Enjoy it while you can

If you ever wanted to wear New Year's glasses made out of the year number, make sure to seize the opportunity at the end of this month. Because 2010 just isn't the same.

Those of us born in the 1980s (or 90s for that matter) have taken those two round numbers in the middle of the year for granted. We don't remember a time before our eyes could fit snugly in the oval made by an 8 or a 9 or a 0. I was fortunate enough to graduate in the year 2000 (In The Year Two-Thousaaand...) and had several opportunities to wear the glasses. Alas, I did not take advantage nearly as often as I should have.

Now we are looking down a road which will not see consecutive round digits until 2060, fifty-one years from now. I'd like to plan to party that night, but who knows, I could be too tired to go out. Or dead.

Sure, some might say 2 and 3 are round digits. But we all know it's not the same. Ditto for 2010. With the balance skewed, those glasses just won't look right.

So this New Year's Eve, make sure to revel in the roundness of the new digits. It'll be your last chance for a while. The future is bleak, but we can pull through it together.




Thoughts like these are the reason it's OK to turn off the iPod and close the newspaper during your commute once in a while. Sometimes you just need to stare into space and let the mind wander.


P.S. Happened to be looking through old photos tonight. Proof! Say goodbye to the days of plenty, folks. We're about to go tacky-sunglass-less for several decades.

Word to the Wise

If you aren't in the mood to be depressed, don't look at a graph of your 401k's performance. Here's mine:

Isn't it adorable how it looks just like a frown? I also love the way it erases everything I've done for three years. Ahh, to be in my early twenties again...

Then It Fell Apart

Epiphany at brunch today.

For the rest of my life, every time I hear the first notes of Moby's "Extreme Ways" I will be reminded of how awesome the Bourne movies are, and how happy we should all be that they exist.

nothing to see here

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry nobody writes in you anymore. Please don't take it personally. I just don't have that much to say these days. And I don't think anybody reads you anyway.

For all none of you that have been clamoring to know how the Grand Ole Summer turned out, I succeeded. In the 101 days between Memorial Day and Labor Day I rode 1021.79 miles on my bike, all around Chicago. It was really nice to set a tough goal and actually achieve it. I even earned a free t-shirt for riding the whole lakefront trail (18 miles) in one go. So there's some new physical evidence of the accomplishment to go along with the pride. (There had been other physical evidence, in the form of my new svelte figure. But that is long gone now.)

I'm going to leave the non-updated stats and map of the whole affair up for a while. There's something nice about having an internet equivalent of leaving dishes in the sink. Like looking for the varsity football schedule for my old high school, except the latest one they have posted is from 2006. These kinds of things give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

See you in another couple months.

Your friend,
Me

Potpourri

Where to begin, where to begin. I've been pretty busy the last month or so and haven't had much time to write you, blog. Not that there's been much to say. But here are a few tidbits that have rattled around my noggin at random moments.

I started a new freelance gig a few weeks ago. It's pretty great and allows me to do things like leave my house for something other than work. In other words, paychecks are nice. This afternoon I will be purchasing my first new pair of shoes in several years. Also some new guitar strings. A website told me you should change them every couple weeks. I haven't put new ones on since I bought the guitar six months ago. So that'll be nice.

At my last job in DC, I had a phone meeting every day with the Los Angeles office. Since they didn't arrive at work until 10am west coast time, I usually didn't get to eat lunch until 2 o'clock. Whatever stale dregs were left to eat at the Giant supermarket or YourWay Cafe, I was forced to eat them. Things are slightly different now that I'm working a 7am-3pm freelancer shift. The local eateries are just barely open when I am ready for lunch at 11 o'clock. The staff are energetic and friendly, and the food is fresh. And there are very few lines to wait in. It's fantastic.

My only complaint about lunchtime is the bathroom break. I'd guess there are between one and two hundred people working in this office, and yet I've only discovered two stalls in which the men may shit. This is hardly acceptable. When I chow down on some chicken teriyaki and an egg roll from the Metra station food court, I expect to release some of that soon after. And I don't want to be running from floor to floor trying to keep the poop in my butt. It wants to leave. For all the faults that existed at Team, there was ample shit space. Eight seats on which you could take a crap, if memory serves me correctly. And there were usually magazines. In fact, pooping at my old office inspired me to subscribe to Esquire, a decision I am rather glad was made.


Unfortunately, now all I can think about is the bathroom at my old office. All the clever tidbits I was going to share with you have disappeared. Fear not, they will undoubtedly return some day. And there will be rejoicing. If these few paragraphs have not satiated you, maybe check out the blog of John McCain's running mate. She's got a lot to say.
http://sarahpalin.typepad.com/

Update (4:01 p.m.): This is 2008. What kind of shoe store only takes cash? I didn't realize Milwaukee Avenue was Dan's Cafe.

Large Hadron Rap

Suddenly I feel like finding my 11th-grade physics teacher and emailing him this video. Mr. Keller, please watch it and share it with all your nerds/students. And stop dripping caked saliva out of the side of your mouth, if you still do that.

What now?

Tim Russert. Stan Winston. George Carlin.

I spent seven years living in Washington, D.C., slowly getting jaded about the state of government and media in this country. Too many people you meet (or go to school with or work with) there contribute to the dumbed-down superficiality of what the American public experiences. But Tim always seemed to be there to pose the tough questions that most others failed to ask, given the opportunity. We really need him now more than ever, but he is gone. I take much pride in knowing a handful of people who worked with him and share his ideals and passion. Hopefully they will carry his torch to get truth the large audience it deserves.

Stan was responsible for so many amazing creations we grew up with. I think the first time I saw his work on the big screen was Edward Scissorhands. But it was dinosaurs of Jurassic Park that really opened my eyes to the possibilities of transferring imagination to celluloid. Sure, there have been beautiful movies for many decades. But my life would certainly be a lot less exciting without the Terminator or the Predator to scare the shit out of my asshole.

