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.
Friday, March 30, 2007
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.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
So Lost
Like millions of other saps, I've gotten sucked into "Lost." I managed to resist for a good stretch, missing most of the first and second seasons. But my valiant, ill-fated rebellion is currently biting me in the ass, since every new episode contains frequent allusions to the mountain of crap that I missed.
As a result, I've been forced to text and call "Lost" savants during commercials. Indeed, when my confusion overwhelms me, I've resorted to interrupting with my inquiries mid-scene. (Who is that? How the hell do they know each other? Where did he get those chopsticks? Is that a nipple?) This has made me unpopular.
My weakness for "Lost" notwithstanding, I tend to stay away from fictional TV dramas. Comedies are fine -- if you've got me laughing I'm all yours. I'll even allow myself to be jerked around by literary giants such as, say, a Vonnegut, or a Hemingway. No shame in bending to their will.
But there's something I find distasteful about allowing myself to be played like a marionette by hack TV writers angling for a tear, a sob, and, when their manipulation comes full-circle, a contented sigh of relief at the resolution of some artificial dilemma. This aversion has possibly prevented me from enjoying what, by most accounts, might be some entertaining shit -- "24" and "Law & Order" come immediately to mind.
The problem is that I can't shake the following image: a geek-squad of bespectacled wannabe Hollywood screenwriters gathering around a conference table, chewing on pencils and brainstorming the plot twists most likely to provoke oohs and aahs from their gullible, malleable audience. Call me a curmudgeon, but I don't want to be those douchebags' Play-Doh.
This compulsion of mine to peer past the fourth wall predictably seeps into my attitude towards movies. I don't really know anyone else who does this, but while I rarely make it out to a theater, I never miss a major film's reviews. It makes sense: movie critics, a notoriously skeptical lot, consistently affirm my own skepticism. More often than not, a review (at least the good ones) can be summed up as follows: "Did these assholes really expect us to swallow that crock of shit?" Indeed -- I believe they did.
I talk a big game, though, because as I type this entry I'm sporting a half-woody in anticipation of tonight's new "Lost" episode. These freakin' egghead writers have definitely got me dancing on a string, and are most likely getting a kick out of hiding the ball from clueless, salivating puppets like me. How the hell did the old dude's dad end up on the island? And is he finally going to kick his pop's ass for ganking his kidney? And won't that doctor guy also want to open up a can of whoop-ass now that the submarine went kaput? And how long must we wait before the hot chick poses for Playboy?
Answers to all these questions, and more, on tonight's episode of "Lost."
Maybe.
Eh, probably not.
As a result, I've been forced to text and call "Lost" savants during commercials. Indeed, when my confusion overwhelms me, I've resorted to interrupting with my inquiries mid-scene. (Who is that? How the hell do they know each other? Where did he get those chopsticks? Is that a nipple?) This has made me unpopular.
My weakness for "Lost" notwithstanding, I tend to stay away from fictional TV dramas. Comedies are fine -- if you've got me laughing I'm all yours. I'll even allow myself to be jerked around by literary giants such as, say, a Vonnegut, or a Hemingway. No shame in bending to their will.
But there's something I find distasteful about allowing myself to be played like a marionette by hack TV writers angling for a tear, a sob, and, when their manipulation comes full-circle, a contented sigh of relief at the resolution of some artificial dilemma. This aversion has possibly prevented me from enjoying what, by most accounts, might be some entertaining shit -- "24" and "Law & Order" come immediately to mind.
The problem is that I can't shake the following image: a geek-squad of bespectacled wannabe Hollywood screenwriters gathering around a conference table, chewing on pencils and brainstorming the plot twists most likely to provoke oohs and aahs from their gullible, malleable audience. Call me a curmudgeon, but I don't want to be those douchebags' Play-Doh.
This compulsion of mine to peer past the fourth wall predictably seeps into my attitude towards movies. I don't really know anyone else who does this, but while I rarely make it out to a theater, I never miss a major film's reviews. It makes sense: movie critics, a notoriously skeptical lot, consistently affirm my own skepticism. More often than not, a review (at least the good ones) can be summed up as follows: "Did these assholes really expect us to swallow that crock of shit?" Indeed -- I believe they did.
