Now I usually don't consider myself an authority on wall textures, but my friend Steve recently made me painfully aware of the material that covers my surroundings. I have known Steve since I was very young; however, until about two years ago we only spoke infrequently at family gatherings. College served to renew our friendship. Living in the same city, we often met at the bocce courts or the local meat distributor.
After his father's symposium on public health in Estonia, we were cruisin' the sidewalks all hopped up on the fall air when he stopped, suddenly. He immediately buckled over in pain. While I was concerned for his well-being, I could not determine what exactly prompted his pain. Furthermore, there was no visible area of concentration; his whole body seemed to be pulsating in pain.
There was a man selling sno-kones down the street. I figured if anything in the world could help my friend Steve at that particular moment it would have to be a sno-kone. The glorious union of ice and sugar-syrup was enough to brighten up even a bathroom attendant at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. I assessed the situation and decided on sno-kone.
When I returned with the mound of colored ice he was briefly relieved and thanked me repeatedly for the gesture. Then he took the kone and inserted it directly into his rectum. The insertion was done with such force that the syrup at the bottom leaked onto the sidewalk. The paper was severely punctured, and his hands were stained with syrup and ass juice. However, his face immediately fell back to its normal form. His legs stopped twitching, and the color returned to all his appendages. I was pleased he was better and didn't really need an explanation for the outburst, but halfway down the sidewalk he turned to me and said, "Sorry, but I always get hemorrhoids when I pass stucco walls. It's an affliction I inherited from my great uncle."
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Monday, December 20, 2004
My Feet Don't Talk, but They Should
When I was nine years old I had a chance encounter with a schizophrenic shoe sales man. He worked at Nickel Cent Shoes on the corner of Thompson and Hill Street. I initially went in for a new pair of thong sandals, the kind that have the flimsy rubber soles and squeek when you walk on linoleum. My foot has an awkward arch that seems to plateau in the middle and jut violently down toward my toes. Usually the inexperienced salesperson assumes I have a high arch and emerges from the backroom with a Dr. Scholl's insole.
However, the sales man at Nickel Cent immediately identified my unusual foot structure. He slowly massaged the arch, letting his pudgy fingers ride the curves of my flesh. Even for a nine year old his touch was quite sensual, and I admired the way his fat Polynesian stomach rolled over his polyester slacks. Of course our mental intimacy was violently interrupted by Bertha, a forty-seven year old retired actress currently auditioning for an informercial. My husky salesman dove headfirst into a speech detailing the three speeds of a vacuum sealer. While the sealer provided a useful accessory in the kitchen, its capabilities were literally endless. I had never even heard of vacuum sealing a dog's leash, but apparently it is one of the most neglected items.
While my knowledge of mental disorders was quite limited at age nine, I did know one thing: the salesman had an obvious knowledge for the contours of the underdeveloped foot. In fact his knowledge was so clear by our brief encounter that I would have easily accepted his suggestions to any of my other appendages. I knew I had to seize the moment.
As soon as Bertha left the scene in favor of a craft services employee I bought the shoes my friend recommended. While I never saw the man again, his memory has become a breathing extension of my soul.
However, the sales man at Nickel Cent immediately identified my unusual foot structure. He slowly massaged the arch, letting his pudgy fingers ride the curves of my flesh. Even for a nine year old his touch was quite sensual, and I admired the way his fat Polynesian stomach rolled over his polyester slacks. Of course our mental intimacy was violently interrupted by Bertha, a forty-seven year old retired actress currently auditioning for an informercial. My husky salesman dove headfirst into a speech detailing the three speeds of a vacuum sealer. While the sealer provided a useful accessory in the kitchen, its capabilities were literally endless. I had never even heard of vacuum sealing a dog's leash, but apparently it is one of the most neglected items.
While my knowledge of mental disorders was quite limited at age nine, I did know one thing: the salesman had an obvious knowledge for the contours of the underdeveloped foot. In fact his knowledge was so clear by our brief encounter that I would have easily accepted his suggestions to any of my other appendages. I knew I had to seize the moment.
