A Nameless Blog

Over the last couple months, I’ve heard the new OK Go single approximately fifty thousand times.  Not only have they played every talk show I watch, but it’s my favorite music video in a long time.  Seriously, if you haven’t seen it, do yourself a favor by clicking that above link — it’s the cleverest thing I’ve seen in years.

Video amazement aside, I noticed that the bridge (“Let it go / This too shall pass”) sounds a great deal like the bridge to another of my favorite songs, Stars’ “Your Ex-Lover is Dead” (“Live through this / and you won’t look back.”)  They aren’t similar enough to accuse OK Go of plagiarism.  Even if they were, though, I wouldn’t do so.  This got me thinking about the idea of plagiarism in art, and whether we should be taking it seriously.

Let’s go back to rock-n-roll’s most famous case of musical plagiarism.  George Harrison, post-Beatles, wrote a song called “My Sweet Lord”.  You’ve probably heard it.  The problem is, the melody to “My Sweet Lord” sounds a lot like the melody to “He’s So Fine” by the Chiffons.  A complicated, protracted lawsuit followed.  Harrison admitted that he had heard “He’s So Fine” previously (it was a pretty popular song), but denied that he stole it, similarities be damned.  In the end, he was found to have “subconsciously” plagiarized the Chiffons and had to surrender the majority of royalties.

The whole matter leaves me unsettled.  I believe George’s insistence that he didn’t knowingly steal anything.  But be it a coincidence or subconscious thievery, I still don’t think it’s enough to force George Harrison to surrender royalties.  Music’s too fluid and subjective to pin down most cases of plagiarism, even when blatant.

It gets even more interesting when you bring in the artform of standup comedy.  Recently, Marc Maron* had a few controversial guests on episodes of his podcast.  He individually talked to Robin Williams, Carlos Mencia, and Dane Cook about lots of things, but mostly joke-stealing.  All three have been accused of stealing jokes from other comics, and interestingly enough, I think they occupy three different spots on the thievery spectrum.

*Aside about Marc Maron: I don’t usually love his act, but he’s one of the more fascinating comedians because he seems to treat his appearances and podcasts more as therapy sessions for himself than as opportunities to entertain others.  This results in occasional frustration and annoyance on my part, but it’s too much of a treat to hear every twisted neurosis in full detail.  If you’re a comedy nerd or an armchair psychologist, give Marc Maron a listen.

My judgment from each gentleman’s appearance is as follows.  Carlos Mencia is probably a thief, and by many accounts, has been something of an asshole over the years.  Maron got ahold of several other comics who told stories about Mencia’s using other comics’ bits verbatim and denying it throughout.  I don’t think everything he’s done is stolen, and I don’t think he’s guilty of every accusation hurled his way.  However, most of his act is derivative, and a lot of his bits are way too close to the original to ignore, so he earns a “probably, and intentionally so” on the “did he steal?” spectrum.

Robin Williams has had the thief reputation longer than most comics in history.  Many comedians won’t appear before him, and some clubs have been rumored to have a “Robin Williams signal”; in other words, a light would flash for comedians onstage to warn them that they shouldn’t try their new material because Robin just walked into the room.  By most accounts, it sounds like Williams curbed material from other comics, but twisted it enough to avoid outright plagiarism in most cases.  Williams defends himself in a way similar to George Harrison — he says he never knowingly stole anything; he’s just a sponge who doesn’t remember how he remembers things.  He’ll enjoy someone else’s bit, think about it in his own way, and next thing he knows he has what he thought was his own original bit.  Shady as this sounds, I’m inclined to believe him.  It’s understandable that he could accidentally use others’ bits, and he earns points by saying that he doesn’t watch other comics anymore for fear that he’ll do it again.  If you’re keeping score, then, Robin earns a “probably, but accidentally” on the spectrum.

Least blameworthy, in my opinion, is Dane Cook.  Mind you, I’m not the sort to take Dane Cook’s side.  I think he’s a high-energy, talented comic, but somewhere along the way, he embraced the brainless-douche part of his personality.  This made him millions, but turned me off.  I’m sure he’s okay with losing me as a fan.  Regardless, there was a kerfuffle awhile back about Cook’s being accused of stealing, most notably from Louis CK.  The bits were close, but I don’t think they were so close that you could say that Cook’s a thief.  Alleged proof can be found on YouTube, so you can judge for yourself.  The premises are stock enough and Cook’s and CK’s voices and jokes are different enough that I think it’s more likely that these bits were created independently of one another.  (And to reiterate, it feels weird to take Dane Cook’s side, especially considering that Louis CK is probably my favorite comic right now.)  So back to the spectrum, Dane Cook gets a “probably not”.

Where does all this put my level of anger?  I think it’s somewhere between “tsk tsk” and “meh”.  The fact is, all art is somehow derivative.  The best artists are those who can use what’s established but still branch significantly outward.  A unique sound, voice, or perspective is the most valuable asset, so naturally, its opposite should be reviled.  What many are forgetting these days, though, is that uniqueness is really fucking hard.  Even when you try to create something original, there’s a good chance that someone else did something similar.  Sure, that makes you less of a genius, but most of the time, that hardly makes you a thief.

-Darrell

I don’t have any revelatory things to say today, but I feel like I should extend a few recommendations your way.  You see, part of the reason I’ve been away for so long is that I’ve been on a major puzzle kick (doctor told me that confusion and frustration were excellent treatments for a hippo attack).  Instead of keeping such things to myself, allow me to tell you about three such games that have used up far too much of my time.

My most recent obsession is a game for iPhones and iPod Touches called Finger Physics.  It’s a solid block-stacking game that makes excellent use of the touch screen.  The levels are short, often challenging, and sometimes eye-bleedingly frustrating.  The automatic scrolling on some levels can piss me off, but overall it’s a great game, totally worth the 99 cents I paid for it.  I have nothing else of interest to say about this one.

Next is a web-based puzzler called Amnesya.  It’s reminiscent of the notpron game that a handful of my college buds obsessed over a few years back.  Each puzzle is a web page with various clues hidden in it.  They’re hidden anywhere and everywhere (page source, properties of the .jpg on the screen, et al.), and cracking the code might come down to anything from translating Braille to changing your computer’s clock so that the flash file will think it’s a certain time (yes, really).  As you might imagine, some of the clues are so oblique that they stray into unfairness.  If you decide to play and get stuck, please feel free to ask me for hints.  I’m currently on level 58, and before you ask, I have done a little bit of cheating to get that far.

Now for my biggest recommendation.  This is a game I first played sophomore year of college when I was working in the computer labs.  I decided to replay it not long ago, and thankfully, I seem to have forgotten most of it.  It’s called Planetarium, and it’s the most inventive and artistic puzzle game I’ve ever seen.  Described as “a puzzle story in twelve weekly instalments”, it’s a game that’s unlike any other.  Each installment (British spelling be damned!) has three puzzles and other pages that form each chapter of the story.  It’s about a girl with perfect foresight but no memory traveling around with a mathemagician who… you know, the story itself is immaterial.  It’s interesting then, that what I love most about Planetarium is the writing.  The chapters are written in such a thoughtful, wry style that it doesn’t matter that I don’t care about the plot.  Even when the puzzles are too easy, a newly unlocked chapter is nothing short of a treat.  If you can devote a bit of time every week for the next twelve weeks, give Planetarium a try.  It’s fantastic.

Nope, no jokes this time around.  I just wanted to expose an embarrassing bit about how nerdly I am.  If any of you starts one of these games, let me know what you think.

-Darrell

I’d like to apologize to my television.  Normally, it has the pleasure of displaying sports, talk shows, gameshows, pro  wrestling… you know, quality programming.  The other night, however, it must have been horrified.  You see, I gave the ladyfriend domain over the button-stick and the program she chose might possibly be the worst, most psychologically harmful program since Extreme Makeover.  This program is VH1’s Bridal Bootcamp.  Let’s enumerate all the societal problems this show highlights.

#1: Women’s obsession with weddings
The show’s premise is simple: brides-to-be compete with and against one another in hopes of winning their dream wedding.  This grand prize alone disturbs me.  I understand a woman’s desire to get married — monogamy is evolutionarily advantageous to women.  What I don’t understand is the obsession with the wedding.  I realize I’m donning my curmudgeon hat again, but people need to relax about ceremonies, particularly weddings.  If you find yourself stressing about the color of your tablecloths, worrying about whether the caterer will provide the right brands of bubbly, or wrestling other women in a giant cake in order to win wedding flowers (sponsored by ProFlowers.com!), you need to take better stock of what’s important to you.  I’ll try not to bitch any further about the wedding obsession.

#2: Overemphasis on fitness and weight loss
Okay, I get it, America’s obese and most of us could use a little exercise.  What bothers me are the competitions that surround weight-loss.  In Bridal Bootcamp, part of the incredibly convoluted process of eliminating contestants is a weigh-in.  If a woman has lost the highest percentage of body weight, she gets to nominate another girl for elimination, whose fate would be determined by the host.  Or something.  My point is, I hate the idea that personal health and body image can be turned into a cheap competition.  If weight loss is the goal, then the game will stop only when everyone’s wasted away to nothing.  Besides, every body is different and requires different amounts of fat and muscle.  The show could factor in BMI, ideal weight, genetic factors, and the like, but it’s just easier to say, “MaryLou, you’ve lost only 1.5% of your body weight this week.  You’re clearly not working hard enough.”

Another thing that I conveniently forgot to mention until just now: none of the women on this show are overweight.  They talk and talk about wanting to fit into their dream dress for their wedding day, but they all look good.  The “fattest” girl on that show is still a reasonable size.  Two of them are too thin, yet still cry and obsess about losing another pound.  They have nothing to be ashamed about, yet they appear on a show that foists shame upon them by the truckload.  The most I could say for some of the women is that sure, maybe losing five pounds before your wedding isn’t a bad idea.  You’ll look a bit thinner in the pictures, and you’ll feel better about yourself.  But that’s not enough to enter a no-limit weight-loss contest.  It’s unhealthy and unattractive.

#3: TV’s love of humiliation
You know how I mentioned a wrestling match in a giant cake?  Yeah, that happened.  It was mostly confusing, because as the ladyfriend noted, this is a program aimed toward women.  The contestants were dressed reasonably for a physical competition.  So why have them wrestle in cake?  It doesn’t even count as titillation — it’s simply humiliation for the sake of humiliation.  I’m not sure if I should hate the producers for thinking this was a good idea, or the contestants for agreeing to debase themselves just to be on TV and maybe (maybe!) win an expensive wedding.

#4: The unimportance of men
It’s fine that no men appear on the show.  It’s about brides, and frankly, I’d rather not see a guy encourage this kind of behavior.  But for a show about weddings, I’d like someone to acknowledge at least once that these women are actually marrying another human.  It gives me the sense that for a lot of them, the wedding is far more important than the husband and the marriage.  Call me old-fashioned, but shouldn’t it be the other way around?

#5: Petty, overblown arguments
During the wrestling match, the blue team started trash-talking the green team.  One girl called another a “rich bitch” (which makes me wonder why a rich person would have to be on this show… but I’ll ignore that).  The name-calling resulted in a lengthy argument about hurt feelings and rudeness.  It was ugly and stupid, and the fact that they were covered head-to-toe in wedding cake only made it worse.  It’s trash talk.  You got called a mean name.  Clean the cake out of your underwear and get the fuck over it.

#6: The twisted image of the ideal female form
The host of this show is absurdly thin and frighteningly muscular.  She has unpleasantly large breast implants and a face full of collagen and botulism.  She is the only person on the show ever to wear tight, revealing workout clothes, and she doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her.  All that’s fine if she kept it to herself; she can look however she wants.  But she’s the one to tell these women that they need to lose more weight.  She’s presumably the example of what the contestants should look like.  She shouldn’t be.  Most of the contestants are far more attractive to me, and I doubt I’m in the minority for thinking so.