I talk a big game, though, because as I type this entry I'm sporting a half-woody in anticipation of tonight's new "Lost" episode. These freakin' egghead writers have definitely got me dancing on a string, and are most likely getting a kick out of hiding the ball from clueless, salivating puppets like me. How the hell did the old dude's dad end up on the island? And is he finally going to kick his pop's ass for ganking his kidney? And won't that doctor guy also want to open up a can of whoop-ass now that the submarine went kaput? And how long must we wait before the hot chick poses for Playboy?
Answers to all these questions, and more, on tonight's episode of "Lost."
Maybe.
Eh, probably not.
Monday, March 26, 2007
I HAVE to draw you....
Yes, I'm 30 and watch "The Hills." No, I'm not proud of it. Nevertheless....
Is it me or is there an uncanny resemblance here? Either way, someone needs to slather some petroleum jelly on this douchebag's choppers.
Is it me or is there an uncanny resemblance here? Either way, someone needs to slather some petroleum jelly on this douchebag's choppers.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
"People -- they're the worst."
I tend not to give people the benefit of the doubt. Stated generally, my opinion is that humanity sucks. This may strike some as a tad judgmental, but then again I don't spare myself from that blanket put-down -- in more than one aspect, I consider myself quite a lousy specimen of life in this universe. (That said, in perhaps an equal if not greater number of aspects, I'm more or less at the top of the heap.)
Anyway, in spite of my cynicism, I occasionally stumble upon something that seems to fly in the face of my inherent people-are-the-worst biases. Less frequently, this "something" goes so far as to shatter my previously-held bias. A recent observation at the gym provides a good example of the former, but falls short of the rock-solid evidence required for the latter:
A couple of weeks ago I started using an iPod, like pretty much everyone and their great-grandmothers have been doing for over a half-decade by now. Admittedly, I'm coming into the MP3 game quite late. What's more, my long-overdue tech-upgrade comes on the strength of a hand-me-down from my buddy's girlfriend. Finally, to make what's already lame considerably lamer, my "new" equipment happens to be an iPod Mini, a model that in terms of scale is to the current generation of iPods what Zach Morris's dad's circa-1990 cell phone is to the Motorola Razr. Fuck it: the thing works, it's not pink, and it was free, which is good enough for me.
So far, I use my iPod only at the gym. I don't know how you'd fare under similar circumstances, but I find it difficult to get my exercise juices flowing to a medley consisting of such disparate genres as, say, Bob Seger/Jessica Simpson/[insert hip-hop "band" du jour]. But because the powers-that-be at my gym insist on pandering to such a wide swath of musical tastes, it's either (a) pump iron to a soundtrack of similarly incoherent hit lists or (b) slap on an iPod.
Anyway, when you work out with earphones, of course, you're going to have some sweat-induced problems keeping the damn things in your ear. It's a pain in the swamp-ass.
Which brings me to my point: for a long time, I thought the only explanation for the guys who wear skull caps while working out was that they were huge douchebags. Wearing a skull cap at the gym struck me as the equivalent of wearing socks in a pool -- unnecessary, retarded, infuriating. But ever since I've started to wear an iPod at the gym, I've been wondering to myself whether the explanation for the skull caps is not unapologetic douchebaggery but, rather, perchance, their practicality in serving as earphone anchors.
Again, mere speculation isn't sufficient for me to lay my douchebag suspicions permanently to rest. But the next time I see a skull-cap-lifter, I won't so hastily assume that I'm looking at a douchebag -- it could simply be that I'm looking at a dude with a solid idea. (Who, for a variety of other reasons, is probably a douchebag anyway.)
P.S. Death to people who reek of B.O. at the gym.
