Top Picks

Consumer Reports top picks for autos have finally been released. There were some big upsets this year with Hyundai taking two of the top spots, a first for the Korean auto maker. Chevrolet also broke into the ranks and was the first American vehicle to do so in five years.

The problem with these reports, however, is that they do not accurately represent the of the people, the zeitgeist has been ignored too many times. After intensive and exhaustive testing in the Northfield, MN area, I have come up with the top regional picks:

Top Green Car:
1998 Chevy Cavalier. This vehicle boasts a four cylinder engine that usually blows up at about 40,000 miles, saving the environment from many extra years of pollution. The semi-functional air-conditioning also does its part in the fight against global warming. Many Cavaliers are then recycled as lawn ornaments, making them the most versatile green car on the market.

Top Small Sedan:
1992 Honda Civic. You may be noticing that these cars are not actually from 'this year', but then again, neither are the cars you see on the street. This little beauty of a go-cart will get you from point A to point B for years to come, bumping your way down the street on the decrepit shock and strut system. A charming feature allows rust to instantly appear above the wheel well, and quickly spread to the door jams. (NOTE: this car also features a replaceable 'different color' hood that can be found at any junk or scrap yard!)

Family Sedan:
1999 Ford F150. Nothing says family hunting trip like five human beings piled in a vehicle built for three! What's the extra bench seat in the back for? My beer goddamnit! Now shut up and stop bothering your mother! Haha, oh the memories! The gun-rack equipped truck can carry as many beers as you can drink and as many does as you have tags for, so happy shooting. This rugged do-it-all is our perennial favorite only because our favorite NASCAR driver is a Ford man, so we need to be to.

Upscale Sedan:
2006 Ford Mustang. Lexus and Mercedes were snubbed this year inasmuch as they were not built in the U-S-of-A. This prowler of the streets comes equipped with a powerful engine, sleek body design, and a douchebag behind the wheel. Keep an eye out for this one by the side of the road, because it also was touted as 'most pulled over for drug possession'!

Fun to Drive:
Mazda MX-5 Miata. Seriously, I think Consumer Reports got it right on this one. The handling and acceleration were sublime, and the sound system was loud enough to drown out the people yelling 'homo!' on the side of the street.

Small SUV:
2005 Ford Escape. The auto best built to shuttle those aging trophy wives around, to do their nails or to give Fufu a pedicure, or whatever else the hell they do to keep themselves occupied. Large truck room is a great hiding place for your younger man when the husband gets suspicious.

Pickup Truck:
(See family sedan)

Congratulations to this years crop who made the list! Honorable mentions go to the Pontiac Grand Am for 'Most Common Girl Car' and to Toyota Prius with a Ralph Nader bumper sticker as 'Most Hated in A Small Farm Town.'

The Purchase, Part III

Hovering on my back ala Han Solo frozen in carbonite, I neared the tiny village. The clocks moved underneath me with metronomic frequency, walking by means of a teetering shuffle. Their beeps and buzzes grew synchronized, matching their flopping tempo of miniature steps. And then, all at once, they were quiet.

The cords unraveled around me, leaving me lying in a stupefied funk. I sat up to witness the crowd of electronics line up in silence, cords retracted, in seeming anticipation. Out of a small hut, a larger Alarm clock tottered out. It had AM/FM, snooze features, and an input for an auxiliary device. It was clearly the leader of the clan.

The great clock reached it's power cord solomly over to it's tuning knob, and switched on it's stereo feature. All I heard was static. The LED diodes of the other villagers hung low in embarrassment and sorrow. Their leader had no reception. I now knew why I was here. I was brought here for a reason; to help the lost village of alarm clock radios find their antennas. Maybe then, would I earn the right of passage back to that electronics isle in Target that felt like so far away.

Out of a cloudless sky I heard a crack and a bang as an electrified Delorean skidded next to me. The suicide door swung open and a frazzled Doc Brown jumped out, wearing a neon pink jumpsuit and silver opaque glasses.
"Great Scott!" He yelled. "Ollie, we've got to go right away!"
"What is it Doc?" I said.
"It's Marty, he's in trouble!"
"Damn that Biff." I turned to my new friends apologetically. "I'm sorry guys, but I need to take this one." Doc was already back in the car as I slid over the hood to open the passenger door. "I'll be back someday to find your reception!" Before I could close the door, a power cord slid in. I paused. A lone alarm clock stood there.
"Can I take him with me?" I asked Doc.
"Absolutely not!" exclaimed Doc, "the consequences could be catastrophic!" But the clock wouldn't budge. "Close the door!" He yelled, as the tires started to roll.

Without Doc noticing, I grabbed the cord and pulled in the clock, closing the door. We were off.
"Sir." Said Doc. "Sir."
"What?"
Doc looked at me with wide eyes, "Are you OK?"

I opened my eyes only to be blinded by the tungsten ceiling lights of the target store. Two store assistants and the large lady with her five kids were surrounding me on the floor. "Are you ok sir?" the assistant said.

"Yeah", I said, looking at the broken display case next to me. I raised my hand, still grasping the power cord. "I'll take this one."

The Purchase, Part II

A deep ravine ran down from the grassy knoll into the woods, cutting into the forest and down the valley where a river must have once flowed. After a few hours hike, the going started to get slower as the ground beneath me grew softer. Weeds and roots snarled the surface and each step I took started to sink deeper down, making impressions that filled with water. Where was I?

I took out my cell phone again to check the time. 27:98. Of Course.
WAIT! I get a bar of service!!. I scrambled up the side of the ravine, clawing away at the muddy plants with one arm, my other held the phone up like holy grail itself. Two bars.....three... and then...

