It's been awhile since I (or anyone else for that matter) has posted ANYTHING on this and I was struck by the desire to do something about that:
"Anything."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
The Games of the 29th Olympiad
As I type this, I am red eyed and filled with that empty, bottomless feeling that comes from almost two weeks of exhaustion. The world is moving by at a hazy pace; I feel disconnected and out of touch that can only be attributed to a total lack of sleep. My absence from the land of REM cycles and dreams has only one cause: the games of the 29th Olympiad.
I've always been a fan of the Olympics. I find them to be an uplifting experience, a short span of time where humanity shows that in the end, we're worth saving. Maybe. We are, after all, the species that keeps giving Shia LaBeouf movie roles and developed the concepts of war, murder, and racism, acts which are equally heinous (though, I'd lean towards Transformers leading to a greater degradation of society).
The games are when we shine the brightest. It's where we accomplish things that were thought to be impossible. It's where we set aside differences and show our pride for both our nations, but also for our humanity. And there have been some great Olympic moments in my lifetime. The lighting of the torch by bow and arrow in Barcelona. The Dream Team. Kerri Strug completing the vault on only one leg. Derek Redmond limping to the finish line with his father helping him along. Michael Johnson becoming a runner for the ages. All good stuff.
But for some reason, I have been utterly unable to tear myself away from these games. They have electrified me in a way that I have not felt about an Olympics in...well, ever.
Maybe its the challenge that it poses to watch these games. Because of the time difference, you're almost forced to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to watch the results of the competitions. It's a DARE to stay up, peeling back your eyelids in order to see who will be deemed the fastest man on the planet, or if the women's relay team will make it to the wall first. Fuck work, I've got to see if Dara Torres won!
Maybe its the fact that its in CHINA. China, a forbidden land of mystery and history and lots of other "y's." It's a land of Communism, something that is just so weird to think about, and ideology that was defeated in the Cold War but still remains intact. It helps that a FIFTH OF HUMANITY lives there to keep the Commie faith alive. It's a country that could easily go towards disaster or great triumph. It's a country that has made huge mistakes, all in the world public view, but is now attempting to atone for them.
Maybe (read that as probably), it's Michael Phelps. There's been enough superlatives heaped upon this fish-man to make the Great Wall look small by comparison. Maybe it's Dara Torres, or Nastia and Shawn. Maybe it's "Lightning" Bolt. Maybe it was the grandness of the opening ceremonies, the almost acid-trippiness of it. Maybe it was seeing a fifth of the world say "Hey, we're here too and you better take notice of us."
And maybe it's the fact that we, the World, THE PLANET EARTH, need these games more than ever. We need to know that even though there is global warming, global famine, global disease, global war, global poverty, global suffering, and global despair, there is still a something more. It's not a big thing. It's not something that you can go out and buy, (though I'm sure many manufactures would have you believe otherwise). It's not something that can necessarily change the world, but if applied the right way can topple all of the fear and the pain and the sense of loss that is going on today.
It's called hope. Hope that one day, the petty struggles between nations will be nothing more than a game of volleyball. Hope that one day, warring brothers will kick back and cheer on the same water polo team. Hope that one day, the damage we've caused to this planet will be a distant memory as we marvel at swimmers swimming faster than ever before. Hope that one day, everything will be alright. Hope that one day, we will all be Olympian.
I've always been a fan of the Olympics. I find them to be an uplifting experience, a short span of time where humanity shows that in the end, we're worth saving. Maybe. We are, after all, the species that keeps giving Shia LaBeouf movie roles and developed the concepts of war, murder, and racism, acts which are equally heinous (though, I'd lean towards Transformers leading to a greater degradation of society).
The games are when we shine the brightest. It's where we accomplish things that were thought to be impossible. It's where we set aside differences and show our pride for both our nations, but also for our humanity. And there have been some great Olympic moments in my lifetime. The lighting of the torch by bow and arrow in Barcelona. The Dream Team. Kerri Strug completing the vault on only one leg. Derek Redmond limping to the finish line with his father helping him along. Michael Johnson becoming a runner for the ages. All good stuff.
But for some reason, I have been utterly unable to tear myself away from these games. They have electrified me in a way that I have not felt about an Olympics in...well, ever.
