I recently gave in, finally watching the first Transformers movie in anticipation for the upcoming blockbuster sequel. I don't know why I was holding out for so long on something that I grew up on and loved as a child. Hasbro was a friend of mine from down the street. I often played with his toys, and now regret breaking and defacing so many of them. I wish I could go back and tell myself not to ruin my future 401(k) plan.
Maybe it's because Shia LaBeouf makes me feel uneasy. There is something about these troubled child stars that I root for to fail. Not only do I root for, but I paint my chest, tailgate, start the wave, and get a Fathead on my wall for them to not succeed. Maybe it's their rise to fame too quickly, the egos that amass, and their over-privileged lifestyle that is their instant parole or acquittal from any type of punishment. It just doesn't seem right that fame and fortune are nothing more than a key to every hot spot in Tinseltown, and a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card. There's something to be said about actually putting blame and punishment on America's Next Top Teen Hollywood Idol. Kids need to see that you can't drink and drive and gladly trade the crime in for 14 minutes in the slammer. That's not even enough time to meet your new boyfriend to acclimate you to the prison lifestyle. I hear the orientations they put on are pretty informative. How come they gave Keifer so much time? I guess Teeny-Boppers don't really watch 24. It's not "hot". If LaBeouf and the rest of them continue to get away with everything, where-oh-where are the future Cory's of America? Haim and Feldman are getting lonely.
Or maybe my reticence came from Director Michael Bay. What a hot mess Pearl Harbor was. Starring hot Hollywood hunks Ben Affleck and Josh Hartnett, the movie centered around their respective love stories. Isn't the title of the movie supposed to resemble something of a tragic event from war on our beloved country? Why the hell do we worry about whether or not they're going to find Make Out Point? Was it named after a tragedy, because they knew that is what it would be on the film world? Did I just compare a horrible historical event to a piece of crap movie?
For some strange reason, I do seem to remember Tre from Boyz in the Hood shooting a big ass gun in his underwear at the attacking air strike. Don't know why that came up. Or even why I had to mention it here. Huh.
Back to Transformers.
My last gripe is that every time I hear Optimus Prime, I'm forced to fantasize about a 72 oz. Texas steak, which I will get for free, if I can eat it in under an hour, complete with a baked potato, pan of corn bread, and a pint of some kind of gravy on the side. Please feel free to insert as many lines from The Great Outdoors as you can. To this day, that is one movie I have not finished watching. I remember as a kid my mom renting it, being a fan of SNL alumni comedies. However, only a few minutes in, I was given the parental line: "If they say a bad word one more time...." Needless to say, she didn't even have to finish that adage before they blew my cover, and it was off to bed for me. I still remember lying in my bed listening to mom hysterically giggling, trying to be quiet as she finished the movie.
Optimus Prime... sounds so delicious for some reason. "Yes, I think I'll try your Optimus Prime, med-rare, side of asparagus, please." Is this just another marketing ploy from the American Beef Counsel? I remember Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix doing the same thing. "Uh, yeah...I think I'll take a half-pound of provolone and a pound of the phoenix please."
I'd continue to boycott Shia "Future Feldman" LaBeouf, but the first movie was just so damn cool. It was the first time I'd ever developed an emotional attachment to a machine....That Bumble Bee is just so dreamy. I guess I have to see Part II, but only for the wonderful "character development" that Megan Fox brings to the Silver Screen, Bumble Bee's warm heart, and because, it's what's for dinner.
This time around when I buy the toys, I will keep them, only taking them out of the box a couple times to get my childhood joy back. They will then be stored in a temperature controlled Swedish account - safety deposit box entitled "Retirement Fund". I'll place all of my old Ninja Turtles in there while I'm at it for future petty cash.
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6.22.2009
Gandolf's Confessions of a Shopaholic
I admit that I was one of the *cough**cough* million customers who ordered a Snuggie. Correction - I purchased two (2) Snuggies; one as a gift to someone who so desperately needs to keep her mildly chilled forearms slightly warmer while eating and changing channels, and another for whom I thought would appreciate a charismatic afghan.
