How Rap Music Boggled My Mind

My 101st Blog

2008-04-18T10:00:00.002-04:00

According to my blogger.com dashboard, this is my 101st blog. I thought I would commemorate this occasion by listing some of my favorite places to eat in New York City.

It's no secret that I am not a picky eater. I like food in many shapes and varieties. However, it's a misnomer that I am some kind of "foodie"; I'm much more comfortable eating stuff served in its own wrapper than I am choosing the correct fork with which to spear a cylinder of raw fish atop a bed of mesclun salad. Here is a list of some of my favorite spots for fast eats while strolling around New York in between lunch and dinner.

Rickshaw Dumplings
Honestly, I'm more impressed with the genius of this place than I am with the food, though it is quite tasty. You order from a selection of six different dumplings, including a delicious duck variety, choose fried or steamed, and then you can decide to have it alone with a dipping sauce, or in a specially-crafted soup or salad that is tailor-made for your dumpling. The kitchen is just cranking these morsels out constantly, and as you stand and watch them through a pane of steamed glass, you realize how easy it is to make a dumpling. They've got to be the most foolproof food, all wrapped in their doughy purses and plopped in a sauna. At ten bucks a pop, why aren't I making this at home? Oh yeah, it's because I'm a lazy fuck. Thanks, Rickshaw!

Caracas Arepa Bar
A couple of hole-in-the-wall spots near the corner of 7th Street and 1st Avenue, Caracas is split into two entities: an arepa "bar," a tiny place with three or four tables and a counter, and a cramped restaurant with seating for about thirty customers. Larger folk like myself would probably find it more comfortable to order from the bar establishment and wolf the food down outdoors. For those not in the know, an arepa is a flat corn cake with a split in the middle, like if a piece of corn bread married a pita. That middle is then stuffed with something very delicious, from steak to whitefish to plantains, and everything in between. This is the kind of place you want to go with someone else, so you can split your order and get a taste of everything. The empanadas are nothing special, so stick with the arepas. And don't sleep on the home made beverages: my favorite is the Chicha, which is like drinking a rice pudding.

Benfaremo, the Lemon Ice King of Corona
Okay, so if you're not going to be at the U.S. Open or the somewhere in Flushing Meadow Park in Queens, you're probably not going to want to make this trek. But if you do, I promise it will be worth it. These guys have been making the best shaved iceys for over sixty years, and the proof is in the ingredients: real fruit. If you get a cantaloupe flavor, you will find chunks of cantaloupe in your icey. Same goes for every other flavor, except possibly for weird ones like popcorn and peanut butter, which I have never tried. Who wants an icey that tastes like popcorn? All of the fruit flavors, however, I can attest to. The place is nestled right on the southern end of the infamous Spaghetti Park, an Italian stronghold in this overwhelmingly Latin neighborhood. You can't miss it, just look for the gated traffic triangle with Italian flag bunting draped around it and a half a dozen old guys playing Bocce inside. White folks are welcome to stand and watch, but don't even ask if you can play winners.

Sammy's Halal Cart
And while you're already hanging out in Queens, swing by Sammy's Halal on the corner of 73rd Street and Broadway in Jackson Heights. Halal carts have become more and more prevalent on the streets of New York, eclipsing hot dog vendors in number last year, but Sammy's is the best. How do I know? Well, he was a 2006 Vendy Award finalist! Seriously, that's just reaching. A "Vendy"? Give me a fucking break. Next they'll be giving out "Beggies" to the best panhandlers and "Robbies" to the best con men at Penn Station. The chicken and rice platter at any Halal cart is key to determining its worth, and Sammy's has the best around. He throws carrots, peppers, and onions in there, and doesn't chop the meat until it looks like it was blasted with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The white sauce seems to be a discernible mix of tzaziki and yogurt, which is better than most sour cream with who-knows-what concoctions you get on the street. Very delicious, and this cart is right outside of the 74th Street/Broadway subway station in Queens, which is pretty much convenient to anyone that wants to make the journey.

Remembering Dungeons & Dragons

2008-03-06T17:00:00.001-05:00

Gary Gygax, creator of the popular role-playing dice game Dungeons & Dragons, died this past Tuesday. I never played D&D as a kid, it seemed too complicated and I didn’t care for the whole swords and sorcery bit. Still, it affected my life because so many of my peers were playing the game, and because it was constantly being discussed in the media. This was during that twilight time, after pinball machines, but before arcade video games would become the new scourge of America’s youth. In honor of the man that made goofing off in your parents’ basement a serious pastime, I thought I’d reminisce about Dungeons & Dragons and its younger, but apparently more wise sibling, Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.

My brother was a big Dungeons & Dragons fanatic for a little while. It really fit in with his whole metalhead aesthetic. I was strictly forbidden to attend or even watch his D&D games, which suited me fine because it seemed incredibly boring to me. I was fascinated, though, by the Monsters Manual, a hardbound book of all the available monsters one might encounter in the D&D world. I marveled at the terribly-drawn pictures of monsters like Black Pudding and Hippocampus. I wondered what I might do if I encountered an “Eye, Floating,” as was described on the pages within the manual. I mean Eye, Rolling I could deal with. But Eye, Floating? I guess I’d have to hide in a garbage can or something.

Much more than the game or its monsters, I was entranced by news reports about how obsessed kids got over this game. I would read any article, watch any special news report, or hear any anecdote about these poor fucks that lost charisma points and hung themselves in their parents’ closets. I don’t know why I found it all so amusing. I definitely didn’t think I was too cool for the game; on the contrary, I felt like somewhat of an outsider because all of my friends were playing it. Maybe I felt it was their just desserts for pursuing something so mind-warping, and not fawning over the things I enjoyed, namely Smurfs cartoons and die-cast Transformers toys. When the movie Mazes & Monsters came out, I was an instant fan. Why did I care so much about these wayward retards that couldn’t tell the difference between a board game and real life? Was it jealousy that I wasn’t playing along, or just my natural inclination to laugh at losers? I like to think it was for the latter reason.

So RIP Gary Gygax, a visionary who devised a game that made geeks around the world feel cool, if only for a moment. It goes without saying that, without Dungeons & Dragons, games like The Legend of Zelda, DOOM, and Final Fantasy might never have been created. Don’t get it twisted, though. If you like these video games, you’re twice the nerd that a D&D player is.

Refuse to Regret

2008-02-21T17:34:00.002-05:00

If you're like me, you get most of your life advice and personal affirmations from myspace. There's no end to the whimsical quotes and passages that you can have posted on your page to give it that unique touch. Yes, we know you like to drink--heavily--but what exactly do you like to drink? Only by posting an animated .gif depicting a sparkling bottle of Hennessey can we really know that.

There's one I've noticed that's been popping up more and more:

I guess as the First Internet Generation starts pulling into the train terminal known as age thirty, they're starting to review their lives with a more critical eye. "Perhaps I shouldn't have chosen my college classes based around the time of day they began," or "Maybe it wasn't such a smart idea to spend all of my dispensable income on weed and bootleg porno movies." I know there are plenty of people out there with tattoos they no longer identify with. Turns out the Insane Clown Posse seems a lot less insane once you turn twenty-three.

What's so unnerving about the .jpeg contention above--besides how desperate it sounds--is that it is actually terrible advice. We make mistakes in life, and we can reflect on them and regret those decisions. The trick is not to dwell on this regret and let it keep you from making future mistakes. Blithely asserting that you have (il)logically denounced regret doesn't absolve you from the emotion, and the way some of you thirty-something-or-others are carrying on, you could use a little hindsight. Imagine you could travel back in time and meet yourself at age sixteen. How would you react? What would you say? I'd probably tell myself to invest heavily in Microsoft and hop back in my Delorean.

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2008-01-28T12:12:00.000-05:00

Crusading Principal/Teacher Movies

The Good:
Lean On Me

The events depicted in the movie, based on the true story of Principal Joe Clark and his crusade to save Eastside High School in Paterson, New Jersey, unfolded when I was still in elementary school. I attended with a largely white, middle-class bunch of Smurf-loving students, for whom drug abuse meant taking extra Flintstones chewable vitamins in the morning while mom had her back turned. Still, my principal at the time was inspired by the heavy-handed antics of Mr. Clark, and he began to overuse his megaphone to belt firm words of encouragement as children sat in the lunchroom, attentively, with their hands folded. I’m not sure if it was due to the stern efforts of my principal, but I can say that there were no shootings or stabbings at my grammar school during the entire time that I attended.

This movie is great, featuring a commanding performance by Morgan Freeman as Clark. The moment the titles begin, to the wailing strains of “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses, you are treated to a high school that resembles a prison more than it does an institution of learning: a girl gets her shirt ripped off in the girl’s bathroom and is fondled in the hallway, a well-dressed drug dealer with a briefcase full of his wares is let into the building through a fire exit, and a teacher has his head beaten against the floor until his eyes roll back into his head and it is splattered with blood. Freeman is called in to bring the school back to code, which he begins by immediately expelling several hundred offending students. The most memorable character, however, is Thomas Sams, a chubby student played by Jermaine “Huggy” Hopkins. His best scene is when Freeman takes him up to the high school roof and instructs him to jump, since he’s already ruining his life by smoking crack. Hopkins blubbers, “You can’t kick me outta school, Mister Clark, I can’t tell my mom I got kick’d outta school.” Hip-hop fans will also remember him as the guy who hung out with Queens-based rappers The Lost Boyz, smoking lots of cheeba and probably eating them out of house and home.

The Bad:
The Principal

Sometimes a movie is made that joins two actors, each from difference acting disciplines, and the result is some amazing on-screen chemistry that entertains and delights audiences. This movie does not feature that kind of chemistry. This movie joins Jim Belushi and Louis Gossett, Jr. in a fictional story about their attempt to save a crime-ridden high school from drugs, gangs, and violence. Belushi plays Rick Latimer, a grade school teacher who is “promoted” to principal of the failing Brandel High by his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend, who I guess is on the board of education or something. It’s payback to Belushi for kicking his ass in the first scene. Immediately, Belushi teams up with the school’s head of security, played by Lou Gossett, and they tangle with the biggest bad boy in the school, Vic, played by Michael Wright—that’s right, the guy from The Five Heartbeats. So what you’ve got here is a pudgy principal who comes off about as tough as Andy Milonakis, and a bad guy who was still fondly remembered as a reformed thief from the V television miniseries. Belushi sets the pace for this clunky piece of crap, seeming uncomfortable on his motorcycle, unrealistic during drawn-out fight scenes, and awkward when delivering the simplest dialogue. Gossett gives a passionless performance as well. The movie climaxes with a bizarre game of hide and seek between Belushi and Wright in the school shower, which for some reason is divided into various, rusty cubicles and looks more like the de-lousing station at Ellis Island than it does a high school locker room. My high school had very few violence problems, and there weren’t any working showers in the gym. Of course, my high school principal didn’t ride a motorcycle or give impassioned speeches to a disinterested student body, either. This is why New York City has such a low quality of education.

The Mediocre:
Stand and Deliver

This movie I haven’t seen in quite a while, but I did watch it about a dozen times on HBO around 1989. It’s about rebel math teacher Jaime Escalante, well played by Edward James Olmos, and his struggle to escalate the test scores of a bunch of wayward youths from the barrio. Like Lean On Me, this movie was based on a true story, but unlike Lean On Me, it is a story that probably didn’t need to be told on film. I get it, the children are our future and an education is the best defense against adult shiftlessness, but stories like this are a dime a dozen. I know it won all kinds of awards, and it’s a very good movie, but pales next to the others in its genre. Olmos never beats the shit out of anyone, there are no brutal rape scenes, and the students give relatively believable performances. What this movie needed was a climactic showdown between Olmos and a gang leader, fought on motorcycles while whipping chains at each other. Olmos’ comb-over would be flapping wildly in the wind as he screams epithets in Spanish and uses the power of calculus to determine his opponent’s next move. The film also could have used some more comic relief, maybe in the form of Jermaine “Huggy” Hopkins. He does affect a Spanish accent just before a key scene in Lean On Me, when Morgan Freeman listens to he and his cohorts sing an updated, gospel version of the school song in the boy’s bathroom. Someone do the world a favor and upload his rap album, Chunk But Funky on Ichiban Records

The Bell Tolls at Midnight

2008-01-16T23:30:00.000-05:00

The still night was broken by the muttering of a silent oath by a Derringer .45. A body slumped to the floor with an agonizing groan. The doctor was dead, murdered by an intruder that absconded through the open window. Within moments, police arrived on the scene.

"What's all this here, then?" exclaimed Sergeant Jerome, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He was winded and sweaty from hauling his massive frame up four flights of stairs. Four beat cops surveyed the crime scene and mined it for clues. A court reporter snapped photos for the morning edition. The body, a well-respected doctor of bloodology, lay grotesquely prostrate over a model of the human uterus. Sergeant Jerome let out a low whistle and said, "Mom is going to be absolutely distraught." The sergeant and the doctor were brothers. I forgot to mention that before.

Before long, world famous Detective Robinson arrived and took in the all too familiar scene before him. "I see a death like this every day," he muttered, "and it never gets any easier." He nervously flipped a playing card between his index and middle finger as he looked about the room. Right next to the corpse, he saw an overturned curio box, ornately carved and well varnished. Detective Robinson picked it up and examined it carefully. It was empty, but he was sure it was a clue.

Robinson pressed a small button on the bottom of the box, revealing a false bottom. Underneath a small panel of wood, the detective discovered a will and a silver ring with an emerald inlay. He removed the ring and examined it in the sunlight. It glinted off every facet, giving the gem an unearthly glow.

"I know who the killer is," announced Detective Robinson, "and it is someone in this room." By this time, there were a dozen people in the room, including the doctor's wife, his butler, a man from whom he purchased groceries every weekend. Each of them had reason to kill the doctor, a point which I neglected to reveal earlier. Also, his brother, Sergeant Jerome, walked with a distinct limp and always kept his right hand in his front pants pocket. The suspects looked at each other nervously, then one stepped forward, gun drawn. "You'll never catch me alive, copper!" he screamed, and leapt out the window and ran down the street. Detective Robinson was crestfallen. The man who fled was his son, who he thought had died in a fire ten years earlier but who had contacted him that very morning for the first time since the tragedy. A grandfather clock in the doctor's mansion began to strike the hour. "The bell tolls at midnight," sighed Detective Robinson, and he crushed the doctor's wife to his mouth for a breathy kiss. This was going to be one of those cases.

Year End Wrap-Up

2008-01-07T22:06:00.000-05:00

In the annals of history, 2007 will probably be remembered as the least-significant pre-Apocalypse year of this century. It wasn't a great year, it wasn't even a good year. It was a mediocre year, and considering how things have been in the world lately, a mediocre year is still above average. The folks at steady bloggin' decided to sit down and have a virtual pow wow about the important events of 2007, which turned out to be a handful of crummy albums and movies and some strange news items. Enjoy the poignant and strange ramblings of Alaska, Vanderslice, Kalel, Piff Tannen, Philaflava, and yours truly. Thanks to all of steady bloggin's steady readers, we hope to have a productive and entertaining 2008.

Jay-Z, American Gangster

ALASKA: More like Boring McBoringson

KALEL: My favorite album of his since Blueprint. But then again I'm a sucker for strings and guitars.

VANDERSLICE: Old Dog with Old Tricks.. wack beats, wack raps, Jigga man should've called upon Just Blaze.

REGGIE: I think it’s great that Hova was inspired by a movie to return to his glory years of rapping about drug dealing.

PIFF: I watched the story tellers. it was aiight, but i didnt check out the album cos the 9 hour movie took up all my time and interest.

PHILAFLAVA: Album came and went. Much better than Kingdom Come but after the leaks hit this album had very little replay. “Fallin,” Say Hello” and “Ignorant Shit” are all some of my favorite songs of ’07..

Radiohead's "Free or Outrageously Expensive" album release

KALEL: Great idea, but I don't like the ideas it spawned.

ALASKA: Freelicious

PIFF: It would be free for me either way. Donations is just another way to say "free."

VANDERSLICE: I've never listened to Radiohead, but I like the idea. I wonder how much money they made.

PHILAFLAVA: One of the best albums of the year. And a revolutionary change for music.

REGGIE: I understand that one must purchase this album to become an Omega-Level Scientologist.

Kanye West vs. 50 Cent

ALASKA: About as exciting as Rocky Balboa.

REGGIE: Kanye should have Just Blaze pass 50 Cent a note in homeroom. It’s obvious that they “like” like each other.

KALEL: My favorite artist of 2007. "Stronger" still knocks the shit out of "I Get Money"

VANDERSLICE: I wish it would have had a 2Pac & Biggie effect where they both died.

PHILAFLAVA: Who cares? Both their albums were extremely underwhelming, but I suppose Kanye won the battle, although I’m sure he could care less after losing the biggest asset in his life.

DJ Khaled: Really the beeeeessssst?

KALEL: Reminds me of the kid at the lunch table that wasn't really cool, he just lived next door to the cool kids so he was "cool by geographical association".

ALASKA: Isnt he an Arab? How has Homeland Security allowed this to happen.

VANDERSLICE: Not even second best, or third best.. or good period.

PHILAFLAVA: I can’t wait for his stomach to explode like Stay Puft and all of South Beach will be covered in marshmallows.

REGGIE: DJ Khaled is like an inexperienced chef that puts too many ingredients in his soup. Or, more literally, orders a soup from a restaurant that has too many ingredients in it. Then he adds motor oil.

PIFF: I don't know how many dicks this dude had to suck to get to where he is at, but he must have done a great job to be able to yell over ginormous posse cuts that sound like all the rappers do is watch old episodes of Miami Vice. I mean really good, cock and balls into the mouth at once.

Lil Wayne: Greatest Rapper Alive(?)

PIFF: No.

ALASKA: Had his moment, then of course that moment ended and the hilarity began.

KALEL: He stinks. If this was 1994 he'd be boo'ed out the game for biting someone elses style.

VANDERSLICE: I'd rather be deaf than listen to Lil Wayne.

REGGIE: I started to get into his music once I realized that he is severely mentally retarded.

PHILAFLAVA: He’s top 5 current, but he isn’t even close to be labeled the greatest anything. In fact, when he retires I’d be surprised if anyone had this dude on their top 25 list. He’s schtick is entertaining, kinda like Noreaga back in in the late 90’s, but just because you keep up with pop culture and constantly make reference to 80’s throwbacks despite being born in 1982, doesn’t make you the greatest anything except hype.

The UGK album everyone hyped up pre-release and subsequently stopped talking about the minute it dropped

VANDERSLICE: UGK.. one down.. one to go..

ALASKA: I met Bun B in Houston, he was hella cool.

REGGIE: RIP Pimp C.

KALEL: I'm a big fan of UGK, and I don't even think Houston was excited about the album until Pimp C died. Sad state.

PIFF: RIP Pimp C, I ain't heard it yet. I'm still listenin to "Ridin Dirty".

PHILAFLAVA: I blame this on the leaked material. It was a double album and more than half was leaked months (even a year for some) before it dropped. It is still one of the best LP’s of ’07, if not the best,.

Transformers: The Movie

ALASKA: I hate cars and robots.

PIFF: I knew which Transformer was the black one as soon as I saw him.

KALEL: Check on the rep, yep, second to none. Dope movie.

PHILAFLAVA: Didn’t see. But I adore Fox so I plan on it

VANDERSLICE: No soundwave, no Vanderslice. Fuck that new wave shit

REGGIE: I’m glad they distinguished the theatrical release as The Movie, as opposed to Transformers: The Overhyped Marketing Campaign or Transformers: The Toy Brand Desperately Clung To By Hapless Thirty-somethings.

The Simpsons Movie

ALASKA: I fell asleep three different times.

KALEL: Eighty minutes of pink frosted covered goodness. Could've been more, but good enough for me.

VANDERSLICE: Skipped it. The Simpsons haven't been dope in 10 years.

REGGIE: The first third was pretty funny, then it fell off. A microcosm for the entire series.

PIFF: I bought the DVD but still havent watched it. If the movie cant top the "Treehouse of Horrors" with the vomiting frog, I will be disappointed.

PHILAFLAVA: This was equivalent to Kanye’s Graduation album.

Live Free or Die Hard

PIFF: Die Hard is right, it took forever for people to die in this clusterfuck of a movie. Live Gay or Die Gay should be this movie's name.

ALASKA: Has that dude in it.

VANDERSLICE: Skipped it, Die Hard with a Vengeance was the absolute rooftop for the series.

REGGIE: Well of course Bruce Willis can live free, he gets Social Security and Medicare. I would live free too if I had a nurse to feed me prunes and wipe my bottom.

PHILAFLAVA: Didn’t see because I hate that Apple commercial dude.

300

PHILAFLAVA: Good, but overhyped by net nerds and virgins.

ALASKA: Only thing gayer than Will and Grace.

KALEL: Biggest dissapointment for me. Really looked forward to it, Heard great things about it. Then I saw it.... It was like watching a really cool music video, but that's about it.

PIFF: All historical/social gripes aside, this is a man's movie. I was almost moved to tears at the end. No homo.

VANDERSLICE: Stupid romans.. I never seen this, nor will I ever.

REGGIE: I thought the title was a description of the movie’s length in minutes, so I passed on it.

TMNT

ALASKA: Is that anything like YOTMB??

KALEL: Loved it!

VANDERSLICE: I didn't see this either.. Casey Jones was that dude.. was he in it?

REGGIE: I’m glad that someone finally went and did a more realistic movie about mutant turtles that do kung-fu under the guidance of a wizened rat.

Are We Done Yet?

PIFF: Ice Cube is still trying to release gangsta albums afer making these movies. Historical status aside in rap, nigga, are you done making garbage ass movies yet?

ALASKA: Sadly, Ice Cube fell off and now he is dragging Katt Williams and Tracy Morgan down with him.

VANDERSLICE: Ice Cube went from the wrong nigga to fuck wit' to the house nigga to hang out wit'. I don't know how he looks in the mirror, even with those huge bags of cash it's abominable.

REGGIE: I can’t wait to sit my child down and explain that the same person guest-starring on Sesame Street ain’t the one to get played like a pooh-butt.

PHILAFLAVA: I don’t have kids and I don’t care to see Ice Cube act, so no.

Spider-Man 3

PHILAFLAVA: Didn’t see this either. The teeth on Dunst bother me so much that I have avoided most of the Spider man movies.

VANDERSLICE: I didn't like this movie at all. The Sandman? In a real live action movie... Stupid idea, even sand packed and wet isn't doin’ shit.. just get a vacuum.. real stupid movie.

ALASKA: Watched it in Boise on IMAX. It sucked about as much as anything has ever sucked, it actually might have sucked more than everything that has ever sucked combined. Oh and Kirsten Dunst on a forty-foot HD screen is terrifying.

KALEL: I thought the dancing scene was hilarious personally, but it wasn't my favorite of the 3. Some of you nerds need to get a hold of yourselves and stop letting little shit ruin movies for you.

REGGIE: It was clever to pit the superhero against a spider’s natural enemy: sand.

PIFF: Movie was garbage. I could kick this Spider-Man's ass. He used to be my favorite super hero, and now he is a flaming homo doing the tango in a bar. Also, im glad to see Topher Grace playing venom the same way he played Eric Foreman. Judging from that, I could kick Venom's ass too.

Knocked Up

REGGIE: I thought this was a boxing movie.

ALASKA: Saw it mad times.

VANDERSLICE: I never saw it for one reason or another, I just remember hearing the lead role bitch in a movie called Knocked Up doesn't get naked.. so I passed for lack of realism.

PHILAFLAVA: I thought it was great when it first came out, then I went back to it and realize it wasn’t as great, but still really good.

Superbad

PHILAFLAVA: Great movie. This is like the American Pie of the new generation. I can see people going back to this a lot. A lot of memorable stuff.

ALASKA: Michael Cera is gold.

KALEL: Sooooooo glad the "McLovin" fad has died down. Wonderful movie though.

VANDERSLICE: The best movie to come out in 2007 EASILY.

REGGIE: Honestly, I wasn’t so impressed by this movie. I thought the McLovin stuff with the cops was great, but otherwise the story seemed awkward and unformed. The jokes were so transparent that you got them before the set-up was done, and then they drove them into the ground. It is a good movie, just not as funny as it was hyped to be.

PIFF: Great flick, not as funny as Knocked Up to me, but still solid as shit. I want to stick my face in Katherin Keigl's buttcheeks and fall asleep.

Iraq

ALASKA: We are about a quarter of the way through this war.

KALEL: Even with the war and protests against it, we still aren't seeing demonstrations akin to those seen in the 60's and 70's. Iraq has exposed more about the American people than the American government.

VANDERSLICE: The Iraqi people have been at war forever, democracy isn't going to stop it.

REGGIE: The first thing we need to do is stop them from using the letter Q inappropriately. Everything else will fall into place.

PIFF: Call of Duty 4

PHILAFLAVA: "It’s the bomb baby, the bomb baby…”

Looming war in Iran

ALASKA: Not as good as the original.

KALEL: Not looking forward to it. Can't all of these disputes be settled in the Olympics like the good ol' days?

VANDERSLICE: Rocky 7 fights in the Sudan.. cause If I can change.. WE can change.. EVERYBODY CAN CHANGEEEE

REGGIE: Come back Ayatolla Khomeni! All is forgiven!

PIFF: Call of Duty 5

Lisa Marie Nowak, the astronaut that drove to Florida wearing Pampers in an attempt to kidnap her lover

ALASKA: I mean who hasnt done this

PHILAFLAVA: I think Galvatron should turn this bitch out.

KALEL: Houston represent!

VANDERSLICE: Asians in Times Square did the same thing just to see the ball drop. I admire the dedication.

REGGIE: I like how the general reaction was like, “Oh, this lady drove across three states to kidnap her former lover and use sexual torture devices on him in her makeshift dungeon…but she wore DIAPERS? That bitch is CRAZY!”

PIFF: White people.

Nancy Pelosi (Democrat) becomes Speaker of the House

PHILAFLAVA: I have such a hard-on for this broad. She is truly a piece of ass.

ALASKA: I think her last name means 'ball' in Spanish

KALEL: Who?

VANDERSLICE: I wonder if she bakes cookies for congressional meetings.

REGGIE: I think she’s a great person to represent the ineffectualness of the Democratic party.

PIFF: Democrats and Republicans are the same. This is not news.

Bob Barker leaves The Price Is Right

KALEL: The most electrifying man in game show history. And he fucks mad bitches.

ALASKA: The Grey Trapezoid’s biggest victory to date.

PHILAFLAVA: Last time I saw Bob Barker on TV was when Adam Sandler beat him with a golf club.

PIFF: I mean, the nigga fought in the Civil War with Dick Clark, they both should get to retire and take a break.

VANDERSLICE: Drew Carey is addicted to hookers and gambling, what better place to be than The Price is Right?

Tony Blair resigns

ALASKA: Now he can dedicate more time to his witch project.

KALEL: ...and cleans his nose from GW's manhole.

REGGIE: I could never trust a man whose surname is a woman’s first name.

VANDERSLICE: Who gives a crap.. stupid British accent.. go suck on a fag and drop dead.

PHILAFLAVA: Sell-out.

PIFF: No more gay sex for Bush when he goes overseas.

The final Harry Potter novel

VANDERSLICE: Books are for queers.

PIFF: Call me when Harmoine turns eighteen.

KALEL: Everyone I've talked to loved it. I never got into them, but I hope they make a movie out of them one day.

REGGIE: I wanted to read this, then I remember that wizards and sorcery are for nerds and gay men.

ALASKA: Was great

PHILAFLAVA: I am not a homosexual, therefore I don’t read these homoerotic novels.

Barry Bonds

ALASKA: I think Congress should put all the issues of the day on the back burner and deal with this, because its important, like really important. Thank god for 24 hour sports news.

KALEL: He doesn't have a neck.

PIFF: I hate baseball and Barry Bonds is an asshole. I don't care what they do to him.

VANDERSLICE: I think they should let players use steroids and the people who don't use steroids should be allowed to use aluminum bats. Stupid Bonds is gonna end up like Lyle Alzado wearin bad headwraps and speaking in a soft HIV-like monotone voice.

PHILAFLAVA: Barry Bonds is practically O.J. without having killed anyone.

REGGIE: I think MLB should set up a separate facility for the Chemically-Enhanced Hall of Fame. Then Keith Hernandez could get in as the best player to use cocaine and Rogaine in a season.

Some kind of weird blog chain thing

2007-12-05T13:30:00.000-05:00

My blog hero, Danielle, roped me into this strange bloggers' game. Being that she is, to me, the alpha and omega of bloggers, and since it is not exactly a trial to do so, I will play along. However, since I don't read any blogs but hers and my blog bredrens', I'm going to make up my own rules and not tag any new bloggers at the end. Everything I could ever hope to know about Deebo (and life) I have learned from TwerpsWorld, and there are a lot of things I would probably rather not know about the Steady Bloggin' familia. What they've offered to say about themselves to this point has been...illuminating enough. Let's leave it at that.

Here's how it works:

1. Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog. (Done.)

2. Share 7 facts about yourself. (I'm gonna.)

3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs. (Nope, and if you don't like it, I'm taking my ball and going home.)

4. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog. (Not applicable.)

Seven Facts About Me:

1) I hate guns. Whenever a police officer is near, I imagine horrifying scenarios where someone gets a hold of his/her gun and starts bucking wildly, or the officer goes on a shooting rampage, or something else happens where the gun will be fired in my proximity, and I will die of gunshot wounds or a heart attack or both.

2) Though I am an obvious rap geek, I barely listened to any new rap from the years of 1994 to 1998. For many, these are the "golden" years.

3) My favorite color is purple.

4) I don't really enjoy nature. When I travel, I prefer to go to other cities than to go camping or whatever. I can appreciate a nice sunrise, but then I want to go back to an actual bed with an actual mattress and actual pillows.

5) As a general rule, I have more respect for and seek the counsel of ladies over men. As MF DOOM says, a lotta dudes is too rude, and there's too many "let's not, and say we do" dudes.

6) I bought at least six new pairs of Adidas this year and not one new pair of pants.

7) I have a recurring dream where there is a fire at my house and everything I own is incinerated. Instead of being a panicky nightmare, it's actually quite a soothing dream, and I often wake up disappointed that I still have so much crap.

There you have it! The rest will need to wait for my tell-all unauthorized biography. Which drug did I sniff from the cleavage of a pre-op Carmen Electra? You'll have to buy the book to find out!

My lethal weapon's my mind

2007-11-29T14:51:00.000-05:00

Movie making in New York City

I like movies, but I pretty much hate Hollywood. Not the place as much as the institution. Those privileged douchebags that spend staggering sums of money to churn out sub-par bullshit. I think the best art is created when one is working within a limited set of parameters and produces something unexpected, beyond those boundaries. But when you can throw bundles of cash at a project to justify your mansion and a yacht, what you get is some predictable crap targeted to the most lucrative demographic. They might as well be slanging bootleg Rolex watches in Rockefeller Center, for all of the thought and care that goes into many major motion pictures today.