BOOOOMMM.

An earth-shuddering thunderclap tore across the jungle. And at once, it started to rain, but not like any rain I had ever seen before. The raindrops came down in behemoth size, some as large as Buicks, crashing down and punching craters in their wake with a heavy thunkkk. Panic struck as a rain'drop' pummeled down the branches of a nearby tree, taking the leaves and smaller limbs with it. I was frozen in place, there was nowhere to hide. Putting a newspaper over my head wasn't going to cut it here.

BOOOOMMM.


Another round of thunder made me jump and run towards a thicker grove of trees, when thunkkk, I was swatted to the ground. A giant bathtub of cold water crashed me back down the ravine, sliding woozily down the the muddy bottom. There was now a slight current running by my wrists and ankles as I tried to prop myself up for a breath. The rain was crashing down all around me. Where was my.... THUNKKK.

I felt weightless as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Where was this river taking me? And more importantly, did I leave my lights on in the parking lot? I did, didn't I. Damnit.

Opening my eyes in a groggy haze some hours later, I sat up on a sandy bald spot on a river bend. The rain had stopped and the water was already receding from the ravine. BEEP BEEP! I heard a strangely familiar noise by my side. I looked down, and saw an alarm clock on the beach. It had a large face, with the numbers 88:88 blinking at me in irregular intervals. It beeped once again, and then shuffled forward and poked me with its power cord tail. Beep? I jumped. It scooted back, pulling in it's 120V tail. After a moment's standoff, the Timex creature turned and faced the underbrush, beeping incessantly.

The lower leaves scuffled around me, and other nightstand timepieces waddled out cautiously, beeping and buzzing curiously. Before I knew what to do, I had been circled, and in once swift and uniform movement, the clocks wrapped me up with their cords. The clock then, somehow, lifted me off the ground. Like Gulliver himself, I was prisoner to a Lilliputian army that never slept in.

As I was carried at a painstakingly slow pace down a narrow ingrown path through the jungle, I saw the plume of smoke ahead of me. We are going to a village! Maybe this wasn't that bad after all. I could catch some Z's while bumming a free ride there. Well, maybe I could if those clocks would just be quiet for a second.

Final chapter tomorrow...

The Purchase, Part I

Have you ever bought something despite every single cell of your brain screaming at you saying this is a mistake! Of course you have. I can just picture them right now, like little tiny Pac Men, hollering don't do it (I'm still talking about the brain cells here)! And you know why? Because you wanted it.

I just wanted my way out of $100 (pre-tax) last week. And being someone who is usually very good at buying items on sale, I must say, I stepped outside my circle for this one. I paid $100 for something I could get for...$10. It's a. Uhh.. It's an.... an.... alarm clock/radio.

Let me explain!
When I was roaming the electronics isles at Target, because there is nothing else to do in my town at 8:00PM, I noticed a new Boston Acoustics on the white grated shelf. Recently I have been stricken with a rare and terminal case of audiophilia, and to me, testing out speakers at Target, Best Buy and other locations is like wandering through a pharmacy, only I get to test the drugs before I buy them.

As I reached out to touch the volume knob on the sleek looking sound machine, something unbelievable happened. Just as my finger touched the radio, a huge woman came careening around the corner, corralling her three kids behind her, pushing a cart brimming with groceries and home supplies, and BAAMM! She crashed right into me.

My body was thrown forward as if I had been struck by a vindictive school bus driver, and I crashed unabatedly into the shelving. I heard steel crunch and break in my wake as I destroyed my way though layers of metal and concrete. I stopped when I hit the ground, accompanied by the powder of dry wall and misplaced chips and chunks of the wall. The cloud was thick at first, and I struggled to see as I sat up. But, when the dry wall veil sifted to the floor, I realized I was not in Kansas anymore. And by Kansas, I mean Target.

I stood up slowly, a little tender from the fall, and absently fanned at a mosquito that was buzzing around my ear. I was standing on a narrow path. In the middle of a jungle.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, Ollie, you are crazy. But let me tell you something, the same thing was running through my head. But the broad fan blade leaves brushing past my face, the sun poking through the canopy, scattering light across the fern-covered floor, and the wet, thick air, all led me to believe that this was very real.

I pushed the leaves and vines aside as I cautiously made my way down the path towards a clearing up ahead. I needed to get a look around, gather my bearings. Maybe I was in some sort of promotional isle in the back of the store... selling tiki torches? I didn't see any tiki torches though. I did, however, see a centipede maneuver its way up the tree right by my head. It was the largest insect I had ever seen, each leg moving with eerie speed and silence, as it creeped and snaked its way to the top, no doubt with intention to swallow some birds nest in one gulp. I shuddered and forged on ahead to the clearing.

As I walked out into the sun, a cooler breeze came across my face, and I wiped a musty patina of sweat off my forehead with my sleeve. I was standing on a grassy knoll, a site that mush have been cultivated for farmland in the past, but now was unkempt, and filled with tall, soft grass and scattered with young trees only waist high. The great forest that I emerged from surrounded me on all sides, dipping from my vantage point into a great valley, rolling and expansive. On all sides, save one, the trees merged into mountains, only crawling halfway up to be taken over by barren rock and the craggy edges that made the dramatic outline of the range itself. The chain only broke on the south side to give way to a slim view of the clear blue ocean.

I lone wisp of smoke rose from the trees, about halfway between myself and the mountains. If I was going to get any answers, I knew that I would need to head in the direction of that smoke, and hope that whoever was making it was friendly. Wallet? Check. Car Keys? Check. Cell phone? No signal, but check.

