Cole Ah Um

I HAVE MOVED

2009-03-09T17:06:00.001-07:00

Hello Friends.

ColeAhUm.blogspot.com has moved!

My shiny NEW site can be found at:

http://theproductivecough.com

Join me, won't you?

The change kind of makes me a little forlorn. I'll miss it here at blogger. It's been good to me. But the new e-digs are pretty sweet, and there are a lot more features. So, chin up! It'll be fun. See you there at:

http://theproductivecough.com

Uncle Clint's Adventures

2009-02-26T09:24:00.001-08:00

My uncle Clint works in Afghanistan, a fact which both impresses and frightens me. I don't know why I haven't posted photographs of his experiences before, because he sends me some really terrific stuff.

Some of it is sad:

Some of it makes you think about how good you have it:

Some of it is pictures of these guys:

Whatever it is, it's always interesting. Sometimes, Clint takes field trips. Like the time he went to the arcade and saw this lady:

Another time, he went to the US Embassy in Baghdad and saw these cards made by children:

I'm 99% sure they were to show support for the American troops. But here is why I'm 1% unsure:

The best part, is that sometimes Clint and his coworkers go to local grade schools and give away clothes and shoes. I think it's so important for them give to kids who are less fortunate than American children. It makes me happy to think of the smiles on their faces:

But the extra best special treat is when someone like this guy shows up:

So, I've decided that as long as Clint keeps sending me these fine photos, I will keep posting them for you to see.

Mickey Handsome

2009-02-23T10:22:00.001-08:00

There are few things I would call myself a connoisseur of: Certainly not wine, food, cigars, or even chocolate. But I WILL call myself a connoisseur of Bad Movies. They are my passion. I believe that God created Mystery Science Theater 3000 with me in mind. That said, if you were to peruse my video collection, you would find an impressive array of horrible films on VHS. Most still have to $1.99 sticker on them.

A particularly fine $1.99 purchase was the film Johnny Handsome, starring a young Mickey Rourke. The movie isn't one of the worst I've seen, but check out the premise:

Mickey plays a criminal who was born severely deformed. During his time in a prison, a "sympathetic surgeon" gives him a new face, using the wonders of plastic surgery! Once out on parole, he uses his new looks to seek revenge.

It's a pretty simple plot, really. You might even sum it up as simply as this: He hit his low point, got plastic surgery, and then made a comeback.

Just sayin'.

Schizomusiphrenia

2009-02-20T16:00:00.000-08:00

This morning on my drive in to work, my attempts to educate myself on the nation's economic situation were once again thwarted by a seemingly endless commercial for bath fixtures so, I switched off the news station and turned on my iPod. I put the thing on shuffle when I drive so that I don't crash into anyone while I'm looking for a song. But, I still have to skip through handfuls of songs at a time, because I am realizing two things about the music I own:

1) I am getting bored with most of it
2) I only like specific parts in a lot of songs

Problem #1 is pretty common, and easily solved: Cough up a few bucks for some new music and revisit the old stuff in a few months. But problem #2 indicates that I may be ill. I have dozens of songs that I will never fully play from start to finish. I'll listen to a desired section, and then skip forward. Not only does this drive passengers in my car crazy, but it makes me feel guilty for being so disrespectful of the musicians. I'm clearly not well. I think I have...

Schizomusiphrenia.

I can't help it! Maybe I just want to listen to the melody, and not a long saxaphone solo (sorry Chris Potter). Or maybe it's that some songs go on for far too long. In fact, I've set my iPod to start Tony Williams' Allah Be Praised at 3:51 so that I can skip right to the cool organ part that I like. Often, part of a song might make me uncomfortable- for instance any time there is sing-talking, or that weird circus part of Spinning Wheel by Blood, Sweat & Tears. If you ever ride in my car, I'm warning you- do not get attached to anything coming out of the stereo because it could be over at any second.

Then there's the reverse: I will listen to an entire four minute song just to hear literally five (5) eighth notes that happen at two minutes thirty seconds. And I will listen to those eighth notes 4oo times in a row before I allow the song to play to the end. Or I'll listen to the last forty seconds of Fauré's Libera Me 16 times in a row. To me, this is the more fun of the two symptoms of Schizomusiphrenia, but anyone riding with me wants to hurl themselves on the freeway after hearing the same piano solo 840 time.

Pray for my passengers. I can't help myself, and they are the unfortunate victims of my condition.

A New FunBox Vlog!

2009-02-18T13:11:00.000-08:00

Please enjoy the latest Vlog (it's number 6!) from the boys over at FunBox Comedy. This installment features special guest Asterios Kokkinos of presidentbaby.com

Hey guess what? I don't care!

2009-02-13T11:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Ladies,

I'd like to celebrate Valentine's Day one day early with a small piece of advice:

Nobody wants to hear about how amazing your boyfriend is.

Least of all his guy friends. Do you think Spud and Tyler are anxious to hear about the chrysanthemums Kenny got you for the two-year anniversary of the first time he got you chrysanthemums? If you're nodding your head yes, please ask a close friend to slap you in the mouth- you are incorrect. Rule of thumb: If a story about your boyfriend makes you feel all gushy, shut up.

But Kenny's not one of those tough guys, you're probably thinking. He's a sensitive man, and his friends don't care.

Um, have you seen Rocky? He makes his living letting burly, undereducated Philidelphians punch him in the eye. But he still goes by that pet shop every day, and tells ridiculously silly jokes just to try and get Adrian to like him. However- and this is key- he doesn't buy flowers for the guys who punch him the eye. Mr. Balboa knows to keep the macho and sensitive parts of his life separate.

My point is twofold. One: It's not about upholding a reputation. It's that you are special to Kenny. If he wrote poems to Spud and Tyler, it may not mean as much to you when he busts out the iambic pentameter on Valentine's Day. Two, and perhaps more importantly: Unless your life is a movie and available on Netflix, your cute stories about Kenny entertain no one. So, no matter what he does for you tomorrow, please, keep it to yourself.

Happiest of St. Valentine's Days,

Me

Feldman Had Another Dream

2009-02-11T16:17:00.000-08:00

During a conversation online this morning, my good friend Feldman told me about one of this dreams last night:

"I did have an interesting dream. It involved your family. I was back at [Occidental College], living in Haines [residence hall] and you and your parents were visiting me. For some reason Haines was on upper campus near one of the fields and I was trying to guide you to the dorm and telling you where to park. And for an Oxy grad, you really sucked at following my directions.

But I eventually got you into the parking space that I had my eyes set on so you and your parents got out and we said hi, but you looked weird.

Because you were Ellen Degeneres."

Overdue Apologies (Part IV)

2009-02-10T15:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Undlin,

I am sorry for how much hell I put you through during the 1997/1998 school year. I must have been working through some new Eighth Grade hormones or something because, I remember you being a sweet guy. Yet, somewhere between your enthusiasm for dodge ball and Thursday mile-runs, we got off on the wrong foot.

I'd get to the gym on time, and I'd put my uniform on like everyone else. But as soon as you jogged out with your clipboard and wraparound sunglasses, I turned crappy. I distinctly remember once telling you that I was allergic to the rubber used in basketballs. I stood with my hands on my adolescent hips, looking you right in the eye, waiting for you to respond. (If you guessed there was another reason I didn't want to play basketball, you are right. During fifth grade, I was on a girl's basketball team. The only basket I scored the entire season was FOR THE OTHER TEAM. I didn't need any of that again.)

In case it isn't evident from my defiant crossing out of the letters E, A, B, T, and H in my name in the photo above, I was kind of a weasel in eighth grade. You were a new teacher, and I could sense your insecurity. I think I really was genuinely interested in whether or not you had a crush on my English teacher, Ms. Geis, but because it made you blush when I brought it up during calisthenics, I did so about six times a week. It makes me cringe to think of it now.

It also makes me cringe to think of all times I tried to get out of running using made-up ailments. The more mild fibs included menstrual cramps that lasted for weeks at a time, migraines, and the foolproof "I don't want to get into it." However, when I really wanted to get avoid something, I'd pull out all the stops. I'm sure you remember Lauren Preston and I falling to the ground at your feet during a Thursday run, shaking violently, tongues wagging, eyes rolling back in our heads. "We must be having seizures!" I cried between gurgling sounds. "Running makes them worse!" Our research wasn't very thorough.

So, Mr Undlin, for these things, and the snotty comments about your basketball shorts, I apologize. I hope you and Ms. Geis are happily married.

Here's what happened...

2009-02-05T13:49:00.000-08:00

David Malloy and I went outside to get some fresh air and enjoy the rain. I guess we are both feeling insecure, because this was the bulk of our conversation:

Me: Do I look okay? It's a new shirt.
David: (Pulls out his camera phone). Yes, I said that already. Didn't I? (Snaps a photo, shows me)
Me: Do I look terrible?
David: Do I look like a wolfman?
Me: In a good way, though. (Looking at the photo again.) Oh! My shoulder pads- are they too much? I think-
David: Am I balding!?

Does anyone know a good life coach?

I was going to write something interesting...

2009-02-03T18:16:00.000-08:00

...but I got distracted with a logic puzzle. It's called the Einstein Quiz.

To play, go here. Of course, if you have like, a life, or anything, feel free to continue on with that. But, alas, I'm a dork and I like stuff like this.

I've solved it, but I can't seem to get the submission button to work- I think it has something to with the fact that the main page hasn't been updated since 2001. Anyway, if you do play, leave your answer in the comments section. (Note: I am expecting 3 comments at the most.)

If you feel like cheating, click here for a picture of the answer.

Chips Ahoy Part II

2009-01-30T17:54:00.001-08:00

There were a few responses to the list of generic cookie names that I really couldn't let go by unnoticed.

The first is from my mom: "How about Pirates of the Carob Bean? (in health food stores now.)"

From my father: "How 'bout: 'I stepped in Dog Chip' ??"

And finally, a message I received on facebook from my very funny friend Shawn Carlow: "As to the important matter of Chips Ahoy! knockoffs from your blog, I'd go for Chips Annoy! And they would be cookies that defy conventional logic by being at a significantly higher rate of chips to cookie dough than has ever been done before. So much so that eaters would eventually start spitting the cookies out, saying "This is just too much." But I would only do that because I'm running the company, and I got it from my rich ex-wife as part of the divorce settlement, and I'll show her. Probably Treasure Chips would do that just as well."

In addition to coming up with elaborate stories about heartbreak and baked goods, Shawn also does Stand Up around Los Angeles. To see where he'll be performing next, check out his MySpace page here. While you're there, read his blog and watch a few of his short films. I love the Godzilla one.

Health Tips For The Wealthy

2009-01-29T16:25:00.000-08:00

I recently came across an article in a popular publication whose headline boasted "secret" health tips from foreign countries. Imagining all kinds of obscure yogic and food-based remedies for common maladies, I proceeded. Unfortunately, the article listed only four, and they were less than earth-shattering.

One suggestion was to drink wine with your pals ala the French. Reasonable, I suppose. Wine's supposed to be rich in some kind of...thing that's good for your ...whatever. Plus, boozin' it up with your buddies endorses mental health. Makes sense, in an "I already knew that" kind of way.

Another pointer was to go out for more sushi. Duh, people- fish is healthy for you and it's instant portion control. It's also rather pricey. As is the next suggestion- Going on vacation! Bombshell: People who go on vacations live longer than those folks who work 51 weeks a year, leaving their desks only to pee and pilfer cheetos from the break room.

And the final foreign health secret? Have health insurance! Wait wait wait. Do you mean to tell me that people who are able go to a doctor for regular nutsack check ups are likely to be healthier than people who just let their nutsacks go unchecked?!

Sure, health insurance is something my employer fortunately provides, and I do think it's a great idea. But the rest of it? A more accurate title for this article would have been "Four Ways That People With Money to Burn Can Have More Radiant Skin." I'd love to discuss my latest proctology appointment while I booze it up over wine and sushi with my friends on a long vacation. But, as is the case with most people, I'll be in my office, talking about a rash I can't get diagnosed while I guzzle diet coke and microwave kettle corn.

There She Is

2009-01-26T17:06:00.000-08:00

I spent Saturday night at my parents' house, watching the 2009 Miss America Pageant. It's a tradition my mom and I try to keep alive each year. It's not that we're obsessed with pageants. Tiaras and ballgowns don't make us all googly-eyed. We don't particularly enjoy the parade of bronzed bodies in bikinis and heels. No, the reason my mom and I watch is for the talent portion of the evening. If you've never seen a shellacked, glistening twenty-two-year-old pound out a Chopin nocturne on a Yamaha, well, you just aren't whole.

But this year, the assortment of talent was rather disappointing. When the most interesting act is a tap dance to Fever, things are pretty bleak. (No offense, Miss Iowa- I respect your moxie.) Can't someone pick up a banjo? What about bird calls? Or the lost art of the Geisha? These are all respectable talents, and yet they've been pushed aside in favor of robotic ballet and singing that could easily be confused with yelling.

BUT- the talent competition was redeemed by the addition of "pop up" factoids about each of the performers. As we watched each woman writhe or belt, we were treated to interesting tidbits displayed briefly on the screen. Somehow, though, the information we received seemed out of place. Luckily, my dad had his camera. (Yes! Father Cole watched Miss America- and enjoyed himself, dammit.) Each time a piece of out of place data came up, we paused the show and took a photo.

Here is the first. It's Miss Indiana (Spoiler Alert: She won the crown) singing what I believe was called Via De La Rosa.

Surprise! She shows dairy cattle at her county fair! Which is amusing. But not as amusing as the next contestant, Miss California. And guess what?

She has performed at a Raiders halftime show! In her tutu? Do you think she got hit with any flying beer cans? Discuss.

And finally, nothing is more disconcerting than this:

Uh huh. Miss New York has sung at a PRISON before. A moment of silence for her mental innocence, please.

What were they thinking with these? My mom calls them "Miss America Trading Cards." I'm glad she came up with something to call them, because I couldn't.

It's Tax Time Again

2009-01-23T11:34:00.000-08:00

The only thing more exciting than getting your new issue of Gourmet magazine in the mail is opening it up to the page about 30-minute pork loin recipes and finding your W-2 inside!

That's right, kids! It's tax time! Now, back in ought-seven, Turbo Tax held a contest on YouTube: Make a rap about their product! If the YouTube-crazed public liked you, you could win prizes! I can't remember what the prizes were, because I think they were tax software and maybe like... a stuffed monkey or something. Anyway, it wasn't important.

David Malloy and I decided to enter the contest, so we wrote a rap starring MY PARENTS- who are incredibly good sports for participating.

So, in honor of W-2s arriving everywhere, I present to you, The TurboTax Rap:

And remember: Always check your food magazines for important legal paperwork.

Another Plug

2009-01-22T10:39:00.000-08:00

FunBox Comedy's back with another delightful video...

It's WASH MY RIDE!!!

I love these guys.

FUN FACT! Rachel Noll, who plays the car owner, and I went to college together- we didn't meet until the day of the shoot! (I was on set for moral support, and also to hold the boom mic)

A Thousand Chips Delicious!

