tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27750774838647336682024-02-21T07:26:11.467-08:00Random, Unrequested, Public Self ExposureBusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-38293013946492848742011-12-07T20:03:00.000-08:002011-12-08T18:52:22.031-08:00I've Got Hurt Feelings, I've Got Hurt FEELINGS!<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/j9G4J9dSSiE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I don’t really. That title is lovingly lifted from a Conchords song. Loves me some Bret and Jemaine. This song will set the tone for this post nicely.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s funny how Facebook updates, Tweets, Blogs, comment sections or some other more current means of broadcasting out own random bull plop* has opened an entire new realm of both validation and rejection. We have all morphed into this strange, self loathing hybrid of full time artist/critic. We publish our thoughts on the routine of our lives for what we assume to be a grateful world. And clearly those who receive those thoughts are grateful to some extent. If they weren’t they could just hide you, or unfollow you or whatever. We continue to share the mundane**, self serving***and occasionally profound**** ramblings of our daily thoughts because we know people actually listen to them. And they provide feedback. And often that feedback feels really good to hear. A simple thumbs up from an old high school buddy you haven’t spoken to in a decade can provide a nice confirmation to your suspicion that today’s weather does indeed suck donkey. But as any artist, musician or <a href="http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium/bourbon-street-mime-kathleen-k-parker.jpg">robot street performer</a> will tell you, feedback is a double edged sword. There’s gonna be people that like you, and people who don’t. Everyone knows that. And anyone who disseminates their writing or videos or whatever on the world wide interweb should have a reasonably thick skin. Especially when that criticism reaches <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/284937/saturday-night-live-internet-comments-talk-show">new bounds of idiocy</a>. (That's a pretty dang good SNL skit, right there. They may be rare, but they still exist.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But what I find surprising is that in those occasions when there is an absence of a comment or a thumb, I feel a sense of disappointment and even a little bit of rejection. I’m embarrassed by that. But I do. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I want to be clear that I’m not getting butt hurt about no one acknowledging the poetic expressions from the depths of my soul. I’m talking about mindless Facebook fluff here. If I feel the need to throw out some Simpsons quote (the majority of my status updates involve plagiarism) and I then check my Facebook a day later with nothing but a cold vacuum as a response? Well, there is a shameful little voice inside me that says, “What? No one got that? Screw all of you!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now in discussing the absurdity of perceived slights and bruised egos transpiring from the fake judgment of internet silence, it’s important to emphasize that this is a shameful, comical impulse that I’m talking about here. I’m not actually insulted on any meaningful level. Seriously. Even though I kind of am.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And that’s the strange effect that social media has on us. By presenting the possibility of complimentary agreement, Facebook has set us up to be overly sensitive babies when that support doesn’t come. I shouldn’t care if no one else felt the need to acknowledge my thoughts on my day. But the fact that my friends could have given a thumbs up and chose not to, presents me with a previously undiscovered source of personal injury.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Thanks Mark Zucherberg! We all needed to be just a little bit crazier.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Let me belabor this point just a little bit more. Yesterday was my birthday. And I received little to no Facebook birthday wishes. Now I’m not gonna go all <a href="http://static.tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pub/images/eeyore61_5881.jpg">Eeyore</a> on everybody here. I had exactly the birthday that I wanted. My friends and family acknowledge my life, I got some very thoughtful presents, and I ate steak and all you can eat shrimp at Sizzler (that’s how I roll) with my nieces and nephew. A wonderful way to celebrate another trip around the sun. But I have to admit that for the first half of the day, I was a little bummed at the absence of Birthday love from the FB peeps.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember being a little overwhelmed on the first birthday I had as a member of Facebook, which was probably 2007. I didn’t know or expect that I would recieve birthday wishes from the entire collection of associates I have amassed in my life. I'm one of those guys that does not care about his birthday. I don’t hide it from people. But I never really want a party or anything. I’m low key like that. But back on December 6<sup>th</sup> of '07, I remember being surprised at how flattered I felt that the one girl I knew in college but haven't spoken to or thought about in 8 years dropped me a line to wish me a happy birthday. (Sorry Mom. She's married with five kids. It won't work out.)</p><p class="MsoNormal">That was a new experience. One that was repeated in the years to come. But yesterday, that did not happen. My buddy Johnmann texted me at about 1 o'clock asking me why I was being such a FB miser by hiding my birthday from the world. It was then that I realized that some time ago I must have changed my profile settings and removed my birthday from my page. So no one knew that it was my special day. Except of course for ole trusty Johnmann. So there was no actual shunning or rejection that took place. In fact yesterday was exactly like every one of the twenty something birthdays I enjoyed before the Facebook revolution. And yet for a few hours there in the morning, I was a little bit hurt. As embarrassing as that is to admit, it's true. And why? Because something I had never had for most of my life but had come to expect anyway was not there.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I realize by typing this, publishing it to a blog and then linking that post to my Facebook page (which I will do), I will be manipulating everyone who bothers to read this into somehow feel like they let me down, or to apologize for some imagined slight. And my acknowledgement of this does not make it any less manipulative. But believe me when I say it, this is not my intent. I'm only illustrating that as regularly occurring events are changed by social media, we run the risk of becoming more needy and narcissistic. </p><p class="MsoNormal">But the flip side of this is also very applicable. Though our own thoughts and ideas are subjected to the harshness of criticism (often anonymous) , we also get the dirty little pleasure of lobbing online bombs about articles, movies, videos, books, profile updates, music, blog posts and whatever other online garbage I'm forgetting. Think about it. Every single piece of media that we have the opportunity of consuming online can be immediately judged by us, whether our thoughts about it are intelligent and honest or not. And that's kind of nice feeling. Hell. Look at this blog of mine. I like it so much, I can't stop. (Except the last 8 months. I stopped pretty good there for a while.)</p><p class="MsoNormal">And that's not limited to the Tron universe of the internet. When I invest a dollar for Conan the Barbarian at Redbox, I can then chime in on IMDB and grace that community with an in depth defense of my 9.5 star rating (You heard me!). And the fact that we have all been empowered as vigilante authorities on all things cultural, changes the way we experience life. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Earlier tonight, I hit up a Sushi bar for some happy hour rolls. I enjoyed the company of friends and a four dollar Funky Charlie. A good night, for sure. But I also found myself composing my nitpicking Yelp review in my head. "Alright food, good prices but the tables were a little sticky and the music was too loud." That's a crappy thing to be thinking, when I should have just been enjoying the moment in the fullest sense. Especially when you take into account that barely 24 hours earlier, I was down in the dumps because I wasn't overwhelmed with arbitrary Facebook adulation. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Social Media interaction has turned me into a snotty little sister. Some nasty little girl who will rip you down for the slightest little offense but if you look at me wrong, I'll cry until our mom smacks you.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Okay, I'm totally overstating this. I am not whiney girl and neither are any of the good people spouting their takes on restaurants, movies and music online. But this <a href="http://reason.com/assets/mc/psuderman/2010_12/judgedredd_i-am-the-law.jpg">Judge Dredd</a> notion of opiniotive authority seems to have slipped into the real world of everyday life. It won't be long until we start rating sunsets. "It was pretty good. But not terribly original. 5.5/10." I just think it's a good idea to step back and enjoy things for what they are, instead of trying to quantify its value at all costs. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Now leave me complimentary comments or I will burn your house down!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ncwH6rE63lbLmS3eho_0kBeHL4G6rz9jhIQhQbu39H1zbyawHCivIigQ9W0wLTniS9yj_2tZI7fyLfTHNorGdANcYmWnEfNdZc8QfDOjaUidwl2QOA4defUxP15ElZhFCPPDhuSNZa4/s1600/thumbs-up-and-down-buttons-vector.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 190px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ncwH6rE63lbLmS3eho_0kBeHL4G6rz9jhIQhQbu39H1zbyawHCivIigQ9W0wLTniS9yj_2tZI7fyLfTHNorGdANcYmWnEfNdZc8QfDOjaUidwl2QOA4defUxP15ElZhFCPPDhuSNZa4/s200/thumbs-up-and-down-buttons-vector.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683949261850047858" /></a><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">* I'm tempted to include a G+ joke in here, but I'm sure I'll be on it and loving it within a year. I am usually a little tardy in adopting new trends. But I am eventually obedient to our technological overlords.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">** "The kids are being nice to each other today!!!!"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">*** "Just got back from the gym and got a great pump!"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">**** Every Arrested Development quote I have ever posted. </span></p>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-16808671151809016612011-05-03T10:18:00.001-07:002011-05-03T15:57:12.932-07:00Score One For The Good Guys<a href="http://www.cnn.com/video/bestoftv/2011/05/02/exp.sot.obama.bin.laden.cnn.640x360.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 360px;" src="http://www.cnn.com/video/bestoftv/2011/05/02/exp.sot.obama.bin.laden.cnn.640x360.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div>At 1:30 pm MDT, last Sunday afternoon I was enjoying some dutch oven potatoes, sausage with brown mustard and a fresh scone at a road side cafe in Mt Carmel, Utah following a fantastic weekend of Canyoneering in Zion National Park. I share this because at that exact time in Abbottabad, Pakistan a Navy Seal had the forehead of Osama bin Laden in his cross hairs and pulled the trigger ending the life of the world's most notorious villain. And it's been a surreal couple of days since.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me share a few observations:<div><br />I, like most Americans (I think), kind of forgot about bin Laden. Of course 911 is forever seared into my soul. And the fact that we let him escape in Torah Bora nearly a decade ago bugs the hell out of me. But I have never stayed awake at night thinking we had to get him. I was confident the right people were on the job, doing everything possible to bring him to justice, but I kind of just assumed he would die of renal failure in a cave somewhere. I hadn't really considered the possibility of his death at the hands of American forces in so long, I was surprised at just how good it has made me feel when it actually happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I make no apologies for feeling good about this. And no else should either. </div><div><br />Let me be clear. Throughout my medium sized lifetime, I cannot think of another piece of breaking news that has ever made me feel so energized and uplifted. And I don’t feel good because my blood lust for the Terrorist Devil has been satiated. In fact, I wouldn’t say that I hate bin Laden at all. He was the embodiment of all that is evil in the world and he deserved to die. But I don’t think I feel any actual sense of personal animosity toward him. My blood pressure wouldn't spike when his name was mentioned. I do not have a full back tattoo that says "Die, Osama! DIE!"*. He had become another name on the news. </div><div><br /></div><div>The reason I feel so good about his death, is because this is an incredible victory for America. And regardless of your particular political persuasion, that is a very good thing. After years and years of bleak, depressing headlines grinding on our national identity, I'm sick of feeling bad about my country. And I'm not talking about patriotism. Patriotism is a loaded word that has been weaponized over the last decade. No, I'm talking about our collective self esteem. We needed a win to break through the malaise of partisan sniping, crippling gas prices, seemingly endless unemployment not to mention the nuclear meltdown, civil war shit storm that is the rest of the world. </div><div><br /></div><div>And make no mistake, this is a big win. It makes me feel good to be an American. Not in some <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeO-JcAxrz8sz5NIzg2JvNY68_LEPRVBYVtV7MHHgUYyT1S8LL0Hb_6bGd6omSi4ArQv0TADhiZ5wK-1I_8hpLsqpSWMzv_-I0JXNM0rv94Z2cqdG6kcrCxIp7TEukr4zuas336ZUBrYo/s1600/toby_keith.jpg">cheap, dick wagging, Toby Kieth</a> kind of way. But in a <a href="http://attractions.uptake.com/blog/files/2009/01/the_kiss.jpg">well deserved, hard fought, V Day</a> kind of way. The good guys won.</div><div><br />Everything about this story is perfect. Bin Laden didn’t choke on a goat shank and drop dead. A drone didn't anonymously and instantaneously incinerate him. Our guys killed him. And he died knowing it. We stormed his mansion where he was hiding behind a female human shield and asked him "Are you Osama bin Laden?" "Yes" BANG!</div><div><br />You couldn’t have written a better script. All movies this summer will suck because they can in no way be as cool as reality. </div><div><br />It’s not often that citizens of our great and diverse nation spontaneously take to the streets and celebrate. Dancing, singing, hugging strangers, pumping fists, climbing street lamps to cheer on an ever expanding crowd of people; I’ve never seen anything like it. And we reacted this way, not out of hatred for our enemy, but out of pride in our victory. And make no mistake, it is OUR victory. Rich, poor, black, white, left, right, we all won when Sunday’s breaking news was announced. That is why you saw crowds of strangers all over this vast, cynical nation stand together and with complete fervent sincerity sing patriotic songs in a gloriously off key celebration.</div><div><br />Like most people I felt the urge to share this moment of history with my assorted friends throughout the different stages of my life via Facebook. It’s a strange thing to observe the various thoughts from your life's collection of acquaintances as you anonymously eaves drop on their points of view. I posted a snarky little joke about bin Laden being surprised to find himself in hell that I ripped off of an <a href="http://www.theonion.com/articles/hijackers-surprised-to-find-selves-in-hell,1445/">Onion article</a> from nine and half years ago. Most posts were of a similar joking, celebratory tone. But throughout Monday, an interesting thing happened. Several of my facebook friends expressed apprehension about the morbid nature of celebrating the death of a fellow human being. Now, that it is a totally valid and understandable point of view. But what did catch my attention was that about a dozen of them chose to express that thought by posting the following statement:<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." </b>- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr</span></div><div><br />Look, it's a nice enough sentiment, I guess. I'm all for love and peace. When it comes to navigating the trenches of our own conflicted souls, love and forgiveness is totally the way to go. But in matters of foreign policy? Come on. Light driving out darkness? Seriously? That kind of sanctimony may lend you a false sense of moral supremacy but only because there are Navy Seals out there providing you that luxury by blowing the heads off psychopathic monsters that want to murder you. </div><div><br />Let me fill you in on a little secret. If Martin Luther King were both alive and in the vicinity of Washington DC on Sunday night, he would have been dancing in the streets in front of the White House along with everyone else. Does this make MLK a hypocrite for not backing up his words with his actions? No it does not. Possibly because I just invented his actions with my own impossible hypothetical scenario that conveniently supports my point. I can't really hold a man who has been dead for forty years accountable for stuff I just imagined. In fact it's quite disingenuous of me to co opt the reputation of the one the great leaders in human history to illustrate my own narrow point, isn't it? But the real reason he would not be a hypocrite is the following (and listen closely): </div><div><br /><a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/2011/05/out-of-osamas-death-a-fake-quotation-is-born/238220/">MARTIN LUTHER KING NEVER SAID THIS!</a> </div><div><br />Well, not all of it. The last part he said. But there wasn't anything about mourning victims or celebrating death. And though he did say that love > hate (in many more eloquent ways that this example, by the way) he certainly didn't say it in reference to the death of bin Laden. And to high jack his words to that effect is no different that me claiming some imaginary instance of MLK fist pumping and high fiving college students on the streets of DC.</div><div><br /></div><div>I understand the impulse to find some more articulate than yourself to say what you would like to express. I do it all the time. But when you invoke a famous historical figure it falsely gives the appearance of logical and moral trump card. "The discussion is now over, because Martin Luther King agrees with me! That makes you James Earl Ray. Check mate, bitch!" </div><div><br />So whenever you find yourself in need of a bit of wisdom, just dig up some slogan and mangle it until it supports your point and attach it to one of the following historic sages of wisdom; Einstein, Lincoln, Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Mandela (enlightened, white Americans loooooove quoting Mandela), Churchill and if you're feeling edgy, Nietzsche. And if the content of the "quote"** appears to conflict with the reputation of the historic authority in question, all the better. That way you have Nelson Mandela agreeing with you. Which makes you as wise and correct as him. For example, compare the following quotes and tell me which has more credibility:<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>"The chaotic order and transcendent depth of both the universe and the atom point to the existence of God. Symmetry on such an infinite scale cannot be a mere mathematical accident."</b> - Albert Einstein</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>"The chaotic order and transcendent depth of both the universe and the atom point to the existence of God. Symmetry on such an infinite scale cannot be a mere mathematical accident."</b> - Some dipshit on a blog that he named after <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eo1pkHKHuts">GOB's little brother</a>.</span><br /><br />There are a lot of really good reasons to believe in God. But appealing to the authority of a fancy sounding (and nonsensical) quote that I just now made up is not one of them. Likewise, feeling that America’s boisterous chest thumping in the aftermath of bin Laden’s death is in poor taste is a reasonable thought. But saying so by hamfistedly disfiguring one of the more mediocre statements of Dr. King into a rather self righteous condemnation of a grateful nation is a crappy way to express that sentiment.</div><div><br />I think the reason this irritated me so much is because of the implicit accusation that Sunday night’s celebration had sprung from hate. That could not be further from the truth. This is not a hateful scene.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/yl7POcfh9RU" allowfullscreen="" width="560" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe><br /><br />If these celebrations were motivated by hate then the crowds would have been chanting “Death to Islam!” or “Now let us us feast upon the entrails of Osama’s children!” But instead this crowd of sober, otherwise jaded college students are joyfully singing the National Anthem and doing so with a conspicuous absence of irony. Not a tinge. This is a beautiful and spontaneous display of noble pride. And any false sense of righteousness that attempts to criticize it dismisses this spirit of genuine solidarity that maybe comes around once in a generation. If you're lucky.<br /><br />As the Dali Lama once said, "Evil may masquerade as Good. But Good will always reveal itself as Truth."<br /><br />Or did he?***<br /><br /><br />*That's German for "The Osama! THE!"</div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">** If I were reading that out loud, would I say, "Quote, quote, unquote." or "Quote, unquote, quote."?<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">*** No. He didn't. I just made that shit up. It doesn't even make sense.</span><br /></div></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-74519676550014865532011-01-20T22:26:00.001-08:002011-01-22T16:25:08.779-08:00There's Only One Other Person Who Can Do All That. Barbra Streisand: A Few Great Musical Numbers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.sconefest.com/john/blog/favorites/guest.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 600px; height: 400px;" src="http://www.sconefest.com/john/blog/favorites/guest.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">CORKY! AAAAAHH CORKY!!!<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Musicals don't have to suck. They aren't always tediously annoying crap. Now, that backhanded compliment may seem obvious to anyone living in Manhattan. But for those of us who grew up far from The Great White Way, it's a worthy reminder that musical theater has the ability to exceed the dregs of amateur hour.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It's my instinct to hate musical numbers. Whether in a play or a movie, or a movie about a play, they usually fall short for me. And I don't think it's because I'm too macho for musicals. It's not like I think they're gay. Unless they're actually <a href="http://www.glogster.com/media/1/8/77/77/8777785.jpg">gay</a>. Not there's anything wrong with that. It just seems like the singing and dancing is either shoved into a scene where it just doesn't fit or there is some ironic wink to the audience. Now, even as I typed that, I thought of a million Simpson episodes, Flight of Conchords numbers and even Family Guy musical scenes that are pure awesomeness. But those are comedies. It's easy to sing and dance when you're really just joking around. But it's tough to sell a musical number when you're trying to convey any real emotion. Instead of feeling stylized and theatric, too often it feels fake and distracting.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span">Let me take you through the event from my childhood that is largely responsible for my resistance to enjoy musical numbers. This is a </span><span class="Apple-style-span">remarkably common experience amongst us Mormons. I speak of the Roadshow. I'm not sure why we as a people feel compelled to write, produce and preform squeaky clean, original plays (often with a Pioneer theme or a moral message about choosing good friends) but it's a pretty common event throughout the many Stakes of Zion. Perhaps it's because most LDS Church Houses have a stage built into the Cultural Hall (aka the basketball court). And why have a stage if you're not gonna use the thing?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It was 1990. I know that, because one of the other Ward's Roadshow that year was entitled, "Bart Simpson Gets A Mission Call" and that was the hot new show. How many times do you think they said "Cowabunga"? At the time, I was an ill-tempered, 12 year old little shit head. Well, I wasn't that all the time but throughout the events of this story, I pretty much was. So I'm sticking with that description. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Now, I hesitate to go into too much detail here, because the lady who birthed this particular creation worked her freaking guts out on it. She wrote it, and directed it and probably made most of the sets and costumes. She's a really nice person and I would feel terrible if she were to somehow find this post on the interwebs, read this rendition and had her feelings hurt. So, if you happened to find this, please realize that it is simply the two decade old, inaccurate memories of an ill-tempered little shit head. Everyone besides me had a wonderful time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">That said, my part in this play was pretty brutal. The play was an original creation about a fictionalized America where milk had been banned because pasteurization had yet to be discovered. You know, that old comedy chestnut. It was a prohibition themed vaudeville act with lots of cow puns ("Moooove over, Angus! That's utterly ridiculous!") and old songs with cow themed lyrics replacing the original words. This was a major production. Set designs, costumes, dance numbers, a cast of a few dozen people. There was a huge amount of work put into this thing. And it seemed at the time (again, the unreliable memories of a shit head) that it was a massive pain in everyone's butt. "Let's just grind through this thing and get it over with."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">My part was that of Mr. Pickle. If I remember right, this whole thing was set up to be an old radio show and in the middle of the action, they paused for a word from their sponsor. That sponsor? Mr. Pickle. There was a few girls dressed as clocks that came on stage and sang a little jingle that ended with "It's tiiiiiiiiime for Mr. Pickle." I then ran through the audience from the back of the room, dressed in green tights and freaking Pickle costume and recited a pickle themed tongue twister. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size: 13.3333px; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafme6aHoKEaraO3pReq6R7j8t2-MZwXDYTPmtyE3qskv_PmOx4BjvSXuVIoRKI0Q9Bo1dZO1u5ErU2uA4s5H0rDwL1ILVLcMyU1Z8bkVevLyCKyCujBmpqmKC5lxq8hyV3gkwMV64vZM/s400/scan0001-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564503936367435634" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size: 13.3333px; "></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size: 13.3333px; "><br /></span></span></div><div>I'm not sure if you can tell by my facial expression, but I did not want to do this. Not so much because it was embarrassing but because it was just dumb. It doesn't look like the clock on the right was too thrilled about the whole thing either. I especially like the two brothers at the bottom, looking at each other, as if to say, "What the f*ck are we doing here?" Or maybe they were just trying to remember their next line. I'm projecting.</div><div><br /></div><div>We did three different performances of this play and the reception was appreciative and polite. But it wasn't a raving hit. Most jokes (and there were tons of them) were met with a kindest chuckle any cow pun could expect. I think I was a pretty good sport about it all. In fact, I don't know if I have ever complained about this moment until just now. Of course now that I have decided to complain, I've done it in front of the world, so I probably shouldn't claim to be a good sport. But again, this wasn't some traumatic nightmare by any means. It was just kinda dumb. And it built into me a justifiably skeptical attitude about musical theater.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, in the years since, I have seen several renditions of a number of plays and have enjoyed the majority of them. I once saw BYU's music/dance/theater group preform Sweeny Todd at an outdoor amphitheater in Provo. This venue is made from stone and it looks like a haunted castle. And it's located right behind a mental institution. The perfect place for an October production of Sweeny Todd. It was great. I have cousins that very involved in the local theater scene and have always been very entertained by the many plays they have been in. Aida, Treasure Island and a few originals that were fantastic and thought provoking. But no matter how high the production value is, I always have to account for the "Pickle Factor". I end up asking myself, "Is this theatric and fun? Or just stupid?"</div><div><br /></div><div>So, in defense of musical numbers everywhere, I present a list of excellent musical scenes from well known movies. You'll note that there are 6 examples instead of my normal 5. I just couldn't decide which one to cut. In fact I had a hard time narrowing the list to 6. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some honorable mentions include Ferris Bueller's Twist and Shout, Joseph Gordon Levitt's "I got some!" celebration dance from 500 Days of Summer, The KKK dance sce<span class="Apple-style-span">ne in O Brother, Blue Shadows from Three Amigos, the closing credits of The 40 Year Old Virgin and Stone Henge.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>On with the list:</div><div><br /></div><b>Down In the Willow Garden</b> - Raising Arizona 1987<div><br /><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/eWYvDsyfqnI?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/eWYvDsyfqnI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><div><br /></div><div>Holly Hunter has a great voice. I would buy an album of her singing a cappella versions of old timey songs and listen to it every night as I curl up in the fetal position to sleep. </div><div><br /></div>The song that Ed (short for Edwina) is singing to Nathan Jr (he's awful, damn good) is an old Bluegrass standard. This haunting and downright gruesome songs tells the point of view of a man who is about to be hanged for killing his love. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xp_ivMnp0lM">Here's</a> a full version of it. In typical Bluegrass fashion, it features lyrics that border on despair, contrasting with the peaceful, soothing tone of the music. He is a condemned man who has no hope for salvation. His sins are too great and he realizes the consequences of his actions are both unavoidable and just. But when sung to such a calm, almost maternal tune, it's clear that he accepts his fate of the gallows.<br /><br />Ed's singing of this lullaby wakes HI from his dream of the lone biker of the apocalypse and the screaming mother of the child they just kidnapped. He then stares into the merciless sun of the Arizona desert and laments, "Sometimes it's a hard world for the little things."</div><div><br /></div><div>Raising Arizona is a perfect movie. Let me say that again. It is a PERFECT movie. (Man, caps are obnoxious.) The slapstick silliness and the lightning witted dialog never fail to amuse and entertain. But those characteristics hide the fact that this is a brutal movie about desperate people trying to scratch out their own piece of happiness by any means possible and in the process they secure their own destruction. If the Coens wanted to, they could have made this into a film every bit as intense, heart wrenching and morally ambiguous as No Country For Old Men. (Of course, if they went that route, the movie would end with Smalls strangling HI with a pair of handcuffs and Nathan Arizona murdering Ed with an air powered cattle gun.) But, like the featured song, they disguise the tortured conflict of the protagonists with a pleasant, enjoyable tone. </div><div><br /></div><div>As well as the greatest rendition of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8xsYKrx5eE">Ode to Joy</a> in the history of time. (Skip to 1:35 for it.)</div><div><br /></div><div>HI and Ed's attempt to overcome their own self destructive tendencies (which ain't easy to do with that sumbitch Reagan in the White House), their poverty (Guvment do take a bite!), evil influences (Keep your g*ddamn hands of my wife!), the Federal B.I. (microbes and shit), the forces of fate and justice (My friends call me Lenny. But I don't have any friends.) as well as biology and the prejudices of others is ultimately futile. It's hopeless. The moment HI takes that baby (Iiiiihhiii loohoove hiiim sooohooo muuuch!), the fate of the McDonough family is sealed.* "My race is run, beneath the sun. The scaffold waits for me." </div><div><br /></div><div>And all they ever wanted was a young sportsman that don't know a cuss word from Shinola. You know. The salad days.<br /><br /></div><div><div><b>Song of the Roustabouts</b> - Dumbo 1941</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/C6c-bCSSKMo?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/C6c-bCSSKMo?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div></div><div><br /></div><div>So, if I'm doing a list a of awesome musical numbers from well known movies, and I am featuring a song from Dumbo, you'd think I'd go with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=944cPciN-kw">Pink Elephants on Parade</a>. Which could be the finest example of an inexplicably evil looking acid trip aimed at children in the history of film. (A close second would be my next entry.) But I'm going with the Roustabouts because this song illustrates the depth of Dumbo. </div><div><br /></div><div>You heard me. Dumbo is deep. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few years ago I got it in my head that I needed to rewatch Dumbo, so I could snicker and laugh at the racist crows. I planned to point my finger and mock the politically incorrect lack of cultural sophistication that Disney and America in general displayed so unapologetically in 1941 from my lofty an enlightened perch of one who had grown up in the post Civil Rights Era. One who knew better than to defame a people with hackneyed caricatures of Jazz musicians and minstrel singers. After all, we in the 21st century have all these racial issues and cultural tensions figured out. Right? But my preconceived notions of a silly little cartoon that featured dated and offensive stereotypes was shot down. Not only does Dumbo have substance, the message of that substance is remarkably enlightened. </div><div><br /></div><div>Put simply; Dumbo illustrates the plight of the African American. Just go with me on this one. And ignore his blue eyes, for a second. I don't know, maybe he's biracial.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Roustabouts song sets this connection up pretty clearly. Casey Jr pulls into town on a cold, rainy night and it's the poor, black laborers and the elephants that have to work all night in the mud to set up the tent. Meanwhile the lazy tigers and the Ringmaster sleep through the storm. In the tradition of Negro Spirituals, the workers sing the opposite of how they feel, since they can't honestly speak their minds. "We're Happy, Happy Roustabouts!" They are exploited and abused. "Keep on working, stop that shirking! Grab that rope, you hairy ape!" And they are ultimately ignored. In the morning, the tent is pitched and the people who enjoy it are oblivious to price paid by the elephants and laborers that made it happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dumbo is then violently taken away from his mother after she acted upon her maternal instinct to protect her son. She is chained and imprisoned. By the way, if you haven't seen Dumbo since you were a kid, you'll be amazed at how brutal that scene is. Walt Disney rips your freaking guts out with that scene. Dumbo is then dehumanized (deelephantized?) because of the physical features that make him different, his big ears. Or his blackness. (Still with me?) "Elephants don't have feelings. They're made of rubber." The gawking perpetrators of this cruelty (appropriately portrayed as clowns) paint his face and humiliate him in front of a laughing crowd night after night.<br /><br />But with the help of his friends, Timothy and the crows (the leader of whom is unfortunately named Jim), Dumbo realizes that the object of his scorn is also what makes him special. "The very thing keeping you down, is gonna carry you up and up and up!" His uniqueness is the key to his ultimate success. He harnesses the power of his big ears and overcomes the cruelty of the clowns, the stupidity of the crowd and the Ringmaster and the nasty jealousy of the other elephants and flies off into glory. It's like the story of Jackie Robinson told six years before he broke the color barrier.<br /><br />And when he finally hits it big, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSyRKSyoSLQ&feature=related">Dumbo buys a house for his moms</a>.<br /><br />There's still plenty of legitimate criticism to be had for the movie. The black crows were voiced by white actors a la "Amos and Andy". And even though they are complimentary characters, I wouldn't second guess anyone who felt offended by them. But Dumbo is a fine movie that deserves a little bit of love for its handling of an issue that is still far from being resolved 70 years after it was made.</div><div><br /><b>That Freaky Deaky Boat Ride Scene</b> - Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory 1971</div><div><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2Zail7Gdqro" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Gene Wilder is a freaking king! He's so good as the maniacal nice guy. Totally calm, with just a hint of crazy in his eye. But you know it's just a matter of time before he snaps. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDEdKzAZgko&feature=related">I SAID GOOD DAY!</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a little secret about books and movies and cartoons aimed at entertaining kids. The overwhelming majority** of them are evil to the bone. Every single fairy tale, every single Disney movie, every single Roald Dahl book, The Wizard of Oz, the Chronicles of Narnia, Star Wars, Harry Potter not to mention the Bible all have moments of terrifying conflict. Children being eaten, witches burning people alive, flying monkeys coming from the sky and carrying you away. I mean, do you remember <a href="http://goremasterfx.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/skeksis-the-dark-crystal.jpg">The Dark Crystal</a>? That thing came straight from the depths of hell. Even Thomas the Tank has some <a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/fBDtHrsOf8Q/0.jpg">weirdly dark villainy</a> going on. </div><div><br /></div><div>But don't misread this observation as some sort of condemnation. I think it's badass. Kids can handle scary. Kids like scary. They do. Even when it gives them nightmares. There's some encoded fascination we all have with a fictionalized version of horror. No little kid wants to look at crime scene photos of actual dead bodies. But we were all captivated by disturbing yet safe portrayals of evil. I was at my brother's house a week or so ago and his three year old little girl was sitting at the kitchen table completely immersed in an illustrated book of the Brother's Grimm Fairy Tales. She grabbed my attention and pointed to the picture she was studying. Pointing to a tiny skull and cross bones ring that a witch was wearing she chirped in her cartoonish little voice, "Bwian, this witch is very spooty." For some reason she pronounces her K's like T's. I'm not sure why, but it's the cutest damn thing on the planet. She was frightened yet fascinated. In thirty years, she'll still have some vague recollection of that picture. I was scared of <a href="http://www.mwctoys.com/images/review_bg12_1a.jpg">Cylons</a> from Battlestar Gallactica when I was a kid. Those glowing red pulses moving back and forth on their heads. Freaked me the hell out. But I still watched the show.