Jet Blach Jabber

An Open Letter To B. Hussein Obama From A Home-Schooled Student

2008-07-03T23:04:00.005-07:00

Dear Mr. B. Hussein Obama,

My name is Jonah Isaac Solomon Hatfield. I am 19 years of age, sir, and attend Pinewood High School in Charleston, South Carolina. I’m one of five students enrolled in my school. The others are my sisters. You see, Mr. B. Hussein Obama, Pinewood is the street my house is on, and I am actually home-schooled, as my parents know that the public schools are no place to get a proper education that follows the true teachings of the Bible.

Mr. B. Hussein Obama, I am writing this letter for two reasons. The first is for my application to Liberty University when I graduate Pinewood in another year. It sounds like you’ll be active in some of their affairs. The other reason, sir, is to help you find salvation.

If you are to become the next President of these 49 states (I don’t count Utah for obvious reasons), there are a few things you need to learn, as I’m certain were not a part of your curriculum at your Muslim Jihadist school where you were taught to hate America, build car bombs and were forbidden to wear flag pins. We’ll begin with the order of who’s getting through Saint Peter’s pearly gates following Jesus Christ’s return. You’ll need to know this in order to pick a proper cabinet and Justice Department.

Naturally, Republican-Christian-Americans who’ve been saved will have priority seating in Heaven. Next, anti-abortion undecided/independent voters will have a place next to Christ on his sofa in the sky. Then, there will be a place for those anti-abortion Democrat(s). Sure, they made some wrong choices, but as long as they repent their Michael Dukakis sins, they’re in. Following them will be Canadians who supported our efforts in Iraq. After those pinko, maple syrup-suckers are accepted, God will have room for smart animals like dogs, monkeys (as long as they recognize that we’re not cousins), and smart fishes, like dolphins.

Those not in these groups, according to my principal and father, will have to spend some time in either Purgatory or New York City during a Puerto Rican pride festival. After that, some might have an opportunity to get into Heaven. But they shouldn’t count on it. They’ll most-likely head straight to a place I cannot say or spell. But it rhymes with ‘shell’ and if you say it three times in the mirror, Barney Frank appears to turn you homo.

You know, Mr. B. Hussein Obama, there’s a good chance you’ll have the opportunity to select at least one Supreme Court Justice. It’s real important that you avoid one of those liberal, activist judges who legislates from the bench. Instead, you should choose a Justice who will vigorously fight to overturn Roe v. Wade and will lobby for the Eleven Commandments (we added one here at Pinewood: Thou Shall Not Watch Thou’s Sisters Shower) to be displayed in every courthouse, state house and city hall in this One Nation Under God.

As far as national security goes, that’s easy an easy one. Just make sure we have more and bigger guns than the terrorists. If they got a problem with us, just blow them back to the Stone Age. – Heck, on second thought, they might like that since they already live in caves. Maybe just nuke them enough to where they’ll appreciate liberty and freedom. I figure retarding their kids for a few generations ought to do it. After all, it worked when we did it to the French at Normandy. They’ve been tarded so long they’ve resorted to eating snails, and they keep forgetting to put walls on that tower of theirs in Paris. But now they love America and freedom. They even changed the name of their only famous food, French Fries, to Freedom Fries.

Down here in the South, some of my neighbors aren’t too happy that a black man could be in the White House. But some others don’t see it so bad. In fact, my granddaddy must be an optimist. He sees it as a sign of the apocalypse. After all, that’ll just bring Judgment Day closer, and that’s what we’re all here for anyway, isn’t it?

In closing, Mr. B. Hussein Obama, I want to wish you the best of luck with your pursuit of the presidency of these 48 states (I just heard about California’s new kind of marriages). If you ever feel like converting to Christianity, please stop by Pinewood High School. Our school’s above-ground pool can be used as a baptismal tank when not in use by the Swimming Against Sin swim team.

Yours in Christ,

Jonah Isaac Solomon Hatfield

Another Great Voice Is Gone

2008-06-23T17:57:00.005-07:00

In tribute to the great George Carlin, I've re-posted my George Carlin JBJ piece that I wrote after seeing him perform in Detroit.

Monday, February 13, 2006
Buy George, I Paid 50 Bucks!

Was Socrates funny? While he was helping to create our modern, Western views of existence to the citizens of ancient Greece, did he slip in any zingers, use sarcastic tones or say “knock, knock” in his lessons?

Saturday night, I had the opportunity to see someone I consider to be a modern-day philosopher, George Carlin, perform in the Detroit Opera House. Now perhaps I’m giving a stand up comedian too much credit by comparing him to a fifth century genius, but times are certainly different. Socrates and other ancient, dead dudes (as he might have been described in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, which coincidentally featured Carlin), had a much broader and emptier canvas to paint on than a 20th-21st century Carlin. But, to me, Carlin isn’t just a funny man who talks about taboo topics with colorful words. Carlin is a philosopher.

Carlin has an insight into daily life that most others don’t. He not only says things which others won’t dare, he has a keen sense that allows him to make those off-color observations, which most don’t. Carlin isn’t afraid to call a lie a lie. He’ll call a crook a crook. Carlin will talk about everything from bodily functions (sex and flatulents – a winning combo) to our sometimes idiotic views as Americans. And he certainly isn’t afraid to comment on the holiest of all subject, religion. That’s the type of person he is. And that is part of the reason I appreciate his work. His views are his own. If you don’t agree, you don’t have to. You have the option to nod your head, or you can fuck yourself. Whatever. Cool.

Not everyone understood Socrates. Not everyone agreed with him. And apparently, many were threatened by his thoughts and teachings – hence forcing him to drink poison. That’s what happens with extremely intelligent people who have original, and possibly, unpopular thoughts.

Fortunately, Saturday’s Carlin crowd was all folks who paid $50 to hear the man’s routine, which many had already seen done on his latest HBO special, or in his latest book: When Will Jesus Bring The Pork Chops?. However, I had to scratch my head at some of the other Carlin fans in attendance.

Now I’m not trying to get on top of a soapbox and say that I understand Carlin more than someone else and no one is able to appreciate him as much as I do. But there were some guys in the audience who were clueless. In fact, there were a couple chumps sitting behind me talking about how funny George is and how great of a comedian he is. And that discussion led to which other comedians are as brilliant as Carlin, like Larry the goddamn Cable Guy. – I wish I was making this up, but I’m not. To these dorks behind me, the Blue Collar Comedy red necks are just as funny, insightful and witty as Carlin. – There could not be a comparison that missed the mark more than that. And I’d go into a further rant on how those dipshit Blue Collar guys aren’t funny, but there’s only so much room on the Internet.

Another aspect of the Carlin crowd that caught me off guard was the hooting and cheering to key words. When Carlin would say a few “dirty” words, or would make an obvious joke that someone driven blind by masturbation (a popular theme of his set) could see coming (lots of puns too), a large contingent of the crowd would cheer in the same fashion as they would when AC/DC would yell “we love you Detroit!” They knew what punchline was coming up and they prepared a “hell yeah!” for it. – Why? Was this a Pavlovian condition? If I carried a recording of Carlin saying “fart” and sneaked up behind one of these yuck-yucks and played it, would they salivate?

I thought the “rock star comedian” was an ‘80s thing. I thought that after Eddie Murphy was caught “giving a ride” to a transsexual hooker, the drunken hooting for comedians like they were Eddie Money was over and done. But I was wrong.

Going to a comedy show and hoping the comic will perform your favorite joke from your favorite CD, or god forbid, say his magical catch phrase like “Git ‘Er Done”, seems kind of silly to me. Is there a difference between hearing a comedian say it live rather than on CD? There’s definitely a great vibe when seeing a musical act perform live. But is comedy the same?

I guess part of my reason for wanting to drop $50 on a ticket to see someone I’ve respected for a long time is to say that I have seen him. Also, I was really hoping to hear some newer thoughts and jokes of his that weren’t covered on HBO.

Without wanting to sound too arrogant, I want to mention that I felt George and half the audience was laughing at the other half of the audience at times. He joked about how too many Americans are too dumb, obese and compulsive for their own good, as well as for the good of the world. And I couldn’t help but think about all the dumb and obese people in the crowd that took me all of 30 seconds to notice when I walked through the Opera House doors. – And they were laughing just as hard as the other half of the crowd, although not with it, necessarily.

Although the Blue Collar fans behind me were aware of all the current greats like Jeff Foxworthy and Carrot Top, they further disappointed me when they began talking about how there aren’t any others out there like George. There’s no one else who makes the kind of observations about society and without apology like George. When he’s gone, that’s it, no more. – All I could think about is a favorite of mine – another philosopher who just happens to be very funny and doesn’t give a rat’s smelly ball about being politically correct. And that funny man is Bill Maher – the Plato to Carlin’s Socrates. As much as Carlin and the Cable Guy are a bad combination, a Maher/red neck mix would prove lethal. -- Imagine a complicated meth lab in a trailer park being run by someone whose day job is testing drugs thought to be too harmful to test on monkeys. The end result is the same as what would happen if those dummies behind me at the show kept their Maher DVDs with their Foxworthy albums – kaboom! Lots of chemicals and cans of Spam everywhere.

So was Socrates funny? I don’t know. But I bet he wouldn’t find Carlin’s routine on suicide so humorous.

Posted by H.Wood at 8:39 PM
3 comments:

psquared said...

In the immortal words of Socrates “I drank what?”

Glad you had a good time.

Word Verification: gchoan
6:31 AM
kyle said...

Even being someone who would never consider himself a social or political genius and admittedly owned the first "You might be a redneck" Foxworthy cassette, I agree with you. Even seeing Dennis Miller on HBO tonight, some 'big' words and references were lost on me. I sensed that Carlin threw in the occasional dick and fart joke just to remind some of the idiots that they were at a comedy show. Yes, I laughed at them, but I also 'got' the rest of the show.

good post.
7:41 PM
Jeen Yes said...

gotta say shaun boy, i was sincerely disappointed in george's latest routine. however, i take solice in the fact that my boy, bill maher, will be in denver in april...with any luck, i'll pay $50 to go see him. without the gruff voice and the beard, some may call him "george, jr."

The Country Will Miss Tim Russert

2008-06-13T21:16:00.004-07:00

After my retirement talk and a hiatus, I had planned on posting something to Jet Blach Jabber as I was feeling a little creative, and I really just felt the need to write. My initial topic was somewhere between humorous and slightly mean-spirited. But as I vegetated on the couch with coffee, as I normally do the mornings of my weekdays off (I used a comp day Friday), NBC News broke into its usual MSNBC coverage with a special report.

Of course breaking into a 24-hours news channel meant something big was going on, usual the death of someone important. Adding intensity to the breaking news was that retired newsman Tom Brokaw was delivering it.

Tim Russert died.

In my house, growing up, it was Peter Jennings weeknights and Meet the Press on Sundays. Every weeknight at 6:30, my family sat down for dinner in the dining room. My father was always the last at the table since it was his preference to walk into the living room to turn up ABC World News Tonight loud enough to hear while we ate. Occasionally, he would dart from the table to the living room in order to better hear, and of course see, a report. That was just the norm for the first 18 years of my life.

Jennings was a part of the family. Sure, none of us new him, but his voice was as familiar as anyone who was actually related by blood. Of course there were other evening news broadcasts and other anchors tuned-in on other people’s TVs. But there was just ABC and just Jennings in our home.

Sunday mornings were a little different. Sundays were the one day a week where my parents could relax in the morning. There weren’t jobs or soccer games to attend. It was a morning of black coffee, newspapers and Meet the Press.

What Peter Jennings was to our family’s dinners, Tim Russert had become for Sunday mornings when he took over the show. My parents were very interested in politics and very informed about what was going on in the world around them. And in turn, it rubbed off on my brother and me at young ages.

While we could have just as easily mimicked our parents’ political views, being able to listen to opposing arguments, and then watching Russert keep pundits and politicians honest, helped us to be able to form our own opinions. Naturally, political topics became easier to understand as we aged.

Even after I left my parents’ home for college in Southeast Michigan, I carried my political interests with me. There, it seemed, for every student involved in political or social causes, there were 20 who pleaded ignorant or apathetic. I didn’t understand that, as I don’t today. But I wasn’t going to fall into one of those categories. Every Sunday, my tradition of Meet the Press continued, even in football season when the rest of my day was dedicated to the Buffalo Bills.

I was aware that Russert hailed from Buffalo and was a huge Bills supporter. He made that clear on the air before all four of the team’s Super Bowl losses. However, for some reason I was unaware that my father grew up in the same Irish Catholic neighborhood in South Buffalo. Perhaps I never had my own journalistic hunch to ask, but Russert was a couple years older than my pops, which put him the same age as my uncle Jerry.

Turns out Jerry and Tim were friends growing up only a couple blocks away in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else, and everyone belonged to the same church and attended the same Catholic schools. That ethnic, old neighborhood isn’t something I experienced growing up in Ohio. In fact, the only time I experienced anything resembling it was when I’d visit my aunt, Karen, and her family. They live in the same South Buffalo neighborhood in a house that used to belong to my great-grandfather. A lot of her neighbors are second and third generation living in family homes as well. It’s a nice atmosphere and a real sense of community that I don’t think many people experience the farther west you travel in this country.

Although I don’t know how much Russert and my uncle kept in touch through the years, I know he and my father have had tie-ins through their lines of work. The pride of Buffalo never left either of them as each left the city for greener pastures.

A world without Meet the Press with Tim Russert will be different. It might be really pessimistic to say that things will worsen without him, but I actually worry about how our great country will fare without him.

After Jennings died, there were still some great and responsible journalists on TV. But now, Brokaw is mostly retired and Dan Rather is rarely seen on a high-def channel most don’t receive. Bob Woodruff seemed promising, but who knows if he’ll ever be able to meet his full potential after his head wound suffered covering the Iraq War. And now Charlie Gibson hosts ABC World News. And as good of an anchor he might be, he’s not Peter Jennings with the same journalistic skills.

Russert was at the top of the most difficult type of news programming. In an age where the Republican Party has an entire network in its back pocket and corporations own other news media, Russert was able to deliver America unbiased, tough questions to the men and women whose governing affects everyone. He didn’t allow bullshit. He wouldn’t settle for dodges. He got truthful answers out of many people who normally wouldn’t recognize honesty of it were growing out of their ears.

Is anyone up to par? Fox News can be taken out of the equation. George Stephanopoulos lost a lot of his building credibility after he and Charlie Gibson hosted what many consider the worst presidential candidate debate earlier this year. So how about David Gregory? He’s been known to ask some tough questions while a part of the White House Press Corp. But doubts were definitely raised when he did the hokey-pokey with M.C. Rove. And then there’s Keith Olbermann. I really enjoy his show and think it does a real service. But I don’t think there’s a question about which way he leans politically. Russert was skillfully able to deal the game without showing his hand.

There’s a dire need for responsible, accurate and aggressive journalism in this country, at this time. Lazy reporting and corporate influence, combined with sensationalism, slogans and soundbites far too often replace true journalism. Professionals like Time Russert realized a strong and honest press is essential to the American way.

The country lost a great man today.

The End Is Near?

2008-04-23T23:22:00.000-07:00

I never intended on using Jet Blach Jabber as a daily online journal. Ramblings and recaps of bloggers’ days are a dime a dozen on the Internets and are better off left as internal thoughts.

I also never meant Jet Blach to be medium strictly for bitching. While I’ve done my fair share of complaining about politics, Los Angeles drivers, race fans, and people I consider douche bags, among other things, it wasn’t my sole intention when I started this silly site.

As you might have noticed, I definitely have succeeding in keeping Jet Blach Jabber from becoming a daily log of my life. In fact, my postings are few and far between these days. I’ve managed to drop my readership from seven people to two people and a very smart horse.

Sure, I’ve been pretty busy with work, and I’ve done a bit of traveling. But my lack of writing can mostly be attributed to a lack of motivation and topics. A few good ideas have popped into my head, and I’ve actually started a couple of postings regarding a recent Black Keys concert and the band’s new album. However, they remain unfinished and the blog statute of limitations has run out.

Other blog ideas have crossed my mind. But upon further thought, the words that would have rolled off of my fingertips and onto the Web would have only been complaints – complaints without much creativity or humor. And, as I’ve said, I never wanted JBJ to strictly serve as my venting outlet.

Perhaps it says something about where I am in life. Maybe I’d have a more positive outlook in my online writing if I was being more positive in my normal life. – Or it might just be that I have a right to be cynical considering what’s going on in our country and in the world (I watch too much cable news).

This all is just leading up to my strong consideration of muting The Jabber. It’s been almost three years since I started this site to entertain a few readers with my thoughts and stories. And really, I think I accomplished my small goal, while also finding a creative outlet and exercising my writing skills (even though I’ve really bastardized so many writing rules in my postings).

Please, don’t step off the ledge and come back inside the building. I haven’t decided if I’m definitely going euthanize Jet Blach. There are actually a couple of funny ideas knocking around in my noggin. Plus, there are a few questions I’d like answered through Jet Blach, like, What is the meaning of life?, and What’s a Nubian?

Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep this up. I might have an opportunity to refocus my energy, free time, creativity and writing skills on another project soon. Jet Blach might then become a bi-monthly bliss of ignorance and lame jokes. Of course, my readership will likely be reduced to that really smart horse. He’ll hopefully understand whatever my decision will be. He's a good horse.

Motorcycle Diary

2008-03-23T19:35:00.002-07:00

Before I moved to Los Angeles, I began looking into learning how to ride a motorcycle. I began pricing bikes (not crotchrockets) and reading about safety classes and how to obtain a license in Michigan.

I didn’t really grow up around motorcycles, or even dirt bikes, even though my dad had a small cc bike/scooter when he was in the service, a few years before I was born (I think he had it because he couldn’t afford a car). I’ve ridden on the back them, but being raised by my mother, a nurse who’s seen too many accidents, actually piloting one was out of the question, especially since my grandfather seriously messed up his legs on one many years ago.

My grandfather, from what I’ve been told, was a cool, James Dean-type, back in the 1950s and ‘60s with his Harley Davidson. He was somewhere between crazy and reckless. Grandpa was the type of guy who’d ride down the street standing on his bike. And when he wasn’t surfing on his saddle, he was lighting matches being held in my grandmother’s mouth by shooting a pellet gun over his shoulder using a mirror.

Alcohol and motorcycles aren’t the best combination. I don’t know if he was drunk, but there’s a good chance since he was/is an alcoholic, but my grandfather wrecked his hog and messed himself up in the process. After that, he didn’t ride again for another 30 years.

Anyway, when I was in Michigan, I really felt that there was a lack of excitement in my life. I worked, got drunk on the weekends, worked on the weekends, and returned to the office on Monday to work more. The freedom (pardon the motorcycle cliché) provided by bike looked like a great way to escape every day life. Sure, taking a drive in my Mazda on a gorgeous summer day with the moon roof open could be fun. But it paled in comparison to what I thought riding a loud, rumbling, two-wheel machine without the confinement of doors and a roof would be.

I was able to stash away a few thousand dollars during my last couple of years in Detroit. There were a few things I wanted to do with the money (saving for a rainy day or a house was not one of them). A motorcycle and a new MacBook were just crying out for me. But then the call came. The dream job in LA promised me a fresh start in the sun. Unfortunately, I was awakened by the sound of no relocation funds. The motorcycle fantasy was canceled, or at least postponed.

That was almost two years ago. The MacBook and I dropped some serious dough moving across the continent, putting down a deposit and furnishing a shitty apartment that happens to be on one of Los Angeles’ busiest boulevards, which leads to Venice Beach and the Pacific Coast Highway.

Every day and night, thundering bikes cruise and blow past my front door. And when they’re not waking me up, interrupting my phone calls, or muting my television, they’re teasing me. They’re saying, hey, this could have been you. This SHOULD be you.

I want to be the guy riding up and down the coast, stopping at remote diners for a cup of joe before heading out again to conquer the road. I want to be able to turn an ordinary Saturday afternoon into an adventure. I want to be able to leave LA without a destination or a need for one.

A Cross-Section of Politics and the Media

2008-03-18T23:51:00.002-07:00

Social etiquette disallows the discussion of sex, religion and politics among mixed crowds. But lately it seems that sex and religion are all we talk about in reference to politics no matter whom the audience. Elected officials possibly abusing tax payers’ money to have extramarital affairs (and knocking off the occasional stripper), along with men of the cloth spewing out unpopular and sometimes ignorant beliefs are filling the airwaves of our irresponsible media.

So Barack Obama is taking heat for fiery comments by his former, longtime pastor regarding his mistrust of the American government and beliefs regarding social and economical imbalances between blacks and whites. What’s Obama supposed to do? Those weren’t his comments.

On the other side of the political spectrum, there’s John McCain who’s not exactly the most popular man in The Bible Belt. After all, the less-qualified Ned Flanders, er Mike Huckabee, and his bass guitar won primary votes by reminding voters that Jesus rode a dinosaur and thunder is just God bowling. So to make up for his lack of his lack of snake-handling experience, McCain has insincerely played to the Pat Robertson crowd (although Pat actually worked a deal with Pro-Choice Rudy – probably a three-way trade involving the support of Lucifer). However, in an eager rush to find salvation, John Boy must not have done a background check. He enthusiastically accepted the endorsement of Jesus profiteer John Hagee, someone he probably didn’t know much about beforehand, who’s made a few anti-Catholic remarks. Oops.

Is it fair to hold either of these politicians responsible for the remarks made by men whose faiths and beliefs naturally are not going to please everyone? Imagine if there was a devout Catholic running. Under this kind of religious affiliation scrutiny, would his/her beliefs be fair game?

Senator John McCatholic follows a religious leader who was once a member of the Hitler Youth and a church that doesn’t support safe sex, doesn’t believe women should hold the same positions as men, and covered up the sexual abuse of children by its members for decades. And we won’t even get into the Spanish Inquisition.

Earlier in the parties' nomination open season, the media were discussing the impact of Mitt Romney and his silly, made-up religion that consists of Jesus vacationing in America (but only in within the U.S.’s borders, I’m sure) with the REAL Native Americans - you know, the Caucasian kind.

Is America ready for a Mormon president?, they asked. – Just like the similar question asking if America is ready for a black president, it allows ignorant people more time to remain close-minded. Well, the TV people bring up a good point. Maybe we’re not ready for a black president. I don’t know what exactly it would mean to have a black president, but I imagine it would have something to do with The Source Awards being held in the White House’s Rose Garden. And that would be bad.

Now imagine if Senator McCatholic’s (a fictitious character if you’re just now starting to play) religion was created within the past 200 years or so.

Senator McCatholic’s god sent his only son, who is also him, to Earth. After turning water into wine, he died, became the living dead, and now his followers practice cannibalism every Sunday by eating his body and drinking his blood. We’re not ready to vote for someone who might be a zombie.

Now I know the media have a job to do. It just happens to be that their job is to take side stories about sex and religion, and make them the front page fodder. But it’d be nice if we could stick to real issues and leave the preaching in the separate houses of worship.

Guiding Light

2008-02-27T21:32:00.005-08:00

Fifteen years late, I could really use a guidance councilor.

I didn’t have a need for a guidance councilor in high school. In fact, the only times I ever spoke to one, other than the mandatory class scheduling, was either when I got in trouble or in search of money. And those weren’t exactly productive meetings.

I don’t recall what I got in trouble for, maybe it was when a few of us got kicked off our shuttle bus to the north campus for our vocational media class and had to walk to 2 miles. Or perhaps it was for something as simple breaking a stink bomb. Anyway, during my junior year, I had to speak with my regular guidance councilor but had a substitute instead.

Not that the usual councilor had any idea of who I was or what my post-school plans were, but this dude was really clueless. He inquired about my plans and I told him I was seriously thinking about art school. The sub-councilor then looked at my transcript and noted that I had not taken a single art class during my three years at Vacuum High. There was nothing on my classes-taken checklist to indicate that I was qualified for art school, but I tried to tell him that I wanted to be a film maker/special effects artist. I was enrolled in the vocation media program, which meant I spent all day playing with video cameras and still cameras. And since there wasn’t a true film school in the Midwest, the Art Institute of Pittsburgh was a good steppingstone. In fact, its recruiter had told me all about people who’d earned an associates degree there and then moved onto USC and Industrial Lights and Magic.

The only guidance I received from that dude was that I had better actually take an art class to meet my graduation requirements. – I actually convinced my normal councilor to give me an “art” credit for all the thumbnail sketches I had to do for the videos I produced. To be fair, most of the videos I contributed to in that class were artful, as they were awful. Why shouldn’t I get a “creative” credit for them?

My final guidance councilor encounter came in my senior year. I had just decided against a two-year art school degree. A bachelors in telecommunication and film at Eastern Michigan made more sense. Sure, it wasn’t USC but I was limited to school choices because I had never taken an art class… Well that and I was your typical underachiever in high school and had the GPA to prove it.

Per my dad’s suggestion, I needed to see about scholarships. There weren’t no brainy academic and ain’t no achievement rewards a-coming my way. Instead, I asked my guidance councilor if there were any scholarships given to the children of disabled veterans. Her response took me by surprise.

“You’re dad’s a disabled vet? That’s great!... I, uh, don’t mean it’s great that… uh he’s uh, disabled…”

After her backtracking, we figured out that in order for me to get some government cash, Pops would have to be blind, basically. He’s 40 percent disabled, which is 20 percent less than Uncle Sam’s checkbook prefers.

So here I am, some 12 years later looking for a Magic 8 Ball to give me the right answer about my future. And I’m aware that I don’t have room to complain. After all, I do have a dream job for some – if not at least for a dream company. But as year two approaches, I’m not sure how much longer I can be satisfied with it. There are aspects of it I really don’t enjoy and I don’t see myself in my current position for much longer. So the question now becomes, can I transition into another position within my company?

I’ve expressed a desire to work with another department and hinted about actually working in that department. In fact, I made those desires known this time last year. Unfortunately, nothing came of it. So I’ve been more aggressive about it this time around. And so far, I’ve been paid a bunch of compliments for the job I’m currently doing and lip service about new opportunities.

While many would take lip service as something positive, my last job taught me better, and perhaps, made me bitter. There were plenty of “give us time” and “just hang in there for a little longer” promises told for almost five years. Fuck that place. (Yep, bitter still.)

Dream company or not, if I don’t feel there’s a future there for me, other than the type of work I’m currently involved, then it might be time for me to move on. And that, of course, means what?

