Bad-Mm'kay lecture, she'd just skip right over heroin -- no need to worry about me succumbing to any kind of peer pressure that involved a syringe.
I'm no longer that much of a wussy. If flu shots were mandatory, I'd do it without more than a whimper. But I just can't bring myself to get a shot voluntarily. Besides, when did the flu suddenly become so menacing and evil an entity that it requires annual vaccination? For years, I accepted that getting the flu sucked and meant you were stuck in bed for the better part of a week. Now, suddenly, the flu's pure evil and can kill in a heartbeat. I don't get it. Did these little flu viruses start working out or something? Last time I checked, Nyquil wasn't the "coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so you HOPEFULLY WON'T DIE medicine."
But no, the flu isn't just an annoyance these days, it's downright scary. So get your flu shots if you can -- unless you're a weenie like me, in which case, we'll both catch our well-deserved flu, you can come hang out over here, we'll share a box of Kleenex, and maybe, just maybe, my mom will drive up with milkshakes for us when it's all over. Now don't just sit there -- get to knockin' that wood.
ARE YOU PEOPLE ALL INSANE?!
However, before I begin my rant, I need you all to do something for me. I need you to put down this copy of the Leader (after, of course, reading it cover to cover and giving your hard-earned money to our advertisers,) walk promptly to the nearest item made of wood in your home, and then knock on that wood, on my behalf, as loudly as possible.
I say this because I know far too well that the gods of karma never smile upon me, and the second I go making fun of flu shots is the moment that I'll feel that tickle in the back of my throat, and by the time you read this, I'll be stuck in bed unable to eat and/or breathe. So please, knock that wood. The flu sucks.
Gods of karma aside, I do make the conscientious choice to take my chances with the flu. Why? Is it due to my strong religious convictions? Perhaps a paranoid distrust of the medical profession?
Naw, I wish I was that weird. I'm not getting a flu shot for one simple reason: I'm a needle-phobe.
Now I'm not so foolish as to discount you folks who are in that "high risk" category of catching the flu. You guys should all go get flu shots right away, and you have my permission to call me a big whiny baby all the way there and back. You people deserve the lollipop that the doctor gives you afterwards. Or is that only for kids? I wouldn't know, because I've done my best to avoid a shot since I was in junior high.
My needle fear grew at an early age; my mom claims to this day that it all started when she took me to the doctor, I had to get a shot, and some Nurse Ratchet type told me it would be "just like a little bee sting." Well, I'm deathly allergic to bees, and that statement didn't do a whole lot to ease my 6-year-old mind.
It's one thing to be afraid of shots as a kid. It's another altogether to scream so loud at a vaccination that you break all of the blood vessels in your face and you walk around purple for a week -- that's how well I cope with needles. (...and I wonder why I don't get all the girls...)
My folks, bless 'em, did everything in their power to get me through this irrational fear, up to and including bribery. Whenever my mom picked me up from school with a big chocolate milkshake waiting for me, I knew there was trouble. And when she would sit me down and have the Drugs-Are-Bad-Mm'kay lecture, she'd just skip right over heroin -- no need to worry about me succumbing to any kind of peer pressure that involved a syringe.
I'm no longer that much of a wussy. If flu shots were mandatory, I'd do it without more than a whimper. But I just can't bring myself to get a shot voluntarily. Besides, when did the flu suddenly become so menacing and evil an entity that it requires annual vaccination? For years, I accepted that getting the flu sucked and meant you were stuck in bed for the better part of a week. Now, suddenly, the flu's pure evil and can kill in a heartbeat. I don't get it. Did these little flu viruses start working out or something? Last time I checked, Nyquil wasn't the "coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so you HOPEFULLY WON'T DIE medicine."
