Tuesday, December 22, 2009

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out!

How much would you pay spend a couple nights at the house featured in A Christmas Story? You have 30 seconds to answer...all right, boys and girls, pencils down. Anyone know the correct answer? Yes, Jimmy, that's right: $4,200.

I think it's worth it. The Christmas Story house has to rank pretty high when it comes to picking the greatest cinematic houses. Other contenders include the Corleone compound in The Godfather, Bilbo's hobbit hole,and Kevin's house in Home Alone. The Bates Motel ranks dead last, narrowly behind the space colony in Aliens.

Mixed Greens

Coming soon to a McDonald's near you: the new Munchie burger, featuring pickles, extra onions, and a very special ingredient. Bet you can't eat just one!

Also, please note the misspelling of "pallets" as "palates." I live to find things like that, which makes me more than a little pathetics.

Canuckleheads

Oh, Canada. Will you ever win?

Monday, December 21, 2009

Happy Birthday, Dear Jughashvili

The Russian Communist Party is encouraging people to leave poor Stalin alone, especially on his birthday. Says one of the Staliniks: "We would very much like for any discussion of the mistakes of the Stalin epoch to be silenced today, so that people could reflect on Stalin's personality as a creator, a thinker and a patriot." Sweet, no? Let's reflect on some Uncle Joe's nobler aspects:

1. Mustache a little too big to be considered Hitlerian
2. Was really, really good at liquidating people
3. Not Hitler

See? Truly, Stalin was a creator, a thinker, and a patriot.

The Things That Should Not Be

The Onion presents:

1. The Least Essential Albums of 2009, one of which merits this dismissal: "Sucking has always been good for Creed’s business, so why change things up now?" Ouch.

And...

2. The 19-Plus Worst Films of 2009, featuring a guest appearance from a particularly dreadful '08 film. Thankfully, I haven't seen any of them, though their review of Paper Heart is so brutal I feel almost compelled to watch it.

My take? I didn't see 19 movies this year, period, so I can't really judge. But I did despise Year One, truly, madly, and deeply. Any film featuring Jack Black eating bear poop merits a toasty spot in cinematic hell.

Settlers of Satan

What do I have in common with a Silicon Valley wunderkind multi-millionaire? Unfortunately, it's not money. It's not that we both suck at sports, though that's technically true. No, the common denominator is that we both love Settlers of Catan. This, of course, bolsters Settlers' status as the nerdiest board game around, narrowly edging out Risk and Diplomacy.

Snowball Fight!

Back when I was a young lad, I loved nothing more than a good snowball fight. The heft of a sloppy slushball in your hand...the whistle of the wind in your hair as you like hell from your big brother and his murderous throwing arm...the pinching cramp in your legs as you hunkered down behind a bush, waiting for your best friend to turn the corner so you could smack him upside the head with an airborne sno-cone--I loved every bit of it. I could even tolerate the whole getting-hit-in-the-face-by-a-flying-chunk-of-ice element. After all, you have to enjoy the bad with the good.

I do remember, though, that even the wild, shoot-em-up world of snowball fights had rules. No rocks in the snowballs. No sleds--you had to move under your own power. No using icicles as shivs. And most important of all, no hoses! Nothing could upset the balance of power faster than an ice-cold water jet. It was mean, sneaky, and low-down. Only cowards used the hose.

This, however, might be worse. I don't think we made a rule against it, but then again, I don't think the situation ever called for one.

Must-Click Link

And while we're on the topic of football...this video is entitled "Oakland Raider Tommy Kelly Loses His Pants Mid-Game." Now that you've read that, I dare you not to click on the link. I dare you!

Ain't That a Kicker in The Head?

Do kickers have the best job in the NFL--or the worst? Most people, I think, would say the kicker has it easy. You only come out 8-10 times each game, tops. If anybody on the other team touches you with more force than is required to open a Coke can, BANG! Eight-yard penalty. Barring a freak accident, you'll never get concussed. You'll never have to run anywhere, unless it's to the locker room to escape death-by-crushing after you kick a winning field goal. Exercise? Who needs it all? You just need to work on propelling a ball a couple dozen yards with your foot. Get that down and you're golden. Oh, did I mention you can play for approximately forever? Jason Elam was waived by the Atlanta Falcons this season, but before that he played for 45 consecutive seasons. He was in the league back when the Washington Redskins were still called the Washington Red Savages, for goodness sakes!

But...I don't know if any position in sports has a shorter leash than an NFL kicker. Consider the case of poor Shaun Suisham. A few weeks ago Shaun lived happily as a Washington Redskin, kicking things to his heart's content. But in a game against the then-undefeated New Orleans saints, he missed a field goal which would have iced the game for Washington. The Saints came marching in and won the game in overtime, 33-30. The very next day, the national unemployment rate went up by .0001% as Shaun found himself carrying a cardboard sign reading "Will kick things for $$$."

The lesson? Kickers have no margin for error. If Kobe Bryant--or hell, even Luke Walton--goes into a shooting slump tomorrow, the Lakers aren't going to toss him out onto Sepulveda Boulevard. If Ben Roethlisberger throws three picks in a game, he won't wind up smelting steel from 9-to-5. But if a kicker misses a must-have field goal? Or worse, a must-have extra point? He'd better start printing out the ol' resume, because it's back to the bread line for him.

Buzzkill

I feel sorry for this teen's future girlfriend. It's tough enough trying to impress the parents of your significant other; imagine trying to win over his probation officer.

Hot Bird-on-Snake Action

Sometimes the simple things in life matter the most. Like, for instance, this story about a badass woodpecker going head-to-head with a giant snake. Hey, let it never be said I'm not easy to entertain.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Cracker Jack

Most Americans know about "Christmas crackers" only from reading Harry Potter or, if they're serious Anglophiles, from watching Mr. Bean. These crackers bear no resemblance to a Ritz or a Cheez-It. As far as I can tell, a cracker is a miniature firework that you detonate by pulling on it. British people seem to find this "fun" in the same way they find beefsteak "delicious" and Robbie Williams "talented."

But wait, there's more! Each cracker comes with a little joke hidden inside, as if it were a pyrotechnic fortune cookie. Yet over the past few years those jokes have gotten a little...stale. If this BBC story is accurate, the writers really had to scrape the bottom of the joke barrel. For instance: "Q: What country has a good appetite? A: Hungary." HA HA HA HA OH STOP IT BEFORE I DIE LAUGHING!

Things have to change. People expect quality from their crackers, dammit. They don't want any old pun. They want real jokes, good stuff like "How did the Vikings send secret messages? By norse code!" So the cracker-company is rewriting all the old, lame puns and replacing them with new, slightly-less-lame puns. I'm left with one question: how do you get the job of "Christmas-cracker-joke writer"? And where can I apply?

OK, I have one other question. One of the newer, hipper jokes goes: "What is Rudolph's favorite day of the year? Red Nose Day!" What the hell? Discuss.

Santa the Red-Nosed Alcoholic

First, sexy God. Now, drunk Santa. Is nothing sacred anymore? Thank God I have Scientology.

Two Links From the New Yorker That Prove How Brilliant and Cultured I Am, Etc.

First link: an interesting little blog post about how Tiger could have done a better job handling that whole bimbo-induced-career-meltdown thing. The short answer is he did everything wrong; the long answer is he did EVVVVVVVVERYTHING wrong.

It's very easy to sit back and play Monday-morning spin doctor, but I still have to agree with the author. Indefinite retirement from golf? It's like he was daring Letterman, Leno, and every other late-night comic to cut him up. Vanishing from the public eye doesn't make you look like a dedicated family man. It makes you look like a J.D. Salingeresque weirdo.

After all, a golfer without golf is just an er. If Tiger were out there doing the thing he does best--hitting a tiny white ball into a tiny little hole several hundred feet away using only a big chunk of metal--it would sop up press coverage that might otherwise go to Ex-Mistress #25. But no! The only thing we can do is speculate how much weirder it might get. And you can bet that doesn't help Tiger's public image. At all.

Same author, new link: forget the Madden cover jinx or the Sports Illustrated cover curse, the real trouble comes when you win Time's PERSON OF THE YEAR. From then on you go downhill, fast. It happened to Barack this year, and it's probably going to happen to Ben Bernanke in 2010. I'm a little worried, considering that I was named Person of the Year a couple years back. Does this mean I'm doomed?

Seriously, though, it's a good rule of thumb that when someone or something appears on a mainstream magazine cover, it's already played out. The sole exception is, of course, Old People Monthly. Its cover subjects only get better with age.

Revenge of the Nerds

Captain James T. Kirk has conquered the Romulans. The Klingons. The Tribbles. And, apparently, the ability of women to succeed in science. It seems women are scared unscientific by the sight of stereotypically nerdy things like video games, comic books, and yes, Star Trek.

But does that really surprise you? To paraphrase ZZ Top's Sharp Dressed Man: "Every girl's frightened of a Star Trek fan!"

Sexy...God?

No, it's not next year's hottest Halloween costume...it's a billboard in Auckland. That was attacked by a little old lady wielding a knife. This is one of those situations where I don't know whether to be offended or amused, kind of like the time I watched "Jesus Vs. Superman."

The Straight N' Arrow

I didn't even know buttock season had started!

Friday, December 18, 2009

The Best of the Best of the Best of the Best

Did you spend 2009 in a coma? If so, here's something to get you back up to speed: Time magazine's BEST AND WORST OF 2009 LISTS.

Wondering who the year's top Oprah protege was? Wonder no more!

Not sure where the best urban biking experiences are? Your prayers have been answered!

Want to know more about weird spa treatments? Buddy, have they got a page for you!

Looking for a list of the best-flavored toothpaste brands to come out of Mongolia since August? Well...you might have to keep looking. But you can find everything else you need. Seriously, who even needs to live through the year when you have best- and worst-of lists?

Science! Industry! Technology!

Hey, remember those little capsules that you could drop into a glass of water and watch expand into a little foam triceratops or tyrannosaurus or whatever? Weren't those things awesome? Well, science has finally caught up to water-soluble-foam-capsule technology. Take a look...I dare you tell me these glowing blue prairie voles don't look like they're made from foam.

Kidneybook

Here's a sweet story about a man who found a kidney donor via Facebook. I'm worried, though, that this might set a bad precedent. Sure, you might be giving away your kidney to somebody who really needs it, but how can you know for sure? They might be a fiendish Brit looking to enjoy a delicious steak-and-human-kidney pie. Beware!

Mini-Mini-Mini Review: Avatar*

It was good, but I kept wondering when Gargamel was going to show up.

*Note: I have not actually seen Avatar.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Dream Factory

Wow. A guy posts a good-looking YouTube video and lands a Hollywood contract? I've got to get in on that action. Time for some quick brainstorming. Hmmm...what if I strap a paper fin on my cat's back and have him destroy a scale model of Tacoma? Ka-ching!