And George got me through some pretty tough times when I was about twelve years old. My dad and I would listen to countless tapes of his in the car, and we would laugh for hours. He's responsible for most of my views on religion, politics and America in general, not to mention my most valuable possession: a sense of humor. He may have gotten a little cranky-old-man-ish these last few years, but I will be forever grateful for the laughter and insight he gave.

It's only natural for our heroes to leave us. These latest three are just part of a long list that for me includes Ray Charles, Dr. Seuss, Kurt Vonnegut, Roald Dahl, Phil Hartman and others who were gone before I was even born. I guess we just have to appreciate what they gave us and try to stand on their shoulders. We're supposed to become heroes for the next generation. I just don't think I'm ready for that yet.

Where is Walid?

Many moons ago, some friends and I gathered each week to cook delicious dinners and watch a great television show called 24. As a joke, I changed my cellphone ringtone so that whenever one of these three folks called, it would sound like the phones at Counter Terrorist Unit Los Angeles (Jack Bauer's office). What a great idea this turned out to be.

Now that I live in a different city, we don't talk often. But I know that whenever I hear those four distinct beeps, it's an important call. Chloe O'Brian's emergencies have become my emergencies.

For example, if I am pedaling along on a pleasant bike ride and my cell phone rings as usual, I just keep pedaling. But if that familiar CTU sound echoes, the call must be taken.

Without this distinct ringtone, I might not have been able to answer such important and immediate questions such as "Who played Arnold Schwarzenegger's boss in True Lies?" or "Where is there a Chipotle in Crystal City, Virginia?"

I look forward to solving many more problems in the future. Keep 'em coming, kids.

P.S. Charlton Heston and the corner of Crystal Drive and 23rd Street.

An Epic Tale of Good Versus Evil

Twas a mighty beast, but I hath defeateth it.

As I prepared to venture to my place of employment this afternoon, one of Mother Nature's lovely creatures decided to venture into my place of residence. A medium-sized rodent of the family Sciuridae found its way through an open window and stared at me, piercing my eyes with furious wonder. It darted to my living room, apparently in search of the film Napoleon Dynamite. Once this holy grail was found, the rodent made itself comfortable amongst the rest of my DVDs. I played whack-a-squirrel while it bounded between several nooks and crannies of my television stand.

Taking quick action, I ran to open up all available exits and leave trails to them made of Rice Krispies. Upon returning to pursue my prey, it was not to be found. I searched high and low and could not find a trace of the devil animal. With few options, I left a window open in case it was still inside and wanted a way out, and departed for work.

The evening passed slowly. I smiled and entertained my fellow employees with my lighthearted tale of woe. But my imagination wandered to picture the spring soiree my guest was throwing whilst I toiled away creating moving pictures of sport for the masses.

I returned home shortly after midnight.

Quietly stepping down to my basement abode, I took care not to creak the stairs and give any warning to my arrival. If the beast remained in the apartment, I would stalk it quietly and shoo it away.

All thanks to the lord above, it would appear the squirrel had gone. It was not in the nooks, it was not in the crannies. There were no food crumbs strewn about, nor the enormous piles of poo that I had feared. The long night and long fight that I had prepared for was not to be. I opened the refrigerator door to find a hoppy carbonated beverage with which to toast the victory.

And it rustled.

I saw it nestled behind the refrigerator, comfortable. It did not flee immediately, so I devised a plan. Laid out crackers with peanut butter, all leading to the backyard. I grabbed a Swiffer with which to guide the beast. When prepared, I quickly moved the refrigerator out of the way. And naturally, the bushy-tailed demon chose to run behind the kitchen sink, one of the hardest places to reach in the whole of my household.

After swatting at it with the Swiffer with no success (unless I was trying to scare it and probably make it poo. In that case, I was probably successful), I laid more peanut butter and Rice Krispies on a trail, and thought of what could remove the squirrel from its hiding spot.

I remembered an aerosol air freshener, named Clean Linen. It had never before proven useful, as I did not enjoy its scent. But perhaps if I did not like it, my visitor would agree. I was right. I pressed on the dispersal button and aimed behind the sink. Lo and behold, the creature emerged. And ran straight into the living room again, to lurk beneath and behind the couch.

I chased it back, flipped up the couch and watched the spawn of squirrel satan scamper to the Holiest of Holies, my bedroom. It took refuge in the 4 inches beneath Where The Magic Happens, also known as my Salvation Army box spring and Ikea mattress.

With the rodent again in hiding, I took the opportunity to seal the area off. Picture frames were used to block off all of the apartment except for the rear exit, and a full-length mirror became a ramp to the window from whence the furry fiend came.

I sent a continuous spray of Clean Linen beneath the bed. The forest creature emerged, darted around, realized it was trapped, and returned to its hiding place.

Now emboldened, I flipped up the bed, revealing the beast. I sprayed furiously. It fled, crashing into a carefully-placed picture frame. Revising its route, the monster spotted an open door leading to the laundry room and the freedom of the backyard beyond.

Bringing up the rear with my Swiffer of a shepherd's staff, I shouted at the creature as it ventured outside my walls.

Sneaking behind the washing machine, the squirrel did not make it to the outside. But spotting the large rat poison traps awaiting my enemy, I decided that tonight's battle was at an end. I returned to the new-found solitude of my humble dwelling.

Tomorrow, the rebuilding will begin.

T-Minus Ten Minutes

What's with the self-destruct button? We've seen it in Alien and Spaceballs, and the wide variety of films in between. It's fairly common knowledge by now that every spaceship has a mechanism that will make the craft explode in some magical CGI fireball, saving the day at the last possible moment. There is always an unusually friendly computer-woman counting down the seconds to imminent doom. Thanks, lady.

But would any reasonable design/construction company purposely build this function into a spaceship of such gargantuan size? They're presumably spending at least several billion spacebucks on it. Why allow it to so easily be destroyed? Especially a large battle-spaceship that's begging to be infiltrated by terrorist/rebel forces? Why take that chance? Why not just train your fucking staff not to get over-run by aliens with blood made of acid? That's got to be easier.

Don't get me started on the Death Star.