Yes, American men tend to like thinner women with full breasts, smooth skin, and pouty lips.  It’s a general preference.  It’s not to say that anything outside the Barbie-doll ideal is unattractive.  If that were the case, nobody would be having sex.  Those who feel shame about their bodies are forgetting another unfair stereotype about men: we’ll have sex with pretty much anyone.  More fairly put, every man has a broader view of attractiveness than swimsuit calendars might lead you to suspect.  Trust me, ladies, we’re not as picky as you fear.  (And please don’t take that as an insult.)

Also, trying to look too perfect often backfires.  The host of Bridal Bootcamp checks all the individual boxes of attractiveness, but goes so far with each box that she ends up the least attractive person on the show.  She resides in the uncanny valley — she looks somewhat human, but comes just short enough that it ends up revolting.  Ladies, we’re not looking for physical perfection.  I don’t even believe in physical perfection; why would I demand that women seek it out? 

I could go on.  I could pick any five-second clip from the episode I watched and bitch about it for hours.  It’s that bad.  I’ve hit the broad strokes, though, so I’ll leave it alone. 

-Darrell

P.S.: Those who wonder why I’ve been blog-silent for so long deserve an explanation.  I was in the hospital for the last couple months (I was attacked and partially eviscerated by a hippo).  I’m still recovering, but I plan to use the blog as part of my healing process.  Beyond those bits of info, I care not to provide any more details.  Thank you.

Hey, folksies.  I was going to write a screed about health care, but too many other, little things kept popping up in my head.  I think that’s a sign that I should write a blogpodge instead.  After all, my lukewarm opinions on health care can wait.  Grammar and pop culture, however, cannot.  Let’s begin.

If you know me, you’ve probably already thought that I might consider Weird Al Yankovic a kindred spirit.  Now, my friends, you may consider this irrefutable proof.

The ads for Iron Man 2 have begun airing.  Well, I should say that the ads for Iron 2 Man have begun airing, as that’s how the title appears.  Why do people intentionally fuck up the order of things?  One of my favorite video games is Resident Evil 4, but the box art says “4 Resident Evil”.  It always bugged me.  I suppose I have no point here other than impotent rage.  Sorry.

This is an excellent article about the degradation of our language in modern politics.  It speaks for itself… so to speak.

Conan’s going to TBS.  Huh.  I have a lot of thoughts on the matter, most of them optimistic.  My initial reaction was surprise, mostly because TBS has made its name attracting people who aren’t funny and jamming them down our throats via hyper-advertisement.  Adding Conan seemed incongruous.  The more I think about it, though, the more brilliant a move I think it is.  For years, TBS’s strategy was to fill comedy niches.  They’ve filled some major ethnic comedy niches in George Lopez for Latinos, Tyler Perry for blacks, and Frank Caliendo for… uh, fat uncles who make bad jokes.  Now TBS wants some of that upper-middle-class nerd niche that Stewart and Colbert have dominated.  I’m intrigued. 

Plus, from Conan’s perspective, it’s perfect — he can be the face of a channel that already has a name and a shit-ton of cash.  He’ll be advertised during NBA and MLB playoff games, immediately giving him more exposure than NBC ever gave him.  He will own his show, so there’ll be no intellectual property scuffles.  With internet, cable, and TiVo, the apparent step down to basic cable isn’t as important as it used to be.  Plus, he won’t have to deal with flighty affiliates, who would have given him the same problems at Fox that he had at NBC.  I would’ve followed Conan anywhere, but I’m excited about TBS and relieved that I won’t have to get HBO.

Since I’m watching/listening to it right now, I have to recommend Arcade Fire’s performance on Austin City Limits.  Jesus fucking Christ, I need to see them live.

Speaking of music, here’s a quick-and-dirty set of musical recommendations for you: Richard Ashcroft is the dude from The Verve.  He made a few solo albums, the first of which is called Alone with Everybody.  I started listening to it because it earned Ricky Gervais’s seal of approval in his old XFM radio show.  Turns out, Ricky’s right.  One more recommendation: the Fruit Bats’ newest album, The Ruminant Band, is fantastic.  I know nothing about the band besides this album, but I’m told it’s a departure from what they normally sound like.  Regardless, at least three songs on this album are so infectiously bouncy that I still can’t go a day without hearing them at least once.

Hmm, not many comments on that last giraffe post.  Apparently you guys don’t like vulgar giraffes.  I found Jerry a delight, so y’all can go suck eggs.

I’m in a recommendation mood.  Hopefully, a lot of you listen to podcasts and know how to access them.  If not, just browse iTunes and join the rest of nerd-dom.  A couple I’ve enjoyed recently have been Chris Hardwick’s Nerdist podcast with Adam Savage (yes, the Mythbuster) and Doug Benson’s “I Love Movies” with guests Paul F. Tompkins and Jon Hamm.  If you want to know how I spend my lonely hours, listen to those.  If you don’t want to know how I spend my lonely hours, you’re probably a normal, mentally stable human being.

It’s good to see that Taco Bell is back to making up words.  A TV ad tells me that they’ve introduced the “tortada”.  I have no opinion on the matter; I just thought you all should know about this exciting development in gastronomical lexicography.

Okay, enough nonsense.  Enjoy the rest of your evening.

-Darrell

Born in Chad, Jerry the Giraffe has lived in the Phoenix Zoo since 2006.  The sky-high ungulate became an international phenomenon in 2009 when it was discovered that he could speak fluent English.  Since then, he has written essays for The New Yorker, entertained dignitaries, and just completed production on his first hip-hop album, Captive Necker.  Jerry sat down with A Nameless Blog to discuss his public life, giraffe mating habits, and why okapi annoy him.

Darrell: You titled your first foray into popular music Captive Necker.  Being a zoo animal, the “captive” part is obvious, but what exactly is a “necker”?

Jerry: Ah, a leading question to start.  You’ve done this before.  [Laughs.]  A “necker”, aside from the obvious, uh, soundalike, refers to giraffes’ favorite pastime of necking.  We do it a lot, and for a lot of reasons.  Dudes do it to establish dominance and earn the right to sniff some piss [Ed. Note: Male giraffes seek mates by tasting and smelling females' urine for estrus].  Sometimes it’s part of courtship; you know, [to] get us in the mood.  Sometimes we do it just ’cause we’re bored.  It’s like your [ritual of] dancing — it serves a lot of purposes, but most of them involve sex.

D: Speaking of sex, I understand that in the wild, it’s quite competitive, to the point that only a few males are lucky enough to procreate with a large group of females.  Has that been the case in your life?

J: Oh fuck yes.  I keep my neck stretched and strong every day in case I get challenged.  You think smarts have anything to do with sex?  Yeah, I’m the only talking giraffe I know, but that doesn’t do shit — it’s this weapon you call a skull that does all the talking.  Sure, I haven’t had any trouble getting poon, but it’s dog-eat-dog; most guys aren’t so fortunate.

D: I understand that a lot of those unfortunate guys end up with each other.

J: Yeah, we’ll fuck anything.  I’ll always choose a good-smelling lady over anything, but sometimes — especially in the wild — a dude will do.  I’d say at least 80% of giraffe sex is male-male.  Some of the guys go all-out with it, turning a necking contest into a fucked-up cuddlefuck, hanging around each other all the time, nuzzling each other…  [Shudders.]  They’re proof that some giraffes don’t deserve to pass on their genes.

D: It seems that sometimes this competition turns violent.  In one track of your album [Track five: "Red Savanna"] you describe a deadly necking contest in full, disturbing detail.  How do you think the public will react to such honesty?

J: I just wanted people to know how hard a it is to be a giraffe.  People think we’re weird, or cuddly, or that we sell motherfucking children’s toys.  That’s bullshit — if you want to thrive as a giraffe, you gotta be hard.  Sometimes fuckers end up dead.  In my case, I hit a guy the wrong way.  I caught him below the ear with my horn, cracked his neck, and that was it.  He should have known not to compete — he was a lot smaller than me, but he initiated the challenge.  Must’ve been tired of all the dude-fucking.  It’s fun, but too much can frustrate you.  [The competitor's death] wasn’t intentional, but I don’t regret it for a second.

D: Do you miss living in the wild, or do you take comfort in the fact that life won’t be so violent anymore?

J: I dunno, man, I just wanna talk about my album.

D: All right, I apologize; in your album, you talk a lot about the transition from wildlife to zoo life.  It seems like a topic you’d like people to know about.

J: Yeah, yeah… I mean, the album just speaks for itself.  I don’t want to step on that.  But you’re right, living in a zoo is pretty different.  It’s really comfortable, and the tail they brought for me has been top-notch.  It’s the lap of luxury.  At the same time, I feel like I’m losing my roots.  Even my name isn’t my own — these zoo fuckers named me Jerry because you people love alliteration.  My real name is hee-pfft, but that can’t be pronounced in English, so I guess I shouldn’t get too pissed off.

D: I noticed you had an entire track devoted to your distaste of okapi.  Are you worried that such outright bigotry might translate to bad press or lower album sales?

J: Man, fuck okapi.  I don’t give a fuck about bad press — I’m a talking giraffe in a zoo.  I’m invincible.  If you don’t like my shit, don’t listen to it.  But really, fuck okapi.

D: Why?

J: You fuckin’ humans put us right next to those zebroid cunts.  They’re ugly freaks with short necks and stubby legs, and somehow you say they’re our closest relative?  Giraffes are graceful and intelligent marvels of evolution.  Okapi are rude, ugly zebras that eat dirt. [Many okapi are known to eat clay found in riverbeds]

D: Forgive my ignorance, but how are they rude?

J: They just are.  Got no manners.  Like, I’m eating some leaves one day and this okapi keeps sidling up to me, horning in on my goddamn tree.  The thing is, this fucker can’t reach the leaves, so he’s clearly just up in my shit to be up in my shit.  Stupid motherfucker wouldn’t leave me alone.  So I kick him out of the way — not real hard, not hard enough to break a bone.  Just a warning.  Guess what the asshole does — he spits cud at me!  He tried to reach my face, but only got about a quarter of the way up my neck.  I stepped to kick him again, this time for real, but he ran off.  That’s not the only time shit like that happens with okapi.  They’re bad news.  Man, you got me ramblin’.  Let’s get back to the album.

D: Fair enough.  What was it like collaborating with so many top artists on this album?

J: It was sweet.  I gotta say, being a talking giraffe opens doors I never thought would open.  Everyone I worked with was amazing.  [Dr.] Dre is the man — he can make a giraffe make sounds I never heard before.  Shit, Danger Mouse is the smartest guy I know, Erykah Badu is really nice… I can’t go naming everybody, though.  Everyone was fuckin’ outstanding.

D: One interesting choice was your invitation to Scarlett Johansson to do backing vocals for a few songs.  She has a limited musical career, so many were surprised by her addition.  How did she work out?

J: I know what you want me to say.  Something about her tits, right?  I’m a giraffe, asshole.  I don’t care about that.  I just listened to her album of Tom Waits covers and I realized, yeah, Tom Waits is brilliant, but he’d be so much better if he had a smoother voice.  All you media fuckers were too hard on Scarlett — she brought it down then, and she brought it down for the Necker.

D: Any plans for the future?

J: Probably some more albums.  I made a deal with The New Yorker to keep writing essays for them, so that’ll be good.  I’m also starting a charity to help find other talking giraffes, encourage them to communicate in the human world the way I have.  As much as you fuckers get on my nerves, I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for humanity.

-Darrell

Okay, so Freddie Prinze Jr. and Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica are in some hot water.  Without going into too many details, they killed a couple guys and had to dispose of their bodies.  Now Stephen Root (AKA Milton from Office Space, Jimmy James from Newsradio, Bill Dauterive, and many others) is asking questions.  You see, he’s the parole officer for one of the dead guys.  Meanwhile, the host from Slumdog Millionaire is worried that his power in a fictional Islamic republic is slipping away, and Mare Winningham is begging her terrorist son not to blow himself up in a hospital.  Clearly, stunt-casting on 24 has reached fever pitch.

