Nothing that they can prove beyond a reasonable doubt anyway. I’m back. Tanya and I had a great time up in Cambria, but now the vacation is over and it’s time for me to get back to doing absolutely nothing.
Thus, this post. Vacations always make me lazy, more so than usual. So, of course I have no vacation photos to share with you at this time. Maybe I’ll post some tomorrow. In the mean time, I’ll just share some recollections about the trip. Kind of like a slide show…without slides. All the excitement with none of the interest.
It rained like hell on the way up to Cambria. Luckily, that was the only rain we saw. The rest of the trip was drier than a Noel Coward play. And very sunny. While in Cambria we decided to take a visit to the Hearst Castle. Actually, it’s the other way around, but I don’t want to seem like a Hearst Castle geek. I would much rather like to seem like a small town antiquing geek.
And a Noel Coward geek.
The Hearst Castle was nice as always. It says “hi.” We went on a couple tours. They were nice. They say “hi.” We went to the beach. It was also nice. It says “eat crap and die.”
The beach doesn’t like you very much. Sorry.
After hanging out in a quite nice motel room for a couple days watching cable television, rising from the couch occasionally to tour an old house, walk on the beach or go eat something, we headed back home.
Since it was raining on the way up to Cambria, we had to forgo our side trip to Solvang. It’s a little Dutch-type town in the heart of wine country. We did however get to eat at a McDonalds in Buellton (no we didn’t get the damned split pea soup! Only in nowhere California can split pea soup become a tourist trap.).
Everyone said, “oh, you have to stop in Solvang…it’s charming.” Well, Solvang wasn’t charming. It was crowded. That’s the down-side of nice weather. It brings out everyone under 10 and over 60. But I could see how it might be charming if it weren’t so damned packed with lookie-loos.
But here’s how stupid I am. As if you needed more proof. We’re driving around Buellton and Solvang and I’m thinking “didn’t they shoot Sideways around here somewhere?” Then I saw the Hitching Post II and I thought to myself, “they had a Hitching Post II in Sideways…” Then I saw a Days Inn with a big windmill attached to it and finally put it together, “hey, they might have shot Sideways here!”
Well, they did shoot Sideways there. The Sideways Wine Tours should have given it away. But I’m not very bright. In fact, I only know that they shot the movie there now because they did a little article on it in Westways which I read when we got back.
I really liked Sideways, but evidently, so did the throngs of geriatrics that dampened my visit to a Dutch-themed tourist trap. Movies are ruining the world. But wine-snobbery probably saved me a couple bucks the other day when I refused to get out of my car and set foot into one single Solvang antique shop.
But I’m back here in the reality of Los Angeles. I can finally get a break from all those movie tourists.
Fun Fact: My rub with Oscar greatness isn’t limited to Living in LA or driving through wine country. Last year I was cast in a play. In the play with me was a guy named Matt. His dad had a nice big house, and was out of town, so we held rehearsals at his place. Turns out that Matt’s dad was out of town because he was in Louisiana producing Ray.
So I got to hang out at the house of a man who was nominated for a Best Picture Oscar last night.
And he has no idea.
Matt was also in the movie, but he wasn’t nominated for anything. Too bad they don’t have a “best fake slide guitar playing” category. He would have been a shoe-in.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Monday, February 21, 2005
It’s President’s Day
Yes, it is. It’s also Sam Peckinpah and Kelsey Grammer’s birthday.
There you go. That’s the news of the morning. Well, that and the fact that I’m not going to be updating this blog all week. Tanya and I are heading to California’s central coast for a few days. To see what the rain’s like there.
Sure, it’s not the best time to vacation in California. But I don’t see how the weather in Cambria could possibly any worse than the weather here in L.A. They just issued a tornado warning. Floods, earthquakes, mudslides, sinkholes, tornadoes, Paris Hilton and conspicuous classicism; there’s nothing like southern California.
I’ll see you all in a week or so. I hope you like the cartoon from Friday, ‘cause you’re going to be seeing it for a while. Please feel free to check out the TAM Cartoon archives while I’m out and the blog archives as well (better writing from a more careful time).
See you later. Wish us luck dodging rockslides on the PCH.
Fun Fact: California’s state song is “I Love You, California.”
There you go. That’s the news of the morning. Well, that and the fact that I’m not going to be updating this blog all week. Tanya and I are heading to California’s central coast for a few days. To see what the rain’s like there.
Sure, it’s not the best time to vacation in California. But I don’t see how the weather in Cambria could possibly any worse than the weather here in L.A. They just issued a tornado warning. Floods, earthquakes, mudslides, sinkholes, tornadoes, Paris Hilton and conspicuous classicism; there’s nothing like southern California.
I’ll see you all in a week or so. I hope you like the cartoon from Friday, ‘cause you’re going to be seeing it for a while. Please feel free to check out the TAM Cartoon archives while I’m out and the blog archives as well (better writing from a more careful time).
See you later. Wish us luck dodging rockslides on the PCH.
Fun Fact: California’s state song is “I Love You, California.”
Friday, February 18, 2005
I’m Not Confounding…I Just Draw That Way
The new TAM Cartoon is up!
I finished inking it when I realized something…it has the great potential to be a little confusing. That’s part of the problem with conceiving a cartoon 15 minutes before you draw and ink it. So, I thought that I would lend a hand to the old cartoon this morning and guide you through it frame by frame.
The first frame. Aptly titled, “TAM 97: The First Frame.”
Here our heroes sit. In TAM 96, they decided to come to couples counseling to help them cope with their jealousy issues. As you know, “the girlfriend” has been spending a lot of time recently with a bottle of bleach (and “the boyfriend’s” best friend) named Mr. Gnomerton. In earlier strips we learn that the Boyfriend (TAM) picked up an obsession with pinewood derby racing and building pinewood derby racers, leaving the Girlfriend all alone and in dire need of friendly companionship since, evidently, neither of them have any “real life” friends besides each other.
However, now, it seems that the Boyfriend’s given up on pinewood derby racing. Why? Because it just wasn’t all that interesting after all.
But back to the panel. They’re sitting in the “Dr’s” office awaiting their first counseling session. Another couple emerges from the office, and since it’s implied that our heroes are the next in line for head shrinking, they prepare to meet “Dr.” Freis, Jr. and get down to some serious healing.
They’re understandably nervous. Seeing a counselor can be a little intimidating after all. Besides, the couple who had the session before them doesn’t look too happy to be there.
The other couple’s names are Jake and Carlotta. Jake bounces around from job to job which makes Carlotta accuse him of being shiftless and lazy. But in reality, Jake’s childhood dream is to write pulp detective novels. Tragically, he can’t disclose this to Carlotta because of a promise he made to Carlotta’s father on his deathbed. “No daughter of mine will ever marry a lazy writer” her father said. So Jake just leaps from used car lot to used car lot, constantly being laid off because of his inability to meet sales quotas. But he knows deep in his heart that he’s no salesman. He’s a writer!
Carlotta has worked at the law firm of Case and Brown for the last 10 years. She got the job right out of high school, which, incidentally, is when she met Jake. The two fell in love quickly. But Jakes seeming ineptness for work has caused Carlotta to have to turn the summer job she got at 18 into a career. Giving up on her lifelong dream of becoming a reoccurring character in a pulp detective novel. A dream that tragically she can’t relate to Jake because of a promise she made to his mother on her deathbed. “No daughter-in-law of mine will ever be the basis for the character of a noirish vamp” his mother said. She’ll just have to file and file for the rest of eternity she figures. Longing for the day when she gets to figuratively strut through a door with a swagger that would make a monk blush and legs that go all the way to the floor.
So, now Jake and Carlotta are here in “Dr.” Freis’s office. And it’s not looking good for them. Maybe they can someday find the happiness and symbiosis that eludes them. But for now, they’ll slowly erode each other’s joy with quite loathing.
That brings us to panel 2. Titled “TAM 97: The Second Frame.”
Here’s where it gets confusing. I should really have turned this into a 4 panel cartoon. See, since frame 1, Carlotta has cleared the frame, stage left leaving behind a skulking Jake. The Girlfriend has entered “Dr.” Freis’s office and awaits the Boyfriend’s entrance so they can get to the session. The session about which the Boyfriend voiced his concern of the monetary cost in the previous strip.
The Boyfriend is also visibly nervous about the whole ordeal. He secretly feels that counseling is a “chick thing.” But, deep down, he also knows better.
Before he can enter the office, he has a brief, silent moment with Jake who is reluctant to join his wife. The Boyfriend can see that Jake is damaged, and consequently, is quietly questioning the benefits of this counseling session. Nonetheless, he’s made a commitment to his Girlfriend and he’ll see it through…for her.
Now we come to the next frame. Titled “Still Life with Shame and Vase.”
Again, the cartoon takes a confusing turn. Maybe I should have made it a 5 panel strip? I couldn’t do that. It requires a lot of small drawing and I have enough trouble drawing big.
What has happened between the 2nd and 3rd panels is that the Boyfriend and Girlfriend have started their counseling session with Jr. But about 2 minutes into the session, after the explanation about the jealousy and who the heck Mr. Gnomerton is, “Dr.” Freis began to laugh hysterically at them. Hurting their feelings and making them feel small.
To be fair here, “Dr.” Freis is a solemn man and always highly professional, but it just so happens that today is his 60th birthday. Every year on his birthday, Freis’s colleagues zing him with a practical joke. And this being his 60th, he was preparing himself for one doozy of a goof.
Unfortunately, that was the day that this hapless couple decided to receive professional help. Their mildly insane problem, coupled with “Dr.” Freis’s heightened level of mirth paranoia, left both parties a bit befuddled on this day.
The Girlfriend is left with in confused wonderment as she tries to regroup and not feel like a psychological leper. But the Boyfriend sees an opportunity to recoup his much-needed cash. He knew it was a waste of time. And since he’s got no real sense on equilibrium, as long as he gets his money back, this whole ordeal will be like it never happened.
That’s where the third panel takes up. The couple has been in the office only 5 minutes before they come back out.
I realized that this was confusing, like I said, after I inked the thing. I didn’t want to add a “five minutes later” tag. I haven’t tagged anything so far in the history of the strip. Not really. Besides, I was already taking a gamble by drawing TAM in profile at the end. One more misstep could have been fatal.
I hope that clears things up for you. I hope that I’ve helped to make sense out of a poorly conceived cartoon.
Thanks for your time,
TAM
Fun Fact: Carlotta is pregnant. But she hasn’t told Jake yet. She’s trying to decide whether or not she wants to start a family with lazy Jake or run away to Europe and never let Jake know of his child.
Her suitcase has been secretly packed and stashed under the bed for the last three weeks.
This won’t make any sense if you don’t read the post. Read the post, lazy!
I finished inking it when I realized something…it has the great potential to be a little confusing. That’s part of the problem with conceiving a cartoon 15 minutes before you draw and ink it. So, I thought that I would lend a hand to the old cartoon this morning and guide you through it frame by frame.
The first frame. Aptly titled, “TAM 97: The First Frame.”
Here our heroes sit. In TAM 96, they decided to come to couples counseling to help them cope with their jealousy issues. As you know, “the girlfriend” has been spending a lot of time recently with a bottle of bleach (and “the boyfriend’s” best friend) named Mr. Gnomerton. In earlier strips we learn that the Boyfriend (TAM) picked up an obsession with pinewood derby racing and building pinewood derby racers, leaving the Girlfriend all alone and in dire need of friendly companionship since, evidently, neither of them have any “real life” friends besides each other.
However, now, it seems that the Boyfriend’s given up on pinewood derby racing. Why? Because it just wasn’t all that interesting after all.
But back to the panel. They’re sitting in the “Dr’s” office awaiting their first counseling session. Another couple emerges from the office, and since it’s implied that our heroes are the next in line for head shrinking, they prepare to meet “Dr.” Freis, Jr. and get down to some serious healing.
They’re understandably nervous. Seeing a counselor can be a little intimidating after all. Besides, the couple who had the session before them doesn’t look too happy to be there.
The other couple’s names are Jake and Carlotta. Jake bounces around from job to job which makes Carlotta accuse him of being shiftless and lazy. But in reality, Jake’s childhood dream is to write pulp detective novels. Tragically, he can’t disclose this to Carlotta because of a promise he made to Carlotta’s father on his deathbed. “No daughter of mine will ever marry a lazy writer” her father said. So Jake just leaps from used car lot to used car lot, constantly being laid off because of his inability to meet sales quotas. But he knows deep in his heart that he’s no salesman. He’s a writer!
Carlotta has worked at the law firm of Case and Brown for the last 10 years. She got the job right out of high school, which, incidentally, is when she met Jake. The two fell in love quickly. But Jakes seeming ineptness for work has caused Carlotta to have to turn the summer job she got at 18 into a career. Giving up on her lifelong dream of becoming a reoccurring character in a pulp detective novel. A dream that tragically she can’t relate to Jake because of a promise she made to his mother on her deathbed. “No daughter-in-law of mine will ever be the basis for the character of a noirish vamp” his mother said. She’ll just have to file and file for the rest of eternity she figures. Longing for the day when she gets to figuratively strut through a door with a swagger that would make a monk blush and legs that go all the way to the floor.
So, now Jake and Carlotta are here in “Dr.” Freis’s office. And it’s not looking good for them. Maybe they can someday find the happiness and symbiosis that eludes them. But for now, they’ll slowly erode each other’s joy with quite loathing.
That brings us to panel 2. Titled “TAM 97: The Second Frame.”
Here’s where it gets confusing. I should really have turned this into a 4 panel cartoon. See, since frame 1, Carlotta has cleared the frame, stage left leaving behind a skulking Jake. The Girlfriend has entered “Dr.” Freis’s office and awaits the Boyfriend’s entrance so they can get to the session. The session about which the Boyfriend voiced his concern of the monetary cost in the previous strip.
The Boyfriend is also visibly nervous about the whole ordeal. He secretly feels that counseling is a “chick thing.” But, deep down, he also knows better.
Before he can enter the office, he has a brief, silent moment with Jake who is reluctant to join his wife. The Boyfriend can see that Jake is damaged, and consequently, is quietly questioning the benefits of this counseling session. Nonetheless, he’s made a commitment to his Girlfriend and he’ll see it through…for her.
Now we come to the next frame. Titled “Still Life with Shame and Vase.”
Again, the cartoon takes a confusing turn. Maybe I should have made it a 5 panel strip? I couldn’t do that. It requires a lot of small drawing and I have enough trouble drawing big.
What has happened between the 2nd and 3rd panels is that the Boyfriend and Girlfriend have started their counseling session with Jr. But about 2 minutes into the session, after the explanation about the jealousy and who the heck Mr. Gnomerton is, “Dr.” Freis began to laugh hysterically at them. Hurting their feelings and making them feel small.
To be fair here, “Dr.” Freis is a solemn man and always highly professional, but it just so happens that today is his 60th birthday. Every year on his birthday, Freis’s colleagues zing him with a practical joke. And this being his 60th, he was preparing himself for one doozy of a goof.
Unfortunately, that was the day that this hapless couple decided to receive professional help. Their mildly insane problem, coupled with “Dr.” Freis’s heightened level of mirth paranoia, left both parties a bit befuddled on this day.
The Girlfriend is left with in confused wonderment as she tries to regroup and not feel like a psychological leper. But the Boyfriend sees an opportunity to recoup his much-needed cash. He knew it was a waste of time. And since he’s got no real sense on equilibrium, as long as he gets his money back, this whole ordeal will be like it never happened.
That’s where the third panel takes up. The couple has been in the office only 5 minutes before they come back out.
I realized that this was confusing, like I said, after I inked the thing. I didn’t want to add a “five minutes later” tag. I haven’t tagged anything so far in the history of the strip. Not really. Besides, I was already taking a gamble by drawing TAM in profile at the end. One more misstep could have been fatal.
I hope that clears things up for you. I hope that I’ve helped to make sense out of a poorly conceived cartoon.
Thanks for your time,
TAM
Fun Fact: Carlotta is pregnant. But she hasn’t told Jake yet. She’s trying to decide whether or not she wants to start a family with lazy Jake or run away to Europe and never let Jake know of his child.
Her suitcase has been secretly packed and stashed under the bed for the last three weeks.
This won’t make any sense if you don’t read the post. Read the post, lazy!
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
I Do…For Realsies This Time ~OR~ I ♥ Huckabee
Not even death will us do part, you sniping nag! Thank god for covenant marriages, huh?
