Much has been made of the following near-certainty: if a Democrat wins the '08 presidential election, the odds indicate we'll end up with either Obama or Hillary in the Oval Office, i.e., a black or female commander-in-chief -- historic firsts, both. Observing the uproarious media frenzy stirred up by the Oprah-Obama union over the past several days, methinks that a Democrat victory would amount to even more than a merely black or merely female president: we'd effectively be electing a black woman -- who, among other misdeeds, is responsible for foisting the bad odor of Dr. Phil up into the collective nostrils of the American public.
Now, before I proceed, I'll stipulate that I don't necessarily hate Oprah. It's somewhat difficult to root against a sexually abused black woman who rose up out of the abject poverty of the rural south to become the most recognizable woman in the country and one of the most powerful media titans in the world. A woman who leveraged her success into billions. And who routinely (if a bit conspicuously) applies her money and influence toward good causes. I readily concede that she deserves a measure of admiration and credit, however easy it may be to resent someone who introduced the by-now familiar thread of man-bashing into our social fabric and who can quite easily buy and sell me several million times over. Oprah's earned my respect, grudging though it may be.
Notwithstanding Oprah's accomplishments, however, the idea that our presidential election might be decided primarily on the strength of a celebrity endorsement is more than a bit distasteful to me. For, as much as I might concede that the goodwill Oprah has hoarded away over the years is warranted, the fact of the matter is that the vast majority of mindless saps who worship at her altar are less admirers of her charitable deeds than they are wide-eyed, slack-jawed fans of her reliably insipid gabfests with the likes of Julia Roberts and Tom Cruise. Oprah's got supercool, uberfamous friends, and she delivers them into our homes, much to our delight, for nutritionally-devoid consumption. In essence, the massive Obama conversion isn't being catalyzed by his stated policy agenda, or by his credentials and background, or even by his considerable personal charisma. Instead, everyone's lining up behind him on the playground because he's pals with the most popular girl in school.
Nevertheless, the cliche holds true: we're a free country -- everyone's entitled to express their vote in whatever shallow manner they please. Indeed, my votes over the last two presidential election cycles have amounted to nothing more than protests against the idea of installing a fucking moron into our highest elected office. So I'm personally familiar with the tendency to consciously ignore the intricacies of political platforms, and instead submit to one's basest, most emotional electoral impulses.
That said, when it comes down to it, I won't apologize for pooh-poohing the possibility that the next President of the United States of America might well piggyback his way into office, riding high on the estrogen-fueled adulation conferred not upon him, as presidential candidate, but upon Oprah, as the patron saint of an army of bored-senseless, easily-entertained, stay-at-home soccer moms.
OK. Enough of this big-people talk. Time to turn on the DVR and watch The Hills finale. (Yipee!)
Monday, December 10, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
Pizza -- Better than Sex
I hesitate to compliment anything related to New York City -- a disproportionate number of New Yorkers are already self-satisfied assholes who need flattery like a submarine needs a screen door -- but I can't deny the superiority of NYC pizza. Hands-down, the best. There's no debating this.
The last time I visited NYC, I wandered into a West Village joint called Bleecker Street Pizza. I was with my brother, and we were actually trying to find a different pizzeria, some variant of "Ray's Pizza" that I had eaten at the day before. The slice I had scarfed down there had been adequate, and since my bro had just moved to NYC, I felt a familial obligation to direct him to this particular Ray's. It's essential to expeditiously file a solid pizza purveyor in your mental Rolodex whenever you to move to a new town, let alone NYC.
That second day I couldn't find my Ray's for the life of me. I kept getting turned around in the labyrinthine maze of West Village streets around 6th and 7th Avenues, and though I would've been swimming in it had I been searching for vintage clothes or gay sex toys, as far as a slice of Ray's was concerned, I was getting nowhere.
Soon enough we were starving, and the aimless wandering wasn't helping, so we decided to throw in the towel and take our chances on the first pizza joint we walked past. This turned out to be Bleecker Street Pizza, a small, unassuming hole-in-the-wall without much visually recommending it other than a sign indicating that the Food Network had designated it as the best pizzeria in the city -- slightly more than a mere trivial distinction, we figured.