That’s right, readers, you’re getting my annual Kiefer update.  Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot to say about this season.  That’s because it’s pretty much a synthesis of the first seven.  It sort of feels like the writers went with a safe, familiar story thin on subplots, thinking that setting it in New York would make it feel different.  Well, it doesn’t.  No matter the city, everywhere in 24 has the same drab lighting and modern furniture.  In a way, this is the most rote, predictable season yet.  In another way, though, it’s totally comforting to see that the writers are checking off every box that makes a good season.  Let’s go through the list:

FRIGHTENING TERRORIST PLOT: Islamic terrorists want to get ahold of nuclear materials so they can set off a bomb in a major American city.  Sound like nearly every other season yet?  At first, they tried to make it look like the terrorists wanted to get the materials to ship back to their homeland and use in their civil war… eventually.  Was anyone surprised when the big twist was that the terrorists changed their plans to target the U.S.?

TERRIBLE SUBPLOT REQUIREMENT: Previously held by an annoying blonde, a whiny teenager, and a bobcat, this year the Terrible Subplot Requirement is fulfilled by Starbuck and Freddie Prinze.  The only good to come out of it is whenever Prinze is annoyed at Starbuck for distracting him.  “We can’t talk about our relationship now; there’s a nuclear crisis!”

OBJECT OF DOOM: We’ve seen nuclear bombs, canisters of nerve gas, and vials of super-virus.  You can forgive them for going back to nukes, especially since they have a new term: nuclear rods.  Who has the rods?  Capture the rods!  Don’t let him get away with the rods!

JACK’S QUESTIONABLE METHODS: People still think Jack Bauer “goes too far” with his tactics sometimes, but they always go back to reluctantly admitting that he “gets the job done”.  Jack still likes torturing people and indiscriminately killing henchmen.  The good thing is that some of Jack’s kills this year have been pretty bad-ass.  While his arms were tied to a pipe, Jack used his legs to snap a henchman’s neck.  He killed a guy with a fireman’s axe to the chest in one episode.  A few weeks later he pulled a knife out from his own stomach, then threw it into somebody’s neck.  That was exciting.

TRAITOR TURNAROUNDS: Someone unjustly accused of betrayal earns an apology, only to turn out to be a traitor after all.  Season one it was Nina, last year it was Tony, this year it’s Tarim, the IRK President’s chief of security.  The writers really love making viewers yell, “Aw SHIT he was evil this whole time!”

TERRORIST PATHOS: Every reluctant terrorist or gutless toadie gets a chance to redeem himself.  In season five, Rudy sacrificed himself for CTU Los Angeles after stupidly giving terrorists his keycard.  This year, we’ve had two already: Betraying brother Farhad tried to stop the plans when he learned that the US was the actual target, and Marcos the Teenage Terrorist gave Jack a lead before his suicide vest was remotely detonated.  These little redemptions are getting less powerful by the episode.

GEOGRAPHICAL IMPROBABILITY: You know how Jack could travel across rush-hour Los Angeles during a single commercial break?  Or how last year, terrorists infiltrated the White House through an underwater tunnel?  This year, New York City has more abandoned warehouses and swampland than I ever knew.

OVERALL RATING: B+.  It’s okay so far, but not great.  I still like the President, and the politics aren’t too insulting.  I have nothing specific to complain about, except the stupid Starbuck subplot, so I’m not too annoyed.  It isn’t grabbing me as much as previous seasons, but it still feels like an old friend that delivers good, old fashioned ultra-violence on a weekly basis.  I’m still glad to be a die-hard.

-Darrell

I was talking to the ladyfriend about the unfortunate passing of Andrew Koenig, for it really bummed me out.  No, I never watched Growing Pains, but he was the producer of a podcast I listen to semi-regularly.  Titled Never Not Funny, the show is comedian Jimmy Pardo’s forum to crack wise with friends and celebrity guests.  I tried to explain to her how much I enjoy the podcast and how much I admire Pardo (and sympathize with him for the loss of his brother-in-law and producer), but I had some trouble putting it into words.

The thing is, Jimmy Pardo is a good comic, but not a great one.  His act is fine, but what sets him apart from others is his manner.  He has an energetic style that tells audiences that he’s the entertainer.  Thus, he is at his best when riffing with the crowd or other comedians.  I can’t think of many people who are more comfortable with an audience in front of him.  Watch any episode of his version of “You Bet Your Life” to see him in action.  His jokes don’t always work, but their purpose is always clear — keep the audience entertained and on Team Jimmy.  It struck me that this is a talent that very few people have in show-business.  Surprisingly enough, I would put Jimmy Pardo on a very short list of people I’ll refer to as consummate entertainers.

It’s a tough balance to be a truly consummate entertainer.  You have to have a light attitude, but not too light.  You should be consistently amusing, but able to defer to those who share your stage.  Most importantly, every decision you make should be in the interest of the audience.  Based on these strict criteria, the only  consummate entertainers (among living non-musicians) I can think of are as follows: Jimmy Pardo, Regis Philbin, and Conan O’Brien.

That’s a surprising list to come from me, especially for its omissions.  For example, why not include David Letterman, a comedy hero of mine?  Well, he’s cranky and intentionally inaccessible to many.  He likes having a slightly offbeat, selective audience so he can rant about his personal life and not worry about entertaining every single person.  His attitude is one of, “if you like me, great; if not, screw off.”  That can make for a very funny person, but not a consummate entertainer.

In a similar vein, why not Jay Leno?  He’s always brought big ratings, and he always tries to appeal to the largest audience.  The problem isn’t just that he isn’t funny anymore and tells the same four predictable jokes over and over.  The real problem is his interviewing skills.  His mission in interviews isn’t to entertain the audience, but to allow the guest to recite his prepared bits and stories.  Sure, talk-show hosts have to do that to some degree, but that’s all Leno does.  (And it’s so awkward: “I understand you built a shark tank in your house…”)  Also, Jay Leno doesn’t make the list because I want to distinguish “consummate entertainer” from “middlebrow sense of humor”.

Missing the list also is Ryan Seacrest.  He’s a capable host, but that’s it.  He doesn’t sing, dance, tell jokes, have interesting opinions, or do much of anything.  He gets a mention, though, because he hosts our nation’s most popular show, which should be worth something.

I thought about putting Oprah Winfrey on the list, but quickly declined because I don’t remember being particularly entertained by her at any time.  I admit that I don’t watch her show, so I might be missing a lot.  She isn’t known for any talent besides incredible business acumen, so I doubt it.  But if someone would like to write an impassioned defense of Oprah as a great entertainer, I’d like to read it.

Come to think of it, I could probably cite ignorance regarding most women who might have made the list.  I like Bonnie Hunt on Letterman, but I’ve never seen her show.  Joan Rivers was funny in her day, but I was too young to have seen her host The Tonight Show.  I think I know enough about Ellen DeGeneres to leave her off — the American Idol watchers I know haven’t been blown away by her performance this year.  Sarah Silverman I love, but she’s too niche (the same can be said of Amy Sedaris, Maria Bamford, or a host of other comediennes).  Call it the innate sexism of showbiz, but most women are either too underexposed or simply unworthy of this arbitrary title I just made up.

Almost making the list as a surprise entrant was Howard Stern.  Full disclosure: I’m not a fan.  His humor is mostly lowbrow, his interview style is exploitative, and his fans aren’t usually people I associate with.  That said, he’s very close to being a consummate entertainer.  Everything he does on his show is designed to keep listeners’ attention.  Remember in Private Parts (a good watch if you haven’t seen it) when the radio producer says that the people who said they hated Howard Stern listened to him over twice as long as those who liked him?  If that’s the case, he’s doing something brilliant.  Even on others’ talk shows, he brings something to the table beyond lame-ass stories.  I had to leave him off the list, however, because he turns off too many people.  Too much of his brilliance comes out of making vast swaths of people uncomfortable, and no consummate entertainer would sacrifice that much of his audience.  Plus, he very rarely performs onstage, which, the more I think about it, should be a requirement.  Sorry, Howard.

The “stage performers only” requirement eliminates many others who might be more than capable of becoming consummate entertainers.  Steve Martin used to be, but not since he retired from stand-up.  Alec Baldwin is close, but he’s only onstage the days he hosts SNL.  The same problem keeps Christopher Walken off the list.  I’m super-tempted to put Justin Timberlake on the list, but I told myself I’d eliminate musicians, and most of his stage time is musical.

So let’s get to who’s on the list.  These are three very different entertainers, but I think they’ve all earned their spot.  Pardo I’ve covered.  Regis should be easy: he’s proven himself every day for almost fifty years.  No matter his role (talk-show host, talk-show guest, gameshow host, comedic actor), he’s always a delight.  He’s a ridiculous man, but his attitude is perfect for the occasion.  No one in history has logged more hours on television, which is fitting because he seems to be the only person who truly belongs there.

Why Conan?  It’s not just because I love him.  Watch his show… er, watch clips of his old Late Night show.  Even when he tells bad jokes, he twists them into an entertaining moment.  He does his fair share of mugging in these moments, but he knows when to stop (something that keeps Robin Williams off the list forever).  In interviews, he often does the Leno-esque setups for guests, but he plays with it a lot.  He’ll make fun of the fact that a celebrity has a prepared story, or (if he’s feeling more Lettermanish) he’ll try to interrupt and screw up what was likely to be a snoozer.  Plus, his humor is apolitical and mostly silly, which makes it easy to keep most people on board.  I think that makes my point about Conan — I’ve written enough about him already, anyway.

So… whom am I missing?  I’ve racked my brain for the last few hours, but I’m sure somebody slipped through the cracks of this steel trap of mine.  (Ah, how I love the nonsensical mixed metaphor.)  What do you think — good list?  Should I add Don Rickles… or Bill Cosby?  The answer to both is “probably not”, but help me flesh this out.

-Darrell

Every two years, I get a bad case of Olympic fever.  This year, it’s just of the winter variety, which isn’t as severe.  However, it is bad enough that I need to write a bullet-style blogpost about the events I’ve had the fortune to witness over the past fortnight.  Let’s proceed in no particular order.

BOBSLED/SKELETON/LUGE: I might as well start with the event that first made headlines.  I won’t get into tsking the event coordinators or the track designers; we’ve read all that shit enough.  I’m still surprised and amazed that sports like luge and skeleton exist in the first place.  Who decided that sledding should be absurdly treacherous?  Why would anyone intentionally build a track that allows brakeless sleds to top 100 MPH?  Those people have a thrill-seeking gene that I lack.

Another thing about the sliding sports: they’re probably the hardest to watch.  Even something like figure skating, which has its own arcane set of rules and jargon, can be followed pretty easily: if the skater lands awkwardly, that’s a bad thing.  With the sliding sports, I have no way of comparing people’s runs or being able to tell whether anyone has good technique.  It just doesn’t translate to television.  Besides the horrific crashes, of course.

SNOWBOARDING: I hate to admit it, but I have jumped onto the Shaun White bandwagon.  For the longest time, I thought he was a doofy-looking stoner with an irritating manner about him.  I still kind of feel that way, but after watching the halfpipe finals, I also believe he is far and away the best in the world at his sport.  In the medal round, his jumps were noticeably higher, his tricks more impressive than all the rest.  And even though he had already sewn up the gold medal, he went all-out for his second run and gave everybody a fantastic exhibition.  Respect for that damned flying tomato.

SNOWBOARD/SKI CROSS: This is the type of skiing I’ve wanted since I was a lad: head-to-head racing down a hill.  It’s obvious who’s doing well because everyone’s going at once.  It’s a race — not the speed contest that is every other skiing event.  Plus, there are more crashes, and they aren’t as gut-wrenching as those in regular downhill.  Win-win.