It looked like a days walk. I popped my collar to protect my neck from the bugs and headed down the slope towards the woods. The warm, moist air swallowed me up, but was silent as I trod through, as if the woods themselves were watching me...

To be continued tomorrow...

Under The Influence

I am, regrettably, on my second cup of coffee right now. I am also, regrettably, reduced to writing about coffee again. It seems as though creative inspiration is lacking on this Monday morning at the bank. My view consists of the back of a church, another bank, and a grain elevator in the background. An awe-inspiring vista that ranks up there with Machu Pichu and the Himalayan mountains.

I had proudly abstained from coffee my entire life until this year. Each morning in college, my roommate would brew a pot, start on his homework, and then ask me if I wanted some when I woke up.
"No thanks"
"I'll get you hooked one of these days." He would say, and then go back to his religion paper, fueled by his early morning energy. I always preferred to wake up naturally based on some strange self-reliant complex I must possess.

I have found that I can get up, scramble to work in the nick of time, and be fully awake. I don't need the coffee to wake up. But because of the excitement level my job entails, I do need the coffee to stay awake.

And I have found that, by drinking coffee, I have reached a new level of 'alertness'. Sure, my hands might get a little fidgety, and sure, I might knock things off my desk spastically when someone walks in, but damn, my hand can swoop down and catch that pen (mid-air) faster than you can blink an eye. Conversely, when I focus myself on a random task, it suddenly engulfs 100% of my attention. Jesse James could have a revolver to the back of my head, but damn it, I need to finish this spreadsheet! It would take no les than a bludgeon to the head, which would only make me swivel around in my chair. Scratching my neck nervously, with a crazed look in my eyes, I would hiss at him "Hey man, you got any beans? Fresh Guatemalan beans? Huh, huh?" Then I take a big pull from my thermos, and with my figure vibrating at 'jackhammer frequency', would challenge Mr. James. "You can't shoot what you can't see can ya! Can ya!" I would most likely then grab his gun with the speed of a thousand twitchy squirrels, jump on his back and search his satchel for a tin of Folgers Crystals, focused %100.

I have no doubt, in the time I have written this, about ten to twelve customers have come up to the window here, hoping to make a simple transaction, but found themselves screaming incredulously at a figure typing away at the computer... with a crazed look in his twitching eye.

Now, let's brew some more. It's... a long day, and... my energy source... is running... lowwww...

Curb My Enthusiasm

Until last night, I had not been to a play in a couple years. Plays, in general, are not my bag. But, after seeing a very funny youtube preview for the show, I decided to roll the dice and break my thespian fast.

The theatre itself is carved out of the remnants on a brick and concrete warehouse. The questionably intentional art moderne look was 'pretty cool' I thought, as I noticed the steel beams and trusses, elegant in their own way, holding up scaffolding and lighting equipment. The aesthetics ended there, however, when I saw the seating arrangement, which looked like a middle school band setup.

I sat down with an Amstel Light, my friend Larry, and no expectations (good or bad). I was just there to be entertained.

I'm not sure when it actually happened, or if there even was a defining moment, but at some point I vaguely realized that there was nothing happening in front of me. I don't mean nothing, as in a void of space and matter, but close to it. It reminded me of the Christopher Guest mocumentary For Your Consideration, where the (very talented) actors, pretend to be, well, very untalented.

I'm sure you are familiar with the awkward scenario of trying to walk past someone, only to have both of you step to the same side, suddenly engaged in a mental chess game of non-verbal clues and 'after you' gestures. This happened on stage, first being met with a few chuckles and smiles (even on my part), but as they continued to tango, neither passing the other, it started to get old. But they kept going. And going. And as they resulted to convulsing in front of each other like a fish in front the mirror (which, coincidently was done later by another character!), I covered my face with my hands, peeking through intermittently to see if they were done.

The four characters constantly engaged in meaningless banter, which I assume was intended to portray metaphors for metaphysical ideas, larger than life concepts , or hopefully, at best, some reincarnation of the dada movement. But as I watched a character flailing around on a newly polished floor like a poorly choreographed Charlie Chapman film, I realized that theses characters were actually trying to be funny.

Other things that might have 'meant something':

-Baby being a bowling ball
-Dancing flowers in a giant fishbowl
-Newspaper falling from the ceiling
-No plot
-A lot of sand
-A desert diorama with an errant jumbo jet in it. It gets flooded with water. Metaphorically.

Take Alice in Wonderland, just remove the engaging dialogue, any sense of direction, and Lewis Carroll's frontal lobe, and PRESTO, you have Fishbowl. I have another friend, very conservative on a lot of issues (mutters f-ing hippies angrily when encountering a liberal, or a liberal idea), who I am very glad did not accompany us to this show. It would have given him enough ammunition to last a lifetime.

As the audience applauded at the conclusion of the performance, I gave a few polite claps, but remained stone-faced and appreciative that the ordeal was over, and that my mind could try to unravel and focus on real things. Things that made sense.

Larry turned to me. So what did you think?

The Best Part Of Waking Up

The five most terrifying seconds of my day usually take place somewhere between 7-7:30AM. They supervene right after I finish my morning routine at work, settle myself in, and then stare at my mug of coffee with a look only matched by Rocky as he walked into the ring against Apollo Creed.