What really annoys me is when moviemakers get permission from the Mayor’s office to shut down areas of New York City to make this garbage. It’s completely unnecessary, and it’s an obnoxious way for a movie producer to say, “Look at me! I’m a big shot! I fucking shut down Fifth Avenue in the middle of a work week!” And while these retards set up their little ten-minute shot, you’ve got production assistants running around the periphery of the set, shooing people away and acting like you’re bothering them. Motherfucker, I work here. I don’t get to stand around with a walkie talkie, telling the lighting designer how I got a handjob on the set of Evan Almighty while directing an underling to pick the sprinkles off a dozen donuts so the movie’s primadonna star won’t have a shit fit. I know every second costs you oodles of dough, but that’s not my problem. If I were running the show, you’d still be down at the bus station positioned at the glory hole in the men’s bathroom.

Hippies that try to get me to register as a Democrat

I’m not technically a Democrat, but I sure as fuck ain’t a Republican. I normally vote for the Democratic candidate in local and federal elections because my opinions are more in line with those candidates’. But nothing turns me off to the party more than some unwashed, bearded pothead standing around on the street with a clipboard, trying to get me to sign up for the Democrats so he can feel like a political crusader. It’s enough to make me go conservative and smoke a carton of cigarettes while popping off my handgun, preferably at one of these dickheads. You want to make a difference for your party? Take off that Superbad t-shirt and put on a suit. Act like you are representing a political party and not some righteous frat house with a seven-foot bong in the foyer. Give me more to think about than just being “against Bush,” because that was the last presidential election’s tactic, and it didn’t work then. Bush is fired in oh-nine no matter who wins next November, so come up with a better platform than “Dems ROCK!”

I really believe that the Democratic party doesn’t want to win. They certainly don’t act like it. I mean, here you’ve got an election that should be a lay-up. Democrats already control Congress, the president’s approval rating is in the shitter, and even die-hard Republicans profess a desire for change. All they’ve got to do is pick a moderate liberal with a decent haircut, and the Dems should be in like Flynn. So who are the front-runners? A leftist black guy and a conservative, abrasive woman. Why don’t you run Martin Lawrence dressed in drag and Jokey Smurf while you’re at it?

People that refuse to acknowledge another person’s skin color when it is pertinent to the conversation

I love how people will often say, “My friend Jerome, who just happens to be black…” In the words of George Carlin: is his mother black? Is his father black? It didn’t just “happen,” did it? The guy is black by design. And while people will often interject a person’s ethnicity or hue into conversation for seemingly no reason, if it’s going to help me understand what the fuck you’re talking about, then by all means, be descriptive. Case in point: a friend of mine was telling me a story about how he and his co-workers got new uniforms. He then fell all over himself to say, “This one guy…he’s black…I don’t even like to mention it…I mean who cares if he’s black…but he is a black dude…anyway I say to this guy…this black guy, whatever…’hey, you’re looking cleaned up!’ And this guy…the black guy…he says, ‘What, you’ve never seen a black guy in a suit before?!’” Now here’s a story where the person’s skin color is integral to the tale. I’m going to find out he’s black by the end, anyway, so why not be up front about it from jump? It’s not like you’re saying he was dribbling a basketball and eating watermelon while the story’s events took place.

I get the same kind of shit in my office. “Oh you know Mary…she’s about five and a half feet tall, always wears these red shoes, has thick-rimmed glasses…she’s always on the third floor…you know who I mean?” Then, after five minutes, “You know…the Hispanic woman on the third floor.” Well why didn’t you fucking say so? Are you so blind to skin tone, you haven’t noticed the office is ninety-eight per cent white? Because if you did, then you would understand why pointing out a non-white person’s skin color would be the first and best description to give. And you never hear the shit in reverse. No one ever says, “Oh yeah, Keith Van Horn from the Dallas Mavericks…you know, the bearded guy…the one with the close haircut…the guy that runs fast…” No, you say, “The white guy on the Mavericks.” You don’t even need to say his name. I’m not pro-racism, I’m pro-clarity. I don’t have time for your self-effacing bullshit.

New York City living

2007-11-16T11:51:00.001-05:00

My first apartment was probably the best apartment, all things considered. It was right around the corner from my parents’ house, the second floor of a two-story, two-family brick house. The apartment was described as a two-bedroom, but it really only had one usable bedroom, a tiny “sewing room,” and another room that could be used as a den or something. That last room opened out onto a nice patio which looked onto the roof of a pocket protector factory and the backyard of a local dive bar. It had a lot of windows; the front of the house was an almost solid wall of glass. The whole place was newly-carpeted, had a large living room and dining room, and a full bathroom.

I shared the place with a friend of mine from the neighborhood. We got along well with the landlord and his family instantly, and we were able to talk him down two-hundred bucks in rent. I don’t know why they liked us so much, since we treated the apartment like a frat house. The local dive bar became our second living room, and my roommate and I would spend four or five nights a week down there. Sometimes, we’d go in on a Saturday afternoon and stay until closing. My roommate was able to get us a glass top dining room table, which was mainly used to break up weed. The front of the house looked onto a corner that had a twenty-four hour deli and the local bus stop, and sometimes my roommate would shoot paintballs or throw eggs at people waiting for the bus. Even though the rent was incredibly low, we moved a third friend in about six months after we started living there. He took the den room. We were a bunch of guys in our early twenties living behind a bar, and it was a pretty good time altogether. Eventually, my first roommate started to get fucked up on drugs, and the guy living in the den and I decided to strike out and get another place after about a year and a half.

The second apartment I lived in was a real dump. We took on another roommate, a round, little man that looked a lot like the “time to make the doughnuts” guy from the old Dunkin Donuts commercials. This place was billed as a three-bedroom garden apartment, but it was really the basement of an apartment building in a Queens neighborhood called Sunnyside. The rooms were big, and there was a backyard strewn with garbage, but the living room was separated from the building’s boiler room by a thin door and the place had cockroaches. Not those little, innocuous cockroaches, either, but cockroaches you could strap to the bottom of your feet and skate around on. The hot water would sometimes come out completely scalding, and in fact an upstairs neighbor successfully sued the building manager when his handicapped son was severely burned. One night, the three of us went out to see a movie, and when we came back we discovered our place had been robbed. One weekend, the boiler died and it was so cold indoors that you could see your breath; I had two frogs and a fish in a twenty-gallon tank that died as a result. Also, the Dunkin Donuts guy was a real whiny bitch, which was actually the second most unpleasant thing about the situation.

The first most unpleasant thing about this apartment was that, about six or seven months into living there, the side and back yard would fill up with sewer water and create a kind of shit moat around the building. I remember that I didn’t want to believe that the sewer was backing up into my yard, and I pretended it was “laundry water,” which makes no sense at all. One couldn’t deny the turds and toilet paper and steam rising from this stinky pond, however, and once this happened, preparations to move began again. The Dunkin Donuts guy went his own way, and my original roommate and I went to a real estate agent, determined to live in a decent place. The best thing about the apartment in Sunnyside was that it was half a block from the subway, and, from that point on, proximity to the subway was a major consideration in getting an apartment.

We got a decent one-bedroom in Astoria, Queens, just on the southern side of the Grand Central Parkway. It was on the first floor of a decent four-story apartment building, which was part of a larger complex of four-story apartment buildings. My roommate took the living room, and outfitted it with a false wall for privacy. The apartment was okay, not great, but miles ahead of where we had lived in Sunnyside. To my memory, we never had any problems that weren’t taken care of in a reasonable amount of time. The kitchen was pretty large, and the bathroom was decent. I only lived there with my roommate for about four months, though, then he moved on for a variety of personal reasons. I moved my girlfriend in, and she helped to make it very cozy. We stayed there for two years, I believe, then we decided to move on to another, larger apartment.

We used craigslist this time, and to great effect. We were able to get a two-bedroom apartment about ten blocks away, the second floor of a small townhouse, with utilities included, and a driveway space and backyard. The landlady was taken with us immediately, being that we were a young white couple, and my girlfriend and I didn’t have to have credit checks or anything. It came with a brand-new air conditioner and a very large eat-in kitchen. The drawback here was that the landlady and her nephew seemed to feel that they could come into the apartment at any time for whatever reason, which perturbed me and drove my girlfriend berserk. I lived there for about a year and a half, then we split up and I looked to move back closer to where I had previously been in Astoria.

A friend of mine was doing real estate in the neighborhood, and after a few places, he eventually got me a very cheap basement apartment with a backyard, right off a major thoroughfare in the neighborhood. I was dead against taking another basement apartment, but as time went on, I was getting desperate for a place, and this one was pretty big and right where I wanted to live. Ultimately, it was a big mistake. I quickly learned that I had no desire or ability to take care of a backyard, and the place was always damp with periodic cockroach sightings. The bathroom was tiny—so tiny, in fact, that the sink was in the shower stall—and it had no ventilation to speak of. The windows were larger than casement windows, and so it got a lot of light, for a basement, but that only highlighted the fact that the place sucked. After a few floods caused by inordinately heavy rain, I determined it was time to move.

Which brings me to my new place, about five blocks away from where I live now: a clean, sunny one-bedroom on the first floor of a small, three-story apartment building. The rooms, including the kitchen, are very large, and the bathroom is reasonably updated. It has a bathtub, a sink outside of the shower, and, best of all, a window. I’d like to think that after five apartments, I’ve figured out where and how I like to live, but I know that I’ll eventually move from this new apartment to another one, maybe to a bigger and better place in another neighborhood. This is New York City, after all. You don’t take space, you only rent it.

I did my part

2007-11-09T15:46:00.000-05:00

Most people are satisfied to go with the flow. They never make waves. They never offend anyone. Most people would rather do the easy thing than to do the right thing. Not me, though. I believe that anything worth doing is probably going to be difficult. It might not make you any friends. Your actions might be detested at first. But if you’re morally right, you’ll be vindicated in the long run. That’s what I believe, anyway. This is why I did not hesitate to correct my grandmother when she used the phrase “colored guy” during last Sunday’s dinner.

I remember it clearly: grandma was talking about a recent trip to the bank, and said she struck up a conversation with the fellow behind her in line. Without reason or provocation, she casually mentioned that he was a “colored guy.” I dropped my fork, still loaded with mashed potatoes. The entire family turned their heads towards me, alarmed by the clash of silverware on china. I stared at my grandmother, who stopped her story mid-sentence, for a full minute. Then I declared, “Grandma, it isn’t ‘colored guy.’ No one says ‘colored’ anymore. The phrase is ‘African-American.’” I sat back in my chair and folded my arms, pleased with my admonishing but necessary blurt of truth. I felt as if the spirits of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X were standing behind me, nodding in approval. The family went back to eating and my grandmother continued her story, but I know my words were heeded because my grandma didn’t mention this gentleman’s ethnic or racial affiliation for the rest of the evening.

This isn’t the first time I have taken steps to quell racism. I recall another time, when I was in the candy store with Ralph, captain of our school’s basketball team. He just happens to be African-American. A store employee, who just happens to be Asian, was hanging around Ralph and eyeing him closely. I strode right up to this Asian person and, loudly enough for Ralph to hear, explained how unfair it was to shadow Ralph just because his skin shade is darker. I defined the term “racial profiling” and said it was more than immoral, it’s unlawful, and Ralph could sue the establishment for harassment. It turns out that the Asian guy wasn’t an employee at all, but a friend of Ralph’s. But I think I made my point that day. I certainly gave them all something to think about.

I feel it is my duty to expose and condemn racism wherever I see it. I may have only been on this planet for sixteen years, but I know racism is wrong, and I know it’s up to my generation to put an end to it. That’s why, as shameful as it might be, I have no compunction about putting members of my own family in their place if they show themselves to be racist. We’ve all got to pitch in and do what we can to make the world a better place to live. Otherwise, it will continue to be run by corrupt Mick cops and Dago politicians.

Southern California Wildfire Provides Danger, Entertainment

2007-10-25T10:45:00.000-04:00

Five-day blaze claims hundreds of acres worth of nation’s attention

San Diesel, CA – A raging wildfire, that began Sunday and has burned almost five-hundred thousand acres of Southern California, has become America’s number one source of entertainment this week, according to an independent survey conducted by The New York Post. Half a million people have been evacuated from their homes, the largest in the state’s history, but three times that amount have been glued to their televisions to watch the brightly flickering flames and spectacular plumes of smoke that have resulted from this natural disaster.

“We are worried, but not too worried,” said Robert C. Wright, president of television network NBC. “Ratings for this week’s episode of Heroes were good, but as the week continued our ratings slipped. Barely anyone watched last night’s episode of Phenomenon 101, a show which desperately needs the viewers. We’re counting on new episodes of 30 Rock and The Office to help us bounce back from this tragedy, which is affecting a lot more than our hillside properties.”

Images like this one have captivated the nation's attention over the last week

Other sources of entertainment are not faring as well against the ever-changing mosaic of fire. Major League Baseball reports that only twelve-thousand people outside of Boston watched game one of the World Series last night, five-thousand fewer than expected. Flagstaff, Arizona resident Gertrude Pickelsham said, “I switched back and forth between baseball and coverage of the fire, but by the fifth inning I just stuck with the news. [The Colorado Rockies] were getting shellacked! The citizens of San Diego have a better chance of surviving the weekend than the Rockies.”

Perhaps no Americans are as entranced by the wildfire than Californians themselves. “I watched it burn for about five hours yesterday from my patio while sipping iced tea,” confessed Mark Galebreadth of Orange County, “I completely forgot to call my mom and watch the new South Park.” However, as Mr. Galebreadth points out, "South Park will be re-run a bunch of times before next week; wildfires like this happen once, maybe twice a year.”

California firefighters and legislature hope to put an end to the blaze before this Saturday, when professional football games will air on national television. “This fire has caused almost a billion dollars in damages, a third of that from lost ad revenue,” said Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger at a hastily-convened press conference yesterday. “It is imperative that we contain this fire so that it doesn’t conflict with any more prime-time programming. If that means I have to enter the flames myself, burning away my synthetic skin and exposing my titanium robotic interior, then so be it.”

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2007-10-19T12:12:00.000-04:00

Annoying sitcom neighbors

The Good:
Steven Q. Urkel from Family Matters

The guy that launched a thousand nerd stereotypes. He wasn’t even in the regular cast at first, but once he stepped over the threshold of the Winslow house, broke a Ming vase or something, and uttered, “Did I do that?” America was hooked. Honest to a fault, he embodied everything about the classic underdog: the social awkwardness, his wiry and slight frame, and wearing suspenders on pants that fit perfectly well already. Ever see those guys that wear suspenders and a belt? What the hell is up with that? Make up your mind, buddy. You have to take risks at some point in your life.
Jaleel White, who played Urkel on the series, must have no ego at all, because the producers put him in so many stupid situations and costumes. He didn’t just play the loveable, bumbling nerd, but also dressed up in petticoats and a Sunday dress to be his Southern cousin, Myrtle Urkel, his wayward “gangsta” cousin OGD (Original Gangsta Dawg), and he donned a suit and took off his glasses to become his genetically-altered self (later clone) Stephan Urqell. The latter character was supposed to be his “cool” persona, but it just made Jaleel White’s astigmatism even more evident. I hope he laughed all the way to the bank with those roles, because there’s no way he can ever be taken seriously as an actor again.

The Bad:
Harriet Brindle from Small Wonder

I understand that the sitcom neighbor is supposed to be annoying, but are we really supposed to want to cave his/her face in with a bat? Harriet Brindle (played by Emily Schulman) had no redeeming qualities to gain the audience’s sympathy. She was in love with Jamie Lawson, an equally repellant child that co-starred with the robot V.I.C.K.I. Harriet would section off her pigtails with yarn. She would climb through windows when locked out of the front door. And every word she uttered was like having a turkey thermometer jammed in your ear. Considering his two closest female peers were Harriet and an unfeeling robot that lived in his wardrobe, it’s safe to say that Jamie Lawson ended up being a homo.

The Mediocre:
Wilson from Home Improvement

The faceless and uni-named Wilson from Home Improvement was actually a good fit for the show, which itself was painfully mediocre. The shtick with Wilson was that lead character Tim Taylor would ask him for advice through their shared fence, and Wilson would impart sage wisdom, calling on a seemingly endless bank of philosophical and practical knowledge. And you never saw his face! Isn’t that hysterical? How can a guy with no face know so much about life? God, that’s hilarious! People who read too deeply into these kinds of things probably thought that Wilson represented an everyman; a person that could represent any one of us, and the feats we might accomplish if we applied ourselves and our minds to pursuing our dreams. More realistic people understood that, by not showing his face, they only had to pay the actor who played Wilson half-scale.
NOTE: While Wilson was not really an annoying neighbor, the sitcom itself is annoying, and all of the characters on it by extension.

Nostalgic Resources Dwindling at An Alarming Rate

2007-10-11T09:36:00.000-04:00

1980's pop culture references almost totally depleted

Thewaywewere, USA -- A report released yesterday by a team of research scientists at Mayberry University revealed some surprising results: the good old days are getting closer and closer to the present with each generation. "There was a time that we could look fondly upon yesteryear as a simpler, more naive time," announced Dr. Franklin, who headed up this intense, three-year study, "but now, 'yesteryear' is a time of political corruption, rampant drug abuse, and social deviancy. And practically anyone can get a Monchichi from eBay or watch The Smurfs on YouTube."

The report, titled Conserving Our Nation's Nostalgia, details an alarming trend in reminiscence. Once a pastime relegated to the elderly and pompous members of society, now all age groups recall the recent past happily, even if they weren't alive during the period in question. Each decade is thoroughly mined for historical fact and popular references, and then it is packaged and sold to the masses in the form of compilation albums, retro clothing, and television programs featuring b-list celebrities. The study further reveals that, as a result of this efficient culture mining, our nostalgia reserves are rapidly shrinking, with the whole of the twentieth century up until 1989 completely exhausted. "At this rate," warns Dr. Franklin, "we'll be wistfully remembering 1994 release of the motion picture Dumb and Dumber by 2008."

"Conserving our nostalgia is key," continued Dr. Franklin, "if we want to escape from our dreary present. The past should not be handed down in serial television shows and lengthy books, but by slow-talking, doddering old people, to whom barely anyone pays attention." Dr. Franklin made some suggestions to members of the scientific community and the press, gathered in Ridgemont Auditorium at Mayberry University. "The first thing we need to do is stop the rampant digitizing of our new wave and glam rock recordings. They should be preserved in their original vinyl and cassette format, so they will be confounding to today's iPod generation. The next thing we need to do is take re-runs of Who's the Boss? off the air immediately."

Not everyone shares in Dr. Franklin's nostalgia doomsday predictions. "The report is pure histrionics," commented Professor Lasky, who attended the conference surrounding this report. "The way Dr. Franklin tells is, we will be down to Kerbangers and freeze-dried ice cream tomorrow. The fact is that there is still plenty for everyone to get nostalgic about, one just needs to look a little deeper at the instances that might not be as rosy-colored." Professor Lasky illustrated his contention by recalling Diana Ross' 1983 concert in Central Park, the 1986 World Exposition in Vancouver, and Phillip Morris buying Kraft Foods in 1988, all moments of the 1980's that have not been widely recalled. Professor Lasky admitted, however, that these instances were not as sexy as the time Donna Rice was photographed sitting on presidential candidate Gary Hart's lap aboard his yacht, The Monkey Business, in 1988.

Despite his detractors, Dr. Franklin says the situation is very dire. "There's hardly anything worth recalling from twenty years ago," he said in his closing statement, "and more and more young people are reflecting on moments so recently, their nostalgic potential is ruined before it had a chance. If we don't do something to preserve our nostalgia, then we will have no choice but to improve our present day, and frankly, I don't think the current pack of idiots that run the world are up to the task. Don't taze me, bro."

I think there's something you ought to know

2007-10-04T09:01:00.000-04:00

Even though this is our first date, I believe we've made a real, lasting connection. It's like we've known each other for our entire lives. I don't want to rush headlong into anything, but as I gaze into your eyes, I imagine what it might be like to look at that face forever, as we face the future hand-in-hand and by each other's side. I feel like I could tell you anything, and that's why I think I should divulge a few things that weren't on my match.com profile. I want to be really honest and keep no secrets so this relationship gets off on the right foot.
For one thing, I'm not a real blond. I get my hair dyed every week so that the roots don't show. My real hair color is dark brown, and it's not actually this curly. I use a fair amount of product to give it some body. Another thing is that my eyes aren't actually green. They're also brown, a lighter brown than my hair but still fairly dark. I use contact lenses, and I have a pair that makes my eyes look more hazel, as well as a glow-in-the-dark pair I use for Halloween. I'm sorry to have misrepresented myself to you, but it's important to me that you know what you're getting before we take this relationship to the next step. And there's more, my darling. I hope you don't think any less of me.
My boobs aren't actually this big. Truth be told, I don't have any breasts, so to speak. I have a rare breathing condition that requires regular maintenance on my lungs, about two or three times a month. In order to facilitate this treatment, my lungs are actually situated outside of my body. They're covered by a thin layer of gauze, and for our date I used a lot of concealer and a ruffled blouse to make them look more breast-like. The bottom of my lungs are tucked into my skirt. See? I got this breathing condition when I was shot a dozen times carrying three kilos of cocaine in my uterus through the Florida Everglades. I was able to submerge in the swamp and hide from the authorities for days, but unfortunately the packages of cocaine burst inside me and I sustained permanent pelvic damage. As a result, I can't feel my reproductive organs at all. I have to wear a diaper because I never know when I am urinating. But that's not how I damaged my lungs. They were punctured by gunfire and then filled with swamp water, which festered inside of my body over the several days I hid from the law. My body went into toxic shock and my kidneys completely shut down. So six times a month I need to go to the hospital for a painful and lengthy dialysis. I don't have any health insurance, so I provide oral services to gentlemen at the bus station. I think you know what I mean by oral services. They like me because I can pull my dentures out and minimize their discomfort.
Oh, it feels so good to be completely honest! I just knew you would understand. But there is more to my story, my darling. I haven't always looked like the woman you see before you. No, I never was a man, but about ten years ago, I was a pygmy marmoset being used for experiments at a Swiss genetics laboratory. I'm not really sure what happened, precisely: there was some swine DNA, some bovine DNA, and some kind of top secret mutagen that was developed by scientists involved in chemical warfare. I don't remember the process, obviously, but that was as much as I could glean when I escaped from the laboratory and grabbed as many files as I could. That's when I learned that I could kill people with my mind, sometimes inadvertently. I've pretty much got it under control now, but for the first few months I accidentally murdered the cashier at the Burger King counter every time I went in to buy a Triple Whopper. And that's another admission: I need to eat flesh to survive. I can quell my cravings for a while by consuming large quantities of meat, but eventually I need to eat raw flesh and blood directly from a living being. It doesn't need to be human, darling! I'm not a vampire. However, I will need to bite into a stray cat or dog from time to time. I really hope this doesn't disappoint you.
I can see from your reaction that you are pretty surprised, and I don't blame you. But now that we've got all of that nasty business out of the way, we can begin our relationship on a foundation of truth and honesty. Being that I am such an unusual woman, I am pretty sure I'll abide by and accept any of your faults or nasty habits. Except for smoking. If I find out that you smoke cigarettes, I'm going to kill you with my mind.

Let's appreciate the works of Miller-Boyett

2007-10-03T20:53:00.001-04:00

As appreciators of fine art, we like our eccentrics. We enjoy the unrestrained antics of creative minds, whose output makes our dull lives worth living. We suffer the egotistical demands and strange attitudes in the hope that, ultimately, it will result in a work which will change the way we see the world. Far too often, however, we ignore the persons behind the scenes: the accountants, the lawyers, the paper-pushers that allow artists to live their unfettered lifestyles. Without them, we wouldn't have the great works that constitute our cultural relevance. I would like to take a moment to appreciate one of these minds behind the mind: the television production company known as Miller-Boyett.

They originally began in 1969 as Miller-Milkis Productions, and set about producing a few forgettable made-for-TV movies. This duo hit paydirt in 1974 when they produced a sitcom for ABC named Happy Days. Banking off the nostalgia generated by the successful film American Graffiti, Thomas Miller and Edward Milkis may have realized, at that moment, that the secret to making long-lasting, lucrative television shows is to make them as bland an inoffensive as possible. Pull the audience's heartstrings and have a good laugh track. Robert Boyett was brought to the team, and together the trio developed more hits, like Laverne & Shirley in 1976 and Mork and Mindy in 1978.

I'm not sure what caused Edward Milkis to leave the team, so I'll just make something up: late in 1979, the young upstart Boyett--a full nine years younger than Milkis--had an idea. A lascivious, dirty, nasty idea. On a dry-erase board in his garage, he began calculating the most diabolically clever television program in history: one part The Odd Couple, two parts Texaco Star Theater (starring the cross-dresser Milton Berle), and a dash of Rhoda to make it contemporary. What he came up with was the plot for the criminally underrated sitcom Bosom Buddies, starring the comic duo of Tom Hanks and Peter Scolari. Milkis was furious; he didn't take a load of shrapnel in his ass in Korea so two fancy boys could parade around on television in women's clothing. Tom Miller, however, only being two years older than Boyett, loved the idea. Miller and Boyett parted ways with Ed Milkis in 1980, and never looked back.

Together, Miller-Boyett created mediocre hit after mediocre hit, each time ripping off elements of other successful television programs. There was Perfect Strangers, a kind of Odd Couple with more sex appeal. There was Full House, an unholy mix of My Three Sons, The Brady Bunch, and My Two Dads. There was Valerie, which began as a vehicle for television actor Valerie Harper. Then she got uppity and was replaced by Sandy Duncan. The show was re-titled The Hogan Family, and ratings soared even higher.

Miller-Boyett were true geniuses of the prime-time sitcom, and the crown jewel of their achievements is none other than Family Matters, a show which relied on practically every sitcom device ever invented. There was the henpecked, fat father; the grating but even-keeled wife; the nosy grandmother; the annoying next-door neighbor. There was even a single mother in the form of Rachel, the wife's sister, who struggled between raising a boy on her own, and wanting to go on dates with as many men as possible (but NOT get laid--never that). As this show gained popularity, the dynamic team of Miller-Boyett showed their production prowess by never being afraid to can actors, even those central to the theme of the show. What began as the touching story of family life in suburban Chicago morphed into the ridiculously unbelievable antics of Steven Q. Urkel, a character who, during the life of the show, was made to impersonate Bruce Lee no fewer than three times. Miller-Boyett, we salute thee.

The Convenience of Creating Bullshit

2007-08-06T14:27:00.000-04:00

Last Memorial Day, I attended the wedding of two very dear friends of mine. Then they went on a honeymoon, then life happened, and today I finally received an e-mail linking me to a shared photo album containing the wedding pictures. I clicked the link in order to relive some good memories from that special day. As the page loaded, I noticed the number of photos in the photo album at the upper left-hand corner of the webpage:
One-thousand and seven fucking pictures!
Am I supposed to quit my job and pore through this endless stream of photographs? And it wasn't just wedding-pertinent pics, but lots of ancillary photos that shouldn't have made the final cut: six photos of two old ladies dipping their feet in a pool. A dozen blurry photos of people rushing around, too busy to stop and pose. Countless indescribable pictures of indeterminate origin, depicting shadowy figures doing incredible things like eating barbecue. It was like the entire contents of someone's digital camera had been vomited onto my web browser. And, sucker that I am, I hung in there for roughly two-hundred pictures.
Ten years ago, having a thousand pictures from your wedding would have been unthinkable. They would have filled about twenty photo albums, stuffed to capacity. It would have cost a few thousand dollars. But those pictures would have all been gems; the rejects would never have seen the light of day. There would be some shots of the kids, some shots of the people in attendance, but mainly you would have seen the wedding ceremony and a slew of pics where the bride and groom stand in various formations, like one of those novelty photo booths at the carnival where you can pretend to be a Wild West outlaw. The pic of a guy helping some kid get lemonade from the cooler's liquid dispenser probably wouldn't have made the cut.
I love this newly-married couple very much, and I don't blame them for wanting to preserve as much as possible from their most important occasion. Their photo album belies one of the most disheartening aspects of the digital age, which is how disposable everything has become. So disposable, in fact, that you get what is basically someone's photographic trash dumped onto your computer for you to weed through. Who can be bothered? It's your problem now. I'm certainly not going to spend three to five hours looking through these flicks, so they get stored in a folder and zipped and are promptly forgotten about. It is likely that I will never look at them again. There are so many pictures attached to this event, that for all intents and purposes we may as well assume that there were no pictures at all. That suits me just fine; in my memory, I ended up at the bottom of a pile-on by all the bridesmaids in a shallow Jell-O wrestling pit.
I've got another friend who has a nice digital camera, and on any given outing she takes about a hundred pictures. Per hour. Pictures of wrought-iron gates, pictures of fading signage. Pictures of some guy standing around on the corner, thinking about his next move. Click, click, click. At the end of a day, she can spend about two hours looking over the set, discarding the boring, or the corny, or the just plain not visible photographs. At the end, she's left with about a dozen nice photographs, two or three of which will be really good. But, in the classic sense, she is not a photographer. She's more like a photographic gambler, throwing the dice often enough to increase her chances of framing a shot that is worthwhile. What you get is a kind of incidental Tourette's Syndrome, a spasmatic clicking of the aperture until something meaningful happens. In the final analysis, you have to wonder whether she actually attended the excursion in question, or if she just documented it for later review. She can experience the beautiful day later, when it is raining outside.

The Blast Most Delicious

2007-07-28T22:01:00.000-04:00

I have written about my friend Ben in the past. I'm always wary of writing about Ben here, because I'm not sure if I can convey his special brand of thinking on the blog. But this story isn't really about Ben and his bizarre antics. It's about me putting Ben on blast, a most supreme and incredible blast, about three weeks ago.

It all began four Saturdays ago, when Ben and I agreed to hang out the following Sunday. He said he would call me as soon as he woke up, and he would get on the train to my house so we could do the usual thing, probably play video games and watch movies. I have known Ben for a long time now, and I understand that a promise from Ben to call or come through is about as good as a Canadian quarter at the peep show. So I made plans with another friend of mine to come by and essentially do the same thing: play video games and watch movies. I figured that on the outside chance that Ben called Sunday morning, we could all hang out together.

Unsurprisingly, Ben did not call Sunday morning. I wasn't really upset, but I decided I would give Ben a call around noon to lay a guilt trip on him (and hopefully get some more amazing quotables). He didn't pick up, but moments later I get a text message from Jimmy's roommate that tells me they are at the beach together, and Ben is telling his girlfriend that he is on the way to my house, while seagulls squawk and people cavort in the background. Coincidentally, Ben is lying to his girlfriend about going to my house while I am calling him to be a pain in the ass! I was amused by this, but forgot it as my friend came by and we spent the day as planned.

On Monday, I decided that the next time I saw Ben, I would put him on blast.

It was not a decision made out of anger or for revenge, but because I saw an opportunity to put Ben on a supremely delicious blast that could possibly go down in history as one of the greatest blasts to have ever been put on a person. I told people about my impending ether, and made it clear that I would put Ben on blast whether his girlfriend was nearby or not. Obviously, though, if I put Ben on blast in front of his girlfriend, it would be twice as succulent.