But no, the flu isn't just an annoyance these days, it's downright scary. So get your flu shots if you can -- unless you're a weenie like me, in which case, we'll both catch our well-deserved flu, you can come hang out over here, we'll share a box of Kleenex, and maybe, just maybe, my mom will drive up with milkshakes for us when it's all over. Now don't just sit there -- get to knockin' that wood.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
COLUMN: Twas
I really suck at poetry - even when I'm lampooning a classic. THIS is the version that I turned in. The version that made the paper was edited by Dispatch/Argus copy editor Brian Nelson... who not only cleaned up the copy but ALSO rewrote the thing in MUCH better poetic meter and is my HERO for doing so. Sadly, I don't have Brian's version handy -- if you're a QCOnline.com subscriber, you should be able to find it in the archives -- so for now, you're stuck with my sloppy original version. Still makes me laugh, though. And rest assured when I tell you this FAR AND AWAY took longer than any other column I've ever written to date.
Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the halls
Not a creature was stirring; they're all at the malls.
The stockings were hung by the chimney last week,
Even though it's November; I sure want to shriek.
Children everywhere are nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Toys-R-Us dance in their heads;
And I with my checkbook, about to be fleeced,
Had just managed to sit down for my Thanksgiving feast.
See, at cooking I'm still at the level of beginner,
Which explains my Thanksgiving Salisbury steak TV dinner.
In front of the TV, I plopped down like a brute,
grabbed the remote and I took it off 'mute'.
I flipped through the HBO's, Showtimes, CNN's,
before I finally settled in on a rerun of "Friends."
When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,
but ad after ad after ad... oh, dear.
As commercials flew by me so lively and quick,
I thought for a minute I was gonna be sick.
More rapid than eagles the endorsements they came
Filling my head with a thousand brand names:
"Shop Wal-Mart! Shop K-Mart! Shop Bed, Bath, Beyond!
Shop Northpark! Shop Southpark!" Me? I just yawned.
These non-stop ads I can barely believe,
I'd much rather be lazy and not shop til Christmas Eve.
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly
The cash flows from my hands in the blink of an eye.
I need presents for Mom, Dad, and that girl I like, Kerry;
And the gift exchange at work which is always quite scary.
So even though Christmas is really nowhere near,
Let's go buy our trees and our plastic reindeer.
These greedy shopkeepers are likely the reason
Why they made up this month-long phrase, "holiday season."
So go buy your furs and your shoes for your feet,
And the plentiful Christmas candies so sweet,
Buy gift after gift 'til you hurt your bad back,
And wish you took to the mall a mule you could pack.
These ads make me want to just clench my teeth
As under their spell we are all trapped beneath.
We buy all their toys, clothes, and CD's by Nelly
And gift baskets with miniature jars full of jelly.
Christmas time is for families to be jolly and merry
Like on an Afterschool Special or "Little House on the Prairie"
But we don't have time to go play in the snow,
We're too busy giving retailers all of our dough.
See, the networks want us in a shopping mood
So they air holiday specials until we're all screwed.
Our shopping habits are what they constantly try to hasten
It's November and I've already seen Rudolph in Claymation.
I suppose that I really shouldn't complain
About this month-long holiday shopping campaign.
This Christmas bastardization doesn't give me any thrills;
But I work for a newspaper, and hey, those ads pay my bills.
So I'll keep my yap shut and stop this lampoon,
Until one day Christmas sales will start up mid-June.
And I say to you all with just a hint of fright,
"Merry Thanks-mas-O'ween, and to all a good night!"
Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the halls
Not a creature was stirring; they're all at the malls.
The stockings were hung by the chimney last week,
Even though it's November; I sure want to shriek.
Children everywhere are nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Toys-R-Us dance in their heads;
And I with my checkbook, about to be fleeced,
Had just managed to sit down for my Thanksgiving feast.
See, at cooking I'm still at the level of beginner,
Which explains my Thanksgiving Salisbury steak TV dinner.
In front of the TV, I plopped down like a brute,
grabbed the remote and I took it off 'mute'.
I flipped through the HBO's, Showtimes, CNN's,
before I finally settled in on a rerun of "Friends."