Anyway, in spite of my cynicism, I occasionally stumble upon something that seems to fly in the face of my inherent people-are-the-worst biases. Less frequently, this "something" goes so far as to shatter my previously-held bias. A recent observation at the gym provides a good example of the former, but falls short of the rock-solid evidence required for the latter:
A couple of weeks ago I started using an iPod, like pretty much everyone and their great-grandmothers have been doing for over a half-decade by now. Admittedly, I'm coming into the MP3 game quite late. What's more, my long-overdue tech-upgrade comes on the strength of a hand-me-down from my buddy's girlfriend. Finally, to make what's already lame considerably lamer, my "new" equipment happens to be an iPod Mini, a model that in terms of scale is to the current generation of iPods what Zach Morris's dad's circa-1990 cell phone is to the Motorola Razr. Fuck it: the thing works, it's not pink, and it was free, which is good enough for me.
So far, I use my iPod only at the gym. I don't know how you'd fare under similar circumstances, but I find it difficult to get my exercise juices flowing to a medley consisting of such disparate genres as, say, Bob Seger/Jessica Simpson/[insert hip-hop "band" du jour]. But because the powers-that-be at my gym insist on pandering to such a wide swath of musical tastes, it's either (a) pump iron to a soundtrack of similarly incoherent hit lists or (b) slap on an iPod.
Anyway, when you work out with earphones, of course, you're going to have some sweat-induced problems keeping the damn things in your ear. It's a pain in the swamp-ass.
Which brings me to my point: for a long time, I thought the only explanation for the guys who wear skull caps while working out was that they were huge douchebags. Wearing a skull cap at the gym struck me as the equivalent of wearing socks in a pool -- unnecessary, retarded, infuriating. But ever since I've started to wear an iPod at the gym, I've been wondering to myself whether the explanation for the skull caps is not unapologetic douchebaggery but, rather, perchance, their practicality in serving as earphone anchors.
Again, mere speculation isn't sufficient for me to lay my douchebag suspicions permanently to rest. But the next time I see a skull-cap-lifter, I won't so hastily assume that I'm looking at a douchebag -- it could simply be that I'm looking at a dude with a solid idea. (Who, for a variety of other reasons, is probably a douchebag anyway.)
P.S. Death to people who reek of B.O. at the gym.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
FYI
I'm convinced that if necessary I could elude capture by your average police officer on foot. I wish there were a way to test this hypothesis that didn't require my (1) giving a cop probable cause to detain me and (2) fleeing.
Also, I don't know what frustrates me more: the people who scoff at the idea of my outrunning a cop or those who display utter indifference. Probably the people who don't care. It's not that I expect them to have ever given it even a moment of thought prior to my bringing it up. It's just that once I do make that claim, it seems to me that they should at the very least proffer an opinion.
Maybe I'll hold up a doughnut shop and put this matter to rest.
Also, I don't know what frustrates me more: the people who scoff at the idea of my outrunning a cop or those who display utter indifference. Probably the people who don't care. It's not that I expect them to have ever given it even a moment of thought prior to my bringing it up. It's just that once I do make that claim, it seems to me that they should at the very least proffer an opinion.
Maybe I'll hold up a doughnut shop and put this matter to rest.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thy Breath Stinketh
It boggles my mind to imagine what it must've been like to live with and around constant bad breath, as people must have for the many centuries before toothpaste emerged as the essential product for oral hygiene. What the deuce did people do to freshen their breath?
Call me obsessive-compulsive, but I spend a minimum of three to four minutes brushing my teeth and tongue in the morning, with the assistance of a chemical paste refined by scientists over the last few decades so as to mercilessly obliterate the putrid microbes that multiply overnight in the dankness our mouths. Even so, I always put down my toothbrush reluctantly, wondering how much more I could've done to rid myself of lingering foul odors.
Now, at various points throughout the history of human civilization, different societies the world-over must've come up with concoctions intended to lessen the pungency of breath. But bad breath is a powerful foe. If I sometimes feel that my efforts are lacking, even though I come equipped to battle with 21st century firepower, how can our forebears have done an adequate job? At best, they stepped into the fray armed with a wooden mug of warm salt water spiked with some mint leaves. Good luck with that.
I guess the sad truth is that with every passing day of their lives, the breath of these poor souls grew progressively worse and worse. Result? They likely led a miserable, furry-toothed existence entrapped within a thick, oppressive, and inconceivably nauseating fog of chronic halitosis.