Also, do real spaceships have self-destruct buttons? I have to hope that despite their many incompetencies, the bureaocracy of the U.S. government would never build such a mechanism into the space shuttle. (Besides, anyone who's seen Contact knows astronauts get cyanide capsules anyway.) Even the Russians and Chinese can't be dumb enough to invest so much time, effort and money in something that can be exploded with the push of a big red button.

But think for a moment of the infamous Polish navy. Surely you wouldn't be surprised if the same people who brought us the screen-door-submarine also put a self-destruct button on a spaceship. Is this what we should learn from science fiction? Is Poland destined to become Earth's technological superpower?

If you're looking for me, I'll be in my basement hoarding solar-powered flashlights.

I always wondered where my mandibula was!

The Encyclopedia Britannica Kid has an entry on Wikipedia. And the world just swallowed itself.


You'll notice he starts out sitting at a computer! Why didn't you just look the shit up on the internet, dummy?!

Get 'em

Here's a translation of everything you will find at beerandpork.tumblr.com:

"I am so sweet. Look at my pictures and tell me I'm not sweet. That's what I thought. Why aren't you coming to Europe with me for a month?"

Killing you softly

I've got some traveling ahead, as well as guests on the way, so I went to purchase an air mattress yesterday. Being a good American, I went to Target. And while picking up the required extras for the mattress, a dilemma arose: should I get the microfleece blanket, or the microplush blanket? After feeling them both, the choice was obvious. The microplush was 100 times more comfortable than the microfleece.

Why do they even offer the fleece? It's nice, but there's no reason to choose it over something so exceedingly soft as the microplush. Just add it to the list of a gajillion things I'll never understand.

So I reached back on the shelf and picked out a blanket that hadn't been pawed over by a thousand people already. And future guests will be happy.

It should also be noted that I picked up some grilling equipment and a foldable captain's chair with a cupholder. Because it's finally almost feeling like spring. Baseball's started up, the ladies are taking off their enormous coats, and you can even walk around and describe the weather as almost pleasant. PLEASANT!

Deep Thoughts

As a blogger, I have a major problem. (As a person, I have many major problems. But we'll stick with the blogging thing for now.) I do my best thinking when my mind is completely on a break, detached from everything. This generally happens in one of two places: on a bicycle miles away from anything, or in the shower.

The great ideas hatched in this brain o'mine have a tremendous obstacle, right from the outset. They are often forgotten before I get the chance to document them. As soon as the genius thought is born and mulled over, it is easily replaced with some other random inkling that has no use whatsoever. The great ideas are fleeting. And it's really affecting my chances of saving the world through this blog.

So as a public service, I will share here some ideas which were fortunate enough to be remembered long enough to document. Let's go on a magical journey through my brain. Please fasten your seatbelts and keep all arms and legs inside.

--- How will we know the future has arrived? Remote-controlled hair. In the future, scientists will develop a pill that allows you to decide the length of hair on your body. The pill you swallow will send tiny, tiny robots to all your hair follicles, and then you can decide how long your hair will be, straight from your iPhone. You don't need to worry about trudging to the barber shop every few months. Unsightly neck beards will be a thing of the past, and ladies will no longer have to wax their legs and/or mustaches. I am also very excited about the beard-of-the-day possibilities.

--- I often wonder if I will ever set foot in certain familiar places again. Two decades ago, I spent many hours in the gymnasium of Holmdel Village Elementary School. There was Phys Ed class, Heritage Day pageants, youth basketball league, etc. The Chicken Fat dance and wallball memories alone are enough to make me tear up. But I will probably never set foot in that room ever again. How strange.
The same goes for lots of place I've been on my bike. The nooks and crannies of Rock Creek Park, the old train trestle on the Capital Crescent Trail, the serene Potomac River views along the Mount Vernon, even the hills and valleys of the Custis. In all likelihood, I will never ride there again. But some of my fondest memories of living in Washington took place riding on those trails. How strange.

--- The procedures of taking our shoes off and throwing away liquids before getting on an airplane are probably here for good. Silly "security measures" that serve little purpose except to remind us how afraid we should be, they're not going away any time soon. Imagine what would have to happen for the government to take those requirements away. There will always be someone who is a threat to our country. The "war on terror" is not winnable. Perhaps I am a pessimist, but I can't picture a world where suddenly we're told, "It's OK! We're all safe! You don't have to take off your shoes! And bring all the mysterious liquids you want on board! Huzzah!" It would certainly be nice. But that world is so foreign right now. We're gonna be smelling each others' feet for a long time coming.

--- My grandfather was shot in WWII. The story I've been told was he stuck his head out to see something, and a bullet went through his neck, missing his jugular by millimeters. A more accurate shot would have prevented the existence of my entire family. But this fact isn't the one boggling my mind at the moment. Neither is the question of "Would you go back in time and kill Hitler if you could?", even though that has also confounded me at some point. Would I be willing to sacrifice my family's existence to avoid Hitler's rise to power? No, that is not what I'm thinking about, although it has puzzled me in the past.

The vexing issue at the moment involves the soldier who shot my grandpa. This is a person, presumably German, who had probably already spent at least twenty years on earth. He had family and friends, a favorite song, a kindergarten teacher, annoying habits, the whole shebang. And one day in the 1940s, somewhere in Europe, he had an encounter with my grandfather. They probably never saw each others' faces. Hell, he might not have even known where that bullet ended up. But this man affected my grandfather in an extreme way. And there is no way to know his name. There is no way to know if he survived even one night after sending a bullet through my dad's dad's neck. There is no way to know if he made it through the war and has great-great-grandchildren someplace. He could still be around himself. I wonder what sort of life this man had, who had such a direct effect on my family's existence. There is just no way to know. And how many German families never even formed because of my grandfathers' direct actions in this war half-a-century ago? It's a little discomforting to consider. If I were to meet the German shooter, though, I don't think I'd have any hard feelings. How could I, after so much time?