The good people of Arkansas have made getting divorced even more of a living hell. Now, Governor of Arkansas Mike Huckabee is pushing a new type of marriage vow. One with less romance and more Johnny Cochran. Arizona and Louisiana are also into turning traditional wedding banns into red tape.
See, it seems that Arkansas has one heck of a high divorce rate. The solution? Make it damned near impossible to get a speedy and painless divorce. A covenant marriage.
On Valentine’s Day, the governor, his wife and about 1,000 other couples, with the gleam of love in their eyes, converted their ordinary, mortal marriages into super-marriages with a ceremony that contractually obligated them to seek counseling and wait for a two year cooling-off period before they could untie the knot.
How romantic!
I just made Tanya a valentine out of cut-out, colored paper. I should have given her power of attorney. That would have been really special. Chicks swoon for power of attorney.
Governor Huckabee is disgruntled with the ease at which people can obtain divorces in this country. He said, “It is easier to get out of a marriage than a contract to buy a used car.”
I would hate to be Mr. Huckabee’s used car dealer.
According to the good Gov, divorce is the main problem in American marriages. A little like saying that death causes cancer. Divorce is the result of a failed marriage, not the cause.
I understand what he’s saying. I do think that people jump into marriage too easily. To say that I’m…cautious…about getting married would be a gross understatement. But I know what getting married means. It means something to me. It’s not some kind of ideal. It’s not an idea. It’s not a gift to an unplanned baby. It’s not a device to be used to gain respect or status or legitimacy. It’s not a contract with god. God isn’t invited to sleep in my bed at night. And I haven’t seen respect and legitimacy in years.
When I get married, it’ll be on my terms. It’ll be a contract between me and my wife. And if something goes wrong with the plan…who knows. That’s my decision too.
Look, I know that no one’s forcing the Arkansas idiots to get covenant marriages. No one directly. And I do think that a good marriage takes a lot of hard work at times.
But a contract? Come on. I need to sign a legally binding piece of paper to say that I’m going to try and keep together a relationship with the woman that I married presumably because I loved her more than anyone on the face of the earth? Hopefully, I would have enough respect for my wife that if the time came that our relationship was on the rocks, I would wouldn’t need the county clerks office to remind me of my wedding vows. I would want to do something to save the marriage.
And if I didn’t want to, then why should my wife have to suffer through two more years of living with a selfish, self-centered asshole? She’s probably already suffered enough.
Yes, but no one’s forcing them to do this!
Sorry, I’m just arguing with myself a little bit.
The thing that really galls me is that this whole covenant marriage business is a response to, not only the divorce rate, but also gay marriages. Seems strange, don’t it? I don’t really know what gay marriages have to do with any of it, but I think that the anti-gay-marriage people are trying to build their defenses a little. If you’re going to preach about the sanctity of marriage you better make sure that yours is a good one. Otherwise, what the hell are you preaching about?! The idea of the sanctity of marriage?
Most of the time, unfortunately, yes.
But couples in Arkansas are trying to remedy that with the help of the government. “Keep your filthy government mitts off my rifle collection…but could you give me a hand with my bitch of a wife?”
Let’s go all the way with this. Two years nothing. We could be more like India and just make it next to impossible to get a divorce.
Setting your spouse on fire is far more spectacular than some stuffy old court proceeding.
Okay, but no one’s forcing them to do this!!!!
It’s still stupid.
Fun Fact: No one forced these people to get covenant marriages!
And I’m feeling a bit schizophrenic today.
The good people of Arkansas have made getting divorced even more of a living hell. Now, Governor of Arkansas Mike Huckabee is pushing a new type of marriage vow. One with less romance and more Johnny Cochran. Arizona and Louisiana are also into turning traditional wedding banns into red tape.
See, it seems that Arkansas has one heck of a high divorce rate. The solution? Make it damned near impossible to get a speedy and painless divorce. A covenant marriage.
On Valentine’s Day, the governor, his wife and about 1,000 other couples, with the gleam of love in their eyes, converted their ordinary, mortal marriages into super-marriages with a ceremony that contractually obligated them to seek counseling and wait for a two year cooling-off period before they could untie the knot.
How romantic!
I just made Tanya a valentine out of cut-out, colored paper. I should have given her power of attorney. That would have been really special. Chicks swoon for power of attorney.
Governor Huckabee is disgruntled with the ease at which people can obtain divorces in this country. He said, “It is easier to get out of a marriage than a contract to buy a used car.”
I would hate to be Mr. Huckabee’s used car dealer.
According to the good Gov, divorce is the main problem in American marriages. A little like saying that death causes cancer. Divorce is the result of a failed marriage, not the cause.
I understand what he’s saying. I do think that people jump into marriage too easily. To say that I’m…cautious…about getting married would be a gross understatement. But I know what getting married means. It means something to me. It’s not some kind of ideal. It’s not an idea. It’s not a gift to an unplanned baby. It’s not a device to be used to gain respect or status or legitimacy. It’s not a contract with god. God isn’t invited to sleep in my bed at night. And I haven’t seen respect and legitimacy in years.
When I get married, it’ll be on my terms. It’ll be a contract between me and my wife. And if something goes wrong with the plan…who knows. That’s my decision too.
Look, I know that no one’s forcing the Arkansas idiots to get covenant marriages. No one directly. And I do think that a good marriage takes a lot of hard work at times.
But a contract? Come on. I need to sign a legally binding piece of paper to say that I’m going to try and keep together a relationship with the woman that I married presumably because I loved her more than anyone on the face of the earth? Hopefully, I would have enough respect for my wife that if the time came that our relationship was on the rocks, I would wouldn’t need the county clerks office to remind me of my wedding vows. I would want to do something to save the marriage.
And if I didn’t want to, then why should my wife have to suffer through two more years of living with a selfish, self-centered asshole? She’s probably already suffered enough.
Yes, but no one’s forcing them to do this!
Sorry, I’m just arguing with myself a little bit.
The thing that really galls me is that this whole covenant marriage business is a response to, not only the divorce rate, but also gay marriages. Seems strange, don’t it? I don’t really know what gay marriages have to do with any of it, but I think that the anti-gay-marriage people are trying to build their defenses a little. If you’re going to preach about the sanctity of marriage you better make sure that yours is a good one. Otherwise, what the hell are you preaching about?! The idea of the sanctity of marriage?
Most of the time, unfortunately, yes.
But couples in Arkansas are trying to remedy that with the help of the government. “Keep your filthy government mitts off my rifle collection…but could you give me a hand with my bitch of a wife?”
Let’s go all the way with this. Two years nothing. We could be more like India and just make it next to impossible to get a divorce.
Setting your spouse on fire is far more spectacular than some stuffy old court proceeding.
Okay, but no one’s forcing them to do this!!!!
It’s still stupid.
Fun Fact: No one forced these people to get covenant marriages!
And I’m feeling a bit schizophrenic today.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Happy Birthday Mom!
Pretty much says it all, doesn’t it? It’s my mother’s birthday today. The greatest mother I’ve ever had. Also, the first mother I ever had. More than just a coincidence.
She was my art teacher at one point during my grade school years. And the only teacher I’ve ever had who sent me to the principal’s office. I don’t really remember a lot about that episode, though. I’m sure I mouthed off. I loved to mouth off. All I remember is copious amounts of yelling, staring and a garbage can being kicked across the classroom.
And I wasn’t the one who kicked it.
But mom’s left her garbage can kicking days behind her. She’s a mellower chick now. Although I’m sure she wouldn’t mind kicking a few garbage cans at her current students. And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind kicking a few more at me from time to time. I know she wouldn’t do that now.
I would have her thrown in jail.
No, I wouldn’t do that. She’s my mom. And it’s her birthday.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Fun Fact: Feliz aniversario, Vince! That’s Portuguese for Happy Birthday, Vincesco. Yes, it’s also Vince’s birthday today. He’s never kicked a garbage can at me or sent me to the principal’s office, but I haven’t given him a good reason to either. Not yet. There’s still time. He’s a jerk.
Happy Birthday, Vince.
Oh, yeah, the latest TAM Cartoon is up too! Fantástico! (That’s also Portuguese, but I can’t figure out what it means. Something about gravy, I’m sure. I like gravy.)
She was my art teacher at one point during my grade school years. And the only teacher I’ve ever had who sent me to the principal’s office. I don’t really remember a lot about that episode, though. I’m sure I mouthed off. I loved to mouth off. All I remember is copious amounts of yelling, staring and a garbage can being kicked across the classroom.
And I wasn’t the one who kicked it.
But mom’s left her garbage can kicking days behind her. She’s a mellower chick now. Although I’m sure she wouldn’t mind kicking a few garbage cans at her current students. And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind kicking a few more at me from time to time. I know she wouldn’t do that now.
I would have her thrown in jail.
No, I wouldn’t do that. She’s my mom. And it’s her birthday.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Fun Fact: Feliz aniversario, Vince! That’s Portuguese for Happy Birthday, Vincesco. Yes, it’s also Vince’s birthday today. He’s never kicked a garbage can at me or sent me to the principal’s office, but I haven’t given him a good reason to either. Not yet. There’s still time. He’s a jerk.
Happy Birthday, Vince.
Oh, yeah, the latest TAM Cartoon is up too! Fantástico! (That’s also Portuguese, but I can’t figure out what it means. Something about gravy, I’m sure. I like gravy.)
Monday, February 14, 2005
Juno What I’m Talking About
Happy Valentine’s Day! Aren’t you so very happy that it’s Valentine’s Day?
There were a lot of surprise engagements on the news this morning. You know, in honor of Valentine’s Day. All of the women said yes. But how do you say “no” on national television?
How do you say “no” when you’re not on national television? That would be a hard one. Even if you were only casually dating the person who proposed. It’s pretty much the deal breaker there.
We always get a little sad when a marriage proposal is turned down. It’s none of our business, but it’s embarrassing. I always feel bad for the guy (or girl) proposing. Because when they’re rejected, it as if the other person is actually saying, “oh, baby, you’re sweet and all, but you really have no concept of the reality of our relationship, do you? You poor charming, deluded idiot.”
Nobody wants to be a poor, charming deluded idiot. But sometimes, it’s unavoidable. So do what I do…nothing.
But there are a lot of guys out there who won’t take my advice. They’re gluttons for punishment, I guess. They call themselves “hopeless romantics.” I call them “look at me, see how sensitive and delightful I can appear to be-s.”
I shouldn’t be so cynical. I can’t help it. I’m a cynic. That’s what we do.
Call me crazy, but I find something a little…pathologically obsessive…about going to a corn field or something and spelling out “will you marry me” in letters big enough to be seen from space. Is that romantic? Do you find that romantic? If you do, why? Is it every woman’s childhood dream to have a corn crop decimated for some kind of egotistical thrill?
“A man (or woman, let’s not be sexist, guys are weirdoes too) who is willing to destroy 100,000 bushels of government subsidized crops for me must really want to be with me! Why else would he (she) go through all that work just to tell me how much he (she) loves me?!”
I’m a little more subtle than that, I guess. I don’t need the Great Wall of China. I figure that a woman really wants to be with me if they can somehow withstand all the annoying crap I do on a daily basis.
So far, Tanya’s been holding up very well. Kudos to her. You should go and congratulate her on her remarkable constitution. I know that I appreciate it every day. She’s my Valentine, even if I’m too practical and lazy to travel to Iowa to get my point across.
Killing corn is a day of hard work, but annoying crap is forever.
Fun Fact: “Saint Valentine’s Day” was started as the Roman celebration to honor Juno, queen of Mount Olympus, wife of Jupiter and the goddess of marriage. The Romans used to have a sort of “love-raffle” to commemorate every Feb. 14th. Like an ancient key party for the youngsters in town.
Then Emperor Claudius II came along and stopped marriage and fraternizing in order to make sure that potential soldiers would rather go to war than stay home and canoodle.
Lucky for the institution of marriage, good old Valentine kept the love alive by marrying young couples anyway, in spite of Claudius’s decree. For his trouble, and for a little poetic justice on Claudius’s part, on February 14th, Valentine was clubbed to death and beheaded. You would have thought he was marrying gays with than kind of treatment.
But now we have Valentines’ day. Romantic!
I would like to know two things though, if Juno was the goddess of marriage how come she couldn’t stop her husband from humping everything that moved? And whatever happened to the Valentine’s Day key parties?
There were a lot of surprise engagements on the news this morning. You know, in honor of Valentine’s Day. All of the women said yes. But how do you say “no” on national television?
How do you say “no” when you’re not on national television? That would be a hard one. Even if you were only casually dating the person who proposed. It’s pretty much the deal breaker there.
We always get a little sad when a marriage proposal is turned down. It’s none of our business, but it’s embarrassing. I always feel bad for the guy (or girl) proposing. Because when they’re rejected, it as if the other person is actually saying, “oh, baby, you’re sweet and all, but you really have no concept of the reality of our relationship, do you? You poor charming, deluded idiot.”
Nobody wants to be a poor, charming deluded idiot. But sometimes, it’s unavoidable. So do what I do…nothing.
But there are a lot of guys out there who won’t take my advice. They’re gluttons for punishment, I guess. They call themselves “hopeless romantics.” I call them “look at me, see how sensitive and delightful I can appear to be-s.”
I shouldn’t be so cynical. I can’t help it. I’m a cynic. That’s what we do.
Call me crazy, but I find something a little…pathologically obsessive…about going to a corn field or something and spelling out “will you marry me” in letters big enough to be seen from space. Is that romantic? Do you find that romantic? If you do, why? Is it every woman’s childhood dream to have a corn crop decimated for some kind of egotistical thrill?
“A man (or woman, let’s not be sexist, guys are weirdoes too) who is willing to destroy 100,000 bushels of government subsidized crops for me must really want to be with me! Why else would he (she) go through all that work just to tell me how much he (she) loves me?!”
I’m a little more subtle than that, I guess. I don’t need the Great Wall of China. I figure that a woman really wants to be with me if they can somehow withstand all the annoying crap I do on a daily basis.
So far, Tanya’s been holding up very well. Kudos to her. You should go and congratulate her on her remarkable constitution. I know that I appreciate it every day. She’s my Valentine, even if I’m too practical and lazy to travel to Iowa to get my point across.
Killing corn is a day of hard work, but annoying crap is forever.
Fun Fact: “Saint Valentine’s Day” was started as the Roman celebration to honor Juno, queen of Mount Olympus, wife of Jupiter and the goddess of marriage. The Romans used to have a sort of “love-raffle” to commemorate every Feb. 14th. Like an ancient key party for the youngsters in town.
Then Emperor Claudius II came along and stopped marriage and fraternizing in order to make sure that potential soldiers would rather go to war than stay home and canoodle.
Lucky for the institution of marriage, good old Valentine kept the love alive by marrying young couples anyway, in spite of Claudius’s decree. For his trouble, and for a little poetic justice on Claudius’s part, on February 14th, Valentine was clubbed to death and beheaded. You would have thought he was marrying gays with than kind of treatment.
But now we have Valentines’ day. Romantic!
I would like to know two things though, if Juno was the goddess of marriage how come she couldn’t stop her husband from humping everything that moved? And whatever happened to the Valentine’s Day key parties?
Friday, February 11, 2005
Death of a Legend
Wow what an original title! See, ‘cause Arthur Miller died today and he wrote Death of a Salesman. It’s a “play” on words.
Art was 89. He lived a good long life. He wrote a few brilliant plays and was at one time married to Marilyn Monroe. On the news, that was his big claim to fame. “Married to Marilyn Monroe.” His plays actually are pretty damned good, you should check them out.
I was fortunate enough to have been in two of his plays, “The Crucible” and “All My Sons.” Both are really upbeat plays, I tell you. In both of them, because of the parts I played (Rev. Hale in Crucible and Chris Keller in …Sons), I had to have a complete breakdown at the end. I was left crying onstage as the lights went out in each of them.
That’s a hard thing to do when you’re not a very focused actor.
The nice thing about being left onstage as the theatre goes dark after an intense play is that you get to her the audience’s reaction. Especially when you’re in an intimate space. The Crucible was in the round and Sons was a severe thrust. Those are stupid theatre terms. Only horny theatre people could do a play on an “intimate thrust” stage.
Anyway, as I was saying, I got to hear the audience response after each of those plays. My sobbing was entirely fake so it was easily silenced at the blackout. Now I don’t want to spoil anything for anyone…wait, I’m talking about theatre here. Chances are that you’re not going to go to the theatre. Nobody goes to the theatre…not even me. I’ve been in more plays than I’ve seen.