<br /></div><div><br /><div><b>A Penny For Your Thoughts</b> - Waiting For Guffman 1997</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-JX5VWHWkW8?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-JX5VWHWkW8?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div>In my last post I mentioned the glory of Guffman and decided to rewatch it for the first time in a few years. In fact, watching this scene is what reminded me of the stupid Mr Pickle crap and prompted this entire post. There is no better illustration of the unfulfilled ambitions of amateur theater better than Corky St Clair's original production of "Red White and Blaine". It's shooting for Broadway and missing by about 2,000 miles. Or however far away Blaine, Missoura is from Broadway. </div><div><br /></div><div>Corky's heartfelt and deadly sincere delivery of the nonsensical lyrics cracks me the hell up every time I hear it. "I have offered a million. I have done it for none." What? When I get married, my bride and I will dance to this song at our wedding. And I'm gonna end it with the toe pointing thing. Of course, the fact I bring up this plan on every first I have may be a reason why I remain single. Perhaps. I just need to find my own Libby Mae Brown. So I've decided to go the DQ more often. You know. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5R1MsBHWdk">Just drive in and get a coke.</a></div><div><br /><div><b>Tonight, You Belong To Me</b> - The Jerk 1979</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/AI8NuFAETMQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/AI8NuFAETMQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div>The Jerk has an innocent absurdity to it that never fails to hit home. It's not just that Navin Johnson is an idiot. It's that he's an idiot who is good down to his core. And Navin deserves a woman just as good. And Marie is that woman. Even if she can't throw knives very well. This song is dripping with sweetness. But the characters singing it are so pure, I can't help but buy into it. And just when my heart is melting into butter, Marie pulls out a Cornet and defuses the sentimentali<span class="Apple-style-span">ty. And I giggle like a drunken baby.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Tiny Dancer</b> - Almost Famous 2000</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Qn3tel9FWU?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Qn3tel9FWU?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div>Almost Famous is somewhat of an anomaly for me. Kate Hudson is pretty unbearable. Yet she's the perfect Penny Lane. I'm skeptical of Zooey Deschanel. Mostly because of that stupid <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQScUbdVVo4">cotton commercial</a> she did a year ago. But here she portrays a great "cool, older sister". And as a general rule, I can't stand Cameron Crowe's movies. Say Anything is beyond overrated. Jerry Maguire needs to burn in hell for eternity. Vanilla Sky? Let's just say if a movie ends with a <a href="http://fishbowl.pastiche.org/archives/pictures/matrix-architect.jpg">character we've never seen before</a> explaining the entire plot straight to the audience, it's a poorly made film. Show me, don't tell me. Especially when the twist ending is, "It was all a dream!" I would tell Tom Cruise to kiss my nutsack for wasting two hours of my life, but he just might take me up on that offer. (I've been told I have a handsome nutsack.***)</div><div><br /></div><div>But Almost Famous is gold. With only a few exceptions, (what the hell is Jimmy Fallon doing in this movie?) Almost Famous hits every note with a perfect balance of restrained emotion. In fact, if I were to encapsulate my own personality with a single movie, I just might have to choose Almost Famous to do it. Easily one of my top 5 favorite movies of all time.<br /><br />The featured scene has become quite famous in the decade since this movie was released. There's a good reason this musical moment has resonated so well. Sometimes, great music really is the answer to all of life's problems. Sometimes, it's the only answer. At least it's the answer for as long as the song plays. </div><div><br /></div><div>At this moment of the story, everything is going wrong. The band hates each other, the grind of the road is taking its toll, the kid was due home weeks ago, the groupies are feeling neglected, the agent is getting pushed to the side and their idiot lead singer just crashed some teenagers party. They are all pissed off and exhausted. But then the right song comes on the radio and breaks the silent tension. One by one they join in and sing along. By the second chorus, they are united, singing with an enthusiasm that defies their circumstance. Right here, right now, this moment is perfect. That's the power of a great song. As cheesy as I just made that sound, it's true. And that's the value of effective film making, or any kind of expression. It makes the cheesy things in life that are true feel true. Even for us ill-tempered shit heads.</div><div><br /></div><div>But Jerry Maguire still sucks.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">* Don't be fooled by that happy ending. It was just a dream. A hope for the future. But HI and Ed still remained childless. They lost.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">** This doesn't include Dora The Explorer, Blues Clues, or any of that pinko, "educational", PBS crap. If there isn't some sort of satanic, homicidal villain, kids shouldn't waste their time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">***Smooth as eggs.</span></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-75305185056788938782011-01-01T11:16:00.000-08:002012-01-02T10:14:25.948-08:00Were You Sure To Forget Your Acquaintances?<a href="http://t3bg.roblox.com/df11cdf3eb759f9bc9672032ca6a0e4a"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 420px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 420px; CURSOR: pointer" border="0" alt="" src="http://t3bg.roblox.com/df11cdf3eb759f9bc9672032ca6a0e4a" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t3bg.roblox.com/df11cdf3eb759f9bc9672032ca6a0e4a"></a>And never bring them to mind? Or something like that.<br /><br />No one actually knows the words to that song. Or why the hell we feel compelled to sing it at New Years. Much less the title of that song. It's Auld A Laud Syng, or something. I don't speak Gaelic. Why is it that no one knows this? Because no one cares. Sure, I could spend five minutes on Wikipedia and learn whatever bull crap significance that song has. But I refuse to. I like not caring about that song. It's the perfect little ditty for crowds of drunk people to stumble through. When large numbers of inebriated people sing any song, it ends up sounding like they don't know the lyrics. So it makes sense we commit to a song that no one on Earth knows the words to. It could be Row Row Row Your Boat and a chorus of folks drunk off their asses would still just loudly throw a bunch of nonsensical noises together to something that resembles a melody and then triumphantly declare the last line. <br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>"Row row row ya boe! Genly dow a steeee! Merriee meh meh. LIFE IS BUT A DREAM!"</div><br /><br /><div>I say it's a fine tradition. So we should all go out of our way to not to know the lyrics, much less the title to the New Year Song. </div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>So it's it January 1st. A day to declare that we will diagnose aspects of our lifestyle and personality that needs improvement and make the appropriate changes. Join that gym! Don't swear so much! Balance that check book! Stop smelling strangers' hair on the bus! Hey, I'll give that last one up when I'm good and ready. Baby steps.</div><br /><br /><div>Though I am a cynical dick, I actually do feel a sense of momentum to improve myself this time of year. And even though that momentum comes from something as arbitrary as your car odometer passing a hundred thousand miles, I'll take any momentum I can get. However, a lifetime of unfulfilled good intentions has also beat into me a justified skepticism when it comes to the process of getting my shit together. Honestly, even the phrase "goal setting" kind of irritates me. Because more often than not, I know I'm just forecasting my own failure. </div><br /><br /><div>Here's a piece of advice. Never write down your goals. Ever. Yeah, Tony Robbins will tell you otherwise but he's just a giant toothed, douchey con man. Look, I realize that by documenting your aspirations it gives that objective some weight. So let it be written, so let it be done. (To be clear, I' quoting <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UO_84C3fpuI">Metallica</a>. Not <a href="http://yulbrynner.net/images/Yul%20Brynner/Yul_Brynner.jpg">Yul Brynner</a>.) But we've all had that moment in early April when you decide to clean up the cluttered trash on your desktop and you find a three and half month old piece of notebook paper with a list of goals. You briefly read down them and chuckle inside knowing that by Martin Luther King day every one of those good intentions went right out the window. And even though it's kind of funny, the reason it's funny is because you knew full well when you made that list that this moment was going to happen. You have become your own punchline. So save yourself the aggravation and just keep your ambitions in the unspecific, ever fluctuating cloud that is your mind where they can be amended and or forgotten as any results of your progress dictate. </div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>Denial. It's the secret to happiness.</div><br /><br /><div>But that doesn't mean we shouldn't make public New Years Resolutions. We should just make ones that are totally trivial. That way, any failure is guilt free. And so in that spirit, I now present: </div><br /><br /><div><b>Brian's List of Trivial and Guilt Free New Year's Resolutions That I Will Probably Forget All About In a Week But It Was a Stupid Goal To Begin With, So Who Really Gives Two Craps?</b><br /><br /><b>Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #1</b>: Drink More Ginger Ale.<br /><br />I love Ginger Ale. It may be the most refreshing soda out there. Just sweet enough to please the pallet but dry enough to refresh. And yet I never buy it. Ever. Whether it's a twelve pack at the grocery store, a 44 at the gas station or a single can from a vending machine, I never spend money on this treat. Although, I almost always drink it when I'm on an airplane. I'm not sure why. But twenty minutes into any flight I'm on, when the flight attendant chirps out, "Cocktail? Soda?" I almost always order myself a Ginger. And I enjoy the hell out of it. So I here by declare that I will remedy this shortcoming. No long will Ginger Ale be consumed exclusively poured over that round ice machine ice in a short, wide mouthed plastic cup sitting on my pull-down tray on the aisle seat. Nope. Ginger Ale is now at the top of my beverage rotation.</div><br /><br /><div><b>Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #2: </b>Stop Saying "Bro". In All Of Its Variations.</div><br />This one is about five years overdue. To be clear, I don't think I say this very much. But making this a public goal of mine is my passive aggressive way of telling everyone else to knock it the hell off. <br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>By "all of its variations" I include any hackneyed phrase that includes the word "man" as well. That list includes but is not limited to the following; Bro, Bra, Broham, Broseph, Bromance, Bromantic Comedy, Man Crush, Man Purse, Man Boobs, Man Whore, Man Date and while we're at it, let's throw in Booyah. (If this resolution gains the kind of momentum that I'm hoping for, it will effectively end the broadcasting career of Stuart Scott. I am fine with that.)</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>See, the problem with all of these phrases isn't simply that they are all an extension of the worn out comedic stylings of Tim Allen circa 1992. They are. And that is definitely a problem. But the real issue I have is that they are never said without tinge of irony. "Broseph is clearly a stupid thing to call someone, but I'm saying it with a self congratulatory wink, so it doesn't really count. By saying it, I'm really making fun of the people who say it. But we all know I'm not one of those people. Even though I just said it."</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>Look, I'm sarcastic to the bone. The whole premise of this stupid post is based on sarcasm. So I can't decide in my second sarcastic entry on my sarcastic list to decry sarcasm. I'm just in favor of slightly more original sarcasm. This has been thoroughly played out. It's time for us all to just walk away from it. Can we agree to that? Great. Let's move on.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><b>Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #3: </b>Stop Using Facebook Updates To Cram My Political Point Of View Up The Ass Of Every Casual Acquaintance Who Accepted My Friend Request.</div><br /><div><b><br /></b></div><br /><div>Again, I don't think I do this very often. But I hope my public declaration catches on. It's not that I don't enjoy a good political discussion. I love having my own beliefs challenged by honest debate. It usually strengthens my beliefs but I am certainly open to being convinced by a thoughtful counterpoint. But either way it's a constructive experience. However, Facebook is not the forum for this. Not because it's rude or polarizing. If anything, I think we withhold our opinions too much. But gay marriage, health care reform, abortion, global warming and the existence of God are issues that deserve a real conversation. And you just can't do that with a two sentence long bumper sticker that the Facebook status is limited to. You might get seven like minded people to "like" your status. But odds are good you annoyed the hell out of fifty other people. I'm not saying you shouldn't be vocal in your convictions but how many of your 420 friends did you persuade to your point of view? The answer is zero. I promise you. That's not because your beliefs aren't valid or sincere. It's because "Obama is an idiot." is not a thought provoking starting point for a reasonable discussion.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>So use Facebook for what's it's good for. And that is an online equivalent of a conversation you have with someone in an elevator. When you step into an elevator and see a coworker that you are friendly with, you acknowledge them with a brief conversation. It may be small talk about the weather, or mild complaining about your day. But either way, it must be concise and trivial enough to be concluded within about thirty seconds. So keep it the status updates interesting and opinionated, but make it something that can be resolved in a couple of two sentence comments. We'll all be better for it.</div><br /><div><b><br /></b></div><br /><div><b>Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #4: </b>Change the Channel Every Time the Stupid Capital One Commercial With the Vikings Comes On.</div><br /><div><b><br /></b></div><br /><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GO_Dq5bryNQ">This commercial</a>. It's the way the main viking guy says "Venture Card" in a false baritone. Like chewing on aluminum foil. This resolution will take some commitment today, since Capital One is the primary sponsor to every College Football Bowl Game. Which means these things are on incessantly. But it must be done.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>Look, there's just no damn reason on earth that a Viking would have an English accent. None. If anything they should sound like the Swedish Chef. It would be funnier and at least slightly accurate. And it's not that I care about fact checking a stupid commercial. But why English? They might as well have Mexican accents. Or Italian. I guess English accents somehow just sound historic to Americans. Like how everyone in Gladiator had English accents. It sounds Shakespearian. Proper.<br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>However, I can't complain about a commercial being annoying, without being annoying myself. So I choose passive resistance. Instead of grousing about these stupid things, I will simply change the channel when they come on. I think Gandhi would be proud.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><b>Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #5: </b>Stop Using Every Other Sentence I Say In A Daily Conversation By Quoting Some Movie Or TV Show.</div><br /><div><b><br /></b></div><br /><div>Sadly, this is in no way meant for other people. I am the sole subject of this resolution and anyone who knows me marginally well will happily agree that this needs to happen. I am an unapologetic product of pop culture. That's not such a bad thing. You are too. But an unfortunate side effect of this condition is that I express my alleged individuality by repeating clever lines from Arrested Development, The Simpsons and The Big Lebowski*. And I do it constantly. I can't even control it anymore. It's like I'm a TV/Movie playlist set on shuffle. </div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>There are two primary reasons why this needs to end. First, I am destroying that which I love. I'm taking something that was once brilliant and making it irritating. </div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>The second reason is that by overusing a particular conversational tactic, I am eliminating its effectiveness. It's like the F word. I'm not going to tell you to never say it. Because sometimes there just isn't any other word that will do. But when you drop it into every sentence fifteen times, not only do you become a vulgar dirt ball, you forfeit any impact that the word could have possessed. And so when the time is right to express extreme anger, or whatever, you have defused the most powerful word at your disposal. </div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>A perfectly placed movie reference dropped at a party is a beautiful thing. It's a secret code that instantly filters out the unsophisticated and endears you to those that have the ears to hear. But it is a technique that must be used sparingly. Lest you kill it through overuse.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>Years ago in College there was a particular girl that sat in front of me in class who had a good combination of cute and cool. She caught my eye. And if I weren't a pussy, I would have approached her in some charming, debonair manner. But it has been well documented throughout this blog that I am indeed a huge pussy. So the direct and assertive approach was not an option. Through a variety reconnaissance techniques (I stealthily listened to her conversations with her friend sitting next to her in class. Brilliant. I know.) I learned that she was a fan of the movie Waiting For Guffman. I learned this because she once said "It's been a crappy day. I'm just going to go home and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=De6AkndwRpM">bite my pillow</a>." Taking this intel, I devised a strategy for attack. I waited a few days to respond with my own Guffman line. But it had to appear organic and independent of her Guffman line so as to avoid seeming obvious and needy. Also I didn't want to reveal myself as an eavesdropping creep. So the next week, I raised my hand to comment about the reading. It was an English class, so pretty much all comments were some variety of fluffy bull crap. I made a brief point and then seemed to trail off. " ahh . . . you know. . . It's a Zen thing. Like how many babies fit in the tire. You know. That old joke." (Couldn't find a clip.) The Professor did his best to respect my nonsense and then changed the subject. But she immediately turned around, flipping her hair into her face and excitedly whispered, "I LOVE that movie!". That night we made out like bipolar jack rabbits the way that only horny, celibate Mormons can. And I owe that hook up entirely to Corky St Claire and a well placed movie reference.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>So it's time to recapture that magic by exercising some much needed restraint. I'm dialing back the volume of quotes. Seriously. I am.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">*And Spinal Tap and Raising Arizona and Seinfeld and Flight of the Conchords and Extras and Pulp Fiction and Best In Show and Curb Your Enthusiasm and 30 Rock and O Brother and Sunny and Aziz Ansari's stand up. Note how The Cleveland Show is not on that list.</span></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-11769185903453980552010-12-13T17:19:00.000-08:002010-12-13T18:03:19.486-08:00Thanks, Paul<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ld7p6iOEQ91qb3920o1_500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 358px;" src="http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ld7p6iOEQ91qb3920o1_500.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />If you happened to watch last week's Saturday Night Live (and really, who the hell does that any more?) then you would have caught Paul McCartney fulfilling the desire of the my previous post. Well, not quite. But it was as close to the real thing that we could ever expect in the modern world of two remaining Beatles. Paul sang "A Day In the Life" and and for the most part knocked it out of the park. He then combined it with the chorus of "Give Peace a Chance"* creating a fitting tribute to his friend that was murdered 30 years previous. <div><br /></div><div>It was a great television moment. And I would like to embed a copy of it for your enjoyment. But the tone deaf a-holes at NBC have decided to not allow me to freely publicize their product. For some reason, they won't stream that performance. So no one gets to watch it ever again. Brilliant decision.</div><div><br /></div><div>So you'll just have to imagine it. Instead, here is a clip from the episode that is actually pretty damn funny. Paul Rudd shaking his hips to a tiny harmonica solo makes me giggle every time. It's a comedy staple.<br /><br /><object width="512" height="288"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/MZjtpJf9-lMUrxqo-JLiHw/1108/1236"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/MZjtpJf9-lMUrxqo-JLiHw/1108/1236" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="288" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">*As big of a Lennon fan as I am, I just can't bring myself to like "Give Peace a Chance." It's just too damn stupid of a solution. Good political songs should diagnose, not prescribe. For example, take every single protest song Dylan ever wrote. "Give Peace a Chance" is a catchy jingle and all, but trying to change the world with a song is as effective as putting a band-aid on a tumor. My cynicism aside, it was still a nice gesture by Paul.</span></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-3028481067303624582010-12-03T14:56:00.001-08:002011-01-22T16:46:04.836-08:00The Way It Should Have Been<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.gibson.com/Files/aaFeaturesImages2008pt2/beats_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 480px; height: 324px;" src="http://www.gibson.com/Files/aaFeaturesImages2008pt2/beats_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">Alright. So I slack off for two months and then drop a long one on you. This little number will take some time getting through if you go in for the full audio visual experience. If you're a Beatles fan, please enjoy. And if you're not . . . what the hell's your problem?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Next week, December 8th, marks the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's murder. Between now and then, we will all be subjected to several news stories recapping the life and death of one John Winston Lennon. That news story will give a bland voiced over synopsis of his cultural significance, while we see a collage of familiar images. These will include the obligatory clip of <a href="http://www.rocktownhall.com/blogs/media/blogs/rth/beatlessullivan.jpg">Ed Sullivan in 64</a>, a the <a href="http://www.examiner.com/images/blog/EXID13890/images/beatles_abbey_road.jpg">Abbey Road album cover</a>, the bed-in with <a href="http://greg.org/archive/bed_in_lennon_ono.jpg">Yoko</a> and perhaps the photo of him in the <a href="http://assets.nydailynews.com/img/2009/05/11/amd_john-lennon.jpg">New York shirt</a>. It will then show news coverage of the crowd crying outside the Dakota and the doctor confirming his death at the hospital. The voice over will include phrases like, "Anti war activist" and "Spokesman for a generation" and will end with a clip of him sitting at <a href="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/44286000/jpg/_44286598_lennon020.jpg">the white piano</a> as a few bars of Imagine play.</div><div><br /></div><div>It'll be a nice story that will make you feel nostalgic, even if Lennon has been dead for your entire lifetime. But, since this annual pre-Christmas tradition will no doubt be laid on extra thick this year (the big 3-0!), this news story will lose its appeal after the fifth time you see it. By the 10:00 news Wednesday evening, you will have had your fill with Yoko Ono's face and will welcome the return of our regularly scheduled faux news minutia of Dancing With The Stars results, the Miami Heat and whatever the bullshit is that makes the Kardashians relevant. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have no friggin clue what the hell that is, by the way.<br /><br />Now, anyone who knows me even a little bit, will be happy to acknowledge that I'm a big fan of the Beatles. In fact, I can be borderline obnoxious when it comes to this subject. If you think about it, it's pretty easy to be a Beatles fan. I mean it's about the safest opinion you can possibly have when it comes to any aspect of pop culture appreciation. Who is really going to argue the importance of Sgt Pepper? You can not like it. You can say it's overrated. But no reasonably informed connoisseur of Rock and Roll can deny its bone shattering impact. It's like defiantly declaring that Michael Jordan was the greatest basketball player. Well, duh. We all know that. And this reality makes it kind of boring to be a Beatles fan. There's nothing really bold about it. But that's just fine. People don't love great music to prove to the world how sophisticated and original they are. (Well, you do if you're a <a href="http://pitchfork.com/">smug, contrarian jaggoff</a>.) No, we love great music because it resonates with our soul. Because it both reflects and defines who we are as a culture and as individuals. Because it floods us with memories both personal and collective. And damn it, great music just makes us feel good.<br /><br />And make no mistake about it, the Beatles made great music.<br /><br />Let me present you with a glorious and impossible thought. What if Dr Sam Becket leaped back in time to the first week of December, 1980 into the body of the doorman at the Dakota apartments in Manhattan. (Don't pretend like you don't get the Quantum Leap reference. You loved that show every bit as much as me. Admit it.) Al would explain to Sam that his mission is to wait for Mark David Chapman to get John Lennon's autograph the morning of the 8th and then blow his crazy ass head off at point blank range. Done and done. It would be a short episode. Sam then would leap into the body of a circus performer having marital problems in 1958. (But Sam can't walk on a tight rope! What will he ever do?)<br /><br />The point is, Lennon lives! What would have happened? Well, probably not much for the next couple of years. It's not like the Beatles were planning on touring the summer of 81 or anything. But John would have done the talk show circuit, plugging Double Fantasy (an uneven album but it has half dozen or so songs that are <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_m8uoObnWQM">fantastic</a>). He would have done a few tour dates and then taken another few years off to watch Sean grow up. In 1985 he would divorce Yoko's crazy ass and marry Connie Chung. (John likes them sideways.) Then in 1987 he would release a terrible record. It would be called something like "Electric Kettle Fish" and he would appear on the cover wearing a skinny tie and Ray-bans. Sadly, most of the musical greats from the 60's and 70's produced some awful music in the 80's. <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_1dN9wvd0tNM/RyUqpi52YNI/AAAAAAAAAPo/65G1QOTR3LU/gratefuldeadtouchofgray3big.gif">Touch Of Gray</a>, ring a bell? <a href="http://www.rouladeunlimited.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/kokostamos31.gif">Kokomo</a>? <a href="http://www.michael-jackson-not-dead.info/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/jackson-mccartney.jpg">Say, Say, Say</a>? </div><div><br /></div><div>Damn it, Paul. You should know better.<br /><br />But here's where it gets interesting. In 1993, John bumps into George at a Tai Chi class in Malibu and for the first time in 20 years, they really hit it off. They've both been sober for a decade. They have each enjoyed the validation that comes from their solo success. They've raised their families. They're each happy. Balanced. But a little bored. The Whilbury's has run its course for George. And even though John just did a voice-over for a Disney movie, he's feeling the itch. Upon reminiscing about the good times (and they are both surprised at just how many good times they remember) they feel the ambition to remind the world just exactly who the greatest band of all time really is. So they decide to take the next step.<br /><br />John calls Ringo. They never lost touch. George calls Paul. The four agree to meet together under top secret security at Paul's villa near Tucson, Arizona. And for the first time since 1969, they pick up their instruments and jam.<br /><br />They start with a couple of standards. Some Carl Perkins. A Chuck Berry number. Maybelline. They run through Kansas City and Hound Dog. And it feels good. It feels right. Nothing at all like the Let It Be sessions. They are just four buddies playing the songs they were raised on. Then, as a gesture of respect and affection to his old pal, John plays the intro to Paul's song Helter Skelter. </div><div><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/aMfkVGCU_BA?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/aMfkVGCU_BA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Paul chimes in with the lyrics and nearly rips his throat out when he screams "AND I SEE YOU AGAIN!!!". Spontaneous brilliance is rediscovered as John and George take turns shredding the sounds of the Apocalypse and Ringo remembers the happiness that comes with having blisters on his fingers. After an eight minute musical orgasm, the four of them pause in silence for a few moments, reflecting on the magic they each just witnessed. George breaks the silence in a Liverpudlian drawl. "You know, I don't remember asking U2 to steal that song back."<br /><br />At that moment, they decide to exorcise all past demons, bury any remaining hatchets and give the free world what it had lusting after for the last 25 plus years.* The Beatles decide to reunite and tour. They immediately sit down and start working on set lists. Dates, cities, venues? Those details will work themselves out later. Right now, they want to channel this energy into finding and perfecting the right songs to play for their long suffering fan base.<br /><br />Six weeks later, at Madison Square Garden, the curtain raises on the first Beatles Concert since Candlestick Park in 1966. I now present what I'm pretty sure is my own invention. The hypothetical concert. Behold! The Beatles 1993 North American Tour.<br /><br />The stage is dark. Sounds of an orchestra tuning up is heard. A few fans in the crowd recognize this sound and burst with anticipation. Then a flash of light ignites as the band launches into Sgt Pepper.</div><div><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Y5eoDCc8TI?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Y5eoDCc8TI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />There's no jumbo-tron in the background displaying the album cover. They aren't wearing the brightly colored costumes. It's just a rock band wearing jeans and T shirts playing guitars. It seems as though they were influenced by Jimi's cover at Monterey. It's got more edge than the album version. The song morphs into A Little Help From My Friends as Ringo bobs his head back in forth behind his drum kit, singing the lyrics. John and Paul share a mic as they harmonize the counterpoint. "Does it worry you to be alone?" The song ends with the kind of endless applause that only decades of musical blue balls can produce. A few minutes pass until they realize the only way they can get the crowd to stop is to begin the next song.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Imb4tYOk8GE?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Imb4tYOk8GE?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />John steps to the center of the stage, clicks a few pedals on the floor and blasts the opening power chords of Revolution accompanied by Paul's spine crushing scream. John's vocals are nearly drowned out by the crowds' singing. By the third verse, he just let's the audience sing on their own. 20,000 people scream in perfect unison, "But if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, You ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow!!"<br /><br />Once the audience relaxes a bit, the band members begin some banter. They acknowledge that it's been a long time coming and how good it is to be back. They say something about playing in New York and mention their first flight into JFK back in 64. And before they can even mention the words "Ed Sullivan" Ringo hits the toms beginning a spirited yet brief rendition of "She Loves You".<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3q7KXWzA2fQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3q7KXWzA2fQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />George makes a joke about screaming girls. John suggests they mix it up a bit. He then straps on an accordion (you heard me) and begins the melotron intro to Strawberry Fields.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8A4r2RU1u3g?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8A4r2RU1u3g?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Standing there with his shoulder length hair, round glasses with an accordion strapped to his chest, John's thin metallic voice leads the congregation. "Let me take you down, cause I'm going to . . ." A pair of cellists and a horn section appear out of the darkness, capturing that George Martin brand of studio magic from all those years ago. George's 12 string Rickenbacker weaves a warm dream over Paul and Ringo relentless rhythm. After the refrain fades out and the applause loses momentum, John says while looking across the stage to his counterpart, "You know I could never bury you, Paul." The crowd laughs hysterically, even though it wasn't that funny.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yJ8WI3Q9jm4?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yJ8WI3Q9jm4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />The horn section then erupts into the intro of Got To Get You Into My Life as Paul steps to the mic and belts out three minutes of unapologetic happiness. At the end when Paul begins riffing on the chorus, John spontaneously joins him in a conversational ad lib.<br /><br />John then sits down at a grand piano as George takes center stage. Ringo says, "I think it's time we hear from the quiet one." George hides his annoyance at that reference as John pounds out the minor chords of While My Guitar Gently Weeps.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/F3RYvO2X0Oo?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/F3RYvO2X0Oo?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Standing alone in the spotlight for an extended guitar solo, George's slide work puts Clapton shame.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UaRz-3DYV7c?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UaRz-3DYV7c?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />Staying at the piano, John savagely bangs the opening rif of Hey Bulldog. As Paul slaps the funk right of his lefty bass, he joins John with feisty barking and growling. John plays along. "Quiet boy!"<br /><br />Ringo then addresses the crowd. "You know the Beatles have been known for a lot of things over the years. But, really in the end we're a simple Rock and Roll band that just wants to kick your ass."<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xTUagXO4kKU?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xTUagXO4kKU?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />He then hits the bass pedal beginning an ear bleeding rendition of "Everybody's Got Something To Hide, Except For Me and My Monkey." They crowd loses it. They aren't just playing the obvious songs. They're giving us the B sides. This is a concert for the true blue fans.<br /><br />The stage lights darken. A spotlight appears on the piano as Paul sits down. He then plays the immortal chord progression of Let It Be.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vHgZCrAoqKk?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vHgZCrAoqKk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />John compliments the piano with a Billy Preston style church organ floating above the ground. The cellists and horn section take turns adding their layers. After George's sublime solo, all instruments halt as Paul sings the final verse with just Ringo's drums backing him up. Then the chorus comes back and on the down beat everything returns, like a sonic wave washing you out to sea. The strings, the horn line, John's organ and George's guitar dancing with Paul's vocals. The crowd is stunned.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZCcVg3b4ZRk?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZCcVg3b4ZRk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Let It Be begins the acoustic set. Once the applause begins to fade, George takes the spotlight alone with a ukulele and plays Something in its entirety by himself.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3t8MeE8Ik4Y?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3t8MeE8Ik4Y?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />George heads backstage as the stage lights come back on to reveal John and Paul sitting on stools, side by side with acoustic guitars in hand. Ringo is front and center with a snare, a high hat and brushes. And they begin a stripped down unplugged version of Help. (You'll have to imagine this one.)<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5nGVaLkCQAg?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5nGVaLkCQAg?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Remaining with the same setup, they follow up Help with a similar rendition of I'm Looking Through You.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/MF90rX43VpE?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/MF90rX43VpE?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /></div><div>George returns with a Sitar, to the joy of the crowd. Ringo steps to a pair of conga drums and the four of them play a simplified version of Love You To.<br /><br />George then plays the opening riff of In My Life of the Sitar, accompanied by Paul on the double bass. Ringo returns to the snare and they play the Rubber Soul classic.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ukbbPJirTaE?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ukbbPJirTaE?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />George replaces the harpsichord solo with his sitar and John's voice cracks with emotion on the last verse.</div><div><br />John then sits back at the piano. Ringo returns to his drum kit and George picks up an acoustic guitar and begins strumming a G chord. The piano joins him playing A Day In the Life.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/P-Q9D4dcYng?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/P-Q9D4dcYng?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Ringo's fills and Paul's bass line punctuate John's unsettling lyrics perfectly. The horn line and strings again appear out of the darkness as the crowd falls down the rabbit hole. Paul wakes us all up by dragging a comb across his head. Upon having a smoke we all go into a dream as John's voice swims around the arena. We return to his surreal newspaper article and fall right back into the same rabbit hole until it the door is slammed shut with the final E chord.