Tennesse in One Sentence

"She says she is not sure how her 4-year-old managed to get out of the house, open a beer, and steal the neighbors presents from under their tree."

OK, that's not completely fair to Tennessee. This sort of thing could definitely happen in Manhattan or LA, though the kid probably would have gotten drunk on chardonnay instead of plain ol' beer.

It's a Dog Eat Nebraskan World

I always knew pugs were evil, but I never realized just how evil...until I read this story. Note to self: put pets outside before committing suicide.

I'm Lovin' It, Albeit Grudgingly

Behold the McNuggetini! An delicious drink blending a chocolate McDonald's milkshake with vanilla vodka, rimmed with barbecue sauce and garnished with a single crispy McNugget. What's not to love? Aside from "everything about this disgusting abomination," of course.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Happy (Belated) Fourth of July!

San Francisco is not a place to celebrate Independence Day. This, after all, is a city that prefers its American flags extra-crispy. But we had no choice. We were stuck in Moscow on the Bay for the Fourth, so we had to make the best of it. There were going to be fireworks over Fisherman’s Wharf; we figured we’d head on down to the docks, get ourselves a nice dinner, and enjoy the sight of thousands of pounds of weapons-grade explosives detonating over the water.

The wharf was a couple blocks away from our hotel, so we decided to take the bus. Count that as the most useless bus ride in the history of mankind. We went two blocks before the driver stopped the bus and waved us off. Apparently, the police had closed down all the streets close to the waterfront. We had paid $2.50 for a three block ride. I suppose it wasn’t all a waste. By riding a public transportation, we had helped save the environment. If we had walked those three blocks, we might have accidentally stepped on a snail or something.

Our plan involved dinner at Ghirardelli Square. What fools we were! The square was more crowded than a Boston hospital the day after St. Patrick’s. Both restaurants had lines that stretched through the lobby, out the door, up the stairs, across the square, and, as far as I knew, all the way back to Los Angeles. The chances of the ten of us getting a table anywhere were none to less than none. It didn’t bother me, though. I was already too upset too care. I had hoped that Ghirardelli Square would be a tacky chocolate paradise like the M&M store in Times Square. Instead, I found it to be tasteful and low-key. Shameful!

We ended up at a little Vietnamese place across the street. The server told us to expect a twenty minute wait. We agreed; after all, the fireworks wouldn’t start for another hour and a half. Flash forward forty-five minutes. We’re still standing outside the restaurant, slumped, spirits broken, getting in the way of passing cyclists. The restaurant had only one table big enough to seat all of us. That table was currently occupied by a group of older folk, still chatting, even though their check had arrived half an hour ago. I glared at them through the plate glass window. Never have I had such a desire to strangle a bunch of complete strangers.

Eventually the left. I’d like to think my angry glaring played a part. We were seated, with profuse apologies from management. We had to eat quickly; thirty minutes until the bombs started going off over the bay. This meal, by the way, marked my first encounter with sushi. I had never tried the stuff before. I worried I would eat some poorly prepared fugu and die a horrible death, kicking my life away on the floor of some cheap sushi joint. No…when I go I want to go with dignity. And explosions.

But I summoned by courage and ordered some shrimp tempura sushi. I even went for a double order; if I’m going to die, why not do it with gusto? Five minutes later, I faced down my fears: twelve squat bundles of rice, seaweed and shrimp. I grabbed my chopsticks and went to work. Five minutes later, I had yet to taste sushi. Using chopsticks is even harder than it looks. I nearly stabbed one of my tablemates through the throat. At long last, though, I got a grip one on of the sushi pieces. I squeezed it with the sticks; it promptly burst into a little confetti-like pile of rice and fried crustacean.

“Forget this,” I said to myself, and quite possibly out loud as well. I grabbed a piece and popped it my mouth. Not bad…a little sea-weedy, but the sticky, bland rice went well with the vinegarish taste. I tried another. Then a third, and a fourth, a fifth and sixth and seventh and so on and on. The sushi proved defenseless against my onslaught. I had conquered another culinary phobia. Next up: fried cow’s brains. That will have to wait until later, though, until I find a good brasserie. (No, not a brassiere, a brasserie)

Only five minutes to fireworks! We rushed out of the restaurant, stopping only to (grudgingly) pay our bill. Down to the docks, where a couple hundred other spectators stood. Before we reached the water we heard the unmistakable CRACK-KABOOM of pyrotechnic patriotism. You know how you can tell a good firework? If you can feel it in your sternum. If your ribs rattle in your chest, you’ve come to the right place.

The fireworks were shooting up from Alcatraz, the forlorn prison island in the middle of the bay. We could see another celebration from across the water. The fireworks in the distance echoed the ones exploding overhead. Each burst brought Oohs and aahs from the crowd and some intense flag-waving from the interns. We had brought along an American flag, and we put it to good use. I held it aloft for ten minutes before my joints started to scream. I handed it off to another intern who, being of hardier constitution, kept it up all night (no sexual pun intended). Apparently, he even held high the flag on the bus ride back to the hotel.

Another year gone by in the life of America, free of major earthquakes, terrorist attacks, and invasions from Canada. Not bad, all things considered. Next time, though, I’ll remember to pick up a gift in time. I’m thinking a nice Starbucks gift certificate ought to do the trick. Let’s see…300 million people…at maybe $4 a cup…$1.2 billion should just about cover it.

Tha Jimmy Carter III

So Jay-Z is America and The Game is Iraq, eh? But what does that make Kanye? If you ask him, I'm sure he'd say "a cross between America, the Soviet Union, the British Empire, Rome and the M**********NG SUN!"

Getting Whaled On

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Whale Watchers International. Today on the agenda: whale watching! If you'll look to port, you'll see a truly magnificent example of the rare fin whale. I'll steer the boat closer so that you can get a better look..."

THUD

"Uh, and if you will look very quickly to starboard, you'll see some seagulls! Yes, keep an eye on those seagulls! No reason at all to look to port...heh heh...oh man, I'm gonna get so much crap for this."

Mocha is Just an Anagram For Chemo

Hmmm...I guess that's why, in the wake of Free Pastry Day, Starbucks is offering Free Colorectal Cancer Screening Day. You get one free with the purchase of any beverage!

Killer Kamels

I'm back! I know it's been quite a while since I posted one of these short numbers. In an effort to balance out my earlier, multi-thousand-word epic posts, I'll make this one as brief as possible. In fact, I'll do it NY Post headline style:

JOE NO! AUSSIES GET OK TO CULL CAMELS

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Viva Castro!

Onward to the Castro! Ground zero for the homosexual community’s never-ending war against mom, apple pie and everything good about America. As a conservative, I was entering occupied territory. I was a little worried; would they sniff me out as a Republican? Would they pick up the telltale scent of a McCain voter? Ultimately, I decided that my life-long appreciation for musical theater would protect me.

Castro was…not quite as gay as I imagined, actually. I know that I’m horribly bigoted for saying that. It’s true, though; it looked like a quaint little neighborhood, unusual only for the number of rainbow flags lining the street. Of course, every now and then you would pass a guy wearing fishnet stockings and a miniskirt, in case you forgot where you were. I do have one complaint, though. The restaurant prices are situated somewhere between “absurd” and “ludicrous.” Our hardy band of interns wandered for twenty minutes in search of a reasonably-priced place to eat. Finally, we came to Escape from New York Pizza, where you could get a large NYC-style slice for a mere $25.00. Pepperoni cost an extra $12.00. It was the best deal we could find.

Like any neighborhood, big or small, Castro had its own little flourishes to add personality. In some neighborhoods, “personality” comes from the crazy guy down the street who yells at passing cars while dressed only in his underwear, or from a particularly nasty pothole that claims thousands of hubcaps each year. Castro, thankfully, has a milder—and much quirkier—kind of personality. I admired the Castro Theater, which boasts perhaps the world’s last marquee. You don’t see those kind of things at your local Raleigh mega-cineplex. The theater was showing Joan Crawford’s “The Woman,” not, I assume, for any artistic reason, but because it had Joan Crawford.

We passed through a little street festival supporting…some cause. A guy tried to force a flier into my hand, but I, jaded city dweller that I am, waved him off. An old-time brass band, complete with straw hats, sat smack-dab in the middle of the road. Traffic had stopped; people gathered ‘round to watch. The bandleader announced that they were going to play an old minstrel number called “Dem Golden Slippers,” or something similar. He said it was a precursor to modern musical theater. They launched into the song with a good deal of oom-pah-pah-ing. I liked it; I could close my eyes and imagine I was in Bavaria listening to the local Kapelle play old German beer-drinking and Jew-hating songs. We didn’t stay long, though, as we were in a hurry. Hurrying where, I didn’t know, but young people are always on the move.

A taxi ride brought us to Twin Peaks. It was quite thrilling, actually. It took two taxis to carry all of us, so for the first time in my life I was able to tell a cabdriver to “Follow that car!” It was a scene right out of Mission: Impossible, if someone had taken the screenplay and dulled it up twenty notches. After a thrilling slow-speed pursit through the streets of San Francisco we arrived at our destination, a pair of hilltops overlooking the city. One rises a little higher than the other. Most tourists cluster on the lower one, which has a couple stone overlooks, a few coin-operated binoculars, and the world’s most hateful bathroom (more on that one later). Braver souls can climb the long and winding path to the top of the upper hill where, in exchange for skin-blistering winds, they can enjoy an even more panoramic panorama of the city. I am not a brave soul.

I don’t think I missed too much, though, because the view was excellent nonetheless. Below, I could see the zig-zagging road we had just driven up. Beneath that came row upon row of houses, most painted pastel yellow or pink in the San Francisco style. Then, still further down, the whole city spread out glistening and gleaming. The skyscrapers of downtown jutted upward in the distance; beyond them, out in the bay, I could see Alcatraz. The Golden Gate bride was obscured by fog, by distance, and by an obnoxious little finger of land. Some large hills humped up in the middle of the city—they looked like gargantuan green whales breaching the waves. I stood admiring the scene for more than a few minutes. Then, of course, out came the camera, followed by an orgy of picture-snapping.

Then there was the bathroom. What a nightmarish thing. Not that it was disgusting; indeed, that was exactly the problem. The sign on the outside bragged that it was a “self-cleaning bathroom”; after every visitor, the walls sprayed a stream of water over the floor, sanitizing it for the next occupant. Good in theory, horrible in practice. Each cleaning session lasted a minute. So someone would step out and the next person would have to stand there, waiting, while the bathroom went through its meticulous cleaning process like a janitor with OCD. I stood in life for fifteen minutes. When I finally got inside, I expected to have the best damn bathroom experience of my life. For a wait like that I wanted nothing less than soft, plush towels, soothing bathroom Muzak, and a soda dispenser. Instead, all I got was a damp floor and a sink that didn’t work. Sometimes I think the Luddites got a few things right.