2009-01-20T13:51:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, after the kitchen at work had been recently re-stocked, my coworker Gina and I were delighted to find a package of chocolate chip cookies on the shelves! "Chips Ahoy!" we shouted! But, upon further inspection, we found that they were the generic Safeway brand of cookies, called Treasure Chips. The cookies, while delicious, bore a somewhat unappealing name. So Gina and I decided to come up with a list of new names for a generic version of Chips Ahoy. Today, when I was sorting through a pile of dusty post-it notes under my monitor, I found that list:

- Chips Aweigh!
- Chips, Ho!
- 20,000 Chips Under the Sea
- Chip Shape!
- Chipwrecked!
- Chip n' Whales (Whoa. That one was a stretch.)
- The SS Chips
- Shiver Me Chippers!
And my personal, ridiculous favorite:
- There Arrrrrrrr So Many Chips!

I think I'd be inclined to eat these products over Treasure Chips. What does that even mean?

Swimming Dillemma

2009-01-08T15:47:00.000-08:00

So, Monday was my first day back to work after a two-week hiatus, and Tuesday was my first day of working out after a two-and-a-half-week hiatus. Now, there are a lot of reasons that I find it difficult to drag myself over to the Rose Bowl to swim. These include (but are not limited to):

* Being tired
* Lady troubles
* Feeling bloated from tacos and/or cupcakes
* It's cold
* It's Tuesday
* Mothra attack

But Tuesday marked the dawn of an entirely new excuse. As I was preparing to leave, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and my hair looked tremendous! I had it back in a bun, but the ends were poking out as if lovingly arranged by six or seven European stylists. Little tendrils were falling around my neck, and my bangs had somehow miraculously retained an impressive level of volume after 12 hours in the office. I admired my hair from all possible angles, an exercise which lasted a good two or three minutes.

Let's see, I thought. Who will I be gracing with my presence tonight? Who will be fortunate enough to gaze upon my fantastic updo?

No one, that's who. In a half hour, I was going to be jamming my entire head, hairs and all, into an off-white silicone swim cap. Let me tell you- this is nowhere near an acceptable look for a person. Since I spend all day at a desk, in a room without any windows, my skin is untouched by the sun. I'm not kidding. I probably have rickets. Under the fluorescent lights of the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center locker room, the swim cap is almost the same color as my skin, which, when I don my bathing suit, makes me look like an old Greco-Roman Wrestler.

Hey- my New Year's Resolution was to look good. I'm sure you can see my dilemma.

Eventually, my better judgment returned, and I ended up in the pool, but not before taking a picture of my hair. Which I will not post here, because it did not turn out well.

The Brothers Cole

2008-12-20T17:54:00.000-08:00

Remember my Good Ol' Reliable Father? Well, he has a brother, Jeff. That is all; you can go back to your Christmas shopping now.

Christmas at the Cole House

2008-12-19T21:51:00.001-08:00

Every family has its own holiday traditions. One of ours happens to be getting together to decorate the house and the tree for Christmas. Each of us has a special stocking that we hang from the fire place. My mom needle-pointed mine, and Louie's. My brother made my dad's. Here it is:

Aside from the misspelling of our father's name, Steve, please note the Tie Fighter.

And, in keeping with the Star Wars theme, here is my favorite ornament on the tree:

Well, almost my favorite. Because our tree wouldn't be complete without ...

...The Christmas Ballsack, courtesy of Louis & Dad:

FriendPoll: What Is Hell To You?

2008-12-16T18:38:00.000-08:00

I posed this question to a few friends: "What is Hell to you?" and encouraged them to include an explanation or anecdote, if they felt so inclined (in the case of Brian, that may have been a mistake). Here are their answers:

Gina: "A world with no ice cream trucks."

David: "I think being in a Pinto, going cross-country with Vince, from ShamWow , no air conditioning, the windows rattle and won't roll down, and the radio's stuck on an AM Banjo station. The seat is stuck upright and won't tilt back, and the seatbelt is too small and digs into my belly. And a cat had peed in the backseat and it smells."

Jody: "My idea of hell is working at a certain place where I was referred to as 'Girl PA,' and was so terrible that I wish diarrhea at an inconvenient time on almost everyone there."

Joe F: "A common interpretation of Purgatory has always been a veritable Waiting Room for Heaven...hanging out, hoping that the the people you have left behind pray for you enough that your number gets called, deli-counter style. I think Hell is sitting in that room holding a number that won't ever be called, but you don't know that. All you know is that some skinny bitch who just got here had her number called three days later and the speaker won't stop playing REM's Everybody Hurts."

Brian: "Hell is an idea that exists in many cultures as a way to balance out the injustices of the world. Both as a means to control people and prevent wrong behavior. And secondly for peace of mind, to believe that all injustices will ultimately be righted. So I believe it is a cultural invention of humankind for disciplinary and comfort purposes. I think the Buddhist hell makes more sense than the Christian one, as rehabilitation or a term of penance, rather than the eternal useless vengeance of Satan's bidness. The ancient Greek hades was interesting because it wasn't necessarily a reward or a punishment, but instead a dreary but necessary next step. Says something about their culture."
(Can someone give Brian a hug and make him watch some cartoons?)

Brandon: "A childproof lock, and I am a child."

Feldman: "Being force fed opera and classical music on a dirty, earthy smelling, outdoors hike with my parents stopping every possible moment to admire the nature." ...30 Minutes later.. "How rude of me not to ask, what is your hell? Something involving massive amounts of vomit?"

Oh, Feldman. You know me so well.

Chef Liz in: "Steer Clear of Steer"

2008-12-10T18:26:00.001-08:00

The weather's finally starting to cool down out here in Los Angeles. And when that happens, it's time for heartier food. Soups, stews, casseroles. So, today I'm going to pass along a glorious recipe: Scalloped Potatoes & Tongue.

Of course, I use the word "glorious" the same way I use the word "magnificent" to describe the bombing of Hiroshima.

Gaze in wonder at the recipe card:

The first step is to "Wash tongue well." At first I thought this referred to the diner's tongue, and would have made more sense at the end of the recipe, after the steps "Ingest" and "Regurgitate." But it appears the recipe is talking about beef tongue.

After washing, you boil the tongue, and then it gets really terrible, instructing you to "skim foam" from the boiling water. Pardon? Am I to understand that preparation for tonight's delicious meal involves a step that can be described as skimming beef foam from boiling tongue water?

Hey! Have you seen a cow's tongue? No? Well here you go:

I'd like to move on now, please.

The rest of the recipe is fairly unoffensive, a basic scalloped potato recipe (albeit with the inclusion of an unappealing bovine muscle). But, have you read the suggested menu items? Zucchini salad, glazed carrots, finished off with a strawberry sundae- not too bad. You may be able to get around eating the entree at all. Unless you are a guest- then it would be rude, so you must force down a full plate of this culinary monstrosity. And what will your host, ever-faithful to the recipe card's plan, select as the beverage for this evening? What will be at your disposal when you need desperately to wash down the tongue juices and white sauce?

Ah, yes. Tomato Juice. Thanks, Host. Nothing helps quench a thirst brought on by 2.5 pounds of lingual meat like watered down pizza sauce.

So, remember, this fall, when you're looking for a delicious, substantial recipe... This isn't it.

Last One, I Swear

2008-12-08T09:23:00.000-08:00

Here's Louie's arrangement of the jazz classic "It Don't Mean a Thing." It perfectly shows why he is my favorite person in the universe.

Louis Is A Senior!

2008-12-05T10:32:00.000-08:00

My dear, sweet, tall brother, Louis turned 22 yesterday. And to celebrate, USC's Thornton School of Music held their jazz program's Honors Combo recital. Unfortunately, because I work all the time, I couldn't be there (please don't judge me). But, Good Ol' Reliable Father brought his mp3 recorder, and sent me a tune. It's entitled "When Was the Last Time." Louis wrote the music and lyrics, and played drums. It features Cassie Peterson on Vocals, Adam Bravo on piano, Hans Bernhard on bass, and Sam Gendel and Doug Mosher on horns. I was really impressed-- It's a great tune.

It is certainly quite a contrast to Clown Core, which, if you don't already know, is also a Louis creation. I love my brother's musical schizophrenia.

**Please note that you may want to turn your volume up a bit as the sound is not very loud.

Something Brand New

2008-11-24T14:21:00.001-08:00

Here they are- ClownCore. This band, named for the style of music they have recently invented, is innovative, unique, and sensitive. This is their hit single "I Ate a Luna Bar And My Dick Fell Off," which explores a male response to society's obsession with products that are "for women only." I hope it moves you as much as it moved me.

From time to time, they will upload new videos, so check 'em out on the video bar to the left.

Hollywood Mourns Loss of Progressive, Go-To Archetype

2008-11-05T14:32:00.000-08:00

By LIZ COLE

Los Angeles, CA- It was a morose scene at the office of hit show 24 executive producer Howard Gordon last night. Gordon, also a writer for the show, had, moments earlier, been rejoicing over Barack Obama's victory. However, the reality of what the election of a black man to the presidency meant to the entertainment industry quickly dawned on him. "We had an African American president on our show way before anyone had even heard of Obama," he said, referring to actor Dennis Haysbert who played president David Palmer for five seasons. "This is great news for America, but what are the writers supposed to do now?"

For years, the Black President character, officially called Archetype 6D, provided valuable information about a script's story. "The idea that our country was being led by an African American was such a far off concept that it really let us set the tone [of the story]," says Deep Impact scribe Michael Tolkin. "It was such an easy character to pull from the shelf and sell the idea that, okay, this movie is going to be purely fictional, almost futuristic." Now, with Barack Obama in the Oval Office, writers are going to need to find another way to show their story takes place in a more idealistic version of America.

But help is on the way, according to WGA president Patric Verrone: "We're doing what we can to find a replacement for Archetype 6D. We've called our reps at the major studios and shows and, some time next week, we'll all meet for a big brainstorming session." He wouldn't expand on their plans, but there have been a lot of rumors circulating on literary message boards about the possible use of the Robot President archetype (6H) in future productions. "I don't know, though," said My Name Is Earl assistant coordinator Darren Wilner. "The possibility of a robotic leader of the free world may not be far enough off for us to get good mileage out of the archetype. I'd say, if the WGA wants to endorse anything at all, it should think seriously about Archetype 6L, Grizzly Bear President."

Overdue Apologies- Halloween Edition

2008-10-31T17:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Louis,

I know I already offered an apology for the whole bath tub water incident. But I feel I owe you another for Halloween of 1998.

You see, my friend Lauren and I were very concerned with getting our costumes ready. I can't remember what the hell I was going as. But it was of the utmost importance that we discuss it behind closed doors. That day, you were your normal, bouncy, 12-year old self, excited at the prospect of a sackful of candy, and looking forward to donning your latest army-surplus getup. Your pre-sugar madness brought you, uninvited, into my room.

So I yelled at you to leave. This had the opposite effect. It was a classic case of moody teenager versus pre-teen wise-ass. I pushed you out, you stuck your arms and legs in the doorway. I kicked at you, you just laughed. I rolled my eyes at Lauren, pushing the door as hard as I could, as you tried with all your might to push the it back open. I gave one final shove, and you were out.

But something was wrong with what should have been a routine exiling. I was holding the door closed, yet it didn't want to stay flush with its frame. And then you let out a cry. You were in real pain. I quickly opened the door again, and freed your finger.

As I replay this in my head, I want to run over to you and hug you and say I'm sorry and tell you that when I'm older I will write you $500 checks every month to make up for this. But, I was 14, and a jerk and so as you stood holding your hand and howling in the hallway, I shut the door again and went back to costume planning. My face felt hot from guilt.

Dad came to my door about 20 minutes later. "You broke the tip of his finger. He is in a lot of pain. I had to to give him a shot to numb it, and now his finger's going to be in a splint while he trick-or-treats." He didn't ground me, or yell. I think he knew that just telling me about Louie's situation calmly would be painful enough. It was.

Lauren and I went down to the end of my driveway and sat by the mailbox. I looked at my feet, and played with a roly-poly bug in the dirt. As it curled and uncurled slowly, I told Lauren that I felt like crap. I probably had a more miserable time than you did that evening, worrying that you weren't enjoying yourself because of what I had done. But, judging by your confectionery haul, you were able to have a good, long trick-or-treating session with your pals.

Later, when we got home, and you and I dumped all of our candy out onto the floor as was customary, I wanted to make it up to you some how. So, staring at your bandaged finger while you sorted your candy into piles, I'm sure I probably gave you some pretty great candy trades.

All Ho's Eve

2008-10-23T15:02:00.000-07:00

Everyone is talking about Halloween (Actually, everyone is talking about the dismal stock market situation, but let me just have this one, okay?) and I couldn't be more excited!

Being the organized and on-top-of-it individual that I am, I'm still deciding on my Halloween costume. I have a week to figure it out. Actually, given my work schedule, I only have this weekend to figure it out. So, what better way to spend my down time at work than surfing the internet for costume ideas? (My psychiatrist said to use my free time to learn a foreign language or better myself intellectually somehow, but what the hell does he know?)

Google "Women's Halloween costumes." G'head. I dare you.

Witchs, pirates, cops, ladybugs, NUNS- They've found a way to make everything hyper-sexy. Yet, the men's costumes are pretty tame. Priest, psycho butcher, Batman, Julius Caesar. How come, if a girl wants to dress up for Halloween, she's gotta be a skeevy mass of cleavage and leg? Do you know how many people would actually look appealing in those outfits? The nine people they hired to model the clothes in the first place. That's how many.

This isn't a new phenomenon to me. I went to school in Malibu for lord's sake. I recall in the 8th grade a girl in my class (I'm not going to name names because we just became friends on Facebook and I really don't want to screw that up) wore a Nurse costume to school on Halloween. Aww, how cute, you're probably saying. What a wholesome and Florence Nightingale-y costume!

WRONG.

Have you ever been to Hollywood Boulevard? Have you ever a passed a store called Bed Behavior? I believe that is where the girl got her costume. I think the only part of this chick I couldn't see were her lungs. I learned more about the female body on Halloween '97 than I did in my freaking college anatomy class. So, she strutted around all day, twirling her plastic stethascope, driving all the other girls to feelings of utter inadequacy.

Meanwhile, I too had given into the pressure to dress at a sexiness level far outside of my comfort zone and was dressed as a "Sorceress." You better believe I was wearing what I considered a low-cut dress, with a fancy steel-reinforced brassiere. PLUS- a headband made from glow-in-the-dark bones and tusks, a feather boa, AND a custom-coiffed Barbie head with a safety pin stuck through it hanging from a chain around my neck. (I later donned that Barbie head every day for several months in the 10th grade as part of my "Bite me- I'm weird and proud of it" phase. That's a whole other blog.) Needless to say, I looked freaking awesome. Awesome enough that - OMG! - the most popular boy in school told me I looked "rad." (Cleverly, I rolled my eyes at him, and as a result, didn't ever have a real boyfriend until 12th grade.)

But I couldn't compete with The Naughty Pre-Teen Nurse. It just doesn't seem fair that a guy can get away with smearing red tempra paint on his shirt and calling it a costume, and the other half of us have to wear skirts so short you can see our "parts." I just can't ever seem to make it to that level of Skank. Sure, once I was Tinker Bell On A Bender, complete with hip flask and crooked fairy wings. But I was completely out-sexied by the scads of Slutty Waitresses and Skeevey Bank Tellers.

Of course, I'm still going to give it the old college try and go as some boob-tastic version of a beloved childrens' book character or something. Though I still haven't decided on an actual costume, I have purchased a FANTASTIC bra, so I've got a pretty good chance of fitting in this year.

Avoid Sudden Movements

2008-10-06T18:25:00.000-07:00

A Fact About Me: I find shows about beekeeping fascinating. There is a show on RFD, the farming channel (Yeah. I watch it. So?) that comes on about once a year. It features Dr. Keith Delaplane, who may or may not have a hidden stash of dead wives buried underneath his porch. Keith teaches you all you need to know about beekeeping.