<br /><br />The crowd is stunned. They intuitively wait for a few reverent moments before erupting in applause. The Pepper magic was just created right in front of their eyes. It's like seeing a unicorn in the wild. It is beyond belief.<br /><br />Paul then steps to the mic and asks, "Does anyone remember this one? One, two, three FOUR!"<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oWdqh2PPvTI?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oWdqh2PPvTI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />John and George lay on the distortion and really blow the doors off this song. George puts a little wa pedal into his solo. This isn't a teeny boppers diddy. It's the anthem of a sexual predator. At the end John jokes, "Paul, I think it's about time you stop looking at those 17 year old girls. If you know what I mean."<br /><br />Paul laughs it off and sits down at the piano.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QoBWW3OAhgw?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QoBWW3OAhgw?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Smelling the finale, the crowd soaks in every note. 20,000 people swaying in unison, singing with their eyes closed savoring every second. After the false start, the chorus swells and the round begins. NA NA NA NA NE NA NA! The horn line joins in the fourth repeat. Paul begins riffing. "Well you know you can make it, Ju Jude you're not gonna break it!". On the tenth cycle the whole band cuts out except Ringo beat, the house lights turn on and each individual in the audience communes with the music. People hold their hands in the air and shake their head as if they caught the spirit at a Pentacostal service. Paul directs the crowd. "Just the ladies! Now the fellas! Okay, are we ready to bring it home?" The band joins back in with the full horn line and string section as Paul does a spot on Little Richard. "Wow woo! Na Na Na!"<br /><br />Finally they fade out. The four of them stand together on stage and give a bow. John says, "We're gonna take a quick break and be back for an encore in just bit."<br /><br />The crowd chants "We want more!" in the dark for the next ten minutes.<br /><br />The band triumphantly returns to the stage. Without a word jump right into Twist and Shout.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/udH_3q8qWWI?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/udH_3q8qWWI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Paul says something about John sounding a lot like that Ferris Bueller kid. He then dons an acoustic guitar and stands in front of the string section and makes every 45 year old woman in the crowd swoon.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pGQgd2PT4mw?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pGQgd2PT4mw?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Once the applause fades, Ringo quips, "For some reason I really want to eat some scrambled eggs." John then addresses the crowd and tells them what a pleasure it has been to play the old songs all over again. He thanks the audience and Paul begins Golden Slumbers from behind the piano.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4HCaBAV4ZTI?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4HCaBAV4ZTI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Upon Carry That Weight, Paul joins the rest of the band with an electric guitar at the front of the stage. All four sing together, "Are you gonna be in my dreams, tonight?". John, Paul and George then give way as Ringo begins The End with his drum solo. He owns the spotlight as his unsung talent shines undeniably. The guitarists then launch into a three way duel, outdoing each other's licks for several minutes. Paul sneaks back to the piano with his guitar slung around his back as it all stops, leaving his happy bouncing keys. </div><div><br /></div><div>The four Beatles and entire audience then sing together, "And in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you make." The string section then carries the band, their instruments and their harmonies off into the air as the greatest concert in the history of time comes to a triumphant end.<br /><br />Yup. That the way it should have been. But some dip shit shot John Lennon in the back. I blame JD Salinger. So instead of this cultural achievement for the ages, we get a bunch of lazy, rehashed news stories every December 8th.<br /><br />What a crock.<br /><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*In my years, I have seen Paul McCartney live. And I have seen Ringo Starr and his All Star Band. Let me just say, the opposite of synergy was in full effect. Paul and eight guys I don't know are not the Beatles. Even though Paul was a driving creative force behind the band and they were playing the songs I love, it was a McCartney show. Not a Beatles show. And we'll just leave poor Ringo alone. But let me say this. I paid more than a 150 bucks for McCartney tickets. For Ringo? 15 bones. He couldn't even demand a twenty. But I probably enjoyed Ringo just as much. He played almost as many Beatles songs and Jack Bruce played bass for him. So they mixed in some Cream. Good show.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-87518421149829353202010-09-18T22:32:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:03:05.851-07:00Color Commentators Are Bleeding Useless<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmqcsFWokj3sska71FVsonqbw46u9bYRhDzbQ7tWpGXCWFBBc00B8YyHO41RtyzuuCO1TGqHdjMENUF-PjHkHlsTv7Nhm0ilMMb8JsTbNxtxhpvWOn8nJtLhSYXKWYeCwyzPEu7rT5UBA/s1600/316px-Guy-smiley.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmqcsFWokj3sska71FVsonqbw46u9bYRhDzbQ7tWpGXCWFBBc00B8YyHO41RtyzuuCO1TGqHdjMENUF-PjHkHlsTv7Nhm0ilMMb8JsTbNxtxhpvWOn8nJtLhSYXKWYeCwyzPEu7rT5UBA/s200/316px-Guy-smiley.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518552219657699858" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well, we're three weeks into the College Football season and every BYU fan is ready to jump off a cliff. Myself included. Wipe that smirk off your face, Ute Fans. I predict Air Force rolls you up in a few weeks. Maybe. Who the hell knows. To be honest, I'm too emotionally broken to talk any trash. If you'll excuse me, I'm just going to curl up into the fetal position and quietly hum "It's a Small World" to myself in a vain attempt to hold back the tears of despair.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Two Quarterbacks?!!! Rotating every other series?!?!?!?! Bronco, you are an arrogant fool.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So instead of rehashing an already exhausted subject of BYU's quarterback folly, or the inability of any of their receivers to catch a pass that hits them in the hands, or the inability of any member of their defense to tackle a Florida State running back, or the . . . . hell, I'll just stop there. Instead of that bull crap, I instead choose to illustrate a mild irritant that has accompanied the last two nightmare weeks of my football loving life. I speak of the intolerable nonsense spewing from the mouth of every single College Football Color Commentator. The blathering noise that just compounds my futile anger. It's bad enough watching your beloved team suck it up on a Saturday afternoon. It's so much worse having to do that while listening to Todd Christiansen push self congratulatory excrement from his verbose, leperous mouth and pass it off as insight.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Did I ever mention that I played for the Raiders?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Why exactly are they called Color Commentators, anyway? Is it because their witty anecdotes add color to the otherwise drab and monochromatic play by play? Is it due to their propensity to draw yellow lines all over the screen while a key third down is in progress? Is it because many of them are black? Maybe it's one of those old timey terms that just never got updated. Like NAACP. Or the United Negro College Fund. As a squeamishly polite white person, I felt uncomfortable even typing that. It just doesn't sound right to refer to Reggy Miller as the color guy on an NBA broadcast. Of course I know this isn't the reason for the title. If it were it would be Commentators of Color. And that would just be nutty.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now, I am willing to give the color guys a bit of a break. It's a tough job. At least they find a way to make it a tough job. Their purpose is to restate the obvious events that everyone just witnessed with their own eyes. So leaping to ridiculous conclusions and exaggerating either the success or failure of the players on the field is really just an inevitable outcome of trying to sound interesting. But that's where they all fail. I don't care what sport they are covering. Mark Jackson, Tim McCarver, Booner, Bill Walton. They should all make zero effort to sound interesting. A good Color Commentator isn't an interesting one. It's an invisible one. I'm tuning in to watch the players on the filed. Not to listen to your bull crap, Blayne Fouler. So can it. Provide a counterpoint to the play by play guy so as to create a conversational rhythm. That's your job. That's it. When you try to do more, you make it difficult for me to ignore you. And that's all I want to do. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Take Troy Ainkman as an example. I hate the damn Cowboys with all the energy of my being. And I really hated the Cowboys of the 90's. But I actually like Ainkman as commentator quite a bit. He's so freaking boring, I can tune his voice out like it was a dog whistle. The same cannot be said for Lee Corso. Instead of white noise, I am forced to roll my eyes at all the stupid crap he insists on saying. This is especially true when it's a national broadcast of a local team. Before the opening kickoff it becomes clear that the color guy doesn't know a fraction of what I, a typical fan, know about my beloved team. Don't mispronounce Manumaleuna and tell me about Riley Nelson's year at Utah State. Just blend in with the furniture. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So in an effort to provide a solution to this dilemma, the following is a list of ten things that should never be heard in a football broadcast: </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0o_MNCoK-KSwL7zkJTh7ZAD6Y1-9eDI7YB9tzi8udxIi5jEdIO5CsVV8Ae7-kpPtQ91Db9-bmQSFuNEe3SSpjtUlZDnGKPFgmJBys0vorolt-zVKbnpXjB79AmQGq6zgHlIaSzB2h5cQ/s1600/erin-andrews-espn.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0o_MNCoK-KSwL7zkJTh7ZAD6Y1-9eDI7YB9tzi8udxIi5jEdIO5CsVV8Ae7-kpPtQ91Db9-bmQSFuNEe3SSpjtUlZDnGKPFgmJBys0vorolt-zVKbnpXjB79AmQGq6zgHlIaSzB2h5cQ/s200/erin-andrews-espn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518781837629662210" border="0" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">1. Any word uttered by a Sideline Reporter:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Color Commentators are irritating but Sideline Reporters are </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">intolerable. Look, I like Erin Andrews</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> in an orange sweater as much as the next guy. But that doesn't mean I'm interested in hearing her bull crap story about the assistant coach's wife during a key play. And just to be clear, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">they're all key plays. Just because she's an attractive woman, doesn't mean I'm fixated on whatever tangential nonsense she may be blathering about. There's a football game going on here. There's no need to manufacture interest with a bunch of warm fuzzy, human interest stories about Tim Tebow's parents. Just show the game. And since when was there a shortage of hot chicks to film at a college football game anyway? Between the student section and the cheerleaders, I think we have the random eye candy covered without having to invent an entire career. I'm pretty sure Title IX doesn't extend to the broadcast team. I think. But you can never really be sure on that stuff. Litigious business, that Title IX. You know what? I take it all back. Female sideline reporters provide an invaluable insight whose absence would leave any broadcast hopelessly incomplete. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2. "Scamper":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Chipmunks scamper. Puppies scamper. </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My three year old niece scampers. And she's downright adorable when she does it. But a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">240 pound fullback does not scamper. An 80 yard touchdown run can in no way be accurately described as a scamper.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3. "Razzle Dazzle":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> As a general rule, I'm against trick plays in football. I like teams that just pound it. I'm all for misdirection and play action. But end-arounds and half back passes just bug me. As does the inescapable urge commentators have to blurt out the term in question. It conjures up an image involving sequined costumes and theatric magic shows performed to the music of Abba. Which actually sounds pretty damn cool. Don't judge me. Imagine GOB preforming illusions to "Fernando". That's pure entertainment, right there. But this term needs to be retired in the football realm. Especially when it doesn't really apply. Razzle Dazzle is a stripper name. Not an accurate description of a quarterback draw.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">4. "Blue Zone":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I love you Bronco but that's just stupid as hell. And Greg Wrubell, you don't need to step in line. Red Zone is a universally accepted football term. So say it! Is Utah in your head that much? Sadly, I fear the answer is yes. But it's still just dumber than dirt. Do the London Monarchs of NFL Europe refuse to call a stunting linebacker a blitz due to the German bombing raids on England in World War II? I'm pretty sure they're happy to just call it a blitz. You can call the inside of the 20 yard line the Red Zone, just like everybody else. Blue Zone doesn't make you sound clever, Bronco. It makes you sound petty and weak.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">5. "Indisputable Video Evidence":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I, like every football fan, have a love hate relationship with instant replay. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When it's not in place, then it seems that our team will consistently get dry humped by game changing screw ups made by bumbling incompetents that are wearing ill fitting white knickerbockers. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When it is in place, then nineteen times a game we are forced to watch the same replay over and over while screaming the obvious verdict at the TV. It's lose lose. But without question the most intolerable aspect of instant replay is t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">he asinine conversation between the two announcers to which we the viewers are unavoidably subjected. And no matter the scenario, no matter the play in question, that conversation is the exact same every bleeding time. Suddenly I am tuned into an episode of Law and Order and am being educated on the intricacies of the burden of proof. "Now, the review booth upstairs need indisputable video evidence to overturn the ruling on the field. I gotta say, it looks like the knee was down but since the call was a fumble, it'll be hard to overturn. Bla Bla Bling Bling Bla." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Look, instant replay works too well to ever get rid of it just because Kirk Herbstreet can't think of anything original to say. So here's the solution; mic the refs. This way we hear them deliberate. I want to hear their conversation. Make the whole process transparent. That or just cut to commercial. Show the replay from two different angles and then try to sell us some beer. If the ref announced the ruling while I was in can, so be it. At least I won't be forced to hear an announcer backtrack when his predicted verdict was dead wrong. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">6. "Penetration":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Yeah . . . . There's just got to be a better word to describe a D line getting into the backfield. Especially since it's almost always specifically described as "good penetration". Football has enough homo erotic overtones as it is. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">7. "Pitch and Catch or Dinking and Dunking":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> In an effort to make their job appear to be more difficult than it is, commentators go to some extreme lengths to avoid using normal conversational verbs to describe the action on the field. Instead, they feel compelled to use a really lame thesaurus to spice up their diction. When you are reading a text, the specific words chosen by the author come under an unavoidable scrutiny. The words on the page are the only subject at hand. There are no visual images or sounds to enhance or detract from the experience of reading those words. And so writers need a variety of verbs to propel the events in question. You just can't write the word "pass" fifteen times in a single paragraph to describe a 60 yard touch down drive. It's monotonous. But there is no reason in the world you can't say the word "pass" as much as you feel the need. No ham-fisted synonyms required. If we are hearing a description of events that we are simultaneously witnessing, the value of each individual word is drastically decreased. So using the same word a million times in a row doesn't matter at all. You might as well be saying "the". It sounds right. It fits. There is no need to complicate the obvious. Again, the commentators job is the be easily ignored. And you just can't tune out a term so stupid as "He's just dinkin and dunkin his way down the field." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">8. "Pick Six":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> One advantage that baseball has over football is the variety of cool slang terms for the events of the game. Slammies, taters, knocks, going yard. Those are just plain cool. But unofficial football terms suck. Pick six? I'm not sure why I hate this but I absolutely do. The thing is, it's a massive enough event in a football game that it deserves its own nickname. But a good one. "Interception returned for a touchdown", just doesn't roll of the old tongue. So I say we start calling them Power Pills. You know? From Pac Man? The ghosts turn blue and you get to eat them? The hunter becomes the hunted? It's perfect!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Alright, that's pretty lame. Maybe we should just choose something totally arbitrary like a Meatball Sub. "Champ Baily read the quarterback's eyes perfectly, broke on the ball and BAM! Meatball Sub." I like that one. Or maybe call it a Donkey Punch. Things were going quite well for the offense, until everything suddenly and drastically changed. Didn't see it coming. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">9. "Young Man":</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Look, I get that these are student athletes, living in dorm rooms and taking Sociology 101. But don't describe a 6'5" 280 pound defensive end as a "young man". Even if he is 20 years old. It's inescapably patronizing. Even more so than "kid" or "fella". "Young man" assumes paternal authority on the part of the commentator. Be as complimentary as you want Lou Holtz, but that "young man" could beat you to tears while your family watched in horror. I would avoid any verbal head pats. Not because these athletes should be feared. But because it makes you sound like a condescending ass.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">10. "Two Quarterback System":</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!! (Banging head against brick wall repeatedly.) AAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!!!!!!! (Stabs self in eyeball with screwdriver.) NOOOOOO!!!! (Burns </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">effigy</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> of Robert Anae.) WWWWHHHHYYYYYYYYYY???!!! (Finally runs out of energy and cries himself to sleep.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You know after all of this, I think the real solution for me is to watch the game on mute and play soothing ocean sounds on my iPod. Maybe some Enya. That way when the true freshman Jake Heapes throws another five yard pass into the ground, I can counter with some breathing exercises and relaxation techniques. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I am safe in my cave. I am going deeper into my cave. And there I will find my power animal."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.anita.savedcontent.com/fightclub.%7E.images.%7E.chakra2.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Slide.</span></a></div><div><br /></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-34620972930836280142010-09-08T18:26:00.000-07:002010-09-19T03:30:32.434-07:00I've Always Wanted to Ride In A Helicopter . . .<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGupsMJrWVJdLNdT78JRsZJ0H9k5dqMNlP5qtWZRv5lvgQACXWr13zKgLGC37F83eVCgrHXM_zQk3HSuU9GohDGgiBEifsZqfmJftejmB1DKHzeMjLk_M1yHPfNMrKv6Xvt5GUxoQ6YCs/s1600/IMG_0092.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGupsMJrWVJdLNdT78JRsZJ0H9k5dqMNlP5qtWZRv5lvgQACXWr13zKgLGC37F83eVCgrHXM_zQk3HSuU9GohDGgiBEifsZqfmJftejmB1DKHzeMjLk_M1yHPfNMrKv6Xvt5GUxoQ6YCs/s400/IMG_0092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514722983382079346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">The inside of Pandora's Box Slot Canyon near Torry, Utah.<br />None of these photos are mine. I got them from <a href="http://utoutdoors.blogspot.com/2008/09/pandoras-box.html">this site.</a></span><br /></div><br />There is an ancient Buddhist tale that goes something like this:<br /><br />While walking through the woods a young man was suddenly attacked by a tiger. He frantically ran in fear for his life until he was confronted with a massive cliff. Trapped between a hungry tiger and a deep precipice, he began climbing down a series of vines that had grown up the side of the cliff in a desperate attempt to escape certain death. As he dangled hundreds of feet from the ground, he heard the roar of a second tiger below, patiently waiting for him to drop. At this point, the young man knew for certain that he was going to die. It was unavoidable. As he struggled to hold on to the last few moments of his existence, he saw a wild strawberry growing from the vine he was clutching. He picked the strawberry. He gently inhaled its fragrance. He popped it in his mouth and slowly savored its bursting flavor. That strawberry was the sweetest most delicious thing he had ever experienced in his life.<br /><br />Now, I actually have no idea if that story is indeed ancient. Or Buddhist. Somehow attaching those descriptions gives it more credibility. I heard it on an episode of King of the Hill. That's about the extent of my knowledge of Eastern Philosophy. The point is, confronting one's own mortality on an elemental level deepens the appreciation and enjoyment of the simple and often routine joys of life. Why do I choose to relate this somewhat heavy allegory on a blog that is mired in trivial nonsense? Because last Sunday I had the ever loving crap scared out of me and I've been eating sweet strawberries ever since.<br /><br />Sunday morning, my buddy Matt and I ventured into a slot canyon near Capitol Reef National Park called Pandora's Box. A fitting name for the canyon from hell. Long story short, it was too narrow for me to fit through. We were able to escape the canyon but became stranded on a mesa surrounded by cliffs with no foreseeable way to return to civilization. At 6:30 Sunday evening, with little water and only about an hour of daylight, Matt finished the rest of the canyon solo, a very dangerous thing to do (just ask <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWWcQC0ZxIM">Aron Ralston</a>*). He then hiked eight miles back to a bike we had previously stashed, then road an additional 3 miles back to our car. He called Search and Rescue and at 10:30 the next morning my dumb ass was air lifted to safety. Matt's courage and heroism can not be overstated. I keep offering to kiss him on the lips but he won't let me.<br /><br />Over the last two and half years I have taken up the sport of canyoneering. I have completed 27 different technical slot canyons throughout Utah and have done several of those 27 canyons multiple times. I have taken workshops in anchor construction, read several books on the subject and have consistently exercised what I consider to be good judgment and an abundance of caution in my various adventures. I know my strengths as a canyoneer and my weaknesses. My biggest strength and my biggest weakness is the same thing. My size. I'm a big dude. Being 6'5" and on the plus side of 250 can really come in handy when you are boosting people out of potholes and acting as a meat anchor. But it can really hold you back when you are navigating a tiny crack hundreds of feet into the earth. Being well aware of that limitation, I have been very selective of the canyons I choose to do. Pandora's Box has long been a destination that has both tempted and frightened me. It is a really tight canyon. But not the tightest. It'll be challenging, but I figured I should be able to squeeze my way down through it.<br /><br />One of the web sites I often use for descriptions, directions, maps and GPS way points provided a warning for large frame canyoneers. It said that big fellas will have to work a lot harder to get through the canyon. Instead of being able to slither through the bottom of the slot, I would have to put my feet on one side of the canyon, my butt on another and chimney up the slot and then inch my way over the narrow obstacle. I am fine with a hard working day. That's all part of the experience. So on the Friday of Labor Day weekend, my ambition got the better of me and I suggested to my buddy Matt that we hit Pandora that coming Sunday.<br /><br />We drove down to Capitol Reef (a totally <a href="http://www.planetware.com/i/photo/capitol-reef-national-park-utah-utreef5.jpg">underrated and neglected destination in Utah</a> by the way), we camped near the trail head and got an early start to what was going to be the longest day of my life. We hiked up and around on top of a mesa, ascending about a thousand vertical feet. We then bush whacked over open dessert to the entrance of the Pandora Slot.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOmq3qFDSac4VnApiLCCA-pBKRz6LrBCHi66zU9PekmMYqpBjKSpRN7Yd-Rjc6u7Ju6NCeGIKKhFAh2zoZccQe-NWB6KyDplg0ViZDRiaFiiynqxEj28iCcUZ1OCfh30NHCMzZOlop3CM/s1600/IMG_0043.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOmq3qFDSac4VnApiLCCA-pBKRz6LrBCHi66zU9PekmMYqpBjKSpRN7Yd-Rjc6u7Ju6NCeGIKKhFAh2zoZccQe-NWB6KyDplg0ViZDRiaFiiynqxEj28iCcUZ1OCfh30NHCMzZOlop3CM/s400/IMG_0043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514725491801227058" border="0" /></a><br />I was pretty disappointed to see a complete absence of any giant, sexy, blue lizard people riding dragons and sticking their spinal chords into dino horses. Total letdown. I was looking forward to blowing up their massive tree house and murdering their children to gain access to the precious unobtainium. I am, after all the offspring of evil, imperialist, American settlers that hate the beauty of nature, and only understands greed and violence.<br /><br />Holy balls! Avatar was stupid.<br /><br />Anywho, as we descended into the canyon, we reached a few rappels and a couple of tight stretches of slot. We were making good time and enjoying the glorious combination of claustrophobic trenches and endless vistas that only a good slot canyon provides. Here are a few more photos. Again, these aren't mine. I don't know who these people are. But feel free to check out this entire photo series from the previous link.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lcs3T3qtAwUiGXQsXnMbDzZ84aF2-WzYijqci60qsf1avRkOeQDBvI5mXca7pZnvdBSB2FR4JPCuCfvuwNxEPdspQ6tiafa_Dejd9x23W2MSYoAdx4CmMTHwg62mbx6Pihs8TggtD9s/s1600/IMG_0109.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lcs3T3qtAwUiGXQsXnMbDzZ84aF2-WzYijqci60qsf1avRkOeQDBvI5mXca7pZnvdBSB2FR4JPCuCfvuwNxEPdspQ6tiafa_Dejd9x23W2MSYoAdx4CmMTHwg62mbx6Pihs8TggtD9s/s400/IMG_0109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514726143065333378" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57kAFceHkpNpma485t8GE64Luyg8akOUTDUwycQI9HlTedgpoTLNhImtj25ZQ3W8ZVe_tYReW12KUGC0v3BeZomMN9-bSpZq4QW3rwtqn_Z7AL5FrbYpGwN7URQqL3cF7qXr7Y2npDaY/s1600/IMG_0099.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57kAFceHkpNpma485t8GE64Luyg8akOUTDUwycQI9HlTedgpoTLNhImtj25ZQ3W8ZVe_tYReW12KUGC0v3BeZomMN9-bSpZq4QW3rwtqn_Z7AL5FrbYpGwN7URQqL3cF7qXr7Y2npDaY/s400/IMG_0099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514726136407482402" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuGtjdaWv_DKG67fVPG26u-3y49cHgJWXwYz_6mQzBLrO4RZa9oYA_-y1nxO1vCUJDyzrQ1J0JqLvmTm7wpEJRiUWEx-OucfpDhOahZkgeTFWAtudVg1ws8cuLOgC_IKzk4uo0W9w0m4/s1600/IMG_0061.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuGtjdaWv_DKG67fVPG26u-3y49cHgJWXwYz_6mQzBLrO4RZa9oYA_-y1nxO1vCUJDyzrQ1J0JqLvmTm7wpEJRiUWEx-OucfpDhOahZkgeTFWAtudVg1ws8cuLOgC_IKzk4uo0W9w0m4/s400/IMG_0061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514726110842961090" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JAhqGvPyG0oQ6HEZ16PSewMvqSU13qTTNTg2Hlp4ko1oR7sAzP8AsER_mTOWSxqwWwzIPTC2H49zRn44OnCBMdLCaimwLeAwkbgpLonayHMB5AUgvbXHuHUfLnevt-uIvZWS1yKtvxs/s1600/IMG_0117.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JAhqGvPyG0oQ6HEZ16PSewMvqSU13qTTNTg2Hlp4ko1oR7sAzP8AsER_mTOWSxqwWwzIPTC2H49zRn44OnCBMdLCaimwLeAwkbgpLonayHMB5AUgvbXHuHUfLnevt-uIvZWS1yKtvxs/s400/IMG_0117.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514726525174360882" border="0" /></a>About an hour into the slot, I realized that I had foolishly brought a pair of sunglasses with me. I never do this. The canyon is too dark to need them and anything taken into a canyon will get crushed. In a moment of misguided inspiration, I decided to unscrew a Nalgene bottle full of water and put the glasses inside of it. That way, they would be crush proof and they wouldn't rattle around. I am problem solving genius! However, I didn't screw the cap on all the way and when I put the bottle back in my pack and I lost one of the three liters of water I had taken with me as it spilled out onto the sand. All in an effort to save an eight dollar pair of gas station sunglasses that I didn't care about.<br /><br />Hell.<br /><br />This was bad. If we hadn't already committed to the canyon with a couple of rappels, I would have turned around right there. But we were in it, with no going back. There was no water anywhere in this canyon and once we exited, we still had eight miles to hike before we returned to civilization. I could do it on two liters, no problem. But his meant that I would have to budget my water. It's now something that I'll have to think about. And I prefer for basic survival not to be an issue when I'm just trying to have a good time.<br /><br />As we proceeded down the canyon it got tighter and tighter. We kept expecting the end to be near, only to turn a corner and be slapped in the face with yet another squeeze. There were moments where Matt would have to kneel on the ground and I would have to walk on his back to get up and over a tight obstacle. Matt would then lie on his side in the dirt and I would pull his dead weight below that same obstacle. Team work is essential for the type of problem solving that is required to safely make your way through these places.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysBgEf8wQyUajImTN8CDQSfcrRag2MsJJ0ap77d1YxEvycrn4EEQ4589ntHV6QgJCIC-P8CZGQYVuLLlhlQ4SLihIMEExy-l4Sx8fI8ojTAHnExWUXNUd7b73dW4fh0UrkleSyMMYicw/s1600/IMG_0079.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysBgEf8wQyUajImTN8CDQSfcrRag2MsJJ0ap77d1YxEvycrn4EEQ4589ntHV6QgJCIC-P8CZGQYVuLLlhlQ4SLihIMEExy-l4Sx8fI8ojTAHnExWUXNUd7b73dW4fh0UrkleSyMMYicw/s400/IMG_0079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514727834440127250" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpSN004gwFoTgW-CoRzk8sPTWiN5pK45aBOBRbn9TEWxryPZdLq1qO-41ZO0aHU54obr7KTF6UlRXxNRR7uJY_2fyWEHCS77foGULJ78jKS0VQUoN4H7G7NhiISq5CtpWzCanI-7JMbo/s1600/IMG_0081.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpSN004gwFoTgW-CoRzk8sPTWiN5pK45aBOBRbn9TEWxryPZdLq1qO-41ZO0aHU54obr7KTF6UlRXxNRR7uJY_2fyWEHCS77foGULJ78jKS0VQUoN4H7G7NhiISq5CtpWzCanI-7JMbo/s400/IMG_0081.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514727831322089522" border="0" /></a>Upon reaching what we thought had to be the final section before the rappel out of the canyon, the walls opened up. I remember noticing two washes on either side, intersecting the slot canyon. They looked like a way to scramble up and out of the canyon, if escaped proved necessary. Looking at that dark crevice, I swore under my breath (or possibly very loudly) sucked in my belly and began yet another birthing experience. This squeeze ended with a very tight crack that opened up into what appeared to be a ten foot drop. This is an obstacle that I cannot climb up and over. I would have to squeeze my way through this tiny orifice and then prepare for a reasonably long drop into a pool of stagnant water like the rancid turd that I felt like.<br /><br />That last sentence was probably more graphic than it needed to be. Sorry.<br /><br />I tried going feet first. No way. Feet first, sideways. No way. Head first (I have no idea how I was expecting to land safely that way). No friggen way. At this point we were both beat. We were sick of this canyon. It had scraped the ever loving hell out of our knees, hands and backs and we were just done. That 8 mile hike out loomed over my head and I cried mercy. I suggested we backtrack to the wash that was just behind us, hike up it to the top of the mesa and navigate our way back to the car. I had been beaten by Pandora. And I didn't care. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.<br /><br />The east wash looked pretty easy to scramble up. But the west wash was pretty hairy. East was more in the direction of our car, so we slowly scrambled up the rock slide and out of the canyon. I was very relieved to see flat ground on top of the wash. Thinking we were on the home stretch, we found a shady rock, relaxed, ate some food and looked at the map. We'd have to walk about a mile and half due south and then turn west for about another mile and connect back to our original trail. From there we would have about an hour and half of easy downhill walking on a well defined trail the get back to our car. We'll make it back before sundown and have time to grab a shower and eat a pizza. Not a bad day.<br /><br />After about a half hour break, we decide to get going. Let's find our vector and get some distance behind us. However we were presented with a serious problem. There was a ravine directly south of us obstructing our way. We walked up and down it looking for a way through or around but we couldn't see and clear solution. More unnerving was the possibility that there were five more crevasses just like it waiting behind this one. These were intersecting slot canyons that were too skinny to appear on our map. We didn't have the water or the energy to be able to risk crossing one of these ravines, only to get more stuck. We were on an island with no clear way out.<br /><br />Earlier that day, I had texted my brother that we were going to be in this canyon. I estimated that the latest we would exit would be about ten o'clock, assuming we had no serious problems. Alan was actually in Capitol Reef as well, camping with his family. So we had hope that if this turned into a long term situation, rescue should be coming but it would only be coming through the Pandora slot. If we were to separate ourselves from our only known location, any rescue team could pass us right by. So after considering our options and saying several silent prayers, Matt suggested that he record my location via GPS, solo the rest of the canyon, hike back to the bike, ride to the car and call in search and rescue. He is a triathlon running beanpole and should have very little trouble squeezing out of our trap. I got the impression that he really didn't want to do this. But after considering our options, I flat out asked him to be the hero. Matt complied.<br /><br />He lightened his load, keeping only the gear needed. He gave me a long sleeved shirt he had, a flint for starting a fire and a little of his water. Considering the amount of physically demanding work he had ahead of him, it was beyond generous.<br /><br />Matt left at six thirty. I figured he would be back to the car by midnight to one in the morning. So I nestled in and tried my best to kill time.<br /><br />It was a moonless night in the desert. The air was cool but comfortable. I was in an isolated enough of a location that I felt safe from any nocturnal wild life. No polar bears or tigers were going to come chasing me down. So I could relax. I tied my bandanna around my face, train robber style to conserve the moisture from my breath and to prevent my inclination to spit. I hate that phloemy, sticky tongue you get when you're thirsty and instinctively try to scrape it clean and spit it out. But a gross feeling mouth was the least of my worries.<br /><br />There was an abundance of sun baked, dead wood around that was just aching to be burned. But in my infinite wisdom, I had taken the flint with the assumption that I knew how to start a fire with it. Matt even asked me if I knew how to use it. “Oh, yeah. That's not a problem.” I had started a fire with one of those back in Scouts. But I forgot that I had used steel wool to catch the spark. So I found myself alone in the darkened wilderness sparking the hell out of that flint wondering exactly how Bear Grylls lights up a fire so easily on the Discovery Channel. The answer is, you shave off the magnesium on the other side of the flint and the spark catches immediately. Sparks falling on dry pine needles result in nothing.<br /><br />The lack of fire certainly didn't keep me warm, but the effort in trying to start one did. I would strike the flint for about fifteen minutes at a time and take an hour break. Again, the air was just chilly enough to keep me from sleeping. A fire would have made me comfortable enough to doze off. But it wasn't necessary. Instead I did the six year old kid in a night shirt trick and tucked my knees up into my shirt, pulled in my arms and dipped my head into my cocoon and warm myself with my breath. This was a very comfortable position and I was able to get some limited sleep until my butt just got too sore from sitting on the rock.<br /><br />All the while I kept trying to occupy my mind with time killing distractions. Name every team in the NFL. NBA. MLB. Okay. Too easy. What about the NHL? Now, name every state going from west to east. Now, east to west. Every country in Europe. Don't forget Lichtenstein. Name every school in the different conferences in college football. The Big East tripped me up. I had forgotten that Louisville joined them a few years ago. But that conference sucks, so who cares? Count backwards from a thousand by 7. Now do it by 13. I was pretty much Seymour Skinner trapped under a pile of newspapers. “I kept my sanity by bouncing a nearby ball. I made a game of it. Seeing how many times I could bounce the ball in a day, then trying to break that record.”. All the while I was running from the reality that I was significantly dehydrated with only a quarter of a liter of water remaining.<br /><br />I was certain that I would only need to last through the night. " In fact, if Matt gets back by midnight, the rescue chopper just might show up by one or two. No. I can't hope for that. That'll make the night even longer. Besides, there's no way they're going to try and land a helicopter here at night. The sun comes up at seven o'clock. So that's my goal. Eight, nine maybe ten o'clock at the latest. They have a GPS way point of my exact location and even though I am totally isolated, I am only a few miles from the highway. So I can be thirsty for a night. No problem. The second I drink the water I have left, I'm on a countdown. I will not touch that water."<br /><br />I would tell myself that at two o'clock, I'll take just a sip and not swallow it. When two came around I would convince myself that I didn't need it. So I would extend my objective to 4 o'clock, thus exercising control over my needs. Hell. I'm an unmarried 32 year old Mormon. I have a lifetime of practice at that. I may want it but I don't need it.