When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,
but ad after ad after ad... oh, dear.
As commercials flew by me so lively and quick,
I thought for a minute I was gonna be sick.
More rapid than eagles the endorsements they came
Filling my head with a thousand brand names:
"Shop Wal-Mart! Shop K-Mart! Shop Bed, Bath, Beyond!
Shop Northpark! Shop Southpark!" Me? I just yawned.
These non-stop ads I can barely believe,
I'd much rather be lazy and not shop til Christmas Eve.
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly
The cash flows from my hands in the blink of an eye.
I need presents for Mom, Dad, and that girl I like, Kerry;
And the gift exchange at work which is always quite scary.
So even though Christmas is really nowhere near,
Let's go buy our trees and our plastic reindeer.
These greedy shopkeepers are likely the reason
Why they made up this month-long phrase, "holiday season."
So go buy your furs and your shoes for your feet,
And the plentiful Christmas candies so sweet,
Buy gift after gift 'til you hurt your bad back,
And wish you took to the mall a mule you could pack.
These ads make me want to just clench my teeth
As under their spell we are all trapped beneath.
We buy all their toys, clothes, and CD's by Nelly
And gift baskets with miniature jars full of jelly.
Christmas time is for families to be jolly and merry
Like on an Afterschool Special or "Little House on the Prairie"
But we don't have time to go play in the snow,
We're too busy giving retailers all of our dough.
See, the networks want us in a shopping mood
So they air holiday specials until we're all screwed.
Our shopping habits are what they constantly try to hasten
It's November and I've already seen Rudolph in Claymation.
I suppose that I really shouldn't complain
About this month-long holiday shopping campaign.
This Christmas bastardization doesn't give me any thrills;
But I work for a newspaper, and hey, those ads pay my bills.
So I'll keep my yap shut and stop this lampoon,
Until one day Christmas sales will start up mid-June.
And I say to you all with just a hint of fright,
"Merry Thanks-mas-O'ween, and to all a good night!"
Sunday, November 14, 2004
COLUMN: The Swan
Attention, women of the world:
You are all very, very ugly.
It came as a shock to me, too. Often, I've been the admirer of what I thought was your beauty. Sadly, I have to admit that I've been misled all these years; you are all, in fact, revoltingly grotesque.
I was made aware of your mass hideousness recently, all thanks to a television program that strives to correct the error of all of our ways.
Ladies and gentlemen, a toast... to "The Swan." Hip, hip, hooray!
"The Swan," if you're unfamiliar, is the Fox network's latest entry in the craze of reality makeover shows. The premise is simple: Find women who appear fairly normal, and then torture them until they look like transvestites. Then, and only then, will we know what true beauty REALLY is.
Welcome to the lowest low. We've finally found it. "The Swan" might just be the worst show in the history of television. Take a seat, "My Mother the Car," you've just been trumped.
According to the Fox website, "The Swan" turns a "fairy tale into reality." Yep, sounds just like a fairy tale to me. In fact, my favorite part of "Cinderella" has always been when the Fairy Godmother straps Cinderella to the gurney, shatters her nose with a chisel and then reshapes it with a molded implant.
(These special 7 p.m. dinnertime plastic surgery moments yield an important question: Why, why, WHY is the liposuction hose always clear? Fuel hoses aren't clear. Water hoses aren't clear. Vacuum hoses aren't clear. Yet somebody somewhere decided that it's always best to have a see-through hose when it comes to sucking bloody fat globules out of your innards. Society is sick.)
From what I've seen of the show, these poor women go through hell. First off, none of them are particularly heinous looking to begin with. I've yet to recoil with horror upon seeing a "before" picture, even though the producers go to great lengths to make the "befores" look as bad as possible -- no makeup, baggy clothes, dirty hair, etc. In reality, they look like 90% of the people you meet on the street. Yet they're painted by this show to look like the shunned outcasts of society, unable to mingle among the masses because their nose isn’t perfectly symmetrical.