CURLING: Bill Simmons has already devoted a lot of column space and podcast time to the sport of Scottish kings, so I’ll try not to be unoriginal.  First off, I agree that it’s fun to play along and talk strategy.  I agree that it’s easy to follow.  And yes, I agree that the Canadian skip is a sexy number.  All that said, I have one nagging suspicion that sweeping the ice is a lie.  I understand that sweeping gets rid of ice particles and may possibly melt a tiny layer, allowing the rock to slide farther.  But how much of a difference does it really make?  A bad shot is a bad shot, and sweeping ability can’t be so good as to turn it into a great shot.  Right?  I heard one of the commentators say something about how a thrower should have gone short because he had “such good sweepers” who could have placed it better.  How can you tell a good sweeper from an okay one?

CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING: Everyone rightly says that it’s less exciting than downhill skiing.  It is impressive, however, to see top athletes gear up and do what probably amounts to a frozen marathon.  I’ll never forget the sight of five skiers plodding toward the finish, then immediately collapsing as if they had crossed the Others’ security fence from LOST.

SHORT-TRACK SPEED SKATING: Super exciting, seemingly inconsequential.  Based on the disqualification rules and the behavior of the participants, it seems to me that luck is the most important element of short-track.  Apolo Ohno won his first silver medal this year because two Koreans tripped over each other on the final turn.  The Chinese women’s relay team won gold because a Korean slightly nudged someone along the way.  J.R. Celski got held by a Canadian who was falling behind; for some reason, the Canadian was automatically advanced to the final, while Celski was disqualified.  What?  Your sport is exciting, but too maddeningly random for me to take seriously.

BIATHLON: Every winter Olympics, I encounter another person who is unfamiliar with the biathlon, even though it’s one of the oldest events.  What’s so strange about the combination of cross-country skiing and riflery?  It’s a great synthesis of two important Nordic skills.  I’m sure hours of flat-land skiing followed by patient tracking and shooting of animals is how generations of northerners fed their families.  Anyway, my other point is similarly unnecessary: NBC did an excellent job making the biathlon watchable.  An event like that begs to be misunderstood, but the coverage made sure the viewer knew what the hell was going on.  Well done.

NORDIC COMBINED: Now here’s a combination that makes little sense to me: ski-jumping and cross-country skiing.  The worst part is, the ski-jumping appears to be completely unimportant.  Competitors first have a ski-jumping competition in order to determine the orders and headstarts for the lengthy cross-country skiing race to follow (much like the Eliminator on American Gladiators).  The thing is, if I remember correctly, the gold was won by someone who did rather lousy on the ski-jump.  So really, the Nordic combined is just a more complicated cross-country skiing race.

MEN’S HOCKEY: I can’t get enough Olympic hockey.  The ice is bigger, so the puck moves quicker and more freely.  There aren’t TV timeouts, so viewers never lose a sense of urgency.  Everyone’s playing for national pride, so every team takes the tournament seriously.  It’s my favorite form of hockey; the NHL could learn a lot from the IOC.  I love it so much, I don’t even have a snarky comment about it.  Okay, maybe just one for Jeremy Roenick: J.R., you’re retired.  Get those teeth fixed.

WOMEN’S HOCKEY: The trouble with women’s hockey is that only the U.S. and Canada are any good.  Games aren’t watchable because either you’re watching a blow-out or two teams that screw up a lot.  Also, checking isn’t allowed, which seems antithetical to hockey, women’s or not.

ICE DANCING: sucks.  You know it; I know it; the American people know it.  It’s just about footwork and timing.  It’s synchronized swimming with a frozen pool.  No jumps?  The dudes aren’t tossing ninety-pound girls ten feet into the air?  Nobody’s falling down?  No thanks.

FIGURE SKATING: It’s the most popular winter sport, but I’m far from in love with it.  It’s an impressive athletic feat, but I can’t help but get frustrated at any sport that depends on judging.  I prefer sports to be objective — cross the finish line first and you win.  Avoid debates, controversies, and bribes.  Even beyond the judging, I think I’d appreciate a little more detail about the standards that the judges use.  There’s occasional mention of how skaters have to pull one skate over their heads during the bridge of the song, but I’ve heard nothing about what the penalty would be if an Olympian did it, say, during the coda.  Give me figures, Scott Hamilton!

AERIALS: Add this to the list of sports that I will never try.  I can see how it evolved.  “Hey, see that ramp I built?  I’m-a go do a backflip.”  Competition ensued.  Meanwhile, people like me stayed in the ice-fishing cabins to nap, read, and masturbate.

I think that’s about every sport.  Wow.  The Winter Olympics really don’t have that many sports.  I guess there’s only so much you can do with ice and snow.  Below are a few suggestions for the IOC to consider for future Olympiads.

SNOWMAN BUILDING: I suppose this would be a judged event, which isn’t ideal, but it doesn’t have to be.  It could be devoid of design; teams would have to build a six-foot-tall snowman comprised of three large snowballs at least two feet in diameter.  First team to stick a carrot in the top snowball is the winner.

SNOWBALL ROLLING: Competitors start at the top of the hill.  Whoever’s ball is most fit to crush a cartoon coyote at the bottom of the hill gets the gold.

ALPINE MIXOLOGY: Athletes must use natural ice and snow to concoct the ideal gin and tonic.  This event is here exclusively so the Brits can have an event to dominate.

SNOWSLIDING: We’ve seen people go downhill with two skis, then one board; let’s continue the trend.  No skis, no board: just a pair of water-resistant boots.  Athletes need not remain upright all the way down the hill, but they must not burst the water balloons attached to their helmets.  Pundits will call it “controlled falling”, but I’ll just call it “endless drama”.

CLOCKWISE SPEED SKATING: Why must every track sport go counterclockwise?  Maybe we’ll get a new pack of athletes who are more suited to turning right all the time.  I’m just saying it’s worth a shot.

Okay, enough nonsense.  I have more curling to watch.

-Darrell

Ah, love is in the air.  I mean that literally — the day after Valentine’s Day always has a distinct bleach aroma outside, if you catch my drift.  It’s like the atmosphere got laid yesterday.  World, you need to bask in that post-coital glow.  You deserve a blogpodge.

Do any of you read xkcd?  It’s a nerdy web comic that’s occasionally funny.  But do you know what’s even better?  xkcdexplained.  It’s a simple premise — three guys explain the jokes in the latest comic.  The execution is brilliant, though, as it’s clear that these guys find xkcd predictable, childish, and unfunny.  It’s become the most amazingly mean thing I’ve seen in a long time.  Instead of nerds versus jocks, we get intellectual nerds versus socially awkward nerd.  Reading both the comic and critique is win-win — if the comic is bad, the snarky explanation is that much better.

It’s also President’s Day.  We all pitched in to give Obama that tie, right?  I want to be sure that my name was on the tag.

My opinion of John Mayer is pretty much the same opinion I have of Justin Timberlake.  I can’t stand their music and I’m envious of their sexual resumes, but I find them both to be immensely talented people who seem to have good senses of humor, particularly about themselves.  Knowing that I’m okay with them as people makes me feel smugly enlightened and open-minded.  Anyone else feel similar?

The universe is big.  The universe is small.  Here’s a flash widget to help you put it in perspective.  It’s not as grand without Morgan Freeman and a gigantic screen, but it’ll do.

Internet, you’ve finally done it.  You’re in the process of creating a website entirely for me.  You see, people are starting to make charts and graphs about the greatest, most fascinating band of all time.  Check out the Flickr page if you like; my favorite addition is the analysis of the Beatles’ and Rolling Stones’ Americanized pronunciations of the letter R as their careers progressed.  Turns out they got more British as time passed.

Hot damn, it’s Lupercalia today, too.  All told, I have my American flag out front, pink hearts still hanging in the window, a Happy Birthday banner for my brother, and on top of all that, I have to sacrifice a goat and a dog?  This is just too much.

Remember Biff from Back to the Future?  His name is Tom Wilson and he’s tired of your questions.  So get off his back.

Hey, the Olympics are back!  My three favorite things about the Winter Olympics: hockey, hockey, and hockey.  What else do I love?  Short-track speed skating.  Elated Swiss people.  Dick Button’s name.  There are so many things to list, I might have to devote a full post to it in a week or so.  Until then, perhaps the Summer Games can tide you over.

I give up — everything I think is real is actually manufactured by computer programmers.  Here’s proof.  (Here’s the full version.)

I’ll leave you with some interactive animations.  They’re better left unexplained.  Just explore and enjoy.

-Darrell

Yes, yes, it’s been awhile.  I have no excuse beyond my own laziness.  Don’t worry, though — I have a doozy of a post for you.  Well, it’s a post that was requested almost a full month ago, but still just a post.  You see, over New Year’s I went on a roadtrip to beautiful Brownsville, Texas, and my company requested a post about it.  As you know, I avoid diary-style posts, so much like the Mexico post from 2007, I shall skirt this pledge by avoiding strict narrative and sprinkling the post with lies.  Enjoy.

On the way to Brownsville, we made our first daylong stop in San Antonio.  It took fourteen hours, but it only felt like thirteen and a half.  The following are observations exclusively about the roads of New Mexico and Texas:

Arizona highways are scattered with signs that read, “Blowing Dust Area”.  New Mexico phrases such signs differently: “Dust Storms May Exist”.  It’s so Zen.  Dust storms may exist… somewhere.  Coupling the Zen sign is the warning, “ZERO Visibility Possible”, which feels like an error in syntax to me.  I know what they mean, but if zero visibility is possible, then all visibility is impossible, right?

The truck stops in New Mexico love to advertise.  Every half mile is an ad for some gas-stop/tchotchke mart.  Most advertised tchotchke: agate bookends.  Toppling books must be a major problem among the travelers of America’s highways.

As we passed through Las Cruces, New Mexico, Guns N’ Roses’ “Paradise City” came on the iPod.  It seemed apt.

Texas knows how to organize a fuckin’ highway system — they’re much more explicit about keeping slow traffic in the right lane: “Left Lane is for Passing, You Inconsiderate Pussies”.  That sign is every five miles along I-10 in Texas.  Arizona could use that kind of firmness, for as long as I was in Texas, I was never annoyed by a slow driver in the left lane.

When iPod music grows monotonous, stand-up comedy is great at keeping a driver alert.  The star of the trip: Paul F. Tompkins.

San Antonio’s highways have a convenient innovation: turnaround lanes.  If you miss an exit, you can turn around without running into traffic lights (it’s even called a Texas U-turn, evidently).  Maybe Texas has a lot more people who miss exits, but Arizona could still use them.  (Note: you can take the Texas U-turn concept way too far by utilizing it on every surface street, but that would be stupid.  I’m looking at you, Michigan left.)

Okay, enough about the highways.  Let’s go to the Alamo.

First off, I’m glad I went.  I learned a lot of little details I never would have cared to know otherwise — like how small the actual mission is, or that it’s right in the middle of downtown San Antonio.  Seriously: stand at the giant stone sculpture of Davy Crockett et al and you’re fifty feet away from a steakhouse and a Ripley’s Believe it or Not.

So as not to bore you with details, the salient fact of all Texas history is the following: there is murder and destruction at every turn.  As someone who’s only visited, I’m surprised that so many people have died for the honor of one of the six (six!) flags that have flown over Texas.  As far as land goes, it’s pretty much the same as the rest of the Southwest.  What’s so damned special?  You guys didn’t even have the Cowboys back then.

We went to a pizza place in San Antonio called Big Lou’s.  It was featured on Man v. Food for having gigantic pizzas (their biggest at forty-two inches).  Since there were only five of us, we conservatively went with the twenty-incher.  Still, it was a little too much pie.  It was delicious, but needlessly huge.  Also, they should make their ordering system a little friendlier.  (That last sentence was written in case Big Lou himself is one of my regular readers.)

As unapologetic tourists, we went on the Riverwalk boat tour.  Again, so as not to bore you with details, here’s the biggest fact: San Antonians (San Antonites?  San Antonioats?) are ridiculously proud of their city.  The Riverwalk was a WPA project during the Depression; ain’t that neat?  Carol Burnett was born in that hospital right on the river; ain’t that neat?  We don’t tear down buildings; we reuse them.  That used to be the library, but now it’s (something I’ve forgotten); ain’t that neat?  Every time, I had to admit that yes, that is neat.