Maybe its the challenge that it poses to watch these games. Because of the time difference, you're almost forced to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to watch the results of the competitions. It's a DARE to stay up, peeling back your eyelids in order to see who will be deemed the fastest man on the planet, or if the women's relay team will make it to the wall first. Fuck work, I've got to see if Dara Torres won!
Maybe its the fact that its in CHINA. China, a forbidden land of mystery and history and lots of other "y's." It's a land of Communism, something that is just so weird to think about, and ideology that was defeated in the Cold War but still remains intact. It helps that a FIFTH OF HUMANITY lives there to keep the Commie faith alive. It's a country that could easily go towards disaster or great triumph. It's a country that has made huge mistakes, all in the world public view, but is now attempting to atone for them.
Maybe (read that as probably), it's Michael Phelps. There's been enough superlatives heaped upon this fish-man to make the Great Wall look small by comparison. Maybe it's Dara Torres, or Nastia and Shawn. Maybe it's "Lightning" Bolt. Maybe it was the grandness of the opening ceremonies, the almost acid-trippiness of it. Maybe it was seeing a fifth of the world say "Hey, we're here too and you better take notice of us."
And maybe it's the fact that we, the World, THE PLANET EARTH, need these games more than ever. We need to know that even though there is global warming, global famine, global disease, global war, global poverty, global suffering, and global despair, there is still a something more. It's not a big thing. It's not something that you can go out and buy, (though I'm sure many manufactures would have you believe otherwise). It's not something that can necessarily change the world, but if applied the right way can topple all of the fear and the pain and the sense of loss that is going on today.
It's called hope. Hope that one day, the petty struggles between nations will be nothing more than a game of volleyball. Hope that one day, warring brothers will kick back and cheer on the same water polo team. Hope that one day, the damage we've caused to this planet will be a distant memory as we marvel at swimmers swimming faster than ever before. Hope that one day, everything will be alright. Hope that one day, we will all be Olympian.
Monday, July 21, 2008
spell checker just might ruin the world...
The spell checker. The great tool that lets any writer on a computer be just that, a writer. No longer are we afraid to send a draft to a teacher/professor/friend/peer, for we have spell checker!
Now you can stray from using just word document programs in your writing. When typing online posts, such as this entry right here, an email, or a simple query on Google, a spellchecker will automatically reveal any misspelled words! This is great! No more feeling like a dumb dumb! A red squiggly line appears under your shameful attempt of literacy and all you have to do is a right click followed by a left click and BOOM! you've aced every spelling test since kindergarten!
I truly do love this technology. While I'm not the worst speller, I am far from the best. However, the following scenario has crossed my mind:
Technology with computers/internet seems to double in speed and performance every year. Technology is also becoming integrated into daily lives with the average joe oblivious to its presence. So under my theory the average joe will right click and change his misspelled word with the first word on the list that looks right (if none are available or do not look right, he/she will change the word completely. yes i am guilty of this.). There is no shame in this technique other than the fact that one typically will not pay attention to the correct spelling or true meaning of the word. So fast forward to 2080. The internet is now available for viewing via contact lenses(most likely will be done using lasik surgery, who am i kidding) so you dont even need to use handheld devices! It will also be connected to your thought process. Therefore, while you're writing that timed essay for SATs, every word will be spelled perfectly since your thoughts are being calibrated and perfected milliseconds prior to the graphite marking the surface. Everyone will become equal! and of course this technology will mend into speech as well! Every time a person speaks, their speech will be flawless in pronunciation, and articulation!
Hollywood has it all wrong. The humans are not destroyed by the robots. The humans become the robots.
*over 15 words were corrected using spellcheck in this article.
Now you can stray from using just word document programs in your writing. When typing online posts, such as this entry right here, an email, or a simple query on Google, a spellchecker will automatically reveal any misspelled words! This is great! No more feeling like a dumb dumb! A red squiggly line appears under your shameful attempt of literacy and all you have to do is a right click followed by a left click and BOOM! you've aced every spelling test since kindergarten!