It's therefore a wonder that we survived as a species: for most of our history it was inevitable that every sexual encounter require the awkward evasive maneuvers we modern humans perform only during instances of pre-brush morning sex. I know that I, for one, would be discouraged from releasing my genetic material under such funktified conditions.
Now -- thou wilt fetch me some Crest.
Call me obsessive-compulsive, but I spend a minimum of three to four minutes brushing my teeth and tongue in the morning, with the assistance of a chemical paste refined by scientists over the last few decades so as to mercilessly obliterate the putrid microbes that multiply overnight in the dankness our mouths. Even so, I always put down my toothbrush reluctantly, wondering how much more I could've done to rid myself of lingering foul odors.
Now, at various points throughout the history of human civilization, different societies the world-over must've come up with concoctions intended to lessen the pungency of breath. But bad breath is a powerful foe. If I sometimes feel that my efforts are lacking, even though I come equipped to battle with 21st century firepower, how can our forebears have done an adequate job? At best, they stepped into the fray armed with a wooden mug of warm salt water spiked with some mint leaves. Good luck with that.
I guess the sad truth is that with every passing day of their lives, the breath of these poor souls grew progressively worse and worse. Result? They likely led a miserable, furry-toothed existence entrapped within a thick, oppressive, and inconceivably nauseating fog of chronic halitosis.
It's therefore a wonder that we survived as a species: for most of our history it was inevitable that every sexual encounter require the awkward evasive maneuvers we modern humans perform only during instances of pre-brush morning sex. I know that I, for one, would be discouraged from releasing my genetic material under such funktified conditions.
Now -- thou wilt fetch me some Crest.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Monsieur Boner
Somewhere along the line, I picked up this marginally amusing factette: Kirk Cameron's parents used to vet "Growing Pains" scripts to make sure none of the episodes veered too far astray of their Bible-thumping moral code. I can't remember if I read this morsel of "information" or saw it on TV, but, whatever the case, I'm certain I'd be embarrassed to reveal my original source.
Anyway, here's what I don't understand: if Kirky-poo's parents had veto-power over "Growing Pains" scripts, why the hell didn't they flex their Jesus-muscle when the writers decided to name one of Mike Seaver's best friends "Boner"? Does it get any cruder than that? Would they have remained similarly mum if the writers had given Carol a friend named "Cum"? Maybe they would've drawn the line at Ben's having a play-buddy named "Clitothy McG-Spot." The thing is, if "Boner" was perfectly kosher, what could possibly have provoked objection?
The Cameron clan's selective moral laxity aside, I've often wondered how it was that a prime-time family sitcom on one of the Big Three networks got the green light to name a dude after an erection. By that point in the evolution of American slang, I'm pretty damn sure that the word "boner" had taken on the unambiguous meaning of a penis at full-staff. Along with "woody" and "hard-on", "boner" is one of the only colloquial terms I can remember using to describe an erection. Indeed, at the time the show aired, I'd have to say "boner" was (and probably still is) THE word of choice among elementary and middle school aged kids for that particular engorged state of male sexual arousal. It's just not possible that the "Growing Pains" writers were oblivious to this.
Maybe they got stoned the night they were including Boner's character in an episode for the first time and slap-happily conspired to slip one past the out-of-touch, old-geezer network censors, who perhaps weren't familiar with how the "kids" of the day were referring to stiffened sex organs. If so, good form.
Rock on, Boner....
Anyway, here's what I don't understand: if Kirky-poo's parents had veto-power over "Growing Pains" scripts, why the hell didn't they flex their Jesus-muscle when the writers decided to name one of Mike Seaver's best friends "Boner"? Does it get any cruder than that? Would they have remained similarly mum if the writers had given Carol a friend named "Cum"? Maybe they would've drawn the line at Ben's having a play-buddy named "Clitothy McG-Spot." The thing is, if "Boner" was perfectly kosher, what could possibly have provoked objection?