Brightness

It's a nice day out, and I had to share with you this image. On the first 50-degree day in what feels like a thousand years, I was walking from the subway station to my office this afternoon. As I cross the Chicago River via the Orleans Street bridge, an absolutely incredible Jukebox the Ghost song is playing on my iPod, preventing me from doing anything but smile. Then I see the man playing on the bridge with a 4-or-5-year-old kid. Dad is flying a batman/spiderman kite, and son is spinning in circles trying to untangle himself from kite string and streamers. The sun is shining, birds are chirping, and for just an instant, all is right with the world.

That's all.

Bad News

It might be morbid, but this is one of my favorite songs.


This too:

But I somehow can't sit through an entire episode of Star Trek. Curious.

Good times, remembered

While enjoying a lovely evening of bowling tonight, a bit of my deeply-repressed past popped to the surface. I suddenly remembered the fact that once upon a time, I owned a bowling ball. In fourth grade, a whole bunch of us got bussed over to Strathmore Lanes for a school-sponsored bowling league. And I used to bring my bowling ball (and its bag) to school every Tuesday.

The memory is shaky, but I distinctly remember picking the ball out of a catalog with my parents, and 6-8 weeks later it showed up (and I think it had a monogram). What a weirdo. Surely there were no other kids who brought their own bowling ball to school on the bus once a week. There's no way this kind of behavior escaped the mocking of the other nine year-olds, but I don't actually remember being the butt of any extra jokes. Either the other kids already had plenty of other stuff to make fun of me for, or I've really suppressed that stuff.

Regardless, I remember the fourth grade bowling league fondly. It was there that I discovered the beauty of a can of cream soda and snack bar french fries, as well as arcade games. Terminator 2, the Simpsons, Street Fighter 2, and they even had some weird Neo Geo game that was in 3-D somehow. Those were the days. So innocent then. Ahhh.

In other news, I wrote my first song on the guitar today. It only has three chords, but I'm OK with that. Sudden inspiration is a weird thing.

Reflections on a Full Stomach

The one-day boycott is over. We protested Chipotle's lack of a Leap Day Burrito Giveaway by not patronizing their establishment for all 24 hours of February 29, 2008. Today, the healing began, with some steak, pinto beans, sour cream, cheese, lettuce and corn salsa wrapped up in a tasty tortilla.

As I inhaled my first burrito in over four months, the surge of Mexican-ish goodness sparked a thought in my brain (for once). See if you can follow it. The Chipotle in my neighborhood is three blocks north of the CTA train stop I use every day to get to work. My house is three blocks south of the train stop. Being broke and largely friendless, I don't have much occasion to venture north of the train station on any given day. So it's pretty rare that I pass this Chipotle location. Thus, I rarely have the irresistible urge to immediately chow down on a tasty burrito.

The southerly location of my house is the only reason I (might) weigh less than two hundred pounds.

"But Gary!" you might say. "Didn't you have to pass a Chipotle to get to your Metro stop in Washington? You were able to fight the urge then. What's the big deal now?"

To which I have a simple response: Shut up.

One more thing:
I finally bought a guitar today, about a dozen years after I should have. Now begins the process of slowly teaching it to myself. Expect to see it on craigslist in 12-18 months.

Yes we have no burritos

Chipotle became a cult of a restaurant because of two things: delicious, addictive burritos and clever promotions. It took me more than one visit to convert, but I have been a proud Chipotle proponent for at least five or six years now. Their burritos range from amazingly tasty to life-savingly euphoric. Personally, I'm a pinto beans, steak, rice, corn, lettuce, cheese and sour cream kind of guy. But there are any number of thoroughly satisfying options available, including guacamole! There is little debate that a Chipotle burrito, while it may not be authentically Mexican, is an amazing thing.

But it's the way they market themselves that makes Chipotle such a fun place to go. They've got a fun web site and fun ads (I've had one radio spot, "Moo" as my cell phone ringtone for some time now), and most importantly, fun promotions. Every Halloween, you can dress as a burrito (wear just a little tin foil) and get a free burrito. On April 15th, you can fill out the cleverly bureaucratic "Burrito EZ FWI" form and get a free burrito. And four years ago, on February 29, 2004, you could get a free burrito just because it was Leap Day, a special holiday that happens only once every four years. It was promotions like these that made my friends and I fall in love with this establishment. There's a certain camaraderie to standing in line with a bunch of strangers wearing tin foil hats and armbands, eagerly anticipating a free tortilla holding a free pound of goodness.

Tomorrow, people all over the world will celebrate our unique calendar that allows us this special extra day of February. But there will be no free burritos. I repeat, there will be no free burritos. I called my local Chipotle to make sure of what I had feared. When asked about this year's Leap Day promotion, the woman at Chipotle told me, "That's something we did four years ago, but we haven't done it since. We will not have any free burritos tomorrow."

There you have it. They did it on Leap Day 2004, but haven't done it since. So on Leap Days 2005, 2006 and 2007, they didn't hold the promotion. Perhaps that's because THERE HAVEN'T BEEN ANY LEAP DAYS since 2004. Silly woman.

In case you missed the news, there will be no free burritos tomorrow, in celebration of Leap Day or otherwise. And I am not happy. I haven't had Chipotle since the free burrito of Halloween aught-seven. Been saving up the appetite and eagerly anticipating the awesomeness of tomorrow's free burrito. But there will be no free burritos tomorrow. I would like to call for a one-day boycott of Chipotle tomorrow, in protest of this insane act.

But on Saturday, let us all enjoy Chipotle burritos. And let us all pay for them, for once. It can be a show of appreciation for all the joyous meals and memories they've given us over the years. Plus, Tax Day isn't as far away as it seems.

I'm a regular visitor here, but Milwaukee has certainly had its share of visitors.

Learned wisdom from today's journey:

• Egg/bacon/cheese bagels are never not appropriate.
• I have the ability to turn a saucer-sled-with-a-crack-in-it found in a parking lot into three useless pieces of plastic, simply by riding it twice down a steep and bumpy hill of snow and ice.
  