So the women go in for extensive plastic surgery and come out looking like they just went ten rounds with Roy Jones, Jr. Bandaged, bruised, and bloodied, the contestants on "The Swan" then submit to a month-long regimen of rice cakes and running (basically anything to occupy their time while the swelling goes down.)
At the end of each show, it's time for the big reveal. The bandages come off, the makeup goes on, and the women (in front of America, mind you) look into a mirror for the first time to discover that they all... kinda sorta look like Cher.
Am I the only one who thinks that a lot of these women look considerably WORSE in their "afters" than their "befores"? They all look sort of -- how can I say it? -- melty. With their newfound puffed-out lips and rigid noses, the overall effect is sort of like looking at a Barbie that's been left in the sun too long. And while it's true that angular cheeks and a striking jawline are considered classically beautiful, to me it comes off a little, well, man-nish. It's all a bit too "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert" for my tastes.
Then comes my favorite part. Once the reveal is over and done with and after the women stop crying at how hideous -- err, BEAUTIFUL they now are, they're then judged against the other contestant of the week. One of them goes on to complete in the grand finale pageant.
Which means that every week, one of the contestants gets told by the judges that, though she's spent the last month attached to a Thighmaster with her face swollen to the size of Jupiter... too bad, because basically, she's still kinda uggers. Thanks for playing, here's your parting gift, and we sure hope your new nose doesn't fall off. That isn't entertainment, it's just plain mean.
True beauty doesn't come from plastic parts; it comes from your real, live, asymmetric, ugly heart. Be a good person and your real beauty will shine so much you'll need Oxy Pads to sop it up. So let's stop watching these ridiculous makeover shows and turn the channel to something more virtuous, more decent, and more worthy. Ooh, gotta go, "Sopranos" is on.
You are all very, very ugly.
It came as a shock to me, too. Often, I've been the admirer of what I thought was your beauty. Sadly, I have to admit that I've been misled all these years; you are all, in fact, revoltingly grotesque.
I was made aware of your mass hideousness recently, all thanks to a television program that strives to correct the error of all of our ways.
Ladies and gentlemen, a toast... to "The Swan." Hip, hip, hooray!
"The Swan," if you're unfamiliar, is the Fox network's latest entry in the craze of reality makeover shows. The premise is simple: Find women who appear fairly normal, and then torture them until they look like transvestites. Then, and only then, will we know what true beauty REALLY is.
Welcome to the lowest low. We've finally found it. "The Swan" might just be the worst show in the history of television. Take a seat, "My Mother the Car," you've just been trumped.
According to the Fox website, "The Swan" turns a "fairy tale into reality." Yep, sounds just like a fairy tale to me. In fact, my favorite part of "Cinderella" has always been when the Fairy Godmother straps Cinderella to the gurney, shatters her nose with a chisel and then reshapes it with a molded implant.
(These special 7 p.m. dinnertime plastic surgery moments yield an important question: Why, why, WHY is the liposuction hose always clear? Fuel hoses aren't clear. Water hoses aren't clear. Vacuum hoses aren't clear. Yet somebody somewhere decided that it's always best to have a see-through hose when it comes to sucking bloody fat globules out of your innards. Society is sick.)
From what I've seen of the show, these poor women go through hell. First off, none of them are particularly heinous looking to begin with. I've yet to recoil with horror upon seeing a "before" picture, even though the producers go to great lengths to make the "befores" look as bad as possible -- no makeup, baggy clothes, dirty hair, etc. In reality, they look like 90% of the people you meet on the street. Yet they're painted by this show to look like the shunned outcasts of society, unable to mingle among the masses because their nose isn’t perfectly symmetrical.
So the women go in for extensive plastic surgery and come out looking like they just went ten rounds with Roy Jones, Jr. Bandaged, bruised, and bloodied, the contestants on "The Swan" then submit to a month-long regimen of rice cakes and running (basically anything to occupy their time while the swelling goes down.)