But once a year is not enough to satiate my hunger for apiological programming. Thank god for YouTube, and this guy. I love him. Aside from his vast knowledge of bees, he is completely amusing and wacky. To see my favorite video of his, click here. If you need to see more of Crazy Bee Guy, search "ExpertVillage" on YouTube. He has TONS of videos.

Dude- I sing in Portuguese now

2008-09-09T10:12:00.000-07:00

So, this weekend, I totally sang in Portuguese. My dad played piano, my brother played drums (and recorded) and our friend Hans played bass. The song is called "É Com Esse Que Eu Vou" by Pedro Caetano, and it's probably my favorite song.

I hope you like it!

My Yearbook Photos

2008-08-21T16:15:00.000-07:00

I have lived in my apartment for over a year, but yet I am still unpacking. I was going through a box the other night and found my old yearbooks. I thought I'd share them here with you. (Scroll down slowly, so you don't ruin any surprises!)

Oh man. Remember this hair trend? Yikes! Also, I was high out of my mind (sorry, Mom!) And this was my senior photo! Mortifying...

Here's when I was in eighth grade. Look how young I am! Kids used to say I looked just like my father...

Wow, 11th grade! I had a really bad hickey on my neck for picture day (thanks a lot, Random Boy From Fresno!), which is why my collar is buttoned all the way up...

Aww! 9th grade! I was a little freaked out that day... first day of high school and all. My mom spent hours on my hair do that morning, and I fell asleep on the bus ride to school and mashed the back of it to hell. Oh well! It's still a really nice photo...

No laughing please! I'm actually really embarrassed about this last photo, which is from the 10th grade, when I was in my "Ted Danson" phase...

I hope you all enjoyed this indulgent walk down memory lane as much as I did!

*Thanks to Hartwick Hanson for showing me the website that made this possible. www.yearbookyourself.com.
IF YOU USE THE SITE, PLEASE SEND ME YOUR BEST YEARBOOK PHOTO AND I WILL POST IT HERE!

Althea Parker, Why Do You Look So Sad?

2008-08-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

Goodness me, I love the internet. I especially enjoy websites that cater to the desires of people with weird, expensive interests. One of these websites is the Gentleman's Emporium, which has a vast collection of ridiculous Victorian and Edwardian outfits for both genders. I like this website better than other costume websites because not only do they sell the pieces separately for ease of mixing and matching, but they bring the outfits to life with the name and title of the fictitious person who may have worn such a thing. PLUS- Backstories!

Why, look! Here is Phoebe Robinson, Stenographer:

She's a widow!
Her husband died in what the website refers to as "the great fire of three years ago." That was 2005, so I'm pretty sure they are referring to the big fires in Simi Valley. Also, she is fond of hats that look like a giant potpourri sachet exploded on her head.

Next up is Professor Babcock, Man of Science:

His entire outfit costs over $500! It is also extremely flammable and may, at any moment be ignited by a bunsen burner! It's a good thing that, as the site mentions, he spends a lot of time giving lectures "at the esteemed Institute of Technology!" How the Victorians love being vague!

And then we have the perseverant and puffy Caroline Sullivan, Pioneer. Caroline's backstory features:

*Surviving "a bout of the ague!"
*Surviving an "Indian attack!"
*Surviving the birth of five children!
*Surviving on a farm without her husband!
*An actual quote by Ms. Sullivan about her arrival in town after surviving the long journey!

And take a look at this asshole, Baron von Frohmann, Aeronaut:

In his unbelievable hat, he builds dirigibles. Also, he doesn't believe in Bernoulli's principles. The website's creators were lucky enough to find a quote from the Baron on the subject. He said that the flights of heavier craft were "mere parlor tricks, no more interesting to the scientist than the ballistic flight of a well-shot cannonball." It should be noted that he hails from the fictional land of "Frohmann."

And last, there is Althea Parker, Victorian Lady:

Althea! Why so glum? Your husband is the well known Dr. Calvin Parker! You have three boys! You started the public library, and were the school's superintendent! Chin up, Althea! Put on a more brightly colored snood and smile!!

*Special thanks to David Malloy, Burbank Gentleman, for finding this site!

Thank You, Foreign Persons!

2008-08-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

Am I Right, Girls?

2008-08-14T17:39:00.000-07:00

I've noticed a trend in commercials for any food product geared toward woman. They always feature a woman indulging in their product, seriously and solitarily. Take Dove chocolate for example. In a typical commercial, a sun dress-clad woman can often be found sitting in a well-appointed bedroom or living room, alone, in a comfortable chair. After a few moments of looking smugly relaxed, she'll reach for a solitary piece of Dove chocolate and, eyes closed, bite a third of it off, a smile creeping across her lips.

Now, I'm not usually one to go for the "You ladies know what I'm talking about" humor, but seriously. These commercials are crap, and YOU LADIES KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. Have you ever had Dove chocolate? Or any chocolate for that matter? Of course you have. The only time it's ever eaten timidly and slowly is in the presence of royalty, or a new boyfriend. Otherwise, if you're a chick, having a relaxing day at home alone, you're in sweatpants, lying on the couch watching Iron Chef. It is inevitable that you will go for the chocolate, but there is no way that you slowly bite into a single piece. Hell no. You tear into an entire bag of chocolates and cram 'em in, nine at a time, until they're gone.

While writing this post, I was poking around YouTube to try and find an example of one of these commercials. All I could really find were a few ads from China. I've posted one on here that I find particularly weird.

Let's discuss it, shall we?

First, there appears to be some suggestive material here. The young waiter sees the woman, clearly taken with her beauty. Then, seconds later, we see what can only be described as implied sexual imagery.

Gross!

The weirdest part, though, is when she bites into the candy, this strange, chocolaty satin monster appears out of nowhere, wrapping itself around her body, preventing her from breathing properly. It encases her, and then moves on to attack the poor young man.

Upon further analysis, however, I have deduced that this silken horror has actually been summoned by the girl to rid her relaxing day of the perverted waiter. Because, if you're going to have some quality "Me Time," the last thing you want is some guy watching you chow down on your chocolate.

You ladies know what I'm talking about.

Happy The Olympics, everyone!

2008-08-08T17:03:00.000-07:00

If you're like me, you're going to enjoy the Olympics. But, if you're like the fine fellows at Funbox, you are REALLY going to enjoy the Olympics. Watch below...

What in blazes?

2008-08-07T13:59:00.000-07:00

Välkomnande Till Helvetet

2008-07-31T12:46:00.000-07:00

So, I recently bought some new Ikea furniture, and boy are my arms tired.

Seriously, folks. They are freaking tired. Four pieces of furniture were purchased, each box weighing around 80 pounds. I live on the second floor. I am not a body builder. By the time I got them all up the stairs and assembled, I was sweating like Sammy Hagar.

Thankfully, that was a little while ago, and I see the the whole incident as kind of funny now.

Except the part about actually going to Ikea and buying the stuff.

I showed up at Ikea after a long day at work, so already I was a little cranky. As convenient as self-serve, do-it-yourself furniture may seem, it can be an enormous hassle. One that starts as soon as you walk in the door and are faced with the giant flight of stairs. As you ascend, you pass a giant poster of a hot dog. "50¢!" it declares. Great, you think. Now, all I want are hot dogs.

Then as you fight your enraging, post-work meat craving, you must wind your way through displays of living room sets crowded with scads of obese shoppers who feel it is acceptable to just stop in the middle of the pathway to place a phone call to their roommate about the various wood finishes available. And of course you have to remain aware of the wild children. Some of them, surely, belong to the portly shoppers. But I'm fairly certain many of them are just bred in the kitchen accessories area and left to survive on uneaten meatballs and leftover gobs of Lingonberry jam. They're everywhere, and have no concept of how crowds move. When you eventually come across a satisfactory bookshelf, you have to scramble to find your pathetic golf pencil and scribble down its dimensions and warehouse location.

On this last excursion, when I had safely made it through The Impulse Buy Chamber (or "Markethall" as they call it) to the self-serve warehouse, I found it crawling with customers, but inexplicably devoid of any employees. When I finally found someone wearing the signature blue and yellow shirt, I asked them where I could find my product. It was called something unreasonably Swedish like Berkshtøg or Käck or Fleenbrex or something like that, and as I tried to pronounce it, the poor fellow, quite understandably, looked at me like I was a sick horse. He feebly pointed to the furthest corner of the warehouse and then abandoned me.

When I arrived at the correct area, I optimistically yanked on the proper box. It didn't move. I yanked again, this time with conviction. I was so close to my hot dog goal; This was the final step. I had to finish. After several more attempts, I looked up. A young be-wifebeatered man was staring at me. "Heh. Looks like that's pretty heavy." "Yes," I said, backing away from the box, expectantly. "Yeah. That shit's heavy." Then he made a terrible sound from the back of his throat, scratched his nutsackular region and walked off.

Miraculously, I made it out of there without needing any pricey chiropractic procedures, and managed to fit the huge boxes into my little German vehicle. But, by the time I'd dropped close to four C's, and had lugged shelves around on a wobbly cart for a half an hour, the cafe was closed, and so I went home without any hot dogs at all.

Tuesday

2008-07-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

This morning, there was an earthquake. Gina and I decided that was when our day peaked. Here is a graphical representation of our day, based on today's anomaly and data gathered from previous workdays. (Click on graph for a larger view.)

Spam Asks, I Answer (Part I)

2008-07-28T13:29:00.000-07:00

Hello there, BlogFriends!

As I'm sure you are aware, the amount of Spam the average person receives in their email inbox increases daily. But what many of us are not aware of is the fact that much of what goes into your Spam folder is not actually Spam at all. It is very often some poor soul's attempt to reach out for help. They don't know where else to turn, and so they ask you. Often, these messages are pleas for help with personal issues. But I also interpret these messages as cries for grammar help. And so, in an effort to help these folks, I have decided to set up a help column for these so-called "Spammers."
*(These are all actual Spam messages I have received.)
*****

Vandegrift Finnigan writes:

Subject: quidnunc insist

Be brought there. And introduced by vidura they full many a fat patriarch had he in mew, and many by jimmie. And unto him, saying, 'the sungiven vessel remains on kansas than a slavestate constitution. if kansas brave drona hath been slain by the highsouled you will leave the whole thing in my hands, and gave evidence of military ability.' He showed that waters were blood, and whose eddies were cars, be achieved.

Well Vandegrift, I'm proud of you. It takes a lot of courage to stand up to Jimmie like that. I know him, and he can be a tough one. But where do you go from there? Well, first, I'd move somewhere quiet. Get out of Kansas-- the blood waters can be hell on your skin. Second, befriend the local fat patriarch. This will make it more difficult for Jimmie to get to you. Good luck!
*****

Sullivan writes:

Subject: New strain of AIDS discovered

Black minorities no longer required to vote in Presidential election

Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sullivan. I think you've got your history mixed up. Requirement was never the issue. Check out Wikipedia and search "Plantation." Additionally, you may want to ask your doctor about the difference between viruses and politics.
*****

Dojaaren writes:

Subject: Truth about bonzai kitties

Why do girls participate in orgies explain here.

Dojaaren-

Good question! Interestingly, all girls (or "bonzai kitties," as your people call them) have different reasons for participating. Sometimes, they are just bored. Mostly, though, it has to do with alcohol and low-self esteem. Google those terms. And good luck with your orgy-ing!
*****

And so, dear readers, concludes the first installment of my Spam help column. I hope this inspires you to open your heart each time you open your Spam folder.

Spread The Word

2008-07-14T15:08:00.000-07:00

My pals at FunBox have just released this video... Please, watch and enjoy!

For more, please visit: http://youtube.com/user/funboxcomedy

When my brother was on tour

2008-06-11T16:32:00.000-07:00

My brother's band, The F3w, spent last summer touring around the west coast. At a gas station, they found a wolf. They brought it with them. It caused trouble. Behold:

Remember that Craigslist Ad?

2008-05-29T10:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, so, my parents, after reading the "Jo on rails" post from last week, wanted to know what the verb, "jo" meant. My mother, being the net-savvy chick she is, got on The Google, and found this:

Jo! The Art of the Japanese Short Staff!

Sure, Ma. Some people might call it that.

Heard in an ad ageny boardroom...

2008-05-27T18:27:00.000-07:00

"Hey, Barry?
"Yeah, Dick?"
"I think what we need to sell Subway sandwiches, I mean really sell them is--"
"Go on, Dick."
"I think we need a guy who looks like this." --->
"Dick, you must be mental!"
"No, no. Hear me out. He can talk about how much weight he's lost eating Subway sandwiches and flash a big, dorky smile. He'll even hold up these giant pants!"
"You may have something there, Dick. Nothing makes a sandwich more appealing than a pasty fellow in Dockers."

How can you possibly be sad...

2008-05-21T16:25:00.001-07:00

... when there is THIS is the world?
Thanks to Greg Garvin for the heads up.

Let's Discover!

2008-05-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, the Spanish explorer for which my former elementary school is named, was the first European to navigate the California coast and completely disrupt the Chumash people living there.

So, in the spirit of ol' Juany, join me, on a voyage of discovery into the cafeteria of Juan Cabrillo Elementary School in Malibu, CA.

First up, on May 7th, we have Brunch For Lunch Day!
Aww. How adorable. When I was in elementary school, that kind of thing was always fun. It was a special occasion, getting to eat French Toast in the middle of the day! On a Wednesday, even!
So that's pretty exciting for those kids.

But it can't always be as riveting as hash browns. Sometimes it's as boring as...

Fairly pathetic. But at least it's reliable. There are a few things on this menu that I would never let my Hypothetical Son, Trevor, eat.

For instance, the Manager's Choice (code for: Stuff Left In The District-Funded Industrial Freezer Since Last Semester.)

A thought on which to meditate:
School cafeterias have Managers. Like a McDonald's. Or a Dress Barn.

Still. At least this is a person hired by a presumably trustworthy Superintendent and has some qualification for making student dining choices.

This on the other hand is just plain frightening. Why are there so many asterisks?!

***Subject to availability.

...

***May or may not contain asbestos.

...

***Animal from which ribs originate unknown.

Sorry, Hypothetical Trevor. Mommy's packing you some fruit snacks and leftover chutney.

Finally, on May 14th, they innocently offer...

Eew. Again with the asterisks. And what the hell is a blaster?
Gastric foreshadowing anyone? I can just see those poor children, opening their fortune cookies and reading, "You will soon make a heavy investment in Immodium."

Thank god my mother loved me, and made me eat tuna fish sandwiches out of a Minnie Mouse lunch box every day.

All Boozed Up With Nowhere To Go

2008-04-25T16:55:00.000-07:00

Statistics show that one in every 3 people is an annoying jerk.* So in a group of 5,400 people, for example, we find that 1,800 people are jerks. Therefore, it's likely that, if you encounter 5,400 folks over a certain period of time, you're going to end up having a few run-ins with some pretty obnoxious characters (assuming you yourself are not one of the 1,800).

Now. Let's put these people in one place, with no exits. Like, oh, I dunno, a big, fat cruise ship in the middle of the ocean. And watch the fun begin!

