Iron-E

Too Close For Comfort

2011-05-19T15:47:00.000-07:00

My dad recently took a trip to visit me here in Minneapolis. As I played host, part of my job detail was that of driver and tour guide, shuffling around the city by car. On more than one occasion my dad stiffened his back, put his hands forward and said "look out!", right before I hit the brakes. The first time it happened I figured that he was just a little nervous, but I started to think about it more seriously after it happened again. Was his eyesight going? Does he not trust my driving? Was he developing some anxious schitzoaffective tic that only manifests itself in the car? While all of these are probable, I started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it was me to blame. Was I actually driving too close? Am I a tailgater?

The diagnosis of a tailgater is a hard one to swallow, and I'm still in partial denial. Us tailgaters have the utmost confidence in our ability to "see the road". We can whip around cars at a moments notice, brake on a dime, and we possess a preternatural understanding of traffic patterns. I'm not a tailgater! I'm just a superior driver!

But if I am a tailgater, which I'm not completely admitting to, where did this come from? Neither of my parents are, so unless it's a recessive trait, then my DNA is not to blame. Maybe it was born out of experience: some deep psychological scar that I have repressed for years that surfaces in the form of my driving habits.

And then I remembered Arthur.

My high school summer job was at the local Chevrolet Dealership. The job that I applied for was "car transporter", and the job that I got was "lot boy". Where the prior is the dream job of a car-coveting high school male, the latter involves sweeping up the shop, taking out the trash, and cleaning the interior of leather cars that have been cooking in the midday sun. While the dealership was happy to have a minimum-wage lot boy, they knew enough to let me drive a car around once in a while to keep my spirits up. On my first transport trip I met Arthur.

Arthur had the droopy sun-beaten tough skin of a man who was once bulky with muscle. There was a large faded tattoo of an anchor on his left forearm that he made sure to display by always having his sleeves rolled all the way up. There was always a pack of smokes in his T-shirt breast pocket and he sported some sort of gold-plated orthodontic work. He never went anywhere without his NAVY ball cap that he displayed proudly, precariously placed on top of his head, two-sizes too small. His life story was an incomprehensible cluster of gambling, failed marriages, glorified "good days", and, of course, the Navy. I can still picture him now, rolling onto the lot with the company transportation van, left arm hanging out the open window proudly displaying the tattoo, gold tooth glinting in the sun.

Our paths crossed when I was sent on my first mission to drop a car off at the auction. The operation was simple enough: I would drive said car, alongside Arthur in his van down to the auction, and then we would ride back together. Not only was I allowed whip around in a car, but it also meant that for at least a couple of hours I WASN'T cleaning the bathroom. It was a win-win.

I can't remember what kind of car I drove, but I can only assume it was some POS that my boss had shined and buffed and would sell at an inflated price to some sap who gets excited at the look of his own reflection in the side panels. But as a kid without my own car, I could have been driving a rusted-out Yugo as long as the wind flew in the window and the gas pedal responded to my foot.

Before we left the lot, Arthur got out of his car and waddled up to me. "Stay close to me" he barked. And then he put his fingers up in the pinching position, showing me the distance he wanted between his rear bumper and the front of mine. "Sounds good" I said, and we set off. But stoplights and cars got in my way, and after five minutes there were two cars between us. I could see his van just fine, and when he pulled onto the freeway, I jumped right back in behind him. Order was restored. I wasn't worried.

And then be pulled over. Not in a driveway, side road, or even the breakdown lane of the freeway. He pulled over on the one-lane on-ramp. I pulled over behind him, hoping the poor guy wasn't having a heart attack. As cars honked and flew by us, Arthur got out of his car and began walking back along the road towards my car. I rolled down my window as he got closer. He held his fingers up again, showing me the distance that I clearly did not understand the first time and then he unflinchingly shouted above the roar of engines, wind, and horns flying only inches past him, "When I say this close, I mean THIS CLOSE".

Well, I followed him pretty damn closely after that. As a 16-year old kid, when a tattooed, gold-toothed war vet tells you to do something that loudly, you do it. For the rest of the trips that summer, if I was following Arthur, I was living on his bumper. There was no distance too close, no stop sign that could come between us.

Osama

2011-05-02T10:22:00.000-07:00

You know, I hate to be the kill-joy devil's advocate, but I can't say that happiness was the first emotion that ran through me when I heard about Osama bin Laden's death. In fact I'm a little weirded out by the smiles of joy pasted across many of my fellow American's faces.

Now look. I know this guy did terrible, atrocious, unspeakable acts of violence. I understand this. And no, I don't live in New York, and I luckily didn't know anyone who died on 9/11. So please excuse what could be construed as emotional and patriotic detachment. I also wish the best and safest for the Americans who are serving abroad right now. I am a safe blogger because you are doing the dangerous work. That is the truth, and my beef is higher up than you. There are no bullets whizzing by the men who make the real decisions. There are no mortar blasts killing their friends and keeping them awake at night, shooting into the darkness. So please come home well. Thank you, truly.

And yes, I am American. And I did feel the vulnerable and soul-crushing collapse of security and confidence as the World Trade Center buildings collapsed almost ten years ago. I saw the faces of New Yorkers on CNN, covered in ash and fear, scrambling away from rubble and rolling clouds of death. I've seen the footage of workers jumping from their windows, out of the frying pan and into the fire, so that death would at least be on their terms. That day will forever be burned into my memory, and I STILL can't watch a documentary about the purported struggle on United flight 93 because the emotions are too real and raw.

Was Osama bin Laden responsible for this? Yes. And to that effect, he should be held accountable. But where does joy enter into the equation? Where does happiness? His death, if anything, should bring about a somber measure of closure to this grueling war of attrition we have been fighting on "terror". A collective sigh of relief.

If nothing else, I felt sad when I heard the news. In the complex game that is American foreign policy, the best we could do ended up being eye-for-an-eye Pashtun justice, with the same narrow-minded dogmatism of our enemies. We have responded to death with death, and I don't see any joy in that. I see retribution. I see the cold and calculated final balancing of a spreadsheet.

And what has this cost us? Where do we go from here has a country? Have the billions upon billions of dollars footed by taxpayers that have funded this international manhunt been worth it? There's no way of knowing. But it's hard not to wonder what would have been if that money was used elsewhere. It's hard not to think what our federal deficit would be right now if we hadn't taken the bait and plunged our resources into the middle east.

And now as a country we stand waist deep in the Afghanistan quagmire, one arm in Iraq, another in Pakistan, and our credit card is reaching its limit. Its hard not to say that this manhunt for the white whale has bested us. That's why I'm sad.

Literary Analysis: Bottoms Up

2011-04-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

I would like to introduce you to what I hope will be a recurring trend of literature analysis posts. The popular "pop" music of a culture is known as the barometer of the times. It speaks from the undercurrent of the communal psyche, and echoes the slippery ephemeral zeitgeist. Those who have their finger on the pulse of the zeitgeist represent the diamond in the rough. Let me introduce you to one of our culture's literary genius's. Trey Songz (feat. Niki Minaj). I'll add my critique and analysis after the most poignant verses. Enjoy.

[Intro]

Yeah

Oh oh it's Mr. Steal Yo Girl

Oh oh it's Mr. Steal Yo Girl oh oh

Let's go

-Mr. Songz starts off this piece with a recantation emphasizing the importance of his good looks. He subtly underscores this by letting you know that your girlfriend would also agree.

[Chorus: Trey Songz]

Bottoms up, bottoms up, ey, what's in ya cup

Got a couple bottles, but a couple ain't enough

Bottoms up, bottoms up, throw your hands up

Tell security we bout to tear this club up

Bottoms up, bottoms up, pocket full of green

Girl, you know I love the way you shake it in them jeans

Bottoms up, bottoms up, throw ya hands up

Bottoms up, bottoms up, bottoms up (up, up)

-Like the viking cultures before us, Mr. Songz echoes the chant of imbibing. He wants to know what is in your cup. He also advises that two bottles aren't sufficient, highlighting the importance of planning ahead in hard times like this. It also pleases him the way that the listener shakes her butt.

[Verse 1: Trey Songz]

You know what it is girl, we back up in this thang

Money stay in my pocket, girl, I'm like a walkin' bank

Tell me whatcha drank, tell me whatcha thank

If I go get these bottles, we go alcohol insane

Callin' all the girls, do you hear me?

All around the world, city to city

Cheers to the girls, throw a deuce to the guys

Now I got a chicken and a goose in the ride

Gettin' loose in the ride

Hatin' ass nigga you can move to the move to the move to the side

-Mirroring the financial crisis where banks have been reluctant to give out loans, so too is Mr. Songz. Be responsible, he says. Be prudent. He is still asking what you are drinking, and also wondering if you can hear him. Something about farm animals. The music is played at high decibels in dancing clubs, so he repeats many verses. Many times over. Just in case you didn't hear them the first time.

[Chorus: Trey Songz]

Bottoms up, bottoms up, ey, what's in ya cup

Got a couple bottles, but a couple ain't enough

Bottoms up, bottoms up, throw your hands up

Tell security we bout to tear this club up

Bottoms up, bottoms up, pocket full of green

Girl, you know I love the way you shake it in them jeans

Bottoms up, bottoms up, throw ya hands up

Bottoms up, bottoms up, bottoms up (up, up)

-Again, pockets are still full of green.

[Verse 2: Trey Songz]

My vision's blurred, my words slurred

Its jam packed, a million girls

And I ain't tryin to lead em

We drunk so let me be your alcohol hero

Callin' all the girls, do you hear me?

All around the world, city to city

Cheers to the girls, throw a deuce to the guys

Now I got a chicken and a goose in the ride

Gettin' loose in the ride

Hatin ass nigga you can move to the move to the move to the side

-His voice is slurred, which lets the patient listener know why he needs to repeat himself so much. By only changing the first part of verse 1, Mr. Songz illuminates the deep parody of "efficiency" in this copy-and-paste world.

[Chorus: Trey Songz]

Bottoms up, bottoms up, ey, what's in ya cup...

-Freakin' again with the bottoms up.

[Nicki Minaj]

Yo, could I get that 'Tron*?

*80's entertaining movie about the cyber-reality

Could I get that Remmy*?

*80's entertaining crime series "Remington Steel" starring Pierce Brosnan

Could I get that Coke*?

*80's form of nasal entertainment

Could I get that Henny?

Could I get that margarita on the rock rock rocks?

Could I get that salt all around that rim rim rim rim?

Trey, I was like "Yo Trey"

Do you think you could buy me a bottle of Rose'?

-This ironic comment shows the importance of paying attention. The more attentive listeners will remember that the money "Stay in [his] pocket, girl". Nicki, like the rest of us, will have a hard time getting a bottle of Rose'.

Okay, lets get it now

I'm with a bad bitch he's with his friends

I don't say "Hi", I say "Keys to the Benz"

Keys to the Benz? Keys to the Benz!

Muhfuckin right yeah, weed to the 10

If a bitch try to get cute Imma sock her

Throw a lotta money at her then yell fucka, fucka, fucka,

Then yell fucka.

Then Imma go get my Louisville Slugger

Excuse me, I'm sorry, I'm really such a lady

I rep Young Money

You know Slim, Baby?

And we be doin' donuts while we wavin' the .380

We give a lotta money to the babies out in Haiti

Yellin all around the world,

Do you hear me? Do you like my body?

Anna Nicki

Rest in peace to Anna Nicole Smith

Yes, my dear, you're so explosive

Say hi to Mary, Mary and Joseph

Now bottoms up and double my dosage

-The name Nicki "Minaj" indicates the French correlation to "minaj-a-trois", AKA the holy triumvirate, which is hinted at in her line about Mary and Joseph of biblical fame. Her deep religious convictions are also shown by her philanthropy to those in Haiti, as well as throwing a lot of money at a cute girl and yelling "fucka, fucka, fucka." Then yelling "fucka" one last time.

[Chorus: Trey Songz]

Bottoms up, bottoms up, ey, what's in ya cup

Got a couple bottles, but a couple ain't enough

Bottoms up, bottoms up, throw your hands up

Tell security we bout to tear this club up

Bottoms up, bottoms up, pocket full of green

Girl, you know I love the way you shake it in them jeans

Bottoms up, bottoms up, throw ya hands up

Bottoms up, bottoms up, bottoms up (up, up)

Bottoms up, Bottoms up, Bottoms up, Bottoms up, Bottoms up

-The music must be really loud. Bottoms up people. Bottoms up. How can you not after listening to this song?

2011-04-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

I just finished "Where Men Win Glory" by John Krakauer. It's a non-fiction journalistic novel about Pat Tillman; the man who left the Arizona Cardinals to enlist in the Army post 9/11. In truth, I wasn't crazy about the idea of reading this book. I had just finished "Into the Wild" and a friend recommended Glory in passing. I'm not much of a war horse, and I certainly don't like reading about self-important football players with a gun fetish. There wasn't much in this guys history that piqued my interest. But I respected Krakauer's judgment in choosing a character to write about. There is an element to Krakauer's work that echoes my own sentiment of curiosity and wonder. Mostly, I identify with his dogged pursuit of truth and understanding.

So I picked up the novel, which chronicled the the intertwining story-lines of Afghanistan's recent history and the life story of Patrick Tillman.

As each chapter unfolded, it became evident as to why Krakauer chose Tillman as his subject. He was a jock, but he wasn't a meat head. He was confident, but he wasn't cocky. He was well-read, but he wasn't pretentious. And he was absolutely fearless. The more I read, the more I started to realize that not only was I sympathizing with Tillman, but I was actually wanting to become him. Through the lens of the novel, Tillman was unafraid to speak his mind, whenever, wherever he may be. Lined up with other new troops in front of the drill sergeant just prior to signing his commitment papers to the Army, he barked back for being given contradicting orders "Hey, you're confusing everybody. Besides, you're treating us like assholes, and we haven't even signup up to be treated like assholes yet." After a shouting match ensued, Tillman and the sergeant almost came to blows before being separated. In no lesser terms, he was the dude.

Tillman was incredibly stubborn, but never maliciously. His set of values were always changing, and always up for discussion, but if there was one thing he wouldn't put up for it was bullshit. If you were around Tillman, you could say what you meant, defend your opinions, and enjoy a deep conversation.

It's clear which side of the isle Krakauer sits, as he lambastes the Army along with the Bush administration with convincing facts and rhetoric alike. The language dips into acerbic at points, but it's hard not to share Krakauer's emotional pointedness. The story of Tillman is one of the most moving and emotionally taxing I have ever read. The fact that he was killed by friendly fire was terrible, but the insult that the army administered to his family afterward was tenfold worse. The tragic loss of his character, honesty, and strength was heightened by the ineptitude of lesser men that sat above him. Far lesser men. And the perseverance and strength that his remaining family displayed after his death is no less than heroic.

It's a good book, go read it. You'll understand more about what the war in Afghanistan means, more about America's involvement in the war on terror, and more importantly you'll understand more about what it means to live a good life, a life of purpose.

Of course, Hollywood already has the rights to his story:

Self-Destructive Saturday

2011-04-09T21:10:00.000-07:00

The title really says it all. Actually, hold on. Let me grab a beer.

Thats better.

If it's going to be a self-destructive Saturday, there damn well better be a beer involved.

Ok, so the title is a little dramatic. I'm not really self destructive today. I just wasn't very productive. And in this fast paced, broadband-speed, micro-managing, iPod shuffle, instant get-ification, credit card fueled, frenetic world we live in, it feels like if you aren't making leaps and bounds towards the end goal of your dreams then you are falling behind. Today felt like one of those days. I actually really like my iPod shuffle. I didn't mean to lump you in with micro-managing. Sorry shuffle.

I blame my non-productive day on a couple of things:

1) A stupid migraine. About once, maybe twice a year I get a very minor (stupid) migraine. For those who get blinding vomit-inducing migraines that force them into a curtain-drawn room for the better part of a week, I apologize. That sounds terrible. If you have the Hulk Hogan of migraines, I have the Peewee Herman of cranial discomfort. It doesn't have the strength to bend a steel pipe into the shape of a rabbit, but it does have the shrill unsettling tenor of a man who speaks one octave too high and exposes himself to children.

Are you ready for photophobia?

I was taking an MCAT practice test this morning when I noticed the faint aura appear in my left field of vision. Like an old neighbor you didn't want to see again, wrapping on your window while you are in the middle of your favorite movie. Crap. Of all the times to get a migraine, taking a practice test is one of the more inconvenient. Taking the real test, of course would be far worse, and I would rather not think about that situation for the sake of my blood pressure. I'm pretty sure my headache this morning was due to chronic over-caffeination, and I have the refrigerator pack of Red Bull to prove it.

Per usual, the aura (imagine the after effect of staring at the sun for a moment) was a small linear segment off to my left, but I knew it was on the move. If history could be learned from, the spot would grow in size and migrate across my field of vision. This means that I am now racing the aura. I needed to finish 20 minutes of reading comprehension before that sneaky little bastard is dead center in front of me and I can't see anything that I'm looking at.

The problem is, I'm already rushing myself on what I consider the hardest section of the MCAT. It doesn't help that I have a clock in the corner of the screen reminding me that I'm a slow-ass reader, but now I have a biological detonating wick crawling its way across whatever I look at. Great. I didn't end up doing well on that section. And the pot at the end of the rainbow, the reward for watching the phantasm inch its way rightward for the better part of an hour, is a hangover-like headache that lasts a few hours.

2) I said that there were multiple things to blame for my non-productive day of so-called self destruction, but I can't think of another legitimate excuse. I gave myself plenty of time to think of one while describing my headache with unnecessary detail. Oh wait! I've got one.

3) Random re-arranging day! That's right. Every blue moon (which happens about twice a year) something magical happens. I will be innocently cleaning around the house when I notice an object out of place. So I move it. But it doesn't look good there. So I put it somewhere else. And then I think, well damn, it would look really good sitting over there. But of course, there is something in its way. That means I need to move that other thing. And then find a better place for it. This means moving something ELSE out of it's precious little niche. After about an hour, I have all of the furniture on the front lawn, and I'm staring at an empty living room trying to visualize the best place for a crooked IKEA lamp. Hi. My name is Oliver and I have a re-arranging sickness.

So the house is spotless. Completely re-arranged, but spotless. My poor MCAT knowledge has not progressed with the light-speed evolution that I had planned for. I promise that tomorrow will be a new day. Self-CONSTRUCTIVE Sunday I'll call it! Oh what a day this will be.

Another hour before midnight means that I have time for one more beer though...

Radiation (don't use your bananaphone!)

2011-03-22T12:04:00.000-07:00

Via MB

The Birkie (26-50K)

2011-02-28T16:55:00.000-08:00

"In endurance sports, particularly cycling and running,

hitting the wall or the bonk describes a condition
caused by the depletion of glycogenstores

in the liver and muscles, which manifests itself

by precipitous fatigue and loss of energy."

Throughout the first half of the Birkie (see post below), my eyes were open. I was experiencing the race. I was enjoying the people watching. But as I crossed the halfway mark, my field of vision began to simplify. I didn't glance over at skiers beside me, or look as ambitiously for gaps in the crowd. Because of that, it was hard to tell exactly what happened when, but the series of events roughly fell into this order:

28K-
My legs were getting incrementally more sore with each uphill. At first I only felt a deep burn on a steep pitch, but now even slight incines would send signals to my brain that politely said "Excuse me, I'm not sure if you noticed, but we're getting a little tired down here". I needed a new game plan. The first goal would be to get as much glycogen into my body as possible. This meant that every feed stop would warrant a banana, and a power drink. My legs were out of carbohydrate stores, and the lactic acid from the anaerobic energy production was beginning to pulse through my veins. Literally. The only energy that I could give my muscles from here on forward would be directly via the gut.
It was at about this time that I also took a mental inventory of my body. My legs were aching, but I knew they still had some extra reserve in them. My arms, on the other hand, felt great. My lungs and heart also felt just fine. So a new plan was hatched. The classic tracks that ran along the side of the track were slick and fast. If I double poled along the gradual downhills and tucked the steeper declines, I can save a TON of work from my legs, and nearly keep the same pace.
I set the plan in action. I haven't bonked yet, and I'm determined to salvage what's left of this race.

29K-
I'm passed for the first time by another skier. He's another wave 5-er like myself. I hear him coming up from behind me and turn my head to see who's making the charge. "Good job man!" he says "I've been following you the whole time". I think he meant it to be a compliment, but I can't help but feel like I just paved the way for this guy's race.
"I'm just about done" I say, feeling like I need to give him an excuse. I let him by me. The competitive side of me growls.
"I know what you mean" he says.