The Cameron clan's selective moral laxity aside, I've often wondered how it was that a prime-time family sitcom on one of the Big Three networks got the green light to name a dude after an erection. By that point in the evolution of American slang, I'm pretty damn sure that the word "boner" had taken on the unambiguous meaning of a penis at full-staff. Along with "woody" and "hard-on", "boner" is one of the only colloquial terms I can remember using to describe an erection. Indeed, at the time the show aired, I'd have to say "boner" was (and probably still is) THE word of choice among elementary and middle school aged kids for that particular engorged state of male sexual arousal. It's just not possible that the "Growing Pains" writers were oblivious to this.
Maybe they got stoned the night they were including Boner's character in an episode for the first time and slap-happily conspired to slip one past the out-of-touch, old-geezer network censors, who perhaps weren't familiar with how the "kids" of the day were referring to stiffened sex organs. If so, good form.
Rock on, Boner....
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Touche, Sack
I read an article about a recent roundtable held at Cardozo Law School, where federal judges and law professors discussed the vertiginous drop over the last few decades of citations to law review articles in published federal court decisions. This quote really floated my boat:
Even when courts do cite law review articles, Judge Robert D. Sack said at Cardozo, their motives are not always pure. "Judges use them like drunks use lampposts," Judge Sack said, "more for support than for illumination."
Nice one, Sack.
Even when courts do cite law review articles, Judge Robert D. Sack said at Cardozo, their motives are not always pure. "Judges use them like drunks use lampposts," Judge Sack said, "more for support than for illumination."
Nice one, Sack.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Grave, Mustardly Sins
Are blogs supposed to be about something? Or should I come on here and type away as if this were the internet equivalent of a Hello Kitty diary? I ask because I doubt this blog of mine will ever have a unifying theme, and it's provoking a tinge of self-consciousness.
There's a tension here: I'm self-absorbed enough to think my thoughts are sufficiently worthwhile to put into writing, but I'm not quite narcissistic enough to publicize the fact that I created this site to my friends or acquaintances (my two biggest fans aside). I'm typing, but why should anyone be reading?
The question is whether anyone really has the time to read this, when there are so many alternative, more credible sources for entertainment in our media-saturated world. I mean, why would anyone, let alone complete strangers, give a rat's-ass about the arbitrarily-filtered opinions of an anonymous, obsessive mind? Is there any point in my ranting on and on about, for example:
Fuckin' restaurants that serve hamburgers in this country should be required by law to carry yellow mustard. I recently lived in a city with a popular pedestrian mall featuring an abundance of restaurants, many of which offered hamburgers on their menus. Due to the subtropical climate (and certainly not to the quality of their product), these places were almost always overflowing with either locals or tourists, who visited virtually year-round. Therefore, none of the owners had any excuse to be ignorant of how we Americans eat our hamburgers.
Now, as podunk as it may be, the hamburger is a staple -- perhaps, THE staple -- of "American cuisine." Indeed, it's been said (by me) that the burger is the Communion wafer of our culinary religion, as it were. That is to say, the hamburger is practically sacred, and, as such, there are certain customs surrounding hamburger consumption that we should adhere to, respect -- obey, even. One of these customs is making yellow mustard available to the consumer.
Not too long after I moved to this city, I went to one of the better-regarded restaurants on the strip. It had an interesting motif: diner-esque food, all gussied up. (Quite appropriate for the pretentious pricks who infested the area.) Naturally, they served burgers. I ordered one.
When the food came, I saw that on my plate were placed two small, thimble-like containers for my condiments. (Yeah -- that kind of place.) "OK, fair enough," I thought. "So these douchebags fancy themselves as too good for plastic squeeze bottles -- whatever. A condiment's a condiment."
Whoa there, Nelly -- not so fast: a condiment isn't always a condiment. The ketchup was apparently standard, old-fashioned Heinz 57. Fine. But the mustard? Dijon. No, no -- unacceptable. I had ordered a burger, not a baguette.
I called over the waiter and requested yellow mustard. He shot me an incredulous look, as if I had shown up at The Four Seasons and requested a room with a vibrating bed. His expression told me everything I needed to know: there wasn't a single drop of yellow mustard in the house. Yet I was so flabbergasted that I had to let my indignation be known. Grey freakin' Poupon for a hamburger? Uh-uh.