Now, at the risk of insulting your intelligence, I'm going to lay out for you the three elements that are requirements for a satisfying slice of pizza: (1) Good cheese; (2) Good crust; and (3) Good sauce. Boom, boom, boom. As feasible as this three-pronged recipe may seem on paper, however, in practice it's a combination seldom achieved. More often than not, all three ingredients are substandard. Maybe, if you're lucky, you'll chow on a slice with a full-flavored cheese, or one with delectably tangy sauce, or perhaps one with extraordinarily buttery crust. But all three united in one slice? Not likely.
So it was with great surprise that I felt my knees buckling as I bit into the slice at Bleecker Street Pizza: rich, ripened cheese ... tart, tomatoey sauce ... crispy, buttery crust. All three hit me like a truckload of dopamine, and I literally had to sit down. Bottom line: if you're a pizzaphile, Bleecker Street Pizza in the West Village had better be on your punch-list the next time you're in NYC.
And, from what I can tell, it's also a good neighborhood if you're in the market for nipple rings.
The last time I visited NYC, I wandered into a West Village joint called Bleecker Street Pizza. I was with my brother, and we were actually trying to find a different pizzeria, some variant of "Ray's Pizza" that I had eaten at the day before. The slice I had scarfed down there had been adequate, and since my bro had just moved to NYC, I felt a familial obligation to direct him to this particular Ray's. It's essential to expeditiously file a solid pizza purveyor in your mental Rolodex whenever you to move to a new town, let alone NYC.
That second day I couldn't find my Ray's for the life of me. I kept getting turned around in the labyrinthine maze of West Village streets around 6th and 7th Avenues, and though I would've been swimming in it had I been searching for vintage clothes or gay sex toys, as far as a slice of Ray's was concerned, I was getting nowhere.
Soon enough we were starving, and the aimless wandering wasn't helping, so we decided to throw in the towel and take our chances on the first pizza joint we walked past. This turned out to be Bleecker Street Pizza, a small, unassuming hole-in-the-wall without much visually recommending it other than a sign indicating that the Food Network had designated it as the best pizzeria in the city -- slightly more than a mere trivial distinction, we figured.
Now, at the risk of insulting your intelligence, I'm going to lay out for you the three elements that are requirements for a satisfying slice of pizza: (1) Good cheese; (2) Good crust; and (3) Good sauce. Boom, boom, boom. As feasible as this three-pronged recipe may seem on paper, however, in practice it's a combination seldom achieved. More often than not, all three ingredients are substandard. Maybe, if you're lucky, you'll chow on a slice with a full-flavored cheese, or one with delectably tangy sauce, or perhaps one with extraordinarily buttery crust. But all three united in one slice? Not likely.
So it was with great surprise that I felt my knees buckling as I bit into the slice at Bleecker Street Pizza: rich, ripened cheese ... tart, tomatoey sauce ... crispy, buttery crust. All three hit me like a truckload of dopamine, and I literally had to sit down. Bottom line: if you're a pizzaphile, Bleecker Street Pizza in the West Village had better be on your punch-list the next time you're in NYC.
And, from what I can tell, it's also a good neighborhood if you're in the market for nipple rings.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Moronic Mormons
So Mitt Romney, a few weeks out from the primary and caucus season, decided to make a televised speech explaining to voters why we shouldn't be put off by his devout Mormonism. For a variety of reasons, this whole farce really makes me want to fling my own feces at the TV screen with all the primal enthusiasm of a drunken chimp.
It's tough to decide on the first brick to yank out in deconstructing the absurdity of this "national conversation", a cringe-inducing dialogue occurring in a country that fancies itself as the most enlightened society on 21st-century Earth. The sad reality that in 2007 religious belief still influences voter behavior -- or, for that matter, rears its superstitious head during any serious debate, regarding any substantive issue, between any two parties who are not both woefully poverty-stricken and astonishingly under-educated -- is a travesty warranting much more derision than I'm willing to spew forth today. At any rate, minds superior to mine have articulated the general case against religious faith much more eloquently and comprehensively than I could ever hope to do (see Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, et al.).