Our little excursion ended with a jaunt through Haight-Ashbury. Say Haight-Ashbury to most people and they’ll look confused. Say it to a hippie and…well, hippies always look confused, but you’ll see some happiness mixed in with his blissed-out bewilderment. Haight-Ashbury is Hippie Central. In the late 1960s it was Ground Zero for the Summer of Love, during which thousands of hippies, drawn together by the irresistible gravitational pull of their own stupidity, descended on San Francisco. The Grateful Dead had lived in Haight-Ashbury; so had the Jefferson airplane. So had countless other crappy psychedelic bands whose names are, thankfully, lost to history. Remember, this was a genre that tried to introduce the sitar and bongos to rock n’ roll. Bongos are to music as horseradish is to food; it ruins everything it touches.

Even today, a few hippies cluster in Haight-Ashbury, waiting, I assume, for the second coming of Jerry Garcia. They squat on street corners, looking very depressed for a bunch of people who are all about peace n’ love. Of course, these are all neo-hippies. None of them are older than twenty-five. The real hippies, the ones who got stoned while watching Moby Grabe play at the Fillmore in ’67 (it was aaaawesome, man), all got fat, went bald, and opened boutiques on Haight Street. There, they make money selling off heirlooms from the short-lived hippie kingdom. You can buy tie-dye shirts, “Impeach Nixon” buttons, and “the authentic Jimi Hendrix Line of t-shirts.” You can also buy a lot of bongs. One store had an otherworldly collection of bongs that looked like it had been assembled by a hippie Indiana Jones.

I had to stop at a record store. It was Haight-Ashbury; I felt obligated. I found a place way down at the end of Haight Street, a dusty little shop with vinyl in front and CDs in the back. I passed right by the vinyl. I had spent enough time struggling with records as a DJ at WXDU. Never again would I subject myself to that absurdity. I browsed for fifteen minutes, while the other interns grew more and more bored. Eventually they just sat down on the floor, while I, oblivious, flipped through rack after rack of albums. There was music playing softly in the background. Right before I left, a bizarre spoken word piece started up. As I approached the counter, new Oingo Boingo album in hand, I asked the clerk, “Is that Allen Ginsberg?” Er, no, it wasn’t. So much for being Mr. Music Buff.

Next: Fourth of July, only two weeks late!

Review: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

The latest Harry Potter film, “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” absolutely baffles me. I don’t mean that the film is confusing—it is, a little, but that’s hardly the biggest problem. No, what I can’t understand is how a film can look this good, sound this good, have this many good actors, and yet somehow…not be much good at all. How can it be so much less than the sum of its parts?

Maybe the problem lies with the source material. “Half-Blood Prince,” after all, was certainly the weirdest of all the Potter books. Perhaps the slowest, as well. It was not much more than a seven-hundred page prologue to the seventh and final chapter in the series. If I recall, the slithery, deadly evil Lord Voldemort never even put in an appearance. Much of the book occurred in flashbacks, as Harry and Dumbledore tried to figure out what made Voldy tick. That was half the book; the other half was snogging, as hormones ran rampant in Hogwarts. Harry snogs Ginny, Ron snogs Lavender, and Hermione bitterly regrets snogging the oafish Cormac MacLaggen.

Not that I’m criticizing the book. Looking back, I might even choose it as my favorite. J.K. Rowling’s greatest strength as a writer came from her skill at writing relationships—Harry and Ron, Harry and Dumbledore, Harry and Voldemort, et cetera, et cetera. Yes, the magic was all very fun, but it could get quite goofy, even by fantasy standards. You can only read about Avada Kedavra and Expelliarmus and all the rest so many times before you start asking questions. Like, could you Accio the liver out of someone’s body? Wouldn’t that be a more effective way of killing than Avada Kedavra?

Relationships are key. But if there’s one thing the Harry Potter films don’t do well, it’s acting. Oops, sorry, I mean relationships. The acting is perfectly decent. All the usual British thespians are back—Michael Gambon as Dumbledore, Maggie Smith as McGonagall, Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid—and they all do an excellent job. Unfortunately, they’re all dancing around three big holes in the center of the film. Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson look fantastic in long black robes and scarves, but I’ve yet to see them turn in a really good performance. I’d even be satisfied with a really decent one.

Some background is in order; God knows you’re not going to get it from the film. The Harry Potter books have always been harsh to newbies. When it comes to plot in the Potter movies, there are two kinds of people: those who know it by heart, and those who won’t have a clue what’s going on. The scenes rush by so quickly, with characters popping in and out at random, that a non-Potterphile will wind up completely baffled. At times, even I wished I had a copy of the book to flip through during the down time.

And there’s plenty of down time to be had. The beginning is literally magic, as a trio of flying Death Eaters wreak some otherworldly havoc on the oblivious Muggles of London. By the way, if you’ll permit a brief fanboy interruption: Flying? Didn’t that ability belong to only Voldemort and Snape? But that’s beside the point. After that opening joyride things get pretty slack. We get reacquainted with Harry while he’s sitting in a subway restaurant, flirting with the waitress. Harry’s only a few steps away from reaching non-wizard first base, but then Dumbledore has to show up and spoil all the fun. Rowling’s post-series revelation that Dumbledore was gay adds a new and rather interesting twist to this scene.

Dumbledore than spirits Harry away to meet Prof. Horace Slughorn (Jim Broadbent), a gouty, corpulent dandy obsessed with the finer things in life. Dumbledore hires Slughorn to teach at Hogwarts—so much for any pretense of interviewing other qualified candidates—so that Harry can wangle a long-repressed memory out of the portly professor’s brain. Apparently, Dumbly tells us, the memory is key to defeating Voldemort. And…that’s pretty much the movie, actually. Harry spends the next hour and a half wheedling with Slughorn, but Slughorn, to his credit, recognizes bad acting when he sees it.

Relationships! I get the feeling screenwriter Steve Kloves didn’t want to bother with all that stuff. In the book, we get a couple tangled love duets, with Harry lusting after Ginny, who’s dating somebody else, while Hermione longs for a couple minutes with Ron in the broom cupboard, if you know what I mean. Ron, in the book, gets caught up somewhere between Hermione and the amorous Lavender Brown. In the movie all this is replaced by a good deal of snogging. Ron snogs pretty much everything that moves, stopping just short of planting a kiss on Dumbledore’s whiskers.

Chemistry, however, is sadly lacking. Harry’s supposed to have a deep and heartfelt love for Ginny. After all, he marries her in the epilogue. But I’ve seen a third-grader with a test tube produce better chemistry than that which exists between the two. Ron? It doesn’t help that the poor guy has become 100% comic relief. He’s played solely for laughs, and I’ll give Rupert Grint credit: he’s got great comedic timing. Yet he’s less a human being and more of a manic yuk machine. And Hermione? I’m not even going to speculate. Emma Watson has always played her as completely imperturbable. Here, she’s more inscrutable than the stone turrets in the background.

It’s a flimsy plot—Slughorn and snogging—but it still takes up 95% of the movie’s time. Sure, there are some nods to the traditions of Potterphilia. We have a Quidditch game. We have a brief cameo by Hagrid. We have Neville Longbottom. We have shots of a bunch of students eating beneath the floating candles in the Great Hall. Incidentally, do the students eat anywhere other than the Great Hall? Do they ever take lunch in their rooms? It’s like Hogwarts is a prison and the students are GenPop.

Everything looks beautiful; the Potter films have never wanted for gorgeous backgrounds. The cinematographer….uh, whoever he was, he did a fine job with the camera. Every scene practically glows. The Quidditch match looks particularly pretty, with lots of nice twisting and turning acrobatic aerial shots. The flashbacks to young Voldemort occur in a hazy, dreamlike fog, adding an extra level of menace. And the magic still looks great. The flying Death Eaters are as magnificent and terrifying as anything out of a Peter Jackson film.

But it’s all dark, all dim, all gray, all leaden, sullen, static and despairing. Nothing moves. Nothing changes. The rich relationships of the book have fossilized into stiff declarations of teenage love. The whole background of an epic struggle between good and evil vanishes completely. I don’t know what it will take to make a good seventh film. The only thing I know is that six films in, the Potter films are still running a distant second to Lord of the Rings in the epic fantasy matchup. Will they ever catch up? Two more films to go. Let’s see what they’ve got.

Friday, July 17, 2009

The Market and the Mission

The second day in San Francisco began with a bang. No, actually it was more like a buzz. A loud, obnoxious buzz ringing right in my ear like a demented cicada. Over the past couple years, I have grown to know and loath the sound of my cell phone’s alarm clock. I would know it blindfolded and without ears. But it never fails to wake me up, so I can’t live without it. We had to get up early today. We had a city to explore, and damn it, we were going to explore the holy hell out of San Francisco!

The fun started with a walk down Market Street, San Francisco’s attempt to rip off either Broadway or Fifth Avenue. I couldn’t tell which. A number of large, shiny buildings lined the street, a testament to the ubiquity of ugly glass skyscrapers. A fifteen minute walk brought us to the Ferry Building. The Ferry Building is, true to its name, the dropping-off point for the ferry that tools back and forth between San Francisco and Oakland. I’m pretty sure most of the traffic goes one way. As far as I know, there are no huddled masses of San Franciscans waiting to escape across the bay to the paradise that some call Oakland. I’m fairly sure the reverse is true, though.

Outside the Ferry Building is the S.F. farmer’s market. Everywhere I looked, I saw those two magic words: “Free samples.” In my Schultzian interpretation of history, there are only three really great men: Martin Luther, Winston Churchill, and the man who invented free samples. Who was the genius who realized that, if you offered small portions of your food free of charge, you might induce tasters to purchase the full version? Whoever he was, he had the wisdom of Socrates and the generosity of a saint. I am deeply in his debt.

I love apples more than any other fruit—or any other food in general, or any thing at all—so I was a little disappointed to find that apples were not in season. There were plenty of peaches, though. OK, I have to ask: can anyone really spot the differences between varieties of peaches? I contend that no one can. What separates a “Flavorcrest” from an “Autumn Red”? They’re both soft, fuzzy, and sweet. They even have the same coloration, for the love of God! They’re the same thing! The peach farmers have conned us for years. I’m wise to their tricks.

That didn’t stop me from plowing through a dozen peaches’ worth of free samples. I also tried some strawberries, a handful of blueberries, and a cracker loaded down with sweet, sticky red jam. One stall didn’t have any free samples; what they did have was a big box full of dried beans, with the label, “Go ahead and feel it. You know you want to.” I couldn’t resist an invitation like that. I found my favorite sample at a booth advertising “Nuts,” which I confess made me giggle. There were two people working the crowd, each holding a little plastic baggie filled with something small and dark. I approached—and promptly got a chunk of almond brittle shoved into my hand. I tried it and was changed forever. I went back at least four times for more.