I have a few ideas of what I’d like to do next. Although the next thing might require more education and could take the type of planning and preparations that I won’t be able to do quickly. Graduate studies.

Fall deadlines are approaching and I haven’t even begun to prepare for the GREs. – A drawback of my job is that it consumes a lot of my time, effort and thoughts for about a six-month busy period. Now that the period is wrapping up, I find myself behind the 8 ball (not the magic one, though), and I want to figure out where my future is headed before the next six-month busy period begins.

The uncertainty is killing me.

No Closure For Old Men

2008-02-24T23:42:00.001-08:00

I had never left a movie theater feeling the way I did once No Country For Old Men ended. I’ve walked out the double doors of moving pictures feeling ripped off, content, pleased, excited, disturbed, sad, jolly, eager, and even disgusted. But until I saw the Best Picture of 2007, I had never felt empty.

I must have been 10 years old when I first rented Raising Arizona. I had no idea what it was about, but the video’s cover intrigued me. Naturally, some of the humor went beyond my comprehension. But there was something in that flick that caught me, even as a kid. There was something in the Coen Brothers’ vision that just clicked and I became a fan.

It’s got to be the witty dialogue, dialect and the situational reaction from the characters that I find most appealing in their works. The Hudsucker Proxy, Fargo, The Big Lebowski, O Brother Where Art Though and Intolerable Cruelty all have those qualities and share similar DNA. However, No Country was spliced differently.

No Country was no clever comedy. Without spoiling it, the film follows a psychopath and a man who made a bad decision. Like the above-mentioned movies, I found it sharp and it held my attention until the last, empty frame.

When No Country faded to black, I waited for it to fade back in to finish what it had started. To my puzzlement, the film was over and the credits rolled. I didn’t feel ripped off in terms of how much money I paid. It just felt like I missed something, and I’m not accustomed to missing things in movies, especially key components.

After cross-referencing with my friend, Rashid, and a couple of online reviews, I was satisfied that I didn’t miss anything. The ending was indeed the end. There wasn’t necessarily the type of closure most films provide. And there wasn’t really a hidden component to understanding the final narration. It was what it was. – But was it THE best picture?

Of the nominated films, the only other one I saw was There Will Be Blood. And that, my friends, was THE best picture I saw during the 2007 Academy year.

Meth Madness

2008-02-22T12:36:00.002-08:00

Among the benefits of living in Southern California is that I’m hardly ever congested. When I lived the first 28 years of my life in Ohio and Michigan, two cloudy Midwestern states, I routinely had to pop decongestants to ease my sinus pressure and to breathe more easily. Pseudoephedrine was a godsend for me. But sometime in the new millennium, lawmakers decided to play tough with those who used the drug for illicit means.

Pseudoephedrine is a key ingredient to meth. And meth is basically crack cocaine for crackers. It causes them to go on week-long rampages where they consume nothing but Mountain Dew, Slim Jims and human brains while playing X Box and watching porno. They don’t sleep. They only break from playing video games to discuss how they’re going to become the next big popular underground DJ… as soon as they can get their equipment back from the pawnshop.

Unfortunately, being a meth-head doesn’t pay well. So these addicts turn to crime. Some have been known to be intelligent and have created elaborate schemes to score some big cash. But as police records will show, the schemes just never seem to go as planned.

Studies have been conducted on how to curb addiction and prevent meth use. Science still has not figured it out completely. The only known cure and prevention from meth-head attacks is to cut off the meth freaks’ heads and burry them separate from their bodies.

In effort to combat the Heartland’s meth-head epidemic, lawmakers and corporate spin doctors have come up with their own quick fix. They’ve imposed strict, new rules for purchasing Pseudoephedrine, similar to the ones placed on baking soda, a key ingredient for making crack cocaine. (What? Anyone can buy baking soda at any time? You’re kidding!? Won’t somebody think about the children?)

It had been a while since I needed to pop a pill to relieve congestion in my sinuses and ears. However, my right ear has been so bad for the last week that everyone speaking to me sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher (you know, the hot one). So I ventured to the pharmacy/convenience/liquor/fotomat store for decongestants. And there I had to present my California driver’s license to be scanned, as well as read the store’s policy and waiver form, and confirm that I read it with my signature. I really thought that I’d have to pinky swear that I wasn’t going to cook a batch and sell it to school kids before having my cheek swabbed for DNA. – If my signature was going to be analyzed, it’d show that I was annoyed and slightly pissed about being treated like a potential criminal for buying a single box of decongestants, not nearly enough for meth. And upon a detailed analysis of my handwriting, it’d show that my signature more closely resembles the words “Fuck You” than my legal name.

So where did my scanned information go? Is there some government official manning a workstation, observing every cough drop purchased in the country? Is his office next to the guy’s who listens to citizens’ phone calls? Is he keeping track of how many I boxes of decongestants I buy in a week, then adding it up to see if I have enough to cook meth? And then is he requesting a search warrant for my home on suspicion of being an illegal drug manufacturer? – I doubt it. There’s probably a tax-money waste of a database being kept to use against me in case I ever do get caught cooking the shit by some other means. Either that or there’s nothing actually being scanned, a placebo tactic kind of like the x-ray machines at airports.

For your consideration, here are a few illegal drugs that are much more easily available for me to buy and use or re-sell (living near Venice Beach has its advantages) than actually using decongestants and cooking meth: crack, smack, tranqs, angel dust, acid, weed, charlie, nuke and Gummy Bears (I don’t know if that’s actually a nickname for drug, but it should be).

If buying marijuana wasn’t easy enough around here, there are plenty-legal ways to go about growing your own (for medical reasons – wink, wink). There’s actually a hydroponics plant supply store close to my apartment. And I’m as sure of its patrons shopping there to grow tomatoes as I am that men read Playboy for the articles.

Of course the easiest thing to do is to walk to any one of the million liquor stores in LA and buy booze. I could literally walk into a store, flash my license (without it being scanned and without reading a waiver) and buy enough alcohol to live like a Kennedy, even if just for one night. That would be no problem. I could even fake the Boston accent and sincerity. – Maybe it’s not as easily addictive as meth, but it’s a simple way to cause some harm.

It’s a good think I can still buy crazy glue… For my sinuses, of course.

Too Young To Know Better

2008-02-16T18:03:00.002-08:00

For almost as long as I can remember, I’ve had an interest in politics. From the first grade and on, I was citing the platforms of the Democratic party, basically because those were the beliefs in the household I was raised. But while those were the interests of my parents, the liberal agenda was not shared in the community I grew up in, necessarily.

My hometown in the 1980s was a limited mix of the Middle American middle class. There were social conservatives, upper middle class economic conservatives, and working class conservatives who must have felt it necessary to separate themselves from their fellow vacuum cleaner assembly line workers who took the bus into work from downtown. And of course, there were those whose economic status didn’t benefit from Reaganomics, but were hopeful (or in denial) that it would actually trickle down, nonetheless. It was, for the most part, a very red community with little blue representation.

I didn’t think too much of having different campaign signs in my front yard than my neighbors. Surely people were just kidding when they’d tell my dad to clean ‘that crap off of his front lawn.’ Adults had good senses of humor. It’s just too bad that my first grade classmates didn’t.

Each week, my class received the appropriately-named Weekly Reader (you probably remember those too). Well on one particular issue, the pictures of President Reagan and Democratic nominee, former Vice President Walter Mondale were feature on the covers. So my teacher, Mrs. Linz (I think), decided to hold a mock vote. Everyone was to circle who they wanted to win and pass it in to her for the counting.

Naturally, all 26 of us voted with our hearts… Or more accurately, voted with familiarity and/or who we knew our parents liked. After the outcome was announced, our anonymity was tossed out the window when my teacher asked the non-Reagan voters to raise their hands. My cast for Mondale was one of two. The other belonged to a nice girl name Betsy. (Her house was always a must-visit on Halloween since her dad worked for Hostess Snack Cakes.) – Never mind exit polling, political strategists and talking heads really just need to visit an elementary school to get the real scoop of who’s voting for whom.

I would continue to pay for the sins of my father every four years while living in that town. Fortunately, tides of change swept in during my high school freshman year. There was a slightly more diverse crowd in my high school since the mixing pot was larger. Plus urban sprawl brought in kids from different areas, although most fit the bill of my mostly white high school – conservative. Wealthier families moved into the school district and some of them carried along with them their arrogance and closet racism. (Damn, I really did not like my high school.) But it seemed for every five or so Gap-wearing preppy asshole there was one kid who I thought was more like me.

As Bill Clinton-mania caught on with young people around the nation, a small handful of us at Vacuum High sported his campaign pins in class. And because of my support, I often found myself in cafeteria debates that ranged from “Democrats are fags” to actual serious debates about national health care. In fact, I remember one debate with my class’s poster boy for The Young Republicans on the issue. Joey was raised in a strict holier-than-thou Catholic family, and during a vacation in England he and his family were in a car accident (apparently, his America-centric father forgot which side was the proper side to drive on in London). Joey cried about the poor health care he received for his broken leg until the veins in his neck stretched his L.L. Bean sweater. I, on the other hand, remained cool in my Guns N’ Roses t-shirt as I explained that the Clinton plan did not mean adopting the British plan. I tried to tell Joey that there were people who’d love to have any kind of health care and that there was a growing problem. But I wasn’t going to change his mind, and he wasn’t going to change mine. I was happy to express myself and hold my own against my future class president and his storm troopers of Jesus and all things proper. I also gained respect from the senior art students who watched the whole thing go down. I was cool… for a freshman.

Joey and I had other debates throughout the election season. The one thing we could agree on was ignoring the Ross Perot supporters who thought that since Perot was extremely wealthy, he must be able to run the country.

[A side note on Joey: Joey and his younger brother were little Catholic League disciples. Their father basically encourage/forced them to stand on soap boxes and talk down to their classmates about the virtues of saying no to drugs and abstaining from sex until marriage. Well, I’m 99 percent sure Joey is/was gay. And his brother, while still in high school, knocked up a girl and tried to force her into having an abortion.]

Somewhere along the line, I started to develop my own thoughts about American government and politics. When I’d get home from middle school and high school, before going out to play backyard football or street hockey, I watched CNN for a little while. And when my parents came home from work and we sat down to eat dinner, my pops would turn the volume up during the news so we could hear the TV while eating in the dining room. Peter Jennings was a member of the family, or so it seemed.

As I got older, I’d have discussions with my parents and other adults about politics. For some reason, most of my friends didn’t find those types of conversations interesting. But I felt it not only interesting fodder, it was also important to be informed about the world around me.

Now I’m approaching my fourth presidential election since turning 18. While I voted in California’s primary and will vote for the real deal in the fall, I can honestly say that I’m not as enthused about it as I’ve been in the past. – I’ll have more on that later. – However, I still get pissed off when I hear or read about people not voting. I don’t think everyone has to follow politics as much as I do, but I do believe that it’s a civil obligation and duty for Americans to be informed and practice the right that others have died for. It takes little more effort than circling the picture of your candidate on the cover of a Weekly Reader.

Life Begins At 30

2008-02-08T19:01:00.000-08:00

I’ll turn 30 years old tomorrow, and in celebration the city planned to throw one, big bash for me and everyone else in Los Angeles who were born February 9, 1978. We’ll all be gathering at the Staples Center with our friends and family in attendance. I’m told the party will involve an illusionist act, perhaps with that creepy, goth guy from TLC.

But for every party, there must be a pooper. This guy, Logan, wants me to skip the shindig and take my birthday fiesta out of town... something about running or jogging. Well, it seems like a nice offer and he’s pretty persistent that I follow him. However, I know the local government has been putting a lot of effort into the event, and I’m kind of getting the feeling that participation is mandatory. Besides, I had a friend do it not so long ago, and it must have been such a great party that I haven’t heard from him since.

Anyway, Logan seems sincere enough. But I just don't know if I can trust a man with feathered hair.

Quantum Leap Year

2008-01-21T22:44:00.000-08:00

Living in the now is so yesterday. I want and need to be one step ahead of everybody else. As any retirement commercial airing during the 6 o’clock news will remind you, and remind you again, the right planning for the future will secure your happiness when you finally reach those days… right before you die. But that’s not exactly what I have in mind.

I’m tired of having uncertainty in my life. I’ve grown old of having people ask me to make decisions based on hypothetical predictions – I’m not Nostradamus (although, I think there might be a good bar pick-up line somewhere in that), and to be quite honest, I wouldn’t mind having a leg up on life. So, beginning March 1, 2008, I will be one step ahead of everyone. I will forgo my Leap Year eligibility by skipping February 29, 2008.

By skipping Leap Year, I will, in fact, be living one day in the future. Nothing will be shocking to me. Breaking news to those around me will be old news to me. Work assignments will be completed finished ahead of time and new ones will begin before being scheduled. – I’ll make sure to point that out at my job reviews. -- Plus, the forecasting and predicting I’m often asked to do will be a lot easier. Predictions will go from educated guesses to matter of fact. You simply can’t argue someone who’s living a day in the future.

Perhaps most importantly, I won’t be the bad son/brother/friend/boyfriend who forgets birthdays. Gone will be the days of me calling the day after wishing a belated blessing. – Sure, I’ll still forget until the day after, but for those around me, I’ll be on time when I do call.

No. 2 On Christmas

2007-12-27T22:55:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, NOTHING beat Christmas. My birthday paled in comparison to the anticipation, mystery and surprise that Saint Nick provides the morning of December 25. It’s the reason I pretended to be good for about three weeks prior.

Sure, I had an idea of what would be under the tree. After all, I did make a list of everything that cartoons and advertisers told me that I absolutely needed. Of course they also reminded you that my parents’ abilities to check off each item on the list measured their love for me.

Ultimately, I could not totally control what toys were wrapped for me that magical morning. But that’s not to say that every gift wrapped with Rudolph’s image had to be a guessing game.

Way back when construction paper Santas, with cotton ball hats, were allowed to be displayed on classroom walls (for me, it was the 1980s), some of us participated in an annual Christmas exchange at school. (At my Ohio elementary school, no one really thought about offending others’ views on religion. Everyone simply celebrated Christmas. Our diversity stretched as far as Catholics AND Protestants. – Well, actually we had a couple of Greek Orthodox girls who celebrated with us, and then with their families a couple weeks later. They were lucky. Actually, now that I think about it, we also had a Jehovah’s Witness girl. There was just one of her, so it wasn’t a big deal to ask her to leave the room when it was caroling time. Plus, she seemed to enjoy making snowmen when the rest of us were creating Chris Cringle with our plastic scissors and delicious paste. Now that I think about it, that this girl came from a family where one parent was a Witness and the other some other Christian variant. Unlike a friend I went to Catechism with whose mother was Jewish and he was raised with both faith’s lessons, I recall this girl’s parents dividing their six kids down the middle. Half got dressed up and freaked out people by going door-to-door, while the other half celebrated Halloween. Their Jesus was more fun. – I wish I was making this up, but I’m not.)

I digress.

G.I. Joes were the cool boys’ toys when I was in 4th grade. All the guys had them and they were pulled out of desks when rain or snow kept us indoors for recess. Naturally, the 4-inch action figures were the preferred exchange items. In fact, there was kind of an unspoken agreement that everyone would make sure their mothers would purchase a Joe, and you did NOT want to be THAT kid who’d have to apologize for his mom buying Legos or some lame-ass G.I. Joe imitation. Joes were within the price limit and there really wasn’t an excuse for not coming through. And in the slight chance you’d end up with an action hero you already owned, trades could be arranged.

Everyone was excited. And I had done my part. I got my mom to buy a G.I. Joe, though I don’t remember which one. But I’m sure he had kung fu grip, swivel arms and promoted violence. So it would only be fair that I’d receive and action figure of equal or better value. Someone with battle armor or a missile launcher would do.

As in all democracies, gift-delivery was to be determined by a game similar to musical chairs. The boys formed a circle with wrapped Joes in hand. The girls did likewise with their jelly bracelets, Corey Feldman posters and whatever other crap 9-year-old girls were into in 1987. Some holiday music.. errr ummm… Christmas music began playing and the wrapped presents started being passed clockwise.

This being 4th grade, there were no such things as secrets. Most of us had pretty good ideas of which present was from whom. Of course we also knew, for the most part, which ones were wrapped soldiers. Those packages were held onto a little longer than the true mysteries during the swapping. -- Once you had one your hand that felt like it might contain Legos, you quickly tried to give it to the guy to your left.

As the music played, there were a few gifts that passed through my fingers that I knew I did not want. One in particular scared me more than the others. This one, particular present was 2 inches longer than a regulation-size action figure, was lighter and much thinner. Further, the packaging underneath the wrapping paper definitely did not resemble the cardboard and plastic used to secure Hasbro goodness.

Man, did I know it’d stink for whomever was on the receiving end of that package when the tunes stopped playing. Of course I knew it wouldn’t end up in my hot little hands. After all, my mom came through on my end. – But like finding coal in your stocking, the thin, mysterious package was all mine when the music was over.

Like junkies after a score, my classmates couldn’t wait to tear open the wrapping paper, then the packaging and yank out their cool new toys. I, on the other hand, peeled away the paper surrounding my exchange item. I had no idea what was within, but I was not excited.

What I thought was coal was actually lead… as in pencils. Fucking pencils. In a Christmas toy exchange, I received a pack 14 pencils with football team logos on them. In a Christmas toy exchange that had a purchase limit of $5, I was the recipient of a gift that was within the price limit, with $4.36 to spare.

While the other 4th-grade boys began their action adventures with their new toys, I sat and looked at my pencils. A few people, including my teacher, stopped by my desk to offer their condolences. It was obvious to everyone that I had been gypped, hard. Well, not everyone thought I got a turd.

The boy who entered the little pigs in the beauty contest walked over to me to tell me how cool he thought the pencils were. He told me that he liked them so much that he kept the American Football Conference teams pack while the NFC teams were all mine. – My favorite team was in the AFC.

While mouth-made machine gun noises were pleasantly filling the air around me, defending the world from 9-year-old boys’ imaginary bad guys, all I could think about was sharpening my new pencils and tossing them like ground-to-air rockets at the damn kid.

But that was 20 years ago. I’m clearly over it now.

I Take Steroids Because You Cry

2007-12-18T23:05:00.000-08:00

No one should be surprised by accusations against Roger Clemens for roidin’ it up. Surprise is reserved for something unexpected that’s shocking to the one’s system. A baseball pitcher in his 40s playing like he’s in his 20s should raise suspicions, not praise. Call me pessimistic. But Superman only exists in comic books, Ovaltine tastes like shit, and Jesus really just wants your money.

Also not surprising is a half-tard, attention-whore hawking her “classy” image for an unnecessary buck. That’s right, Paris eeffin’ Hilton is helping to market a brand of champagne that delivers its toxins via a shiny, gold, aluminum can. It works every time.

Has it not occurred to Miss Hilton, her friends, her family, and the marketing geniuses of this canned piss that she went to jail essentially for DRUNK DRIVING? How about the fact that she gained her original notoriety for UNDERAGE PARTYING on Page 6 with her younger and equally ‘tarded sister? Perhaps there are more tactful products she could sell her image for. But then again, this is champagne in a can.

Of course you won’t see other recent and famous DUIees selling their souls to spirits. It’d be hard to imagine an actual respected actor who’s had issues with the bottle over the years (whether it’s behind the wheel or losing a fiancé), say someone like Keifer Sutherland, doing voiceover work for The King of Beers. That might qualify for surprise.

Now, attempting to shock and surprise the public has always been a hobby of Madonna’s. Whether it’s dancing in front of flaming crosses, or showing her burning bush in the pages of “Sex,” she’s made herself relevant to a certain cross-section (are there any non-gay men who like her?). However, her self-promoting attempts of late had seemed to simmer. Others have been better at adopting foreign kids and there have been younger pop stars showing more and finding more Billboard success with just as little true talent. Of course, just as soon as you think she might actually go away for a while, there’s a surprise.

Not of her own doing, Madonna surprised the world once again when she was voted into the so-called Rock And Roll Hall of Fame. Sometimes surprise tastes like Ovaltine.

Green Is The New Fast

2007-12-04T23:35:00.000-08:00

A man wiser than me once said, “If you ain’t first, you’re last,” meaning all that matters is going as fast as you can with a lot of power under your hood. Winning is all that matters, damn the consequences, because the glory of being the first is worth it.

So who was this great thinker? Ricky Bobby, a fictional NASCAR hero played by actor/comedian (and Jet Blach brother) Will Ferrell in “Talladega Nights,” a parody of NASCAR and its lifestyle.

NASCAR fans are about as brand loyal as any advertising company could dream of. While there are many choices of laundry detergent out there, a race fan will buy the one on his or her favorite car that runs in circles for hours at a time in hope of being first. And not only will a race fan buy the product endorsed by a Chevy whizzing by the grandstands at 200 mph, a race fan will decorate his body, from head to toe, with the proper logos in support of his driver. Further, some will go the extent of home furnishings, wall hangings, children-naming, tattoo-selecting, and even car choosing with certain NASCAR brandings. For these fans, it’s God, country and racin’, with Larry the Cable Guy a distant fourth.

It’s been said that this demographic of folks don’t like change. They like their religion Jesus, their beer cold, their gays in the closet (and trying to go straight), their language simplified and their cars fast. Don’t you dare take any of these away, or you’ll find out another of their loves – the Second Amendment.

Of course theses are just generalizations, and perhaps, unfair. My goal (at least for the posting) is not to make fun of NASCAR fans. I actually have a reason for bringing this up.

Last week, I read a story on ESPN.com about the Hulk of Horsepower, the guru of going fast, the sultan of speed, Robert Yates. Yates, a man who gained wealth and fame from developing racing engines that powered some NASCAR legends and helped fuel the lifestyle, is yelling from mountaintops that changes need to be made. Changes in auto racing and the lifestyle. Changes to help the environment before The Big One wrecks us all.

NASCAR only recently switched to unleaded fuel. That’s right, it only recently made the change that the rest of us made many years ago. But that’s not enough to Yates. He believes racing needs to change gears in the way it thinks about achieves speed in order to set a good example for the rest of the country and planet. Of course this engine innovator has grand ideas of how to do it. Now all he needs is an audience and open minds.

A large segment of this country is and has always been about flexing muscle, metaphorically and physically. Horsepower and reaction times have long been measurements of machismo. But is it time for a new measuring stick?

Our culture needs to change its ways when it comes to conserving energy and finding cleaner resources. There’s no doubt about that. Now if this race-loving segment of Americana can be convinced and become active in change, it’d be a hell of a start to improving our planet’s deteriorating situation. Imagine ethanol replacing the current oil fuels, fans encouraged to conserve, and even buy hybrids or other less harmful vehicles. And imagine all of the Bud t-shirts we normally associate with NASCAR being swapped for herbal teas… OK, that’s probably a bit of a stretch.

Changing perceptions won’t be easy. I’m sure MPGs will replace MPHs for bragging rights in bars just as soon as standardized testing points replace bench press reps in the gyms across the country. However, auto racing going green(er) shouldn’t be a pipedream. It’s realistic and much needed.

Alcohol Poisoning

2007-11-14T22:33:00.000-08:00

And the award for best one-liner of the day goes to… Me.

I approached a small group of male co-workers who varied in age from their late 20s to late 30s. One of the guys, who’s known for his appreciation of teeny bopper reality shows on Mtv, was describing the show “A Shot At Love With Tila Tequila.” He said it was a dating show where both guys and girls were competing to date a bisexual lady who became “famous” for having a lot of friends on Myspace (or some bullshit like that). (While spamming a bunch of people in cyberspace is a completely worthless way to gain notoriety, it’s still better than just being born into a rich family and partying into celebrity.)

While defending his taste in television programming, this co-worker also felt it necessary to explain the play on words in the title “Take A Shot… Tequila.” And without missing a beat, I quipped, “They should rename that show ‘Fetal Alcohol Syndrome’ because that shit’s retarded.”

Rotisserie Patriots

2007-11-09T19:24:00.000-08:00

Poll Question Of The Night: Do you think America’s Founding Fathers are spinning in their graves?

Could our Founding Fathers even have imagined that our current form of government would be full of lies, doublespeak, cover-ups, cronyism and war profiteers?

Could it have crossed their minds that we’d be far beyond isolationists, that we’d be world police, a super power or even http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifan empire? And would they approve of our current government working with and supporting oppressive monarchies and military dictatorships in order to preserve our own so-called democracy?

What do you suppose they’d do if some of their own were (ironically) using as a tactic to combat terrorism (and to remain in office)? And what would our Founding Fathers do to fellow countrymen who release the names of our own spies to biased journalists?

How angry would they be if they knew that the Constitution of the United States would be trampled by those who took vows to protect it?

I’ve got the tar. Who’s got the feathers?

It’s Gore To Be The King

2007-10-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Albert Gore Jr. on winning the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts of raising awareness and combating global warming. The whole world is taking note, so naturally, the American political sphere is once again buzzing about a potential presidential run. And the American public seems to be… gulp, warming to the idea.

For the record, I do not think Gore will run. It seems like he’s got a nice life and has probably found some peace since not being name the President of the United States seven years ago. But I would welcome this Al Gore to the race and to the White House. This Al Gore, not the one who lost in 2000.

Al Gore lost the presidency in 2000 by not fighting hard enough when a group of Neo-Conservatives stole an election. Sure, there was a fight all the way up to a biased Supreme Court, but a man and a nation with more fight for liberty would have done more. -- An apathetic nation can only appease those who’ve corrupted it.

Popular thinking of the day was that there was no real distinction between Al Gore and George W. Bush. The election of either wouldn’t necessarily put us in a better place and one wouldn’t screw up more than the other. It’d be business as usual (except maybe Roe v. Wade…) (Of course we now know and recognize that this could not be farther from the truth.) And the way Gore and his people ran their campaign, there really wasn’t a reason for Middle America to disagree.