I rehearsed my intentions over the next few days. I knew I would bring it up casually, and then be sure to add that his word is not bond; that despite all of his claims that he is "a man," he is not being a man at all if he can't follow through on the simplest promise. It would be a great blast because this is something that is discussed among everyone that knows Ben: even though he claims to have all the virtues of manhood, he has no ability to meet things head-on. I decided I would not use the fact that he lied to his girlfriend while I called him on the day we planned to get together, unless it was absolutely necessary.

That Friday, Ben's roommate had a party at his house, and I was in attendance. Ben and his girlfriend were at the movies, and would return home around 10:30 PM. Everyone at the party knew of the impending blast. I bode my time, had a few drinks, and waited for the inevitable hour. Ben and his girlfriend came home on schedule, and we exchanged pleasantries for a little while. After about twenty minutes, I opened fire.

"Ben, what happened last Sunday? You were supposed to call me"

All of the color instantly drained from Ben's face, and he began to stammer. In a voice barely audible by trained dogs, he started to say something like "The sun...the sun was calling, Reggie." Simultaneously, his girlfriend turned in her seat and gave Ben a stare that would have rivaled Samuel Jackson's. "You didn't go to Reggie's?" she stated, rather than queried. I knew that I would not have to mention that he lied to his girl while denying my call that Sunday.

I continued: "You said you would call me, but you never did. I even called you at noon and you didn't pick up. That's not being a man. Your word is not bond." Ben was still trying to compose himself, mumbling an apology and gamely putting his hand on my shoulder in a show of friendship. Ben's girlfriend then gets up from her seat, walks to Ben's bedroom, and stands in the open doorway glaring at Ben. "I think you are needed elsewhere," I said, and Ben hung his head and walked solemnly into his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him. He was bawled out for five hours, effectively ending his evening.

In all, my blast took less than two minutes, far less time than I had planned. But the effect was more severe than I had hoped. Ben's girlfriend was honed into his potential for lying, and he was caught in the crossfire. Later, Ben told his roommate that I had done him a favor, because his girl suggested that they see less of each other for a while. But I know that putting Ben in that spot, I turned his labyrinth of lying into a prison. A prison which unfortunately lasted only five hours of conversational torture.

On Gentrification

2007-07-11T11:52:00.000-04:00

Every week in the City section of the New York Times, there's an article about some neighborhood, usually in Brooklyn, clamoring to have itself listed a landmark district or to be de-zoned to limit the kind (and height) of new buildings in the area. It seems that these people want to preserve the unique qualities of their respective neighborhoods: the grimy coffee shops, the bullet-proof bodegas, the run-down churches that have become repositories for homeless drug addicts. Many of these neighborhood activists are quoted as remembering the good old days of their neighborhoods, reaching as far back as 1992, when said person moved to New York from Minnesota to be some stupid fucking art director at a shitty trend-laden magazine.

And you know, it's really starting to piss me off. People bandy about the word "gentrification" like it's some imposed cancer on New York society, a softening of the hard-nosed attitude that makes our fair city the butt of lame comedians around the world. Where ya from? New York? Oh, I'd better hold on to my wallet! Polite chuckling. What meaning can a joke like this hold in a post-Giuliani New York where there is a Disney Store in Times Square? How will these poor comedians make a living? I certainly don't want to see mental midgets of their caliber working retail and trying to figure out the cash register.

And the motherfuckers on these Landmark Preservation Society bullshit committees are usually the very kind of upwardly-mobile douchebags that cause gentrification in the first place! Do you think that just because you moved into the neighborhood when it still smelled like rat piss, you can claim some ownership over it? Do you really have the audacity to force a neighborhood ravaged by the 1977 blackout riots to maintain its "gritty character"? Go shove that gritty character up your assholes! New York doesn't give a fuck about your nostalgic revisionist bullshit. The city will jam a high-rise condominium down your throat and make you love it. You want grit? Move to Detroit.

I wonder what "good old days" these assclowns are really harkening to. Could it be the 1970's, when the city was bankrupt and the subway was an unreliable danger zone? Or perhaps they want to bring it back to the 1940's, when Civil Defense drills kept the city in darkness for many nights and you could get picked up and shipped off to war for vagrancy. I know, they want to bring back the gaslight era, when the streets reeked of horse manure and you wallowed in your own sweat-soaked suit by the light of a candle. The reality is that New York has been gentrifying since Peter Minuit copped the island of Manhattan from the Lanape Indians in 1625. He dumped a bunch of disparate crackers at the southernmost tip of Manhattan--a word which many believe comes from a Lenape word meaning "Wooded Hills"--and they immediately began re-fitting the land for their purposes. I don't suppose you've seen many woods or hills around Manhattan lately, huh?

I grew up in a crummy little neighborhood in the ass end of Queens called Flushing. It was by no means a crime-ridden neighborhood, but it was kind of run-down when I was younger. There was a bar or two every block. Most residents were blue-collar workers or people collecting social security or disability payments. The streets were filthy, and it was not uncommon to see drunk adults stumbling around in broad daylight (I know, because we taunted them from the safety of our bicycles).
Around 1988, the neighborhood started to make some serious changes. A tremendous influx of Koreans came to the neighborhood and began to reshape it to their purposes. Flushing became, and remains, an outpost for Korean business in America, and there is a seemingly endless number of Korean stores and restaurants in the neighborhood, with more opening every day. It's no surprise that the dickbags from the neighborhood resented the arrival of these "chinks" and their changes. But my question is, where were you? What were you doing while the pharmacy got security bars on its windows and the neighborhood alcoholics turned to crackheads? You were sitting in this dank, depressing bar, spending your paycheck on poison to kill your brain and your liver. And now that the neighborhood has shaped up, now that the severely cracked streets have been repaved, now that every storefront is occupied with a successful business, now that Main Street is a bustling center of business instead of a haven for batshit senior citizens that piss themselves and head shops, now you want to claim ownership of the neighborhood. Well buddy, if you want to live among the rubbish, then move to the garbage dump.

The one constant I've observed after living in New York for (almost) thirty-two years is change. It is inevitable. Leave a neighborhood and return after five years, and it will probably be totally different. Affluent neighborhoods become run-down crime zones. Derelict districts become high-priced loft space. And there's not a goddamned thing you could or should do about it. If you wanted creature comforts, then you should have stayed back in Minnesota.

Let's Talk About Rap, Baby

2007-06-25T12:57:00.000-04:00

I don't normally do this kind of cross-promoting thing in the blog, but I have decided to allow it in this instance since the subject is one near and dear to my heart: old school rap music. If you have any interest in the subject at all, are knowledgeable or hope to become knowledgeable about it, I implore you to check out and engage in the tournament going on at the philaflava.com forum dedicated to the golden age of rap music, T.R.O.Y.

I listened to rap as a kid, but didn't really get into the old school until I was in my early twenties. Even though I grew up in Queens, I didn't have a lot of exposure to the music. Like many of my white peers, my love affair with rap began in 1988, when It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back, The Adventures of Slick Rick, and Yo! MTV Raps came out. Still, I remember a few rap joints playing on mainstream radio as a young kid, most notably "Jam On It" by Newcleus.

Anyway, I could go on at length about the subject, and I may do so in the future. But for now, please head on over to the philaflava.com forums and see what's what with this tournament. It's not a big hassle to register (for me, anyway), so don't be afraid to wade right in and start asserting your rap prowess.

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2007-06-19T09:05:00.000-04:00

1980's Arcade Games

THE GOOD: Robotron 2084

"You are the last hope of mankind. Due to a genetic engineering error, you possess superhuman powers. Your mission is to stop the Robotrons and save the last human family!"
I want to transport all of you to another land in a simpler time, when people used payphones and conflict in the Middle East was handled by the CIA. The year was 1982 and video games were all the rage. Not that dinky Atari 2600 or the awful Odyssey home video game system, but stand-up arcade machines, available in every pizza place, stationery store, and highway rest stop around the country. Kids would line up at these machines, plunk their quarters down on the screen to signify their place in line, and watch the vibrating pixels on the screen dance erratically while attempting to figure out just what they were supposed to represent.
One of the pluses of having to build a cabinet for a video game, rather than something on your Playstation, is that you can create a unique interface that compliments the game well. One isn't constrained within the same d-pad, button, button interface that complies with the home system. And so it was with Robotron 2084, perhaps the most fun and most difficult arcade game of all time. Robotron didn't have any cumbersome buttons or triggers, just two joysticks: one for moving the character, the other for aiming his weapon. The weapon was on constant auto-fire. Your bug-eyed character rolled around the screen, shooting a variety of increasingly difficult Robotrons while simultaneously scooping up the members of the last human family, which were sprites that resembled a dad with a briefcase, a mom in a housecoat, and two kids. Really, you could just tell that they weren't Robotrons and therefore needed saving. And that's the game. No sequential story line, no bonus levels or long ending animations, just you vs. the fucking Robotrons, screen after screen after screen. Save the last human family, and start all over again on a new, much harder screen. Eventually, the screen would be so crowded with Robotrons, it was virtually impossible to win. When you're paying a quarter a pop to play the game, that's the best strategy to follow.

THE BAD: Mario Bros.

The world's most recognized and lucrative video game franchise had a pretty lame beginning. First appearing in the blockbuster game Donkey Kong, our little stereotypical friend Mario seemed destined for greatness. Like Will Smith, we can look at the body of Mario's work and say it has been good, overall. Also like Will Smith, we can admit that Mario has been tied to some pretty weak projects. And so it was with his sophomore effort, Mario Bros., which introduced his similarly-greasy brother Luigi. The object of the game is to run around a screen and disable a ceaseless stream of turtles, crabs, and bugs by hitting the ground underneath them. That's all she wrote. It was as dull on board forty as it was on board one. Later, this fraternal duo would pop some magic mushrooms and go Super, but before that, these guys were strictly squares.

THE MEDIOCRE: OutRun

I have trouble calling this game mediocre, because at the time it was the shit. There was a stand-up version and the one pictured, a sit-down realistic version with hydraulic suspension to simulate the car's movement (mostly its crashing). The latter version is the first game I remember that cost fifty cents to play. For a nine year-old, though, it was well worth the experience to drive. Along oceanside highways, across mesa-strewn deserts, you could drive. Take the right fork, take the left fork, drive. Drive, drive, drive. That's all that happened in this game. You were in a Ferrari Testarossa doing 180 miles per hour, and Volkswagen bugs would still blow past you from time to time. After a while, the excitement of driving this pixellated landscape wore off, and you were left with the feeling of having dumped five bucks in quarters to watch a very bad cartoon. At least you got to control the radio, you never got to do that in mom's car.

Paying for the privelege to pollute

2007-06-11T14:42:00.001-04:00

I don't know how much press it's getting elsewhere in the country, but here in New York City, our Mayor Michael Bloomberg has been trying to push an agenda through the state assembly to levy a toll against traffic that wants to enter the congested midtown and downtown areas of Manhattan. This will, says Bloomberg, make it a more liveable, pleasant city, with less pollution and more available dollars to fund public transit. Normally, I'm all for any measure to promote public transit, but something about this program doesn't seem quite right. It reminds me, in some ways, of the trade of "emission reduction credits," known to many people as "pollution rights." Under this system, which was written into the U.S. Clean Air Act of 1990, each corporation (or country) is given a certain number of "pollution credits," which represent a certain amount of specific pollution a company (or country) can dispense in a given year. If said company (or country) doesn't use all of its credits, they are allowed to sell the unused quantity to another corporation (or company) that needs to belch out a few thousand more cubic feet of sulfur dioxide.
A great plan, except that it doesn't really reduce polluting emissions any more than it ensures that emissions will remain at a set level. And I suppose that beats letting companies pollute the environment completely unfettered, but what doesn't seem fair to me is that these entities can essentially pay to pollute. How can we stop these multi-billionaire oil and chemical companies from doing whatever they want in regards to harmful emissions? And how does money solve the problem of greenhouse gases and global warming, anyway? Besides lining the pockets of federal workers to pay for air conditioners, I mean.
Because global warming and pollution is not really a money issue, it's a health issue. Though here in the U.S., we are used to throwing money away on pills and surgeries and medical techniques in pursuit of perfect health, we can't rightly give the stratosphere a facelift. We could have the richest government in world, sitting atop a pile of money supplied by pollution rights, balanced precariously atop the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains, surrounded by water. This is the kind of issue you can't temper until it goes away, you need to put your foot down and say, "I would rather have clean water to drink than Saran Wrap." We'll chastise a lone shooter at Virginia Tech for being a nihilistic mass-murderer, but we don't bat an eyelid when Dow makes decisions that adversely affect the health of tens of thousands of people all the time. If corporations are entities that are more like people than companies, than ExxonMobil should be locked away from society without parole.
And that's how I see this toll to drive into Manhattan island; a bold, financial measure that doesn't address the real problem at all. Sure, it will keep the average idiot from tooling around on fifth avenue in the middle of the day, but how can it stem the tide of rich Escalade owners and diesel-belching delivery trucks that can afford nearly any cost to do their business? It reminds me of Bloomberg's tactic on cigarette smoking: banned indoors, taxed to high heaven, but having relatively little effect on the actual number of smokers in the city. And where is that tax money now? Funding some commercials and the nicotine patch program, presumably, though I have never seen the books on that. If we must have this toll program where the revenue is put towards public transportation, then make sure that buses and subways are equipped with air filters, because these might become the only spaces of breathable air left in the city...ah, now I understand the plan's genius.

The day I realized I was a boom-bap dinosaur

2007-06-05T10:41:00.000-04:00

I believe that hip-hop music is my generation's music. Rock is for my parents, jazz is for my grandparents, but hip-hop is mine. Listening to it as a kid, I found great satisfaction in my father's complaints about that "military marching music," because I knew he was validating my feelings for it. You don't like it, dad? Good, it's not for you. It's for me.
Listening to rap wasn't unusual for my peer group growing up. I grew up in a predominantly white, middle-class neighborhood, so it wasn't exactly a b-boy heaven, but most of the people I knew in my age group listened to at least some rap. When It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back by Public Enemy came out, there was a huge crossover of heavy metal-heads into rap fandom, especially in my neighborhood in Queens--the very one that birthed the metal band Anthrax, who would go on to record a song with P.E. I read stories of kids who had to hide their rap tapes from parents, and who caught all kinds of flak at school for wearing an EPMD t-shirt--I had none of that. Rap was pretty well-accepted in my neighborhood, and my friends and I prided ourselves on keeping up with the latest rap releases, sometimes to our chagrin (oh Arrested Development, I had such high hopes for you).
Rap music is a pretty cutting-edge form of music, when you think about it. It's made from already recorded tunes, using increasingly complicated recording equipment, and the lyrics are usually stripped of their melody, offering a bare bones kind of aesthetic that disregards conventional ideas about songs. Songs, they say, should be sung. It's not hard to understand why parents might be less than enthused by the monotone yelling over thumping beats coming from their children's stereos. Even Jimi Hendrix never rocked like that.
Fast-forward to the present day: I haven't kept up on all the latest rap releases (sorry, South Coast, I guess I'm still sleeping), but I consider myself a big fan and it's still my primary musical love. I have a friend that's three years younger than I who is also a rap fan since his teen years, though he came up in a different era of rap than I did. Where I was raised on Public Enemy and De La Soul, he was raised on Nas and Biggie Smalls. He believes Ma$e's Harlem World is a classic, not corny like I do. He actually likes PMD's solo album. We see eye-to-eye on a lot of things (it's not like I don't like Nas or B.I.G.), but at the core our tastes are very different.
Like a good hip-hop nerd, I try to put him on to some of my favorite music from my youth. So we came to the day I put The Goats' Tricks of the Shade on the stereo. When that album came out, I played the shit out of it: front to back, over and over and over. I wore out my tape and had to re-buy it on CD. Then I actually wore out the CD. It was a favorite among my high school friends and I, we knew every lyric and every horn stab, and I was sure my younger friend would be blown away. I put the album on the stereo and sat back smugly to gauge his reaction.
My friend listened, passively.
Then he frowned.
Then he started talking over the music!
I was offended and, even moreso, stunned. This was my shit! How could he disregard it like that? So I skipped around to some of the best songs on the album, begging him to listen. He shrugged and said it was okay.
Okay?
Just okay?!
I told him how much I listened to this album as a teenager, smoking pot and playing Super Nintendo and just digging the hell out of it. I told him how I first saw the video for "Typical American" on that call-in cable video channel, The Box, and I was so impressed that I ran out to cop the album. Everyone I knew loved this album, I explained. It's a classic.
"I dunno," my friend muttered, "it sounds like frat rap to me."
And that was that. One of my most cherished albums from high school, reduced to "frat rap." As I listened to it play on my stereo while my friend distracted himself with other things, I came to a painful realization: he was right. The Goats is part of the foundation that The Bloodhound Gang was built on. There's not much distinguishing their choruses from anthemic bar chants by House of Pain. And at that moment, I realized that I may be a rap fan, but I am not cutting-edge. I am a boom-bap dinosaur. I prefer Jeep beats in an era when everyone is driving Escalades. Soulful jazz loops move me more than staccato synthesizer rhythms ever could. And you know what, I've come to terms with it. I'm okay with being a boom-bap dinosaur. I still think The Goats are fucking great.

How to see a vagina without getting a woman naked

2007-05-29T11:58:00.000-04:00

The first time I ever saw a vagina, I was eight or nine years old. It happened in the schoolyard of my elementary school, where most of my important learning took place. A friend of mine asked if I wanted to see a pussy, and of course I nodded excitedly. He then put his palms together and held this hands horizontally, with his ring and middle fingers separated like Mr. Spock would do on Star Trek. He instructed me to do the same thing, but to hold my hands vertically. We interlocked our hands at the "V" and my friend told me to open my hands at the palm and peek inside this contraption made of metacarpals and skin. Voila! A vagina revealed itself to me that day, and it was quite a letdown.
Though I had barely any knowledge of the female anatomy, most of it having been passed on to me as hearsay and rumor, I knew even then that a vagina doesn't look like a kaleidoscope of finger webbing. I wasn't sure what it looked like, precisely--some bathroom graffiti seemed to imply that it was triangular, for one thing--but it seemed a lot more complex than what had been presented to me at that point.
In its way, the acquisition of sexual and social misinformation is its own rite of passage, one that prepares you for adulthood better than any sexual education class or moldy copy of Oui magazine can. It teaches valuable lessons that remain true throughout your life: many people would rather lie than to admit that they don't know about a subject, and when everyone agrees about the validity of a lie, it becomes a truth. Also, men will go to any length to be near pussy, even poor facsimilies of it.
This is why I routinely lie to children every chance I get. It tests their mettle and prepares them for the reality of lying and posturing they will encounter in adulthood. If a child accepts a bald-faced lie at face value and passes on that information to his peers, then you know what the future will hold for that person: a high-ranking job at the CIA. The more skeptical among them will grow up to become cynical bloggers.

I probably shouldn't have eaten all those hamburgers

2007-05-22T21:11:00.000-04:00

Oh god. I am dying. This is really it. I can't feel my left arm and my chest feels like it's going to snap. This is no murmur. I am having the mother of all heart attacks and there's no one around to help. I guess I brought this on myself by eating all of those goddamned hamburgers.
Looking back on my life, I don't really regret it. You know, I didn't pay for a single one? Mooched 'em all, tens if not hundreds of thousands of minced beef sandwiches. I could go for one right now. If it weren't for this searing chest pain, I'd stroll over to the wharf and rustle up a mark to pay for my hamburger. Tell him I'm one of the Jones boys, Jones is the name. I get paid Tuesday, and I'd gladly repay a small loan on that day. Heh. Sucker.
Even though I ate solely hamburgers for most of my life, I tried to eat healthy. I always tried to get pickles, onion, and lettuce on all of them. Sometimes I would grind a cow on the spot to have the freshest ground chuck available. Sure, it wasn't with the owner's consent or even foreknowledge, but I presume he would be satisfied that his bovine was consumed by a hamburger aficionado. Perhaps I didn't always follow local health statutes to the letter. Perhaps there was some bone or cow eye in some of my sandwiches. Perhaps that oversight has contributed to the deplorable state I find myself in right now.
I'll tell you, though, it wasn't really about the hamburgers. It was fleecing poor rubes into buying them for me. You can't understand the rush. One time, I wooed a lady who had a crying baby. She gave me a dollar to go get the little tyke some milk. I tipped my hat and high-tailed it to the greasy spoon and ordered up ten whoppers. They were more succulent than the most ripened fruit, even more because I had stolen them from the mouth of a hungry baby. I wonder what happened to that kid.
Well, no matter. Despite my unfortunate first name (my mother named me that--I swear!) I do not fear my passage into the great beyond. Though I scammed every morsel of food I ever ate, I have lived a humble and good life. I'm pretty sure I'm going to heaven. Unless they eat vegetarian up there, that is. I'd gladly sell my soul Tuesday for a hamburger today.

White History Month

2007-05-01T11:23:00.000-04:00

The only thing white folks hate more than people talking during movies is not being invited to a happening party. Especially when it’s in our own house! You may have already seen the forwarded chain e-mail that suggests how unfair it is that there is no White Entertainment Television; no United Whitey College Fund; no White History Month. On that last bit, the author(s) of this e-mail may have a point. We Caucasians have been separated from our true legacy by white privilege, and it’s time to make that privilege work for us. Finally. That’s why I propose that December (it being the whitest month) be named White History Month, and that this time be dedicated to educating everyone about the important, detrimental contributions we have made to the world.

I can picture it now: the whole family sitting in front of the television, little Bobby playing his PSP; Emily talking on her cellular phone; Dad clicking through the channels obsessively; Mom quietly and pleasantly drunk in her easy chair. Dad lands on a channel to find Charlton Heston strolling along a gallery of paintings depicting famous whites: David Duke, Benito Mussolini, Jesus Christ. He talks briefly about the legacy and tenacity of racism and white superiority, then speaks some of the ofays that we would like to remember during this month of reflection:

Francis Galton (1822-1911) – No, he didn’t invent racism, but he allowed white folk to feel good about it. He published his theory of eugenics—that’s the inherent superiority of certain genetic traits—in 1869. This was just in time for America, which was wrapping up its Civil War. We were able to put all of that bad blood behind us and move forth as a nation unified in a common belief: the scientific basis for racism

David Hume (1711-1776) – This Scottish philosopher was a major proponent of the Laws of Nature, one of which is apparently the inferiority of black Africans:

I am apt to suspect the Negroes to be naturally inferior to the Whites. There scarcely ever was a civilised nation of that complexion, nor even any individual, eminent either in action or in speculation. No ingenious manufacture among them, no arts, no sciences.

Of course, he only articulated what Whitey was already thinking.

D. W. Griffith (1875-1948) – President Woodrow Wilson (another upstanding cracker) is alleged to have said, "It is like writing history with lightning, and my only regret is that it is all so true,” about Griffith’s landmark 1915 film, Birth of a Nation. A remarkable achievement—twelve reels of silent film at a time when most films clocked in around twenty minutes—it was the Titanic of its day, a remarkable technical achievement with little regard for historical accuracy. This film re-spawned the Reconstruction-era hate group, the Ku Klux Klan, by depicting the Klan as valorous defenders of white womanhood. Of course, the uppity bitches would turn around and use this to gain national suffrage rights in 1920.

Cut back to Charlton, who is sitting on an ivory throne and being fanned by palm fronds. He promises that this information is just the tip of the white superiority iceberg, and if we want to know more about white history, we should make like good crackers and do some reading at our local library. Or make your own history! Racism is alive and well in America, and there’s nothing to say that you can’t be a modern-day J. Edgar Hoover or a Tuskegee scientist. Bobby looks up from his Ratchet & Clank video game, and he is inspired. Of course, he was already a racist. But now, he is an informed racist. And that makes him twice as dangerous.

My Brother, Adem

2007-04-24T22:51:00.000-04:00

My parents met each other and began dating sometime in the late 1960's. In 1969, my father was drafted into the Army, and he was pretty sure he would be killed in Vietnam. He told my mom not to wait up for him. Like a lot of love stories, I'm sure it sounds a lot more tragically romantic than it really was. My mom met and married a Yugoslavian man named Ahmet. He would always say that he was Turkish, as there is apparently some shame in being Yugoslavian.

In 1971, she gave birth to their only son, Adem. Her marriage to Ahmet soured soon after that. In 1973, my father was discharged from the Army, very much alive. I'm not really sure if his return precipitated it or not, but my mom and Ahmet got a divorce, and my mother married my father soon afterwards. She kept custody of Adem as per a mutual agreement..

I was born in 1975, the day before the last U.S. troops were evacuated from Vietnam. The Watergate scandal was in full swing, and Nixon would resign from the presidency a couple of months later. It was the official beginning of the "me" generation of excess and apathy. Though many say that 60's activism died with John Lennon's murder in 1980, I'd say that it had become seriously ill in 1975.

Like most younger brothers, I idolized my older sibling. My first word was "Adem," and I would crawl around our crummy apartment in Queens calling after him ceaselessly. He'd close a door on me, and I'd peek my face under the crack in the door and keep announcing, "Adem! Adem! Adem!" He was predictably annoyed by his younger sibling. Knowing him like I do now, I'm sure part of him was flattered.

My brother and I were terrific readers as kids, both of us excelling far beyond our grade level in elementary school. My brother was also very able at math, even scoring a perfect 100 on his first state-wide Regent's math test. I was never as adept with numbers, but I still got good grades. I feel like Adem was a lot smarter, in a measurable sense, than I am. He grasped simple instructions and subtle teaching cues better than I could. Neither of us were particularly ambitious about school, though. We received high marks in elementary and junior high school without exerting very much effort.

In 1980, my family moved into an attached house with two units: one for my retired grandmother, and one for my family. My brother and I occupied the attic, which was two rooms: one room at the top of the stairs, and another, more private room at the front of the house. We shared that as a bedroom for the first two years, but I took the back room eventually. My mother says that Adem wanted us to share the front room so that I "wouldn't get scared," which is a cute but incongruent story. At age five, I would have wanted to stay in a room with him, in any case.

In the first grade, I accidentally squirted ketchup on a classmate's white shirt during Assembly Day, and as I rushed to the bathroom to get wet napkins, shameful tears streaming down my face, my brother found me in the hall and comforted me. I remember watching Soap with Adem on our television set in my room. We would watch a nightly roster of Honeymooners, Johnny Carson, and David Letterman during the Summer. I guess these were sharing times, though I don't have any touching memories to relate. Adem had an uncanny ability to guess the correct time to the minute if he had seen a clock within the last twelve hours. I would test him throughout the night to tell the correct time without looking at a clock, and to my memory, he always got it right.

Adem was always a more problematic child than I was. I could entertain myself all day, drawing pictures, recording Saturday Night Live sketch rip-offs into my portable radio, or playing pretend games with the next-door neighbors. My brother would be hanging out a candy stores outside of the immediate neighborhood, playing arcade video games. Adem was a very charismatic and kind of imposing person, and he always had a lot of friends that looked to him for guidance and instruction. I had only one really good friend as a kid, and he didn't go to my school, so I only saw him on weekends. I think this kept me out of trouble and shaped the way I came up in relation to my brother.

When I was in fifth grade, my brother was accepted into Stuyvesant High School, a specialized school for math in New York City. Things started going sharply downhill when I was in the sixth grade. My brother cut class at first, then completely stopped going to school altogether. This resulted in numerous family arguments, which in my home took the shape of interminably long lectures by my father. Later, I would be on the receiving end of these marathon lectures, and I'd simply walk away when I'd heard enough. But my father and brother would hash it out for hours, my father's speech usually a calm, even tone and my brother's belligerent shouting and storming about. He was, by this time, a massive character, about six feet tall and quite broad shouldered. He began to grow his hair long per the approved metalhead style. He never hit my father, though. It never came to blows.

I think it's worth mentioning that, though Adem was not my father's biological son, he almost never invoked this fact. I only remember one time, when Adem was sixteen or seventeen, when he said it during the heat of some argument. Nothing was really made of the comment later on, and I think they both understood that though they apparently hated each other, they were father and son.

So it was around 1986 that my brother really started fucking up. As a result, my parents spent a lot more time dealing with him and I spent a lot of time alone. I don't mean this to be my sob story; I have lots of happy memories of my own around this time. I had a small group of friends with whom I'd skateboard and argue about rap music (one friend was a ferocious Van Halen fan). It was a very creative period of my childhood. Still, it was during this time that I would take the subway into Manhattan without my parents' knowledge, so I was acting out in some small way. I don't think I resented my parents any more than the average eleven year-old, and I rarely got in any trouble that deserved a lecture from my dad.

Adem was kicked out of Stuyvesant High School and started attending my local school, Francis Lewis High. I was in seventh grade at the time. Understandably, my brother and I became very estranged. I was twelve years old, he was sixteen. I may have wanted more brotherly guidance, but I hated when he was around a lot more. My parents and Adem were constantly fighting, and my brother's behavior became very erratic. He would come and go as he pleased, staying out until all hours of the night and cutting class like it was a requisite for graduation. My brother's temper would flare up and he would break things, one time shattering a bathroom mirror and cutting himself up pretty badly.

Adem hung a sheet over the doorway between our rooms for privacy, but I probably snuck in there to peek around once a day. It was an incredibly messy affair, piled high with laundry and records and Fangoria magazines. I would sneak into his dresser and steal his porno mags when he was out. I'd read his love notes and try to find any available evidence concerning who he was. He would often know when I had been in his room, and would yell at me for it. I was never deterred.

He would play King Diamond and Metallica records at blaring levels every evening, and he'd take ridiculously long showers while playing Megadeth on my parents' stereo at window pane-shattering volume every day. When I was about thirteen, I walked in on my brother while he was rolling a bunch of joints. I stood there for a minute, dumbfounded, and my brother coolly said, "Well, you've caught your brother rolling joints." I stammered something and quickly walked away. After this incident, I remember my brother being almost constantly drunk and/or high. I recall a Christmas morning, probably in 1988 or 1989, when he came downstairs at eleven in the morning, stinking like a brewery, and handed me a terrible two-dollar bulletin board from the local stationery store. It was unwrapped and he made a half-hearted joke about it. I wasn't expecting anything from Adem, but this token and the way it was presented seemed worse than not having received anything at all.

In 1988, my grandmother passed away, and now our home had an empty apartment in it. Adem started hanging out there almost instantly, drinking lots of beer and smoking weed while watching cable television. I was still kind of scared to hang out down there, being that I had so many recent memories of my grandmother, but he didn't seem to give a shit. Eventually, I got over my fear, too.

In 1989, my brother dropped out of high school and got his Graduate Equivalency Diploma. Adem got the highest marks in his class, and I think he fell two or four points short of a perfect grade. Adem held a series of jobs after this, many of them hooked up by my parents, but he was fired from almost every one of them for perpetual lateness. One evening, I was eating dinner with my parents while Adem was out, and they brought up that they'd been thinking of giving my grandmother's apartment to him. I was incensed, and complained that he would basically be rewarded for being an incredible asshole. I guess I made a good case because my parents never formally handed over the apartment to Adem, but he would hang out down there every night.