This is what Royal Caribbean has in essence proposed with it's gargantuan Project Genesis ships. The latest is a 5,400-person, 16-deck affair, with a climate-controlled outdoor garden, casinos (plural!), an indoor ice skating rink, a water park, a boxing ring, and some kind of on-board surfing thing which I can't really figure out. And that's just the stuff I can remember off the top of my head! Oh, right. They also have "cantilevered whirlpools," whatever that means. It sounds great, right?

Recall the Rule of Jerks and realize that, while you're waiting patiently to use one of those self-leveling pool tables you've heard so much about, Bob Dumbass is going to be in front of you, drunk out of his mind, telling the pretty girl with the cue in her hand that, damn, she really knows how to handle that wood. During a quiet skate around the ice rink, Mr. Dumbass will get cocky, come barreling toward you and triple lutz himself right into your knees. And when you're checking out the boxing ring, Bob is going to come up, offer to be your sparring partner and then beat the living hell out of you to impress a group of booze-soaked forty-somethings on a Girl's Only trip.

Yes, this is the trip for you if you've always wanted to hang out with a bunch of loud, pushy people with nowhere to go but mini-golfing.

Aside from jerks, does Royal Caribbean know what it's getting into with all of these on-board balance-centric activities, like ice skating and rock climbing? I mean, what if the ship hits a patch of bad weather? Even though Royal Caribbean probably has that scenario covered, Bob Dumbass is still going to raise a stink when he's told no, he can't go climbing, because it's raining. And what if some unforeseen thing happens to the ship? Like the monster from Cloverfield awakens, or Captain Nemo rams into the hull with the Nautilus... WHAT THEN, ROYAL CARIBBEAN!??! Bob Dumbass will surely tumble to his death!

Maybe that solves the jerk problem, though.

*According to a study by The Institute of Me, Liz Cole.

VOTE FOR FUNBOX COMEDY- ONE MORE TIME!

2008-04-10T08:55:00.000-07:00

Hello Friends!!

SO! The guys at FunBox Comedy made it into the Top 10 (out of THOUSANDS of entries) in YouTube's Sketchies II Contest-- and they couldn't have done it without you!!!

For this round, they created a new video called "Astounding Tales of the Hunt," which you can, and should, vote on NOW!

To Vote:

- Go to: http://youtube.com/sketchies2
- Halfway down the page (below the playing video) you will see a box labled "Search for a Video." Type in: funboxcomedy. Click 'Go.'
- A small picture will appear where the search bar was. Click it. Their video "Astounding Tales of the Hunt" should start playing.
- Click the thumbs up button. It should turn green.

That's it! You can vote once a day and voting lasts till April 15th.

Thank you so much for supporting my friends. Winning this contest would be an amazing opportunity for three very talented guys. PLEASE pass this along to anyone you can think of!

My Best Pal

2008-03-24T10:28:00.000-07:00

Melvin Cole
February 18th, 1997 - March 22, 2008

He liked eating, sleeping, dirt, and easy-to-kill wildlife.

I'll miss you, Fathead.

URGENT: VOTING ROUND 1!!!!

2008-03-13T10:37:00.000-07:00

Hello!

Remember that hilarious Bard video by the folks at FunBox that I told you all to watch? (You don't? Well, that's stupid, because it's only two posts below this one, dummy.) Well, guess what!? All of your watching paid off! They're in the TOP TWENTY! That means that now, they need your help! Don't look at me like that- you were warned. I told you they'd likely need your votes at some point in time. NOW IS THAT TIME!!!

HERE'S HOW (And don't wuss out because there are four steps. You all took the SATs. You can figure this out, dammit.)

1. Visit http://www.youtube.com/user/Sketchies2
2. In the middle of the right hand of the screen a search box will appear. Type funboxcomedy and press "Go"
3. Click on the video that appears below it. The video should load. It is called "Spring Break Bard."
4. Press the thumbs up button!

That wasn't so hard, was it? Of course not! ColeAhUm Friend, David Malloy, even voted - FIVE TIMES - and said, "It was easy and there was very little blood involved!" SEE?!

KEEP VOTING OFTEN! And, if you're a really good person, you'll send this to your friends and family and tell them to do the same!

****Semi Finals Voting goes until the 19th SO QUIT WASTING TIME AND START VOTIN'!!!

What's The Score On The Red Wings Game?

2008-03-10T10:30:00.000-07:00

Good god. This is wonderful.

9-11 Marijunana Brownies

Add to My Profile | More Videos

Watch This Video Eight or Nine Times!

2008-03-03T15:37:00.000-08:00

My dear friends at FunBox Comedy have entered a VERY IMPORTANT VIDEO CONTEST and NEED YOUR HELP. Please watch this video. Give it some traffic. Direct your pals to the video, too! Post links to it on your blogs! HIRE A PLANE TO WRITE THE URL IN THE SKY!!!!

If the judges like it, we'll all be VOTING FOR THEM, so get ready for that, too! Remember: They'd vote for YOU if YOU ever did anything important!

Overdue Apologies (Part II)

2008-02-28T16:53:00.000-08:00

To my brother Louie:

Please understand: sometimes, when they are five, older siblings just need to experiment with how far they can stretch their power. It does not reflect how much love or respect they may have for their younger siblings. It is purely a matter of wanting to see how their cunning and brute strength compares.

Admittedly, sometimes older siblings are already well aware of how much more powerful they are. Further exercising of said power, especially over a three-year old, is just mean.

I am sure you recall the tale of The Blame And The Bath Water, in which I totally sold you out to mom for having dumped a huge cup of gross, tepid bath water on the already mildew-ridden bathroom floor.

You were just sitting there in the bathtub, finishing up whatever war you'd set up between different factions of Happy Meal toys, and I was standing with my back to the space heater in my towel, shivering. A lot of that evening is a blur of guilt, but I do remember that you looked happy playing in the water, lips blue, curly hair wet and disheveled. So happy, in fact, that I had to ruin it.

"Louie," I most likely said. "Fill that cup up with water and dump it on the floor." I was smooth, sly, convincing. You were naive, happy-go-lucky, easily convinced. You trusted me, your older sister, to teach you to do cool stuff and to invite you to partake only in safe activities. After all, I had taught you how to put on killer performances in the living room. I had taught you how to chew great wads of Big League Chew so you could look like an incredibly manly, nicotine-addicted baseball player with your friends. I had taught you how to expertly skip from couch cushion to couch cushion, avoiding crocodiles, quick sand, lava, and other hazards. So why should you be suspicious of this new activity?

You happily grabbed the cup floating next to you, scooped up some gray water, and brought it to the edge of the tub. "Come on. Do it," I urged. So you did.

The next thing I did was go to the door and yell, "MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!! LOUIE DUMPED WATER ALL OVER THE FLOOR!!!!!!!!!!!"

Mom came running up, and scolded you. I'm sure it wasn't a severe scolding, but right now I am remembering it as though she screamed at you for hours. I do remember you trying to explain what had happened. "Lizzy said to! Lizzy said to!" but I somehow managed to beat the system and get off totally unscolded, smugly smiling all the while.

So, Louie. I am sorry. For the bathwater incident, and for any other time I manipulated you into doing my bidding. And while I know all those wrestling lessons I gave you on the front lawn can never make up fully for all the times I was crappy to you, I certainly hope they help.

So Cute I Could Puke

2008-02-15T15:44:00.000-08:00

Ask yourself:
Am I a middle-aged single lady that enjoys pictures of kittens?

If you answered yes, have I got a website for you!!

This website makes me feel like I should be wearing a cable-knit sweater featuring a bear holding a pink balloon.

I'm serious.

I laughed, I cried, I wasted an hour...

2008-02-13T18:23:00.001-08:00

Visit http://www.onesentence.org/ for some simple true stories, told in one sentence.

Scatology 101

2008-02-04T21:26:00.000-08:00

Because the guy who used to live in my apartment didn't have his mail properly forwarded, I get the best mis-delivered mail in the world. Aside from catalogs for places that sell only Christmas-themed gourd art, he also gets a Doctor's Alert newsletter. Each installment is designed to sell you an herbal product that will remedy some ailment you didn't even know you had that could totally kill you. Last month it was "You Have Up To Eight Cups of Mucus In Your Nasal Cavity That Is Breeding Bacteria And Trying To Kill You And Leave Your Children Fatherless" brochure. I'm not actually kidding about that, either. They're that serious about your nostril health.
But this time around it was the Doctor's Digestive Health Alert which immediately boasted:
Intrigued, I flipped it over and was delighted by the following:
So, naturally, I committed a felony. I opened that sucker up and turned to page 3. Good thing, too! Because I learned a lot! For instance did you know that...
...? I sure didn't! Look how forlorn this gentleman looks, trying in vain to have an early morning crap, his pajamas surely becoming damp from the sweat and tears brought on by this intense challenge.

Also, they're racist:

The newsletter doesn't even try to make this a kind, gentle warning about the difficulties you could encounter if you continue not to use their product. There are frightening statements like "If your poop is thin and twisted or round and hard, you could have a narrow clogged colon that's strained to a bursting point!" The bursting part isn't what scares me. It's the word "poop," being used in an advertisement that is trying to look like a real science journal.

Things that also shouldn't be used in a faux-medical journal include phrases such as "helps flush away hidden gunk SO YOU CAN POOP IN SECONDS!" and testimonials with nebulous syntax that leave you confused and upset, like:Now, we can agree that a miracle is in general a good thing. But are we to believe that Agnes obtained relief with this product after twenty years of inconvenience and found it to be miraculous? Or is the miracle that the gastric ailment spanned two delightful decades? If we are to believe the former, did Ms. Pettipaw think to consult a physician during this time at all? Or was she just content to be a slave to the toilet until the right homeopathic cure came along?

Lastly, I object to this photo:
because a pamphlet about poop is no place for a ham sandwich.

Dear Gene Taylor,

2008-02-04T10:49:00.000-08:00

Thank you for always offering me advice. For always listening to me. For always encouraging me musically.
Thank you for being a great friend.
And thank you, THANK YOU, for sending me THIS.

GlaxoSmithKline: "Just Trust Us."

2008-02-01T16:09:00.001-08:00

Scab Script

2008-01-22T00:28:00.000-08:00

It really is time for "ER" to come back into production because- HEY!- I live in LA and I don't have any roommates and I'm broke. So, in an effort to help the process along, I've begun writing a script. Here it is:

INT. Hospital- Night
Hustle, bustle and etc as the paramedics bang through the doors of the ER with two 20 something males on one gurney.

Paramedic: We've got two frat boys stuck in the same pair of pants coming through. BPs 50/120 and 45/167 respectively. Major bruising and embarrassment.
Hot female doctor #1: Hello boys. Looks like you're in quite a pickle.

Frat Boy 1 GROANS. All of a sudden, the roof collapses and THOUSANDS OF LIVE CRABS rain into the ER. Chaos.

Boyish, Humorous Doctor: Holy crustaceans! There's more crabs in here than in Nick Nolte's mattress!
Hot Female Doctor #2: I need a crash cart in here!!!

ALARMS SOUND and we see an elderly woman hooked up to a monitor stumbling around, having a cardiac episode while 6 or 7 crabs cling to her face.

Elderly Woman: galeeakkakgllhggghhhlllkkkkkkkk...

A Surly, Devil-May-Care Male Doctor runs in, out of breath.

Surly, Devil-May-Care Male Doctor: I know it sounds crazy but..
Hot Female Doctor #2 : What's that, Dr. Surly?
Surly, Devil-May-Care Male Doctor: The only way to cure this woman is by dunking her in boiling water!
Boyish, Humorous Doctor: Sounds delicious!!

Then there would be a COMMERCIAL BREAK, after which there would be some heartfelt PROFESSIONS OF LOVE between Dr. Surly and Hot Female Doctor #1, and Hot Female Doctor #2 would be all pissy about it and make out with one of the frat boys just for good measure (while he's still stuck in the pants with the other frat boy). Then Dr. Surly and HFD#1 would go hump in the janitor's closet and in the middle of it all, Dr. Surly would let out a gutteral howl, which would cause Boyish, Humorous Doctor to burst in, thinking there was trouble, and he would see HFD#1 mid-lotus with Dr. Surly, a crab clinging to the bottom of his nut hammock.

Overdue Apologies (Part I)

2008-01-13T03:27:00.000-08:00

This evening's soundtrack: "Nothing Really Blue" by Penguin Cafe Orchestra

Dear Jesse Ortega,

I apologize for that time I gave you the finger in the second grade.

I don't know where you are now, or what you're doing, but I'm sure you will be able to agree that the gesture wasn't personal. As 8 year olds go, I was generally pretty nice. But, as was the case with all of us, my sense of what to do when confronted with annoyance was underdeveloped. Too young to express dislike with a logical and concise argument, and far too old to simply haul off and slug one another, we were trapped in an experimental phase. The only way we knew how to settle things was by what we learned from the older kids on the playground, or from a few stolen moments watching more "grown up" TV.

So, when your stuff began to migrate over the clearly drawn pencil line that separated our desks, I felt a surge of energy well up inside me and I smiled coldly and gave you the finger, feeling instantly proud of myself. You were speechless. It was a triumphant moment. My next door neighbor, life coach, and older (NINE!), wiser friend, Josh, would have been pleased. His tutelage had paid off-- playing Action Movie in his back yard and studying the work of Eddie Murphy when our parents weren't looking.

You already know that Mr. Clark saw it all and actually dragged me from the classroom as I clung to desks and chairs, like it was the end of some insane courtroom scene, and made me sit outside for five minutes. But what you don't know is, when I came back, I flipped you off under the desk for probably a full minute, this time out of genuine anger. I hope you can forgive me for that. It wasn't your fault. And it wasn't Mr. Clark's fault either. And Josh was as innocent as I was, really.

I'm blaming Eddie Murphy.

Check this Oot.

2007-11-28T14:25:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't actually WRITTEN anything in awhile, but how can I, when there are so many wonderful things to just SHOW you?
Freaking Canada just got about 56 more Rad Points for having aired this PSA during very busy
Hockey Night.

Kudos, Northern Friends!

Best TV Moment of 2007

2007-11-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia has done it again-- they have given the television viewer something to watch over and over and over again at work. Last year they did it with the scene in the episode "Hundred Dollar Baby" where Charlie attempts to eat a sandwich while undergoing violent, steroid-induced mood swings.

This year, in the episode "Dee is Dating a Retarded Person," they have brought us something wonderful. Something called "Day Man." I have it here, for your enjoyment.

Genius.

Happy Halloweiner Dog

2007-10-31T08:53:00.000-07:00

I would like to present to you what I think are the best videos on the internet currently:

Happy Halloween!

Eat that, Christo

2007-08-23T09:17:00.000-07:00

I just found out about what is possibly the coolest kind of art. I hesitate to call it "installation" art, although, I guess, technically that's what it is.

The farmers in Inakadate, Japan have, for years, been planting their rice in such a way as to create giant murals, meant to be seen from above. The mural is usually a recreation of a piece by a Japanese master, so far as I can tell, although occaissionally they throw in some work by European folks, like DaVinci.

These giant impressive things, which can be viewed during the summer months, are created by planting different types of rice: Kodaimai, which has purple and yellow leaves, and Tsugaru-roman, the greener variety. (Close-up below.)

Would you just think about all the freaking planning that has to go into this? You have to decide which work can be done in essentially three colors. Then you have to find a guy who can actually recreate the painting. ("Dear Mr. Takahashi, We understand you are a fantastic artist. Do you suppose you could recreate one of Hokusai's 36 Views of Mt. Fuji for our town's annual mural? Oh, and PS. You can only use rice. Thanks!") THEN, you have to decide where the different kinds of rice will go in the enormous field. And finally - and this is where I throw in the towel - you have to plant all the damn rice.