Gore was the robot who played to the center disingenuously. He was too smart, smirked and was a career politician who served under a sexually deviant Bill Clinton. Bush, on the other hand was a Jesus-loving, good ol’ boy who loved to collect brush on his ranch (which he purchased about a year before the campaign), was a “Washington outsider” (despite being the son of a former president, a direct descendent of President Franklin Pierce, a Skull and Bones member, and having a rolodex full of every GOP fanatic). He would RESTORE INTEGRITY TO THE WHITE HOUSE. Plus, Middle America would rather have a beer and watch a ball game with the character of “Dubya” more than they would with monotone Gore. After all, isn’t it more important to have warm and fuzzy feelings about the Commander and Chief when he lies about the reasons for a war…

Now fast forward seven years. Bush won the 2004 presidential election without the help of the Supreme Court. Dubya won on being that guy who you wanted to share a beer, that guy who reminded you that there are terrorists who want to kill you and you need to FEAR, as well as the notion that God doesn’t want you to be queer. – Never mind who’s listening to your phone calls, monitoring your Web activities, pissing off the rest of the entire fucking world, wiping their asses with the Constitution, putting us in debt – with China, loosening environmental standards and helping the rich become obscenely wealthy while the rest of the citizens struggle to pay for doctors visits. This is Bushy’s America. Love it or leave it. No, accept it or fuck off!

Again, advance your digital recorder another three years. After growing a beard and then shaving it, Al Gore has returned to his roots, deep in the forest. He brought the crisis of Global Warming to the masses.

Gore honestly seems to believe in his work. His genuineness towards saving the environment, which really means life as we know it, is moving. He’s motivated and urges quickness to solve the problem, which is something that is unfamiliar in our political system (unless you count knee-jerk reactions with ulterior motives).

So with the hot spotlight on him, is it time for Al Gore to claim what should have been his seven years ago? Will his public support from around the world encourage him to run? Or will he continue his battle to decrease global warming?

Regardless if he runs, Al Gore has an enormous task ahead of him. However, I don’t know what a bigger task would be, cleaning up the mess of a severely-polluted planet after years of rising temperatures, or cleaning up a toxic government after eight years of Bush-Cheney.

Bachelor Club

2007-10-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was reminded about a reckless idea that I had years ago and hadn’t even thought about for at least a couple years. The idea involved alcohol, digital cameras, naughty behavior and was concocted about a year after I graduated college, while I was still in near-full stupid mode and living on a healthful diet of beer and espresso.

“Bachelor Club” was going to be the next great Web site and underground debauchery network for 20-soemthing males. The plan called for a group of guys to have nights out in Metro Detroit and Windsor pretending to host a bachelor party, document their exploits and then display to the world via the Internetses.

The premise made sense. I always had a good time at real bachelor parties, but I’d only go to one or two a year. -- For those not familiar, bachelor parties are a great reason for guys to get together, get drunk and have a rowdy night on the town. And unlike a normal outing with drunken assholes, bachelor parties were given free passes for lewd behavior, drunkenness, foul language and bad come-ons. Plus, bachelor party attendees are more likely to score free drinks.

So the plan was to alternate areas around Southeast Michigan and take turns playing the bachelor. There were even plans to design t-shirts and create Web aliases. Little by little, the parties would grow and more guys would invite more guys. And eventually, separate branches would grow in different regions of the state and country – kind of like “Fight Club,” except we wouldn’t become terrorists. Probably not.

Why didn’t this work and become a hugely popular pastime and Web site, you ask. Well, as I told friends about my idea, most agreed it sounded like fun. However, their responses were fashioned in the “call us when it’s actually planned” response – meaning, you’ll never actually get this going. And what can I say? They were right.

Work loads, girls, and planning legitimate bachelor parties got in the way. Not to mention quite a few of my would-be participants seriously got married. Eventually, I just forgot about it. And I’m sure it was for the better. As a somewhat more mature person, I can look back on the idea and realize that plenty of bad things could have out of it. While fun in theory, it’s better to leave it at just that.

Hear Today, Gone Tomorrow

2007-09-28T17:09:00.000-07:00

Bitching has gotten me nowhere. Nonetheless, I will continue to gripe about my lack of concert-going in Los Angeles. I’m still not in the loop about when some of my favorite bands are playing, and even when I am, tickets are hard to come by. Sure, it’s the second-largest city in the country, which creates high demand, but that’s not the whole story. Too many tickets in this town go to the music industry insiders.

Every week I’m reminded about upcoming concerts from my favorite bands, performers and comedians via email. However, the listings are for Detroit-area venues. And the weekly updates only taunt me about tickets still available to shows that sold out in 10 minutes in LA.

With the announcements of “reunions” of one-time mega bands like Van Halen and Led Zeppelin, I fear that some major shows will play LA and I won’t be able to see them. Then, like they did before, the bands will either implode or cash their checks and call it quits, never to tour again.

For Those About To Rock

I’ve been fortunate to see some of the all-time great performers. And with the exception of the Rolling Stones, I never really thought, hey, this really could be the last opportunity I have to see them play… Well, actually, I have thought that about super groups like Velvet Revolver before seeing them. You can’t quite be sure about super groups. They’re like rebound relationships, full of instability and uncertainty.

During my senior year of high school, The Ramones set out on their 1995-96 “Adios Amigos” tour. It was supposed to be the punk rockers’ final tour, but not that many people believed it. After all, members had quit, re-joined or stayed in touch through the years, so reunion tours were expected.

The tour scheduled Cleveland’s Nautica Stage, an outdoor stage in the city’s Flats district. I don’t recall how I heard about the show since the Internets and the Yahoos weren’t exactly up to par yet. But I bought a ticket for myself and one of my best friends at a department store Ticket Master hub with cash (man, how things have changed because of Al Gore’s Internet).

On the day of the show, my friend informed me that his mother was not going to let him go to the show with me. He had gotten into trouble for something involving his sister and the police, and was given the ultimatum of having to lose either his Ramones concert or a planned trip to Cedar Point. The concert tickets cost him less, so the choice was obvious. – To this day, I’m not sure if I believe him about the ultimatum, because the guy was a huge flake and pussed out a lot.

So with only an hour before I would have to hit the road for the 50-mile drive up Interstate 77, I needed someone to go with. I made a few calls to other friends and only got a hold of my pal Mike. A rhythm-less drummer, Mike wasn’t willing to attend any show that wouldn’t sound like Motley Crue. So, I called my brother in Akron, but he had made plans. Then it came down to one last person before I’d have to show up at a punk show alone, or not go all together.

I called my pops at work, explained that I had an extra ticket because Jason was a wussy and wanted to know if he’d go. Surprisingly, he wasn’t hesitant. My dad wasn’t a Ramones fan, but he does like Elvis Costello a lot and thought they sounded enough like him that he could enjoy the show for an hour. Little did he know that The Ramones sped up the tempo a ton during their live shows and that other loud punk bands would play first. – I don’t think any of my friends’ fathers would have done that.

When we arrived at the show, I looked like most other kids there, minus the Mohawk and safety pins. However, Pops stood out a little as one of the only guy in his 40s and the only casually-dressed one of those.

Since I appreciated my dad’s company, I didn’t leave him for the mosh pits, as I would have with a friend. Instead, I stayed with him on the venue’s aluminum bleachers, tapping my foot and bobbing my head.

It was a great show and I was immediately glad I went, even if it was with someone whom I was not supposed to trust since he was over 40, or so the people of his generation used to say. And of course, now I know that it truly was my last chance to see one of my favorite bands and the pioneers of so much more.

Drinkin’ In The Rain

2007-09-22T20:53:00.000-07:00

It rained in Los Angeles Friday night, and by my count, it was the fifth time precipitation had fallen on my head in my part of town. I’ve been here for 14 months. And while it slowed down some people’s lives here, I welcomed it.

I went to my kickball league’s (yes, that’s right, I’m nearly 30 years old and play a game meant for 4th graders) mid-season party at a bar that has an outdoor patio that features turtle racing once a week or so. With the threat of a storm, the attendance was lower than expected.

It seems that a little rain can throw a big wrench into Angelinos’ plans. When most of the days and nights are perfect most of the year, I can see how a change in weather can discourage locals. If you stay in one night because of rain, you’ll still have plenty of make-up dates.

I guess that I’m just accustomed to managing what you’ve been dealt because you aren’t given too many cards to play. -- So what if there’s a little rain or a threat of thunder and lightning. Water dries and I stopped wearing my aluminum foil hat years ago.

Of course the storm came and was a little fierce, but the party moved indoors. While I talked with my teammates and a few opponents, I realized that none of us were from LA. We were all from places with colder, wetter climates and didn’t think it was a big deal that we were a little damp. – Actually, I take some of that back. One of my teammates is from here, but he’ll go anywhere where the presence of women might be, no matter what the weather's like. I thought the dude was going to hump my leg at one point. Anyway…

The rain was somewhat of a reminder of normalcy and variety for me. It was something that not long ago had just been a part of life. Rain, snow, hail, sleet – it just happened. Sometimes it would ruin a day, while other times it just went on without affecting anything at all. I never imagined that I’d take rain for granted.

Kids Ruin Everything

2007-09-12T23:31:00.000-07:00

To me, a coffee house can be a sanctuary, a place of relaxation, and somewhere for adult conversations when you don’t need the noise of a jukebox or the town drunk yelling about his lousy life. (Although bars are great when you’re in the mood for that atmosphere.) In fact, I’ve probably written half of my JBJ ramblings while enjoying a hot, caffeinated, over-priced beverage. And now, Starbucks says it’s going to put a little more effort into getting children into their drug dens. -- That’s right, caffeine is a drug. I can tell you more about on a day where I don’t have it and I’ve got a headache and break into cold sweats.

Starbucks locations are on their way up to McDonald’s numbers. So does that mean that the Java-slingers will follow suit and build playgrounds, create cartoon characters and develop an E.T. rip-off movie to sell its products? Probably not. But does that mean the lines will be longer, the seats will be fewer and the noise levels will increase? Probably.

I can hear it now, soccer moms taking their cell phones away from their ear long enough to ask three kids what sugary faux coffee drink they want. And of course, the kids will be running in circles, excited about getting another dose of hyper-activity fuel and yelling, “Raspberry-Lime-Carmel-Vanilla-Kidd-uccino with extra whip, sprinkles and a twisty straw!” And of course the kids will change their minds four times and the orders will need repeated five.

After waiting 35 minutes for my fix, I won’t be able to find a seat, at least one that isn’t covered kid-created goo. But if I’m lucky enough to find a seat, the yelling, crying, and whining of kids won’t allow me to enjoy my latte, let alone read, write or hold an indoor voice conversation.

It’s too late to keep the tweeners and teens out of my java joints. But I’ll be damned if my coffee dojos became day care for parents with disposable income, even if it means resorting to wearing shirts with profanity sprawled across the front.

Can't Spare A Square

2007-08-29T23:16:00.000-07:00

Denial - Psychology. an unconscious defense mechanism used to reduce anxiety by denying thoughts, feelings, or facts that are consciously intolerable.
Gay - a homosexual person, esp. a male.

If it walks like a duck... Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Bob Is On The Move

2007-08-23T22:04:00.000-07:00

Check out a new Excursions Of An Evil Gnome posting.

Res-erecting The Dead

2007-08-21T23:35:00.000-07:00

“There are two kinds of people in the world. Elvis people and Beatles people. Now Elvis people can like the Beatles, and Beatles people can like Elvis, but nobody likes them both equally.” – Mia Wallace, deleted Pulp Fiction scene.

I think it’s safe to say that the ad people who came up with the new Viagra commercial are Beatles people, because Elvis people wouldn’t have dared ruin his beloved song “Viva Las Vegas.”

The new ad shows a group of special E.D. guys playing with their geetars and singing about their boner pills in a love shack. Their upbeat tempo seems more like they’re on happy pills than Viagra. And, of course, they seem oblivious to the irony of using a song by someone who overdosed and died from prescription drugs. – I’m sure if the blue pill was available in 1977, Elvis would have been found dead and bloated on the can with raging hard-on. The dude was a walking pharmacy when he kicked the bucket of chicken. TCB, RIP.

This has got to be the most unintentional, creepiest commercial I’ve seen in a while. If you haven’t caught it, here are the lyrics:

Got me a honey gonna set my soul
Gonna set my soul on fire
At the end of the day I’m not a guy who’ll stray cause she’s my heart’s desire
Now this lonesome toad is sick of the road I can’t wait, I can’t wait to go home
Viva Viagra! Viva Viagra! Viva Viagra!

So basically, Viagra’s (tent) pitchmen are wholesome, monogamous men who only sprout medically-induced wood for their wives. Well I call that dishonesty in advertising. The real Viagra poppers are recreational users. Rather than the fantasy baseball club guys crooning about poonin’, the commercials should show another group of middle-aged men, a group of dance club-scrounging, shiny shirt-wearing, Red Bull-chugging, bad come-on lines-spewing, turds who use Viagra to compensate for old age and cocaine side effects. And with them in mind, I’ve taken the liberty of Weird Al-izing The King’s tune myself. Enjoy!

Black light ‘n’ roofie gonna set my pole
Gonna set my pole on fire
Got a pain in my wang that’s starting to burn
So I’m a trick looking for a girl to hire
There’s a thousand pretty women waitin’ out there
And they’re all itchin’ with no health care
And I’m just a dick with pills to spare
Viva Viagra, Viva Viagra, Viva Viagra!

Sour Notes

2007-08-18T19:22:00.000-07:00

If you like it, listen to it. – That’s my advice to anyone who avoids listening (or admitting) to music that might be considered unhip (is it not cool to say “hip”?). I stopped worrying about keeping a cool jukebox a few years back after admitting to liking Huey Lewis and the News.

I had a short conversation with two co-workers the other day on the topic of Van Halen reuniting with original lead singer David Lee Roth. The first co-worker is semi-retired. He’s in his thirties and really doesn’t need to work at all. He did really well in his twenties and focuses most of his time on flying small planes and doing his own thing. His next goal is to purchase a small jet. The second co-worker is a 28-year-old makeup artist who’s in graduate school.

While talking about my this reunion will sink like a lead zeppelin, the question was asked of co-worker 1, which musical act he’d like to see reunite the most. Jokingly (because one of the group members is dead), he answered Milli Vanilli. And his response got a flirtatious chuckle out of co-worker 2. She then said that she used to listen to them.

Used to listen to them… I asked if she stopped listening to them after it was revealed that they were exposed as being frauds, mere puppets lip-synching to music recorded with studio singers. After giving me look of disbelief, she said, “Umm, ye-ah.” Well, isn’t it the music that matters, I asked.

Co-worker 1 then chimed-in and said it shouldn’t matter who did or didn’t actually sing the songs. He then freely-admitted to having a few MV tracks currently on his iPod.

I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For

Am I the only one who’s having trouble finding certain CDs these days? – I know, grandpa here still buys compact discs and uses pay phones. But I prefer to purchase the disc and then upload to my iPod.

Since big box stores like BestBuy and Wal-Mart have gotten into the game, chain music stores have been folding. After years of leaning, Tower Records finally went down and others are struggling.

Don’t get me wrong, I love only having to pay $10-$12 for a new CD at BestBuy instead of $18 at a mall store or at one of the two surviving mom-n-pop shops. – Wal-Mart doesn’t come into play since it’s a devil-whore. Plus, I like to hear music they way it was intended, with “mother fuckers,” not “mother truckers.” – But the BestBuys in my area hardly have a decent music catalog. Their older albums don’t really extend past Clinton’s impeachment. I had to go to two different locations just to find a popular mid-‘80s Peter Gabriel album (keeping with the theme above) and there was only one copy available.
Now I can’t shed too big of a tear for Tower. Those types of stores were always just a back up plan. In fact, back in the day, I used to venture into the dimly-lit, hipster-run, eccentric music-playing used CD stores for older albums, as well as other music I was willing to risk $6 on. Ann Arbor was the used CD Mecca and I was a happy pilgrim traveling a long 10 miles from Ypsilanti. But those types of stores have thinned out and the day-long adventure of music buying has disappeared with them.

Boxer Briefs Were A Bad Idea

2007-08-16T23:12:00.000-07:00

As I often do when I bike to work or plan to go to the gym afterward, I wore boxer-briefs today. Had I known the air conditioning would be out, I definitely would have chosen traditional boxers and loose-fitting jeans. Instead, I had the Everglades in my crotchal-region.

I work in a large room with about 30 other people. Three walls are covered with heat-releasing television monitors while the fourth is all windows. And as most of us know, windows let in heat from the sun. It’s science. Combine the TV heat, body heat, windows and about 50 computers running, you’ve got yourself a nice sauna, without the designer towels.

The building managers did their half-assed-best to cool the situation. They brought in portable chilling units that resemble the Star Wars bots nobody wanted. And while I wouldn’t classify their air as cold, it was definitely better to have them than to have nothing.

While beads of sweat were dripping off of the tip of my nose, my company’s maintenance guru kept promising that we’d be able to hang meat in no time. – I think his premonition was close. After all, some of us were beginning to salt meat, which really wasn’t Kosher.

With the a/c still out, I don’t plan to bike tomorrow. In fact, I’m preparing to make the best out of a bad situation. But first I need to check the HR manual to see if there’s a strict policy about taking off my pants.

You Could Be Mine

2007-08-09T00:18:00.000-07:00

According to my latest is of Rolling Stone (thanks MBG), Guns N’ Roses’ “Appetite For Destruction” is 20 years old. It really only feels like 18.

When Appetite hit, GN’R took over the world in with the type of speed only matched by Walt Flannigan’s dog and the strength of one hundred million Falcos. While it had staying power, unfortunately the band, itself, did not.

For about 10 of the 20 years since Appetite’s release, frontman Axl Rose has been reclusive, displayed strange behavior, and has changed his appearance. However, in more recent years, he and his new Guns N’ Roses bandmates have tried a couple “comeback” tours.

While thinking about what has become of the once largest rock star in the world, it reminded me of another star whose light dimmed and now seems destined for a super nova (no relation to the assbag TV band with former GN’R rhythm guitarist Gilby Clarke).

This pop star was on top of the world, but she made a few bad decisions and all of the sudden, she’s in full Axl Rose mode and attacking photographers, abusing chemicals and dissin’ those who were once close to her. Sound familiar?

Could Britney Spears be W. Axl Rose’s illegitimate daughter?

Sure, she was six years old when Appetite was released and when GN’R began its conquest of the world. But maybe somewhere between moving out of Indiana and forming Hollywood Rose, Axl nailed Brit-Brit’s mom.

Sounds far-fetched, you say. Well, here are the similarities.

- Both have a knack for rhinoplasty. Britney’s boobs are probably fake and she’s been accused of having her nose done. Axl, on the other hand, looks like a wax figure these days. His face has obviously been stretched back and pinned. And rumor has it that his cheeks can copy the Sunday funnies.

- Both have trouble with their own lyrics. Britney’s memory is so bad that she needs to listen to her own CDs while she dances on stage. Some might call it lip-syncing. Although a true rocker who would rather show up on stage seven hours late, or no-show a concert than pretend to sing, Axl isn’t always accurate with his own words. He’s used a karaoke-style promoter for many years. -- I saw his first comeback tour’s Detroit show back in 2002. The dude messed up “Patience.” “Patience,” man. How could miff the lyrics to that one?

- Both have had relationship troubles. Britney married a mentally-challenged man named Sam…ur, um, Kevin. Meanwhile, Axl has a history of physically-challenging his girlfriends and wives.

- Both dislike photographers. Britney recently attacked one with an umbrella and then explained her actions with a page right out of Winona Ryder’s book – she said she was practicing for a movie role… While Axl has punched (and bitten) more people that I can keep track of, there was a famous concert in St. Louis where “security wasn’t doing its job” and Axl had to do it himself. He leaped into the crowd to attack a fan who had sneaked a camcorder into the venue. Axl then left the show early, and a nice, little riot ensued.

- Both have gone on the Jim Morrison diet. They started out skinny, in shape and looking good in leather, then transitioned to fat, bloated and resembling Elvis in his last days. At least Axl is looking better these days. Britney looks like a witness on “Cops.”

- Finally, both have a knack for changing their hairdos for the worse. Brit-Brit had a bit of a meltdown and did her best Roger from “American Dad” impression. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure just what it is sitting atop of Axl’s head. Did he get hairplugs? Perhaps, as Scott Weiland suggested, it’s a wig. Or maybe, he had his hair braided while on vacation in Jamaica and couldn’t figure out how to undo them.

If my theory is right, it certainly explains a lot about Britney Spears' behavior. Now hopefully she’ll follow in her old man’s shoes and postpone her next album for 10 years.

Back in L.A.

2007-08-07T12:02:00.000-07:00

I knew I was back in Los Angeles, not when the plane’s rubber met the runway, but when my T Mobile service went away. I received further confirmation when everyone around me was speaking Spanish.

Gone Fishin’

2007-07-31T21:56:00.000-07:00

I’ll be in my place of birth for the next week on business, so the blogosphere will be absent of my dumb thoughts for at least that long. But while I’m gone, I’ll leave a question for you, as well as something I’m pondering myself.

Question for you: What purpose does it serve to flush at the urinal either before going or before the urination process is over?

My own question: I’m thinking about changing Jet Blach Jabber into an advice column. I think I’m pretty good at dishing out suggestions to friends, even when advice isn’t sought.

For example, a good friend of mine and I were out for a pint of Guinness a couple weeks ago. This guy always seems to have women trouble, dilemmas, aggravations and just plain b.s. Part of what I think is his problem is that he’s always dating chicks with kids and doesn’t have an interest in being a step daddy just yet.

It seems that my pal has a thing for single, young women who have kids. – That’s kind of long to write out and say. If only there was a shorter way to describe attractive mothers who have children of their own… If only there was an acronym or something…. I digress. – Anyway, I suggested that dating a chick who has a kid or two, while not wanting to play daddy, might not be a good idea. Perhaps dating a nanny would be an ideal relationship for him. After all, nannies seem to have the same nurturing traits as actual mothers, but they can ditch the kids. Additionally, nannies wouldn’t have to have those awkward conversations with the kids about “mommy’s special friend number 5,” or “what happened to our other new uncle?”

Now that’s advice that Ann Landers could take to the bank, if she wasn’t dead.

Happy Anniversary, California

2007-07-29T20:43:00.000-07:00

Just a little more than 365 days ago, I packed up my car and moved across the country. While I had a good life in Michigan, I wasn’t necessarily happy with it. It was time for a change of settings and career.

Los Angeles wasn’t exactly the place I had in mind when I thought about leaving Detroit. Austin, Texas, Charlotte and Raleigh N.C. and Chicago were the locales I imagined myself finding a decent job and surroundings that I would enjoy. Not to mention that I had friends or family in all of those towns. – But LA never really seemed like it’d be a good fit. Too many people, too expensive, too much sun and I don’t speak Spanish. Heck, even when I was a kid dreaming of getting paid to blow things up on camera, it didn’t really occur to me that I’d have to live in Southern California. Not that there isn’t a great film industry in Cleveland…

My decision to move out west was basically made for me when I was offered a dream job for the organization that I’d wanted to work for even before it truly existed. It didn’t really matter where this gig was located, I would’ve moved to Idaho for it. Maybe.

I arrived in the City of Angels without a place to live. After a weekend in a historic hotel that once housed drunken midgets from Oz, I rented a room in West LA from a sweet, old lady and her two poodles. – I hate poodles. – It was a temporary solution and I found a place of my own after six weeks. Sure, I moved into a small, old shit hole, but it’s a one-bedroom and not an efficiency or studio. And I didn’t have to take my chances with a strange roommate.

Professionally, I hit the ground running and hit to pick up the tempo about two and half months into the new gig when my boss quit, followed by another veteran in my department. That left me and another new guy to do everything, including training our new boss when he was hired two months later. But he and I shined and people noticed.

Without getting into what I do, let me just say that it can be long hours and involves weekends for about six months. But it’s also a job that many people would kill to have. And unlike my last job, I feel a tremendous amount of pride in what I do and rarely have days that I wish I was doing something else. However, that’s not to say that I don’t generally wonder what’s next for me.

If there’s one lesson I took with me from my last gig, it’s that sticking with something and working hard, while expecting to be noticed, appreciated and properly rewarded isn’t necessarily how things happen anymore. There isn’t always going to be room to grow with a company. That’s just the way it is.

As jaded as that may come across, I believe it to be true. So before my second California anniversary, I plan to review my LA life. While things are going well career-wise and as much I like living where I do, I’m not going to plant roots just yet. Single and young still has some advantages.

Things I Miss About Michigan:

- Being only four hours from my folks
- Always being invited somewhere or to something on the weekends (the invitations are missed – the last job made attending them very difficult)
- Cook outs – whether it was just a normal summer day with my old roommates, some turkey brats and Sam Adams, or heading to sweet home Ypsilanti for a larger gathering at K Shaw and Ben’s
- The Michigan Beer Festival – heaven on earth
- My local bars – great juke boxes, good bands and cheap beer
- Meeting a friend for coffee – swapping advice and trading stories
- Tigers baseball and Red Wings hockey – live is best
- Borrowing music (to illegally upload) from friends
- The ability to get somewhere quickly – Downtown in 10 minutes or Ann Arbor in 40
- Detroit pride – witnessing attempts at a comeback and preservation of history

Bob Is Back On The Road

2007-07-23T23:49:00.001-07:00

The Evil Bob journey is finally back on track. He had been chilling on Venice Beach for a while, but I caught up with him and dropped his ass off 200 miles north.

Check out Excursions Of An Evil Gnome.

Harry Potter Cheater

2007-07-20T11:10:00.000-07:00

I’m high on Potter-mania. After dressing up like ol’ Harry and waiting in line for the midnight showing of Transformers (long story – next time I won’t drink before going to the theater), I just couldn’t wait for the new and final book. I had to look at on online bootleg. *Spoiler Alert*

Apparently, the witch did it in the library with the lead pipe.

Jesus Is Just Alright

2007-07-18T21:16:00.000-07:00

While checking out the freak show that is Venice Beach, Kbob and I also noticed countless, stupid t-shirts worn by and sold to tourists. Venice is an unintentional historical recap of past catchphrases and slogans, via cotton Ts. In fact, The Simpsons are a perfect example. Sort of like a timeline from the show’s early days in the early ‘90s to its current big screen flick, t-shirts are sold from Bart’s current Hollywood adventure to his “Don’t Have A Cow” days. After all, why throw away 17-year-old shirts when some vacationer from Peru doesn’t know or care if that shirt has been played out for more than a decade in the States?

Along with the numerous and various trendy shirts on the boardwalk were shirts with religious messages. And that’s when Kbob and I decided that the easiest job in America is a Christian t-shirt maker.