At the end of each show, it's time for the big reveal. The bandages come off, the makeup goes on, and the women (in front of America, mind you) look into a mirror for the first time to discover that they all... kinda sorta look like Cher.
Am I the only one who thinks that a lot of these women look considerably WORSE in their "afters" than their "befores"? They all look sort of -- how can I say it? -- melty. With their newfound puffed-out lips and rigid noses, the overall effect is sort of like looking at a Barbie that's been left in the sun too long. And while it's true that angular cheeks and a striking jawline are considered classically beautiful, to me it comes off a little, well, man-nish. It's all a bit too "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert" for my tastes.
Then comes my favorite part. Once the reveal is over and done with and after the women stop crying at how hideous -- err, BEAUTIFUL they now are, they're then judged against the other contestant of the week. One of them goes on to complete in the grand finale pageant.
Which means that every week, one of the contestants gets told by the judges that, though she's spent the last month attached to a Thighmaster with her face swollen to the size of Jupiter... too bad, because basically, she's still kinda uggers. Thanks for playing, here's your parting gift, and we sure hope your new nose doesn't fall off. That isn't entertainment, it's just plain mean.
True beauty doesn't come from plastic parts; it comes from your real, live, asymmetric, ugly heart. Be a good person and your real beauty will shine so much you'll need Oxy Pads to sop it up. So let's stop watching these ridiculous makeover shows and turn the channel to something more virtuous, more decent, and more worthy. Ooh, gotta go, "Sopranos" is on.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
COLUMN: Ladybugs
"Is there something crawling on me?"
It's a question that will live in infamy.
The other day I had just gotten back from the 'ol lunch hour and plopped down rather unceremoniously at my desk when suddenly I felt an itch on the back of my neck. A co-worker was passing my desk, so I turned to her and asked that innocent question - "Hey, is there something crawling on me?"
I expected a "nope." At the very worst, I expected an "ooh, yeah, there's a little gnat, lemme swat it."
What did I get?
"YES, THERE IS!"
And this was no ordinary "yes, there is." This was a "YES, THERE IS!" complete with widening of the eyes and an all-around look of horror that could ONLY infer, "Why yes, Shane, there's in fact a deadly tarantula mere inches from throttling your jugular. It's been nice working with you. I call dibs on your stapler."
What's a guy to do in a situation like this? We're MEN, we're supposed to be hearty, outdoors-y types -- never the sort to flinch at something as small as a bug.
Ergo, I dug deep into my manliness and let my brute machismo take over. It was time for action. Specifically, the action of leaping out of my seat and yelling, "Ewwww! What? What IS it? Get it off! GET IT OFF!" Macho indeed, my friends.
Yes, there is one thing on this planet that will invariably, regardless of situation or company, make me act like a complete and total ninny. I hate bugs. Spiders, flies, roaches, and especially bees - doesn't matter to me, I hate 'em all. Call me an Equal Opportunity Insect-hater.
"But Shane," you say, "bugs are special, wonderful creatures. They help to pollinate the flowers."
Who cares. Let the flowers die. I'd hose 'em all down in Deep Woods Off if given the opportunity. And don't give me any of that mumbo-jumbo about bugs being an important part of the food chain. Small bugs are eaten by bigger bugs, and bigger bugs need to die, too.
The bug in question that day was my favorite new mistake of nature, one of those Asian beetles.
It's one thing to be a bug. It's another altogether to be a STUPID bug. And I've never come across a bug as stupid as these mutant ladybugs from Hell. And they're EVERYWHERE. I leave work at the end of the day, there's 24 of the things just sitting on my car. I get to my apartment -- my own personal Fortress of Solitude -- and one manages to make its way inside and fly straight at me.