Something that gets lost in the ridiculousness of the Snuggie (besides my book light which I received as a free gift for placing my order, a $15 value) and it's Arch-Nemesis, The Evil Slanket, is that there is functionality behind the laughter. Who doesn't curl up at night with a blanket, then suddenly realize they hate the show they're watching, they forget to email somebody, they suddenly have the urge to cook a 5-course meal, or even worse, they feel the desire to rescue a small village under the constant, evil oppression of wizardry?
As you put on your fleece armor (available in 4 earth-tone colors), and envelope your body in this magical cloak, with Billy Mays and Ron Propeil standing idly by awaiting to hear your best Gandolf impression, it allows your imagination to take you somewhere other than your living room. You travel to the outskirts and Suburbs of Mordor.
The Snuggie is more than a blanket that slept with a hospital gown to breed this unappreciated and often laughed at love-child. It is an attic full of Grandma's old costumes. It is a stage. It is You and The Amazing Monochromatic Dreamcoat. Any dream will do. Just close your eyes, along with your curtains, and see for certain, whatever the hell you want.
It can do what no other cloth will do. It will allow you to simplify.
Infomercial products. They are your slave. They are your gimp you bring out of the closet, throw the ball-gag on, and make your life easier. If you have all of these late night products, your life would be so easy, even you could do it.
Simplify with excess.
Simplify with organization.
Organize your excess with simplification.
Just allow 6-8 weeks for Shipping and Handling.
Something that gets lost in the ridiculousness of the Snuggie (besides my book light which I received as a free gift for placing my order, a $15 value) and it's Arch-Nemesis, The Evil Slanket, is that there is functionality behind the laughter. Who doesn't curl up at night with a blanket, then suddenly realize they hate the show they're watching, they forget to email somebody, they suddenly have the urge to cook a 5-course meal, or even worse, they feel the desire to rescue a small village under the constant, evil oppression of wizardry?
As you put on your fleece armor (available in 4 earth-tone colors), and envelope your body in this magical cloak, with Billy Mays and Ron Propeil standing idly by awaiting to hear your best Gandolf impression, it allows your imagination to take you somewhere other than your living room. You travel to the outskirts and Suburbs of Mordor.
The Snuggie is more than a blanket that slept with a hospital gown to breed this unappreciated and often laughed at love-child. It is an attic full of Grandma's old costumes. It is a stage. It is You and The Amazing Monochromatic Dreamcoat. Any dream will do. Just close your eyes, along with your curtains, and see for certain, whatever the hell you want.
It can do what no other cloth will do. It will allow you to simplify.
Infomercial products. They are your slave. They are your gimp you bring out of the closet, throw the ball-gag on, and make your life easier. If you have all of these late night products, your life would be so easy, even you could do it.
Simplify with excess.
Simplify with organization.
Organize your excess with simplification.
Just allow 6-8 weeks for Shipping and Handling.
6.21.2009
The Kennedy Affliction: Part I
I used to work in, where else, but a friendly neighborhood bar/ restaurant. This is of course a prerequisite for any work-seeking artist in today's world of desperation, degradation, and whoredom. After punching in my time for a couple years, management met with me to explore the 2nd-tier in the hierarchy of restaurant-eering: Bar tending.
After multiple sessions of splashing bourbon around in a low-ball, and subjecting myself to the Sex in the City de jour, my semester majoring in Mixology was abruptly cut short when my tuition ran out. When I say tuition, I mean the old, obnoxious owner who decided to tell me that I was no longer in the running for Mix-Gun Slinger.
"I'm sorry, Dave, but you don't have the personality to pour drinks, listen to others share their day, and provide conversation for the lonely."
I hadn't done anything wrong, my record was a whistle, and the staff looked to me for a quick laugh...please insert any over-used Piano Man lyric here. And to have my personality in question was a Kimbo punch to the jaw. I was, after all, not necessarily popular with ladies before the age of 21, and without the on-set of alcohol, had to become quite the bard in order to get close to them. After some deep contemplation, only one intellectual and reasonable explanation came to mind:
Tits vs. Wits.
I had the realization that it was nothing against me personally *cough* *cough* or professionally (if one wants to call themselves a Professional Server - sans benefits, stock options, and first class seating) - It was 100%, purely and strictly anatomical.