In 1990, everything sharply changed for the worse. Ahmet bought my brother a car (an ancient El Dorado or something) and my brother would tool around the neighborhood, blasting heavy metal and drinking. He started to deal a little weed and smoked incredible amounts of it. I had entered high school by this time, and I was also experimenting with drugs. On rare occasions, we would sit around together, stoned off our asses, and watch television. These were the closest times we had together. I don't remember getting high with him, though. Not at that point.

I don't really remember what happened to my brother's car--either it just crapped out or he couldn't pay the insurance or something--but his car was gone almost as quickly as it came. He started driving my parents' Toyota Corolla, and one night I revealed to my dad that he had been dealing drugs from their car. This was the last straw for my parents, and they kicked him out to live with Ahmet. I don't think I planned on him getting kicked out of the house, but I definitely didn't argue the decision. I felt, and still feel, some guilt over manipulating my brother's life from behind the scenes--first with my grandmother's apartment, then getting him ejected from our house--but I can't deny that it also gave me a real sense of relief.

Not long after he got there, Ahmet kicked my brother out of his house. After a tumultuous cross-country journey with a friend of his, they parted ways near Las Vegas and my brother set up over there. Over the next six or so years, my mom would fly my brother back to New York for a week, usually around my birthday. At first, everything would be swell, but over the week he would regress to his old habits and he'd get drunk and high every day and fight with everyone in the family. I remember one time clearly: we were going to go to the Transit Museum with my mother, and he wanted to smoke a joint (of my weed) together before we left. I was on the phone, and the whole time my brother was bugging me to light up the joint. I brushed him off while I spoke to my friend, and eventually it was time to leave. My brother was incredibly pissed off. He kept going on and on, in front of my mother, about how badly he wanted to smoke that joint. I was nineteen or twenty at the time, and no longer intimidated by my older brother, so I told him to shut up about it. He kept at it, though, pressing my buttons while we were in the car on the way to the museum. He said that he couldn't get hungry without smoking pot, and intimated that he was prepared to make the day a living hell due to my indifference. I blew up at him, and told him how fucked up he was for wanting to be high before we went out to a museum with our mother, of all things. My mom started crying and stopped the car, but my brother just would not relent, still pissing and moaning about that joint. I hopped out of the car and started walking away, thinking about how fucked up the situation was, and what a dick my brother could be. For the first time, I realized that my brother was a drug addict. My mother came after me, and we eventually did go to the museum together, but this event left a strong impression on my mind.

In 1999, Adem's voice got very strange. I would talk to him over the phone sometimes, and he sounded very nasal and strained when he spoke. My cousin went out to visit him, and found that he had a lot of trouble walking. My parents sent him a cane at first, but my cousin convinced them that he was very sick, so they flew him back to New York to see some doctors. You could tell immediately that something was wrong. He had a lot of trouble standing up straight and was wobbly when he walked. It turned out that my brother had ALS, better known to most as Lou Gehrig's Disease, which is a disease that deteriorates the muscles and often results in death. Our family was optimistic at first, since some people deteriorate to a certain point and then stop. Some even recover a limited use of their muscular functions. Adem was still a pretty hearty guy at this time, so it didn't seem like it would be the bitter end just yet. My parents moved him in permanently to look after him.

Emotionally, my brother was worse than ever. He would get stinking drunk every night and play maudlin new wave songs at full volume from his bedroom. After a while, getting drunk was dangerous for Adem, so he would smoke incredible quantities of marijuana and watch moronic television programs constantly. I felt badly for my brother because of the disease, but I still had a lot of resentment for my brother because of the turmoil he had caused in my family. He had been a total fucking baby about everything his whole life, and often seemed to expect my parents to owe him a living. In a tragic way, he was now getting exactly what he had always wanted. He fought a lot with my mother and wanted her to care for him as if he was a child. My father stayed out of things, for the most part, since Adem's relationship with my father was antagonistic, to say the least.

Adem's condition worsened, both physically and mentally, over time. He was talking Adderal to keep his metabolism up, and still smoking copious amounts of weed. I think the combination did a lot to worsen his mental state. I took Adderall and smoked pot with my brother a couple of times when I visited, and I can say that the combination made me feel kind of schizoid. I can only imagine what the long-term effects were. One day, my father and brother had some kind of argument--I don't recall all of the details, but it resulted in Adem calling the cops on my father for hitting him. If you know my father, you know how improbable this is. The cops had the same notion, and I think they ended up taking my brother away overnight. Ultimately, my parents put my brother in a nursing home, where he would get better care and, maybe more importantly, be out of the house.

At the nursing home, Adem's condition declined rapidly. It was 2003, and he couldn't walk at all. I would visit him every weekend, wheel him around the neighborhood, sneak him a joint to smoke in the hospital courtyard, and watch movies. I felt badly for Adem, but I really felt worse for my mother who was worn out by the ordeal. Adem looked like skeleton dressed in skin that was four sizes too big for his frame. A lot of his cantankerousness was gone, but he still found a way to make things difficult, even as an invalid. Eventually, his condition got so bad that he was kept in a special ward at Flushing Hospital. It was clear to me that he would be dead soon.

The last time I saw my brother, he was laying in a hospital bed, totally unable to sit up or articulate himself. He would try to write what he wanted to say on a piece of paper, but he could barely hold a pen. There was an apparatus nearby to help him breathe and all kinds of instruments attached to his body. My mother was massaging his feet, which looked like narrow potatoes with toes on the end, and he was kind of staring off at the television, angrily defiant to the end. He still had his long hair, even though it meant that someone had to braid it for him every day to keep it from getting all over his face. To me, this was kind of a microcosm for my brother's whole attitude: to do what he wanted, how he wanted, no matter how much it inconvenienced everyone. As I looked at Adem, completely wasted away in bed, his mouth involuntarily opening and closing, his eyes half-lidded and fearful, I thought about this person that I knew very little and understood even less. This drug-addicted, brooding asshole that made my parents' lives horrible whenever he had the opportunity. The sensitive, intelligent man that dominated everyone around him. I didn't want him to die, but in the same way, I didn't feel like he necessarily deserved to live. What would he have accomplished if he never had ALS? Would he have straightened out, put away his puerile rebellion and made something of himself? Would he have gotten by on charisma and met the correct people that would elevate him to a better status? In my heart of hearts, I don't think he would have. In many ways, he lived a brutal, pointless life, and now he would be resigned to a brutal, pointless death. I clasped his gnarled hand and we watched each other for a while, tears flooding and streaming down our faces. He told me that he would try to visit me from the afterlife; I nodded and silently hoped that he wouldn't. We told each other "I love you," and I went home on the bus. He passed away five days later.

My brother was not a singularly nice person. Many people loved him, but it was always despite his many faults and how hard he was to get along with. How did he come to be this way? Was it something genetically-imprinted from his biological father? Was it the result of my mother's divorce from Ahmet, even though Adem was barely three at the time? Did the drugs cause his bad attitude, or did his bad attitude give him a predilection towards drug abuse? Were we so different because he was born in in a different era than me? Or were we more alike than I choose to admit? There is no way of knowing now, but he ended up being, by and large, a fucked-up human being. A fucked-up human being that was, incontrovertibly and without any regret on my part, my brother.

We have so much in common

2007-04-17T11:02:00.000-04:00

Hi. I don't usually do this, I hope you don't think I am a creepy stalker or anything. I was just looking at your myspace profile, and I felt I had to reach out to you. You are so beautiful, which is obviously what caught my eye from the beginning. But it was your profile and the context of your pictures that made me feel like I should get to know you. I think you and I have a lot in common, and we would probably have a good time together. I can tell from your myspace description and blogs that you are an alcoholic that frequently blacks out, and that's the perfect person for me.
When I saw the image of a bottle of Jack Daniels with animated sparkles dancing around it in your "interests" section, I got goosebumps. Your headline, "I'm not as think as you drunk I am," was even more titillating. You see, I like to get drunk, too! And not just tipsy, but completely blottoed. It's refreshing to find someone with whom you might share your favorite activities. Looking through your pics section made me all flush: you, holding a solo cup and making a kissy face at the camera; you holding a bottle of beer and making a kissy face at the camera; you with your arm around your friends, both of you toasting with mixed drinks, making kissy faces at the camera. The pic of you squatting on the sidewalk, with your pants around your ankles, peeing just about made my heart melt. I never believed in love at first sight, until now.
What clinched the deal and made me overcome my shyness was reading the various comments left by your friends. It's wonderful to see that you are so well-adjusted with such a diverse group of companions and acquaintances. HennyFloozy69 had this to say about you: "LOL girl! Do you remember Dan farting in your face while you were 'napping' in the parking lot? LFMAO!" Later on, she comments, "NOT COOL to make out with my lil bro, girl! But I still <3 ya! MUAH!" Anyone that can garner such forgiveness must have the heart and soul of an angel. "Hey, are we cool? Sorry for leaving marks," wrote Italian Stud two weeks ago. I had to scoff at this comment, for people of our ilk are not to be apologized to. We live in the moment, with no time or concern for the past. Sometimes we aren't entirely conscious when the present is happening, in which case anything goes!
I'm sorry if this message is coming on a little strong, I've just never had feelings like this before. I hope one day we can meet up and finish off a quart of gin together. We can laugh, we can cry, we pee in the gutter. And maybe, if our chemistry is right, we can have drunken, sloppy sex in the bathroom of a dive bar. No pressure, though. I would hold your hair away from your face while you vomit for eternity, my dear.

The Right to Be Offended

2007-04-12T10:39:00.000-04:00

I don't know how you have it in your country, but here in America, we have rights. We are guaranteed freedom of assembly in front of the television (but dad gets the remote control). We have the right to bear arms for the purpose of making "gangsta" picture poses for our myspace pages. But our most important and undeniable allowance, which is number one on our Bill of Rights, is freedom of speech. Our forefathers saw fit to secure America this right because they liked to get drunk and swear. A lot.
There are various theories surrounding the exact nature and interpretation of freedom of speech. Some believe that this right was intended only so that we could criticize the government. Others believe that it was written so that we could expand our national consciousness, considering and adapting to as many ideas as possible. Still other believe that it was created solely so we could peddle beaver shots at the newsstand. However you interpret freedom of speech, its very design points out that those guys in powdered wigs wanted to create a legal foundation for free speech, one that could be used in a lawsuit for or against it. If there's anything we Americans value as much as our free speech, it's our litigation.
The right to free speech is the right to be offended. Like your parents told you about getting a driver's license, it's more than a right: it's a privelege. Yes! The privelege to be offended. The privelege to be put off your food. The privelege to hear or read something that shocks your senses, that makes you sick and worried about the moral fiber of this modern world. You have to imagine what it means to never be offended. It means no creativity, no spontaneous thought, no clue as to what the person standing next to you is thinking. There are a lot of sick people in this world, but we don't get any closer to understanding or aiding them by shutting them up. We would do better to tape up our ears rather than their mouths. Pretending that we are a polite society that won't suffer indignity is a complete crock of shit. We invented the practice of belching out the alphabet.
When you are offended, it is your right--no, your duty--to let it be known. That's the only way things progress. Yell out loud, stage protests, take it to court if you feel it is necessary. But remember that you should always be charging the words, not the person that said them or the medium that conveyed them. It's a lot more difficult to get mad at a word than it is to get mad at a person, but that's what the right to free speech is about. Freedom for everyone to say what they think and feel. When a radio personality makes racist comments over the air, we are allowed to be annoyed. Many of us should be offended. But taking him off the air doesn't make him or his comments less racist. More than likely, such comments are a reflection, and not a fomentation, of the cancerous racism that affects every aspect of our lives. So let us hear them. Let's embrace their prickly points into our bosoms and bleed all over them. Censorship is nothing but DayQuil for our sick society. It treats the symptoms while the disease gets worse.

Ain't That America? Part 463

2007-03-19T14:28:00.000-04:00

When we think of the FOX Corporation Broadcasting Company today, the immediate images that come to mind are probably not the best ones. We think of incredibly explotative reality television; we think of Bill O'Reilly on the FOX News channel. FOX is a channel that is steeped, and seems to revel, in its own sub-standard quality and total bias. Better-versed television scholars (read: couch potatoes) will acknowledge that FOX did actually push the envelope in its time, with landmark programming like The Simpsons and In Living Color. Perhaps they pushed the envelope so far, FOX became a victim of its own crusade to bring crude humor to prime-time television. Now they are just one network in a sea of channels all lining up to be the first to use the word "bitch" before 7 PM. There is one show that FOX spawned, though, which often gets glossed over in retrospectives of the era, and yet it has remained one of the most popular, frugal, and varied programs in its history. The show I am talking about is COPS, perhaps the first reality show ever filmed.
I don't think a regularly-aired show like COPS could float most anywhere else in the world. In many countries, the police are the enemy--and not the enemy like in America, where they are often seen as power-tripping, racist douchebags that surpass their own authority, but an actual enemy where their word is law and their power is virtually limitness, and therefore cannot be abused. In many ways, COPS embodies everything American: driving around in cars, forcing people to submit to your armed superiority, rattling off the particulars of an incident over and over again until everyone is numb to the fact. "Uh, the alleged perp threw carbolic acid into the victim's face, a little got on her baby, and then the alleged perp shot a sawed-off gun into a puppy. I heard the shots from a block away before I got the call, so I whipped around and almost spun out, I was driving so reckless'!" These stories have sounded more like personal gossip and less like incident reports as the series has soldiered on. And it's a good thing, too! Who the hell wants to read a police incident report?
One of the greatest things about having cable television in the United States of America is that you can watch COPS almost twenty-four hours a day. In fact, if you tailored your eight-hour sleep schedule so that you napped for a few hours in the afternoon, then an hour here and there in the evening, I'm sure you could be watching nothing but COPS, or one of it's sister shows like World's Wildest Police Shootouts or Wackiest Arrests Caught on Tape. Only by watching hours and hours of the show can you get an idea of how difficult it is to do police work. And believe me, it is difficult! They make that point abundantly clear about twenty times an episode. I have watched more hours of COPS than I care to remember or admit, and from this program, I've learned some universal police tactics and truisms. Feel free to cite these if you find they will support your case in court:
1. The first thing to do when arriving to any scene of an alleged crime is handcuff all the black people present.
2. If there is a white guy with no shirt present, he is more dangerous than a barrel full of flares in a fireworks factory. No fewer than three officers will be required to subdue him.
3. Police work is "something different every day," and never requires hours of boring paperwork or bureaucratic red tape to get the job done.
4. No matter what his rank is within the police department, the officer with the COPS camera on him is in charge. He can order officers to take prisoners away in their squad card, to interview the witnesses, and just about any job that doesn't include standing around and telling the other officers about what we've just witnessed on the screen. He could probably give the Commissioner of Police a noogie, if he was so inclined.
5. The thicker and more indigenous the accent, the better cop you are.
I haven't seen an episode of COPS where the officers lose their perp, and I don't suppose I will. But I remember one very well from its early years. Some kid was running through backyards, scaling fences, and then Officer Lardass tries to hurdle a fence and brings the thing crashing to the ground. They lose the kid's trail and give up the hunt, closing the bit with something like "you win some, you lose some." I haven't seen this episode in re-runs for a long time, and I bet it was the only episode of its kind. Too bad, really, because it gives a more coherent and real look at what police work is actually like. Sometimes you catch your perp and "get another bad guy off the streets." Sometimes you lose the guy and get subject to ridicule back at the station, creating a personal vendetta that you exact with ferverous rage against the perp should you catch him jaywalking or littering ever again. And sometimes, just sometimes, you and your buddies shoot fifty rounds into a suspect (you know, the ones that are "innocent until proven guilty in a court of law"?), reloading your gun to do so, just because you don't feel like going through the proper procedures. That's probably the most human trait of all. There's many times I don't feel like submitting my paperwork in triplicate, either.

R.I.P. B.I.G.

2007-03-09T14:03:00.001-05:00

A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while.

The month of March made me shiver
With every Source mag I’d deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep;
I couldn’t take one more step.

I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.

So bye-bye, Chris Wallace, dead-eye
Drove my Wrangler to Franklin (Ave.)
But the blunt spot was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ forties and wine
Singin’, "Let's throw on Ready to Die.
"Let's throw on Ready to Die."

Did he ever settle out of court
with Chuck D, who was a real bad sport
about that ...Baseheads bit?
Do you believe in Biggie's tales
of guns and hand-to-hand crack sales?
To be honest, I don't really give a shit.

Well, I know that you’re in love with him
'Cause you're trying to look like Lil Kim
You both wear wigs to match your bra
Implants to come when you sell your car

I was a lonely teenager, sneaking beer
In BOSS jeans and Cross Colours gear
But I knew rap would get really queer
The day the music died.

I started singin’:
"Bye-bye, Chris Wallace, dead-eye
"Could have dissed Puffy, lived lovely
"If he wasn't so high.
"And them good old boys were drinkin’ forties and wine
"Singin’, 'Let's throw on Ready to Die.
'Let's throw on Ready to Die.'"

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
He's been on the cover of Rolling Stone
When they felt like covering rap.
When Big had a hype man in Lil Cease
And rappers still signed off with "peace"
But wouldn't hesitate to bust a cap.

Oh, and while Biggie was still loving life,
2Pac claimed he fucked Big's wife.
We're unsure of the real truth;
She looked drunk sitting in that booth.
And while Jeezy was in grade school,
Fans went out and copped their tools
We all observed the Golden Rule
The day the music died.

We were singing,
"Bye-bye, Chris Wallace, dead-eye
"Juicy was so dope
"Much better than Hypnotize
"And them good old boys were drinkin’ forties and wine
"Singin’, 'Let's throw on Ready to Die.
'Let's throw on Ready to Die.'"

Helter skelter in a Coogi sweater,
Was he the victim of a vendetta?
Or was it planned to dis-induce
More L.A. tension like in ninety-two?
Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth
He didn't fit in the vocal booth

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
Of Method Man fans lighting their boom
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
'Cause the same dudes that say Biggie is great
For holding heat and pushing weight
Left rap in a depolorable state
Since the day the music died.

We started singing,
"Bye-bye, Chris Wallace, dead-eye
"Would Big have an icy grill
"If he was still alive?
"And them good old boys were drinkin’ forties and wine
"Singin’, 'Let's throw on Ready to Die.
'Let's throw on Ready to Die.'"

How I came to love the subway

2007-02-28T22:42:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of train and transit buffs out there. They usually create detailed models of populated towns and mountainous countrysides, and run a set of toy trains around and around while wearing a pinstriped conductor's cap on their heads and a red handkerchief around their necks. They holler "all aboard!" to no one in particular and think about freight trains all day. I was never like this. I never really cared about trains in general, as a kid or as an adult. But somehow, I came to love the New York City subway. Like all great loves, it took me by surprise, subtly immersing me until I realized one day how smitten I was.
My first memories of the subway are not pleasant ones. My family lived on the last stop of the number 7 IRT line, and my parents took me into Manhattan via that line several times. In the 1980's, the subway was in terrible disrepair: train cars and stations covered with graffiti; lights blinking out for minutes at a time; doors popping open unexpectedly while the train was in motion. Announcements were completely inaudible and all maps and signs were totally obscured by spraypaint and marker. You couldn't even see out of the windows because of the whole-car pieces that wrapped the outside of the train. I was scared to death that we would miss our stop or that I would somehow be separated from my parents and lost to the interminable subway forever. I was worried over nothing, because the 7 train runs on its own tracks, and if you somehow get off at the wrong stop, there's nothing to do but stand at the platform or cross to the other side and wait for another train to come and take you to the right place. But I had no idea.
When I was about ten, I had a friend named Brian who loved trains. Actually, he liked anything that ran on rails. He would design his own roller coasters and talk to me about great cross-country train routes. We would hang out by the tracks for the Long Island Rail Road commuter rail near my house and throw rocks at the trains as they passed by. Brian was really into the trains, I enjoyed throwing rocks much more. We would sometimes take the LIRR into Penn Station and play video games, and one time he convinced me to take the Q44 bus to the Bronx Zoo. I guess that was all preparation for his next suggestion: to take the subway into Manhattan and go to the Museum of Natural History. All by ourselves.
He had the whole thing mapped out. We would take the rickety number 7 into Times Square and switch to the uptown K train (it's now replaced by the C). I put my complete trust in him and threw caution to the wind. We were lost almost instantly in the circuitous Times Square transfer station. I remember seeing all of these signs about IRT and IND trains, and I had no idea what was going on. Eventually, we made it to the K train and got on. I recall that it was the kind from the 1950's with the porthole style windows in the doors.
We made it to the Museum of Natural History, paid something like a nickel apiece to get in, and looked at the dinosaur skeletons. Then we went across the street to Central Park and skipped rocks on the lake. It's kind of strange to think about it, here we are, two dumb kids from Queens basically lost in Manhattan when it was supposedly crime-ridden and dilapidated. I have a very fond memory of that day, though, and Brian and I went back to Manhattan several times, either to the Museum of Natural History or--incredibly--we would get out at Times Square to try and see some nudity on peep show posters and maybe get throwing stars and butterfly knives (we never did, though). I enjoyed these trips very much, but I still wasn't really in love with the subway yet. It was just a conveyance to the fun.
In high school, I took the subway downtown (usually the 7 to Roosevelt Ave. - 74th Street, change to the F) to see bands I liked and to hang around. Until they were recently retired, the 7 train used to run these old-style cars called Redbirds that allowed you to cross in between cars. I would hang out in between cars the whole time, smoking pot and just living dangerously. Around this time, my heart was starting to pitter-patter for the subway. Just the 7 train at first, but slowly I started to like other train lines as well. For some reason, I began to hate the F train, and I would take the 7 to Queensborough Plaza and switch to the N train to get downtown. I didn't like taking the 6 train that I could catch at Grand Central Station, even though it also used Redbird cars. I really don't know what criteria I was using for these various subway lines, but it still sticks with me somewhat to this day.
Around the time I was twenty, my mom gave me a book called The Epic of New York City by Edward Robb Ellis, and I got really interested in New York City history. I quickly realized that the story of twentieth century New York City was completely embedded in the construction and growth of the subway. So I got some books about it. I visited the New York City Transit Museum in Brooklyn. I rode the 6 train (ugh) to the last stop, then stayed on the train while it turned around the loop underneath City Hall Park so I could peek at the long-closed flagship station of the subway when it opened in 1904, the City Hall IRT station. I noticed that my mood was different when I took the subway to work in the morning: instead of feeling irritated, my mind would drift back to the things I learned and stories I read and heard about the subway in days gone by. I didn't find myself bothered by train delays; instead, I'd think about the kinds of mechanical problems that can happen to train cars and tracks, and would realize that you can't force a train to move. You just have to wait.
Of course, by this time the subway had undergone a multi-billion dollar overhaul, and differed greatly from the stark memories I had as a child. Still, I had fallen in love with the system, the trains, the mechanics, the fact that New York City as we know it could not exist without the subway--and not the other way around. Even my frightened memories from childhood became tinted with a nostalgic justice. I am not really a subway buff. There are people out there that can rattle off the names of specific cars and the trucks that they ride on, and they can break down the various changes and improvements that were made to the system by year. I can't do any of that. All I can do is love the subway, even though it is incapable of loving me back.

Won't you please lend a hand?

2007-02-21T21:13:00.000-05:00

I know it hurts to think about the millions of impoverished people in the world that desperately need your help. It's so much easier to click away from this blog and look at pornography. But that won't make the problem go away. And it won't make the millions of people, like li'l Jethro here, go away either.

There is a country on this planet of ours where millions go hungry, or are without clean drinking water or adequate shelter. Where they receive substandard education, or no formal education at all. A country where tens of millions do not have adequate health care. The worst thing about it is they don't even know how bad they have it. But you know. And you can do something to help.

For a dollar a day--that's the price of one-tenth of a litre of gasoline--you can help these unfortunate souls and save them from themselves. The Christian Children's Fund is a well-respected and long-standing charitable organization, so you know your money will be put to good use. It's time that we, the people of the civilized world, banded together and helped out the less fortunate, be it in Darfur, Ethiopia, or--in this case--America. So please, open your hearts and your wallets, so that Jethro here can learn to bathe himself.

I'm sick of everyone jocking my style

2007-02-06T21:08:00.000-05:00

A lot of people look at me as a follower, but really I am a trend-setter. I hate looking like everyone else out there. I guess that's the hip-hop in me, always trying to be original and outdoing everyone else's style. But people bite--oh man, how they bite! It's been going on my whole life, since I was a little kid. I was the first person to wear flip-up sunglasses at my elementary school after I saw Dwayne Wayne wear them on A Different World. I was stylin'! Then that punk Mark Heston shows up the very next week rocking the exact same pair. I almost snatched them right off his face.
The trick to staying ahead of the curve is to wear increasingly more ridiculous clothing each time you change up your style. It also helps if your clothing is outrageously priced. This tends to thin out the herd of people that are daring enough to look fashionable. Like my four-hundred dollar zip-up hoodie with the all-over pink lipsticks pattern. A lot of guys aren't fashionable enough to wear that. Most certainly wouldn't have the fashion sense to wear them with pink patent leather sneakers with the Valentine's heart on the tongue, or the pink velour chaps that say "FRESH" in graffiti lettering down the side. You really have to be an innovator to pull something like that off.
But people still try to jock the look, and you've just got to keep it moving. I'll do whatever it takes to stay fashionable. I've got a line of oversized onesies with rubber duckies and posies that I am just itching to unleash this Spring. I picked them up from a fetish website, so I think that will throw people off the trail for a little while. They also threw in color-coordinated pacifiers, which is dope, in a kind of retro Club Limelight way. There was also a studded dog collar in the package, but I don't think it's going to blend with my new wardrobe. I wish they had sent it last Fall, when I was really cultivating the leather chaps and aviator sunglasses look. It took me forever to grow the proper mustache, but it was well worth it when I saw my friends' jaws drop in surprise. Regular people don't know how to react to the fashionable.
As for what's next, who knows? I'm subject only to my whims and fancies, and my desire to dress differently than everyone else. I can't front, though, sometimes I see people that as fashionable as me, and I get a little jealous. Like Pharell! Did you see what he was wearing at the Video Music Awards last year! Oh, I could have just eaten him up! Uh, in a fashion sense, that is.

Year-End Racism Report

2007-01-31T14:25:00.000-05:00

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for coming to our annual year-end meeting. We are all very busy, and this isn't the most fascinating report of the year, so I appreciate you all making the time for this tiresome but necessary run-down. I'll try to keep it as brief as possible, and will withhold all boring facts and figures where possible. I have worksheets and progress charts available as hand-outs, so see me after the meeting if you're interested in this material.
I am pleased to announce that racism experienced a slight increase in 2006, with general racism against non-Whites creeping up by two per cent. This still puts us at a deficit from our racism spike in the final quarter of 2001, but the progress is promising, and we hope to increase our racist output by at least four per cent by the end of 2007. The small nudge forward in racism and bigotry is attributed to several subtle factors, including (but not limited to) a steady growth of minorities in the workplace, and rap music's fall from public favor as the best-selling pop music worldwide. Interestingly, racism against Blacks remained flat for much of 2006, but considering its already high level, we see that as an encouraging sign of racism's general growth.
Confusion about various Middle Eastern nationalities and ethnicities has also been contributing to racism steadily for years now, with many Americans discounting the entire region of North Africa as "filthy towelheads." To date, we have done little to encourage this notion, but in 2007 we intend to undertake an aggressive campaign to really bolster anti-Middle Eastern racism, by inserting more Arab villains into popular television programs and feature films, and by employing more non-english speaking Pakistani gas station attendants in middle and rural America.
The racist programs we already employ are still doing their respective jobs, with the "hyphenation" of non-White Americans' ethnicities and standardized testing bearing the brunt of the work. Remember, however, our motto concerning racism's propagation: there are no small efforts, just small penises. It's the Jews that have the small penises, incidentally. And I'm pretty sure Asians, as well.
Going forward into 2007, we are happy to say that no lay-offs of White folks are planned, as usual, and we will "keep on keepin' on," as the saying goes, to make racism grow. Various overseas wars, all of which are steeped in racism, will continue unabated, and affirmative action quotas will continue to keep minorities in pointless middle-management positions while simultaneously incensing Whitey. Now that there's a Democratic congress, we hope to increase welfare spending, which always boils the piss of hate groups and White nationalists. We're hoping that 2007 will be the best year for racism since 1950, and with your help we can reach our goal. Thanks for coming.

RIAA Files Lawsuit Against President Bush

2007-01-25T21:19:00.000-05:00

Cites war in Iraq as contributing factor to declining CD sales

Washington, D.C. (Dem's Congress) -- In a press release issued today, the Recording Industry Association of America announced that they had filed a lawsuit this morning against President George Bush and the war in Iraq, implicating them as a major contributing reason behind shrinking compact disc sales, which have fallen exponentially every quarter since the conflict began in 2002. A one hundred and forty-seven page document that accompanies the lengthy subpoena consists of a report, researched and compiled by an independent team hired by the RIAA, which details the precise factors that allegedly caused this rapid decline in industry growth, which has caused many recording artists and executives to forfeit one or more of their Bentleys.
Sal Halberdeen, a spokesman for the RIAA, explained their position to a packed room of reporters that had no intention of actually reading the cumbersome report filed with the lawsuit, despite an abundance of colored pie charts and graphs several reporters noted while quickly flipping through the pages. "Simply put, the soliders in Iraq are killing the recording industry," said Halberdeen, "merely by not being here in America to purchase our CD's. Most ground soldiers are aged between eighteen and twenty-five, and this has proven to be our most important demographic, after teenaged girls and gay men--the latter group owing mainly to the hundreds of Bette Midler boxed sets that we have passed off as new material for the last decade or so."
With music retail chain Tower Records declaring bankruptcy last year, and other music outlets complaining of a growth-threatening sales slump, the RIAA says that it cannot afford to allow President Bush to proceed with his new plan for Iraq, which includes sending an additional twenty-one thousand troops into the war-torn country. "An exodus like that will kill any chance for an artist to break into the college scene. And by the time they get back [from Iraq], they're too old and jaded to enjoy stuff like Sublime and Green Day anyway. That's if they get back! We have a saying at the RIAA, it says that every mortally wounded soldier is a lost Gwen Stefani sale. And it's a damn shame."
Halberdeen was quick to point out that the last "A" in RIAA stands for America. "We're not against the war," he explained, "we aren't asking for him to end the war and bring the troops back to our Sam Goody sales counters. All we want is money."
When asked why the RIAA filed a suit specifically against George Bush, and not against the United States government, Halberdeen replied, "Well, he seems to be the only one that wants to be in this war. Let him buy up these unsold Paris Hilton albums."