But I’m not here to bag on the craptastic theatre they have here in LA. Theatre that’s so abysmal that you can’t even get your friends to come to your shows. And who could blame them? If most actors didn’t treat every stage opportunity as an audition to hock Snickers bars for $20,000, theatre might be able to bring in over 50 people a week…
I’m not here for that.
Arthur Miller spoiler alert! This next paragraph contains spoilers for a play. An old play. A play that they’re probably never going to make in a major motion picture which makes this spoiler merely obligatory and not practical in any sense.
So, at the end of All My Sons, Chris’s (the part I played) father Joe becomes so wracked with guilt over selling defective plane parts to the war effort that resulted in the death of a bunch of young WWII fighter pilots (including his older son) that he struts offstage and shoots himself.
That’s my cue to cry like the dickens until the lights go out. Very happy. A real feel good play.
So I’m sitting there in the dark preparing my “Jesus H. was that hard and mentally exhausting but I’ll do anything for my adoring public” face for the curtain call when I hear these two older ladies in the second row. One of the women turns to the other and says “that was pretty depressing for a Neil Simon play.”
It sure was. Which is probably why good ol’ Neil didn’t write it. But I felt a little sad for those nice old ladies. They came to the theatre expecting “Barefoot in the Park” (which I was also in) and instead got an old Soap Opera actor-turned-sweetest person in the world/director/lead actor blowing his brains out.
While Barefoot in the Park might be more fun, there’s just no substitute for the provocative power of a finely crafted Arthur Miller play. He was truly one of the best American playwrights to ever live. I want to be Arthur Miller when I grow up.
Unfortunately, Marilyn’s not looking so hot these days.
Fun Fact: The asswad neighbors have taken to having rock and roll band practice at 10:00 at night. They recently moved into the house next door. They’re loud and obnoxious.
And worst of all, they suck.
Mostly, I can hear the drummer. I went over there last night for some recon before we called the cops on them at 11:30. I didn’t know whether to yell at the drummer guy or offer him some rhythm lessons.
Hasn’t anyone ever heard of a metronome?! Work on the fills people! They’re only impressive if you’re still playing the same song when you’re done with one.
So, Tanya called the cops. She told them about the neighbors and how they were driving us (and the people across the way) nuts. She neglected to tell them that she was getting so frustrated with them that she was beginning to blame me for their behavior…
…Chicks.
But they sent someone to drive by at around midnight. By then, the “band” had stopped. We had fallen asleep. In fact, I had just fallen asleep when the cops called to check on us at around 12:30.
“Hi, this is the cops, we just wanted to wake you up and find out if you’ve fallen asleep yet…”
Oh, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Neighbors suck!
Art was 89. He lived a good long life. He wrote a few brilliant plays and was at one time married to Marilyn Monroe. On the news, that was his big claim to fame. “Married to Marilyn Monroe.” His plays actually are pretty damned good, you should check them out.
I was fortunate enough to have been in two of his plays, “The Crucible” and “All My Sons.” Both are really upbeat plays, I tell you. In both of them, because of the parts I played (Rev. Hale in Crucible and Chris Keller in …Sons), I had to have a complete breakdown at the end. I was left crying onstage as the lights went out in each of them.
That’s a hard thing to do when you’re not a very focused actor.
The nice thing about being left onstage as the theatre goes dark after an intense play is that you get to her the audience’s reaction. Especially when you’re in an intimate space. The Crucible was in the round and Sons was a severe thrust. Those are stupid theatre terms. Only horny theatre people could do a play on an “intimate thrust” stage.
Anyway, as I was saying, I got to hear the audience response after each of those plays. My sobbing was entirely fake so it was easily silenced at the blackout. Now I don’t want to spoil anything for anyone…wait, I’m talking about theatre here. Chances are that you’re not going to go to the theatre. Nobody goes to the theatre…not even me. I’ve been in more plays than I’ve seen.
But I’m not here to bag on the craptastic theatre they have here in LA. Theatre that’s so abysmal that you can’t even get your friends to come to your shows. And who could blame them? If most actors didn’t treat every stage opportunity as an audition to hock Snickers bars for $20,000, theatre might be able to bring in over 50 people a week…
I’m not here for that.
Arthur Miller spoiler alert! This next paragraph contains spoilers for a play. An old play. A play that they’re probably never going to make in a major motion picture which makes this spoiler merely obligatory and not practical in any sense.
So, at the end of All My Sons, Chris’s (the part I played) father Joe becomes so wracked with guilt over selling defective plane parts to the war effort that resulted in the death of a bunch of young WWII fighter pilots (including his older son) that he struts offstage and shoots himself.
That’s my cue to cry like the dickens until the lights go out. Very happy. A real feel good play.
So I’m sitting there in the dark preparing my “Jesus H. was that hard and mentally exhausting but I’ll do anything for my adoring public” face for the curtain call when I hear these two older ladies in the second row. One of the women turns to the other and says “that was pretty depressing for a Neil Simon play.”
It sure was. Which is probably why good ol’ Neil didn’t write it. But I felt a little sad for those nice old ladies. They came to the theatre expecting “Barefoot in the Park” (which I was also in) and instead got an old Soap Opera actor-turned-sweetest person in the world/director/lead actor blowing his brains out.
While Barefoot in the Park might be more fun, there’s just no substitute for the provocative power of a finely crafted Arthur Miller play. He was truly one of the best American playwrights to ever live. I want to be Arthur Miller when I grow up.
Unfortunately, Marilyn’s not looking so hot these days.
Fun Fact: The asswad neighbors have taken to having rock and roll band practice at 10:00 at night. They recently moved into the house next door. They’re loud and obnoxious.
And worst of all, they suck.
Mostly, I can hear the drummer. I went over there last night for some recon before we called the cops on them at 11:30. I didn’t know whether to yell at the drummer guy or offer him some rhythm lessons.
Hasn’t anyone ever heard of a metronome?! Work on the fills people! They’re only impressive if you’re still playing the same song when you’re done with one.
So, Tanya called the cops. She told them about the neighbors and how they were driving us (and the people across the way) nuts. She neglected to tell them that she was getting so frustrated with them that she was beginning to blame me for their behavior…
…Chicks.
But they sent someone to drive by at around midnight. By then, the “band” had stopped. We had fallen asleep. In fact, I had just fallen asleep when the cops called to check on us at around 12:30.
“Hi, this is the cops, we just wanted to wake you up and find out if you’ve fallen asleep yet…”
Oh, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Neighbors suck!
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Where does the time go?!
Happy New Year….again! Yes, it’s another New Year today. I’ve counted three in the last two months! Now it’s the Islamic New Year. 1426 H.
1426? That’s right, we’re traveling back in time today. Get ready everyone because on March 6th John, Duke of Bedford and the entire British army are going to kick the crap out of the French at the Battle of St. James.
Not to be confused with the battle of St. James Place. Which is a Monopoly thing. And one battle that’s really not worth winning.
So have a good New Year and a reflective Muharram.
Fun Fact: Lon Chaney, Jr. was born today in 1905. He wasn’t “the man of a thousand faces,” that was his father. But Jr. did get to develop an unhealthy obsession with rabbits in 1939.
Oh, and happy birthday to Eric! It was yesterday, but I didn't find out until today. Does that make you Chinese, Eric?
1426? That’s right, we’re traveling back in time today. Get ready everyone because on March 6th John, Duke of Bedford and the entire British army are going to kick the crap out of the French at the Battle of St. James.
Not to be confused with the battle of St. James Place. Which is a Monopoly thing. And one battle that’s really not worth winning.
So have a good New Year and a reflective Muharram.
Fun Fact: Lon Chaney, Jr. was born today in 1905. He wasn’t “the man of a thousand faces,” that was his father. But Jr. did get to develop an unhealthy obsession with rabbits in 1939.
Oh, and happy birthday to Eric! It was yesterday, but I didn't find out until today. Does that make you Chinese, Eric?
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Cock-A-Doodle-Do!
Happy 4642.
Yes, it’s the Chinese New Year today. The year of the Rooster. Already?! It seems like just yesterday that I was celebrating the last Chinese New Year. My huge ass dragon costume is still sitting in the middle of the living room floor. And the candied melons in my Tray of Togetherness have long since gone off.
Yeah, the Chinese New Year sort of snuck up in me this year. It’s a good thing that I vacuumed yesterday. According to superstition I’m not allowed to do any sweeping or dusting today. There may be luck mixed in with the human dander and raspberry crostata crumbs. Sorry Tanya, them’s the rules.
Also, you’re not supposed to wash your hair today because, although it’s not 100%, there’s a good chance that you’ll wash away some of your new year’s luck there as well. You know, the luck that you keep in your hair?
I usually just keep ball point pens and parasites in mine.
According to ancient tradition, you’re also not supposed to cry today or use scissors or knives. I’m screwed. I haven’t cried yet, but it’s still early. I have, however, used both a knife and a pair of scissors!
They should really post these rules as a public service before the New Year. And there are a lot more superstitions too. They’re here, if you want to check them out.
Almost all of the superstitions have to do with luck. The Chinese are big on luck. But what I don’t understand is why luck likes to hang out with dirt and dust so much? Maybe there’s some kind of molecular bond? Do they share an electron? Maybe well never know. But I had a feeling that it was the case. That’s why I don’t change my clothes very often.
But then again, I don’t have a job…
Lucky? Unlucky? You be the judge. I don’t want to be that guy who tells you to skip showers. There are too many of those guys in the world already.
But the Chinese New Year makes our celebration of the devil western capitalist New Year look like a frat party. Which it is, I suppose. The Chinese eat a lot of glutinous rice and chickens with the head and feet still attached (to symbolize completeness).
What do we do? Drink and stay up late. To symbolize our willingness to drink and stay up late? Okay, sure, the Chinese do that too, but at least there’s some pretense to the celebration. We need to find something significant to do on New Years around this place.
Maybe something that has some obsessive connection to luck? That would be awesome.
But we can’t be completely blamed for our lack of cool crap to do on the New Year. After all, according to the Chinese calendar, we’re 2,637 years behind.
Happy Year of the Rooster! And don’t forget to make your Chinese New Year’s resolutions!
Here are some of mine:
I will try to order more steamed rice and less fried rice.
I will tip the delivery guy from Natalee Thai even though it’s not technically a Chinese restaurant and even though he only has to drive three blocks to get here.
I will embrace and protect despotic Korean governments while they race to develop nuclear weapons that threaten their neighbors.
I will bury myself with a huge army of terra cotta soldiers. Why should Qin Shihuangdi have all the fun?!
I will not make stereotypical generalizations about any ethnic group of which I have very little actual knowledge about.
I will finally throw out those rotten candied melons and try not to giggle every time someone tells me that it’s the year of the cock.
Fun Fact: There seems to be some disparity about which actual year it is right now. I’ve told you that it’s 4642, but some others think it’s 4702.
If they can’t even figure out what the hell year it is, why should I pretend to celebrate it?!
The Chinese New Year is confused. That’s a fact.
Yes, it’s the Chinese New Year today. The year of the Rooster. Already?! It seems like just yesterday that I was celebrating the last Chinese New Year. My huge ass dragon costume is still sitting in the middle of the living room floor. And the candied melons in my Tray of Togetherness have long since gone off.
Yeah, the Chinese New Year sort of snuck up in me this year. It’s a good thing that I vacuumed yesterday. According to superstition I’m not allowed to do any sweeping or dusting today. There may be luck mixed in with the human dander and raspberry crostata crumbs. Sorry Tanya, them’s the rules.
Also, you’re not supposed to wash your hair today because, although it’s not 100%, there’s a good chance that you’ll wash away some of your new year’s luck there as well. You know, the luck that you keep in your hair?
I usually just keep ball point pens and parasites in mine.
According to ancient tradition, you’re also not supposed to cry today or use scissors or knives. I’m screwed. I haven’t cried yet, but it’s still early. I have, however, used both a knife and a pair of scissors!
They should really post these rules as a public service before the New Year. And there are a lot more superstitions too. They’re here, if you want to check them out.
Almost all of the superstitions have to do with luck. The Chinese are big on luck. But what I don’t understand is why luck likes to hang out with dirt and dust so much? Maybe there’s some kind of molecular bond? Do they share an electron? Maybe well never know. But I had a feeling that it was the case. That’s why I don’t change my clothes very often.
But then again, I don’t have a job…
Lucky? Unlucky? You be the judge. I don’t want to be that guy who tells you to skip showers. There are too many of those guys in the world already.
But the Chinese New Year makes our celebration of the devil western capitalist New Year look like a frat party. Which it is, I suppose. The Chinese eat a lot of glutinous rice and chickens with the head and feet still attached (to symbolize completeness).
What do we do? Drink and stay up late. To symbolize our willingness to drink and stay up late? Okay, sure, the Chinese do that too, but at least there’s some pretense to the celebration. We need to find something significant to do on New Years around this place.
Maybe something that has some obsessive connection to luck? That would be awesome.
But we can’t be completely blamed for our lack of cool crap to do on the New Year. After all, according to the Chinese calendar, we’re 2,637 years behind.
Happy Year of the Rooster! And don’t forget to make your Chinese New Year’s resolutions!
Here are some of mine:
I will try to order more steamed rice and less fried rice.
I will tip the delivery guy from Natalee Thai even though it’s not technically a Chinese restaurant and even though he only has to drive three blocks to get here.
I will embrace and protect despotic Korean governments while they race to develop nuclear weapons that threaten their neighbors.
I will bury myself with a huge army of terra cotta soldiers. Why should Qin Shihuangdi have all the fun?!
I will not make stereotypical generalizations about any ethnic group of which I have very little actual knowledge about.
I will finally throw out those rotten candied melons and try not to giggle every time someone tells me that it’s the year of the cock.
Fun Fact: There seems to be some disparity about which actual year it is right now. I’ve told you that it’s 4642, but some others think it’s 4702.
If they can’t even figure out what the hell year it is, why should I pretend to celebrate it?!
The Chinese New Year is confused. That’s a fact.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Keep Surfin’
There’s nothing to see here today. Move along.
Have you moved along yet? No? Good, because I forgot to mention that the new TAM Cartoon is up! Holla!
Fun Fact: People like stuff.
Have you moved along yet? No? Good, because I forgot to mention that the new TAM Cartoon is up! Holla!
Fun Fact: People like stuff.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Making Friends and Influencing Small, Stuffed Green Superheroes trapped in the Death Grip of a Fun Crane Being Operated by a Strange, Friendly Person
The title says it all, really.
This weekend was the big yard sale. My tattered crap sold remarkably well. So did everyone else’s. As usual, I came home with a couple things. A CD and some books. But not the killer PC game, “The Simpsons, Hit and Run.” No, I didn’t come home with that. Tanya wouldn’t give me $5. Besides, someone else bought it for $6.
Damnit.
After the yard sale, as usual, all of us yard-salers went to Norm’s. For you who don’t know and couldn’t guess, Norm’s is a diner. A good diner.
There were seven of us, so we had to wait for a little while for a table. I think that there’s a zoning code here in Los Angeles that states if you’re going to operate a diner of any kind, you must have a crane game in the waiting area. Norm’s, not being one to buck a trend, had one right on the inside of the door. And as usual, there was someone playing it.
I used to play these things when I was a kid, but the stuffed animals and junk inside of those ones were much smaller. It was easier for the claw to get a hold of something. Since the claw is weaker than a Britney Spears live concert performance, the smaller the useless garbage in the crane game, the better.
This crane seemed to be the exception to the “Britney Spears = Weak Ass Crane” rule because no sooner had I walked into Norm’s, the guy playing the game turned to me with a problem. It seems that he had won a medium-sized stuffed Hulk doll, but the crane wouldn’t release it into the tray-thingie. He didn’t know what to do. So I went over and utilizing my own Hulk-like strength, shook the machine with a silent vigor that would release the entrapped plushie and not draw any unwanted attention from the wait staff.
My plan worked! I had saved the day. I felt pretty good about myself.
But here’s the thing. This guy’s one of those overly-friendly types. And we had bonded over sub-standard Marvel Comics merchandise. That’s when we all got to hear all about his wife in the hospital and her new titanium knee. We even got to see a blurry picture of her on his cell phone. And he was also the type of guy who would talk to you, then say goodbye, walk away – and then come back three seconds later and do it all over again.