But I can tell he doesn't.

I don't even contemplate sticking with him. He moves up the pack, which is finally starting to thin out at this point. I tuck as much as possible on even the slightest of downhills, and use my arms as much as I can, but I'm faced with two inescapable facts: 1) every uphill needs legs, and 2) There are a lot of uphills left.

30K-
I've admitted to myself now that I have completely bonked. There are only 20 kilometers left in the race. I am 3/5 of the way there, but the winding and climbing snowy trail in front of me seems like a hellish, unending mobius strip. I've bonked countless times before this, and I know what to expect, so I slow down. The name of the game is just to finish. My friend Kevin gave me some pre-race advice. "Thats the great thing about the birke" he said, "you just go out there and ski, and if you get tired you just slow down and enjoy the race."

I slowed down, but I didn't know about "enjoying the race". It was at this point that I started to harbor ill-will towards this competition, and little prince Haakon, for starting this blasted tradition. When your body goes, your mind soon follows.

35K-
The strangest thing has happened to me. I've gotten cold. And not just my fingers and toes, or my exposed facial skin, but I'm cold at my core. This has never happened to me in a race before. Usually, if dressed properly, you arrive at the starting line slightly chilled, and once the gun goes off you warm up. By the time you cross the finish line, you can take your shirt off in -20F temps without blinking, cascading steam off your torso into the frigid northern air, and feeling like an all-around bad-ass.

But I felt chilled, and not much like a bad-ass. More like ass-bad. The reason, I figured out, was because I could no longer ski fast enough to keep my heart rate up. My legs simply didn't have the power to keep me moving. This meant I needed to start double poling faster, just to keep my internal temperature at a reasonable level. Its not that it hurt to use my legs, its just that they weren't working.

More skiers passed me, some from wave 5, but others from wave 4. I saw the familiar faces of those that I had passed so casually earlier in the race. I would be embarrassed if I weren't so tired, but I feel like they are smirking deep down.

Damn you, Prince Haakon, damn you.

I see a sign on the trailside. 13K left. I can make that.

38K-
Not so soon thereafter, I passed another sign that read "38K", and silently cursed to myself. I must have misread the previous sign, and it now feels like someone just tacked on an additional 3K to the race. All I wanted was that 40K sign. I wanted it so bad. For me, the race was now all about baby steps. Kilometer to kilometer. Hill to hill. If you are in the depths of a bonk and try to visualize the entire race, you will collapse to the snow in a heap of despair.

I knew that there was an infamous hill coming up here shortly, but I wasn't sure where exactly. The night before I had written down all of the landmarks that I deemed "worth remembering", and committed them to memory. Well, there wasn't much left of my memory at this point, and I couldn't recall if it was 41K or 45K. Irregardless of where it found itself on the course, it's called "bitch hill", and as I rounded a tight right corner I could see it in front of me. It's not the biggest hill of the course, and it's not the steepest, but for someone like me, someone who was scraping the bottom of the barrel, someone who had the haggard gleen of defeat in their eyes, a hill of this caliber meant death.

It was a race of many firsts, and for the first time in a competition I stopped and put my head on my outstretched arms. I couldn't move my legs. The lactic acid permeated through my cardiovascular system, and I could feel it in my lungs. I could taste it in my breath. It reeked of deprivation. Skiers continued to pass me, but I noticed other skiers who have also stopped on the side of the hill, looking no less dejected than I. After ten seconds or so, I got back into it, and ambled up the remainder of the hill. Keep moving. Keep moving.

40K-
By any standards, I was on the home stretch, and during my last feed stop, I drank a water, a power drink and ate two banana halves. They were frozen, but I carelessly stuffed them into my open mouth, ignoring the ice-cold sensation on my teeth. Best bananas I've ever had.

I stopped again on a hill. My vision began to narrow, and I could see only my skis in front of me. The next 8K were a blur, and I don't remember much about them.

48K-
What I do remember, is that wave-4 skiers continued to pass me with regular ease. For the first time I let myself picture finishing the race. I think I can make two kilometers. I looked over at a skier next to me. He was a big guy, maybe 6-2, and he reminded me of an eastern Massachusetts master skier. He had to be in his late 40's or early 50's and everything he was wearing was expensive, from his skis to his glasses, all the way down to his high-tech water-bottle holder and the Volvo I'm sure he has parked in the driveway. I could see pain in his face, and I knew that he was hurting as much as I was. Under any other circumstances I would have tucked in behind this guy, and blasted around him with 1K remaining, leaving him in my snowy dust wondering what happened. But for the time being, I had to send out hate-beams and hope I could out-glide him on downhills, because he was beating me to the top of every hill.

My mental state was starting to deteriorate noticeably at this point. Not only did I feel physically tired, but I'm also beginning to experience a sleepy grogginess. When I tucked down a hill, I let my eyes shut and wonder what it would be like to go to sleep.

More people started to appear on the sides of the trail and I turned a corner to the greatest sight of my life: the lake.

49K-
The lake represents the final segment of the race. The trail mercifully exits the northern Wisconsin forest and carves a perfectly flat line onto Hayward Lake. There was a linear swath of black dots in front of me, leading the way home like the yellow brick road, ending one kilometer away in downtown Hayward.

The best way I can explain bonking is by using the rechargable battery analogy. The first 10K might have drained all of my energy, but with some downhills and some drink to recover, I can recharge up to 90%. But each time I use the battery, it charges up a little less the next time. At this point I could use my legs for about 5-8 seconds before I needed to get back into the classic tracks and double pole. So that became my new pattern. Double pole until my arms were tired, then skate for 8 seconds. Then 7 seconds. Then 5. Each time I kicked or poled I released a breathy grunt. I can't slow down. 1K left. I've got tears in my eyes. Give me a break, I said to myself, but my body was slowly shutting down on me.

50K-
I told Nels before the race that "there's always something left in the tank", referring to the way that the sight of a finish line can cause you to find that last little morsel of energy that your body had been oh-so-wisely saving from you. As I made the 10 foot elevation climb off of the lake, and onto the snow-groomed streets of downtown Hayward, WI, I wanted to find that last morsel.

The sides of the trail/street were fashioned with gates, with hundreds of spectators and racers cheering on. I could actually see the finish line, and I started to skate again. And my legs felt great. I passed about five people, and was only about 200 meters from the finish line when the morsel ran out.

My quads started cramping, and I couldn't control the timing of my leg kicks. Each time I tried to push I felt a sharp pain that would stand me up straight. I'm not sure what you would call my technique as I crossed the line, but "hobbling on skis" is probably apropos.

Cheering on the sidelines were Kaj and Nels. "It looks like Ollie might have bonked", said Kaj as he watched me "ski" to the finish. "Oh yeah" said Nels.

Crossing the finish line was a mix of relief and anger. Anger at myself for joining this race, anger at myself for not training more, but thankfulness that I could take off these skis and get into some warm clothes. Race support came up to me and asked me if I needed help. I almost fell into one of them due to an unplanned leg cramp, so I think he took that as a y-e-s, and called for someone to help him hold me up. A third volunteer took my skis off. "Are you OK?" they asked. I looked at their eyes and I saw genuine concern. "Yeah I'm fine", I said, and picked up my skis, limping out of the finish gates. Nels and Kaj met up with me, and graciously helped me with such mundane tasks as getting my arms into sleeves and not falling over.

Now that I'm stopped, I began to uncontrollably shake. My teeth were chattering like they did at swim practice when I was 8 years old. Nels pointed me to the tent where they are passing out warm soup. He mentioned something about where to meet up, but I wasn't paying attention. All I could focus on was the warm bowl of chicken noodle soup.

As I stood there, in the middle of a massively packed tent, I noticed all the other skiers around me. Some of them shivering, some of them talking and joking about the race. Others telling stories about high-speed crashes on the course.

Right next door was the medical tent. And in there were people in far worse shape than I. My shivers dissipated after a second bowl of soup, but there were skiers with frostbite, hypothermia, and more serious conditions that needed medical attention.

I can't imagine what it would take to conquer the Birkebeiner with any less training that I had. Or any less fitness. Or slower skis. But there were hundreds of people who did that. Thousands. It was a humbling experience to think about, and I kind of felt like a wimp. Because, man, that was really hard.

Who am I kidding. That SUCKED. But maybe it sucked enough to get me back out on my skis again and train for next year.

The Birkie (1-25K)

2011-02-27T09:54:00.000-08:00

The most appropriate way to describe the Birkebeiner is to break it up by kilometer. In a race so long, the storyline can change three times or more from start to finish, giving it the quality of an episodic adventure.

Arrival:
Due to the annually congested traffic in small town Cable, WI, we arrived at the athlete drop-off area about 10-15 minutes before Nels's actual start time. This wasn't the ideal time-frame Nels was hoping for, but it did provide for some last-minute excitement, including watching him jump out of the back door of the bus and getting scolded by the bus driver. Needless to say, he missed his start, but the race was managed with chip-timing so it turned out to be more of an inconvenience than anything. That was the last time I saw him for the next four hours.
  Somehow, per usual, I took my sweet time getting ready for the start (45 minutes later), and just barely strapped my second ski grip on when the starting gun went off. Luckily, the time that elapsed between the gunshot and the person in front of me actually moving was another 2.5 hours, so I had plenty of time to get everything in order.
  Starting in wave 5 was an interesting situation. The Birkebeiner is broken up into skate and classical skiing (mostly the prior), and each discipline is broken up into waves so the race course won't be too congested. With a total attendance of 8,700 racers, congestion is inevitable, but organizers do a great job at mitigating it. The way they do this is by seeding each skier by their finish time from the previous year, or by an officially-sanctioned qualifying race earlier in the year. This way, they can break up the pack by speed, sending the fastest first, and have each heat of 500-900 skiers start at 10 minute intervals.
  I started in wave 5 and want to give all of the readers ample evidence for pending excuses I will soon present for not winning the race. Or coming in top 100. Or 300.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here, let's start the play-by-play.

1K-
After a relaxed and slow start, I'm in great spirits. Despite the cold temps (~0F), the sun was out, and I felt good. Not only that, but the pace was AMAZING (AKA slow). Seeing as how I didn't give myself enough time to warm up (zero seconds), this casual saunter through the first leg of the course will get me up to speed, cardio-wise, and then I can make a move when the field starts to thin out.

2K-
I've already passed a dizzying number of wave 5 skiers. Each skier's bib number starts with the number of their wave, and has an associated trim color. Nels gave me some advice from his experience last year, which was to "ski relaxed", so I planned to do just that. I kept my technique non-labored and smooth, relying on slow long kicks and long glides. I felt great. I was passing people like it was my job.

3K-
(Don't worry, there isn't a post for every kilometer)
The first section of the Birkie traverses "the powerlines", which are a typical source of cross country trails in the US. It's easy to groom a course on land that the government already paid to deforest. I had studied the elevation profile of the course the night before and was fully aware that the first 15k contained most of the climbing for the race. On the first few hills I could feel the burn in quads, but attributed the sensation to not warming up.

4.5K-
We turned into the woods, and I am still surrounded on all sides by a sea of red-colored bibs. My late starting position meant that I needed to pass hundreds of skiers to get some fresh air up front and stretch out my legs. At this point though, I wasn't panicking. It's a long race, and you can do more harm than good by pushing the pace so early. As I round the first turn into the woods, I see a mass of skiers and spectators obstructing the trail. My first reaction was that of alarm. It was hard not to see this type of gathering and assume that someone was terribly injured. As I got closer, I started to see plastic Dixie cups strewn about the snow and realized that I had arrived at the first of 8 feed stations. Water, powerdrinks, sliced bananas and oranges were being offered by the race crew, and the skiers swarmed like flies to either size of the feed zone. There was no way I was slowing down this early in the race, and I took full advantage to weave through the crowd with care. I estimated that I passed about 50 skiers in five seconds. Not bad. I contemplated taking a swig of my "emergency mix" that I was carrying in a water-bottle holder, but it was still to early. I still need to focus on moving forward through the pack.

Intimidation is half the battle

~10K
Throughout the large climbs that accentuate the start of the race, I have not once been able to ski at my own pace. Each hill followed the same format.
1) Weave through traffic at high speeds.
2) See everyone stopped at upcoming hill
3) Slam on the brakes and stop at the bottom
3) Pick a line to stand in, and move up the hill at the pace of the slowest skier ahead of you
4) Start a conversation with the guy/girl standing next to you
5) Wish that person good luck and take off when you get to the top.

On one hill I complimented a gentleman on the festive blue wig he was wearing. As I was about to take off at the top of the hill, he noticed my Olaf ski suit and shouted "I go to Olaf right now!". I yelled back "Good luck!" and then began to play a high speed game of Frogger on the trail. I was actually starting to enjoy the pace. The hills were slow enough that I wasn't getting tired (at all), and I could show off some top speed and zoom around people at the top. Fun!

15K-
The course is now on a gradual decline, and I have already passed a considerable number of wave 4 skiers, and I'm starting to see wave 3 (those who started 20 minutes prior). Someone on the sidelines shouts "I've only seen a couple other 5's! Go 5!". What he was telling me was that I was top-3 in my wave at this point, which was encouraging news, because I was pining for some open trail. It also meant that I might be in better shape than I had hoped! Spirits are still high. I've gone through three feed zones now, without stopping, and estimate that I have passed at least 200 skiers because of this. I don't want to get cocky though, so I take my first sip from my emergency mix, and chew down a frozen goo pack.

Emergency "Anti-Bonk" Mix (16 oz.):

1 part Red Bull
1.5 parts Gatorade
2 parts water
Two ibuprofen liquigels (opened and squeezed into the mixture)

Because of the temperature, I need to keep the water-bottle upside down in my holder. This is a winter athlete trick so the top layer of the drink doesn't freeze over. As I take a pull of the elixir, I taste slush, and can see the ice layer forming on the bottom. This started earlier than I had hoped. It must still be colder outside than I thought.

20K-
I no longer feel great, but I don't feel bad yet either. I call this time in the race as "the zone". I have settled into a moderate pace that my body feels comfortable with. I now lack that childish exuberance that had me jovially cracking jokes with other skiers in the first 10K. The race has become more internalized, and I keep my focus on staying efficient. Right in front of me, I see another wave 5 skier. I see this as a great sign. It means I am still reeling in the leaders from my wave. A little voice in my subconscious, a pesky little pessimistic nay-sayer, who had been quiet so far in the race, began to whisper a word of warning. Don't try to draft him, it says, race your own race. You might go too fast if you try to run him down. I listened to the voice. I watched the skier in front of me, and he was "skiing strong" (as they say). His technique was marginal, and his sloppy upper body motion led me to believe he was probably a freshman in college. His hips were on a swivel, and his arms were all out of whack. But despite all of his dynamic flaws, he was moving at a good pace. He had strong legs, and I could tell that he wasn't tired. I didn't feel all that fatigued yet, but I was definitely not feeling strong. In fact, to be honest, I haven't felt strong since college.

18.5K-
I stopped at a feed stop for the first time, downed some warm energy drink, and scooted back into traffic.

25K-
My water-bottle is starting to freeze considerably. I squirt whatever is left into my mouth on a series of winding downhills and flats. I can't see myself, but I imagine that my Buff is covered in ice around my chin, and I have a considerable amount of frozen snot under my nose. My feet hurt, but that is par for the course. After a 60 mile rollerski 10 years ago, my feet have never been the same and I tend to lose sensation in my toes once the temperature drops below 15 degrees. After a series of back-and-forths with the poor-technique wave-5 skier, I suck up my pride and let him go ahead of me. If this were a 30K race, I would be on him like glue, but I need to conserve my energy and ski smoothly.

As I near the 25K marker of the course, I start to feel something in my quads. It's a sensation that I have been dreadfully anticipating. I had jokingly predicted to Kaj before the race that "I'm going to push the pace for 30K, bonk, and then drag my sorry ass the rest of the 20 kilometers".

As that 25K marker slowly passes to my left I feel the dull aching in my legs. The aching isn't constant, and I only feel it on the steep uphill. The sensation I have at this point is unmistakable. After thousands of hours of distance training throughout my life, I have learned how to read my body's hints and signals. I'm starting to bonk. I reach for my water-bottle, which is a useless cube of frozen caffeine and NSAIDS. I rip off my last goo packet and squeeze as much of the frozen goodness into my mouth. I can only get about half of it out using my teeth. It tastes good, but I want more.

I haven't bonked yet, not all of the symptoms have presented themselves. But I do know that the game has changed completely. I no longer have any aspirations of a reasonable time, but I do know that the aching in my legs can be mitigated if I am careful. I need to slow down a little bit, and focus even more on skiing efficiently.

I think about the fact that I am 25K into the race. Where I was once excited to be halfway to the finish, I'm now filled with a quiet dread. I didn't know it at the time, but there was still 6K until the next feed station.

I'm only halfway there.

Birkie Fever and Chills (part deux)

2011-02-24T09:02:00.000-08:00

It's February 23rd. Three days before the Birkie.

I was told by a track coach in high school that it takes 8 days for a specific workout to have an impact on your fitness. According to that rule, anything I do from here forward will only hurt the freshness of my legs. This was also the same coach that tried to motivate our team via the inspirational methods of accounting. "It's like you're making a deposit into the bank account!", he would say enthusiastically to a room of blank-faced students. So who knows how true that is.

Sunday was my last-ditch effort for any sort of fitness going into this race. I slogged my way around a shortened, icy track for almost three hours. The sun went down, and I was still there, cranking around the loop with a look of spellbound fatigue in my eyes. I silently was praying that my coach was wrong, and that I would be able to reap the benefits of this workout in time for the 50K. Maybe it's 7 days? 6?

Needless to say, if the skiing community had Birkie fever over the past couple of weeks, it has now been replaced by the chills. There's no more time to say "Oh I'll get in a workout tomorrow", or "I'll just race myself into shape!". Nope. Now it's 8,700 skiers drinking beer and melting $700 worth of fluorinated wax into their skis, cursing to themselves, and breathing in borderline toxic fumes.

"But just go out and ski it for fun!" you say "Just enjoy the experience".

Oh what a world that would be. What a fantastic and wonderous world I would live in, if I could just ski the course, passing out flowers, helping the elderly up big hills, and smile and wave to spectators. I would let people pass me, and get joy from the fact that they felt good about themselves. Heck, I could even stop and have a snack break. It's just a race! Enjoy it!

As great as this nordic utopia sounds on paper, it would crumble like a house of cards the moment I heard the starting gun. As soon as that gun goes off, no matter who is next to me, no matter how I was feeling prior, no matter WHAT, I will devolve to a single-minded automaton of competitive energy. If you're in my way, prepare to have your poles broken. Drafting me? Prepare to get cut off. Are your skis faster than mine? Well, then...you suck, there's nothing I can do about that.

So I would like to offer a formal apology right now to my legs, for pending hurt-fest. Because when 75 year old Bjorn Bjornson passes me on a downhill at 40K, there's no way I'm going to let that old man beat me to the line...

Birkie Fever and Chills (part 1)

2011-02-17T14:10:00.000-08:00

Last fall I proclaimed, quite brazenly, that this winter would be "the comeback" for my ski career. I had planned on ramping up my training, racing myself into shape, and opening up a 6-pack of whoop-ass on the 50-kilometer, season-capping Birkebeiner race. Fun tidbits about this proclamation. Firstly, a comeback requires to actually have been there. Secondly, the phrase "ski career" is an misnomer in the US, and the two words "ski" and "career" should not allowed anywhere near each other, unless "-lled mechanic" is inserted in between them.

But if mice and men, the best laid plans often go awry, and my lofty dreams of 3-hour skis and local race domination have turned into afternoons at work and evenings hunching over books. Scratch that. Evenings watching TV, and telling myself that I need to start hunching over the books in about 10 minutes. Or as soon as this show is over. Let me just see what's on Comedy Central. I'm hungry.

Whatever the case was, I was certainly not going to schlep all of my ski stuff over to the course just to freeze my feet off in -20F winds. Especially when I had so much work to do. Oh, is Top Chef on?

So here I am, faced with my February 26th planned piece de resistance (french for: $100 non-refundable commitment) for this ski season: a 50K race from Cable to Hayward Wisconsin called the American Birkebeiner. This race is so long that you need to adjust your watch to the new time-zone to see what your finish time is. I've heard of skiers coming of the woods not knowing what year it was, clearly wearing last years bib, and looking rather gaunt and unkempt. I mean, this is the real deal. So with the prospect of engaging on this glycogen-depleting crusade in little over a week, I have hit a critical juncture. With the amount of "training" that I have done so far this winter I can either 1) Panic, or 2) lower my expectations (considerably). While both of these options seem perfectly acceptable, I chose option 3, which is a healthy combination of 1 and 2.