Therefore, I'll narrow my focus onto two tangential issues from which I've been able to wring a modest measure of mild amusement (in the face of suppressed exasperation).
Firstly, Romney's assurance to voters that he intends to lead not as a Mormon (as some apparently fear) but simply as a "Christian man of faith" (as apparently comforts others) is a distinction without a difference. It's the equivalent of a sober blind man insisting you hand him your car keys, assuring you he's not too drunk to drive. The hoopla and communal anxiety regarding Romney's Mormonism, and his decision to clarify his "position" via press conference -- it all misses the point. It's pitiful to witness how clearly the real issue sails well over the heads of far too many ostensibly sophisticated, rational-minded voters in our country.
Secondly, I've observed a distressing number of professional talking heads expressing befuddlement as to why any voter should eye a devoutly Mormon politician more suspiciously than, say, a devout Roman Catholic politician. (In fact, I agree with these pundits that no distinctions should be drawn between adherents of competing religious faiths, though my rationale is likely the opposite of theirs: whereas these commentators would argue that we shouldn't discriminate against the candidates based on their preferred doctrines because there's room enough for all creeds on this Good Ship Lollilop, I would argue, quite to the contrary, that we should toss ALL the faithful overboard, irrespective of which toga-clad version of the "Most High" they callowly designate as their master, because they're all equally unworthy of high office.)
Political correctness is clearly at work. Though most of them have all the appeal of nails on chalkboard, political talk show hacks are nothing if not well-informed. So while they may be playing dumb for the cameras, most of them surely are familiar with the details of Mormon doctrine, which serves up a virtual buffet of disbelief-suspending nuggets. A sampling: Native Americans originally sailed to the U.S. from Israel several centuries before Christ; the Garden of Eden was a real live historical locale that we can pinpoint today in modern-day Missouri; "God" instructed a prophet named Joseph Smith to go on and round himself up a cozy little harem (I'll grant Smith a point for chutzpah); all of these wondrous teachings were transmitted to man via gold tablets -- I repeat: gold tablets.
Concededly, these superstitions are hardly any more (though certainly not less) ridiculous than the doozies proffered up by any of the other major Judeo-Christian cults. But unlike those older sects, Mormonism is less than 200 years old, i.e., it developed in an era no more than a virtual blink prior to the modern age, when we as humans finally arrived at a scientifically more accurate conception of our actual place in the universe. Roman Catholicism, Judaism, Islam -- these traditions rather perniciously ingrained themselves into our collective psyche at a time when man possessed an infantile grasp of science. A couple of millennia later, it's not entirely surprising -- if perhaps wholly disappointing -- that we still haven't let go of those deeply-anchored ancient mythologies.
But Mormonism? This belief system hasn't been around for even two centuries, and yet its adherents have allowed themselves, in record time, to be fooled into accepting as "Truth" a mythology of incredibly ludicrous magnitude, even by religious standards -- and all of this despite their access to modern science and the array of humbling discoveries about our universe and our species that it has revealed. Viewed in this light, it's easy to understand why Mormons might be perceived as among the kookiest religious dolts around. Thus it should surprise no one, let alone the invariably well-informed members of the punditocracy, when a Mormon presidential candidate like Mitt Romney is viewed with a higher dose of skepticism than his (equally and disgracefully religious) opponents.
In any event, the candidates -- and sadly, the public -- seem content to pit religious belief against religious belief, superstition against superstition. What somehow escapes notice -- or is diplomatically glossed over by politically correct commentators -- is that this really all boils down to no more than a contest of willful ignorance, a question of who is more gullible than whom within the community of "believers." In this humble blogger's opinion, our Mormon neighbors stake a persuasive claim to that ignominious crown.
Then again, I may be wrong on all counts, and ultimately doomed to the fiery depths of Hell.