I truly do love this technology. While I'm not the worst speller, I am far from the best. However, the following scenario has crossed my mind:
Technology with computers/internet seems to double in speed and performance every year. Technology is also becoming integrated into daily lives with the average joe oblivious to its presence. So under my theory the average joe will right click and change his misspelled word with the first word on the list that looks right (if none are available or do not look right, he/she will change the word completely. yes i am guilty of this.). There is no shame in this technique other than the fact that one typically will not pay attention to the correct spelling or true meaning of the word. So fast forward to 2080. The internet is now available for viewing via contact lenses(most likely will be done using lasik surgery, who am i kidding) so you dont even need to use handheld devices! It will also be connected to your thought process. Therefore, while you're writing that timed essay for SATs, every word will be spelled perfectly since your thoughts are being calibrated and perfected milliseconds prior to the graphite marking the surface. Everyone will become equal! and of course this technology will mend into speech as well! Every time a person speaks, their speech will be flawless in pronunciation, and articulation!
Hollywood has it all wrong. The humans are not destroyed by the robots. The humans become the robots.
*over 15 words were corrected using spellcheck in this article.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Ben
While watching "America's Got Talent" last night (yes, I watch it, and we'll get to that at another time), I realized something that had escaped me for years on end. And all it took was a little boy named David Militello to help.
David was a very cute kid that sang the Michael Jackson classic "Ben" to the delight of the judges, audience, and nation. You could actually feel the collective heart of the nation melt at the same time. The kid OOZED cuteness. The kid POURED sweetness. He was a sticky, gooey, saccharine package of a 9-year-old. I was moved.
As he sang "Ben," I began to listen to lyrics to see if he was getting them right. And he was, he sang every note perfectly and got every word correct. I'd never really listened to the words of the song before. You know, REALLY listened to them. Sure, I'd heard it and I knew right away when the opening notes were played that little David was going to be singing about an unending, incorruptible friendship. Something puzzled me about the song, however; I don't know what, and I don't know why, but something about it made me get this little curiosity itch in the pit of my stomach.
I quickly ran to my computer to see what to make of this song. Who was MJ singing about? Why was this "Ben" so important to the Gloved One? And this is what I found...
...THE SONG IS ABOUT A FUCKING RAT!
...Not kidding...
...And not just a rat: A MOTHERFUCKING KILLER RAT...
...Am I the last to know about this one?
Apparently, "Ben" is the title song to the 1972 movie BEN, which was a sequel to the movie Williard, which was remade a couple years ago with Crispin Glover. Williard was the story of a man who becomes friends with a bunch of rats that eventually do his bidding and kill all of his enemies. BEN is the story of a small, lonely, shy boy (insert little David here) who becomes friends with Ben, who is the leader of the killer pack of rats from the first movie...
...Gotta love 70's filmmaking...
Anyway, the song is supposed to be about the kid from the movie singing to his best friend in the world, really his only friend when you come to think of it. Here's the rub: HISFRIENDISAFUCKINGKILLERRAT!
The song was nominated for an Academy Award that year (mind-boggling). I understand its a good song, and up until this revelation I thought it was a wonderful testament to friendship. It's forever tainted, however, by this knowledge. How can I ever take that song seriously now, knowing what I know? It's like finding out Manilow's "Mandy" was about his dog, or that the nursery rhyme "Jack and Jill" is a cautionary tale about fucking around on your spouse, or that the soothing sounds of Bing Crosby came from a man who beat the shit out of his kids.
A fucking rat...wow.
I wonder if little David Militello knows that the song is about a rat. I also now wonder if his song for the next round will be Templeton the Rat's "A Veritable Smörgåsbord" from Charlotte's Web or "Flying Dreams" from The Secret of N.I.M.H. I mean, hell, someone's already sung "Somewhere Out There" from An American Tail.
I'll be forever shaken by this (ok, that's an overstatement; when I find out that "Imagine" is about the joys of nuclear armament or that "What a Wonderful World" is really about ethnic cleansing then I'll be shaken). Still, I really liked that song and I'll never be able to take it seriously again and that irks me to no end.
I used to say "I" and "me,"
Now it's "us", now it's "we."
Ben, most people would turn you away,
I don't listen to a word they say.
They don't see you as I do,
I wish they would try to.
I'm sure they'd think again,
If they had a friend like Ben...
Sigh.
David was a very cute kid that sang the Michael Jackson classic "Ben" to the delight of the judges, audience, and nation. You could actually feel the collective heart of the nation melt at the same time. The kid OOZED cuteness. The kid POURED sweetness. He was a sticky, gooey, saccharine package of a 9-year-old. I was moved.