We also went up the tower at Hemisfair Park.  The park was built for the 1968 Hemisfair, which is one half of a World’s Fair.  The tower is 750 feet tall, the tallest point in town, and not particularly interesting otherwise.  It was nice to see an unfamiliar city from above, but I’m sure I’d appreciate it more if I were from there.  Here’s a simulated conversation I had atop the tower:

“That over there’s the Alamodome.”
“What, that big stadium-lookin’ thing with the poles?”
“Yup.  Two thirds of those beams are underground.”
“Mm.”
“They built this place to try to attract an NFL team.  Now they just use it for boat shows and George Strait concerts.”
“Well, maybe they can convince the Jaguars to move.”

I almost forgot the best part about the Hemisfair tower — the 4-D movie!  A lot of tourist attractions have this, so you might be familiar with the concept.  The idea is that they show a short, uninteresting 3-D movie while also jiggling the chairs around and occasionally spraying you with water.  This time around, the water was purportedly bull snot.  That’s right — in the Flying Over Texas (or whatever the fuck it was called) movie, the viewer at one point is suddenly a rodeo clown.  You hide in a barrel, look up, and see a bull just in time to snot on you in four dimensions.  As fun as that was, I’m most satisfied to know that the fourth dimension is snot spray.

The next day, we went to Austin.  We walked around the Capitol, strolled the UT campus, had an authentic faux-Polynesian lunch, and arrived at the LBJ library just in time to see it close.  The two salient facts from this day: Texans love statues, and Texans still have an uncomfortable attachment to the Confederacy.  The Capitol and the campus had the expected statues of people in the Alamo (nope, you can’t escape the Alamo), dedications to lost firefighters, and Sam Houston.  Sprinkled throughout were Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, and a few dedicated to lost Confederate soldiers.  I understand appreciating history and all that, but let me ask you something, Texas.  After the Texians finally established the Republic of Texas, did remaining Mexican apologists erect statues of Santa Anna?  If so, then we have no issue — you just have a weird way of recognizing history.  If not, maybe you should consider replacing that Jefferson Davis with an LBJ or a Troy Aikman.  I don’t want to sound like a dick or nuthin’, but give it a thought.

The rotunda at the Capitol had portraits of every Texas governor.  I sent a picture of Dubya to the ladyfriend as a joke.  Joke’s on me, though, because now that picture comes up every time I call her.  It makes me wonder exactly what she thinks of me.

After that, we made it to Brownsville for some delicious home-cooked meals.  The four-hour trip features pretty much nothing, save the outskirts of Corpus Christi.  Though, we did pass a gas station/truck stop called the Kuntry Korner, which sealed the Most Unfortunate Spelling award for the week.

Brownsville has a great little taco place called El Rey de Taco.  Amazing tacos with tasty meats.  There’s a restaurant in Sunnyslope called Los Reyes de la Torta, which might be Phoenix’s best Mexican restaurant.  It seems that if you call yourself the king of some Mexican dish, you have to mean it.

One night, I was reminded why I hate Monopoly.  Twenty minutes in, everyone knows who’s going to win, except it takes three hours for it to finally happen.  It’s mostly luck-driven, and it’s completely joyless.  I’m pretty sure only board design kept it popular for so long.

I won’t go into detail about every party, family member, and delicious meal, but I will hit some high points.  First of all, everything was outstanding, except one thing: menudo.  My lily-white tastebuds evidently aren’t primed for intestines.  I wanted to enjoy what was probably a good batch, but alas, menudo is what separates the honkeys from fully embracing Mexican cuisine.

The New Year’s Eve party was a big’un: fireworks, grilled meats, tamales, and a bounce house.  I could write paragraphs about each, but I’ll winnow it down to a sentence apiece.  Here goes…  Growing up in Arizona, I got to remedy my inexperience with fireworks by making an acre lot look like a WWI battlefield.  Nothing tastes better than carne asada pulled fresh off the grill.  That is, except for homemade tamales with chicken and/or beans inside.  As for the bounce house, the kids said it smelled like dog poop.

My roommate’s family came in droves.  I met mustachioed uncles and mothers relieved to let their kids loose on the bounce house.  There were friendly brothers, interesting cousins, and delightful nephews.  Clearly, the lesson of the trip is to appreciate your family and cherish the times you spend with them.  Nearly every adult I spoke with said something to that effect.  All told, I’d say there were at least a hundred immediate and extended family members at the party.  I was told that it’s “only a fraction” of the whole crew.  I guess the real lesson of the trip, then, is that Mexicans love to fuck.  Who can’t get behind that?

-Darrell

My my, how the time flies.  We’re already living in the future — a future whose dates now start with a two, then a zero, then a one!  I remember when dates started with a one, a nine, and another nine.  Those were some days.

As you know, I like to start the new year by looking back at the year that just left us.  The following are the major headlines from 2009 as I remember them.  My memory is impeccable, so don’t bother checking any of the facts.  Let’s begin.

—————

JANUARY

Barack Obama is inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States.  Because he is the first Hawaiian President, retired golfer Fuzzy Zoeller worries that Obama’s first state dinner will serve poi and roasted pig.

Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich is impeached and removed from office.  Blagojevich faced numerous charges due to his efforts to sell President Obama’s vacated Senate seat to a corporate sponsor.  Reasoned Blagojevich, “We’re in a recession — it’s good business.  Right now he could be Senator Pepsi Roland Burris and Illinois would have a new expressway.  Fuckin’ sue me.”

Electronics store Circuit City announces that it will cease operations and close all its stores, but not before it lets its customers wait in line for another forty minutes.

US Airways pilot Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger is cited for violating hunting laws when he uses an airplane to kill three geese.

FEBRUARY

The Arizona Cardinals come within moments of winning Super Bowl XLIII, stunning the world (particularly Arizona).  Pittsburgh’s last-minute victory is called into question by many, however, as NFL commissioner Roger Goodell announced a pregame requirement that all Super Bowl participants must successfully spell “Roethlisberger” before suiting up.

Barack Obama addresses Congress for the first time as President, though the speech is not considered a State of the Union address.  When asked what the distinction was, Obama said, “In a State of the Union, I address a joint-session of Congress about our status and future goals.  In this speech, I… umm…”

During what had to have been a slow news week, actor Christian Bale makes headlines after a web video surfaces showing Bale berating the crew of Terminator: Salivation in an obscenity-laden meltdown.  The meltdown began when Bale heard several crew members mocking his gravelly Batman voice.

Due to recent woes, President Obama signs a $787 billion package designed to stimulate the economy.  Funds were allocated to banks to increase credit, manufacturers to spur job-growth, and prostitutes to increase consumer confidence.

MARCH

President Obama lifts former President Bush’s ban on embryonic stem cell research.  In the announcement, Obama calls the change the first of many major changes he intends to bring to the health care industry, and that he expects “little to no” resistance in the future.

Ray “Hops” McGee becomes the first one-legged man to play in the National Football League when Al Davis signs him as the third-string quarterback for the Oakland Raiders.  The move did nothing to bolster the confidence of starter JaMarcus Russell, who faced constant “We Want Hops” chants during games.

APRIL

Somali pirates who had hijacked an American cargo ship are thwarted by Navy snipers.  The action would not have been possible, however, were it not for Counter Terrorism Unit agent Jack Bauer’s rogue questioning tactics that allowed the Navy to find the cargo ship in the first place.

The Drug Enforcement Agency announces that an outbreak of the so-called Swine Flu has occurred in Mexico and is being smuggled across the American border.  DEA agents soon arrest, imprison, or kill all border crossers with the sniffles.

New Yorkers receive a big scare when a fighter jet and Air Force One are seen flying at a low altitude near the Statue of Liberty.  The White House explains that the incident was merely a photo-op for that year’s Christmas cards.  It has not been revealed what the image will be on next year’s cards, but rumblings include the words “George Washington Elementary School” and “stinger missile”.

The Republican Party trades Senator Arlen Specter to the Democrats for two infield prospects and a paper shredder.

MAY

Pope Benedict XVI announces that he advocates the creation of a Palestinian state.  In response, Israeli president Benjamin Netanyahu announces that he advocates the creation of a pagan state in the middle of Rome that would offer free abortions to all comers.

Record producer Phil Spector is sentenced to 19 years in prison for murdering actress Lana Clarkson.  He is still awaiting charges for murdering the Beatles’ Let it Be album.

The South Africa Bulls defeat the New Zealand Chiefs to win rugby’s Super 14.  I’m not sure exactly what that means, either, but congratulations to South Africa.

Rock ‘n roll king Elvis Presley, who had been in hiding since 1977, passes away in his bunker underneath Graceland.  Presley becomes the first American legend to be mourned by his fans twice over.

JUNE

Another music king, Michael Jackson, dies at the age of 50 of an overdose of anaesthetics.  Coroners report that his death was entirely preventable if only Jackson had not hired a ten-year-old boy to administer his I.V.

South Carolina governor Mark Sanford adds a new slang phrase to the lexicon, causing “I am hiking the Appalachian Trail” to mean “I am using government funds to screw an Argentinian bimbo.”  Soon after, New York governor David Paterson suggests holding the annual National Governors Association meeting in Buenos Aires.

Financier Bernard Madoff is sentenced to 150 years in prison for bilking hundreds out of their savings as part of a Ponzi scheme.  The bad news is that in 120 years, Madoff will be up for parole.

JULY

After much legal squabbling, comedian Al Franken is inaugurated as the junior Senator from Minnesota.  “This victory is inspiring to bad political comedians everywhere,” said fellow comedian Bill Maher.  “He proves that it’s better to be earnest than to be funny.”

In a farewell speech described most often as “meandering”, Alaska governor Sarah Palin announces her resignation.  The speech greatly increases interest in Palin’s potential presidential run in 2012, with supporters citing it as the kind of public speaking the country has been missing since January 20, 2009.

The U.S. government institutes a “Cash for Clunkers” program designed to bolster the ailing automotive industry.  In the program, Americans with inferior automobiles could turn them in to receive a government bonus toward the purchase of a new car, plus a coupon worth one free back massage from Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood.

AUGUST

North Korean dictator Kim Jong-Il frees two imprisoned American journalists after he is granted a request to meet with former President Bill Clinton.  Clinton attempts to convince Kim to cease his nuclear weapons program, but Kim states that he would consider it only if he were granted a meeting with Michael Jordan, Chuck Norris, and Santa Claus.

The health care debate rages in Congress, with vitriol and misinformation flying like monkey poop.  Most popular among the propaganda is the idea that socialized medicine would result in so-called “death panels”.  Hysteria was far from eased when it is found that a patient’s right to life would not be determined by a panel of bureaucrats, but by a wheel spun by House Speaker Nancy Pelosi.

Longtime Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy dies at the age of 77.  According to friend and colleague Chris Dodd, Kennedy “went out just how he wanted: neck-deep in Jameson and pussy.”

Sonia Sotomayor is confirmed as the newest Justice on the U.S. Supreme Court.  Her confirmation comes without much Senatorial contention, save for one incident regarding a previous comment Sotomayor made about race.  As a law student, Sotomayor wrote that “a retarded Latina” could show more jurisprudence than the average white male.  The Senate Judiciary Committee ceased questioning her on the issue when she simply challenged the Senators to prove her wrong.

SEPTEMBER

In unabashed rudeness news, South Carolina Congressman Joe Wilson bares his buttocks to President Obama as Obama speaks to Congress about health care.  Stunningly, the act results in increased donations to Wilson’s reelection campaign.  Meanwhile, Russia experiences a similar incident, in which a deputy to the Duma publicly calls Prime Minister Vladimir Putin a liar.  The deputy has been missing since September 17.

Leaders of the world’s twenty largest economies meet in Pittsburgh for the G-20 Summit.  President Obama states that he chose Pittsburgh because nothing better symbolized the world economy’s futility than the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team.