These five seconds are spent with the mug fearfully leaning, ever so slightly, up to my lips, waiting (oh the suspense!) for that coffee to touch the tip of my tongue. At this point, my hand, with the cautious motor governance of a cardiac surgeon, ever so slightly tips the cup higher and higher. With slight intakes of breath, I attempt to coax out the violently hot beverage - only needing a dollop to suffice. Any less would be a mist, and any more would be a mini pool of lava that would leave my taste buds incapacitated for a painfully long time. The window of accuracy is comparable to satellite re-entry patterns.

This morning, per usual, after a rediculous amount of tipping and not sipping, I grew impatient. Oh, the tribulations of the foolish and hasty! With my heart already palpitating in suspense, it was jacked into 'heart attack' mode when the fiery sea of Colombian bean rinds splashed onto my woefully dejected tongue. "Gjaahh!" was my reaction, untimely delayed by the necessity to swallow first.

Well, that was that. The Band-Aid was pulled, and my terror level now dropped back down to normal shades of green (or whatever the safe color is). I would argue that the coffee, itself, offers no invigorating properties, but stimulates enough via the anticipation of searing pain.

Now comes the time to ritualistically curse the Mr. Coffee hot plate settings, my impatience, and the surprisingly efficient thermal retention properties of my mug until the first customer arrives.

Astronomy 101

North American astronomers collectively issued a press release yesterday to a room full of teaming reporters: There will be a lunar eclipse at 6:45 EST.

(crickets chirping)

This is big news for the four-eyed community which hasn't had a hard-on this big since Mars went into retrograde back in October.

Being a liberal arts educated man myself, I have been privileged with an astronomy class, and realize that not everyone knows exactly what a 'lunar eclipse' is. You were presumably a bit disappointed when you looked into the night sky to find a 'fuzzy' moon when you (and I) were expecting something more closely resembling, for example, a Mitsubishi Eclipse.

To fully capture the magic that is the eclipse, one needs to steep themselves in the research and literature dedicated to the motion of the heavenly bodies. But that is entirely out of the picture. These are probably some questions you are asking yourself right now:

What is a Lunar eclipse anyway?
That's a good question. It is a rare instance in our planet's orbital path when the sun passes directly in between our earth and the moon.

What? How would the sun fit in between the earth and the moon? Isn't the sun, like, freakin huge?
Um, what I meant to say is that, the moon passes between the sun and earth. It also pulls the oceans in different directions, effecting whale's migratory patterns, surfing competitions and other such things.

I think that's a solar eclipse, but whatever. Didn't you say that you took an astronomy class?

Ok, I think we are digressing. The point here, is that we are dealing with gravity, tides, a shadow of some sort, and werewolf sleeping habits. Beyond that, I can safely say, only the most brilliant physicists can speculate why 'The Great Shadow' passes over the moon.

Many neophytes in the astronomical realm will need some instructions on how to view a lunar eclipse properly. I wish it were as simple as just gazing at our moon and soaking in it's splendor. Apparently, I've read somewhere, there can be harmful effects on your retina, so precautions must be taken. The best method is to make sunglasses wrapped in aluminum foil, poking a small hole in front of each eye, so only a single shaft of light can get through. These prevent blindness from lunar radiation, hypnosis from the Greek god Selene, or actually seeing anything.

Then give these glasses to you friend and tell him to recap the whole 'eclipse thing' for you later, because American Idol just started and the glasses look rediculous. After all, it's just a stupid shadow.

Blinded By The Light

From what I have been led to believe, there is no crying in baseball. That ethos is now being tested by Mithchell-named MLB players arriving at spring training. Andy Pettite, Brian Roberts and company are exposing their sensitive side (albeit through their lawyer's request) by profusely apologizing for their use of steroids and HGH (based on my research* HGH is a highly potent form of plutonium that mutates the baseball player into a multi-limbed, superhuman athlete). Real men don't apologize. To admit you were wrong shows weakness!

Baseball has stood, for as long as I can remember, as the pinnacle of manhood. If these press-conferences were held ten years ago, this is how they would unfold:

Press: How do you respond to the senator's allegations of your blatant drug use?
Roberts: (grunt)
P: How do you think this will influence children who look up to you?
R: (chugs a can of beer, crushes it on his head and throws it at the reporter.)
P: Great catch by the way, to end the third inning.
R: Urggh. (scratches around his cup, which he is still wearing under his street clothes.)

Now that is how a man controls a conference! Total indifference. These were the heroes of my youth. Now they are reduced to openly emotional men, completely responsible for their actions, pressured to do the right thing. The jig is up. Tom Hanks must be mortified.

Mankind's last hope now rests on football players. Baseball has fallen into the shadow, engulfed by the armies of darkness who have already conquered cycling and track events. Leaving the rest of us blinded by the light of scrutiny and accountability.

Urggh. (scratch)

Mortally confused

My dad recently sent me a copy of Michael Chabon's Gentlemen of the Road. I had very mixed feelings having already tried to read a previous book of Chabon. Let me paint you a little picture.

"Michael Chabon can write like a magical spider, effortlessly spinning out elaborate webs of words that ensnare the reader with their beauty and their style."
-The New York Times

"[Michael Chabon] is, simply, the coolest writer in America."
-The Christian Science Monitor

"Michael Chabon's sentence structure confuses the sh*t out of me."
-me

"Chabon's writing is elegant and limber"
-San Fransisco Chronicle

"[The dude] uses words I don't know to describe other words I don't know. I mean common,[man], I'm drowning by page two, and by the end of the first chapter I have a stage four migraine."
-me

Seriously though, I needed ready access to dictionary.com in order to finish the first chapter with any comprehension of storyline. I don't know many things in life, but I do know this one thing: I would be terrified to play scrabble with Michael Chabon.

