Jet Blach Jabber

My Life With A Manic Depressive Monkey

2006-05-09T19:53:00.001-07:00

“Umm, hi Shaun and Kyle. This is Joana from next door. Umm, your roommate, or friend, or whatever, Brandon, lost his keys and is lying on the picnic table outside, in the rain, crying and muttering to himself. I think he’d really appreciate it if you let him in…and we would too.”

Every now and then, usually at a pub with a few are pints put away, stories from college come up in discussion. Sometimes it’s with friends who were a part of the story. Other times, certain stories just find their ways to new ears. And many of those stories involve a manic depressive monkey named Brandon.

Brandon was a fraternity brother who entered school wide-eyed and naïve, from a rural Ohio town. He was the most happy-go-lucky I had ever come across in my first 18 years of life. Brandon was far from the brightest guy, but he always had a smile on his face and sure like to party on the weekends.

He wasn’t my best friend on campus. In fact, there were a good handful of others I preferred to spend time with. But Brandon was a fun guy to meet up with, go party hopping or just go hang out at the fraternity house with. And his clueless-ness and ear-to-ear grin sometimes played well with the ladies – at least enough for a wingman.

While we had a good time getting drunk as Kennedys on the weekends, I still couldn’t help but worry a little about the guy. He smiled more than any one person should. However, that would change sophomore year…in the fraternity house.

The fraternity was entering its third year of existence, had just moved into a large house, and brothers were needed to fill the rooms. Sophomores, such as myself and Brandon, who weren’t obligated to live on campus, were asked to step up and live there. We both agreed to do so, however, I didn’t want to be his roommate. Instead, I roomed with my friend Aaron, who was practically my roommate without being my roommate in the dorm. Brandon was paired with “Quiet” Mike by rule of leftovers.

Without really getting into all the details, as it’d contain more pages than War And Peace, I’ll just say that Quiet Mike shed his shyness (through the counseling of two sorority girls who taught him to talk to women, drink and watch porno – which is also how the Kennedys learn about public service) the summer prior to moving into the house and became a loud, obnoxious, partier – everyone really liked the new Mike, except Brandon. While rooming with Mike, his bipolar behavior was exposed and everyone really didn’t like the new Brandon.

Tons of stories about Brandon flipping out via Mike The Agitator came out of the Delt House. He physically attacked others and threw tantrums that would make a three-year-old version of John McEnroe proud. Fortunately for his victims, Brandon also hit like a toddler.

I didn’t help the kid out any when I gave him a half-innocent nickname. I called him “Monkey Boy” because, well, physically…he has huge ears and makes facial expressions like chimps in the zoo do when mimicking human visitors. Plus, his exposure to things most students our age were already accustomed to reminded me of Curious George.

I guess it’s all in the tone and manner of how someone uses a nickname. My “Hey Monkey Boy, how’s it going?” became Mike and others’ “You goddamn monkey!” Soon, he was just “Monkey” or “The Monkey”.

Now let’s fast forward two years and remove me and the monkey from the fraternity house. I was heading into my second senior year (I double-majored, get off my back already), and second living in a townhouse with Kyle and Ben. -- Well I was heading into year two with Kyle and Ben until Ben decided to move out, which meant Kyle and I needed to choose among the few folks left without a lease to sublet from Ben. And that choice came down to a monkey who had calmed down a little since his roommate divorce with Mike, and a guy we suspected of being shady (and later totally proved to be). So we went with the chimp.

There were tough times that year as the Monkey constantly reappeared, but one story that seems to get repeated a whole lot is one that’s on micro cassette from an answering machine, which I transcribed above.

I had returned home on a Saturday night from the bar around 1-1:30 or so and had just hit the hay when the phone rang. The machine picked up before I did.

After hearing the message, I walked downstairs to the front door and found Brandon trying to break into the apartment through a window rather than ring the doorbell and admit, like a drunk ape, that he’d lost his keys. – I felt no pity for this kid. He had been pissing me off for years with his dumb-shit antics and breaking a window wasn’t going to be added to the list if I could help it. So I opened the door and forcefully said, “Get The Fuck Inside.”

The Monkey didn’t look me in the eyes. He just muttered something, walked up to his room, fumbled around for a bit, found his keys and walked back downstairs, got in his car and took off. -- Now while he was fumbling around in his room, I had gone back to bed thinking his keys were gone. I remember hearing him leave the apartment and hearing a car start. -- That goddamn Monkey…

Anyway, the next day, I played the tape for a few hundred people in my micro cassette recorder and then had to tell them the rest of the story, according to my neighbors who left the message. Apparently, these ladies (very attractive dance team members – the last of the EMU dancers without muffin tops) had been at BW3 with some of their guy friends. Brandon had been there (I’m not sure if he was by himself) and spotted them. The girls really didn’t know anything about him other than he lived with me and Kyle (Kyle was trying to get with one of the girls and I knew another from class), but they were nice to him. -- It was that friendliness that bit them in their sweet, sweet asses.

I guess the Monkey didn’t catch the extra wheel vibe and overstayed his welcome, and eventually bummed a ride home from them. And when the girls and guys arrived back at their pad for post-bar drinks, Brandon tried to push his way into their apartment. But it was at that time the guys had had enough and kept him out. Tick, tick, tick….bing! It was drunk Monkey rage time!

Brandon began screaming at them, calling them whores and spitting on their window before wearing himself out and walking over to the shared picnic table in front of the building for a crying, muttering break. Hence, the phone call.

So now the answering machine story is documented on the Wide World of Websports. Maybe there’ll be more to come. Occasionally, I hear new stories involving Brandon’s bipolar behavior from people who keep tabs on his life in Cincinnati. Perhaps there’s enough material to begin a Harry Potter-sized continuation for generations to come. I just don’t want to be the guy in the big, yellow hat.

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.

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 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.

Erin Go Blaaahh

2006-03-16T19:03:00.003-08:00

An Irish Blessing

May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always on your back. May the sun always shine warm upon your face. May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

As Saint Patrick’s Day draws near, I get approached by folks who feel it necessary to remind me that I’m of Irish decent and that I must really be looking forward to drinking on Green Beer Day.

Well, my last name does originate from Eire – out of paranoia that this site will one day prevent me from receiving blowjobs in a high-ranking office, I’ll only say that my family surname ends in I-G-A-N. – But it’s not as if St. Pat's is the one day a year we mics are allowed to drink. And that’s not the reason I’ll be tippin’ a few brews back tomorrow. Rather, I’ll be drinking Guinness because it’s Friday.

So to the amateurs who are only fortunate enough to be Irish once a year, I’d like to share a limerick with you.

Though Irish in eyes and sadly in size,

For me, Saint Paddy’s is no madly prize.

I drink because I hate my job.

I chuck it down like a slob.

I raise a pint and give a toast,

Because I really have little to boast.

I drown my sorrows slowly away.

And think it’d be easier if I were gay.

I drink for laughs, I drink for fun.

I drink because Chenney’s gotta gun.

I salute the great Chuck Norris.

And cheers to legend Zack Morris.

I pound ‘em down ‘til fitted with beer glasses.

Then I run around and pat fat asses.

With no more thrills, I light a Flaming Moe,

While counting bills to pay the shaming ho.

Saint Paddy’s Day is over, and the monkey gets a flog.

Can’t find my four-leaf clover, and I was drunky when I wrote this blog.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day – Erin Go Bragh!

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.

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.

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.

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.