It's tough to decide on the first brick to yank out in deconstructing the absurdity of this "national conversation", a cringe-inducing dialogue occurring in a country that fancies itself as the most enlightened society on 21st-century Earth. The sad reality that in 2007 religious belief still influences voter behavior -- or, for that matter, rears its superstitious head during any serious debate, regarding any substantive issue, between any two parties who are not both woefully poverty-stricken and astonishingly under-educated -- is a travesty warranting much more derision than I'm willing to spew forth today. At any rate, minds superior to mine have articulated the general case against religious faith much more eloquently and comprehensively than I could ever hope to do (see Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, et al.).
Therefore, I'll narrow my focus onto two tangential issues from which I've been able to wring a modest measure of mild amusement (in the face of suppressed exasperation).
Firstly, Romney's assurance to voters that he intends to lead not as a Mormon (as some apparently fear) but simply as a "Christian man of faith" (as apparently comforts others) is a distinction without a difference. It's the equivalent of a sober blind man insisting you hand him your car keys, assuring you he's not too drunk to drive. The hoopla and communal anxiety regarding Romney's Mormonism, and his decision to clarify his "position" via press conference -- it all misses the point. It's pitiful to witness how clearly the real issue sails well over the heads of far too many ostensibly sophisticated, rational-minded voters in our country.
Secondly, I've observed a distressing number of professional talking heads expressing befuddlement as to why any voter should eye a devoutly Mormon politician more suspiciously than, say, a devout Roman Catholic politician. (In fact, I agree with these pundits that no distinctions should be drawn between adherents of competing religious faiths, though my rationale is likely the opposite of theirs: whereas these commentators would argue that we shouldn't discriminate against the candidates based on their preferred doctrines because there's room enough for all creeds on this Good Ship Lollilop, I would argue, quite to the contrary, that we should toss ALL the faithful overboard, irrespective of which toga-clad version of the "Most High" they callowly designate as their master, because they're all equally unworthy of high office.)
Political correctness is clearly at work. Though most of them have all the appeal of nails on chalkboard, political talk show hacks are nothing if not well-informed. So while they may be playing dumb for the cameras, most of them surely are familiar with the details of Mormon doctrine, which serves up a virtual buffet of disbelief-suspending nuggets. A sampling: Native Americans originally sailed to the U.S. from Israel several centuries before Christ; the Garden of Eden was a real live historical locale that we can pinpoint today in modern-day Missouri; "God" instructed a prophet named Joseph Smith to go on and round himself up a cozy little harem (I'll grant Smith a point for chutzpah); all of these wondrous teachings were transmitted to man via gold tablets -- I repeat: gold tablets.
Concededly, these superstitions are hardly any more (though certainly not less) ridiculous than the doozies proffered up by any of the other major Judeo-Christian cults. But unlike those older sects, Mormonism is less than 200 years old, i.e., it developed in an era no more than a virtual blink prior to the modern age, when we as humans finally arrived at a scientifically more accurate conception of our actual place in the universe. Roman Catholicism, Judaism, Islam -- these traditions rather perniciously ingrained themselves into our collective psyche at a time when man possessed an infantile grasp of science. A couple of millennia later, it's not entirely surprising -- if perhaps wholly disappointing -- that we still haven't let go of those deeply-anchored ancient mythologies.
But Mormonism? This belief system hasn't been around for even two centuries, and yet its adherents have allowed themselves, in record time, to be fooled into accepting as "Truth" a mythology of incredibly ludicrous magnitude, even by religious standards -- and all of this despite their access to modern science and the array of humbling discoveries about our universe and our species that it has revealed. Viewed in this light, it's easy to understand why Mormons might be perceived as among the kookiest religious dolts around. Thus it should surprise no one, let alone the invariably well-informed members of the punditocracy, when a Mormon presidential candidate like Mitt Romney is viewed with a higher dose of skepticism than his (equally and disgracefully religious) opponents.
In any event, the candidates -- and sadly, the public -- seem content to pit religious belief against religious belief, superstition against superstition. What somehow escapes notice -- or is diplomatically glossed over by politically correct commentators -- is that this really all boils down to no more than a contest of willful ignorance, a question of who is more gullible than whom within the community of "believers." In this humble blogger's opinion, our Mormon neighbors stake a persuasive claim to that ignominious crown.