Each of his words would be seven letters, with three x's apiece. I can picture him throwing down a word like Zxonqiu for a triple word score and then laughing in my face as I scrambled for my Webster's.

"You won't find that word in your puny little dictionary, you worthless mortal!" He would bellow.
"I just created that word!" A large ominous cloud would start to form above both of us, and rumblings of thunder would approach from afar. Chabon himself would start to crackle with the electricity in the air and he would levitate from the ottoman he was sitting on. His guffaw would emanate from the deepest part of his being. "From nothing I can create words that confuse and belittle people!"

And like that, he would plop back down in the ottoman, take a sip of his herbal tea, pick up seven more tiles, and irreverently tell me that it's my turn.

Crap. All I have is 'PUN'.

The Devil Wears Alpine Lowe

Way out there, in the magical land called Cyberspace, you can find a place called steepandcheep.com. Seemingly an oasis in the desert of overpriced outdoorwear and all-around 'cool' things, SAC lures in customers like the gingerbread house in the lost forest. Just as Hansel an Gretel, you find yourself nibbling on it's lemon drop awnings and chocholate lattice....and then 'BAM!', the next thing you know, you are in the witch's oven, on pre-bake, wearing a $112 watch, fleece socks, and an Oakley sweatshirt that doesn't quite fit.

Extended metaphors aside, I (being someone in a very low income bracket), have forked up far too much money for paraphernalia that I may never need. In fact, I did't even know some of this stuff existed until it popped up in front of me with a heavily slashed price. Four person tent? Nah, don't need it. Well, how much is it? $150? List price $400? Well shit! If I'm ever going to buy a tent, I had better do that now. In fact, maybe I'll get a couple...start a jamboree. I'll be fun! I should buy some camp stoves...

I usually stop myself at this point, throw a glass of water in my face, and realize that I go camping about as often as Paris Hilton.

The site works on overstocking principles, and helps outdoorwear companies dump their surplus at a great price for consumers (suckers like me). They have one deal at a time, with a limited inventory that dwindles down like a progress bar on the left of the screen. The site is also run by the devil.

In my mind, the Supreme Beguiler is the only one cunning and evil enough to create, and run, a website that could slap a watch on my hand and have me anxious to pay more (I won't say how much I paid, but you can check the first paragraph for a hint). Descartes, mon ami, you were a fool to insist that an Great Deceiver did not exist. You clearly did not end up scratching your head at why you now own a freeze-proof water bottle with a built-in altimeter.

My ego, in contrast to my brain, is too big to admit that I have been taken for a ride. So, in a futile attempt to justify my purchases, I will be summiting Everest this spring. I have room for three more in my tent if you want to join me.

Sound Effect

Last week I had a very strange and undeniable urge to visit Cheapo.

I cajoled my friend to hop along, dangling the promise of a sandwich and 'something to do' in front of him. It worked, and after a delicioso mexican flata sandwich, we rolled into the Cheapo parking lot, ready to peruse the vault of already-used CD's.

This is great, I thought, as we walked in, soaking in the sight of even, indescript isles of plastic and vinyl. The vista was accompanied by the click-click-click sound of patrons fingering through jewel cases. It sounded like a stenographer on speed. With no clear direction or inclination, I ambled my way though the store. I was looking for something.... something that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

My friend walked up to me as I was aimlessly clicking through CD's with something in his hand. The Who - It's Hard. I followed the faces of Roger Daultry to Pete Townshend, Keith Moon and John Entwistle all the way to the boy playing the arcade game under the neon green horizon line lights. That's when my memory goes blank. The last thing I remembered about the store was thinking... shouldn't he be playing a pinball machine?

That's when the world went black, and I entered into zone that can only now be uncovered by years of psycho-therapy and hypnosis. I snapped out Mr. Hyde fifteen minutes later while sitting the car and looked down to see myself clutching a bag with four LP's. What the? Crosby, Stills... The Who... U2... another The Who...

What the hell am I going to do with these? I thought. I don't even own a record player!

It wasn't until later that night, when I was browsing cnet, amazon.com, and ebay for a record player and speakers that it hit me. Something was wrong, very wrong. I needed to see a specialist.

"How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?" The record store owner asked me the next morning. I was sitting on a bench in his small store, nervously fidgeting.
"Just the past couple of days."
"Let me ask you something," he said, refering to his clipboard solemnly. "Can you hear the difference between a $100 and $400 set of speakers?"
"Yes."
"Do you set the stereo equalizer when you drive other people's car?"
"When they aren't looking." I said, blankly.
He gave me a grave look.
"Would you rather listen to a bad radio station with good reception, or a good station with bad reception?" I thought about this one for a second.
"A bad station."
The owner set down the clipboard, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a heavy sigh.
"What is it?" I said. But I already knew.
"These are all telltale symptoms.... symptoms of an audiophile."
It was all happening too fast. I needed air.
"But I'm so young!"
"I know, I know." he said. He looked pale. "It's a terrible sickness that starts to effect people once they reach your age."

I was reeling, flying through images of expensive audio equipment, alphabetized album collections, and music snobbery.
"But... But..." I was starting to get faint. "I'm so poor already...." Images of Rolling Stone covers were spinning at me now, faster and faster.
"Trust me, I know." said the owner, putting his hand on my shoulder. "What I don't understand is how you picked this up." He thought for a moment.
"I know what happened," I said, dejectedly. "I watched Almost Famous last week."
"A Cameron Crow film?"
"Yeah"
"And you didn't use protection did you." He said sternly.
"No."
"Goddamn it son! You know what happens when you are bombarded by his nonstop musical montage footage?" He looked at me incredulously. "You never had a chance."