As he sang "Ben," I began to listen to lyrics to see if he was getting them right. And he was, he sang every note perfectly and got every word correct. I'd never really listened to the words of the song before. You know, REALLY listened to them. Sure, I'd heard it and I knew right away when the opening notes were played that little David was going to be singing about an unending, incorruptible friendship. Something puzzled me about the song, however; I don't know what, and I don't know why, but something about it made me get this little curiosity itch in the pit of my stomach.
I quickly ran to my computer to see what to make of this song. Who was MJ singing about? Why was this "Ben" so important to the Gloved One? And this is what I found...
...THE SONG IS ABOUT A FUCKING RAT!
...Not kidding...
...And not just a rat: A MOTHERFUCKING KILLER RAT...
...Am I the last to know about this one?
Apparently, "Ben" is the title song to the 1972 movie BEN, which was a sequel to the movie Williard, which was remade a couple years ago with Crispin Glover. Williard was the story of a man who becomes friends with a bunch of rats that eventually do his bidding and kill all of his enemies. BEN is the story of a small, lonely, shy boy (insert little David here) who becomes friends with Ben, who is the leader of the killer pack of rats from the first movie...
...Gotta love 70's filmmaking...
Anyway, the song is supposed to be about the kid from the movie singing to his best friend in the world, really his only friend when you come to think of it. Here's the rub: HISFRIENDISAFUCKINGKILLERRAT!
The song was nominated for an Academy Award that year (mind-boggling). I understand its a good song, and up until this revelation I thought it was a wonderful testament to friendship. It's forever tainted, however, by this knowledge. How can I ever take that song seriously now, knowing what I know? It's like finding out Manilow's "Mandy" was about his dog, or that the nursery rhyme "Jack and Jill" is a cautionary tale about fucking around on your spouse, or that the soothing sounds of Bing Crosby came from a man who beat the shit out of his kids.
A fucking rat...wow.
I wonder if little David Militello knows that the song is about a rat. I also now wonder if his song for the next round will be Templeton the Rat's "A Veritable Smörgåsbord" from Charlotte's Web or "Flying Dreams" from The Secret of N.I.M.H. I mean, hell, someone's already sung "Somewhere Out There" from An American Tail.
I'll be forever shaken by this (ok, that's an overstatement; when I find out that "Imagine" is about the joys of nuclear armament or that "What a Wonderful World" is really about ethnic cleansing then I'll be shaken). Still, I really liked that song and I'll never be able to take it seriously again and that irks me to no end.
I used to say "I" and "me,"
Now it's "us", now it's "we."
Ben, most people would turn you away,
I don't listen to a word they say.
They don't see you as I do,
I wish they would try to.
I'm sure they'd think again,
If they had a friend like Ben...
Sigh.
Friday, May 23, 2008
I've Hitched My Wagon to a Falling Star...
...and that star is called Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.
WARNING: This contains spoilers.
FURTHER WARNING: The movie spoiled the series.
I've always thought that I had a good read on what was going to be good and what was going to be bad. What was going to be a lasting trend or what was going to be a passing fad. My finger was on the pulse of what was meaningful and relevant and important.
I'll admit, I've had my screw ups. I have a wonderful collection of POG's and I am willing to play anyone that for some reason or another still has them. I'm still waiting for them to bring back Pepsi Clear. And I'm holding out hope for Corey Feldman to win an Academy Award. But over all, I think that I've got a good read on pop culture.
I was on to Napoleon Dynamite long before it went on to become an indie darling and the most annoyingly quoted movie ever. I was on board with Kayne way before the video for "Through the Wire" came out. I had the good sense to jump off the "Dane Train" when that no talent fuck gave up stand up for shit movies.
But I didn't see this one coming. I hitched my wagon to what I was certain was going to be a sure thing. I hitched my wagon to a falling star.
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 2 hours and 6 minutes of disappointment wrapped up in failure packaging and topped with a mediocrity bow. Our country's love of the average, the mundane, the watered-down, and the downright dull has finally reached the greatest action/adventure hero of all time.
I don't even know where to begin. Maybe I'll start with the plot (Um...was there a plot?); maybe I'll discuss the acting (Harrison Ford phoned that performance in); maybe I'll mention the special effects (or the lack of them in the movie); or maybe I'll discuss Karen Allen (Great to see her return to the series...but what the hell was she there for? A completely pointless plot device...or a way to rake in more money?).