As soon as Bertha left the scene in favor of a craft services employee I bought the shoes my friend recommended. While I never saw the man again, his memory has become a breathing extension of my soul.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Door to Door Ultimate Fighting
Yesterday, halfway through the an intense fourth round of the men's 400 meter backstairs I heard the doorbell ring. I wasn't planning to answer the door because I believe the doorbell is a primitive device representative of the deep distrust that lies latent in American culture. Not only are they condescending to the visitor, reducing the entirety of his character to several taps on the xylophone, but it also creates an inaccurate measure of status. For some reason most people acquiesce to the notion that the more intricate a doorbell sounds the higher a person sits on the social ladder. This same philosophy has been transferred to cell phone use. Despite my strong convictions, the doorbell ringing was relentless, and I decided to meet this mysterious visitor.
My visitor was a skinny dark-skinned man with shoulder-length hair. His pastel tie did little to distract from the wrinkled white shirt tucked loosely into his faded blue jeans. I noticed that he was gripping a stack of pamphlets, but before I could ask him about the papers he began to speak.
"Hello sir," he said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?"
Wow, what a question. I mean I never thought that Jesus would be a savior.
"Holy shit man," I answered. "You mean to tell me that the Mexican guy down the street with the funny looking five-year old is my savior?" I could hardly contain my excitement. To think that a guy in my very own town could save me.
The man looked confused. He raked his hand slowly through his dark hair as if to catch something in the soft thicket.
"No sir, I believe you are mistaken. See I am from the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and I would like you to join me in religious devotion." He was speaking quickly, and had I not poured whiskey into my morning coffee his words may not have been so potent. I saw through his pretentious civilities to reveal the true motive. He wanted to rumble, and I sure was ready.
"I see, sir," I said, backing my words with a raw sting of sarcasm. "Well I say my God is the savior." He wasn't shocked by my statements. He wasn't even disgusted. Instead, he smiled and threw the stack of pamphlets to my feet.
The next seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds were probably the most physically draining of my entire life. He began with a quick jab to my lower back. I countered with a kick to his shin, then grabbed him by the shoulders. We rolled on the floor for a few minutes and then began eye gauging and biting. By the end I had a road map of black and blues leading to a cracked incisor. He was equally "tore-up" to the point that he couldn't even think about getting tipsy in the club later.
After the initial fighting was over, we realized the futility in continuing the hand to hand combat. Without any words exchanged we shook hands, made sweet love, and waved goodbye. I watched him drive to the next house still soar from his half-nelson.
My visitor was a skinny dark-skinned man with shoulder-length hair. His pastel tie did little to distract from the wrinkled white shirt tucked loosely into his faded blue jeans. I noticed that he was gripping a stack of pamphlets, but before I could ask him about the papers he began to speak.
"Hello sir," he said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?"
Wow, what a question. I mean I never thought that Jesus would be a savior.
"Holy shit man," I answered. "You mean to tell me that the Mexican guy down the street with the funny looking five-year old is my savior?" I could hardly contain my excitement. To think that a guy in my very own town could save me.
The man looked confused. He raked his hand slowly through his dark hair as if to catch something in the soft thicket.
"No sir, I believe you are mistaken. See I am from the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and I would like you to join me in religious devotion." He was speaking quickly, and had I not poured whiskey into my morning coffee his words may not have been so potent. I saw through his pretentious civilities to reveal the true motive. He wanted to rumble, and I sure was ready.
"I see, sir," I said, backing my words with a raw sting of sarcasm. "Well I say my God is the savior." He wasn't shocked by my statements. He wasn't even disgusted. Instead, he smiled and threw the stack of pamphlets to my feet.
The next seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds were probably the most physically draining of my entire life. He began with a quick jab to my lower back. I countered with a kick to his shin, then grabbed him by the shoulders. We rolled on the floor for a few minutes and then began eye gauging and biting. By the end I had a road map of black and blues leading to a cracked incisor. He was equally "tore-up" to the point that he couldn't even think about getting tipsy in the club later.