I thanked the owner for his time, guiltily purchased a couple more albums for my collection, and took a pamphlet called 'Paper vs. Plastic; the speaker cone material war', and left the store with my head hanging low. The world would never sound the same again.

Helen

It's the odd, quirky, and unexplainable things in life that leave indelible marks. In music, the songs with nonsense lyrics are always remembered. Or a note, cleverly placed, but signature to the artist, will stay with you forever. This holds true to people as well. Thousands of people pass by you every day, but only a chosen few will last. They are usually the odd ones.

This is a tribute to Helen; a woman stricken with dementia, senility, or most likely both. As a bank teller, I meet people every day ranging from practicing attorneys to meth-heads. Helen, to me, is a constant source of frustrating entertainment. Her appearance is greeted by a grimace of impatience and a silent chuckle in the back of your head.

Each morning Helen stumbles down the street, being towed, or towing her miniature dog Gizmo 2 (Gizmo the Original died in a tragic 'being-towed-around-town-too-much' related incident).

Things that make Helen different from you and me:

1) 90 years old.
2) Prone to wear nightgowns underneath her overcoat.
3) Makes trips to town for the SOLE purpose of taking our free cookies. Every day.
4) Has been told numerous (seriously, like a hundred) times to only take one cookie.
5) Takes 5-6 cookies.
6) Smears red lipstick on her face like Steve Buscemi's character in Happy Gilmore.
7) Blows her nose on a scrap of tissue, right above the cookies.
8) Only one cookie damnit!
9) Sometimes comes up to my window, puts her hands on the shelf, sighs out of fatigue like Sisyphus, and says the same thing every time "You guys should really have a bench in here." It's like freakin' Grounhog Day.
10) There are two couches and a love seat in our waiting area.
11) 'Forgets' not to bring Gizmo 2 inside, who has peed, many times on the trashcan.

Indelible.
I now work at a new 'Helen-Free' facility in another part of town. And as much as I bitched about her as I worked there, always swearing under my breath when she walked in and then laughing out of sheer resignation when she left, I will never forget her. For better or for worse.

Decisions, Decisions...

Growing up, essentially, is defined by the knowledge gained in the struggle to understand one's self; the clarification of our actions, thoughts and motives. That, and the lucid realization that Disney's The Shaggy D.A. is actually a really bad movie, and you are surprised that you could even sit through five minutes of its condescending drivel when you were six. But, in hindsight, most of what you experience at that age is, by definition, condescending.


What I have learned recently about myself, is that there are external limitations which effect when I will be 'of character' to make a clear decision. Here are the restrictions:


1) Not enough sleep: Anything less that six hours of sleep puts me in such a foggy funk that I start to get Nietzsche on my own ass. Nothing has meaning, so why bother? That kind of stuff.

2) The day before I get sick: This one is a toughie. It is one of those hindsight days where you realize that maybe you shouldn't have tweaked out on the old lady in the grocery store for taking the last head of cabbage. And then keyed her car. This day usually comes coupled with 'not enough sleep day', converging like the perfect storm on your psyche. Tempers flair for no reason, and you may get overly emotional while watching a movie like the 6th Sense. Suddenly any movie transforms you into that weird neighbor kid in American Beauty who starts crying at the image of a plastic bag floating around. It’s all just so tragic and beautiful!

3) Cloudy days: Being one who is profoundly effected by daylight, it takes extra motivation to get through mundane chores like, for example, showering when the sun doesn't peak out its happy face. This leads me to the next one...

4) Winter months: With shorter, colder days, don't expect to get anything done from mid-November to March. Just drink it away. Bottoms up!

5) While drunk: This is a biggie. Especially when making decisions based on the attractiveness of a girl, whether to drive home or not, and buying grocery items. You might wake up next to shovel-face Broomhilda with a 'puppy'-sized dent in your car and fifteen boxes of Pizza Bites strewn about your kitchen.

6) Hung-over: See #2. Add a headache.

7) When the promise of sex is a real possibility: The libido takes full control of the helm in this position, doing whatever is necessary to reach its goal. Combined with #5, the combination is more powerful than all of the Thundercats combined. Your brain is only barely operational at this point, and you slip into what we call the Pied Piper, or Manson Family effect.

The list goes on. And, as I grow up, I realize I usually have about 3-4 solid minutes each day (on average) of quality decision-making time. Mine has long passed for the day, so I should sign off before I say anything I regret. It's time to cuddle up on the couch with the 'happy light' and get weepy-eyed watching Rambo 2.

Mailbag

Inspired by Bill Simmons, the Sports Guy, on ESPN.com, I have dedicated my piece today to the fans who write, email, call, or shout at me on the street. The life of a blogger can be overbearing and downright burdensome at times with the amount of fan mail received, but I try to get through each piece of correspondence, remain impartial and open to suggestion, and systematically ignore the ones I don't like.

Here is a random sampling from my mailbag this weekend. My responses are in bold.

Where do you get the ideas for your hilarious, yet brilliantly poignant blog entries? I am floored by the sheer greatness of everything that is YOU.

forever a fan.
~Kimberly, Sandusky, OH

This is clearly a real person writing a very sincere, heartfelt memo to her hero. I applaud you, Kimberly, for speaking so frankly, and for also being an actual reader who wrote in. In response to your question, the ideas for my entries are in fact a random splattering of a caffeine induced, ennui battling, writing binge. Or plagiarism.