But no, I'll stick with just three things. The first of which is the horrible villain, played in a rare showing of awfulness by Cate Blanchett. Cate, you're an amazing actress, you really are. Your performance of Bob Dylan in I'm Not There belongs in a time capsule. Your performance in this movie belongs at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, never to be witnessed again. Nice Russian accent...when you decided to stick with it.
I'll next mention Shia LaBeouf. Shia, oh Shia. You peaked at "Even Stevens" and "Holes." Now, you are a plague. You are a hack. You have become Death, Destroyer of Worlds and Movies and Hopes and Dreams.
"I never had much use for school, but I'm good with a blade."
Good with a blade, huh? That's quite the skill, you dickless pussy. Your character, "Mutt" (let's all have a good cry over that name, shall we), is a lame amalgam of Brando, Dean, and Elvis that tries to be hip and witty, but ends up being ridiculous funny in the end. And not funny intentionally. Funny like how watching someone else get kicked in the nuts is funny. Only this time, it was me getting kicked in the nuts while I watched your clown-like performance.
Finally, I'll discuss the ending.
Aliens.
Really? Really? REALLY?!
Really.
The "Crystal Skull" is apparently the skull of an alien who's race taught early humans culture, math, farming, and all that jazz. Thanks, Aliens, y'all are really helpful! It was removed by conquistadors and hidden for hundreds of years. And now the Soviets want it. Why? Because it'll provide them with power, obviously.
The thing is, the only power I saw it wield was the ability to blow up the temple where the rest of the Alien skeletons were sitting around. Maybe thats why the U.S.S.R. is no more...
And what were they doing sitting around anyway?! Did they see the conquistadors come in, and just sit by as they took the head of one of their buddies?
"Man, did you see that fine human chick over by the corn pile...wait, what are those guys doing? HOLY SHIT! THEY TOOK CHARLIE'S HEAD! We should totally stop them...but fuck, we're made out of FUCKING CRYSTAL! Let's just sit tight, maybe they'll bring it back..."
Come on now, seriously? Is that the best you can come up with? ALIENS?! Indiana Jones is not about aliens. He's about fighting Nazis and the supernatural and going on digs and finding lost artifacts. I can buy an element of the paranormal in the Indy adventures; I'll even buy the guy staying alive after his heart gets ripped out in Temple of Doom (which was previously the worst installment of the series). What I won't buy is Aliens. Give me a fucking break.
Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Harrison Ford had 19 years to work on a masterpiece. They had a tall order to fill, sure, but they have the talent to come up with something far better than this trash. The air has been let out of my tires, the wind is gone from my sails, my hero has become a joke.
As excited as I was to see a new Indy adventure, I see now that it was just a ploy to line the pockets of people who's pockets have no need of lining. I can only hope that the iconic image of Indiana Jones, Sala, Marcus Brody, and Henry Jones Sr. riding off into the sunset in The Last Crusade was the true ending of the story, and that the shitfest that has been unleashed on multiplexes is all just a bad, bad, bad dream.
I'll try to hitch my wagon to that star of an idea, and hopefully this time, that star won't fall...
WARNING: This contains spoilers.
FURTHER WARNING: The movie spoiled the series.
I've always thought that I had a good read on what was going to be good and what was going to be bad. What was going to be a lasting trend or what was going to be a passing fad. My finger was on the pulse of what was meaningful and relevant and important.
I'll admit, I've had my screw ups. I have a wonderful collection of POG's and I am willing to play anyone that for some reason or another still has them. I'm still waiting for them to bring back Pepsi Clear. And I'm holding out hope for Corey Feldman to win an Academy Award. But over all, I think that I've got a good read on pop culture.
I was on to Napoleon Dynamite long before it went on to become an indie darling and the most annoyingly quoted movie ever. I was on board with Kayne way before the video for "Through the Wire" came out. I had the good sense to jump off the "Dane Train" when that no talent fuck gave up stand up for shit movies.
But I didn't see this one coming. I hitched my wagon to what I was certain was going to be a sure thing. I hitched my wagon to a falling star.
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 2 hours and 6 minutes of disappointment wrapped up in failure packaging and topped with a mediocrity bow. Our country's love of the average, the mundane, the watered-down, and the downright dull has finally reached the greatest action/adventure hero of all time.