We made a quick dash through the Ferry Building itself. Behind the building, you’ll find a big statue of Gandhi—and for the curious, no, Gandhi never came within a thousand miles of East Bay. The stores inside all offered their own free samples. In one five minute walk I tried some tangy lemon olive oil, a spoonful of creamy melted caramel, and a crisp chunk of bread (not all at the same time, though I was tempted to do a little mixing and matching). I drew the line at raw oysters. When it comes to raw food, I follow Woody Allen’s dictum: I never eat anything that’s only unconscious. We regrouped outside the Ferry Building right near a shaggy street musician. He was a drummer, and a sign sitting next to him said that he “played for peace.” At first I scoffed, but then I though: hey, if it doesn’t work it doesn’t work, but if it does...well, then we all owe that guy a good deal of gratitude.

There, we convened a plenipotentiary session of the intern crew to decide on our next stop. Much debate ensued. I kid you not when I say we spent ten minutes going back and forth. At last we hammered out a schedule: stop by the Mission District, San Fran’s hipster kingdom, before going on to the most fabulous place on earth—the legendary Castro District. From there we would go to Twin Peaks. I admit, as soon as I heard Twin Peaks I thought of Laura Palmer. And I’ve never even seen the show! Wikipedia, what have you done to me? My life is nothing but a series of disjointed pop culture references! Having resolved on a course of action, we headed underground to the nearest BART station, BART standing for Bay Area Rapid Transit.

BART is like the New York subway system, only it doesn’t ooze hostility and hatred. There is also less of a urine-y smell. A five-minute trip brought us right up to the Mission. We had visited the very same station the night before; what a difference the sunlight makes. Perhaps all the creepy, shady figures we had seen loitering outside were vampires. That explains why they vanished in the daylight. Under the San Fran sun, the Mission District loses its seedy feel and takes on a kind of bourgeois-hipster atmosphere. It’s where broke college students go to feel cool.

The first order of business was to visit a vintage clothing shop that sells its goods by the pound. For a low, low price, you can buy ten pounds of funky purple button-down shirts and sweaters that look like they were cut from a shag carpet. A couple peculiar things caught my eye: a hat rack full of berets, a fragment of lederhosen, and a purple-and-gold silk robe that looked as if it belonged in Harry Potter. I was especially tempted by a security guard’s jacket, complete with a badge on the shoulder. Putting it on made me feel like a total badass. I was ready to go out and crack some hippie skulls. I also spent a few minutes admiring a rack filled with colorful parachute pants; after a few minutes, I realized I was looking at a bunch of curtains.

Then came a brief stop in a vintage book store. One of the other interns stumbled across a book titled “A Piece of Tape,” written by Watergate burglar James McCord. But wait, there’s more—McCord had autographed the book! We all oohed and aahed over that. To us, that was like finding a copy of the Bible autographed by God. Perhaps I exaggerate a little. I picked up a book on the French Revolution, because I enjoy nothing more than French people killing one another. It’s my ideal; the world loses some French people, while no real human beings get harmed in the process. Because it was July 4, the clerk engaged me in a brief discussion about the differences between French and American revolutions. I nodded a bit, furrowed my brow, and escaped without him realizing that I was a total idiot.

OK, time to take a break. Next—the Castro District, and Twin Peaks!

Monday, July 13, 2009

First Day in San Fran

I was going to San Francisco, but unfortunately I had forgotten to wear flowers in my hair. That’s one cardinal rule violated already. Still, I was looking forward to the trip. I have yet to meet someone who hated San Francisco. Heck, I have yet to meet someone who even mildly disliked. Everybody I spoke to praised the city to high heaven. It was heaven on the East Bay, apparently. I remained skeptical. How great can it be, I thought, if it doesn’t have its own NBA franchise?

We approached the city via the Not Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t know what it’s name is—I only know what is isn’t. We didn’t have a particularly good view of San Francisco as we approached. Some of that was due to the fog. Some of it was due to the fact that I was asleep at the time. I woke up as we got nearer to the hotel. I jerked my head up, blinking and rubbing my eyes, and immediately saw at least three liquor stores. I started to get a little nervous. What had I gotten myself into?

That, of course, was before I saw the hotel. The hotel was fine. It looked very nice, actually, with an old-fashioned vertical sign out front and a classy little canopy beneath that. The neighborhood around it…failed to live up to those standards. If you walk across the street you can visit Frenchy’s, “Your Adult Superstore.” We had arrived just in time, actually—Frenchy’s was having a sale! If we wanted, we could have our pick of “1000s of New Toys!” or enjoy a “$7 Private Booth!”

But I didn’t get my knickers in a twist over Frenchy’s, to use a very appropriate metaphor. Heck, I figured, the store added some color to the neighborhood. Better an adult superstore than a boring supermarket or strip mall. Anyway, it’s not like I expected the Waldorf-Astoria. We were paying $50 a night for room and board, not $500. For that price I expect nothing more than four walls, a roof, and no hypodermic syringes concealed in the mattress. And two of those three are negotiable.

First on the agenda: napping. I had slept in the car on the way up, but one nap is never enough, particularly when one has had to wake up at three in the morning. I settled down for a quick fifteen-minute doze. Like most of my fifteen-minute naps, this one stretched on for an hour or so. Next: some preliminary exploring. I explored the bathroom and found that, contrary to my fears, the toilet and sink did indeed work. Then I explored the closet, the hallway, and the lobby. That was just preparation; now I was ready to explore the city itself. I said a quick prayer to St. Tom-Tom, patron saint of Not Getting Totally Lost in a Strange City, and stepped out onto the street.

Before we left for San Francisco, I had asked a co-worker to recommend a few places worth seeing. He thought for a minute. Then he left for a couple minutes and came back with a map of the city. Laying it out on the table, he pointed to a place called Eddy Street, circled it, and told me to stay away from there at any cost. He didn’t get into specifics, but my imagination supplied all that. Needless to say, after walking for one block I found myself on Eddy Street. A homeless guy loitering on the corner gave me a funny look. I fled, screaming.

After narrowly escaping rape and murder on Eddy Street, I wound up on the streets of Little Saigon. I kept a nervous eye open for the Viet Cong. Little Saigon is less a neighborhood than an endless series of Vietnamese restaurants, each seeking to outbid the other with absurdly low prices. One store offered a pair of sandwiches for less than $2. How much lower can you go? I half expected a shopkeeper to come running out and stuff a sandwich in my mouth, shouting “EAT! EAT FOR FREE!”

After Little Saigon I wandered into Little Phnom Penh, which was nothing but a smoking wasteland of bones and spent shell casings. Sorry, I realize that was in terrible taste. Let me start again. After Little Saigon I wandered into a wide, tree-lined plaza, beyond which stood San Francisco’s City Hall. It impressed me in a good way. Sure, it resembled a knock-off of Congress, but so does every other city hall. Big dome—check. Columns—check. Stone carving of naked women representing “Justice” and “Equality”—check. But the San Francisco City Hall had gilt on its dome; not many other city halls can claim that. It looked quite beautiful. I’m sure it would have looked even better if the sun hadn’t been concealed by a dense, impenetrable layer S.F. fog.

Later that evening we visited Chinatown, still unwinding from hosting the 2008 San Francisco City Olympics. Oh man, this was the most amazing part—the signs were written IN CHINESE! Not English—CHINESE! No, wait there’s more. They don’t even use English letters! I’m serious! They use these weird symbols that look like a game of Pick Up Sticks got out of hand. God only knows what they said. I preferred to make up my own translations. We ate dinner at a place I dubbed “Kidneys for Sale.” The food was quite good. The chopsticks were impossible. I tried to eat with them, gave up, and proceeded to use them in a light saber fight with one of my tablemates.

Our final stop of the night brought us to the Mission District, ground zero for San Francisco’s hipsters. They breed there, I think. They bump into each other, start admiring one another’s thrift-store-bough clothes, and BANG! Nine months later the world has a new aspiring ‘zine writer. People told me the Mission District gets a bit…sketchy at night. Wrong! It gets really, really, REALLY sketchy. Every storefront is either a Mexican place serving cheap fried brains or a seedy-looking club. Homeless guys push shopping carts full of garbage up and down the street. I never felt threatened, though, because I’m a smooth operator fully at home in the city. Plus, I had about a dozen friends with me. I could offer them to the homeless guys as a sacrifice.

The night ended a little late; that made me grumpy, as I missed my usual bedtime of five in the evening. We hitched a ride back to our hotel on one of San Fran’s cable cars. Here’s something no one tells you about those trolleys. They make the world’s most ominous noise, a metallic rattle that sounds like the death call of some bizarre alien creature. At night, the sound turns the streets into a weird sci-fi world; you hear a strange twanging noise echoing in the dark. Quite a strange sensation.

So that’s the first day. Coming soon: the third day! I mean, the second day. I know how to count. Seriously.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Stanford

We had some time to kill, so why not slay it at Stanford? After all, Stanford has rightfully earned its reputation as a one-school Ivy League. I don’t know much about Stanford. In high school I thought about applying there, but I never went any further than picking up the school’s brochure. I must say, though, that the brochure looked very nice. Lots of ethnically diverse students frolicking in the California sun. My high school self, being a pale and bitter misanthrope, was not impressed.

Stanford was named after Leland Stanford, a railroad tycoon who got filthy rich exploiting his Chinese workers. Add Stanford to the list of “schools named after bloated plutocrats”—also featuring Johns Hopkins, Vanderbilt, and Carnegie Mellon. But hey, it could be worse. Stanford certainly has it easier than nearby Hitler University.

My first glimpse of Stanford came at a great, great distance. On our vertigo-inducing drive up the mountainside, we stopped at a scenic overlook to do some overlooking. Our guide pointed out a cluster of red roofs on the horizon. That was Stanford. The Farm. The…uh…actually, that’s the only nickname Stanford has. The Farm. I can’t complain, though, as I attend a school nicknamed The Hill. I admired the vista of Stanford, but I was a bit distracted at the time. My instinct for self-preservation had kicked in; I was planning on how to survive the trip down the mountain without puking.

We arrived at Stanford about forty-five minutes later. The descent was rough; I intensely regretted all of the trail mix I had eaten. But I heroically resisted the urge to vomit. So there’s the first good thing I can say about Stanford: it did not make me throw up.

Someone once described Stanford as looking “very Taco Bell.” There’s a grain of truth in that, I suppose. The buildings all have red-tile roofs; that, combined with the ubiquitous yellow brick, gives the campus a prefabricated feel. You can imagine Stanford dropping out of the sky fully-formed. Like Duke, another triumph of synthetic architecture, Stanford seems a little artificial.