• There is no way that those indoor water park/resort could be anything but horrendously disgusting.
• It's easy to get lost driving around the industrial south area of Milwaukee, underneath the interstate by Lake Michigan, and there are lots of places to dump a dead body if you desire to dispose of one.
• Slipping on ice and ending up horizontal on your back can cause lingering neck pain. And getting laughed at by all those kids probably isn't healthy either.
  
• Milwaukee is a lot like Baltimore. And Providence. And Wilmington, Ithaca, Quebec and Portland. And probably Rochester.
• Sometimes a Bloody Mary comes with mushrooms, salami, pickles and cheese curds.
• Different people may have different opinions of chili lime cheese.
• Vacuum tubes are pretty great. (When will this mode of transportation catch on already?)
• There is a waiter named Nick in the very cool spy-themed 'Safe House' restaurant in Milwaukee who will tell you every single thing there is to know about himself before he puts in your order to the kitchen.
• Hanging from a pull-up bar for thirty seconds is a lot like growing up.
• Card tricks in a bar, Sugarbomb's Bully album, French dip sandwiches and Dirty Jobs always make a good day even better.
  

Brand New BagAKA I Just Want to Make an Omelet

A few words of advice:

If you are ever standing in an area of your apartment where the ceiling is five-feet-and-nine-inches tall and a James Brown song comes on the radio and you start dancing, don't spin around and thrust your hand up in the air in a moment of funky awesomeness. Your knuckles will thank you.

Hypothetically.

Great Scott!

Part of the well-orchestrated hype for the upcoming film Be Kind, Rewind was to have a contest where people could send in their own "sweded" versions of popular films. To swede a movie is to make an extremely low-budget, shorter adaptation of it, like Jack Black and Mos Def do in ...Rewind. I haven't seen the film yet, but I'm imagining that their sweded movies are clever, endearing and simple. Edited in-camera with no fancy effects or music.

The problem with an internet contest to replicate that stuff is that most people don't quite catch that purpose. They create short parodies of their favorite flicks, with time-consuming effects, animations, music, etc. They're missing the creative spirit of flying by the seat of your pants and not really knowing what you are doing. By and large, these sweded movies are unimaginative and tired, mostly relying on cross-dressing to elicit any laughs.

Taken without context, they are acceptable reflections of how people with limited budgets can recreate fancy computer-generated effects to tell a story. But if you are a stickler for the rules (and today I am), they are mostly crappy. Except for one: a 6-minute synopsis of the Back to the Future trilogy. Highly entertaining, particularly in its re-creation of the Lybian VW bus chase scene.



Keep in mind that this blog entry comes to you from someone who was asked to draw Willy Wonka's chocolate factory in third grade and went through the book page by page to find every aspect, then labeled each element, down to the buttercup trees. Then I got upset because somebody else won the contest even though mine was the most technically accurate. How did I not have more friends when I was eight?

You will tell me what I need to know.

The writers strike is over, but there won't be any new episodes of 24 until January 2009. Or will there...

Channel surfing this evening, I came across this confusing scene:
(This is where you hit play and sit through the 5-second advertisement.)


Obviously this raises many questions. What exactly is "Bonfire"? How is Vladimir Bierko still alive? Why is Audrey Raines suddenly able to speak coherently? Was Raines actually the one behind Jack Bauer's abduction by the Chinese? And of course, why are these two people sitting so courteously together? Most importantly, where is Walid?!

But wait, there's more. Later on, I surfed back to this program to perhaps gain some answers, and what do I find?

(It's a different clip here, even though the picture is the same as the other one.)


That's right, it's Stephen Saunders, the nefarious man we thought was killed by Gael Ortega's wife nearly four years ago! And he appears to have some sort of relationship with Suddenly Susan. Trust me, Suddenly Susan, you need to get away from this man immediately. He tried to release biological weapons all across the country! Still, he gave up the plot when his daughter's life was threatened, so he may be a decent father. I wouldn't take my chances though, the sky is falling.

That's two evil men we thought were dead who are alive and well. Should we hold out hope for David Palmer? What about Mikey from Goonies? Surely Edgar was definitely a goner, but at this point if you told me that Teri Bauer and Nina Meyers were living together at a lesbian retreat, I'd have to believe you. Will Desmond from Lost somehow show up and reveal himself to be the German spy betrayed by Jack Bauer the same day Bierko was killed? And what about Robocop?!?!

My theory: with Jack Bauer busy tackling Christmas trees and serving time, his cohorts (dead AND alive) are running amok in New York City. No doubt there will be several more twists and turns before this day is through. Something tells me we're in for a whole lot of whispered "Dammit, Chloe!". And what role will The Girl Next Door play in all this? Only time will tell.

I know I watch too much TV.

Two bits!

I reached a milestone today in my slow journey out of poverty. I was able to get a haircut without worrying about making next month's rent. Woohoo!

It was my first haircut since moving here in October (and you could tell). Puglisi's in DC could always be trusted, but looking for a good barber shop in a strange place can be hit or miss. I lucked out though, and the dude I found did a decent job.

He also gave me the hot lather with a straight razor treatment to finish off. This is the defining mark of a good haircut. There's something about it that makes you feel like your grandpa, in a good way. Hot lather with a straight razor should be inducted into some sort of Hall of Fame. I'm not sure which one though.

It's nice to not look like a hobo.

Ice, baby!

Remember when I said Chicagoans are the nicest people around? Well, I'd like to take a step back from that. They are nice in general, but not when it comes to sidewalks.

It's been snowing on and off now since December. And the last few weeks have produced more than a foot of snow, and the temperature has spent very little time above freezing. It's usually closer to 0° to 10°F lately. I'm fine with that. I've got long underpants and thick socks and soup.

But the home/business owners who never bothered to clear their sidewalks of snow are now protected by Death Moats of Ice. A Death Moat of Ice is an area covered with a layer of ice about 3-inches thick and slippery as fuck, where there used to be a sidewalk. And my neighborhood is chock full of Death Moats of Ice. Between the train station and my house, there are several entire blocks that are unpassable, mostly due to one apartment complex full of old people that hasn't cleared snow all winter. I think they're just trying to keep the oldies inside.