What's the purpose of these bugs? I've sat and watched them. They fly straight forward until they run into something. At that point, their brain runs through its only checklist: (A) Can I eat this? (B) Can I make baby beetles with this? If the answer to both questions is "No," it starts flying randomly again until it runs into something else and the process begins anew.
All I know is they're creepy and stupid and need to be destroyed at all costs. So smart-thinking me hopped onto the Internet to find out more about these microscopic Volkswagens of doom. Turns out that scientists have discovered one fairly good method at stopping the beetle plague: breeding PARASITIC WASPS that happen to think Japanese beetles are a tasty appetizer. (Their main dish? Why, ME, of course.)
Yes, that's right, the miracle of science can quickly replace one stupid, creepy bug with an altogether scarier, stinging, parasitic variety. Thank heavens. One website even had a close-up picture of one of these "helpful" wasps - and yes, it pretty much looks like what I imagined a Cootie to be back in Grade 4. If I think I act like a ninny when one of those beetles is on me, I don't wanna think what I'd act like the day one of these devil-spawned wasp-critters enters my radar.
So if given the choice, I suppose I'll stick with the non-stinging, stupid variety of creepy insect, thanks. Just don't ever tell me one's crawling on me, even if it is. I'd rather live in ignorant, itchy bliss.
It's a question that will live in infamy.
The other day I had just gotten back from the 'ol lunch hour and plopped down rather unceremoniously at my desk when suddenly I felt an itch on the back of my neck. A co-worker was passing my desk, so I turned to her and asked that innocent question - "Hey, is there something crawling on me?"
I expected a "nope." At the very worst, I expected an "ooh, yeah, there's a little gnat, lemme swat it."
What did I get?
"YES, THERE IS!"
And this was no ordinary "yes, there is." This was a "YES, THERE IS!" complete with widening of the eyes and an all-around look of horror that could ONLY infer, "Why yes, Shane, there's in fact a deadly tarantula mere inches from throttling your jugular. It's been nice working with you. I call dibs on your stapler."
What's a guy to do in a situation like this? We're MEN, we're supposed to be hearty, outdoors-y types -- never the sort to flinch at something as small as a bug.
Ergo, I dug deep into my manliness and let my brute machismo take over. It was time for action. Specifically, the action of leaping out of my seat and yelling, "Ewwww! What? What IS it? Get it off! GET IT OFF!" Macho indeed, my friends.
Yes, there is one thing on this planet that will invariably, regardless of situation or company, make me act like a complete and total ninny. I hate bugs. Spiders, flies, roaches, and especially bees - doesn't matter to me, I hate 'em all. Call me an Equal Opportunity Insect-hater.
"But Shane," you say, "bugs are special, wonderful creatures. They help to pollinate the flowers."
Who cares. Let the flowers die. I'd hose 'em all down in Deep Woods Off if given the opportunity. And don't give me any of that mumbo-jumbo about bugs being an important part of the food chain. Small bugs are eaten by bigger bugs, and bigger bugs need to die, too.
The bug in question that day was my favorite new mistake of nature, one of those Asian beetles.
It's one thing to be a bug. It's another altogether to be a STUPID bug. And I've never come across a bug as stupid as these mutant ladybugs from Hell. And they're EVERYWHERE. I leave work at the end of the day, there's 24 of the things just sitting on my car. I get to my apartment -- my own personal Fortress of Solitude -- and one manages to make its way inside and fly straight at me.
What's the purpose of these bugs? I've sat and watched them. They fly straight forward until they run into something. At that point, their brain runs through its only checklist: (A) Can I eat this? (B) Can I make baby beetles with this? If the answer to both questions is "No," it starts flying randomly again until it runs into something else and the process begins anew.
All I know is they're creepy and stupid and need to be destroyed at all costs. So smart-thinking me hopped onto the Internet to find out more about these microscopic Volkswagens of doom. Turns out that scientists have discovered one fairly good method at stopping the beetle plague: breeding PARASITIC WASPS that happen to think Japanese beetles are a tasty appetizer. (Their main dish? Why, ME, of course.)