But who says artificial can’t be beautiful? Taco Bell or no, Stanford is still a gorgeous place. It’s dotted with wide stone plazas and crisscrossed by long, open air corridors lined with pillars. Everything is big and squat; the history building has only two stories, but we spent nearly fifteen minutes walking around. The clock tower is the only thing on campus that stands taller than the average giraffe. The whole campus has a very monastic feel. I kept expecting an angry abbot to show up and chide us for missing vespers.

We spent a good hour wandering the campus. Stanford, like most colleges, has more than its fair share of god-awful modern art. The place is littered with twisted hunks of metal that look like tragic helicopter accidents. One piece resembled the work of Constantin Brancusi, assuming, of course, that Brancusi was stoned out of his mind when he designed it. There is also, for reasons known only to God, a giant totem pole in the middle of one of the quads.

Thankfully, the buildings are pretty enough to balance out the sculptures. They get ample support from the vegetation; Stanford is one of the greenest campuses I have seen. I don’t mean “green” in the Al Gore sense. I speak literally. Trees and grass grow everywhere, bravely defying the California heat. No matter how hard the sun beats down, the trees keep on growing. There are even a couple willow trees, strategically placed around a fountain to give the place a wonderfully collegiate atmosphere.

I should mention the food. Not much was open, given that it was both the summer and the day before a national holiday. I worried we might have to end up scrounging in the garbage cans for food…again. But we were in luck: a little Mexican place called “The Treehouse” was open. It was everything you would expect from a college joint. It offered the staples of college life—burritos, pizza, burgers—in ridiculous quantities at a very reasonable price. No, they didn’t pay me to write that. I wish they had, though, as I spent more than I intended during my San Francisco visit.

As I sat in one of the many little courts across campus, munching by bean-and-cheese burrito (by Mexican standards, I’m a vegetarian) I began to do a little thinking. I’ve often considered Stanford for graduate school. It boasts a great history program and has a great reputation in general. Now, thanks to my trip, I know that it also has a beautiful campus. Does that outweigh the fact that I’d be a couple thousand miles from home? That’s the only thing holding me back.

I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can swing it. Stanford is awfully hard to resist. It’s a great campus. Palo Alto is a great campus town. And the Treehouse serves one mean bean-and-cheese burrito.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Driving the PCH

I just flew in from San Francisco, and boy, are my arms tired! OK, now replace “flew” with “drove” and “arms” with “butt,” and you’ve got a good picture of how I feel. That drive would count as torture in other, more civilized nations. But forget that! I’m not here to complain about the drive. I’m here to tell you about my trip to Paris on the East Bay—San Francisco!

We left at 4:30 in the morning, hoping to watch the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. In retrospect, that was a stupid move. We headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway, a long and winding road trafficked mostly by out-of-state gawkers. We were from out-of-state; we had come to gawk; that made the PCH perfect for us. The drive lasted more than ten hours, but was well worth it.

There wasn’t much to see at first. Leaving Yorba Linda, you have to make your way through a tangled spaghetti of roadways, freeways, parkways, highways, byways and skyways and lots of other –ways. Plus, it was dark. The first two hours of the trip went by in a blur of headlights and taillights. We passed by Los Angeles without any trouble. Even the notorious L.A. traffic subsides at five in the morning.

The sun came up in the east, as it traditionally does, and we finally realized why so many people brave the twisty pretzel that is the PCH. The Pacific coastline is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It makes my top five list, with a bullet:

1. My face, every morning, in the mirror
2. The Pacific coast
3. Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”
4. Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory
5. My face, every evening, in the mirror

Why are beaches so dang pretty? When you actually break it down, they don’t seem all that special. Beach=sand+water. So what’s the difference between the Pacific coast and, oh, I don’t know, a kiddie pool sitting next to a sandbox?

I think it’s the sheer size of the thing. Bigger isn’t always better; for proof, look up “Bradley, Shawn.” But the vast expanse of the Pacific gives the coast a grandeur all its own. Everything is magnified to gargantuan proportions. You stand on the cliff and look at the rocks below, and it takes a few seconds to register, Hey, those rocks are the size of my house! Each frond of kelp is big enough to supply a lifetime of sushi. The Pacific coast is nature, super-sized.

We drove a little above the recommended speed limit—3 miles per hour on the straightaway, 2 on the curves—so that we could get to San Francisco before the end of the decade. Now and then we stopped, sometimes for a bite to eat, sometimes to simply admire the view. And sometimes to use the bathroom, of course. Those are few and far between on the PCH. You can pull over to the side of the road and run off into some vegetable field, of course, but that seems to take away from the rugged beauty of the scenery around you.
The first stop was for gas. The second stop was also for gas. Again, in retrospect, that was a stupid idea. We ate breakfast at Starbucks, one of the few businesses as established in the west as it is back home in the east. The west has In-N-Out and the east has Chick-Fil-A. The west has Albertson’s, the east, Food Lion. The west has El Pollo Loco. The east has Long John Silver’s. But Starbucks, like God, is with us always. Unlike God, Starbucks also serves a mean mocha frappe latte with espresso sauce. I don’t know my coffee. Does it show?

We also had the pleasure of visiting Gorda, a little seaside community with a population of five (Mike, Bridget, Cal, Jose, and Betty). It looks like something out of Middle Earth, a tiny hobbit town cut into the cliff wall. Attractions included a couple restrooms, a convenience store, and an unattended espresso bar. We didn’t buy anything, but if we did, I think we would have doubled the town’s income.

Gorda came right before Big Sur. Big Sur—originally named Tiny Sur, until the California Board of Tourism decided to go for the gusto—is one of the nation’s largest surs. A sur, according to dictionary.com, is “a town in S Lebanon, on the Mediterranean Sea: site of ancient port of Tyre.” Yeah, I’m not sure what to make of that either. Regardless of what dictionary.com says, Big Sur is a big, rocky promontory jutting out into the Pacific. It attracts sightseers the way potato salad draws flies at a picnic.

But really, who could resist something like Big Sur? It’s one of the most impressive sights I’ve ever seen. I felt like I was standing at the edge of the world. Fog was rolling in off of the ocean, clinging to the cliffs and beaches below us. The water was rough; waves smacked endlessly against the rocks, throwing up little jets of foamy white spray. I looked out to the horizon and saw nothing except for more fog. Behind us stood the rocky hills that dominate the California coast. We stood alone on a sliver of land between ocean and mountains. Alone, I guess, except for the dozen or so tourists clicking away on their cameras. Not that I can criticize them for that. I took plenty of pictures myself.

Everything after Big Sur was a little uneventful. We veered away from the Pacific coast into the farmlands of northern California. There were many green things growing on the side of the road; please don’t ask me to name them. I’m lost when it comes to plants. I can’t tell an artichoke from an asparagus. The only crop I can identify is tobacco, and that’s because I spent ten years of my childhood driving past huge fields of it every day on my way to school. No tobacco out here, though. That’s more of a red state crop.

We passed by Monterey, home of John Steinbeck. In honor of the grittiest writer not named Hemingway, we stopped for a moment to ponder the bleak and hopeless situation that confronts America’s poor.

The leader of our convoy took this opportunity to lead us on one of his favorite drives through the mountains. Unfortunately—and unbeknownst to us—he usually negotiates that drive on his bike. A car is somewhat larger than a bike. I spent most of that drive alternatively admiring the scenery and praying that our driver didn’t sneeze at the wrong second and send us over a cliff. Scenery sure was nice, though. The path ended up going through a redwood forest. Even in the midst of mortal terror, I found time to admire the massive trees looming over us. It reminded of something out of Lord of the Rings. I kept on the watch for an orc ambush. Thankfully, none was forthcoming.

That’s enough for the first installment! Next: Stanford, and our first day in San Francisco!

Friday, July 3, 2009

Update

Hey, folks--

The posting forecast for the next couple days is light to non-existent, on account of an intern trip to San Francisco. But don't worry; I won't forget about you guys. I'm sure I'll have plenty of stories to tell when I get back. Like, that time I got lost in the Castro District and got whistled at by an 80-year-old man in fishnet tights. Or the time I got arrested for chasing the sea lions near Pier 39. Yes, none of this has happened yet, but don't be surprised if it does.

Anyway, I will return soon, (hopefully) safe and sound. Until then, au revoir and auf wiedersehen!

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Bizarre Google Search

We're rolling with the dog theme, so let's end with a Bizarre Google Search for "cold dog":



Que?

Hot Dog!

From dead dog to hot dog...I bring you a list of "Ten Gourmet Hot Dogs." The Chicken Willy sounds particularly good, if vaguely obscene. And who can read a description like this without their mouth watering?

A creation of San Francisco bar 15 Romolo, the crispy dog is a tubular mashup of a wiener from artisan charcutier Fatted Calf filled with cheese, wrapped in a corn tortilla, and deep-fried. In other words, perhaps the tastiest way ever devised to induce a heart attack.

Mmmmm...coronary-clogging goodness.

Utter Foolishness

I spent the last three weeks doing my laundry with fabric softener; I thought it was detergent. The bottles look the same, dammit! Well, I guess it's not the worst detergent-related mix-up I've ever made. There was that one time I confused my detergent with orange juice...

Dog and Pony Show

Meet Berry the Chihuahua, a little dog whose hobbies include running, yapping at shadows, and cheating death.

Treading Water

Some years ago—when exactly, I can’t remember—I resolved to get more exercise. Unlike some of my other resolutions, like Will Schultz’s vow to always speak in the third person, I actually kept this one. It was easy, really, once I applied my crippling OCD to the problem. When I started treating exercise as a boring, repetitive task, rather than as something fun and enjoyable, I felt compelled to do it each and every day. Not every day, I suppose. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are for exercise; Tuesdays and Thursdays are for relaxing; Saturday is for chores; Sunday is for donuts.

At Chapel Hill, I would get up early three times a week and go for a run around the neighborhood. Chapel Hill’s a great place to run. It has lots of long, winding back streets, where you can run past fancy homes that belong to the Dean of Students or the Dean of Tuition Hikes or whoever. Traffic is light, so except at a few street crossings, you never feel in grave bodily danger. If you’re feeling frisky you can run all the way to the Dean Dome. My old running schedule used to include a couple laps around the Dome. I stopped this routine after I got lost halfway through the fifth lap. Hey, it’s a big building!

Running is a little trickier in Fullerton. First, the streets of Fullerton are mean indeed. Have a mentioned that the drivers here are homicidal? I know I have, but I should mention it again. The drivers are homicidal. Oh, you think you’ve got the right of way? Think again, little pedestrian. The only thing you have the right to do is get the hell out of my way. Move, or you’ll end up splattered halfway to Santa Monica.