Then again, I may be wrong on all counts, and ultimately doomed to the fiery depths of Hell.
White Wolfmen Can Breakdance
You might've noticed that the high school in "Teen Wolf" is almost wholly devoid of black students. (Trust me.) But in the lone scene featuring a black kid, he spontaneously busts into a breakdancing routine. No joke. Just starts poppin'. To add insult to racially-stereotyped injury, our solitary soul man is immediately upstaged by the all-of-a-sudden funky Scott Howard. Hilarious.
One thing's for certain -- you wouldn't see such unapologetic minstrelsy on the big-screen today.
One thing's for certain -- you wouldn't see such unapologetic minstrelsy on the big-screen today.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Home of the Brave
You'll never hear an American sports fan admit it, but American sports fandom is fuckin' weak. At virtually any professional sporting event you attend in this country, the fans are just barely more enthusiastic than bleary-eyed parents at their bed-wetting kid's Spring Recital. Weak, to be sure.
Think about it: when's the last time you heard about any significant incidents of fan violence at a professional sporting event in the U.S.? I think you might have to go as far back as two years ago, when a Detroit Pistons fan lobbed a half-filled paper cup of beer at then-Indiana Pacer Ron Artest.
Not that the events of that day scored very high on the civil unrest scale -- our trigger-happy fan missed his target, and, tough guy that he proved to be, sat back and watched as an enraged Artest rushed the stands and attempted to pummel the wrong guy. The key word being "attempted", because for every punch Artest half-landed, he sloppily threw ten. The bottom line is that while it was refreshing to see a glimmer of raw passion emanating from the stands, it'd be a bit of a stretch to call it an out-and-out melee.
Nevertheless, based on the media response, you might've thought all fans present that day had sprouted horns, fangs, and a forked tail; killed their first-borns; flung feces at helpless senior citizens; and raped the cheerleaders. For weeks the talking heads spouted off incessantly, creating the impression that the entire NBA, perhaps all of American sport, was on the brink of a moral implosion. It was virtually apocalyptic. All because some twit launched a half a beer in a paper cup.
Meanwhile, over in Greece a few days ago, fans of two rival Athenian teams chucked slightly more harmful projectiles at each other: homemade gas bombs. One guy was killed. Seven were hospitalized. Before the game. The sport that stoked such fiery passions? Volleyball -- women's volleyball.
And last week, the coach of Pakistan's national team was strangled by a fan after his squad, a perennial world powerhouse, suffered a humiliating loss to lowly Ireland, resulting in an uncharacteristically early elimination from a prestigious international tournament. The sport? Cricket. Mother fuckin' cricket.
At this point, I could give you a laundry list of violent soccer incidents across the globe in the past six months alone, but even within that limited time span they'd be too numerous to mention in this short and humble blog. Suffice it to say that in most countries attending a soccer match is a calculated risk.
Of course, as I mentioned before, no red-blooded American sports fan would ever cop to the true febrile nature of U.S. fandom. The prevailing mentality in this country holds that because we've got football, our claim to toughness is well beyond reproach. But let's examine this ludicrous theory:
Imagine aliens land on Earth to investigate the relative toughness of nations, and will formulate their conclusions by attending sporting events both within the U.S. and across the rest of the world. (Don't question why -- they just will.) They'll observe closely, discuss amongst themselves in their hideous alien language, and ultimately present humanity with a final determination.
In the U.S., they'll go to football games, where they'll watch professional athletes -- who represent a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of the general population and are paid millions of dollars every year -- smother each other in full pads for 60 minutes. They'll watch the fans -- who represent the bulk of the general population -- enjoy the game more or less silently, comporting themselves civilly throughout the contest, barring the occasional jeer from beer-sodden hillbillies. The gravest danger any fan is exposed to throughout the day is the precarious journey from the concession stands back to their seats whilst balancing five Ball Park Franks and a mustard-laden pretzel. Perhaps the drive home presents the risk of a DUI.