I read somewhere that you are a big New England sports fan. Did you happen to see the Superbowl this year? 18-1, 18-1, 18-1. [S]ucker.

~Dickhead, NY, NY

No I didn't Dickhead, but thanks for the recap. I'm sure that you and your gap-toothed Strahan loving buddies aren't just embittered Yankees fans jumping on the bandwagon of Boston beating sports teams.

cLick HErE foR PeN1Le enLArgeMen!! CLik H@re,

~Anon.

I'm not sure how you got my contact information, or what exactly you are insinuating, but please stop sending me these emails.

Honey, your brother won't answer my phone calls. would you please call him and tell him to call me? I think I'm coming down with a cold, and the stress of those freakin' kids at school is wearing me down. Love you,

~Mom, Boxborough, MA

P.S. - I'll send out a care package this week, and throw in some more ointment for that pesky rash !

Haha, what rash!? Good one mom! Anyway, yeah fine, I'll call him. Jeez already. Could you also put some Oreos in the package? Not double stuff - that's just too much frosting. Thanks.

Keep writing people, you are the coal to my engine, the audience to my performance, and a great excuse to not write a legitimate entry.

Hmmm...

I just wrote, and then deleted, an entire paragraph about my morning routine of opening up this bank every morning. But I deleted it. For two very good reasons.

1) It compromises not only my safety, but the security of the bank.

2) As Tank so tactfully stated in The Matrix, it was some major boring shiaaat.

But, as I sit here on my $100 leather teller stool, book in hand, coffee next to me, sun peaking up over the horizon, with my ipod plugged into my personal stereo, I can't help but think that this gig aint so bad. I do have only one tiny, little, nagging beef with this whole setup.

It has to do with this ten foot long window that separates me from customers/weather/gun-weilding-bankrobbers. When the securities equipment installer was setting up our vault a few months ago, I asked him about the 'bullet resisting' capabilities of my little fishbowl.
"Well that glass there is level two protection" he said very matter of factly. I asked if it went any higher and he told me that level three was the highest. And it could block pretty much anything aside from armor piercing bullets.
Hmm, I though.
"So what does my level two glass do?"
Apparently, I learned, it will stop the bullets from weaker firearms, but anything heavy duty would go right through.
"It will slow the bullet down of course" he said reassuringly.
"So ducking is still the best policy?"
"Yes."
Hmm. I thought again. And then I tried, because I am very empathetic by nature, to understand the thought process behind buying 'level two' glass. I was picturing the bank president standing there talking to the general contractor.

Contractor: Have you made a choice on the armored glass for the teller window?
Prez: Well, do you have a level one?
C: That would just be straight glass, which we don't recommend.
P: And level two blocks most bullets?
C: Yes, but we recommend level three, its what most of our clien....
P (interrupting): And how much is this level three?
C: $100 more.
P: Hmmmm.
C: That could save someone's life.
P: Hmmm. (followed by an awkward pause)

At least that's how I play it out in my head. The same head that now ducks when a customer reaches for their glove box.

Free Fallin'

I know it's still winter and there is a thick,crusty dirty layer of snow burmed up against the sidewalks and street corners, and it may very well drop below zero on several occasions before it gets warmer, but I am already thinking about spring. Actually I think the promise of spring enters everyone's minds right after the first snowfall. There is a palpable excitement as the first flakes dance and twirl to the ground, and children watch as it amasses to wondrous heights in the lawn, blanketing everything with an innocent and pure coat of simplicity, covering the ugly scars of fall. That first wintery night, everyone cozies up in bed, reminiscing of those days that they were once children and couldn't wait to get outside and build snow forts and go sledding at murderous speeds down a hill.

The next morning you go outside to start your car staring numbly at the four solid inches of inconvenience that covers your entire vehicle and the entire road all the way to work, and think sh*t, this is going to be a long f-ing winter. From that point on, you stare straight ahead to April and don't look back.

Allow me to boomerang back from that digression to complete my train of thought. I am looking forward to spring for a specific reason: I want to skydive.

I am not sure I want to do this yet, but the idea has crossed my mind on numerous occasions. Now, being one who routinely sharts themselves during heavy turbulence on commercial flights, you might not think I am a prime candidate for death jumping (my new nickname). Actually during those times of turbulence I am commonly found gripping the hand rests with sweaty hands, trying to look like I am sleeping or reading as calm as Cool Hand Luke, when inside my too-f*ing-creative-for-my-own-good brain I am flipping out like a germaphobe on the subway who just realized he forgot his hand sanitizer. As each bump and jostle hits me, I just casually look out the window and think that wing is bending like a freaking diving board at fat camp.

The reason I am entertaining the idea of death jum...sky diving, is because you are strapped to a parachute. In my eyes, that is safer that any commercial flight. For example, if I'm flying Delta and the captain says "We're going down!" they tell you to buckle up. Buckle up! Sure, I'll strap myself right in here, you say we're going to hit mountains? I don't want to mss this one!

If I am skydiving and the captain says "We're going down" I'll say OK, peace out brotha! And hop out the back door.

So I’m pretty sure I'll do this. I'm almost committed to it. Let's just say that there is a good chance I will commit to the idea of checking this out.

Mr. Obama

I was lost in my own little world of embarrassing forgetfulness. The gentleman behind the plastic fold-out table gave me an impatient look and then glanced back at the line I was holding up. It wrapped all the way through the atrium, which was bustling with other fellow caucuser's. This was the biggest caucus he had ever seen, and there was some dumb-ass in the front gumming up the works.