More on this later.

Wii-athlon

2011-01-23T07:06:00.000-08:00

At this point in my life, if I were to invest in a video game system, it would have to be the Nintendo Wii. There's something about the simplicity of the Wii that resonates with me, just like there is something about about the complexity of Playstation 3 and XBox that numbs my hands in a rather arthritic position. If fact, at the end of any "realistic" game, I find myself not only at the bottom of the scoring bracket, but also nursing a migraine and applying eye drops because I HAVE NOT blinked in 30 minutes. It's just not for me. The Wii allows a simple-minded person such as myself to be competitive in a game by just swinging my arm back and forth as fast as possible, which is about as complex a motion as I can handle without needing to pop an Adderall.

So when I see that our friends at RTL Interactive have been making a biathlon Wii game, I start to get a little excited (the first twinkle that caught my eye was the re-release Goldeneye, which is the only "complicated" game I've ever been good at).

I have been told that biathlon is the biggest winter sport in Europe, which is something hard for an American like me to understand. Don't get me wrong, I like biathlon more than about 99% of Americans, but that's because I am part of the 1% who has actually heard of it, not to mention part of the 0.0001% who has tried it.

My only worry is that the game play will over-simplify the dynamic process of biathlon. There are so many subtleties that can be missed by the average bystander, and these details are what make the sport so enjoyable to watch. For this reason, I have outlined commandments that should be included in any biathlon (or nordic) skiing game:

1) In the intro, when all the teams show up in their tricked out private buses and wax vans, the US must show up in 4 mid-sized rentals from the airport, with a wax-bench strapped to the roof.

2) You can pay extra "ski dollars" to prep in the Austrian wax tent before the race. Your hematacrit gets +10, but your "trophy room" is erased.

3) Playing as a Norwegian, you can enter the secret code which causes Ole Einar Bjorndalen to mutter an ancient Norwegian prayer. This causes the Scandanavian God Ullr to materialize from the snowbank and strike down the closest Swedish skier.

4) Playing as an American, a secret code will give you the antidote to the death-flu-virus that you invariably picked up at the airport. Another code will let you cough on the skier who is shooting adjacent to you, spreading that same illness.

5) The possibility to upgrade your "measly .22" for a real man's weapon: a grenade launcher.

6) If the going get's tough, the tough get gangster: press and hold L and R for 2 seconds to switch to "gangster mode", which lets your character pull a Glock from the back of his spandex and shoot wildly (and sideways) at the targets, missing them all. This also gives your ski technique a slight limp in the left side.

7) Training mode, in which the athlete trains for 600-1000 mind-numbing, thumb-blisteringly boring hours per year for about 5 years before being able to ski in his/her first race.

On Language And Swallowing Pride In The Emergency Department

2011-01-13T13:02:00.000-08:00

Since September I have been working as a scribe in a couple of emergency rooms, working 40 hours a week, and paired with a physician each day. My goal is to capture the patients "HPI", or history of present illness, in a way that is medically relevant (and also relevant for billing). For each patient that presents to the ER, I follow the physician's process, step by step, from introduction, to ordering labs and imaging, to the various consultations he or she may call upon until the patient is either feeling well enough to go home, or they are admitted to the hospital for further evaluation. When it's all said and done, my final product should show a complete history of what brought the patient to the hospital, what was done to help them, and when exactly everything happened.

I spent the first couple of months in what I refer to as "treading underwater", as I struggled to learn the dialect of physicians and nurses from scratch, a language that they have spent many years and hundreds of thousands of academic dollars learning. Being at work often reminded me of the year I spent in Norway, having been introduced to a brand new language, armed only with ambition, humility, and a strong desire to know what the hell was going on. Here in the hospital, I felt the same way (and still do at times), and struggle with the elaborately precise diction that can, at times, can seem ridiculous.

As a new scribe, there was nothing more terrifying than calling the "dictation line". Whenever a patient gets and X-ray, CT scan, MRI, or other type of imaging, it is sent electronically to the radiologist who reads the film and then dictates their interpretation onto the phone database. As a scribe, it is our job to see a) when the images are ready, b) call and listen to the radiologists interpretation, and c) relay that information to the physician. A simple process. But simple does not always mean easy, especially when the interpretations of images are riddled with terminology that you have never been exposed to. Now throw in a radiologist at the end of their shift who is reading as fast as possible. Still too easy? Maybe you get one that is so overwhelmingly complicated that it's about as long as this paragraph. So I ended up with my ear to the phone hitting the "3" button time after time (rewind), listening with every potentially-recruitable brain neuron for some clue as to where one word is ending, and another word could be starting (or maybe it's just one long word?). At times it seems like an evil game of Apples to Apples. And throughout this whole ordeal, if the physician needs to go to the next room, you stop where you are, save what you have, and try again when you have free time.

But, like the rest of the job, the terminology comes to those who are persistent, and all of us are (we have to be). The process of learning can be difficult and stressful, which is compounded by working with physicians who expect the absolute best out of themselves, and through the scribe's role as the physician's "literary representation", the best from us as well. To me, there is nothing more disheartening than being given a task and falling short of expectations, and it's hard to come to grips with my inevitable shortcomings through this process. I hardly go home after a shift and feel as though I did really well, but at best I feel as though I survived.

However, this is the natural process of head-first learning. This is being thrown into the deep end of the pool. I am finding that there is a fine line between accepting my limitations and yearning for perfection. I will always make mistakes, and there will always be somebody out there who is better, faster, or smarter, and sometimes that's a hard pill to swallow. Perspective needs to be maintained in moments like this, when the pressure builds, and the patients keep coming in, and that creeping sense of overwhelmed confusion starts to tip-toe around the corner. I suppose the mindset needs to be "Do your best at the time, and if your best isn't good enough for you, then find a way to make it better later".

In terms of the language of medicine, I've learned that I need to be patient with the learning curve. Either actively or passively, the terminology is going to root itself in my vernacular. And I have learned that pride is overrated in the ER. If you don't know something, ask.

Happy New Year

2011-01-01T14:39:00.001-08:00

January 1st, the day dubbed by Comedy Central as "national hangover day", provides a unique viewpoint for reflection. While most may be milking the injuries of alcohol withdrawal, I find myself fighting the day-long murky sensation that follows an overnight shift. My mood is apropos of the preceding year: haggard, spent and satisfied.

It's been a year unlike any other in my life, and while I won't bore anyone with the details, I think it's important to provide a couple of highlights if not only for self-reflection.

Studying
Working

Well that was depressing. Let's consider this little thought experiment waste of time.

Despite my apparent lack of diversity in daily activities, a few philosophical nuggets have lodged their way into my psyche (please note forced use of imagery). I'm beginning to understand that self-reflection is important, but only secondary to planning. I famous author once said in an interview "Descartes had it wrong. You don't think therefore you are. You DO, therefore you are". A subtly obvious phrase that I will always carry with me.

So happy planning everyone. Make the most of your new year.

Oh That's So Ironic

2010-12-28T04:39:00.000-08:00

I got an email today from Norton Anitvirus titled: How To Get Rid Of Your Junk Mail!. The irony of the situation was unavoidable as I followed the instructions to unsubscribe myself from future mailings.

Again, I'm sitting in an airport, so again I fire up the ol' blogger. It's too early to call anyone, and there's nothing interesting on facebook. Admittedly, I feel pretty self-conscious right now sitting here on my little netbook, blogging away with my noise-reduction headphones, sipping my Starbucks vanilla late, being all trendy and hip. If I had a Timbuk2 satchel, square-framed glasses, and some classic Russian literature next to me (with post-it page reminders), you would not be in the wrong to slap me upside the head, sending my headphones flipping through the air in perfectly ironic little twirls.

But I don't. So please don't hit me.

In fact, despite my hipster-guise, I am most likely going to be quite the popular guy at Delta gate #20. Because I am a ticket-holding passenger in an airport one day after a flight-cancelling snowstorm. That means if I am willing to change my plans, I stand to make a nice little profit on my ticket. I brought sidewalk chalk and a poster-board with me for just this occasion. Next to me sits a sign that says "Please have all offers in written form and signed", and the chalk outlines the a switchback line. I await the throngs of desperate wealthy business travelers who will sign away the keys to their BMW to make that all-important meeting in Minneapolis today (I only accept 2006 models and later, unless proper and present warranty information is disclosed). So please, form an orderly single-file line. No personal checks.

And please stop knocking my headphones off. They are quite expensive.

Blog-o-sphere

2010-12-23T07:17:00.000-08:00

I felt that it would be mildly appropriate, and notably pun-worthy, to add to the blogosphere while I am high in the troposphere. This is the first time that I have been able to enjoy wifi internet on an airplane, and I can tell you right now, it is awesome. Thank you Skynet... I mean Google, for your seemingly charitable contribution of free internet. I hope that when you activate all of our laptops with your secret Google-Signal and they grow legs and little laser-beam-mind-melting-death-rays to enslave humanity, you will remember the kind words I have spread on your behalf. If I see John Connor, I would be happy to report him directly to you.

This experience of in-flight internet just seems too good to be true for a cheapskate, back-row flier like myself. I've never flown first class, never used an in-flight phone, and never purchased any food (since the time I got food poisoning from the fish). So to have instant access to the world of facebook, gmail, and facebook makes me feel like I living in a lap of luxury.

Sadly, my first reaction when I heard about the wifi (which is presented on a bumper sticker "Free Wifi!" on the exterior of the plane next to the entrance bulkhead) was that of relief. I have never been on a flight without thinking, even if just for a fleeting moment, that this might be my last days on earth. But now, if something goes tragically wrong with the plane, I will be able to at least send out a quick email, or maybe a facebook post like "Whelp... I had a good run!" followed shortly by "P.S. better watch out if you live in the Buffalo, NY area". Afterward, I would have a few remaining seconds to friend some random people, so they really freak out when they look my name up the next day.

But that's the alarmist in me speaking. After all, in Malcolm Richard's book "The Tipping Point", he outlines how many checks and balances go into keeping a plane safe. He points out that a total of 7 things need to go wrong for a plane to actually go down. For some people that seems like a lot. I would still feel better if that number were closer to 250, or if the plane were only made out of 6 pieces. "You know we're sitting on four million pounds of fuel, one nuclear weapon and a thing that has 270,000 moving parts built by the lowest bidder. Makes you feel good, doesn't it? "

Happy Holidays everyone. Travel safely, and keep an eye on your laptops...

Feel like you missed a reference or two? Stop having such a productive life and watch more movies. Most notably: Terminator, Transformers, Airplane!, Armageddon

2010-12-16T05:41:00.001-08:00

While I think that Ethan and Joel Coen swung and missed on their last venture "A Serious Man", it looks like they are back on track with "Tru Grit". I think they took a step backwards into the realm of the Josh Brolin/western/all-around-bad-ass aura that won them an Oscar. If there are two things that the Coen brother's can do well, they are rural-set films (No Country, O' Brother), and Jeff Bridges (Lebowski, Hyundai commercials).

Just like I don't usually want to read the book before I see a movie, because it ruins the experience, I don't think I want to watch the original "True Grit" first. Actually, after watching the trailer, I don't think I ever want to see the original.

Cram Session

2010-12-08T11:29:00.000-08:00

Arduous, vexed, spent

Organic Chemistry: hard

Haiku's are easy

Racing

2010-12-02T10:11:00.000-08:00

Ski racing isn't what it once was for me. In the past, I would spend countless hours of my spring summer and fall training: running, rollerskiing, and weight lifting. Actually the hours weren't countless, they were in fact very counted. And not only were they counted, but they were categorized, organized and analyzed. Did I do enough intervals this year? How much of my distance training was done above a heart rate of 160 BPM?

Now, however, ski training is something that happens when I get too antsy to sit still on front of a book or computer. In fact, I wouldn't even call it "training", but more of an attempt not to lose every ounce of general fitness that I once possessed.

I was looking forward to starting off this year's racing schedule off with a nice little 6K. Hardly a race, it's more aptly labeled a time-trial. So when I lined up at the starting line with about 6 other skiers, I was content in knowing that we could cruise through the race at a very reasonable pace, and I could successfully hide how truly out of shape I am.

That idea, went straight to hell when I realized that one of the six skiers has ACTUALLY BEEN TRAINING! I know, right? In a situation like that, the only reasonable thing to do is let the faster skier move ahead and realize that it doesn't make sense to kill yourself on what is essentially the first hard workout of the year.

Well, "reason" and I sat down together a long time ago and amicable agreed to never set foot in the same room. So I had no choice but to make my poor legs and lungs follow this far better trained athlete for as...long...as...I...possibly...could... (spoken in a gritty voice through clenched teeth).

No "citizen racer" is going to beat me! I said to my self, in scolding tone. Sadly, it took me until lap 4 of 4 to realize that I am now a "citizen racer" as well. And as I glided past the finish line in 2nd place, bent over my knees like I was just hit in the chest by a sledge hammer, reality struck me. It hit me pretty hard too, because I was in the lodge for 20 minutes after that with my head on my arms at the table, trying with ever ounce of my body, not to die of self-inflicted injuries.

I can just see "reason" laughing over there in the corner (in a different room). And reason keeps telling me not to go back next week...

Testing. Testing 1-2

2010-11-30T21:46:00.000-08:00

It's been a long while since I posted on this ol' thing. I'm not sure what's making me sit down and start typing again. Maybe it's the countless hours the left side of my brain has monopolized my thoughts with physics, ochem, and biology. Maybe it's the topsy-turvy schedule of shift work at the hospital. Or, maybe, just maybe, this is the last gasping, dying breath from the right side of my brain before it atrophies, emulsifies, and then drains out of my ear during some final cram session at 3AM. Whatever the reason, it feels good to string together some sentences that aren't work-related. Also, if you aren't following the whole "right vs. left" side of the brain theme, please watch the entertaining and informative anatomy lesson by The Dream (below).

It does seem, however, that I might run into problems with blogging again. Whereas before I was working slow, tedious, sanity-questioning hours at a bank, I am now pleasantly happy with my employment. I also am fairly content with my classes, and living situation. I can't rely on my new "content life" musings to match up against my caffeine-binge blog entries of maniacal gonzo-ism from yesteryear. Where Hunter S. Thompson had his LSD, mescaline, and acid, I was armed with 2 gallons of freshly consumed free bank coffee and the prospect of not needing to budge a cranial neuron for the next six hours (this totally explains why HAL went insane "I'm sorry Dave, but I cannot deposit that").

Aaaaanywho. Here's to hoping that I can get this blog back up and running, maybe even get the traffic back up to it's glory days (12 hits/day!). Now go ahead and watch the aforementioned "The Dream" video below. The Dream may be a huge tool, but he can put out some great babymakin' music, that's for sure.

Video Update

2010-04-19T06:49:00.000-07:00

Part I:

part II:

Part III: And The Shoes Fit So Well That I Pulled a Forest Gump

2010-02-18T20:12:00.001-08:00

Or at least that's a really good excuse for not posting a blog in God-knows how long. Actually it's really easy to see how long. About 4 months. Yikes.

Truthfully, I have been disposed of for the past six months. It's actually a long story. But it's an amazing story. Full of wonder, excitement, thrills, laughter, sadness, and a little bit of nausea. Some would even call it epic. But it isn't for the faint of heart, so read on at your own risk:

It all started back in September...

I was what you would call a 'returning student'. After graduating St. Olaf in '06 and receiving a perfectly functional diploma and a perfectly adequate degree, with a perfectly sizable student loan, I decided, out of the blue mind you, that I needed more. There was something missing. Economics had grown stale with the economy, and solipsism reeked in the ranks of those who utilized it. I wanted concrete answers, not just theories and probabilities and graphical interpretations. So I turned to science.

Science, it seemed, was the only refuge from the calamity. So, with great purpose and fervor, I registered online at the University of Minnesota to take classes in Biology, Physics and Chemistry. Classes that would sharpen my mind, broaden my horizons, and crush my sense of intellectual confidence. I told Wells Fargo that my experience with them was invaluable, and that I appreciated everything that was done for me, and I hoped that they would not be slighted by my decision to leave. They said whatever. I'm sure I will be missed. I said farewell to my cubicle as I left. Wait... was that my cubicle? Or is that mine over there? Damn, they all look alike. I think this one was mine...

But what of science? Of the great celestial spheres, and the humors of the human body, and the magical forces that pulled the Sun across out sky by a chariot of flaming horses? This was the new direction of my life.

So there I stood, in front of the Tate Hall of Physics. New shoes on my feet, headphones in my ears, and backpack on my... well, on my back. It was time to learn how the world really works. So I summited the marble steps and crossed the precipice. Opening a door that would would lead to the most unexpected and remarkable adventures ever to grace the thoughts of man...

Part II: The Shoes That Were Destined To Fit

2009-10-26T15:23:00.000-07:00

The spiraling staircase could have been likened to the soul-wrenching path down to the mines of Moria. With each new step all thoughts of the world above (and with that, happiness) faded, and the stale, dank air of the deep enveloped us. Without the flame to provide warmth and a semblance of bearing, we would surely have gone insane.

"We have arrived" uttered Havey.
"How can you tell? I can't see anything" I asked. He must have made the trip so many times, his feet knew the way.
"Oh right," The shoe-shaman said, "Here we go." He switched on the lights to his left, and the great cavern lit up with an fluorescent buzz. "Sorry, the lights are out in the stairwell."

He led me in silence through the rows of footwear that seemed to stretch for miles into the vanishing point. We walked by marvels of technology and science that boggled my mind. There was some sort of dry-ice fog coming out of the walls in all directions.

"What about this one?" I asked, as we passed a particularly comfortable looking shoe. As I was about to touch it, the shoe, as if magnetically charged, skidded away from my hand. I again tried to grasp it, only to see it skid off the counter onto the floor. The oracle threw his cloak over the shoe quickly and wrestled it back onto the shelf.

"Do NOT... touch anything" he said, as the skidding sneaker finally seemed to stay in one spot. "Those shoes will bring you nothing but trouble. Only one man has run in those."
"Who?" I asked, "Was it Steve Prefontaine?"
"Huh? No. He used Nikes." the oracle said. "This guy Bob Turner, lives in Maple Grove. Ah, here we are!"

We stopped our trek in front of some non-descript boxes. He paused in deep thought. "What are you, like an eleven, eleven and a half?"
"Yeah."
"Ok," he said, grabbing a box from the bottom."We are done here."
"Should I at least try them on?" To that comment, I received a look that still haunts my dreams. A look that told me nobody questions the oracle.... right or wrong... he is always right.

We took the elevator back upstairs, because the torch ran out, and he was pretty sure the door locked behind us. "Plus" he said, "the eye-patch really messes with my depth perception".

As I paid for the new shoes with my debit card upstairs I couldn't help but feel in safe hands knowing that my shoes, no matter what size they ended up being, would be the best pair of shoes I have ever run in. Because whether the oracle is right or wrong... he is always right.

Shoe-Shopping Part I

2009-10-08T09:38:00.001-07:00

With my knees starting to ache and my soles wearing thin, I knew that the time for new footwear was long past due. Being able to trim my toenails without taking my shoes off was the final indicator of this.So I decided to consult Oracle Havey.

Oracle Havey is the town's mystic shaman of shoe-smithing, and while few can understand his methods and sheer genius, everyone knows that when you need new shoes... you consult the Oracle.

So with a healthy dose of trepidation (and intimidation), I knocked on the 14 foot Oak Doors, adorned with ornate carvings of famous runners, walkers, joggers, and saunterers alike. As I was studying the carvings, the door slowly opened with an ominous groan, and lightning crashed in the sky behind me. Crap, I forgot to roll my windows up. The Oracle stood there in front of me, skin weathered by winds of the road, and shoulders heavy with the knowledge of studying so many training logs. 'Come in' he uttered, and lead me to a seat. As I sat down I noticed that he was wearing an eye patch made of what looked to be the bib of a marathon past. "Grrr." He growled "So you've come for advice."