I don't even know where to begin. Maybe I'll start with the plot (Um...was there a plot?); maybe I'll discuss the acting (Harrison Ford phoned that performance in); maybe I'll mention the special effects (or the lack of them in the movie); or maybe I'll discuss Karen Allen (Great to see her return to the series...but what the hell was she there for? A completely pointless plot device...or a way to rake in more money?).
But no, I'll stick with just three things. The first of which is the horrible villain, played in a rare showing of awfulness by Cate Blanchett. Cate, you're an amazing actress, you really are. Your performance of Bob Dylan in I'm Not There belongs in a time capsule. Your performance in this movie belongs at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, never to be witnessed again. Nice Russian accent...when you decided to stick with it.
I'll next mention Shia LaBeouf. Shia, oh Shia. You peaked at "Even Stevens" and "Holes." Now, you are a plague. You are a hack. You have become Death, Destroyer of Worlds and Movies and Hopes and Dreams.
"I never had much use for school, but I'm good with a blade."
Good with a blade, huh? That's quite the skill, you dickless pussy. Your character, "Mutt" (let's all have a good cry over that name, shall we), is a lame amalgam of Brando, Dean, and Elvis that tries to be hip and witty, but ends up being ridiculous funny in the end. And not funny intentionally. Funny like how watching someone else get kicked in the nuts is funny. Only this time, it was me getting kicked in the nuts while I watched your clown-like performance.
Finally, I'll discuss the ending.
Aliens.
Really? Really? REALLY?!
Really.
The "Crystal Skull" is apparently the skull of an alien who's race taught early humans culture, math, farming, and all that jazz. Thanks, Aliens, y'all are really helpful! It was removed by conquistadors and hidden for hundreds of years. And now the Soviets want it. Why? Because it'll provide them with power, obviously.
The thing is, the only power I saw it wield was the ability to blow up the temple where the rest of the Alien skeletons were sitting around. Maybe thats why the U.S.S.R. is no more...
And what were they doing sitting around anyway?! Did they see the conquistadors come in, and just sit by as they took the head of one of their buddies?
"Man, did you see that fine human chick over by the corn pile...wait, what are those guys doing? HOLY SHIT! THEY TOOK CHARLIE'S HEAD! We should totally stop them...but fuck, we're made out of FUCKING CRYSTAL! Let's just sit tight, maybe they'll bring it back..."
Come on now, seriously? Is that the best you can come up with? ALIENS?! Indiana Jones is not about aliens. He's about fighting Nazis and the supernatural and going on digs and finding lost artifacts. I can buy an element of the paranormal in the Indy adventures; I'll even buy the guy staying alive after his heart gets ripped out in Temple of Doom (which was previously the worst installment of the series). What I won't buy is Aliens. Give me a fucking break.
Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Harrison Ford had 19 years to work on a masterpiece. They had a tall order to fill, sure, but they have the talent to come up with something far better than this trash. The air has been let out of my tires, the wind is gone from my sails, my hero has become a joke.
As excited as I was to see a new Indy adventure, I see now that it was just a ploy to line the pockets of people who's pockets have no need of lining. I can only hope that the iconic image of Indiana Jones, Sala, Marcus Brody, and Henry Jones Sr. riding off into the sunset in The Last Crusade was the true ending of the story, and that the shitfest that has been unleashed on multiplexes is all just a bad, bad, bad dream.
I'll try to hitch my wagon to that star of an idea, and hopefully this time, that star won't fall...
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bar...
I'd like to relate to you a story about my adventures last Sunday night while I was attending a professional conference for admissions counselors in Columbus, Ohio. I know that it is not a true blue reflection of or reaction to pop culture, but nevertheless, I feel as though the world should hear this story.
First off, I was supposed to fly up to Columbus on Sunday morning. Friday evening, while I was enjoying the final season premiere of Battlestar Galactica, I received an email from Skybus saying that I could check in 24-36 hours before my flight. Five minutes later, I received an email from Skybus saying that at midnight, all operations were canceled.
That must have been a really disastrous five minutes.
Anyway, because of the short notice, I was forced to drive the 7ish hours from High Point to Columbus. I get there around 4:30pm and meet up with all of the counselors that I've hung out with over the year. We're a rowdy bunch, so we get right to the business of alcohol and good times. There's a social that night, a "Favorite Band" themed social. You were supposed to wear your favorite concert t-shirt. Mine was a green Weezer shirt, proclaming "I have a Weezer in my pocket, and I'm happy to see you."