The Tribune had an article today about more and more people going to the ER with ice-related injuries. (This is after ice fell off skyscrapers and hit people on the head earlier in the winter, mind you.) It's really fucking dangerous out there, especially at night when there's a fresh layer of snow on top of the ice and you have no idea which step will turn you horizontal like Daniel Stern in Home Alone.

We actually saw a guy in running gear the other day. Never mind the fact that he had shorts on at 12°, but all he was doing was slowly trying to navigate the Death Moats of Ice. There was no running going on. You have to be super careful on that stuff in shorts, cause once you slip and your upper thigh touches the ice and sticks, you're going nowhere until April.

That's it. Just wanted to let you know how much colder and dangerous-er it is here.

Paczki, Part II

Yes, they are that good they deserve a sequel.

It might just be the fact that I just finished a less-than-fun shift at work. But I just polished off the last of the six paczki leftover from Fat Tuesday. About halfway through, I sat back and gazed at the delicious treat I was enjoying, and squeals of delight emanated from my honey-dripping jowl. Squeals of delight. The last time I squealed with delight was never. It's never happened. But I squealed with delight and then giggled for a few moments about the absurdly delicious taste coursing through my entire body. Then a melancholy sadness washed over upon the realization that it will probably be another year before I get to enjoy it again.

Moral of the story: if you plan to visit Chicago, do it for Mardi Gras and stuff yourself with amazing Polish donuts. You will not regret it.

A Chicago Kind of Day

It's primary election day here in Illinois. Pretty exciting stuff, for someone whose last time in a voting booth was a ballot for Bill Bradley in the 2000 primary. Sure, there have been a few absentee ballots since then, but those never get counted. And I tried to register in DC, but it never actually went through. Bottom line: I was pretty stoked to take part in the grand Chicago tradition of elections.

Given that there have been zero advertisements for any presidential candidate here, I have a feeling that race in Illinois is pretty sewn up. Ditto for the senator and representative, both running unopposed in the Democratic primary. But what about the people who get things done around here? The city, county and state officers who make recycling impossible, shut down the CTA and decide to suddenly impose a $40 tax on owning a car just because they feel like it.

I was looking forward to making my voice heard on a local level until I saw the ballot a few days ago: twenty-seven different offices and questions to vote on, and not nearly enough information around to make a reasonable decision. I ended up abstaining on most of the choices, unless someone had a sweet name (that means you, Thaddeus L. Wilson) or ran an ad that was amusing (that means you, Jay Paul Deratany). This information probably means nothing to you, but it was pretty neat to finally have a vote that counts, even if it's being counted with a whole bunch of dead people that Daley resurrected for election day.

Aside from being Super Tuesday, it's also Fat Tuesday today, if you hadn't heard. I can't get excited for Mardi Gras ever since they tore Lulu's down. But yesterday a Polish friend alerted me to the existence of the paczki (pronounced 'pinch-key', sort of), a deep-fried piece of dough shaped into a flattened sphere and filled with plums or other sweet filling. It's a special Polish donut made to use up all the lard, sugar, eggs and fruit in the house before Lent. And that is something I can get behind.

The big paczki vendor in my neighborhood sold out before noon, so I had to do a little searching. Sweet Cakes Bakery is nearby, but they don't make 'em. (Normally I'd make fun of a vegan bakery with a myspace page and a weird fence you had to walk through to get into their courtyard in the middle of a city. But they had this weird full-size horse statue inside the gate that I'm afraid might come to life at night and eat me.)

Luckily, there is a traditional Polish bakery a block away and they had several paczkis left. I meant to get one or two just to try, but they looked magnificently delicious, so I ended up with six. And I cannot wait to have them all for lunch.

To continue the typical Chicago day, we're expecting anywhere from two to twelve inches of snow tonight, to go along with last Friday's eight inches and Sunday's surprise four. As my semi-Bolivian friend likes to say, Holy Zita!

Happy Tuesday everyone. May your beads fly as high as your dreams.

Here's something...

I haven't played ping pong in a long time. What's with that?

Da-oud

Did a crossword puzzle today. There were a couple of clues semi-related to the writer's strike. Perfectly normal. But then a clue showed up that spanned three segments:
23-Across: With 36- and 51-Across, what the void left by the writer's strike may have driven us to.

With only a few conveniently-placed letters already filled in, I soon realized the answer: watchingpeople...reactto...twogirlsonecup.

I waited until the last possible moment to write this answer in, praying to any god available that this could not be happening. But it was unavoidable. And thus, the sadness came. It's hard to describe the feeling that washes over you when this horrific part of our culture enters the eternal crossword puzzle universe. One word that comes to mind is Unfortunate. It should also be mentioned how shameful it was to guess this answer with little more than half of the letters filled in.

-----------------------------
Thesis: The CTA Blue Line runs 24 hours a day, for convenient access to O'Hare Airport.
Pro - Even if you work until the wee hours of the morning, you can always take the train home.
Con - On nights when the wind chill hovers below zero, you are likely to stand in a train car full of homeless people riding back and forth all night to stay warm. I don't want to sound callous, but there's a reason 'vagrant' rhymes with 'fragrant'.

-----------------------------
Lastly, I got a library card today! It took more than two-and-a-half decades for me to realize that you can save money on books you only intend to read once by not buying them. The gentleman who processed my card application shared a trait with most other Chicagoans: he was really nice. After noticing we shared a first name, he kindly took the opportunity to explain how to pronounce it in Arabic. But while writing it out (so I could carry my name's Arabic pronunciation wherever I might travel), he needed help spelling A-r-a-b-i-c. Normally this wouldn't be disconcerting, but he works at the library. He also took offense at the fact that my last name comes from Ukraine and not Greece.

That's about it. Hopefully you found at least a small part of this inane post interesting.

Terrorism?

I know it's not right to make up weird Wikipedia entries and put your friends in them. But is there really any victim in this? More importantly, if this activity isn't the ultimate use of the internet, I don't know what is. We've taken the information age as far as it can go. Sorry, folks, nothing left to see here. Please be on your way.

Kung Fu Kids

This video should make you happy to be alive.