It was in the weeks to follow that the place where everybody knows your name could give a shit. We were becoming, unofficially, known as the Neighborhood's Best Breastaurant. More and more of the turnover solidified our glory, and our guests only reinforced it.
Tits vs. Wits.
More and more, individual shallowness, low self-esteem, glamour mags, reality TV, and of course, old school pheromones and attraction, have shelved chivalry, intelligence, and experience for pure, unadulterated...wait...that wasn't the best word...gratuitous...sex.
This brings me to my theory of The Kennedy Affliction: Part I.
Scientifically speaking, in theory, humans will rely solely on their physical nature to attain anything of benefit for selfish and personal gain. These may include, but are not limited to, financial, fashionable, drivable, or a corporate ladder which is in fact climbable.
I know some people would prefer to read a book rather than work out. Often due to genetics, it is in fact harder to attain a body for the athletics or for stripper stature, than to complete a novel cover to cover. So why do people put so much effort into not having to work hard for something...by in fact working harder?
I feel as if the exchange rate for Tits over Wits these days seems to have crashed harder than, and I apologize for the sophomoric double pun, General Motors.
One man alone cannot fight the Battle of the Bulges, especially when said man appreciates aforementioned bulges. I feel that my hamartia will in fact be the inability to fight a war I start...after all, any man can make a war, but it takes a real man to know how to solve it.
Perhaps my theory can be just that - all theory and no practice.
I'm not asking for beauty to curb itself, but perhaps a compromise can be made to make minds a centerfold just as often as beauty. While we're flipping the pages, strictly for the articles, we can put self-esteem, confidence, humor, and academia right on in there for an orgy of virtue.
We are PR sluts in America, and we can throw anything in reverse that we put into motion.
The only problem is, that if you are in fact reading this, the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting bigger tits.
After multiple sessions of splashing bourbon around in a low-ball, and subjecting myself to the Sex in the City de jour, my semester majoring in Mixology was abruptly cut short when my tuition ran out. When I say tuition, I mean the old, obnoxious owner who decided to tell me that I was no longer in the running for Mix-Gun Slinger.
"I'm sorry, Dave, but you don't have the personality to pour drinks, listen to others share their day, and provide conversation for the lonely."
I hadn't done anything wrong, my record was a whistle, and the staff looked to me for a quick laugh...please insert any over-used Piano Man lyric here. And to have my personality in question was a Kimbo punch to the jaw. I was, after all, not necessarily popular with ladies before the age of 21, and without the on-set of alcohol, had to become quite the bard in order to get close to them. After some deep contemplation, only one intellectual and reasonable explanation came to mind:
Tits vs. Wits.
I had the realization that it was nothing against me personally *cough* *cough* or professionally (if one wants to call themselves a Professional Server - sans benefits, stock options, and first class seating) - It was 100%, purely and strictly anatomical.
It was in the weeks to follow that the place where everybody knows your name could give a shit. We were becoming, unofficially, known as the Neighborhood's Best Breastaurant. More and more of the turnover solidified our glory, and our guests only reinforced it.
Tits vs. Wits.
More and more, individual shallowness, low self-esteem, glamour mags, reality TV, and of course, old school pheromones and attraction, have shelved chivalry, intelligence, and experience for pure, unadulterated...wait...that wasn't the best word...gratuitous...sex.
This brings me to my theory of The Kennedy Affliction: Part I.
Scientifically speaking, in theory, humans will rely solely on their physical nature to attain anything of benefit for selfish and personal gain. These may include, but are not limited to, financial, fashionable, drivable, or a corporate ladder which is in fact climbable.
I know some people would prefer to read a book rather than work out. Often due to genetics, it is in fact harder to attain a body for the athletics or for stripper stature, than to complete a novel cover to cover. So why do people put so much effort into not having to work hard for something...by in fact working harder?
I feel as if the exchange rate for Tits over Wits these days seems to have crashed harder than, and I apologize for the sophomoric double pun, General Motors.
One man alone cannot fight the Battle of the Bulges, especially when said man appreciates aforementioned bulges. I feel that my hamartia will in fact be the inability to fight a war I start...after all, any man can make a war, but it takes a real man to know how to solve it.