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2007-01-22T14:31:00.000-05:00

Incarnations of Batman

THE GOOD: The Dark Knight Returns

This is a no-brainer, being the graphic novel that reinvigorated both the Batman franchise and the genre of graphic novels as a whole. From the stark, scratchy rendering to the truncated, pulsating dialogue (both credited to paranoid comic book legend Frank Miller), this book really defines what is meant by "comic books for grown-ups." It's still about a guy dressing up in spandex and beating the tar out of criminals, but he curses and shit. This book can also be credited with planting the subliminal seed that would eventually lead to the murder of the most hated Robin character, Jason Todd. God, I hated that little brat. Exploding him to smithereens was too sweet a death for him.

THE BAD: Silver Age Batman

After Dr. Fredric Wertham blamed comic books for juvenile delinquency in his tome Seduction of the Innocent, and the related senate investigation into JD's that followed, the comic book industry decided to impose a special code of conduct and "tone down" their gritty, urban stories about guys that dress up like circus performers and fly around town throwing cars at each other. Interestingly, though Batman received what is arguably the worst scrutiny in the investigation, with Wertham suggesting that Batman and Robin's relationship was homosexual in nature, the response by DC comics was to make Batman even more gay. And flaming it was, with Batman hurling all manner of stupid batarangs and acquiring new members of the Batman Family™, including Bat-Hound. In the 1960's, the franchise would suffer another indignity with the debut of the Batman television series, starring Adam West. Now, if the relationship between the television Batman and Robin wasn't homosexual, then John Waters can be considered a rugged, strapping man.

THE MEDIOCRE: 1970's Batman

Though many consider the 1970's to still be within DC Comics' Silver Age, there was a big difference in their portrayal of Batman. For one thing, the long ears on his headpiece and the interminably long cape returned. For another thing, many artists of the era portrayed him as a brooding, mysterious figure that stuck to the shadows, instead of the wisecracking punster of the 60's. What really made this era bland was the introduction of his alter ego Bruce Wayne as a real character. Batman was always heir-to-millions Bruce Wayne, a forgettable playboy that used his friendship with Commissioner Gordon to pump him for information about new crimes. In the 70s, writers for Batman introduced a crisis of conscience for Mr. Wayne, and had him wrestle between his compulsion to soar above the rooftops of Gotham City as Batman and the apathetic cad that Bruce Wayne portrayed himself as for so long. Was he Bruce Wayne playing Batman, or was it the other way around? Let me quell the debate for all time: no one gives a fuck about Bruce Wayne. Wayne strolls around charity events and shmoozes with fake-ass crackers, Batman clobbers hordes of henchmen and fights the Joker in an abandoned funhouse. Bruce Wayne calls his lawyer before going skiing in Aspen, Batman dodges giant silver dollars and fights Two-Face on a floating platform in Gotham River. There's no contest. If you really think you've got to choose, then you're probably too pussy to be Batman in the first place.

Perhaps I overstated the importance of my hip-hop "movement"

2007-01-14T15:47:00.000-05:00

I admit it, I was being a bit hyperbolic about my hip-hop "movement" and the change it would effect within the music industry and society as a whole. It was an overblown attempt to garner more interest in my music. Part of being a rapper is projecting arrogance, but I've learned that being arrogant doesn't mean being obstinate. I've also learned that if you're going to claim to have a movement, then it's got to have a lot more substance than over-sized t-shirts and claims of personal wealth.
Live and learn, right? You'll never know how sorry I am to have involved so many innocent people in this wayward publicity stunt. When I asked you to ride or die for my rap movement, I assumed you knew that I meant I just wanted you to hang out and smoke blunts with me. Come to my shows, help loading and unloading the equipment, maybe work the merch table for a little bit. I certainly didn't expect you to start proselytizing about my movement or to declare war on other rap movements around the country. I definitely didn't expect you to engage in so many violent gun battles over the issue. When I asked you to ride or die, I should have said that the emphasis was on the riding part.
I suppose that I should be proud that I project such authority, I can get people to align with me so readily. I just wish it was over something like world peace or curbing drug abuse, rather than convincing someone to spit a hot sixteen bars on my mixtape for free. When the governor called me to ask for advice on welfare reform, I knew I had pushed things too far. I could have ended it there, I could have said, "Sorry, Mr. Governor, but my movement is not politically-based, and it only has anything to do with selling records." But I didn't do that. I told him that he should distribute several Streetz iz Skwawkin' promotional t-shirts to welfare recipients as a show of good faith. I didn't realize this would mean they would have to cut out WIC assistance.
Well, I made my bed, and now I'm going to have to lie in it. I've been unanimously installed as the leader of the free world, and I wish I could be more prideful about it. But quite honestly, I am scared out of my wits. I don't know if my rap movement is going to translate very well overseas, where English isn't the primary language. And from what my advisors tell me, some of those countries are pretty pissed off at America. I'm kind of wishing I didn't cut Mr. Skolbrick's Social Studies class every day of my high school's junior year about now.

Your bravery is an inspiration to me

2007-01-04T14:39:00.000-05:00

I knew you were courageous from the moment I met you. Unafraid to speak your mind and take calculated risks, you are a breath of fresh air in my life. But it wasn't until last Sunday, when we went to see the football game at Giants Stadium, that I realized how brave you truly are. There we were, in the belly of the beast, and you had the unabashed audacity to wear a cap bearing the logo of the New York Jets! Oh how I admire and and respect you for that.
Some people would have thought it disrespectful or contrary, but I know that you were making a small statement in the hopes of shaking things up a bit. You wanted to unsettle those haughty sports fans from their coccoon of shared fandom. It matters not that you couldn't name one player on the Jets, or that you don't even like football that much to begin with. That just makes your statement all the more outrageous and satisfying. Some would have been embarassed, but I was proud to be attending the game with someone who isn't afraid to speak their mind, even when it's unpopular. I wish there were more people in the world like you.
I was tempted to defend your honor when some Giants fans deigned to call you a "loser" and a "fag." I wanted to stand up, turn around, and point my finger in accusation at them. How could a "loser" show such bravery in a stadium full of opposition? Would a "fag" be so bold as to wear the cap of another team at a sporting event? But I held my tongue, not wanting to tarnish your subtle but effective statement about the futility of sports fanatacism. Bravo to you, my stalwart and courageous friend. You are a true revolutionary, swimming against the tide of conformity. Keep paddling, for all our sakes.

Merry Christmas to All (Except Jews, Muslims, and Others)

2006-12-22T11:51:00.000-05:00

God rest ye,
Phi-la-flavians
Let nothing you dismay
Despite server capacity
Overloading ev’ry day
And if I can’t read forums
Then I must deal with my in-tray!

O tidings of Nas versus Jeezy
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

In My Two Cents, Phila dot com,
We learn hip-hop sure blows
From the smallest myspace rapper kid
All the way up to Young Dro
If Sage Francis is up to anything
Employee will let us know

O tidings of Nas versus The Clipse
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

If you want to do rap knowledge
Then you need to check out T.R.O.Y.
There, you will find the classic hits
Thirty-somethings all enjoy
And if you don’t know about T La Rock
JBL calls you a toy

O tidings of Nas versus the new Ghost
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

You just want to talk some trash, then
P&B forum, seek it out
It’s where many of the in-jokes start
And stuff I just won’t speak about
And if you’re lucky, you might see
Good ol’ Jaz straight freaking out!

O tidings of Nas versus Lil Wayne
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

For non-rap entertainment
Then Your Enthusiasm, please Curb
Read up on movies and TV
Shows ev’ryone should observe
But if you lack that HBO
Then boy, you’ve got some nerve!

O tidings of Nas versus AZ
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

Should you like tunes besides the rap
Rick Rubin is your place
Where other genres are discussed
With propriety and grace
But if you bring up emo rock
Masked Terror break-a you face

O tidings of Nas versus The Roots
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

For opinionated Phila-folk
Try Steve Biko (Stir It Up)
There’s politics and news items
And war being discussed
If Sebastian gets busy in a thread
Then you know it got fucked up

O tidings of Nas versus T.I.
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

There’s only one place on Phila-flave
For athletic discourse
Where people make predictions
On a variety of sports
And at the end of every season
There is a much gambler’s remorse

O tidings of Nas versus Snoop Dog
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

There are two forums on the page
Many posters seem to skirt
Where beatsmiths and keystyle MC’s
Display their gift and curse
But they see so few new posts per day
I jammed them in one verse

O tidings of Nas versus Raekwon
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

If video gaming be your vice
Electric Relax shall be your home
Smooth Lou extols his praise
Of all things Nin-ten-do
But you won’t learn how to cure your
Carpal tunnel syndrome

O tidings of Nas versus The Game
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

There are other forums on the site
You may not check them ev’ry day
One for tech and one for shows
One to trade rare tunes to play
The latter, I don’t understand
Since one can always use eBay

O tidings of Nas versus Lloyd Banks
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

Yes, Phila is a lovely spot
Fine for ev’ry creed and race
Have convos that, in real life,
Could not have taken place
Be sure to refresh constantly if
You love the thrill of chase!

O tidings of Nas versus Cormega
Nas versus Hov
Glad tidings of Nas versus the world!

Superman is such a total asshole

2006-12-12T10:42:00.000-05:00

It's not like I don't respect the guy. I mean, he's Superman. I get it. There isn't a whole lot he can't do. And I'm grateful for everything he's done. I just wish that, sometimes, he would let one of us other superheroes take a crisis once in a while. It's not like we're helpless. I can run fast enough to crack the sound barrier, for crying out loud! But everytime I'm just about to spin a bad guy dizzy with an impromptu whirlwind, in flies Superman to save the day. Cut me some slack already!
Besides, this isn't even his turf! He's supposed to handle Metropolis, I've got Central City. I think it's pretty fitting, if you ask me. I certainly wouldn't want to tangle with the enemies he's got, like Lex Luthor and Darkseid. And I don't see why he wants to waste his super-breath on the guys I tangle with, like the Turtle and the Mirror Master. Who can't defeat the Mirror Master? All you have to do is trap him in whatever mirror device he's concocted at the moment. I do a pretty good job at that, with my super-speed. But does Superman lay off for a fucking minute? No. As soon as word gets out that Mirror Master stole some antique mirrors from the Central City Musuem, here comes that glory hog Superman, finding Mirror Master with X-ray vision and then knocking him out cold with a flick of his pinky. How about some theatrics, Superman? Mirror Master went through the trouble of making that latex suit and devising a way to travel through various mirrors, the least you could do is make a show of kicking his ass.
What really kills me is that Superman isn't even from this planet. He's an alien! And yet everyone sees fit to give him total reign and take jobs from other, earth-born superheroes. We have egos to feed too, you know. Just give me a chance. I can run over water like a skipping stone. I can vibrate my molecules through walls. And while I understand that Superman can pretty much outdo those abilities, I still think I should get my shot against the occasional super villain. At least some jerk-off like Boomerang Man.

The way we treat the mentally ill is deplorable

2006-12-07T16:36:00.000-05:00

Unless you were unlucky enough to be born a foreigner, I can assume that we are all Americans here. We live in, or are from, the most wealthy and powerful nation on earth. Mountains move at our whim; nations topple at our insistence. Our feats of engineering are marvelous works and our social welfare is second to none--unless you ask the recipients of said welfare. They're never satisfied. All in all, we live in a fairly progressive country, one that we can all be proud of and which is the envy of would-be fat people the world over. However, there is one section of our citizenry which does not receive the due care and attention that they deserve. One area in which we are still as backwards as the most retarded Albanian. That area, my fellow Americans, is how we care for the mentally ill.
To be sure, progress has been made. Not but a hundred years ago, we shackled our mentally retarded Americans in padded rooms and administered electro-shock therapy. Well, we've removed the shackles, but we're still not a lot better off than we were when Teddy Roosevelt was president and tried to have the letter "e" officially removed from the word "whiskey." Many concerned people, myself among them, would say that we are actually crueler and less understanding towards the mentally sick than we were in the age before radio. We have the best doctors, the most robust pharmaceutical industry on the planet, and yet we still cannot aid those who need it the most. It's a damn shame.
One needs only watch a few reality programs centered around celebrities to understand how bad this problem has become. These people are the most debased, retarded, and borderline schizoid persons to be shown on television since The Arsenio Hall Show was still on the air. One can't help but pity them. Here is a group of people that can barely perform basic duties for themselves, and what have we, as a nation, done? We've allowed them access to millions of dollars and shoved cameras in their faces. Ladies and gentlemen of sanity, the blame lies squarely with ourselves. We have failed our mentally ill Americans in the worst way.
We don't need to keep stumbling down this morally bankrupt and deplorable path. We can still save the Michael Jacksons, the Tom Cruises, the Lindsay Lohans and the Oprah Winfreys of the world if we band together and say, "I'm sorry. We should never have allowed you unfettered access to money and publicity. We should never have filmed your moronic antics for everyone to laugh at. That was mean of us. But rehabilitation begins today." These people need our help, now more than ever. Many of them have such bizzare delusions of grandeur that they have sought--and won--public office. Many of them are self-styled revolutionaries with paranoid complexes, like George Clooney. But these people need not despair in the dark recesses of the human mind and longer. If we take a stand and promise our mentally indigent citizens that we will care for them in the way a functioning society should--that is, with electro-shock treatments and lobotomies--then we can turn around this shameful facet of American life right away. It isn't too late to save our country's retarded celebrities. Except for Gary Busey, that is. I'm pretty sure he's a lost cause.

Italicized movie title angers critics, typesetters

2006-11-27T15:17:00.000-05:00

Hurray Four, Hollywood -- Promotion for a new blockbuster movie slated for a Summer 2007 release has ground to a halt after a furor raised over its controversial title. The actual title hasn't been decided upon, but the producers of the film, Residential Studios, leaked the suggestion that they were considering using italicized type for whatever word or words would compose the title, immediately raising the ire of film critics and internet bloggers worldwide.
"This is scintillatingly preposterous," commented Neil Silvers, film critic for the Annawonka Daily Press, "It goes against the normal practice of titling a movie in roman characters, only to be italicized when referenced in the press. Now what are we to do? Are we to write the movie title in roman characters and confuse the reader? Or should we keep the italics in our reviews and subject ourselves to criticism by English teachers and other punctuation watchdogs?" Silvers further noted that it will cause mayhem with critic blurbs that are often peppered on newspaper and television movie ads. "To put it bluntly, this is devestatingly abrasive to my senses."
The point about the critic's blurb seems to be the most sticky among the italicized movie title's detractors. Sidney Folton, head critic at coolflickz.com noted, "Blurbs are usually italicized themselves, to show the enthusiasm that the critic had while observing the movie. Often it's something like 'Dazzling!' or '...simply enchanting!' The point I am trying to make is that the italics are important here, and to make the movie's title in italics cheapens that whole effect." Though Sidney has no further advanced information about this movie and doesn't even know what it's about, he said that he's already going to drop an entire grade from the review if they go ahead with this italicized title. "There's no way that a movie with an italicized title is going to get more than four Popcorn Tubs," he said, referencing the points that coolflickz.com uses in lieu of stars, "I mean, that's the kind of rating you reserve for classics like Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and Batman Begins, not for an upstart little flick that wants to change all the rules."
Despite the studio's retraction of the italicized movie title rumor, many are resigned to figuring out how they would work an italicized movie title into their respective reviews and internet commentary. "I don't know preciselty what I will do, but I am looking into several options," said Gary Huss of the Beaverton Weekend Guide, "I might use another font, I might run it in all caps. I might even go bold, though that is unlikely." Responding to a suggestion that he could put quotes around the movie title for review purposes, Huss scoffed. "That would run the blurbs, which are themselves between two quotes! What, shall we start using single quotes now when necessary? Don't be stupid."

How much do you really love me?

2006-11-17T12:29:00.000-05:00

My dear, I love you more than mere words can express. My love for you is as boundless as a child's imagination, as true as the hardest scientific fact. It wells up from within my soul and pools in my heart which beats nothing but sincere enamor for your being. I worship the ground upon which you walk. I covet the air that you exhale. To speak with you is to live, really live, instead of being a shell of a person that waits for you to fill the empty space within. To be sure, I would love you forever even if you spurned my affection, but you have responded to my love in kind which sends me soaring above the clouds in ultimate elation and exuberance. I can be nothing but thankful for and humbled by your love, however, I wonder if it is as true and steadfast as mine. For example, say we were in a restaurant kitchen after hours and were surprised by a burgular. Say that burgular was able to lock us in the meat freezer overnight. Would you pound at the door and try to get help, or would you sit with me and confess your feelings, allowing our combined body warmth to sustain us until the restaurant opened for business?
I know it is asking a lot, but I need to know where I stand before I give away any more of my fragile heart. Suppose I had to go into an apartment building's basement storage locker to get something, and you came with me. Suppose that the door to the storage locker swung closed while we were inside, locking us in. Would you spend all of your time trying to pry the door open, or get someone's attention, or otherwise be wrapped up in your own comfort, or would you reminisce with me about days gone by, trading anecdotes and tales from which we learned how to laugh, live...and love? Would you accept our situation as an opportunity to strengthen the bond between us that means so much to me? Would it matter to you if I was wearing a Superman costume?
Yes, the road of life can be winding and difficult, and it is important to me that you are committed to remaining with me as I am to you. This is why I must ask: if we were taking an elevator in a high-rise building, and there was an electrical malfunction that caused it to stop between floors, would you use the emergency exit in the ceiling to get to safety, or would you huddle with me on the floor and talk about fun days in our recent past? I am not asking for you to die with me, I am merely asking that you abide with me in times of need, and to use these times to run down a "clip show episode" of our lives. Because if you cannot do that, my dear, then I fear that we are not to be. It means that we must tie up all loose ends and have our finale episode. And while I might be amenable to a long-term syndication of our relationship, you and I both know it will never be quite the same as the first-run.

Republican Party Abdicates, Passes Holy Skull to Pelosi

2006-11-10T13:34:00.000-05:00

The Great Domed Hut, Washington, D.C. -- After a sweeping midterm victory by Democratic candidates for Congress and Senate, Republican President Bush officially acknowledged the opposing party's victory and relenquished his power in a typical Ceremony of Submission, which included a stylistic circle dance around a raging bonfire and the drinking of sacrificial rabbit's blood. To conclude the ceremony and mark the occasion, Bush prayed over the bejeweled Holy Skull and handed it to new Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, the first Democratic Speaker in over a decade and the first woman to ever hold the Holy Skull or wear the ceremonial speaker's headdress.
"In the past, those who have wielded this Holy Skull have done injustice to this position," said Speaker Pelosi before a gathering of disciples, "but I promise to always perform my duties with courtesy and righteousness, as decreed by our forbears in the Cave Upon the Golden Mountain." Pelosi then scarred her left cheek with the Emerald of Sustenance to show all the dedication with which she would assume her new job.
Some detractors, however, were not so sure. "Every Speaker since Schuyler Colfax has scarred themselves with the Emerald of Sustenance," grumbled Republican Representative John Boehner of Ohio, "it doesn't really mean that they are pure of heart and of courageous mind. She still has to pass the Trials of Zhungg and retrieve the Glass Sarcophagus before we can be sure of that."
President Bush, in a show of non-partisan alliance, supported Speaker Pelosi's new position and her ability to complete the forthcoming trials. "I am merely interested in working together with the Democratic Congress to do what's necessary for the American people. I have faith that Ms. Pelosi will perform admirably both as Speaker of the House and when she must submit to the Winds of Verticus during the Trials of Zhungg. No Speaker, once appointed, have ever failed these Trials, and I don't believe that this situation will be any different. All is still well with your United States government. It is exactly as ordained by the mighty god Khatt'kharon, who rides his mystical chariot through the night sky and keeps watch over our people."

Jay-Z to Bush: Push Back Nuclear War

2006-11-03T14:33:00.000-05:00

Armchair Expertise, NY -- President of rap music record label Def Jam, Sean "Jay-Z" Carter, has fostered some commercial successes and failures since assuming his position in 2004. Having learned from his short experience, Jay issued a public letter to U.S. president George W. Bush offering unsolicited advice on how to run his presidency, most notably the suggestion that Bush "push back war with North Korea."
"It's not ready yet," wrote Jay-Z in the third paragraph of a page-long letter, which has made the rounds on the internet and will be published in various entertainment magazines in coming weeks, "the streets aren't feeling it. North Korea is just trying to get your goat, man. Those cats know they're not going to pull any numbers without riding on your coattails. Just ignore 'em like I did to the fool Cam'Ron."
Jay-Z further recommends that Bush "shelve" his war with Iran and "relaunch" the current military occupation in Iraq, for which the U.S. president has received much criticism. "Honestly, I think the Iran project could be hot--blazing hot. But you need to rework the whole thing from the ground up. You gotta portray these cats as pure villains that are threatening India's security, and therefore threatening our economy by way of our outsourced labor. And you need to tell India to fall back, man, clip these nuclear weapons before it gets too complicated. It's like giving a hot Scott Storch beat to some young cat on the come-up. It's too much heat for them, they don't know what to do with it."
On the Iraq occupation, Jay-Z writes: "...[H]eads ain't feeling it no more. It's like with Ludacris, releasing the same album over and over again. Eventually people are gonna fiend for some new shit." Jay-Z recommends a new take on this aging conflict in order for it to gain new interest: "Iraq needs an event right now. Last hot thing that happened there was capturing Abu Abbas, and I think that went over a lot fans' heads. You need to restructure and reach out to the people, man, have an event that galvanizes popular support again." Jay-Z goes on to make several concrete suggestions, including adding more technology to the war effort, wrapping city buses in vinyl stickers that promote the Iraq occupation, and a possible name change for the president. "You can announce your retirement, and then a little while later come out of retirement with a new name. That always gets the fans salivating. I suggest something like 'George Bushwhacka' or 'G. Bitty'."
Though there has been no official response from the executive office, sources close to President Bush say he has read the letter and is taking some of the suggestions under consideration. "I can say that [Bush] has banned Cristal champagne from White House dinners and he is in talks with Reebok about a line of walking sneakers with the presidential seal on them," said one White House staffer, who asked not to be identified.

Halloween Safety Tips

2006-10-31T11:12:00.000-05:00

Today is Halloween, a day when children dress up as their favorite toy commercials and go around the neighborhood begging for morsels of sugar. It is a holiday rich in tradition and purchase-point marketing campaigns, and it is probably the only time of year you can scare kids into soiling their underwear without being brought up on child abuse charges. Halloween is not, however, without its pitfalls and dangers, and so I have devised a short list of simple but effective ideas you can implement to ensure that you will have a happy and safe All Hallow's Eve.

Do not separate from your group in order to smoke pot or have sex.
This is probably the most important rule to observe on Halloween, yet it is the one least followed by nubile teenagers and college co-eds. For reasons not entirely known, nothing incenses a serial killer more than young people smoking weed and/or screwing. It drives them into a mad rage that will certainly result in dismemberment and death. My theory is that most serial killers are neo-conservatives driven to the edge of sanity by the strict moral demands of their political party, so they have chosen to take matters into their own hands and bring righteousness back to America one person at a time. This is why I strongly advise against illegally crossing the Mexican-American border or having a gay marriage ceremony on Halloween as well.

Do not engage in long telephone conversations with murderers
About twenty percent of Halloween murders occur because the victim stayed on the phone with their killer long enough for said killer to sneak up behind them. This is particularly important in this age of cellular phones, which allows a razor-wielding maniac more space to roam about than ever before. Try to keep conversations with these crazies to a minimum, asking "Who is this?" once or maybe twice. If you find yourself saying, "I don't appreciate this, Bobby, it isn't funny," more than three times, then you've stayed on the phone for too long. If you pick up the phone and hear a raspy voice mutter, "I'm going to kill you," politely thank the caller and hang up, then arm yourself with a golf club and retreat to a corner of the room.

If you come face-to-face with a serial killer, do pretend to be his mother
It's no secret that most serial killers have serious Oedipal issues, and you can use that fact to your advantage. It doesn't need to be an incredible performance, just one convincing enough for a brain-damaged man-child to believe. Use simple phrases like "come to mommy" and "that's a good boy" and other things that the killer's mother most likely never said to him when she was alive, and not a skeleton with a wig on secured to a rocking chair in a basement. Most importantly, make sure that you are directly in the line of sight between the killer and his mother's corpse. You are trying to soothe, and not confuse this dangerous character.

When trapped, stall for time
If you are lucky enough to have encountered a serial killer of the coherent type, then you can stall for time and lengthen your life by precious moments if you engage the killer in conversation. Appeal to his ego and force him to reveal his masterful, diabolical plan. Serial killers are much like serial movie villains, in this respect, except where serial movie villains want to take over the world, serial killers are just acting on their violent and confused sexual impulses. And hey, you never know--you just might make a friend.

Do not go into the basement
I don't care what it sounds like down there, do not go into the basement under any circumstances. You will find dismembered bodies and, more than likely, a sickle-wielding murderer. If it really is just a cat, or just the wind, then there's no harm in checking tomorrow morning in the light of day, is there? Seriously, just stay upstairs, huddled under a blanket and clutching a flashlight with dying batteries. You'll be much safer and, if you're lucky, the killer will expire from asbestos inhalation long before you need to go down and get another jar of apple butter (NOTE: bring up extra apple butter on October 30th just to be sure).

New Jersey Allows Gay, Mutant Marriages

2006-10-27T15:59:00.000-04:00

New Joisey, NJ -- The state supreme court of New Jersey handed down a landmark ruling this week that allowed same sex couples the right to the priveleges of marriage, though they will technically be considered civil unions. Tacked onto this ruling was a stipulation also granting genetically mutated people the right to marry and obtain fishing licenses, reversing a law that has been on the books since the seventeenth century. It is hoped that the "mutant marriage" law will have a snowball effect and lead to other mutant-friendly legislation, including the right to obtain driver's licenses and the right to shop in public during daylight hours.
"In no way should this combined ruling be received as an insinuation that homosexuals and mutants are the same," said Assemblyman Reed Gusgora at a Trenton press conference, "there is a difference. Mutants are genetically-deformed humans that often have visible physical deformities as well as superhuman powers, like the ability to shoot lasers from their eyes or control invisible electromagnetic forces. Homosexuals are simply abominations to God."
The ruling has led to much controversy and protest by conservative Christian and anti-mutant groups. "This is an abomination to the institution of marriage," said Gertie Jasperson of the Children Now! coalition, which has been against progressive marriage legislation for years, "A marriage is a holy union between a man and a woman, not some tax break for a guy with tentacles for arms and a woman that can turn invisible. God must be spinning in His grave about now."
Another protestor, who asked for anonimity, said, "They already get the handicapped seats on the bus. What more do they want?"
Assemblyman Gusgora noted that this ruling was not only fair but necessary. "New Jersey has always been known as a progressive, tolerant state. We also have the highest concentration of mutants within our citizenry in the country. We feel that to exclude both homosexuals and mutants from the marriage rights afforded our heterosexual voters is not a fair reflection of our state." After a thoughtful pause, Gusgora concluded with, "Perhaps when we shut down the Hoboken chemical plants, we can review this legislation. Until then, mutants are here to stay."

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2006-10-19T11:43:00.000-04:00

Commercial Cartoon Animal Mascots

THE GOOD: Famous Dave's BBQ chef pig

There isn't much in this world more entertaining than a cute li'l animal enticing you to eat himself and his family. It's this humble recognition of their place on the food chain that makes many animals so cuddly. "Just reach in and grab a hunk of my rib cage, I don't mind. I was just going to spend my life stewing in my own shit anyway. Enjoy!" Different Famous Dave's apparently have variation on the pig chef, but I like the one pictured above because he's actually preparing to serve a member of his own species. I like to think it's his mother, who doted on and mollycoddled him as a piglet, wouldn't let him root his snout around with the other pigs in the pen, held him back from dating sows and ultimately crippled his socialization skills. You said I'd always be in your heart, mom, well I peeled back your hide and found out that it wasn't true. Now I'm curing your ass in some brine in preparation for some thick-cut, country-style bacon. You really should have sprung for soccer camp.

THE BAD: Microsoft Windows search dog

This is what happens when attempting to be "user friendly" goes too far. Heavens forbid we employ a search option that doesn't come with an uninspired cartoon figure to walk us through it! This little yellow mutt is really more trouble than its worth, asking a litany of questions when all I want to do is find out which folder I dropped the Dustin "Screech" Diamond celebrity porno into. The dog goes through all these minstrations and animations that are supposed to be cute, but they just eat up disk space that could be used to, you know, employ a faster search engine. Little old ladies that use the computer to receive e-mailed photos of family members, which get promptly printed out anyway, wouldn't know how to create a folder much less do a file search. And for the younger generation, waiting ten seconds for a videotaped street fight to load from YouTube is an endlessly aggravating hassle. Let's do the humane thing and euthanize this stupid dog already.

THE MEDIOCRE: Geico Car Insurance Aussie lizard

Look, no one is saying that Australian accents aren't funny. They are. This was proven way back in the Eighties when that crew-cut weightlifter from Oz did a Duracell commercial. I don't remember anything about it except that his catch phrase was "Oi!" So I get it: Aussies are crude and hilarious. But this little lizard really leaves much to be desired. Where's the slang gibberish? Where's the ten-inch hunting knife? How is this little tyke going to put "shrimp on the barbie" when each prawn is almost as big as he is? Is he ever going to get around to telling us about the amazing new space age Vaccu-Broom or what? It's a decent effort, but I prefer my Australians to be throwing money from hot-air balloons or thrusting their fists into the mouths of crocodiles. This bald little reptile doesn't even have a funny haircut. I think I'll go with esurance.com; they have a hot cartoon chick plugging for their wares.

Detroit Tigers motivated by fans, lucrative endorsement deals

2006-10-17T13:54:00.001-04:00

Detroit, MI -- Still elated after taking the American League pennant late last week, members of the Detroit Tigers are geared up to win the entire World Series, many of them practicing and training harder than ever before. "We owe it to the fans," said manager Jim Leyland of the team, which has not won a championship since 1984, "but more than the fans, we owe it to our accountants and our investment portfolios."
Endorsement deals for everything from toothpaste to quick-dry epoxy have been rolling in for the Tigers since they clinched their spot in the pennant race last Friday, October 13th, but members of the team say they are holding out for the big corporations before signing any contracts. "I really think we have a good chance of winning the whole thing," said catcher Ivan Rodriguez, "if we just focus and keep our minds on the potential four-million dollar contract that will be offered to me by Rogaine." When asked if he was balding, Rodriguez replied, "No, but why wait for a full pitching count when you can blast a home run on the first toss? That statement right there will hopefully earn me two-hundred thou in a week and a half."
A problem did arise when first baseman Sean Casey had to discontinue talks with fast food giant KFC before any money could be offered. This was due to a clause in star pitcher Kenny Roger's player contract that the Tigers would endorse only Kenny Rogers' Roasters brand fast food, if any at all. "It was a conflict of interest," said Casey of the incident, "and I am a team player, first and foremost." Rogers himself commented on the issue: "What happened with Casey was regrettable, but a contract is a contract. It's too bad because neither I nor the rest of the ballclub have any intention of endorsing [Kenny Rogers'] Roasters. You know what they were offering? Twenty grand and unlimited free buckets of chicken. Get the fuck out of here with that noise! I could do one Nike commercial and have enough chicken to eat myself stupid."
Much of America will be glued to their televisions next week to find out which team will go on to multi-million dollar commercial deals and which will have to add their names to children's day camps and burn wards just to stay relevant. "It's a tough game," said seasoned manager Leyland, "it's not for everyone. You've got to be very tenacious, dedicated, and willing to sacrifice. It also helps if you've got a bright smile and your skin isn't too pock-marked. That is, unless you intend to endorse Pro-Activ."