"I have," I said "and I have brought my old shoes as a sacrifice to you and your Gods." I presented the Oracle with my old tattered running shoes trying to to engage in direct eye contact. It was hard to tell beneath his grizzled and forlorn appearance, but I think I saw him flinch at the sight of the wretched foot accessories. But it may have been illusion on my part, my vanity playing tricks on me (who am I to think anything could surprise the great and powerful Oracle?). He studied them for a few moments, pausing at parts and mumbling to himself in agreement. And then, with a flick of his wrist, cast them into the large fireplace to my right. The flames, which were tepid and small before, erupted into a burst of blue and then orange, sizzling and popping like an alka-seltzer on steroids. The expression on Havey's face grew grim. After a moment of ponderous silence, he spoke.

"This is worse than I thought." He said, "I haven't seen that color from the Great Flame in nearly ten years." I didn't like the sound of that. "But", he added emphatically, "if anyone can help you. I can." It was obvious that whatever the Oracle saw in those flames had rattled him. "Follow me," he instructed.

He lead me to the back of the room where a dark and winding stone staircase plummeted into what appeared to be the bowels of the earth itself. "We are going down into the darkness" - he said, "stay close to me, and under no circumstance, pay any attention to what you see!" I wasn't really sure what that last comment meant, but I agreed to stay close. "Oh, and watch your head, it's a low ceiling." he added.

So with a gasoline-soaked torch he started the decent cautiously into the dank and cold stairwell. I wondered what awaited us in the depths of the shoe store, and what the Oracle's cryptic warning could have meant. But that fear was soon replaced by pain and regret as my head slammed into low-hanging stone ceiling.

To Be Continued...

MTVJams Update

2009-07-20T20:48:00.000-07:00

In case anyone is interested...

To start off, I noticed that Eminem is back. He has a new album entitled Relapse. As someone who was very much into the Eminem scene back in high school, and even through early college, I was curious to see how he had evolved, if at all...

If nothing else, the song is a sophomoric (SAT verbal study-guide word!), overly-emotional tour de Marshal Mathers, showing more symptoms of depression than symptoms of empathy and maturity. And then I remembered my high school experience, and realized this is exactly why I used to like Eminem. It's like David Wooderson said in Dazed and Confused, "That's what I like about Eminem, man. I keep getting older, but he stays the saaaaaame age."

I also saw Rick Ross' new music video. It inspired me to write an onion-like article entitled "Hip-hop Artist Makes Reference to Scarface". And then my second Coors Light washed that motivation away.

And while I realize that writing original music is time-consuming and difficult, hip-hop has taken music borrowing ("sampling") to a whole new level. Of the four songs that I watched on MTVJams, two of them sampled Steam - Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye. TWO!! out of FOUR!! I think that the producers are digging pretty damn deep into the old hit-lists.

I will post the video for one of the songs that uses the Steam song below. Because it is Jay-Z. And this is only included because I want to illustrate how to respectfully and appropriately cover a chorus, so take notes. This video represents that genre of music that I really respect and appreciate, but don't listen to nearly enough; a thoughtful and purposeful vehicle of talent, ideas and emotion. I am suddenly ashamed at the number of T-Pain songs near the top of my iTunes most-played list.

Water Jumpers

2009-07-12T20:34:00.000-07:00

Once thought only to exist in the storied Lake Winnipesaukee near Meredith, NH - another group of lake-maids and lake-men were spotted in Third Crow Wing Lake, in Chamberlain Minnesota.

These unique and fantastic creatures, similar to flying fish, are able to leap clear out of the water and jump onto boats in a single bound.

This footage is the second of it's kind, and is one of the rare moments these creatures strange habits have been captured on film. Let's sit back and enjoy:

The Legacy Of Billy Mays

2009-06-29T21:06:00.000-07:00

Bon voyage to the big infomercial in the sky. Full of ever-sharp knives, non-stick easy-clean utensils, of course, the Big City Slider.

It's, like, so MODERN, you know?

2009-06-15T18:32:00.000-07:00

I'm getting started on 'Summer Mix 2009'. Something that takes research, preparation, and a hours of consideration. Summer 09 will take the place of my not-so-successful 'Spring Mix 2009'. Before that was Winter Mix 2008 (AKA no sun = depressing emo music). I think you can see the pattern developing here.

I must say that The Current is probably where I get most of my songs. And, for the record, I can speak with confidence when I say that the current is VERY hit-or-miss. And before my inbox gets flooded with pro-89.3 listeners, let me just say this: No. I am right.

During the course of any given hour, the current can rattle off a barrage of songs that, in one corner, epitomize the spirit and the evolution of modern music and are a titillating pleasure to listen to, and in the OTHER corner are the songs that are played by the bands that are so off the deep end, that they THINK they are the spirit and evolution of modern music ("was any of that noise made by an actual instrument?" you might say to yourself).

And while I know that you can't have rainbows without the rain. It just seems like sometimes I can't smell the roses without stepping in dog shit. Or something like that. When in Rome, right?

So I'll continue to wade through the current's playlist with the cautious persistence of a sugar-frenzied child during an Easter egg hunt in a minefield, knowing that the longer I listen, the more likely I am to come across a really bad song. Or to explode in Cadbury deliciousness.

Pimp.com

2009-06-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

You can click on the title to hear the first cut of our song.

I was trying to embed a media player in here, but I couldn't figure it out this morning. I'm sure it's something simple, but after a few hours of trial-and-error, I sucked it up and threw in the towel.

And it Can't Be Another 'phobia' Word

2009-06-01T20:14:00.000-07:00

Just completed a recording session tonight with the one-and-only Jason "God Save The Queen" Havey. The man who introduced me to youtube. The legend who swoons ladies with a single Mizzou "y'all". The man who inspired Barack Obama to be black. The icon who orchestrated the merger between Smith & Wesson and Unicef.

Wait. I think that last one was Bill Brasky, but I'm sure that they're related somewhere down the line.

The moral of the story is that we combined forces to bring the sexy back to the recording studio. Heterosexually, of course. And with that sexy, NGP productions, ft. Hay-V, will do something, I'm sure. But for now it's just ambiguously aimed into nowhere, being wasted.

So over the next couple of days, it's all about putting in the time in the studio, and hoping I remember where the 'fix pitch' button is.

And can I get some help over here? Could I get a word that rhymes with agoraphobia?

Seriously. I will give you a writing credit if it makes the final cut.

Life Planning On A Sunday

2009-05-31T14:17:00.000-07:00

I have found that most of the motivated people in my life, have in some way, found inspiration through a mentor. This mentor is someone that they can see themselves being in the next 20 years, or someone who is happy and successful. A doctor, or a manager, or an athlete. And if you have that person in your life, you can follow their footsteps, and if you're very lucky, you might be where they are one day. It's a beacon that lights your way. They are a model unto your system. A method to your daily routine. And I have yet to find such a person.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of people out there who I would like to be. But I don't have that one singular person picked out where I could say, "damn, I'd like to walk around in his size tens."

So I figured that, in order to fix my motivation problem, I first need to address my mentor problem. So I wracked my brain for all of about, thirty seconds, and came up with my top three potential mentors. They are listed in no particular order.

1)Rob Dyrdek: Pro skateboarder, and co-creator of Rob & Big, Fantasy Factory, restaurantier, motelier, and business mogul.

Reason for wanting to be Rob: Made millions skateboarding by age 18, and used those very millions to avoid responsibility... for the rest of his life. If it's not fun or exciting, he doesn't do it.

What's holding me back: Lack of skateboarding talent, care-free outlook on life, and large black bodyguard.

2) Random Boston Taxi-Cab driver: unknown bio information.

Reasons for wanting to be...what's his name: When drunk Ashley asked what's his name if he liked being a taxi-cab driver, he just replied "I have accepted this as my lot in life". Wow. Now that's got to be the most centered, self-aware dude out there. Or he's just terribly depressed. It's hard to tell. But that's what adds to the mystique of...what's his name?

What's holding me back: Citizenship status, and a stable background devoid of strife and civil war.

3) Judd Apatow: Writer/director of Freaks and Geeks, The 40 Year Old Virgin, Knocked-Up, Superbad, and the new genre of 'Bromance' films. Was also roommates with Adam Sandler early in his career.

Reasons for wanting to be Judd: Get paid to write jokes about dudes farting into each other's pillows. Plus he has a hot wife.

What's holding me back: Not crazy about LA. Also, not crazy about the name "Judd".

Uh oh.

2009-05-26T16:20:00.001-07:00

No good can come of this purchase. Only humiliation.

Now I just need a mic stand that's about six feet taller. And I'm ready to record track #2. As Soulja Boy so eloquently put it (in the critically acclaimed 'Turn My Swag On'):

I'm back again,
I know a lot of ya'll thought I wasn't coming back...
Yeeeeea, yeeeea
I had to prove them wrong,
Got back in the studio and came up with another hit
Yeeeeea, yeeeea

Job Retention

2009-05-02T13:33:00.000-07:00

For a sport that is considered by the IOC as a exclusively women's sport, you would be surprised at how seriously men take their softball. And I learned this last week when I was invited by a supervisor at work to fill in for his middle-aged buddy in their mens softball league.

I like to believe that most - if not all - of my decisions in life are calculated and strategic (but let's ignore the quality and fabric of the logic for the time being). So when I was asked to partake in America's female pastime with a bunch of grown Minnesotan men, I internally weighed out the pros and cons.

Pro: I would possibly forge a closer bond with my boss, making it that much harder for him to fire me.

Con: I might commit a game-ending error in the field, prompting my boss to fire me on the spot.

So as I stared into blank space, watching my job inevitably slip away from me, my boss, Imran, prodded again. So I said yes. Because when you can't make up your mind on what you should do, there is always one fall-back question that will break the tie. That question is: Which would make a better story?

So I grabbed my cleats, glove and sweatpants from my house during my lunchbreak and mentally prepared myself to be the punchline of a very good story.

After work, the two of us carpooled down to the softball complex, which, I swear to God, must have hoarded every last dollar of Burnsville's public dollars, and I proceded to get nervous.

Now don't get me wrong - I like playing softball, and I consider myself pretty good at it - but when I saw the guy gettingout of his F350 next to me with a full baseball uniform and THREE bats, I kinda freaked out. I mean THREE BATS? Was he planning on using them all? At once?? He was certainly big enough.

So here I am, wearing sweatpants and soccer cleats, shaking hands with the rest of my team, thanking God that I at least wore the required green shirt so they could tell I was here to play softball. After the brief round of introductions, I took my position and the game started.

And in a manner that sent me reeling back to 4th grade, we all lined up and the manager sent us to our positions - and in a move that was both humiliating and a huge relief, I was chosen for catcher. In slow-pitch. Phew. All I had to do was toss the ball back to the pitcher.

Now I’ve never met Cal Ripken before, but I do know baseball pretty well, and I was starting to get nervous because their shortstop was a dead ringer for him. In fact it looked like everyone on our opposing team had played in the MLB. Cleats, stirrups, chew and all.

So with two outs and a man on 2nd, Cal Ripken steps to the plate cracks one deep right. I stand up and walk in front of the plate to watch the right fielder scoop it up and prepare to throw it back. And as I see him wind up in a manner that would make Johnny Damon jealous, I noticed who he was throwing to. The man on 2nd had just rounded 3rd and was barreling towards home. MY home. And the ball was heading right my way too. Like a goddamn laser.

So , like any good Sportscenter viewer would do, I emulated the move that I have seen so many times. Block the basepath with my left leg and try to catch the ball, and then swing around and take out the runner. And as Andre the Giant came thundering towards me, the ball slapped against my mitt, and I pulled it around and tagged him out, throwing us both into the dirt.

Disaster averted. The score was zero-to-zero and we were now up. Imran came up to me in the dugout right after, with a softball-sized chew in his mouth. Good thing you got him there at the plate, he said. Or else I would have had to fire you. He winked. I had a heart attack.

Garrison! You’re on deck!

A'll Be Bock. Again. From Da Fuutchah

2009-04-22T16:14:00.000-07:00

Ahh so much to talk about. That's what happens when my blogging frequency slows to an undefined number. That's right, a vertical line! Anything divided by zero. And while you're scratching your head about that one, divide THAT number by zero again. Biaaaatch.

And BAM! That's how often I've been blogging recently.

After making the Fishing On The Ice video, it appears that I must have drained the creative aquifer, and the urge to throw something down in blog-form just hasn't manifested itself.

Until now.

First things first. After the much celebrated video release, Kaj and I were chomping at the bit to get going on the follow-up. And not a 'Big Momma's House II' follow up, but more like a Terminator II follow up. T-1000, John Conner, bigger explosions, time-space impossibilities and mega commercial appeal! I even bought some sweet 2002 Air Force 1's to pimp out in the video.

But it turns out that Kaj's eyes were larger than his his finals were important. Or maybe I should say, Kaj's creative reach surpassed his grasp on his pharmaceutical lab coat.

No, I think those are both completely wrong. BUT - the point is that Kaj was OUT due to all-too-practical reasons, and I was unable to summon enough motivation, gumption, elbow grease, and all-around stick-to-it-ive-ness to get past stage one. Stage one happens to be the task of finding a microphone.

So the studio remains silent for the time being - until we muster up some motivation - or come across abundant amounts of free time. Maybe I can devote my time to creating a time machine that will allow me to come back and free up my schedule.

But then... I wouldn't have time to build... time machine...

Fishing On The Ice

2009-03-18T05:41:00.000-07:00

Ever Wonder If You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands?

2009-02-28T09:46:00.001-08:00

My apologies to anyone who has been bored at work recently, and have been in the routine of reading the blog in order to break the monotony. I feel for you. And If i was able to blog at work without being monitored like it was 1984, I would do so.

So recently, I've needed another medium to flex my creative muscles through. My left-brain brawn. And that new medium is a project started by Kaj and myself.

We are writing, performing, recording, editing, and filming a gangster-rap music video. Probably one of the must fun things that I have ever done. And in case you are wondering... no, we aren't taking ourselves seriously (do I ever?). The inspiration was the SNL Digital Short with Andy Samberg and T Pain - On A Boat.

So I have a make-shift studio set up, and we are almost done recording. Here are a couple of pics from the first session. I hope you are as excited about the final cut as we are. I would say that the video should be done in three weeks, or thereabouts.

So now I am going do devote the afternoon to trying to get my voice-filter to create the T Pain effect. So keep it real homies. We be ballin', and so on and so forth.

the inspiration:

A-rod's 'Confession'

2009-02-09T17:12:00.000-08:00

What a D-bag.

He doesn't answer ONE question from Peter Gammons. Why? Because he is:

Lying
Covering his tracks
Too afraid to come clean

Gimme a break. I say give him a congressional hearing, and make him name names.

Also, if the player's union was smart, and wanted to get this steroid era over with, they would release a publication naming EVERY player that has used steroids. The list would be so populated that incurring any punitive measures would be pointless. You can't suspend 3/4 of MLB and have it survive. After the names were released, they would agree to a random new drug-testing policy, and increase the fines for positive testing, and the matter will be closed.

But that's just my opinion.

Riches To Rags

2009-02-08T16:49:00.001-08:00

A really interesting clip of a man who was fired from a very high-paying corporate job, who is now a barista at Starbucks.

To be fair to the viewers though, he is not poor. He has a NYT best-selling memoir about his experiences which is currently being adapted into a Tom Hanks movie. So - he's not exactly living paycheck-to-paycheck.

BUT. He still works at Starbucks, and seems to be pretty happy with it. Goes against conventional thinking, huh?

youtube yousucking mylife away

2009-02-04T18:56:00.000-08:00

You ever just sit there, in front of your computer, paralyzed by the infinite universe of information that lies at your fingertips? Have you ever been completely and thoroughly frozen, not unlike Buridan's ass, numb with the mouse in your right hand?

Welcome to the window of my daily schedule I like to call 'Ollie Unwinding Time'. During daily UOT, there are only a few requirements; I need to be so full from dinner that the thought of movement makes me ill, I need to jam out to my new music downloads, and I need a blanket, because it's freakin cold downstairs. Once those requirements are met - you might as well kiss goodbye to productivity for the rest of the night. Just lean back and let youtube take you away...

After watching Extras season one and two again, I delved a little deeper into some more British humor, which seems to be growing on me. First was Ed Byrne; a wiry, optically challenged Dublinite who, in my humble opinion, is one of the best on-stage story-telling comedians since Seinfeld. I've graduated to the slightly more underground/riske (pronounced "risk-A", but I'm lacking that pretentious french accent mark on my keyboard). So now I've got Eddie Izzard on my playlist - a cross-dressing limey who goes on drug-fueled rants that digress so dangerously that he often has to ask himself out loud 'where he was going with that'. But what Mr. and Mrs. Izzard does have, is a great amiable and charming aura, letting you forgive his on-stage blunders.

For those of you who aren't very interested in the anthropological history of youtube standup comedy clips, this might not be interesting.

So I suppose next time I can talk about the other part of my life right now. REFINANCING!!

I can talk your ear off with amortization tables, current fixed and adjustable rates, origination points, blah, blah, blah, blah...

PHEW! This was the most energy-consuming UOT I have ever taken part of. I even feel a little inkling of motivation brewing deep down inside of me... Maybe I'll balance my checkbook. Maybe I'll do some cleaning.

I'm just so comfortable under this blanket...

Sick!

2009-01-29T17:29:00.001-08:00

I've been pretty sick the past week. Which means:

Wiping snot onto hidden surfaces and inappropriate materials.
Getting down in the dumps mentally (I think the ass-cold weather takes partial credit as well).

re-evaluating existence

questioning the purpose... of everything. Because when you are lacking motivation, there had better be a damn good reason for motivation to exist before you do anything...
other such questions you might ask yourself if you were having a bad acid trip in a mid-level college philosophy class. (these are the things a fever does to me)

3. And not having motivation to write, blog, or shower.

4. A lot of youtube.

And here are a couple of gems I found during the past week or so.

The first one is a fantastic live performance of Arcade Fire and David Bowie. Amazing energy, amazing song.

This second one is pretty self-explanatory...

Where's The Spitoon in Here?

2009-01-17T09:36:00.001-08:00

My recent forays into the bowels of mortgage refinance have unearthed some surprising information. Information that might surprise, shock and titillate you. Information, that in the wrong hands, could prove dangerous, or even deadly. Accounts of events so unbelievable and epic that they make Homer sound like a gossip columnist. Tales of heroes that make Jack Bauer look like Pee Wee Herman.

When someone signs up to do temp work for Wells Fargo, there are certain norms that pop into your mind. With a company that large, with a full-scale PR campaign running through the national UHF airwaves (or through the coaxial cable networks), a certain shade of expectation is cast before actually starting the position.

I am saying this only because I could not have been grosser in my miscalculations. Wells Fargo is not at all what they portray themselves to be on television. Never in my life have I seen such a corporate cover-up.

My first suspicions rose their curious eyes during our initial job training. I needed to go through hours of compliance and bank secrecy information, which is all fine and dandy, but I would rather just get straight to work. Where are the stables?

Also, where are the carriages? And most importantly, why was I the only person wearing proper work attire? Nobody else had on tough high-heel cowboy boots, nor did I see ONE other pair of chaps. How did these poor suckers expect to stay warm and blister-free as we rode across North Dakota? Don't ask me. One woman had a skirt on.

So guess what? And you are NOT going to believe this. Wells Fargo - THE Wells Fargo - is nothing more than a Full Financial Services Company. Not an armored carriage service that runs across the northern Americas. Wow - you wouldn't believe how stupid the instructor looked when I called him out on that one! He couldn't even tell me the last time he knew they had a carriage service. I assume the phone call he made right after our discussion was to ask his superior that same question.

So the next time you watch your muted commercials and see a horse-drawn carriage canter across the high plains, just nod your head in truth, and find comfort that you heard it here first. Wells Fargo is a bank.

And my job is going to be a lot less exciting than I had hoped for.

Winter Sanity

2009-01-12T05:44:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, in the cold and dark northern winter, you need to take extra special efforts in order to keep the spirits up. It's almost as if you need to keep a strict, cohesive schedule - similar to a... power hour?

Huh, that's a good idea. We should do a power hour....

Muffin?

2009-01-10T23:22:00.001-08:00

...But Somebody Has Got To Do It

2009-01-07T13:41:00.000-08:00

The most interesting and captivating clip I have seen in a long time. If you don't like what you do, or you aren't sure what you want to do, watch this.

What I found especially poignant was Rowe's mentioning of a war on work, specifically by Hollywood, which is an idea that I subscribe to. Hollywood is filled with people that, for lack of a better phrase, don't want a real job - I should know, I moved there. So whenever you see someone at work in a movie, it's usually depicted very negatively (Office Space, Joe V. The Volcano, Wanted, or any job out a restaurant). The combination of a good writer and director and a little Hollywood glam can be incredibly alluring. Just don't watch Entourage if you want to achieve any semblance of job satisfaction.