<br /><br />By the way, the human body totally sucks. There I was dying of dehydration and I had to take a massive pee. You call that evolution? Come on kidneys! How's about you do a little reverse engineering. I finally broke down and took a leak. But in an act of foreshadowed desperation, I decided to not let any kind of precious bodily fluids go to waste. You know. In case I needed them later. So I peed in an empty Nalgene bottle. The same one that spilled the water earlier that day. I wanted to punish that bottle for screwing me over, so it must now face the wrath of my frothy, warm, nearly orange pee. Take that. Of course this also meant that I chose the leaky bottle to hold my urine. I'm not sure if my act of vengeance was really that well thought out.<br /><br />I took my camera out and considered making a little video explaining my circumstances. But I refused to let that thought linger. That last will and testament kind of crap is for people who are about the die. That's not me. This situation sucks but it's far from the end. Just sit and be patient.<br /><br />As my mind faded between half sleep and consciousness, I would hear phantom helicopter noises. I kept having involuntary flashes of every helicopter image I had absorbed through a lifetime of watching TV and movies. I would have visions of the opening titles of MASH and Magnum PI. The Airworlf theme song would loop itself in my brain. I kept imagining the Ride of the Valkyries scene from Apocalypse Now. I would hear the beginning of the song Goodnight Saigon by Billy Joel. “We met as soul mates, on Paris Island. We left as inmates from an asylum.” I would even think of references that had nothing to do with helicopters but featured the word "chopper".<br /><br />"Whose motorcycle is this?"<br />"It's a chopper, baby."<br />"Whose chopper is this?"<br />"Zed's."<br />"Whose Zed?"<br />"Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead."<br /><br />My brain was like a looped episode of Family Guy. Random pop culture references that were more annoying than amusing.<br /><br />Sunrise came at seven o'clock. This is oddly the coldest time of the day. The sun had been absent now for eleven hours, so the air has cooled significantly. And even though the dawn light is peering over the desert, it was simply light without heat. There was just enough of a breeze to shatter any warmth my skin would feel. I finally let myself shiver, knowing that I was probably just an hour away from being warmed back up.<br /><br />"I can see the morning light. I can see the morning light! It's not because I'm an early riser, I just didn't get to sleep last night."<br /><br />I can't make it through a post without a Dylan reference. I know. I'm a douche.<br /><br />I found a rock on which to sun myself, where I would be nice and visible when Frank Lapidus from Lost flew to my rescue. I closed my eyes in the morning sun and fought back the nightmare that had lingered in my mind all night long. What if Matt got hurt on the way out of the canyon? What if the rope got stuck on the first rappel? What if he landed wrong and broke his leg on that drop that I couldn't squeeze through? My night has been pretty crappy but his would be agonizing. Not only would that mean that no rescue was coming for me, it meant that it was my job to rescue him.<br /><br />I think I've watched too many episodes of "I Shouldn't Be Alive".<br /><br />No. He's fine. He's a smart, experienced canyoneer that just ran an Iron Man triathlon last month. He was miserable hiking out. But he was totally safe. You just have to be patient.<br /><br />As I was fighting these urges to panic, a crow landed next to me on the rock. I broke out into laughter. “Get the hell away from me. My life will not end like a Far Side cartoon.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglp7GdpeLPrscOg4k68Moe1COMhRVlU9G2nbykCshSGdKX4GiPoOtl1KzHmZoJN28PyJQu1ja3MkVMF8nQPUtQcEnO50nEP4UAd4nhLyxsZDFZO1ok8PYx5822VuNChKo8gj2sjEva9kc/s1600/farside8.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglp7GdpeLPrscOg4k68Moe1COMhRVlU9G2nbykCshSGdKX4GiPoOtl1KzHmZoJN28PyJQu1ja3MkVMF8nQPUtQcEnO50nEP4UAd4nhLyxsZDFZO1ok8PYx5822VuNChKo8gj2sjEva9kc/s400/farside8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514732532241501938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">"Hey! Look at me! I'm a Cowboy. Howdy. Howdy. Howdy!"</span><br /></div><br />I shewed it away. But that damn buzzard stayed in the area. You filthy sky rat. You're gonna bet against me?<br /><br />Eight o'clock came and went. As did nine o'clock. There had now been two hours of daylight. I was a two minute helicopter ride from the highway and they knew my exact location. The later it got, the less likely they were coming. And if they weren't coming, then I would have to make a decision.<br /><br />When ten o'clock the previous night came and went and Alan never heard from me, he must have called Search and Rescue. That team would know how dangerous this canyon was and would send a team down first thing in the morning. An experienced team that knows Pandora well could get to the point where we got stuck in about five hours. But, they would have no way of knowing that we had climbed up and out. They could go right past me with no way of reversing the canyon. So I decided that at ten o'clock in the morning, I would hike back down the wash and into the slot canyon and wait. I would still be able to see any helicopters flying by and would be found by a team going down through the canyon. If by four o'clock in the afternoon, there was no helicopter or rescue team, I would climb up the sketchy looking wash on the other side of Pandora Canyon and hope the same rocky terrain wouldn't trap me like it had the in other direction. I would have enough daylight to traverse the open desert and hopefully find the trail back to the car.<br /><br />It was doable. I was tired but I wasn't weak. I was, however, significantly dehydrated. I had taken my contact lenses out of my eyes a few hours earlier because I had no tears and they felt like shards of glass. I am severely near sighted and wouldn't be able to climb down safely without at least one good eye. I cleaned the contact off with my scratchy cat tongue the best I could and stuck it in my left eye. It might as well have been a thumb tack. But I blinked and swore away the pain until my eyeball submitted.<br /><br />As I stood up, I began cramping severely. Both legs and my back seized up. Realizing that I had to prepare myself for the possibility of a physically demanding day, I needed to make the best of the resources I had at hand. I looked over to my left and saw that bottle of pee staring me down.<br /><br />“Just plug your nose and pound it. Worst case scenario, you spit it out. Your muscles will fail you without some kind of liquid. You have only had a liter and half of water in the last 30 plus hours (counting back to the drive down to Capital Reef) and you have spent those thirty hours sweaty your nuts off in a hot, dry desert at a reasonably high elevation. Your life and Matt's life may very well depend on you trekking through open desert for miles. Not to mention the sketchy down climb that's standing between you and the canyon floor. You can supposedly drink your pee twice before it becomes dangerous.** You have to have fluid.”<br /><br />So I plugged my nose and pounded it. I drank about a half liter of pee. It had cooled off and actually didn't taste too horribly. This could be because my body was desperate for any kind of liquid that any sense of disgust was silenced. Or it could be that my pee naturally tastes like mountain spring water. Either way, I immediately felt better.<br /><br />I took several branches from my unused pile of firewood and spelled out “SOS” with an arrow pointing to the wash that I was about to hike back down into. I gathered my gear and began a very slow and deliberate climb down a boulder field. The last thing in the world I needed was a turned ankle.<br /><br />When I got to the bottom, I peered into the dark slot canyon. If Matt did hurt himself, there's a good chance it was on that drop that stopped me the day before. I screamed his name into the slot. Nothing. That was either really good, or really bad. And for some reason, this was the point where I felt my first sense of mortal terror. This was the first time I truly considered the possibility that I wouldn't make it out of this canyon alive.<br /><br />My mind flashed back to the night my little brother died from cancer, eleven years ago. I begged God to spare my parents from having to lose another child. Especially in such a stupid, preventable manner. I thought about my nephew and nieces and how much I loved making them laugh and how complete they made me feel by simply being happy to see me. I thought about my brother Alan and his wife Kristen, and the senseless tragedy of him being the only brother left in our family. I even briefly imagined my own funeral. Just for a second. And I gotta say, in that flash of a moment I felt deeply sad but also overwhelmingly blessed. I was flooded with the realization of just how many people knew and loved me. That I was a truly wealthy man when it came to the assets of good friends and family. My life has certainly been disappointing in some aspects but at this moment of soul searching confrontation, I didn't feel regret or despair. All I could feel was the strength coming from the undeniable value of the hundreds of people that are close, integral aspects of my life. More than ever, I wanted to live.<br /><br />This gave me resolve.<br /><br />I was going to relax here in the sand and wait until four o'clock. " I'm okay. If no one comes by then, it's time to take control of my situation. But until then, I'm gonna get a some sleep."<br /><br />My body finally relented and I fell hard into a deep, exhausted sleep. Just when I floated away, I heard another phantom chopper blade. But this time it was loud. I jumped up to see a helicopter at the top of the slot. But there's no way for them to see me. I frantically raced back up the wash trying to make a visual contact, hoping like hell they see me. I could hear it circling where I spent the night. It then buzzed the washed where I was running up the boulder field. I saw a guy hanging out the side. He gave me a thumbs up.<br /><br />Matt's alive and I'm gonna be okay.<br /><br />The chopper landed and two Search and Rescue guys came hiking down the hill. “You okay?”<br /><br />“I'm really thirsty but other than that I'm fine.”<br /><br />As I was running up that damned wash, oblivious to my cramping legs I realized that breath reeked of pee. Son of a bitch! I drank my pee a half hour before rescue came! I mean that's just comical. So I started scraping my tongue with my teeth and spitting. After all, I wouldn't want my pee breath to embarrass me in front of the Search and Rescue guys. By the way, I just realized that a potential nick name for me after all this may become Pee Breath. I'm shutting that down right now. That is not an option, people. Is that clear?<br /><br />They met me half way with a bottle of water and I sucked that thing down. I was quite embarrassed that I put myself in the spot to need rescue but at this moment I was way too grateful to care. I climbed into the helicopter and we lifted off. I had never flown in a helicopter before and let me tell you, it was awesome. We flew really low over the slot canyon that had tried to kill me and over the terrain Matt and I considered crossing the day before. We were right to stay where were. We wouldn't have made it far. In fact, other than entering the canyon in the first place, I'm confident that every decision we made was the best one given the information we had at the time.<br /><br />I was also incredibly impressed with how cool the Search and Rescue guys were. They were legitimately thrilled to see that I was okay. There wasn't any “What the hell are you thinking?” kind of attitude. I was a little nervous that they'd stick an IV in my arm and admit me to the hospital in some sort of insurance ass covering effort. But when I got back to the road, they just loaded me with bottled water, asked me to write up a brief statement and sent me on my way. They couldn't have been more professional and friendly.<br /><br />So here's what happened. Matt had gotten back to the car at about 1:30. He immediately called 911 and got into contact with Search and Rescue. The problem however was that the rescue helicopter they typically use had already been sent to Zion in another rescue effort. What can I say? Labor Day weekend. It's a busy time for theses guys. So they called all over the state all night trying to find another rescue chopper. They finally found one but it was in Salt Lake and it had to be flown down over night. This was the reason for the delay in the morning.<br /><br />Matt had also left several voice mails with my brother Alan, updating him on the rescue status. It turns out that Alan was camping with his family out of cell coverage. He never got my text telling him that we're going into Pandora and should be out by 10:00. When we met up with Alan later that morning, he had no idea anything had happened. In addition, the text I sent didn't specify anything about sending for help if he hadn't heard from us. I don't know, maybe I figured that acknowledging the possibility of disaster right before we started would be bad luck. Either way, I was a moron.<br /><br />Al, his wife and his kids were visiting an old pioneer school house in the National Park when we met back up. His three year old daughter Annie was sitting at a Little House On The Prairie style school desk doodling on a chalk slate when I walked into the room. Surprised to see me, she came running over. I couldn't hold back the impulse to pick her up and squeeze and kiss her with every ounce of love I possessed. Don't worry. I had washed the pee smell out of my mouth by then. (I hope.) I put her down and began describing the previous night's events to Al. Annie pinched my knees to get my attention. When I looked down at her she said in her chirpy three year old voice, “Bwian, I'm going to run and you try to catch me, okay?”<br /><br />It was one of the happiest moments of my life. I was overwhelmed with a intense gratitude for life that I have never felt before. Less than an hour before I was contemplating my own funeral and now here I was being invited to play with the happiest little girl on earth.<br /><br />Strawberries never tasted so sweet.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*This scene was filmed in Leprechaun Canyon. It's just south of Hanksville. How do I know this? Because a few friends and I tried to do this canyon last spring when they were filming this movie. They shut us out, so we had to wait a day. Why do I tell you this? Because there is no crystal clear pool of spring water below Leprechaun. Any water there would be putrid, stagnant poo water that smells worse than death. It kind of bugs me that Danny Boyle felt the need to exaggerate the beauty of this place. Why not add some CGI palm trees and Jar Jar Binks while you're at it? It's called gilding the Lilly, dick. Don't do it. It's perfect the way it is.<br /><br />** I'm pretty sure most people have heard this but I must admit, I have no idea if it is true. Come to think of it, pee could be worse than sea water and dehydrate you quicker than no liquid at all. But I do know I felt much better after downing it. Either it really did help or I had one nasty placebo working for me</span>.BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-70986854728502287752010-08-20T16:30:00.000-07:002010-08-22T16:12:17.003-07:00I Don't Care If It Is A Chick Flick Starring Drew Barimore . . .. . . I'm still looking forward to this movie.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/px_yaWE2fGY?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/px_yaWE2fGY?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Why would I admit anticipating this movie? Do I love the Mac PC commercials so much that Justin Long has become a box office draw for me? No. In fact it looks like they finally retired those damn things. But I do genuinely like Long even if Die Hard 7 was beyond lame.<br /><br />Is it because I finally overdosed on rehashing Action Movies from the 80's and need a nice long chunk of estrogen to compensate for my brain turning to an explosion/car chase/one liner induced mush? Perhaps. As per my previous post, I can say I have officially scratched that itch for another decade.<br /><br />Is it because I hold a secret fondness for dopey, "it all worked out in the end" kind of Romantic Comedies springing from my Mo Syzlak level of desperate loneliness? No. Seriously, the answer to that is no. But just because I don't get a lady boner for <a href="http://www.junipercivic.com/images/Articles/DogCrap.jpg">"Eat, Pray, Love"</a> doesn't mean I have any sort of predetermined animosity toward a well told story that revolves around the romantic relationship between two people that may or may not include effective comic relief. (I really hate the term Romantic Comedy, so I go out of my way not to say it.) I would never accuse it of being a great movie but I dare you to watch "When Harry Met Sally" and not feel good. Go ahead. Try it. You can't do it. And admitting that doesn't make you an easily manipulated, emotionally needy, <a href="http://0.tqn.com/d/movies/1/0/P/C/8/failuretolaunchposter.jpg">McConaughey jock sniffing</a> sap. It just means that you were entertained by a perfectly fine movie. Good for you.<br /><br />Do I anticipate this movie because of a previously stated declaration that Kelly Bundy should be required to appear in every single movie produced? Yes. But that's not the main cause for my anticipation. But it's along the same line.<br /><br />The real reason that I, a culturally sophisticated, adult, heterosexual man am looking forward to the release of "Going the Distance" is a very simple two word answer. Charlie Kelly. Or Charlie Day, depending upon which reality you choose to live in. (To be clear, Charlie Kelly is the character, Charlie Day is the actor.)<br /><br />Observe:<br /><br /><object width="512" height="288"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/9cIE8gD1oBRlNFl6CaUhPA"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/9cIE8gD1oBRlNFl6CaUhPA" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="512" height="288"></embed></object><br /><br />"Yeeeaahhh, but I am who I am."<br /><br />Charlie Kelly of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" is the funniest, most entertaining character currently on television. Better than Jack Donaghy, Dwight, Homer*, Murry, Funkhauser, Stewie, Abed, Kenneth and the fat, gay guy on Modern Family. Charlie wins. And it's not even close.<br /><br />(You may have to register with Hulu to be able to view some of these clips. But seriously, do it. This is very good way to kill an hour at work. And since these links will probably be dead in a weak, take advantage.)<br /><br />When you consider <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/5385/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-big-brother-charlie">the waitress stalking</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/40928/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-walking-in-charlies-shoes">the long johns, the glue sniffing, sharing a fold out sofa with Frank, his apartment, the eating of the cat food</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/37200/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-door-to-door-oil-men">his various costumes</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/17666/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-day-man">Day Man</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/17681/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-night-man">Night Man</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/46579/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-baby-boy-was-me">The Night Man Cometh</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/25848/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-script">his illiteracy</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/27454/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-charlie-goes-to-aa">his alcoholism</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/38322/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-pulling-teeth">his dental hygiene</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/108489/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-kitten-mittens-commercial">Kitten Mittens</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/42726/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-charlie-loses-his-mind">Pepe Silvia</a>, <a href="http://www.comedycentral.com/videos/index.jhtml?videoId=311198&title=shooting-the-log">gun fever</a>, <a href="http://www.comedycentral.com/videos/index.jhtml?videoId=313609&title=environmental-activism">his Ali Baba sword</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/5392/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-charlies-drunken-idea">the McPoyle feud</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/18149/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-freak-show"> Green Man</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/26309/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-interpreting-the-bible">his religious enlightenment</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/104270/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-too-much-cheese">his effortless charm</a>, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/18357/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-trained">his eagerness to please</a>, dancing to Alphaville, the duster, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/71067/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-the-mad-munchkin">his fits of rage</a>, the fact that he's <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/99794/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia-never-had-a-pear">never eaten a pear</a>, his love of Peter Ninkumpoop and Garbage Pale Kids, then the crown goes to Charlie. Especially when you take into account that "Sunny" has significantly dipped in quality over the last two years or so and yet Charlie remains on top of his game. You might have to endure a slightly obnoxious Dee/Mac/Frank storyline but Charlie always comes through with the goods.<br /><br />So any movie that has even a single minute of Charlie in it deserves my most eager of anticipations. In fact, I say we mobilize. Let's make this the cause of our generation. Get Charlie in more movies! Let's circulate petitions, force legislation, storm the offices of CNN and Fox News demanding that our voices be heard! We want more Charlie! We want more Charlie! Go ahead. Chant along.<br /><br />Chanting is fun.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*To clear, Homer Simpson is without question the funniest TV character of all time. But I am comparing the last five years of Charlie to the last five years of Homer. And even though This Simpsons have been very strong over the last few seasons, Charlie has the edge.</span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-44590010148003690422010-07-02T00:26:00.001-07:002010-07-15T21:04:06.618-07:00If It Bleeds, We Can Kill It<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7GInfBq5j5494HiPsPJQmvyXIsFe1_xbWaQNzVNgimk5WyN4xnVND_cKMjc3xQoIGySa04xCYYVjqtgUYYL5hsOSpvVN-Yj2zit8Wt3sjPce6QsPl3BpnUMFCF2jU8B6wh6ksNmYV4w/s400/judedil.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7GInfBq5j5494HiPsPJQmvyXIsFe1_xbWaQNzVNgimk5WyN4xnVND_cKMjc3xQoIGySa04xCYYVjqtgUYYL5hsOSpvVN-Yj2zit8Wt3sjPce6QsPl3BpnUMFCF2jU8B6wh6ksNmYV4w/s400/judedil.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>What says "Happy 4th of July Weekend" better than Carl Weathers and Arnold fighting an invisible alien in the Costa Rican jungle? If Predator doesn't get your patriotism pumping then we just don't have any kind of common ground. You should probably just go back to watching the World Cup.<br /><br />I am a man who enjoys his movies. This is because although I enjoy being creatively stimulated by thoughtful and talented expressions of the human condition, I am also far too lazy/dumb to read a book. Movies provide me with a form of intellectual challenge while requiring little to no effort on my part. And that is a smoking deal. In fact, I need to join the movie version of a book club. Everyone agrees to watch a particular film and then we all get together and eat cupcakes and talk about its themes, symbolism and all that crap.<br /><br />It's about time someone really sat down and deconstructed <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4MqTCIDKhU">Wicker Man</a>.<br /><br />Sarcasm aside, I really do like a movie that succeeds in its aspirations of depth and substance. Note how I said "succeeds". Movies that shoot for the moon and suck are pretty damned intolerable. Of course, you can go too far with this sort of ambition. Recently, my Netflix queue accidentally became entirely too heavy and depressing. Months ago I would get the idea to add a particular film or director to the queue and forget all about it. I then received six straight weeks of David Lynch, Jim Jarmusch and documentaries about the Holocaust that I barely remember ordering.<br /><br />I'm all for intellectual stimulation but sometimes you gotta lighten it the hell up.<br /><br />To remedy this, I decided about a month ago to relive a certain type of movie from my childhood. The 1980's R rated Action Flick. Hell yeah! Needless violence, snappy one liners, brain dead plots and the occasional boob. That'll cleanse the palate. The 80's were a golden age of action movies. We were far enough away from Vietnam that violence seemed fun again but still close enough to it that we can have every hero be a former Green Beret thus giving him nearly omnipotent killing ability. This also provides a heavy handed sub plot as we watch our hero battle his personal demons and often an old war buddy turned drug dealing traitor. The Cold War was still in existence, so there was a big, bad villain just waiting for us to fight. Action movies only really work when we want to see the bad guy die. Depth of character in a villain leads to sympathy. And that shit doesn't do anyone any good. Commie Ruskies make for excellent nameless villains that we can kill without the least bit hesitation. The drug trade was in high gear, so coke dealers also were in the mix. And hell, when that's played out, let's just pit our hero against a dread locked alien with a human skull fetish.<br /><br />Man, I really want to shoot some faceless, drug dealing, Commie predators right about now. With that rotary gun that Jesse Ventura uses in Predator.<br /><br />So in my effort to appreciate these classics with fresh eyes, I loaded my queue with every piece of cherished contraband from my childhood. I had a few requirements. I had to have personally seen the original R rated version at some time in my youth. It was also required that I had not rewatched the R rated version since then. TV edited versions don't apply. No "You slug in a ditch!" or "Yippee Ki-Yay Mr Falcon" kind of crap. Nothing but the real deal. So such a classic as the first Terminator didn't apply since I never actually saw it. This little project only applies to movies with which I have a long standing but neglected friendship.<br /><br />R rated movies weren't an easy thing for a kid like me to see twenty years ago. I grew up in a practicing Mormon house with two very involved parents. Now don't misread that by imagining some weirdo, orthodox, horse and buggy farm house with lots of belt woopins in the name of the Lord. No, I had a remarkably normal childhood. But the rules in my house were never in question. When challenged, my folks liked to appeal to the collective authority. Which is to say, when asked why we don't swear, the answer was simply, " We don't say those words in this house." And that was it. No need to apply further logic. We don't do it because we don't do it. (Of course the "we" didn't always seem to apply to the parents in this scenario, but whatever.) And when it came to F word dropping, terrorist shooting, explosion escaping, hot chick scoring action movies, well we just don't watch those movies in this house.<br /><br />So I took my game on the road. This meant that in addition to implicit thrill every ten year old experiences when he watches John McClain take on Hans Gruber, I had the added bonus of mild rebellion thrown into the mix. It was a different time and I was different person when I first watched theses movies. Back then the word "shit" stung my little ears. This was before my tender sensibilities were calloused by Quentin Tarantino and HBO original programming. Back when I flinched when RoboCop shot the one rapist guy in the crotch. It was definitely memorable.<br /><br />And that's what was so surprising to me. When I watched these movies over the last month, I was shocked just how vivid those memories were. Memories of both specific scenes in the movie and memories of where I was when I first saw it. Whether it was in my cousin's basement (the Day house was a regular venue), or at a sleepover at Steve Earl's house or at Luke Geddes's birthday party, I was transferred back in time two decades to when I first experienced the magic of classic Schwarzenegger. Watching Total Recall is like stepping into a time machine set for 1990.<br /><br />So here's a quick list of badass action movies that I had neglected for too long but have rewatched over the last month or so. But like any good friend, it was easy to become reacquainted even after twenty years apart. Surprisingly, a few of these movies hold up pretty well. Not so surprisingly, many of them suck beyond belief.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Predator</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://addins.wgem.com/blogs/sports/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/predator.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 600px; height: 393px;" src="http://addins.wgem.com/blogs/sports/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/predator.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Dillon! You son of a bitch!"<br /></div><br />Hell yeah! This baby has it all. Snappy one liners delivered by Pro Wrestlers? <a href="http://xff.xanga.com/f79d10fac443285081628/z58463135.jpg">Check</a>. Implied homo-eroticism? <a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/3G0ALBul_oc/0.jpg">Check</a>. Mystical Indian soldier in touch with the jungle? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIR59O3sc1UB4FPl1WkTD-Xl7VoNX0QAqqt0QPsmD7-tNLJVa4-2xWTZfbUwCrdTghV6N1f70k4Ga18FbayCdxiMVh_B6iXDOI6-mOuV9qcp558vLXclzfXERGGiFDLj3ebkYK10_kDvsS/s400/Indian+Predator+Guy.jpg"> Check</a>.* Skinless corpses? <a href="http://kateblogsworth.files.wordpress.com/2007/08/camerondiaz-ugly.jpg"> Check</a>. Invisible alien that somehow bleeds glow in the dark green blood? <a href="http://www.scifiupdates.com/home/images/stories/movies/Predator/1987_predator_003.jpg">Check</a>. Black guy constantly shaving his cheek and doing lots of eye ball acting? <a href="http://zork.net/%7Enick/shave/predator.jpg"> Check</a>. Carl Weathers? <a href="http://www.sconefest.com/john/blog/predator03.jpg">Check</a>. Carl Weathers getting his arm shot off? <a href="http://starsmedia.ign.com/stars/image/article/853/853269/dillion-predator-arm_1203469581.jpg"> Double check</a>.<br /><br />Baby, we got a stew going!<br /><br />Yeah. This is the complete package. It's Apocalypse Now without all that artistic ambition, nuanced storyline and you know . . . quality. And like Apocalypse Now, it's a really good looking movie. It's no where near as seductively evil as AN but Predator has aged pretty well.<br /><br />Although, here's a question that I think we all asked ourselves when we first saw this little beauty. Why exactly does the mud make Dutch invisible to the Predator? I get that the Predator sees in infer red / thermo whatever and that the mud is probably slightly cooler than Dutch's body temperature. But wouldn't the mud warm right up after it dries and starts flaking off?<br /><br />But you know, I'm nit picking here. You can't blame a brainless movie for being brainless. Predator strikes the difficult balance of being just good enough and just dumb enough to transcend any plot holes. If you complain about a plot hole in Predator, it just illustrates that you have spent too much time thinking about a movie that does not deserve that much thought. The movie doesn't look stupid. You do. So disregard my question.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >RoboCop</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://roslynrobot.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/robocop.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 341px;" src="http://roslynrobot.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/robocop.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Please put down your weapon. You have 20 seconds to comply."<br /></div><br />This movie messed me up when I was a kid. I saw it at my cousin's house when I was probably 9 or 10 years old and the violence and gore screwed with my head. I had nightmares of the guy falling into the toxic waste. Remember how his fingers melted and how he turned to gooey liquid when he got hit by the car? Or when Murphy got shot to hell in the beginning and his arm fell off? I'm talking nightmares.** In fact a year or so later, I was at a sleepover at Gavin VanWagner's house and everyone wanted to watch Robo Cop. I had to smoothly bypass that movie without admitting that I was scared of it.<br /><br />"Let's just watch Red Dawn instead. RoboCop is boring.", he said thinly hiding his cowering fear.<br /><br />Well twenty some years later and guess what I learned upon my review? RoboCop sucks donkey balls. It is a historically awful, stupidly funny movie. That toxic waste mutant that haunted me for years? The corniest pile of rubber you can imagine. This movie wasn't threatening or disturbing. It was just bad.<br /><br />Guess what else I learned. The main bad guy is the dad from That 70's Show. It was kinda weird to see Red Foreman shoot that one guy in the knees. The guy who just snorted coke off the hooker's chest as he watched the video of Dick Jones explained the evil plot just before the house exploded from the grenade whose pin Red Forman pulled with his tongue. Man, what a tool. I'm glad Red got <a href="http://www.premiere.com/var/ezflow_site/storage/images/media/images/bad-guys-kurtwood/609614-1-eng-US/Bad-Guys-Kurtwood.jpg">stabbed in the neck</a>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Die Hard</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.hwdyk.com/q/quizimage/diehard.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="http://www.hwdyk.com/q/quizimage/diehard.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"And the quarterback iiiiis toast!"<br /></div><br />Shit, yeah! The definitive action flick. It's perfect. You like the villain almost as much as the hero. Good old Hans. Such a lovable bastard. It's a movie that manages to make all the cliches that seem so lazy and hackneyed in other movies feel like home. You don't roll your eyes when the coked out yuppy tries to betray everyone. Instead you exhale in satisfaction when Hans kills him. We all saw it coming but it still felt right.<br /><br />My favorite part of Die Hard is the authoritative assholes who are inexplicably working against McClain for no other reason than to add tension. I'm talking about the lady at the radio dispatch ("Do I sound like I'm ordering a pizza?") the dirtbag news reporter ("Listen Dick. That is your name? Dick?") and Deputy Police Chief Dwayne T. Robinson ("He could be a f*cking bartender for all we know."). They have no reason to not believe McClain. They have no reason to resist his information or advice as how to best proceed. But they are dicks just for the sake of being dicks. Arbitrary secondary villains are a staple of many movies. They make us hate them early on and then in the closing scenes they get their comeuppance. Usually by getting punched in the face/kicked in the balls by the female lead. The interesting thing I noticed this time around watching Die Hard though is that the two main arbitrary secondary villains are played by people who have made a career out of playing that character. The police chief is the same guy that plays the dickish teacher in the <a href="http://roguebarristers.typepad.com/roguebarristers/images/paul_gleason2.jpg">Breakfast Club</a>. And the weasel reporter was the EPA guy in Ghostbusters. <a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/CjLBb1YX0F4/0.jpg">"It is true. This man, has no dick."</a> Like I said. The cliches feel like home. This really is a satisfying movie. I can't believe I hadn't watched the unedited version since 8th grade.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rambo: First Blood</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img5.allocine.fr/acmedia/rsz/434/x/x/x/medias/nmedia/18/36/03/97/18447420.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 434px; height: 289px;" src="http://img5.allocine.fr/acmedia/rsz/434/x/x/x/medias/nmedia/18/36/03/97/18447420.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"He was just another drifter who broke the law! "<br /></div><br />Speaking of villains who have no reason to be the assholes that they are, let's talk about Brian Dennehy and his gang of evil cops from Jerkwater, USA. I am all for the stereotype that small town cops are authoritative assholes that get off by jamming up regular tax paying shmoes. Anyone who has been pulled over while driving through Price, Utah can relate. But really? "That guy has long hair! Better keep him out of our little town. He came back? Throw him in the clink and spray him down with a fire hose! Now he's in the woods and surrendering to our helicopter? Shoot him! Kill him dead! Because we're just stupid small town cops and we like to beat and murder people with long hair." Take that, War Veteran! You filthy drifter.<br /><br />Why is a badass like Rambo afraid of rats? Remember when he dives into the cave with the torch and rats start falling on him? He freaked out. You're a POW, dude. There weren't rats in the Hanoi Hilton? Indiana Jones wasn't afraid of rats. Indy stormed right through the masses of rodents in the catacombs below Venice to the tomb of Sir Richard.***<br /><br />Rambo was a pussy.<br /><br />Now with the criticism out of the way, it is worth pointing out that Rambo is a pretty intelligent commentary on the United States' involvement in Vietnam. You know. Intelligent for an 80's action flick. It's a sliding scale. But consider the storyline. An arrogant and superior force engages a skilled and determined adversary that is fighting for its survival in a location that marginalizes any technological and logistical advantage. Once committed to the conflict, the police gain little if they succeed but still can't risk failure by stopping short of victory. Eh? Think about it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lethal Weapon</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i.somethingawful.com/u/elpintogrande/most_awful/placeshollywood/lethalweapon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 479px; height: 383px;" src="http://i.somethingawful.com/u/elpintogrande/most_awful/placeshollywood/lethalweapon.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"You really like my wife's cooking? "<br /></div><br />I just have one observation to share about this movie. Do you remember the hot topless chick that commits suicide at the beginning? Do you know who that is? The actress is named Jackie Swanson. Why is this relevant? Jackie Swanson is best known for playing one Kelly Gaines. Who is Kelly Gaines you ask? <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8hJjx7jTHA8">This is Kelly Gaines.</a><br /><br />Woody Boyd's hot girlfriend is topless in the first Lethal Weapon. Thank you IMDB. Now would be a good time to adjust your Netflix queue accordingly. Go ahead. I'll wait.<br /><br />Your welcome.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Total Recall</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.iwatchstuff.com/2009/02/26/total-recall.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 245px;" src="http://www.iwatchstuff.com/2009/02/26/total-recall.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Twooo Weeeeeks."<br /></div><br />Before last month, I had seen Total Recall just once in my entire life. And that was in Steve Earl's basement in probably 1991. When I rewatched it, I was astounded at the details I remembered. There is a part of my brain whose soul purpose is to exactly remember the X Ray scanner that Quaid smashes through. And the secretary digitally changing her nail polish. And "Get your ass to Mars." And Arnold's googly eyes when his helmet gets smashed. And the midget hooker firing the machine gun. And the bad guy getting his arms chopped off on the elevator. And the aborted fetus talking out of that one guy's chest. I saw tons of movies in Steve Earl's basement and somehow it was Total Recall that just stuck in my brain. Which is weird because I don't remember liking it all that much. And for good reason.