Rapper Kanye West interrupts an acceptance speech by Taylor Swift to suggest that MTV’s Video Music Awards might not have the best taste with regard modern music.  MTV’s entire board of directors resigns in the face of such an accusation.

OCTOBER

Talk show host David Letterman reveals that he had been the victim of an extortion attempt, in which a shady figure threatened to make public that Letterman had had a sexual relationship with producer Biff Henderson.  After the news breaks, deli owner and neighbor Rupert Jee is seen crying into his chili.

The Nobel committee announces that it will give its annual Peace Prize to President Obama, despite the fact that he had been in office for less than nine months.  After he accepts the award, Obama uses his prize money to help pay for the American military surge in Afghanistan.

Cable television comes to a screeching halt when news breaks of a wayward homemade weather balloon.  Considering it a possible threat to national security, the National Guard shoots down the balloon, not knowing that it was being piloted by a four-year-old boy.  No charges are expected to arise from the incident, as the boy’s body was found with a map of a local shopping mall and a copy of the Koran.

Former Alaska governor Sarah Palin tours nationally to promote her book, Going Rogue.  Each tour stop is attended in protest by thousands of former supporters, who consider writing a book too “elitist”.

NOVEMBER

Army psychiatrist Nidal Hasan goes on a murderous rampage at Fort Hood, killing twelve.  The incident leads many House Democrats to recommend a ban on all firearms at military bases.

Beltway sniper John Allen Muhammad is executed in Virginia by lethal injection.  Just before the needle is inserted, Muhammad receives a call from Virginia governor Tim Kaine granting him a five-minute stay of execution.  Later, Kaine admits that he was merely “fucking with the bastard”.

Golfer Tiger Woods crashes his car outside his home as part of a domestic dispute with his wife.  Soon later, it is revealed that Woods had maintained extramarital affairs with at least three thousand women spread across fifteen countries and all fifty U.S. states.  When asked for comment, Woods was unapologetic: “You all know I’ve strived for Jack Nicklaus’s records.  I want Wilt Chamberlain’s, too.”

DECEMBER

The United Nations Climate Change Conference takes place in Copenhagen.  While the conference fails to curb first-world carbon emissions in a significant way, it does lead all U.N. countries to agree to snip the plastic rings that come attached to soda cans.

Actress Sandra Bullock takes a young minority into her home and turns him into a successful professional athlete.  Kate Hudson attempts the same thing, not knowing that Alex Rodriguez is already a baseball MVP.

A Nigerian on a terrorist watch list trains in Yemen, flies from Amsterdam to Detroit with no bags, and attempts to make his underwear explode.  The incident forces American journalists to search for Amsterdam, Nigeria, and Yemen on a map.

—————

So that was twenty-oh-nine, complete with a radically inaproppriate Kennedy joke.  (I had to take advantage — it might be years before we can make any more.)  May your twenty-ten be as odd as the last year.

-Darrell

Acceptable Holidays, everybody.  I’d wish you all Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas or whatever, but most people I know aren’t too keen on holiday spirit.  A better wish, then, is for an acceptable winter season that is free from hassle, annoyance, and bottled rage.  By my guess, this will probably be my last post of the year.  I’ll be out of town until New Year’s, upon which date it’ll be Year-in-Review time again.  (I’m excited too.)  To get in the spirit, then, allow me to present a holiday blogpodge.  Consider it the nutmeg on your nog.

I’ve gotten a steady dose of Bill Simmons in the past few weeks.  I bought his The Book of Basketball and am only 400 pages in.  His points are valid and more well-researched than I could ever muster, but I have one complaint: he should be nicer to Steve Nash.  Corrolary: he’s too nice to Shaq.  Shaq ruins basketball, while Steve Nash saved it.  Simmons ragged on George Mikan for being slow and boring — pre-shot-clock Minneapolis would run its offense around the lumbering lug because he had long arms and a sharp left elbow.  Well, Shaq has a big ass and takes advantage of unreliable referees.  Yeah, I know, results are results and titles are titles, but I have never enjoyed a Shaq-led team, including the Suns team I reluctantly cheered for last year.  So Simmons, could you spare some of the vitriol you save for Kareem and give a little more to Shaq?  Also, you’re wrong about Nash’s hair — it’s faaaantastic.

Have you ever noticed that the constellation Orion is really well-hung?  Don’t tell me that’s just his sword.

I’ve seen a lot of best-of-the-decade lists lately.  (I wonder why.)  I won’t be as ambitious as most websites, but I will be sprinkling a few top-fives in this post.  Starting… now.

TOP FIVE IRRITATING NEWS STORIES OF THE DECADE
Balloon boy
Paris Hilton’s sex tape
Every well-known kidnapping of a young girl
Every celebrity rehab story
Duke lacrosse non-rape

What’s your favorite holiday treat?  Mine is my mom’s standing rib roast with horseradish sauce and Yorkshire pudding.  I will have it in less than 24 hours and I’m drooling already.  Second on my list is probably the classic peppermint candy cane.

TOP FIVE STAND-UPS OF THE DECADE
Louis CK
Paul F. Tompkins
Anthony Jeselnik
Mitch Hedberg
Patton Oswalt

Not being a huge fan of Christmas, I’m not a huge fan of carols either.  It should come as no surprise, then, that my favorite Christmas song is Mr. Garrison’s “Merry Fucking Christmas” from the South Park Xmas album.  I also have a soft spot for “Nuttin’ for Christmas”, if only for the dated feel — “bought some gum with a penny slug” is a lyric that shall never age for any reason.

Bowl season is underway.  As I write this, the Hawaii Bowl between Nevada and SMU is about to start.  Exciting.  As pointless as the games are, it is nice to know that from now until after New Year’s, we’ll have college football to watch.  And Christmas gives us five NBA games.  Avoid your family all season, America!

TOP FIVE LIVE ACTS I SAW THIS DECADE
Tim and Eric
Rilo Kiley
Stars
The Flaming Lips
George Carlin

Do you know anyone who makes New Year’s resolutions?  I never have, and I suspect that it’s just a fictional construct used for commercials and sitcom plots.  That said, I resolve to watch more commercials and sitcoms.

Who’s a good boy?  Who’s a good boy?  You are!  Merry Christmas, loyal readers.

-Darrell

So… Tiger Woods is a philanderer.  Oh boy.

My first reaction to the scandal is, “I don’t care”.  My second, third, and fourth reactions were similar.  For a minute after that, I thought a little about it.  Like how amusing it was that we were given a fishy story about a one-car accident in a person’s own driveway.  Man, it was so severe that a professional athlete’s tiny Nordic wife had to drag him out of the back window of his Escalade?  Man.  She must’ve gotten some o’ that superhuman strength that old women get when their grandbabies are caught under burning wreckage.

I also considered his loss of sponsorships.  Corporations are distancing themselves from the Tiger name in the wake of these events, and it’s completely understandable.  I guess.  I first thought, “Why would it matter to Accenture whether Tiger Woods has a baffling number of mistresses?”  Then I wondered why Accenture sponsored him in the first place.  I realize I’m not in need of business consulting, but if I were, I doubt my decision on a provider would depend on the paid opinion of the world’s greatest golfer.  It’s all just empty dollar-flexing, and I don’t care for it.  Harumph.

As fascinating as these observations are, however, I can’t escape the overwhelming feeling that none of this is my business.  Sure, he’s a public figure, but he isn’t a public husband, and he isn’t a public father.  It’s not my business, and I refuse to have an opinion.

Having said that, it’s clear that this scandal is the confluence of our two most prominent societal tendencies: instant communication and schadenfreude.  The instant-communication point is obvious: When Mickey Mantle was off “shootin’ beaver” under the bleachers at Yankee games, we heard about it in a book that only baseball fans read.  If that happened today, the internet would explode with “Mick spied on me with a telescope” memes.

The schadenfreude part is just as obvious, but way more troubling when our entire vapid culture gets to bathe in it together.  Too often in the last few weeks I’ve heard reporters and pundits say something to the effect of, “This is a big story because people love to see the mighty fall,” as if they’re apologizing for reporting it.  That just makes me wonder who these short-sighted, selfish “people” are.  Do most of us really want to see people fail just because they’ve succeeded in the past?  Tiger never did anything to you — he’s boring and might be a bit of a dick, but why would you want him to show such weakness?  The part of you that relishes in the Tiger Woods scandal is the same part of you that laughed heartily when Windows Vista was universally panned.  I understand that you want the world to be just, level, and square.  I understand that it’s selfishly satisfying when a Great Man has a Not-so Great Day.  It’s a natural sentiment, but it’s shameful if you can’t squelch it.

Let’s shift gears, lest I start to defend Tiger too vigorously.  Know that I don’t feel sorry for him in the least.  It’s his fault that he betrayed his wife’s trust, and it’s his fault that he’s lost his sponsorships and sullied his public image.  But really, why does a sex scandal still sully a person’s image?  The sex scandal is so played out that none of it could be shocking or disturbing.  Every sex scandal is the same — attention-seeking woman comes out of the woodwork to tell the world of her escapades with a celebrity.  She shares some naughty quotes, photos, phone messages, emails, or text messages to add spice.  Perhaps surprisingly, she’s mostly complimentary about the celebrity’s manners and prowess.  Soon later, a handful of other women admit to similar encounters with said celebrity.  The trash media and empty-headed public swallow it up, shit it out, and forget about it until the celebrity tries to make a shamed public appearance, upon which time the one-liners flow anew.  Ho fucking hum.

The only difference among these stories is how the wife reacts, and even that follows one of only a few predictable channels.  Option one: wife stands by husband, humiliated yet proud of her own power of forgiveness — this option is most common among wives of politicians.  Option two: wife quietly divorces husband — happens occasionally, but isn’t as buzzworthy, so we don’t hear about it as much.  Option three: wife attacks husband with blunt objects.  For awhile, I thought Hillary Clinton would be the only person to pull off all three in a single lifetime, but #2 never came.  Maybe there’s still hope.

Perhaps the only interesting thing to come from all this nonsense is the knowledge that Tiger has a type.  I’m not sure why, but it’s something that interests me.  I have a friend/relative/acquaintance who’s been married twice.  Both wives look very similar.  I have another friend/relative/acquaintance who, over the years, has introduced me to two different, yet similar-looking girlfriends.  It’s always fun to able to say to myself, “Oh, you like eastern Europeans with large builds and square jaws.  Interesting.”  Now we know that Tiger likes busty young girls with service jobs and low self-esteem.  He has a type.  Interesting.  Even still, it’s none of my business.

-Darrell

I’ve spent the last two Saturdays watching my Wildcats play football.  Last week, we lost a heartbreaker to Oregon.  This week, we beat our in-state rival, Arizona State, in a game that was far too close.  Both games were fun to watch.  However, I’m finding myself sour on sports — particularly college football — based on the behavior of its fans.

Let me paint the word picture for you from last week.  Arizona was ahead by seven against the 11th-ranked Oregon Ducks with time winding down.  The Ducks were driving and based on their speed and consistency, I was nervous that they would tie the game.  They reached the twenty(ish) yard-line with about forty seconds to go.  Anything could happen here.  Suddenly, our student section decided that this would be a good time to attempt to rush the field, since after all, a one-score lead with the opponent very close to scoring is a surefire victory.  Once they did that, I just thought, “Great.  Now we deserve to lose.”  Guess what happened — Oregon tied the game and eventually won in two overtimes.