After the initial fighting was over, we realized the futility in continuing the hand to hand combat. Without any words exchanged we shook hands, made sweet love, and waved goodbye. I watched him drive to the next house still soar from his half-nelson.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Conventions=Boobies
With the success of Girls Gone Wild, it was only a matter of time before every sexually frustrated college student with a camcorder and a six beer buzz was making documentaries about the female form. We all remeber the subpar spinoffs such as Girls Gone to McDonald's, which included a strangely erotic scene with a tub of Big Mac Special Sauce. Of course, this voyeuristic artform reached an all time low with the DVD reality series, "Which One is My Sister?" in which unknowing young men were tricked into uncomfortable and socially unacceptable relationships. I do not feel the need to elaborate on this sac of cinematic vomit.
However, it seems the latest offering from our young filmmaking friends is rather promising: Girls Gone to the Conventions. Let's get serious, convention is a fancy word for weeklong alcohol binges in the comfort of like-minded individuals. Would it be unreasonable to assume that at some point during the debauchery there was the occasional congressional titty-slip? Whether it was voluntary or simply the result of a poorly tailored business suit, delegates can easily revert back to drunk college girls when they're in front of the camera lens. With the such high profile names making appearances on the $9.99 DVD, it should be no surprise to see a variety of lawsuits spring up in the next few months. Bill Clinton was even in the house on Monday night.
I am completely in favor of hedonistic, multi-day events to celebrate allegiance to a particular person or organization, and I think it is only necessary and arguably part of one's civic duty to document and capitalize on the exploits of these "political parties."
However, it seems the latest offering from our young filmmaking friends is rather promising: Girls Gone to the Conventions. Let's get serious, convention is a fancy word for weeklong alcohol binges in the comfort of like-minded individuals. Would it be unreasonable to assume that at some point during the debauchery there was the occasional congressional titty-slip? Whether it was voluntary or simply the result of a poorly tailored business suit, delegates can easily revert back to drunk college girls when they're in front of the camera lens. With the such high profile names making appearances on the $9.99 DVD, it should be no surprise to see a variety of lawsuits spring up in the next few months. Bill Clinton was even in the house on Monday night.
I am completely in favor of hedonistic, multi-day events to celebrate allegiance to a particular person or organization, and I think it is only necessary and arguably part of one's civic duty to document and capitalize on the exploits of these "political parties."
Saturday, July 10, 2004
The Man in the Blue Suit
This post was written under the influence of a completely clear mind:
After a few minutes of meticulous staring I concluded that the twenty-something girl sitting in front of me was indeed wearing a colorful thong under her ruffled white skirt. My conclusion was confirmed when she bent down to answer her cellphone, exposing the upper cusp of a thin elastic.
However, before my perverse thoughts reached a glorious peak I was interrupted by a man's voice. His voice seemed to soar above the afternoon traffic, and I was compelled to identify the bearer of such a powerful voice.
On the other side of the street I saw a middle-aged man dressed in a neatly-pressed blue suit. The suit was enhanced by his clean-shaven face and clear skin. He was standing behind a rickety table.
As I approached the table, I realized he was selling cassettes. The tapes were bootleg performances by a variety of notable artists ranging from Marvin Gaye to The Sex Pistols. He greeted me with a sincere smile, and when our twenty minute conversation ended, I found myself the new owner of three tapes: Motley Crue at the Roxy in '87, Neil Young's concert in Seattle with Eddie Vedder, and David Crosby Live in New York City.
My friend let me use his apartment to sample my new purchases. I put Motley Crue in first. The tape began with a generic audience applause followed by a voice, clearly not belonging to Vince Neil, welcoming the crowd to LA. As the show went on I became aware that the Vince Neil impersonator was severely intoxicated. For each song he would play the Motley Crue cd in the background and crudely sing over the music. There were intermittent pauses allowed for vomiting and incoherent ramblings. As pathetic as each rendition was, I was unable to turn the tape off. I felt connected to the man on the tape. His rawness exposed the disconnect between popular musicians and their fans. He seemed to criticize the elevated status of celebrities, and their manipulation of popular culture. This honesty, as always, was strangely refreshing.
I was sure that the drunk man on the tape was the blue suited man that had sold me the tape, and it was somewhere in the middle of "Girls, Girls, Girls," that I declared the small time businessman an artistic genius. I spent most of that night listening to the bootleg tapes and reaching for spiritual enlightenment.