Regrets, I've had a few

2006-10-12T14:41:00.000-04:00

I've come to a point in my life that I can reflect and realize that there's no going back, until Doc gets back from the future with the Delorean, that is. For now, I'm content to recall my successes, lament my failures, and assess where I will go from here. I'm not stupidly optimistic; I realize that many of my youthful opportunities are lost and more are dwindling every day. It's humbling, really, and I think it's an important growing excercise to objectively realize that you aren't going to necessarily be the person you had planned to be in grade school. Still, I can't help but regret not taking certain chances and opportunities when they were presented to me, for now they are surely a lost cause. For example, I now know that I will never be able to touch a black person's hair.
I am physically able, of course. But mentally, I know it's a kind of fucked-up, demeaning thing to do, and I couldn't in good conscience feign ignorance. I could have easily gotten away with this as a toddler, when you're laying your hands on everything that doesn't run away anyhow. I probably could have even touched a black person's hair as a teenager, under the rubrick of wanting to extend the olive branch of racial understanding. But I didn't, and I suppose I am paying for my hesitance now. How I would love to caress the kinky tufts of a black man, to squeeze a dreadlock in my fingers and gauge its density! But alas, it is not to be. That ship has sailed, and I will have to make do by petting velcro and imagining what might have been.

America's Brain-Dead Teenaged Workforce in Trouble

2006-10-09T14:54:00.000-04:00

Collapsing video rental and retail music industries having an adverse effect on the chronically stoned

Hemptastic, OR -- Most residents of this small town barely batted an eyelid when the Blockbuster Video in the Clover Hills outdoor shopping mall closed down last March. There was minimal fuss raised over the closing of Dangerous Dave's Discs and Tower Records, both in July. This internet-savvy town understands that purchase point retail operations are a thing of the past, when today you can get your favorite albums and videos online from "virtual" stores like amazon.com and imitators. However, they are now seeing undesirable results from the closure of these businesses and other layoffs in the local food service and shoe sales industries: more and more teenaged ne'er-do-wells hanging around the downtown area, most likely up to "no good."

"The closure of several area Blockbuster stores was a purely fiscal decision," began a prepared statement issued to the media by Viacom Entertainment, the gigantic corporation that owns the Blockbuster brand, "We knew it would have some impact on the economy, but we didn't dream it would have this kind of impact." The statement went on to say that it hoped Taco Bell/KFC and Staples would step in and employ some of these layabouts "during our time of crisis" while Blockbuster completely retools its operations to accomodate a new world of online video rental. "When we are done working out the kinks, I can't promise that we will be able to re-employ these lackadaisical teenaged slackers, but we will be able to provide them with the necessarily mind-numbing entertainment that will keep them docile."

A small segment of the academic community, however, has been warning against a glut of bored, ambling teens for some time now. "I foretold this exact thing back in 1974 when I wrote a paper condemning globalization and corporate chain stores," smugly mused Dr. Fertillingsworth from his office in the Economics Department of Princeton University, "At that time, the worry was that chain music retailers would put independently-run operations out of business, the latter being the number-one employer of moronic teens back then. And they scoffed at me then. Scoffed! Well, nobody's scoffing now. Uh, except the teenagers."

For the most part, the teens filling up downtown areas all over America seem harmless enough, they just seem exceedingly stoned and/or stupid. "I am a senior citizen, and my time is valuable," said Edith Rumrunner, aged 78, "and the other day I stood behind some baggy-pantsed vagabond on line for the bus for fifteen minutes while he tried to pick the necessary exact change from his pocket for the fare. And after all that time, turns out he didn't even need to take that bus! I tried to be angry with him, but really, I just pitied the poor creature. I know I shouldn't have, but I gave him a coupon for a free Starbucks latte."

Real Reality Programming

2006-09-08T11:41:00.000-04:00

Seems to me that more and more people are getting sucked into "reality" television programming by the moment. It's no secret that folks are more involved in what their favorite reality stars are up to than what their elected politicians are doing or what our foreign policy is. And you know, that's fine. Politics is fucking boring, but chicks puking on television is great. The best part is that these programs can often be made for next to nothing, so Hollywood and the entertainment industry can get richer than they ever have before. So you see it is a win-win situation.

Still, I can't help but feel like reality television can be harnessed for some good in this world. It's impossible for a force this powerful not to have some beneficial applications. So I've devised five new reality programs with a mind towards easing the ills of society and the world at large. As long as you stay glued to your television every night, we can make this world a better place.

Who Wants to Be a Fed Person?
This show can really be done anywhere that people are starving: Ethiopia, Cambodia, Detroit, etc. The premise is very simple. Just get a predetermined group of starving people and make them earn points towards a square meal. Obviously these people will be famished, so physical stunts are out of the question. I'm thinking it should be more like a game show, where you ask contestants multiple choice questions and award points for right answers. For example, a query could be "who is God?" and the options are: a) ethereal essence that binds the universe, b) fictional construct created by mankind to explain phenomena, c) Jesus Christ. I'm not going to give away the answer, but let's just say that the meal awarded at the end of each episode will not be kosher or halal.

Dubya Dare
This one's based on that old Nickelodeon game show, Double Dare, except that it shouldn't be hosted by an obsessive-compulsive neurotic weirdo. Instead, contestants will be flown to various Middle Eastern countries to flush out terrorists and uncover caches of weapons. There will be a time limit, and various obstacles like families and the homes they live in will need to be overcome. However, contestants will be equipped with the latest military technology and a twenty-thousand person standing army, which should even the odds a little bit. Keep in mind that the tasks required for this show are very dangerous! For this reason, contestants will be required to wear goggles whenever attempting to complete a raid.

Whose Lie is It Anyway?
A contestant, picked at random from the studio audience, will be presented with three hidden politicians who present their policy or make a statement. The contestant then must figure out which statements are true and which are false. The trick here is that almost all the statements are false, so contestants will wrack their brains trying to discern a truth that simply isn't there. And if the contestant starts wising up, you can throw in a truth which seems so outlandish that they will most likely assume it is false, for example, that Halliburton is helping to develop Iran's nuclear program.

Punch Paris Hilton in the Face
Not really a game as much as it is a public service. Paris is held in place by stocks and chains and the audience lines up to give her one good punch apiece. Biggest problem with this show will be allocating the stadium necessary to hold said audience.

End Times Survivor
A bunch of contestants have to beat the clock and warn everyone that Global Warming is real and that we are feeling the repurcussions of it before the human race extinguishes itself. They may pick one thing to aid them from a select group of items, including rising oceanic temperature statistics, graphs depicting ozone layer depletion, and Al Gore. Smart players will try to turn environmental awareness into positive monetary gain as they try to persuade heads of pollution-causing corporations; less astute players will harass people in SUV's and get the snot kicked out of them. For this one, we can award as grandiose a prize as can be possibly imagined, because even if a contestant completes the goal and convinces the world about Global Warming, it is still too late to do anything about it. The human race is just fucked.

Pardon me, I couldn't help noticing your tits

2006-08-10T15:20:00.000-04:00

Summer in New York City brings out the best and the worst in women's fashion. On the plus side, it does seem to be a time for females to showcase their chest cleavage, with usually desirable results. I am for this practice, being that I am 1) a male, and 2) the sensitive type that believes ladies deserve a little cooling off in that area which is hampered by excess fat and apparently some kind of hypnotic machine which makes men do their bidding. I'm a fan of the "snapshot" method of checking out females, that is, to glance quickly at a woman and then hold within the recesses of my sitcom television-choked mind an image of her, with which I can do as I please without any complaints from her or officials that take our arcane statuatory rape laws too seriously. Peripheral vision can help fill in any details to make the image more three-dimensional. This is a practice I have perfected over my lifetime, and I believe it has served me and my parole stipulations well.
I'll be honest: when a woman catches me staring at her chest and makes a scowl, I get embarassed. I'm not trying to violate ladies with my eyes. I'm just trying to file these fine honies into my mental rolodex which includes Vida Guerra and Daphne from Scooby Doo. So I take particular umbrage at ladies who walk around with Band-Aids over their nipples or tank tops with slogans and logos emblazoned across the chest, and yet still get all in a huff over a little innocent staring. It doesn't just happen to me; I see men all around New York City getting caught out there trying to read some paragraph-long admission to slutdom below a woman's neckline. Don't cross your arms and glower at me, young lady. At least not until I've finished reading the ribbed tank top snugly hugging your rack that says, "take a picture, it will last longer." And then if I do take a picture, now I'm the one in police custody for harassment charges. Yeah. That's justice all right.
Here's the thing: if you're going to walk around in a scrap of material that says "it's only cheating if you remember it," I'm just going to naturally assume you want me to look at your tits. There are plenty of regular-sized t-shirts and such with nothing written or printed on them that can be worn if you want to keep your mammaries more innocuous. This is not to say that I won't take my mental snapshot, but if you catch me gawking and you're wearing a plain ol' Russell Athletics t-shirt, well then you've got me dead-to-rights. But if your neckline is hovering a millimeter above your areola and the shirt reads "the hills of Virginia," and I find out your name is actually Virginia, well then I think that I should be able to gaze as long as I like. And I think that our elected officials would probably agree with me. The dudes will, anyway.

New Yorkers Seek Renumeration After Heat Wave

2006-08-04T11:24:00.000-04:00

First Batch of Many Expected Lawsuits Filed Today

New York, Oy Vey--After a record-breaking three-day heat wave that permeated New York City, killing one and inconveniencing millions, the city's citizens are finally getting back to life as normal. That means without power restrictions, without excessive smog alerts, and most importantly, to begin pointing fingers and placing dollar amounts on their suffering.
Energy supplier Con Edison is already under fire by several community watchdog groups and local politicians for various short-term power blackouts that happened throughout the city during the declared heat emergency. For many citizens, however, this is not enough. "My power didn't go out," said Mr. George Applepotomous of Astoria, "but I was still sweating my balls off. Don't I deserve some kind of payout for my troubles?" Attorney Mike Coditzhot apparently agrees, "The problems here don't stop at mere power outages and spoiled groceries. They reach all the way to the Sun itself."
With this in mind, dozens of lawsuits have been filed at various courthouses throughout the city, naming Mother Nature, Father Time, and the Sun God Ra, among others, as defendants. "It's time for these demi-gods to explain themselves," said Mr. Coditzhot before a small gathering of journalists, "to allow such extreme temperatures in this day and age is nothing short of unconscionable." One of the victims named in this lawsuit, Freida Heffer of Eastchester, is hoping for a settlement. "I want justice, but I'm hoping this case doesn't go to trial." she explained from the stoop of her apartment building, while vigorously fanning herself with a bus schedule. "I mean, have you ever had to sit in one of these courthouses? They get so hot and so humid. Ugh!"
Not everyone is looking to make money from litigation. Mr. Harold Heyenmeyser of Park Slope just wants answers. "I spent over forty dollars on ice cream just to cool off during the heat wave," said Mr. Heyenmeyser in between bites of a rapidly-melting ice cream cone, "but I don't want renumeration. I want answers. I want justice. What caused this terrible heat? Was it terrorists? Was it aliens? Was it the little devils inside popping corn that makes them pop? I just want answers." Mr. Heyenmeyser hopes his civil suit will spur an investigation that will provide the answers he needs.
Until these cases go to court, however, various deities and fictional characters named in the suits are presumed innocent, and therefore allowed to go free. Mr. Coditzhot had some words of warning for any of the defendants that might be looking to skip town before trial, "You can try to run, but you can't hide. Summer always comes back. And with the way we're spewing greenhouses gases into the atmosphere, you can bet that there will be another series of lawsuits on the table for next year."

"Black Friend" is Largely a Myth

2006-07-27T14:35:00.000-04:00

White Rash, Utopia -- At the annual "I'm OK, You're Non-White" conference on race and racism in Abilene, Texas, the University of Spokane released the results of an intensive three-year study on interracial friendships, with some surprising results. The report, a joint effort of the esteemed sociology and anthropology departments, definitively showed what many already suspected about interracial friendships in America: there aren't many. Most surprisingly, however, was the revelation that, though many white people purport to having a "black friend", this is not actually the case, in a literal sense.
"It seems that the 'black friend' spectre rears its head whenever a group of white people want to discuss racism," explained Professor J. Abu of the University of Spokane, "because it lends them an air of credibility. When pressed on the matter, many of these white people have been proven to have no black friends and barely any non-white friends at all." The most common interracial friendships with white people were with Asians, but respectable numbers were placed among latinos and Canadians. By and large, friendships between black and white people ranked lowest among interracial friendships, comprising less than 3% of friendships of any kind across the country.
One anonymous white person, cited in the report, admitted, "When I say 'I have a black friend,' I'm actually thinking of Jerome Watkinson from seventh grade. We sat next to each other, I lent him a pencil a couple of times. We got along pretty well." Another anonymous contributor offered this insight, "I have plenty of black colleagues, black people live in my neighborhood. We're all friendly with each other. Sure, we don't hang out or necessarily know each other by name, but we tolerate each other's existence, which is the first step towards friendship."
Professor Abu was less than glib about the findings. "The problem with the 'black friend' myth is that it suggests that, by having this black friend, one is allowed to opine on matters of race and racism because they, by an act of friendship, are proven not to be racist. It is actually quite the opposite." Stated Prof. Abu, "Allowing one black friend--real or imagined--to bestow a pass on a white person by association merely continues the same racist thinking where one person of color is an ambassador for an entire culture or race. I mean, this one black friend could be a total asshole."
Professor Abu also noted that many white people who actually do have a black friend are unknowingly sharing that same black friend with many other white people. "There were several cases where a white person was able to produce evidence of their black friend, and there were instances where disparate white people did have the same person as their black friend. In Southern California, there was a case where two-hundred white people all claimed the same black person as their friend." That person, who is unnamed for privacy reasons, was raised in an upper class all-white neighborhood and went to predominantly white private schools. "So you see," continued Professor Abu, "even though the black friend may be actual, it still doesn't give him the authority to bestow 'ghetto passes' or what-have-you."
Bruce Gordon of the NAACP couldn't be reached for comment, but Bruce Jenkins of 10th Avenue and 135th Street in New York City said, "Who wants one of these cracker bitches for a friend anyway?"

Here's a tip: Get a new job

2006-07-24T15:07:00.000-04:00

I don't know if it's as prevalent elsewhere in the world, but here in New York City, "tip cups" have become quite common. At the corner deli, at chain eating establishments, even at the bank I have seen plastic cups labeled "tips", stuffed with change and a few dollar bills, sharing counter space with cash registers and items for impulse purchases. The first problem I see here is that employees are vying for my spare money alongside Lemonhead candies and cigarette lighters with naked ladies on them. I don't know what you've been told, but in the war between friendly service and tits, tits win every time.
The real problem I have with this is that it seems basically like a license for employers to pay shit wages. Now, I don't have an ethical problem with tipping, as a whole. Any delivery person deserves a tip of some sort, being that they expend a lot of physical energy just so I can have a life-sized wax statue of Tiffany Amber-Thiessen in my living room. Mailpeople probably deserve some kind of nominal tip, so that they'll have second thoughts when the time comes to throw your important packages under the wheel of the mail truck. Same goes for plumbers, auto mechanics, and other service workers, for much the same reason. Tips in this case are basically like bribes: You didn't spit in my food, right? You didn't read my magazines in the bathroom without washing your hands before delivering them to my home? Are you sure you didn't just charge me $500 for five minutes of work and fifty cents in parts? Thank you. Here's two bucks for your trouble.
When tipping becomes a nuisance is when it starts to become more mandatory and less common sense. I'd say that restaurants were the first to employ this "gratuity", which is not unlike the thank you notes your mom made you write to Aunt Edna even though she got you the most hideous sweater again that you have no hope of ever wearing, ever. Really, I don't feel like thanking someone for simply doing their job. If your boss pays you nonsense money because the public is expected to shore you up to earning a liveable wage, then your boss needs to get run out on rails. Sometimes, a waiter goes beyond the call of duty and actually warrants a gratuity, but more often than not, you took my food order, some Mexican guy ran it out from the kitchen, and then you somehow timed your "Is everything all right?" queries to interrupt particularly engrossing bits of conversation, or to force patrons to nod with mouths stuffed full of food. Sounds to me like you simply performed your regular duties, however admirably. My only tip would be to not mention how well your band is going everytime you come by to fill up the water glasses. To afford eating here, we customers had to get real jobs, and we don't cotton to being reminded that people still have fun out there in the world.
But now, cashiers want in on this tip action, and I say it has to stop. Most of these chain store jobs have such a narrow scope that you couldn't act outside of the parameters of your job, even if you wanted to. If I went into a McDonald's and asked for a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, that would be a tip-worthy feat. But since you just cranked out another burger from your Play-Doh factory, and I had to pay two dollars for it, to boot, I don't see what you've done that should weasel another quarter out of my pocket. What you need to do is tell your boss that unless s/he can pay a wage that will sustain the lives of the company's employees, then the company itself is not sustainable. Pretty soon, robots will be performing all of our menial tasks, and they'll have no need for tips or tip cups. This is a good thing, because we're going to need all the tip cups we can get for panhandling.

It's no one's fault but my own

2006-07-18T13:45:00.000-04:00

Once, I was the envy of my peers and co-workers. I lorded over an empire of office supplies and letterhead stationery which was a topic of conversation, even in the Mighty Stock Room, from where most office supplies are derived. I never personally visited the Mighty Stock Room; I didn't need to. I burned that bridge when I laughed at the Mighty Stock Room employee as he tried to give me new Post-It Notes with the company website url printed on them. "Me?" I exclaimed, exasperated, "Young boy, I have enough Post-It Notes to affix to four sets of the Encyclopedia Britannica, without repeating color, size, or density!" I dismissed him with a cruel chuckle and a blithe wave of my hand. But I fear that my once-lofty empire is crumbling, and surely no one will help me back to where I once was. Amazingly, even though I had an entire filing cabinet drawer full of them at one time, I have completely run out of Medium Binder Clips.
This is a serious matter. It is not like when I ran out of pink, lined 3 x 5 index cards because I used my entire stock to create question cards for the mock game show at our annual company picnic. If anything, that was an mighty display of my hoarded office supplies, demonstrating that it is nothing for me to absorb two or even three packs of pink, lined 3 x 5 index cards, for I still have an admirable quantity in white, yellow and blue. I know it made more than one assistant jealous, considering that they actually use the cards for work purposes. Janie Salza from marketing even had the gall to ask me for some index cards a while back, in preparation for some project. I callously told her the Mighty Stock Room hours and sent her dejectedly on her way. You think she's going to give me any Medium Binder Clips now that I am in dire straits? Not a chance. In fact, if she catches wind of my office supply misstep, it will surely ruin my reptuation. But I can't hide my loss forever. I need my Medium Binder Clips.
Everyone knows that I like to affix ZIP disks to pertinent purchase orders using said Medium Binder Clips. Everyone knows this. And seeing as how I send out roughly a dozen or so purchase orders per day, it was clear that my supply would eventually expire. I didn't think. I should have kept better track of my incoming and outgoing Medium Clip Binders before the situation became so dire. I should have forseen this problem and either subtly worked Large Clip Binders or rubber bands into the mix to save myself some embarassment. And I certainly should not have told Kenneth Hottentot in research and development that I wouldn't give him a Medium Binder Clip to "secure a gushing neck artery." Well, now the artery of my office supply cache is hemmoraging, and certainly none will offer a Medium Binder Clip now.
If I am ever allowed to amass an impenetrable fortress of office supplies again, things will be different. I have learned my lesson. I will share any spare supplies to a degree based on how much I need them to complete my work and how necessary they are to the lendee. For example, I still wouldn't part with many Medium Binder Clips if I get a quantity back in the future. I need them. But I could certainly part with an unlimited supply of Small Binder Clips, which I barely use. I definitely wouldn't show off my case of Scotch Tape rolls to the intern and then shut and lock my personal supply closet in a smug act of vanity. Office supplies are a privelege, not a right, and part of that privelege is predicated on the notion that they will be used for the common good, and not for personal aspirations. I know that now. And if I am ever able to secure a quantity of Medium Binder Clips again, I swear I will apply this wisdom to the workplace.

Rappers Return to Drug Sales, IT Jobs

2006-07-14T09:09:00.000-04:00

America, United States -- Well into the second quarter of the sales year, many rap music record labels are reportedly delaying expected releases "indefinitely" and renegotiating to cancel contracts with artists who have yet to record. However, slumping sales and industry politics are not the culprits this time around, instead many artists are simply quitting rap, or "leaving the game" as it is also known. This is due to a variety of factors, mainly that they aren't getting rich fast enough, yet do not want to die trying.
"I'm just not stacking the paper I thought I would," said Alabama-based rapper Hot Rockz, who quit a lucrative drug-dealing operation last year to break into rap music, "I made t-shirts, I screamed on a couple of mixtapes, but things aren't coming together like I had imagined. Turns out you actually have to make some music to be in this rap shit." Hot Rockz was never signed to a label nor did he release any music during his brief career, but he did shoot three videos that enjoyed regular circulation on BET.
Most rappers are returning to the jobs they left in order to get into the music industry, largely drug sales and working at corporate information technology departments. "I got into this game so I could launder some of that rock money, feel me?" said Burp Lawlezz aka Young Burp, a Minneapolis-based rapper that is able to burp on cue. "Turns out that in order to launder money successfully, you need to make some money. I was all prepped to make this Jay-Z loot but I wasn't really prepped to rhyme or make beats or nothing like that."
Industry executives are puzzled by this development, but there are no reported lawsuits against artists to date. "At Interdope Records, our motto has always been, 'let the Goof Mob be the Goof Mob'," stated Jimmy Iodine, speaking specifically about the startling departure of their critically-acclaimed but poor-selling rap act, "and that means if they want to be struggling artists or struggling fry chefs, we're going to let them do that." Iodine then excused himself as he took a bite of a Bengal Tiger sandwich and dabbed his mouth with a napkin made entirely from one-hundred dollar bills.
Executives at smaller labels, who potentially have more to lose, are less glib about recent developments. Eddie "Ed" McHurvey of Rank Out Records bemoaned the loss of two freshly-signed artists. "Man, we had everything set to go on these guys," he said, sitting behind a desk made from two milkcrates and a stop sign, "we made posters, stickers, t-shirts...I had two Escalades vinyl-wrapped with promotional ads and a spot running on MTV2 hourly. All we had to do was come up with the music. They left at the most crucial juncture in our arrangement." Still, McHurvey said he would not be seeking legal action against either. "It's all good," grinned McHurvey, "I can't player hate. I'm just glad to be down with the culture. Is that right? 'Down with the culture'? Help me out here."
Some artists remain steadfast in their pursuit of a lucrative musical dream. Knee-High of Brooklyn, NY said he would "ride or die for this rap shit": "Ain't nothing else you can do if you from the 'hood except rap or play [basket]ball." said Knee-High from the stoop of his Park Slope brownstone, solemnly, "That's why I pump these jumbs, to support my family and my peoples." Knee-High had to cut the interview short when his mother leaned out of an upstairs window and called him to dinner.

Greetings, Bayside High School, Class of 1993

2006-06-20T10:33:00.002-04:00

Welcome all friends, family, and faculty to this year's graduation ceremony at Bayside High School. I am proud and honored to be chosen as the Salutatorian for today's proceedings, even though I missed Valedictorian by one-fiftieth of a grade. I'm not bitter, though. Instead, I would like to take this opportunity to express my hope for the future and my elation at finally getting out of this damned school where I and so many others have languished in obscurity for a long time. Many people are not going to like what I have to say, but I feel it is necessary.
There is a culture of privelege and favoritism at Bayside High School, but it is not striated along ethnic or social boundaries. No, the priveleged group at this institution contains six people, each one as different from the next as night is to day, and yet they are bonded together through friendship and, regrettably, getting over on various authority figures at Bayside. None less than our principal, Mr. Belding, has allowed these six students to reach tremendous heights while the rest of the student body--totalling almost a thousand in number--have struggled to gain the slightest recognition and accreditation afforded students at other high schools. I will show how this injustice has prevailed for these past four years.
At the lowest end of this totem pole of popularity are Lisa Turtle and Samuel "Screech" Powers. While these two may be the lowest-profile of the popular crowd, they still manage to edge out all others in nearly every category. Lisa is the president of the Fashion Club, an invisible army of hopeful girls that knit and sew at her bidding. She earned the title of Homecoming Queen this year, and she was able to hold a fashion show at our beloved hang-out, The Max in order to gain acceptance to the Fashion Institute in New York. I would like to note that no other student was allowed to use The Max in this fashion. In fact, I have been going there for four years, and the owner still doesn't know my name. "Screech", on the other hand, has won the Science Fair and the Mathlympics four years in a row, and he is allowed to hold an annual insect rodeo in the cafeteria, where we eat. This goes against many health and safety laws for the state of California, and yet when Mr. Belding was approached about the issue, he shrugged and said that "Screech" would be careful. Even after Screech accidentally released several hundred silverfish into the girls' locker room and caused it to be shut down for fumigation late last year--ruining, incidentally, our chances at winning the state field hockey championships for which we were contending.
If these were the only two abusers of the selective favoritism at Bayside, it could be overlooked. However, there are still more that reap the benefits of being Bayside High School's favored elite, namely A.C. Slater and Jessica Spano. Jessie is this year's Valedictorian--she only beat me by one-fiftieth of a grade, if I didn't mention it before--as well as the Senior Class President, editor-in-chief of the yearbook staff, and captain of the Debate Team. She is also the founding member of Bayside Against Global Assassination, a position which she has refused to relenquish even though her other duties prohibited her from consistent participation. Jessie was a long-time girlfriend of A.C. Slater, who is captain of the wrestling team, the football team, the baseball team, and the swim team. Granted, since A.C. has been captain of these various teams, Bayside has enjoyed its first State Championships in every category. However, I wonder if the accolades afforded Bayside are worth the helplessness felt by many athletes who were never offered the opportunity to excel.
By far, the most egregious abusers of Mr. Belding and other members of the faculty's good graces are Bayside's favorite couple, Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski. Kelly was elected Homecoming Queen in her Junior Year--a first for Bayside--and is captain of the volleyball team, the field hockey team, and the cheerleading squad. I got to spend a lot of time around Kelly when I was on the field hockey team last year, and you know, that bitch never talked to me once. Even when I assisted with a goal, not so much as a "thanks" or "good job." I never got invited to any of her numerous sleepovers--only Jessie and Lisa were invited to attend. Kelly seemed to be well-liked by people who hope to gain a modicum of recognition at this school, but seeing that school is over and it didn't do us any good, I think you'll find that many of us think she's a stuck-up cunt. This is at least partly due to her tumultuous relationship with Bayside's favored son, Zack Morris. Zack is on the track team, but otherwise doesn't have many extracurriculars on his list, however he has been allowed to miss more school and pull more pranks without real punishment than any other student while be attended Bayside. He gave out every girl in school's phone number as part of a hireable dating service, an offense which should have resulted in expulsion, yet he received little more than a slap on the wrist. I still have to screen my calls for strangers from the local reform school looking for a date. Zack also fell short of graduation by one credit, which should have forced him to go to Summer School, and yet Mr. Belding allowed him to perform in this years laughable ballet production of Swan Lake to make up the credit. I took AP classes every summer for years just to get to the point that I am at today, while Zack Morris has been afforded a free ride the entire time.
It has been a tremendous relief to get this off my chest before my fellow classmates and esteemed teachers and professors. I know many of you feel the same way I do. May the Class of 1993 go on to do bigger and better things without hiding in the shadow of the elite six popular members of we graduating seniors. May Mr. Belding heed my condemnation of his actions not as bitter retribution, but an awakening so that he will never express such favoritism for so few for the rest of his career. And may Kelly Kapowski get fat and have her hair fall out and her nose go all crooked, the stuck-up cunt that she is. Thank you all, and enjoy the rest of the graduation ceremony.

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2006-06-16T11:09:00.000-04:00

Single-panel comic strips

THE GOOD: The Far Side

You don't need to be a comic strip aficionado to like this one. Gary Larson pretty much closed the chapter of the single-panel comic strip back in the 1980's and early 90's. His artwork was crude, but helped to convey his surreal humor, and he displayed a unique sense of timing in his art and punchlines that most single-panel cartoonists ignore. It was still a damn sight better than Dilbert. Where most single-panel comics are static talking heads and a punchline at the end, Larson was able to imply a much more detailed scenario, like you had stumbled upon something incredibly bizarre right in the middle of it. Happily, before Larson could completely burn out, he hung up his pen and left a legacy of Page-A-Day calendars and nerdy t-shirts for future generations to enjoy.

THE BAD: Ziggy

Have you ever gone to see a comedy movie, and something happens on screen that everyone in the theatre laughs at, but you don't get the joke? That's basically how I feel everytime I read Ziggy. Here's a guy dominated by a parrot and the guy working the complaints desk at the local department store. That's supposed to be funny? Get this guy on SSI or something, he's clearly mentally deficient. Recently, Ziggy has been taken over by Tom Wilson's son, Tom "Tom II" Wilson, Jr., to terrible effect. As if the drawing wasn't terrible enough, Tom II likes to break out the Sharpie to ink his cartoons, giving it the effect of having been drawn by a kindergardner. Add the moronic punchlines and simply sad situations, and you'd got a single-panel comic strip more pointless than those Love Is... cartoons. Next time you wish on a star, Zig, do us all a favor: wish yourself to die.

THE MEDIOCRE: The Lockhorns

The refrigerator at my aunt and uncle's house is covered in clippings of this comic strip. I guess it's kind of a microcosm for their decades-old marriage, steeped in resentment and passive-agressivity, bonded together through familiarity and revenge fantasies. The Lockhorns is really brilliant, in a way, because you could conceivably keep it up endlessly by just applying a few joke logarithms per week. Leroy Lockhorn can't stand Loretta Lockhorn's cooking. Lorretta is bored by Leroy's incessant sports-watching. Leroy flirts with pretty, young women at social events. Loretta can't drive. Leroy doesn't like his mother in-law. Loretta spends too much money while shopping. There, I just came up with a week of Lockhorns strips. If you need me, I'll be on the boat, sipping on beer and waiting for the fish to bite.

Conversations with Ben: the Sports Edition

2006-06-09T09:24:00.001-04:00

Okay, so I tried this once before and got some good responses, so I'm going to try to convey the confusion and hilarity that is my friendship with Ben. I've known him a long time, and I never have a conversation with him that doesn't leave me wondering if I have unexpectedly arrived in an alternate dimension or if Ben isn't truly the victim of a wayward chromosome. This is another attempt to bring some of that strangeness to you, the reader.