Ok, So I'm A Nerd

2009-01-05T07:45:00.000-08:00

With the maturity of computer-aided graphic design (CGI) about ten years ago, Hollywood finally had the cajones to produce comic book movies that needed a respectable amount of special effects. These movies have been a cash cow in LA for the past ten years, so I thought I would do a little research to see which ones were the best. And for being someone who read comic books back in the day, I was a little surprised to find out how many of these caped-heroes actually translated to decent movies.

Best and Worst Marvel Movies:

Best: Iron Man (2008)

It's OK to have a movie that isn't 100% realistic, but to compensate, it needs to boast creativity, entertainment and wit. It looks like all three of those collided with Iron Man, with Jr. playing Tony Stark to a tee (or is it tea?). Can anyone else FEEL the aura of self-importance exuded by Terrance Howard when they watch him on film?

Worst: Fantastic Four: Rise of The Silver Surfer (2007)

I can only comment on the films that I have seen, and after being forced to sit through this one - I happily declare it the winner. And while I was majorly disappointed in the two former Spiderman flicks, nothing compares to the F4 - a movie reeking of product placement and kitchy gags. But even as I watched, kicking and screaming, I wasn't convinced that it was the worst... until the wedding scene when Stan Lee, playing himself, was bounced at the door for not being on the guest list. Suspension of disbelief? Gone.

Best And Worse DC Movies:

2-Way Tie for Best: Superman (1978) and The Dark Knight (2008)

One was the classic film with Christopher Reeves with a jheri curl, the other is the gritty new-age film that blurs the lines between a a silly comic book and a legitimate and artistic film. No real close-seconds here. Pretty much every DC movie is either Superman or Batman. (This list could be dated as soon as Watchmen arrives in theaters in 2009)

Worst: Batman & Robin (1997)

I haven't seen Swamp Thing 2 yet, but I have seen way too many Batman movies that make me wonder whether their target audience is young boys, or boys town. Enough with the nipples on the armor. Enough with the 'holy rusted metal batman!'. Enough with the 'let's put on tights and tickle each other!'.

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

Don't open that door.... don't do it! AAAHHHH!!!

2009-01-02T11:57:00.000-08:00

It's been a little while, but I've been pretty busy - moving all my stuff from LA, to San Carlos, to Boston, and then to Minneapolis. I should be here for AT LEAST a few months. Just kidding, I can't afford to move again for a little while.

After a complete blow-out party at our house for NYE, a bunch of us staggered over to the Riverview Theater to see 'Let The Right One In' at 11:00 PM last night.

And despite the fact that I was dead tired, the movie was starting late, and it paced at near Benjamin Button-speed... I loved it. A Swedish love story between two twelve-year olds, where one was a vampire. And it turned out to be one of my favorite Vampire movies ever.

So.

I decided to start a 'Best Of' list. It may end here, or it may catch on and move onto different categories. We'll just have to see how long my motivation lasts.

Best Vampire Movie:
'Let The Right One In'

While up against the heavy-hitting Nosferatu, and Bram Stroker's, the Swedish version was raw and creepy - and creates suspense based upon what you can't see, not with CGI and 'cheap surprises'. Awesome Vampire movie award is a tie between Blade, and Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter.

Best Werewolf Movie:
'Teen Wolf'

I've only seen about ten minutes of this movie, and it was the scene where MJ Fox was a high school werewolf doing back-flips on the basketball court and slamming some hard-core dunks. Michael J. Fox dunking!! Apparently wolves are good at basketball. Underworld is the only other decent werewolf movie I have seen.

Best Ghost Movie:
'The 6th Sense'

This category is far more saturated than the other two, with the strongest runner-ups being Ghostbusters and The Shining. In 'Sense', writer/director M. Night Shyamalan peaked too early in his career - and has been since given free reign to pump out whatever he wants into the theaters. And for those of you who saw this with me in theater, and insist constantly that I didn't understand the ending... I hate you.

Conpsiracy Theorist

2008-12-15T21:16:00.001-08:00

In Santa Monica, my roommate Tassa would often watch CNN. And during the eve of the election, he would, more often then not, get worked up about what he was watching. Here is a snippet of a completely run-of-the-mill conversation that might have conspired in our living room:

Tassa: You ever wonder about Palin? I mean REALLY WONDER about Palin, bru?

Ollie: In what way.

Tassa: I mean like, look at this woman, this woman who supposedly was picked at random to be in this presidential campaign...

Ollie: Well it wasn't random, I mean, there are a lot of decisions that went-

Tassa: No, but I mean how in the world could they have found someone way up in bum-f@ck Alaska! I mean if you really THINK about it bru... there's something else there. Something else BEHIND the curtains.

Ollie: O.K.

Tassa: You see what I'm saying - I mean I watch this 'woman' on TV all the time and there's something in her smile that -YOU know what I'm talking about.

Ollie: I think you're going to have to spell it out for me.

Tassa: Bru, you can't tell me that you don't think Palin has been part of some nefarious deeds. Deeds that may have brought her to her place right now. Next to that wrinkly old man. I'm talking blackmail.

Ollie: Oh, so Palin blackmailed McCain for that position.

Tassa: Yeah, or, you know something like that. I just have this feeling in my gut bru, you know, whenever she gives that f@cking little wink of hers, that wink that makes me want to kill someone. You just know that she's done something to get there.

Ollie: Can't really say that I've thought about that... but... yeah, you never know I guess.

Tassa: But can't you see that?

Ollie: I don't like her wink, I guess.

Tassa: Exactly. And have you ever wondered WHY?

Ollie: It's condescending.

Tassa: No, it's the wink of a conspirator. She's doing it just to piss off McCain.

Ollie: I don't think I can agree with that.

Tassa: I'm telling you bru, that's what it is. I've got this GUT instinct. I just FEEL it. Just you see, in fifty or sixty years, it's all going to come out. I'm telling you. I'm TELLING you.

Ollie: Yeah, we'll see I guess.

Tassa: Oh man. What a bitch.

Owens: Romo Took My Last Diet Coke

2008-12-11T19:48:00.000-08:00

DALLAS, Texas - In a recent press conference, famously outspoken NFL wide-receiver Terrell Owens parlayed his displeasure with yet another Dallas Cowboy. Owens claims that the Cowboy quarterback, Tony Romo took the last Diet Coke in the team cooler when "it was obvious that it belonged to [Owens]".

"T.O. always leaves a Diet Coke in the fridge for when T.O. gets thirsty! And Romo knows that!" Exclaimed Owens, who was wearing a fur coat at the privately-held meeting with the press in Dallas. "I thought Romo was my boy, but it's hard for me to ignore this level of person aggression. There is no respect for T.O. and what T.O. brings to this team."

Coach Wade Phillips responded via text message to our network giving an official response from the incident.

"well, terell is a spcl man. if he wnts a D.C. then, i believe that i should ask jerry jones about that. i think that terell has a valid point and next week we will make sure to have more of his favorite beverage. thnx for asking my opinion. do you want to be my friend?"

The seemingly inconsolable Owens harped further on the latest incidence after the initial volley of questions.

"I mean I even said yesterday - I really like Diet Coke, don't you Tony? I specifically remember saying that to him. And he nodded. No respect man."

Romo was found for comment studying film for the upcoming game against New York.

"Why would I take his stupid soda? I hate Diet Coke."

Romo then leaned in as if to imply secrecy,

"unless, of course, I did it just to fuel that paranoid, loud-mouthed, complaining, 8-year old head of his."

The Dallas quarterback smirked, and then went back to studying receiving patterns that don't involve wide-receivers.

This incidence has been the latest issue with Owens, with his previous grievances aimed at other players, the head coach Wade Phillips, and other quarterbacks in the league. Most famous, was his tiff with Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb, where Owens claimed that McNabb kept shaving off small layers from the bottom of his 'pimp cane' until it became too small to use.

That's All She Wrote

2008-12-04T21:31:00.001-08:00

Have you ever experienced a sitcom-induced paradigm shift? No. That's probably a good thing.

But something happened to me that's never happened before when I was watching the new Office this week. I got bored. For those of you who know me (as opposed to everyone else who reads this), you could say that I am a 'fan' of the show. A fan only in the sense that I own all the DVDs, have seen all the extra footage, written two spec episodes myself, and plan on naming my first born Dwight.

But, along with my disenchantment of the LA entertainment industry, comes a breakdown of my interest in all of it's progeny. There are outcasts, of course, but they are rare, and only emerge as happenstance and a stroke of genuine luck. Most new shows and projects are only green lit with one requisite: that they will garner ratings - which in turn gets advertising dollars.

Because it's hard (for any show!) to have a successful first season, the powers that be have started a growing trend. Borrow something else that is already proven to be successful in another country. American Idol, The Weakest Link, The Office, Kath & Kim are just a few, but there are many more.

The point is that the big networks are businesses, not artistic studios. And for that reason, and the reason that money is what makes the cogs turn - artistic integrity has fallen off the map.

So as I am watching Steve Carell, Jenna Fischer, and John Krasinski go through the motions, just waiting for their much anticipated 100th episode that will put them into syndication - I just can't help being reminded that the show has lost so much of what made it a hit.

The raw, realistic, mockumentary humor is all but lost this season as characters fall back time and time again on catch-phrases, over-the-top gags, and misplaced humor. By misplaced, I mean when Andy stepped in the manure in Dwight's kitchen. It was funny, I laughed, but it proves my point that they are borrowing out of other comedy playbooks just to get some yuks. It wasn't true to the show bible. It was something out of Airplane!, Hot Shots, or Naked Gun.

What made The Office so good was the slightly hopeful, but awkward tension of Jim and Pam, the new guy Ryan, the pathetic boss who just needed friends, and the nerdy sales rep who reminds everyone of someone they know. So my original captivation by The Office has worn so thin that it is now gone. And maybe, *sniff*, maybe, I'll learn to love again.

Until then I am going to live in the fairy-tale BBC/Ricky Gervais world where all things have a beginning and ending, and shows only last two season... and end because the story was finished, not because they ran out of money or episode ideas.

Wanted.

2008-12-03T22:52:00.000-08:00

I can't really think of anything very interesting to write tonight, partially because I'm tired, but mostly because I just watched Wanted on DVD and I feel like I need to take some sort of deep-cleansing procedure to purge myself of the experience.

First of all, did anyone see how many parallels there were to the Matrix in there? The faster-than-normal mode. The boring desk job. The hot girl in leather who recruits the nerd. The venerable black actor playng the leader. The role of destiny, and the ridiculous search for identity. EVEN the shit that little Mr. Atonement was wearing while he was 'training' was straight out of the Matrix.

Despite the glaring intellectual copyright infractions, and the complete and steadfast adherence to the textbook 'epic action/adventure movie' plot - it was really really bad. If you disagree with me, I'm sorry. You are wrong.

But not me! A movie is supposed to be entertaining! And I was entertained, so I liked it!

No. Just shut up. There was a magical loom that printed the future in a non-G-Rated movie. Enough said. Who should we kill? Lets check the Persian in the living room.

My heart beats 400 times per minute, could I be an assassin?

No. You are a cardiac timebomb. Fill out your will immediately. And do not get behind the wheel of a car.

But you get to see Angelina Jolie's butt in the movie!

Get the internet. You can see a lot more than that.

So please don't see it. Please. And if you do - then watch it with friends so you can make fun of it. Otherwise it breaks down the very fabric of my respect and hope for mankind.

Phew. Man, I love bitching about movies.

Gainfully Employed

2008-12-02T17:10:00.000-08:00

I'm completely exhausted after my second day of shoveling dirt. It's been the first actual job that I have had in the past... six months. Wow, that's kind of embarrassing. I'm not including, of course, writing car reviews, or my chop-shop career that lasted 1.5 days.

So here I am, in San Carlos, CA - up by San Fransisco - staying with my aunt and doing manual labor down the street on some millionaire's estate. His back yard is a multi-level, terraced menagerie of gardens, decks, walking paths and outdoor furniture that wraps around the house (and the second house right behind it) and hugs the creek that defines the back of his property.

So while he is inside his second house, bustling about on the phone, running off to meetings and no-doubt raking in tons of money, Eddie and I are out back shoveling dirt. Literally, we are just moving dirt from one spot to another.

Having a complex and ornate backyard is great for aesthetics, and maybe fancy-shmancy dinner parties, but, man, it's a bitch to get around with a wheel-barrow. Its a rigmarole of ramps, sharp curves, and tight passages from the back (where the dirt is coming from) to the front (where the dirt is going). Eddie told me that he has moved this dirt three, maybe four times already. Back and forth, back and forth. Depending on the project.

I told him that moving dirt sucks, especially now that we were hitting the muddy clay near the creek, and he agreed, but said 'Hey, at least it's work.' I made a mental note not to tell him that I've been unemployed for the past half-year. But I would personally shoot somebody, without remorse, for making me move dirt that many times.

FUN FACT: Sometimes Eddie and I will be shovelling the same chunk of dirt and, near the end, our shovels - after getting close and closer - will clank. It's kind of like the Lady And The Tramp, except Eddie is a 40 year old Mexican, and there's no Italian music.

Time to rest the ol' back, go into comatose-mode for the night, and hope the ibuprofen will get me over the hump tomorrow. And maybe pack a gun in case the millionaire starts to get second thoughts about his dirt placement.

Overdue

2008-11-12T21:02:00.000-08:00

I've been putting off editing this footage for a while - just waiting for the right song to come along I guess. Who would have thought that I would hear it in a Gears of War 2 commercial...

Eastward Bound from Oliver Garrison on Vimeo.

Temporary Blogging Hiatus...

2008-11-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

Wahoo!

2008-11-04T22:29:00.000-08:00

What an amazing night. Despite the fact that I am sick, huddled up with four layers on the couch, watching TV, having driven to two different polling stations today, having spent 3.5 hours in line waiting to vote, and still unemployed in Santa Monica- I watched tonight's events unfold like a Hollywood plot.

I have NEVER been moved to tears before, watching CNN - maybe bored to tears - but never touched (let's say 'misty-eyed', for the sake of preserving some semblance of manhood). Sure, it could have been the cold, the crazy South African jumping and cheering next to me, or maybe the vodka tonics, but I was moved by three things tonight.

1) McCain's speech. It was honest, respectable, and a complete 180 from the way he has been running his campaign. It was the most maverick thing he has done in a long time, and I commend him for his class.

2) Obama's acceptance speech. Man, that guy can give a speech. I would paraphrase it, but I would be doing it an injustice.

and mostly, above all things,

3) The rise from the political sleaze-smog that had seemingly engulfed our country. Suddenly, because of what has happened in the past decade, and perhaps even long before then, politics seems to be real again. The issues aren't tainted through the Rove-like politicking and demographic hunting that was the growing trend, but suddenly things are much clearer.
Tonight everyone from the news anchors, from Brit Hume, to Roland Martin, and both McCain and Obama actually said REAL things. They spoke like real human beings, not marketing androids. It was quite refreshing.

And for me, and I assume most other Americans, it's what I've been waiting for - for a long time.

Vitamin D And The BBB

2008-11-02T14:24:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of reasons that I am out here in LA right now. Specifically, the main reason is to pursue writing, through taking classes at UCLA. But also, living here lets me see what it would be like to live in LA if I were somehow successful in breaking into the TV ranks. The biggest plus so far: sunshine.

I mean, unmitigated, all-day, pure UV goodness, warming your face every time you walk outside. It's great. Score 1 for LA.

But I did have an experience on Friday that left a very sour taste in my mouth. I've been trying to get a job for about a month now, so I jumped at the opportunity to answer phone calls at a job recruiting firm right down the street from me. It was perfect - get up early, answer some phone calls, and head out by 3PM - done for the day.

The pay was pure commission, comprised of two possible sales: $5-6 if you get them to register for $33.95, and another $10 if you get them to accept a promotional sales booklet that they could return for a refund if they didn't like it. It was easy. In my first three hours I made about $50, so I was pretty psyched that I found a job that was pretty easy and paid enough for me to pay the bills and have some breathing room (something I have not had for a long time).

On Friday, I was talking to a nurse from North Carolina on the phone who was very wary of paying to register for our service. She kept asking for things like placement percentages and placement guarantees - things that I was told by coworkers to skirt around and avoid. So I did. My boss wasn't in the office at the time, and I told her I would call her back Monday after I spoke to him so that I could give her a better idea of our placement numbers. After I took down her information, I turned around in my chair and asked another sales guy what our placement number actually are, ballpark.

He looked at me like I was from Mars. "What do you mean?"

I was kind of frustrated, I thought I made my question quite clear.
"I mean - how many people that we register actually get jobs?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, 0%, 1%? Nobody. We don't do that." I kind of stared at him for a second to try to understand what he was saying. "Do you see anybody here making phone calls to companies right now?"

I didn't. And I guess I never really thought that the four people in the office answering phone calls WAS the whole company. There was no back end. It was all register-register-register. And then once we got these people signed up, there was no follow-through.

It took me a couple of seconds to realize what was going on. I guess something inside me never really even considered that the company was illegitimate. My phone starts ringing again. More callers. I answered the phone three more times that day, and each time I pushed for them to use our free service site, and didn't try to upsell anyone. All I could think about were the people I had spoken to before that were telling me their story about just being laid off after 30 years at a Ford Company, or the people who had to check their bank account before they gave me their card info, just to make sure they had enough money.

What this company is doing, is preying on the most helpless, last-resort type of people that they can find. It's unforgivable. So I left that afternoon. Unemployed again. Looking for work again. But at least I can go to sleep at night.

I did some research on the company when I got home, and it appears that it very hard to cancel the service, or to return the 'sales course' packet and get a refund.

www.americansalesnetwork.com

Blech. -1 for LA. I need to go outside and get some sun and maybe I'll feel better.

Boston Challenges The Phillies To A 'Pick-up' Game

2008-10-29T20:52:00.000-07:00

BOSTON (AP) - Unofficial clubhouse spokesman of the Boston Red Sox - Jason Varitek, reportedly contacted at least ten separate members of the Word Series Champion Philadelphia Phillies last night. Varitek left multiple voice mails and text messages challenging them to a pick-up game. Any time, any place.

"It wasn't so much of a challenge," Varitek said "as much as, just kind of a fun game - you know - just to see who wins." The team captain already had his catchers chest-protector and signature eye-black on, and was really hoping "to get in some [ball] before spring training."

Teammate Dustin Pedroia shared his captain's sentiments. "OK, I know we lost to the Rays in the ALCS, but, I just kind of want to know if we could have won."

The second baseman made it clear that he was happy for both Tampa Bay and Philadelphia for making it to the World Series, but thought "[It] would be cool to at least see if we could have won, you know, if we beat the Rays." To which Pedroia pounded his fist into his glove and shouted "Common Phils! Best of seven!"

While no other teammates have stepped up verbally and joined in the challenge, team rookie and shortstop Jed Lowrie reported that he could play if they "needed someone at short," and if he could "[Get] a ride with Dustin."

Red Sox manager Terry Francona, the skipper than lead the team to two championships in the past four years, brushed off the comments made by Varitek with a frustrated laugh. "Tek does this every year" Francona said. "You should have seen him when Chicago knocked us out in 2005. Ozzie Guillen had to change his phone number."

Some say that Veritek, and now Pedroia, just have a problem with losing, but they see it another way.

"No, you don't understand, we just want to see if we could have won." Pedroia remarked "We know we lost, we get it, whatever, season's over. But common, I just know we can beat the Phillies. Just one game. Common man!"

Say Hi To Your Motha

2008-10-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

Fantasy Picks For My Fantasy Life

2008-10-28T10:14:00.000-07:00

If you've been watching Entourage recently, you'll have noticed that they've started to use a song in the last two minutes more prominently and consistently than before. It reminds me of Lost, when Lost was good. Nothing says 'let's make something kind of sad that doesn't have to be' like a sappy sentimental montage at the end of each episode. But I'm kind of sappy - so I like it.

Episode 1 this season was concluded by Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead. An emo favorite, and not surprisingly, number 7 on my top 25 most played iTunes songs. When it started playing I got all excited - I know this song! My roommate looked at me like an idiot when I hummed along getting all weepy. Oh Ari, don't leave your job! Vince needs you - as both an agent and a friend!!