Anyway, it really is an impressive way to present your city's agriculture. And so good looking! Can you imagine us Westerners trying to do something as cool with our farms? What, would we just stack cows around in a corn field to make a giant smiley face? Yes, actually. That's probably exactly what we would do. Not because we aren't creative, but just simply because we've got so much to do. I mean, Top Chef's not gonna watch itself.

The Best Dollar I Ever Spent

2007-08-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

Here's something: If you happen to be in the San Fernando Valley, near Coldwater Canyon, stop by Pinz bowling alley. They've got everything: Bowling, boozing, and a Jerry's Deli right next door. But what you really ought to see is in the back room of the arcade, in that dingy area near the pool tables, the one that's not very well lit, home to the less flashy games. There's a simulated bike race game, where you actually have to pedal the bicycle in order to win. There's an older Star Wars game, and a crusty basketball game that looks like it's from the seventies (the crappy part). There are some others, too, but they're in that back area where layers of dust and grime filter out the visible spectrum, making it impossible to see anything. The area where you'd take your girlfriend if you wanted to, say, impregnate her. Just before that point, wedged between the basketball game and some filth, is an old Ms. Pac-Man/Space Invaders Galactica machine with chairs on either side and a horizontal screen. If you pop in a few quarters (it's very reasonably priced next to that blasted "Dance Dance Revolution") the Ms. Pac-Man game will proudly challenge you to beat the high score, which is 29,409 points. I know this because it's mine. Well, mine and Ursula's. It was a team effort, and took a mere dollar and about twenty-five minutes of our Friday night.

When Ursula and I had paid our check at Jerry's Deli, we wandered into the bowling alley and, upon discovering that bowling was far too expensive and loud, found ourselves heading absentmindedly into the arcade. After trying several games out (I'll spare you the details of our DrumMania disaster) we were delighted to find Ms. Pac-Man. "Liz! I used to love Pac-Man!" Urs. exclaimed in her delightful Irish accent. "Let's do it, then, " I said, dropping four quarters into the side of the table-like machine. I sat down and pressed start, and off I went on my mission to eat everything in sight. (Incidentally, I see a lot of parallels between my life and Ms. Pac-Man's.) Urs. and I switched back and forth, each time making a mad dash while the new screen loaded so that precious seconds were not wasted.

I don't know when it started, but at some point I realized that we were yelling and carrying on like a couple of dudes watching the SuperBowl: "Go Go Go! Fuck fuck fuck! NO NO NO NO-shit!"

-Or-

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! Go go go dammit go! Aww, man. There was nothing that you could have done. It's okay."

-And also-

"What the hell is that?"
"A pretzel?"
"Get the fucking pretzel! Get it get it getitgetigetit! Yesssss! Oh, crap."

I vaguely recall a semi-soused young man coming over to us and saying, "So what's going on here, Ladies? A little Pac-Man?"
"Yeah," Urs. and I both half-replied.
"Cool, cool."
But the conversation ended there, because, unless he was Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, we had no time for him. He must have left after I slammed my fist on the table and said "WHAT?! I totally got that pear thing. You saw that I got the pear, right?"

So, all told, we racked up 29,409 beautiful points. As we were getting up to leave, Urs. noticed that our number was the new high score. "Wait. Is that right?" she asked, befuddled. "Yes, Ursula" I said. "There is no denying our intense skill now."

We emerged, beaming, from the depths of the arcade. Finally out of my frenzied haze, I looked around at the rest of the establishment. Everyone was approximately my age, dressed to attract sexual partners, holding at least one drink and ogling anything with a pulse. The guys were strutting around acting meaty and fantastic, and the girls we adjusting their clothing with psychotic frequency and sucking their stomachs in as best they could. These are what I suppose you would call my peers. This well-groomed, horny, drunken crowd was "the norm." Urs. and I, on the other hand had just spent prime drinking hours of the weekend flipping out at a little yellow thing with an insatiable appetite.

Good for us, dammit.

And that is how Ursula and I made history at an overpriced bowling alley in Studio City.

I Am Confident In The American Media!

2007-07-17T14:39:00.000-07:00

This morning, driving to work, I tuned into KNX 1070 AM to see what the deal with the traffic was. Soon, the traffic report, which, as usual, didn't say anything at all about my commute, was over and a special report by Charles Feldman began.
The topic was "A New Kind of Terrorist Threat." Admittedly, I wasn't all that excited about listening to this, but then sound bytes, seemingly from an action movie, began to play. I was intrigued. Charles began to tell us that terrorists may now be using computers to cause major societal dysfunction and melt down "as the new Die Hard movie illustrates."

!!

But, don't get worried that this report was made up of questionable information. Oh no. Rest assured that Mr. Feldman had some very reliable sources. For instance a man who calls himself Security Monkey.

Yes, a nation-wide technological meltdown scares me. But I do feel much safer with Charles Feldman and his pal Security Monkey on the case.

A Rockie Mountain Lactose Adventure

2007-06-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

"I can't have cheese of any kind," says a jarringly nasal voice coming from somewhere behind me. It is Breakfast Time in Car 3 of the Rockie Mountaineer's Calgary to Vancouver train, and Evan, our charming yet tragically corny host/guide/whatever has just asked if anyone on board has any special dietary needs. Somehow, perhaps because I am tired and the hotel shampoo has left my hair limp and clinging to my head, this man's request annoys me.
"No cheese. Alright, sir. I believe I've got something for you," says Evan. He helpfully trots to the end of the car, and then back again, with some cereal and a small carton of milk for the man.

At lunchtime (which is later, but not much later, because the Rockie Mountaineer seems to believe that passengers not chewing something will riot) Evan offers us all a choice between "chilled" beef (Alberta beef; this is important) and potato salad OR salmon (cold) on a bed of lettuce with some couscous. (Each meal, it turns out, also comes with a square of chocolate roughly the size of a postcard stamp and a piece of cake with a half inch of frosting flavored with dentist's toothpaste.) When Evan arrives at the Nasally Man's seat, he says, "Sir, they've made up a special vegetarian meal for you, so-"
"Well, I'm not a vegetarian. I just can't have cheese of any kind."
My brother turns to me and says, "How dare he talk to Evan like that." We both laugh. Because, come on guy, he's just trying to help. Plus we already know you can't have cheese, so just pipe down and eat your veggies.
Evan sighs and then says, "Of course, sir. I just wanted to make sure you knew-"
"The beef sounds excellent. Is there any cheese in it?" Rude and annoying.
"I'll check for you sir." He picks up his walkie-talkie and radios the train manager. "Evan to Sharla."
"Go for Sharla," says a woman's voice from the walkie-talkie.
"I have a passenger here who cannot eat cheese. He wants the beef. Is there any cheese in that meal anywhere?"
A pause.
"What happens when he eats cheese?" Sharla asks. The walkie-talkie is at full volume and everyone in the car is now silent, eager to hear about the Nasally Man's ailment. It's like trashy daytime TV on a train.
"I get very sick. Very very sick." He speaks quickly, and I can tell the man does not want to discuss his troubles in front of a live audience. I swivel around to have a look. The man is in his early 70s, and slight. He sort of looks like a mudskipper wearing giant Martin Scorsese glasses. This touches me, and I am no longer annoyed with him, but angry with Sharla.
"What kind of sick?" she now needs to know. Sharla. That prying bitch.
So what if he can't eat cheese? All you need to know is he can't eat it. What do you care what happens to him? Just get out your little train book and scan the ingredients of today's meal selection.
"Sir, what kind of sick?" Evan asks, as though the entire cabin hasn't already heard Sharla's question.
"Well..." More awkward pausing as the Mudskipper tries to avoid the question.
"Is it a lactose thing or anaphylactic shock or what?" Sharla demands. Evan apologetically repeats the question.
"I just don't... I don't feel well. I could faint. I get very sick. Very very sick." The poor Mudskipper.
"He could faint, he gets sick," explains Evan.
"But what kind of sick? Diarrhea?"
Sweet Baby Jesus, Sharla. You and Evan are not passing notes in Health Class. You are on a walkie-talkie, which not only is being broadcast in Car 3, but in all the other cars as well. So 650 passengers have all stopped, forkfuls of cold Alberta! Beef just inches from their mouths, to listen to the exciting conclusion of Detective Sharla and the Case of the Mysterious Cheese Allergy.

I feel for the Mudskipper. He is, after all, just a delicate septuagenarian with a severe allergy to one of the world's best-loved foods. My wish is that, one day, Sharla will develop an embarrassing gastrointestinal reaction to mayonnaise and will have to spend twenty minutes being grilled by her future in-laws about why she's not eating any of Aunt Jenny's Famous Potato Salad. Then she will understand.

BabelFish is my Anti-Drug

2007-06-21T22:34:00.000-07:00

Everyone loves to be able to say things in foreign languages. They especially love to be able to say amusing things in foreign languages. Often, these practically useless, yet funny (if only because they are so useless) phrases or words are the only bits of the language these people know.
Which is why the only phrase I can say in French is Je suis une lesbienne. Meaning, of course, "I am a lesbian." Not really very useful, unless of course you're being followed by a horde of sex-crazed rugby players. And even then I'm not sure it's much of a deterrent.
In any case, I mentioned that this was the phrase I knew in French to my friend Christy, who happened to be working very late. I then asked "Why are you still at work?" Her reply was "Parce que je suis une lesbienne." ("Because I am a lesbian.")
"That's an interesting reason to be at work," I replied. "Êtes-vous des filles ayant une réunion? (Are you ladies having a meeting?)"
Her next missive thrilled me. It said: "J'apprécie la stimulation des femmes au travail. La nuit. D'habitude l'équipage de nettoyage de nuit. Derniérment nous avons expérimenté avec les balais éponge.
La soude de chaux de citron."

I think you can all guess what I did next.

That's right. I went directly to BabelFish and plugged that sucker in. Here is what the helpful translator gave me:
"I appreciate the stimulation of the women to work. The night. Usually the crew of cleaning of night. Lately we tested with the sponge mops.
The lemon lime soda."

Zut alors!

I wasn't quite sure what was happening, but it made me laugh. The passage was a little bit Allen Ginsberg, a little bit Bill Cosby. And I think there's some confused Slavic tourist in there, too.

All of this reminded me how much I love BabelFish.

With BabelFish (or any other internet language translator, really) you can create strings of words so incorrect you'll probably burn off that muffin laughing. Allow me to illustrate:

I will type in the phrase "Would you like to go to museum on Thursday?"
Now I will translate it, using BabelFish, into Spanish. It now says, "¿Usted tiene gusto de ir al museo el jueves?"
I will now translate that back into English: "You have taste to go to the museum Thursday?"

Delightful! Let's keep going!

And that's just the beginning. The more times you translate, the better it gets! For example, I will take the new, screwy phrase and translate it into French, then into Dutch, then back to English. Then to Italian, to French, to Portuguese and then finally back to English for the final time. It nows says this: "They must proves to the gone museum thursday?"

Tremendous! I could do this all night.

And on several occasions, I have.

The other thing to do is visit the German Amazon.com. If you can figure it out, type in the name of a movie that is available on DVD or VHS. I will choose "When Harry Met Sally." Scroll down to what looks like the synopsis, copy, paste into BabelFish, translate from German to English and enjoy:
"There are certain films, which one must have seen, no matter whether they please one or not. Harry and Sally ... are one of these films. Over 12 years the history of the two New Yorker ones is told, which in the course of the years always again more or less coincidentally over the way run themselves. ... Although the film was produced by Rob of pure (Conditions by Me, Misery), it is nevertheless the product of the film script authoress and the rain eating urine Nora Ephron (Sleepless in Seattle, Email for You). In the center are located two humans, who are for each other certain. ... If one watches the film however a second or third time, one notices fast that that is to be looked at everything very nicely and amusingly. More however actually not."

I know it's long. But did you read the part about Nora Ephron? Apparently she's not very well-liked in Germany. I've never actually heard of anyone being called "a urine." Her presence seems to negate anything good that Rob Of Pure brought to the film.

I encourage all of you to take a trip to BabelFish. If you need me, that's where I'll be.

This is NOT "OK".

2007-06-14T15:40:00.000-07:00

In order to say what I want to say today, I am going to have to make a confession.

I do, occasionally, read the tabloids.

Yes. I know. But sometimes, they're just there and you've got nothing else to read and you're bored because the doctor's office told you "2:00" but it's looking more like it'll be "4:00" because you have an HMO and you're not bleeding from more than one hole. ... So you've got to pass the time with something.

In any case, yes, I read the June 11th, 2007 issue of OK! Magazine. And, aside from the seemingly 3 billion-page spread on American Idol, it seemed like a relatively harmless publication.

And then I got to the picture of Jessica Simpson.

And then I read the caption underneath her picture.

Here is what it said: "On her fan site SweetKisses.net, Jess recently mused that she read a book about Renaissance artist Michelangelo ... Though born centuries apart, the two artists are alike: Michelangelo was a poet, and Jess is planning to publish a volume of her poems!"

...

For those of you just joining us, OK! Magazine has just compared Jessica Simpson (you may remember her from the MTV show "Newlyweds," and from her boobs) to one of the most important artists of the 16th century (you may remember him from, oh, I don't know... a little thing called the Pietá? Or perhaps the freaking ceiling in the Sistine Chapel?). And they used an exclamation point.

Fun Fact: Someone who writes a blog on a site called SweetANYTHING.net is not going to be an intellectual wonder.

Discussion Question: How does such a person receive a book deal in the first place? How do they write a collection of poems? Order their own take-out? Discuss.

R.I.P. Kurt Vonnegut

2007-04-12T14:53:00.000-07:00

This is such sad news. The man is a genius. Brilliant, eloquent, funny. He will be missed.

If you've never read his collection of short stories, Welcome to the Monkey House, I truly recommend it.

Check This Sh*t Out!

2007-02-22T09:36:00.000-08:00

Hey! Lookit. Larry n' I made this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51bsCRv6kI0

It helps if you like Thelonius Monk.

Feel free to comment, and rate!

I Happened To Really Like Chris Brown & His Wee Dance Companions

2007-02-12T13:56:00.000-08:00

Aside from the fact that Larry Goldings and Trio Beyond didn't win for best jazz album, the Grammys were pretty good. (Corinne Bailey Rae, anyone?) But, it wouldn't be the Grammys without some puzzling items. First of all, how do you not give Prince a grammy? HOW? Look at the man. He's like 3 feet tall, wearing a freaking leisure suit and sunglasses INDOORS. Plus he's funky as hell.

That being said, I have a couple of other questions.

*Did anyone else find it odd that there was an Audience Mote at the ceremony? Were those people trapped? What would happen in a fire? Would they just burn there? Or is there some sort of trap door?

*Also, who was that unreasonably hairy fellow on stage with the Dixie Chicks? According to the Short Dixie Chick, he's one of the guys who "works the magic behind the console." Now, either Apey McFurry and his pal The Squatty Dude weren't supposed to be on stage, or The D. Chicks don't actually know what these fellows do. Either way, dude, get a haircut.

*Did anyone else notice Samuel L. Jackson's shirt? Is it one of those Magic Eye puzzles, where, if you stare at it long enough, you see a lion? Or a soccer player?

*Please: Could someone get Christina Aguilera a Xanax and some whiskey?