I’m not that upset about the game, but I am still steaming about the immaturity and idiocy of the UofA students.  They exhibited a kind of extreme exuberance that abandons all logic and forethought.  They ignored the very real possibility of defeat in favor of a desire to run onto the field and maybe be on national television.  It’s a mindset that doesn’t just confuse me; it appalls me.  First of all, it’s a stupid tradition — your team won unexpectedly, so you’re going to run onto the field and do… what?  Oh yeah — be on TV and let ESPN make it look cool with its overhead shot.  Stupid.  Second of all, shouldn’t the University of Arizona football program be beyond that?  Yes, we’re historically bad, but we’re in a major conference and we were playing a game that everyone agreed was winnable.  Beating Oregon would have been big, but it wouldn’t be like Delaware State beating USC (no, non-fans, that never happened).  Third of all, you don’t try to rush the fucking field when the game is still in doubt.  That the students did so proves that they have no appreciation or knowledge of the game of football.  They just watched some big upset on ESPN Classic, surmised that beating #11 Oregon would be on par, saw a seven-point lead with less than a minute remaining, and assumed that it was time to act just as excited.  You, Arizona students, are uninformed phonies and I am embarrassed to root for the same team as you.

Then came this week.  Like I said, we beat ASU, which is always nice.  But the smack talk between some of the Cats and Devils fans was disgusting.  It’s one thing to belt our your fight song, lustily jeer the opposing team, and hope upon hope that your team will destroy its rival.  That’s good rivalry.  It’s another thing to yell obscenities and intentionally make opposing fans feel bad.  Wearing red doesn’t mean I’m a faggot — it means I went to a different school.

What gets me is the number of ASU fans who yelled insulting things to us UofA fans after the game.  Yep, some of them kept shit-talking even after they lost.  Things like, “enjoy the (insert bowl game that isn’t the Rose) Bowl!” or something about losing to Oregon.  Okay, yeah, we didn’t make the Rose Bowl or beat Oregon.  Um… did you come even close to either?  That’s not just rude, it’s silly.  Also, I still think we had a pretty good year — I’m happy that we’re going to a somewhat decent bowl game and that we beat ASU.  It’s had some disappointments, but this year has given me more reason to remain optimistic about the Mike Stoops era.  Dumping on my general contentment doesn’t make sense.

What confused me the most, though, were the UofA fans who bothered to respond to such drunken idiocy.  Do you think shouting a half-thought version of the above paragraph will change this asshole’s mind?  Is pointless confrontation somehow thrilling to you?  Show some class in victory, fans.  We won the game; we should be happy.  Let us ignore the jerk-offs, enjoy the win, and look forward to another good game next year.

Ugh.  I love and hate college football.  The pomp, the circumstance, the bands, the speed, the strategy, the personalities, the beer, the tailgating, and the friendly rivalry make it so much fun.  Then again, there are those who take it too emotionally, who lack decorum and good sense, who use it as an excuse to act poorly.  Those people have made college football — and life — a little less fun for me every year.

In case you were keeping track, this marks yet another step on my way to complete anti-social hermitism.  Thanks, college football fans.

-Darrell

Awhile back I took the ladyfriend to see Maria Bamford at the Tempe Improv.  (She was very funny.)  It occurred to me that the Tempe Improv is something of a misnomer, as very little improv comedy is shown there.  It’s mostly stand-up (and pretty good stand-up, at that).  It might be the most pleasing misnomer I’ve encountered.  I’ve written before about improv comedy — and subsequently amended my comments — so I won’t belabor the point with bitching about shitty improv comedy.  I will, however, do what most “improv” comedy fails to do: actually improvise.

So, I shall now write a short story completely off-the-cuff.  I have no plans, points, or jokes prepared.  My head, like normal, is effectively empty.  Now… can I get from the crowd an animal, please?

“GORILLA!”
“WILD BOAR!”
“AARDVARK!”

Okay, I heard gorilla.  Now can I have an occupation?

“OPTOMETRIST!”
“SCREENWRITER!”
“TAXIDERMIST!”

The person who yelled taxidermist sounded drunk, so we’ll go with that one.  Now, can I have a location?  Anywhere at all…

“HELL!”
“KING OF PRUSSIA!”
“GILA BEND!”

Ooh… Hell’s a nice choice.

Okay.  What follows is completely improvised; I have no idea where this is going, but I imagine the answer is “nowhere”.  Let’s begin.
———
Believe it or not, my gig isn’t so bad.  Sure, the title “Satan’s Taxidermist” causes alarm when people see my business card, but all in all, it’s pretty good.  At least I get a lot of stories out of it.

Like this one time Satan came back from a big unicorn hunt.  Relatively speaking, it was pretty early in my career — I had only done about twenty unicorns previously.  He said that this herd was particularly defiant.  The alpha male reared up a few times, stabbed a few demons with his horn, and even sprayed Satan himself in the eyes with magic dust.  After the Dark Lord finally bagged the creature, he gave me a special request.  I must have done a good job, since he put my work in Hell’s entryway.  Now, the newly damned are greeted by a stuffed unicorn fellating itself.

In life, people often talk about wanting to be the best.  No matter his field, man strives for greatness.  Linebackers want to play in the NFL; mathematicians want to work for NASA.  It so happens that my field is taxidermy, and that my big leagues are where no other soul wishes to find himself.  Thankfully, I’m on the staff, so the Mandatory Constant Torment Doctrine doesn’t apply to me.  It’s just one of the perks.

It’s not all fantastic, though.  As you might imagine, Satan has some lurid tastes, so I’ve had to make some unsavory stuffings.  The fellating unicorn was fun; simulating a massive dog-cat orgy using the deceased stars of The Adventures of Milo and Otis — less so.  Remember Ruby, the elephant that painted abstract pictures?  She’s in Lucifer’s den, still holding a paintbrush… except she’s entirely inside-out.  Why inside-out?  I don’t know, ask the whimsical Satan.  Ugh.  I’d hate to see what he’ll have me do when Koko the gorilla dies.  He hates famous animals.

That elephant was hard, too — what taxidermist is ever asked to turn a two-ton animal inside-out so that “you can see all the muscles and shit”?  I had to invent a new preservative so that could even be possible.  Things rot in Hell, too, you know.

People always ask me what it’s like to work for Satan.  They want me to put him down; say he’s a bad guy and a horrible boss.  I hate to disappoint you, but he’s not Rosie O’Donnell — he’s a perfectly fine boss.  Yes, he’s a tad demanding, and you learn to stay out of his way.  But that’s the price of greatness — he’s the best in creation at what he does.  He can make outrageous demands because he earned it.  He’s the original Tormentor.  He invented suffering.  Give the man some credit.  If he wants Murray from Mad About You getting dry-humped by a griffin, he’s gonna get it.

To answer all the questions, no, I don’t fear him.  I respect him and make sure he’s pleased with my work.  He knows I’m the best in the world at what I do; otherwise, he wouldn’t have hired me.  That said, there was one time when I was in fear.  About two years ago, Satan and Jesus were in a squabble over animal rights — that is, who gets the rights to fallen animals.  Since, technically speaking, animals lack souls, they’ve always been considered up-for-grabs.  Satan being the hoarder he is, pretty much every animal ever has ended up in Hell.  (Sorry, Timmy, there is no doggie heaven.)

Anyway, Jesus tried to argue that all of God’s creatures should get a fair shake.  For a moment, it seemed like he had a point.  That made me fearful — if Hell’s animals get taken away, what is there for the underworld taxidermist to do?  My contract, like those of every minion, is for eternity.  Would it mean I’d keep the cushy position, but lose all responsibility?  More likely, Satan would ensure that his most useless employee would enjoy his days getting sodomized by white-hot pokers.  I wasn’t eager to find out, no matter the case.

A week later, they had another meeting, but this time Satan came prepared.  Armed with the original Deed to the Underworld, Satan found that the Heaven-Hell distinction applied only to ensouled beings, so God’s power-grab was baseless.  What a relief.  It’s a good thing God has a shitty lawyer.  I mean, really — you sent Jesus to negotiate with Beelzebub?  What rank, foolish nepotism.

Well, that’s the long and short of it.  I have a few more stories of animals frozen forever in unspeakable positions, but I don’t want to bore you.  Besides, the monkey from Friends just died; I’m guessing Satan already has big plans for him.
———
Hey, I was right — it didn’t go anywhere.  At least it was funnier than most improv comedy.  I realize that that’s not saying much.

-Darrell

It’s been about two years since I started teaching people how to take standardized tests.  It was a switch that was financially inadvisable, but otherwise fantastic.  I work almost every day, but I get to make my own schedule.  As I look back, I’ve found that I’ve gained a lot more than sleep and sanity.  I’ve learned a lot with this job.  Granted, not a lot of it is fascinating or applicable to real life, but some of it is.  At the risk of sounding autobiographical, I’ll tell you some of the more useful pieces of knowledge I’ve learned over the last two years.

No matter how good a student may be at grammar, nobody can adequately explain the difference between “who” and “whom”.  Most take a wild stab at it, then I’m forced to say that it’s the same difference between “he” and “him”.  Even then, I have to take it that final step and explain that one’s a subject and the other’s an object.  Every time.  “You see, he stabbed him in the eye.  Who stabbed whom in the eye?  He did the stabbing.  Him got stabbed.  Now, reflexive pronouns: the tutor stabbed himself in the eye…”

Rich people love Halloween.  Seriously.  I go to a lot of fancypants houses in Scottsdale, Phoenix, and Chandler (mostly Scottsdale).  It seems like every single one of them has gone overboard with decorations.  Bloody skulls, Frankenstein monsters, grim reapers, ghosts, spiderwebs, and creepy hags adorn them all.  Idle rich, my ass — these people work tirelessly to make their homes into shrines for death.  And most of these people live in gated communities that have very little auto traffic and zero pedestrians.  Maybe they’re just trying to impress the tutor: “That’s a nice hanging corpse out front, sir.  The eyeball popping out of socket was a nice touch.”

The vast majority of people seem to like me, except those who totally hate me.  My students generally act like I’m helping them and not making them feel bad about their less-than-ideal test scores.  I’m pretty good at adjusting my tone, patience, and attitude accordingly.  About every six months, though, one student comes around who absolutely hates me.  Maybe they think I’m arrogant, or maybe they don’t like my plaid shirts; I don’t know.  It doesn’t bother me much; I still have a pretty high approval rating.  It just amuses me that the people have decided that if you’re gonna hate Darrell, you might as well go big.

Most people aren’t very good writers.  You know it’s true already, but it bears repeating: it’s hard for most people to put things concisely.  And to spell things correctly.  Probably the hardest part of my job is refraining from saying, “Come on, just fucking write it!  Organize your thoughts and make them make sense.  Geez…”

It takes half an hour to get anywhere in the Valley.  I live in Tempe.  I’ve had students and classes in north Phoenix, central Phoenix, Chandler, super-southeast Mesa, Ahwatukee, Paradise Valley, and north Scottsdale all the way to Fountain Hills.  Regardless of traffic or distance from freeways, it takes me almost exactly one half-hour to get to each of those places.  Only the class in Goodyear and the student in Carefree took longer.

A student will forget at least half of what I say.  No matter the student or the test type, I have to repeat myself a lot.  Even the most studious kids who do all their homework and have noticeable score improvements will completely space on something that I thought I emphasized pretty well the week before.  I’m not horribly frustrated by it, but I do wish people would retain info a little better.

High-school kids lose patience with their parents a little too easily.  Look, I understand — your mom can be a little bit much every now and again.  You’re tired of her scheduling your every moment and you’re right to tell her to relax about some of the details.  But there’s no need to get petulant.  It only reminds me that you are, indeed, only sixteen.

The older the children, the neater the house.  Dealing with rich folks, I would say that the houses are much nicer and cleaner than most.  However, there is a slight difference in neatness depending on the ages of the kids.  If my student has younger siblings, there will probably be crap lying around.  Not a lot, mind you, but the occasional backpack or pile of shoes will make an appearance.  Of course, the one exception to this rule is among the Indian families, whose houses are always impeccable.

Clinton references go nowhere with high-schoolers.  During an SAT vocab game, I quizzed a class on the word “censure”.  Nobody knew it, so I said, “remember when Clinton was impeached?”  Blank stares.  I even had to inform some that they were alive when this happened.  Ugh.  I am not looking forward to having explain George W. Bush.  “He was the president, kind of a doofus, couldn’t pronounce ‘nuclear’… come on, you don’t remember?”