Yes, that's right, the miracle of science can quickly replace one stupid, creepy bug with an altogether scarier, stinging, parasitic variety. Thank heavens. One website even had a close-up picture of one of these "helpful" wasps - and yes, it pretty much looks like what I imagined a Cootie to be back in Grade 4. If I think I act like a ninny when one of those beetles is on me, I don't wanna think what I'd act like the day one of these devil-spawned wasp-critters enters my radar.
So if given the choice, I suppose I'll stick with the non-stinging, stupid variety of creepy insect, thanks. Just don't ever tell me one's crawling on me, even if it is. I'd rather live in ignorant, itchy bliss.
Friday, November 05, 2004
COLUMN: Voting
It's over. Finally.
I can once again merrily go about my business without being stymied by
political endorsements. No longer do I have to know that the car in front
of me supports Kerry. No longer do I have to know that the lawn across the
street from me supports Bush. I'm still not sure who my TV set supports -
it did a bit of flip-flopping the past couple weeks.
It's over -- my vote has been counted.
Okay, I'm lying to you. I'm about to do the unthinkable and break the
fourth wall of the Leader, folks. Those guys who write the actual news up
there on the front page think that they're such bigshots because they can
turn in a breaking news story at the drop of a hat. Us non-important (i.e.
"funny") folks have an earlier deadline. We don't have the privilege around
here to yell "STOP THE PRESSES!" (Actually I yell that all the time for
fun; they just ignore me.) I had to turn this column in on Tuesday. In my
world, it's still election day, and as of this writing, I don't know who
won.
Not that it matters, because the way things have been stacking up, there's a
good chance you don't know who won yet either. I'm guessing that as you
read this, chads are probably hanging all over the place, and the future
course of our nation probably hangs on a recount in, oh, let's say, Rhode
Island.
But I WILL be sure to have voted before it's all over. Why? Because P. Diddy was
going to kill me if I didn't.
Did you guys catch any of this? P. Diddy was the voice behind the campaign
that's been all over MTV for the last month. It's happy message? "VOTE OR
DIE!" And that's right, kids, this is moral leader P. Diddy, who just a
couple years ago narrowly escaped an attempted murder charge in court. I,
for one, take his threats seriously.
Everywhere I channel flipped, I was being oppressed by stupidity. "VOTE OR
DIE!" "CHOOSE OR LOSE!" I saw an ad the other day that said, (no joke,)
"Vote for something. Anything. Just vote."
Now, I'm completely sympathetic to the problem of voter apathy. It's
ridiculous that a lot of people my age or younger don't feel that voting is
an important civic duty. But let's not counter this problem by yelling in
their face and saying, "DO IT! VOTE, STUPID!"
If we throw any campaign towards the youth of today, it should be for them
to educate themselves on the issues and the candidates, and THEN let them
decide if they want to vote. I'll admit it - I didn't vote in the first
couple of elections after I turned 18. Why? Because I was in college and
didn't know anything about anything. The only issue I took a stance on in
those days was how to best soundproof the frat house so we wouldn't get
busted on Friday night.
These campaigns seem to be saying to 18-year-olds, "Hey! You! You should
vote! What's that? You don't know who to vote for? You don't know anything
about any of the candidates? Oh well, that's not important! You still need
to take a stand and vote!"
Sure, the youth of America needs to make its voice heard... unless it's a
STUPID voice. If you don't know the candidates or the issues, you should've
stayed home. It's that simple. Because what happens when you go to the polls
and you don't know any of the candidates? That's when human nature takes
over, you weigh the information in front of you, and you do the logical
thing:
You vote for the guy with the funniest name.
You think I'm wrong? I've got two words for ya: Dick Armey. He spent 18
years in Congress. There's really a Senator from Idaho named Mike Crapo. I rest my case.