Keeping Christ cool with the kiddies is simple. All you really have to do is borrow an already popular slogan, catchphrase or trademarked logo and Jesus-fy it. It’s probably been done for a long time (no, I’m not talking about stories from the Bible borrowing tales and themes from defunct religions), but I first started noticing the trends while I was in middle school in the early ‘90s – you, know about the time TV viewers ditched Cosby for Homer. – Anyway, it seemed everything from soft drinks to athletics had a Savior knock-off version. After a simple word replacement, everything imaginable was blessed… except those “Big Johnson” shirts. It seems that turning double entendres into triple entendres was just too confusing.

Kbob and I tossed around a few ideas of what might work. Please feel free to play along at home.

Jesus Is It - Yeah, you guessed it, “Coke Is It.”

Got Jesus? - Got Milk?

Geico.com Is So Easy Jesus Could Do It. - Caveman insurance

Built Christ Tough - Built Ford Tough

Reach Out And Touch Faith - OK, I cheated. Depeche Mode borrowed that from AT&T first.

Takes A Licking And Keeps On Resurrecting - “Takes A Licking And Keeps On Ticking,” by Timex. Does anyone remember that one?

Don’t You Wish Your Savior Was Hot Like Me? - Pussy Cat Dolls

What Happens In Vegas Is Seen By Jesus - Trademark!

The Bourne-Again Identity (and sequels) – Matt Damon stuff

Wake Up With The King Of Kings - Burger King

I Can’t Believe Jesus Ate The Whole Thing - Alka-Seltzer

Is Jesus In You? - Gatorade

Can You Save Me Now? - Verizon Wireless

The Bible, The Most Trusted Name In News - CNN

Jesus Will Keep The Light On For You - Red Roof Inn

When He Returns, Will You Be Ready? - Cialis (Picture Pat Robertson in a bath tub.)

Hello, I’m Jesus. And I’m A PC - Mac

Jesus, Jesus, and Jesus - Sex, Drugs And Rock N’ Roll

Perhaps that last one wouldn’t really catch on.

Dear Dick

2007-07-05T23:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Dick,

You might not remember me, but our paths crossed a few years ago, literally. In 2002, you and your motorcade were heading south on Interstate 275 in Novi, Michigan, while I traveled northbound, on my way to watch a Red Wings game. I was the guy driving the maroon Eagle Talon while extending a middle finger toward your posse.

Anyway, I wanted to drop you a line and catch up with you. In the time since, the Wings won the Stanley Cup and I ditched the sports car for a more economical and environmentally friendly car. I also continued working for the same Michigan employer for another four years, putting in more hours than I was rewarded for and contributing to a Social Security fund that I’ll probably never take from. However, I finally escaped that job and headed west to California. – Well enough about me.

Dick, I know you’ve been really busy in that time. You handled the nation’s energy policies behind some heavy doors with experts from the oil industry, who I’m sure were unbiased, had the best concerns for consumers and cared about the well being of planet Earth. I’m not so sure what our policies are, or what went on behind those doors, but hey, if Fox News isn’t making a big deal out of it, I guess I don’t need to worry about it.

Oh, and Dick, you also guided America into war against Iraq. Sure, the evidence for doing so didn’t quit fit like a perfect puzzle. But, really, who hasn’t cut, crushed, omitted, or folded pieces in order to complete a jigsaw?

Even though most people were eventually able to see that those puzzle pieces were mixed and matched from different sets, you held your ground and did your best to assure the U.S. citizens that they did in fact go together. And even as the cardboard used to make those same pieces turned yellow, crumbled and came apart, you remained persistent in telling the public about the extreme consequences of a failed effort.

More recently, Dick, you’ve reconfigured our three branch political system. While your boss issued an executive order a few years back that requires ALL executive branch offices comply with the National Archives and Records Administration’s review of security measures for handling documents, you decided that it did not apply to you. You, apparently, also belong to the Legislative Branch since the Constitution states you have a tie-breaking vote in the Senate, thus not making you not a member of the Executive Branch. -- I guess all of those who served before you were wrong about that.

Well, Dick, haven’t you been crowing about executive privilege your seven years in office now? Since you’re not a part of that branch, does that mean you now have to comply with earlier requests you dodged by muttering those magical words? – You know those requests, they were the ones made by media under the Freedom of Information Act, as well as the Government Accountability Office, regarding your above mentioned energy pow wows.

Of course, Dick, since our last meeting, you seem to have let an undercover CIA operative’s identity slip your… urrr… one of your crony’s lips for pure political purposes – specifically, someone whose husband pointed out your mix-matched Iraq puzzle. Sure, your pal Scooter might have been found guilty of obstruction of justice, and sure, he might have been found guilty by a jury of his peers and sentenced to a proper punishment within normal guidelines by a judge who Dubya found to be good enough to appoint to his bench. But let’s be real here, Dick, there was no way this guy was ever going to serve a day for something you okayed, and probably, ordered him to do. – You’ll let someone else fall on the sword and sustain wounds only deep enough to permanently scar, maim and torture. But you have the decency to gently pull the blade (from his back) and let them continue living in their new, altered state. You’re a gentleman, Dick. Just ask the man who apologized to you for you blowing away his face with your double barrels.

Now that we’ve caught up, I just have a one more thing to tell you, Dick. I realize that your administration hasn’t always been unpopular with The People, for whom it is supposed to serve. In fact, there were days of praise that have been long since forgotten. However, can anyone really be surprised by the lack of trust and support that finally caught up with you and Georgie? After all, you only came into power after steeling a democratic first election and scaring out the vote in the second.

Disappointedly and angrily yours,
H. Wood

p.s. Go fuck yourself.

Soundwave: The Touch

2007-07-04T11:18:00.000-07:00

Search For New, Appreciation For Old

2007-06-30T18:25:00.000-07:00

I haven’t hid my feelings about how broadcast radio is terrible. I rarely listen to it, which makes finding new and good music difficult. I mostly listen to my iPod and surf the Internets for new tune, which aren’t the best ways to expand my music library.

I don’t want to get stuck in the same rut that my brother is in. He’ in his early-mid 30s but hasn’t really adopted any new music in the last 5 or more years. That’s sad, considering he’s the guy who introduced to me to a lot of “alternative” music in the early 90s when he went away to college. And that passed knowledge/awakening is something I never took for granted. – I was that kid wearing a Nine Inch Nails shirt while my classmates were asking me what “NIN” was.

Recently. I’ve plugged into Pandora.com. It’s a free (with on-screen advertisements) music service. The idea is great. You can listen to a formhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifat or even type in a band’s name. The site will play songs from that group/artist, as well as songs from others in that category. – For example, entering “Stone Temple Pilots” will not only bring up a collection of tunes from STP’s catalog, it’ll also play hard rock, “grunge,” and “alternative” songs from (mostly) the 1990s by bands like Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden and Metallica. And in case it plays a suck-balls song from an ass-lick band like Finger Eleven, you can advance it to the next track, although, there’s a limit to how many times you can do that.

While I’m in a musical mood, I’ve decided to rank the greatest cover songs of all time. But to make things easy, I limited the tunes to ones found on my iPod. – This was a tough task, considering I could fill half of a top-20 list with Johnny Cash versions of songs alone.

Without further babbling, here’s the list:

20. Spider-Man – The Ramones
- I’m not sure who actually wrote and originally recorded this song, by legendary punk rock gods, The Ramones, turned the Saturday morning theme into a kick-ass song about the web head.
19. Hard To Handle – The Black Crowes – Otis Redding
- This song put the Crowes on the map.
18. Rusty Cage – Johnny Cash – Soundgarden
- Honestly, I thought it was a joke when I heard that Johnny Cash had covered the metal (don’t call it metal) song. But once I heard it, there was no arguing that Cash could cover anything and make it his own, brilliantly.
17. Good Morning Little School Girl – Johnny Lang – Sonny Boy Williamson
- While Ten Years After’s version is awesome, I gotta give it to Johnny Lang. He gave new life to an old blues tune.
16. Love Song – 311- The Cure
- Not known for their covers, 311 recorded a great song without needing to change too much from the original.
15. Personal Jesus – Johnny Cash – Depeche Mode
- Another Cash rebirth. Deeply religious, he gave the synthesized Brit pop song new meaning with an acoustic guitar.
14. Easy – Faith No More – The Commadores
- Probably meant as tongue-and-cheek, FNM took Lionel Richie’s ballad and gave it some fine-tuning.
13. I Want You To Want Me – Chris Isaak – Ricky Nelson
- Cheap Trick made this one of the most loved pop rock songs of all time. However, Isaak’s version is actually better.
12. Suzie Q – Credence Clearwater Revival – Dale Hawkins
- Oh, Suzie Q, I love you.
11. Whisky In The Jar – Metallica – Thin Lizzy
- When the kings of speed metal re-recorded their punk-cover album Garage Days, they added a few new covers including this one by Irish rockers, Thin Lizzy, who were the first (as far as I know) to turn the old drinking song into a rock classic.
10. Sweet Jane – Cowboy Junkies – The Velvet Underground
- The Junkies took this one in a new, mellow direction.
9. One – Johnny Cash – U2
- Damn, Cash and Rick Rueben made some beautiful music together.
8. Ring of Fire – Social Distortion – Johnny Cash
- Role reversal. Here’s Cash being covered. Social D sped up the tempo, dropped the Mexican horns and did a sweet job with June Carter’s creation.
7. The Man Who Sold The World – Nirvana – David Bowie
- In a few more years, will the young people know that Nirvana wasn’t an acoustic guitar band? Their Unplugged performance is one of the best albums, as well as television moments, in history.
6. Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door – Eric Clapton – Bob Dylan
- I’m not a great fan of Dylan singing is own songs. However, this is a beautiful song and Clapton’s cover is the best of them all.
5. Crossroads – Cream – Robert Johnson
- Clapton took a blues song, shook it up and released it almost something entirely new.
4. All Along The Watch Tower – Jimi Hendrix – Bob Dylan
- Again, a Dylan song made better by another.
3. Hurt – Johnny Cash – Nine Inch Nails
- Is Cash the king of covers? According to my iPod, he just might be. The man took a depressing, electronic, Trent Reznor song about heroin and made it his own.
2. Dancing Days – Stone Temple Pilots – Led Zeppelin
- It’s not the most well-known Pilots song since it didn’t appear on an STP record, but it’s one of my favorite songs, cover or not.
1. Higher Ground – Red Hot Chili Peppers – Stevie Wonder
- This song changed my life. I had never heard of the SoCal funk/punk band before seeing a crazy video on MTV with some lunatic running around in pants made from stuffed animals while he made the most amazing sounds on a bass guitar. After hearing that song, I HAD to buy their albums and I had to pick up a bass to try to make sounds like that myself. Almost 20 years later, I’ve still listened to the Chili Peppers more than any other group and that song still moves me like no other.

Babel Is Boring

2007-06-28T22:16:00.001-07:00

Despite hearing a few negative reviews about Babel, I thought I’d decide for myself. After all, it was by writer, Guillermo Arriaga, and director, Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, who made 21 Grams a few years back.

21 Grams was the single-most depressing film I’ve ever seen. I left the Main Art Theatre in Royal Oak, Michigan feeling really down, almost like someone had died. It was a moving and thoughtful. The cinematography captured depression and the acting was some of the best I ever witnessed. – It was a cinematic masterpiece.

Babel, like 21, told multiple stories that somehow related to each other. But unlike its predecessor, Babel’s stories weren’t interesting individually, let alone collectively. Even as I began to see how they were intertwined, I couldn’t convince myself that I cared.

When the credits rolled after 21 Grams, I felt a synthetic sadness, while at the same time, a sense of satisfaction. I had just watched something brilliant. However, as the credits rolled for Babel the only urge I had was to eject the DVD.

Stars Burnout

2007-06-26T23:48:00.000-07:00

I’m tired of people being famous for being famous. And I’m really finding it exhausting how our society chooses its idols.

Tonight on the Sci-Fi channel’s Extreme Championship Wrestling, WWE (which owns ECW) Chairman Vince McMahon served up a mea culpa regarding his company’s three-hour tribute to double-murder Chris Benoit, who committed suicide (possibly days after killing his wife and 7-year-old son) before Monday’s WWE “Raw” show. In that tribute, there was never a mention of the deaths being a double-homicide/suicide. Instead, it was just treated as a tragedy that was under investigation. And tonight, McMahon acknowledged that because details of the deaths have come into light, there would be no mention of “Mr. Benoit’s name” in the show, other than the announcement.

That would be an acceptable statement, however, there’s no way that he did not know that investigators immediately suspected a murder/suicide. Yet, the WWE continued on with its tribute and martyrdom of Benoit.

I understand that, with Benoit, many people lost a loved one, friend and inspiration. And hearing testimonials of how out of character these horrendous crimes were only adds to the perplexity of the case. Nonetheless, it was still inexcusable of the WWE to honor Benoit’s memory in that fashion, if there was reason to believe he committed the murders of his family.

My reasons for this blog tonight are not to speculate on ‘roid rage, the pro wrestling industry’s problems, or its exploitations. Rather, this sad and disturbing case, along with celebutard Paris Hilton being released from the county jail, got me thinking about values in this country.

When, if ever, will we stop putting so much emphasis on celebrity? I know it’s easier to click on a TV show dedicated to the lives of familiar and pretty people than it is to introduce oneself to original thoughts of an intellectual, humorist, or even a historian in another medium, like a book. But simple isn't always best.

I don’t want to limit my distaste of celebrity worship to heiresses or Hollywood. I think it needs to extend into other forms of entertainment, including sports.

Sure there are plenty good role models in sports, far more than the seemingly increasing number of bad apples, but why do we find it so important to put grown men playing games on such a high pedestal?

An example that comes to mind is Dale Earnhardt. Already one of the most popular NASCAR drivers in history, Earnhardt became a hero of mythical proportions after his death. -- Shrines, T-shirts, tattoos, babies’ names, local holidays, mustaches, etc., etc… But how many of his followers really know anything about the guy. Is it mostly image? Why is a dead racecar driver held is such a high regard? What did he cure? Who did he save? How have his ideas benefited mankind? – I think you get the point.

I know it might be ironic, or even hypocritical, for me to complain about entertainers being worshiped since, for the last eight years, I have worked in sports. However, anyone who knows me knows that I don’t take it too seriously. I know there’s more to life than catching balls and final scores. And I admit that what I do does little more than entertain fans (in a serious manner), but outside of my office doors, I like to think I focus on more important things.

Unfortunately, the trend of following the life of a worthless, rich girl will continue, as will the sensational story of a wrestler's murders committed and suicide. But at some point, our culture has to mature.

I'm From The McWest

2007-06-24T20:06:00.000-07:00

I’d like to apologize for causing a commotion and temporary blindness to the beachgoers of Venice. I meant you no harm and I swear I didn’t know my bare torso would reflect the sun in such an awesome array of light. – My bad.

The stereotypical SoCal person (at least of the Caucasian persuasion) is toned, bleach-blonde and tan. As a mic from the Midwest, I don’t fit the standard.

I’ve spent way too many of my previous 28 summers avoiding prolonged exposure to direct sunlight. That wasn’t too hard growing up in cloudy-ass Ohio that was hundreds of miles away from the nearest warm beach (Lake Erie doesn’t count). And the lifestyle was easy to maintain once I moved to even cloudier Michigan.

My mother always likes to point out that I’ll get some sort of last laugh out of this albino ordeal. She always reminds me that (please feel free to imagine your own mother’s nagging voice here) I won’t be as wrinkled or sagging in my old age as those who sunbathe. Plus, I’m less likely to get skin cancer. – Yeah ma, in the future, I’m going to Rascal myself around the retirement camp bragging about not enjoying natural sunlight on the beach back in the day (before pollution and a war with Sweden made it nearly impossible to survive outside) to all the other old farts. – I’ve got that going for me.

So, in attempt to more properly fit in with the in-crowd, and to better blend my permanent farmer’s tan to the rest of my body, I spent a little time on Venice Beach yesterday. Now I’m not completely stupid (I got checked out by a doctor and I’m only partially stupid). I knew my fair skin would turn red faster than Venezuela, so I sprayed on a little SPF 15 sunblock.

While I deliberately burned my epidermis, I had an odd feeling. It wasn’t quite déjà vu, but there was something going on in the depths of my shallow mind. Something I’d need to consult a professional about.

After a half hour or so in the sun, I took a stroll to the boardwalk to talk to an expert. A kind gypsy helped me recall repressed memories from my childhood, as well as pick lucky numbers for this week’s Powerball.

She made me remember a family vacation to an Orlando water park. High atop a waterslide, my parents, brother and I waited our turns in line when a park employee approached us. In her thick, southern accent, she asked “y’all from up north?” My father, Casper, replied Ohio, to which she quipped, “I would have guessed Alaska.” – Burn!

My childhood died that day.

Entourage D.C.

2007-06-23T10:47:00.000-07:00

Monkey Business

2007-06-21T00:07:00.000-07:00

“Stupid gravity.” - Homer

This has got to be the best way to go in the worst possible way.

It takes me back to a more simple time – college. I spent two years living in a fraternity house with 9-13 other guys, a few girlfriends, friends of friends, and the occasional transient. And among the frat brothers was the notorious Monkey Boy Brandon, who in his first year in the house, threatened to jump off the roof on more than one occasion.

Year 2 was different for the suicidal chimp. He somehow found someone to pick and eat his ticks. Her name was Erica and she was actually a sweet and pretty girl… who happened to be a bit bananas.

It didn’t matter that the couple was a bit quirky, because Brandon was MUCH happier and easier to live with. Sure, he washed the bathroom floor with toilet water every now and then (he really thought that was the normal way of cleaning), and never really understood that an entire can of coffee grounds doesn’t go into one pot of java, but his crazy mood swings and rage seemed to disappear. In their places, Brandon demonstrated confidence and an eagerness to try new things, like being the first.

Monkey Boy was the first to have sex on the roof of the old Delt House. While others may have followed, he was the first to successfully convince a woman to help him clean the out gutters - to the dismay and jealousy of the other 60 brothers (well, at least the 58 straight ones). It was the first and last time that Brandon was recognized for an antic that didn’t involve the police, an extremely inebriated rant, or flying feces.

In case you’re wondering what has happened to Monkey Boy since he graduated six or seven years ago, well… He was tragically killed by living out another fantasy. Brandon drowned while trying to do it on a white water rafting trip down the Youghiogheny River. – Ok, that’s a lie. I think he lives in Cincinnati.

Royal Tradition

2007-06-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

There’s a common fear among music fans, specifically ones who’ve chosen to follow particular bands for a number of years/albums, that each new album could be a disappointment. There are those bands that have produced great record after great album. And the better ones are able to continue their artistry by taking their sounds in new directions without losing what it was that made them special to begin with. But realistically, how long can any group sustain that kind of momentum?

My first awakening to this was when I was in elementary school. I listened to Huey Lewis And The News like Glenn Beck listens to his own loquacious voice. Sports , followed by Fore, gave you a new drug (even if you weren’t on any before) while reminding you that it was hip to be square (it really wasn’t). And who could forget the “Back to the Future” soundtrack that made you believe in the power of love?

No longer content with being a glamorized bar band, Huey and his merry melody-makers decided to take their abilities to the next level with Small World, which added jazz to the mix. However, still young, I wasn’t ready to add the jazz flute into my guitar riff world. And unfortunately, other News fans weren’t ready either. The band dropped off the charts and into obscurity not long after that.

Thankfully as I got older, my music tastes also matured. Although I’m still tempted every now and then to pick up a greatest hits CD.

Two decades after last listening to my Huey Lewis cassettes, I now find myself continuously listening to another band’s album, just a day after buying it. Queens of the Stone Age’s (often labeled stoner music but it’s not a requirement) new album Era Vulgaris lived up my expectations, and possibly surpassed their past records.

Though I doubt any tracks off of this album will be as well received by mainstream music outlets as 2002’s “No One Knows,” there are definitely some tunes that are just as awesome. In fact, one caught my attention without me realizing it was Queens.

While at Virgin Records in Hollywood last night, I thought I’d end my ignorance and listen to Chris Cornell’s new solo album. – Beyond the first track, I lost interest, and his cover of Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean” came across more of a joke than a serious song, like Alanis Morrisette’s cover of “My Humps.” – Anyway, while I was retroactively reviewing the disc, I heard another over the store’s headset. And unlike what was coming out of the headphones, this song grabbed my attention by the reproductive organ.

As I slid the earphones off my head, I heard a soft, yet up-tempo tune with a piano part. It was moody and up-lifting at the same time. The lead vocals were baritone and slightly monotone, but the chorus was high-pitched and singing about “I wanna make ya, I wanna make ya choose.” – It sounded how I imagine Ben Folds would sound if he sold his soul to a really cool devil. So I knew I’d have to ask a salesman who it was and then buy it.

Sadly, my attention was directed away once the song was over and replaced by something off of Poison’s new cover tunes record, and as I walked by another CD I needed - The Stooges Weirdness.

Sorry to say, my short-term memory is so crappy lately that I forgot to ask a sales associate/technician the name of the song and the band. But I did remember to have my parking ticket validated.

As soon as I got into my batmobile, I popped my new QOTSA disc in my multi-function car stereo and immediately started rockin’. Right out the starter’s gate, it kicked ass. And then track 7 began to play.

There was something familiar with track 7… wait a minute, it was that brilliant piece of music I heard a half an hour earlier in the store. Excellent! And, oh, the chorus wasn’t signing about “making you choose,” it was saying, “I wanna make it wit chu.”

The rest of the album is of the finest rock and/or roll quality and makes me wonder how Queens can continue to create new and superb tunes on album after album, while guys like me carry on through life telling the same pirate jokes and rehashing the same stories about drunken roommates who resemble chimps [5th archive down]. Kudos, Queens of the Stone Age.

Super Group Assemble!

2007-06-12T23:57:00.000-07:00

Speaking of super groups, CNN.com has a story about the re-release of The Traveling Wilburys albums. It’s nice to know, but it’s a year and a half too late.

Despite not gathering for a fulltime band, the Wiburys showed that megastar musicians could get together, create great music and get along. The members consisted of Beatle George Harrison, Bob Dylan, his sound-a-like Tom Petty, the late-great Roy Orbison, and Jeff Lynne. And membership only required talent (I’m still scratching my head why Lynne was in) and a willingness to wear dark sunglasses.

Years after The Traveling Wilburys’ second and final album release, which was ironically title “Volume 3”, my brother decided that’s what he really wanted for Xmas2005. He already had his two front teeth and didn’t have much of a need for a Red Rider. So, along with a few German punk CDs he also asked for, I decided to get him the Wilburys. – Easier said than done.

Since it was released 15 years earlier, I didn’t think BestBuy or FYE would carry it. Nonetheless, I looked. And I looked through the collections of several used and “indy” record shops around Metro Detroit. But the only thing I found was that it was a tough disc to snag. In fact, one shoppe’s (like the old English, don’t you?) teenage associate (a.k.a. salesman), wearing his newest Strokes t-shirt, wished me luck in finding the holy grail of rock and rail. He, too, had been keeping an eye out for it.

I finally tracked down a used copy for sale in California and paid extra to have it sent to my folks’ house in Ohio in time for Saint Nick. Naturally, it arrived after New Year’s. But my brother was happy to receive an I.O.U until its delivery. Now, more than a year later, I’m still waiting on him to burn a copy for me. --Remember, it’s better to give a gift that keeps on giving back, or something like that. The Wilburys knew that, and shared their tunes with a limited number of fans for 20 years.

Cornell Dropout

2007-06-10T20:10:00.000-07:00

I’m breaking a cardinal rule of album review by not actually listening to the entire Chris Cornell CD. However, I’ve done the sampling of his second solo disc on iTunes. And from what I can tell from the short, 30-second sound bites is that I don’t think I’ll be buying it anytime soon.

Cornell has some of the best pipes to ever record a rock and/or roll song. His early Soundgarden songs can easily serve as testimony. “Bad Motor Finger” should be in every hard rock fan’s library. Hell, it should be required listening for anyone who’s even contemplated tossing devil horns in the air.

Although his vocals were great on the Soundgarden and Audioslave records, Cornell didn’t have to carry them. He had some of the best musicians playing with him. Kim Thayil’s guitar work could hypnotize and then convince you to do something recklessly-fun. And although I think Tom Morello’s guitar riffs were better suited for Rage Against The Machine, there were quite a few tunes that complimented Cornell’s vocal chords well.

Listening to the samples of the new album made me think that Cornell was missing something. Something like a great band.

Morning Euphoria, his first post-Soundgarden album was good but not great. There were several tracks, including “Flutter Girl,” “Can’t Change Me,” and “Wave Goodbye” that were very good. And despite being a pretty big Soundgarden fan back in the day, I didn’t rush off and buy it. In fact, I think Kbob and I went used CD shopping in Ann Arbor and we rock-scissor-papered it to see who would actually have to pay for it and who’d receive a burned version. – Home computer CD burners were still relatively new and I had gotten one a few months earlier. – I should also mention that we were poor college students who occasionally illegally made copies of CDs for ourselves and friends. We surely weren’t Napster. In fact, to this day, I’ve still never downloaded from any pirated music site. (I’m not trying to justify my many years worth of illegally burned music.)

Once again, Cornell finds himself without a band. He and the other members of Audioslave recently called it quits following their third album (2nd posting down). I was surprised it lasted as long as it did. It was a nice void for a few years where there really weren’t too many worthy rock bands releasing new material. Sure, it wasn’t Soundgarden and it wasn’t Rage Against The Machine, nonetheless, it was pretty good stuff.

The super bands don’t seem to work for the most part. They’ve been forming since the ‘60s and the recent incarnations haven’t faired any better. -- What’s up with that VH1 band where rockers like Sebastian Bach and Scott Ian developed man crushes and inflated the massive ego of overrated Ted Nugent? And what about Gilby Clarke, Jason Newsted and Tommy Lee’s American Idol audition for a poser frontman? Can’t answer that? Well neither can I, because I don’t care.

Although I think the odds are against them, I have high hopes that Velvet Revolver survives its sophomore album “Libertad”. Of course I’m biased since Guns ‘N Roses was my life in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s and Stone Temple Pilots soon took over. So naturally, I was glad to see the talents unite in VR. But we’ll have to wait and see how this super group does in the long run.