Now, I liked this guy. I really did. He was a sweet guy. He seemed to love his wife. But he was a bit needy. And, by his own admission, he had an unhealthy obsession with the crane game. He said that he’s won hundreds of toys for his bed-ridden wife. What a lucky girl. I hope she likes Sponge Bob. I’m sure the staff at Cedars Sinai never get tired of his winnings. Her hospital room is probably crammed with stuffed ice cream cones and tiny batting helmets.
The only thing that would distract the guy long enough for me to have any conversation with my chosen friends was the claw game. He had to have pumped about $7 into it while we were sitting there.
But then after a couple minutes, he came back with a big, creepy Sponge-Bobbish looking heart thing with big feet. He wasn’t exaggerating his crane game prowess. He had won again. It was actually kind of impressive. He asked me if I had a sweetheart, I pointed to Tanya – and he gave me his hard-won prize to give to her. Because I helped him get his Hulk.
He was quite a guy. Incapable of being anything but kind. And talkative.
Then he took a picture of Tanya and me with his cell phone to show to his wife who is evidently doing very well with her new titanium knee.
And who, we were promised, is soon to be the proud owned of a stuffed Hulk.
And if anyone is looking for a weird heart shaped thing with crossed eyes and big feet, we’ll probably be having another garage sale in a couple of months. I hate to sell it, because that guy was so nice, but it doesn’t go with my already too huge collection of fuzzy footballs.
Fun Fact: The Superbowl half-time show was a welcomed relief this year for me. Paul McCartney did a fine job. I was getting sick of the halftime “extravaganzas” that were becoming the status quo. You know, an eclectic crew of musicians crammed together on one stage. This time, they only did that at the beginning. But hey, finally The Black Eyed Peas and Charlie Daniels…on the same stage!
Apparently, there has been some grumbling by the younger audience about the half time show though. It wasn’t exciting enough or something. How sad. Kids can’t handle 4 songs in a row by the same guy? That’s the internet for you, downloadable tunes mean that we don’t have to listen to anything but the one song on any given album that Clear Channel Communications has deemed “cool.”
But I have to say that I’m just a little irked that Paul didn’t sing “Band on the Run.” That’s just a kick ass tune there.
Oh, and Tanya and I made boneless Buffalo wings yesterday. They were mighty fine. But I suggest that if you make them for yourself, don’t make them the entire meal. They taste great at the time. They don’t need no celery at the time. Everything’s moving fine – at the time. But you’ll pay for it later.
Trust me.
15 Buffalo wings alone can’t be your dinner, kids.
This weekend was the big yard sale. My tattered crap sold remarkably well. So did everyone else’s. As usual, I came home with a couple things. A CD and some books. But not the killer PC game, “The Simpsons, Hit and Run.” No, I didn’t come home with that. Tanya wouldn’t give me $5. Besides, someone else bought it for $6.
Damnit.
After the yard sale, as usual, all of us yard-salers went to Norm’s. For you who don’t know and couldn’t guess, Norm’s is a diner. A good diner.
There were seven of us, so we had to wait for a little while for a table. I think that there’s a zoning code here in Los Angeles that states if you’re going to operate a diner of any kind, you must have a crane game in the waiting area. Norm’s, not being one to buck a trend, had one right on the inside of the door. And as usual, there was someone playing it.
I used to play these things when I was a kid, but the stuffed animals and junk inside of those ones were much smaller. It was easier for the claw to get a hold of something. Since the claw is weaker than a Britney Spears live concert performance, the smaller the useless garbage in the crane game, the better.
This crane seemed to be the exception to the “Britney Spears = Weak Ass Crane” rule because no sooner had I walked into Norm’s, the guy playing the game turned to me with a problem. It seems that he had won a medium-sized stuffed Hulk doll, but the crane wouldn’t release it into the tray-thingie. He didn’t know what to do. So I went over and utilizing my own Hulk-like strength, shook the machine with a silent vigor that would release the entrapped plushie and not draw any unwanted attention from the wait staff.
My plan worked! I had saved the day. I felt pretty good about myself.
But here’s the thing. This guy’s one of those overly-friendly types. And we had bonded over sub-standard Marvel Comics merchandise. That’s when we all got to hear all about his wife in the hospital and her new titanium knee. We even got to see a blurry picture of her on his cell phone. And he was also the type of guy who would talk to you, then say goodbye, walk away – and then come back three seconds later and do it all over again.
Now, I liked this guy. I really did. He was a sweet guy. He seemed to love his wife. But he was a bit needy. And, by his own admission, he had an unhealthy obsession with the crane game. He said that he’s won hundreds of toys for his bed-ridden wife. What a lucky girl. I hope she likes Sponge Bob. I’m sure the staff at Cedars Sinai never get tired of his winnings. Her hospital room is probably crammed with stuffed ice cream cones and tiny batting helmets.
The only thing that would distract the guy long enough for me to have any conversation with my chosen friends was the claw game. He had to have pumped about $7 into it while we were sitting there.
But then after a couple minutes, he came back with a big, creepy Sponge-Bobbish looking heart thing with big feet. He wasn’t exaggerating his crane game prowess. He had won again. It was actually kind of impressive. He asked me if I had a sweetheart, I pointed to Tanya – and he gave me his hard-won prize to give to her. Because I helped him get his Hulk.
He was quite a guy. Incapable of being anything but kind. And talkative.
Then he took a picture of Tanya and me with his cell phone to show to his wife who is evidently doing very well with her new titanium knee.
And who, we were promised, is soon to be the proud owned of a stuffed Hulk.
And if anyone is looking for a weird heart shaped thing with crossed eyes and big feet, we’ll probably be having another garage sale in a couple of months. I hate to sell it, because that guy was so nice, but it doesn’t go with my already too huge collection of fuzzy footballs.
Fun Fact: The Superbowl half-time show was a welcomed relief this year for me. Paul McCartney did a fine job. I was getting sick of the halftime “extravaganzas” that were becoming the status quo. You know, an eclectic crew of musicians crammed together on one stage. This time, they only did that at the beginning. But hey, finally The Black Eyed Peas and Charlie Daniels…on the same stage!
Apparently, there has been some grumbling by the younger audience about the half time show though. It wasn’t exciting enough or something. How sad. Kids can’t handle 4 songs in a row by the same guy? That’s the internet for you, downloadable tunes mean that we don’t have to listen to anything but the one song on any given album that Clear Channel Communications has deemed “cool.”
But I have to say that I’m just a little irked that Paul didn’t sing “Band on the Run.” That’s just a kick ass tune there.
Oh, and Tanya and I made boneless Buffalo wings yesterday. They were mighty fine. But I suggest that if you make them for yourself, don’t make them the entire meal. They taste great at the time. They don’t need no celery at the time. Everything’s moving fine – at the time. But you’ll pay for it later.
Trust me.
15 Buffalo wings alone can’t be your dinner, kids.
Friday, February 04, 2005
It’s Hard Work to be This Lame
I have nothing to say today. Too much nothing going on. Even on the news this morning, the place where I usually hijack an idea seconds before I sit down to post. Nothing but Desperate Housewives tie-ins. Retarded.
Hey, I was once in a play called Angry Housewives. I played Larry, the asshole. I got to sing and junk. It was a musical. There were eight people in it. One of my theatre instructors was in the original cast in Seattle. I had fun. It was really fantastic. You know what’s also fantastic and has housewives in the title? Naked Housewives. Although I’m just going to have to guess about that because I’ve never actually seen anything titled Naked Housewives. Nothing that I’m going to admit to anyway.
Hey, you know what else is fun? Writing like a grade-schooler. It’s neat. I like small sentences. They’re really fun. I said fun already. It’s redundant. I could have found another word to use just then. A word like “enjoyable.” That would have been fun, too.
Damnit. I said fun again.
You know what? There’s really not all that much hard work involved in being this lame after all. It’s surprisingly simple. Maybe I’m just a natural. A prodigy. A lameness genius. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe I’m not a certified “lameness genius.” But my LQ (Lameness Quotient) is definitely hovering around 140. That’s superlame! High enough to fool your colleagues into thinking that you’re the lamest person around but not high enough to apply for the man-on-the-street reporter job at the local TV news station.
I’m so lame that I chose to watch the “Happy Days” reunion last night on TV. And while it was on commercial break, I flipped back to Will and Grace and the Apprentice. How’s that for lame?
But I enjoyed the Happy Days reunion. I used to watch that show all the time. Sure, they didn’t show me anything that I hadn’t already seen, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling when the entire cast of an old TV show gets together for a reunion. Usually, with these reunions, there’s always one obvious hold-out. It happened to the Brady Bunch. But then they were making stupid Christmas specials. And they had already had that hideous musical review and the stupid cartoon.
Happy Days may not have known when to quit, and they may have had a stupid cartoon as well, but it was still a good show. And I like the fact that none of its stars pulled the old “I enjoyed my time on *insert 70s/80s TV show here* but that chapter of my life is over and I just want to move forward instead of trying to live in the past blah blah blah…”
That’s just about the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. I hate it. I understand that you don’t want to be called Tootie for the rest of your life, but come on, the show made you rich and famous. It’s time to embrace the past instead of allowing yourself to be held hostage by it. Only then will you be truly free.
There. Blanket advice for all victims of child acting. Not necessarily for Tootie because she bucked up and did the 2001 Facts of Life reunion. Good for her. The healing has begun.
But I also liked the fact that they played the “pumps your blood” song on the show last night. The song from the St. Joseph aspirin commercials. I’ve had a lot of blog hits lately because of that song. I hope to get many more. If you came to my blog looking for a download of the song, you won’t find one. You should have watched the Happy Days 30th Anniversary special on ABC last night. Tough.
Well, that’s it for this post. It was as lame as promised. Yeah me. To sum up, I’m lame, Kim Fields has a good head on her shoulders, Happy Days was cool even after they jumped the shark, “pumps you blood” is good blogging business, I was in a musical called Angry Housewives in college and Naked Housewives are better than desperate ones, although I can’t really be sure because I haven’t seen either.
Fun Fact: I’m yard-saling away all my beloved possessions this weekend. I don’t know what I’ll do without my old Vans with the holes in them or my old humongous tee shirts with the holes in them or my old broken video camera…with the holes in it.
But more difficult than figuring out how I’ll live life without these great things is trying to figure out what the loving hell other people are going to do with them.
“How much for that moth eaten pair of acid-washed jeans with the holey crotch that I’ve almost thrown out three times in the last year? Because I like you sir/m’am…it’ll only be three bucks. What a deal!”
Why do I assume that people are so desperate for my tattered crap that I insist on charging them even a quarter for it? Lame.
Oh, and the latest (and moderately creepy) TAM Cartoon is up! Holeycrotchational!
Hey, I was once in a play called Angry Housewives. I played Larry, the asshole. I got to sing and junk. It was a musical. There were eight people in it. One of my theatre instructors was in the original cast in Seattle. I had fun. It was really fantastic. You know what’s also fantastic and has housewives in the title? Naked Housewives. Although I’m just going to have to guess about that because I’ve never actually seen anything titled Naked Housewives. Nothing that I’m going to admit to anyway.
Hey, you know what else is fun? Writing like a grade-schooler. It’s neat. I like small sentences. They’re really fun. I said fun already. It’s redundant. I could have found another word to use just then. A word like “enjoyable.” That would have been fun, too.
Damnit. I said fun again.
You know what? There’s really not all that much hard work involved in being this lame after all. It’s surprisingly simple. Maybe I’m just a natural. A prodigy. A lameness genius. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe I’m not a certified “lameness genius.” But my LQ (Lameness Quotient) is definitely hovering around 140. That’s superlame! High enough to fool your colleagues into thinking that you’re the lamest person around but not high enough to apply for the man-on-the-street reporter job at the local TV news station.
I’m so lame that I chose to watch the “Happy Days” reunion last night on TV. And while it was on commercial break, I flipped back to Will and Grace and the Apprentice. How’s that for lame?
But I enjoyed the Happy Days reunion. I used to watch that show all the time. Sure, they didn’t show me anything that I hadn’t already seen, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling when the entire cast of an old TV show gets together for a reunion. Usually, with these reunions, there’s always one obvious hold-out. It happened to the Brady Bunch. But then they were making stupid Christmas specials. And they had already had that hideous musical review and the stupid cartoon.
Happy Days may not have known when to quit, and they may have had a stupid cartoon as well, but it was still a good show. And I like the fact that none of its stars pulled the old “I enjoyed my time on *insert 70s/80s TV show here* but that chapter of my life is over and I just want to move forward instead of trying to live in the past blah blah blah…”
That’s just about the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. I hate it. I understand that you don’t want to be called Tootie for the rest of your life, but come on, the show made you rich and famous. It’s time to embrace the past instead of allowing yourself to be held hostage by it. Only then will you be truly free.
There. Blanket advice for all victims of child acting. Not necessarily for Tootie because she bucked up and did the 2001 Facts of Life reunion. Good for her. The healing has begun.
But I also liked the fact that they played the “pumps your blood” song on the show last night. The song from the St. Joseph aspirin commercials. I’ve had a lot of blog hits lately because of that song. I hope to get many more. If you came to my blog looking for a download of the song, you won’t find one. You should have watched the Happy Days 30th Anniversary special on ABC last night. Tough.
Well, that’s it for this post. It was as lame as promised. Yeah me. To sum up, I’m lame, Kim Fields has a good head on her shoulders, Happy Days was cool even after they jumped the shark, “pumps you blood” is good blogging business, I was in a musical called Angry Housewives in college and Naked Housewives are better than desperate ones, although I can’t really be sure because I haven’t seen either.
Fun Fact: I’m yard-saling away all my beloved possessions this weekend. I don’t know what I’ll do without my old Vans with the holes in them or my old humongous tee shirts with the holes in them or my old broken video camera…with the holes in it.
But more difficult than figuring out how I’ll live life without these great things is trying to figure out what the loving hell other people are going to do with them.
“How much for that moth eaten pair of acid-washed jeans with the holey crotch that I’ve almost thrown out three times in the last year? Because I like you sir/m’am…it’ll only be three bucks. What a deal!”
Why do I assume that people are so desperate for my tattered crap that I insist on charging them even a quarter for it? Lame.
Oh, and the latest (and moderately creepy) TAM Cartoon is up! Holeycrotchational!
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Punxsutawney George
It’s Groundhog Day! You know what that means, right? The president is going to step out in front of a special joint session of congress to deliver his State of the Union Address. If, for any reason, the president opens his mouth to utter even the most unintelligible sound – we’re all in for four more years of depressing crap.
George is supposed to talk about all sorts of interesting things tonight. Social Security reform, the war in Iraq and I’m sure the propagation of freedom throughout the entire world! The entire world! Let’s end tyranny throughout the universe while we’re at it. Put together a special galactic alliance to set out to the furthest reaches of space to restore democratic rule to galaxies tormented by despotic martial law and junk. That would be way cool.
Unfortunately, as far as we know, the universe doesn’t have a readily available cache of crude oil being controlled by a dubiously trained third world military. So my personal dreams of intergalactic conquest will have to wait for a couple years.
Plus, how do we convince already exhausted military reserves into flying into space. Personally, I think that the reserves should shut up already! We paid for your college, jerks, the least you could do would be serve three extra tours of duty on the remote intergalactic outpost of Rylon 7!
But I am interested to see if Bushie will mention Iran in his speech. There’s been fightin’ words being tossed around by the Bush cabinet lately. And they have a dubiously trained third world military too!
But no, Bush is expected to talk about his energy plan to become less reliant on foreign oil. That shouldn’t stop us from kicking ass in Iran though. The trouble there is nuclear power. See, Iran may have nuclear power. They can’t have nuclear power. Who do they think they are, North Korea?!
I can’t help myself when it comes to George-bashing. I just can’t believe that he gets away with the crap he does. Invade Iraq because there are weapons of mass destruction there. Oh, wait, our mistake, no WMDs. But hey, Saddam is gone and that’s good, right? The Iraqis get to vote and that’s also good right?
Well, duh. Of course it’s a good thing. But why should it make us forget about the lies and manipulation? I know people who overeat. I could drug them and duct tape them to a chair for a couple months. It may not be the best way to take care of the situation, but at least I could control their food intake. And they would be a hell of a lot thinner when I got through with them.
But something tells me that they wouldn’t be patting me on the back with their emaciated little skeletal hands any time soon. The ends do not always justify the means.