Meanwhile, in a multitude of countries overseas, the aliens will watch professional athletes engage in the world's predominant -- albeit non-contact -- sport: soccer. Bona fide collisions between players are infrequent. As for the fans, who are literally fenced off from the action on the field to prevent bum-rushes, the aliens will watch them: attempt and often succeed in pelting the athletes with bottles and batteries; pelt each other with all manner of missiles; frequently brawl before, during, and after the game with each other, sometimes using weapons; frequently get attacked and sometimes killed by riot police (and vice versa); frequently destroy property before, during, and after games, not only within the confines of the stadium but throughout the host city as well; etc., ad nauseum.
So what do you think the rubbery-skinned, bug-eyed aliens are going to conclude? That the Americans take the toughness-cake because a negligible percentage of their population, a few hundred helmeted, steroid-infused millionaires, ram into each other for 16 Sundays of the year? I think not.
Clearly, it's a topsy-turvy attitude towards sports toughness that we cultivate in this country. But, then again, we wouldn't be Americans if we weren't collectively delusional -- it's one of our defining cultural traits.
Now, I wonder if I can get the cricket guy to poison Lions GM Matt Millen.
Think about it: when's the last time you heard about any significant incidents of fan violence at a professional sporting event in the U.S.? I think you might have to go as far back as two years ago, when a Detroit Pistons fan lobbed a half-filled paper cup of beer at then-Indiana Pacer Ron Artest.
Not that the events of that day scored very high on the civil unrest scale -- our trigger-happy fan missed his target, and, tough guy that he proved to be, sat back and watched as an enraged Artest rushed the stands and attempted to pummel the wrong guy. The key word being "attempted", because for every punch Artest half-landed, he sloppily threw ten. The bottom line is that while it was refreshing to see a glimmer of raw passion emanating from the stands, it'd be a bit of a stretch to call it an out-and-out melee.
Nevertheless, based on the media response, you might've thought all fans present that day had sprouted horns, fangs, and a forked tail; killed their first-borns; flung feces at helpless senior citizens; and raped the cheerleaders. For weeks the talking heads spouted off incessantly, creating the impression that the entire NBA, perhaps all of American sport, was on the brink of a moral implosion. It was virtually apocalyptic. All because some twit launched a half a beer in a paper cup.
Meanwhile, over in Greece a few days ago, fans of two rival Athenian teams chucked slightly more harmful projectiles at each other: homemade gas bombs. One guy was killed. Seven were hospitalized. Before the game. The sport that stoked such fiery passions? Volleyball -- women's volleyball.
And last week, the coach of Pakistan's national team was strangled by a fan after his squad, a perennial world powerhouse, suffered a humiliating loss to lowly Ireland, resulting in an uncharacteristically early elimination from a prestigious international tournament. The sport? Cricket. Mother fuckin' cricket.
At this point, I could give you a laundry list of violent soccer incidents across the globe in the past six months alone, but even within that limited time span they'd be too numerous to mention in this short and humble blog. Suffice it to say that in most countries attending a soccer match is a calculated risk.
Of course, as I mentioned before, no red-blooded American sports fan would ever cop to the true febrile nature of U.S. fandom. The prevailing mentality in this country holds that because we've got football, our claim to toughness is well beyond reproach. But let's examine this ludicrous theory:
Imagine aliens land on Earth to investigate the relative toughness of nations, and will formulate their conclusions by attending sporting events both within the U.S. and across the rest of the world. (Don't question why -- they just will.) They'll observe closely, discuss amongst themselves in their hideous alien language, and ultimately present humanity with a final determination.
In the U.S., they'll go to football games, where they'll watch professional athletes -- who represent a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of the general population and are paid millions of dollars every year -- smother each other in full pads for 60 minutes. They'll watch the fans -- who represent the bulk of the general population -- enjoy the game more or less silently, comporting themselves civilly throughout the contest, barring the occasional jeer from beer-sodden hillbillies. The gravest danger any fan is exposed to throughout the day is the precarious journey from the concession stands back to their seats whilst balancing five Ball Park Franks and a mustard-laden pretzel. Perhaps the drive home presents the risk of a DUI.
