Yes, Virginia, there is a difference...

We live in an unfortunate time. It is difficult these days to access any real news about our planet's events without having to sift through a whole lot of garbage that, while important to a handful of people, doesn't affect the other 5.9999992 billion of us. At CNN.com right now, some of the "Latest News" in bold at the top of the page includes "Armed Bobby Knight contests a shot," "Surgery over; Youssif's biggest scar removed," "Fugitive gloats on Web about her wild life," and of course, "Body found in search for Internet porn star." Is this really necessary?

Don't get me wrong; I have appropriate amounts of sympathy and disdain for whatever the staff at CNN.com wants me to have. News is a business, and if those are the stories that make the money and put food on Ted Turner's table, I won't begrudge him that. But I do object to the casualty with which the term "porn star" is tossed around these days. I would venture to say it is bandied about willy-nilly even more than Donna's tunnel back in Slough. Being a porn star used to mean something. Now anybody who takes their clothes off and shoves some cocks in a hole or two deserves to make the cover of a shitty magazine that I gloss over while waiting to pay for my groceries? Not that this would happen, but CNN.com would certainly have us believe it. What a sad state of affairs. Everybody knows those tabloid covers are reserved for actual movie stars, celebrity murderers and the elusive Bat Boy.

Anyway...

The woman in question here is a college student who "appeared nude on a popular adult Web site under the name Zoey Zane." Understandable. College is expensive, and the internet is an important source of entertainment for millions. Well, this woman disappeared last week and her dead body was found today, fifty miles away. This is obviously a horrible tragedy for her family, friends and the entire community. But does the rest of the world benefit from hearing about it?

And more importantly (to me), was she a porn star? Methinks not. Just by appearing in pornography (on the lowly internet, no less. ha!) she should not automatically be granted star status. When did being a nude model or XXX actor turn into being a porn star? Let's not put these people on a pedestal, OK? Do we not belittle the efforts of such pioneers as Jenna Jameson, Ron Jeremy and GWslutGetsFucked when we lazily devalue their moniker and lump them in with second-rate donkey show laser disc performers? We the public need to hold our porn stars to a higher standard than that.

Appearing as "Polka Dancer" in Groundhog Day might have been a good career move for Regina Prokop, but it didn't make her a star. Ambition, hard work and a whole lot of blowjobs make someone a star. And tragic as this woman's story is (Zoey Zane, not Regina Prokop), she was no porn star. Or at least, that's what people are saying. I've never even heard of porn.

For what it's worth, a little bird named Imdb told me Regina Prokop went on to small parts in such hits as Rudy and With Honors, and has had a fairly successful career as an extras casting assistant. Kudos to you, Regina!

I will leave you with this:

Bubbles

Checked out the big Macy's downtown yesterday. The one that used to be Marshall Fields until recently, and all the locals got real upset cause they changed the name or some shit. There was an F.A.O. Schwartz floor with all sorts of gigantic stuff animals for sale, including a 10-foot-long dragon for about $11,000. There was also a gumball machine. We popped in a quarter and turned the knob, and a gumball popped out. Turned the knob again and another gumball showed up. We turned the knob a bunch more and took home like a dozen gumballs, in addition to the gigantic mouthful I had stuffed into my gullet.

That's about it. I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.

That's O for Outstanding, Sixty-Nine.

I noticed that most of the posts on this blog tend to have little editor's notes at the bottom. While that's all right once in a while, to do it all the time is pretty weak. I'll try to refrain in the future.

Not much news to report. I bought a fire extinguisher at K-Mart today, because I already told the insurance company I had one. I also told them there's a Renoir in my hallway. Shh.

Also went to a place around the corner called Flash Taco. Guess what they serve there. Bottom line: real cheap, real fast, real dull. I think it's because they used flour tortillas instead of corn tortillas, which actually have a taste to them. But I might have those confused. Whichever tortillas don't have a taste, those are the ones they use. It was less than delightful, but I'm not sure what I expected from a place with plasma screens showing Ricky Martin's latest greatest hits.

Last night we went to an event at the Museum of Contemporary Art called 'Bingo Tango.' It's exactly what you think. Emceed by a man who seemed to be a retired figure skater on speed auditioning for NPR, the bingo balls were called by Smokey from The Big Lebowski (you know, the guy who wouldn't mark it zero). We shared a table with an older woman named Tracy (Christie and Liz think her name was Tammy, but it was actually Tracy), and played bingo games "inspired by art pieces in the MCA collection" such as Wedge Bench. Riveting. There was also a game inspired by a painting of two dicks crossing each other and peeing simultaneously. I forget the title, but it had something to do with being completely inappropriate to look at during bingo. Anyway, in between games, a smoldering couple entertained us with their hot tango dance moves. Hence the name Bingo Tango. And there was a group lesson too. We chose to look at the art during the group lesson, thankfully.