The next day I passed the blue suited man again, but I didn't see a man in a blue suit. I saw the culmination of every famous rock 'n roll frontman, in his underwear, hopelessly plastered and singing along to the radio.
After a few minutes of meticulous staring I concluded that the twenty-something girl sitting in front of me was indeed wearing a colorful thong under her ruffled white skirt. My conclusion was confirmed when she bent down to answer her cellphone, exposing the upper cusp of a thin elastic.
However, before my perverse thoughts reached a glorious peak I was interrupted by a man's voice. His voice seemed to soar above the afternoon traffic, and I was compelled to identify the bearer of such a powerful voice.
On the other side of the street I saw a middle-aged man dressed in a neatly-pressed blue suit. The suit was enhanced by his clean-shaven face and clear skin. He was standing behind a rickety table.
As I approached the table, I realized he was selling cassettes. The tapes were bootleg performances by a variety of notable artists ranging from Marvin Gaye to The Sex Pistols. He greeted me with a sincere smile, and when our twenty minute conversation ended, I found myself the new owner of three tapes: Motley Crue at the Roxy in '87, Neil Young's concert in Seattle with Eddie Vedder, and David Crosby Live in New York City.
My friend let me use his apartment to sample my new purchases. I put Motley Crue in first. The tape began with a generic audience applause followed by a voice, clearly not belonging to Vince Neil, welcoming the crowd to LA. As the show went on I became aware that the Vince Neil impersonator was severely intoxicated. For each song he would play the Motley Crue cd in the background and crudely sing over the music. There were intermittent pauses allowed for vomiting and incoherent ramblings. As pathetic as each rendition was, I was unable to turn the tape off. I felt connected to the man on the tape. His rawness exposed the disconnect between popular musicians and their fans. He seemed to criticize the elevated status of celebrities, and their manipulation of popular culture. This honesty, as always, was strangely refreshing.
I was sure that the drunk man on the tape was the blue suited man that had sold me the tape, and it was somewhere in the middle of "Girls, Girls, Girls," that I declared the small time businessman an artistic genius. I spent most of that night listening to the bootleg tapes and reaching for spiritual enlightenment.
The next day I passed the blue suited man again, but I didn't see a man in a blue suit. I saw the culmination of every famous rock 'n roll frontman, in his underwear, hopelessly plastered and singing along to the radio.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Graham Crackers in 2004
I have such magical memories of riding in the car with my mother when I was about six or seven years old. Of course I was in the back in case one of those straps securing the five tons of bananas on the back of a tractor trailer were to be disconnected from the trailer due to human error, I would not be impaled by a phallic-looking fruit. However I am thankful for my mother's protectiveness because sitting in the back gave me the chance to get an unobstructed view of my surroundings.
This unobstructed view spawned a plethora of childhood questions. Why is that man wearing his underwear outside his pants? What do the clouds taste like? Does it hurt to jump from those skcyscrapers? Is roadkill a leftist conspiracy to expose the fundamental flaws of our capitalist system and get Nader in the White House?
Anyhow, the other day I found myself riding in the back seat of my friend's car and for a few seconds I was smitten* with an overwhelming sense of innocence. Thats when I first conceived the idea of the Graham Cracker Party. I know graham crackers sound pretty pussy but trust me, its got elephantiasis balls, real big. The party, with colors pink and lavender, runs on a completely Idealistic platform. We dont say, "lets bomb this country," we say "lets bake pot brownies and send them over." We give steaks out to homeless people and beat the shit out of greedy businessmen with their own suitcases. Other plans include building an underwater city and sewing a srotum holder in men's pants so you dont have to wear underwear.
*extra points for the biblical reference
This unobstructed view spawned a plethora of childhood questions. Why is that man wearing his underwear outside his pants? What do the clouds taste like? Does it hurt to jump from those skcyscrapers? Is roadkill a leftist conspiracy to expose the fundamental flaws of our capitalist system and get Nader in the White House?