<br /><br />This is a crappy movie.<br /><br />Total Recall is a perfect example of a movie that should be remade. I've never understood the impulse to remake and <a href="http://www.virginmedia.com/images/1planetoftheapes-dvd.jpg">ultimately destroy</a> a movie that was already undeniably great. Are you listening, Tim Burton? Especially when there are so many mediocre to crappy movies that could have been good if they were treated right. Why waste your time stinking up The Pink Panther or The Day The Earth Stood Still when so many movies failed to prosper due to lazy film makers.<br /><br />Total Recall was based a short story by Phillip K Dick. He is the legendary Sci Fi author who wrote the original stories behind <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083658/">Blade Runner</a>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0181689/">Minority Report</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0405296/">A Scanner Darkly</a>. Three brilliant movies by three brilliant directors. But Total Recall got the Paul Verhoevan slop job. He's the genius behind such crap as the previously mentioned RoboCop as well as Basic Instinct, Starship Troopers and Showgirls. Subtly and human realism really aren't his strong suits. Imagine Total Recall in the hands of Christopher Nolan or JJ Abrams or Jon Favreau. This story is a layered, compelling mind f*ck that deserved better than <a href="http://unrealitymag.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/benny.jpg">sassy black character #3</a> and<a href="http://unrealitymag.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/total-recall-alien-420x505.jpg"> </a><a href="http://unrealitymag.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/total-recall-alien-420x505.jpg">three titted hooker jokes</a>. By the way, that just looked gross. One might think that three is always better than two. Well, not in this case. It reminded me of my Beagle after she had puppies.<br /><br />So this 4th of July weekend, give yourself a well deserved break. Become reacquainted with your old friend, the 80's Action Flick. Or save yourself a little time and just watch the paintball episode of Community. You'll be a happier person for it.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* I love how no explanation is given as to why the Indian guy cuts himself right there other than, "He's an Indian.". Apparently white people are happy to accept the assumption that Native Americans will randomly cut themselves if the jungle tells them to do so.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">**Little kids can get freaked out by random things. I watched Return of the Jedi with my 5 year old nephew a few months ago and the poor kid had Yoda nightmares for days. Not Rancor nightmares, or Darth Vader nightmares. Yoda. He's barely in that movie. But somehow that was the image that stuck with him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">***Yes, Indy had a fear of snakes. But snakes are undeniably scary. Rats are gross, but not really scary. I'll say it again. Rambo was a pussy.<br /></span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-86676879689652873952010-06-13T21:58:00.001-07:002010-06-15T12:40:52.843-07:00U-S-A ! U-S . . . Eh, Who Really Gives A Crap?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blogs.denverpost.com/cornerkick/files/2009/10/US_Celebration_CostaRica.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 367px;" src="http://blogs.denverpost.com/cornerkick/files/2009/10/US_Celebration_CostaRica.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Last Saturday, USA beat England in their opening game of the World Cup! Well . . . . they didn't really beat them. They tied. But it's kind of the same thing. Right?<br /><br />(To Be Read In a Deep, Latino Accented Voice.) "TIIIIIIIIIIIE!!!!! TIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!!!!!" I guess that should be said in the nomenclature of the sport in question. Excuse me.<br /><br />"DRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!!!!!!!!!!"<br /><br />Question. What's up <a href="http://cdn.majorleaguesoccertalk.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/usa-world-cup-shirt.jpg">Team USA's seat belt Uniforms</a>? I'm sure that they have some kind of throw back significance or something. But I don't really care enough to find out what it could be. I instead like to think of different mascots they have adopted to justify these sassy looking sashes. Could they be the USA <a href="http://pewaukeebrowniesanddaisies.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/brownie20girl20scout20sash20uniform.jpg">Brownie Scouts</a>? The USA <a href="http://www.cvs.k12.mi.us/bhadfield/webdesign/2005/1490000456/chewbacca.jpg">Chewbaccas</a>? Or the USA <a href="http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/2007/news/070723/amy_polumbo2.jpg">Miss New Jersey's</a>? Perhaps the USA <a href="http://www.theconcentrium.com/mike/Salamander/01.jpg">Safety Salamanders</a>? Possibly the USA <a href="http://republicans.energycommerce.house.gov/Media/Image/Quimby.jpg">Diamond Joe Quimby's</a>. Vote Quimby! Now, if excuse me I'm going to amuse myself with some pornographic playing cards.*<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NK-gUXl7usc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NK-gUXl7usc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />And with that clip, I have officially tapped out my Simpsons reference budget for a single post not about The Simpsons.<br /><br />Let me make a quick disclaimer before I launch into my usual nonsense. If you love the game of soccer, continue to love it. I have no interest in changing your mind. Just don't try to change my mind. Deal? Deal. So you might as well skip the rest of this crap and go back to purchasing <a href="http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/332842/DSC_3637.JPG">more scarves</a> and or telling people all about the significance of the <a href="http://image.made-in-china.com/2f0j00NfutyoEWvTBg/Football-Scarf.jpg">many scarves</a> you own. The only thing you'll be missing out on is enlightenment.<br /><br />(Man that last line sounded dickish. My intent is to be a harmless smart ass, not a smug dick. And yet I leave the dickish line in.)<br /><br />I want to make it clear that I watched the entire England, USA match on Saturday and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I really did. There is no implied sarcasm in that statement. I was entertained. Not because I find soccer to be compelling. Because I don't. But because it is always interesting to watch elite athletes play their sport on the largest possible stage for the largest possible stakes. You don't have to care about golf to enjoy the back nine of the Masters. Certainly no one gives a crap about Swimming, Gymnastics, Skiing or the Biathlon until the Olympics come around. But when it does, we muster up all the interest we can for sports that are usually irrelevant. For a couple of weeks. Then we forget they exist.<br /><br />So it is with World Cup Soccer.<br /><br />Over the next month, I will casually follow the World Cup. I will appreciate the passion of the fans and the desire and heart of the players. And I will enjoy it. I will cheer for Team USA because damn it, I'm a patriot. And don't let Sean Hannity tell you any different. But in a few weeks, I will have had my fill and any interest that I and the rest of America had for this little sport will recede faster than <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/i/tim//2010/06/10/image6568176x.jpg">Landon Donovan's hairline</a>. By mid July, I will go on ignoring Real Salt Lake score updates on the local sports radio and silently mocking <a href="http://www.theonion.com/articles/nations-soccer-fan-becoming-insufferable,17553/">people like this</a>.<br /><br />Alright. Enough of the diplomatic crap. Time for some griping. Perhaps a little grousing. And maybe throw in some yammering.<br /><br />I think it's a little odd that three of the first four matches of this World Cup ended in ties**. And I think it's more odd that most soccer fans I know were relentless in their defense of those outcomes. Somehow 90 minutes of play ending with no result is just fine with them. Now I realize the way the tournament works and a tie gets you a point, so really there was a result. Of sorts. But am I expecting too much out of an athletic competition by asking for a winner and a loser? Isn't that the whole point of the game? To find out who is better? And that's the problem with the sport. You can only score a single point at a time and it's just way too damn hard to score. In order to take the lead from the opposition, you have to score two consecutive goals. And the game can last 90 hours, that's just never gonna happen. So ties are both inevitable and (to any self respecting sports fan) unacceptable.<br /><br />Look, I've ripped on soccer before. It's a pretty common subject of conversation among American sports fans. I'll let my <a href="http://busterbluth52.blogspot.com/2009/04/why-this-american-hates-soccer.html">previous words</a> speak for themselves and try not repeat myself. Instead of rehashing old arguments against the sport (the flopping, the douchey fans that insist you call it futbol, its inexplicable popularity when compared to rugby), today I'm going to focus on solutions.<br /><br />That's right! It high time that we Americans got off our complainy butts, stopped bitching about how unwatchable the game of soccer is and fix it. Never mind that the game has remained unchanged for tens of thousands of years and the vast majority of the planet seems to like it just the way it is. Never mind that these solutions will come from someone who happily has no real understanding or appreciation for the game. I will now disregard my own defiant and proud ignorance of the intricacies of this alleged sport and present five practical solutions to repair the hopeless state in which soccer currently dwells.<br /><br />"But the rest of the planet loves soccer. Where do you get the arrogance to suggest you can improve something that is universally cherished?"<br /><br />I will grant you that the whole world (the crappy parts of it anyway) loves soccer unconditionally. Of course they also love music that sounds like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O9llCdd4bc">this</a>. So I'm not sure why their opinions on anything should be considered valid. (I just set a new personal record for xenophobia! I'm very proud. The sarcasm is thick enough to recognize, right?) Feel free to be skeptical, soccer fan. But if you give one of the following upgrades a shot, you will come around.<br /><br />More than one of these options wouldn't work. So you're gonna have to choose.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Forget the Off Sides Rule.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Soccer's off sides rule is idiotic! It is the Football equivalent of not allowing a receiver run past the last defender unless they have possession of the ball or a pass is in the air. So if the line of scrimmage is the 50 yard line and the defense's free safety in on the 40, a receiver would not be to run more than ten yards to get open until the quarterback releases the ball. Think how that would stifle the game of Football. It would kill the deep threat. Larry Fitzgerald's speed and talent would be useless. As it stands, the fastest most athletic guy wins that individual competition. If a receiver beats his man, his reward is a 30 yard gain. In soccer, your reward is a penalty.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">The real problem with soccer isn't the low scoring. It's the low amount of chances to score. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Drop this pretense of equaling the odds between offense and defense and let the guys play. If you want to prevent cherry picking, then institute a soccer version of icing. Problem solved. You just doubled your shots on goal per game. Yeah, the goalie is gonna be crapping his pants but he's a goalie. They should be terrified. More to come on these <a href="http://i.a.cnn.net/si/2005/writers/grant_wahl/05/17/howard/p1_howard2.jpg">Mickey Mouse glove</a>*** wearing fellas, later.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Allow Screens<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span><br />Imagine a soccer version of a pick and roll. Just think about it for a second. That actually sounds interesting to watch. And it's still soccer. Weird. Soccer needs legitimate, legal contact between the two teams. Not full contact blocking (although that is also an intriguing option). The same contact you see in the NBA. This would defuse a lot of the theatrical flopping nonsense that non fans (and most soccer fans when they're honest with themselves) find so unpalatable. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_RFh7jSS0vg">This kind of crap</a>. With regular, legal contact between the offense and defense, the instinct to fall to the ground clutching your hammy every time the other guy brushes against your arm will be greatly reduced. (Though admittedly, not eliminated. Change all the rules you want but soccer players are still gonna be pussies.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Require All Fans To Distract Themselves From The Monotony On the Field With Binge Drinking, Singing "Ole" Songs, Throwing Road Flares and or Bags of Urine Onto The Field While Blowing Cheap, Plastic Horns Resulting In The Angriest Most Horrid Sounding Beehive Noise Your Worst Nightmares Have Ever Produced.</span><br /><br />Done? Well then here's another. And I'm serious. Play with two balls at the same time. It'll be like in pinball when you get that bonus ball and you madly flip the flippers. I tell you. In those moments, you gotta stand like a statue. Become part of the machine. Feel all the bumpers and always play it clean. You gotta play by intuition and then the digit counters fall . . . . . I forget how the rest of that goes.<br /><br />But soccer is so hopeless that even if you had a second ball, assuming there are no other changes, you could still end up with the same gridlock. You would just have it simultaneously on both sides of the field. But the fans would then have their choice in which paint they want to watch dry. iOle!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Get Rid Of The Goalie.</span><br /><br />You heard me. Open nets, all game long. Now this would only really work, if you insisted on keeping that stupid off sides rule.<br /><br />I got this idea a few weeks ago while watching my five year old nephew's soccer game. Five year olds don't play with a goalie. As a result, the scores are like 22- 17. This means that the pace of the game no longer resembles an armless man swimming in rapidly drying cement. <span style="font-size:100%;">You might be tempted into thinking that this is overkill. "Yeah, we want to make scoring easier (read possible), but not automatic. No one wants a Basketball score in a soccer game and if there's no goalie, they'll score way too much. Right?"<br /><br />Not as much as you might think. I watched most of the Uruguay, France game last week and I saw more fake injuries than shots on goal. An NHL goalie will come away from a sixty minute game with twenty-five to thirty saves (give or take). And that's after allowing the typical two or three goals. How many saves did France's goalie have in last Friday's ninety minute game? Three. Three?! He blocked a shot at the goal three freaking times. And that was in a shut out. That means you could take the goalie out of the game, leaving a wide open net and still not score three goals in an hour and a half of game time. No wonder soccer fans rabidly celebrate missed shots by their team. There's nothing else to do.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5. Allow Players To Just Pick Up The Damn Ball And Run It Into the Goal.</span><br /><br />While we're at it, let's say the defense can prevent this from happening by tackling the ball carrier. To combat this, the offense could pass the ball to each other, with their actual hands. Of course, it would make sense to alter the shape of the ball slightly to allow for better passes. Now they can still kick the ball. Just not all the time. Man, that would be an improvement.<br /><br />Ah! You thought I was just pulling some cheap shot and suggesting we should all just play Football, didn't you? Well, I may be an ignorant American. But I have broadened my horizons a little bit in my time. No, I was referencing the great sport of Rugby. Poor, neglected, fascinating, compelling, relentlessly paced Rugby. Such a better sport that soccer. Although, so is Ski Ball.<br /><br />Don't believe me? That's fine. After pissing off any soccer fan that was still reading this slop, I just alienated every non soccer fan I still had on board. But check out these clips from last week's USA Collegiate 7's Tournament before you roll your eyes too hard.<br /><br />(Big props to Utah for beating Cal in the final, by the way.)<br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5HsZX09LX9g&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5HsZX09LX9g&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />See how open the game is? Anything can happen at any time. There are no 0-0 ties in this sport. So let's decide, as a proud nation, to just stop following soccer all together and adopt this pleasant alternative as our weird, euro sport that we occasionally care about. What do you say?<br /><br />Look. Here's the unavoidable conclusion to all of this. Beloved as it may be, soccer is inferior to just about every other team sport on the planet. And the only reason I say " just about", is because I can't speak for Cricket or Aussie Rules Football. I don't know anything about them. But Baseball, Basketball, Football, Rugby, Hockey, Field Hockey, Water Polo, regular Polo, Lacrosse, Roller Derby, Curling, Ultimate Frisbee, Doubles Tennis, Whackbat and Double Dutch Jump Rope are all more intriguing team sports than the world's most popular game.<br /><br />And it's not even close.<br /><br />With that said, I'm gonna hop off my soap box and rejoin reality. Even though its suckiness has been well established, I will continue to enjoy watching the World Cup just the way it is. You know. Like, in the background. While I read. Or fold my laundry. Or sleep. Or amuse myself with pornographic playing cards. (Woops. Just exceeded my Simspon reference budget. I'm now in the red.) At least for another couple of weeks. Then I'll forget soccer exists.<br /><br />God bless America.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*To be clear, that is a Quimby quote. That's fun to say. Quimby quote.<br /><br />**As of Tuesday morning, the grand total is now 6 ties. Out of a total of 13 games. And two of those were 0-0. Sorry. Nil to nil.<br /><br />*** Now he just needs <a href="http://www.luminousnuminous.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/6.png">giant buttons on the front of his short and </a></span><a href="http://www.luminousnuminous.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/6.png"><span style="font-size:85%;">for some reason </span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.luminousnuminous.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/6.png">no shirt</a>.<br /></span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-13539197600777017652010-05-24T23:22:00.000-07:002010-05-25T00:14:46.103-07:00American Idol Is Messing With My Head<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://media.lehighvalleylive.com/tv_impact/photo/crystal-bowersox-ccr-ba6e1059e4fe6c2a_large.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 432px; height: 287px;" src="http://media.lehighvalleylive.com/tv_impact/photo/crystal-bowersox-ccr-ba6e1059e4fe6c2a_large.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I'm an opinionated asshole. That goes without saying. Why the hell would I have a crappy blog, if I wasn't? I know what I like and I know what I don't like. And as an opinionated asshole, I prefer to think that I can present some logical argument to illustrate how my tastes in music, movies, books and TV are objectively superior. It isn't just a matter of opinion, but a fact. (See just about every post on this blog for an example.) The problem is, these annoying little arguments never really work over the long term. There are always contradicting examples that shoot down any carefully constructed case.<br /><br />For example, it is an easily assumed notion that over the last decade American Idol has caused the lowest common denominator of main stream musical sensibilities in this country to plummet. That the show is a living, breathing manifestation of cross promotional greed devouring what little remained of genuine expression in the pop music world. That it has destroyed any remnants of honest culture that survived MTV's assault on Alternative Music in the late 90's. Now I don't really believe any of that. Not completely anyway. But part of me really likes indulging these kinds of thoughts. It makes me feel like I'm the savvy connoisseur of the unknown and the overlooked. It makes me feel superior to the main stream trends that have always alienated me. But there's a problem with all of this nonsense. (All you music snobs, listen up.)<br /><br />It's all bullshit.<br /><br />Over the last few months, American Idol has totally deflated my notion of what canned, cheesy pop music is, due to this fact: Crystal Bowersox is one hell of a musician. Part of my snobby ego cringed when I typed that. Go ahead. Mock me. Tell me that I have the cultural discernment of the other 13 year old girls that actually watch that show. Fine. I don't care.<br /><br />She's damn good. She's legit. And that realization totally screws any of my American Idol hatred right in the ear.<br /><br />Now, I really don't pretend to be a music critic. Well I guess I do, but I am very aware that I am only pretending. I have zero formal training and I can't read music or tune a guitar to save my life. But I know what I like. And I like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LyhvNQG_wZQ">this</a>.* I also like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XW96oQx5Efw">this.</a>** And <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OX_Hwssfngs">this</a>.***<br /><br />A lot goes into singing a great cover to a classic song. It's tough to pull off. You are expressing yourself by reciting someone else's words and music. It can't just be a technically proficient exercise of hitting the right notes in the correct order. There must be passion and truth behind your words. Otherwise it's just empty gymnastics that will fail to resonate with anyone looking for something real. That's the difference between Joe Cocker's cover of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8y2RHMGqbWk">"A Little Help From My Friends"</a> (a truly sublime Beatles cover) and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jteG0Oq_rSc">this thing</a>.<br /><br />Since you are a lazy bastard and probably didn't bother to click the links of Crystal's songs a few paragraphs back, I'm going to embed one to make it impossible to ignore. Check out this cover of the Soul classic by The Impressions.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/S8Ic90JkAQA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/S8Ic90JkAQA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />She's good, isn't she? It's okay to drop your pretensions and admit it. You like an American Idol contestant. Welcome to the confused and bewildered club.<br /><br />But I'm going to come down from my pedestal. It's long overdue. American Idol is far from the faceless villain of all things good and true that I portrayed it to be earlier. Like most people not in Junior High, I seldom watch the show but I'm certainly aware of it. It's been such a dominant cultural force over the last decade, it's impossible to avoid. As such, I have come to expect some variation of the previously referenced David Archuleta to be the featured star. A likable, nice kid with a charming smile and decent pitch that plays dress-up on national television and pretends to be a rock star. Or a soul singer, or a crooner or a country singer or whatever that week's theme happens to be. It's what we expect and it's what we almost always get. And there's not a damn thing wrong with enjoying that.<br /><br />You see, American Idol is the Applebee's of pop music. Now don't misread that as a bad thing. Remember, I'm off the pedestal. Applebee's has become a bit of a punchline of prefabricated, strip mall culture. But just because it's mass produced (as opposed to that cute, little hole in the wall cafe you love) that doesn't make it bad. Sure there is an anti consumer impulse that affects our snootier sensibilities that tempts us to look down our nose at the Olive Garden or Chili's. But when have you ever not enjoyed your Awesome Blossom? Or your Tour of Italy? You're telling me that your Raspberry Lemonade and endless fries at Red Robbin didn't hit the spot? Don't get me wrong. I'll take a meal at <a href="http://www.mazzacafe.com/">Mazza</a> or <a href="http://utah.citysearch.com/profile/42440408/salt_lake_city_ut/chanon_thai_cafe.html">Chanon Thai </a>(for you Salt Lakers) over Red Lobster any day of the week. It's better food, better atmosphere and a better experience. But that doesn't mean I don't love those cheesy biscuits they give away by the barrelful at Red Lobster. Those things are like crack. You think you're too good for them? You're not. And I don't think there's a thing wrong with acknowledging that. I can embrace my love of Mimi's French Onion Soup and still be an independent man of cultural integrity that rises above the manufactured milieu of the American suburb and appreciates genuine . . . hell. I can't even finish that sentence without wanting to punch myself in my conceited balls. Look. Just because something is not authentic, (and despite it <a href="http://www.cuisinescene.org/Emailed/Mimis%20Outside.jpg">"rustic" aesthetic</a>, I assure you, Mimi's is the opposite of authentic) doesn't mean it isn't worth enjoying. There's no compromise of some imagined integrity involved. You're just eating food that tastes good.<br /><br />So it is with American Idol. Watching the show and enjoying the performances doesn't negate your credibility as "real" music fan. Nor is it some kitschy joke to be enjoyed because it's terrible. It's perfectly average. And sometimes, perfectly average hits the spot.<br /><br />But that misses my original point. Crystal Bowersox is more than just a cheesy biscuit from Red Lobster. She's a musician that is able to articulate personal truth through classic, well known songs. Not an easy thing to pull off. (I sited three or four examples but every song I've heard her sing has been really good.) But more than that, she can really write an excellent song. This is the only original song of hers I am familiar with, but it's quite good. I don't know if the child abuse is autobiographical or if she's just telling a story. Either way, it feels true.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Farmer's Daughter by Crystal Bowersox</span><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/eICsQLPgI2k&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/eICsQLPgI2k&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />If I heard her singing that in a coffee shop, I would spend ten bucks on the self burned CD that was sitting on the folding table by the stage. In the world of bit torrent, that's about as much devotion I can muster for any musician. (I can't help it. It's just too easy to rip them off.)<br /><br />Now, I'm not going to lose my head over this realization. Quite frankly, it took American Idol nine years and thousands of contestants to find one genuine artist. So I'm going to continue dismissing <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjReMQBmXU1b3cIfjab0biR1y-4kHv4B6F7Dy7Dea7Ndm2kfMAskFwM-luRBZkHpfVcRnzZwSOFGKws1mPpvyBJSA_q9bsvGhrVXrm-bbGxt3cD7NUJaCzGY59h0LG78xTNtTRuV6bm_EHx/s400/moobs_simon.jpg">Simon Cowell and his man boobs</a>, the black guy who sounds like a white guy trying to sound like a black guy (<a href="http://www.dailycomedy.com/images/jokes/b/randy_jackson.jpg">Yo, Dog! Yo, yo.</a>), the <a href="http://www.karadioguardi.net/images/Kara-DioGuardi-Picture.jpg">sort of hot chick</a> (eh, not really) and <a href="http://www.the-leaping-lamp.com/images/nemo-dory.jpg">Dory</a> as the game show hosts that they are.<br /><br />But I'm also going to put Crystal's music on my Ipod and enjoy it.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* She over sings it a bit, but she's just pandering to the judges and audience.<br />** This beats the hell out of Tracey Chapman's original.<br />*** Janis never sang Frank. But if she had, it would sound a lot like this.</span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-78212721729137567272010-05-23T19:03:00.000-07:002010-05-23T19:54:43.536-07:00A Short Message To The Fat Guy Sitting On The Toilet In The Chevron Bathroom.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.scenicsigns.com/images/signs/S-340.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 258px;" src="http://www.scenicsigns.com/images/signs/S-340.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Listen up dude. I have zero interest in seeing you sitting on the can with your oversized Dockers around your ankles. None. Even though your XXXL golf shirt that was painted onto your not so jolly belly mercifully hid that which should forever be kept a mystery. (I'm talking about your middle aged, fat guy junk, in case that wasn't clear.). I don't swing that way. And I can't imagine that there is a single person on this vastly populated and deeply perverted planet that does. That makes zero people out of six and a half billion that want to witness what mine eyes have seen.<br /><br />Here's the thing. You may have been the one whose privacy was violated, but I am the victim in this scenario. When I open the door to a public bathroom I have no way of knowing if it's a single toilet situation or a room with multiple stalls. It is you, being the one on the other side of the door, having a perfect knowledge of the layout of the John that is obligated to take the proper precaution, for your sake and more importantly mine. If the door is unlocked, any breech is entirely your fault.<br /><br />See, this is the point I want make with you, fat guy on the toilet in the Chevron bathroom. It may be an unpleasant experience being interrupted while sitting on the can, but it is far worse being the one doing the interrupting. Trust me on this one. It's not even close. I was suddenly and innocently violated. So why would I be expected to apologize? How are you somehow indignant when you come storming out of the John? (Which you did quite quickly, prompting me to question your clean up thoroughness.) I owe you no apology whatsoever. It is you sir, that has violated me in the most egregious way imaginable.<br /><br />So take some common sense precaution, fat guy on the toilet in the Chevron. If you're going to be dropping your pants and growling one out when a busy gas station full of patrons will be going about their business on the other side of a door with a working lock, then lock the thing.<br /><br />Thank you.BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-62235925142384153962010-02-09T15:01:00.000-08:002010-02-09T18:18:40.262-08:00My Bloody Valentine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKqu3cS4Cm5F9TQY_ZtUtT_3rWQMUz3ZH1RKDegW1zrYIzHRX3gS7_sC8ISqPuG7G7cyI16jv9JjteajWE1NBDVH1HQ6UlzLY3PxPX1W6EW6T29o74im0g81ECigmuJ2klrMo7DoQYA8/s400/ME+Love+Is+1.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKqu3cS4Cm5F9TQY_ZtUtT_3rWQMUz3ZH1RKDegW1zrYIzHRX3gS7_sC8ISqPuG7G7cyI16jv9JjteajWE1NBDVH1HQ6UlzLY3PxPX1W6EW6T29o74im0g81ECigmuJ2klrMo7DoQYA8/s400/ME+Love+Is+1.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>"What you two need is a little comic strip called 'Love Is . . .' It's about two naked eight year olds who are married." - Homer Simpson.<br /><br />In honor of the title of this post and the suckiest of all holidays, I now give you a thoroughly badass song by the band, My Bloody Valentine entitled Sometimes. Harmonizing distortion. They make it work so well.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/t0dJqlvOSq4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/t0dJqlvOSq4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />Valentines Day. Also known in the flowers/jewelry/greeting card/industrial complex as "Let's all get together and make people feel like crap" day. Now, don't let that last sentence fool you. This will not be some angry diatribe written by some lonely loser whining about the manipulative, arbitrary and exploitative nature of the holiday. Some self indulgent slop where I prattle on about how we are held hostage by certain companies to prove our love to our significant other by purchasing their crappy, overpriced merchendise (which is pretty despicable if you think about it). I could go that direction. But I won't. Even though I would be totally correct in my observation, I would just end up looking jaded and bitter. And the more incisive and detailed my analysis would be, the more jaded and bitter I would appear. And being jaded and bitter are two things don't go well with someone like myself who has remained single longer than I would have preferred.<br /><br />So for the sake of my own vanity, I will spare you the anti Halmark, DeBeers, FTD, Vermont Teddy Bear nonsense. It's nothing that hasn't been said already so there's no need to rehash well trodden teritory.<br /><br />But I would like to point out one observation.<br /><br />The really crappy part of Valentines Day (whether you're single or not) isn't the actual holiday. Most Valentines Days actually feel just like every other day. The real grind of it comes the 10 days or so before the 14th when we are bombarded with commercials demanding we go to Jared or that grown women wearing footie pajamas is coolest new thing. (Can't find a clip of the commercial, but have you seen it? Nothing sexier than a woman dressed like a 19th century prospector. Do they come with a trap door? Baby, that is hot!*) Again, my issue isn't with the commercials themselves but rather the tone that most of them take.<br /><br />More often than not, they don't say, "She's the love of your life, now make her feel as special as she is."** Instead, they go with the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wh1FC8Uwg1A">"Don't screw this up! Buy our crap and she won't be pissed off" angle</a>. (I mean really. Who is so uncouth that they send flowers in a box? Pishaw!) That's not really the coziest of messages. But I do think it reflects the reality of the holiday.<br /><br />Do whatever you have to do to not piss her off.<br /><br />Now that statement is not meant to make women sound like petulant, entitled snots. That certainly isn't the case at all. But this holiday does bring out a "don't you dare disappoint me" attitude in many women. But this should not be misread to suggest that I think any woman with that attitude is a spoiled princess. Any anger they may feel as a result of an underwhelming effort by their fella is really just hurt feelings being manifested by a conditioned set of unrealistic and often unfair expectations. (Unless of course they actually are a spoiled princess, in which case you should run like hell.) In many ways, these damn commercials guarantee women will feel disappointed and therefor unloved. Especially when the lady in the cubicle next to her got 8 different sets of flowers delivered to her on Valentines Day while she sat staring at the lone gesture from her husband. An email that says, "You're tops! Can't wait to do it, tonight."<br /><br />Women definitely get the worst end of this holiday. Sure guys end up spending the money, putting in unwanted effort in what feels like an obligated hassle and that certainly does sucks. But women can often end up feeling really bad about themselves and that is certainly a much worse scenario.<br /><br />I don't think that's the case with men.<br /><br />When we're alone on Valentines Day, men don't feel rejected and undesirable. We may feel hungry. Maybe a little horny. But that's no different than any other night. But we don't feel this overwhelming pressure to be snuggling with our sweetheart in the back of a horse drawn carriage clip clopping through Central Park as Coldplay personally serenades our epic love that will be celebrated through the generations. We mostly just feel hungry and or horny. Valentines Day or not.<br /><br />But I would wager that women left home alone on that day often have to fight off feelings of rejection or inferiority that just shouldn't be there. Because here's the thing about all of this. It's made up. It's completely based on nothing. Now, I'm all for arbitrary reasons to feel good. Superbowl Sunday for example. Unless you're a Colts fan, then there was no reason not to feel good Sunday night. Eating seven layer dip while sitting on a couch watching football, commercials and the skeletal remains of The Who is damn fine way to spend an evening. Even though the game only really mattered to people living in Indiana and Louisiana (and gambling degenerates), I'm still gonna take the time to enjoy it. But there should never be some fabricated event that consistently kicks you in the balls and reminds you of everything about your life that you don't like.<br /><br />So I say, don't let it get you down. There's no need to be anti Valentines Day. Again, it just comes off as angry. And if you have good reasons to feel good about your love life, then take it. Whether the occasion that causes us to recall those reasons is fake or not. But don't let yourself get taken down by the douches on the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVI-NlkIQso">Pajamagram commercial</a>.***<br /><br />You're better than that.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*You know the more I think about it, a trap door is pretty hot.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">**As cynical an asshole as I may be, I can get a little swept up by some of these commercials. I don't like to admit it, but I really do like the diamond commercials with the shadows. They're dreamy.<br />***That is one creepy, humpy looking guy. One of the all time worst commercials.</span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-8956535719842852072010-01-29T18:18:00.000-08:002010-02-01T11:14:36.236-08:00Sunny Day. Empty MountainI went skiing earlier this week for the first time this year. It's been a pretty crappy snow year, here in Utah but we finally got some decent storms last week and let me tell ya, Monday was one hell of a day to hit the mountain.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/p8Ac9JuqHbQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/p8Ac9JuqHbQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><div><br /> I filmed a few clips from the chair lift and a few of the easier trails with my iPhone. Then I downloaded an free video editing app and spliced it together with some music (which I also didn't pay for, thank you very much bit torrent). In total, it took me about fifteen minutes and zero dollars to put this thing together.</div><div><br /></div><div>The future kicks ass.<br /><br />Not only did I not have a lift line, I averaged two or three empty chairs ahead of me. This was especially nice since I ended up going alone. Now I have no issue at all with skiing by myself. It's like hitting a matinee movie on a Saturday afternoon by myself.* Neither skiing or watching a movie is an inherently social experience and by being alone, I can do exactly what I want to do. See whatever weirdo movie that catches my eye without feeling like I'm dragging a buddy along. Or hit whatever blue square suits my fancy without feeling like I'm holding people back. But I am not a big fan of sharing the chair lift with strangers. It's not that I'm not friendly. I like talking to people. I just don't like feeling obligated to talk to people. Forced conversation always sucks, no matter how polite and pleasant it may be. So an empty lift line is a double bonus. Plus, you don't have to take your glove off to stop your iPod or take out your headphones.