Anyway, this past weeks episode was concluded by another favorite song of mine, Change -Blind Melon. Except this song is far less famous. Get out of my head! Not only do I like both of these songs a lot, but I have the acoustic versions as well.

Now this got me thinking. If these two songs were played already, what's the song for next week? Both share the emo soulful wailing type music, with guitar. So - without further ado , I present you with my Week 3 Picks for Entourage Closing Song. think of it like fantasy football.

Week 3 Picks:

1) Lost? - Coldplay: Notice the question mark, not the exclamation point. Two different songs.

2) Where Is My Mind - Yoav : A great cover - but maybe a little too trippy...

3) Cold Desert - Kings Of Leon: Don't have their new album? Download it illegally immediately.

I'll leave it at three guesses for right now. If you want in on some of this action, leave your guesses as a comment below...

2.0

2008-10-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

There's a very bizarre twist coming to light that intertwines two seemingly opposite social forces: the internet and reality.

That sentence took me five minutes to write - Jesus. If you understood it, hats off to you, because I'm not sure I do.

What I am trying to say, is that isolation is the new congregation. Going into your room is like going out.

Because of Web 2.0 and all that the buzz word might entail, internet social networking provides seemingly more contact than real life ever could. More and more people are spending time talking these days, chatting on IM, seeing photo albums on facebook - allowing one person to contact friends from all parts of the globe - simultaneously.

Suddenly leaving home these days isn't really leaving home as long as you have a computer. You have your virtual home right on your lap. People, finances, information, entertainment all one mouse-click away.

I find myself spending more and more time on the computer - and for the strangest reason ever: I want to stay connected with other people. If I'm lonely I can see who is on gChat, or read a friend's blog. Maybe peruse facebook and see what people are up to, who is in what relationship and what events people are attending. You can even play fantasy sports. It makes me feel - in a limited way - involved.

The issue that I am now starting to understand, is that Web 2.0 is creating Society 2.0.

Society 2.0 is a society where face-to-face encounters are more rare, where personal connection comes second to texting, IM-ing and emails. Where - like it or not - you're online avatar is the new face of your real self. And I don't mean a literal avatar from Second Life or Sims, I mean the compilation of traits built through facebook, blogs, myspace, texting, iLike, your iTunes library, and any other information you share online.

The great thing about this system is that it provides for greater connection and communication throughout the globe - throughout friends, families, businesses and everyone else who can turn on a computer.

What scares me, though, is what Society 2.0 leaves out. How much can really be communicated through the complex relays of ones and zeros? How much is lost in translation? I honestly don't know. What I do know is that there is an inherent gush of resignation when I sit down at my computer sometimes - only to be sated with this dreaded Web 2.0. At times it feels like I am just sucking on a fake Nicorette inhaler that doesn't quite do it.

Position Opening: Assistant to Mailroom Bitch

2008-10-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

We are looking for a bright, do-it-yourself, go-getter to act as a personal assistant to our mailroom bitch. We are a A-list talent and literary agency located smugly in Beverly Hills, serving many high-profile film and TV clients.

Our Mailroom Bitch Assistant must have immaculate references, attended an Ivy League school, have intimate knowledge of postal codes, superior phone skills, eleven fingers, and 10-12 years of industry experience (writing or directing in a major motion picture is a plus!).

You must also have tough skin, two reliable cars (in case one breaks down), a helicopter piloting license, and the ability to alphabetize letters and correspondance.

Please do not waste our (or your) time by sending a resume if you do not meet ALL of our requirements! Do NOT call us. Do NOT email us. We have NO fax machine. Your resume should show up mysteriously without us ever seeing you. Good luck.

Sal. $21-22k

O for Vendetta

2008-10-22T08:58:00.000-07:00

I had the chance last week to sit down with the one and only Barack Obama. I am a person who has to see to believe - to really delve into conversation before I can start to know someone - and my press credentials were the golden ticket.

After the string of debates and increasingly pointed attack ads, I wanted to ask some tough questions. I wanted to get to the bottom of what drove this man. Who is the real Barack Obama?
He obliged to meet me for a one-on-one, but only if I brought a signed copy of my book. I told him that I've never been published. He nodded solemly.

"Remember remember the 4th of November" Obama said, seemingly out of nowhere.

"As in, don't forget to vote?"

"Not only that, but what it stands for." He slyly added "You must be wondering who I am."

"Absolutely not" I said, but he introduced himself anyway-

"By the voracious nature of our virulent and violent government, a very volatile situation has created verily a vengeful vicissitude of verbiage. Vast is the veteran vermins ignorance in voreign policy. But you can call me --- O"

"Did you say voreign policy?" I asked - but he shushed me with his index finger to my lips.

"What is your name, my son?"

"Ollie"

"Do you believe in coincidences Ollie?"

"Oh because of the 'O' thing? Umm, not really. I'm guessing you've probably been interview by a lot of peo-"

"Neither do I, Wolly." Obama said casting a slow sidelong gaze to his left. "But tell me this - are you prepared to die for your country? To live without fear!?"

"The second part sounds alright I suppose."

Obama then stood up, pulling a cape over his a suit and tie. He touched me kind of awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Remember Wolly -"

"Ollie"

"Ollie. Remember remember Ollie - the 4th of November." And with a swish of a Blackberry he was gone.

I looked down at the table we were sitting at to see a knife pinning down a small piece of paper. It was a voter registration form with the letter 'O' dashed across it with a Sharpie. I looked at my watch. Wait a second! That guy still owes me twenty minutes of face-time!

Major League Conclusions

2008-10-20T15:45:00.000-07:00

Sunday marked the end of another storied MLB season. It's wrapped up now; the players head to Florida, Arizona and the Dominican to get in a good tan and gain 20-30 lbs for spring training (Prince Fielder is an exception, with the addition of 30 lbs. causing his stomach to cover the entire strike zone). The grounds crew at the stadiums are looking for seasonal jobs in landscaping or snow-removal. Yep, it's in the books. Finito.

Well - except for the World Series. They still haven't played that yet, I guess. Whatever. OK, so two teams are still playing, but whatever. Its over for all of the cool teams. Angels? Out. Mets? Out. Red Sox? (arggg) Out. A's? Out. I mean, the season's done! Twins? Out.
Oh who am I kidding, the Twins aren't cool.

The Twins are respectfully proficient, but the coolness factor is seriously lacking. I'm pretty sure the players parking lot is full of Silverados with tackle boxes in the back (Joe Mauer), and crappy cars with college bumper stickers on them from rookies who still haven't signed a contract (don't worry, when contract time comes, you'll get shipped off somewhere else!). The Twins are like that guy who shows up to the swanky party, and keeps asking the catering staff if the hors devours are free, and then getting really excited cause it totally saves them from buying dinner that night. I have to like the Twins though, not only because I lived in the great state of Minnesota for six years, but also because that guy I just described at a party is, in fact, me. Whaddup tangent!

OK, OK, the season isn't REALLY finished. so if you really NEED to watch baseball, you can tune into the World Series where the Phillies are playing the 2012 Red Sox/Yankees/Mets starting lineup. Hope you enjoy.

If we learned anything about this season, it's... it's... it's - don't leave your last, clenching, air-gasping, chance of survival in the hands Jed Lowrie.

Oh, and the Angels have no heart.
The Cubs fold like a house of cards at the prospect of winning something.
The Yankees aren't as good when they don't throw money around willy-nilly. That's right, I said 'willy-nilly'.
I really feel bad for Baltimore fans.
The Giants are suffering from the curse of the Balco.
The Royals will always be that little team that can't.
The NL West has a secret $10,000,000 side-bet of who can have the worst record.
Finishing last for 10 straight seasons to compile a starting lineup solely comprised of #1 draft picks suddenly looks like a good idea.

'We're Just Plain Better' Says Europe

2008-10-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

London (Reuters) - In an international survey conducted during the 2008 United States Presidential Election cycle, many European denizens found themselves not only siding with the Democratic Obama-Biden ticket, but scoffing in general at the people, government, education, and pretty much everything else in the States. Conducted in not only mainland Europe, but also Scandinavia, Russia, and the United Kingdom, the independent polling organization found what some are calling "startling results".

Of all the countries polled, scoffing was the highest is France and England, with levels tapering off in Lichtenstein and Switzerland. Many in England used the free-form poll as a way to express their feelings not only towards he election candidates, but also towards the country itself.

"I hate to be rude, I really do, but Americans are just not well educated" states Liverpool native Donald Hughes, a senior-level VP at a local Microsoft engineering branch. "Most people in America couldn't even tell you who won last year's Premier League Championship." Hughes, with a doctorate in computer science from the University of London, has repeatedly applied for a California-based upper-level Microsoft position to no avail. "I try as hard as I can to simplify my resume for them, but maybe I'm not dumb-ing it down enough." Similar sentiments were voiced in France.

"All they do is stereotype us," says Pierre LeJaques, a baker and wine connoisseur, taking a slow and passionate pull from his cigarette. "It is not le-fair," Pierre then went on to fill out half of the survey and then walked away in apathy to put in hit comedy DVD Dodgeball starring Ben Stiller.

The Nordic countries seemed to focus more of their attention on the political questions. Jens Larson of Tromso, Norway seemed to be unimpressed by Sarah Palin's qualifications.

"Alaska's kind of cold, I guess. But I don't think she can use that for bragging rights." Larson noted, through his multi-level anorak while wearing a headlamp. "To think that she would be one heartbeat away from the presidency of the most powerful, and cocky country in the world is frightening. What we need to do is to get the Americans on the right track, and get them educated, and then maybe us Europeans might be able to stand the sight of them," concluded Larson, before shooing out the reporter and taking his family to lunch at McDonalds.

It seems that the anti-American sentiment still runs strong in the blurry, inconsequential 'rest of the world', and with a new leader eminent on November 4th, there is a lingering doubt as to whether those fat, uneducated, loud, obnoxious and egocentric prudes can even be saved at this point.

Oy'd Loyk to sweep yo chimn-eye!!

2008-10-15T15:05:00.000-07:00

I used to be a huge David Letterman fan. I really did. And now, I just feel like if I met him, he would be a huge dick. Apologies for the imagery. Maybe he is just too grumpy, or maybe it's the way he always casually dismisses his guest's responses, or maybe it's the way that he is clearly always waiting to get to the next question. Each interview I watch on the Tonight show seems rushed, the banter is limited to a strict format, and even when Letterman laughs, the smile never lingers.

Maybe I've just seen him on bad nights, or maybe I'm just a bigoted Conan fan. My style of humor is exactly whatever Conan seems to do. A clever, self-depreciatingly endearing personality that, when jokes fail, pulls out a Cockney accent and does a chimney-sweep impression. Never fails.

As long as I'm listing off talk show hosts I don't like, I should probably mention:

Carson Daly (fabricated out of thin-air by the marketing department at MTV)
Doctor Phil (thinks he could take a shit on the couch, and that shit would be a better parent than you)
Tyra Banks (actually dumber than Doctor Phil's piece of shit)
Howard Stern (not only embodying, but encouraging everything that is wrong with this country. *NOTE: he does get points for sheer honesty)
Anything that Craig Kilbourn or Bob Sagat has ever, and will ever do. I can't begin to explain how much I don't like these two people.
Jim Rome (If that's the way he talks all the time, I think he must get punched in the face a lot. *NOTE: extra points for vigorous Just-For-Men beard application)

So-So hosts:

Craig Ferguson (funny accent, decent delivery, but there's...something...not quit right about him)
That's it I guess

Good Hosts:

Jay Leno (The one-liners are so old-school they come across as endearing and nostalgiac, but can still get some laughs)
Letterman (I said I didn't like him, but the program still has great guests, and Paul Shaffer entertainingly reminds me of albino mole playing the keyboard)
Jimmy Kimmel (I mean Jimmy's funny, but he's almost too laid back.)

Great Hosts

Conan O'Brien (You guessed it.)
Oprah (I'm afraid if I DIDN'T put her on here, I might be assasinated by the local Oprah Book Club Chapter President... she is way too powerful - I mean GREAT!)

Troughs and Peaks

2008-10-12T21:47:00.000-07:00

Highs and Lows of my craigslist experience so far:

Low: Couldn't find an apartment that wasn't either $1,500 for a room, or in the dreaded 'valley'.

High: Found a motorcycle!

Low: Motorcycle was too far away to risk the trip.

High: Found another motorcycle - and bought it! Who cares, i just need a way to get around.

Low: Realized that the fact that the motorcycle not starting when I looked at it might have been a red flag.

Low: Trying to fix my new motorcycle.

High: Found an apartment!

High: Moved to beach town Santa Monica, yay!

Low: The rent is how much? Oh well, my complete reckless abandon of logic and all-things-responsible has taken me this far! Lets try my luck!

Low: Nobody replies to these damn job postings... do I have a typo in my resume?

Low: Resending updated resume to businesses.

High: Got a metal-frame, glass topped Ikea desk for $50 and then talked him down to $10!

Low: Got an Ikea bed frame for $40, but she talked me up to $80.

Low: Got a missed connection from leatherloverman69 three times in one day. the missed connection was in front of my apartment.

Low: Can't find taser in the immediate area for a good price.

Don't Vote

2008-10-08T02:24:00.000-07:00

If you haven't seen the original - here it is.

Here is our response:

Dear Penthouse,

2008-10-06T17:20:00.000-07:00

Imagine living on a small island. Easy beach life, the quiet tranquility of the open sea. Blue, sunny skies every day. World class scuba diving, marlin fishing, and snorkeling. But there are no women.

That’s more or less the life that my friend Nate lives – in a bungalow 300 feet from the beach on Catalina Island. And for someone who is looking for a girlfriend, those two opposing factors seem to be constantly at odds with each other. It’s not like the mainland where you can just go out to a bar or a show and meet other people in your area who like to do the same things. Anybody you meet is usually from somewhere else, and is on vacation.

So imagine what was running through Nate’s mind when he finds out the girl he is dancing with, on the island’s biggest holiday (Buccaneer Days), is a Playboy model. For those of you who know Nate, you know exactly what was running through his mind. For those of you who don’t – it’s the exact same thing running though your mind right now.

So I wandered across the outdoor dance floor, weaving through Jack Sparrows, Captain Hooks, and every sort of pirate conceivable, finding Nate with this nice young lady. He tells me a little bit of her back-story from what he could hear over the music while I shake my head solemnly in utter respect. I have much to learn from this one.After I was introduced, Nate points behind him and tells us that he has to go to the bathroom.

Little did he know, but this bathroom trip will be burned onto the fleshy tablet of his heart. Because when he got back, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed… she was gone. “I’ll be right back” she said. But then, isn’t that what they always say?

Breaking the news to Nate was like telling a child that Santa isn’t real. Or even worse – that Santa is real, but he just died from a long battle with stomach cancer, and the elves decided to sell the North Pole to Donald Trump, who is building a 10,000-acre Trump Ice complex. Either way, the message was brutally cutting, and the messenger was hoping not to get punched.

“What do you mean ‘left’” Nate said, suddenly as sober as a Monday morning.

“That’s all she said” I said, cringing, half expecting his drink to end up in my face. “I’m just saying, if I were you, I’d do a quick couple laps around this place and look for her”. Which was, in fact, what he did.

I just stood there, waiting like an outpost buoy in the middle of the dance-floor, smirking. Sure, if you don’t put yourself out there you’ll never meet the right person, but you also won’t develop long-lasting sleep apnea over the playmate that got away.

Michelle Manhart

Introduction to the Fellowship

2008-10-02T13:58:00.000-07:00

I just added a buddy, Sean Noonan to the blogroll to the right ->

After adding it, I decided to introduce each of you to these bloggers, cause they are all great in their own right, and I read each one. They are sorted in order of the most recent post from top to bottom.

I'll try to list these in the order that I added them to my own blog:

1) Tales From The Golden Zeppelin - notabovethat.blogspot.com

For some reason, Feedburner won't let me directly put his blog on my blogroll, so while it was my first link, it isn't there right now - hopefully back up soon. The blog is by Ryan Nash of MLPS who writes funny shit about whatever pops into his twisted mind. He also posts samples of his sci-fi writing, which is always entertaining to read.

2) That Familiar Burn - Jake Boyce's site for cyclists and Duluth enthusiasts alike. A fellow skier that posts some cool pictures and crazy workouts that I no longer have the ability to do. Read this if you want to motivate yourself to get off your fat ass.

3) A Writer's Life - Written by Hollywood writer Lee Goldberg. At first I thought it was a great recourse for an aspiring writer. Now I just think he comes across as kind of an asshole. SELLOUT! Yet, there he is, still on the blogroll...

4) By Ken Levine - Another retired sitcom writer (MASH, Frasier, etc...) who blogs daily about life, Hollywood, and his job as a Dodgers Radio Reporter. This is usually a good read... my favorite one is here. GPS

5) T A Y L O R - Taylor Jenkins and her ever-entertaining personality comes through vividly in her blog, with snippets of jokes, and... random shit.

6) Kodaika Neil - Neil Hutton, Of Olaf fame tries to defeat the Indian people by infiltrating their education system and planting pro-American propaganda. Wait, no, that's Mike D. Neil is a nice guy.

7) Mike D. In Japan - The most laugh-out loud blog I read, or have ever read. Please read it if you have time. He is teaching in Japan, and...and... cannot be described as anything but Mike D.

8) Out Of Context - Colin Rodger's blog about things he likes, doesn't like, or finds feminine about himself. He declared blog war, and already has more hits on his site than I do. DAMN!

9) Andy Newell - One of my favorite athletes in the US. The best US skier, a cool dude, and he puts some pretty cool movies on his blog from time to time.

10) Andy's Web Page On The Internet! - Sounds exciting. Andy works for Disney, so he needs make things sound fun and exciting!

11) The Noo-Noo Blog - Sean Noonan, biker and Carleton student is down unda' doing some cycling and possibly other stuff... He likes to comment on how many typos I have in my blog.

That's it for now, but I'm sure I'll add more-

Dynasty Intro

2008-10-01T12:59:00.000-07:00

Me and Fausto, Down By the Lumber Yard

2008-09-30T21:16:00.000-07:00

Well I can kiss that last job opening goodbye. Because of the vast amount of copying-and-pasting I've been doing on my craigslist binge, I replied to an admin. assistant job an an investment firm by telling them in my cover letter "... and I would be excited to be a part of your fast-paced tutoring company". And, of course, the skill set they are looking for highlighted 'attention to detail'.

Job hunting is kind of like recess in elementary school when you are lining up to play kickball. At first you are hoping that the good captain picks you, and maybe you can play first base. But then after a few rounds of drafting, you think to yourself, maybe it doesn't matter which team I get on. And then as you stand there timidly next to the kid with crutches and the only girl, you just start praying to God Himself. Oh please let me not be last! I don't care what team drafts me anymore, I really don't! First base? I'll take right field, hell, I'll even catch. Oh Jesus, there goes the girl, now it's just me and the handicapped kid. What if I don't get picked at all, is that even possible! I was just kidding about first base! HAHA, I can't even catch that playground ball without spraining my wrists! I can't handle this kind of rejection, NOOOOOOO - there goes hop-along. Fuck it, I'm gonna go join the nerds and play Magic.

And now here I am, twenty years later, thinking the same thing about a job. It started at writer's assistant. Then it was just anything in the entertainment industry. Now it's just anything in the assistant industry. Soon I'm going to be lined up next to the Mexicans at Home Depot, hoping for an under the counter landscaping job. Damnit, there goes Pedro. Is it just me and Fausto! He can't even speak english!

zzzzz...

2008-09-29T23:51:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this entry crouched over my computer which is placed on a 2-foot high couch end-table, sitting in an old desk chair depressed to its lowest possible height setting, with a alarmingly cluttered mound of my belongings to my left and the futon (my bed) to my right. All my earthly possessions in about 20 square feet. Living the dream. And my back hurts.

But Wednesday is a big day. I move in to a place with a dude named Tassa (South African) in Santa Monica, which brings me dangerously close to the beach. So close, in fact, that I might have to suffer through endless nights of sea-breeze related injuries and maladies. I also start one of my classes. One which has a couple prerequisites, which I have - in no way or form - taken. I'm too tired write more now, but more updates and stories to follow. I have to finish my review of the Chevy Silverado 1500, before I get fired from the only source of employment I have. There's a very fine line between living the dream and dreaming the life. You just gotta have good balance.

OMG PATRICK DEMPSEY!!!!