I was starting to slightly panic now. I quickly glanced around, looking at people's pins and t-shirts. No help. I had no idea how to spell Obama's first name.

See, they give you a little blank slip of paper and tell you to write your candidates name on it. I now know that if I wrote 'Obama', it probably would have been sufficient, but for some reason I was haunted by the idea that Obama himself might actually read this ballot and be mortally insulted. After I finally snapped out of my twilight-zone funk and realized that 'the only black candidate' would probably work, I scribbled out Barack Obama.
Whew. Lucky guess.

What this caucus has taught me, besides spelling, is the love of the word 'caucus' in verb form. It's fine when used as a noun (e.g the DFL party caucus will be held in the auditorium of the middle school). But as a verb, it's incredibly fun to use. It's like that little dog Sam who is so disfigured that he's, in effect, spellbinding. It's hard to look away... (http://samugliestdog.com/). Caucus is the bastard child of the words 'mucus' and 'cock', which for me, adds a little flavor to it's sentences (e.g. People all over the state were caucusing all at once, and in record numbers tonight).

So I hope that everyone caucused last night (unless you voted in a primary...boooooring), and also that this word becomes a regular in the American vernacular, like 'sweet', or 'dude'. That's just one man's dream though. Caucus.

Los Diablos Part I

I just bought tickets to go out and visit The Angels, or as they say it in Mexico, Los Angeles. I haven’t been to LA since middleschool when I visited my aunt on Long Beach. Times were simple back then when a plane crash was my most troublesome thought. I couldn't have told you what the Crips or the Bloods were, or that Dr. Dre, that very year, was coming straight out of Compton. I did meet a very nice man on the plane who claimed to be an emerging musical talent. I wished him good luck as we parted ways in the terminal and he replied 'for shizzle, keep it rizzle'. I wonder what happened to that nice man.

This time around the wheel of fortune, I am worried. Not of any gang hailing from Inglewood, Compton or Long beach. But a much more dangerous, more powerful gang, straight out of Hollywood. A gang of sociopathic, morally corrupt, murderous movie stars. Ok, maybe they aren't murderous... yet.

Legend has it that if you turn off all the lights in your house, lock yourself alone in the bathroom and say 'Tom Cruise' into the mirror three times, he will 'apparate' right behind you like Dumbledore and turn you into a scientologist. I don't believe the urban legend myself, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to try to prove it wrong. The consequences are far too dire*.

The power of Hollyweird is so strong that it pulls people on from all over the country. A poor little girl named Britney was abducted at a young age, thrown into the LA combine and spit out into an insane asylum, sans underpants, a few years later. It's brutal. I'm packing extra undies.

Supposedly the gangs roam the treacherous streets of Hollywood boulevard and Rodeo drive. Women so eye-spinningly beautiful, trot down the marlble walks, like a rapala dancing in the light near the watery face of a north woods walleye. Once caught in the Siren's gaze, only a strong man can break free and live normally once again. The unlucky majority become obsessed and blinded, falling deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole until they reach the soul-sucking, bottomless pit of the Siren's inner ugly, and by that time it's too late. Far too late. You're doing lines of coke, spending each night clubbing, and find yourself on a pseudo-vegan diet. If I've seen it once, I've seen it a million times.

This is the stuff of nightmares.


* To reach level OT VIII (the highest level, like getting all the power-ups in video games), the total costs are estimated around $277,010.00. Says wikipedia.

Super Choke

Being a New England sports fan is awesome. When you live in New England.

Living in Minnesota, cheering for the powerhouse Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics is feeling more and more like being a New Yorker cheering for the Bronx Bombers in a Harvard Square bar.

After last night's game of rooting for the Pats in THE most historically significant super bowl in the past 20 years, and getting booed down by 'underdog-fever' friends, I am spent. I expect people to root for their home team, and I also appreciate people who choose a team to support before a game just for the value of entertainment, but being the only Patriots supporter, it was a lonely battle.

What I didn't expect though, was the unanimous intolerance of success that seems to be the growing motif. The Pats did not deserve the win last night. They did not play even close to their potential; blame it on Brady's ankle, on the aging front line, or whatever, but they didn't do what it takes to win a game. And the Giant's played like a possessed team, relentless in their blitzes and coverage.

But I would have been happy to see the Patriots win for the good of the sport, for a team that has the best coaching staff in the game, for the players that have dedicated their time and life to this game to be the best, for the discipline and professionalism unrivaled by any team possibly ever, and the chance for an undefeated season (when the field is so even and the margins of advantage so small). But, the underdog, for whatever reason, is now the new favorite and I have to accept that.

But don't feel bad for me, I'm a New England sports fan.

Working on it

I have eighteen minutes left in my window of freedom. The one hour glimpse of sunlight each day where they open the internet firewall like the gates of Mordor. Scratch that. Eight. Today is Friday so we all 'voluntarily' traipse around in these god-awful 'desert beige' sweaters. They somehow got selected by our Ricky Gervaise-esque office committee. It looks like someone on a strict oatmeal diet just vomited on my torso. (I picked a sweater vest. Just to make it look worse.)

Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock. Five minutes. I use every ounce of my resourcefulness to get though each painstakingly boring day here. We have no customers. And I don't mean very few when i say no, I mean like stranded in the Gobi desert in the hot midday sun with nothing but dunes surrounding you and then you see something in the distance, something that could be... is it? It cant be! It's a person! Then you get super excited and giddy at the prospect as you scramble over dunes in the hot sand, only to find out the 'person' is the skeleton of a dead camel. You're screwed. That's how slow it is here.