<br /><br />By the way, skiing with headphones rules. You get the right playlist and it enhances the experience tremendously. A standard I like to enjoy while shushing down the mountain is Tom Petty. Specifically Full Moon Fever, Into The Great Wide Open (totally underrated album) and Wildflowers. Just stick it on random between those three albums and you got yourself three hours of perfect music. But Tom Petty goes with everything. He's like blue jeans. Or bacon. Petty always works. Road trips, mowing the lawn, doing your taxes, preforming a root canal; any activity is complimented by the small town angst of Thomas Earl Petty.**<br /><br />So, in an effort to be a little more original, you can see I used a clip from the song "First Breath After a Coma" by Explosions In the Sky. I think it worked nicely.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* I'm all about the solo movie, but eating in a restaurant alone sucks. I've worked on the road enough to know that a big expense account doesn't make up for feeling like a loser while reading a book in a resteraunt.<br /><br />** I have absolutely no idea what Tom Petty's middle name is. But Earl seems to work.</span><br /></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-76575360446235446542010-01-27T00:47:00.000-08:002010-01-29T18:18:39.371-08:00I Survived, I'm Still Alive But I'm Getting Close to the Borderline<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/D4nQB3V10i8/0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 480px; height: 360px;" src="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/D4nQB3V10i8/0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Ah, Billy Joel. Undercover insight. Seriously, the guy is one of the better song writers of the last thirty or so years. I realize that I am often sarcastic on this blog and sometimes that's hard to read. Let me spell it out for you. I'm not kidding. Uptown Girl* aside, Billy Joel has written an impressive amount of damn fine songs.<br /><br />I'm coming out of the closet. I am a Billy Joel fan and I don't care who knows it.<br /><br />I was talking with my brother the other night about the Safety Dance. (This will all eventually relate.) That's right. The Safety Dance. Man, back in 1985 that was the greatest song my seven year old ears had ever heard. Not the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcOZ6xFxJqg">shortened version</a> you hear on the video with the medieval midget and the 80's, blond chick whose dancing appears to indicate early symptoms of Parkinson's. No, I mean the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VlU5Kcf1XI">real version</a>. The one that starts out with the "S S S S, A A A A, F F F F, E E E E . . ." eh you get the idea. My brother and I used to have a copy of it on a mix tape our cousin Paul made us. And by "us" I mean my brother. I just stole it from him. I still remember it was the second song on side one, right after "Everybody Wants To Rule The World". Somehow that tape, cherished as it was, disappeared. I was never able to prove it but I always suspected my mom confiscated (one of her very favorite words) the treasured mix tape after hearing some sexually suggestive lyrics on one of the songs. Probably Billy Idol or something.<br /><br />So without my own copy of the song, I was compelled to camp out next to the radio set to KISN 97 with my finger on the record button of my tape player, waiting through endless stretches of Lionel Ritchie and Hall and Oates songs. How many damn songs did Hall and Oates have on the radio back then? Fifty? But it was worth it to get that song. In fact, I remember one time driving in Richhh Howl's giant brown van with his mom. She was talking to him about something when The Safety Dance came on the radio. Rich, who was a bit of an asshole even at the tender age of seven yelled, "Shut up, Mom! It's the Safety Dance!". She meekly obeyed until the song ended. A part of me kind of felt bad for her. But a bigger part of me was happy to hear the song without any distractions.<br /><br />Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well they ain't no friends of mine.<br /><br />The reason I bring this up is that aside from all of its nostalgic value and kitchy charm, The Safety Dance is a really crappy song. Now, don't get all butt hurt, all you fans of the 80's. I still like it. But I like it in the same way that I like the movie Red Dawn (those Soviet bastards). It isn't by any objective standard a good movie. In fact it's terrible. But no one knows the difference between a terrible movie and great movie when they're seven. It is purely an association of my happy childhood. So when it gets rerun on Spike, I'll sit down and watch the damn thing and smile.<br /><br />Like Red Dawn, The Safety Dance has become somewhat of an affectionate punchline for people who enjoyed their childhood during the John Hughes era. But only a really committed Synth Pop fan would try to convince you that it is actually a good song. And even they would happily concede it doesn't hold a candle to Depeche Mode or Echo and the Bunnymen. (Or a better synth band. I really don't know shit about that stuff.)<br /><br />But here's my point. As kids we have yet to develop any reliable barometer of quality. But a lot of times we get lucky and end up loving something that just so happens to be brilliant. I mentioned my love of Red Dawn, which is crap. Awesome, wolverine rockin', commie killing crap. But crap nonetheless. Well, during those golden years of the mid 80's I also happened to love Raiders of the Lost Ark which is undeniably fantastic on any level. But if you had asked me then which movie I liked more, I would have had to really think about it. The two films have no common ground when it comes to cinematic quality, but what the hell did I know? Hell, back then I thought the word "vagina" started with a "B". (By the way, I still think the "B" version sounds better. Less vulgar.) See, I wasn't the sophisticated connoisseur of high culture that you see today. But I lucked out when it came to Indiana Jones. It was released right when I was the right age to absolutely love it. And it happened to an all time classic. It wasn't until a solid decade later that I really appreciated the full value of Raiders and campy nonsense of Red Dawn.<br /><br />The same disparity applies to music as well. When you're a kid, odds are good you loved whatever music happened to be playing. Whether it was what your older siblings liked at the time, what was popular on the radio. Whatever. This explains Hannah Montana. There's no need to bemoan the cultural wasteland of today's youth. The only reason they like that shit is because it happens to be what's on. They'll wise up soon enough. Just like my affection for Men Without Hats. But here's the thing; it wasn't just goofy, British new wave shit that was popular back then. There was a lot of legitimately good music mixed in with the leg warmers and the swatches. Even for a Classic Rock snob like myself.<br /><br />Obviously The Cure is astounding. Air Supply? Not so much. George Michael's Faith? It's actually pretty damn good, even 20 something years later. (Wow, that sentence made me feel old.) Huey Lewis and the News? Um, no. Tears For Fears? They're hit and miss but when they're on, they're solid. Billy Joel? See, most people would bag on Billy, here.<br /><br />Well, I won't do it.<br /><br />In fact it is my humble opinion that Billy Joel was the single best recording artist from the years 1975 - 1982. (I realize that is a little earlier than the time frame I've been focusing on, but he was still very big in the mid eighties.) Think about it. Who else was there? All of the great bands from the 70's did all of their good stuff in the first half of the decade. Zeppelin, Queen, T Rex, Bowie? Their best stuff was all pre 75. By the late seventies, they were tapped out. (I am not a fan of 80's Bowie.) You had all the Punk stuff, which I certainly appreciate. But that was music that was more cool than it was good. (See the Chuck Klosterman clip below.) I guess Floyd had three epic albums in that time frame. But Billy Joel had six. Piano Man, Turnstiles, Streetlight Serenade, 52nd Street, The Stranger, Glass Houses are all excellent albums**. Are these as good as The Wall? Well, no. But those are two very different kinds of music that are never associate with each other. But are those Billy Joel albums better than anything James Taylor put out? Hell yes. Better than Elton John? Disagree if you feel the need but I would say so. Bruce Springsteen? Here's a little secret; Bruce is a hack. An entertaining hack, but he's not the poet he pretends to be. Elvis Costello? I really like him. That's a close one. But given Joel's volume of quality, I still give him the nod. (I'm probably missing someone really obvious. Feel free to bash me in the comments.)<br /><br />The thing is, I listened to Billy Joel every single night when I was a kid. It was a complete accident. His Greatest Hits Volume One and Two happened to be one of three non-copied tapes I actually owned. The others were The Ghostbusters Soundtrack and Debbie Gibson's Out of the Blue. One year I got his album Glass Houses for Christmas. It had a few familiar songs. Don't Ask Me Why and It's Still Rock and Roll, primarily. But I hadn't heard the rest of the songs on that record. But it was another tape to listen to and listen I did. Now I probably listened to my Debbie Gibson tape as much as Glass Houses (I would like to remind you all that I was maybe nine years old at the time) but like with Raiders of the Lost Ark, I lucked out. Glass Houses is a truly great record. It's up there with The Joshua Tree on the list of great albums of the 80's. Again, I'm not kidding.<br /><br />Don't believe me? Here are a few lesser known songs. Enjoy.<br /><br />- Closer To The Borderline<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YkiRH-UaO_w&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YkiRH-UaO_w&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />If Bruce Springsteen had written this song, it would be a universal anthem of urban decay. But instead Billy wrote is and it's unknown.<br /><br />- I Don't Want to Be Alone Anymore<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ljJUjCTGby0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ljJUjCTGby0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />This actually sounds a bit like Elvis Costello. Considering that Billy Joel kind of ripped of Costello's sound and Costello never ripped off Joel, I guess that gives the edge to Costello. But either way, it's close.<br /><br />- Sleeping With The Television On<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/N3BupNo-grA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/N3BupNo-grA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />"Your eyes are saying talk to me, talk to me.<br />But I won't say a word 'cause it just might be somebody else's same old line."<br /><br />Chuck Klosterman's take on Billy Joel<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9Dw3mCxRIwc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9Dw3mCxRIwc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Chuck Klosterman wrote an essay espousing the unique fact that although Billy Joel is a legitimately great song writer, he is also completely uncool. This is a trimmed down version of his book on tape. His voice sounds a bit like a bad Quentin Tarantino impression, but it's totally worth listening to for ten minutes. He explains the depth of Joel better than I could. Well I guess I could try but I would just end up ripping him off (more than I already have). And it just wouldn't make sense to rip a guy off and then post a link to the plagiarized source material.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />* And The Night is Still Young and When In Rome and Running On Ice and Shameless and probably a few dozen others. But I will defend We Didn't Start The Fire. The video sucks, but the song is solid</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">** Notice how I left out Innocent Man which features Uptown Girl, Longest Time and Tell Her About It. Those are nice songs but they have more in common with Red Dawn than Raiders of the Lost Ark. Joel's great stuff ended with The Nylon Curtain.</span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-50089048189658567082009-12-18T14:58:00.000-08:002009-12-19T08:36:08.363-08:00A Little Piece of Wisdom For Luke Wilson<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://iphonetouch.blorge.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/att_luke_wilson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 228px;" src="http://iphonetouch.blorge.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/att_luke_wilson.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />If you're like me, you are slightly amazed at how fat Luke Wilson's face has gotten. Check him out on the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wjwBHqa6lZI">At&t commercials</a> that are on every other second now a days.<br /><br />Now look at him in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9MNaD3iA90">Bottle Rocket</a> some fifteen years ago. There's an f word or two in there. Fair warning. But it also contains the finest line in any movie on the subject of water sports. And do you remember when Owen Wilson used to be hilarious? And how exactly did an asshole like Bob get such a nice kitchen? Damn it, I love that movie.<br /><br />Anywho. . .<br /><br />My point isn't to pile on Luke Wilson for getting a fat face. In fact, I'm all for fat face pride. We should have a parade, damn it. But it's time someone told Luke that long hair (even the slightly shaggy hair that he has in these commercials) makes your face look even fatter than it is. And I figure that someone should be me.<br /><br />Look Luke, fat faces are something I know a thing or two about. I am a large man. I currently have about forty (read fifty) pounds I could stand to lose. Now, I think I carry it pretty well. Being tall helps. I'm far from being a <a href="http://www.ozcardtrader.com.au/forum/attachments/general-forum/15738d1248325969-postie-cant-bothered-newman.jpg">Newman</a> or a <a href="http://impactiviti.files.wordpress.com/2007/12/charlie-weis.jpg">Charlie Weis</a>. That man is the living, breathing definition of the term "pear shaped chode". And even though I probably joke about my own weight too much (it can border on begging for compliments and that just makes everyone feel uncomfortable), I don't think I'm some weight obsessed, bulimic cheerleader. I'm quite apathetic about it, actually.<br /><br />But the sucky part about the extra weight that I do have, is that ten (read fifteen) of those forty pounds are in my face. Just like it is with you Luke. And that is total bull crap. It's a genetic screw job that has cursed us both. I know lots of people who have bigger guts than I do but still have skinny faces. It really sucks because when your face gets fat, everything changes. If you see an old friend from high school who has put on a few (and everyone who isn't an obnoxious, overachieving asshole has) it only surprises you if the weight shows in their face. Because that's how you identify people. When a person's face changes, they themselves seem to change. And here's the really crappy part. Let's say I were to actually start eating right. You know, eat food that wasn't ordered, prepared, purchased and consumed all while I sat in my car. And let's say I were to actually exercise regularly enough such that I wouldn't sweat uncontrollably while bowling. If I were to do these very achievable, common sense things then it reasons that I would be able to lose much of the extra weight that bothers me. But the shitty thing is that the last tens pounds I would lose, would be those ten pounds on my fat, sweaty head. And those are the only pounds that I actually care about. Again, genetic screw job. Plain and simple.<br /><br />The good news is, I have and always will have a full head of hair. So suck on that, bald guys.<br /><br />My point is, I can authoritatively speak when I declare to you, Luke Wilson, this little nugget of truth. Having longer than normal hair makes your fat face look even fatter than it really is. I can't explain the aesthetics of it, but it's an undeniable fact. Now that's not to say that short hair will hide a fat face. <a href="http://www1.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/15th+Annual+ARTWALK+NY+0vdNAwDPEnXl.jpg">Alec Baldwin</a> can trim it as tight as he wants, he still sporting a big fat face. But the shaggy, long hair definitely makes a bad situation worse.<br /><br />Don't believe me? Look at Russell Crow. <a href="http://www.thebestgossip.com/uploaded_images/Russell-Crowe-REPLACES-BRAD-PITT-731956.jpg">Short hair</a>. <a href="http://yeeeah.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/spl67210_027.thumbnail.jpg">Long hair</a>. Fat face either way, but the long hair version definitely seems girthier. More jolly. How about Val Kilmer? <a href="http://www.67chevyii.com/misc/food/rsz_val-kilmer-fat-2.jpg">Short hair</a>. <a href="http://gossip-celebrity.net/media/20090120-val-kilmer-fat.jpg">Long hair</a>. Now, he's forty pounds from being <a href="http://www.expressnightout.com/content/photos/20090902-iceman.jpg">Iceman</a> in either one of those pictures. But the short hair version seems more at peace with his reality.(To be fair, Jim Morrison got pretty fat too. Maybe Val is just really committed to that role. Of course, if we was, he'd dead.)<br /><br />And that's the thing, Luke. There really isn't any wrong with putting on a few undeniable face pounds. Just look at your buddy Vince Vaughn. Check out how ridiculously skinny his face looks in this clip from <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODjE-_OB3JI&feature=related">Swingers</a>. (Again, f words.) Contrast that skinny young fella with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPIsb5Agbjs&feature=related">every single movie</a> he's done in the last decade. But it works for him. He doesn't make any futile attempts to distract us from the truth. So trim up the hair, Luke. You can make the fat face look work for you.<br /><br />But you have to own it.<br /><br />Look man, we all have The Royal Tenenbaums on DVD. We know you used to be a trim faced, handsome devil. But you're not the <a href="http://www.mathies.com/blog/royal-tenenbaums-luke%20wilsonsm.jpg">Bomber</a><a href="http://www.mathies.com/blog/royal-tenenbaums-luke%20wilsonsm.jpg"> </a>anymore. Time to cut that hair. But this time don't do it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pyBB7y8fDU">while listening to Elliott Smith</a> (brutal scene), because you'll just end up slitting your wrists. Again. It's unavoidable really. Beautiful music, but man Elliott Smith is a downer.BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-73384448421691368172009-12-13T20:03:00.001-08:002009-12-13T20:14:35.406-08:00That Fat Fat Beagle.<a href="http://busterbluth52.blogspot.com/2008/11/honeybaked-hams-and-fat-dogs.html">I've written about Coco before.</a> She was the morbidly obese beagle that my brothers and I had growing up. Last week, I was rummaging around a box of VHS tapes in my parent's basement looking for a particular home movie from a million years ago and I found this little beauty. This is a video my brother Cam and I made that we called "Pud's Greatest Hits". Basically it's our fat dog walking around set to the music of Queen and The Beatles.<br /><br />I thought I'd throw this baby up on Youtube. This is a viral sensation waiting to happen! Right? Hey, if it's a hit, I can go to the Youtube convention and meet the "Leave Britney Alone" guy, the drugged out kid leaving the dentist and the news lady that fell smashing grapes. One can only dream.<br /><br />It was cut together with two VCR's in 1995. So it's quite choppy. But it does capture the essence of the finest dog to ever live. ( I realize by saying that, I'm indirectly insulting your dog. Sorry. But Coco really is better. Live with it.)<br /><br />Enjoy.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dm_g1vhIdwM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dm_g1vhIdwM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-2191518177795558562009-12-02T23:03:00.000-08:002009-12-03T04:45:30.911-08:00The #9 Thing That Just Needs To Go AwayAbout a month ago <a href="http://busterbluth52.blogspot.com/2009/11/few-things-that-just-need-to-go-away.html">I spewed out a mishmash of whining</a> I called "Things that just need to go away." I figured I'd go back and turn this into an ongoing feature. After all, what's the use of having a blog if you can't use it to bitch about trivial crap? Right?<br /><br />Now, these are things that I don't necessarily hate. They have just run their course and they need to politely go away. You're done. It's over. You had your time. But it's time to leave.<br /><br />So, if you'll indulge me, I now happily continue the list of things that just need to go away.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />#9 - Commercials with chirpy, happy indie music that features cutesy poo female vocals. </span><span><br /><br />Let me illustrate what exactly I'm talking about.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Tq4nrmnqY9o&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Tq4nrmnqY9o&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />Wow. Toyota is really laying it on thick here. It's pretty clear, they aren't trying to appeal to anyone outside of their loyal customer base with this sucker. No F150 driving good old boy is going to be sold on the virtues of a hybrid with babies dressed like bumble bees and flowers that bloom as the Prius drives by. That A Capella female chorus is so pleasant and yet so unnerving. It's hard to put my finger on why exactly I dislike it. It features nice voices singing a pretty little tune </span><span>in perfect harmony</span><span>. </span><span>It's relentlessly upbeat.</span><span> And as much as it irritates me, it beats most music featured in commercials. For one thing, it isn't by the Black Eyed Peas. That's a huge plus right there. Sure it's cheesy, but that's not why I don't like it. I like lots of cheesy music.<br /><br />But for some reason, this song makes my skin crawl.<br /><br />I think this kind of music is a little like drinking Tampico fruit punch. <a href="http://www.tampico.com/images/products/photos/TRP_PUNCH_GALLON.jpg">You know the stuff</a>. Sold in one gallon milk jugs for a buck and enjoyed at little league soccer halftimes all across our great land. And it tastes good. Which is to say it tastes as good as sugar and red die can taste. But there's no depth to it. It's so damn sweet that after half a cup, your throat starts to sting and you have the shakes. Such is our happy female glee chorus. Upon first gulp, it's enjoyable. And you think you really like it. But after a thirty second ad, your done with it for the rest of the week. But it's not done with you. You can't make it through an episode of "Community" without being assaulted by its ferocious sprightliness three or four times. Soon, its chipper enthusiasm breaks down your resistance causing your brains to melt and drip out of your ear and onto your couch cushion.<br /><br />Now this wouldn't be a big deal if this kind of hipster, sing songy, music box schlock was limited to Prius ads. But these damn things are everywhere. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtLQsC6UUKk">Target</a>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QtgUdFuoXok">Amazon</a>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FoYr8-uG5C0&feature=related">Motorola</a>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ti-k7NNQKdc">Apple</a> (of course). Even <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpANyv4Ra-A&feature=player_embedded#">Lagoon</a> has jumped on this trend. I couldn't find the commercial, but picture that song played over slow motion shots of smiling children on Jet Star II. (By the way. That girl is a poster child for the "Utah girl" look.) <a href="http://www.ultimaterollercoaster.com/coasters/reviews/wicked/img/lagoon_rollercoaster_2307.jpg">Lagoon</a>?! The place synonymous among all Utahns with </span><span>rat tails from Magna, </span><span>the smell of axle grease, fat women wearing tank tops and the biggest carp on the planet? (I said <a href="http://luckyhook.net/files/2009/02/sarance1.jpg">carp</a>.) There is a beer can floating in the moat around the Tidal Wave that has been there since the 70's. It's a pull top for hell sakes! They stopped making those before I was born. And I'm old! But when I went to Lagoon this summer, there it was, bobbing up and down amongst those mutant carp underneath the fake pirate ship.<br /><br />But I guess Lagoon gets to be all hip and cool too.<br /><br />I blame this all on Juno. In fact, my feelings about this music are identical to how I feel about that movie. It's appeal is obvious but limited. And when it overstays its welcome, it turns annoying fast. Now that I think of it, there are two other commercials that feature remixed Juno songs that totally fit this category. So let's throw those on the heap. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKVt7BW6Nf0&feature=related">This thing</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1Q4NLRCvug">this thing</a> also need to go the hell away.<br /><br />Now don't dismiss this criticism as some kind of chauvinist display of testosterone on my part. Some sort of "if it ain't Metallica, it sucks!" kind of thing. I have quite a love of happy, poppy music. Again, I don't hate these particular songs. But I have a very low tolerance for it. I am, however, all for that childish sounding, bouncy piano. Check out this song by The Zombies circa 1968. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elbJ4hy5C7A"> A Rose For Emily</a>. Love that song. You want one with a female vocalist? How about <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eHiyOYAn08&feature=player_embedded">More Adventurous</a> by Rilo Kiley? That's a damn fine song. So it isn't that I reject all happy, girly music out right.<br /><br />But I stand by statement that these damn commercials need to just go the hell away.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-33166225627849250172009-12-01T16:38:00.000-08:002009-12-02T14:39:15.442-08:00"What Is It You Really Want?"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://in10words.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/charliebrownchristmas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 330px;" src="http://in10words.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/charliebrownchristmas.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">"Real estate."<br /><br />A Charlie Brown Christmas. We've all seen it. But it's possible that you haven't really watched it in a few years. Maybe ever. I, like most people, associate this little gem with the background noise of the holiday season. There are a few clips that are immortal. Charlie Brown's sad little tree. Linus' recital of Luke. The cheesy looped dancing. And that dreary but somehow joyful jazz theme. The fact that kids waving their hands somehow transforms a tree. And doesn't Charlie Brown's bald head look incredibly cold under that hat? But I realize that this special has been reduced to shortened clips and highlights and it really is a shame.</span><br /><br />It deserves to be appreciated in its entirety.<br /><br />There are two main elements that set this cartoon apart. One is Vince Guaraldi's music. "Christmas Time is Here" is strangely melancholy. You would think a children’s choir singing about Christmas would sound all chipper and happy but this song has a beautifully sad tone. And to be honest, there always seems to be a hint of sadness to Christmas. Whether it's that another year has gone by and not much has changed or it's the cold dark weather. I don't know, but this song captures it perfectly. It makes me want to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmIT94weZwY">walk slowly with my head down</a>. (<span style="visibility: visible;" id="main"><span style="visibility: visible;" id="search">Hey, where the f*%k are my <em>hard</em>-<em>boiled eggs</em>?)</span></span><br /><br />The other defining characteristic is the voice acting. The director Bill Melendez went against the wishes of Warner Brothers studio and cast actual children to read the parts. The studio also wanted a laugh track, which would have ruined the whole thing. Many of the children were too young to read and had to be fed their lines in short increments. You can often hear where they have cut and pasted together different takes into one line of dialogue. Especially with Sally. But you can't recreate that childish cadence without using an actual five year old. But it is these obvious flaws that give this TV special has an undeniable creditability. The seven year old voice of Christopher Shea gives Linus the perfect tone as he recites from the New Testament. He isn't preachy or sanctimonious. Only heartfelt and deeply sincere.<br /><br />When something becomes iconic (and this most certainly is), it's value and depth can lose a part of its initial impact. It runs the risk of becoming cliche. Because of this and the fact that it's a children's cartoon, it's easy to overlook something as profound as A Charlie Brown Christmas.<br /><br />That's right, I said profound.<br /><br />I may be overstating it, but I can't think of another well known piece of culture that better illustrates the conflict between materialism and Christianity that is inherent with the Christmas holiday. It's a bit of a strange paradox to celebrate the birth of the Messiah, (born not so subtly in a stable) by buying a bunch tacky crap (symbolized in "Charlie Brown" beautifully by the fake Christmas trees). This special features a wonderful blend of anti consumerism and heartfelt religion. Those two things aren't associated with each other as much as they should be.<br /><br />Maybe there is another TV Special or book or movie that captures that conflict as well. But I can't think of it. "A Christmas Carol", "It's A Wonderful Life" and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" (the Chuck Jones cartoon, not that Jim Carrey abomination) all illustrate the perils of consumerism. But they don't directly reference Christ. In fact I can't think of a more articulate depiction of the hollowness of materialism (a pretty broad and well covered idea) than "A Charlie Brown's Christmas". Again, I'm sure there are better works of art that illustrate this theme more effectively. But there's something about this 25 minute, simple, little cartoon that just nails it for me.<br /><br />Charlie Brown feels bad. But he doesn't know why. He is surrounded by the self centered (Santa, just send money. Tens and twenties.) and the culturally uncouth (Beethoven was indeed never on bubble gum cards). Of course, they are children. So we should probably cut them some slack. Still, he feels alienated and disconnected. He then sees himself in a sad little twig of a tree only for the tree (him) to be rejected by everyone else. Linus then quotes Luke (notice how he drops his security blanket when he says "fear not") centering the meaning of the holiday season on Christ and His grace. Charlie Brown then sees the value in the little tree (again, himself) and with a renewed self confidence he tries to improve it. But he fails. It is the new found selflessness of his friends and, dare I say it, the grace of God that ultimately transforms the tree from a bare lonely stick to a glorious Christmas Tree. It's very simple. But it gets me.<br /><br />(Did I just equate a bunch of kids waving their arms around a tree to the grace of God? I think I did. I'm going with it.)<br /><br />So here it is, in all its glory. Take a little time and watch it as if you have never seen it before. I promise, you'll come away with some new insight.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-family:Verdana;font-size:78%;" ><br /><a href="http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=3765999" style="">a charlie brown christmas</a><br /><object width="425px" height="360px"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><param name="movie" value="http://mediaservices.myspace.com/services/media/embed.aspx/m=3765999,t=1,mt=video"><embed src="http://mediaservices.myspace.com/services/media/embed.aspx/m=3765999,t=1,mt=video" allowfullscreen="true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="360"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=36238912" style="">®ðßߥ</a> | <a href="http://vids.myspace.com%20/" style="" a=""></a></span>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-17818187461886195312009-11-17T10:05:00.000-08:002009-11-17T11:59:03.251-08:00A Charlie Blog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PPXA4RnMn_ToLWc9Wh7gWNjvEVO3MZIPd6l7bHQobl3D3WVfkTQrx8rO9yBkELPDWM0CChyphenhyphenqJMF86ffVTyS9WwGQjViA0cDkVcERDbYtePnn2les-IQ2i4spdKLNdGNrxUZcC9Pnfr8/s1600/charlie.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PPXA4RnMn_ToLWc9Wh7gWNjvEVO3MZIPd6l7bHQobl3D3WVfkTQrx8rO9yBkELPDWM0CChyphenhyphenqJMF86ffVTyS9WwGQjViA0cDkVcERDbYtePnn2les-IQ2i4spdKLNdGNrxUZcC9Pnfr8/s400/charlie.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405159990472011602" border="0" /></a><br />About a year ago, three friends of mine embarked upon an intercontinental adventure of high altitude endurance, Chinese border intrigue, yak butter, Pakistani telemarketers and some dick named Kyle. Spencer, Breckan and Charlie have spent the better part of the last year biking from Thailand through Western China and into Pakistan. And no, they are not those idiot journalism students that were imprisoned by the Iranian government.<br /><br />Spencer and Breckan returned back to Utah a few months ago but Charlie had some more biking to do. He stayed back to venture into Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Azerbaijan and a couple of other countries I have no idea how to spell on his own. Part of me is jealous of their massive balls. (Quite literally in the case of Charlie.) And I think to myself, "Man, I should have tagged along." Then I lose my breath while casually walk up a flight of stairs and am reminded of my perpetual state of pussiness.<br /><br />I wouldn't have lasted a week.<br /><br />I have posted a few links to Spencer's account of this epic tail. But I really wanted to relay this incredible story of Charlie's. The following are excerpts from his blog that recount a scary, crazy and down right amazing chain of events that happened to him over the last month or so. I have compiled this from several of his blog posts. It's a little long but it is such an interesting read, it really flies right by. I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't be impressed by it. It beats wasting your time reading about churros, that's for sure.<br /><br />I've trimmed it down a little bit but I kept most of the crazy details that illustrate just how foreign this part of the world is. Be sure to stick with it to the end.<br /><br />When this incident occurs, Charlie had biked solo from Pakistan around the Caspian Sea to the former Soviet State of Georgia on his way to Turkey where he planned to meet up with his brother. This is where our tale begins. Enjoy.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Taken from a post on Charlie's Blog. </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://acharlieblog.blogspot.com/2009/10/tenth-of-october-big-fat-car-crash.html">October 13, 2009</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">.)</span><br /><br />I got hit by a drunk driver in Tblisi, Georgia driving a black BMW, license plate “KKK 779”. The girl, my bike, and myself are all mostly ok.<br /><br />When I got to Tbilisi a few weeks ago I saw a flier hanging on the cork board of an English book store listing the time and meeting place for the Mormon church. I’m a Mormon and I hadn’t seen a Mormon church since Bangkok, so I decided to go. At church I met this girl Armine (pronounced ar mee nay) who speaks English really well, so we hung out and she showed me around town. She’s Armenian, but has lived in Georgia her whole life.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392042016560583362" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURC1Na4oaRK31NnxEfV8PfjomQRxlEbo4m_nlTa-ZwnWibrva7Y16SyxEX1XZcnTb2M-ZcVR-YhLyIZl6KJdLHefz0mnJv0HuWsYgtCxMXRdqxJ_Sxb_GUsW4EQi0wu2KWGVN7HVQ_p4/s200/IMG_6499.JPG" border="0" /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> Armine</span></div><p><span style="font-size:100%;">20 km from the Turkey border is a town called Akhaltsikhe, Georgia. We ate dinner Saturday night and were on my bike back to the hotel. Armine was standing on the back of my bike like a skateboard when the BMW slammed right into the back of us. The crotch of my pants blew wide open to my knees, on both legs, though I didn’t realize this until about 20 minutes later.<br /><br />Everything happened really quickly and really slowly at the same time. There was a really loud ‘POP’ and I thought “nuts, you’ve got to be kidding me?” It felt like my bike popped a wheelie, which would be really hard for a bike as long as mine. Maybe it happened, I don’t know. It felt like I flew through the air for a long time. Like in comic books when the super heroes are fighting or going really fast and the artists don’t paint the background, instead they paint red and black zebra stripes or swirling backgrounds with lots of colors, that’s what it felt like. Then I hit the ground and started sliding. It felt like I slid forever.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">I kept thinking “when am I going to stop sliding?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">When the car hit my bike, it lurched forward. Because Armine was standing, she flew onto the hood. It took a second for the driver, who was drunk, and to whom I will refer to as ‘Bad Guy’ for the rest of my story, to stop.<br /><br />I stopped sliding and looked up just as Armine flew from the hood of the car. After we were hit, Bad Guy swerved just enough to the left so that he didn’t run me over. He stopped just in time so that when Armine landed she didn’t fly into any parked cars.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Thanks, Bad Guy.<br /><br />I immediately jumped up and started running towards the car screaming every bad word Spencer ever taught me. Bad Guy was starting to drive away, and because I felt fine, I figured Armine would be fine also. So I tried to stop him from getting away. I pounded on the drivers side window yelling ‘stop you *#*@*#@*, what the #@*#*@ is @*##&@ wrong with you, you @&*# piece of @*#&#’ and so on and so on. Mom, I’m glad you didn’t hear me.<br /><br />I opened Bad Guy’s door and started punching him in the face screaming at him. I pulled him into the street and kicked him in the side a few times before hitting his face some more. He was choking on his blood saying things I didn’t understand. I think he was talking bad about my mom, so I just kept laying into him. When he wasn’t breathing anymore I. . .<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">OK, not really. This is what really happened:</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;"> Bad Guy stopped his car when I started yelling and pounding on his passenger side window. I think everybody who was standing around stopped. Armine later told me that she was feeling confused and really dazed and the only coherent thing she could make out was my incoherent screaming. Bad Guy stopped long enough for me to jump in front of his car. Once in the front I was slamming my hands onto the hood and yelling and pointing at him. His bloodshot drunk eyes locked onto mine, and he started to turn to the right and hit the gas. Bad Guy already ran me over once in the last 30 seconds, so I got out of the way so he couldn’t do it again. But I saw his plate: KKK 779.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Bastard.<br /><br />I ran back to Armine and she was standing up with people around her. I just kept screaming the license plate number and that someone should call the cops or something or anything. It was so frustrating because nobody could understand me and everyone was just standing around. Armine was scared but she wasn’t bleeding anywhere really so the people standing around took her into the hotel.<br /><br />The hotel people said they called an ambulance and Armine wasn’t into it. She thought she was fine. I had been running around so much that I must have been fine. I sat down and looked at my ankle.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392039241117134978" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5KzQR4Fep_9CORBvdOKV6TpgDJ-F3rYS0eP5o0ghun2HKyuhaWz57lf3zVI9N3aeUAUdZXu6gNP2KYfvlyQvkCUyrVExnNFeISrlXFpHzq-UQ8isPprDmX-jP3a5O4tHbO-WKeSFPdg/s200/IMG_6803.JPG" border="0" /></span> <span style="font-size:100%;">I had been limping while outside, but didn’t even stop to look at it. I then saw that my right hand was really bloody and swollen and filled with gravel. This was the hand I pounded on Bad Guy’s car with, which probably didn’t help my hand at all. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">An ambulance came and decided they wanted to take us to the hospital. The ambulance was a marshrutka, which is essentially a van. This van was gutted and Armine and I sat on wooden benches that ran down the sides of the vehicle. The road was incredibly bumpy and the ride was very uncomfortable, but only lasted about 4 minutes.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">We got to the hospital and I immediately regretted not bringing my camera. I knew the situation was very serious, but I couldn’t help but notice how strange this whole experience was.<br /><br />The hospital was a Soviet era building. It was very drab and cold. Every room and every hallway had a single 35 watt bulb dangling from a wire, centrally located and visibly retrofitted. Nobody had given me any sort of crutches and at this point I couldn’t walk on my left leg anymore, so I had to hop everywhere. And everywhere I hopped I was followed. Not just by staff who were there to look after me, but by everybody in the hospital, which was about 15 or so people.<br /><br />We went into an examination room and sat down. They started asking us questions: name, birthdate, address, etc…. Armine translated for me. I was a little nervous because we had already taken an ambulance ride, and I wasn’t sure what the cost was going to be. I’m an unemployed American, I don’t have any health insurance.<br /><br />A couple of minutes later the doctor sauntered into the room….smoking a cigarette. I don’t ever think smoking is cool, nor have I ever thought anyone smoking a cigarette looked cool. But this doctor looked cool. Ignoring the fact that he was the one who was going to give us the care we needed, I was amused. He didn’t speak very much at all and when he did he didn’t take the cigarette out of his mouth, he just let it dangle between his lips. The brashness of his attitude was oddly cool, for some reason. And I realize I just used the word ‘cool’ too many times, but that is the best description I could come up with for my ‘doctor’.<br /><br />Once the paperwork was finished they told me to get onto the examination bed and he looked at my ankle. They phoned the lady who runs the x-ray machine, she was at home, and then started cleaning up the blood from my hand. Then we just waited. Armine tried telling the doctor where she was hurt and he said “You look fine, besides, I need to fix the American first or we’ll never get into NATO….”</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;">A 90 pound nurse came with a wheelchair to take me to the x-ray room. Every doorway has a 2 or 3 inch threshold and the men stood watching as this tiny nurse put everything she had into getting me through the doorway. Armine was doing a good job translating, her English is excellent, but there was so much going on and so many people coming into and out of the room, to gawk, that she was being asked millions of questions and couldn’t translate everything for me. So when they put me in the wheelchair, I had no idea where we were going.<br /><br />When they opened the door for us to go into the hallway there were at least 15 people huddled around the doorway to look at me. I’ve never before been a pregnant woman, but I could only imagine what it would feel like to be wheeled out of a hospital room with a newborn in your arms to a huge crowd of relatives, everyone craning their necks to get a slightly better view. It’s exactly how I felt. I just waved.<br /><br />The x-ray machine was down several very long, dark and cold hallways. It was about 11 pm and the place was empty.<br /><br />The machine itself looked like it was out of a WW II movie. Large steel tubes painted in a cream color with a very uncomfortable table for me to sit on. They gave me no lead blankets to cover myself with when they x-rayed me. But the nurses jumped behind a large shield.<br /><br />We got back to the examination room and the doctor said that my ankle was not broken. I laid down on the table and just stared at the ceiling in frustration. The next thing I knew, the doctor put a cast on my leg. A cast. ????? While we sat there waiting for the cast to dry several nurses kept coming and going. They all kept talking and laughing. The only word I could make out, which was said everytime anyone spoke was: velosiped – bicycle.<br /><br />While the cast was drying two guys walked in. Bad Guys friends or cousins or uncles or something I’m not sure. Everyone is related in these towns. The cops had already caught Bad Guy. These two guys asked us to not take this to the police, Bad Guy was scared of going to jail, and they would just pay us whatever we needed.<br /><br />I said (with Armine translating) “why should I believe he’s going to pay?”<br />“Oh, well, it’s a very strong tradition with Georgian men to be honorable. If we say we’ll pay, we’ll pay.”<br />“Your friend ran into us and drove away….how is that being honorable?”<br />“Oh, well, he was very drunk and he thought he killed one of you, so he was scared because he didn’t want to get into trouble, so that is why he drove away…”. Armine wasn’t really into talking to these guys so she told them to get lost and they started getting angry. As if them getting angry would help us change our minds.<br /><br />A police man came and asked us some questions and then said he would get an official interpreter for my statement, because I was friends with Armine they needed a third party. So he would get my statement the next day.<br /><br />The hospital then gave us the bill, $50, and told us we could go. Armine asked “why should I pay anything, you haven’t done anything for me?” So they sat her up on the table and cleaned her road rash. And that was all they did for her. She asked for some pain medicine because her head hurt.<br />“Oh, the doctor has left and I can’t tell you to take anything without asking the doctor.”<br />“Ok, I’ll just get something at the hotel.”<br />“Oh, yes. Just take anything…”.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2VOi-BbIkfrCAtQv3j_Wq-du0Az32nJOZmlo2E48eOHCTE8fPHlNeiTI3y69pubGhKADUDktGL-rUhg9xGYaFEe6G-IuU9pXVP8nHdD-MC64fF3vxnEkFPYMcFjHZZ7AOZqQgJbYhUIA/s1600-h/IMG_6804.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392039234133243138" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2VOi-BbIkfrCAtQv3j_Wq-du0Az32nJOZmlo2E48eOHCTE8fPHlNeiTI3y69pubGhKADUDktGL-rUhg9xGYaFEe6G-IuU9pXVP8nHdD-MC64fF3vxnEkFPYMcFjHZZ7AOZqQgJbYhUIA/s200/IMG_6804.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrmYN29nORT6nVkD2aq-h6w_yYrOZQnEMiJABWqDdeQj032cDSCCvhctq-ysWR3oBTg5lHvtMOsHAVdtzT3fWGp3sCgnmPlcy_HgFSEexTD0YtYj3fLMCHqv47IBE5xBn2Xw4Ep4x3HE/s1600-h/IMG_6810.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392039218130539682" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrmYN29nORT6nVkD2aq-h6w_yYrOZQnEMiJABWqDdeQj032cDSCCvhctq-ysWR3oBTg5lHvtMOsHAVdtzT3fWGp3sCgnmPlcy_HgFSEexTD0YtYj3fLMCHqv47IBE5xBn2Xw4Ep4x3HE/s200/IMG_6810.JPG" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> I went to bed that night very frustrated. The police had taken my bike to their station as evidence, so I couldn’t inspect it. I did know that the rear wheel still spun freely and it didn’t look like the frame was at all damaged. But I just didn’t know what was going to happen.<br /><br />Two hours before Bad Guy hit us I had spoken with my brother, Ben, on the phone. We were supposed to be meeting in Turkey in 4 days. FOUR DAYS. He bought himself a bike and we were going to ride through Turkey together for 2 weeks. I was so excited. 20 kilometers from Turkey, 4 days from seeing my brother. Now this.<br /><br />For three weeks now I’ve had a round trip plane ticket from Istanbul to Las Vegas for the month of November. My little sister is getting married after Thanksgiving. She got engaged about a month ago and it’s my little sister, so I’m not going to miss the wedding. But I didn’t feel done with my trip so I bought the round kind of ticket. I’ll get back to Turkey early December and spend some more time there before heading south into Syria and Jordan. That’s been my plan. But when I fell asleep that night I didn’t know what would happen with my brother or Armine’s injuires, or the rest of my trip, or my ankle, or anything. I still don’t know what is going to happen with most of these things.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Taken from a post on Charlie's blog. </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://acharlieblog.blogspot.com/2009/10/eleventh-of-october-cops.html">October 15, 2009</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">.)</span><br /><br /></span> <div class="post hentry"><div class="post-body entry-content"> <span style="font-size:100%;">The police were supposed to come to the hotel at 10 am to get our official statements. They didn’t come until noon. The police station was only about 150 yards up the street, but I didn’t have my bike, and neither of us could walk. We could both hobble ok, but 150 yards was too far. Never in my life have I had to consider taking a taxi 150 yards.<br /><br />Bad Guy and his uncles came to the hotel to see us, twice. Both times we told reception we didn’t want to see them. I later found out he brought us a chicken. But we never saw this alleged chicken.<br /><br />The cops showed up and drove us to the station. Armine’s foot was hurting now and she was limping. I was limping. And neither of us had crutches. All the hotel staff just laughed when they saw us trying to move around. We were quite pathetic. I couldn’t help her at all, and she couldn’t help me, and neither of us could really help ourselves. If anyone did offer help it was always for me. A man would let me put my arm on his shoulder and help me walk down the hall, but nobody ever paid attention to Armine. It drove me crazy. They would offer me help and I would tell them to go help Armine, but they couldn’t understand, or if they did understand they were more interested in helping the American.<br /><br />Of course the office where we gave our statements was on the second floor, no elevator. When I followed the officer into the office there was another cop gambling online on the computer. He played games on the computer for almost two hours while we were there.<br /><br />The interpreter, Helen, showed up late. She is Georgian and is the English teacher at the middle school in Akhaltsikhe. So she was really good at asking me my name, where I’m from and what my hobbies are…..Armine did a lot of translating for the translator. I would say something to Helen, and then Helen would look at Armine so Armine could put it into Georgian. But I guess she served the third party stipulation.<br /><br />The cop made me sign some papers stating that I would tell the truth and if I lied I could be punished and blah blah blah. The papers were all in Georgian, technically written and long, so Armine just summed them up for me. On all of them I wrote “I have not read this….” And then I signed my name. The cop didn’t like it too much, but that’s his problem.<br /><br />My statement took forever because of the translating. Then Armine had to give her statement. We were there for 3 hours.<br /><br />My bike was in the room and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. When I got hit I was going in the same direction as the driver, so really he just made me go faster. My bike is a tank and the only thing I’m slightly worried about is that my frame was somewhat bent. But I really don’t think it is. I made a list of things that needed replacing and it came to $208.<br /><br />After we gave our statements Bad Guy’s uncle came in to talk money with us. Apparently the way it works is we tell him what we want, and if he gives it to us then that’s it. If he won’t give us what we want then it goes to court. Bad Guy is a commando in the military (he was in Iraq last year) and has been in trouble with the law before and really doesn’t want to go to court, so between him and his family they will come up with all the money to cover hospital bills and for my bike. This is what they’re telling us at least. We briefly saw Bad Guy the night before at the hospital. He keeps wearing this “I’m really concerned and sorry” pathetic face. He’s one ugly mope. I’m pretty sure he’s sorrier for what he’s going through than for what we’re going through.<br /><br />Armine did not call her parents the night of the accident because they would have freaked out. She told them while we were at the police station, and they freaked out. Extended families are all really tight over here. She’s really close with all her aunts and uncles and with her parents cousins and their children and I don’t even know how far it goes. When she calls someone her uncle I ask if he is her mom’s or dad’s brother and she tells me that it is her grandma’s cousin’s grandson or something, I don’t even know. For the 4 hour bus ride back to Tbilisi she got a phone call every 3 minutes from a relative wanting to know if she was ok and when she was going to be home.<br /><br />When we got to her house she had a few aunts and uncles there, along with her parents and brother. I felt like an idiot. Riding a bike isn’t necessarily risky, but it’s my decision to ride a bike in these places, and getting hit by a car is always a possibility. But Armine never made the decision to ride a bike; I was just giving her a ride. So it’s not fair that she got hurt too. Sure it wasn’t my fault, Bad Guy didn’t have his lights on and he was drunk. But I can’t help but feel responsible for Armine. Her family has been really nice about it, but I feel horrible that she’s hurt.<br /><br />They’ve offered to let me stay at their house, since I can’t walk. They’re taking very good care of me. I asked Armine if I could have some orange juice. She texted her mom, who was out running errands and asked her to bring some home. Then her mom, her dad and her brother all came home with different brands of orange juice, in case I didn’t like one of the brands.<br /><br />Armine’s brother, who is 21, wasn’t ok with the fact that Bad Guy just said he would pay. I didn’t really believe him either. So Varazdat got on the phone and got a hold of Bad Guy’s uncle, then his commander in the military and Bad Guy himself. He yelled at every single one of them. “If there is anything wrong with my sister…” “If you try not paying….” “If you don’t get that bike fixed….” And on and on.<br /><br />It was cool.<br /><br />My brother is able to change his ticket, with a fee. He’s not going to come out in 3 days….I won’t be there. But he’s going to try and come out and ride with me in December or January. It’s going to cost a little bit of money, but it will work out.<br /><br />Bad Guy got hit with a $750 fine and his car taken away. I don’t know if anything else will happen to him or not. He’s really scared that I’m an American. Armine’s brother told him I have connections at the embassy.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I cut my cast off halfway through the night. It was hurting and I didn’t want it on anymore.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Taken from a post on Charlie's blog. </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://acharlieblog.blogspot.com/2009/10/twelfth-of-october-doctors.html">October 19, 2009</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">)</span><br /><br />Monday morning we went to another doctor, for a second opinion for me and for a first opinion for Armine. They did an ultra-sound on Armine. I’m not sure what they ultra-sounded, I wasn’t allowed in the room. Then they did an ultra-sound on my ankle, and told me there was a lot of blood around my ankle. The technician lady gave me a prescription for some kind of gel that I would put on my ankle which would help the swelling go down. My whole foot was really swollen at this point. We’d spent the whole previous day at the police station and in a bus, so I never got a chance to lie down.<br /><br />We went into another room and they did a bunch of tests on Armine, she was having bad headaches, so they were checking her balance and how well she could focus her eyes, etc.<br /><br />Armine’s mom paid for all this and kept the receipt to give to Bad Guy. And then we hopped to the radiology building. They told me it was about 100 meters, which is about a football field. I still have no crutches….still. The doctor we visited first didn’t have any and didn’t know where we could get some. I’d been hopping on one leg for some time now. I had Armine’s grandmother’s cane with me, but it just isn’t as helpful as crutches. I didn’t want to get a taxi for 100 m, so I hopped. I hopped for a long time before we realized the building was further than we thought. So we ended up getting a taxi anyway. My right leg was killing me from all the hopping, and everyone we passed stopped and stared.<br /><br />We got to the x-ray building and the machine was on the second floor, no elevator. We both got x-rayed and had to wait an hour for them to develop. Armine’s mom walked around the whole time looking, unsuccessfully, for some friggin' crutches. While we were at the x-ray place Bad Guy showed up with his cousin (a girl), and two buddies. Varazdat, Armine’s brother, knew Bad Guy was bringing friends, so he came with two of his buddies. Armine hoped a fight wouldn’t break out. I did. This time I had a cane and Bad Guy wasn’t driving car, so I would have the upper hand.<br /><br />The x-rays were finally given to us but the doctor to look at the x-rays was in a different building. So I hopped another 100 meters to a different building, with 10 people in tow, down 3 flights of stairs to the basement. I hopped into a doctor’s office and he looked at my x-ray. He said it wasn’t broken but then started to prepare a cast. I wasn’t cool with this. I had Armine ask a bunch of questions, but the doctor just shrugged them off. It was odd that the doctor wasn’t consulting; he was making his own decisions and just doing it.<br /><br />But now with the cast, I can’t put spread on the prescription gel to help with the swelling. The gel the first doctor told me to get. There isn’t any communication between these doctor’s. So one will tell you one thing and another will tell you another and I guess I just have to pick which one I’ll listen to<br /><br />The other doctor then looked at Armine’s x-ray, which showed that one of the discs in her spine didn’t look right. He told her to get an MRI. I sat outside the doctors office with Varazdat and his buddies and Bad Guy and his buddies while Armine went and got an MRI. The results wouldn’t come back for another day.<br /><br />Bad Guy paid for the x-ray’s and was given receipts for everything else.<br /><br />All Armine and I do all day is lay around. I keep watching this Argentinean soap opera which is dubbed into Georgian. Every 15 minutes Armine brings me up to speed on what is going on: “This girl is crying because her husband’s previously lost at sea wife just came back and he is still in love with her. But the lost at sea wife was having an affair with some other guy before she disappeared and she loves them both. Then some other woman is hiding from the police in a basement because she was having an affair with her sisters husband, who then framed her sister by killing her husband. And then this guy got run over by a car by some woman because he was cheating on her, and now his legs have to be amputated….” It’s great.<br /><br />And one night a TV show came on and it was the Georgian version of Friends. It took me about 2 seconds to say ‘wait a minute, what is this?’ The set is almost identical, though the coffee shop is called ‘coffee house’ not ‘central perk’. Georgian Ross is fat.<br /><br />Ben has changed his ticket and will now ride through Turkey with me after Christmas.<br /><br />My ankle feels like it’s doing better. I don’t ever put weight on it and it only hurts if I put weight on it, so I’m not feeling any pain. I’m very anxious for some type of conclusion to Armine’s MRI. I wish she didn’t have to deal with this.<br /><br />All things considered, we’re both terribly lucky. I’m lucky that I have such nice people willing to look after me and that I’m not stuck in some hotel in the middle of nowhere by myself. And we’re both lucky that we more or less walked away from it. When we were in one of the hospital’s the other day they wheeled some guy in who had two huge black eyes, cuts all over his face and wasn’t breathing on his own. That could easily be both Armine and myself in Akhaltsikhe, Georgia.<br /><br />I’m going to go watch more soap opera’s.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Taken from a post on Charlie's blog. </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://acharlieblog.blogspot.com/2009/11/like-flight-with-no-visa.html">November 1, 2009.</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">)</span><br /><br />I'm not sure why I didn't write about this earlier. Maybe because it isn't my story. Maybe because there was, at the time, a lot of uncertainty. But I'm feeling a lot better about all of it now.<br /><br />Armine.<br /><br />She's not doing so good. Ok she can walk and talk and she seems fine, but she's not doing so good. When the drunk driver hit us and she flew onto his hood and then onto the ground, she hurt her neck. The next day she kept complaining about neck soreness, and I, being the patient understanding person that I am, kept telling her it was just some type of whiplash and to quit whining.<br /><br />The x-ray's of her neck looked funky, so she got an MRI. Armine has a tumor the size of a ping pong ball in her neck at the 2nd vertebrae right up against her spine. The doctor's think it has been there for a few years, growing slowly. The type of tumor, the shape, etc. make the doctors think that it is most likely benign. But it needs to come out. But it's right up against her spine, which means it doesn't just 'come out'. It's not an emergency, it's been there for awhile, but getting hit by the car moved things around enough that it's hitting the nerves running through her spine and isn't very comfy.<br /><br />I'm not really satisfied with the medical help I've been given in Georgia, and I have a sprained ankle. When Armine gave birth 6 years ago she nearly died because the doctor left part of the placenta inside her. Having this operation done in Georgia isn't even an option, it would be a paralysis or a death wish. Going outside is too much money. Her family gets by, but a flight and then spinal surgery? No way.<br /><br />There's a Mormon Missionary couple here in Georgia. An older guy with his wife. This guy has a nephew in the US who just happens to be a world renowned neurosurgeon. He travels the world giving lectures and instructing other surgeons on how to perform certain operations. This missionary sent a picture of the MRI's to his nephew who confirmed everything the doctors in Georgia are saying. He added that this operation shouldn't be done in Georgia. (Of course.) The US, Japan, and Germany are about the only places on the planet that could pull it off. Then he said "I could probably get a group of surgeons here to do it gratis. And I could probably get a foundation to cover the hospital bills."<br /><br />Everything started feeling better when we heard that there was a possibility to have the surgery done in a safe place. The missionary in Georgia then offered up some frequent flier miles to get her to San Antonio and back. All she needed was a visa.<br /><br />The United States' policy is to assume that every foreigner (excluding the EU and a handful of other places) entering the US is doing so to immigrate. So it is the responsibility of the applicant to prove otherwise. Armine is a 23 year old single mother and works as a nanny. She makes enough for what she needs, but it isn't like she has huge financial incentives to come back to Georgia. Getting this visa was very stressful. Her and I spent a week filling out forms, calling friends/employers, etc. asking for letters of reference and putting everything together. She was a nervous wreck. We had absolutely no Plan B if she were to be denied this visa. Go to Russia maybe and look for a doctor there? But the cost would have been too high. It was very literally this or nothing.<br /><br />I wasn't allowed to go in to the interview with her. It was first thing on a Monday morning. About 1 minute into the interview the US interviewer started reorganizing all the papers saying "I don't see any clear evidence that you'll come back. . ." Armine was scared out of her mind, pulled out the MRI results and showed her the seriousness of her situation. She then pulled out a letter from her boss, who is the vice consul to the British Embassy. And that did it. That letter changed everything. The interviewer left the room to make a phone call. She came back a couple of minutes later and was much warmer and processed the visa.<br /><br />Armine gets to America on Nov. 7th.<br /><br />This whole situation was strange. I mean, she would have found this tumor eventually, it's growing in her neck. But she found it at a time when there was a connection to a skilled surgeon in the States who just happened to throw everything together, for free. It's incredible to me how this all worked out.<br /><br />I'm a religious person. And while I don't like to get all religousy on my blog, I see God's hand in this. It's all been a very moving experience to see the generosity of these men and to see how everything was put into place for her.<br /><br />Armine is still nervous, the surgery is dangerous, but it will be done by someone who knows what he is doing and she will be very well taken care of. And, she gets to spend her recovery time in Florida with her cousin, who is married to an American and has lived in the states for a few years. Everything is working out.<br /><br />So I got hit by a drunk driver. My leg will be fine. I'll easily replace the broken parts on my bike. And Armine is getting the tumor taken out of her neck. Crazy.<br /><br />Good luck, Armine.</span></span></div></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-3661492969504356162009-11-08T15:58:00.001-08:002009-11-08T21:14:18.319-08:00Question: What's The Only Thing More Vain Than A Self Commissioned Portrait Of Yourself As A Centaur?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQARb0XuEJCM8OblAlWY6tKUuiIdDj8bMuxmn2xYzrRm2HvxcNFstJ3dUIQdoPQLxgEQdtc1aUzskYmA2Wd6f-dj1BO8y1oduXp5k0tB0qTzNX8ty8R_kBu3bFjoPNDiX3ROMFDJMldw/s1600-h/Centaur.preview.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQARb0XuEJCM8OblAlWY6tKUuiIdDj8bMuxmn2xYzrRm2HvxcNFstJ3dUIQdoPQLxgEQdtc1aUzskYmA2Wd6f-dj1BO8y1oduXp5k0tB0qTzNX8ty8R_kBu3bFjoPNDiX3ROMFDJMldw/s400/Centaur.preview.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401961936770482802" border="0" /></a>Answer: TWO self commissioned portraits of yourself as a centaur hanging above your bed. Two self commissioned portraits of yourself as a centaur hanging above your bed!? In case you have ever questioned that instinct we all have inside of us to hate Alex Rodriguez, he has given us all rock solid confirmation that he is in fact a douchy, ego maniacal, quasi homosexual jaggoff.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.usmagazine.com/celebritynews/news/ex-alex-rodriguez-had-portraits-of-himself-as-a-centaur-over-his-bed-1970218">Observe</a>.<br /><br />Is this not reason enough to hate the filthy Yankees?<br /><br />I read it on the internet so it has to be true. I mean it's not like some snotty, jilted ex would ever make something up to smear a high profile and thoroughly hatable celebrity and leak it to US Weekly. But you know, I really don't care if it is bull crap. I choose to believe it. The world is a better place in my mind when Alex Rodriguez's ego is confirmed to be so excessive and creepy that he paid what I imagine to be a sizable amount of money to a portrait artist teary with laughter to create such an abomination. And then do it again!<br /><br />"Yeah, see the one I already have hanging there? I want it like that but better. No, I'm not replacing it. I'm putting the new one next to it. No, I don't want one to be humping the other. That would be weird. Just the two centaurs would be fine."<br /><br />This is something you would see in hanging in one of Saddam Hussein's Palace.<br /><br />It's a fair conclusion to read some homosexual overtones into this. A centaur is a very gay creature. First off, it's Greek. Secondly, it's a shirtless man torso combined with the animal most commonly associated with a huge dong. Now I'm not saying Arod is gay. I'm saying he's gay for himself. He would love nothing more on earth than to bang the hell out of himself. Not in a masturbatorial kind of way. But actually nailing a clone of himself. Of course, if he's going to play make believe than it isn't that much of a leap for him to want to do a centaur version of himself. Or be done by one. I actually have no idea how that would work.<br /><br />So yeah. Alex Rodriguez is totally gay for himself. <a href="http://sportshubris.com/files/arod-jeter.jpg">And Jeter.</a> Not that there's anything wrong with it. Actually, all due respect to alternative lifestyles, I think it's safe to say that there is indeed something wrong with the centaur thing. It's only slightly more disturbing than banging Madonna or Kate Hudson. (Actually, Kate Hudson is adorable. But her movies are just too terrible. Almost Famous aside. But Madonna is just gross.)<br /><br />While I'm bagging on one of the few sports figures to rival Kobe Bryant in his shear detestability, here's a link to an article from <a href="http://www.theonion.com/content/news/a_rod_cant_wait_to_someday_tell">The Onion</a> that I enjoyed.<br /><br />F*cking Yankees.BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-35891084769542991952009-11-05T00:45:00.000-08:002009-12-03T00:50:48.875-08:00Things That Just Need To Go Away #'s 1-8<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://curtharding.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/eeyore1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 254px;" src="http://curtharding.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/eeyore1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Not that it matters much anyways.<br /><br />Am I alone in thinking that 2009 has been a crappy year? I really don't want to sound like our suicidal, cartoon friend here. But I also don't think I'm being too dour to say that this year has just plain sucked. The economy is still in the toilet. Unemployment is getting worse. Lady Gaga is somehow popular. Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, Iraq, Israel, China, Russia and North Korea are all about to take turns in blowing everyone up. The world is dying of Swine Flu which actually doesn't matter much since we're all apparently doomed to perish in 2012 when the Earth reverses its rotation. Damn Mayans and their curses. I can't listen to TV or the radio for five minutes without hearing the word "Twitter". Glen Beck is a massive hit. As is Kieth Olberman. (What is a reasonable, non-hateful person to do?) And now to drop a crap covered cherry on this turd sundae, the dirty ass Yankees have won the World Series. Mind you, this is only a few months after the dirty ass Lakers won the NBA title. Which happened a couple of months after the dirty ass Utes won the Sugar Bowl.<br /><br />I need to start drinking. Or freebasing heroin.<br /><br />But you know, this really isn't anything new. The economy will (eventually) rebound. People lose their jobs but guess what? They get other jobs. And even though there's always some crisis somewhere, the world will survive. It turns out that the Swine Flu is not that big of a deal. And even though the bad guys sometimes win in sports, none of it really matters worth a damn. And if the Mayans knew a damn thing about anything, then there would still be Mayans.<br /><br />So really, it's all more of the same old nonsense. But friends, I'd rather light a candle than curse the darkness. Certainly one can't expect to recover from an illness without the proper diagnosis. So I am here to play doctor. (Ladies?) I have decided to highlight a few elements of our culture that need to go the hell away. They need to stop. Some may dismiss this is a whiny, trivial bitch fest by an angry Red Sox fan who feels the need to lash out at meaningless irritants in the name of some imaginary greater good in an effort to distract himself from the terrible reality that this <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl31usKFGUd2e-m7x4JhjEUAWmd4cBFSCUruUEKdO_oxybth1km3Cetz5Z075OT6z-zND3P5digKrfU1f4usWaDOn0sVHEXXLhGTsMkjnGQfdkxSfIpiGVKZH3DmVFlHP_ud7PPaJWU_jX/s200/a3.jpg">purple lip gloss wearing dick hole</a> has a World Series ring. I wouldn't disagree with that statement.<br /><br />So for your time wasting pleasure, here is a list of things that for the sake of all humanity, just need to go the hell away. You can't deny that life would be a lot more livable without them. Since these are things that often pop into my head (I'm a crabby old coot and I need love), this will be an on going feature. Why have a blog if you're not going to use it to bitch?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#1. Velour sweat pants with stupid things written on the butt.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cdn3.ioffer.com/img/item/853/915/51/mBnz7HCbZFBqfZT.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 244px; height: 480px;" src="http://cdn3.ioffer.com/img/item/853/915/51/mBnz7HCbZFBqfZT.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Ladies, this ain't sassy. It ain't sexy. It's played out. And it was trashy as a herpes scab before it got played out. If your ass is worth looking at, you can trust me, it will be looked at. But don't compel my glance with this misleading, desperate commercial. Juicy? I'll be the judge of that. Pink? Well, that's just down right confusing. It should say, "I wish I was younger than I really am." I realize that's a pretty long slogan. But most of the women I see actually wearing these things in line at Cafe Rio seem have plenty of ad space to sell. They look nothing like our friend up there.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#2. Sports memorabilia that are not in their proper team colors.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=6856968"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=6856968" alt="" border="0" /></a>Look upon that abomination! It is a hybrid of all that is unholy. A Yankee hat in Lakers colors. It's as if Satan himself birthed a hybrid spawn of concentrated evil straight from his fiery anus. But let's forget my predisposition to hate these two teams. This is just plain merchandising greed. When you wear your team's colors, that is a proud display of your loyalty. It's your identity as a fan. When you commit to a team, you commit to their colors. And confusing that logo with conflicting colors just ain't right. There are three exceptions. Any team merchandise in <a href="http://msttrade.com/pic/Reebok%20NFL%20Jerseys%20Minnesota%20Vikings%2028%20Adrian%20Peterson%20pink.jpg">pink</a>. I don't really like it, but let's make the ladies happy. <a href="http://www.sportsmemorabilia.com/files/cache/boston-red-sox-franchise-fitted-mlb-cap-by-twins-kelly-green_cca2a4dc8e8a99a86b7a970894545b78.jpg">Red Sox caps in green</a>. It's Bean Town. Irish to the bone. And the <a href="http://randomcuriosity.com/img/camouflage_padre.jpg">Padre's Caps in camo</a>. Camp Pendleton is next door to the Pads and they've been doing it forever.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#3. Kanye West's stupid robot voice.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://georgetownindy.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/kanyewest_855_18673528_0_0_7008133_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://georgetownindy.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/kanyewest_855_18673528_0_0_7008133_300.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I don't know Kanye's music. It isn't my taste so I don't care what he sounds like. And I don't really care if he makes an ass out of himself at a make believe awards show. Nor do I care if he hates George Bush. Nor do I care that he is a gay fish. But I seem to hear a lot of unsolicited music (commercials, at parties, basketball games) that feature that stupid robot voice effect. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=at4OQvNlxSw">This one.</a> Cher did it a decade ago. As did Kid Rock. So I guess I shouldn't blame it all on Kanye. But my issue with this lazy little device is that it makes it impossible for me to ignore mediocre music. And that's really all I want to do. Your music doesn't have to be good. Just uneventful. But I can't tone that Optimus Prime thing out. It is needlessly antagonistic.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#4. Nancy Pelosi's face.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJzVi1QRQggQlAm3xSuVhx2hll-uc2X9LTcZUSzm1VtrXtXyzxxd5tsVv-ebQiyylwCZDdV-_ziFZPw9aJAHSDkw-LvZCrWgqax4q-bLe7QBlQ25ENt7oOwyc4DfVSGhXuLcMDCx3SlH_/s320/BotoxPelosi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJzVi1QRQggQlAm3xSuVhx2hll-uc2X9LTcZUSzm1VtrXtXyzxxd5tsVv-ebQiyylwCZDdV-_ziFZPw9aJAHSDkw-LvZCrWgqax4q-bLe7QBlQ25ENt7oOwyc4DfVSGhXuLcMDCx3SlH_/s320/BotoxPelosi.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Have you ever seen <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63tRj0DZk9IownF9v2pOsrwAoy0sF2hFpUqpNQMxp1BYtDTx1-i7yK1un0rYRp-OIwjPnImHCrqUTy_jWTBK0zXJHBZoKaNbtVLknRpWfsWgUd4-Vr7zvUF_kOTYjp-lPKYE82qm9YjNY/s400/brazil_facelift.jpg">Brazil</a>? Weird movie. Look, when a <a href="http://www.delawareonline.com/blogs/uploaded_images/Democratic-Convention_Corm-741609.JPG">middle aged man has an obvious case of hair plugs</a>, it's hard to take him seriously. Clearly it is a man who was so consumed with his own physical imperfections, that he subjected himself to a painful and futile effort to conceal something that isn't worth hiding in the first place. It is a man that lies to himself every time he looks in the mirror. That is a man I cannot trust. Similarly, when a woman has stretched and botoxed any natural expression away from her face forever, it destroys her credibility. Pelosi does not portray herself as a confident woman of authority. She comes off as an insecure divorcee trying get back in the dating game as she drives her Miada to the 50 and older singles bar. I don't care for her politics in general. But she is so ineffective at persuading anybody to follow her, the more she's in the public light, the more damage she does to the far left political spectrum. That's just fine with me. So I don't want her to go away. I just want her face to go away. Be considerate Nancy. Most people have HD TV's now. Paper bags are cheap.<br /><br />This request also applies to <a href="http://majorleaguejerk.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/jerry-facelift.jpg">Jerry Jones</a>.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#5. Those pop up ads that start an audio sales pitch after you have closed them so you can't shut off without closing down your entire browser.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.inc.com/inctechnology/internet/20070129.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 314px; height: 206px;" src="http://images.inc.com/inctechnology/internet/20070129.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>F*ck those things.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#6. The History Channel wasting my time with nonsense about UFO's and Nostradamus.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.daemonstv.com/images/history/ufo_hunters1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://www.daemonstv.com/images/history/ufo_hunters1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>When the slogan of the show questions if the subject is legitimate history, maybe it should be broadcast on the Alien Bullshit and Ghost Chasers Channel. And yet despite all the deeply relevant and fascinating historical subjects that could be the subject of compelling and challenging programs, the damn History Channel more often than not kills its time chasing Big Foot, validating <a href="http://www.newvideo.com/images/boxart/AAAE147990-03.jpg">these idiots</a> and confusing <a href="http://juhotunkelo.