My dinner companion cringed as I engaged in a subtly condescending exchange with our waiter. (Eh -- maybe not so subtle.) Even though I knew he hated me more than I hated him, I clung to the delusional hope that a customer-is-always-right ethic would prevail, and he would do what needed to be done to procure the desired condiment. But, in the end, it was me who had to jog a half-mile down the promenade to Johnny Rocket's so I could dollop a napkin with a healthy glob of basic, down-home yellow mustard. (At the time, I believed I'd emerged the victor in that battle. Looking back on it, I guess it was our fruitcake waiter who was pointing and laughing. However, I recently heard that this particular snobatorium is closing shop -- poetic justice?)
As it happens, shortly after this incident I ran into the same issue at another of the less pompous restaurants on the strip. I resigned myself to a fate of living somewhere where the community didn't frown upon this highest form of culinary sacrilege.
I guess the point is that whoever opens a restaurant, serves hamburgers, and doesn't stock yellow mustard is a Communist.
Well, now you've got an idea of the kind of drivel you can expect to find here if you come back. If you don't return, I don't give a shit -- I like this, and I'm going to keep writing.
There's a tension here: I'm self-absorbed enough to think my thoughts are sufficiently worthwhile to put into writing, but I'm not quite narcissistic enough to publicize the fact that I created this site to my friends or acquaintances (my two biggest fans aside). I'm typing, but why should anyone be reading?
The question is whether anyone really has the time to read this, when there are so many alternative, more credible sources for entertainment in our media-saturated world. I mean, why would anyone, let alone complete strangers, give a rat's-ass about the arbitrarily-filtered opinions of an anonymous, obsessive mind? Is there any point in my ranting on and on about, for example:
Fuckin' restaurants that serve hamburgers in this country should be required by law to carry yellow mustard. I recently lived in a city with a popular pedestrian mall featuring an abundance of restaurants, many of which offered hamburgers on their menus. Due to the subtropical climate (and certainly not to the quality of their product), these places were almost always overflowing with either locals or tourists, who visited virtually year-round. Therefore, none of the owners had any excuse to be ignorant of how we Americans eat our hamburgers.
Now, as podunk as it may be, the hamburger is a staple -- perhaps, THE staple -- of "American cuisine." Indeed, it's been said (by me) that the burger is the Communion wafer of our culinary religion, as it were. That is to say, the hamburger is practically sacred, and, as such, there are certain customs surrounding hamburger consumption that we should adhere to, respect -- obey, even. One of these customs is making yellow mustard available to the consumer.
Not too long after I moved to this city, I went to one of the better-regarded restaurants on the strip. It had an interesting motif: diner-esque food, all gussied up. (Quite appropriate for the pretentious pricks who infested the area.) Naturally, they served burgers. I ordered one.
When the food came, I saw that on my plate were placed two small, thimble-like containers for my condiments. (Yeah -- that kind of place.) "OK, fair enough," I thought. "So these douchebags fancy themselves as too good for plastic squeeze bottles -- whatever. A condiment's a condiment."
Whoa there, Nelly -- not so fast: a condiment isn't always a condiment. The ketchup was apparently standard, old-fashioned Heinz 57. Fine. But the mustard? Dijon. No, no -- unacceptable. I had ordered a burger, not a baguette.
I called over the waiter and requested yellow mustard. He shot me an incredulous look, as if I had shown up at The Four Seasons and requested a room with a vibrating bed. His expression told me everything I needed to know: there wasn't a single drop of yellow mustard in the house. Yet I was so flabbergasted that I had to let my indignation be known. Grey freakin' Poupon for a hamburger? Uh-uh.
My dinner companion cringed as I engaged in a subtly condescending exchange with our waiter. (Eh -- maybe not so subtle.) Even though I knew he hated me more than I hated him, I clung to the delusional hope that a customer-is-always-right ethic would prevail, and he would do what needed to be done to procure the desired condiment. But, in the end, it was me who had to jog a half-mile down the promenade to Johnny Rocket's so I could dollop a napkin with a healthy glob of basic, down-home yellow mustard. (At the time, I believed I'd emerged the victor in that battle. Looking back on it, I guess it was our fruitcake waiter who was pointing and laughing. However, I recently heard that this particular snobatorium is closing shop -- poetic justice?)