Anyhow, the other day I found myself riding in the back seat of my friend's car and for a few seconds I was smitten* with an overwhelming sense of innocence. Thats when I first conceived the idea of the Graham Cracker Party. I know graham crackers sound pretty pussy but trust me, its got elephantiasis balls, real big. The party, with colors pink and lavender, runs on a completely Idealistic platform. We dont say, "lets bomb this country," we say "lets bake pot brownies and send them over." We give steaks out to homeless people and beat the shit out of greedy businessmen with their own suitcases. Other plans include building an underwater city and sewing a srotum holder in men's pants so you dont have to wear underwear.
*extra points for the biblical reference
Thursday, June 24, 2004
10 questions
Is Larry King a robot?
Will the Red Sox ever win the World Series again?
Did you dust the dirt off your shoulder?
Does a male worm refer to his garbage as his little worm?
Why did the tape skip for Milli Vanilli?
When will Steve Buscemi win an Oscar?
Who is the best superhero?
Does it get better or worse after thirteen?
Who would win in a fight: the Baldwin brothers or the Wayans brothers?
Does Donald Rumsfeld eat babies?
Will the Red Sox ever win the World Series again?
Did you dust the dirt off your shoulder?
Does a male worm refer to his garbage as his little worm?
Why did the tape skip for Milli Vanilli?
When will Steve Buscemi win an Oscar?
Who is the best superhero?
Does it get better or worse after thirteen?
Who would win in a fight: the Baldwin brothers or the Wayans brothers?
Does Donald Rumsfeld eat babies?
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Television Sets, Synthesizers, and an Undying Passion
With Father's Day still fresh in the minds of families across this great country, I am reminded of the advice of my own father. My father always told me that personal fulfillment should always come before financial success. He stresses the importance of passion in all of life endevours, and the inherent value in pursuing your own dreams.
As a result of my father's preaching, I try to live my life outside the stringent rules of the materialistic world. I attempt to break the chains of public perception to achieve complete spiritual enlightenment.
Nonetheless, I digress from time to time and look to find inspiration in those around me. That is precisely how I met Vern Baxter. Vern or "Bax" as I used to call him lived on my floor first semester of my freshman year at a prestigious college in Northwestern D.C.
His 6'3" bony frame was covered by a roadmap of freckles, leading to a greasy red mop on top of his head. His hygiene was reprehinsible. His clothing was dated and usually smelled of old Chinese food. His social skills were virtually nonexistant, and he had an unhealthy obsession with Billy Squier music.
But, Vern's passion for life and love seemed to overshadow all these other shortcomings. He started skipping classes and staying in his dorm room (now a single) all day. One saturday afternoon I saw him wheeling a television set into his room, and I stopped him. He gave me two honest minutes of his time, and I left with a budding feeling of amazement.
He told me he had tried the girl thing. He tried the guy thing. He tried every possible combination of the two with still a sense of longing. That's when he told me he began experimenting with other items. He would sit in his room, pounding aggressively into television sets, old synthesizers, and even a toaster. His shrieks could be heard all over the dorm. Occassionally he would emerge from the room in a sweaty mess with a sense of peace in his face.
I don't know if Bax ever found what he was looking for, but I can never question the man's passion.
As a result of my father's preaching, I try to live my life outside the stringent rules of the materialistic world. I attempt to break the chains of public perception to achieve complete spiritual enlightenment.
Nonetheless, I digress from time to time and look to find inspiration in those around me. That is precisely how I met Vern Baxter. Vern or "Bax" as I used to call him lived on my floor first semester of my freshman year at a prestigious college in Northwestern D.C.
His 6'3" bony frame was covered by a roadmap of freckles, leading to a greasy red mop on top of his head. His hygiene was reprehinsible. His clothing was dated and usually smelled of old Chinese food. His social skills were virtually nonexistant, and he had an unhealthy obsession with Billy Squier music.
But, Vern's passion for life and love seemed to overshadow all these other shortcomings. He started skipping classes and staying in his dorm room (now a single) all day. One saturday afternoon I saw him wheeling a television set into his room, and I stopped him. He gave me two honest minutes of his time, and I left with a budding feeling of amazement.