Speaking of super groups and STP, could there be a possible solution for the Chris Cornell situation? If Army Of Anyone, another super group consisting the DeLeo Brothers of STP and Richard Patrick (not to be confused with Robert Patrick), the former singer for Filter, doesn’t work out, perhaps there could be yet another attempt at a super group. I’ve said before that the DeLeo brothers (9th archive down) are two of the most underrated musicians in rock and need a strong frontman like Scott Weiland. Chris Cornell Temple Of The Dog Pilots could be a nice collaboration. But then again…

Radio Days

2007-06-07T23:40:00.000-07:00

FM radio has sucked for a long time. No longer is it a place to hear albums, innovative tunes or variety.

I only really listen to the radio in the morning on my alarm clock. In LA, I wake up to Jack FM only because it plays music instead of dipshit shock jocks or “morning crews”. Jack is one of those mega-mix stations guided by a satellite operation without a traditional disc jockey. It plays a lot of pop music hits from the 70s up to songs from a couple of years ago. Jack will play a really good song, followed by the worst Phil Collins crap-o-la. And despite having a wide format and a virtually endless limit of melodies, Jack repeats its rotation a lot. – I’ve heard the unique ‘80s tune “Mexican Radio” about once a week on Jack for two months.

While in Michigan last weekend, judging by the air waves, I might not have noticed that I’ve been gone for almost a year. I had a rental car and relied on the radio rather than my iPod, and the radio let me down.

89X played the same songs and bands it had been playing for the previous three years that I lived in Detroit. And even then, I couldn’t tell those crappy bands apart. Unfortunately, that station is/was the best in town.

Continuing with the limited tunes discussion, I heard some of the same old songs throughout those days on different Detroit stations. -- For example, I heard The Doors “Light My Fire” twice in one day on different stations. Of course the playlist regurgitation wasn’t contained in the mitten.

Wild Cherry’s “Funky Music” is a favorite of stations whose format isn’t limited to genres, times, or taste. (Demonstrating their non-threatening, bland, please-everybody approach to radio, these stations for some reason have adopted names like “Doug” and “Alice”. Can somebody explain that to me?) I heard that loud flatulent twice on Monday, once in Detroit and once in Northwest Ohio. – N.W. Ohio normally reserves its stations past the 80s on the dial for AC/DC. In fact, that part of the world seems to play more AC/DC than anywhere except Aussie Land, itself.

Now that I’m back in Los Angeles, I’m back to waking up to Jack shit and listening to my iPod in my car. Believe it or not, the enormous LA radio market seems to be worse than Detroit when it comes to new and GOOD music. But if you’re into silly, manufactured, insert-artist-here, pop slop, LA has a great strong signal for you.

Matrimony Agnostic

2007-06-06T22:38:00.000-07:00

As I witnessed two good friends perform a ceremony that displays their love for each other, I felt very happy for them. They had been under each other’s noses for years before taking their first steps towards a life together. And now, in front of their friends and family, they partook in a ritual that most couples in love do (well, those whose private parts aren’t the same…).

Along with feeling glad for my friends, I began to question my own beliefs about marriage. I’ve always questioned whether I’ll actually find someone who I’d want to form a monogamous, life-long relationship with. And as I approach 30 years, I feel the odds of that happening decreasing.

Sure, I used to like the idea of going down that path if and only if I would truly be in love and want to be only that one person. And getting hitched out of normalcy, desperation, or convenience never made much sense to me. But I began to experience some new feeling about matrimony. – Is it even for me?

I’m not sure if that’s the route that I want to take at all, if ever. I may have gone agnostic over marriage. I don’t know where I stand. – Don’t get me wrong, if people want to (including the ones who share the same love of Streisand) want to get married, then I’m happy for them. I just don’t know if it’s for me.

You Gotta Lose Your Mind In Detroit Rock City

2007-06-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

I just arrived back in Detroit for a few days to attend a wedding in Romeo (home of Kid Rock). I’m eager to see a few friends and to watch two great friends tie the knot.

I keep up with my adoptive hometown, somewhat, through word of mouth and the internets. So I know a few things about what’s been going on since I left last July.

Road Construction: It’s everywhere and there are now more orange cones on the road than litter and broken-down cars.

The Mayor of Detroit: Kwame Kilpatrick is still managing to take his family on vacations without spending his own money. Although it’s not on the tax-payers’ dime this time, he’s still a shady man.

Doctor Death: Jack Kevorkian is being released from prison today after serving eight years for second-degree murder. He served eight years too long.

Music: 89X is still playing the same five songs it has been playing for the last three years.

High-Hopes for Sports: After the Red Wings were eliminated from Lord Stanley contention, the wishes for a championship focused solely on the Pistons. However, LeBron James might takes those expectations away. James almost single-handedly won the Eastern Conference Championship Game 5 last night in double overtime. – Cavs fans are now on the giving end instead of being on the receiving end. LeBron is doing to the Pistons what Michael Jordan did to Cleveland in the early 90s.

Now I’m off to visit a certain Thai restaurant that I used to live off. I haven’t been able to find an equal in LA.

Beggars And Choosers

2007-05-20T17:40:00.000-07:00

I’m not always a bastard. As I’ve written in the past, I normally (about 50-60 percent of the time) ignore beggars’ pleas for spare change, and I never pay any attention to anyone who approaches me with a bullshit sympathy story about having a flat tire and needing $10 for a patch so they visit a dying relative before it’s too late. In fact, I’ve pretended not to speak English just to piss off would-be conmen. -- Now that I’ve said that, I’ll point out that do occasionally give a buck or two to homeless people.

Yesterday, I was at a sandwich shop ordering a turkey and cranberry on honey wheat bread when I was approached by a stranger. Before I even saw him next to me, he greeted me with a “hey, man.” So I turned my head to see who said it and noticed a skimpy and dirty man in his early 40s. He had a few scribbled names tattooed on his neck that if I had to guess were either from a previous life, or from an aspiring tattooist who was willing to pay for human flesh to practice on.

I immediately thought about how to turn him down for money once he began his song and dance. – It was too late for a fake accent and I obviously had money. So what was I going to say, or would I just ignore him and not turn my head in his direction again?

To my surprise, he didn’t have a rehearsed speech about a flat tire. Instead he just asked if he could get something to eat. I looked at him, felt sorry, and replied sure. I told him to go ahead and order a sandwich. He looked shocked and said thank you.

The sandwich artist preparing my meal didn’t look too thrilled that I was going to allow this guy food in his establishment. But I wasn’t too thrilled that he was chewing gum with his mouth open while he hovered over my lunch. So we’re even.

A few seconds later while I was still waiting for my sandwich, the man turned to me and asked if there was music playing. I told him that the radio was on and a commercial was being played. He let out a sigh and said thank goodness because that meant he was not in the same place he was a little earlier.

The man began rambling a little about loud music and walking around, but being surrounded by a lot of electromagnetic fields. Oh, and he kept running into people’s auras. It was then that I decided my sandwich was now to go and that I shouldn’t stick around to wait for him to order and then pay for his food. Rather, I paid for my own, handed him $7 and told him he was welcome and to be careful of those pesky auras. (At least this cuckoo’s nest escapee didn’t accuse me of conspiring with Hitler.)

This guy obviously was suffering from a chemical imbalance, whether one occurring naturally in his body, or one created by putting something on his tongue. It didn’t matter. This was just a man whose life wasn’t going to get any better. And fortunately for me, I’ve got a lot of advantages and things to be grateful for, even if I sometimes complain about $13 movie tickets and $8 pints of Guinness.

I’ve seen people get on their high-horses regarding handouts to the homeless with the rationale that it’s just going to be used at the liquor store. And I understand their sentiments. However, I’m not sure it’s my place to say how anyone, homeless or wealthy, should use their money. And I’m not sure if it’s right to deny someone a necessity, such as food, based on what I think they might do.

Back In The Day (insert squiggly lines and time warp music)

In the fall of 1997 on the campus of Eastern Michigan University, a young smartass who was recently given the nickname Hollywood, teamed up with another smartass who was recently given the nickname Bosstones. Their pairing in a political science class began a four-year run of campus shenanigans that later continued for years in the real world as well.

Anyway, I’m “Hollywood” and I’ll stop with the third person, already.

I thought I had a better wit and sense of humor than most. Bosstones, an academic scholarship student, knew he was smarter than most. Together, we had a brass pair willing to make light of lectures and point out irony and flaws of others’ arguments. Of course we knew our shit and could back it up. – After all, isn’t that what higher education is supposed to be about?

Our professor didn’t discourage us, although we had to get on her nerves every now and then. And a lot of the students within ear range of our quips seemed to get a kick out of the crap coming from our mouths. However, there was one girl who most likely didn’t enjoy our observations and opinions. We affectionately referred to her as Fat-Annoying-Girl and sometimes drew sophomoric pictures of her being shot by tanks and helicopters as she stomped on Tokyo.

This loquacious broad was the type of person who had an argument prepared before entering the class and was deaf to others’ opinions. Getting through her thick skull wasn’t my or Bosstones’ concern. Rather, we just wanted to make she and her Rush Limbaugh talking points sounded dumb.

One of our lectures had to do with welfare reform. Fat-Annoying-Girl opinioned that she wants her tax money to go to the guy down the street in a wheelchair, not to an alcoholic (homeless person). – Easier said than done. So I chimed in (we had a substitute that day, so I actually raised my hand and spoke after being selected for rebuttal), “What if the guy in the wheelchair is an alcoholic?”

Sure, I did it to embarrass her and to get a laugh out of my classmates. But it was a valid point. Who’s to decide the criteria for receiving aid? Whose business is it if someone wants to buy booze, smack, tick-tacs or Pez?

Of course society has decided that specific drugs are bad and that people with no means should not have them. But don’t confuse those specific drugs with the ones given out by men in lab coats. And certainly don’t confuse those people with people who can afford both kinds of drugs. Society has decided that there’s enough of a difference to have separate punishments for different chemicals “abused” by different people.

Society’s views aren’t always fair or up to speed with reality. And sometimes free will can be a bitch. But for now, I’m not going to worry too much about where my spare change goes once it’s tossed in a the cup of a needy person. To each their own and hope I never join them.

Aarrrgh, It's Driving Me Nuts

2007-05-17T23:40:00.000-07:00

For the second-straight year, Miami has been named the city with the worst drivers, and deservedly so. And not surprisingly, Detroit and Los Angeles, two cities I’ve called home, also made the top-10 list.

I’ve had to spend time in Miami every year for the past few years. The sun, Cuban coffee and beautiful women (Cuban coffee-drinking, beautiful women are the best) should be enough to make the city located on the tip of America’s wang one of my favorites. However, its asshole drivers actually make it one of my least preferred destinations.

Drivers on Miami’s highways will pass on the right, far right and on the shoulder at ridiculous speeds during heavy traffic times. Their use of turn signals exist about as much as the space they leave while cutting off others. Drivers zig-zag all across the highway in hopes of getting to their destinations quicker, despite statistics citing that weaving through traffic actually creates more congestion.

I’m not even sure if there are actually people behind the wheels of vehicles in Miami. If you can actually get a look into a car through the tinted windows, all you will see is an over-sized pair of black sunglasses and cell phone where there should be a face.

Now Detroit’s high speeds are simply accepted by everyone. Sure, there are drivers who put the pedal to the medal more than others, but for the most part, the stay in the passing lane. And if there’s a slower vehicle in that passing lane, the faster one gets up on its ass until it moves to the right. – I understand that. However, I HATE tailgaters and Detroit has an abundance.

Coming from Ohio, a state with 55 and 65 mph limits and cops who actually give speeding tickets for going five over the limit, driving in Metro Detroit was a slight shock when I arrived in 1996. Speed limits were 70 but everyone and their grandmothers did at least 80, and I hardly ever saw a statey giving a motorist a ticket for excessive speeds. Going fast on terrible roads was just something I would have to get used to. And fortunately, I had a lead foot to help me adjust quickly.

And now I find myself in La-La Land where drivers have redefined the term “assholes”. Sure, Detroit drivers race the yellow to attempt to make the red light in time (and mostly fail). But LA drivers not only challenge the notion that yellow lights mean for traffic to slow and prepare to stop, they ignore the idea that red lights mean stop. And unlike Detroit drivers, LA drivers don’t speed up to make the red (as long as you're riding the ass of another car, you count as one car and can continue through the yellow and red lights), which makes crossing traffic wait even longer to enter the intersection. And that irritates the awaiting drivers at the end of the line so much that they, too, ignore their own red lights. So naturally, the red light ripple continues.

Finally, I’ve noticed that cars that cost $40,000 and more are subject to different driving and parking rules. Most of the red-light runners mentioned above seem to be behind the wheels of BMWs and Lexuses. Rights of way, courtesy and only taking one parking spot don’t apply to these cell phone-jabbing, DVD-watching, make up-fixing idiots. – I actually witnessed a hefty girl in Beverly Hills talking on her cell and eating ice cream (in a cup, with a spoon!) and driving her luxury CUV at the f-ing time! She only had two hands! How could she manage to shovel Cold Stone into her yapper while talking? And how the hell could she safely operate daddy’s Mercedes?

After spending nine months on Los Angeles roads, I’m strangely starting to miss Michigan driving. I NEVER thought I’d say that.

Not Another Machine Movie

2007-05-13T19:14:00.000-07:00

Who would have thought that a line-turned catchphrase 23 years ago could be resurrected and even begin a life of its own without its original host? “I’ll be back” turned into an empty promise with the announcement of Terminator 4.

As I previously posted, The Terminator franchise is one that’s widely seen as something that still has life (the irony hasn’t escaped me), which makes sense since its futuristic and time-traveling storyline allows it to take different directions without having to use the same actors or even in the same decade. Besides, I think it’d be easier to jump into the future with a new plot than it would be to create another situation that would allow, yet another, cyborg who resembles the Arnold T-800 model to play the hero or villain.

When there’s money to be made, classics sometimes have to suffer. So I’ve made it easy for Hollywood to wreck a couple of my favorite movies. Just like Revenge of the Nerds flicks that faded into made-for-TV stinkbombs and the American Pie sequels that have been carried on as only brand names, carrying on these “Frat Pack” movies would be a mistake.

Old School: The Next Generation - With Luke Wilson and Vince Vaughn passing on the project, it’s up to Will Ferrell’s “Frank The Tank” to teach the Next Generation of college geeks how to be cool while the campus’s legitimate, jock frat tries to sabotage their parties and pranks. And during melees, Frank falls in love with one of his pledge’s mother, who happens to be a professor of women’s studies. Let the antics begin!

Wedding Crashers 2: Watercake – Although another Old School wasn’t in Vaughn’s plans, who could pass up an opportunity to work with Christopher Walken again?

Now a presidential candidate, Secretary Cleary suspects that his candidacy is being sabotaged by members of his own campaign committee. Without knowing who he can trust, Cleary turns to two of the best “undercover” men in Washington… his sons-in-law.

Together, Jeremy and John must infiltrate the campaign by crashing fundraisers to out the enemy agents. And of course, they’ll have to gain access and trust through the only methods they know, by partying, charming and making balloon animals.

These fakequels sound pretty dumb, don’t they? But I don’t think anyone would be surprised if something similar actually got the green light.

New Kid On The Blog

2007-05-10T22:31:00.001-07:00

It’s time to add another title to the blog roll. This time, however, it’s not a random site I found or one through a previous roll-member. Instead, this blog belongs to a friend of mine.

Although I’m not used to AC’s (no, not Slater) written voice, I have gotten to know his other voices in the last 10 ½ years that I’ve known him. His is a voice of reason and one that plays The Devil’s Advocate well. And that voice earned him a lot of respect while he was a leader of young college men.

I’m willing to bet that his words on the Web will entertain, inspire and invoke thought. But don’t take my word for it, check out A Musing Me.

Playtime Is Over

2007-05-08T21:43:00.000-07:00

If being an absurdly-spoiled bimbo was against the law, Paris Hilton would have gotten the chair years ago.

Maybe It Was My Short Hair

2007-05-07T22:28:00.001-07:00

I’m sure there are plenty of questions I could ponder that I currently can’t even imagine asking myself. And before Saturday, ‘Could I punch an old lady’ was something I couldn’t conceive.

So there I was… (insert Henry-esque tone) walking on Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade, minding my own business. My wonderful iPod was filling my ears with classic Van Halen’s “Panama” and my shades were performing marvelously against a bright SoCal sun. It was the type of song that, combined with beautiful weather, makes young dudes strut.

As my too cool for school walk slowed to a stop at the pedestrian crosswalk across Santa Monica Blvd., I heard drowned out voice yell, “Hey tough guy!” At first, I thought ‘where in this song does David Lee say that?’ But then I heard the voice yell, “Yeah, I’m talking to you tough guy!”

OK, OK, that’s not coming through my earbuds, rather someone is actually yelling at someone. But it couldn’t be directed at me. After all, I hadn’t done so much as look at anyone funny, and in that neighborhood, it can be hard not to stare at some of the freak shows. However, to my surprise, it was directed at me.

Now normally, I ignore calls from street people. I keep my eyes forward and my senses perked in case they do something stupid. But I have to admit, I was curious why some obvious nutbag would taunt me. So when this crazy lady in her late 50s approached my right side while yelling something about what harm I caused her, I had to turn my head at look at her.

The schizo’s rampant and loud accusations were a little hard to hear over my headphones, but I think she blamed me, my corporation and Hitler for something or other. And then she rolled up her pantleg to show me the two surgical scars that Adolf and I created. – She was very adamant about her scars and pain I caused her. She leaned in towards me and stuck a finger in my face.

I didn’t feel threatened, but I did feel it necessary to inform her that she’s insane before crossing the street. And normally, I think I would have kept that to myself, but old ladies in LA are very rude and sometimes need put in their place… even if they’re crazier than Whitney Houston after mixing Pop Rocks with Cocaine.

As I walked away, I thought about what I would do if this sad woman had actually tried to cause me physical harm. If it had been a guy, I don’t think I would have even looked in his direction to begin with. But if there was a situation where I ever felt threatened by an unstable male, I think there’s a good chance my instinct would’ve tried to land one square on his nose or jaw. – But what if the same scenario occurred with a loony lady?

I’d like to think that I’d be able to get out of the situation without getting injured or harming another person. Then again, adrenaline is funny chemical.

Too Much of a Good Thing

2007-05-02T20:51:00.000-07:00

In anticipation of Spider-Man 3, I thought I’d compile a short list of movie sequels that should have never happened. Whether they were spurred by popular demand or merely greed of actors and studios, some so-called franchises were better off without continuing their stories.

Narrowing down the list of H.Wood’s Worst Sequels didn’t involve hours of viewing and studying. Rather, I was able to limit the list to flicks I’ve actually seen and that pop into my noggin’. – So easily-mocked movies like Speed 2, Blues Brothers 2000 and Miss Congeniality 2 didn’t make the grade since I was smart enough not to waste money or time on those turds. Also, Spidey is a comic movie, so I’ll stick to sci-fi fantasy flicks for this compilation.

RoboCop 2 & 3: After the gritty, violent and at times satirical sci-fi original set the bar high, the follow-ups were campy to say the least. Part 2 dealt with an ABC After School drug problem and featured a pre-pubescent criminal mastermind. – Stupid. Of course there was no coming back from that mistake, so the franchise toned down violence for the 3rd installment to segue into a syndicated television show where our Cyborg hero favored taking out the bad guys by ricocheting bullets off of door knobs to knock chandeliers onto them instead directly shooting them in the eye. – Detroit What?!

Ghostbusters 2: This was probably my first part 2 disappointment. After the 1984 comedy/sci-fi blockbuster original, I was one of those kids who quoted Bill Murray, danced with Ray Parker Junior and wore the t-shirts. So a sequel seemed great. However, a desperate plot that included the Statue of Liberty walking through the streets of Manhattan proved me wrong.

Terminator 3: Terminator 2 is one of the best examples of how a continuation of a terrific storyline should work. Years after the original, T2 demonstrated Hollywood’s newest special effects technology and worked well with the plot. – T3, on the other hand, was a blatant attempt to further franchise like a movie version of “Law And Order”. The plot wrecked whatever T2 accomplished. Its great ending was all for naught. – And in addition to changing an outcome in favor of another buck, T3 also spent a good third of the movie showing just how tough Toyota trucks are. Gotta love product placement and endorsements in film. – At least Jerry Seinfield’s cereal selection was realistic.

Star Wars prequels: Although the Ewoks were lame (even for a children’s movie), Return of the Jedi was a pretty good flick. But when the much-anticipated prequels came out, there was no escaping the annoying space Rastafarian Jar Jar Binks. And by the time the second prequel's credits rolled, there was a new anticipation for the third and final movie, but not because the second one was so wonderful. Instead, frustrated, I looked forward to the good guys getting killed off. Plus, who didn’t want to see Hayden Christensen show off his community theatre acting skills as he transformed into Darth Vader?

Stay Cool, Man

2007-04-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

Is there honesty in advertising? I’m actually not asking in reference to a product performing to task as said on TV or print, but rather frankness between the medium and the recipient.

I’m a news junkie. I watch cable news and the national evening news whenever possible and when I’m not being overwhelmed by drug companies trying to convince Baby Boomers that a hangnail calls for a prescription or to consult a doctor if their stool is too soft, I’m being bombarded with Dennis Hopper’s mug.

Hopper is a spokesman for Ameriprise Financial. It’s his job to persuade Boomers, such as himself, to invest their money with his employers. But once upon a time, Hopper was the posterchild for the 1960s counter culture. He was Easy Rider and he was cool.

The '60s, from what PBS has taught me, had a small segment of American youth who actively protested a war, experimented with drugs (“experimented” – a euphemism for “used”, “took”, “abused” and “hooked”) and actually believed and tried to make a difference in the world around them.

And for that small segment and for the countless others who witnessed and later claimed to be more involved (Woodstock was attended by 450,000 people, however, that number would’ve been double or triple if all the people who claimed to have been there actually showed up), Dennis Hopper is there for them.

Hopper is there to remind them how cool they were, or in most cases, how much they missed out on. But Boomers shouldn’t worry, Dennis and Amerprise are there to ensure that there last days can be filled with being cool again, or learning to be cool by treating themselves to the finest retirements possible. After all, they were the generation of dreamers who made a difference.

Last I checked, my grandparents’ generation was one that worked hard and made huge sacrifices. My parents’ generation, on the other hand, needs to do a little reflecting before patting themselves on the back in Maui with Dennis. – Sure, I’ll give them the Civil Rights Movement and ending an unwinable and unpopular war. But far too many of them didn’t follow through with the ideals of Peace and Love. Instead they redefined pollution and new forms and tactics of war, which really can be filed under GREED.

But just like the actual message being sprewed out to Boomers in these ads, the actual messenger isn’t exactly what he used to be, and I’m not talking about him being clean and sober. – Dennis Hopper, like so many ex-hippies, is a Conservative. Sure, he might not be a neo-con or a huge air bag, talking-point, bloated, drug addict, hypocrite like Rush Limbaugh, but he’s not that same so-called free-spirit revolutionist anymore. He didn’t stay cool.

There’s a great Winston Churchill misquote: If you’re not a liberal when you’re 25, you have no heart. If you’re not a conservative when you’re 35, you have no brain. -- I love this saying and hope I disprove it for myself in another 6 or so years. – And now thinking about it more, I think I just disproved one of my above rants.

Perhaps there is some honesty in having Hopper as the spokesman. He and his target audience probably all fall into that category of liberal-to-conservative makeovers.

Who’s Next

After the Boomers are quieted and the other generations begin to grow old, who will be selected as corporate and unofficial spokesperson for aging generations?

For those who came of age in the 1980s, the answer is easy (since Pac-Man will eventually be eaten by a superior Ms. Pac-Man) – Max Headroom. But what about those of us whose wonder years followed a decade later? I have a hunch it’ll be Johnny Knoxville tugging on our memory and heart strings. – And then some dummy will be writing about how not everyone of that generation hooked a car battery up to their genitalia, but many wished they had.

Inner Thoughts Out Loud

2007-04-16T22:07:00.000-07:00

I find it extremely annoying when people find it necessary to share every minuscule thought in their pee brains with someone via cell phone. Are these jackmonkeys incapable of inner-monologue?

Yesterday, I was near a dipshit in Banana Republic who was describing every thread in every shirt, as well as his first, second and third thoughts on all said items. He was rambling into a phone and I really don’t think it mattered if someone was on the other line. His mouth diarrhea was just oozing out.

Tonight, I had the misfortune of having yet another rude cell-chatter spew out stupid while putting forth a half-ass attempt to use the elliptical. Her jab-jab-jabber jaw was burning more calories than her legs. – And my looks of irritation didn’t discourage her from loudly sharing her thoughts about her friends and favorite idiot TV shows.

Sadly, I think the only way to cut down on cell phone nuisances is for the oil company whores like Exxon to purchase the telecommunication companies so they can charge gasoline prices for air minutes. – But then again, SUVs are the preferred vehicles of assholes.

Cheese Grinder

2007-04-08T15:12:00.000-07:00

I saw Grindhouse this weekend, the double feature by Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino that pays homage to the exploitation flicks that influenced the two filmmakers, perhaps more so the former video store clerk Tarantino. It was three hours long and 2 hours and 40 minutes of cinema fun (about 20 minutes too much dialog in the second feature Death Proof).

Although my $11 ticket reminded me of the current times in Los Angeles, the flicks took me back to the simpler times of the late 1980s and early 90s. Those were the days when I stayed up late on Friday and Saturdays to watch USA Network’s Up All Night, hosted by Rhonda Shear and Gilbert Gottfried, that showed “B” movies like Cannibal Women In The Avocado Jungle Of Death and anything put out by Troma Films. But for the more gritty movies, I tuned into a local late-night character’s show.

“The Son Of Ghoul” was a local Canton, Ohio musician who masqueraded with a fake goatee, top hat and cape for, as he always noted, for a few drunk guys who like bad movies. However, not included in his noted demographic were a few early-teenage boys who understood the campiness of both the expoit-movies and his sketches with characters like “Fat-Man and Rotten”. – Staying true to its ‘60s Bat-Man roots, Fat-Man strategically placed a camera on its side, while two fat guys in tights pretended to scale a building making down-wind fart jokes the entire way up. Genius.