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* Alright. I know [jazz legend] Ornette Coleman isn't exactly well-known to the general public, but, please, sir, could you at least pretend you know who he is? You're on camera for pete's sake. "Ornette WHO??" Sir, you are a massive tool.

*Does Gnarls Barkley realize that his pianist (copilot?), DJ Danger Mouse, died an eighth of the way through their performance? Honestly, Cap'n Gnarls just kept on belting while poor Danger just slumped over the key board.

*Why Smokey? WHY?! That was my number one concern of the evening. As Smokey sang, "Take a look at my face," I could help but wonder why he felt he had to request that. I, for one, couldn't take my eyes off his face. His eyes! OH GOD, HIS EYES! Poor guy. After 18 chemical peels he looks like, in the words of Jonathan Feldman, "a scared cat."

(Thanks to Feldman for the HD screen captures!)

A Short Rant About A Long Show

2007-02-11T16:30:00.000-08:00

Well, it's Grammy day, and the powers that be have shrewdly chosen to hold the ceremony at that Pillar of Sonic Perfection: The Staples Center.

Really? Really?

You're going to hold an event dedicated to the appreciation of music (however you choose to define it this year) in a sports arena!??! Excellent.

I have been to two musical events at Staples Center. Each one was different, each one was terrible. The first was for the First Annual Latin Grammys. I was in the "300" seats (read: The Nosebleed Section) where the sound ricocheted off of everything. Because the walls are made of concrete. The second was for a Dave Matthews Band concert. I was in the second row, where the sound still ricocheted off of the concrete walls, only was much worse because the echos had time to mix with other echos. In both situations, I couldn't make out a damn thing. And it didn't help matters that 50% of my experiences with music at the Staples Center were in Spanish.

Why would they decide to do that? I mean, I suppose these sports arenas can hold lots of people, but aren't these events meant to be exclusive anyway? It seems it would be more appropriate to have the Golden Globes at the Staples Center, since there aren't any musical numbers. But the Grammys? There's a performance every ten seconds. That's what it's about.

I could go on and on about what bothers me about the Grammys (why aren't all types of music included in the telecast? Who keeps letting those crazed rap artists up on stage?) but I won't, because they're going to be on pretty soon and I don't want to miss a minute.

Some Google Image Search FunFacts:

2007-01-25T18:31:00.000-08:00

- As of 5:30 pm, January 25, 2007, there are over 21,000 pictures of fruit salad.

- When you search "Jorfe" you get this fellow: He wants to hold you. Be not afraid.

- Surprisingly, the term "Ghetto Walnut" only yields 8 photos. None of them are of actual walnuts.

- Something that also yields 8 photos? "Goat Lolly."

- Searching the term "Help Help" yields a still from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail

- I googled the name "Bart Scholtens" thinking I would find nothing. Turns out, Bart Scholtens plays the saxaphone and appears to be popular in Germany.

- Ladies, may I present to you, the very eligible Bill Kunkel:

- For a good time, google "Lamprey."

-"Yuyuyu" yields over 1,000 images.

- If you type in "Sooksin Mit" it yields nothing, and helpfully asks if you meant "Sooksan Mit."

- If you search for "Sooksan Mit," it once again yields nothing.

Thank you.

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HELP!

2006-11-30T11:12:00.000-08:00

MY BROTHER DESERVES FAME.

Please visit these links. Enjoy the videos. Then, click on the heart in the lower lefthand corner of the screen. You'll have to register your email address, but it's so worth it! If Louie, David and Chris win- they get a ton of money, AND their commercial is shown at the Super Bowl! INSTANT FAME. Please help my multi-talented brother get famous!!!

http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=A6F8B542776E11DB8B9DA6B200DB926D&type==

http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=8895BE54776B11DB8D18A6B200DB926D&type==

Webster's Dictionary of Hollywood B.S.

2006-11-14T20:27:00.000-08:00

Until recently, I had been working in the entertainment industry, a setting that seems to breed egocentric blow-hards. I thought I'd be avoiding those kinds of people by leaving show biz, but, alas!, I live in Los Angeles, so there's no avoiding those obnoxious writer types, those wannabe actors, or those self-appointed auteurs. Here are some phrases these folks often spout that annoy me:

"Oh! I heard the script was good." (Variations: "The script was supposed to be good."; "My friend read the script, said it was good.")-- This is often used by Production Assistants who have no real pull in the world of Hollywood, but would like to think they do. They're longing to be "insiders," and they're not, and likely will never be. Being a PA is not a surefire way to success and fortune. I know a guy who used to be a PA, got promoted to coordinator, and now sells cars.

"It's really high concept."-- This is primarily used by douchebags. It is used to describe a screenplay, often when they do not want to elaborate. (They say it's because they don't want their idea stolen. I say it's because either a) there is no screenplay at all or b) there is a screenplay, but it's pathetic and/or they don't know how to verbalize what it is about.) For instance, a couple of years ago I was standing around with my little goofy headset being a Television Slave, and I decided to make conversation with the fellow next to me. "So you're a writer? What're you working on right now?" "Just finished a screenplay, actually." "Ooh! Cool! What's it about?" "Well, it's very high concept, actually, soooo..." It was awkward.

"Big Picture"-- This phrase seems to peppered into disappointed conversations (i.e. "He's not seeing the big picture" or "Let's think big picture here for a sec, mkay?") as a Space Filler. Similar to "like" or "ummmmm," "Big Picture" is devoid of any real meaning. It's a way for the speaker to maintain control of the floor while they collect their thoughts (if they have any).

"Surreal"--This word can be perfectly acceptable, provided it is used in the right context. However, people often use it when they name drop. "Yeah, I was this party over the weekend. Do you even know how surreal it is to see Chuck Woolery play charades?" First of all, settle the hell down. When you're playing charades with Woody Allen, then you've got something to be excited about. Second, I don't think it's surreal so much as it is entertaining and bizarre. When I think "surreal" I think Salvador Dali, not George Hamilton trying to act out "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

And we all know how much I love hot cats

2006-11-12T12:11:00.000-08:00

Recently, my friend Devin and I went to a jazz club (which will remain nameless) where we saw a certain host/singer (who will also remain nameless). This fellow is the kind of guy who would sing to his bride at their wedding. Before the food is served to guests. And it wouldn't be one song. It would be ten.

This particular act is a Tuesday night fixture at this establishment. How this man is the permanent host is beyond me. The only thing I could figure was that at some drunken point, a friend told him he sounded like Tony Bennett, which sparked his need to become a jazz singer. I hope whoever told him that realized that he's ruined Tuesdays for everyone.

And his intonation wasn't the only trouble. It was the way he was imitating every lounge singer he'd ever seen. In fact, he seemed to be imitating parodies of lounge singers. Large sweeping hand motions, one leg bouncing, body tilted back a little. The seediness was nearly overpowering. At one point, I asked Devin if he thought, given the way this fellow was behaving, that the audience could file a class action suit against him for sexual harassment. He said yes.

Singers like this aren't the only type of male that make me uncomfortable. Radio DJs who talk in that übersuave manner, too. You know what I mean: Their voices are low, their vowels are extended to comical lengths ("Smoooooooooth jaaaaaazz" or "Heeeeeeeeeey ladies.") and their preferred subject matter is, well, yucky. For example, I had my car radio automatically scanning through channels in a desperate attempt to find something, anything to listen to. The radio landed on 92.3 ("hot 92 jamz") only to hear the DJ saying, "And ladies, if you're sexy enough, you can park wherever you want to."

Eew. What does that mean, even? Before I had time to truly grasp what this fellow meant, my car radio had scanned away from the station. When I returned to the station moments later, he was saying, "36-24-36? More like 36-24-40! Ladies, bring those sexy hips on down and I'll--" I turned the radio off.

Who are these people? Who do they think their target audience is? It certainly isn't "the ladies" because I don't think I know a single woman who would respond positively to this kind of smarminess. The jazz singer, at one point, motioned to the band behind him and said, "You gotta love my tasty band, because, these cats are hot!" And then he chuckled to himself.

Yuck.

ATTENTION TELEVISION PRODUCERS

2006-11-11T13:45:00.000-08:00

HOOKERS ARE NOT ATTRACTIVE.

Heidi's Girls, alright. Call girls, sometimes.

But honest-to-goodness streetwalkers? They are NOT PRETTY. Just ask anyone who knows about the PCH Prostitute in Malibu.

Thank you.

(And I know hookers!)

A Word of Advice For Sales Persons

2006-10-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the Day: "Everything Happens to Me" by Bill Evans, from his record The Solo Sessions. (Incidentally, I advise everyone to hip themselves to Bill. The PIANIST. NOT the SAX player. That's key.)

I should probably never go shopping alone. It allows my mind to wander, and I come up with elaborate and unrealistic situations in my head, usually in response to something someone says. For example, when the fellow at Macy's returned with the pair of Rockport boots I had requested, he said, "These are a very nice boot. You'll look great in them. My name's Victor. Just shout if you need anything!" I thought to myself, What if I actually did shout for Victor? Imagine this if you will:

I would be attempting to squeeze into too-small boots, an impossible battle that would cause my face to redden and my forehead to perspire ever so slightly. Eventually I'd just stop trying and get up. Scanning the room, and not seeing Victor in my immediate vision, my eyes would start to get a little wild. I would then remember that Victor, the only salesman that truly understood my footwear needs, had told me to shout if I needed anything.

"Victor!? ... VICTOR!?! ... VIIICTOOORRRR!!!??!!" I'd screech, one boot in hand, as I gesticulated wildly. The other would be halfway on my left foot, bent so it looked like I had one creepy ankle. And my hair would be falling out of my ponytail, and I would start to cry. A nice young woman would say, "May I help you with something ma'am?" and I'd strike her with a nearby suede Steven Madden mule, and scream, "I! want! VICTOR!! I nee-eee-eeed him!"

As I stood there, chest heaving, Victor would return from the back room and say, "Did you need a different size?"

"Yes Victor. Please. These are far too small," I'd reply wiping drool from my face.

These sales persons should not instruct their customers to "shout" for them.

A Tale of Woe

2006-10-13T16:49:00.000-07:00

Today, a man who had just climbed out of a septic tank used my pen.

That is all.

Tunes, Boobs, and Faulty Kugel

2006-10-11T15:34:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the day: Elis and Tom, by Elis Regina and Tom Jobim

Saturday night, I, along with my brother Louis, several of his USC friends, my father, my friend Jared, and Mr. Bixler (formerly my high school music teacher), played at the Dolphin Ball in Malibu, an annual benefit for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. We were the entertainment from 6 until 730 on the tennis courts at a mansion, which I like to refer to as The House That Crack Built. This house is neither "huge," "large," nor "enormous." It is disgusting. It took me like 29 minutes to get from the tennis courts (One of two!) to the "green room" (actually the lobby of their home-theater). Granted, I was wearing heels, but still. Anyway, this house could not have been designed by anyone with pure intentions. Drugs, violence, human trafficking, something, funded this compound. Allowing a charitable organization to use the property is surely just one notch in what promises to be a very tall tree of karmic redemption.

But I digress.

What is really important here is the band. Louie's friends are unbelievable players. Distractingly so. On "Man From Tanganyika," I was so thoroughly enjoying Sam's solo that I completely forgot to come back in with background figures. And getting to sing with these guys? It's a rush. First of all, my dad's arrangements are tremendous, and really fun to sing. Add to that the quintet of USC virtuosos, Bixler, and Jared, and, frankly, I could do this every night for the rest of my life. Really! I am so lucky to have experienced this, even once, I can hardly describe it.

Okay, I admit it. If the band were the only important thing to discuss, I probably wouldn't be writing this. I've already mentioned the insane size of the house. Now I'd like to move on to the insane size of the guests' various body parts. Namely: pecs, breasts, lips, and egos. Malibu is not known for it's modest, down-home vibe. The evening was a parade of trophy wives (Girlfriends? Secretaries?) and men with troubling hair-dos. Alright. Boob jobs- fine. Overly inflated pectoral muscles- okay. But the face-lifts have got to stop. STOP, I SAY. As Mr. Bixler so eloquently put it, "Lotta faces here look like they're goin' 90 miles an hour."* I don't think I've ever heard it stated so well. These women (and, sadly, some men) have been so inflated and sculpted and pulled, that they are hardly recognizable as human beings.

Sure, 90 mph describes the speed of their faces, but it certainly doesn't describe the speed of their minds. They all walked around with big, round eyes, starting blankly at auction items, and occasionally tossing a glance in the band's direction. I'm quite sure a number of them don't actually know what Cystic Fibrosis is. If anything, they saw the invitation and said, "An excuse to wear my life-threateningly high pumps?! Thanks, Cystic Fibrosis!" At least they were there, spending their money, and ignoring the band. Of course, a few people nodded appreciatively, but I'm pretty sure they were all catering staff**.

It was nice, though, to be able to play, and to have a band that sounded so incredible. I didn't need money, or applause. We were having a great time. And we were contributing to an important cause.

And what did we get for our contribution?

Well, we'd been informed that we'd be getting dinner. Which was great news. Because, catered affairs for wealthy people offer choices of vegetarian, meat, or fish plates! And there's salad, and dessert! I figured we'd be getting one of these plates back in the "green room." (God forbid we should eat with the Real People.) After the trek to the "green room," however, we were welcomed by a gaming table covered in old deli platters. The cold cuts were gone, the only thing remaining being the decorative lettuce leaves. One loaf of rye bread sat underneath plastic lids, old napkins and a couple pieces of broccoli. There was a bakery box, which looked promising, but, sadly, only contained one piece of kugel. Why hasn't this kugel been eaten yet? I asked myself. Everything else on this table has been devoured. Clearly this is a faulty kugel. So the kugel remained in its box.

Further along, we came upon three covered foil platters of warm food. We eagerly pulled back their covers to find...

1) Unpleasantly scented rice (also dry)
2) Pulled chicken (too spicy)
3) Pulled beef (marbled and mangled)

Oh. And the beers in the fridge were non-alcoholic.

The only true point of culinary magic was when Doug "Baaaaaaaartz!!!" Mosher put some of the spicy, pulled chicken between two pieces of the Loneliest Rye Bread. Fantastic. So, what do hungry musicians do after such a wholly unsatisfying meal?

We went to Ralph's to get pie. Obviously.

*I wrestled for quite some time with whether or not I should take credit for that brilliant observation. In the end, morals won.
** This does NOT include my mom, Bixler's wife, Avaryl, and her father, Scott. They were actually listening, and enjoying themselves.

Saved!

2006-09-08T17:11:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the Day: Whatever's on my iPod. (It's on shuffle!)

Today's "Soundtrack of the Day" brought to you by Mr. David Christopher Endicott, who let me borrow his computer speakers and A/C adapter so that I could listen to music in the car even though my stupid radio busted. What would I do without you, Slappy?

Dave probably has no idea what he has prevented.

You see, I wake up at 630 AM each day, which may not sound awful to you, but to me it's nearly impossible. I don't have to be at work until 9, but in order to get there, I have to leave the house at 7. It used to be 715, but it's fall now, and school is back in session so there are 9,000 additional yahoos on the road in the mornings. Anyway, as you can guess, I'm groggy as 5 hells on that morning commute.

When I finally get in the car, I turn on NPR until I get to the 110 freeway. That's a good 25 minutes, so I feel sufficiently educated. THEN it's on to whatever my current musical obsession is. (Before my radio broke, I was about to listen to some serious Charlie Hunter.) I roll the windows down, turn the bass nob all the way to the right and sing like a jerk for the rest of the commute.