He told me he had tried the girl thing. He tried the guy thing. He tried every possible combination of the two with still a sense of longing. That's when he told me he began experimenting with other items. He would sit in his room, pounding aggressively into television sets, old synthesizers, and even a toaster. His shrieks could be heard all over the dorm. Occassionally he would emerge from the room in a sweaty mess with a sense of peace in his face.
I don't know if Bax ever found what he was looking for, but I can never question the man's passion.
Saturday, June 12, 2004
I think I downloaded a pastrami sandwich on rye today. I was looking at a webpage that discusses the cultural significance of The Cosby Show when I clicked on a link entitled "Theo's Pet Peeves." For a second a picture of an older Theodre Huxtable appeared on the screen. It was the one where he had that flat-top with the fat ass fade and the little tail on the back. I begged my mom for like two weeks to get a hair cut like that, but she told me that white, Jewish kids can't usually grow flat-tops. Needless to say I grew a tail.
Anyway it was at that precise moment when a hot pastrami sandwich with swiss cheese melted tucked between the red folds landed in my lap. There was no plate and some of the cheese spilled on my brown cords. Well, I had to eat the sandwich, and when I was done I looked back up at my computer screen. Theo was looking right at me.
I'm not sure, but I think that was a sign...
Anyway it was at that precise moment when a hot pastrami sandwich with swiss cheese melted tucked between the red folds landed in my lap. There was no plate and some of the cheese spilled on my brown cords. Well, I had to eat the sandwich, and when I was done I looked back up at my computer screen. Theo was looking right at me.
I'm not sure, but I think that was a sign...
Thursday, June 10, 2004
The Richard Simmons Paradox
This shit should be in textbooks:
Does it piss you off that Richard Simmons is an aerobics instructor? You're damn right I said it. For some reason this flamboyant ball of energy seemed to duck all the radar screens and maintain a monopoly on the aerobic videotape market. Now ordinarily I have nothing against an eccentric, curly-haired man donning ball hugging shorts and a rhinestone tank top while coaxing overweight women to draw inspiration from a K.C. and the Sunshine Band song. Anyone who has seen a John Holmes movie(R.I.P.) knows the value of combining these elements to create a quality product.
However, I will not stand for Richard Simmons any longer. Aerobics instructors are supposed to be comic book type characters with bodies far superior to any of their clientele. Their supposed to be cut from stone or marble or some hard substance. Furthermore, their egos must surpass the size of their biceps. Good-looking, ripped people don't become trainers or aerobics instructors because they feel some selfless devotion to overweight people. Their egos push them in the business. Have you ever used a Body By Jake machine? Exactly.
Sorry, that was a little harsh. Let's get back to the heart of the issue, Richard Simmons. If you ask people about some of the biggest controversies and coverups of all time they will probably refer to JFK's murder or Clinton's embattled "sexual relations" speech. However, I say Richard Simmons. He isn't in very good shape. His voice is piercing. His chest hair is out of control and, worst of all, he's making men's booty shorts terribly uncool. In fact i cant even wear mesh tank tops to the grocery store anymore.
Some say this discourse is bitter and poorly conceived. Yes, Richard Simmons might be the embodiment of the American Dream. He has created a paradigm in the industry while aiding hundreds of women in their quest for physical fitness. Well I say no. Call me narrow-minded but there are just some things you can't mess with. Brian Setzer can revive swing music. Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez can make a movie together. Even Vanilla Ice can try to be a rapper and then a hardcore singer(well maybe not that last one). But I still think Richard Simmons should not be in the physical fitness industry. Am I wrong?
Subway Jared isn't much better either.
(I lost fifty pounds using Richard Simmons' videotapes and realized my love for leg warmers. He will always stand as a patriarch of the modern aerobics revolution).
Does it piss you off that Richard Simmons is an aerobics instructor? You're damn right I said it. For some reason this flamboyant ball of energy seemed to duck all the radar screens and maintain a monopoly on the aerobic videotape market. Now ordinarily I have nothing against an eccentric, curly-haired man donning ball hugging shorts and a rhinestone tank top while coaxing overweight women to draw inspiration from a K.C. and the Sunshine Band song. Anyone who has seen a John Holmes movie(R.I.P.) knows the value of combining these elements to create a quality product.