Between the Ed Wood films and dick and flatulent jokes, The Son Of Ghoul helped to encourage my desire to play with video cameras. My friends and I recorded some pretty dumb things, from killer slime movies to incidents that could have been used against us in a court of law. – In my mid-to-late teen years, I participated in some pre-Jackass antics involving moving cars, squirt guns, manikins and an occasional beer. Thankfully, most of the footage was destroyed, or unceremoniously recorded over with soap operas by my friends’ mothers. However, some of the videos might still exist 2,500 miles away in my unsuspecting parents’ basement.

Had Al Gore invented the Internet a decade earlier, I’m sure I’d be another YouTube polluter with short movies, claymations and stupid stunts/pranks. But there was no digital uploads or editing then. Instead, I had an analog mixer, a VCR and a VHS camera. Editing scenes and inserting music was crude. However, I loved doing it and wanted to pursue it professionally. (Needless to say, I eventually chose another path, but that’s another story for a time when I have absolutely nothing better to write about.)

As my teen years went on, a job and a driver’s license contributed my decrease in late-night B movie viewing and college only encouraged me to focus on better-made films. But as an old fan and a wannabe cheesy movie-creator, I’ll always have an appreciation for those motion pictures that concentrate less on dialogue, editing and good acting and more on shock, T&A and the simple fun of movie making.

Beachcomber

2007-04-03T19:46:00.000-07:00

I’m tired of looking like the Geico Caveman – nice clothes with a shaggy beard and a need for a haircut. Because of these little pox on the right side of my face, neck and scalp, I haven’t been able to take an electric trimmer, let alone a razor to my skin in about 10 days.

I’m still feeling a bit stir crazy from being quarantined for a week, but it was much worse over the weekend. And while I wasn’t contagious, I was a bit self-conscious. I looked like a diseased dirtball, so I knew there was only one place I could go where without being noticed much. -- I recognized that there was one place I could go where I could exercise, enjoy the sun, and if I were noticed, at least I wouldn’t be the biggest weirdo there. -- I rode my bike to Venice Beach.

Venice Beach is a free freak show, full of the counter-culture, gypsies, bums, exhibitionists, aspiring artists, aspiring musicians, aspiring rappers, body builders, graffiti artists, street performers and folks openly smoking weed. And of course, there are “normal” beach-goes and tourists taking in the sun and tossing nickels in the buckets of broken-glass walkers and taro card readers. So with all of the above to choose from, my scabs and rash didn’t even rank in the top 50.

I made it up to Santa Monica and back without too many stares. However, I shot out more than a few dirty looks of my own. – Pedestrians, small kids, zig-zaggers, tricycle-riders, inline-beginners and dipshits in general. Peckers.

It’s Just Mush Now

2007-03-29T23:17:00.000-07:00

My recent streak of bad luck has not only continued this week, it’s taken a sharp, ugly turn. Not only was it a wrong turn, it’s a hardly believable turn.

About 28 years after getting as a baby, I seem to have contracted Chicken Pox, again. That’s right, I seem to have defied odds and caught a virus that rarely ever affects the same person twice.

All I can really say is that this completely sucks. I resemble The Toxic Avenger… well actually, only one side of my face is displaying the effects. So I more closely resemble Batman’s enemy, Two-Face, without the cool split suit.

Now I’m not completely, 100 percent sure that the virus is in fact Chick-Fil-A, because my quack of a doctor’s more impressive skills do not include communicating well or spending much time with patients. But I’m hoping that his guesswork will be confirmed by the blood I’m having tested. – It just sounds better confirming to others that the things on my face are common chicken pox (that are no longer contagious) than some flesh-eating bacteria I contracted while snorting Drano off of a dead hooker’s body. – And that’s NOT how I was infected, by the way.

Most likely, I got this virus while setting my towel on an infected machine at the gym before wiping sweat off my face. But I’ve also flown on crowded plans slept in a hotel, shared headsets at work, and have been around small children in the past couple of weeks. And children, as most know, are simply the worst incubators for germs, bacteria and viruses of the real and no-tag-back kinds.

So I’ll just chalk this one up as another shitty example of my recent lack of moderate-to-good luck. Boy, I must have really been a dick in a past life.

Soggy Cereal

2007-03-21T23:43:00.001-07:00

It seems that some of my bad luck followed me from LA to the Midwest last week. And not even the Saint Patty’s clovers could help me.

Even before my plane was on the tarmac, my travel agenda was, to say the least, a clusterfuck that began with trying to communicate with a courteous United Airlines representative whose accent was as thick as the airline’s collective skull.

His name was “Bob” or “Peter” or some other pseudo-yankee moniker. But who was he trying to kid? His name was more likely Habib and my connection to India sounded more like a phone conversation with dolphin in a wind tunnel.

Bob helped me change the date of my flight, which I asked for and that was helpful. He also offered to send me an email confirmation. However, the electronic mail never arrived and I needed to track down my itinerary. And that’s when I found out that Bob also took the liberty of changing my destination from Akron/Canton to Hartford. Fucking great.

So after a few more international calls to a couple different agencies, I had my itinerary and correct landing spot. – Now I was ready to travel!

With the frustrating work behind me, or so I thought, it was time to take to the sky. But that time wasn’t as scheduled. My departure was delayed on the runway for at least a half hour. And since I was tired and dozing off during that waiting period, I had to rely on my math skills to determine just how many minutes later than my listed departure time we actually left the ground.

You see, the time between my flight from LA to Chicago (connector) and my flight from Chi-town to Rubber Land was 40 minutes. And since I had to run through O’Hara’s terminal like Frogger after snorting a mixture of meth and Red Bull just to barely make my next flight, I’d say have to say my first flight was about a half an hour late.

Now I actually made it to Akron/Canton on time and had a great time during my Midwest Tour 2007. I enjoyed spending time with friends and family and celebrated my Irish heritage in an O’Doul’s kind of way since the day after St. Pat’s, I had to drive four hours from Detroit to Akron to hop on a return flight to Chicago. – I successfully avoided getting drunk and avoided the far worse traveling with a hangover result. But I had a major headache once I got to the Akron/Canton airport.

My puddle-jumper to Chicago (where I’d connect to LA) was canceled for “mechanical” issues and United didn’t have any flights for the rest of the day that would take me to LA one way or another, even if I departed from somewhat nearby Cleveland, Columbus or Pittsburgh. And since I was flying with a free-bee ticket, United wouldn’t put me on another carrier’s flight. Instead, I would have to wait until the morning to depart from Cleveland, connect in DC and arrive in LA late for work.

Four A.M. in Cleveland came way too soon and I was a bit disorientated until a local reminded me where I was. He was dressed in jeans, a denim shirt, a jean jacket, high-top sneakers and an Indians (the racist caricature kind, not the friendly call center kind) ball cap. Together with his wardrobe and the fact that his duffle bags were all purchased with Marlboro Points, he was a truly a standard Clevelander.

I finally made it back to Los Angeles in one piece with both of my bags. Now I’ve got a letter to write to United. Should I write it in Hindi?

Virtual Reality

2007-03-14T08:31:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been home much in the last 6 weeks. It’s been a lot of work and not a whole lot of play. And since I don’t like to write about my job on Jet Blach, I haven’t had too much to say.

But what I have realized is that I still have a passion for creating videos. It’s especially nice being able to share them with all three of my readers on this site. – Sorry if I’ve ruined any future high-ranking careers in business or government by digging up unflattering images of anyone.

Unfortunately, I don’t the time or resources, including actors, to put a scripted video together. However, reality-style shows are easy, cheap and popular with the kids. So that’s going to be the route I go.

In LA-LA Land, as well as other parts of our egocentric universe we call America, everyone (talented or otherwise) believes that they’d be great for a “reality” program. And why wouldn’t they? After all, we have camera crews follow tattoo artists, bike builders, alcoholic-snob-wives, brats, has-been singers/actors/comedians/wrestlers/models… you get the point.

Now that I think about it, I think the wannabes and I could help each other. Let’s face it, they don’t really want to have to work. And they don’t have the skills to perform in a scripted show. Truth be told, all most of them really want is to be followed by paparazzi and have their pictures posted on the cover of USWeekly. So why not put some of them in my videos?

It’ll be guerilla-style video. I’ll choose some random dreamers out of a phonebook (perhaps a gas pumper) and I’ll start following them and recording their private lives. Of course to keep it authentic and “real”, I won’t seek permission. – I’ll stick a camcorder lens in their faces at their most private and embarrassing moments, just like a real star. And in return for granting these complete strangers their 5 seconds of fame, I’ll have material posted on Jet Blach Jabber. It’s a win-win situation.
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Who Took A Shit In My Lucky Charms?

2007-03-06T22:43:00.000-08:00

If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all. – I seem to be in the middle of a bum-luck streak. Well, actually, I’ve had a lot of minor incidents of crappy luck since moving to LA from Detroit Rock City. But I’m not going to whine about mail not forwarding, paperwork being lost, or even having a check stolen. Instead, I’m just going to mention my week so far.

On my first ride on my new mountain bike, which replaced the one I had stolen, I broke a pedal. After arriving to my office, during my practice run for my new commute, the internal thread in one of the crank arms stripped and my pedal popped off. -- IT WAS MY FIRST RIDE! – So I got a decent workout pedaling with one leg all the way home.

And tonight, I experienced a stressful airline confirmation for my trip to Ohio this Saturday. I had a ticket booked a while ago and changed the date a couple weeks ago. And my broken-English-speaking friend in India who updated my itinerary said she’d send an email confirmation (after I specifically requested one). However, I never received one and decided to check on the status to make sure I have a seat.

United Airlines’ Web site was “unavailable” as it has been every time I’ve tried to log in. So, following three phone calls to two airlines (United, apparently, doesn’t “own” all of its flights) and one travel service, which really meant six phone calls to Bombay, I learned that I was now destined for Hartford. – Hartford! How the hell did rescheduling the date of my flight also switch my flight’s arrival city? Sonafabitch!

Eventually, I got it sorted out and I’m bound for Ohio. But the way things have been going, I may not want to get on board a plane anytime soon.

Not Here, Not Now

2007-03-03T19:40:00.000-08:00

It’s time to put the old phrase “a time and place” to use. And it’s time to seek help for our addictions to sleaze.

The Associated Press recently suppressed its desire to cover the Lucky Sperm Club president and chief recipient, Paris Hilton, as actual news. The AP kept its ban up until her dim headlights demanded headlines. (“Paris” and “head” used together is really going to bring some search engine traffic to Jet Blach Jabber.)

Apparently, the AP conscience didn’t necessarily feel that it might be contributing to society’s obsession with celebrity, and possibly, harming our country’s sense of priority. After all, there’s wars going on in Iraq, Afghanistan, on drugs, against global warming and even culturally. But by looking at what the American news media reports on, you’d never know it. Ignorance has indeed become bliss.

The AP’s real reason for its experiment was to measure the requests and cyberspace chatter about the celebutard not being covered (no, that wasn’t meant as a panty-less jab).

Paris can have all the headlines her antics and publicity machine can discharge… on Page 6 and on E News. But the line between news and entertainment has become too blurry and a REAL distinction needs to be made. And until I see her name associated with some of the following words:

Helped

Donated

Gave (in a non-sexual way)

Rescued

Raised (again, in a non-sexual way)

I don’t want to see her name on CNN.com. Headlines should be reserved for people and events that truly matter. There’s a time and a place for everything else.

Flattery, Sincerity and Inconvenience

2007-02-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I can buy that logic some of the time, including a recent and obvious attempt to get my attention.

Britney Spears looked at herself in a mirror a few days ago and decided to pick up a beard trimmer and shave her head. Sound familiar? It should because ol’ H.Wood did the same thing a couple weeks ago.

Some of my friends posted comments saying that they’re on their way to doing the same thing, mostly because the bald look is better than the comb-over. But Brit’s not balding. Sure, she’s got a thousand other problems in her life, like addiction, “yes” people (formerly known as “yes” men), small kids who require seatbelts and multiple meals per day and a generally tough life that consists of making shitty music and getting paid to appear at parties. But the stresses of having to match her puppy’s outfit with her own wasn’t causing her hair to fall out.

It’s obvious she did it to impress me. Hell, she even got tattoos of lips inked on her wrists. And anyone who hung out with me in my drinking years (1996-2006) knows I have the same tats located on my bum.

While some folks in the entertainment, and sadly the news media, have said they believe it’s a cry for help, I won’t jump to that conclusion. It’s most likely just a small tribute to me. But just in case she does need to change her lifestyle, I have a few suggestions.

Let Angelina adopt her kids. They’ll have a nice, safe home and might be able to quit smoking while they’re still young.

She’s got more money than Ricky Schroder. Brit-brit should retire from the music and entertainment business and move to somewhere secluded (Val Vilmer’s neighborhood).

Education is power. She should finish her GED and learn something valuable like TV/VCR repair.

Super Group Divorce

Audioslave announced its breakup a few days ago. That band that wasn’t quite Soundgarden nor Rage Against The Machine lasted two albums more than I thought.

While I really like Audioslave’s first album, some of my adornment was out of hope that it’d be a “real” band formed out of sincerity – like the ones I listened to in my youth. But I knew that it was an arranged marriage by genius Rick Rubin, so I enjoyed it while I could.

As Audioslave comes to an end, The Police are reborn with about the same amount of sincerity. Sting doesn’t need the money, but Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers have had their prayers answered by the same rock gods who granted Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce.

Rather than focus on bands of my past admiration, I think I need to focus on bands who have continued to make great music and new bands who want to create songs together.

An Inconvenient Commute

Shortly after moving into my apartment, I had my mountain bike stolen. I planned on replacing it in time for spring so I could take it to the beach. But I sped up my schedule after we had 80-degree weather in LA over the weekend and I missed having a bike. Plus, I finally watched Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth.

I bought a new Schwinn mountain bike from a Craigs List ad with the intentions of using it for more than exercise and fun. I plan to ride it to work a couple (if not more) times a week. – We’ll see how long I can keep up with my save the Earth approach to commuting to the office before the heat, sweat and not being able to bring in my own coffee have me grabbing my keys every morning. Wish me luck.

Random Thoughts Of Crazy

2007-02-12T23:17:00.000-08:00

I have just a few quick thoughts I like to dumb all three of my readers with tonight.

Thought Uno: I think Angelina should adopt Anna Nicole’s baby. After all, this dead stripper story isn’t going anywhere any time soon and Angelina seems to have a birthright in pop culture headlines. So why not kill two birds with one stone?

Thought Dose: I am no longer concerned about pocket pups in restaurants. Since seeing a woman with a parrot on her shoulder at that same Chinese food eatery that I complained about before, I now fear Bird Flu being spread through my black pepper chicken. (Make sure you get a good night’s rest before ordering black pepper chicken – it can be a real tongue-twister and even, perhaps, a Freudian Slip when you’re a little out of it. Don’t spend too much time thinking about that.)

Thought Five: I need to spruce up Jet Blach Jabber. But who am I kidding? I barely find time to continue sharing my dumbness. In the meantime, I’ve updated my blog roll.

Farewell to Kristi’s Random Thoughts - Your quips, complaints, stories and views will be missed.

Goodbye to AP’s blog ivegonecrazy - It’s been two months since your last post. Your takes on the pop world, and your adlibbed stories about random photos of strangers kept me laughing. Good luck in “the real world”.

Adios to Jean Yus’ (a.k.a. Jeen Yes) Random Acts Of Genius - Your bitching, complaining and sarcasm… Wait, my bad. Jeen just hasn’t posted in a while.

Now say hello to geezohpetes! and The Disposable Chronicles. Now I admit that I don’t read a whole lotta blogs, but these are two I regularly read and enjoy. Check them out for yourselves. There’s a ton you can learn, especially from Disposable – he’s Canadian.

Beer Piss (The Movie)

2007-02-11T13:43:00.001-08:00

Bald Is Beautiful?

2007-02-09T14:02:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it’s the fact that I only have one year remaining in my 20s, or maybe it’s the fumes in my apartment, but I decided to take my hair stubble down to near razor level.

I turned 29 years old today. I’ve never really been into celebrating my birthday, although I love to do things for others’ b-days. And marking the occasion with a new hairdo doesn’t seem to fit into my norm.

So that only leaves the nauseating fumes in my apartment.

When I returned home from being on the road, my luxury* apartment smelled like cat piss. So I made like Tuocan Sam and followed my nose to a closet that had a damp carpet around it. And after I tried drying it and then re-soaking it with disinfectant spray, I planned to call the landlord in the morning.

The next morning, my landlord’s ESP was working and he was knocking on my door before I even called. Apparently, he said, my next-door neighbor had a pipe burst three days earlier and didn’t tell him. So there’s water damage next door and a stinky carpet in my unit. And who knows which apartment and when there was a cat involved whose urine smell is once again marking its territory.

After a day of inhaling those fumes, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and began trimming my beard down to little more than grizzle. And without thinking twice, I took the trimmer to my melon and began buzzing away.

Was it a birthday crisis or noxious fumes that led me to purposely lose even more hair? It was probably a little of both. But it probably had more to do with my own curiousness and finally listening to a friend’s advice to just go through with it.

Rumors of My Death…

2007-02-05T18:35:00.000-08:00

I’m back in sunny and crowded Los Angeles after spending a week in Miami – where I planned to do a little blogging but couldn’t.

While working night and day, the only time I spent in my hotel were those few hours I was able to catch a couple Zs. But even if I had the energy to write or finish uploading my “P” movie, I happened to stay in the nation’s only Marriott that didn’t offer free Internet. And I really didn’t feel like forking over $10 a night to spread my seed of ignorance. So, needless to say, I have some catching up to do.

Looking back on it, I probably should’ve stayed in a Hilton… but from what I’ve heard about the newest viral images, that chain doesn’t offer clean sheets.

Gold Standard Friends

2007-01-27T09:48:00.001-08:00

The definition of “friend” varies depending on whom you ask. And those definitions are based on beliefs and experiences with others.

I’ve been blessed with some really good friends in my life and none more than the ones I had in college. My pals, especially a few of the Jet Blach clan, were always there for me in times of serious need and, well, times of less than grave need. Whether it was sticking by each other when the odds were stacked against us (like being close to being assaulted by a large group of angry men) or when I needed a couple guys to take time out of a busy collegiate schedule to “star” in a class project, my buds were there.

After shooting Hell Comes To Frog Island, stoner Scott and I needed to make another short film. And again, I took the lead on the script and concept.

Beer Piss wasn’t so much a story as it was trying a couple camera shots I had in my head. In fact, my prof said that the project would be made or broken with those shots working. – No pressure there…

The idea was simple: two guys sitting around and drinking beer. Sure, it’s been done a thousand times in student films, mostly by people just trying to show off drinking and smoking talents in hopes of shocking the audience. – I could care less about showing off my beer-consuming ability. After all, my beer gut and the Greek letters across my chest probably conveyed that message well enough.

During a busy homecoming weekend, I recruited my friends Kevin and Ben to play the roles of drunk dudes 1 and 2. Kevin looked the part of a frat boy party animal. He was large and seemed at home “pretending” to be a slob. But looking like a drunken-oaf was new to him. Fact of the matter was that Kevin didn’t drink alcohol in those days. However, Ben was a different story.

Ben was a true sport. He took a method approach to the role that would impress even our lord and savior Robert DeNiro, himself. And to make the part look even more believable, he broke up with his longtime girlfriend the night before and began drinking heavily the morning of the shoot.

Each guy was involved in one of my make-or-break shots. And both lads had to expose a little more of himself than he was used to. – Well, that’s not entirely true. Ben had volunteered himself in that fashion plenty of times, but not necessarily to a classroom full of strangers.

While I don’t want to get into great detail about the flick before I post it to Jet Blach Jabber, I will vaguely describe what went into it.

Kevin allowed viewers to see what a bottle would see while he consumed its contents. Filming this first step in the digestion process was like working on a medical documentary… without a meaningful purpose or beneficial results… but it looked cool.

Ben welcomed an audience to share in what’s usually a private moment for most people, unless it’s at a sporting event. He tinkled on camera for my “toilet’s point of view” shot.

In order for different angles of the same act, with a one camera set up, a lot of stopping and going was required. Plus, a full bladder was needed. – It was a good thing Ben liked to drink and had been doing a nice job of for several hours by the time we were ready to shoot. And it was really nice to know that he voluntarily took a few days off of his life by abusing his kidneys. After all, who needs those last few days where your bladder and kidneys don’t work very well, anyway?

Of course the revolutionary shots I caught on film wouldn’t have been possible Kbob wasn’t down in the trenches with me. The fear of a golden shower didn’t detour that trooper.

And what was Stoner Scott doing while Kevin drank water by the gallon and Ben passed beer by the barrel, you ask. Well, he actually wasn’t high. Rather, he was so hung over that after he crawled under the blankets on my bed to load the film into the camera, he decided darkness was his friend and he stayed there throughout the filming. – Actually, he did emerge from the pile of covers and comforters to puke in our star commode. And yes, I filmed it.

The final product was what I hoped for. Both shots worked and separated it from the usual “get drunk on camera” flicks that have long been cliché in film classes. But it didn’t make campus celebs out of my buds and it didn’t help them scholastically. It was simply a way for them to assist and friend and have a little fun.

Hell Comes To Frog Island

2007-01-20T23:33:00.000-08:00

IMDumb.com

2007-01-17T11:34:00.000-08:00

One night while sitting around with my old roommate Ford-man, we were shooting the snot about our alma mater’s campus TV programming. Ford-man mentioned vegetating at 2 a.m. one morning and seeing a really messed up black and white film about a psycho clown and a game of Russian roulette. He said it was the most f-ed up thing he’d seen and asked if I ever saw it.

Not only had I seen it, I told him, I made the damn thing. Hell Comes To Frog Island was the first of two 2 minute films I had created my junior year in a film production class. The plot was simple enough. A happy couple enjoyed a stroll through Frog Island metro park until a stalking clown followed them and presented them with a challenge.

The short flick came out better than expected. I had never worked with a film camera before and was worried about screwing it up. Unlike video, you can’t rewind and re-shoot scenes. With film, you get one chance to shoot your expensive (especially in the Midwest), 4 minute reel. And if you load the camera improperly, you’re film is worthless and your grade on the project and in the class are downgraded to shit. In addition to those worries, the lighting has to be perfectly measured and shooting outdoors can be complicated, especially if you have little faith in your partner.

My partner’s name was Scott. He was a cool kid who I knew a little before through high school hockey and our freshman dorm floor. We had similar interests outside of class, so we thought we’d work well together on the project. But that wasn’t necessarily so.

Scott and I shared ideas for the short and created story boards to demonstrate our twisted thoughts. While I had a ton of ideas popping in and out of my cranium, he seemed stuck on the notion that he had some hot chicks in his apartment building whom he could get to be in it… oh, and he knew a dude with a Ferrari.

Maybe it was all the pot that Scott smoked, but he couldn’t comprehend that we needed to make a 2 minute, silent film that told a quick story while demonstrating class lessons – not a Motley Crue video. So subtly, yet quickly, I took full control of the production – my story, my camera work, my schedule… his hot neighbors.

Unfortunately, on the day of the shoot, Scott showed up with his crappy Honda and no chicks. But as soon as they stood him up, he was able to recruit three friends and we were able to film, even though they were all stoned. And since a Stoned Scott was mostly useless, I made him climb in the hatchback of his car (complete darkness is necessary) to load the film.

Shooting went well. The story didn’t matter so much. We basically needed to demonstrate continuity in filming (and later editing), certain shooting techniques and originality.

After we had the film developed for another too-high-for-students fee, we were privileged enough to use editing equipment that had been used to cut newsreels that described the health benefits of smoking cigarettes in the 1930s. The razors were dull and the bulbs were dimming (I’m not talking about Scott anymore), but the university didn’t bother replacing them since it was preparing to dump the film program for the futuristic digital age… in another five years. High-quality analog video machines were being donated in the meantime.

When the film scraps were swept up and after I used a sophisticated mixing technique, which consisted of a home stereo’s play and pause buttons, to create a soundtrack, our project was ready for classroom viewing.

Hell Comes To Frog Island was a favorite of the professor and the class. All of the required elements were used well and the content was original. There was no nudity for the sake of shock and it wasn’t a rip-off of anything else – two categories most of the other flicks fell into.

The prof’s assistant recorded the films while they played on the screen. I also set up my camcorder so I could have an immediate copy to show my friends. The assistant was supposed to compile all the films and transfer them, as well as other video and film projects for everyone in the program to use in portfolios. Unfortunately, that assistant misplaced a box containing my and others’ tapes (semesters of work). And my personal copy was recorded over by a fraternity conference.

Between the limited availability of the projectors, my busy schedule and forgetting about it, I never re-recorded that film or its follow-up short on video. So it came as a surprise to learn that a video survived and was being played on campus television. It was a bit crude in both taste and its amateur nature, but I was pleased to know that a few years later, it stuck in someone’s head.

Coming To America

2007-01-11T16:28:00.000-08:00

While our brave and patriotic Minute Men are busy patrolling our southern borders and putting up chicken wire fences to keep would-be laborers out of the U-S of A, another threat is brewing across the Atlantic. Right now, an attack on the American way of life is being planned by foreign force. At this moment, a strike is being planned to hit Los Angeles first and then the rest of the country and North America.

This oncoming invasion has claimed the hearts and minds of hundreds of millions from Great Britain’s streets to Buddhist temples in Thailand. Although there haven’t been any lives taken in its name, it’s a safe bet to say that more than a few fights have broke out over the actions and outcomes of this phenom. – And let’s not forget to mention the fortunes raised in its name and likeness.

The “it” is David Beckham, and he is coming to play soccer in LA. And while this U.K. mania won’t be able to come close to that of the Beatles in the 1960s, it’s likely to pass Hulkamania of the ‘80s.

Beckham and his Spice Girl wife Victoria must have tired of the European limelight – the constant flashing of cameras, the rumor mills, the tabloids, the overwhelming invasions of personal space. The Beckhams are obviously ready for the low-key life that only Hollywood can provide. And more importantly, David will be able to use his California seclusion to totally concentrate on soccer (or hang gliding as it’s known in the rest of the world).

It doesn’t seem like there’s anything American citizens or the government can do to prevent this British blitzkrieg from happening. After all, our xenophobia disappears when a charming English accent is involved. So we might as well bake a cake and welcome our new neighbors.