Of course, I'm a bit of a hypocrite when I say that you shouldn't have voted
unless you were informed. Sure, I try to know a lot about all of the major
candidates... but then you get to that last page on the ballot. "Shall this
judge be retained in office?" Ummm... Sure? Maybe?
These people could be communists for all I know. The only judge I know
anything about was the one I had to see on the day that we DIDN'T soundproof
the frat house well enough on a Friday night. And, quite frankly, that guy
doesn't get my vote.
I can once again merrily go about my business without being stymied by
political endorsements. No longer do I have to know that the car in front
of me supports Kerry. No longer do I have to know that the lawn across the
street from me supports Bush. I'm still not sure who my TV set supports -
it did a bit of flip-flopping the past couple weeks.
It's over -- my vote has been counted.
Okay, I'm lying to you. I'm about to do the unthinkable and break the
fourth wall of the Leader, folks. Those guys who write the actual news up
there on the front page think that they're such bigshots because they can
turn in a breaking news story at the drop of a hat. Us non-important (i.e.
"funny") folks have an earlier deadline. We don't have the privilege around
here to yell "STOP THE PRESSES!" (Actually I yell that all the time for
fun; they just ignore me.) I had to turn this column in on Tuesday. In my
world, it's still election day, and as of this writing, I don't know who
won.
Not that it matters, because the way things have been stacking up, there's a
good chance you don't know who won yet either. I'm guessing that as you
read this, chads are probably hanging all over the place, and the future
course of our nation probably hangs on a recount in, oh, let's say, Rhode
Island.
But I WILL be sure to have voted before it's all over. Why? Because P. Diddy was
going to kill me if I didn't.
Did you guys catch any of this? P. Diddy was the voice behind the campaign
that's been all over MTV for the last month. It's happy message? "VOTE OR
DIE!" And that's right, kids, this is moral leader P. Diddy, who just a
couple years ago narrowly escaped an attempted murder charge in court. I,
for one, take his threats seriously.
Everywhere I channel flipped, I was being oppressed by stupidity. "VOTE OR
DIE!" "CHOOSE OR LOSE!" I saw an ad the other day that said, (no joke,)
"Vote for something. Anything. Just vote."
Now, I'm completely sympathetic to the problem of voter apathy. It's
ridiculous that a lot of people my age or younger don't feel that voting is
an important civic duty. But let's not counter this problem by yelling in
their face and saying, "DO IT! VOTE, STUPID!"
If we throw any campaign towards the youth of today, it should be for them
to educate themselves on the issues and the candidates, and THEN let them
decide if they want to vote. I'll admit it - I didn't vote in the first
couple of elections after I turned 18. Why? Because I was in college and
didn't know anything about anything. The only issue I took a stance on in
those days was how to best soundproof the frat house so we wouldn't get
busted on Friday night.
These campaigns seem to be saying to 18-year-olds, "Hey! You! You should
vote! What's that? You don't know who to vote for? You don't know anything
about any of the candidates? Oh well, that's not important! You still need
to take a stand and vote!"
Sure, the youth of America needs to make its voice heard... unless it's a
STUPID voice. If you don't know the candidates or the issues, you should've
stayed home. It's that simple. Because what happens when you go to the polls
and you don't know any of the candidates? That's when human nature takes
over, you weigh the information in front of you, and you do the logical
thing:
You vote for the guy with the funniest name.
You think I'm wrong? I've got two words for ya: Dick Armey. He spent 18
years in Congress. There's really a Senator from Idaho named Mike Crapo. I rest my case.
Of course, I'm a bit of a hypocrite when I say that you shouldn't have voted
unless you were informed. Sure, I try to know a lot about all of the major
candidates... but then you get to that last page on the ballot. "Shall this
judge be retained in office?" Ummm... Sure? Maybe?
These people could be communists for all I know. The only judge I know
anything about was the one I had to see on the day that we DIDN'T soundproof
the frat house well enough on a Friday night. And, quite frankly, that guy
doesn't get my vote.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)