However, I will not stand for Richard Simmons any longer. Aerobics instructors are supposed to be comic book type characters with bodies far superior to any of their clientele. Their supposed to be cut from stone or marble or some hard substance. Furthermore, their egos must surpass the size of their biceps. Good-looking, ripped people don't become trainers or aerobics instructors because they feel some selfless devotion to overweight people. Their egos push them in the business. Have you ever used a Body By Jake machine? Exactly.
Sorry, that was a little harsh. Let's get back to the heart of the issue, Richard Simmons. If you ask people about some of the biggest controversies and coverups of all time they will probably refer to JFK's murder or Clinton's embattled "sexual relations" speech. However, I say Richard Simmons. He isn't in very good shape. His voice is piercing. His chest hair is out of control and, worst of all, he's making men's booty shorts terribly uncool. In fact i cant even wear mesh tank tops to the grocery store anymore.
Some say this discourse is bitter and poorly conceived. Yes, Richard Simmons might be the embodiment of the American Dream. He has created a paradigm in the industry while aiding hundreds of women in their quest for physical fitness. Well I say no. Call me narrow-minded but there are just some things you can't mess with. Brian Setzer can revive swing music. Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez can make a movie together. Even Vanilla Ice can try to be a rapper and then a hardcore singer(well maybe not that last one). But I still think Richard Simmons should not be in the physical fitness industry. Am I wrong?
Subway Jared isn't much better either.
(I lost fifty pounds using Richard Simmons' videotapes and realized my love for leg warmers. He will always stand as a patriarch of the modern aerobics revolution).
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Hits from the Gong
With popular music producing about as much energy as a stagnant bowl of pigeon shit, I am going to ask the question that is on everyone's mind: what happened to drummers? Damn it man, you sit on a stool while the guitar player and lead singers capture the hearts and underpants of sweaty underaged girls.
Remember when drummers used to have gongs behind their sets? A gong can singlehandedly transform a mediocre drummer into the arrogant womanizer that lies latent in his subconscious. Since a gong can really only be used to accentuate the end of a song or signify a gaudy introduction, the instrument simply emanates the rock star attitude. A snare drum is used in every single song, but it is only a fraction of the size of a gong. You can't even see the snare drum from the audience. A gong on the other hand is heavy and shiny and probably costs more than your tight-slack wearing guitar player's Marshall amp. What's even better is you need a sledgehammer with a pillow on the top to hit the gong. If the roadies bitch to you about carrying a large hubcap just so you can slam it in one song, just tell them you'll send some of the groupies to their bus.
Remember when drummers used to have gongs behind their sets? A gong can singlehandedly transform a mediocre drummer into the arrogant womanizer that lies latent in his subconscious. Since a gong can really only be used to accentuate the end of a song or signify a gaudy introduction, the instrument simply emanates the rock star attitude. A snare drum is used in every single song, but it is only a fraction of the size of a gong. You can't even see the snare drum from the audience. A gong on the other hand is heavy and shiny and probably costs more than your tight-slack wearing guitar player's Marshall amp. What's even better is you need a sledgehammer with a pillow on the top to hit the gong. If the roadies bitch to you about carrying a large hubcap just so you can slam it in one song, just tell them you'll send some of the groupies to their bus.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Free Weavis
Shackled by the chains of an intolerant society and labeled as an outcast, Owen Weaver is has become a fixture in the Orange radical movement. Known to friends and cats simply as Weavis, he frequents underground coffee bars to preach his romantic idealism to the masses.
"I first met him at McDonald's," says Marian Wilkins, owner of www.weavis.com. "He was yelling and pumping his first. Of course there wasn't anyone around him but his act lasted for about half an hour." She adds, "I was immediately intrigued."
Wilkins' fascination would only grow with time and soon she was attending weekly Weavis rallies. The mood was right for a revolution, and Wilkins' says Weavis would drop subtle hints about a "change in times."
Little did she know that these "hints" were being closely monitored by Orange central intelligenece agency. Apparently censorship still runs rampant, in Orange and Weavis would soon feel the strong grasp of big brother when the police raided one of his gatherings.