Now there’s Iran and social security. I figured that the Social Security issue would have gone away by now. There’s no immediate threat to Social Security. Sure, there’s a future threat, but there is plenty of time to come up with a permanent solution. One that has been tested and mulled over to ensure its success. But that’s not what the president is interested in. He’s interested in being the man who fixed Social Security. His race for a quick solution proves to be that he doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about actual solvency. He just wants to look good in the footnotes.
Nothing has stopped him from inventing a Social Security crisis. And his obvious partisan agenda on the subject and lack of diligence hasn’t stopped a great deal of Americans from swallowing a bunch of crap with smiles on their faces.
What the hell does George Bush have to do before enough people realize that he’s working with a personal agenda? I suppose it would help to uncover his agenda if anyone could get a clue as to what the hell that agenda is. The guy's so inconsistent. We invade Iraq (let’s not be naïve about this, it was mostly because of oil) but now he’s saying that he wants to be less dependant on foreign oil?! We could have done that first. He wants to constitutionally ban gay marriage but banning assault rifles would be a devastating blow to our personal freedoms?! He wants to be a “uniter, not a divider” but anyone who isn’t with him is against him.
I don’t know. It’s not looking good for the next four years. Sorry about the political post. I should stick to subjects like peeing.
Fun Fact: Speaking of pee, last night I decided that no matter how much I like asparagus, nothing’s worth that horrible pee smell.
Honestly.
George is supposed to talk about all sorts of interesting things tonight. Social Security reform, the war in Iraq and I’m sure the propagation of freedom throughout the entire world! The entire world! Let’s end tyranny throughout the universe while we’re at it. Put together a special galactic alliance to set out to the furthest reaches of space to restore democratic rule to galaxies tormented by despotic martial law and junk. That would be way cool.
Unfortunately, as far as we know, the universe doesn’t have a readily available cache of crude oil being controlled by a dubiously trained third world military. So my personal dreams of intergalactic conquest will have to wait for a couple years.
Plus, how do we convince already exhausted military reserves into flying into space. Personally, I think that the reserves should shut up already! We paid for your college, jerks, the least you could do would be serve three extra tours of duty on the remote intergalactic outpost of Rylon 7!
But I am interested to see if Bushie will mention Iran in his speech. There’s been fightin’ words being tossed around by the Bush cabinet lately. And they have a dubiously trained third world military too!
But no, Bush is expected to talk about his energy plan to become less reliant on foreign oil. That shouldn’t stop us from kicking ass in Iran though. The trouble there is nuclear power. See, Iran may have nuclear power. They can’t have nuclear power. Who do they think they are, North Korea?!
I can’t help myself when it comes to George-bashing. I just can’t believe that he gets away with the crap he does. Invade Iraq because there are weapons of mass destruction there. Oh, wait, our mistake, no WMDs. But hey, Saddam is gone and that’s good, right? The Iraqis get to vote and that’s also good right?
Well, duh. Of course it’s a good thing. But why should it make us forget about the lies and manipulation? I know people who overeat. I could drug them and duct tape them to a chair for a couple months. It may not be the best way to take care of the situation, but at least I could control their food intake. And they would be a hell of a lot thinner when I got through with them.
But something tells me that they wouldn’t be patting me on the back with their emaciated little skeletal hands any time soon. The ends do not always justify the means.
Now there’s Iran and social security. I figured that the Social Security issue would have gone away by now. There’s no immediate threat to Social Security. Sure, there’s a future threat, but there is plenty of time to come up with a permanent solution. One that has been tested and mulled over to ensure its success. But that’s not what the president is interested in. He’s interested in being the man who fixed Social Security. His race for a quick solution proves to be that he doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about actual solvency. He just wants to look good in the footnotes.
Nothing has stopped him from inventing a Social Security crisis. And his obvious partisan agenda on the subject and lack of diligence hasn’t stopped a great deal of Americans from swallowing a bunch of crap with smiles on their faces.
What the hell does George Bush have to do before enough people realize that he’s working with a personal agenda? I suppose it would help to uncover his agenda if anyone could get a clue as to what the hell that agenda is. The guy's so inconsistent. We invade Iraq (let’s not be naïve about this, it was mostly because of oil) but now he’s saying that he wants to be less dependant on foreign oil?! We could have done that first. He wants to constitutionally ban gay marriage but banning assault rifles would be a devastating blow to our personal freedoms?! He wants to be a “uniter, not a divider” but anyone who isn’t with him is against him.
I don’t know. It’s not looking good for the next four years. Sorry about the political post. I should stick to subjects like peeing.
Fun Fact: Speaking of pee, last night I decided that no matter how much I like asparagus, nothing’s worth that horrible pee smell.
Honestly.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
It can be a Real Relief to Find Fresh New Artists
Last night I was at the Cock and Bull Pub in Santa Monica having a couple drinks and not thinking much about the graphic design industry.
But it seems that you can never really be anywhere without thinking a little about the graphic design industry. Especially when it’s hitting you in the face.
In this marvelous world of multi-tasking, even using the restroom can be an assault on the senses. Nowadays, a blank wall over a urinal is simply wasted space. Thanks to bar culture, almost every public urinal in the world has something hanging over it. Tanya and I went to Chili’s on Sunday and it was no different there. They had newspapers over the urinal. You can read while you pee.
Most of the time, it’s the sports page. That makes sense, right? After all, anyone born with the “hardware” needed to utilize the urinal must like sports, right? Not me. I mean, I don’t hate sports, but I don’t really need to know who won so badly that I must know before I finish my last shake.
But the urinal that I was at didn’t have the sports page over it. It had a really interesting article about this man, an artist, an elderly man, who gave up everything to move to…somewhere…and paint…something. Something…good?
The picture looked interesting. But that’s the problem with putting real articles over the urinal. Unless you take full advantage of the “bottomless soft-drink” policy, you’ve got no hope to finish them. Besides, newspapers these days cram as many articles as they can onto one page so that you have to crack the page numbering code just to read past the first 15 words. And when the newspaper is encased in a pee-splattered case, there’s just no hope.
This brings me back to the unfortunately named Cock and Bull British Pub. Like most pubs and bars in California (and the world?) they have taken to placing advertisements over the urinals. Much more effective and not a lot of heavy reading. Usually, the advertisements are for cigarettes or snowboarding movies and stuff. But the Cock and Bull has higher standards, I guess. They don’t have bikini-clad snow-bunnies staring at you while you let it all go (they don’t want you in there all night, right?). No the Cock and Bull has actual artwork.
Artwork. Advertisement? I was confused. They’ve had the same picture in the pee-soaked case since I first “went” there. Two actually. And thanks to the bathroom architect’s complete disinterest in privacy, you can easily look at them both.
And they’re really nice actually. I’ve studied them closely. They’re in advertising cases. But I could never find the advertisement. And believe me, I’ve looked. They’re these pseudo-60s type paintings. Retro-deco with a strange anime feel. I hate anime, but I love 60s graphic elements. They’re pleasing, let me just say that.
But as hard as I looked, I couldn’t find a single ad in them. Sometimes companies place subtle ad in paintings to grab your interest and create a legitimizing mystique around their product. There was no Kool cigarette in any of the lady’s mouths. No Budweiser trucks hidden in the background. No slogan.
Nothing but an interesting picture. Two of them. In the bathroom of the Cock and Bull.
And a web address. www.agoodson.com. Very small on the bottom of the painting.
Aha! I’ve cracked the code!
Needless to say after a lot of curiosity (and some prodding by Vince who is also intrigued) I’ve finally visited agoodson.com. I’ve been meaning to go for some time now.
It’s a management company. Anna Goodson Management. They don’t sell weight loss solutions or real-estate pyramid schemes! The poster is actually advertising the artist. How about that? I think it’s an interesting idea. It made me go the web site. Unfortunately, the rest of the clientele are probably less inclined. And even if they did go to the website, what would they do there? Hire a graphic designer? An expensive graphic designer? No they won’t. But maybe someone reading this will.
If you need a good graphic designer, check out the site. But I have to say, tragically, the person whose work is hanging above the place where I pee at the Cock and Bull – probably my favorite of her clients – is no longer represented by Anna Goodson. His name is Chin, that’s all I know. Sad. But there are plenty of other fine artists still in her stables over there.
They’ve made my urinating experience better in Santa Monica. Plus, I want to prove to the person whose idea it was to put fine art in bar bathrooms that their plan wasn’t completely insane.
“I’ll take two overpriced, lubricated, ribbed condoms with spermicidal lubricant for added protection…and a retro-60s graphic designer with Asian sensibilities please!”
Like chocolate and peanut butter.
Fun Fact: Yesterday was Julie’s birthday! Happy late…25th…birthday Julie! I’m working on your song today.
Oh, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Peelicious!
But it seems that you can never really be anywhere without thinking a little about the graphic design industry. Especially when it’s hitting you in the face.
In this marvelous world of multi-tasking, even using the restroom can be an assault on the senses. Nowadays, a blank wall over a urinal is simply wasted space. Thanks to bar culture, almost every public urinal in the world has something hanging over it. Tanya and I went to Chili’s on Sunday and it was no different there. They had newspapers over the urinal. You can read while you pee.
Most of the time, it’s the sports page. That makes sense, right? After all, anyone born with the “hardware” needed to utilize the urinal must like sports, right? Not me. I mean, I don’t hate sports, but I don’t really need to know who won so badly that I must know before I finish my last shake.
But the urinal that I was at didn’t have the sports page over it. It had a really interesting article about this man, an artist, an elderly man, who gave up everything to move to…somewhere…and paint…something. Something…good?
The picture looked interesting. But that’s the problem with putting real articles over the urinal. Unless you take full advantage of the “bottomless soft-drink” policy, you’ve got no hope to finish them. Besides, newspapers these days cram as many articles as they can onto one page so that you have to crack the page numbering code just to read past the first 15 words. And when the newspaper is encased in a pee-splattered case, there’s just no hope.
This brings me back to the unfortunately named Cock and Bull British Pub. Like most pubs and bars in California (and the world?) they have taken to placing advertisements over the urinals. Much more effective and not a lot of heavy reading. Usually, the advertisements are for cigarettes or snowboarding movies and stuff. But the Cock and Bull has higher standards, I guess. They don’t have bikini-clad snow-bunnies staring at you while you let it all go (they don’t want you in there all night, right?). No the Cock and Bull has actual artwork.
Artwork. Advertisement? I was confused. They’ve had the same picture in the pee-soaked case since I first “went” there. Two actually. And thanks to the bathroom architect’s complete disinterest in privacy, you can easily look at them both.
And they’re really nice actually. I’ve studied them closely. They’re in advertising cases. But I could never find the advertisement. And believe me, I’ve looked. They’re these pseudo-60s type paintings. Retro-deco with a strange anime feel. I hate anime, but I love 60s graphic elements. They’re pleasing, let me just say that.
But as hard as I looked, I couldn’t find a single ad in them. Sometimes companies place subtle ad in paintings to grab your interest and create a legitimizing mystique around their product. There was no Kool cigarette in any of the lady’s mouths. No Budweiser trucks hidden in the background. No slogan.
Nothing but an interesting picture. Two of them. In the bathroom of the Cock and Bull.
And a web address. www.agoodson.com. Very small on the bottom of the painting.
Aha! I’ve cracked the code!
Needless to say after a lot of curiosity (and some prodding by Vince who is also intrigued) I’ve finally visited agoodson.com. I’ve been meaning to go for some time now.
It’s a management company. Anna Goodson Management. They don’t sell weight loss solutions or real-estate pyramid schemes! The poster is actually advertising the artist. How about that? I think it’s an interesting idea. It made me go the web site. Unfortunately, the rest of the clientele are probably less inclined. And even if they did go to the website, what would they do there? Hire a graphic designer? An expensive graphic designer? No they won’t. But maybe someone reading this will.
If you need a good graphic designer, check out the site. But I have to say, tragically, the person whose work is hanging above the place where I pee at the Cock and Bull – probably my favorite of her clients – is no longer represented by Anna Goodson. His name is Chin, that’s all I know. Sad. But there are plenty of other fine artists still in her stables over there.
They’ve made my urinating experience better in Santa Monica. Plus, I want to prove to the person whose idea it was to put fine art in bar bathrooms that their plan wasn’t completely insane.
“I’ll take two overpriced, lubricated, ribbed condoms with spermicidal lubricant for added protection…and a retro-60s graphic designer with Asian sensibilities please!”
Like chocolate and peanut butter.
Fun Fact: Yesterday was Julie’s birthday! Happy late…25th…birthday Julie! I’m working on your song today.
Oh, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Peelicious!
Friday, January 28, 2005
Cheesy
Cartoons are at it again. They’re poisoning our children with every animated cell. The latest outrage visited on an unsuspecting nation of toddlers is called “Postcards from Buster.”
“Postcards from the sexually deranged” is more like it.
See, Buster is a bunny who travels all over the United States taking a video diary of the interesting people he meets. Then someone, perhaps a human, takes the footage and edits it into a half-hour children’s show for PBS.
Yep, you know it’s bad. It’s PBS. The people who brought us Tinky-Winky the purse-carrying Teletubby and that obviously lesbian, Barbara Streisand-looking “teacher” from the “Magic Schoolbus.”
Well, the smut-mongers at Public Television are at it again. Trying to press their evil manifesto of tolerance and understanding. It turns out that Buster took a little trip to Vermont to watch a little girl make cheese. A little girl with LESBIANS for parents!!
Lesbians!
Now, I don’t know about you, but the last time I saw a video tape of lesbians, they weren’t culturing milk if you catch my drift.
Well, as it turns out, these lesbians weren’t even doing that. Most of the milk-culturing was being done by their “daughter.” The little cheese-making lesbo-in-training. The full-grown lesbians were just welcoming Buster into their home. But that’s enough isn’t it?
Enough to get newly, Bush-appointed Education Secretary Margaret Spellings’ undies in a bunch.
Seriously, sarcasm aside, this lady’s been in “office” since Monday and she’s already uncovered PBS’s sinister plot to gayify American kids? She’s a champ! She’s insisting that PBS give back its government grant money since it’s obvious to everyone that PBS has a problem fulfilling the hate policy of the Bush Administration.
The story was on Good Morning America today. The two women whose home Buster invaded were on the show to defend their lifestyle to the nation. For much needed conflict, and an opposing viewpoint, the producers at GMA also booked a spokesperson from the “Family First Coalition” or something like that. I don’t remember what the organization’s official name was. (There are a couple of them at the moment. It’s a hot topic to save American families these days.) But it was one of those right-wing conservative organizations dedicated to sheltering children from reality. You know what I’m talking about.
So the women come on the show and they play a clip of the “Sugartime!” episode from the Buster cartoon. “Buster” comes through the front door and says hi to everyone. Then he watches as they make some cheese.Or maple syrup or something. I swear they said cheese on the show today. Who knows?
To be fair to the right wing fascists out there, it’s obvious that I didn’t watch the entire show. I don’t know if they talked about being lesbian or anything.
But the lesbians (officially recognized as married in the state of Vermont) talk about how the whole thing is ridiculous. How they’re taxpayers too so why can’t one tiny portion of one stupid show include them. And what do they say to their three children when the government says that their lifestyle is wrong and deviant?
Then the spokesperson opens her mouth. She’s blond and pretty and bubbly and smiling and she says “the government doesn’t say it’s wrong…the majority of the American people do.”
The lesbians almost lost it at that moment. The bubbly bitch from “Screw Your Family, It’s Mine that I’m Thinking Of First” or wherever, was lucky that she was in DC and not in the studio in New York.
She’s also lucky that she wasn’t in my living room. Not that I would have harmed her in any way, but for crissake, what the hell causes people to act like that? And what causes people to listen to that kind of rhetoric and nod “yup, yup, it’s true, gays are inhuman creatures who shouldn’t have rights?”
Have we learned nothing from history? How do we lend credibility to people who spout this kind of hate? We did it to blacks before the civil rights movement. What makes it different now?
How can these people so casually spread hatred and intolerance? They talk about the American family. They talk about values. But what are they teaching their kids? Be a good Christian. Love and forgive. But only those people who think like we do?
How do you stop bullying with thought like that?
“Billy, why were you beating on that poor little girl in the playground!?”
“She had braces, teacher. She’s the only one of us with crooked teeth! And her mom’s gay!”
“Oh, you’re right, let me help you…”
Anyway, the blond supremist in DC goes on to off-handedly say that these kinds of programs “sexualize our children.” Then some other garbage pukes out of her mouth. The lesbian couple latches on to the other garbage and completely ignores the “sexualizing” argument.