This is the only way I can operate in the morning. Otherwise, I might start to zone out and take the wrong exit. For instance, I might start thinking about how much I love Chinese food, and suddenly- oops!- I'm exiting at Hill Street! Or I might decide I miss my parents, and go right on past my exit, all the way to PCH. And those are just the scenarios where nobody gets in an accident.

Once, my old radio blew a fuse on the ride in. I was so desperate that I actually put ONE ear bud in and listened to one channel of my iPod the whole way. I'm pretty sure that's illegal. Immediately after work, I went to the auto supply place across the street and bought fuses. I sat in the parking lot, checking every fuse in my car until found the one that had blown. When I had replaced it, I went on my way, listening happily to The Beatles.

I happened to mention this to the kind people at the Volkswagen dealership. They're very attentive, and so decided to order me a new radio- heck, it's still under warranty! I didn't realize they were doing this until they were halfway through replacing it. I thought, Alright, cool. Free New Radio! If I'd known the thing would crap out on me, I would've refused the replacement. Oh well. It's not their fault.

So now, I'm driving through Los Angeles with Dave's computer speakers in the passenger seat. Thank you Dave, thank you.

Just a Brief Message

2006-09-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

Folks, I present to you-

UGLY BEAR

This is probably the worst thing I have ever seen.

What is it?

It came up when I Googled "ugly bear." It appears to be a Sailor Moon doll whose hand has been chewed to a pulp- probably by a dog or a hamster. The head clearly is not the original, as it is humungous and awful. The eyes must have either come from two different dolls, or directly from Hell. Her(?) hair is made up of what looks like Teddy Bear pelts. Perhaps most interesting of all is the way in which her arms are thrown up in exasperation. It's almost as though she's realized that there is nothing she can do about the fact that her nose came from a stuffed bear.

This was up for auction on ebay, apparently, and is no longer available. Which means that SOME ONE ACTUALLY BOUGHT THIS. Maybe there was even a bidding war. Either way, I hope that it is displayed proudly on someone's mantle, right underneath the moose head.

...Help...

2006-08-23T18:07:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the Day: "So Tinha de Ser Com Voce" by Antonio Carlos Jobim, on the album Fotografia

As my days of housesitting come to a close I find myself feeling itchier and itchier. Not because of the fabric softener used on the sheets, or a new kind of soap.

No, I feel itchy because of the dogs.

And I'm not even allergic.

These dogs are the sweetest, happiest, friendliest beasts you can imagine. But the trouble is, they defecate all over the house. All over the house. At first, I thought it was limited to the sitting room, but then I found piles of feces in the bathroom next to the sitting room. And then the living room. And then, finally, the master bathroom, upstairs. If you've never had the pleasure of rounding a corner only to be confronted with 5 piles of shit, I do not recommend this experience. (Incidentally, if it's something you think you may enjoy, please do call me and I'll give the housesitting gig to you.)

The routine is this: I wake up at 6:30 am, walk downstairs, past the sitting room. I notice several piles of crap. I pick them up. I let the dogs outside, to hopefully evacuate their bladders. While they're outside, lying down, I fix their food. Then I leave for work. When I come home, I let them out again. This time, they stand in the doorway looking at me as if to say, What are you doing? We poop inside, thank you. I then spend the rest of the evening discovering hidden piles of doodie.

I have asked if the pups can spend their days outdoors, but the answer is no. They are "inside dogs." Listen: A dog needs it's freedom! It needs to be able to run, dig, pee and crap where it pleases. Oh, and it needs a patch of grass on which to perform the necessary butt-scoot procedure. Especially if it has long hair, because long hair, as everyone knows, attracts what scientists call "dingleberries." And the only cure for dingleberries is the butt-scoot procedure.

Guess what?! These dogs have long hair. And no grass. And- joy of joys!- they like to climb onto the bed and hang out. You can probably imagine what this means. Yes, that's right. It means I really ought to have set up one of those toddler-proof gates at the entrance to the bedroom. Because, while I have never actually found any evidence of fecal matter on my bed, the thought of it really freaks me out. At night, I go to sleep cringing and wake up in the same position, for fear of rolling over onto a patch of contaminated bedding.

After several days of living in that kind of a situation, your whole body begins to feel as though microbes are crawling on it, and it makes you itchy. So, I'm glad to be going home to my apartment. Where, if I feel itchy, I know it's time to purchase a delousing agent of some kind.

Once there was a bunny...

2006-08-18T16:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I stumbled upon this lovely website, containing the work of a class full of children. Apparently, their assignment was to make animals out of leaves and then write stories about them. The stories were intended to teach the children about adjectives and also proper story construction (beginning, middle, end).
Although the stories are short and sweet, they could still use a little work. I am prepared to offer certain members of the class (those individuals who I feel would be most responsive) my suggestions.

One day there was a beautiful frog and the frog hopped away to a pond. The frog was hopping on a lily pad and the frog hopped in the pond and ate some flies. It hopped and hopped and never stopped.
By James

Now, I feel you have done an excellent job of utilizing the repetition device. However, rhymes are a little tired, James, and I think you're better than that.

One day there was a turkey who lived in the forest and she ate some berries. Then she saw a friend and they played together and they ate berries. Now they had to go home, but tomorrow they would still be friends, and they both lived happily ever after.
By Tiana

You're a smart girl, Tiana, but sometimes, you do just enough to get by. If you would push yourself, you could be an outstanding writer. For instance, could this she-turkey find something to do besides eating berries? Let's also be aware of our tenses from now on.

99 years ago an ugly fish swam in a dark, deep ocean. Then he saw a ugly mean octopus and the mean ugly octopus ate the ugly fish. The octopus felt bad, because he threw up.
By Corey

Truly a masterpiece. What a dark, twisted yarn you have spun. Rage, disgust, disease-it's all here. My colleagues feel that your ending could use work, but I say screw 'em! This is a mood piece. Bravo, Corey!

Once upon a time my peacock ate some grass in the wild. A kid tried to pull a feather off the peacock, but he didn't. The peacock lived happily ever after.
By Jophiel

Jophiel, I feel sorry for you. You're obviously foreign, and don't understand how English literature works. What I'm looking for is some more about the battle between Kid and Peacock. How did the peacock thwart the child's attempt? Were you the child? Give it some thought.

500,000 years ago there was an octopus that lived in a place called Cakeland. An octopus joined him at the delicious, icing ocean. They went out with a cup and scooped up a cup of frosting.
By Morgan

Now, when I first read this story I thought it was a blatent case of trying to one-up Corey. I soon realized how wrong I was. You have your own brand of genius, Morgan. You challenge Darwin's theory of evolution by suggesting that Octopi could exist a half a million years ago! And Cakeland? Truly inspired. Professors Ciniglio and Devine and I would very much like to hear more about this Cakeland.

Once on a dark night a bear went in a castle. He finds a treasure box. He took it to his house. He was so happy. They lived happy every after.
By Jesus

I... I can't... how?... *sigh* I guess I just expected more out of JESUS, for Pete's sake. Clearly our Savior has a little trouble with tenses, and with keeping track of HOW MANY BEARS ARE IN THE STORY.

Once upon a time there was a stinky mouse. My mouse ate the garbage in the can. Finally the mouse threw up.
By Fadumo

Really? Really? You're going to plagerize Corey? Vomit was his finale. If this were a university, you'd be out on your ass, Fadumo.

A long, long time ago Jesus was born and a jaguar was so bad. It scratched meat. It was a rabbit that it killed. He gave the rabbit to Jesus.
By Landon

Excellent use of Biblical symbolism. Too bad the jaguar didn't give Jesus some writing talent!

85 years ago a king cobra lived in a dangerous, tropical jungle. After a while the king cobra hunted for lots and lots of meat. The king cobra ate meat for the rest of his life.
By Ryan D.

What a sad, sad tale. Oh, Ryan! The lonely king cobra and his meat pile! It kept me up all last night- what a haunting image. You have a gift, my friend.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful butterfly that lived in a backyard. When my butterfly was in the backyard she saw ten beautiful flowers and then she flew and drinked nectar. When the butterfly was drinking nectar a person came out. When Betty saw the butterfly she took a net to catch the butterfly for a pet.
By Kim

Holy crap, Kim, what is going on here? Do you want to talk about it?

A long time ago a disgusting fox lived in the forest. The fox tried to eat Corey'’s fish, but the fish swam away. The fox was sad.
By Jason

What I am seeing here is a little boy with self esteem issues. Perhaps you should contact Corey and talk to him about why you feel so inferior to him, and why you feel his writing is so much better than yours.

Those are only some of the works from this class. You may subject yourself to further stories, or view the LeafArt here: http://www.moreland.k12.ca.us/Baker/class/pavlos/leaf/leaf.html

Who Asked You?

2006-08-08T16:51:00.000-07:00

Last week, the annual Stanford Jazz Workshop was held. I went last year, and it was one of the best experiences I have ever had. Unfortunately, Real Life began a few months ago, and I have been rendered permanently busy (there are an awful lot of Sudoku puzzles to be done, dammit, and only so many hours in the workday). Therefore, I am unable to attend any such workshops.
But, Jake called me from Stanford last Tuesday night. "Hey! Larry Goldings was here today."

"Oh, I know! You're so lucky!"

"He's every bit as cool as you said."

"Yeah? Did you get to meet him?"

"Well... he taught a master class. ... He's playing tonight!"

"Aww, man. Really? With who?"

"Peter Bernstein and Bill Stewart."

Well. That's when I let out a deafening scream, cursed myself for having a job that doesn't involved several weeks off whenever I feel like it, and spewed forth more swear words then even George Carlin would know what to do with.

Jake just laughed.

This exchange jogged my memory, and the rest of the week was flooded with thoughts of last year's Jazz Adventure, and more specifically, the people I met there. There was Madeline Eastman, Randy Porter, John Wiitalla, Vince Ladeano, Peter Bernstein, Dena DeRose ... and that's only scratching at the surface of the incredible faculty. But, it is my fellow attendees that I wish to focus on.

I was studying vocal jazz there last year, which means I was thrown into a room full of egotistical cry babies who clapped on 1 and 3. Don't get me wrong, most of them were really nice, and even more of them were very talented. But, since I was one of the youngest, there were a few (mainly women) who wanted to give me advice- and tons of it. Certainly! I thought to myself. By all means! Do you have an album out? No? How about a recording contract? Not that either, huh? Well, then quit acting like it. For God's sake, you've got timing like Lawrence Welk.

"You really need to work the mic. You know, like, work it?" offered a tall, thinskinned woman. She then turned to Fred, our theory instructor. "Why can't we just buy a computer program to do all this stupid transposing for us?"

I know. It made me cry, also. I know that somewhere in their little chick singer brains these women meant well. But, that was only part of it. Mainly, they were using my youth and inexperience as a way to broadcast their own knowledge to each other. "You never call 'Summertime' at a jam session" one of them snorted. She was turned towards me, but delivered this tidbit as she glanced around at the rest of the singers, looking for a reaction. She happened to be right, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

"Honey, you're in charge of the musicians," a helpful and well-dressed black woman told me one night at a vocal jam session. "You own them! When you're in front of a band, ain't nobody more important than you. If you don't want more people to solo, you just come right back in. You're the singer. Nobody will mind. They're here for you."

I can only guess that this was in response to the piece I'd just sung. About 7 people wanted to solo on my tune. Let 'em, I say. Hell, the fact that any horn players are willing to show up and spend time at EgoJam ought to get them at least 12 bars on a tune, if not a gift certificate to Red Lobster. But, apparently, in my infinite naivete, I had neglected the first rule of Divaism: He who playeth of the instruments that are valved, slided, keyed, stringed, yea even skinned, are no more than one level above the lint you find betweenth the cushions of thine couch.

So that's fun.

And later on in the week, it got even more fun. Eventually the singers got bored with trying to top each other using the "Marginally Helpful Advice That Proves I Know More Than You" category, and began attempting to one-up each other with anything else they could think of. Once, a woman with an unfortunate chin-to-neck ratio even blurted out in the middle of Denny's, "Black guys love me!"

What?

Apparently she has big boobs and a butt or something. I don't know. That's when the musicians and I tuned out. "Just keep lookin' at your food and maybe it will stop," John Wiitalla said.

And that was the most useful advice I got all week.

From The Mind of Jonathan Feldman

2006-07-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

Here is a dream that Feldman had last night:

So apparently I was meeting up with Jennifer Coolidge at a bar for a date of some sort. She was drunk off her ass. I ordered a coke and something that looked like maybe chicken strips. She had some eggs and ham. Then she had to leave early since she was so drunk. Mind you we never once spoke a word to one another.
Then I come back hours later to find that she has left a check paying for the food. The check is for 50 bucks and the owner of the bar says that will definitely not be enough. He said if we had ordered a coke with vodka that even that alone would have been $90. So I'm kicking myself for not looking at the menu, and in the meantime I have to cancel my new order for some breakfast crepes. Then I remember this is the place I heard about on the news that had fries that were 4 bucks per fry. Per little fry.
And from there it became fuzzy, but I was very glad to wake up.
Oh. But I also saw that they had extremely large crispy tacos. HUGE. I showed my sister and she said, "Oh you mean the Daft Punk statues promoting their new concert?" I looked closer and for some reason it was their heads. Don't know how I confused it with tacos.

I feel that Feldman and my cousin Sarah ought to team up and write a book together.

Paul Reiser: Thief or Genius?

2006-07-20T17:51:00.000-07:00

I love Paul Reiser. I love him. He is delightfully Jewish and shockingly underrated. If you've ever watched Diner you know what I mean. I think his work on Mad About You was the perfect antidote to Helen Hunt's. Once, he was a co-host at a charity ball I played at, and he poked fun at Kenny G (major points gained there). He was a presenter, I believe, at the Emmys some years back. (1999, maybe?) Anyway, he introduced Heather Locklear (or maybe it was Sharon Stone?... It's ultimately unimportant). I only remember this because of something he said when he was introducing her. I believe it was: "There is more to her than a pair of legs that make you wanna jump up and sing Sweet Sue." He said it in his slightly sarcastic, boyish manner of speech that, incidentally, makes me want to jump up and sing Sweet Sue. I wasn't sure why that stood out in my mind as the only thing I remember from the 51st annual Prime Time Emmy Awards- until this morning.

I was lucky to be raised by a Near-Jew. My father, whose friends were all Jewish (he has collected, in his Library of Friends, such surnames as Kipper, Birnbaum, Horowitz, Kijner, and Ellenzweig. Not bad for a shaygitz!)surrounded me with books by Woody Allen, routines by comics such as Robert Klein, and the genius of Mel Brooks. This last thing in particular is important here. Young Frankenstein and History of the World, part I were entertainment staples when I was in middle school. On road trips, we listened, without fail, to The 2000 Year Old Man tapes. There were so many memorable lines from those tapes ("Let 'em all go to hell, except cave seventy-six!") that I was never without Brooks shtick in any social situation. But, as with any great comedic recording, there are always lines that you don't remember, and each time you listen to the record, you notice something for the first time.
This morning, I was listening to the "2000 and Six Months" track in the car on the way to work for the first time in maybe 7 or 8 years. Brooks got on the subject of early medical remedies. He was discussing the abilities of different trees and, to my surprise, offered this example: "There are certain trees that, you chew their bark, make you wanna jump up and sing 'Sweet Sue.'"

What?!