So instead of risking life and limb by running in Fullerton, I’ve taken to using the treadmill in the basement of UV’s student center. Yes, I know. A treadmill is to real running as artificial insemination is to sex. It’s not running; it’s running-lite. You miss out on the fresh air and beautiful California sunshine. So sue me. I like my exercise to be free from the grim specter of death. Is that too much to ask? I think not.

The UV’s treadmill has got a little dashboard covered with all sorts of buttons. I’ve figured out about half of them through trial and (mostly) error. I can crank up the speed, from “old man moseying down to pick up the mail” to “Usain Bolt running the 1 meter dash right after taking a big snort of cocaine.” Note: those are not the actual titles. I can also shift the incline of the treadmill, allowing you to imagine that you’re climbing a mountain. A mountain with a movable track running to the summit, but a mountain nonetheless.

I also listen to music while I run. It helps take my mind off of the burning pain in my ankles, knees, thighs, and nose (from that time I smacked my face on the dashboard). Some people like to listen to soothing music while they run. They say it helps them calm down, and allows them to keep their breathing under control. I say: wimps! I prefer some hardcore pumping up music. Of course, for me, anything heavier than the Carpenters is hardcore. The heaviest album I ever listened to was “Abbey Road.”

This morning’s run was a bit unusual. The treadmill faces a window, but the shutters are always drawn. That means I spend twenty minutes bouncing up and down while staring at a row of white plastic slats. “Oh,” I find myself wishing, “If only the window was open! Then I could bask in the sunlight while I run! I could see the newly-mown grass outside and people splashing in the pool!”

Ha! The windows were open today. Turns out I didn’t miss much. The first thing I saw was my reflection. I never realized how goofy I look running on a treadmill. I bounce up and down like some kind of spastic wind-up toy, my head bobbing in and out of view. It looks like I’m the mole in some crazy game of whack-a-mole. And if I back up to get a better view out the window, I see…a wall. Remember, the gym is in the basement of the community center. Not much to see out there. I tried to focus on the wall, but my incessant bouncing made the wall appear to jump up and down. Soon, I started to feel a little seasick. I closed my eyes, cranked up the Beach Boys, and prayed that by Friday some kind soul would have closed the window.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Bizarre Google Search

Let's end the night with a Bizarre Google Search for "easy come, easy go":



No, my friend, I assure you that Arnold worked for every myofibril of muscle.

Cave(wo)man

How to deal with heartbreak? You can suffer in silence, keeping the pain locked within yourself. You can rage against the world; you can curse fate for what it has done. You can turn pain into beauty, transforming your suffering into transcendent art.

Or you can go live in a cave for a couple decades. Up to you, really.

Fantasy Op-Ed Page

We live in Fantasyland. It’s not quite like I expected. Say “Fantasyland” to most people, and they think of dragons, wizards, and fairies. The truth is a little more mundane. Fantasy is all around us. But it’s not fantasy as in “bold knights of the realm battling giants to rescue fair maidens” kind of fantasy. It’s more of a “overweight sports nerds in their basement” kind of fantasy.

Yes, I’m talking about fantasy sports—baseball, football, basketball and even cricket for you freakish Anglophiles. You assemble bizarre teams that would never, ever work in real life (I’m sure Kobe won’t mind sharing the ball with Allen Iverson!) and then duke it out with other sports nerds. Recently, the fantasy craze has spread a little beyond sports. You can even do Fantasy Congress if you want. I’d give you the link, but I’m trying to maintain what little shred of coolness I have left.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to blow that last shred to pieces with what I’m about to write. I was thinking: we have fantasy sports teams. We have fantasy congresses. What’s next? Fantasy sitcoms (Bill Cosby as Dad, Michael Richards as wacky neighbor)? Fantasy symphonies (Yo-Yo Ma on cello, Lang Lang on piano, Tsing-Tsing on…wait, that’s a panda)? Fantasy menus (steak from Ruth’s Chris, fries from Five Guys)?

I could go on forever. But I won’t. My time is too valuable, and yours isn’t cheap either. So here’s my idea: a fantasy editorial page. I got the idea from reading the op-eds in the New York Times. You would think that the NYT’s editorial page would be nothing but quality. After all, it’s the pinnacle to which all columnists aspire. You’d think that…but you’d be wrong. Dead, dead wrong. I’ve read better copy in my high school’s paper, The Raleigh Charter Semi-Monthly.

I exaggerate a little, but I do it to make a point. The NYT could do a lot better. But how could it do a lot better? If I could pick the perfect lineup of opinion writers, who would I choose? And why? And how would I pay them? I’ll ignore the last question. It’s moot. After all, in five years journalists will be working in return for a semi-daily supply of partly edible food.

First, I’d keep Paul Krugman. Every paper needs a Big Draw, and you can’t get much bigger than WINNING A NOBEL PRIZE. That’s how important it is—it deserves ALL CAPS. Winning a Nobel Prize is the literary equivalent of “God mode” in video games. You can say whatever stupid crap you want and get away with it. Krugman could write “I think we ought to replace paper money with small conch shells,” and people would agree, because HE WON A NOBEL PRIZE.

I’d also retain David Brooks, as the paper’s resident Ideas Man. He’s the kind of guy who can take new ideas in science, sociology and psychology and boil them down into simple terms. True, he boils away the actual “science” in the process. Brooks’s digests have all the scientific cachet of a 1950s “Weird Adventures in Space” magazine. But he’s readable, and that’s what matters in a paper. But be warned, David. I nearly dropped you in favor of your buddy Malcolm Gladwell. You’re on thin ice with me, boy.

An editorial board isn’t doing it’s job if it doesn’t tick people off. For that, it needs a Firebrand. I choose Matt Taibbi for the spot. Taibbi irritates nearly everybody. I, for instance, hate him for the way he mocked John Paul II. Other people hate him for his savage attacks on Thomas Friedman. Still others hate him because he lived in Uzbekistan. That’s a small minority, true, but the more haters the better. A newspaper thrives on controversy. Every angry old lady writing an editorial letter is money in the bank for a newspaper.

To balance the Firebrand requires an Elder Statesman. They should be old, sixty plus, conservative, and a bit cantankerous. They should complain about modern life a whole lot, even if it’s clear they don’t know what they’re talking about. They need to denounce Twitter and Facebook on a regular basis. Bonus points for mocking the music of today’s youth. I nominate George Will for the post. The man wears a bow tie! Honest to God! Oh yes, he’s also a good writer. But that bow tie!

In the middle, between the radical Firebrand and the reactionary Elder Statesman, sits the Voice of Reason. They should always seek compromise. They should never offend. If one side recommends nuking Moscow, and the other side suggests that this might be a bad idea, the Voice of Reason should split the difference: “We should only nuke half of Moscow, guys!” Michael Kinsley would be well suited for the position of Voice of Reason. He is scrupulously non-partisan. If you ask Michael Kinsely the time, he’ll call half a dozen friends, average the answer, and give you the result with the warning that, “Well, this is what some people think.”

You also need a Historian for perspective. Who better for this role than Niall Ferguson? He could put things in the long view. In fact, I would demand that all his columns contain at least one hilariously forced historical comparison. Go ahead, Niall, tell us how Barack Obama is like Louis XI. This would involve Niall whoring himself out for money, but he strikes me as the kind of historian who would do that.

And last and least, you need someone to take up the big blank spot you’ve got on Sundays, when your other writers take the day off to call each other and congratulate themselves for last week’s articles. Talent is not needed for this position. Quantity takes precedence over quality. Christopher Hitchens does a good job banging out prose. Every day he produces enough words to fill a small dictionary. It would be called “The Oxford Guide to Pretension in Literature, Volume 1.”

That’s the lineup. I would trust these six men—oops, sorry, female writers, I kind of forgot you guys—with my editorial page. Suggestions are encouraged. Good suggestions will be smiled upon; bad suggestions will be damned to hell.

The Role of a Lifetime

Some people are already talking up Johnny Depp to play the late Michael Jackson. But this would be an even better pairing, I think.

I Scream, You Scream

Words that do not belong together: "Sex nun"

Words that really do not belong together: "Sexy nun and sexy priest"

Words that should never, ever be written, even by me: "Sexy nun and sexy priest making out in Italian ice cream commercial"

Plug Uglies

OK, it's not exactly the second coming of the French Revolution--or even of the Sexual Revolution, or the Dance Dance Revolution--but Europeans have once again struck a blow for freedom and equality everywhere! Here, "everywhere" means "among vegetables."

Urge to Kill Neighbors Rising...

The car alarm across the street has gone off three times in the past two minutes. What the heck are they doing over there? Tap-dancing on the hood? Yeesh.

Yogurtland

My gustatory adventures continue! Tonight, we visited Yogurtland, one of the many, many yogurt chains that survive and thrive on the West Coast. People out here love their yogurt the way we North Carolinians love our deep-fried Twix. And after dessert at Yogurtland, I can’t really blame them.

Yes, Yogurt is ostensibly healthy, which means it should taste bad, or at least bland. To put it in Venn diagram terms, “Good tasting” and “Good for you” almost never overlap. Yogurtland is one of the very few exceptions. Sort of. It tastes delicious, but, on further consideration, I kind of doubt that it’s healthy. Let me put it this way. Any place that offers “unlimited toppings”—including marshmallows, chocolate chips, and M&Ms—can’t be that good for you.

But so what? I’m young. I can destroy my body. I may regret it later, but that’s later and this is now. The amazing thing about Yogurtland is that you can build your own dessert. You go in there, and on the wall you see row after row of yogurt machines. Flavors include “Strawberry,” “Blueberry,” and an intriguing purple number called “Taro.” Naturally, I skipped these and went straight for “New York Cheesecake” and “Cookies and Cream.”

Yogurtland cups come in two sizes: Huge and Huger. Huge is so big, you could give a baby a sponge bathe in it. As for Huge, let’s just say it could comfortably fit Orson Welles, his twin brother, and their dinner. I went for Huge. Got to show at least a little restraint.

My restraint lasted about as long as a Bama fan at an Auburn tailgate party. Here’s the thing about serve-yourself style food. You always take more than you expect. Always, always, always. It’s a law of nature, as unbreakable as gravity. You think, “Oh, I’d better pace myself.” Think again. Before you know it you’ve piled enough food on your plate to feed an army corps.

I dashed back and forth, going from yogurt pump to yogurt pump, filling up my Huge cup with Chocolate and Cookies and Cream and Fried Lard flavored yogurt. The flavors all looked so beautiful, pouring out in loops and swirls, that I didn’t have the heart to stop. Five minutes passed. Now, I’m carrying the yogurt version of the Sears Tower. The tip-top layer (Super Triple Deluxe Chocolate with a Triple Gainer Belly Flop) scraped the ceiling. And I hadn’t even gotten to the toppings.