Anyway, we're all getting drunk and dancing and having a grand old time. A group of people I've just met say they're going out to another bar. I'm having too much fun at the hotel, so I tell them that maybe I'll meet up later. I keep dancing and drinking and I go to different room parties. Eventually, the night at the hotel stalls and people go to bed. It's around 1am, and I'm still jazzed and in Party Mode. I don't want to go to bed. I want to meet up with the Bar People.
The problem is that I can't remember the name of the bar that they said they were going to. But I THINK I can remember the bar they went to.
Here's where the night takes a turn for the worse.
I go down to the front desk and ask everyone there where "Havana" is located, not the one in Cuba, but the club in Columbus. They look around at each other, and say it's in Short North. This means nothing to me, but then they say it's about a 20 minute walk or a 5 dollar cab ride. I slur a thank you and stumble out to a cab.
Habeeb the cab driver doesn't speak a lick of the King's English. It's about a 15 dollar cab ride because of the wrong turns and misunderstandings. But whatever, you can't put a price on fun. We finally get to Havana, and I leap from the cab and head into the bar. Success, I think, time for round 2!
The first thing that I notice is that the inside of Havana looks like Miami Vice. The walls are slippery tiles, there's a weird blue light illuminating the bar, and throbbing techno-music blares from the speakers. The second thing I notice is that there are a LOT of guys in this place. Almost totally guys. Total sausage fest. And a lot of them are in just their underwear. And a lot of them are making out with each other...
...And thats when I realize that I've accidentally gone to a gay bar.
I must stress that I have no problem with the GLBT community. I support their rights and their cause and I think they are wonderful people. I would also like to say that I've been to gay bars before...but with a group of people. I didn't intend to go by myself...wasted...wearing a t-shirt that says "I have a Weezer in my pocket and I'm happy to see you."
Maybe they're in the back, I think to myself about the people I want to meet up with. Right Lars, sure. Keep a hold of that dream. I begin to wander through the bar trying to find my new friends. I have to stop myself from asking a guy balls deep in another guy if they can help me find the back. That, I think, would not be a great question to ask at this juncture.
I also decide that buying a drink would be bad too. Because after awhile I know that my friends aren't there. I also think that maybe this bar is a seedy place, not a nice gay bar but one where drug deals go down and the cops are just minutes from busting it. And what if I'm there when they busted. I will be arrested at a gay bar, and that will be my life. Nothing I've said or done up until this point will matter. I stumble out of the bar.
And thats when I realize that I wasn't just in a gay bar. I was in a gay district. There are fanny-pack displays in shop windows. Drag queens are getting off of their shifts and out of their make-up, so they look blasted out and undead. Men are strutting up the street wearing fishnets and tank tops. I feel a bit out of place.
I don't want to pay another 15 bucks for a taxi to get back, so I decide to walk. They said it was only 20 minutes, right? If anyone reading this knows of my directional abilities, they will know that this is very, very wrong.
It takes me over an hour to get back to my hotel. The main cause of this is that I get lost on one particular street. The name of the street, I'm not kidding, is Gay Street.
...
I found out later that Gay Street used to be a one way, but now it runs both ways.
...
Not kidding.
I stumble into the hotel finally, and everyone is still at the front desk. "Did you enjoy the bar?" they ask. Furious, I say "Yes," to cover the "WHATTHEFUCKDOYOUTHINKTHANKSFORTHEHEADSUP?!" that wanted to erupt from my mouth. I go to bed and pass out.
The next morning, I see the group that I had wanted to meet up with and I go over to them.
"Where did y'all go last night?!" I ask.
They're all hungover, and say, "We don't know man, we drove around, we don't know where we went."
One of the guys asks, "Did you go out last night?"
Pause.
"Yeah man, I came out last night."
First off, I was supposed to fly up to Columbus on Sunday morning. Friday evening, while I was enjoying the final season premiere of Battlestar Galactica, I received an email from Skybus saying that I could check in 24-36 hours before my flight. Five minutes later, I received an email from Skybus saying that at midnight, all operations were canceled.
That must have been a really disastrous five minutes.