2008-09-26T18:34:00.000-07:00

omg every1, i just sers. freaked out bc i was on the abc lot today visiting bff andy, and guess who i totally jst saw! mcdreamy! for sers!!

like i am totally frkng-out rt now. lol!iI think he evn looked at me!!! ;) he could stufy my greys anatomy.

and i was tttly eating a tuna snwch when i saw him, and wz like, LMIRL! and then i wz like, we R in RL! OMG - LOL!!! and my mouth was full of tuna, and i spat everywhere. i almst choked!:( good thing he's MD!! :o

bet you wish you were there, i just wntd to tell him how I love his hair ;) and in season 2 - ep 4 when he almst died, i tttly stopped eating fr a week!!! I wz getting sups fat anyway.

OMG PATRICK DEMPSEY!!!

loving h-wood - kisses!

20 inch Rims On My Honda Civic

2008-09-24T12:29:00.000-07:00

L.A. = Land of Accessories.

Everything out here is customizable. Cars, hair, clothes, rims, dogs, dog's clothes, you name it.

In truth, all these things are customizable everywhere else as well, but it seems that only LA has realized the full potential of self-expression through accessories. Knee-high socks say that you are a skateboarder, crazy hair and tight clothes mean that you are a hipster, 20" rims mean that you are a bad-ass, and accessorizing your hand with another guys hand while walking down the street means you're gay... I think.

It's not an exact science, and I'm still trying to piece it all together. If you think that I'm joking about the gay guys holding hands, you should have been there a couple nights ago when Andy, Alex (Taylor's boyfriend) and I were walking back from a restaurant. Four guys came out of the shadows holding hands in a row with, what seemed like, full intention to clothesline all three of us with the power of the WWF superstar tandem - The Rainbow Four. I wasn't sure whether to call 'red rover', or drop the People's Elbow, so we ended up scattering o avoid a Jets-Sharks type altercation.

But don't worry mom, I'm safe. What I haven't figured out yet, is why they get those tiny little white Yorkie terriers buckled into tiny little camo vests. Graham, if you are reading this, you are either white-knuckled with anger, or laughing hysterically. Either way, take a deep breath and try to assuage the immediate urge to drop-kick something.

It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To

2008-09-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

If somebody told Salvador Dali to create a city by combining San Fransisco, Universal Studios, and Tijuana, it would be a dead-ringer for LA. I've had a couple not-so-normal experiences thus far, with a birthday party I went to yesterday taking the cake (I'm not sure if the pun is intended).

Andy was kind enough to invite me to his friends birthday party which was at a state park (wow grass! I haven't seen this stuff for a week!) so I headed over there and met the birthday gang in the section of the park that inhabited the remnants of the old LA Zoo. So we had a couple of picnic tables, covered in plastic happy birthday tablecloths, a grill and some beer, and we were enjoying it all in the old lion's den (I did a quick look-around to make sure they didn't leave any behind). I try not to question things anymore. Grilling in a lions den? Sure, why not?

The birthday celebration for this 25-year old gal included a balloon toss, a three-legged race, and probably a lot of other fun/strangely-immature activities that we never had the chance to get to. The balloon toss went off without a hitch, but my partner and I ended up winning. This was kind of weird for me because I saw that she bought gifts for the winners to pick out. So here I am, some random guy that just showed up, and now I'm taking her party favors. I considered, for a second, grabbing my silly-putty prize and bolting out of there (Haha! Suckers!). But I didn't. And I made a promise to myself to lose on the first round of the next activity.

In hindsight, I should have run away, because five minutes later, three Park Ranger SUVs screeched up to our den, literally out of nowhere, and unloaded the most vigilantic Park Rangers I have ever seen. Shit, I thought, first weekend in LA and I'm headed to Chino.

I can't tell you how lucky I am that I attended a dry campus in college. My learned and practiced cat-burglar like reflexes came into play as I quickly slid my beer away from myself at the table and adopted a glazed-over 'screw you cops' look on my face.

Captain Fun-kill came up to me and Andy (we were in the middle of a very serious game of ball-twapping with our newly won sticky-hands prizes) and looked me squarely in the eye and pointed to the drink in front of me.

Is this drink yours?

No. (mine was right next to it)

Then he asked Andy the same question. Andy said no. Andy got written up and recieved a court summons for proximity to an open alcoholic container in a state park. There was absolutely no method to this guys madness. But I was safe, so I didn't care as much after that.

I felt really bad for the birthday girl who was in tears at this point, and not because her party was absolutly ruined, but because she had two friends who were trying to argue legal rights with the park rangers, armed with iPhones and a stubborn tenacity embued by two-to-three Coors Lights.

So as the party was divided into two groups; one getting citations for drinking liquor, and the other waiting for this all to finish up because they were better liars, and the birthday girl crying in the consoling arms of her boyfriend, I had the sudden urge to start singing.

Haaaaapppyy Birthday toooo yoouuuuu....

Palm Trees and Pomeranians

2008-09-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

So I made it in one piece. The sun is bright, the weather is hot, and I don't know much else because I haven't left the apartment yet. My knowledge of LA is primarily, but not solely, limited to my google maps experiences.

Things I have learned so far in LA.

1) There are an insane amount of stoplights.
2) They always turn red right before I get to them, making me slam on my brakes.

That's about it so far, but I'll keep you updated as I learn the city more. My only adventures thus far have been battling the ever-powerful craiglist. The problem with the LA craigslist is that, being in such a big city, the apartments go really fast. If you don't reply to someone within 24 hours of their posting, forget about it. Hi, excuse me, I saw that you just posted a room for rent, and I... it's already taken?....How is that possible? you just posted it five minutes ago... no, I'm not a female anyway.

Thats another thing. EVERYONE is looking for a female roommate. Give me another week of futile cragslisting, and I am going to change my name to Svetlanka and say I am a Russian body-builder with a high testosterone level. What, are they going to check my genitals? If it's in West Hollywood, probably.

I'm still a little jet-lagged and still very much culture-shocked, so my levels of wit and story structure are a little lacking. I'll leave you with Zach Galifianakis's favorite joke.

Guy goes to the doctor, and the doctor says, "Sir, you've got to stop masturbating." And the guy was like, "Why?" And the doctor says, "So I can examine you."

Coast2Coast

2008-09-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

Zodiac, Shmodiac

2008-09-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

So I'm a Virgo, and I actually find that I am embarrassed by it. My birthday falls on August 23rd, so I am on the 'cusp'. But Virgo sounds so much like 'virgin', I can't help but but be wary of the connotation's strength. So I always say "Oh, I'm a Leo, but I'm on the cusp" (I make sure I chuckle heartily and do something 'manly' - like punch someone - when I say this), when in reality I'm just afraid to tell someone that I've been predestined to never get laid. I have been! I swear! Plus, Leo sounds a lot cooler.

All the other signs sound cool. Sagittarius, Pisces, Gemini, Taurus, Escort, Windstar.

Except Cancer. That one kind of sucks too.

-What are you?
-Oh, I'm a Cancer.
-A cancer on what? society?
-No, that's my sign.
-Oh, I'm sorry. At least you aren't Virgo.

Taurus gets the powerful bull, Leo is the brave lion, Capricorn is a... umm, a sea-goat, Cancer is the slightly creepy side-stepping crab, and Aquarius is a 'water-carrier', which sounds pretty lame (and laborious) but the 5th Dimension wrote a sweet-ass song about them. But I'd take any of them over Virgo - our song is by Madonna.

If us Virgos are going to have to live with this damned appellation, we might as well have a vote in who our mascot should be. And if it's going to be a virgin, I think that there is only one clear choice.

P.S. next post will be brought to you in Pacific Time...

Tim Allen The Science Guy

2008-09-14T20:30:00.000-07:00

The internet has practically taken over my life; it's quite scary. I have websites I browse for news, entertainment, sports, and anything else you could think of (that's right, I said anything). I also have quite a few go-to websites that I use in case of emergency*.

*emergency: (n)

1.	a sudden, urgent, usually unexpected occurrence or occasion requiring immediate action.

2. when I have a lot of stuff to do and need to procrastinate to prevent anything from actually happening

Some of these are located in my blogroll to the right under 'Fellowship Of The Blog'. Others are random sites like msnbc, and fasterskier.com. So one really, really busy day, I was on youtube watching a particular episode of Inside The Actors Studio with James Lipton (nothing kills an afternoon like nine-part youtube clips) and I saw that Tim Allen's episode had been uploaded. After seeing almost every episode of Home Improvement, I was excited to get to see the real side of the Tool Man. What was it like? Answer: Depressing as hell.

He is riddled with issues and guilt, and as some celebrities tend to do, he used James Lipton as a very public therapist. He did say something, however, that piqued my interest. Tim wrote a book called I Am Not Really Here in 1996, which is - get ready for this - the Toolman's attempt at Quantum Physics. Oh, but with some humor thrown in too. In the interview, he claimed that he wasn't actually standing there, and that none of us where actually here either. Crazy? Maybe. But with this particle collider getting warmed up over at CERN right now, and my penchant towards philosophy and physics, my curiosity was instantly piqued.

I'm not really sure what I expected when I grabbed a book from the shelf that had a comedian holding forward a photoshopped picture of a atom. Enlightenment?

Anyway, the book, like most academic papers, meanders back and forth from his research to comical reasons as to why women (like photons and muons) are always rushing about from place to place.

I actually had genuine interest in the book and his forays into quantum mechanics, but couldn't get past his TERRIBLE transitions. The man was a standup comedian, so I can see where he got it, but the editor should have known better.

So as I stood there waiting for my shower to warm up, it reminded my of how it takes a while for a woman to warm up to a man, coincidentally, the same laws apply in the world of quanta!!

Jeesh. Lesson? Get your comedy from comics, and you science from scientists. And if you're really, really busy, get your procrastination here.

I don't think so, Tim
-Al Borland

These Aren't Fantasies, These Are Options

2008-09-11T16:31:00.000-07:00

Meet Chris McDaniel. The Boy Wonder. The Star Wars Kid. Possibly even Jesus Reincarnate.

I'm going to come right out and say this first: I just bought another deck of magic cards at Newbury Comics. There. It's out there.

Now I just want you to get over that fact, and appreciate with me, that I got a Magic: The Gathering Pro Player Trading Card with my deck. And my pro player is Chris McDaniel.

I mean, just look at that steely scowl. That imposing stature, and those deep penetrating eyes that you know, deep down, are asking you to teach him how to talk to girls. Who wouldn't want one of these cards?

On the back of the card it gives the players stats and a bio that tries ever-so-hard to make them sound bad-ass. The best they could come up with was that his nickname is the Star Wars Kid. Oh well. He has $25,000 in winning so far, so I can't laugh too hard. But I can still laugh. Picture him posing at Topps, next to Terrell Owens...

Since I am leaving soon, I try to spend more time with the brohams, and that usually means playing magic. It is all-inclusive (no athletic handicap), it's easy to set up, it's competitive (important), and it pisses the hell out of my mom when we don't do anything but play cards all day. All pluses!

On the back of my Pro card it has an 'action' picture. Which looks about as ridiculous as it sounds. Chris's still has him slouching in a chair and tossing a do-you-know-who-I-am look over at his opponent. They don't show it, but I would be willing to bet they are sitting at a foldable card table in a dingy high school gym, surrounded by an acne level so high, that Neutrogena reps flew in all the way from Norway.

What this card has given me, besides a good laugh, is the seed for a new dream. A seed that, if planted, might blossom into a glorious new career.

Happy 100th Blog!

2008-09-09T10:14:00.000-07:00

Hi Ya'll

I would like to invite you to share in my 100th blog celebration! I had a speech prepared, but I can't find it right now. Hold on, I think I found it. No, that's just a receipt. Well, it went something like this.

I could not have gotten here without all of your help. Thanks to countless hours of boring work, boring Boxborough, Itunes, my comfy chair, and my 15-30 anonymous readers per day! None of this would be possible without you. In actuality, the blog was intended as a satirical-picture website upon its conception. Here are a couple of samples from when I started it in 2006.

http://seeandsigh.blogspot.com/2006/12/mi-casa-es-su-casa-mexican-congress.html

http://seeandsigh.blogspot.com/2007/11/amid-turmoil-devastation-man-finds.html

The URL 'seeandsigh.blogspot.com' was a description of my reaction whenever I read a slightly clever pun, but it wasn't quite funny enough to laugh at. I also titled it Iron-E because I couldn't think of anything better to put up there. If my name was Eric, or Edmund, or Zach Effron, it would have been a lot more clever.

After about a week, my interest subsided and I didn't pick it back up until a year from then when I boredom-induced vertigo would hit me so frequently at work, I would just arrive in the morning with crutches so I would survive the day without collapsing of ennui.

You're exaggerating, you saying. Nobody has that much free time at work. Oh yeah? I wrote a trilogy about how I bought my alarm clock last February. Go ahead, check the archives.

Seriously, THANKS for reading, and I hope that the blog gets even more entertaining (like that's possible!) in a week when I make like Fievel and move out west.

Music starting to play...

Oh crap. I'd also like to thank my HP, blogger.com... um... I wish I had that damn paper.

Music playing louder...

Oh here it is! Welcome to the 100th blog, I'd like to take this short time to th-

Britain's Beastie Boy

2008-09-07T19:41:00.000-07:00

See I reckon you're about an 8 or a 9,
Maybe even 9 and a half in four beers time.
That blue top shop top you've got on IS nice,
Bit too much fake tan though - but yeah you score high.

But there's just one little thing that's really really,
Really really annoying me about you you see,
Yeah yeah like i said you are really fit
But my gosh don't you just know it

-Mike Skinner (The Streets)

I can't figure it out. I have listened to The Streets album over and over in my car for about three weeks now. And I have no idea why. The beat is manufactured, I don't understand half of what he says, and the lyrics are really bad. In fact, they aren't lyrics, really. It's basically a story that is told over a beat. Sometimes I wonder if he even hears the beat.

So what is it? What makes me keep listening to a song about waiting at a club for a girl, or about this guy hitting on a girl, or another one about him complaining about his girl? It's not his lyrical diversity, that's for sure. Maybe it's some inner desire to understand the blue-collar rebellious youth of Birmingham, England. Maybe it's my perverse interested in seeing how far rap can travel from its original roots. Or maybe, being a white dude, I'm just displaying Wes Welker Syndrome (cheering for the only white guy in a situation where he is the minority [it never happens, so we try to celebrate our newfound underdog-ness]). You ever watch the track events at the Olympics, and see the single white guy standing at the starting blocks for the 100m finals? You just look down and shake your head, don't you. We appreciate your effort dude, but we all know what's gonna happen. 5th? Nobody blames you.

I digress.

So it took me three weeks of listening to this seemingly ill-communicating Birmingham 'lad' to realize that I liked about him. I liked his honesty.

I liked that he said exactly what he was thinking. I liked how he told his stories in HIS vernacular. And I liked how, in his own way of being so specific and pigeon-holed, he painted a clear vivid picture with most of his songs. Some are rubbish, don't get me wrong. But he said what he wanted to say, he said it in his own way, and he didn't let a little thing like, for example an overabundance of musical talent, get in his way.

If you want musical talent, listen to Outkast, the Roots, Mos Def, hell even Kanye. But Rap, like almost all music, acts as a venue of expression, and Mike Skinner expresses himself flawlessly, and it appears that a lot of people identify with that.

I'll leave you with a sample, and then two more that I like. I'll try to mix it up and be obscure, so don't expect 50 Cent.

I actually like how this music video is different from the original song lyrics that take place in club

Bad-ass BMX-ing mixed with Australian rap... Can it get any better?

And Mos Def, sans cue cards.

MyList

2008-09-03T06:26:00.000-07:00

In my search for a life out west, it's important to take a deep breath from time to time, and realize that I cannot control everything. There are forces out there beyond my control that I must yield to, and bid for passage through, in order to truly get settled out there. You may know of what higher power I am speaking of (Hint: It's omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and Omni-theater).

You guessed it: Craigslist.com. Quite possibly the website with the most life-altering power. It tells you where you can live, who you can live with, where you will work, and if you missed any opportunities to meet that gay guy who was ogling you at the gas station. Being one who has moved my fair share of times, I have ridden the bucks and kicks of the website, and come out on top. So I have compiled a simple list for everyone else.

How to successfully use craigslist:

1) Sacrifice a small animal (hamster/gerbil/jack russell terrier) and use their blood as war paint while doing a shaman dance around your hard drive.

2) Pray in the direction of San Fransisco each morning, afternoon and evening.

3)Never look craigslist directly into the URL. It might attack you.

4) When looking for an apartment:

Be aware of people looking for renters who are 'cute'. They probably have a few two-way mirrors installed in the house.
Be aware of landlords that post naked pictures of themselves and their wife, looking for someone to share in their lovely experience. It's not as lovely as you think. Trust me.
Access to highways = under a highway. Access to shopping = in a shopping mall. Access to the beach = underwater.

5) When looking for a job, just keep you head down and plug away. Send out as many resumes as you can, and be prepared not to have any replies. If someone does reply, consider it a scam, and report it to the craigslist authorities.

6) Order craigslistPro! for $39.99.

7) Don't try to find out who Craig actually is. It's a long and dangerous road, that will ultimately get you assassinated.

8) The "2-5k-2" rule for used cars. Add 2 years to its age, 5 thousand miles to its odometer, and 2 mice that have nested in the rear seat cushions/engine compartment.

9) Don't forget to pray.

10) Always close your browser when you are done with craigslist. If left open for more than an hour, it will start posting random items in your room for sale.

If you follow all of these rules, you yourself could be a great craigslist browser one day. Good luck and may the Force be with you.

Northern Departure

2008-09-01T13:51:00.000-07:00

So I have recently made the very difficult decision to move to L.A.

After living in Massachusetts, Norway, and Minnesota, L.A. will be more than a departure from the ordinary. It will be a departure from friends, family, seasons, skiing, and an earthquake-free home. There are countless things that I will miss about about the north. And the good thing is, that if I miss them too much, I can always move back.

But, to my anxious, semi-adventurous personality, I need to find out if I can make it as a writer. And it just happens that TV writing gets done in LA.

You know that movie that you've seen about a hundred times, but never finished it? You've seen bits and pieces, but for some reason, never in completion? For me, that movie was High Fidelity. A movie about a complaining, relationship-killing, solipsistic guy living in Chicago. And it wasn't until last month (when I started my rent-and-burn DVD borrowing initiative from the local library) that I finally saw the whole movie through from start to finish.

And as I watched Rob Gordon, drenched in rain (a metaphorical film technique that was beaten like a dead horse in that movie*), ambling from one doomed relationship to another, he poignantly said something that was exactly what I needed to hear.

"I always had one foot out the door, and that prevented me from doing a lot of things, like thinking about my future and... I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open. And that's suicide. By tiny, tiny increments."

One of the truest things I've heard. So off I go, in the hopes that commitment will open more doors than it closes. And for this all to work, all I need is a job, a place to live, and some money to get started in time for classes. In four weeks.

*That could be the first time I've used a double-metaphor.

Klatu Verada Nicto, or something like that

2008-08-28T08:51:00.000-07:00

Things that I love about Army Of Darkness:

Ash calling his Remmington a boomstick
Ash's metal hand
Ash's chainsaw-hand (that click's into place mid-air!)
This quote: Well hello, Mister Fancy-pants. Well, I've got news for you pal, you ain't leadin' but two things right now: Jack and shit... and Jack just left town.
The plastic skeletons that are thrown at Bruce Campbell during the fight scenes.
Seeing the cables carrying Bruce Campbell into the wormhole.

The entire movie is a cinematic gem. It's hard for me to think of any other film that can be so incredibly bogus and slapstick, but with such success. It's one of those movies that the academy would never, in a million years watch, making it all the better. What this movie does so well, that echoes in the best comedies I have seen, is that the comedy isn't immediately apparent.

At first glance, Army Of Darkness just appears to be the worst horror/action-movie ever made. Scenes are over the top, lines are cliche and catchy, and the the main character over-acts like his life depends on it. As soon as you accept these 'flaws', and start to actually look for them in the movie, it becomes hilarious. It forces you to embrace the utter ridiculousness of it, similar to The Office, or Extras, or Meet the Parents.

Random Thoughts

2008-08-26T17:03:00.000-07:00

Have you ever convinced someone to watch a comedy special on HBO, and they sit through the whole thing without laughing. I find that really embarrassing. It's happened multiple times.

Have you ever wondered why America, the action-loving, full-throttle, 30-second attention span country has a national pastime of baseball? 9 men standing still for three hours?