Maybe I should skip the part about the toppings. My pancreas is still weeping at the memory.

Conclusion? Utter deliciousness. It certainly wasn’t good for me in the traditional sense. But I’ve never been a man for tradition. I like to think outside the box. Why do we have to measure health with outdated things like “Heart Rate” and “Not Suffering Massive Organ Failure”? I think we ought to judge health on basis of our happiness. And Yogurtland made me very, very happy indeed.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

They Come in Threes

You thought it was bad news when Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died on the same day? Then I've got some more bad news. Barack Obama, Bruce Springsteen, and Tom Cruise, among others all died on Monday--at the exact same time!

Nicey-Nice

There are many things I don't understand. String theory. Ventriloquists. Laundry machines. The list goes on and on, and can be found in its entirety on my other blog, http://thingsthatwillschultzdoesntunderstand.blogspot.com.

But there's one thing that really puzzles me. Why are sports columnists so nice? Sure, you get the occasional crab apple like Jason Whitlock or Bill Simmons. But most wouldn't criticize a player, a coach, or even a whole team, even if said team stomped on a bag full of orphan puppies.

Yes, they will occasionally go after the easy targets. Everyone wants to read another column about how T.O is a distraction or how Donald Sterling is a dope. We get it. People like Owens and Sterlings are the clown princes of the sport, and they deserve every bit of mockery they get.

But rarely, if ever, will a columnist criticize a serious player. Ask a sportswriter if so-and-so's washed up, and they'll respond by saying, "Oh no, he's got another two or three good years in him," even if he's rolling out onto the field in a wheelchair. Ask them if so-and-so is a bust, and they'll say, "Oh no, he needs a little more time," even if so-and-so has yet to learn the fundamentals of holding a bat with both hands.

This extends to newbies as well as veterans. In fact, it especially applies to newbies, new players as well as new coaches. Read any ESPN or SI story about a newly hired coach. It's always about how they're a "perfect fit," and that they've "changed the atmosphere." Never mind that they go 1-81 in their first season.

Sportswriters are special softies when it comes to the draft. Nobody wants to be the idiot who mocked a future superstar as a "bust." So they play it safe. Chad Ford, in his recent review of the NBA Draft, gave 27 out of 30 teams an A or a B. 27 out of 30! 90% of teams drafted either "excellent" or "above average"! And this in a draft year when the Charlotte Bobcats seriously considered taking me with their pick!

Things didn't work out between me and Charlotte, unfortunately. Larry Brown and I have two different approaches to the game. Under his approach, players play basketball. Under mine, I sit back on the couch and collect million dollar checks every weekend.

Anyway...I simply don't understand it. Why can't sportswriters grow a pair, to speak vulgarly? It'd do them good. And it'd make them more popular. Guys, the only reason you exist is to create controversy. Everyone knows Tiger Woods is the greatest golfer, Kobe and LeBron the greatest basketball players, and Tom Brady the greatest quarterback. We don't need Jack McCallum or Ric Bucher to tell us that.

Stir things up! Tell us why Chris Andersen is the greatest man to ever palm a basketball. Explain exactly how the Bengals are going to shock us all and win the Super Bowl. Tear down some myths--even LeBron isn't perfect. Be iconoclastic! Be exciting! Above all, be mean.

Outta Time

Good God--Dr. Who was right! In Great Britain, time has stopped!

Do You Like Scary Movies?

A perfectly decent list of the "Top 20 Movie Monsters." I haven't seen enough monster movies to compile my own top twenty--I tend to shriek and cover my eyes at anything scarier than Marlon Brando--but I can make a couple criticisms of my own. That's my specialty, really; tearing down other people's ideas.

First, I approve of number one. In terms of pure scariosity, the Xenomorph has no peer. One Xenomorph has the same fright factor as a million of them; more so, even. "Aliens" might have been the better movie, but "Alien" was scarier.

Second, does Bruce, the Great White from Jaws, really count as a monster? To quote many an internet nerd, "That's debatable." I think anything that can be found in nature doesn't count as a monster. A monster needs a touch of the supernatural. You can't take a normal, everyday thing, blow it up by a factor of 10, and call it a monster. Otherwise I would have long since sold my script for "The Hazelnut from Hell."

Third, I have no idea who or what the Giant Claw is, but I want to see that movie so bad. The thing looks like an acid dream of Mr. Rogers. The name is the crowning absurdity. Giant Claw! So simple, yet so poetic.

Fourth, no matter how scary the titular thing of "The Thing" was, it can't compare to Wilford Brimley. And if you're not the scariest thing in your own movie--especially a movie named after you--you can't make the list.

Fifth, oh my God, the Pale Man.

Sixth, the Sarlaac is quite good, but it got a lot less frightening in the late 90s digital recasting. The original Sarlaac was ominous; a big, spiky pit in the ground. Who knows what lurks down there? Well, George Lucas, never one to overvalue the magic of the unknown, gave us the answer. And it look like a giant fanged phallus. Terrifying, but not in a good way.

Seventh, that's really all, but I wanted to stretch the list out a little longer. It's either that or go back to reading "A Bright Shining Lie." It's a good book, certainly. But reading any book about Vietnam for a sustained period of time will depress you beyond measure. I just want to go listen to some Doors tapes and dream about my girl in Saigon.

Dem Bones

Can creationism and evolution co-exist? I think we have our answer, and that answer is "No, not in a million years." Or in 234 years, the creationist equivalent of a million-year era. I do, however, have a hankering to see the Creationist museum for myself. I would have a few choice questions to ask. Namely: if God is an intelligent designer, why did he make Gilbert Gottfried?

Too Soon Gone

That's funny, I don't think I'm going to (hurk).

Der Chokolattbombe

First, a mea culpa: this story is nearly five years old. But it's too good to pass up. It's a story about chocolate. About explosions. And about Nazis. Wasn't it John Updike who said that all good drama comes from those three ideas?

Monday, June 29, 2009

Bizarre Google Search

That gives me an idea for a Bizarre Google Search. How about a search for "lunch, interrupted"?



You see? Exactly what I'm talking about.

Pete Wentz: America's #1 Backpfeifengesicht

Courtesy Cracked, I give you 10 foreign words that would add a great deal to the English language. Who among us hasn't wished for a little nunchi? True, knowing what the word means doesn't equate to actually having it. But it would make it much easier to explain yourself:

"Sorry, honey! Didn't realize your folks wouldn't appreciate that joke about the rabbi, your dad being a rabbi and all. Guess it's just my lack of nunchi."

I'm also very fond of sgiomlaireachd, which is not the sound of a laryngitic Scotsman coughing up a lung. It's a Gaelic word meaning "When people interrupt you at meal time." As 1) someone who loves food and 2) a complete and unreconstructed misanthrope, I know the feeling.

I'll be settling down to lunch with a nice new book, and all of a sudden, some jerk comes walking up and tries to talk to me! Thankfully, I have a way of dealing with these unwanted intruders. I pretend that I'm a Russian grad student incapable of speaking English. Works like a charm! Although I think some of my high school friends are starting to see through my ruse...

Snack Attack

I find this story outrageous. "Couple accused of assault using Cheetos"? Everyone knows Cheetos are useless in a fight. Don't be fooled by their club-like shape; they shatter on impact and, what's worse, they leave a greasy orange residue all over your hands.

No, when it comes to snack-based warfare, give me a bag of Bugles any day. Their wide, flared ends are perfect for bludgeoning, while the pointed end makes for a useful stabbing weapon. Plus, no one actually eats Bugles anyway, so you don't have to feel guilty about wasting food.

To Tell the Truth

This is an an old article, but like fine wine and good cheesecake, it has aged well. A.J. Jacobs of A.J. Jacobs fame tries out Dr. Brad Blanton's concept of "Radical Honesty."

Radical Honesty, for those of you not up on your pscychobabble, is an attempt to tell the truth and nothing but. No whoppers, no fibs, not even the littlest white lies. Your friend bugging you? Tell them about it! Upset with your spouse? Tell them about it! Police asking if you know anything about the seven mutilated corpses buried in your backyard? Tell them about it!

As you might guess, the results aren't pretty. The truth hurts, especially when it's delivered like this:

I have a business breakfast with an editor from Rachael Ray's magazine. As we're sitting together, I tell her that I remember what she wore the first time we met -- a black shirt that revealed her shoulders in a provocative way. I say that I'd try to sleep with her if I were single. I confess to her that I just attempted (unsuccessfully) to look down her shirt during breakfast.

Yeesh. I think a little selective truth might be in order. Just because you lust after someone doesn't mean you're obliged to tell them about it. Or does it? Am I being dishonest if I don't call everyone I ever had a crush on and confess the truth? Maybe I should do that. Sounds like a fun way to spend an evening. Now, if I can just find their phone numbers...

Hey, I already feel more liberated! Maybe this Radical Honesty thing has something going for it. Let me get a few things off my chest:

-I have yet to return my freshman roommate's copy of "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich"

-I sometimes pretend to have read a book, when in reality I only skimmed the Wikipedia summary

-Sometimes, I pretend to be happy, but in reality, I am not

-Sometimes I do things, but I do not want to do them

Whew! How's that for some bracing honesty. Look out, world! Here comes a new Will Schultz. A more honest Will Schultz. A Will Schultz who isn't afraid to admit he cried watching "Babe II: Pig in the City"!

Shot Through the Head, And You're to Blame

Hey, turns out that getting shot in the head isn't that bad. I ought to try it myself! I'll let you know how it goes.

Da Butt

Wait, I could've gotten money for doing this? Oy, what a sucker I am.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

God N' Guns

From the Book of Smith & Wesson, Chapter 7, Verses 12-14

And the Lord God did spoke, and on spaking he spaketh thus: Wheresoever two or three are gathered in my name, I will be among them. But wheresoever two or three are gathered in my name, and at least one of them is packing heat, I will be so among them it won't even be funny.

Amen.

Bad Dog

I've heard of this dog that was so ugly...

How ugly was he?

He was so ugly that his mirror earns hazard pay
!

Twofer

Interesting comparison of two guys who couldn't be more different: Jerry Siegel, co-creator of Superman, and Miguel Cervantes, author of "Don Quixote." I never realized that Cervantes--one of the world's first and greatest novelists--was actually kind of a loser.

This article gives me a little hope, though. Siegel only had one good idea in his life--but that idea turned into Superman. Maybe one of my stupid ideas is actually brilliant! Time to get to work on my "Echidna Man" comic.

Dunk-A-Palooza

For your viewing pleasure, I present the "Top 10 In-Game Dunks of All Time." I was particularly impressed by Tom Chambers's jam. Just goes to show that not all white basketball players have the hops of an arthritic elephant.

The clip also has one of my new favorite quotes: "It don't count if you dunk on a European!"