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/conan-in-the-year-2000.jpg">Nostradamus</a> with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexis_de_Tocqueville">Alexis De Tocqueville</a>. But every once in a while they do talk about actual history. A few weeks ago they did a week long focus on the Kennedy's. It was fascinating. I ate that stuff up. But too often they cop out. Look, I realize that the History Channel knows what it's doing. They're chasing ratings. It's what a TV station does. This means there's apparently an audience for "Haunted History" and "Monster Quest". I am not among that audience. I wouldn't mind this that much if the Discovery Channel didn't also kill all of its time with fishing, truck driving and logging themed reality shows. Is it too much to ask that I feel a false sense of productivity while I piss away time in front of the TV? Give me interesting infotainment that fools me into thinking I've actually learned something. Then I can repeat what I happen to remember in conversations providing me with the illusion that I am well informed. And all without touching a book. The History Channel is seriously letting me down.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#7. BYU Football.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cdn3.sbnation.com/entry_photo_images/145570/byu-tcu-cd-02-755559_large.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 300px;" src="http://cdn3.sbnation.com/entry_photo_images/145570/byu-tcu-cd-02-755559_large.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>It's not that I don't love them. I love them so very much. But cheering for this team is like cheering for an insecure 13 year old girl. "You're really good! You just don't know it. If you just believed in yourself, you'd be so successful! Oh no. Please don't cry. No no no no. You're just so talented and smart and pretty. And the boys think you're cute. They really do. But you just don't see it." A team this talented and experienced should get better and better as the season goes on. But when they get punched in the face, they collapse into the fetal position every time. They still haven't recovered from that damn TCU game last year. Look, I have a whole lifetime of self induced failure to reflect upon. I don't need to see the same insecure sabotage displayed every week in my football team. Life's too short.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#8. Mac v PC commercials.</span><br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IZkZHWaTo0o&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/IZkZHWaTo0o&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />Apple has certainly done an exceptional job branding it's product over the years. And generally I like Justin Long. He was great as the likable, supportive boyfriend in Drag Me To Hell. (Awesome movie, by the way.) But these stupid ads have just become smarmy. It's not that it bags on Microsoft. I don't care if they do. But it's done in such a passive aggressive, smug way. I think it's the cutesy poo piano in that background that puts it over the top for me. This viciously negative slam combined with such childlike music is like the really friendly traffic cop that smiles while he jams you up with bullshit ticket. I don't have any kind of loyalty toward Microsoft (no real complaints either) but these ads make me defensive of Windows. Also, the commercial above is total bullcrap. Only those square, uptight PC's have failed in hilarious dated ways in the past as portrayed by the Daily Show guys ugly suits. Really Apple? What about <a href="http://img.zdnet.com/techDirectory/_NEWTON.GIF">this massive failure</a>? <a href="http://www.wired.com/images/slideshow/2008/01/apple_flops/03_twentieth_anniversary_macintosh.jpg">Or this</a>. Take a look at <a href="http://img26.imageshack.us/i/imac2ay0.jpg/">this monstrosity </a>. As successful as it was tell me that doesn't scream "late nineties" louder than Pokemon and The Spice Girls.<br /><br />Also Apple, would it kill you to put a right click button on your mouse?<br /><br /><br /><br />Alright. You know, I actually feel slightly better having gotten that all off my chest. Thank you for humoring me. I'm sure there's more stupid things that would do the world a favor by vanishing. But nothing else is coming to mind. Sadly, complaining about annoying trivial bull crap really does make me feel good. That doesn't reflect anything too flattering about my true nature.<br /><br />Oh well. I gotta be me.BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-68320689348792939302009-11-02T02:06:00.001-08:002009-11-05T06:25:47.822-08:00OOOHHHH!! Now I get it!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.mediabistro.com/agencyspy/original/hooker.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 320px;" src="http://www.mediabistro.com/agencyspy/original/hooker.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>The hooker picture will makes sense in a few paragraphs. Just go with me for a second.<br /><br />A million years ago, probably about 1988, my cousins from my dad's side came to town from Arizona for the biannual Westenskow family reunion. It was the end of July in Utah. Hot as hell. Of course, it was quite temperate for our Arizona friends but that's beside the point. We decided that it was the right time to exercise our duty as a Mormon family in Salt Lake with more than nine kids (it was a total of 11 with the Whitmers and us) and camp out on State Street to get a great spot to enjoy the 24th of July parade. It is a rite of passage for all of the proud decedents of pioneer stock. We show our appreciation of the gut wrenching sacrifice of our ancestors by sleeping on an air mattress, waving at marathon runners and then watching a float that features Dick Norse slowly drive by.<br /><br />Now I can think of few things on this planet less interesting than parades. Unless it features the members of the Utah Jazz and we are all celebrating the 2010 NBA Championship (This is the year, right? No?) then I have exactly zero desire to watch a parade on TV. Much less watching it in person on a hot ass July day. Much less investing a sleepless night to get "great seats" to watch it in person on a hot ass July day.<br /><br />However, that was one damn fun night. I was about nine or ten years old and I had a cousin that was just a year older than me named Westen. (For the record, his Mom is a Westenskow, hence the name.) For all intents and purposes, we were the same age. And we had a great time just screwing around. We went by all the local fast food places that were open all night and grabbed all the sugar and salt packets and made a huge pile of powdered condiments in the gutter. That thing was the size of a traffic cone. When your nine, this constitutes a good time. We actually pretended it was cocaine and that we were going chop it up to get it ready for distribution. We had Scarface accents and everything, even though neither of us had seen that movie. It was the 80's, man. A time when couple of lilly white Mormon kids playing "Drug Dealer" in the streets while waiting for a Pioneer themed parade just didn't seem that weird.<br /><br />There's a reason I bring this up. Have you ever had a moment in your life where something happened and for some reason, you weren't completely aware of the moment's complete significance. But a few years later, the full impact dawns on you in a dramatic "Oh duh!" kind of epiphany? Let me illustrate what I'm saying.<br /><br />As my cousin Westen and I were stealing and then wasting sweetener packets from Arctic Circle, I remember a car full guys pulled up in some beat up muscle car and started talking to some lady that was standing on the corner. Now, State Street isn't the best part of town. It's littered with pawn shops and crappy used car lots. But that's the parade route. It's always been the parade route. As a result, that's where the happy families set up their sleeping bags. Hookers or not. Yeah, I specifically remember the lady getting into the car. And I thought it was a little strange. But didn't think twice about it the rest of the night. I crashed about 5:00 that morning in a sleeping bag on the lawn of a credit union and refused to wake up when the sprinklers came on. I somehow woke up in a corner booth of that Arctic Circle, disoriented and confused. I had slept through the stupid parade. My feelings weren't that hurt.<br /><br />Probably five or six years later, I was in health class watching some scare tactic, after school special style video about the dangers of drugs. There was a scene that showed a big pile of what was supposed to be cocaine. That triggered my memory of my night on the mean streets, pushing dope with my cous. It then dawned on me like a revelation from above. "That was a hooker! Holy crap! Those guys picked up a hooker right in front of me. That's crazy." That little insight totally changed my view of that night. It suddenly felt all dangerous and seedy. And I guess that it kind of was.<br /><br />These sort of realizations seem to happen for me a lot. Mostly with movies. I can think of several movies that I saw ten times when I was a little kid that featured some sort of dirty joke. But it wasn't until I saw it the eleventh time, years later, that I actually got it. Sometimes the question involves a complicated plot point. Or sometimes, it's just a realization that a movie I thought was good, in all actuality totally sucks. It just took me fifteen years to figure it out.<br /><br />Here's a couple of examples that came to mind. These are all movies that I have seen over and over. They have a achieved regular rotation in the general pop culture lexicon. And yet despite my vivid familiarity with them, they have each hit me with one of those "Oh duh!" moments on the tenth or eleventh viewing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Smoke Up Johnny!</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.rad-dudes.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/cls9pyqgxj1qw313kdhskx6xo1_5001.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 345px;" src="http://www.rad-dudes.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/cls9pyqgxj1qw313kdhskx6xo1_5001.png" alt="" border="0" /></a>The Breakfast Club. It's a Saturday afternoon standard. Federal law mandates that it will be rerun on some cable channel at least twice a month. And odds are good that if I catch any part of it, I'll probably sit on the couch and finish it off. I've seen some portion of the TV edited version probably over 20 times. But it wasn't until I watched the full version in college that I realized the central plot point. They all got stoned together. That's why they had to sneak to Judd Nelson's locker. That's what was in the bag they shove down Anthony Michael Hall's pants. That's why Molly Ringwald <a href="http://23.media.tumblr.com/7hu2U4T6Cqy63f8rF0Blb9eJo1_500.jpg">dances in her giant boots</a> and why Emilio Esteves strips down to the tank top. In fact, smoking weed seems to be the moral of the film. If we could all just pass a joint around and talk about our feelings, we'd all get along. We'd realize that the dandruff ridden basket case is really Ally Sheedy in disguise.<br /><br />"Of course, Brian. What movie have you been watching?"<br /><br />Hey, it's clear to me now. And yet, somehow the full impact of the marijuana element eluded me. With the combination of my dense naivete and the fact that they edit out any actually smoking of a joint on the TV version, you can see why I would make the mistake. But it still took me twenty one years and probably fifteen viewings to get it. In fact I'm pretty sure when I saw the full version at that one guys house in college, I actually said out loud while I was watching it, "So THAT'S why they all of a sudden like each other." It's a statement whose obviousness is along the same lines as, "So wait a minute, Darth Vader is Luke's father? What? OOOOOHHHHH. Now I get it."<br /><br />By the way, I saw Vacation probably thirty times (recorded off TV, so also edited) before I figured out that Audry was smoking weed she got from her cousin throughout the second half of the movie. I was pretty ignorant to the weed references. Then I started listening to The Beatles and it all became clear.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. "I Can't Bare To Watch."</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.interviewmagazine.com/files/2008/12/03/img-celeb-book-cover-3_200637538690.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="http://www.interviewmagazine.com/files/2008/12/03/img-celeb-book-cover-3_200637538690.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I mentioned Darth Vader earlier, so I might as well go with the segway. Now this isn't so much a revelation as it is a genuine question. What the hell is up with Jabba the Hutt and Princess Leia? Seriously. In Return of The Jedi, just after Leia frees Han from the carbonite and is captured by Jabba (if you think this post just got nerdy, wait till the next movie), the following exchange takes place:<br /><br />Jabba: Bring her before me!<br />Leia: (Struggling as she is forced toward Jabba.) We have powerful friends. You're going to regret this.<br />Jabba: I'm sure. (Suggestively licks his lips)<br />C3PO: Oh, I can't bare to watch. (Turns away in horror.)<br /><br />Salacious Crumb, the little rat thing that sits next to Jabba, then laughs nefariously. The next time we see Leia she is sporting the metal bikini slave girl outfit with a defeated, empty look on her face. The look that you would expect to see on the face of a sex crime victim.<br /><br />Now let's ignore the trans species element for just a second. Let's just pretend that Jabba is a big fat human being. Read that conversation again and tell me if this can be interpreted as anything but an implied rape? A public rape at that? What exactly was it that 3PO couldn't bare to watch? I don't think I'm reading too much into this. I don't think this is my dirty mind filling in the blanks. This is clearly forced sex.<br /><br />George Lucas, what in the hell? You had your female protagonist get raped? In a movie geared toward kids? The previous movie you had her making out with her brother. And in the movie before that you blew up her entire planet. Now you have her being violated by a giant slug? What the hell did Carrie Fisher ever do to you? Am I weird in being put off by this? There's a rape scene in the same movie in which the fuzzy wuzzy Ewoks dance around a bonfire. It's a bit of a shift in tone. And it isn't just a rape scene, it's an inter species rape with a hoard of gangsters presumably watching. But not 3PO because he's gay. And this then begs the unpleasant question of just how exactly would a thing like Jabba go about . . . yeah, I'm not going to bother finishing that sentence. George Lucas, you are a sick minded soul.<br /><br />But I do appreciate the <a href="http://www.supershadows.com/starwars/pictures/1/leia_bikini.jpg">Leia slave outfit</a>. Seriously, thank you for that.<br /><br />3. Atreyu! AAAAATREEEEEEEYYUUUUUU!!!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://pictures.linkmesh.com/dragons/images/falkor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 326px;" src="http://pictures.linkmesh.com/dragons/images/falkor.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Here's my late coming revelation for The Never Ending Story. Actually, this is more of a confirmation of an opinion I had as a kid. The movie doesn't make sense. The ending doesn't work. It confused the hell out of me as a kid and when I rewatched it a few years ago on TV, it still confused me. And it's not unclear in a "interpret it for yourself" kind of way. But in a muddled, incomplete kind of way.<br /><br />I feel bad trashing a kids' movie. Not because the movie will have its feelings hurt but because it makes me sound like a massive dork. In fact, just for fun, as you read the next two paragraphs, do it with a Comic Book Guy voice in your head. It'll make this a little more tolerable. Here's a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lzyd91NFx-Y">sample</a> to get you going. But massively nerdy or not, this confusion needs to be exposed.<br /><br />(Begin CBG voice.)<br /><br />Okay. We are to believe that Falcor flies Atreyu to the Childlike Empress' meteor palace even though The Nothing has already consumed Fantasia. They speak of the weird kid reading the book. By the way, I sell <a href="http://ichatz.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/nes-1.jpg">replicas of that book</a> in my store. It is a hot item. The child's name is Bastian, which also happens to be the name of my cat. In the real world, the storm breaks the window and Bastian has to give the princess a new name. Strange since this is a previously unmentioned condition. "I can't. I gotta keep my feet on the ground!" He finally yells out his name of choice which is Moon Child. That happens to be the name of my other cat. Oddly enough, they dislike each other immensely. Everything then goes dark. And suddenly Bastian, the real boy, is now talking to the imaginary Childlike Empress face to face. Now are we to believe he was sucked into the book's world a la Tron? Or is this all an elaborate fantasy of the child's? Perhaps. But we the audience do not know. They look at the grain of sand which is all that is left of Fantasia. And Bastion then learns that he needs to use his imagination more. As if THAT'S not a cliche. Next thing we know, Bastion is riding Falcor through a restored Fantasia. Excuse me? Just how did that happen? And look! Atreyu is riding Artex. Apparently the horse did not really die in the Swamp of Sadness. And now there's the Rock Biter on his tricycle and that really fast snail. Even though Fantasia was destroyed, apparently it really wasn't.<br /><br />And now, Falcor appears in the real world. (Continue with CBG voice.) Excuse me? Just how did that happen? Are we to believe that a full sized Luck Dragon can leap from the pages of a novel? And if it can be done, then why not document such an occurrence in the actual film? Bastian is now riding Falcor through the streets of a city, chasing the bullies into the dumpster. We've got worlds colliding here with no explanation as to what is going on. Worst. Ending. Ever.<br /><br />Alright, lose the voice. Now maybe all of it is just Bastian using his imagination. So he brings everybody back to life and then pretends to get those damn bullies. But if that's the case we needed a scene at the end, where he's back in reality closing the book and walking home, or something. There's no resolution! It's unclear.<br /><br />But you know what? Who cares? It doesn't really have to make sense. It's a movie made for a nine year old for hell sakes. They don't care if works. Why should I?<br /><br />Now <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--ZTrKPFwJc&feature=related">watch this</a> and feel good.<br /><br />4. Stupid Is As Stupid D. . . Ah F*ck It.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://haffnewie.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/forrest-gump-feather.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 290px;" src="http://haffnewie.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/forrest-gump-feather.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Was it weird for anyone else, that Forrest Gump prematurely ejaculated onto to Jenaaaaay's roommate's robe? You know the exact scene I'm talking about. Yeah, that was a creepy moment for me. Sitting in the theater next to my folks back in '94. I'm pretty sure I understood what was happening at the time. Maybe. Actually, I think I was probably a little confused. But I've never been accused of being the sharpest pencil in the drawer.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong. It's quite a funny scene. And I'm all for a good jizz joke. And Tom Hanks makes it work. The man really is a king. The guy can do no wrong. As main stream as his appeal is, there is virtually no backlash. Who doesn't like Tom Hanks? As an actor and as a person. He's just that good in everything he does. And you know what else? The Man With One Red Shoe was a fine movie, and I won't hear anything to the contrary.<br /><br />But while I'm talking about Forrest Gump, I feel compelled to discuss some unpleasantness. Have you ever noticed how it's actually a cheap, manipulative movie that gets its mileage by focusing in like a sniper on the most easily exploited and obvious of nostalgic images? Hanks is still great in it. But you may have walked out of that movie in 1994 thinking that it was the greatest illustration of the Boomer generation of all time. When in fact, it's the cinematic equivalent of one of those infomercials for 60's music hosted by <a href="http://a.getbackimages.com/uri/w514_h800_cfalse_K0101190611/the-monkees-davy-jones-monkees/image/4/0/4/5/4045778.jpg">an incredibly old looking Davey Jones</a>. But with tons of annoying catch phrases.<br /><br />Go ahead. Think of five Forrest Gump catch phrases right now. You won't even hesitate to come up with them and that movies is 15 years old. And you also hate those catch phrases and the bad Gump voice that accompanies them.<br /><br />I'm not going to say that Forrest Gump is a poorly made movie. In fact, its sentimental precision is astounding. It knows exactly what it's doing. It is, however, far from being the great movie it pretends to be. It fools you into thinking it's this stupendous generational achievement because it is an incredibly manipulative collage of iconic moments and images. It doesn't create real connections to well thought out characters. Instead it drops a goofy yet familiar guy into the equivalent of an iconic <a href="http://eforensicmed.googlepages.com/vietnam-monk-self-immolation.jpg/vietnam-monk-self-immolation-large.jpg">Life magazine photo</a>. (Now blue screen Forrest carrying a bucket of water down the street, tripping and spilling the water in a hilarious way on the no longer burning monk and saying, "Sorry I ruined your suicide protest.") That's not real storytelling. That's just historical interloping. And then the directer cues "Smile on Your Brother" by the Youngbloods to warm your heart and fog your mind. You feel good. But in the way <a href="http://ry420guy.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/snuggle.jpg">Snuggle</a> the fabric softener bear makes you feel good. Not because you just saw a profound, honest film.<br /><br />You know how in Family Guy, they constantly make random, meaningless references to pop culture nostalgia? And then they awkwardly stick Stewie into it? "Hey it's Thundercats but Quagmire is Lionel. There's no joke. There's nothing to get, there's no connection between that cutaway and the rest of the episode, but I remember Thundercats so I feel included in the reference. Ha ha ha." Sometimes <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TNN9xV2MkI">it works</a>, sometimes <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSRIncPV63o">it doesn't</a>. But even when it does work, it's still lazy. It's a comedic cheap shot. It isn't generating a real reaction. There's no satirical commentary. It's just nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia.<br /><br />That is all Forrest Gump is. One giant Family Guy skit with Forrest inserted into it instead of Peter. "Hey, I remember Watergate! It was Forrest that called the cops! Ha ha! Forrest is dancing like Elvis, before Elvis even knew how to do it. And then they see Elvis dancing like Forrest on TV! And oooo, I also know the lyrics to Imagine. But John Lennon said them inadvertently on the Dick Cavet show when Forrest was talking about China! Man, that Forrest did everything. Shit happens! It sure does. And since I am familiar with the references, I'm in on the joke. Brilliant!"<br /><br />It's not brilliant. It's cheap.<br /><br />You can still like the movie. I'm not trying to get you to hate it. But once you see through the stereotyped fluff there isn't much left.<br /><br />One more thing; how the hell was Bubba not considered a horribly racist characature? I'm not big on politically correct enforcement. It just seems that in an era as self righteous and overly sensitive about offending anyone as the 1990's were, Bubba should have at least pissed off Al Sharpton. Instead he became a restaurant franchise. I'm not complaining. It's just strange.<br /><br />5. You Sending The Wolf?! Sheeyat Negro! That's All You Had To Say.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cache.jalopnik.com/cars/images/2006/05/TheWolfPulpFiction.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 393px; height: 247px;" src="http://cache.jalopnik.com/cars/images/2006/05/TheWolfPulpFiction.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>While I'm railing on the astounding overrated nature of 1994's biggest Oscar winner, I might as well get a little jab at its chief competition. Pulp Fiction is possibly the most definitive film of the 1990's. And yet upon rewatching it a week ago, it didn't feel that dated. Probably because it is immersed in Americana Pop Culture of every decade leading up to it. It's a sort of Swiss Army Knife of zeitgeist. Sure, some of the dialogue feels a little contrived but that's only because conceited, aspiring screenwriters have been ripping of Tarantinospeak for fifteen solid years. As horrific, violent and vulgar as it is, it is one damn cool movie. But here's my revelation that didn't register with me until my most recent viewing last week.<br /><br />Did Vince and Jules really need the Wolf to come and tell them to clean up the car?<br /><br />Jules calls Marcellus from Jimmy's house, frantic because he and Vince have dead bits of Marvin all over inside of their car and they're in the Valley with no friendly contacts and Bonnie will be home in about an hour. Marcellus puts his best man on the job and Jules is down right excited to be working with the Wolf. I get it. Winston Wolf is an illustration of the hierarchy of respect among gangsters. He takes control and gets results.<br /><br />But what exactly does he do? He basically says, "Clean up the car and then change your clothes." That's it. Like they wouldn't have figured that out? Seeing as time was a factor, why would they wait for him to drive across LA to tell them to do the incredibly obvious? What value did he add? It's like paying money to a corporate consultant that tells you customer service is important. Thanks, buddy. It's still a cool scene. Given the greatness of the rest of the film, it's a bit of nit pick. But I thought it was worth bringing up.<br /><br /><br />Wow. Sometimes I start on what I think is an original and concise idea and it ends up dragging way too long. The thing with blogs is that if it's longer than a few paragraphs people usually give up. One of these days I'll learn that, instead of beating a semi interesting dead horse into the ground. But again, if you're looking to kill time on a slow Monday morning, I hope I helped your cause.BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2775077483864733668.post-47239461849536355652009-10-25T17:01:00.000-07:002009-10-26T01:12:15.041-07:00A Nice Monday Morning Diversion<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDqdJbYhdlrZUqG4FHo89Er1k0lRkm15kwMO71xURiwZNuzyICbrZ5NZ38MeVXkcFF1jQi_nLTj70cMCrCJ4WS_v3jU-euWasLO_KvUQ4bBcYhdTz1oibyaCTIj00RZqE6vHUw5nd2Lo/s1600-h/jenny-5250_1033133164655_1715205342_71944_8093105_nlr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDqdJbYhdlrZUqG4FHo89Er1k0lRkm15kwMO71xURiwZNuzyICbrZ5NZ38MeVXkcFF1jQi_nLTj70cMCrCJ4WS_v3jU-euWasLO_KvUQ4bBcYhdTz1oibyaCTIj00RZqE6vHUw5nd2Lo/s400/jenny-5250_1033133164655_1715205342_71944_8093105_nlr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730326375494626" border="0" /></a><br />Odds are good you're checking this blog at work because you just don't feel like responding to your email inbox that you successfully avoided all weekend. Or you just don't feel like returning that one voicemail. I hear ya. Honestly, I don't know how people ground through an 8 hour work day in the pre internet dark ages. Without espn.com, I can't get through lunch. And I don't even have a job right now.<br /><br />So I thought I would contribute this little gem to the cause of killing time. Perhaps you're already familiar with this website. I'm really not on the edge of online trends, so this could be old news. But I certainly entertained myself for an hour or two sifting through this baby.<br /><br />The website is called <a href="http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/">awkwardfamilyphotos.com</a>. Pretty self explanatory site, really. Just check out that group of badasses on the top of the page teasing us with the seductive and symmetric back pocket pose. Yeah, they may be a nice family but that doesn't mean they can't be sassy. You'll note the blue and white vertically striped Gerbeaus on Nike kid in the middle. I didn't have a pair of those things particular pants back in '91, but I sure wanted them. How much do you want to bet they were listening to the Saturday's Warrior Soundtrack as they drove to the Olen Mills Studio in The University Mall? As sure as the Nike kid has a tag on his crotch, they were. In fact that is a fun game to play. Sift through this site and guess which families are Mormon. Unless my radar is off (and it isn't) there are quite a few.<br /><br />Though I gotta say was relieved when I first saw this site. None of my direct family is featured. I can think of a couple of extended Westenskow family photos circa 1983 that would definitely qualify. And just about every back to school picture of me featuring my immaculately combed hair (the secret is moose). As well as every elementary / junior high school photo. And the Thanksgiving line up of the cousins. Yeah, this site hits pretty close to home. But in the absence of actual self esteem, it's nice to be able to point your finger and scoff at people only slightly more derelict than yourself.<br /><br />Here are a few highlights:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4szbuD7G5hgFeRDVOR2lKAgXBkeNgxolNolSjwko9WUEEpQvJ-T6D-XBPqzs606HWHyaQNtG6whS9vEjLTVLpqmYSM9ne_BOUBZhgimTzPdlkQgDMc1UbspY9LwyuDV-6lA8_B-QBvs/s1600-h/mike-5931_106480310282_722415282_2649468_5403074_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4szbuD7G5hgFeRDVOR2lKAgXBkeNgxolNolSjwko9WUEEpQvJ-T6D-XBPqzs606HWHyaQNtG6whS9vEjLTVLpqmYSM9ne_BOUBZhgimTzPdlkQgDMc1UbspY9LwyuDV-6lA8_B-QBvs/s400/mike-5931_106480310282_722415282_2649468_5403074_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730454542229170" border="0" /></a>This poor kid. I bet his name is Ralph. And his dad regularly yells at him in public. But man I love that sweet half dissolve, double photo technique. I need to get married just so I can have some classy wedding photos with my spooky profile floating in the middle of my own head. In fact, I think I'm going to have a profile of Ralph here floating in the middle of my head. Like my buddy here, I proudly played the clarinet in 5th and 6th grade. I wanted to play the saxophone but my folks craftily convinced me to go with the old licorice stick and then move up to the saxophone. I'm pretty sure the clarinet was much cheaper to rent. But I was a friggen prodigy. I could have been the next . . . . (thinking of any clarinet player in history) . . . . . . guy who played on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJ8kMbMpQbo">"When I'm Sixty-Four"</a>.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-1edHaApqPub9uCb3iH_bufeBMcYQ7iuarsmS7K3_cDBteK09kM1tKdCRAcfve5f4AJHp49jQUOcoFnhbMCJzfh5iOvAFf8HMWH8UDtlrxna3UKNj1ZEn3Exiqz2kk-N7W4yMDh8f3E/s1600-h/siff.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-1edHaApqPub9uCb3iH_bufeBMcYQ7iuarsmS7K3_cDBteK09kM1tKdCRAcfve5f4AJHp49jQUOcoFnhbMCJzfh5iOvAFf8HMWH8UDtlrxna3UKNj1ZEn3Exiqz2kk-N7W4yMDh8f3E/s400/siff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730466251020194" border="0" /></a>"I'm not gay! See?! I have a wife and kid! I just like to work out. A lot. It was a sunny day, figured I'd pop the top off and blast my nips. No big deal. And yes I naturally don't grow hair on my nipples. So what? Nothing wrong with a hairless man nipple every now and again. It can be a beautiful thing. But seriously, I'm not gay."<br /></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1bii6pZoffNh0EBbiggbGdKbgxn8yxqbqLYuLXaOE2llysraI7Zzvn7eVdHZx68zq_PFQXhUW3TejuwWWtS5LUCm0ns8DCyWvrGbDlUtWbT8kEOBtw0T_BP31vbk9-DDr4PFviUIZr8/s1600-h/mommy-the-pooh-lr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1bii6pZoffNh0EBbiggbGdKbgxn8yxqbqLYuLXaOE2llysraI7Zzvn7eVdHZx68zq_PFQXhUW3TejuwWWtS5LUCm0ns8DCyWvrGbDlUtWbT8kEOBtw0T_BP31vbk9-DDr4PFviUIZr8/s400/mommy-the-pooh-lr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730462601606770" border="0" /></a>Shit!<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTjF1HdlqsQ7VBTiTyvu7zip5EfUOVz8RrpCt9W4Q2evQryYICCujaDt983zUwW5NnLZzM3hmpbUwgQp_vHN8fQzip51eV4Nt0DZ2iZJD7o6USAFyQLHL0xStjyfJ4oPL29p-nilgabY/s1600-h/kerry-denim_sparks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTjF1HdlqsQ7VBTiTyvu7zip5EfUOVz8RrpCt9W4Q2evQryYICCujaDt983zUwW5NnLZzM3hmpbUwgQp_vHN8fQzip51eV4Nt0DZ2iZJD7o6USAFyQLHL0xStjyfJ4oPL29p-nilgabY/s400/kerry-denim_sparks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730338545768130" border="0" /></a>I can't confirm this one, but this is a possible Mormon family. Maybe. Nothing says "families are forever" like a big old pile of denim. Every family has done the "denim shirt photo shoot". In the Westenskow version, I'm doing a Rico Swave squat in front of everyone. Pretty sure you can see two well defined balls in it. I see these particular folks opted for the pig pile over the human pyramid. Good choice either way.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRAd29KIhdhISxWmbYo0SF4MQAA8fu29jzjOMVtimaNwXglcAp9AhAihicUcArgQV8cOwlWYVZKYwDensyFTlz4ifiCBRwneoOAaQ6LvdFzcS4NoIleYG8gAK_SHv65FpBUh2gWjUXF4/s1600-h/jennyann-punks85small-lr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRAd29KIhdhISxWmbYo0SF4MQAA8fu29jzjOMVtimaNwXglcAp9AhAihicUcArgQV8cOwlWYVZKYwDensyFTlz4ifiCBRwneoOAaQ6LvdFzcS4NoIleYG8gAK_SHv65FpBUh2gWjUXF4/s400/jennyann-punks85small-lr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730328549093954" border="0" /></a>Somehow the nebula background seems to fit. Look at that poor woman. Her spirit is broken. She's been a single mom for a long time and she's just worn out. Her kids are a couple of shits. She gets a weekly call from the Junior High principal of Nosferatu in the bottom right corner, informing her of the latest fire he set in shop class. When she confronts him about, he just tells her to f*ck off. And instead of kicking out the dirtbags that sleep with her daughter in her own house, she just quietly cries in her room. But today they're getting their picture taken. She's using that coupon for a family photo she cut out of the Pennysaver no matter how black her son's lipstick is. "Damn it, we are going to be a happy family for one afternoon! Is that too much to ask?!"<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFX_DvTttbqjXJvVde0sJriImc7PsR6zWUKT12xn6zD3YxRFvakSasOE7PRrPJyeW5CXuS-j9PHViO07JY4OO4FcY9s25NUoJdMD0ZE85Vqmoos-nFAFDrzdl9lxNq2udt_LrzjdeRHXQ/s1600-h/farman-n1430910016_30004001_5446.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFX_DvTttbqjXJvVde0sJriImc7PsR6zWUKT12xn6zD3YxRFvakSasOE7PRrPJyeW5CXuS-j9PHViO07JY4OO4FcY9s25NUoJdMD0ZE85Vqmoos-nFAFDrzdl9lxNq2udt_LrzjdeRHXQ/s400/farman-n1430910016_30004001_5446.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730322705028002" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">This guy's got it all figured out. I would guess this baby was taken about 1988. Which means by now this kid is either a dotcom millionaire who is broke all over again or a registered sex offender. Or both.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGm6IK5AZL8xR7cSgCvNOVhvXoitWbAWLNlYgVAMzp_N_hyphenhyphendxIViq7qtD9QSovLhvIjJASYBWv0MaiklLM30ad3WzwFrCoT57hT_O2XHYc3_0czYM1Sc5hAdyQnIfmaXwWqDLuhCgcE_U/s1600-h/elcid11-the_family.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGm6IK5AZL8xR7cSgCvNOVhvXoitWbAWLNlYgVAMzp_N_hyphenhyphendxIViq7qtD9QSovLhvIjJASYBWv0MaiklLM30ad3WzwFrCoT57hT_O2XHYc3_0czYM1Sc5hAdyQnIfmaXwWqDLuhCgcE_U/s400/elcid11-the_family.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730138386529298" border="0" /></a>These folks right here are the reason Glen Beck is as successful as he is. God bless America.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaEb497-fTirsEISaI3J9rdMfmI25zTBMDa0OjX83WU69IfcIrUvGrk47dwcyjMEHE54F0jR6RMxYgssgSZpYi6cp_k_-FfiM-No7l9Gcl2TPx4IrCtf8dkPxj-M9GPv7yfjjv-HzN4oE/s1600-h/daniel-ninja_2-738x1024.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaEb497-fTirsEISaI3J9rdMfmI25zTBMDa0OjX83WU69IfcIrUvGrk47dwcyjMEHE54F0jR6RMxYgssgSZpYi6cp_k_-FfiM-No7l9Gcl2TPx4IrCtf8dkPxj-M9GPv7yfjjv-HzN4oE/s400/daniel-ninja_2-738x1024.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730128498910754" border="0" /></a>There's a lot of ways you could go with this one, but I'm gonna choose to focus on the dad's glasses. You like the splits kid? Nope, I'm sticking with Sensei of this dojo. The damn paterfamilias. Why? Because perma tinted glasses and a mustache always demand respect. It turns out this man was the real life inspiration for <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rvnnLGAv7CoUeoYWkmzXe5G6b-ndd6mlbkBjxy906BvnPf0CvJMhOcM5c7mYuSLp-oFn3pP4W39_8-OBQ-e5UPWdk0u0UZHy_XckwriuP1Rgn50XK0L9s5O5V3NXS-3NPfugxKnIYGsC/s320/SenseiJohnKreese.jpg">John Kreese</a>. "OUT OF COMMISSION!"<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigR9Zj5jBGeYkKg_20TWmRtMVGkp7Je60LK-UjmMkeVljOsRoJATzzJg-v0f2Zf_mwecoksfV0cbrXaMTFIrB9jq7wC3EUloxNq49LMI0v2A3KlYeGGOEDeVcHSX1Zh_heBlSyNTyQusQ/s1600-h/cait-7835_137928751454_508236454_2908971_672756_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigR9Zj5jBGeYkKg_20TWmRtMVGkp7Je60LK-UjmMkeVljOsRoJATzzJg-v0f2Zf_mwecoksfV0cbrXaMTFIrB9jq7wC3EUloxNq49LMI0v2A3KlYeGGOEDeVcHSX1Zh_heBlSyNTyQusQ/s400/cait-7835_137928751454_508236454_2908971_672756_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730122409865698" border="0" /></a>If you look in the right corner, you will see that these are indeed genuine Glamor Shots. Not that fake crap. Nothing but the finest for this girls' day at the mall. Filtered lens. Denim Jacket theme. Matching poses. Denim looking backdrop. What looks to be a ten year old girl in full make up. Classy top to bottom. Now let's go get an Orange Julius.<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2cWzeKRDwSr03Ct2WvrRTs4dGhRWyVYB7Oad3B-rqoZmghI2RBl9nCIGFzjVt3UZRu70vHyXxAXcG8ZSq74EfWlQhbSfR9GR7vnpXGU5_B2Xu4KkRdkdGVqNaIEmbHgrJ-n53ez03sg/s1600-h/by-sarah-n681251789_1277851_8576.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2cWzeKRDwSr03Ct2WvrRTs4dGhRWyVYB7Oad3B-rqoZmghI2RBl9nCIGFzjVt3UZRu70vHyXxAXcG8ZSq74EfWlQhbSfR9GR7vnpXGU5_B2Xu4KkRdkdGVqNaIEmbHgrJ-n53ez03sg/s400/by-sarah-n681251789_1277851_8576.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396730115873748578" border="0" /></a>The old Mexican Standoff. Except in this one, everybody wins. Also, I would be interested in seeing any concrete data on the mustache to mullet ratio. There are plenty of mulletless mustaches out there. But if a guy is sporting the old Kentucky Waterfall, odds are good he has a Magnum to match. And really why wouldn't you?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpZsFWvVnVXqySNIEFjTod2_4JN1ISpvxavsYsexE2d3GUkqBfJQGngTF5Iq62gPxIF6P7GpF3-FZg3ZzJ5ID5-S_z-eEWpgi7Av_7V1ICCvBXW8_qCrUNcj0fr-HZ38GaFRMyq9oWOI/s1600-h/alex-old_fam_photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpZsFWvVnVXqySNIEFjTod2_4JN1ISpvxavsYsexE2d3GUkqBfJQGngTF5Iq62gPxIF6P7GpF3-FZg3ZzJ5ID5-S_z-eEWpgi7Av_7V1ICCvBXW8_qCrUNcj0fr-HZ38GaFRMyq9oWOI/s400/alex-old_fam_photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396749835330748162" border="0" /></a>See the touchy feely kid on the top right? I had those exact same glasses from 1st to 5th grade. The thing is, it wasn't like I made one bad decision in first grade and got stuck with them. I broke those things all the time. Which meant I kept buying more of the exact glasses frames. That also means that in 5th grade, I wore those sweet brown framed classes while playing the clarinet. Like I said, there are no shortage of Westenskow family photos that would be a hit on this site. Also, what's up with the angry kid on the left? He doesn't look like the others. Is he a bastard brother who has yet to earn his pink and black sweater not to mention his mother's love? By the way, I like how one of the legitimate kids (the nonbastards) is wearing a pink shirt to compliment his sweater and the other is wearing a teal shirt. Excellence is found in the details. Although it's possible the angry bastard child is of no relation at all. Perhaps it's an option the studio offers. For an extra 3.99 you can have an pissed off stranger pose with your family. Either way, feather haired glasses guy accepts him. We brown framed glasses wearers are a compassionate bunch.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">So there you go. A quick starter but by no means the best of what this website has to offer. I totally ripped this whole post off from <a href="http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/">awkwardfamilyphotos.com</a>, so please visit them. You'll find yourself laughing because it isn't your family on there. And crying because it could be.<br /></div></div>BusterBluth52http://www.blogger.com/profile/04738977588916281645noreply@blogger.com7