Can't wait 'til my nephew gets older.

Also...

WHAT?!

WASHINGTON (AP) -- A large U.S. spy satellite has lost power and propulsion and could hit the Earth in late February or March, government officials said Saturday.

The satellite, which no longer can be controlled, could contain hazardous materials, and it is unknown where on the planet it might come down, they said...

Don't forget your umbrellas, folks.

Familiar Face

At the place I work, there are usually (extremely) moderate Chicago celebrities around. Athletes from a time gone by, or writers from the newspaper. Many are hardly known outside their families/friends/weird fans, but some are relatively famous folk who can't walk around town without being recognized a few times. No, I'm not talking about Michael Jordan. Isn't he in Charlotte these days anyway?

But there is one guy in particular who was a superstar for the Bulls a few decades ago. Some of the native Chicagoans around the office get excited when they run into him, as they have every right to do. If I was having a donut in the break room at work and my childhood idol walked in to get a cup of coffee, I'd probably flip out too. But Billy Joel doesn't drink coffee these days, only Jim Beam.

Since I grew up in New Jersey (and was born after this gentleman retired), I had to google the guy just to find out exactly who he was. And from what I can tell from our brief conversations about French Roast and the finicky vending machine, he's a pretty cool guy. I just don't get starstruck by him, mostly because he reminds me of how cool my dad is.

On a somewhat related note, a few weeks ago Michel Gondry had a public appearance at the Apple Store downtown. He was there for an interview and Q&A, and to show some scenes from his new movie, which is going to be awesome, by the way. We had to stand outside in line for a while before going in, and dozens of passers-by just had to know what the big hoopla was about. After repeating Michel Gondry's name several times, explaining that he was a filmmaker with the new Jack Black movie, Eternal Sunshine, he's not a she, etc, I finally just told people that Bruce Willis was inside. That got rid of them about a million times quicker. And everyone had the same reaction: "Oh, cool." Then they'd give a sturgeon face and be on their way.

It's also reminiscent of a friend who was going to China for work a few months ago. Cal Ripken was also going around the same time, and my friend was nearly assigned to be his government aide for the trip. Cal Ripken. The Iron Man. She was averse to the idea though, because it was going to eat into her solo touring-around-the-country time. Beyond (maybe) knowing what sport he played, she knew nothing about him or why it would have been the coolest thing on the planet to do. So could she really be blamed for not being interested in the assignment? YES. ["So here's a picture of me at the Great Wall of China." "Who's that next to you? Holy shit, is that CAL RIPKEN?!" "Yeah, I had to hang out with him for a week. What a drag. I don't even like the Phillies."]

There's no grand philosophical revelation to be had here. I just thought it was interesting.

...well first of all, you're not eating right.

It's astounding that all it takes to turn a good sandwich into a great sandwich is two potato chips. Yum.
[The above sandwich is not the actual sandwich referred to in this post. But it is probably equally delicious, despite the photo being sort of drab.]

Brr?

This weekend contained arguably the coldest few days I've ever been through. Temps stayed between negative-four and positive-ten degrees since Friday. And while the air in my neighborhood was definitely pretty cold, it was certainly bearable, despite evidence in the picture above. [Please ignore the previous sentence if you arrived home Monday night to an apartment that lacked electricity and heat and had to call your extremely kind friend at 3am to ask to sleep in the luxurious warmth of his hobbit hole. Hypothetically.]

That feeling you get when every hair in your nose freezes and makes you think there's a boogey hanging out when there really isn't? I hadn't felt that since my days at the bus stop in 11th grade. So being outside has been a nostalgic experience lately, which is nice.

It should also be noted that walking around at night when snow is falling is very very excellent.

Things

I've seen it several times now, but this image does not get old:


Can not WAIT to see more. If you don't understand the picture above, click here.

If that doesn't suit your taste, here's something else. After seeing a local ad for Menard's (featuring the unforgettable tune "Save Big Money at Menards!"), we had the inspiration to look up some old faves from back home. And there was much rejoicing.





Unfortunately, I couldn't find the old Shoe City ad, so this will have to do. Hopefully you get the picture...

Oh, that's what they meant by 'winter'

Saturday's forecast: "Partly sunny and cold, with a high near 9."

Near 9. Which means if it hits 8.5° we should consider ourselves lucky. Crap.

Shades of...

In high school, I wrote a few dozen songs and recorded them onto two albums. Most of the songs were crap, but a few were pretty decent. They are still played on a regular basis in my mom's car. In college, I wrote a couple new tunes every year or so, and at least half of them are bearable. But in the years since school, songwriting has been a much more sporadic activity. Maybe I'd get in one a year, plus a 5-minute score written over a weekend for a movie.

I sat down last night and finished a song I had started four years ago and given up on. It's horrible, and hopefully won't ever see the light of day. The music is derivative and the lyrics could have been written by a seventh-grader. [I was going to put an example of a verse here, but it's just too embarrassing. Even on teh internets.]

I'm glad to have done this though. It's important to even attempt to keep up the song-writing chops, and hopefully this crap-tastic ditty will be just a stepping stone to a decent tune I have yet to write. But that might be bullshit.

In high school, the songs seemed to write themselves. There was teen angst and frustration behind them. Granted, the very first one was a ballad about a redneck who lived under the deck, but most of the others were written for whichever girl I pined for that month, and packed onto a self-recorded mixtape that contained my undying affections. These songs meant something and I still sing them with at least a little passion, trying to remember which lovely lady inspired them. But I just can't seem to hold onto that passion long enough to write a good one anymore.

A list of the last few tunes I've created:

• 2004 - an ode to the girl I used to pass every day on my way to work. We traveled in opposite directions but were destined never to cross paths again when my hours were switched from 9:30am to 10 o'clock. Still, every time I had an early meeting, there was hope...
  
• 2005 - a love song for my sister and her husband. Sort of a gross idea, even if it was their wedding song.
  
• 2006 - a warning to my friend not to get drunk and make mistakes.
• 2007 - making fun of my friend who doesn't realize his life is a musical.
  