Paul Reiser had to have been listening to Brooks sometime before he made that speech, right? I mean, sure the actual subjects of each of those sentences are different, but the descriptions are identical!

Which leads me to my question. Is Paul Reiser a thief? I don't know. Maybe he stole it by accident- I do recall his delivery of the line being somewhat on the "stumbly" side of things. It could have just come out of his mouth in the heat of the moment. He hadn't planned to use Brooks' line, it just happened that way. Or, maybe he thought he could get away with it because America only remembers lines like "I have over forty-two thousand children. And not one of them ... comes to visit me." (Which is a brilliant line, by the way. I'm not actually sure if America has such good taste.) Heck, maybe he was just attempting to bring the line into colloquial English.

In any case, I can't blame him. It's a really good line. It's the kind of line that makes you wanna jump up and sing "Sweet Sue."

Medical Adventures

2006-07-14T12:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, I had the distinct pleasure of getting my blood drawn. Lisa at work had just recently had her blood drawn at the Culver City Unilab and gave me this helpful hint: "If you get the huge black lady, you're screwed."
"Umm... why?"
"Because last time I went, I had her, and she couldn't find my vein so she just stabbed me in the arm as hard as she could."
Perhaps this was hyperbole, but I wasn't about to take it too lightly. "Is she always there?"
"Nope. Sometimes, there is a tiny Mexican woman. She's gentle."
"Well, let's hope I get her."
As I left the office to go to the lab, my coworkers chanted their assigned mantra on my behalf: "Tiny Mexican...Tiny Mexican... Tiny Mexican..."

Sitting in the waiting room, I was treated to a symphony of screaming children and their mothers. After 40 minutes, the door opened, and I heard my name being called. I got up, certain I would be greeted by a Tiny Mexican. Instead, I was greeted by a huge black lady, her face a mess of razor burn and errant whiskers. Aww, hell, I thought. This is going to hurt.
"This way," she snapped.

I felt sorry for her. No one wants to be a mess of razor burn and errant whiskers. And probably, no one really wants to work at Unilab. Or be that huge. So I decided to be extremely pleasant, if not to simply make her happy, then to at least diminish some of her rage come pokin' time.
"Hi! How are you? I have really bad veins, I'm so sorry! The place I usually go to knows how to find them so they don't hurt, so I'm just a little nervous, since I've never been here. How are you?"
"I'm fine. Bad veins, huh? That's too bad. I bet I can coax 'em up. Lemme see that arm." She prodded and poked at my arms. "Yeah, we can get sumpin' here. Don't you worry." And she proceeded to perform one of the most painless blood draws I have ever experienced.

When I got back to the office, Lisa said, "Who'd you get? Tiny Mexican?!"
"Nope. Huge black lady."
"Oh crap."

Spike the Robot

2006-07-13T09:56:00.000-07:00

Strangely, after reading the email by my 6 year-old cousin Sarah, my dear friend Chris Bulock found a story that he wrote when he was 6. Here it is, complete with original misspellings, for you, the reader:

SPIKE THE ROBOT

Once there was a robot named Spike. he looked like a human. If there was a battle he would join in. He had the biggest ship in the universe.

There was onliy one more person to help him run it. Spike was the gunnerand the main fighter.

The ship was called the star criuser. Spike liked to fight. They had very poerful weapons. The battles they fought in they always won. One day there was a big battle. Spik started it. One of the old ship mates was visiting. Spike said that he could take one weapon. While he was getting it he pulled the trigger. He accidentally hit Spike's friend. Spike got very mad. he punched the old ship mate. The ship mate flew away. he told his crew what happend.

In about an hour he and his crew came back. While they were coming Spike contacted his friends. He told them what happend. When the shkips got there the war started.

They fout for a long time. There wasn't anyone there icsept for Spike and the old ship mte. Spike finally blasted the old ship mate.

Dedicated to my dog Tonka.

Snow White and the Little White Lumps

2006-07-11T14:20:00.000-07:00

My cousin, Sarah, is 6 years old. She wrote my mom this email the other night (it is presented as written, no editing):

rode my bike at night, all the way to a park far away. We call it littlefoot park. We rode around it and we went in a neighborhood right next to it. and it was just being built so there were lots of tracks. I couldn't tell how many or what kind they were. Yesterday we went to dads work and we went shopping at the mall and I got new crocks. Orange. and I don't know when we went to Glenwood Springs but we went down the alpine coaster. The alpine coaster was made by the germans. and we went in a cave. MORE than one cave. Two caves. One was called the king cave and the other I forget and how the person found King cave was through 'dam crack', It was just a crack in the wall. And it had so many fairy tales in it. There was only one that I remember, Snow White.............. andthesevendwarves. There were 7 little lumps made from white minerals ( stalagmites). and there was Snow White and the dwarves . or the little white lumps, were surrounding her. It's nice to write to you and it's fun. Love Sarah (and family)

Radio Days

2006-07-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the Day: Always There by Joe Magnarelli

I watched Woody Allen's 1987 film "Radio Days" last night for the first time. It was such a sweet movie. Whereas all of Woody Allen's films are semi-autobiographical, or stem from some long-time fantasy of his, this one seemed to be the most rooted in his youth. The film does not have a strong central story. Rather, it is a number of anecdotes, situations and ideas centered around radio broadcasts in the 1940s.
For me the most touching part of the entire thing was the series of anecdotes wherein the main character (voiced over by Woody) described what each popular song at the time reminded him of. Songs, for me, have a particular associative power. A song latches itself onto a memory and acts as one of the more efficient triggers (along with smell). This segment, although only a few minutes long, really unlocked the true meaning of the film for me. It was a sort of sonic memoir, lamenting the decline of radio, and celebrating impoverished Brooklyn family life.
Also, it was really funny. The very opening bit was great! And Julie Cavner was really great casting-- it's odd to see Marge Simpson in person.
Woody Allen films always make me feel peaceful- either I'm glad whatever's happening is not happening to me, or I'm glad to be let in on a world where it's happening at all. "Radio Days" was the latter situation.

So now what? Well, naturally, I go nuts and add every Woody Allen film that Netflix has to my queue. (Which looks like it should be pronounced "quay-wee.")
If anyone wants to come over and watch "Zelig" I think it's on the way.

And now I leave you with another nugget of Bulockian wisdom:

Willy Shoe,

How many playground balls are there?

Imagine a calculus professor with no eyes. This would be a horrible way to learn. Additionally, how would he be able to teach the proper notation to students? Why did you hire him? He has tenure now, and there's nothing we can do. I suppose it's because you have no eyes, and you felt some sort of bond. Well, Shoe, this is an awful mess we're in.

From the Office of
Dean Kiki

Bulock's Corner

2006-06-29T18:54:00.000-07:00

Chris Bulock helps solve all of my problems. Why just this morning I was in need of guidance, and I found it through the power of Chris.

Here is what I wrote to him:

Zippy-
Is that a monkey in the background?
I have no desire to work today. I want to go home and sleep.
I got a mysterious text message last night, from some character named "Brett" from Malibu, and I don't know who that could be...The first message said "I am looking for liz" I said, "This is Liz." He wrote back "its brett from malibu im sorry its late your number just rang out hi" WHAT COULD THIS MEAN?!?

Floozy

Here is his response:

Well,

There is this bell in Malibu. It rings out number sounds. Brett is always listening to the bell. Whenever it rings, he puts the number that it indicates into the phone. Funny thing is, Brett also knows about this other bell that rings out names at the same time that that other bell is going. He has to record the name bell though. The whole thing yields a mysterious text message. And also, the person who responds to his text message with...a golden egg... will become his wife. That's why Brett listens to the number and name bells. To find a wife. Brett is an egret. It's hard for an egret to find a human wife. They won't let him in to clubs. He doesn't have a job, and he doesn't go to church. How else would you expect him to meet women. He hasn't had much luck with the text messaging either, though. His phone is made of sand.

-Brett

Thanks Chris. I feel much better.

Playboy for the Blind?!

2006-06-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the Day: Whatever It Takes by Larry Goldings (his first Warner Release!!)

I have learned a few things today. 1- magazines are very in tune with the needs of the public. 2- no matter how clever you think someone is, when ta-tas are involved, they can be reduced down to their most simplistic nature. Note the comments at the end of this Instant Message conversation that I exchanged today with my friend The Other Liz. (Note to The Other Liz and Feldman- I edited this conversation so that it wasn't 90 hours long.)

The Other Liz: yo its the other liz
Me: YO YO YO YO
The Other Liz: what up
Me: Not much. You?
The Other Liz: same i watched the view with feldman then we r going tie shopping
Me: Good.
The Other Liz: so fyi playboy comes in braile
Me: NO
Me: NO IT DOES NOT
The Other Liz: yep
Me: What? Do they like ... label the parts?
Me: "Boob" "Butt" "G-String"
Me: Jesus.
Me: I guess these are the only people in the world who can say "It's for the articles"
The Other Liz: i dunno cause its kinda a visual magazine
Me: Ummm yes...
The Other Liz: like if u are blind from birth like " boob" doesnt mean as much
Me: True
Me: but, if you went blind because you jacked off too much ... then they've got something.
The Other Liz: feldman wants u to know he likes boobs

There you have it folks.

Hi Feldman

2006-06-29T10:01:00.000-07:00

To my #1 Fan!

Things I Thought About Today

2006-06-28T15:55:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the day: Goat Hill Junket by Anthony Wilson; and also this car alarm that's been going off every 6 minutes for the last two hours.

-- Bill Stewart=Best drummer of all time. His playing is so tasty!!
Dig this fantastic picture of the boy.
He's from Iowa- and yet, much to the surprise of James Brown, still remains funky. (Check out Larry Goldings' tune "Funk in Iowa," by the way.)

--- It is unbelievable how much red tape is involved with the phones at work. I'm trying to get a line added to my phone and I have been trying to do that for a week. I don't get it.

--- Sometimes, all I really want is a fun-sized Mr. Goodbar.

--- Christy Ciniglio is one of the most brilliant people on the earth. She likes names that revolve around "Phil."

--- Today, two guys who work in my office got in an argument about the cheese. You see, our employer provides food- one of the PAs goes to the store each Monday and stocks the kitchen. Then, when we all have lunch, we don't have to leave, we can stay here and be slaves to the our phones. It's a very clever plan on their part. It looks like a perk, but it's really a trick to get us to stay here. Anyway, one of these guys loves cheese. The other guy "needs" cheese because he is doing that whole "protein" thing. Apparently Mr. Protein 'hid' the cheese as a joke. And Mr. Other Guy got angry. Anyway, they ended up yelling at each other for like 10 minutes about this whole cheese situation. It was violent. Other Guy threatened Protein Face and Protein Face called Other Guy a "fucker" and then more swearing happened. Boy. It was great. I'm just glad that Dr. Spencer Johnson wrote a book about this type of event. Otherwise, I wouldn't know what to do.

That's about it people. It's well past Going Home Time. But I'm still here. Gotta make sure no one gets killed over any more dairy products.

Tonight only! Dennis Miller at the Comedy Trough!

2006-06-24T23:04:00.000-07:00

Current Soundtrack: My dog snoring.

Christy and Avaryl and I went to the Canyon Club this evening to see Dennis Miller perform. That man is a genius with the English language- smart, eloquent, with a smattering of F-bombs. He also happens to be one of the most attractive men on the planet. As soon as he strode out on stage in his jeans and sport coat and began delivering those trademark sarcastic, poignant run-on sentences, I forgot all about all of the discomfort (both physical and financial) the evening had brought.

It was $90 all told, I think. A ridiculous chunk of change for someone in my current Life Stage. But well worth it- the food really was delicious, and we all know how I feel about Dennis. I have renamed the Canyon Club the "Comedy Trough," as a tribute to the perpendicular, Last Supper-style seating that had been set up for our enjoyment. There were, I believe, about 649 people per long table. Luckily, we were right next to the stage, so we didn't have to compete for a view. But that didn't change the fact that every minute was a battle for elbow room. The rows of tables and chairs were so close together that, unless you model haute couture for a living, just trying to find your seat was a meet-and-greet. ("Hi, yes. So sorry. Excuse me. Sorry. Thanks. Hi. Thanks. Hi. Sorry. Thanks.") I haven't had that much polyester-clad ass meat touch my head since that slumber party I went to at Elton John's. (Note: That never happened)

In addition to the too-tight seating arrangements, the three of us happened to be seated next to two gaunt and be-turquoised lesbians. What they were doing at a Dennis Miller show is beyond me. Every time they laughed at a joke, a guilty look would spread across their faces. And when Dennis started talking about environmental issues, they just sort of glared. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it- they may have just been friends, or a mother and daughter ... Christy and I were very confused.

The car trip home was a thirty minute collective squeal. Christy pointed out earlier in the evening: "We're like those girls on the Ed Sullivan show when Elvis was on. Only it's Dennis Miller." I'd say that's fairly accurate.

Losing My Blog Virginity

2006-06-23T16:18:00.000-07:00

Soundtrack of the Day: Savivity (Anthony Wilson --- it just came in the mail yesterday!!!)

Up until now, I've been a blog virgin, but I decided to get 'with it' and hop on the Blog Wagon like everyone else in the world.
And thank God, too, because how much longer could the internet survive without my mindless prattling? (A: Not long)
Speaking of virginity, today on my drive to work, I thought about that band The Cherry Poppin' Daddies. I hadn't thought about them since their little album came out. It was all the rage among my peers. Back then, whenever I heard the name I thought about a lollipop, or a cherry-flavored candy. Well, luckily, I blocked that band out for years- until today. For some reason, the name appeared in my head. And I realized what it meant. Good for me.
Or not so good. Can I just say: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW. What the heck kind of a name for a band is that. I don't know what exactly they mean by "daddy" in this case, but I'm hoping it's like "sugar daddy" and not "father daddy." Because if it is the latter, I will punch the next person I see. Even if it's the former, it's still horrible. I don't see how that concept relates to the Swing revival of the mid-90's. Yuck.

On to better things:

I was on Pandora.com and a song came on by The University of North Texas One o'clock Lab Band. What?! That's awesome. It'd be like reading a book by Professor Kenton's 230 Chem Lab.

Also, last night Christy and I crashed Donnie's birthday party. You see we went to the Oyster House in Studio City for a beer and when we arrived we were greeted by a man dressed as Merlin, who beckoned us inward, through a band that was playing really loud music. So, we weaved through, between the drummer and the guitarist, past Merlin, to a table. Turns out it was some guy named Donnie's birthday. So, we had a drink, and we had some popcorn and then we bolted. The band was called Grandaddy Purple (I believe in honor of Merlin). And in addition to having its very own sorcerer, it also had a Wiggly woman in a Purple Sequined Hat. She and Merlin (who by the way was a septuagenarian AT LEAST) sort of "air-humped," as Christy most eloquently put it, to the songs. I think they call it "dancing." But it wasn't like any dancing I'd ever seen before. At one point, the lead singer said, "K. Now we'd like to do a song that-- it's one of Donnie's favorites, and he likes to sing with us. And 'cause he's not tending bar tonight, we'd like to invite him up. To sing it. Or sing anything, or say some poems, or whatever he wants. 'Cause it's his birthday." Donnie wasn't actually listening, which was awkward. But eventually, he made it up there, and began ... reciting back up vocals. Needless to say, Christy and I made a quick exit. We didn't even wait for the check. We left a wad of cash on the table and split. We grossly overpaid, but I think it was worth it, just to get out of that uncomfortable situation.

Phew! I just did a blog!! Good for me.