Have you ever looked at a thread of internet comments and watched as they got progressively more and more offensive? Until at the end, they are both shooting one-liners back and forth. The best part, I think, is that the newest comments are at the top, so you always read the end of the argument and work back down in reverse order, like Memento.

----
To spanks_a_lot:

I'm retarded? fuck you, you little fag! Go suck my nuts!
-cheeze_breath

----

To cheeze_breath:

You're retarded. Everyone knows that a Northeastern Weeping Willow far outnumbers the White Conifer on the eastern seaboard! Go read an Audubon book you gay!
-spanks_a_lot

----

To spanks_a_lot:

While I see you're point, and I must respectfully disagree in accordance with your population study. I spent fifteen years documenting the seeding patterns of the great White Conifer tree, and have written several books about the experience. Where did you get your P.H.D.? Brown? Ha!
-cheeze_breath

-----

Place To Be

2008-08-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

The shuffle that Apple uses is not very good. In fact, it's quite terrible. Even though I have 5,000+ songs on my computer, I think that I only hear about twenty of them in a loop (Bubba Sparxxx again??).

But sometimes, the shuffle god(s) shine down upon you and play a song you haven't heard in a long time. Fetched from some forgotten cobweb-ridden file in the depths of your hard drive. And when you hear the song you're like "ohhhh, right, I forgot about this song!" I love that, it's like finding $10 in your winter coat when you put it on for the first time in December. Or the time I found a bloody finger wrapped in a napkin in my glove compartment with a ransom note (but that's another story altogether).

Sometimes, though, that forgotten song hits you and brings you back, via time-warp, to the first time you heard it. I just recently heard Nick Drake - Pink Moon, and was whiplashed to the first week of school freshman year at St. Olaf College. While most of my contemporaries had said their prayers, adorned flannel pajamas, and sipped a glass of warm milk before bed, my roommate and I went out hunting. Hunting for the elusive drop of alcohol on a "dry Lutheran campus".

Our adventures took Knut and I to the seedy and mysterious Rand hall, where upperclassmen lived down deep and cavernous staircases. I have a hard time believing this now, but we would literally walk into rooms with 'party sounds' coming out of them, introduce ourselves, and try to score some booze.

There is a point here, I swear. One of the guys I met had an electric violin on a stand by his bed. Having taken many years of violin lessons, I figured I could play a couple of songs and earn our keep, but I heard the owner say that he was a member of the college orchestra. Maybe I shouldn't. I later celebrated my decision not to show off, when I saw the orchestra the next year and this gentleman was first chair violin.

On his playlist that night, though, was that song, Pink Moon. And as I heard it, I recognized it as a song that I had been searching for off-and-on, for years, after I had heard it in a VW Cabrio commercial. Nick Drake, he said, you should download some of his stuff. And I did. And hearing this song just the other day on my computer brought back the whole experience, like it was just yesterday.

I bet, if you have even read this far, that you are looking for a point. But there really isn't one. Maybe the point is that the power of song is an integral part of out lives. Maybe songs are the soundtrack (cliche alert!) to out lives. Maybe you should always dust for fingerprints before you open you glove box. The point is, I don't know, OK? Apple should just fix their damn shuffle program.

Just Do It

2008-08-19T19:48:00.000-07:00

The best commercials are made by Nike. In 30 seconds, they can make you go out for a run. Or maybe ask your boss for that raise. Or maybe just try to be a better person. It's amazing.

and, lastly my inspiration for countless grueling workouts:

Audition Tape

2008-08-19T06:19:00.000-07:00

Hello,

I saw on your website that you have a space for a booking this Saturday. I am emailing to let you know: your problem is solved. Wynnum Sunday to the rescue. You may have heard about our band through the local 'buzz', but if not, let me try to capture our 'essence' (like it could be captured, ha!).

OK, close your eyes and picture this. Closed? Oh right. OK, well keep them open to read this, but IMAGINE you're surrounded by thousands of pumped-up concert-goers, cheering at peak of their vocal chord capacity: WYNNUM-SUNDAY!

And then, Ka-Blam! Fireworks, pyrotechnics, and dry ice fog like you've never seen it before, and the curtain slowly raises. The incendiary wail of the guitar hits you in the face like a Mac truck, as Marc Rogers, sans shirt, gets lit up by the spotlight. The crowd goes wild. He may stand still as plank, make rude gestures at the crowd, offend most women, and be medically diagnosed as tone-deaf, but this man can ROCK!

But then, out of the back, comes the most complex and bad-ass beat you've ever heard. Hit spotlight! It's Ollie Garrison, drummer extraordinaire. He's going to town on his four piece set, mouth slightly agape as he tries to concentrate, raising his arms awkwardly in between hits. This is Rick Allen if he had two arms, and then broke them so they didn't work quite as well.

And when you think it can't get any better, a voice, the likes of which you have no comparison hits you. John Lennon? Chump. Neil Young? Pussy. Bono? Fuck Bono. Bono sounds like a cat being run over by a slow moving train compared to our frontman Colin Rodger (no relation to Marc). Women instantly buckle at the knees and faint. Men turn gay. This Scotsman redefines the word 'music', and then respells it as m-a-g-i-c.

Picture that. I hope to hear back from you soon. I have enclosed our demo video. Hold on to your seat, Mr. Promoter. I hope that you and Shady Grove Estates are ready to bring the house down this Saturday. Also, we play for free.

Wynnum Sunday.

Lost In Translation

2008-08-18T07:12:00.000-07:00

I think that it's getting harder and harder to meet people from New York. Not that it is far away, or that it's irreconcilably different than Boston, but because of the language barrier.

I happened to meet a New Yorker just the other week through a mutual friend. We were at a bar, and we were introduced. "Hi" I said, and offered my hand to shake.
"Hi" they said.
But I heard "Jeter." A strange thing to say upon introduction, so I said,
"What?"

"Hi" repeated the stranger.
I heard "A-Rod."

I looked over at our communal friend who didn't seem notice.
"My name's Ollie"
"My name's Pat"
I hear: Aaron Boone, Tino Matinez, who's your daaaady!
"Let's not talk baseball!"
"What??"
I hear: Buckner!!!

"THAT'S IT!" I yell, and dive across the table taking a swing. Luckily I miss, because I would have felt really bad if I connected. She was only out to have a good time.

I Get No Respect, I Tell Ya

2008-08-12T20:29:00.000-07:00

I want to thank Emily for coming along with me, I hope it wasn't too awkward, because it kind of was for me.

I saw an interview with Dave Chapelle where he retold his experiences as an emerging stand up comedian. He said that before he even stepped foot on stage, he would go watch open mics with comedians both good and bad, taking notes on what worked and what didn't. This way when he went on stage himself, for the first time, he would have some idea of what not to do.

I figured that this was a great idea, and even if I didn't have any immediate plans to be a stand up comedians (I certainly don't any more), it would be a great resource for my writing. After all, an open mic night is just a bunch of guys standing up, telling jokes and seeing if people think they are funny. Jokes 101, right?

Maybe, but a crowd can be brutal. And by crowd, I mean fifteen people, myself included, sitting in the corner of a small bar. I was hoping to slip into some club, somewhere in the back, and take notes while sipping my beer. Instead, after Emily left, I was the only person there who was not a performer, noticing that everyone was talking to each other, and looking at me like I was some spy from NARC-land, sent to make the room un-funny. It reminded me of one of those vampire movies where the dude is dancing at the club, and just having a great time, and then realizes that the chick he is with has fangs, and then looks around to realize everyone's a vampire.

Interrupting the brotherhood of not-so-funny-men, I was the clear target of jokes for the 'headliner' at the end. It seems that he was just going to 'say things and hope they were funny'. Well, they weren't, jokes are planned, and take a long time to make funny. And maybe because I wasn't laughing, I was singled out. I was suddenly the 'guy' in the audience who gets pointed out. Shit. Where's my garlic and silver cross? I took a quick peek behind me, hoping that there was some pointdexter behind me. Blast. I was that pointdexter. Just play it cool, he'll get bored and move on. If not, I'm going to have to fashion a wooden steak out of this bar stool.
I wish there was a Gidgeons Bible within reach.

The night ended awkwardly and uneventfully, with the emcee 'freestyling' what were clearly inside jokes, because only one girl in the back was laughing. All in all, I would not reccomend that experience to anyone, unless they are prepared to preform themselves. And I promise, if I ever do, I'll post it on here, so you can laugh at me. Notice I said 'at'.

There's nothing funny about stand up comedy.

Chill Win-ston...

2008-08-09T08:07:00.000-07:00

Opening Ceremony.
Fantastic.

By far the best Olympic Opening Ceremony that I have ever scene, and trust me, I have seen a lot. I come from a family that buys cable right before the Olympics, and then cancels it right after. None of the HBO series are on anymore from the last time I had cable, I wonder what happened to the Sopranos?

I do think that Bob Costas and company had a little bit too much time to interpret the ceremony. They had the script, they had their interpreter, and they had a full week to think up shit to say for five hours. But due to the exensive preparation time, I feel like they delved a little too deep into the symbolism of the ceremony. There was a lot of talk about harmony, there was a lot about talk about the contrasting of opposites, there were a lot of random dancing children. When Matt Lauer started comparing the 2,008 gentleman running in circles with blinking vests on to the Chinese new era of openness, I was like... OK, but you're starting to push it.

I also thought that it was very suspect that the announcers were not actually being shown throughout the evening. Ten bucks says that Costas pulled out a Jamaican fatty from his breast pocket as soon as the fireworks started going off, and passed it to the rest of the guys.

Matt- That was, like, freakin insane, Bob.
Bob- It took them seven years to choreograph this dance Matt. Can you believe that shit? Seven years!
Matt- Whoah.
Bob-What!
Matt- Whoah, for a second there, I though you were, like, really far away from me.
Bob- Seven years! Man, there are SO many people in China!

Ready For Action

2008-08-06T20:17:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the inordinate amount of youtube clips, but this was way too funny to pass up.

Dark Horse Comic

2008-08-05T07:17:00.000-07:00

Even though it's still early August, the blockbusters of summer seem to be a distant cinematic afterthought. And lately, the blockbuster list has been dominated by comic book characters (if you include Hancock, which is basically a character from The Watchmen). DC and Marvel have raked in millions of super-dollars in the last ten years, as Hollywood scours the back helves of comic book stores for the next cash cow.

This year, there was one clear stand out. One movie that showed how much a fictional character could affect a country. One movie that seemingly broke the boundaries of the projection screen and permeated the psyches of a nation, possibly even a world. Yes, you probably guessed it.

Hellboy II: The Golden Army.

Haven't seen it? Think I'm crazy? You should. And you're wrong. Nothing against Christopher Nolan, or Batman, but they can't hold a candle to Guillermo Del Toro's mandatory weird-character-who-has-eyes-in-weird-places. I'm willing to put down serious money that Golumn's eyes will not be in the correct place in the upcoming Hobbit.

What I like about Hellboy, as with any good superhero movie, is that it takes itself seriously... but not too seriously. The Dark Knight tried, with every dark breath, to maintain a realm of realism that comes shattering to the floor when I see the police commissioner talking to a man in a bat suit. A BAT SUIT!

If you want to see, in my opinion, one of the best comic book adaptions in a long time, go see Hellboy II, where the characters are creative and intriguing, and the dialogue is witty and sharp, and plot is secondary to character development. Oh, and Ron Pearlman gets to say the line "You just woke up Big Baby" while pulling out a handgun that weighs more than me.

Embittered Epstein trades Ramirez to 'Bodgers'

2008-07-31T14:59:00.000-07:00

Boston, MA - In the final chapter of a long and turbulent punch-for-punch relationship with Manny Ramirez, the Boston Red Sox seem to have delivered the last hit. At 3:55 EST on the last day of July, only five minutes before the trade deadline, Red Sox GM Theo Epstein, the young executive who has made his name through last-minute blockbuster deals, orally finalized a three way deal with the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Bodgers.

"I was about to call up [Colleti] in LA" says Epstein at a press release. "but then I realized I finally have Manny where I wanted him. I just suddenly remembered that series last week when he wouldn't play and I started to get sooooo mad." The Red Sox GM, usually known for his cool demeanor, elaborated on his decision.

"How do you feel now Manny?" laughed Epstein wildly, "you never should have waived your 10-5 rights!"

There is still speculation on who owns Ramirez's contract, but several entities have stepped forward. A grocery chain in Oklahoma, Bodger's Grocers, claims that Manny would be a great asset to their staff, as long as the Red Sox fronted the majority of this remaining contract.

"I'll pay whatever it takes" says Epstein, "this is Manny being a bag boy." Jested the smirking 35-year old GM "I only had, like, five minutes left until the deadline, so I said the first thing that came to my head, luckily [Scott Boras] thought I said 'Dodgers.'"

Ramirez was unavailable for comment, but his agent, Scott Boras was vocal about the recent trade.

"I'll get you next time Epstein, next time!" after which, he slammed his fist onto his desk and escaped his lair via his Boras-submarine.

If picked up by Bodger's Grocers, Ramirez would be one of the highest paid grocers in the industry, second only to Ricky Henderson who was traded to Texas-based Piggly Wiggly in 2001.

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

2008-07-28T09:19:00.001-07:00

I remember when Neo stopped the bullets mid-air. I remember when Harry talked to a snake at the zoo. I remember when Spiderman scaled his first wall.

As I join the ranks of the supernatural, all I can hope for is that the power doesn't go to my head. I must constantly remind myself that I was once a simple person, just like you, who was not able to swim super-fast and fly out of the water.

Spaced Out

2008-07-24T07:03:00.000-07:00

Three words come to mind when you mention the TV series Spaced. Simon Pegg, funny, and low-budget.

Maybe that's more than three words, but I'm not sure if last names count. Or if hyphenated words count as two or not. POINT BEING, I like the show. It's witty, it's got a ton of hidden references, and it's already off the air, giving it that Arrested Development/Heath Ledger, only alive through the immortal DVD essence. Too soon? Whatever.

I learned about the show through Diablo Cody, the screenwriter and close (Myspace) friend, to whose blog I subscribe.

Excusa-tor: The One-A-Day Pill For Procrastinators!

2008-07-20T17:59:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is test run #2. It has been my suspicion for quite some time now, that I have been, and continue to be, afflicted with ADHD. The disorder that is undiagnosable. The disorder that is controversial. And best of all, the disorder that is a complete cop-out.

Test run #1 was last Wednesday. I got up late and took the 12-hour, time release Concerta pill at 11:00AM. I was pleasantly surprised that, while at Starbucks writing, I storyboarded my entire next episode. After that, I went to the bank and opened a checking account. Then I went to the RMV and renewed my license. No joke. That was the most productive day I have had since the great grocery shopping/clothes washing/paper writing Sunday of 2005. And those events only transpired because I was out of food/clean clothes/time to procrastinate. Last Wednesday marks a day of unprecedented and cyborg-like work ethic.

In addition to completing a months worth of to-do's, I also experienced a pleasantly entertaining light-headedness, along with a feeling that my hand was about to start shaking like a recovering alcoholic's tempting grasp at a brewery tour. Oh, I also couldn't go to sleep till 2:00AM.

So tomorrow is test run #2. Despite the sidled uncertainties of health complications, tomorrow brings with it endless possibilities. Who knows, I could write a whole novel, re-roof my house, and apply for law school before my lunch break. Or maybe I'll just act really weird around people and bright lights. Only time will tell.

So forge on pharmaceutical companies! Bring on more drugs to more solutions. Change my chemical make-up until I can focus with the strength of ten MIT honors students!
Or at least give me a placebo that gets me off my ass once in a while.

Snippit

2008-07-18T11:31:00.000-07:00

INT. RECEPTION - DAY

JIM
So do you want to go out to grab some lunch today?

PAM
I brought a sandwich for both of us.

JIM
Yeah, maybe we can just get out of here and eat it.

PAM
Sure, sounds good. When do you want to go?

JIM
Ten minutes?

PAM
Okey dokey.

MICHAEL walks up wearing a baby bonnet.

MICHAEL
Waaaaa! Waaaaaa! Mommy!

PAM
What are you doing?

MICHAEL
I’m little Jim Jr.

STANLEY walks by and shakes his head on his way out.

JIM
Inappropriate.

PAM
(In a hushed tone)
Michael, I am not pregnant, and even
if I were, that’s a very private matter.
I am sure whoever it is will appreciate
your discretion.

MICHAEL
Well, it is my business if one of my
workers has a baby in the oven.

JIM
Baby in the oven? That doesn’t sound right.

MICHAEL
OK. Fine. Cry babies. I’ll stop making
this place a more funnier place to work.
ABORT! ABORT!
(this garners attention)
NO, no, never mind.

KEVIN takes a picture of MICHAEL on his cell phone.

MICHAEL TALKING HEAD

MICHAEL (CONT'D)
(taking off bonnet)
I’m not really sure why I had this in my room.
(thinks about it)
No, I really have no idea.

An Exact Man?

2008-07-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

Research is finished. The easiest part of the job. After spending the past week in front of the computer, I can say that I have seen every episode of 30 Rock, NBC.com commercials included. Every one of Jack Donaghy's snappy conservative quips, Liz Lemon's self depreciating food jokes, Jenna's back door self-compliments, Tracy Jordan's insane soliloquies, Kenneth Parcell's holier-than-though-art lectures, and Frank's "we need a character to just be dumb" moments.

It's been real. It's been fun. It's been real fun. But I haven't worked out in a week, and I think I need a shower. So after that shower, what is the next step you say? How does a writer take what he has learned from watching, and transform himself into an integral part of the creative process?

Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man.

I read that somewhere in the library of congress above a door frame in the marble adorned corpulence that was the building. A quote, that with a little grammar help, makes a very valid point. To watch something or read something is to get an idea. But to write something, or create something, that is to fully understand it. But that shit is hard!

So I'll sleep tonight with the 30 Rock DVD case under my pillow and let osmosis take its effect (it's science, you can't argue with it). I'll get up tomorrow, see if my brothers ADD medication will work for me, go to Starbucks, and see what ideas I can crank out while pretending I'm not checking out that cute girl in the corner that I don't have the balls to talk to. Damn, I'm not going to get anything done.

Life In The Burbs

2008-07-10T09:34:00.000-07:00

I think Jerry Seinfeld was right when he said that New York was the perfect place for a comedian. Most people are at their funniest when they are complaining.

There are a number of categories for humor though. There is the slapstick/self-depreciating humor. There is the clever, twist of logic humor. But most predominantly, and maybe because of Seinfeld, there is the neurotic, complaining observational humor. Humor that points out what is wrong in the world, so that you can at least laugh at it instead of having it drive you crazy.

The problem with living in Boxborough, is that there are no real annoyances. No thorns in my side to speak of. And the only reason I am writing this, is because I am annoyed that I have not been more annoyed, if you follow me. I no longer have to get up for a job that bores me, I don't have a car that looks like its about to fall over, and I am perfectly happy with my relationship with Heidi Klum. Life's a peach.

An unfunny, unbothersome peach. Some say happiness is defined by misery, or that humanity itself may be defined by suffering. Either way, It's harder and harder for me to come up with entries on this thing without a reason to vent... I'm sure I'll whip something up.

Captivating Reading Material

2008-07-03T13:48:00.000-07:00

There is nothing really for me to write about today, but I am sitting here doing nothing anyway, so I might as well practice. I just read "Sit Ubu Sit" by Gary David Goldberg, the writer and creator of Family Ties, who also wrote this and that and blah blah blah.

After reading his numerous credits I started to get intimidated, and was wondering how hard it would be to create so many successful ideas. But the number of his publications didn't nearly scare me much as how fast he could write them. He explained that, after a while, he was pumping out at least one episode per week. Damn. I'm hoping that after the first couple, I will fall into a cadence, and be able to follow a pattern that simplifies and streamlines the process.

While I was at the library yesterday, I was glancing at the rows of mystery books in front of me. I was supposed to be writing, but its to hard to concentrate when there are so many exciting and wondrous things going on all around me. Like bookshelves.

So I get up and start looking at the book bindings, and I notice that there is this guy Peters, who has written a whole shelf, a whole shelf. Jesus. This is the moment that I realized some people can just crank out story after story after story.

This was also the moment I realized that I wasn't writing anymore, but standing up, looking at books.

Sign #1 you have ADHD: you don't realize you have digressed from your task for at least five minutes. I'm surprised I lasted through the SATs without walking over to the window, all glassy-eyed, and started mumbling 'pretty birds, pretty birds'.

Maybe If I get myself some Adderall, I could have a shelf too, or at least finish this spec script...