But now I wish that I had seen the show. Apparently, if you listen to this lady, there was hot and heavy lesbo action going on. I can appreciate lesbians on many different levels. I’ll stand by them in their fight for equality, but I’m also strangely compelled to watch them make out.
But I’m pretty sure that the lesbians didn’t make out. They probably didn’t even kiss. So here’s what I’m trying to figure out – how is it sexualizing children? Preschoolers aren’t just tiny adults. They don’t think like we do. They don’t know what sex is. They don’t care either. When they see two women living together, they don’t think about the mechanics of their love life. They don’t know to. Sexuality is the last thing on their minds. Do you think that they’re thinking about heterosexual lovemaking when they look at their own parents?
No.
They just want to watch a girl make cheese. And they want an animated rodent to videotape it.
Fun Fact: Sadly, PBS is pulling the episode like the cowardly chumps they are. God forbid someone label PBS “liberal.”
And personally, gays aside, I’m more disturbed by a giant voyeuristic rabbit.
Oh, yeah, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Gay-Rabielicious!
“Postcards from the sexually deranged” is more like it.
See, Buster is a bunny who travels all over the United States taking a video diary of the interesting people he meets. Then someone, perhaps a human, takes the footage and edits it into a half-hour children’s show for PBS.
Yep, you know it’s bad. It’s PBS. The people who brought us Tinky-Winky the purse-carrying Teletubby and that obviously lesbian, Barbara Streisand-looking “teacher” from the “Magic Schoolbus.”
Well, the smut-mongers at Public Television are at it again. Trying to press their evil manifesto of tolerance and understanding. It turns out that Buster took a little trip to Vermont to watch a little girl make cheese. A little girl with LESBIANS for parents!!
Lesbians!
Now, I don’t know about you, but the last time I saw a video tape of lesbians, they weren’t culturing milk if you catch my drift.
Well, as it turns out, these lesbians weren’t even doing that. Most of the milk-culturing was being done by their “daughter.” The little cheese-making lesbo-in-training. The full-grown lesbians were just welcoming Buster into their home. But that’s enough isn’t it?
Enough to get newly, Bush-appointed Education Secretary Margaret Spellings’ undies in a bunch.
Seriously, sarcasm aside, this lady’s been in “office” since Monday and she’s already uncovered PBS’s sinister plot to gayify American kids? She’s a champ! She’s insisting that PBS give back its government grant money since it’s obvious to everyone that PBS has a problem fulfilling the hate policy of the Bush Administration.
The story was on Good Morning America today. The two women whose home Buster invaded were on the show to defend their lifestyle to the nation. For much needed conflict, and an opposing viewpoint, the producers at GMA also booked a spokesperson from the “Family First Coalition” or something like that. I don’t remember what the organization’s official name was. (There are a couple of them at the moment. It’s a hot topic to save American families these days.) But it was one of those right-wing conservative organizations dedicated to sheltering children from reality. You know what I’m talking about.
So the women come on the show and they play a clip of the “Sugartime!” episode from the Buster cartoon. “Buster” comes through the front door and says hi to everyone. Then he watches as they make some cheese.Or maple syrup or something. I swear they said cheese on the show today. Who knows?
To be fair to the right wing fascists out there, it’s obvious that I didn’t watch the entire show. I don’t know if they talked about being lesbian or anything.
But the lesbians (officially recognized as married in the state of Vermont) talk about how the whole thing is ridiculous. How they’re taxpayers too so why can’t one tiny portion of one stupid show include them. And what do they say to their three children when the government says that their lifestyle is wrong and deviant?
Then the spokesperson opens her mouth. She’s blond and pretty and bubbly and smiling and she says “the government doesn’t say it’s wrong…the majority of the American people do.”
The lesbians almost lost it at that moment. The bubbly bitch from “Screw Your Family, It’s Mine that I’m Thinking Of First” or wherever, was lucky that she was in DC and not in the studio in New York.
She’s also lucky that she wasn’t in my living room. Not that I would have harmed her in any way, but for crissake, what the hell causes people to act like that? And what causes people to listen to that kind of rhetoric and nod “yup, yup, it’s true, gays are inhuman creatures who shouldn’t have rights?”
Have we learned nothing from history? How do we lend credibility to people who spout this kind of hate? We did it to blacks before the civil rights movement. What makes it different now?
How can these people so casually spread hatred and intolerance? They talk about the American family. They talk about values. But what are they teaching their kids? Be a good Christian. Love and forgive. But only those people who think like we do?
How do you stop bullying with thought like that?
“Billy, why were you beating on that poor little girl in the playground!?”
“She had braces, teacher. She’s the only one of us with crooked teeth! And her mom’s gay!”
“Oh, you’re right, let me help you…”
Anyway, the blond supremist in DC goes on to off-handedly say that these kinds of programs “sexualize our children.” Then some other garbage pukes out of her mouth. The lesbian couple latches on to the other garbage and completely ignores the “sexualizing” argument.
But now I wish that I had seen the show. Apparently, if you listen to this lady, there was hot and heavy lesbo action going on. I can appreciate lesbians on many different levels. I’ll stand by them in their fight for equality, but I’m also strangely compelled to watch them make out.
But I’m pretty sure that the lesbians didn’t make out. They probably didn’t even kiss. So here’s what I’m trying to figure out – how is it sexualizing children? Preschoolers aren’t just tiny adults. They don’t think like we do. They don’t know what sex is. They don’t care either. When they see two women living together, they don’t think about the mechanics of their love life. They don’t know to. Sexuality is the last thing on their minds. Do you think that they’re thinking about heterosexual lovemaking when they look at their own parents?
No.
They just want to watch a girl make cheese. And they want an animated rodent to videotape it.
Fun Fact: Sadly, PBS is pulling the episode like the cowardly chumps they are. God forbid someone label PBS “liberal.”
And personally, gays aside, I’m more disturbed by a giant voyeuristic rabbit.
Oh, yeah, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Gay-Rabielicious!
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps
So, there was a horrible train accident in Los Angeles this morning. It’s on every channel right now. I don’t have cable, so that means that I get to watch emergency response personnel swarm a bunch of crashed railroad cars all morning.
It happened this morning right after 6:00. Of course, the news agencies arrived on the scene almost immediately. Of course, they had no idea what exactly had happened or was happening.
Of course, it didn’t stop them from guessing, and reporting it as news.
It turns out that there was an SUV parked on the railroad tracks which was hit by a Union Pacific freight train. The freight train derailed and then was hit by a Metrolink commuter train. That train also derailed and hit another Metrolink commuter train going in the opposite direction.
In all, three trains were involved…and one dumbass SUV.
It also turns out that the asshole SUV driver wasn’t actually in his SUV. He had other places to be evidently. He’s in custody at the moment.
I have to say that I’m a little glad about that. I’m glad that this guy was an obvious jerk-ass. Not just some idiot trying to beat a train. Why? Well, because if he were just some idiot trying to beat a train then we would have to hear about railway crossing safety for the next few months or so.
“A car was hit by a train trying to cross the tracks before the flashing gate dropped. We need to get out there and educate the public about train safety!”
No. We don’t need no education. I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that crossing the railroad tracks while a train is coming could prove dangerous to your car’s paint job. If not jeopardizing your head’s ability to stay on your shoulders.
Look, if you don’t want your new Escalade to be referred to as “debris” then don’t screw with the goddamned train. If the thought of cadaver dogs poking their noses in your backseat to find your nose puts you off…then don’t screw with the goddamned train.
Los Angeles County Sheriff Lee Baca was on the news in a tizzy. The dude was pissed. A couple of his own men were killed on those trains (so far a total of nine people have been found dead). It was all the guy could do not to jump through the TV screen and personally strangle anyone who’s ever even looked funny at a railroad crossing.
I don’t blame him. There seems to be about a tragic Metro train accident a year around this place. And 90% of them are caused by assholes parking or crossing the railroad tracks.
As I said before, I was on a train that killed a man in Montana. The same thing happened there. Man, I guess I’m just lucky that the train never left the tracks.
But, believe it or not, I’m not here to talk about the horrible train accident. My biggest issue is with the news people. Since 6:00 this morning they’ve been filling my head with dubious information. They think that they’re saving their journalistic integrity by saying every 10 minutes or so, “now none of this is confirmed…” But that’s not what we hear. We hear, “as many as 20 people could have been killed in…”
They just don’t know. But we really like to see train wrecks on television. Train wrecks, traffic pileups, fires… And the news people really like it if we watch their station. So they tread water until the authorities decide to release information. And they poke their cameras into survivors’ faces to get the “real” story. Survivors who have just suffered through a train accident. Survivors whose hearts are racing so fast that they can barely remember their own names, much less the number of people in their car and the exact velocity their train was moving.
But they poke their cameras around anyway until they land on something that may be a clue. A rusty car axle. A license plate. The Watergate tapes (what were they doing there?!)
“We take it back down to the scene and Buck Knowitall…Buck?”
“Hey guys, our cameras have just picked up what appears to be a dead skunk. Now, exactly what this skunk is doing here next to the train tracks is unsure. But we can be sure that it’s dead. Whether the skunk caused the collision or was just an innocent bystander who tragically lost it’s life, we don’t know…all we know for sure is that it’s a skunk and it’s dead…actually it may be a large rat…no…it’s a skunk…I think…I hope it’s loved ones aren’t watching right now…what a tragedy….back to you in Hollywood…”
Of course, I’m exaggerating – a little. But I get tired of the misinformation. The news people aren’t trying to misinform, but they do a good job of it anyway. Little tiny speculations that add up after a couple hours. Remember the World Trade Center Attack? “20,000 people dead?”
If the news people insist on making up details, why don’t they go ahead and make them interesting.
“Aliens have attacked two commuter trains this morning! Of course this is unconfirmed, but one thing we can maybe be sure of is that over a hundred commuters have been taken aboard the mother ship to be taught how to speak Spanish. No word on how many people on board may have already known how to speak Spanish…back to you in Hollywood…”
But whoever said “no news is good news” has never watched “The Insider” with Pat “toothpick” O’Brien. Yes, I’ve changed subjects, so sue me.
I had the 7:30 episode of the Simpsons on DVD, so I decided to get the latest poop on Hollywood. The other channels were fuzzy. I had to watch the toothpick. I hate Pat O’Brien. He’s an ass. But he’s been in the damned business so long that other people have to put up with him.
The Insider was teasing a story throughout the first twenty minutes of the broadcast, “go inside Johnny Carson’s last will and testament. See how the king of late night will split up his immense estate! Only ‘The Insider’ gives you the real story!”
Wow, Johnny Carson’s will?! His body’s not even cold yet. But who knows, maybe they’ve got a friend who works for Johnny’s lawyer or something. Who knows. I’m into will stuff. I want to know how much money Johnny had. It’s interesting. I enjoy living vicariously through those lucky enough to have been related to rich people.
So I wait. I sit through all the other stories about the Oscar nominations and stuff. I watch Jamie Foxx tickle the ivories and sing.
“Tickle the ivories” = playing the piano. Not something else. It’s not a dirty euphemism. I don’t think that Jamie has a touch so gentle that he makes himself sing.
And why are they ivory?
Enough.
Anyway, I’m sitting through the entire craptastic show just to see how Johnny’s going to divvy up his cash. And the story comes on.
Nothing.
Some guy talks about how much Johnny’s third wife got in the divorce and then says “I think his kids will get most of it.”
What the hell kind of story is that? That’s not even misinformation. That’s nothing! Hell, I could have gone on TV and freakin’ guessed! I understand that entertainment “news” is fluff journalism. But this wasn’t even that. “Fluff” is what turns a tiny bit of sugar and gelatin into a marshmallow.
Where was the sugar? Where was the gelatin?
Why, as consumers, do we demand to have news instantly? We know that we’re not really getting news! We don’t even really pay attention to the truth anymore. We just want someone to come on TV and say something, anything, about the current to-do.
It’s stupid.
If this is supposed to be the “Information Age” why do we seem to care so little about information?
Fun Fact: My pants could be on fire. Perhaps because they were manufactured at some top secret nuclear technology center. All I know is that the flames seem to be invisible…
and heatless…
back to you in Hollywood.
It happened this morning right after 6:00. Of course, the news agencies arrived on the scene almost immediately. Of course, they had no idea what exactly had happened or was happening.
Of course, it didn’t stop them from guessing, and reporting it as news.
It turns out that there was an SUV parked on the railroad tracks which was hit by a Union Pacific freight train. The freight train derailed and then was hit by a Metrolink commuter train. That train also derailed and hit another Metrolink commuter train going in the opposite direction.
In all, three trains were involved…and one dumbass SUV.
It also turns out that the asshole SUV driver wasn’t actually in his SUV. He had other places to be evidently. He’s in custody at the moment.
I have to say that I’m a little glad about that. I’m glad that this guy was an obvious jerk-ass. Not just some idiot trying to beat a train. Why? Well, because if he were just some idiot trying to beat a train then we would have to hear about railway crossing safety for the next few months or so.
“A car was hit by a train trying to cross the tracks before the flashing gate dropped. We need to get out there and educate the public about train safety!”
No. We don’t need no education. I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that crossing the railroad tracks while a train is coming could prove dangerous to your car’s paint job. If not jeopardizing your head’s ability to stay on your shoulders.
Look, if you don’t want your new Escalade to be referred to as “debris” then don’t screw with the goddamned train. If the thought of cadaver dogs poking their noses in your backseat to find your nose puts you off…then don’t screw with the goddamned train.
Los Angeles County Sheriff Lee Baca was on the news in a tizzy. The dude was pissed. A couple of his own men were killed on those trains (so far a total of nine people have been found dead). It was all the guy could do not to jump through the TV screen and personally strangle anyone who’s ever even looked funny at a railroad crossing.
I don’t blame him. There seems to be about a tragic Metro train accident a year around this place. And 90% of them are caused by assholes parking or crossing the railroad tracks.
As I said before, I was on a train that killed a man in Montana. The same thing happened there. Man, I guess I’m just lucky that the train never left the tracks.
But, believe it or not, I’m not here to talk about the horrible train accident. My biggest issue is with the news people. Since 6:00 this morning they’ve been filling my head with dubious information. They think that they’re saving their journalistic integrity by saying every 10 minutes or so, “now none of this is confirmed…” But that’s not what we hear. We hear, “as many as 20 people could have been killed in…”
They just don’t know. But we really like to see train wrecks on television. Train wrecks, traffic pileups, fires… And the news people really like it if we watch their station. So they tread water until the authorities decide to release information. And they poke their cameras into survivors’ faces to get the “real” story. Survivors who have just suffered through a train accident. Survivors whose hearts are racing so fast that they can barely remember their own names, much less the number of people in their car and the exact velocity their train was moving.
But they poke their cameras around anyway until they land on something that may be a clue. A rusty car axle. A license plate. The Watergate tapes (what were they doing there?!)
“We take it back down to the scene and Buck Knowitall…Buck?”
“Hey guys, our cameras have just picked up what appears to be a dead skunk. Now, exactly what this skunk is doing here next to the train tracks is unsure. But we can be sure that it’s dead. Whether the skunk caused the collision or was just an innocent bystander who tragically lost it’s life, we don’t know…all we know for sure is that it’s a skunk and it’s dead…actually it may be a large rat…no…it’s a skunk…I think…I hope it’s loved ones aren’t watching right now…what a tragedy….back to you in Hollywood…”
Of course, I’m exaggerating – a little. But I get tired of the misinformation. The news people aren’t trying to misinform, but they do a good job of it anyway. Little tiny speculations that add up after a couple hours. Remember the World Trade Center Attack? “20,000 people dead?”
If the news people insist on making up details, why don’t they go ahead and make them interesting.
“Aliens have attacked two commuter trains this morning! Of course this is unconfirmed, but one thing we can maybe be sure of is that over a hundred commuters have been taken aboard the mother ship to be taught how to speak Spanish. No word on how many people on board may have already known how to speak Spanish…back to you in Hollywood…”
But whoever said “no news is good news” has never watched “The Insider” with Pat “toothpick” O’Brien. Yes, I’ve changed subjects, so sue me.
I had the 7:30 episode of the Simpsons on DVD, so I decided to get the latest poop on Hollywood. The other channels were fuzzy. I had to watch the toothpick. I hate Pat O’Brien. He’s an ass. But he’s been in the damned business so long that other people have to put up with him.
The Insider was teasing a story throughout the first twenty minutes of the broadcast, “go inside Johnny Carson’s last will and testament. See how the king of late night will split up his immense estate! Only ‘The Insider’ gives you the real story!”