In-N-Out

People in California swear by In-N-Out Burgers. No, I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. They literally swear by those burgers. If you go to court in California, you will be asked to place your hand on an In-N-Out burger and swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but, so help you God. Perjurers are punished by being scalded alive in giant grease traps. Naturally, I had to try these magic burgers. I have never been a burger man myself, but hey, food is food. That’s the sort of reasoning that once led me to eat an entire large pizza all by myself.

There was an In-N-Out Burgery (not to be confused with In-N-Out Buggery, which is a whole different story) just down the street from University Village, so, naturally, we had to try it. We stopped in there yesterday evening in pursuit of the perfect burger. I ordered my usual—cheeseburger with a side of fries. In-N-Out boasts a “secret menu”; that is, you say the magic words (“Extra Onion” or “Animal Style” something like that) and get a little something extra, free of charge. I didn’t try it. I worried I would say the wrong thing and end up with sliced sheep intestine on my burger.

I’ll say one thing for In-N-Out: they are punctual. As opposed to Five Guys, where geological epochs can pass while you wait for your burger, we got our patties in under two minutes. But was it worth the wait? In a burger—or in any kind of food—the first impression is everything. It makes or breaks the meal. For instance, if you get a bowl of goulash and immediately think “This looks like cat vomit,” well, that pretty much blows the rest of the meal, doesn’t it?

My burger, alas, did not make a good impression. It did not offer a firm handshake, failed to look me in the eye, and dressed inappropriately for the occasion. Woops, sorry there. I mean, it looked kind of…small. Five Guys Burgers are the size of frisbees. You have to apply your ketchup by the gallon and your mayo by the quart. The In-N-Out Burger, by contrast, nearly vanishes in its paper sleeve. I spent five minutes unwrapping the damn thing before I finally got to the burger. It was like one of those disappointing Christmas presents, where you start with a big box only to find a series of progressively smaller boxes ending in a package of underwear.

But wait—there’s more! Each burger comes with In-N-Out’s super-secret ranch dressing, the recipe of which is so classified that nobody knows it. This makes it very difficult to reproduce. The dressing has a rather unpleasant pinkish color. It looks like the burger died a horrible death on the bun, oozing out its lifeblood before expiring. This was not a good way to begin a meal.

In the end, though, appearance must take a back seat to taste. A burger should rise and fall on its moist juicy deliciousness mmmmrgghghhhhh…sorry, I was briefly overcome by drool. I’m sad to report that the In-N-Out burger failed to live up to expectations. I took my first bite and got a mouthful of lettuce, ranch sauce, and tomato. The second bite turned out the same. Third bite—still no burger. Had I ordered something off the Secret Menu by accident? Had I twitched my wrist or jerked my head in a way that the cashier interpreted to mean, “Hey, I want two slices of bread and sauce, but no burger”?

Turns out that In-N-Out burgers are apparently squashed to the thickness of a penny before serving. I did some quick calculations. Of the seventeen bites I took, only nine contained any burger whatsoever! Now, granted, I’m making those numbers up. But they seem reasonable. It’s not like the burger was that great anyway; it tasted kind of dry. The whole thing put me in mind of the old Borscht Belt joke: The food was terrible! And the portions were so small!

Yeah, I’ll probably go back there again before I leave California. But I will go under protest. I will eat their burger and fries—but in my heart, I won’t enjoy it. In-N-Out Burger, you are dead to me. You hear? Dead to me!

Saturday, June 27, 2009

The Quiz Bowl Draft

Mark Jones: Welcome to the fifth annual Quiz Bowl Draft! I’m here with Stuart Scott at the IHOP off of I-95, site of the previous four drafts. Quite a crowd we’ve got here today, eh, Stu?

Stuart Scott: Absolutely, Mark. The Quiz Bowl fans are out in force—must be at least three, maybe more. Also, Mark, I should note that I am now contractually obligated to end every sentence with booyah, so: booyah!

Jones: And my condolences about your wife, Stu.

Scott: Thanks, Mark. She was a lovely woman. Such a bitter tragedy, for so wonderful a person to die so young. Booyah!

Jones: Before the draft begins, let’s bring in analyst Jay Bilas for his take on this year’s draft. Jay?

Jay Bilas: Thanks, Mark. This year’s class is almost as long in talent as they are short in personal hygiene. I was just back in the green room, and let me tell you, the place smelled like a hog rendering plant.

Jones: Jay, what are the needs of the New York Neutrinos, the team with the number one pick?

Bilas: They need someone who knows a lot of trivia.

Scott: And how about the number two team, the Detroit Volts?

Bilas: They need someone who knows a lot of trivia.

Scott: And the Miami Sea Slugs?

Bilas: Either a polished big man with a lethal post-up game and a strong perimeter shot, or someone who knows a lot of trivia.

Jones: And here comes the Quiz Bowl League Commissioner, Gary Bettman, who handles the QBL during the NHL off-season. And the on-season too, I should mention.

Gary Bettman: Welcome to the fifth annual Quiz Bowl Draft. Let’s get this the hell over with, so we can pretend it never happened. With the first pick of the Quiz Bowl Draft, the New York Neutrinos select Alan Coney.

Jones: Very safe pick there. Here comes Coney, and, my, he sure is a big fella. What would you say, Stu—250 pounds?

Scott: 275, at the very least.

Jones: Oh, my. I’ve never seen a draftee eat their jersey before. Jay, what can you tell us about Coney?

Bilas: He’s a very old school player. And by that I mean he is an old player who goes to school. He’s twenty-five, I think, and spent the last several years living in his mom’s basement. But don’t overlook his skills. This guy boasts incredible hopitude, immense bouncebackability, tremendous bonusosity, and stupendous stupendorousness.

Jones: Coney has already worked out a starting contract with the Neutrinos: $500 or a lifetime supply of Cheetos, whichever costs more.

Scott: From the looks of him, I’d say the Cheetos.

(They chuckle)

Bettman: With the second pick, the Detroit Volts select James Tobin-Smith. No, don’t shake my hand. I just washed it.

Jones: This one’s a bit of a risk for Detroit. As a sophomore, Tobin-Smith suffered a season-ending injury to his buzzer hand while playing an intense game of Guitar Hero. That cost him a whole year. Since then, he’s struggled to live up to his promise, but nobody denies that he has potential. Let’s go to Erin Andrews for an interview with the newest member of the Volts.

Andrews: James, how does it feel for society to finally validate your pathetic and meaningless existence?

Tobin-Smith: Hngghh…you’re a girl (Sniggers)

Jones: For more on Tobin-Smith, let’s go to the one, the only, Dick Vitale.

DICKIE V: A REAL PTPER MAALOX MASHER DIAPER DANDY TRIFECTA TRIFECTA PTPER BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYBBBBBBB-

(He is abruptly cut off)

Jones: (softly) Sweet Jesus.

Scott: Mark, can I say one thing about this pick? Booyah.

Bettman: The Miami Sea Slugs have traded the number three pick to the Texas Instruments in exchange for two packs of “Magic: The Gathering” cards and a half-used gift certificate to Taco Bell. With the third pick, the Texas Instruments select Adrian Nathanson.

Jones: Nathanson, known to most college fans by his nickname “The Retainer.” Jay—what’s the word on Adrian?

Bilas: His college career was a little underwhelming, but he tested great at the combine. He powered 15 of 20 toss-ups, correctly identified 8 of 10 oblique Star Wars references, and knew the lyrics of just about every Weird Al song you can imagine. A real workout warrior, this guy.

Scott: He’s going to have his change his jersey in the QBL, though. The Instruments already have someone wearing number 1 1 2 3 5 8 13.

Jones: Now let’s go to Erin Andrews, to spare us further footage of Jay’s freakishly elongated face.

Andrews: Adrian, how do feel about critics who say you’re a fatty, fatty two-by-four who can’t fit through the kitchen door?

Nathanson: I…I…I…(starts gasping and grabs for inhaler)

Scott: Truly sad. Booyah.

Bettman: With the fourth pick, the Los Angeles Clippers select Mike Mullaley. This is the first pick for the Clippers since their move to the QBL from the NBA.

Jones: Owner Donald Sterling hoping for more luck in Quiz Bowl than he had in basketball. I have to say—who would’ve seen that whole Blake Griffin decapitation thing coming? Not me.

Scott: Mullaley’s an interesting choice. He spent two years playing in the XQBL before it folded last September. He picked up a reputation as a dirty player—the kind of guy who can dish out wedgies as well as take them.

Bettman: Mike is not here today. He said he had a date with his girlfriend. Our scouts indicate that he’s at home right now, playing BioShock and drinking Mountain Dew.

Jones: We covered Mullaley’s training regimen last week on ESPN270. Apparently, he starts every day with a six pack of Mountain Dew, before washing that down with another six pack of Tab.

Scott: Let’s see if Dickie V can shed some light on this pick.

DICKIE V: -BBBBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

(He is abruptly cut off)

Jones: (softly) Merciful God in heaven.

Bettman: With the fifth pick, the Portland Epic Failblazers select Christopher DeChellis. I need a drink.

Scott: The Epic Failblazers had a rather disappointing season last year. They almost made the playoffs, but forfeited their last couple games after their rivals, the Chicago Red Bulls, shoved the entire team into a locker and left them there.

Jones: And here comes DeChellis now. Uh-oh. Bad sign. His shirt doesn’t have any food stains on it. Bilas, what can you say about DeChellis?

Bilas: He had some character issues in college. Apparently, he’s a well-adjusted human being, enjoys going to parties, and has a life outside of Quiz Bowl. You can see why he makes coaches so nervous.

Jones: DeChellis, of course, is best remembered for that epic 200 point, 8 power performance in the Big Dance last March.

Scott: Ironically, that was the only dance most of these players have ever been to.

Bettman: With the sixth pick, the Toronto Compsognathi select—sweet! My time’s up! Kiss my Canuck-loving ass goodbye, you dweebs. I’m off to the lab to tend to my hideous Ovechkin-Crosby mutant hybrid.

Jones: While we wait for Assistant Commissioner Isiah Thomas to show up and complete his community service hours, let’s recap. Jay?

Bilas: All right, Mark. First, Jim Carrey takes a day off from work and decides to go to the beach. On the train there he meets Kate Winslet, who has blue hair and looks really hot. They get romantically involved, but then Kate has her memory of Joel—that’s Jim Carrey—erased, and so…

Scott: I hate to interrupt, Jay, but that doesn’t sound like the draft.

Bilas: No, I’m recapping “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” I saw it on AMC last night and thought it was really, really good.

Jones: But we’re at the Quiz Bowl Draft!

Bilas: Yeah, but this draft is hella boring.

(Pause)

Scott: Point taken. Continue.

Bilas: So then Frodo shows up…