As it happens, shortly after this incident I ran into the same issue at another of the less pompous restaurants on the strip. I resigned myself to a fate of living somewhere where the community didn't frown upon this highest form of culinary sacrilege.
I guess the point is that whoever opens a restaurant, serves hamburgers, and doesn't stock yellow mustard is a Communist.
Well, now you've got an idea of the kind of drivel you can expect to find here if you come back. If you don't return, I don't give a shit -- I like this, and I'm going to keep writing.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Listen Up
That means all of you. Every last one.
By popular, persistent, rather annoying request, I've changed this blog's URL to http://steaksaucecarrotsauce.blogspot.com/, from the short-lived http://hijuelagranputa.blogspot.com. I must concede that it's actually a better idea for a URL, notwithstanding the fact that the nagging I endured was similar to having a pack of mice gnawing at my plantar warts. Here's why:
First, having a URL identical to the title of my blog is more convenient for reasons obvious to anyone who is capable of having read this far. (If you had any difficulties processing anything prior to the preceding period, any difficulties whatsoever, just pack it in and please don't ever come back to this site, as you clearly blow. Or maybe you're just too young. Whatever the case, go away.)
Second, although "hijuelagranputa" is a favored exclamation of mine, it's not going to stick in the subconscious of the average non-native Spanish-speaker. The only reason I created this blog was for people to read it, so giving it a confusing name would've been a first step in the wrong direction. I suppose I could've gone with the literal English equivalent -- http://sonoftheoutstandinglytalentedadmiredandrespectedprostitute.blogspot.com -- but, eh, I decided against it.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, "steak sauce carrot sauce" brings to my mind warm and fuzzy memories of a time in my life when I was oblivious to the bone-crushing, soul-sapping realities that life eventually serves up to you like so many plates of shit in a filthy, backwoods diner. Ah, if only life could be all "steak sauce carrot sauce", all the time, we'd all live in the trees and chirp like sparrows. Short of that pie-in-the-sky fantasy, I'll settle for making "steak sauce carrot sauce" the only phrase you'll ever have to remember when you get the inevitable urge to access the meandering musings of my decrepit mind.
So, to those members of my spellbound audience who persuaded me to make this change, thank you, and eat a bowl of dick.
By popular, persistent, rather annoying request, I've changed this blog's URL to http://steaksaucecarrotsauce.blogspot.com/, from the short-lived http://hijuelagranputa.blogspot.com. I must concede that it's actually a better idea for a URL, notwithstanding the fact that the nagging I endured was similar to having a pack of mice gnawing at my plantar warts. Here's why:
First, having a URL identical to the title of my blog is more convenient for reasons obvious to anyone who is capable of having read this far. (If you had any difficulties processing anything prior to the preceding period, any difficulties whatsoever, just pack it in and please don't ever come back to this site, as you clearly blow. Or maybe you're just too young. Whatever the case, go away.)
Second, although "hijuelagranputa" is a favored exclamation of mine, it's not going to stick in the subconscious of the average non-native Spanish-speaker. The only reason I created this blog was for people to read it, so giving it a confusing name would've been a first step in the wrong direction. I suppose I could've gone with the literal English equivalent -- http://sonoftheoutstandinglytalentedadmiredandrespectedprostitute.blogspot.com -- but, eh, I decided against it.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, "steak sauce carrot sauce" brings to my mind warm and fuzzy memories of a time in my life when I was oblivious to the bone-crushing, soul-sapping realities that life eventually serves up to you like so many plates of shit in a filthy, backwoods diner. Ah, if only life could be all "steak sauce carrot sauce", all the time, we'd all live in the trees and chirp like sparrows. Short of that pie-in-the-sky fantasy, I'll settle for making "steak sauce carrot sauce" the only phrase you'll ever have to remember when you get the inevitable urge to access the meandering musings of my decrepit mind.
So, to those members of my spellbound audience who persuaded me to make this change, thank you, and eat a bowl of dick.
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