I don't watch sports very often, but I do catch a game of baseball from time to time, usually in the company of friends and in the interest of male comraderie and such. Whatever the sport, if Ben is in the room, you can be sure that he will make the most simple and asinine observations about what is happening in the game. If a team is down by two points, he'll invariably say, "They only need three runs to win the game." If a player is visibly injured with a compound fracture and needs to be taken off the field in a stretcher, he will say, "That guy's going to be disabled for a while." So you see that his sports knowledge is volumnious and his color commentary is astute.

Some sports fans may remember that, in the year 2000, New York had its first Subway Series in decades when the Mets and Yankees won their respective league titles and faced each other in the World Series. The Mets took the first game, and the Yankees essentially rocked them for the next four to win the pennant. More pertinently to this blog, however, was Ben's commentary as we watched game five, the final game of the series:
"Arrgh!" I groaned, "The Mets are really fucking up out there." I am a Mets fan, as is Ben.
"Well," replied Ben, "the Mets can't win this one because the Yankees are an older ball club."
I paused for a second, then got kind of indignant. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"They have more experience," explained Ben, "and they've been in this spot before."
Being that I am somewhat naive about sports, I thought he might have a point and probed further. "That's true, Ben," I said, "this ball club has been in this spot dozens of times. But these individual players and this team has only gone to the series twice before. The Yankees may outmatch the Mets, but it's not largely due to their ball club's legacy."
"Yes it is," he stated, firmly, "they have a history of winning World Series so they have an edge."
"What the hell are you talking about?!" I exclaimed, "The legacy is undeniable but it's not like Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle are still on the team. A lot of these players were former Mets, anyway. The manager was on the Mets, for chrissakes!"
"That doesn't matter," Ben resolved, "the Yankees are an older ball club and so they know how to win World Series."
I had to try and make my point to him. "Ben, do you realize that, by your logic, the only teams who could be winning pennants are the Yankees, Red Sox, White Sox, and Cubs? These teams are made up of new players. I understand that the Yankees have won the last two series, but the Marlins--a relatively new team--won it in 1998. How do you explain that?"
Ben was thoughtful for a second, and then he stated, "Well, they must have picked something up from an older ball club. That's the only way they could do it."

Then, just yesterday, we were talking about steroid abuse in baseball, and we were talking about Barry Bonds breaking Babe Ruth's homerun record, and how this controversy will affect baseball stats. I mentioned that Barry Bonds and others had cried racism, being that he had broken a white player's record:
"It's a smokescreen," I said, "it's like he's trying to take the heat off the fact that he used steroids."
"I don't think so," stated Ben, solemnly, "I think it has more to do with the fact that he's broken the season and career homerun record."
I thought for a second. "No," I began, "no, I think it's really more about the steroids, Ben."
"No it isn't," he replied, "people are upset that he's broken both records in his career."
"Yes, people are upset that he broke these records, Ben. On steroids."
"No, Reggie," Ben denied, adamantly, "I know people are pissed that he took both records. Hank Aaron beat Babe Ruth's career record but not his season record."
"Yes, but that was because he is black. The common consensus is that Bonds cheated to beat Babe Ruth's record. If he beats Aaron's, he'll still be a cheater in many peoples' eyes." I tried yet again to drive my point home to Ben, "Any real racists will hate Bonds on principle no matter what he achieves. But baseball fans who venerate statistics will always question his record because he got so many homeruns by using drugs. I don't think it matters if he beat the career, seasonal, and game records, he still cheated to do it."
Ben chewed on my words for a moment, but still did not agree. "If he had just beaten the career homerun record, that would be one thing. But he beat the seasonal record for homeruns and that's what people are so angry about."
"Ben," I yelled, getting a little frustrated with his lack of logic, "the career homerun record is far more respected than the seasonal one! If anything, you've got the whole thing backwards."
Ben had to admit that point. "Maybe so, but I know that the hate against Bonds has nothing to do with him using steroids."

Read a newspaper lately, Ben?

Writing from an internet cafe

2006-05-30T14:41:00.000-04:00

Right now, I am writing this blog from an internet cafe in Paris. I got in late last night, around 11 PM Paris time, and went straight up to my hotel room to settle in and get some much-needed bedrest. I took out my laptop and attempted to access the internet, only to find that the hotel's promised wireless connection was on the fritz. Damn it! I called down to the lobby and advised them of this problem, and they said they were aware of it and it was being worked on. This morning, the connection still wasn't working, so the concierge told me about an internet cafe a block away, and gave me some vouchers I could use until the hotel's connection was back up.
It's a very nice internet cafe, more into ambience and being a coffee shop than it is about being a hireable access to the internet. I have to use some clunky old G5 Macintosh computers (ugh!) but I suppose beggars can't be choosers. They serve some food here, I got a croissant and a can of Coke; the croissant is good but honestly I think the ones at the 7-11 are better and more hygienic. I'm glad to be in Paris, my first trip overseas, so I can finally see how they do things in Europe. For starters, they are not as interested in maintaining their wireless internet connections here as we are in America!
There's a girl sitting next to me, I think she's French. Whatever she is, she's not American because the pages she's looking at on the internet are all in some weird language. I think it's a news site because it looks like it's all these articles with bylines, but I can't be sure. She doesn't smell badly like people told me that Europeans can smell. I can't really discern any smell from her at all, not without really leaning in and taking a whiff. I don't think she would appreciate that, though. There's two other guys here in the cafe, one is a slight, balding man with glasses and the other a fat hairy guy with a beard that looks like he smells. But he's all the way on the other side of the room, so I'm not going over to find out.
I'm glad I finally got some internet access so I can keep up with important things while I am on vacation. I don't really know what to do here, I hear there's a famous museum but I probably won't do more than check it out from the outside because it has an internet tour that is much less crowded (lol!). I also saw the Eiffel Tower this morning while on my way to this cafe, if I have time after I read and respond to my e-mail and check in on my brethren at the World of Warcraft forum, I'll go see what that's about. I hear the McDonald's serve beer here, I'm definitely going to see what that is about. I'll check back in with the blogosphere tomorrow when hopefully my hotel has its internet connection back--if not, it's another day at the cafe, I suppose.

I may have been less than honest about the quality of your artwork

2006-05-22T09:23:00.000-04:00

My beautiful Janie. Daddy's little princess. I remember when you came home from the hospital, almost nine years ago, I knew you were special. And I swore then that I would always protect you from harm and provide you with everything I possibly could. Daddy loves you so much. That's why I think that it's important for me to be totally honest with you. It isn't right to lie, is it darling? No, it isn't. And daddy lied to his little girl, and now daddy wants to make it right. Jane, daddy hasn't been altogether forthcoming about the quality of your artwork.
Now it isn't that your artwork is bad, Janie. It just isn't very good. And now that you've entered in the State-wide Art Competition for Grades Three Through Five, I just don't want you to get your hopes up. I want you to do well, sweetheart, but I think daddy may have given you the wrong impression by praising your past work and displaying it on the refrigerator. Your art shows a lot of promise, Janie. Let's review some of it and maybe I can give you some constructive criticism for the future. Okay?
Now, see here, Janie? See how you drew a picture of mommy and daddy and you in front of our house? It's a nice picture, Janie, but there are some things that are clearly very wrong with it. For one thing, you made mommy and I bigger than the house. If this was an attempt at showing perspective, you really kind of missed the mark. If you wanted to show mommy and daddy in the foreground of the picture, then you should have--pay attention, Janie--you should have put the horizon around the center of the page and then placed the house and mommy and daddy accordingly. See what I'm doing, Janie? Don't cry, sweetheart. Don't cry. Daddy isn't ruining your picture. He's making it better.
And there's another thing about the horizon, Janie. You see how you put a stripe of blue way up here at the top of the page and then a stripe of green at the bottom of the page and left the middle of the page uncolored? You see that, Janie? What is this blue stripe supposed to be? It's supposed to be the sky, isn't it, Janie? But the sky doesn't look like that, does it? No, the sky is blue from wayyy above the clouds all the way down to the horizon. What you did was just lazy, wasn't it, Janie? And it was really erroneous. And it's not going to even win you third prize in the State-wide Art Competition for Grades Three Through Five. I'm sorry to have to break it to you like this, Janie.
I just want to set the record straight, my little sugarplum. Daddy is sorry for misleading you all these years. Dry your eyes, Janie. Don't cry. So you won't be a great artist someday, that's okay. Daddy still loves you. And there will always be a place at daddy's accounting firm for you. When you're older.

Pres. Bush formally hands U.S. over to Comedy Central

2006-05-11T09:27:00.000-04:00

Mind of Mencia onslaught brings America to breaking point

America, La La Land -- In a move which shocked and relieved many American citizens, President George Bush made an emergency announcement last night that he would be surrending the country, effective immediately, to cable television station Comedy Central. Perhaps the most poignant phrase of his short speech was this: "Americans are the strongest, most resilient people in the world. We have repelled terrorists and others who hate freedom and Democracy. However we never expected to encounter a foe as diabolical and relentless as Carlos Mencia."
Bush was speaking of the host for Comedy Central's weekly program, Mind of Mencia, which features Mr. Mencia doing stand-up and performing in poorly-performed sketches, mostly centered around people's cultural and racial differences. While it is not a very popular show, it's time slot between the station's highest rated programs, South Park and The Daily Show, proved to be too much for many Americans who might have lost the remote control to their televisions and are too obese and/or lazy to search for it. As a result hundreds of thousands of Americans were subjected to this terrible program every week, often with disastrous results.
"I didn't really see the harm at first," commented mother of two Freida Jaegermouth, of Toad Suck, Arkansas, "I just lumped it in with other crappy shows in Comedy Central's piss-poor lineup. But when I heard my little Bobby repeating one of those terrible jokes from that Mencia show..." Mrs. Jaegermouth then began sobbing uncontrollably, and exclaimed, "We know white people can't dance! Give it a rest already!"
Former President Bush appeared calm and resolved when he made his announcement to the American public, mere moments before another soul-crushing episode of Mind of Mencia was to air. "I am an American, and I fight for America," he said, "and that is just as true for our mental as well as our physical security. Mind of Mencia is a serious threat to our mental security, so great that I feel we must acquiesce to their demands and submit the United States to Comedy Central's control." Bush went on to explain that the only stipulation of this accord would be that Mind of Mencia would never be aired for broadcast again, and Carlos Mencia would be fed to feral pigs before a freely-admitted audience, location to be named.
Political analyst George Dimplebrink seemed amused at the turn of events. "Honestly, I never expected this," he explained, "America has stood strong against seemingly stupider shows than Mind of Mencia. We almost lost the whole kit and kaboodle when Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire? aired, but luckily that was a short-run series and the country was able to recover. Something about ...Mencia is so pervasively moronic that almost no one can escape it. Your neighbor could have it on the television in the next house, and your proximity would still be close enough that you'd lose IQ points every minute it was on."
This morning, former President Bush seemed jovial as he packed his personal effects and prepared to vacate the White House. "I'm just an ordinary citizen now," he told reporters and well-wishers, "and I don't expect to be labeled a hero. I did what I had to." Comedy Central could not be reached for comment, though contruction on a gigantic statue of David Spade has begun in Washington DC's Capitol Mall.

Samuel Powers named as new Director of the CIA

2006-05-04T09:56:00.000-04:00

Washington DC, America -- Members of the press corps were surprised by a hastily-convened press conference where they learned that current CIA Director Porter Gloss would be stepping down, effective immediately. This news comes on the heels of several investigations into the Agency's prior knowledge of the 9/11 Terrorist Attacks that have thrown the spotlight on Gloss. Citing "untoward publicity" and "damned papparazzi," Gloss gave a brief but impassioned speech to explain his position before storming out of the White House Press Room indignantly. White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan abrupty took the podium to announce Gloss' replacement, a young, curly-haired man by the name of Samuel "Screech" Powers.
"Mr. Powers doesn't technically have the background to be Director of the CIA," began McClellan, "however he has an honest reputation and graduated Valedictorian of his high school." McClellan gave a few more credentials before allowing Powers to introduce himself. As soon as Powers took a step towards the podium, his ankle became entangled in some microphone wires, causing him to pitch forward and collapse on top of the podium, which splintered into toothpicks. The wires snared by his foot pulled several microphones from the stand, which whipped around the press room and nearly gave several members of the corps black eyes. Powers stood up and brushed his suit off and gave a smirk which instantly charmed everyone in the room, myself included, and we all broke out into spontaneous laughter and settled back into our positions.
Powers then took out a stack of index cards and prepared to read a speech, then he dropped them and scattered the cards across the stage. Stumbling after them, he kept accidentally kicking a particular card until it landed on the shoe of McClellan. Powers grabbed McClellan's foot, causing him to pitch forward and collapse on top of Powers. Admist uproarious laughter from the corps, an embarassed McClellan asked for a lunch recess while the room was put back into order.
After lunch, the corps assembled in the Press Room again and Powers took the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen of depressed...oops!" Powers caught his gaffe while reporters chuckled lowly to themselves. "Er, I mean 'the press'! Uh, it's a great honor to be appointed as the new director of the kaya...oops! I mean the C-I-A! Aw, shucks, I'm no good at speeches," said Powers, resignedly, as he put his index cards away. "Look, I'm just glad to be here and you can all call me 'Screech.' Everybody else does. Even my mom!" Powers then bugged out his eyes and twitched his mouth in such a way that caused the room to burst into laughter again, and caused one reporter to spit out his coffee.
"I plan to do as good a job as my predecessor," continued Powers, "because I know that our country's safety depends on our ability to collect vital intelligence against terrorists and those who would do us harm." Powers seemed unusually composed and the room settled back into seriousness, when Powers' voice suddenly pitched into a squeal as he enthusiastically exclaimed, "That's why we're illegally torturing political prisoners and seditionists in Guantanamo Bay...oops!"

My life is a fucking mess

2006-04-27T10:16:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I think back and wonder how I got to this point. I was a promising kid, maybe a little unpolished, but brimming with potential and enthusiasm. I never thought I would be a brain surgeon, or a famous celebrity, I just hoped that I would be a car mechanic and maybe have my own auto body shop eventually. Instead, I'm a bloated, balding, twice-divorced lackey for some pencil-necked geek and his priveleged family. The very same geek I used to beat up on in high school. I can't prove it, but I have a sneaking suspicion that his son went back in time and completely fucked up my life.
I know it sounds crazy. I know time travel isn't supposed to be possible. But there's a few inconsistencies and nagging doubts that lead me to believe that this McFly kid has traveled through time for the express purpose of making me look like a douchebag. For one thing, he's always hanging out with that crazy old fruitcake Doc Brown. I remember that crazy old son of a bitch from my childhood, always yammering about some cockamamie nonsense and setting his barn on fire with his failed experiments. We used to cover that guy's house with eggs every Halloween. It makes no sense that Marty would hang out with that loser, unless Doc Brown has some kind of time machine they could use to go back in time and fuck up my life. It's really the only logical explanation, especially in light of the other strange facts.
For one thing, Marty is the spitting image of that asshole Calvin that seemed to appear for a week in high school for the express purpose of making my life a living hell. The kid is really a dead ringer. And it was strange how this new kid showed up, befriended George McFly--the guy I was bullying--and then suddenly George has the grapes to haul off and sucker punch me at the Enchantment Under the Sea school dance. I'd say it went all downhill from there. There was the weird incident where some old kook gave me a book of phony sports records and told me to keep it under wraps, but that just led to Calvin making my car skid into a truck filled with manure again. No one ever heard from him again. I'd love to see that little prick now, I'd break his fucking face open. But I'm not bitter.
I mean, I really appreciate what George did for me. He didn't have to give me a chance, not after the way I treated him in high school. When I was going through my second divorce and that fat bitch was going to garnish fifty per cent of my wages, I was probably at my lowest point. I was drinking three liters of bourbon a day, plus a six pack of brewskis or so. I was almost a year behind on rent. My '72 Chevelle had been impounded for unpaid parking tickets. To be honest, I probably would have done myself in if George hadn't offered me the position to be his personal car maintenance technician. At least, that's what my official title is. Everyone knows I'm just his goddamned lackey. Where did I go wrong? I used to fold twerps like that with one punch to the midsection. Now I'm begging George for forgiveness every time I miss a spot when washing one of the family's cars. I have no confidence in myself anymore. And I swear to God, somehow, some way, it has something to do with the McFly kid and that addle-brained old wizard Doc Brown. If I ever find out he did have something to do with screwing up my life, I'm stealing all the change out of his car's ashtray.

Ladies, hold on to your dignity

2006-04-20T09:08:00.000-04:00

I don't know what's happening in the rest of the country, but here in New York City, Spring is in the air, and that can only mean one thing: that pervasive warm weather urine smell is back. More specifically to this blog, however, is that cosmopolitan women have broken out their Spring wardrobes. Ladies, I have no problem with most of the clothing you choose to highlight your various body parts with, however there are a few articles that I think have been sprung on you by prankster fashion designers, which I will note here:

The Net Slipper: These might not be as fashionable elsewhere, but here in the Northeast, women are wearing these flimsy little slippers with beaded netting at the front to hold in the toes. They look like something you could get on Canal Street for a dollar a pair, but judging by the fashionably wealthy women that frequently wear them, I'm sure Bloomingdale's is hawking these at fifty bucks a clip. These certainly maximize the exposure of one's feet to the open air, but what kind of grosses me out is that they also keep a woman's tootsie hanging about one-eighth of an inch above the pavement. Last time I checked, pavement wasn't an easily-cleanable surface. I've been lobbying the city to re-do the city in moppable linoleum tiles, but until then we are forced to walk on top of refuse, excrement, and general grime. I think maybe you could use more than a length of cardboard and four inches of gauze between the soles of your feet and the ground.

The Fred Flinstone Shirt: These actually came into fashion during the 1970's and have made periodic comebacks during the subsequent decades. With today's snug, huggable fabrics, the result is less flattering than ever. You know the shirts I mean: basically a tank top with one strap crossed over a shoulder a la Fred Flinstone. While I appreciate the "safety first" look of having your seatbelt on outside the car, I must confess that this look is not altogether flattering unless you are purposely covering an acid-scarred shoulderblade or something. Otherwise, let's either see spaghetti straps or tube tops. You can't have it both ways, sister, except maybe in college or at a bachelorette party.

Gaucho Pants: Another fashion abomination inherited from the 1970's, this piece of outerwear is called "gaucho" which loosely translates to "dork in highwaters". This is possibly one of the least-flattering bits of clothing that women regularly wear, often with a pair of high-heeled boots to really cap off the whole pirate effect. Add a ruffled blouse and a parrot, and you're ready to sail the high seas. Women seem to be under the illusion that gaucho pants are effectively a skirt you can wear like pants, but this is not the case. Skirts are flowing, bouncy numbers that swish while a woman walks and puts men in a hypnotic trance. Gaucho pants look like you've lost the cuffs to your bellbottoms. Do yourselves a favor and just wear culottes.

Not Fast Enough, McDonald's

2006-04-13T10:16:00.000-04:00

I was first put on to this new practice from Deebo's Blog, where she waxes rhapsodic about coffee on a regular basis: McDonald's is now offering the perfect cup of coffee. I don't drink the stuff, but I can certainly understand how this would be enticing to caffeine addicts. Based on the information I gleaned from the aforementioned blog and a few commercials for McDonald's I have seen, what makes this coffee "perfect" is that they now add the cream and sugar for you, instead of giving you the necessary condiments and letting you apply them yourself. Maybe I am naive about the whole coffee-drinking populace and their weird customs (which also apparently include talking a mile-a-minute and slightly perspiring), but wouldn't the "perfect" cup of coffee be one where you added cream and sugar and whatever else yourself?
Don't get me wrong here. It isn't like I don't trust McDonald's to provide me with rapid, banal service everytime I go in there. I'm just wondering how "perfect" they can make my coffee. What if I like exactly one and a half teaspoons of cream and four granules of sugar? Can they handle this request? I get the picture here, though: it's convenience. No more fumbling with foil-covered cream containers and paper packets of sugar, just a perfect (and legally piping hot) cup of coffee that you can throw down the gullet before you even get back on the freeway. I'd say the bigger problem here is the outdated delivery system. A cup of coffee? Take that shit back to the 19th century. Why don't you load my coffee into a Super Soaker and just shoot it right into my throat? I've got my Speedy Pass ready so I don't want to hear any guff. And if you can puree my cheeseburger and fries into a liqueous solution, we can wrap this whole thing up in under thirty seconds.
It really saddens me to see McDonald's bow to the pressure of coffee snobs and health nuts. I don't go to McDonald's to eat a salad and quaff some French Roast, I want a gummy little burger that was formed in a giant Play Doh factory and a cold, tasteless drink to kill the heartburn. I don't want yogurt and granola, I want a doughy little pie microwaved to the temperature of a nuclear core that has a teaspoon of apple sauce in it. This is what we go to McDonald's for, not the food, but the near-death experience. What McDonald's needs to understand is that there's still a market for bland, rubbery food marketed by circus clowns and anthropomorphic biplane pilots. And that market is known as Los Angeles.

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2006-04-03T10:43:00.000-04:00

Freaky Friday rip-offs

THE GOOD: Vice Versa
Every now and again, a rising star and a falling star meet each other and create a work of art that stands the test of time, and is ultimately seen as a turning point in both their careers. More frequently, two middle-of-the-road actors are thrown together to rush out some forgettable crap in order to capitalize on a trend, and unwittingly create a sublimely moronic piece of trash that can be studied and enjoyed for generations. Such is the case with Vice Versa, a film starring Judge Reinhold (fresh off the heels of his successful role in Beverly Hill Cop 2) and Fred Savage (an unexpected Tiger Beat heartthrob due to his starring role in the television series The Wonder Years) as a father and son that end up switching bodies when they touch some ancient clay vase at the same time, or something like that. There are many stupid things about this movie that we could discuss at length, but perhaps the most tickling is the way Fred Savage acts the pants off of Reinhold in nearly every opporunity. While Reinhold seems to portray his teenaged son as a naive, brain-damaged doofus, Savage plays the adult role adequately, and hold the entire picture together (well, as much as can be expected). When they return back to their original selves, they each take away with it a little lesson about life, love, and box office failure. Actually, I suppose Judge Reinhold already learned that last lesson.

THE BAD: Big
Really the culprit that restarted the Freaky Friday rip-off movie craze, this movie is technically better than either of the other films listed here or any other movie in the category. The directing, the acting, and the overall script is lightyears ahead of the other motion pictures. What bothers me is this: Josh (played by Tom Hanks as an adult) wishes to be big and live in the adult world where life is perceived as being easier. He gets his wish, and immediately moves off to Manhattan where he gets an incredible studio apartment, an amazing job as a toy developer, a hot chick that can't get enough of him, and is generally loved by everyone he comes into contact with. So then the fucking kid gets homesick and returns back to his parents! Some of us adults that had to get "big" the normal way take a little umbrage at that. I like to satisfy myself by believing that Josh did grow up, went to college, developed a serious heroin addiction, and wound up panhandling on the steps of the New York Public Library. Lesson learned: don't look a gift horse in the mouth, asshole.

THE MEDIOCRE: 18 Again!
Almost simply by virtue of having an exclamation point in the title, 18 Again! is a comedy that easily surpasses Freaky Friday, a requisitely simple matter that must be accomplished to even be considered for this list. It stars stage and silver screen legend George Burns and some nobody twerp named Charlie Schlatter. Burns is a smug, wealthy grandfather that wishes to be--you guessed it--eighteen again, and through a series of events that I only vaguely remember, switches bodies with his grandson (played by Schlatter). Burns ends up in a coma, while Schlatter carouses around his university campus, impressing hot chicks with his ballroom dancing and penchant for big, smelly cigars. Turns out all those airheads wanted all along was some gum-sucking, petrified weirdo that could sweep them off their feet and regale them with tales of the Herbert Hoover era. What sets this movie apart from so many comedies made in the 1980s is that there are no gangsters or racketeers following Schlatter around the whole movie that force him to have to switch bodies again, he just has an ethical crisis and the deed is done. Reportedly, Burns did this movie for a lot less than his usual fee because he got to sleep throughout most of the shooting. Lukily, the audience was able to sleep throughout most of the viewing.

Conversations with Ben

2006-03-22T14:26:00.000-05:00

I have a friend named Benito that I've known for quite a while and he really is a unique character. I regularly have conversations with him that leave me scratching my head and wondering afterwards. I'm not sure that his brand of strangeness can be translated through the blogosphere, but I thought I'd share a story or two and see how it goes. In order to protect his identity, I've decided to call him "Ben."

So Ben is a security guard for an office building in midtown. Some time ago, he told me that he was going to get his Armed Guard license, as this would mean better money and opportunities in his chosen career. The thought of this guy legally carrying a gun is a frightening prospect, however the conversation I had with him about it shows that its likelihood is basically nil.
Ben explained the process to me: he needed to have an interview or two with some official, then he would submit an application for the appropriate gun license. It takes two months to process these applications, and on approval, the applicant has sixty days from receipt of his or her license to acquire a regulation firearm or that person must begin the process all over again.
"And that, Reggie," he said ominously, "that's what's gonna fuck me."
I was puzzled about what he meant, so I asked, "What, do you think you won't get approved?"
"No, no, no," said Ben, hurriedly, "I shouldn't have any problem getting a license."
"So what's the problem?" I wondered aloud, "Are you worried about not having the money to get a gun?"
"No, I already have the money," explained Ben, "I know which one I want. A .45 Magnum, something with stopping power." (Yikes!)
I was really confused. "So what is it, Ben? What's the problem here?"
Ben was very serious when he said, "I'm afraid I'll forget to get the gun in time once I get the license."
I had to stop and think over what he said. Ben's worry was that, in a two month window of time, he would forget to get a firearm. After being prompted by receipt of a license. This, after a long application process and background check.
"Ben," I said, incredulously, "worrying about forgetting is practically the definition of remembering something!"
Ben was quiet for a moment, then said, "Well yeah, but you know me."

Only too well, Ben.

We only had one other conversation about him becoming an armed guard that I can remember, where I tried to impress upon him the importance of keeping the weapon holstered except under dire circumstances. Ben is definitely the kind of guy that would use his gun to crack walnuts or to threaten a slow fast food worker when he's hungry. Ben is kind of a loose cannon, prone to violent outbursts from time to time.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about that, Reggie," he assured me, "I hope I never have to use my gun for my entire career. I plan on keeping it either in my waist or ankle holster." I did a mental double-take.
"Ankle holster?" I said, "Are you planning on working undercover for the CIA at any point, Ben?"
"Well no, but it's a good place to keep a weapon," explained Ben.
"Yes, the ankle holster is great, Ben," I said, wearily, "if you plan on being subdued by captors and want to fake unconsciousness until such time that you can pull your secreted weapon. I don't see how a security guard would ever need this.
"Furthermore," I continued, "how do you plan on keeping a Colt .45 Magnum at your ankle?" For the uninitiated, the .45 is a relatively large handgun, not something you would stash in your ankle holster. Clint Eastwood regularly carried a Colt .45 in his Westerns, though with a longer barrel than usual.
Ben seemed stumped for a minute, then suddenly replied, "Well, maybe I'll saw off the barrel."

Great. Ben wants to carry a sawed-off .45 handgun at his ankle. Please, God, don't let him ever get a gun, lest he blow someone's face or his own foot off.

Kosher, kosher! That's what they're yelling

2006-03-19T12:01:00.000-05:00

I consider myself a pretty tolerant, modern kind of guy. I don't begrudge people their personal choices and preferences. You're a guy that likes to tuck his penis between his legs and dress up like Marilyn Monroe? More power to you. Enjoy eating deep-fried lard balls and Tollhouse chocolate chips? Eat and be merry. Getting your ethical and moral direction from an out-of-touch recluse halfway around the world that protects and defends a group of boy-touchers? Hey, it could be worse. You could be listening to the wisdom of Maury Povich.
But just for the purposes of classification, we have to draw the line somewhere. We have to, as a society, say that one direction is up and the other is down, lest we start flying subway cars through the air and riding airplanes underground. So I'm taking a stand, right here, right now, against a group of people that claim to be one thing but behave in in the reverse. What I am trying to say is: if you're not keeping a kosher house, then you're not Jewish.
I don't think this is a lot to ask. I can understand that you don't want to wear a yarmulke in public. Those things are uncomfortable and can ruin a nice, expensive haircut. You don't want to observe Shabbat, and I don't blame you. It's the weekend, you've got things to do, and damn it all if you can't enjoy "party night." But if you're not observing any kosher laws, then I have to wonder why you're bothering with Judaism at all. Is it the fun of getting to attend the circumcision ritual, known as a Bris? Perhaps it is the flavorless matzoh crackers you eat during Passover (aka "Jewish Easter"). I mean, observing only holidays and wearing approved dress only in a house of worship...that's just being an American Christian. The only thing separating non-kosher Jews and American Christians is that non-kosjer Jews don't run politics. Hannukah is already an abomination of what it was supposed to be, people might as well light up nine X-mas trees for all the days of Hannukah and celebrate with spiral ham and gravy. That would be fine with me, I'd still consider you Jewish. As long as the spiral ham was kosher turkey ham, by YHVH!
I don't expect that my stance will be very popular with the free-love sector, and to be honest, I don't care. It's kooks like you that are allowing all kinds of perverts and weirdos to roam around our metropolitan areas. Yeah, I'm a pretty liberal guy, but I can smell complete and total bullshit when it's near me. I'm looking at you, Jews for Jesus!

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you

2006-03-10T15:24:00.000-05:00

Let me apologize for the past week and a half that this blog was unavaible. I know many of you sprained your index fingers refreshing the page every thirty seconds, waiting and hoping for some small missive or piece of information from Yours Truly. Well, let me say that rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I was only spiritually dead, being that I was unable to provide blog information for my millions of devoted fans/ minions. Well, it was not without reason.
The atmosphere was strange here at the Philaflava head office a couple of weeks ago. Andvil was pacing around the water cooler, reciting entire scenes from Nightmares, vacillating between several roles and stories from within the movie. On Tuesday, Mindbender Futurama had switched from his usual daily bag of Swedish Fish to Swedish Fish: Aqualife, and he had never changed the routine before. And webmaster Jason Gloss was holed up in his office on Wednesday, wearing a foam ten-gallon hat and firing a .45 caliber revolver at Tony Danza while watching The Tony Danza Show. This, in itself, wasn't unusual, except for the fact that he was stone cold sober at the time! Even the ladies down in the secretarial pool knew something was about to give.
I guess it was around nine or ten in the morning on March 1st that things started to go wrong. The company KISS pinball machine started going haywire and gave out multiballs with no apparent rhyme or reason. Cleanhobo's desk toy (a San Diego Padres mascot stress toy) sat in Cleanhobo's chair and began reciting the entire Book of Mormon. I, myself, tried all morning to connect to the office former New York City mayor Rudolph Giuliani, but somehow the wires were crossed and I kept getting connected to Adolph Lusinsky instead. And then, IT happened.
The entire building was sucked into either an inter-dimensional vortex or a flat out time warp.
And so we've spent the last week and a half rebuilding Philaflava. Most of the employees were retrievable through your standard Matter Transporter a la Seth Brundle's machine in The Fly (except, curiously, for Employee). Several others were genetically reconstituted using strands of DNA culled from various area rest rooms. The positions were simply re-staffed from the usual pool of high school drop outs and convicted pedophiles. But the end result is: we're back! And better than ever with a brand new url. So please check us out regularly, your hits help us finance the rebuilding of the Philaflava offices, which must be made of solid gold and fish tank gravel, per Jason Gloss' strict specifications.