Several bingo winners were actually told to tango before they could collect their prize (Brian Boitano's idea, obviously). One woman had taken lessons before, and she did not fail to impress. Several others were forced into extremely awkward moments, particularly the large woman who said she did not participate in the group lesson and did not want to dance in front of a hundred strangers. Once it became clear that she was on the verge of crying or punching Olympic gold-medalist Oksana Baiul, he relented and she got her prize. This host was not fun. He made me dread the idea of winning at bingo, and I'm sure I wasn't alone. He asked one "winner" named Assaf where his funny name came from, and when the answer was Israel, Tara Lipinski raised her arms in the air and spun, humming the theme from Fiddler on the Roof. In a Tim Watley-esque move, he claimed that it was OK to make jokes, since he's jewish himself. His last name is Pickleman or something, which we obviously found shocking.

Unfortunately for Liz, she won a game towards the end of the evening. Michelle Kwan was able to get her to reveal that we are new to Chicago from Washington, and I'd swear there were some hisses from the crowd as the ice princess described how evil our last home is. Liz was spared complete humiliation, thankfully, as Dorothy Hamill got distractedy by some shiny things and continued with the bingotango. Liz's prize, if you were wondering, was some sort of tiny plastic alien thingy. Maybe a pencil sharpener?

I know Bingo Tango at a museum might not sound like a thrilling way to spend a Tuesday night. Our friend Cams disappeared about halfway through, for example. But it was a nice, cheap (free) way to get out of the house and pretend to have some culture. Not too shabby.

P.S. I don't think the prospect of BingoTango would actually get me out of the house. If I hadn't already been downtown at a job interview, I probably would have missed out on the event altogether. Which would have also been fine.

P.P.S. Not sure if I'm impressed or embarrassed to know so many names of figure skaters. Still, there it is.

P.P.P.S. Dammit.

...is that all there is...

This blog might not have been a good idea. It took me only a month to fall into lazily posting depressing and crude videos. Some might say a lot has happened since the last post. I got an Illinois driver's license and insurance for the first car I've ever owned. I saw two very good movies. I learned a few songs on a mostly-broken guitar. I found out said guitar was unrepairable for less than several C-notes. Ate a deep-dish pizza as well as something called a Grapple. It's pronounced "grape-ul", and is created by dunking a perfectly fine fuji apple in melted grape-flavored Jolly Ranchers. But I digress. Thank goodness nobody is reading this.

Do you really care about my journey into some new life that's magically supposed to be better than the one I had six months ago? How stupid was I to think a new city would instantly cure all the old issues that nagged at this pitiful soul? I remember warning myself, specifically thinking that there could be no cure-all. Yet here I am, several hundred miles away from 99% of the People That Matter. With all the same old bullshit and some new crap added in. And no money. No matter where you go, you take yourself and your problems with you. Genius. I should write bumper stickers.

On the up side, I walked more than 7 miles since this afternoon. On the down side, it was because I didn't have any place to be. Have you seen the Seinfeld where Elaine tells the telephone company guy in her apartment that she could have killed him and nobody would have noticeed?

I'm not drunk, nor close to it. Sort of wish I were. That might take a bit of the sting away, and I could simply be watching some South Park rerun right now, slowly succumbing to a comfortable celery-colored couch. Sure, there have been some good times. But for every hour spent at a bar chock-full of Redskins jerseys or at a concert full of tunes that'll make you happy to be alive, there are countless days spent in this basement apartment staring at a computer screen that refuses to display any job that I can be remotely interested in or qualified for.

Tomorrow will be a completely different day, I'm sure. But right now, the phrase that pays is What's The Use?

Sincerely,
Danny Lite (or Heavy, as it were.)

Editor's note: After re-reading this entry, I decided that maybe shit really isn't that bad. Apparently a decent way to cheer yourself up is to make a list of things that are good. Who knew? The youtube armpit-fart trick works nicely too. Back to South Park.

Newsflash

If you ever need to be cheered up a little, do a youtube search for armpit farting. I dare you not to laugh.



Also entertaining is king of the armpit farts.

Note: I did not conduct this search myself. But a link came up whilst watching an old Atari commercial and I couldn't resist. How could I still be unemployed?

Get ready to get depressed

What does it say about our country when this clip seems to come from a much simpler time? How horrible of a human being am I for having the initial urge to laugh at this man's sincerity? How did we get so incredibly far away from this? Does anyone actually remember what it was like to be proud to be an American?





Think happy thoughts.

Nobody ever said this would be easy

I haven't been in the job market for long. Granted, my last day at work was more than four months ago, but due to various circumstances the full-fledged job hunt just got started on Monday. I've sent out a bunch of resumes and made a crapload of phone calls this week, but I know it's just the beginning. Four days really isn't much.

But I just called a woman to follow up and make sure she got my resume, and see if there was anything else I could do to prove I was right for the job. She said there wasn't much I could do yet. But eventually she'll be in touch, as there are one hundred fifty applicants to sort through. As in, take ten people and then another ten people and do that another thirteen times. That's how many folks are also interested in the same job. And I'm not even really qualified for it in the first place.

Expect an I.O.U. for Christmas this year.

Note: The above image was lifted from someone else's post about the unemployment line. He's 41 years-old and has been turned town for 112 jobs in four months. In my case, that would mean there are still 37 other people (of the 150) to compete with for work I don't really want to do anyway.