New Year’s Resignation

2007-01-08T22:46:00.000-08:00

It’s a week into the new year (2007 for those of you who haven’t been keeping tabs) and I think it’s time for a lot people to call it quits on their resolutions to get in shape. Specifically, it’s time for the New Year’s crowd to quit hogging the elliptical and head back to the couch to fill in that ass groove that’s been missing them for the last week.

These gym gerbils need to come to the realization that they’re not serious about getting in better shape. They need to quickly remember how great Double Whoppers and Biggie Fries taste. They have to realize that coffee only comes in the frozen, blended form with whip cream and a cherry on top. And they have to realize that sweat is gross.

While sounding surly, I want to point out that I’m not against anyone getting their butts to the gym. I just want the new crowd to thin themselves out sooner than later. – Those who will actually continue visiting locker room in March may continue running on the treadmill. Those who know (deep-down inside) that it’s just not for them, and won’t lifting anything heavier than a 12 ounce soda by month’s end, need to cease all activity immediately.

I guess I never fully understood why selecting a specific date on a calendar to change your life made sense. It has always seemed that if you have to choose a date to make an important change, you might not be as serious about it as you should be.

Ten and a half years ago, I began a three-year stint as a fat, drunk college student. I adopted a poor diet, exercised on a minimal basis and drank a TON of Honey Brown beer. Life was good and I didn’t even realize how fat I had gotten until I returned home after my freshman year and a friend who hadn’t seen me since high school called me “Santa”.

I kept my beer gut for the next two years. I continued to maintain an unhealthful diet of Buffalo wings and beer and only exercised when I played hockey. But then I had a moment of clarity.

One day before the fall semester of my first senior year (I double majored, leave me alone), I realized that I no longer wanted to be fat. I know longer wanted to out of shape and I no longer wanted to be told by freshman that I look like that guy from Smashmouth.

I didn’t need a calendar to offer me a date to begin living better. A New Year’s resolution just seemed like an excuse waiting to happen. I’d be able to put off losing weight until January and I’d most likely have to begin making exceptions for days following the first. -- My moment of clarity was enough for me to realize that the time was now and a healthier lifestyle required some cold turkey.

I began hitting the gym regularly, I switched to diet soda, cut out everything and anything fried, deep-fried and re-fried. And perhaps most importantly, I became a light beer drinker.

Here it is, seven years after my three years of tubby, and I continue to stay in decent shape. My reason for mentioning this isn’t to be some Jared-jerk and try to inspire others into eating better. I only want to point out that I know where these intentions come from and know that you have to be truly dedicated to succeed. So I would appreciate those who are only fooling themselves into the gym stay at home until it’s really time. There’s always next year.

License To Ill

2007-01-04T12:54:00.000-08:00

Like a child who invokes the argument-winning cry of “times infinity,” our pal Pat Robertson [JBJ archive, 3rd story down] has made headlines again by claiming to be privy to divine knowledge. While rallying his base by trying to scare the snot out of them, Robertson claimed that God spoke to him (Pat calls for God regularly while he leg presses, has sex and has difficulties with his movements) and told him that the land they founded together (America to you and me) will be attacked in 2007.

It must be easy to be Pat Robertson. You see, Patty can make any hateful, uneducated and darn right stupid comments he wants – all because he is one of God’s top 8 friends. No matter what an argument is about, Pat will win simply by pointing out that his view is that of God. And if you don’t believe him, he has a billion dollars and a million followers to prove it.

Robertson has every right to say what he wants. Unpopular speech is protected under the U.S. Constitution for the time being. And Pat is free to worship as he chooses, even if he believes others’ beliefs are inferior to his own (which are under attack, apparently…). However, it seems too easy for him to make the front page.

Other people who claim to have knowledge of possible homeland attacks don’t make the headlines until it’s too late. But all Pat has to do is pull out the God card. – Pat, where was that card five years ago? And which numbers does God like for the Power Ball?

While Pat continues to whorishly add to his wealth of evil, I’m left scratching my head at why honest and intelligent people continue to watch his TV programming and write checks for club membership. – I think I have an idea about why the dumb people tune in.

Douche Bags of 2006

2007-01-01T22:07:00.000-08:00

People have asked my how I remember what years certain songs, albums and films were released. I don’t have one of those brains that naturally retains numbers, which is kind of strange for someone in the line of work that I’m in. And truth be told, I hate numbers.

Part of being able to remember the useless entertainment trivia responsible for me being “Hollywood” in the past was due to being able to recall what school year I was in when those certain tunes played on the airwaves. And following my 18 or so years of schooling, I was able to transfer the same memory concept to which apartment/house I was living in, since I moved every year but one post college.

But 2006 has been different. It was business as usual for the first seven months. I kept up with music, politics, film and sports – even though there wasn’t a whole lot going on in some of those areas. Then, my life changed.

I trekked across this land of ours to Los Angeles and haven’t been able to keep up with as much of the music and film front as I’ve wanted to. – Politics are impossible to escape from and sports… well sports are all I know anymore. But nonetheless, it’s time for me to rack my mind to remember what all happened this past year and determine who’s deserving of Jet Blach Jabber’s (now annual) Douche Bags of the Year list.

Unlike last year, I’ll try to keep this year in review of idiots short so all four of my readers only have to regret wasting five minutes of their day instead of seven.

Douche Bags

6. Everyone involved in Mtv’s My Super Sweet 16 show - This load of turds highlights America at some of its worst by featuring spoiled, rich children celebrating their 16th birthday like it was Independence Day for a small country. But instead of letting off steam for liberty after years of oppression, starvation and death, these parties are to mark the 16th anniversary of brats being hatched from wealthy parents.

It worries and saddens me that our society has quickly become egocentric to the degree it has. With personalized cell phones, MySpace, Time Magazine Person of the Year honors and the idea that everyone wants to read your thoughts on every matter via the blogosphere [insert hypocrisy here], do these teenage girls really need a million dollar party to remind themselves of how special they are? And do they or their parents really need to show off their wealth for the same reason?

I have yet to see any part of this show that doesn’t display a sad drama queen treating someone else like trash. It’s truly pathetic that some people find pleasure of mistreating others, and it’s just as pathetic that some people find pleasure in watching “Mean Girls”. (Tina Fey is hot, BTW).

5. K Fed - And making a return to the hygienic list this year is aspiring rapper and successful ass wipe Kevin Federline. I think it finally made sense to this dipshit that they’re all laughing at him and not with him. So his defense mode kicked on and he started sporting t-shirts claiming to be “America’s Most Hated”. – Well, again, M.C. Poseur thinks too highly of himself. “Hate” is reserved for terrible people like Osama Bin Laden. America (and by America, I mean the actual small amount of people in this country who know or give two shits whether he lives or dies) is simply Fed up seeing him pretend to be something special.

And as much as I think his soon-to-be ex-wife is the most overrated thing to come out of the South since its hospitality, I feel bad for her since she’ll always have two little reminders of that wanna be.

Good luck working the pro wrestling crowd and we’ll see you on the Surreal Life in ’08.

4. Michael Richards, a.k.a. Kramer v. Sensibility- He’s not a bigot just like Trent Lott, Mel Gibson and David Duke aren’t. But somehow, a furious Richards felt defenseless when his act was bombing in the same fashion that his post Seinfield career has. Only this time, it wasn’t poor ratings or critics telling him that he’s not funny, it was a couple audience members who happened to be black. And who were they to tell him that he’s not funny. After all, he’s rich beeatch.

Richards’ instinctive need to fire back in defense went straight for his paying audience’s jugular. He chose to use the most hurtful word possible – a word that has so much hate behind it that it not only offends its targets, but also an entire race of human beings.

Naturally, his mea culpa was in traditional Hollywood style. He apologized while denying being a racist. And as a quick-fix solution, he met with Reverend Al Sharpton, the bigot’s rehab.

On a personal note, I no longer compare my friend Carter to Kramer. Sure, the craziest things happen to this dude, but I don’t want to insult the guy.

3. Iran - Taking a page out of North Korea’s playbook, Iran is now holding a nuclear threat above the world’s head. By spreading fear and hatred, Iran will probably reap the benefits of scared neighbors. It’ll make a profit and still continue its goal of building a bomb to wipe Israel off the map.

Like South Korea’s retarded brother to the north, Iran has a crazy leader who’s so sure he’s on the side of God he’s willing to prove it by breaking the rules set up by the divine maker. But unlike North Korea’s midget cult leader, this fellow in Iran can’t be distracted by shiny cars and Disney movies.

2. Fox and Friends - It was no surprise that the multimedia-conglomerate-whore News Corp was behind the O.J. Simpson hypothetical scenario murder book “If I Did It”. After all what can anyone expect from an organization whose Fox network pushes the envelope on what’s considered decent, while Fox News simultaneously criticizes the immorality of television and the liberal media [again, insert hypocrisy here].

Orenthal James Simpson got away with murder. His children are without their mother and know it’s because of their father. The Goldman family had Ronald taken away and haven’t seen justice for him. Until this book, it would be hard to imagine how to hurt those people even more. But fuckwad O.J. managed to dig the knife in deeper and grind it in the womb too.

So why would anyone want to feed the monster further? And why would any decent person offer to pay him to do so? – Of course there was a shady way to pay “Simpson’s children” to avoid a small part of the justice that the Goldman family is entitled to.

I was pleased to see, along with many others, Fox News’ viewers were able to stop listening and obeying the talking head on their screens and were displeased enough to tell Rupert, Fox, Judith Reagan and ultimately ABC that there’s a limit to the sensationalism trash they’ll view.

1. Politicians - This was a momentous year in politics. Dubya’s pitiful approval ratings combined with America’s displeasure with Congress led to the Democrats retaking both Houses.

Republican Representative Mark Foley was discovered to be a homosexual ephebophile, Senator George Allen was caught on video being an ignorant racist and “The Hammer” was flattened. Adding to the mess in Washington, many supporters of the Republican Party figured out that the elephants were only paying lip service to their religious and social requests. Six years with Republicans running everything hadn’t changed much for Evangelicals, except it had become more difficult for many of them to make ends meet financially.

When November came, things only got worse for the repubs. They lost the election and Dubya’s approval ratings were about as low as his Mensa score. And naturally, the Dems were salivating.

The Democrats celebrated like it was 199…2 But what they seem to have missed was that they’re America’s rebound relationship. Their regain of power had less to do with them and their platforms than it did that they were not Republicans. – Let’s just hope they don’t waste their political capital.

Bare with me on the links to Jet Blach's archives - they're not direct any longer, so you might need to scroll. Beta blows.

Ain’t Dick on TV

2006-12-26T22:13:00.000-08:00

I have just a quick thought to share and then I’ll be done, I swear.

It’s 9 o’clock PST Tuesday night and there are roughly 70 channels available to me on my overpriced digital cable box. And on at least three channels, right now, are different versions of Dick Wolf’s “Law and Order”. -- I’m not even sure how many Law and Orders are still on the air. But at least there aren’t three copycat game shows or reality TV piles of monkey crap on in their places.

Now let’s see how many versions of CSI I can ignore at one time tomorrow.

Beauty and the Bottle

2006-12-19T23:22:00.000-08:00

Stop the press! Hold the phone! Breaking-fucking news! A pretty beauty queen likes to party and misbehave. Shocking.

The reigning queen of America’s runner-up pageant is all over what used to be considered “news” channels. It seems her underage partying had gained a lot of notice and Miss USA’s top dog, Donald Trump, did the only responsible thing to do to bring back esteem to his competition built on seeking the same (tell me I’m pretty…). The Don held a press conference to remedy the situation – and to gain a little publicity to the Atlantic City contest no one seemed (until now) to care about. Trump said she could keep her pretty, little tiara and continue her phony, sunshine-up-your ass, Miss America-wannabe duties.

You might have guessed the ol’ H.Wood has a beef with this silly accolade. Sure, I really hate that CNN treats this like real news that matters… And I’m not too thrilled about special treatment given to the prom queens… And I don’t like seeing Donald Trump being viewed as a caring and wise man… And, of course, I think the whole beauty pageant is ridiculous… etc., etc. However, My real issue is the quick-fix solution of rehab.

Truth is she doesn’t view herself as an alcoholic. To me, it just seems like she’s a young woman who is acting like a… well, a young woman whose existence is to be the center of attention. Big deal. So why the need for rehab?

Sending ReTara to rehab offers an excuse and “punishment”. And after a couple courses in “Love Yourself 101” (but not in that way), which every egocentric drama queen needs, she’ll be greeted with flowers by an American public that didn’t know how much it loved her BEFORE her behavior was discussed by Larry King.

So what’s next – the book deal, the discovery of Jesus Christ as her personal savior, or both? Either way, her 15 minutes will be extended and a small following in Middle America will follow her to Regis, book signings, and/or to the 700 Club. Her brave story will be told – no, her brave story MUST be told. Naturally, I’ll record her E True story.

Catchphrase 22

2006-12-13T23:56:00.000-08:00

Only in LA can someone’s lack of vocabulary result in a trademarked, million dollar catchphrase. So in the spirit of cashing in on my dumbness, I’ve compiled a list of my 22 favorite catchphrases - famous and not.

22. Fuck me running – It’s a nice spin on the old saying, “well, golly-gee,” and used a whole lot by this girl.

21. Wha-happened? – A spoof within a spoof.

20. We’re American and proud of it – Ohio car dealer Bob Serpentini’s tagline for his ads. An industrial band, Dink, sampled it brilliantly in “Green Mind”.

19. Aaaay – The Fonz’s single syllable that expressed the inner thoughts of his complex character.

18. Good night and good luck – Keith Olbermann adopted Edward R. Murrow’s catchphrase, which basically tells the American public that its government is poking around its rear.

17. I’m Chevy Chase, and you’re not – A catchphrase that reminds you to be thankful.

16. …You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry… - A fair warning before a Hulk-out.

15. I can’t believe I ate the whole thing – An Alka Seltzer ad and great yearbook caption.

14. And knowing is half the battle – After a bloody shootout with terrorists, G.I. Joe’s public service announcements remind children that violence doesn’t solve everything and an apple a day keeps nuclear winter away.

13. Lift and poke – A phrase referring to obese sex, used a lot by myself and my pal Fordman when we were kickin’ it on 8 Mile.

12. D’ah, I heard that – Canadian teen comedy at its best.

11. Quality is Job 1 – Who says corporations don’t have senses of humor?

10. Whatcha gonna do when Hulkamania runs wild on you? – I can’t remember if this was Flava Flav’s ‘80s catchphrase or Danny Bonaduce’s.

9. I pity the fool – It’s a cute phrase to teach 4-year-old white kids.

8. Oh what a feeling – It says so much without actually saying anything. More importantly it makes me want to buy an old, boxy car.

7. And…he…could…go…all…the…way! – The tempo varies depending on how fast the runner is.

6. Stay the course – Translation: We fucked up and don’t know where to go or what to do.

5. Who loves you, baby? – A new favorite from a dead, bald guy named Kojak.

4. I’m half retarded, on my mother’s side – An H.Wood catchphrase for when I’ve done something dumb. I use it a lot.

3. That’s retarded, and not in a good way – Another H.Wood example of not being politically correct. Believe it or not, there was a period where I didn’t use the word “retarded”. Let’s see if I can re-brake the habit.

2. I’d buy that for a dollar – Pure poetry from everyone’s favorite flick about a cyborg police officer in Old Detroit.

1. Eef eets nawt Scawh-ish, eets claap – Translation: If it’s not Scottish, it’s crap.

I’d like to thank Kbob for helping me think of a few of these catchphrases. Of course, we did our brainstorming the same way we have for the last decade – at the bar.

No Shoes, No Shirt, No Shit

2006-12-04T20:06:00.000-08:00

I understand that we are in large part a society that loves its pets. There are dogs that eat better and more often than entire impoverished families. And there are cats that are bequeathed fortunes from old ladies who died lonely or pissed off. But does that mean our celebutards and their minions need to accessorize with small, ratdogs?

Sure, US Weekly readers love to see Paris’ pooch blinged out in $10K carriers and collars almost as much as frat boys like to see her cooch dinged out in night vision. And she and other glamour girls carry their obviously paralyzed pups with them everywhere – in stores, salons and restaurants.

Naturally, businesses cater to their every demand on a regular basis, so the risk of a runt dog shitting on the ground is no big deal. I’m willing to bet that these K9s have made messes before. Hell, I’m even willing to bet a pantyless Paris has made a mess on the floor during a chemically enhanced night out… or the morning after a rough video session. And of course a Paris accident would be handled in the same manner as her pooping puppy’s – someone would clean it up with a smile and offer a biscuit.

By law, the only dogs allowed in restaurants in the state of California are “service dogs,” like seeing eye or Lizzie Grubman. (However, Some places around the country are allowing dogs in outdoor venues.) But last I checked, the law didn’t make exceptions for pups small enough to categorize as a squirrel. So why do I keep seeing bleach-blonde bimbos with toy dogs in book stores, restaurants (including a Chinese joint where feeding the dog could be categorized as cannibalism) and coffee shops?

Now I’m not anti-dog. I think if there are establishments that are allowed to cleanly offer dogs refuge indoors, then more power to them. -- My bark is for the clueless accessorizers who tote them into public business places inconsiderately. Just because your lil bow wow can fit in your purse, doesn’t mean I want it near my chicken kung pow.

Yesterday Was 2005

2006-11-28T23:37:00.000-08:00

It’s amazing how quickly a year can go by. And each year simply seems to pass by faster than the previous.

It feels like last week that I had just returned to Michigan from Miami where I was running around a racetrack with still camera and video camera strapped to my hands, working my butt off and not getting much sleep. The only thing that kept my sanity was the fun I had with my friends/co-workers Taffy, Peak, Porath, my amico and the Cuban Coffee Queen.

It feels like a couple days ago that I was reenergized from dealing with rednecks in Florida and focusing on a little R&R in Austin, Texas, with my non-traditional NASCAR fan friend Scott. Furthermore, it feels like yesterday that I was actually discovering the one cool city in the Republic of Teyhaz. – Man, life has been picking up the pace faster than Walt Flanagan’s dog.

Around this time last year, I realized that my time in Michigan was up. Simply, there wasn’t anything there for me and I was going nowhere fast professionally. I knew it was time to choose another route to head down.

Just because you are in one place at a certain time, doesn’t mean you have to follow a linear path to the end. Life gives you options. But what it doesn’t give you is more time.

LASER-Guided Misinformation

2006-11-24T18:09:00.000-08:00

For the past two nights, I’ve hit the hay pretty hard following an extremely hectic workweek. Exhaustion would be an understatement. And getting out of bed and functioning in the morning has been a challenge.

While my lifeblood was brewing, I turned on CNN to get caught up in what has gone on in the world, other than football and extra servings of turkey.

Still three-quarters retarded, I began watching coverage of a standoff at the Miami Herald’s building. Apparently, a disgruntled cartoonist entered the media building with a machine gun. – A funny strip writing itself, perhaps…

Anyway, while my brew dripped into the pot, I heard the anchorwoman say, while talking to a SWAT team representative, that CNN had learned that the alleged gunman (like saying “alleged” makes it OK to hypothesize and will cover their asses from litigation) had a LASER gun.

At first, I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. A LASER gun!?! I recognized that I was still very tired and hadn’t enjoyed that first drop of coffee yet, so I might have misheard her. But then, she then clarified her comment by repeating it twice.

How long had I slept? Did I become Rip Van Winkle? Had I slept for years, or has working too many hours at a crazy pace caused me to miss more than just a couple newspaper headlines? When was an actual LASER gun created? Is Ray Bradbury producing the news show? … I had better chug that java.

When the newsreader finally paused, the police rep mentioned that the gunman might be using a LASER sights on his gun… The CNN dummy and I let out an “ahhh, that makes sense,” comment at the same time.

Well so much for catching up on current events. CNN, MSNBC and all the other so-called news media would be focused on this story until its shootout ending or until Tom Cruise acted whacky again. I’d just have to sip my coffee and use my already-strained eyes to read online content. And we all know that reading things on the Internet is a waste of time.

My Iron Lung

2006-11-16T23:54:00.000-08:00

It’s a fact: Los Angeles has a lot of smog.

It’s science: Breathing the shit isn’t good.

I can’t help but be concerned about the air quality where I live. Fittingly, as I bitch about the automobile traffic in LA, pollutants are a byproduct of too many carbon-emitting cars on the road. And there are too many damn cars on the road.

On a clear day, I can see the Hollywood sign from my studio’s parking structure. The view from the roof is breathtaking. However, an overcast and smoggy day can be just as breath-taking.

A further reminder that LA has a bit of an air pollution problem is when the temperature drops and dew forms on my fuel-efficient, compact Batmobile. Once I flick on the windshield wipers to improve my visibility, the moisture mixes with the filth on the glass and a sludge is pushed counterclockwise. And this happens even only a couple of days after I wash my secondary mode of transportation. I can only imagine that if a rainstorm ever hits, it’ll resemble something like those new Castrol commercials.

I think Angelinos in the near future might look like they’re sporting some sort of reverse breast implants. But in actuality, it’ll just be evolution taking place – larger lungs for everyone!

Jukebox Hero

2006-11-13T18:55:00.000-08:00

Los Angeles is where bands and artists are born or discovered. It’s a place where three scrubs with mediocre talent from the Rust Belt can meet a slightly above average guitarist to form one of the 80s’ signature hair bands. – Good or bad, LA is a music town.

This place is supposedly crawling with the next most-downloaded bands and chart-toppers. And for a music buff, like myself, this should be paradise. Unfortunately, I haven’t followed the melody map and discovered my musical booty just yet. Working weekends and too many hours during the week have limited my rock and roll fantasies.

Prior to stabbing westward, I always enjoyed talking music, suggesting albums and mixing discs for friends. And one of those friends, The Everywhere Man, started a project in which he called upon friends and readers to mix a CD of music they’re currently diggin’ and mail it to him. He then formed a compilation disc containing submitted tunes.

That was a great way to not only allow people an opportunity to dish out musical tastes, but it allowed participants a way to hear new music. With his experiment’s success, it was only natural that Everywhere Man continues with updated volumes.

Since I’ve been, at least by my own standards, out of the rock n’ roll loop, I wasn’t sure if I had anything to contribute this time. I haven’t purchased a whole lot of albums in the past few months and I don’t borrow-n-burn CDs from my pals like J-Rock Wolfe or Scotty Miller anymore. However, I remembered that the experiment isn’t necessarily for the most recent albums. Simply, it’s a mix of what you’ve been rockin’ out to lately.

With that realization, I’ve got a list ready to be narrowed down, dragged to a new playlist and burned onto a recordable compact disc. Then, the Everywhere can continue his most recent party mix with a little H.Wood flava.

Below is my last submission, “H.Wood’s Hit List”:
“Maybe Tomorrow” -- Stereophonics
“Mr. Writer” -- Stereophonics
“San Antonio, TX” -- Frank Black
“Coffee And TV” -- Blur
“The Lengths” -- The Black Keys
“Grown So Ugly” -- The Black Keys
“I Never Came” -- Queens Of The Stone Age
“Nobody Girl” -- Ryan Adams
“Sky Starts Falling” -- Doves
“I Miss You Now” -- Stereophonics
“If You Leave Before Me” -- Mike Ness

Mother, Is That You?

2006-11-08T23:25:00.000-08:00

I once saw Ric Flair at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. – Wow, the world champ’s car needs fuel too! – It was an amazing discovery for me when I was 10 and on a family vacation. He said hi to me and I somehow muttered hi back. And then I had to explain to my father why a large man with bleached-blonde hair would say hi to me. – My pop hates pro wrestling and always felt it necessary to tell me and my brother that it was fake when we watched it on Saturday mornings.

Even though I haven’t seen any professional grapplers (real of fake) in the three months I’ve lived in LA, I’ve seen a good handful of celebrities. – OK, OK, I cheat. The celebrities come into my place of employment, so it’s not that random. But I have seen a few out and about. And there was nothing weird about it until last week.

First of all, I’m not completely sure who I thought I saw was actually who I saw, at Target. But after several glances from a safe distance, I believe I saw the father of “Horror Punk Rock,” Glenn Danzig shopping.

Danzig is probably the last person on earth that should be in a Target in West LA. In fact, if someone would have asked me prior to this visit “where would Glenn Danzig buy household goods?”, I suppose I would have answered, “The Gates of Hell.”

Danzig, who is sometimes referred to as “Evil Elvis”, is known as one intimidating mofo – and better known for his early ‘90s song “Mother”. Though short, he’s built like a tank. And the dude in Target was about the right height (and wore elevator shit-kickers). He also sported some tats on his arms, but I couldn’t get a good look at them. Surely, the last thing I wanted to do was invade the personal space of the man originally tapped to play Wolverine before Hugh Jackman marvelously dawned the metal claws of the vicious comic book character.

As I watched Danzig browse the toy section, part of me wanted the guy looking at Hasbro’s finest to be a look-a-like fan or an impersonator (is there a market for Glenn Danzig impersonators?). – I mean, if Ozzy is “The Prince of Fucking Darkness” then Danzig has got to be Duke of Demons, which means Mr. Potato Head should simply melt in his presence.

So was this The Danzig? I don’t know for sure. But had I seen him in another venue, I don’t think there’d be a doubt in my mind.

Dummy’s Note: Since originally writing this piece, I attended my office party on Friday. My pro wrestling-hating father was in town so he went to the shindig with me. And since he was still on Eastern Standard Time and I was four or five Guinnesses (Guinni?) into the night, we split at midnight. And today, the party photos were available online. Man, did we take off too soon.

With no doubt about who he was, the greatest guitarist of my generation, Slash, hung out at the party. -- Fuck! I left too damn soon! – I majored in Guns N’ Roses in high school, I’m getting my masters in Velvet Revolver… and hell, I named my cat Slash back in the day. -- Fuck!

Hey Asshole!

2006-10-30T22:47:00.000-08:00

Hey asshole: It’s obvious you’re big time and I totally understand that you NEED to talk on your cell phone while using the elliptical machine. I’m just amazed that this humble gym in Santa Monica can contain you in all of your awesomeness. I couldn’t help but overhear that you're about to sign those papers, buy dot-com this and dot-com that, close on that other project and somehow you’ll still find time to do dinner with someone THAT famous. Congrats, not even my cranked-up iPod with Axl’s wailing could keep me from hearing and envying you. – Oh, and by the way, while you were multi-tasking, your heart rate dropped and your ass’ flab stayed intact just a little longer. Better just have a salad at the dinner.