Meanwhile, in a multitude of countries overseas, the aliens will watch professional athletes engage in the world's predominant -- albeit non-contact -- sport: soccer. Bona fide collisions between players are infrequent. As for the fans, who are literally fenced off from the action on the field to prevent bum-rushes, the aliens will watch them: attempt and often succeed in pelting the athletes with bottles and batteries; pelt each other with all manner of missiles; frequently brawl before, during, and after the game with each other, sometimes using weapons; frequently get attacked and sometimes killed by riot police (and vice versa); frequently destroy property before, during, and after games, not only within the confines of the stadium but throughout the host city as well; etc., ad nauseum.
So what do you think the rubbery-skinned, bug-eyed aliens are going to conclude? That the Americans take the toughness-cake because a negligible percentage of their population, a few hundred helmeted, steroid-infused millionaires, ram into each other for 16 Sundays of the year? I think not.
Clearly, it's a topsy-turvy attitude towards sports toughness that we cultivate in this country. But, then again, we wouldn't be Americans if we weren't collectively delusional -- it's one of our defining cultural traits.
Now, I wonder if I can get the cricket guy to poison Lions GM Matt Millen.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
So Lost, Part Deux -- And More Random Tripe
Last night's episode of "Lost" validated my anti-TV-drama inclinations. Suddenly introducing a brand-spanking-new pair of lovebirds in the third season? Shamelessly inserting them into "flashback" scenes with the main characters? Conveniently offing both of them by hour's end? Sheesh -- these writers won't stop at anything to bamboozle us into mindlessly accepting their contrivances. I mean, come the fuck on. It's madness, exactly the kind of shit that makes it so difficult for me to suspend disbelief and just enjoy the show. (Of course, I can't wait till next Wednesday night's episode -- looks to be a real doozy.)
Incidentally, I may have to retract what I said in a previous post about the skull-cap-lifters at my gym. Over the last several days I've spotted at least one of them, on two occasions, wearing a bandanna that in no way anchored his earphones. The obvious conclusion is that his head-gear is a fashion accessory rather than a practical solution to sweat-induced slippage. Therefore, I can no longer extend to him the benefit of the doubt, and what his skull-cap fashion statement loudly, slowly, and clearly says to me is, "Look at me, for I am Douchebag."
A couple of other things: it really pisses me off when people put tomatoes or peanut butter in the fridge. Cold tomatoes are disgusting, and anyone who knows anything about anything knows that tomatoes must ripen generously in order to achieve optimal flavor. If you were previously unaware of this, I hate you. As for peanut butter, who freakin' said it needs to be stored below room temperature? When I go to someone's house and see a jar of hardened Jif in the fridge, I'm filled with the same sense of outrage as when I see a guy wearing capri pants. On this planet, we keep our peanut butter in the cupboard and market our capri pants exclusively to women.
If you can't conform, off yourself.
Incidentally, I may have to retract what I said in a previous post about the skull-cap-lifters at my gym. Over the last several days I've spotted at least one of them, on two occasions, wearing a bandanna that in no way anchored his earphones. The obvious conclusion is that his head-gear is a fashion accessory rather than a practical solution to sweat-induced slippage. Therefore, I can no longer extend to him the benefit of the doubt, and what his skull-cap fashion statement loudly, slowly, and clearly says to me is, "Look at me, for I am Douchebag."
A couple of other things: it really pisses me off when people put tomatoes or peanut butter in the fridge. Cold tomatoes are disgusting, and anyone who knows anything about anything knows that tomatoes must ripen generously in order to achieve optimal flavor. If you were previously unaware of this, I hate you. As for peanut butter, who freakin' said it needs to be stored below room temperature? When I go to someone's house and see a jar of hardened Jif in the fridge, I'm filled with the same sense of outrage as when I see a guy wearing capri pants. On this planet, we keep our peanut butter in the cupboard and market our capri pants exclusively to women.
If you can't conform, off yourself.
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