Anyway, because of the short notice, I was forced to drive the 7ish hours from High Point to Columbus. I get there around 4:30pm and meet up with all of the counselors that I've hung out with over the year. We're a rowdy bunch, so we get right to the business of alcohol and good times. There's a social that night, a "Favorite Band" themed social. You were supposed to wear your favorite concert t-shirt. Mine was a green Weezer shirt, proclaming "I have a Weezer in my pocket, and I'm happy to see you."
Anyway, we're all getting drunk and dancing and having a grand old time. A group of people I've just met say they're going out to another bar. I'm having too much fun at the hotel, so I tell them that maybe I'll meet up later. I keep dancing and drinking and I go to different room parties. Eventually, the night at the hotel stalls and people go to bed. It's around 1am, and I'm still jazzed and in Party Mode. I don't want to go to bed. I want to meet up with the Bar People.
The problem is that I can't remember the name of the bar that they said they were going to. But I THINK I can remember the bar they went to.
Here's where the night takes a turn for the worse.
I go down to the front desk and ask everyone there where "Havana" is located, not the one in Cuba, but the club in Columbus. They look around at each other, and say it's in Short North. This means nothing to me, but then they say it's about a 20 minute walk or a 5 dollar cab ride. I slur a thank you and stumble out to a cab.
Habeeb the cab driver doesn't speak a lick of the King's English. It's about a 15 dollar cab ride because of the wrong turns and misunderstandings. But whatever, you can't put a price on fun. We finally get to Havana, and I leap from the cab and head into the bar. Success, I think, time for round 2!
The first thing that I notice is that the inside of Havana looks like Miami Vice. The walls are slippery tiles, there's a weird blue light illuminating the bar, and throbbing techno-music blares from the speakers. The second thing I notice is that there are a LOT of guys in this place. Almost totally guys. Total sausage fest. And a lot of them are in just their underwear. And a lot of them are making out with each other...
...And thats when I realize that I've accidentally gone to a gay bar.
I must stress that I have no problem with the GLBT community. I support their rights and their cause and I think they are wonderful people. I would also like to say that I've been to gay bars before...but with a group of people. I didn't intend to go by myself...wasted...wearing a t-shirt that says "I have a Weezer in my pocket and I'm happy to see you."
Maybe they're in the back, I think to myself about the people I want to meet up with. Right Lars, sure. Keep a hold of that dream. I begin to wander through the bar trying to find my new friends. I have to stop myself from asking a guy balls deep in another guy if they can help me find the back. That, I think, would not be a great question to ask at this juncture.
I also decide that buying a drink would be bad too. Because after awhile I know that my friends aren't there. I also think that maybe this bar is a seedy place, not a nice gay bar but one where drug deals go down and the cops are just minutes from busting it. And what if I'm there when they busted. I will be arrested at a gay bar, and that will be my life. Nothing I've said or done up until this point will matter. I stumble out of the bar.
And thats when I realize that I wasn't just in a gay bar. I was in a gay district. There are fanny-pack displays in shop windows. Drag queens are getting off of their shifts and out of their make-up, so they look blasted out and undead. Men are strutting up the street wearing fishnets and tank tops. I feel a bit out of place.
I don't want to pay another 15 bucks for a taxi to get back, so I decide to walk. They said it was only 20 minutes, right? If anyone reading this knows of my directional abilities, they will know that this is very, very wrong.
It takes me over an hour to get back to my hotel. The main cause of this is that I get lost on one particular street. The name of the street, I'm not kidding, is Gay Street.
...
I found out later that Gay Street used to be a one way, but now it runs both ways.
...
Not kidding.
I stumble into the hotel finally, and everyone is still at the front desk. "Did you enjoy the bar?" they ask. Furious, I say "Yes," to cover the "WHATTHEFUCKDOYOUTHINKTHANKSFORTHEHEADSUP?!" that wanted to erupt from my mouth. I go to bed and pass out.
The next morning, I see the group that I had wanted to meet up with and I go over to them.
"Where did y'all go last night?!" I ask.
They're all hungover, and say, "We don't know man, we drove around, we don't know where we went."
One of the guys asks, "Did you go out last night?"
Pause.
"Yeah man, I came out last night."
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Average Termite
I just watched a commercial for a termite control service which claimed:
"The average termite chews 24 hours a day, 7 days a week."
The average termite??
Come on.
Either every single termite has a perfect record, or we got some other termites picking up the slack putting in 25 hour days... and I find both scenarios hard to believe.
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