Perhaps my theory can be just that - all theory and no practice.
I'm not asking for beauty to curb itself, but perhaps a compromise can be made to make minds a centerfold just as often as beauty. While we're flipping the pages, strictly for the articles, we can put self-esteem, confidence, humor, and academia right on in there for an orgy of virtue.
We are PR sluts in America, and we can throw anything in reverse that we put into motion.
The only problem is, that if you are in fact reading this, the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting bigger tits.
6.20.2009
Changes in Platitudes
I recently chatted (it should be known that by "chat", I do mean physically sat next to an actual human being and conversed) with a friend who has 437 friends on myfacebook, or another one of those glorified e-yearbooks displaying nothing more than photos, signatures, and nostalgia of the present. When asked how many of those "friends" she actually knew, it was well into the low 60's.
So why keep so many acquaintances of friends' co-workers in your addressbook.net if you don't even know what kind of drink they rely on to let go of the day? If we can take all of our friends into Heaven, lord knows I'd save and save. Or I'd just count those who actually show up to my Big Wheel in the Sky Red Carpet Party and consider them my close friends. That'll be my eu-google-gy.
Maybe it's just me, but I actually don't care how many people a fancy Helvetican street sign tells me I have as BFFs. I mean if you haven't worn it for a year, get rid of it.
Just how far will we e-everything to each other? How much longer until our intimate relationships depend on how many hits our profile gets? It's not that far from a current euphemism anyway. I think the comfort level of a roll in the hay of Cyberland would lack the lumbar support needed to make for an enjoyable experience, but that's just me. But they are making laptops thinner and lighter as I'm typing.
How far will we go to avoid the human experience? How soon until I will be blahgging my job from the comfort of my own pizza stained couch? Why do I have this holier-than-thou tone to my "print", when I am in fact giving into advertising billboards of the super highway? How about the Death of the Newspaper; the Constant Butchering of the English Language; My Ever- Growning Love of the Written Medicine by Dr. Gonzo; and the fact that I am battling more than a 7 Nation Army for the resurgence of the written and spoken word. And if I have to hear LOL instead of a real, honest laugh one more time, I'm going to *SMFSFUAAIWFI.
And, I'm just not popular enough yet to have my own Late Night TV show. I'll even compete with Maury; I'm not picky.
Here lies the first of my blogs, for which I AM the father, and if I can get myself over it, I'll conceive more of my own shame to share.
*Shove my foot so far up an ass, I will feel it.
So why keep so many acquaintances of friends' co-workers in your addressbook.net if you don't even know what kind of drink they rely on to let go of the day? If we can take all of our friends into Heaven, lord knows I'd save and save. Or I'd just count those who actually show up to my Big Wheel in the Sky Red Carpet Party and consider them my close friends. That'll be my eu-google-gy.
Maybe it's just me, but I actually don't care how many people a fancy Helvetican street sign tells me I have as BFFs. I mean if you haven't worn it for a year, get rid of it.
Just how far will we e-everything to each other? How much longer until our intimate relationships depend on how many hits our profile gets? It's not that far from a current euphemism anyway. I think the comfort level of a roll in the hay of Cyberland would lack the lumbar support needed to make for an enjoyable experience, but that's just me. But they are making laptops thinner and lighter as I'm typing.
How far will we go to avoid the human experience? How soon until I will be blahgging my job from the comfort of my own pizza stained couch? Why do I have this holier-than-thou tone to my "print", when I am in fact giving into advertising billboards of the super highway? How about the Death of the Newspaper; the Constant Butchering of the English Language; My Ever- Growning Love of the Written Medicine by Dr. Gonzo; and the fact that I am battling more than a 7 Nation Army for the resurgence of the written and spoken word. And if I have to hear LOL instead of a real, honest laugh one more time, I'm going to *SMFSFUAAIWFI.
And, I'm just not popular enough yet to have my own Late Night TV show. I'll even compete with Maury; I'm not picky.
Here lies the first of my blogs, for which I AM the father, and if I can get myself over it, I'll conceive more of my own shame to share.
*Shove my foot so far up an ass, I will feel it.
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