Hey asshole 2: Thanks for sharing your music with me - through my walls. That’s a terrific song you play over, and over. And yes, it gets better as it gets louder. I can only imagine the totally sweet dance moves you’ve “choreographed” for it.

And who says that the weekend doesn’t start Wednesday night? Thanks to you, everyone in our compact neighborhood can get down while the music bounces between complexes as you keep your door open. And don’t worry about your phone conversations. You’re more than welcome to stand outside of my door at 11:30 to yell in your cell. After all, your pad is just too jumping and bumping for me to expect you to make your calls from within your walls. -- Oh, just a heads-up, your air conditioner might smell like spoiled milk come summer.

Hey asshole 3: The DMV owes you a debt of gratitude. You’ve solved the pesky problem of not having enough turn arrows on Venice and Sawtelle. Traffic is a bitch in this city and you and the two motorists behind you are bravely redefining the rules of the road by squeezing together so seven cars can turn left after your green and yellow lights have expired. From now on, you have the right of way on green arrows, yellow arrows and the following, solid, bright, red light immediately following them for at least 20 seconds. – Traffic problem solved. -- Oh, and great bumper sticker, by the way. I would have never guessed your other car is a larger German woman.

tHeY’rE cOmInG tO tAkE mE aWaY, hA, hA

2006-10-24T22:35:00.000-07:00

My latest Jet Blach Jabber entry might need to be submitted as evidence in my hearing. – No, I haven’t done anything criminal, unless you count parking for 60 minutes in a spot clearly marked 20 minutes only. – I actually mean my competency hearing. You see, I think I’m beginning to lose my mind.

It’s no big deal to have a song stuck in your head for a few minutes, or hours, or even a day. And it’s not uncommon for that song to be annoying and unwanted. However, the songs I’ve had stuck in my head for a couple months now weren’t always annoying and unwanted. At one time, they’re all I listened to, over and over. In fact, I sang along with them and they always brought a smile to my face.

So what changed? Well, for starters, I turned six. Yes, that’s correct. I stopped listening to those songs almost a quarter century ago, and now they’ve somehow found themselves in my head again and I think it’s going to lead to my insanity.

In my preschool and kindergarten days, I rocked out to albums by the French artists Smurfs and the American pop group Care Bears. The songs' subjects were mostly the same: make friends, eat cookies and don’t lie. They’re basically the same type of message you’d hear in a Three 6 Mafia CD these days.

I admit I have a habit of remembering trivial things and even some stupid jingles. For example, I was chatting with a friend the other day and the subject of Mr. Potato Head was tossed into the mix. Now she knows me better than most, but even she seemed thrown off when I recalled the commercial’s jingle. I’m a freak, I know.

So before I’m fitted for one of those nice, white jackets that wraps all the way around, I just want to know why I’ve recalled these songs and why I can’t seem to shake them. Was there some secret message coded in the music meant to trigger a reaction 20-some years later? Am I supposed to build something out of mashed potatoes or just yell at cars on a busy street corner?

Anyway, keep an eye in the news for my trial. Then, somebody please print of copy of this blog on recycled paper and give it to my public defendant. Just don’t bring the lyrics to any of those fucking songs.

Premature Evacuation

2006-10-18T22:51:00.000-07:00

It seems that I’ve always showed up to the party too soon. I arrived with my 12 pack, talked with my friends, had the alcohol’s affect kick in, stumbled around waiting for something to happen and, finally, left the shindig to pass out somewhere else.

My premature party departures could be a microcosm of my life in some aspects. Somehow, I’ve managed to skip town just before something that I had been waiting for arrived.

The first time I left a home was when I left life in Ohio for college in Michigan. Up to that point, all my 18-year-old being consisted of was rock music, inline street skating and hockey. And the latter was far from common in football America. In fact, I was one of four guys in my high school who played, and we traveled 45 minutes five-to-six times a week just to practice. On top of that, we regularly traveled around the far reaches of the state just to have enough teams to play. And to further demonstrate how unpopular hockey is in N.E. Ohio was, our team’s name was the Tri-County Flames – yes, it took three counties to form a team.

A rink and team in my hometown would have been great. Cramming four stinky adolescent boys and their equipment for a five minute drive in a Honda Accord would have been a whole hell of a lot nicer than those rides to and from Kent State University late on school nights. And that’s just what happened, after I unpacked my bags at Eastern Michigan University. Premature Exit No. 1.

Next on my list is a skate park. During that same time period, my skating habits included getting injured doing something stupid and then running (or skating) from the cops. Again, N.E. Ohio wasn’t a hot spot for inline or skate boarding. There weren’t any skate parks… until a neighboring town built one. And that project didn’t begin until I started studying for finals in Ypsilanti, Mich. Premature Exit No. 2.

Now granted, it was a short stint, but up to that point in my life, I had only been exchanging oxygen for carbon dioxide for 21 years. So I’m going to count the summer of 1999. I left Michigan for a four-month internship in southern New Jersey. And naturally, that was the best college summer in the history of EMU. All of my pals were constantly drunk and continuously getting laid. Meanwhile, I was hanging out with a couple Jersey chumps who dropped more Rs than Barbara Walters and not earning a penny. Premature Exit No. 3.

Most recently, I left Detroit for Los Angeles. And that doesn’t sound like such a bad move. However, the city of Detroit is remembering how to rock, thanks to the Tigers making (and hopefully winning) the World Series for the first time since 1984. And while I couldn’t be happier for my friends like Brewmaster Mike and Kyle Bob, I really wish I could be there. After all, I paid dues as a Tigers intern attending 79 out of 81 home games a few years back when the team finished below .500. – (I missed two games due to a friend’s wedding and the dream concert of Stone Temple Pilots and Red Hot Chili Peppers.) Premature Exit No. 4.

So it dawned on me (that my next premature exit could earn me some cash), good things happen to towns after I leave. And that notion got my gears turning. Cities like Chicago could rent me for a few years where I would adopt a team in need, like the Cubs. Sure, the Cubs would continue to disappoint while I’m there, but once I skip town for an opportunity elsewhere, the Cubs would probably at least win a pennant.

And my services wouldn’t necessarily have to involve sports. Say a town hasn’t had rain in a while. My eventual departure would likely bring a great, green crop, or maybe the discovery of black gold, a nice China white trade, or even a performance by Linda Ronstadt singing “Blue Bayou”. The possibilities could be endless. And it could all start with a letter-writing campaign to city councils around the nation.

Indianapolis, Buffalo, Philadelphia and Oakland: I’m on my way and I’m bringing a 12 pack with me.

I Had A Pedro Moment

2006-10-16T12:18:00.000-07:00

Well, when I came home from school my head started to get really hot. So I drank some cold water, but it didn't do nothing. So I laid in the bathtub for a while, but then I realized that it was my hair that was making my head hot. So I went into my kitchen and I shaved it all off. I don't want anyone to see.

-- Pedro

Foley’s Folly

2006-10-06T19:29:00.000-07:00

I’ve had very low expectation for elected officials for as long as I’ve followed politics. And, sadly, my interest in Republicans and Democrats goes back to grade school. So (former) Representative Mark Foley’s page-sex scandal isn’t shocking at all.

Unfortunately, I think too many Americans have grown apathetic toward government, or simply haven’t ever cared because there are better things to do, like read US WEEKLY. Certainly, the stories about pretty celebutards are more pleasant to “learn” about than the stories of Uncle Sam kicking citizens in the groin on a daily basis.

Naturally after being caught, Foley went into rehab. After all, people can’t be blamed for actions they commit while drunk. And don’t forget that those actions aren’t gay if the person was shit-canned while doing them. …Of course, if alcohol isn’t a good enough excuse, folks can always go old school and blame it on the Devil. In this case, the Devil is somehow Bubba Clinton.

There are similarities to Clinton’s sex scandal. But apparently, Foley’s been harassing young bucks since before certain cigars were… you know. And I don’t even need to mention a certain wardrobe “malfunction” that predates Janet Jackson’s. – I only hope that while these possible crimes (if convicted, will Foley have to go door-to-door in his neighborhood like other sex offenders?) are being heavily examined by the media and tying up resources, that the country isn’t too distracted. Unfortunately, Clinton’s behavior and the slanted politics of his opponents took our national security’s eyes off the ball. And we, of course, paid dearly.

While our attention is being directed towards an ephebophile (Foley likes grass on his tetherball courts, therefore, he’s not a pedophile), it won’t be long until our nation’s ADD kicks in and the media moves onto another scandal… or another stupid heiress’ drunken antics. – Will someone please prescribe a mega dose of Ritalin for our countrymen… and a schedule an appointment for a major colonic for our nation’s capital…

iNTELLIGENT Life with a Playlist

2006-09-28T23:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve seen the future and artificial intelligence will surpass human beings as the dominate intellectual force on Earth. And yes, androids and cyborgs will commit crime and eventually destroy mankind, just like in the movies.

So how was I able to see the future? Well I don’t have a Magic 8 Ball, but I do have an opinionated iPod.

Although I have loaded about 2,400 songs on my antique, scroll wheel, portable hard drive, it definitely has its favorites, despite being set to “shuffle” mode. There are about 20 songs I hear over, and over again.

Now I can’t complain too much. After all, I selected all the songs on it. However, I am simply human and tire of certain songs that seem to play more frequently than most others. And here are the songs my iPod has chosen to annoy me with (artist, song):

311 – “Omaha Stylee”
Alice in Chains – “Dam That River”
Bad Religion – “Boot Stomping On A Human Face Forever”
Chris Cornell – “Flutter Girl”
Collective Soul – “Generate”
Dead Kennedys – “Jock-O-Rama”
Elvis Costello – “Less Than Zero”
Eric Clapton – “Before You Accuse Me” (unplugged)
Frank Black – “Out Of State”
Guns N’ Roses – “Right Next Door To Hell”
Iggy Pop – “Knucklehead”
INXS – “What You Need”
Jackopierce – “Late Shift”
Johnny Cash – “Hung My Head”
The Living End – “Roll On”
Metallica – “The Outlaw Torn”
Nirvana – “Been A Son”
Ozomatli – “Super Bowl Sundae”
Pearl Jam – “Red Mosquito”
Rancid – “Nihilism”
Rollins Band – “Illumination”
Ryan Adams & The Cardinals – “When Will You Come Back Home”
Sneaker Pimps – “Water Baby”
Stevie Ray Vaughan – “Tight Rope”

Perhaps my iPod developing a taste for certain songs is a far leap from silicon warriors trying to kill Will Smith, but at least it’s a start.

Turn On, Tune In, For Drop Outs

2006-09-25T16:47:00.000-07:00

Sometime after he left the Top 40 mountaintop and before he was hailed as the genius of his generation, reserved for adult contemporary radio, Bruce Springsteen penned the song “57 Channels (and Nothing’s On)”. The repetitive message of the song was that there’s a whole lotta nuthin’ on TV – and then there’s the message about a relationship gone stale, but that doesn’t concern my thoughts, for now.

Since The Boss recorded that ditty, basic cable packages have mutated to far more than 57. In fact, there are 57 channels dedicated to children’s programming alone.

Prior to heading out west, I had DirecTV so I could get the NFL package to watch my Buffalo Bills lose most Sundays. Other than that, I watched music videos, news, Comedy Central and FX. The rest of my viewing came from network television, though not too often. So, I thought I might be able to manage a happy life without a coaxial plugged into my Sony in LA.

Monday and Tuesday are my days off, which means without cable, my TV only displays talk shows aimed at housewives, lawyer commercials aimed at the unemployed and a couple Spingeresque shows aimed at the uneducated and unemployed. And last Monday, I experienced a little of the latter.

One of the better received, English-speaking channels aired a show titled, Eye for an Eye, featuring a tough-talking “judge” and commentary by the most famous houseguest in the world, Kato Kalin. The show is produced by National Lampoons, which should tell you something about its authenticity. And unlike other judge shows, the premise of this show is to humiliate the guilty party. – For example, someone who’s found guilty of allowing their pooch to poop on someone else’s lawn might be ordered to clean the toilet of the plaintiff after a burrito fiesta. Classy, I know.

The episode I witnessed was about a half-retarded pro wrestling fan who got carried about at some rinky-dink Texas match, and subsequently was man-handled by a masked wrestler. Although judge “Extreme Akim” pointed out that wrestling is fake, the fan refused to acknowledge it and demanded extreme justice. So the judge ordered the plaintiff and defendant to settle their difference in the squared-circle. However, in private, the judge ordered the Human Growth Hormone to lose to the halfwit. – Compelling television in the likes of Morton Downy Junior and Hee Haw.

So by Tuesday, I had cable. Actually, I planned to get it along with my cable Internet. I’ve got a special rate for the package for the next few months, so it ain’t too bad.

Now almost a week later, I’ve watched CNN, MSNBC and “Costas Now” on HBO. Costas was interesting, and the news was “news”. But because of cable news being on Eastern Standard Time, I’m really only home during the news talk show times. And while Keith Olbermann is brilliant, the rest of the primetime news shows only seem to deal with celebrity tragedy, missing upper-middle-to-upper class blondes and neo-con-created faux arguments about homosexuality’s “attack on marriage” and everything else Americana.

And when my special rate for being a new subscriber expires, I don’t know if I’ll keep my idiot box’s extra wire plugged in. I’ve been watching less TV than when I had DirecTV and there’s nothing new on cable/satellite that entices me enough to tune in more often.

Now, where, I ask, is cable a la carte? It doesn’t matter if there are 57 channels or 357. I only want a few, a small selection that doesn’t feature slip-and-fall lawsuit ads or Kato. Otherwise, I might follow in The Boss’ and The King’s footsteps and put a 44 slug in my rectangular buddy.

Beggars Can’t Be Demanders

2006-09-21T21:31:00.000-07:00

So the cost of living is high here, and apparently, it’s rising for the simplest expense.

Normally, the panhandlers who stand outside the 7 Eleven near my office ask for spare change. And sometimes, they inquire if I can spare a whole buck.

I occasionally toss some coinage to the domicile-challenged without considering if their approach lacked tact, or even what they’ll do with my spare Washingtons. However, that changed today during a Diet Mountain Dew run.

Stalking the west end of the parking lot, sitting on two stacked milk crates, was a morbidly obese woman. As I approached the east end, she yelled to me, “HEY, WHEN YOU COME OUT, I’M GONNA NEED $2!… sir… if you can… spare.”

Wow! She was not only demanding, but her fundraising efforts had a lofty goal right off the bat. What happened to starting low and begging your way up? And I just know she’d only feed her Twinkie habit if I gave her any money. And I don’t know if I want that on my conscience.

Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You

2006-09-07T21:33:00.000-07:00

Things are beginning to settle down as other things are beginning to rev up. After a month or so of living in LA, I can finally live in LA.

I’ve been renting a room from a sweet old lady and her two poodles. And although I felt cool changing light bulbs throughout the house and fixing broken figurines, I really needed to find a place of my own to live, which was a huge task all of its own.

Waiting on callbacks aren’t only for aspiring actors in this town. I couldn’t get potential landlords or property managers to return my calls no matter how persistent I was. By the time a rental was listed, it was taken. Available apartments are a rare commodity and affordable ones are even harder to come by.

So I finally found a one-bedroom apartment about a mile-and-a-half from my office and two miles from the beach. That’s not too shabby, however, it has its drawbacks.

I live on a very busy road and my front door is almost to the sidewalk curb. Also, it’s on the first of two levels and the stairs for the second level connect with the pavement… you guessed it, right at my front door. And finally, the upstairs neighbors are loud. I don’t know how many people are packed in there, but there’s a tornado of a little girl included.

Why, you ask, would I choose this place? Well, it’s a one bedroom in my price range with a kitchen (though, not a full kitchen). Most of the rentals around here for the same price are studios/bachelors/singles, which basically means a room with a bathroom. Some have kitchenettes, food prep stations with a mini fridge or nothing at all. Also, I have an actual parking spot. Most of the units I looked at, read listings for and heard about only had street parking. And, well, parking is another rarity in these parts.

Next to worrying about loud choppers, hyperactive kids and shitty Tejano music keeping me awake at night (my bedtime sadly changes to 9 or 10 next week), I think my most shocking realization has been that I will now pay the same amount per month for rent that I paid for my first car. – Damn, I miss my 1984 Honda Civic CRX.

Hurry Up And Wait: The Honk If You’re Horny Story

2006-08-21T18:33:00.000-07:00

Patience is a virtue. Or so it has been said, but anyone who’s truly believed that didn’t live in LA.

In my first month here, I’ve noticed how quickly motorists are to notify their fellow drivers about the importance of launching into an intersection the moment a light turns green. Never mind a false start penalty or leaving a patch of Goodyear on the pavement. Pedestrians can take care of themselves.

In my previous life… I was Jimi Hendrix. (Have you ever noticed that any time someone talks about a past life, they’re always someone famous? As my mother would point out, women were always Cleopatra and men were always Abe Lincoln. No one was just some dude.) Anyway, in my pre-California life, I wasn’t too trigger happy with my car’s horn. If someone cut me off, came into my lane or sat at a green light for 10 seconds, then I’d give it a tap or two.

But Angelinos are different. They seem to be in a huge hurry all the time and are extremely quick on the beeps. They honk if you don’t gun it at green, they honk if you don’t turn left into oncoming traffic in a busy intersection, and they honk if you just happen to be in front of them. So much for their laidback reputation.

I’ve never been much of the road-rager. Sure, I’ve flicked off my fair share of dipshits. Hell, I’ve probably given enough dirty looks and middle fingers to make up for half the Amish in Pennsylvania who don’t keep up their parts. However, those expressions of dissatisfaction on the highways and byways only came after some major boneheaded moves by the other parties. Most of the times, I didn’t think twice about it.

So, recently, when some nugget laid on his ghetto bugle when I didn’t get into the intersection and make my left turn quick enough, it pissed me off. I wasn’t sitting at a green light for my damn health and I wasn’t daydreaming. Simply, there was still a fresh car from crossing traffic in the intersection. Was I supposed to t-bone the car so the dick behind me could get to his next red light sooner?

Now as I’ve thought about this a little while taking care of other matters, it became a little clearer to me. As I spent two and a half hours at the DMV (got another appointment Tuesday at 8:30 a.m.), an hour with a smog check, two hours opening a checking account, and 40 minutes in line for a sausage and soda at a Dodgers game (my first NL game), I realized that Californians are always in a line and filling out paper work in this over-populated city. After standing in line and falling into government bureaucracy for a good portion of their lives, not to mention the obscene traffic jams, it made a little more sense as to why they want to get to their next destination so quickly. Life is short. It’s only a matter of time before they’ll have another huge line to wait in before the reaper comes to collect (don’t fear it, BTW). And for those without reservations or large enough checkbooks, the line for the afterlife will probably be long too. Bring a book.

The Genie’s Back In The Bottle

2006-08-12T12:13:00.000-07:00

Actor/comedian, world’s hairiest man Robin Williams checked himself into alcohol rehab earlier this week. The one-time drug abuser had been sober for 20 years when he “found himself drinking again.”

Found himself drinking again… Euphemisms Gone Wild. Do we have to tiptoe around a substance abuser getting drunk? Sure, it’s a shame that he’s fallen off the wagon (a better description) after two decades, but can’t we just called a shit can a shit can?

And how exactly does one find oneself drinking again, or anything else? Is it something you stumble across while looking for something else? And are you supposed to be looking in the first place?

Does the “found myself” expression/excuse work with other actions that can be otherwise explained more easily?

Jeffrey Dahmer found himself cannibalizing victims, who he had earlier found himself murdering…

Charlie Sheen found himself under the influence of cocaine, and then found himself not wanting to pull his vehicle over when requested to do so by 15 LA County sheriffs…

Of course Robin had no idea of the consequences he faced when he placed that first wagon-free bottle of booze to his lips.

Suitemate Brad

Since Popeye found his spinach once again, it reminds me of a discussion I used to have with my old college suitemate, Brad.

Brad held a belief that everyone is better under the influence of chemicals – everyone being entertainers: actors, comedians, and especially musicians.

The Beatles were better in a Yellow Submarine, Saturday Night Live was actually funny when the cast’s dealers co-wrote, Dennis Hopper’s Apocalypse Now ranting was a brilliant example of “acting-as-being,” and Williams was the funniest man alive while a cokehead. – Would Mork from Ork have worked with a sober actor?

I Am Not An Animal…

2006-08-01T21:46:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in LA for fewer than two weeks and I’ve already felt the pressure to improve my image, which will explain why I haven’t had much time to post.

Over the weekend, I visited a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. When he finished laughing at the amount of money I had to spend, he kindly referred me to someone a bit more… me.

The office was located above a pool hall and accepted walk-ins – cool. I didn’t need to bother with my medical history, contact information or anything. I only needed to sign a quick waiver and present dinero. Fortunately, the doc was really accepting – he took both kinds of payment, dollars and pesos. Again, cool.

So I had all afternoon and el doctor said it would only take half of it, or so I thought that’s what he said. My Spanish isn’t up to par.

Once I was in the operating room, I simply had to point to which procedures I was up for. There were posters on the wall similar to the ones my barber had when I was a kid. And all the images looked like famous actors without actually being them. But I wasn’t interested in looking like Wallace Shawn, Ben Stein or any of the other Hollywood leading men on the wall. I just wanted hair plugs and a penile implant.

In retrospect, visiting a plastic surgeon who told me his office moves locations weekly to “keep things fresh” might not have been the best of my ideas to date.

I now have tons of manscaping to do and my forehead has a foreskin. But at least I have a unique look.

******

I’ll Take Uncle Phil to Block

…Well I had my first celebrity spottings this weekend. While getting to know the area a little better, I spotted James Aver, perhaps best known as “Uncle Phil” on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Along with seeing Uncle Phil, I noticed “Aunt Suga” from Next Friday at the same shindig. But I didn’t only notice actors with Family Tree creds, I also witnessed the spawn of Satan, Michael Jai White, hanging out.

My goal for this weekend is to see Fred “The Hammer” Williamson at Starbucks.

Car Trek: The Next Generation

2006-07-22T19:34:00.000-07:00

The trek is over and the real journey is about to begin. I arrived in Culver City (where my studio is located) Thursday night. I wasn’t exactly set on a schedule. I had planned on spending some time in Las Vegas originally, then The Everywhere Man let me know that he and Kristi (of her Random Thoughts) and Ben (of Kristi’s marriage) were going to be in Sin City Wednesday-Saturday. – Cool, I can hang out with them for a few hours and then be on my way to Californ-i-a.

I first tried calling the gang when I was about 40 miles outside of the desert oasis. Ben is notorious for not carrying his cell phone, something that both annoys me and makes me respect him. I left him a voicemail, along with Kristi and Paul (Everywhere Man – who Kbob later told me that Paul left his phone in Chicago).

Once I was in Vegas, I drove around a bit looking for an Internet café to check my gmail to see if any potential roommates and/or landlords had returned my calls – yes, that’s right, I still hadn’t made housing arrangements even when I was in Nevada. I saw a couple cafes, but I didn’t want to leave my car with all of my worldly belongings and attached bike in just any parking lot. If I’d know witch casino the gang was staying in, I would have been OK checking my Mazda into its parking lot. – That also meant I didn’t want to leave my car so Bob could have his picture taken with one of the hooker vendors who passes out pamphlets with hos a la carte. Sorry Bob, maybe your next caretaker will take you to New York New York.

After heading off The Strip and getting some Chinese food, I decided I would just take off for LA. I had been dilly-dallying around for three hours in the scorching Vegas heat and I had no idea if and when I’d hear back from the Michiganders.

So that brings me almost up to speed in Culver City. I’ve been staying in a pretty cool and historic hotel downtown and just agreed to rent a room in a house in West Los Angeles. It’s nice, cheap and only a mile-and-a-half from the studio. I’ll have a private bathroom and DirecTV, but no Internet access. So Jet Blach’s seeds of dumb might be a little more contained, but then again, I might take up a second residence at an Internet café and contribute more.

More chapters and zany fish-outta-water tales to come.

Evil Bob’s Travel Review

2006-07-22T19:29:00.000-07:00

State by state, Evil Bob has a few things to say about Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Nevada and California.

Michigan: Fix your fucking roads. The roads were neglected for 10 years and now it’s taking 10 years to get them in a decent condition. Naturally, I won’t be there to enjoy them once they’re actually finished. But my evil instincts tell me that they’ll be shitty again in no time.

Indiana: How can a state north of the Mason-Dixon Line be so hick?

Illinois: I spent the least amount of time in this state for this trip. It went by quickly and I thank the Land of Lincoln for it. Now if you Illinois could just make Gary, Indiana go away…

Iowa: Hey Iowa, quit being so boring.

Nebraska: I think I need to consult a few evil scientist gnomes to see if there’s some sort of way to implode Nebraska and make its neighboring states closer together.

Colorado: You started out a little boring and I kept wondering just where in the hell your mountains were, but then I reached Denver, found your mountains and had a good time. Denver, you rock. I’m sure I’ll make a return trip.

Colorado’s mountains were a blast. I only wish H.Wood and I weren’t hauling a ton, including an attached bike. Those mountain roads made me long for a real driving machine – like a Lotus.

Utah: Although I didn’t become a Mormon, I’m seriously considering converting to Native American. Peyote chips and a little booze could be a fun experience in that landscape. But life in Utah without mind-altering substances would surely blow prairie dogs.

Nevada Why didn’t the folks who built Nevada make it an air conditioned dome?

California: That $3.77 per gallon price of gasoline hurt. And that is my ONLY complaint so far.

Ghost Town

2006-07-22T19:27:00.000-07:00

Bob just had to stop at a “real” ghost town in Calico. I won’t question that this place was once a real, operating town that folks abandoned for a better life elsewhere. However, today it more resembles Frontier Land at Cedar Point, circa 1970. The authenticity must have taken off for a better life when a damn video arcade was installed.

It was after hours, so there weren’t any employee/re-enactors to play the sheriff or the town drunk (they were at their real jobs manufacturing crystal meth). So Bob and I did it ourselves. Bob didn’t have to act too hard. He was actually buzzing from Fig Newtons (little known fact, evil gnomes get wasted from figs).

And since I had to keep him under control, that made me the sheriff. Of course I had to take a page from “The Shield” and took a little kickback from the saloon and made myself at home in the brothel. It’s good to be the sheriff.