The Three's Company Reunion Movie is in jeopardy

2006-02-28T11:30:00.000-05:00

I don't know if you guys have heard or not, but Don "Ralph Ferley" Knotts passed away last Friday at age 81. Another victim has been claimed by The Curse of Three's Company. At this rate, it doesn't look like the Three's Company Reunion Movie is ever going to happen.
I admit that this is a very slow-working Curse. The first to go was Audra "Helen Roper" Lindley in 1997. Then, Norman "Stanley Roper" Fell passed in 1988. The most surprising was when John "Jack Tripper" Ritter died unexpectedly in 2003. And now, Ferley is dead. Is there any point to making a reunion movie now? How else will we teach our children about the wonder that is Three's Company if we don't? No, I think we should move full-steam ahead, get this reunion movie done as best we can, while still honoring the dearly departed cast members.
Obviously, Richard "Larry Dallas" Kline will have to step in to the lead role. His comedy is not as physical as Ritter's, but he's capable enough to create sexual tension and to misinterpret things that he's overheard. The cover story for his being thrust into the spotlight is already written: Jack Tripper left his swinging San Diego pad in 1984 to move in with Vicki Bradford and begin another ill-fated Three's Company spinoff called Three's a Crowd. So let's figure that Larry had to move in to cover his buddy's rent. I seem to recall that Joyce "Janet Wood" DeWitt also got married, and something else happened to Priscilla "Terri Aulden" Barnes which caused them to all vacate the apartment, but I don't remember the exact details, and it's easy enough to gloss over the details of these supporting characters. So Larry moves in, and the sexual tension is real high because he never made any bones about wanting to fuck Jack's roommates while Tripper was always more reserved. I think that Suzanne "Chrissy Snow" Somers should also come back somehow and replace Terri. I know Joyce DeWitt refuses to work with Somers again, but I figure if you throw enough money at her, she'll acquiesce. If all else fails, just tell her "it's what John Ritter would have wanted," she'll be bawling and begging to come back to set in no time.
As for the landlord, I can see no other option than to have Ann "Lana Shields" Wedgeworth take on that role. A lot of people don't remember her, but she was a MILF that wanted to get into Jack's pants for a season in 1980. Larry lusted after her but was constantly rebuffed, so that whole conflict is practically written already. I suppose a new landlord could be cast, but since no one will do better than Fell or Knotts, why bother? If you want to cast someone new, let's bring Pat "Dwayne Schneider" Harrington's character from One Day at a Time in as the building's superintendant. Lord know we won't be dragging Mackenzie Phillips out of her cryogenic chamber to do a reunion show for that piece of trash.
So it looks like this could work. All is not lost. The cast is dwindling, though, so we need to act fast. If Richard Kline kicks the bucket, then we're going to be totally fucked here. There's no way we can replace Jack Tripper with that goddamned Jenilee "Cindy Snow" Harrison, I'll tell you that.

I Believe That Children Are Our Future Part 2: Judgement Day

2006-02-23T15:35:00.000-05:00

I got such a great response to my last blog that featured helpful child rearing tips, that I figured, "What the hell, I'll do another blog using the same shtick. It's not like I've got a bunch of fresh, new ideas on the back burner or anything. The people that read my blog are mostly morons and layabouts that should no more breed than they should try to open child-proof medicine bottles. They'll happily gobble up whatever trite nonsense I happen to regurgitate and if my vomitous spew actually happens to endanger any children, well I wash my hands of the whole business and I'm happy to let twenty-four hour news channels sort it out."
It seems that a common malady around the homes of single parents with young children is keeping one's child stimulated and exercised while still getting your household chores and gainful employment completed. Some neglectful parents have even resorted to paid daycare facilities--pointless, since television is free and does just as well--which means that they miss part of the most fulfilling aspect of child raising, which is filling their heads with all kinds of erroneous and purposefully misleading information. The problem here is that the children have the expendable energy while the adults have the obligations; the thing to do is switch the roles around and kill two proverbial birds with one hand in the bush. Dress your child up in coveralls made of sponge and let them run around the house, cleaning and disinfecting all of the surfaces that they normally funk up with their sticky fingers and gummy little mouths. Have your child perform your dayjob for you: if you're like most single parents in America, you work on some precision-timed fast food grill or a computer-scanned retail job which could be performed by children and most primates anyway. Make this obvious change and you'll find your little ones are all tuckered out by bedtime while you get to engage in more adult pursuits, like daytime television.
Don't worry about letting your precious little angels near kitchens and around kitchen utensils, be they Hardee's or the one at home. I'm a strong proponent of the Teach Your Kids to Cook & You Will Have a Lifelong Private Chef Program which helps teach children that cooking is fun, educational, and--except in the case of outdoor grilling--women's work. Now they say that children can handle small knives and some oven baking at age seven, but my motto is "if they're old enough to fart, they're old enough to use the Cuisinart." Children are young adults, not idiots. They can handle most deep-fry and bouillabaisse recipes by age two. By three, they should be able to fillet and bake breads and cookies. By five, your child should already be adept at making souffles and preparing sushi. Don't think your child is somehow defective if they are a little slower to learn certain cooking techniques than others. Your child is totally normal! Totally, stupidly, normal.
Any parent will tell you that the number one problem with kids is that they are constantly moving. When they should be sitting down to eat, when they should be laying down to sleep, when they should be knocked out and receiving appendectomies, kids are always prone to jumping up and running around the room. And that wouldn't be such a terrible thing if they didn't smack their heads into walls and rub their goopy little boogers on every surface. This past week I have studied one of these so-called children that I've been writing about (finally got to meet one!), and I think one of the best things a caring parent can use to restrain their rambunctuous child is a pillow with one of those decorative pillowcases that open at the middle. I have learned, through personal trial and error, that you can slip a small child's arms into the pillow so that the pillow rests on their back and holds their puny arms out straight as if they have been crucified, and then leave them alone for hours or even days at a time! The pillow becomes a device which keeps them completely immobile and safe, at least from their own high-speed stupidity. A child becomes nothing more than a helpless tortoise, laid on its back, flailing its free limbs with no effect, gasping for air and waiting for inevitable death. Uh, well that metaphor only works up until the last part. Your child shouldn't die just by being restrained by a pillow for a little while. At least mine didn't. You should probably check up on him/her every twelve hours or so to make sure they're okay.
The pillow also becomes a multi-tasker because it can also be used to hasten your child's nap time. Simply lay the child down and hold the pillow over their face until they slip off into asphyxiated dream land. The trick is to know how long to hold the pillow to knock a child out, without causing brain damage or, even worse, face damage. I use the old "pounds per minute" technique that's been handed down in back alley abortion clinics for decades: figure about two seconds per pound, half that if the child has weak or only one lung, and double it if the child can hold his/her breath for longer than ten seconds. Do a little simple math and you'll soon be given the powers of the legendary Sandman, who as far as I can tell was a skinny Robert Smith-looking guy that floated around in a gas mask and spoke cryptically to emo chicks.

What was the last thing John F. Kennedy said to his wife?

2006-02-21T18:35:00.000-05:00

Editor's Note: Reggie is on vacation this week, so we're publishing Reggie's Riotous Re-runs instead of new blogs. Please enjoy this hysterical classic blog which originally ran on November 25, 1963!

"If Connolly farts one more time, I'm going to barf."

"A swing by the book depository and a view of a parking lot. This is a swell parade for the U.S. President."

"Come on, Jackie, just hold it for a minute."

"When we get back to Washington, remind me to sign that bill that gives Texas back to the Mexicans."

"After this, no more riding in open cars. This wind is totally fucking up my hair."

"I've got something caught in my throat."

"If that moron Dulles could see me now."

"When this shit is over, let's go screw on that grassy knoll over there."

"What a fine showing of patriotic American people. Too bad that most of them are going to Purgatory."

"I really regret that whole Bay of Pigs debacle."

"I told you, Jackie, I lost in poker to Bobby. It's just for one night. He is your brother-in-law, for crying out loud."

"If you wear a pillbox hat one more time, I swear I'm blacking both your eyes."

"That assassin looks just like your cousin Wilbur."

"What they say about Texas is true: it's filled with nothing but steers and queers."

"Jackie, this might not be the best time to tell you this, but I've been sleeping with other women."

Five Movie Remakes

2006-02-17T10:38:00.000-05:00

There's a trend in Hollywood that happens whenever the heroin supply has become too diluted: having run out of fresh ideas, producers and directors remake their favorite films from yesteryear to update the content. We saw it recently with King Kong and When a Stranger Calls, and word is that remakes of The Hills Have Eyes and Friday the 13th are in the works. Personally, I think this is a great idea. These ancient movies could use a little tidying up now that motion picture technology is at its pinnacle. To that end, here are five movies that I think are in desperate need of a remake:

Bloodsucking Freaks
Directed by Joel Reed
1976, color

A gore-filled satire on media critique and the entertainment industry in general, this movie is a cult-classic that is ready to burst into the mainstream. Imagine well-known young actresses like Lindsay Lohan and Jennifer Love-Hewitt being beheaded and their mouths made to be used a urinals. Plus, with a little computer-generated action, we could really see blood fly as womens' eyeballs are detached from their retinas. I'm thinking Ewan MacGregor as the sadistic Sardu, and maybe Wee Man from Jackass as his midget henchman, Ralphus. For a long while, I've thought that this movie would make a great musical, perhaps the talented Mel Brooks would like to help out here? Lord knows he's got a bone to pick with film critics.

Titanic
Directed by James Cameron
1997, color

This cinematic masterpiece was heralded for its supposedly ground-breaking special effects, and yet it contained no computer-generated dinosaurs or space ships! We can remedy this oversight now with current technology. And the woman that plays Rose Bukater should really have bigger cans. This is actually a carefully considered casting decision that should really help the scene where Jack Dawson holds her to the bow of the ship in what is arguably the most romantic scene in the film. Imagine if Rose has her arms outstretched to the wind and displays a pair of double-D sweater puppies? There should also be pirates thrown in here somehow. This movie is also a great candidate for being remade with an all-black cast.

Rambo: First Blood Part II
Directed by George P. Costamos
1985, color

Originally about a Vietnam War veteran that returns to Vietnam to rescue hostages, this film could get a well-deserved shot in the arm if it were updated so that John Rambo becomes a veteran of 1992's Operation: Desert Storm instead. Still reeling from the effects of battle fatigue and secret nerve gases released by Hussein,John Rambo is called upon to once again return to Iraq and liberate any soldiers that don't want to occupy the country any more. You'll marvel as Rambo fires explosive arrow after explosive arrow into already disheveled structures and shakes down innocent Iraqi businessmen for information on soldiers' whereabouts. The movie takes a strange turn when Iraqi citizens actually applaud Rambo for his decisive leadership and bloodthirst, but the real twist is at the end when every U.S. solider wants to return home from Iraq and there aren't enough cargo helicopters available to take them.

Jesus Christ Superstar
Directed by Norman Jewison
1973, color

If you ask me, an updated version of Jesus' travels as told in the New Testament could use a new update at least every ten years. I mean, this movie is full of hippies and freaks that were already stylistically irrelevant when the movie first came out. I see this is a hip-hop story now, with Jesus Christ busting crazy rhymes and the Apostles serving as back up dancers. Think of this as 8 Mile meets an ABC after school special. The rap battle between Jesus and Judas towards the end of the movie should be something legendary, and the lyrics should be written by professional rappers. Like, maybe Kid N' Play could do it. They're obviously not very busy.

Plan 9 From Outer Space
Directed by Ed Wood, Jr.
1959, b & w

A movie which consistently ranks at the top of Worst Movies Ever Made lists, I can think of no better film task than to remake this film and attempt to bestow upon it the glory that the late Ed Wood intended. I'm talking gigantic Independence Day style saucers blasting the bejeezus out of Washington D.C. I'm talking 28 Days Later style running zombies that scare you into pissing yourself. All dialogue can remain precisely the same as the original. Let's let the fascinating and gripping story, and not the fame of Ed Wood's cross dressing, be the legacy of this maligned work of art.

Good Morning

2006-02-15T11:12:00.001-05:00

A cruel shaft of sun poured through my greasy window and stabbed me directly in the eyelids; this was my signal to wake up. I opened my eyes to a squint and surveyed my surroundings: I had passed out drunk in my disheveled office. That son-of-a-bitch God let me live another accursed day. I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and spat a heavy wad of snot flecked with blood at it. It hung lazily, threatening to splatter on my face at any time. I watched it for a while and welcomed the prospect.
The insides of my mouth felt like they had been painted with baby shit. I grabbed the bottle of burbon in my desk and took a swig for better oral hygiene. Tasting that eye-opener, I grabbed a stubbed stogie from my overflowing ashtray and lit it. The acrid smell of twice-smoked cigarette filled the air and briefly interrupted the wafting stench of whatever was rotting under the piles of paper around me. However, the burning tobacco could not extinguish the smell emanating from my clammy, haggard body. I hadn't showered in eight days, and today I was not going to break the streak.
Taking another slug of burbon, I heaved my creaking body out of the chair and ambled over to the dust-streaked window. Peering out onto the sidewalk below, I observed many well-dressed people rushing about to their various jobs and commitments. "Buncha tools," I muttered aloud, and took another sip of caramel-colored liquid from my bottle. A sharp pain in my mouth told me that the shattered bicuspid I earned three nights ago from a bouncer at the White Starling was about to come out. I wasn't going to help it along any more than to ingest more germicidical liquor. Uzo would probably do the trick. I grabbed my ratty trenchcoat and headed out the door.
On the street, I become well aware of the horror I wreak. People stare, wide-eyed, and turn their noses up at me. Mothers hold their children closer and keep a hand on their purses. I laugh, a gurgling, phlegm-tinted laugh that expels spittle from my lips and tongue in every direction. Tools. Every last one of them. I am ashamed to even share the same planet with these drones. I make my own fate, staring danger and cirrhosis in the face every moment of my life. Keep your safe journeys, wrought with mediocrity. I am the captain of my ship.
Reaching my destination, I took off my trenchcoat and revealed my blood-stained sash and filthy uniform. I was exactly on time, as always. My life is disposable but I take my job seriously. Without it, I would be even more untethered to society than I already am. And if I don't stand in the crosswalk and hold my sign rigidly, how will the children get to their grade school safely? I stood there and waved the children across the street while impassively staring at the driver of a Chrysler LeBaron. Two hours in the morning, two hours in the afternoon. Then it's off to my fermented, bottled mistress for the rest of the evening. Please, God, let this be my final day.

I've Never Felt So Alive

2006-02-10T16:08:00.000-05:00

Something amazing just happened to me that I had to share. I was playing Windows Solitaire during work hours, something I am prone to do on a Friday, and the most incredible thing happened. The program was dealing cards as normal and I watched them digitally stack up, trying to anticipate which cards would be face up so I could begin to plan my strategy. When the face cards were placed, I was shocked to find that all four Aces had been laid out right there in the first deal. But that's not the amazing thing that happened! I double-clicked all the aces so they could go to their houses at the top left of the screen, and then those piles revealed all four Kings! I already had two Queens and a Jack showing, so I combined all the necessary cards and played the rest of the game. Suffice to say, with my Kings already in place, it was decided in my favor rather quickly.
I am walking on a cloud right now. I feel like I could conquer the world, as if those four initial Aces started the rest of my charmed life. Would that every endeavor I engaged began with four Aces...but now is not the time for regret. Now is the time to rejoice! The rest of my life will be nothing but four Aces that reveal four Kings. No more two of Spades, no more lonely eight of Hearts, but Aces and Kings from here on out. I can feel it. The fates have shined down on me and given me the necessary fortitude to say, "Yes, I can finish a game of Solitaire in less than two minutes, and therefore maybe I can pay off my credit cards and get my cable hooked back up and possibly repair my failed marriage." Wait, "possibly"? Scratch that. Make it definitely.
I feel sorry for people who never have such fortune in their lives. It must be a dreary existence, to go around all cynical and thinking that life will never be sweet or that you will never taste victory. I know because I was one of those people, until I was dealt four Aces in Windows solitaire. Now, I finally understand the phrase "never say 'never'," which heretofore confused me because it kind of cancels itself out. Like, how can you tell me to never say "never" when it's the first word in the phrase? That makes no sense. But now I know that the first use of "never" is synonymous with "don't ever" and the second instance is more like "it won't happen." So really, the phrase is more like "don't ever say 'it won't happen'." And never will I say that again!
It's a new era for Reggie, folks. The "Four Aces That Revealed Four Kings" era. From this day forward, every move I make will have the fortune of four consecutive Aces shining down on it. It will happen because I know it can happen and I can will it to happen. Maybe I could turn this whole thing into a lucrative self-help cult.

An Asian is Doing My Taxes

2006-02-08T09:38:00.000-05:00

I'm not racist. I'm a card-carrying member of the ACLU, for crying out loud. I have a healthy mix of friends of all skin-colors and creeds, and though we don't see eye-to-eye on every matter, I enjoy and respect their points of view. I donate to several anti-bigotry groups, and I've stood in protest outside many courthouses where the proceedings could be deemend racially corrupt. I know I'm not perfect, but I have done my best to eschew the racist programming instilled in me by my forefathers and systemic racial injustice. That's why it is so hard for me to admit that I am having an Asian do my taxes, and I like it.
I didn't pick the Asian tax accountant. I walked into HR Block and told them I wanted to file my taxes through them and they set me up with her. Ms. Lee is her name. And God help me, as I walked over to her desk, an impulse came from the depths of my terrible soul: YES! Somewhere in my subconscious came the notion that this woman would be good at math. I tried to suppress it, but all I had in my mind were images of Asian boys and girls raising their hands eagerly in algebra class, deftly answering every question correctly before returning to their demure solitude. I admire Asian cultures for their uniformity of purpose and advanced abstract reasoning. If I can briefly turn their cultural boon into my own, why not?
You're probably thinking, "Reggie, you racist con of a bitch, not all Asians are good at math." That may be true, but Ms. Lee is great with numbers. She doesn't even have a calculator. I sat down and handed her my receipts and she was able to give me a rough estimate on my refund within twenty seconds. And she did it all in her head! I was stunned. Part of me feels like I am getting away with something, like i'm exploiting Ms. Lee and Asians everywhere for their mathematical fortitude. I was sure to be very obsequious with her, and audibly marveled every time she added numbers of more than three digits together. Did I mention she did this all in her head? I'd ask to check her work, but I wouldn't know what the hell I was looking at. More of a literary person, myself.
At this point, I have resigned myself to the fact that by secretly enjoying that an Asian is doing my taxes, I am a confirmed racist. However, it's not like I am making fun of her or anything. In fact, I commend Ms. Lee and Asians everywhere who are able to use their natural math prowess to help the greater good. If more people embrace this, then maybe complacency will weed out the need to exhalt our Hispanic gardners, or our Irish contractors, or our Jewish accountants. Especially the last one. I mean, everyone knows that Jews make the best lawyers.

President Bush Appoints New Press Secretary

2006-02-03T08:55:00.000-05:00

Washington D.C., North America -- At a hastily-convened press conference given late last night, President Bush surprised many by announcing that he was appointing a new White House press secretary, Ray Benzino, rap artist and one time co-founder of the seminal hip-hop magazine, The Source. Besides working within the structure of Source magazine, Benzino has no experience working with the press, which puzzled many of the reporters on hand.
"I just want to say that Ray Ray is a decent, hardworking man." commented President Bush to the small crowd, "I've wanted to fit him in somewhere in my administration, but he was so goldurn busy with his magazine and such." Ray Benzino and Dave Mays, founder of Source magazine, were recently ousted from their publication by the magazine's executive board. "That freed up some of his time, and we're sure glad to bring him aboard, by golly."
Wasting no time, Benzino immediately took the podium and began fielding questions. Dressed in a velour hooded sweatshirt and a pair of women's sunglasses, he was a surprisingly imposing figure and clearly intimidated some reporters. "We already won the war in Iraq. That's already in the history books." offered Benzino, completely unsolicited, "Y'all need to get your heads out of your assholes and see what's up in the streets. The streets know we won the war in Iraq."
When asked what kind of rapport he intended to keep with the press, Benzino said, "Y'all are a bunch of snakes. So I'll deal with y'all like a snake handler." Benzino then clenched a meaty fist, which made a reporter from The Nation in the front row faint dead away.
"There are going to be some changes," continued Benzino, scanning the room intently, his eyes flickering behind the rosy hue of his glasses, "first of all, question period is done. All you get are strictly answers. And the bottom line is that you all don't understand the White House. You can never understand the White House. Everything is fine at the White House. You worry about yours and I'll worry about mine."
Benzino sneered at the crowd and continued, "If any of you writes something about me, I'm coming to your [expletive] house. I'm going to ring your [expletiive] doorbell. And if you don't make me a mother[expletive] turkey sandwich and a glass of [expletive] milk, then there's going to be trouble."
Benzino then removed the microphone from its stand and ceremoniously dropped it on the ground, creating loud feedback which pierced the room's eerie atmosphere. Benzino threw his hood up and trudged off the stage, trailing Bush and some advisors throwing gang signs behind him.

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

2006-01-27T16:11:00.000-05:00

Adidas Sneakers

THE GOOD: Americana hi-tops

The sneaker that started it all, and by that I mean practically the entire sneaker collector's culture. Sure, the alternating blue and red stripes might not have much relevance in this post-ABA world, but the materials are interesting and the look is great. Sneakers like these can cause you to rearrange your whole wardrobe, and might be the leading cause in fomenting the "sportsjacket and jeans" look. It's not the sneakers' fault, though! These sneakers are like part Rod Lavers, part Abdul Jabbars, and all frrrresh. Don't get caught out there in the re-issued styles in various materials and colorways, though. That is, of course, unless you are a hipster faggot in a tight t-shirt.

THE BAD: The entire Kobe Bryant series

"Here I stand, one of the most talented players in the NBA, just now reaching the apex of an already impressive career. I need a sneaker that expresses my versatility and agility; my drive and fortitude. I need a sneaker that is as nice to look at as it is functional. I know! I'll design sneakers that look like fucking Winnebagos!" Seriously, those sneakers would make nice toaster cozies. Hard to believe that this is the same guy who lags behind only Wilt Chamberlain for most points scored in a game. However, throw on a pair of muddy coveralls, grow your beard to a shaggy length, and wear these bad boys and you could easily be the guy that fools around with high school girls' private parts. Perhaps Kobe should be endorsing home pregnancy kits and prom-friendly limo companies while he's at it.

THE MEDIOCRE: Forum low-tops

The first sneakers I ever heard that got stolen from someone's feet that weren't Jordans were white-on-black Adidas Forums. The guy that stole them must have been shoeless himself, because otherwise I don't know why he bothered. Is it the strap? These sneakers are totally unremarkable and bordering on ugly. I equate people who buy sneakers like these with those that copped Reebok Pumps. You know, the guys that wore wack second edition Starter jackets with the detachable hood. The same guy that wore Charlotte Hornets and San Jose Sharks caps with differently colored bills. The very same guy that jocked House of Pain a little too hard and did the "Just Say No" rap routine at the school talent show. Later, he would gain widepsread fame for getting knocked out by iCON the Mic King at Scribble Jam 2005.

I Believe That Children Are Our Future

2006-01-25T10:44:00.001-05:00

It occurs to me that I spend ten minutes, twice a week, updating this hysterical blog for million and billions and possibly trillions of readers, yet not one of you selfish bastards has yet to give me jack shit. I'm not bitter, though. No, it's my pleasure to entertain and inform you ingrates free of charge. Sometimes, though, I think that my off-the-cuff Judy Tenuta style of humor might obfuscate the seriousness of my more infortmative blogs. Well, make no mistake, faithful readers, this blog is very, very serious. This blog is about child handlin'.
I can't help but think of that quote that Hillary Clinton stole: "It takes a woman to birth a child, but it takes a village idiot to raise it." I can't think of a more pertinent quote for this topic, excepting maybe what Mark Twain had to say on the matter: "Familiarity breeds contempt--and children." I think we all agree that there's nothing more contemptible than children, but we have to raise them right or else they might not grow up to lead good lives and have good jobs so they can take care of us when we're older. I mean, it's not like we're getting any social security, folks. And that pension plan? Read the fine print. You've been paying dividends into a system that allows your company to sell your butt hair to science. When you retire, all you're going to be left with is a shiny ass.
Possibly the first question a new parent will ask about their baby is "When will this thing start to look like a human being?" Babies begin to look human at around four to six weeks, when they enter a phase of life known as the Buddy Hackett phase (as coined by my father). No matter what the sex or skin color, a baby always looks like Buddy Hackett for a brief time. Except, of course, for Buddy Hackett. Some scientists believe that Buddy Hackett is the prototype, a template of the Original Man from which all human life stems. These scientists are desperately underfunded, however, and are in dire need of your ass hair.
Once your baby starts looking like a human being, it will soon try to move around. Many parents' impulse is to encourage this movement because they think it will promote a healthy baby. Well, they couldn't be more wrong! By forcing your child to move and walk when it would probably rather lay around and need constant catering to may scar that child for life. S/He will grow up with a low self-esteem due to the constant pressure of performing and excelling. The child will suppress intense feelings of rage, which will manifest as temper tantrums and shopping sprees and the loud playing of music that you can't stand. In short, your child will become a high school cheerleader or jock, and nobody wants that.
After a while, though, no amount of hobbling or restrictive cage will be able to stifle your child's wanderlust, and so it is eventually time to set the little crap factory free. Many parents complain that their baby gets into the cabinets and trash and makes a mess of things, and some parents even worry that their baby wander off unsupervised and get hurt. The main culprit here, I think, is that many parents use those fashionable retractable leashes that can extend up to ten feet long. Perhaps when a boy or girl is of age--say sixteen or seventeen--they can be trusted to keep such a lengthy circumference from a parent. A baby needs boundaries, however, and so I think that for a child under seven years old, no more than two feet--three feet maximum--of leash is needed. You might feel this is cruel, but a parent has got to set a perimeter and this is one of those tough decisions. You can make it up to your young one by tastefully decorating their doghouse, perhaps with some dry straw or fresh water.
Now that we've covered leash length, the only other thing a parent needs to be concerned about is how much and what kind of television they are going to expose their children to. The answer is that the television should be on all day, and should be completely unrestricted. The television is like another father, except he doesn't drink or yell at mommy or beat the children. He sits, emotionally unavailable, beaming violence and facile garbage into the brains of millions across America, draining electric energy and your will to experiment with new things. In short, the television is your best friend. Like the kid that first swiped a Playboy from his dad and brought it to school, the television keeps your child up to date on all the real skinny, without undermining your parental credibility or wasting your precious time. Yes, television will ultimately absorb thirty to forty percent of your child's young life, which will be a great defense when s/he goes berserk and mows down a schoolyard full of children.
And that's the basics of it, folks! I hope you have found my advice helpful and informative, and if you haven't, then you're probably one of those bleeding-heart parents that believes in diapers and affection and regular feeding times. When the nuclear apocalypse happens, we'll see who fares better in the aftermath: a mollycoddled little brat that relies on its parents for everything, or a child that's tethered to a stake in the backyard and has to sleep in the rain. I think it's clear who's going to be running the show in the coming decades.

History of Hip-Hop part one

2006-01-20T17:03:00.000-05:00

Rap music first began in 1971, when legendary DJ Kool Herc created the turntable. Before that, turntables were called "record players". He came up with the notion of charging people to hear him play vinyl records in stifling recreation rooms, which is one of the foundations of hip-hop. The other foundations are correcting your grandmother when she calls black people "the coloreds" and the movie Flashdance. But certainly without Kool Herc, hip-hop--and therefore Benzino--could have never existed.
At the same time that Kool Herc was annoying audiophiles by putting his fingers directly onto the grooves of records, other interesting cultural things were happening in New York City. Gangs would have showdowns called "war dances" where two gangs would congregate and shoot each other. When gang membership and ammunition dwindled, they began to engage in a formalized style of dance called "break dancing". The object was to see who could break more of their own bones by falling on the ground. Simultaneously, New York began to be covered in graffiti, which is an Italian word meaning "illegible writing." Young kids would write their names and the streets on which they lived on subway train cars which would carry their identity throughout the city. However, when it was discovered that revealing your name and address as part of your illegal offense is a fucking stupid thing to do, these kids began using nicknames and nom de plumes.
At this time, New York was in one of its worst fiscal crises, which was created by a curse placed on the city after the Mets won the World Series in 1969. This caused many public services and their employees to be cut or to become very lazy. Landlords in the Bronx began setting fire to their apartment buildings in order to create a frightening backdrop for Ronald Reagan's New York presidental campaign stop. The time was truly ripe for this new hip-hop culture to step up and fill in the gaps left by crappy television and music.
The first quantum leap in hip-hop took place when Grandmaster Flash wore his first sporty five-panel cap. This is why he was also known as Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. He had a protege whose name was Grandwizard Theodore who was remarkable in that he had a very stupid DJ name. One day Theodore accidentally scratched a record and realized that if he ruined records but told people it was on purpose, they would pay him and he could buy more records. He would set up his turntables and speakers in local parks and play to the bunnies and chipmunks that populated them. When his critter fanbase was large enough, he began tackling bigger venues and ultimately performed on an ambitious tour which took him through all the national parks.
Meanwhile, the worlds of graffiti and breakdancing were popular, though not as popular since they both involve you probably getting your pants dirty. Graffiti style began to expand and artists were not content with just getting their nicknames on subway cars, so they began writing long stories which no one could read. One of these stories was recently compiled and released under the title The Nanny Diaries. Breakdancing was going strong, but it suffered some setbacks when everyone in the breakdancing scene was in a body cast at the same time. They shared a room at the Lenox Hill hospital where they would try to outperform each other's moves using only their tongues. These were innocent times in hip-hop, but all that was about to change.
In 1979, a new label released a new record called "Turkish Delight" by an unknown group called The Sugar Hill Gang. Many people in the existing hip-hop community didn't like the Sugar Hill Gang because they were not from a place called Sugar Hill, as they claimed. Despite their detractors, the Sugar Hill Gang went on to sell millions of records, most of which were destroyed by Grandwizard Theodore. This proved to be a futile gesture, however, because the landscape of hip-hop changed and everyone in the scene tried to release a record. That's how we got many of our rap classics like "Honeymooners Rap" and "99 Luft Baloons". Since then, rap has become a multi-billion dollar industry and all of its originators are sitting pretty on a nice chunk of that cash. In fact, Big Bank Hank from the Sugar Hill Gang went on to become famous rapper Jay-Z.