"I was talking with my friends," says a Weavis sympathizer who wished to remain nameless and faceless. "Before I knew it everyone was running to the cars yelling,'Fuzz, Fuzz.'"
Just as their parents had over thirty years ago, these college students had become the victims of an authoritarian regime, working to stomp out any form of dissidence. The party was dissolved within minutes as police occupied the quaint residence. They interrogated the tattered revolutionary for almost an hour, making long-distance calls on his home phones. He was quarantined from the few remaining guests and shown pictures of fellow upstarts. Just as suspected, Weavis kept silent through the entire ordeal and was slapped with a ticket for a court appearance on June 7.
I thought creativity facilitated democracy. I thought freedom of expression applied to all ideas, not just those sympathetic to the status quo. I thought the words of our forefathers still rang as true today as at the signing of the constitution.
FREE WEAVIS! STOP CENSORSHIP! GET YOUR PETS SPADE AND NEUTERED!
"I first met him at McDonald's," says Marian Wilkins, owner of www.weavis.com. "He was yelling and pumping his first. Of course there wasn't anyone around him but his act lasted for about half an hour." She adds, "I was immediately intrigued."
Wilkins' fascination would only grow with time and soon she was attending weekly Weavis rallies. The mood was right for a revolution, and Wilkins' says Weavis would drop subtle hints about a "change in times."
Little did she know that these "hints" were being closely monitored by Orange central intelligenece agency. Apparently censorship still runs rampant, in Orange and Weavis would soon feel the strong grasp of big brother when the police raided one of his gatherings.
"I was talking with my friends," says a Weavis sympathizer who wished to remain nameless and faceless. "Before I knew it everyone was running to the cars yelling,'Fuzz, Fuzz.'"
Just as their parents had over thirty years ago, these college students had become the victims of an authoritarian regime, working to stomp out any form of dissidence. The party was dissolved within minutes as police occupied the quaint residence. They interrogated the tattered revolutionary for almost an hour, making long-distance calls on his home phones. He was quarantined from the few remaining guests and shown pictures of fellow upstarts. Just as suspected, Weavis kept silent through the entire ordeal and was slapped with a ticket for a court appearance on June 7.
I thought creativity facilitated democracy. I thought freedom of expression applied to all ideas, not just those sympathetic to the status quo. I thought the words of our forefathers still rang as true today as at the signing of the constitution.
FREE WEAVIS! STOP CENSORSHIP! GET YOUR PETS SPADE AND NEUTERED!
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Urban Camping
Thousands of Americans enjoy the serenity of the outdoors by taking annual camping trips. These trips usually take place in remote areas of the country, untouched by the effects of industry and technology. Many people feel that camping in the woods is a spiritual experience. They can leave their world of cell phones and business appointments and bask in the peacefulness of nature.
Maybe it's because I go to school in a city, but I am a bigger fan of the other type of camping. That's right, urban camping. Some people say, "Hey, you can't camp in an urban environment. Where are the animals and the rivers?" That's cool. But I say, "Hey when I look out on a booming metropolis, I see an adventure." Those people standing on the corner, wearing three overcoats, and that guy with greasy hair, whose underpants are on the outside of his pants aren't homeless, no sir. These are the hordes of fearless urban campers, storming American cities. They exchange tents for corrugated cardboard and backpacks for shopping carts. They view vagrancy not as a sociological issue but as a recreational activity.
Urban Campers of the world unite!!!!
Maybe it's because I go to school in a city, but I am a bigger fan of the other type of camping. That's right, urban camping. Some people say, "Hey, you can't camp in an urban environment. Where are the animals and the rivers?" That's cool. But I say, "Hey when I look out on a booming metropolis, I see an adventure." Those people standing on the corner, wearing three overcoats, and that guy with greasy hair, whose underpants are on the outside of his pants aren't homeless, no sir. These are the hordes of fearless urban campers, storming American cities. They exchange tents for corrugated cardboard and backpacks for shopping carts. They view vagrancy not as a sociological issue but as a recreational activity.
Urban Campers of the world unite!!!!
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