Wow, Johnny Carson’s will?! His body’s not even cold yet. But who knows, maybe they’ve got a friend who works for Johnny’s lawyer or something. Who knows. I’m into will stuff. I want to know how much money Johnny had. It’s interesting. I enjoy living vicariously through those lucky enough to have been related to rich people.
So I wait. I sit through all the other stories about the Oscar nominations and stuff. I watch Jamie Foxx tickle the ivories and sing.
“Tickle the ivories” = playing the piano. Not something else. It’s not a dirty euphemism. I don’t think that Jamie has a touch so gentle that he makes himself sing.
And why are they ivory?
Enough.
Anyway, I’m sitting through the entire craptastic show just to see how Johnny’s going to divvy up his cash. And the story comes on.
Nothing.
Some guy talks about how much Johnny’s third wife got in the divorce and then says “I think his kids will get most of it.”
What the hell kind of story is that? That’s not even misinformation. That’s nothing! Hell, I could have gone on TV and freakin’ guessed! I understand that entertainment “news” is fluff journalism. But this wasn’t even that. “Fluff” is what turns a tiny bit of sugar and gelatin into a marshmallow.
Where was the sugar? Where was the gelatin?
Why, as consumers, do we demand to have news instantly? We know that we’re not really getting news! We don’t even really pay attention to the truth anymore. We just want someone to come on TV and say something, anything, about the current to-do.
It’s stupid.
If this is supposed to be the “Information Age” why do we seem to care so little about information?
Fun Fact: My pants could be on fire. Perhaps because they were manufactured at some top secret nuclear technology center. All I know is that the flames seem to be invisible…
and heatless…
back to you in Hollywood.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Rescuing the World One Misguided Idiot at a Time
So, I’m watching the news this morning. As I do every morning. And there was stuff about Johnny Carson and the war in Iraq (although, disturbingly, not much about Iraq). There were a lot of stories about the Oscar nominations accompanied by speculation on who will win. Paul Giamatti was robbed. But then there were a couple of stories that really disturbed me.
The first one that I’ll bring up was about a prom dress designer who fashioned and marketed a prom dress so revealing that it would even make J-Lo say, “I’d look like a tramp in that thing!”
So, this dress designer is on the Today show this morning and Katie Couric is reading him the riot act, “how can you market a dress like this to kids blah, blah, blah.”
The slutty dress is this guy’s top seller at the moment. Seems that teens can’t get whory enough come prom night. He’s backpedaling and talking about the 300 other dresses in his line that aren’t guaranteed to get the wearer pregnant before her senior year and all I can think is “hey, Katie, leave the dude alone! If a girl wants to dress like a stripper at closing time, so freaking be it, right?!”
There was also a parent on the show or something to offer rebuttal to the designer, although she was not needed. Katie left any lingering shred of her journalistic integrity on the nightstand this morning. She was dishing it out to this guy pretty good without the angry mommy.
They even took a picture of the dress to the streets to get indignant comments from passersby.
Obviously, they wanted this dude to take the dress off the market. But why the hell should he? I’ve got a bit of advice for parents; now, keep in mind that I have no children so I’m no expert or anything, but if you don’t want your teenaged girl to dress like she’s giving away free handjobs, then don’t buy the gaddamned dress for her!
Why is it the designer’s problem that your teenager has the kind of self esteem that needs to be paid for with her breasts. The guy’s not manufacturing opium for chrissake. Your daughter will do just fine without the dress. And if she goes into DT’s because for one night her punnani’s not greeting the world, then she’s got bigger problems and should probably be removed from school altogether.
The dress isn’t the problem. The dress was never the problem, people. The dress is a symptom. But that’s what we do these days. We run around stomping out brushfires while our houses burn to the ground.
I’ve been really getting fed up with it lately because my damned cigarettes are so freaking expensive. Why do I have to pay so much damned tax? Aren’t cheeseburgers bad for you too? Where’s the 100% cheeseburger tax?
And see, here’s the problem. I’ll bet that for a second you thought, “well, he shouldn’t be smoking in the first place.” But I’m, a big boy now. A big, stupid boy. Why does the government get to put a tax on cigarettes just because they’re not good for me? And don’t say because cigarette smoking contributes to the declining health of the entire nation and therefore puts an unfair burden on hospitals caring for uninsured smokers. If that’s the case, then why can’t my cigarette tax go toward my impending health care costs?
My point is that, I get a bit tired of everyone trying to tell everyone else what to do. It’s perhaps the biggest problem that we face in this country right now. George Bush doesn’t want to allow people to have abortions or let gays marry, but telling gangbangers that they can’t own assault rifles would interfere with their constitutional rights.
Where’s the accountability? It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?
“My daughter’s a slut…I’m going to sue Victoria’s Secret!”
“I’m fat…Damn you McDonalds, you’re going to pay!”
There was another story in the news this morning. One that’s a little more delicate. You can find out more about this story on the Smoking Gun. This lady in Colorado, Sylvia Johnson, admitted to giving alcohol and drugs to underage boys at her home (16 and 17-year-olds) as well as having sexual contact with them because she wanted to be the “cool mom.”
The chick is creepy. She obviously has some issues still swirling around from high school. But these boys came over to her house, got drunk and high and made it with a 40-year-old woman. Now one of them is making the media circuit telling the horrible tale of how he was taken advantage of when he was 17.
Excuse me?
Look, I don’t want to detract anything from this kid’s obvious pain, he can’t eat, he can’t sleep… But come on, man. He wasn’t 12. He was 17. People have fought and died in wars younger than that.
I’m trying not to be too cynical, because stuff like this should be taken seriously. But I can’t believe how much this guy has invested in his quest to dissolve any sense of personal accountability. I’m not saying that he should wander through the rest of his life with horrible guilt and self-hatred…
She didn’t make him go to her house. She didn’t make him drink beer and whisky. She didn’t force meth down his throat. But, because she’s supposed to be the mature adult, everything’s her fault. The lady is obviously not mature. Obviously, she has mental problems. What happened at her house was mostly her fault. But it’s time for teenager’s parents to wake up to the fact that their little angels aren’t three anymore.
If you can’t teach your kid to take responsibility for their actions, they’re not going to learn to do it by themselves.
George Bush still hasn’t.
Oh, look, I got all political right there at the end. What an angry post. I hate teenagers.
Fun Fact: SpongeBob SquarePants supports homos! He’s a homo-lover! And so are the Muppets! Homos, all of them!
The Rev. James Dobson, founder of Focus on the Family, thinks so. He’s bringing his Christian beliefs of love, understanding and forgiveness to the fight against queers. Diversity and tolerance have no role in Christianity! Charity doesn’t extend to fags.
Boycott SpongeBob! He likes gays! He actually thinks that they’re people with feelings! What a stupid little sponge!
So put on your round pants and take a stand against the wholesale killer of the American family…homosexuals! And while we’re at it, let’s stick it to Czechs too. They think Prague is sooooo pretty.
Screw you, Czechs!
And the new Tam Cartoon is up for those of you who aren’t gay or Czech. Intoleriffic!
The first one that I’ll bring up was about a prom dress designer who fashioned and marketed a prom dress so revealing that it would even make J-Lo say, “I’d look like a tramp in that thing!”
So, this dress designer is on the Today show this morning and Katie Couric is reading him the riot act, “how can you market a dress like this to kids blah, blah, blah.”
The slutty dress is this guy’s top seller at the moment. Seems that teens can’t get whory enough come prom night. He’s backpedaling and talking about the 300 other dresses in his line that aren’t guaranteed to get the wearer pregnant before her senior year and all I can think is “hey, Katie, leave the dude alone! If a girl wants to dress like a stripper at closing time, so freaking be it, right?!”
There was also a parent on the show or something to offer rebuttal to the designer, although she was not needed. Katie left any lingering shred of her journalistic integrity on the nightstand this morning. She was dishing it out to this guy pretty good without the angry mommy.
They even took a picture of the dress to the streets to get indignant comments from passersby.
Obviously, they wanted this dude to take the dress off the market. But why the hell should he? I’ve got a bit of advice for parents; now, keep in mind that I have no children so I’m no expert or anything, but if you don’t want your teenaged girl to dress like she’s giving away free handjobs, then don’t buy the gaddamned dress for her!
Why is it the designer’s problem that your teenager has the kind of self esteem that needs to be paid for with her breasts. The guy’s not manufacturing opium for chrissake. Your daughter will do just fine without the dress. And if she goes into DT’s because for one night her punnani’s not greeting the world, then she’s got bigger problems and should probably be removed from school altogether.
The dress isn’t the problem. The dress was never the problem, people. The dress is a symptom. But that’s what we do these days. We run around stomping out brushfires while our houses burn to the ground.
I’ve been really getting fed up with it lately because my damned cigarettes are so freaking expensive. Why do I have to pay so much damned tax? Aren’t cheeseburgers bad for you too? Where’s the 100% cheeseburger tax?
And see, here’s the problem. I’ll bet that for a second you thought, “well, he shouldn’t be smoking in the first place.” But I’m, a big boy now. A big, stupid boy. Why does the government get to put a tax on cigarettes just because they’re not good for me? And don’t say because cigarette smoking contributes to the declining health of the entire nation and therefore puts an unfair burden on hospitals caring for uninsured smokers. If that’s the case, then why can’t my cigarette tax go toward my impending health care costs?
My point is that, I get a bit tired of everyone trying to tell everyone else what to do. It’s perhaps the biggest problem that we face in this country right now. George Bush doesn’t want to allow people to have abortions or let gays marry, but telling gangbangers that they can’t own assault rifles would interfere with their constitutional rights.
Where’s the accountability? It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?
“My daughter’s a slut…I’m going to sue Victoria’s Secret!”
“I’m fat…Damn you McDonalds, you’re going to pay!”
There was another story in the news this morning. One that’s a little more delicate. You can find out more about this story on the Smoking Gun. This lady in Colorado, Sylvia Johnson, admitted to giving alcohol and drugs to underage boys at her home (16 and 17-year-olds) as well as having sexual contact with them because she wanted to be the “cool mom.”
The chick is creepy. She obviously has some issues still swirling around from high school. But these boys came over to her house, got drunk and high and made it with a 40-year-old woman. Now one of them is making the media circuit telling the horrible tale of how he was taken advantage of when he was 17.
Excuse me?
Look, I don’t want to detract anything from this kid’s obvious pain, he can’t eat, he can’t sleep… But come on, man. He wasn’t 12. He was 17. People have fought and died in wars younger than that.
I’m trying not to be too cynical, because stuff like this should be taken seriously. But I can’t believe how much this guy has invested in his quest to dissolve any sense of personal accountability. I’m not saying that he should wander through the rest of his life with horrible guilt and self-hatred…
She didn’t make him go to her house. She didn’t make him drink beer and whisky. She didn’t force meth down his throat. But, because she’s supposed to be the mature adult, everything’s her fault. The lady is obviously not mature. Obviously, she has mental problems. What happened at her house was mostly her fault. But it’s time for teenager’s parents to wake up to the fact that their little angels aren’t three anymore.
If you can’t teach your kid to take responsibility for their actions, they’re not going to learn to do it by themselves.
George Bush still hasn’t.
Oh, look, I got all political right there at the end. What an angry post. I hate teenagers.
Fun Fact: SpongeBob SquarePants supports homos! He’s a homo-lover! And so are the Muppets! Homos, all of them!
The Rev. James Dobson, founder of Focus on the Family, thinks so. He’s bringing his Christian beliefs of love, understanding and forgiveness to the fight against queers. Diversity and tolerance have no role in Christianity! Charity doesn’t extend to fags.
Boycott SpongeBob! He likes gays! He actually thinks that they’re people with feelings! What a stupid little sponge!
So put on your round pants and take a stand against the wholesale killer of the American family…homosexuals! And while we’re at it, let’s stick it to Czechs too. They think Prague is sooooo pretty.
Screw you, Czechs!
And the new Tam Cartoon is up for those of you who aren’t gay or Czech. Intoleriffic!
Monday, January 24, 2005
Pimpin’
Who’s the OG? Me, that’s who. At least I was last night.
Now, I don’t want to overstate things. I wasn’t fully pimpin’. You can’t truly be pimpin’ if you’re constantly afraid for your life, can you? Probably not. There’s a certain decorum involved in the thuggin’ lifestyle. Something that I can’t truly grasp. It’s just not in me. I blame my mother for not raising me that way. For instilling in me values like decency and education. If it weren’t for her, I could be slappin’ bitches as I roll my kind of roll.
Instead, I was just a pasty dude in a caddy, driving scared.
I should clarify a few things, I suppose. This past weekend I shot a music video for a musician named Phil Hyland. It was directed by my friend Adam Hodge. A good time. Phil’s song is called “No Disguises.” It’s terminally catchy and hopefully will have no problem making it into a film or on television soon.
Anyway, I’m the lead in the “story” part of the music video. There are a few different types of music videos. The type I was in blends genres. It’s the kind where the band powers out their latest hit from some seedy, broken down building mixed with the interminable love story about a relationship in jeopardy.
I’m in the “relationship in jeopardy” part.
So I got to hang out in a house that I could never afford and pretend like it was mine. Which was nice. I had to do a couple “love” scenes. Which was a little awkward. And I got to eat free food and sample 5 kegs of beer.
Which, I didn’t do because I had to shoot those damned love scenes. You can’t be bloated in a love scene. I’m bloated enough without a belly full of Budweiser and roast beef sandwiches.
But perhaps the best part about the video shoot was the car.
Last night, if you happened to be in downtown Los Angeles at around 7:00, you might have seen me driving thorough the streets in a fire engine red, 1973 convertible Cadillac El Dorado.
Here’s a picture of one. Of course I didn’t take my camera with me last night, so I don’t have a picture of the car I actually drove. But here’s a good idea of what it looked like. Just picture it a bright orangy-red.
Evidently, this model was the Indy pace car in 1973 and apparently they factored this in when they designed the turning radius. I felt like I was driving a semi truck. You can’t really tell from the picture just how enormous this car is. It wouldn’t fit in a parking space. Literally, it took up one and a half designated parallel-parking spots.
But I got used to it after a while. I even began enjoying it. It’s a lot of car. And there’s something cool about driving that much car. Jumping back into the old Echo after the shoot was over made me feel like I was going to take a spin around the go-cart track.
But the thing is, the car was as big as a motor home, but it had less leg room than the Toyota in the back seat. It was surprisingly cramped in there. I don’t know how upwardly mobile gang-bangers do it. No wonder they’re so angry. It’s tough to look cool with your knees right up under your chin.
But let me tell you, this kind of car is not inconspicuous in downtown LA. The homeless guys all loved it. They would shout their “crazy” at me and wave their crazy arms. They were actually quite nice. Some of them would shout “Hollywood! Hollywood! Beverly Hills!” I don’t know exactly what that meant, but they were smiling when they did it, so that’s a good thing.
And lots of people honked at me. They waved. It’s amazing how much more popular I got driving a stupid gigantic car that needs a fresh tank of gas every half-mile.
That was the good attention. But I was a little worried driving downtown in the dark. Especially when I was driving by myself. Nothing says “kill me and steal my car” like a skinny, sweater-wearing white dude in a red convertible Caddy.
I’ll keep the Echo. No one wants to steal that. And I don’t have to plan my trips to the store based on how big the streets are.
Fun Fact: As a tribute to the inimitable Johnny Carson, here is a story from Anecdotage.com.
When Johnny Carson first signed on as host of "The Tonight Show" he was so swamped with interview requests that he compiled a list of ten answers - to which reporters were invited to furnish appropriate questions. The answers?
1. Yes, I did.
2. Not a bit of truth in that rumor.
3. Only twice in my life, both times on Saturday.
4. I can do either, but I prefer the first.
5. No. Kumquats.
6. I can't answer that question.
7. Toads and tarantulas.
8. Turkestan, Denmark, Chile, and the Komandorskie Islands.
9. As often as possible, but I'm not very good at it yet. I need much more practice.
10. It happened to some old friends of mine, and it's a story I'll never forget!
All over the country right now there are public schools filled with kids going “Who the fuck is Johnny Carson?!”
He was the best.
Now, I don’t want to overstate things. I wasn’t fully pimpin’. You can’t truly be pimpin’ if you’re constantly afraid for your life, can you? Probably not. There’s a certain decorum involved in the thuggin’ lifestyle. Something that I can’t truly grasp. It’s just not in me. I blame my mother for not raising me that way. For instilling in me values like decency and education. If it weren’t for her, I could be slappin’ bitches as I roll my kind of roll.