• 2008 - last night's turd sandwich, about conquering your obstacles or some shit.

In conclusion, I might be dead inside.

InSpired

Couple things...

• I read in the Tribune this morning that condos are going on sale today in the Chicago Spire, a drillbit of a skyscraper on the lakefront that started construction over the summer. At 2,000 feet (and 150 stories), it will be the tallest building in America when completed. Units expect to sell for $750K to $15 million, starting around $1400 per square foot. This got me thinking, if I wanted an apartment in this fancy new highrise of highrises, I could afford a new 6x12-inch rectangle of floor every month. It would take more than four-and-a-half years to buy enough space for my full-size bed. Good thing it won't be finished until 2011. (The Spire, that is. Not my bed.)
  

• I've been cooking breakfast sausage every few days lately. Not only is it delicious, but the odor lingers for several days in the apartment. It's nice to get home from work around 1am on a Wednesday and smell breakfast sausage.
  

Triumph of the Human Spirit

My dad sent me an article from the AP today about a couple of guys in New York...

"Two men have been arrested after wheeling a dead man through the streets of Manhattan in an office chair to a check-cashing store. Police say the men were trying to cash the dead man's Social Security check. Police spokesman Paul Browne says David Dalaia and James O'Hare pushed Virgilio Cintron's body from the apartment O'Hare and Cintron shared about a block away to Pay-O-Matic. Browne says witnesses saw the two pushing the chair with Cintron flopping from side to side and the two individuals propping him up. He says the men left Cintron's body outside the store, went inside and tried to cash his $355 check. The two men were arrested at the store... Browne says Dalaia and O'Hare, both 65, were being held by police and faced check fraud charges."

You're never too old to wheel your dead roommate down the street in an office chair.

Sometimes remakes are good

Back in August, when I first heard NBC was going to put American Gladiators back on the air, I was mostly indifferent. Sounded like the network was trying to capitalize on ironic 80's nostalgia with a show that would help get them through an impending writer's strike. Well, it worked. After seeing the first three episodes, I can confidently say this show is amazing. There are many reasons that lead me to this conclusion. Here are four of them...

• Water. Foam mats are so 1990. When a gladiator knocks a contender out during Joust, the loser falls into a pool. The maze of rings that is Hang Tough takes place over water. And in Assault, if the contender hits the target, the gladiator is flung backwards through the air into the water. This hasn't happened yet, but I eagerly await the moment with glee. The post-Joust interviews with female contenders are extremely entertaining when their makeup is fucked and they look like witches.

• Hulk Hogan. His interview skills are top notch. His intensity is top notch. His mustache is top notch. And if you take a shot every time he says "awesome" or "brother," you might die twice.

• The Eliminator. First they climb a wall, then they have to swim under a WALL OF FIRE. Other usual suspects are there: the cargo net, the balance beam, the hand-bike. But in an homage to MXC, contenders have to hold onto a big log that rolls down a slope. I like that part. The kicker is what they call the "Travelator." It's an inclined treadmill that gives everyone all kinds of trouble. Used to be at the start of the Eliminator, but now it's at the very end, and that's a world of difference. To make it a little easier, they even threw in a rope to grab for help. But it doesn't. The average contender spends at least a minute running up, grabbing the rope, falling back, then holding on for dear life as the treadmill pulls them down again. Somehow, this struggle becomes hilarious and I love it. The new Eliminator is something special.

• Wolf. All of the new gladiators are pretty great. Toa wears some sort of kilt/skirt and yells in gibberish, and I might want to marry Crush. Hellga also intrigues me. But no one compares to Wolf [seen above]. He's a combination of Ben Stiller's character in Dodgeball, the Predator, Teen Wolf, and Mola Ram from Temple of Doom. There were several moments last night when we thought he might actually reach into a contender's chest, rip out his heart and set it on fire, then be eaten by alligators. Oh, and he doesn't speak. He only howls.

This writer's strike has been very frustrating, particularly now that we have to endure a spring without 24. But American Gladiators is certainly helping to ease the pain. I've also heard there are other things to do besides watch television. I'll let you know when I figure one out.

Correction: In a promo video on NBC.com Wolf speaks. "I've fought men all my life. I've fought animals all my life. I'm the only real gladiator there is left on this Earth." This is acceptable.

WHAT WHAT WHAT

This was going to be a post about how awesome the new version of American Gladiators is. But the OSU band is playing the theme from Robin Hood Prince of Thieves during halftime of the national championship game.

American Gladiators will have to wait a few minutes.

Courtesy Flush

Last year, my folks gave me a bathroom book. Well, it was actually last week. But because today is January 3rd, it's still technically true. Isn't that fun?

Anyway, I don't have a terrible need for a bathroom book, thanks to Esquire, Wired and National Geographic. But just to honor my parents, I read a little bit last night before bed. Which got me thinking, there are a whole bunch of people out there writing, editing and publishing books that are destined for the bathroom. Someone took the time to compile the 420 (!) pages of Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Wonderful World of Odd: Expanded Edition, by the Bathroom Reader's Institute with full knowledge that the vast majority of people who read it would do so while pooping.

As indicated on the verso of the title page, Michael Brunsfeld of San Raphael, California designed the cover of this massive tome. He was able to pay his bills because he created this image seen mostly by people in the process of dropping some children off at the pool (AKA "fighting crime" by a friend of mine). I wonder how he feels about that. His credit in the book also includes his email address and I am somewhat inclined to ask his opinion on the matter. All it would probably take is a little prodding by the two or three readers of this blog.

If you knew that the only time your job had an effect on someone was while they were negotiating the release of chocolate hostages, would you ask for a raise? It's shitty work, but someone's got to do it.

Ano

I've said it before, but it bears repeating. The reason you wake up with a hangover on New Year's Day is so the year can only get better from there.

Guh.

Last night was an astoundingly amazing good time, and I am eternally grateful it wound up so awesome. Seeing your best friends once in a while is a good thing. And I've got some pretty great ones.

Yes, I'm still drunk.

Have a great year, everybody. Start with a cup of coffee.