Instead, I was just a pasty dude in a caddy, driving scared.
I should clarify a few things, I suppose. This past weekend I shot a music video for a musician named Phil Hyland. It was directed by my friend Adam Hodge. A good time. Phil’s song is called “No Disguises.” It’s terminally catchy and hopefully will have no problem making it into a film or on television soon.
Anyway, I’m the lead in the “story” part of the music video. There are a few different types of music videos. The type I was in blends genres. It’s the kind where the band powers out their latest hit from some seedy, broken down building mixed with the interminable love story about a relationship in jeopardy.
I’m in the “relationship in jeopardy” part.
So I got to hang out in a house that I could never afford and pretend like it was mine. Which was nice. I had to do a couple “love” scenes. Which was a little awkward. And I got to eat free food and sample 5 kegs of beer.
Which, I didn’t do because I had to shoot those damned love scenes. You can’t be bloated in a love scene. I’m bloated enough without a belly full of Budweiser and roast beef sandwiches.
But perhaps the best part about the video shoot was the car.
Last night, if you happened to be in downtown Los Angeles at around 7:00, you might have seen me driving thorough the streets in a fire engine red, 1973 convertible Cadillac El Dorado.
Here’s a picture of one. Of course I didn’t take my camera with me last night, so I don’t have a picture of the car I actually drove. But here’s a good idea of what it looked like. Just picture it a bright orangy-red.
Evidently, this model was the Indy pace car in 1973 and apparently they factored this in when they designed the turning radius. I felt like I was driving a semi truck. You can’t really tell from the picture just how enormous this car is. It wouldn’t fit in a parking space. Literally, it took up one and a half designated parallel-parking spots.
But I got used to it after a while. I even began enjoying it. It’s a lot of car. And there’s something cool about driving that much car. Jumping back into the old Echo after the shoot was over made me feel like I was going to take a spin around the go-cart track.
But the thing is, the car was as big as a motor home, but it had less leg room than the Toyota in the back seat. It was surprisingly cramped in there. I don’t know how upwardly mobile gang-bangers do it. No wonder they’re so angry. It’s tough to look cool with your knees right up under your chin.
But let me tell you, this kind of car is not inconspicuous in downtown LA. The homeless guys all loved it. They would shout their “crazy” at me and wave their crazy arms. They were actually quite nice. Some of them would shout “Hollywood! Hollywood! Beverly Hills!” I don’t know exactly what that meant, but they were smiling when they did it, so that’s a good thing.
And lots of people honked at me. They waved. It’s amazing how much more popular I got driving a stupid gigantic car that needs a fresh tank of gas every half-mile.
That was the good attention. But I was a little worried driving downtown in the dark. Especially when I was driving by myself. Nothing says “kill me and steal my car” like a skinny, sweater-wearing white dude in a red convertible Caddy.
I’ll keep the Echo. No one wants to steal that. And I don’t have to plan my trips to the store based on how big the streets are.
Fun Fact: As a tribute to the inimitable Johnny Carson, here is a story from Anecdotage.com.
When Johnny Carson first signed on as host of "The Tonight Show" he was so swamped with interview requests that he compiled a list of ten answers - to which reporters were invited to furnish appropriate questions. The answers?
1. Yes, I did.
2. Not a bit of truth in that rumor.
3. Only twice in my life, both times on Saturday.
4. I can do either, but I prefer the first.
5. No. Kumquats.
6. I can't answer that question.
7. Toads and tarantulas.
8. Turkestan, Denmark, Chile, and the Komandorskie Islands.
9. As often as possible, but I'm not very good at it yet. I need much more practice.
10. It happened to some old friends of mine, and it's a story I'll never forget!
All over the country right now there are public schools filled with kids going “Who the fuck is Johnny Carson?!”
He was the best.
Friday, January 21, 2005
It’s Alive!
The Cartoon, that is. It’s back. Look! At the top of the page!
I got over my laziness in time to draw the toon yesterday. I didn’t want to, but sometimes we all have to do stuff we don’t want to do, right?
Wrong.
Our parents are always telling us that sometimes we have to do stuff we don’t want to. It’s not true. You don’t have to do anything. Don’t want to pay your rent? Don’t. Don’t feel like going to work today? Don’t. Tell your boss and landlord that I said you didn’t have to.
But you can’t sleep here when you’re unemployed and homeless.
Why do I bring all this up? Well, mainly because I’m filling space. Just watching myself hit the computer keyboard. Allowing myself to be lulled by the rhythmic sound of plastic tapping under my fingers. Maybe I’ll play a song? I’ll type to the rhythm of “Jingle Bells.”
Jingle bells jingle bells.
There. That actually got me through “one horse open sleigh.” Not much fun to read, but great fun to type. And O what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!
Okay, enough of that. I’m talking about responsibility and accountability. The president’s inauguration was yesterday, so it seems like a good time to discuss it.
I don’t have any unique insight into responsibility and accountability. I think you know what it is to be responsible and accountable. It’s something that the younger generation seems to be struggling with. Granted, every new generation seems to be struggling with it. It’s not new to be young and stupid. But there’s a new breed of young and stupid these days. Made ever more stupid by the simple fact that my generation is raising them. My generation, “generation-X,” “the MTV generation…” We have a lot of different names for my peers and I. But it doesn’t change the fact that people’s reluctance to grow up, tiny attention spans, overwhelming sense of entitlement and the constant search for the next bigger and better thing are handicapping us all.
That’s why I don’t have kids.
But this isn’t my point either. I’m talking about the president. Not a member of my generation.
Whatever. I totally lost interest in this post.
The president sucks. He was inaugurated yesterday. Could someone please post a comment and let me know one good thing the man has done to help this country since he’s been elected? And “led us through 9/11” doesn’t count. He had no choice.
Fun Fact: If you were to take every empty can of Diet Pepsi consumed in this country last year and lay them end to end…people might say that you had too much time on your hands.
Take them to the recycling center! You’d be rich!
And remember, the new TAM Cartoon is up! Pepsilicious!
I got over my laziness in time to draw the toon yesterday. I didn’t want to, but sometimes we all have to do stuff we don’t want to do, right?
Wrong.
Our parents are always telling us that sometimes we have to do stuff we don’t want to. It’s not true. You don’t have to do anything. Don’t want to pay your rent? Don’t. Don’t feel like going to work today? Don’t. Tell your boss and landlord that I said you didn’t have to.
But you can’t sleep here when you’re unemployed and homeless.
Why do I bring all this up? Well, mainly because I’m filling space. Just watching myself hit the computer keyboard. Allowing myself to be lulled by the rhythmic sound of plastic tapping under my fingers. Maybe I’ll play a song? I’ll type to the rhythm of “Jingle Bells.”
Jingle bells jingle bells.
There. That actually got me through “one horse open sleigh.” Not much fun to read, but great fun to type. And O what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!
Okay, enough of that. I’m talking about responsibility and accountability. The president’s inauguration was yesterday, so it seems like a good time to discuss it.
I don’t have any unique insight into responsibility and accountability. I think you know what it is to be responsible and accountable. It’s something that the younger generation seems to be struggling with. Granted, every new generation seems to be struggling with it. It’s not new to be young and stupid. But there’s a new breed of young and stupid these days. Made ever more stupid by the simple fact that my generation is raising them. My generation, “generation-X,” “the MTV generation…” We have a lot of different names for my peers and I. But it doesn’t change the fact that people’s reluctance to grow up, tiny attention spans, overwhelming sense of entitlement and the constant search for the next bigger and better thing are handicapping us all.
That’s why I don’t have kids.
But this isn’t my point either. I’m talking about the president. Not a member of my generation.
Whatever. I totally lost interest in this post.
The president sucks. He was inaugurated yesterday. Could someone please post a comment and let me know one good thing the man has done to help this country since he’s been elected? And “led us through 9/11” doesn’t count. He had no choice.
Fun Fact: If you were to take every empty can of Diet Pepsi consumed in this country last year and lay them end to end…people might say that you had too much time on your hands.
Take them to the recycling center! You’d be rich!
And remember, the new TAM Cartoon is up! Pepsilicious!
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Big Fat Liar
That’s me. A big fatty, fat, fat, fatty fatterton liar. Fat! Fat! Fatty…!
Waoh, sorry about that. It’s that self loathing again. Looks like daddy needs his medicine.
Okay, I’m better now. The reason that I’m a big fat liar is because I promised yesterday that I would post the new TAM Cartoon either last night or this morning. It’s not going to happen. There will be no new TAM Cartoon for the beginning of this week. I would love to give you a great reason why. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. I’m just incredibly lazy and creatively bankrupt.
There.
Unfortunately, my creative drought is spreading to this blog post as well. I have nothing to post about. I had an idea, but I forgot what it was. See, that’s why I should write these things down. But carrying a pad of paper around is an awful lot of work. Who needs that kind of burden, right?
Oh, hey, here’s something. The other morning Tanya and I were at the gym. Gyms are inherently creepy places. They haven’t made a gym yet without the creep. I don’t think it’s possible. It’s just that everyone is constantly comparing their bodies to others’. That’s what you do. Maybe not consciously, but it happens to the best of us. If you were in an art class, the same thing would happen. Band, drama…whatever…you know…I’m not gay!
Now, my gym isn’t the creepiest that I’ve been to. It’s not a huge meat market. But there are a few guys who go out of their way to personally obliterate any traces of women’s lib. The biggest offender also happens to be the biggest dude in the gym. The most in-shape I should say. He’s a body builder.
Of course, I can’t get into the heads of the women at the gym so I don’t know what they think of him. But most of them seem to take his misogynist leering in stride. Like I said, he’s the biggest dude there. The other guys look up to him. He’s a complete moron, but the other guys look up to him.
In fact, he’s the same guy who was involved in the fight that I mentioned in a much earlier post. He’s not aggressive or anything as a rule. But you can never tell when roid-rage is going to show its think head.
Also, that guy has really nothing to do with my story. I just think it’s interesting to see the hierarchy of the gym. It’s truly survival of the fittest. There’s a hierarchy any place you go. The gym, the country club, the astrophysics lab.
I’m just going to assume a great deal about those last two.
If fitness is key to respect at the gym, one might think that the personal trainers would be gods among men. Not the case. Personal trainers are helpful, sure. They’re friendly. They’re fit. But there’s something predatory about them. Perhaps it’s because they really want your money. They’re basically solicitors. Universal gym-to-universal gym salesmen.
Whores?
“Hey pal, you looking to get in some really great shape? No one can do it like I do! I’ll make you a deal, buddy. Just because I like you.”
“Hey, handsome, you looking for a great workout?”
“Please hire me, I’ve got eight illegitimate kids to pay for!”
Joining a gym can be like spending the summer in a bear’s den. It’s only a matter of time before you get your eyes clawed out.
I’m being a bit unfair toward personal trainers. But there are those who become personal trainers to pickup chicks/guys. That’s the kind that accosted Tanya the other morning. There’s been a big push for the trainers to find more clients. I know this because it’s posted on the office wall of the PT’s office. I know that it’s posted on the PT’s office wall because the PT’s office has another glass wall that looks out into the workout area.
Luckily the personal trainers though better of putting up the “screw ‘em for all their worth” poster. But I’m sure that’s just implied.
Anyway, I leave for two seconds to get a drink of water and this guy’s all over Tanya. And in a very creepy way. He even had the creepy inflection going on. “Heeeeey, did you just get done with your…workout?”
Complete with the short pause before “workout,” treating it as if it’s some kind of double-entendre.
I’m not a jealous person. Honestly, it didn’t bother me that he was hitting on Tanya. If she was the type of person to run away with that creep, then we wouldn’t be together in the first place.
No, what bothered me was that Tanya saw the man’s flirting as an accusation of her being fat. Only women can take a guy’s obvious flirting and turn it into an insult. Sure, he was a personal trainer looking to make some cash. But this guy was the type of personal trainer whose idea of a great workout doesn’t involve gym equipment.
Well, maybe some Pilates gear.
Does a sex swing count as Pilates gear?
I’m just asking because I’m going to start working on my taxes soon.
My point is, ladies, that when a smarmy assjerk oozes his slimyness all over you, just slap the bastard and feel great about your hot rockin' bod! Jeeze!
Fun Fact: I’m wearing a green shirt today too. No the same one either, smart ass.
No picture though.
Waoh, sorry about that. It’s that self loathing again. Looks like daddy needs his medicine.
Okay, I’m better now. The reason that I’m a big fat liar is because I promised yesterday that I would post the new TAM Cartoon either last night or this morning. It’s not going to happen. There will be no new TAM Cartoon for the beginning of this week. I would love to give you a great reason why. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. I’m just incredibly lazy and creatively bankrupt.
There.
Unfortunately, my creative drought is spreading to this blog post as well. I have nothing to post about. I had an idea, but I forgot what it was. See, that’s why I should write these things down. But carrying a pad of paper around is an awful lot of work. Who needs that kind of burden, right?
Oh, hey, here’s something. The other morning Tanya and I were at the gym. Gyms are inherently creepy places. They haven’t made a gym yet without the creep. I don’t think it’s possible. It’s just that everyone is constantly comparing their bodies to others’. That’s what you do. Maybe not consciously, but it happens to the best of us. If you were in an art class, the same thing would happen. Band, drama…whatever…you know…I’m not gay!
Now, my gym isn’t the creepiest that I’ve been to. It’s not a huge meat market. But there are a few guys who go out of their way to personally obliterate any traces of women’s lib. The biggest offender also happens to be the biggest dude in the gym. The most in-shape I should say. He’s a body builder.
Of course, I can’t get into the heads of the women at the gym so I don’t know what they think of him. But most of them seem to take his misogynist leering in stride. Like I said, he’s the biggest dude there. The other guys look up to him. He’s a complete moron, but the other guys look up to him.
In fact, he’s the same guy who was involved in the fight that I mentioned in a much earlier post. He’s not aggressive or anything as a rule. But you can never tell when roid-rage is going to show its think head.
Also, that guy has really nothing to do with my story. I just think it’s interesting to see the hierarchy of the gym. It’s truly survival of the fittest. There’s a hierarchy any place you go. The gym, the country club, the astrophysics lab.
I’m just going to assume a great deal about those last two.
If fitness is key to respect at the gym, one might think that the personal trainers would be gods among men. Not the case. Personal trainers are helpful, sure. They’re friendly. They’re fit. But there’s something predatory about them. Perhaps it’s because they really want your money. They’re basically solicitors. Universal gym-to-universal gym salesmen.
Whores?
“Hey pal, you looking to get in some really great shape? No one can do it like I do! I’ll make you a deal, buddy. Just because I like you.”
“Hey, handsome, you looking for a great workout?”
“Please hire me, I’ve got eight illegitimate kids to pay for!”
Joining a gym can be like spending the summer in a bear’s den. It’s only a matter of time before you get your eyes clawed out.
I’m being a bit unfair toward personal trainers. But there are those who become personal trainers to pickup chicks/guys. That’s the kind that accosted Tanya the other morning. There’s been a big push for the trainers to find more clients. I know this because it’s posted on the office wall of the PT’s office. I know that it’s posted on the PT’s office wall because the PT’s office has another glass wall that looks out into the workout area.
Luckily the personal trainers though better of putting up the “screw ‘em for all their worth” poster. But I’m sure that’s just implied.
Anyway, I leave for two seconds to get a drink of water and this guy’s all over Tanya. And in a very creepy way. He even had the creepy inflection going on. “Heeeeey, did you just get done with your…workout?”
Complete with the short pause before “workout,” treating it as if it’s some kind of double-entendre.
I’m not a jealous person. Honestly, it didn’t bother me that he was hitting on Tanya. If she was the type of person to run away with that creep, then we wouldn’t be together in the first place.
No, what bothered me was that Tanya saw the man’s flirting as an accusation of her being fat. Only women can take a guy’s obvious flirting and turn it into an insult. Sure, he was a personal trainer looking to make some cash. But this guy was the type of personal trainer whose idea of a great workout doesn’t involve gym equipment.
Well, maybe some Pilates gear.
Does a sex swing count as Pilates gear?
I’m just asking because I’m going to start working on my taxes soon.
My point is, ladies, that when a smarmy assjerk oozes his slimyness all over you, just slap the bastard and feel great about your hot rockin' bod! Jeeze!
Fun Fact: I’m wearing a green shirt today too. No the same one either, smart ass.
No picture though.
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