High-schoolers are great, but only one at a time.  Get more than one in a room and suddenly the delightful, agreeable young’ns are the most irritating people on the planet.  I guess it’s true — birds of a feather flock together… and annoy the piss out of anyone of a different feather.

The most frustrated students are the ones who have problems with geometry.  Every student has at least a couple speedbumps.  I don’t know why, but if one of those speedbumps happens to involve finding the area of a shaded region, the student will get more frustrated than normal.  He’ll clam up, stare at the figure blankly, misremember formulas (particularly area/circumference of a circle).  It makes no sense to me, since it’s the only type of math that gives you pictures to look at.  “Do you see any smaller shapes in here, like a triangle… with two equal sides… and thus two equal angles… come on now, stay with me.  The picture won’t hurt you.”

Grad students care more, since they’re the ones paying for it.  My last observation is also my most obvious.  Getting an ACT or SAT student to pay attention in class is the most frustrating part of my job.  Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about that for GRE or GMAT classes.  It’s funny how a little maturity and a lot of financial investment will alter a person’s behavior.

Hmm… that wasn’t as exciting as I had hoped.  I guess that’s why I don’t write about myself.  Next time, I’ll write a story.  About a klutzy drunk.  Or maybe not!  Now, I must bid you adieu.  Ted’s Hot Dogs is calling my name, so I’d better get over there before they get cited for causing a disturbance.

-Darrell

I have nothing specific to report or winge about, so I guess it’s blogpodge time.  Try to control your excitement.

I started to write a post entitled “Five Perfect Songs”, in which I explained why I considered certain songs “perfect”: Not too long, not too short, no embarrassing lyrics, flows beautifully, tone and message are in harmony, nobody could perform it any better, etc.  After a few paragraphs, I choked on my own boring pretension.  So instead of a dozen paragraphs, here’s a quick list of five:

Red Hot Chili Peppers — “Californication”
Stars — “Your Ex-Lover is Dead”
Audioslave — “I Am the Highway”
Arcade Fire — “Intervention”
Radiohead — “There There (The Boney King of Nowhere)”

Be glad for what you missed.

Today I talked to my mom on the phone.  Apparently, my sister requested that Ma watch the news in order to find out why there was a Channel 3 van outside her workplace.  My mother mused that I would never ask that of her, as I am normally uncurious.  In her words, “She sees a fire truck and wants to chase it.  You just say ‘Eh, let ‘em burn’”.  I know I’ve talked about my own apathy before, but never so concisely.

After one episode, I’m a bit concerned about what’s happening to Dexter.  I’m optimistic about John Lithgow, but the writing’s fallen off, and Dexter isn’t as dark and creepy a character as he used to be.  I could go further, but someone else beat me to it… and paralleled Dexter’s decline with that of 24.  It makes me wish I thought of it first (because I would have written it better… right?  Right?).

I went to Sport Clips to get my hair trimmed yesterday morning.  For a company that purports to be just for men, they don’t quite capture the ideal experience.  True, the decor is almost insultingly cool — the whole place has a locker-rooom theme.  The lobby chairs are stadium seats, each stylist has a locker, etc.  The problem is, they over-sell everything.  They go out of their way to explain the unique cocktail of tea-tree oil, Head and Shoulders, and rhinoceros sperm that gives your hair that tingly feeling.  They give you the stylist’s business card, three referral cards, and one of those stupid punch-card dealies that I never use.  Then, they show you that the fancy shampoos are, indeed, on sale for only $7.50 per tiny bottle.  Ugh.  Guys like sports on television, yes, but they also like to be left the fuck alone.  Just cut my hair and let me leave.

I’ve found that for some items, the shittier version is the one I prefer.  I thought of this as I was drinking from a styrofoam cup while walking in a gravel parking lot.  From what I understand, styrofoam is cheaper — only the independent, low-rent places use them in favor of branded paper cups.  But they insulate better, and they don’t leak if you accidentally leave one in your car.  As for gravel parking lots, I just like the sound that tires make as they slowly roll over the broken asphalt.

TOP FIVE SONGS THAT WOULD BE PERFECT, IF NOT FOR A TERRIBLE ENDING
Dire Straits — “Money for Nothing”
Steve Miller — “The Joker”
Beatles — “Hey Jude”
Queens of the Stone Age — “In the Fade”
Sunset Rubdown — “The Mending of the Gown”

All right, that’s enough for now.  I’ve had a super-busy week, and I think I deserve to watch some college football.

-Darrell

As you know, I take requests.  Normally, it’s a bit odd and I try to make it work.  This time, though, the request was for more of the same.  The inimitable Rated X Super Mex requested that I write twenty-five MORE random things about myself.  I guess he feels like he just doesn’t know me well enough.  So while this might be the most unnecessary post in Nameless Blog history, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to share more juicy details about my life.  Let’s begin.

1. Last week, I ate two boxes of Cheez-Its, a half-gallon of orange Gatorade, and a bag of Cheetos.  My puke was used to color the Cincinnati Bengals’ alternate jerseys.

2. For weeks, I told people that I grew my hair out for charity.  That stopped when I was told that the Foundation for Lookin’ Sexy isn’t an actual charity.

3. Some British newspaper stole my idea from three years ago, but did it in a slightly less amusing fashion.  I haven’t decided whether this counts as actionable plagiarism.

4. When I was ten, my mother played a rather cruel joke on me.  Every time I entered the room, a horrified expression came over her face and she attempted not to look directly at me.  She kept this up for four months.  It started to bother me until my birthday, when she finally gave up the ruse.  She said that she had been preparing for a background role in a theatrical production of The Elephant Man, but she was never in any such play.  In fact, nobody in the family has ever seen her act.

5. I once beat Garry Kasparov at Scrabble.  Who’s the Grandmaster now, bitch??

6. I’m a long-time friend and confidant to Steve Jobs.  The idea to slap video cameras on tiny iPods?  Yeah, that was mine.

7. I lived in a three-bedroom house in Tucson for my senior year of college.  I always thought that the walls would look better in an off-white, rather than the eggshell white that they were.  Not painting those walls is probably my biggest regret in life.

8. Some sports fans collect ticket stubs or pennants; I commemorate my experiences a different way: I collect hot-dog wrappers.  That plain square of foil with the mustard stain shaped like Greenland is from a Diamondbacks-Cubs playoff game in 2007.  The paper sleeve that still smells of sauerkraut is what remains from the Fiesta Bowl in which Ohio State beat Notre Dame.  I’ve noticed that the ones that still smell remind me of specific moments in those games.  Thus, I consider it a collection that pays dividends.

9. I like to make sculptures out of paper clips.  They’re all abstracts, and I haven’t been able to sell any of them.  Maybe some day.

10. I once peed next to Ron Jeremy at a urinal in Vegas.  I noticed it was him, but made sure not to glance downward.  He was not so gentlemanly; by the time we were washing our hands, he was recommending pills and exercises to increase my girth.  Otherwise, he was quite charming.

11. I almost never eat breakfast, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis.

12. Like most men, I think about sex several times an hour.  When I’m not thinking about sex, though, I’m probably thinking about Art Garfunkel.  So much talent, such crazy hair…

13. I once tried to count the number of different types of animal I’ve eaten.  I think my latest count was close to thirty.  The weirdest one I can’t tell you about, but it rhymes with “dotted trowel”.

14. I’ve long thought our country is in need of re-branding.  Accordingly, I designed an updated flag and sent it to my Congressman.  He didn’t care for it, but I still think purple polka dots and “USA” in a jazzy typeface would show the world how hip and modern we really are.

15. I’m not some crazy religious person who thinks dinosaur bones are part of a huge, elaborate hoax.  I do, however, think that paleontologists are figments of our imagination.

16. I’m having a very hard time coming up with twenty-five more interesting things about me.  When I come across moments like this, I utilize my foolproof cure for writer’s block: I down a bottle of Colt .45 and jog around the block in my underpants.  It doesn’t help me come up with ideas, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun.

17. Sometimes I wonder why turkey tacos haven’t caught on yet.  Maybe a little cranberry salsa… admit that it sounds delicious.

18. With all my exploits, people often ask me who is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.  I always tell them the same thing: “Why the fuck do you care?  Make your own judgments.”

19. My favorite facial moisturizer was recently discontinued.  It was forty dollars per eight-ounce bottle, probably because it was infused with orangutan semen.  My skin hasn’t had its normal glow for weeks now.

20. Thanks to my buddy Tim, I played Beatles Rock Band before it was released.  Naturally, I loved it, but was disappointed that “Revolution 9″ wasn’t on there.  I could dominate the lilting “number nine… number nine… meedle-dee dee-dee backwards strings”.

21. Don’t ask me how I know this, but dental floss is not a suitable murder weapon.

22. I’m pretty fortunate in that I haven’t had anything major stolen from me.  My secret?  In grade school, I learned that nobody will steal anything from you if you’ve licked it.  So just as a warning, if it’s mine, I’ve licked it at least once.

23. I’m the chief heir to Elton John’s fortune.  We aren’t related; he just digs my style.

24. I was once offered a position on the board of directors at CBS.  That offer was quickly rescinded when they found out that I was briefly married to Jennifer Love Hewitt.  They were afraid that I would cancel Ghost Whisperer out of spite.  I tried to convince them that I wouldn’t, but deep down, I know I was lying.

25. As you might know, I’m a tutor.  As you might imagine, the hardest part about my job is telling students that they’re going to die.

Jesus, that took awhile.  As interesting as I am, even I sometimes have trouble coming up with readable things about my winning personality.  I hope you enjoyed this list of 25 — I promise it’ll be the last one I write.

-Darrell

One of the greatest men in history died recently.  It’s not often I can say that, but it’s true, as Norman Borlaug passed away last week at the age of 95.

Who’s Norman Borlaug?  The fact that you (probably) asked that question is a tremendous shame.  Norman Borlaug is responsible for saving more lives than anyone in history.  He was an agronomist who developed high-yield, disease-resistant strains of wheat and introduced them to impoverished areas around the globe.  He is credited with preventing hundreds of millions of people from starving to death, and likely curbed deforestation by making available farmland more valuable.  He won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1970 and the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1977.  And, by the way, he saved a billion people from starving.  (It needed repeating.)

Nothing I say can do his contribution to humanity justice.  He is a hero in the truest sense of the word — a man who selflessly improved countless lives in need… and he used science to do it.  He made providing food worldwide his life’s work; none of us could ever hope to do a fraction of what he did.  RIP, Mr. Borlaug, and may your good name grow over time.

-Darrell

Over Labor Day weekend, it seemed like every FM station had some gimmick going.  One station played its entire catalog from Z-to-A by song title.  A Tucson classic-rock station gave all its DJs a vacation and called it a “no talk” Labor Day weekend (they also played bands in foursomes without any explanation).

I love it when radio stations have silly weekend gimmicks.  I remember fondly when our alternative station played only songs from the early nineties.  They also do a thing every day in which for an hour, they play only songs released in a certain year.  If I catch it in the middle, it’s fun to guess which year they’re doing.  The aforementioned Tucson classic rock station also had some sort of Super Bowl of Rock (or maybe World Series or Grey Cup of Rock) that paired off classic artists.  This hour, it’s Ozzy versus Zeppelin.  We’ll play only those two for the next hour.  Cast your votes!

On the radio, gimmicks are normally interesting and fun.  They force stations to stray from their normal playlist, so listeners get to hear songs they normally don’t.  They make the listener more active, as well.  Even if it’s something as inane as, “which REO Speedwagon song will be the fourth in this set?”, you’re still thinking more about the music than you normally would.

So my question is, why is it that gimmickry is so embarrassing in every other medium?  Think about it: car dealerships have countless gimmicks that rarely make any sense — Come out to Great Neck Lincoln and the kids can ride an elephant!  Why should hot dogs and balloons sway a person’s decision to spend thousands of dollars on a vehicle?

The worst offender, I must admit, is professional wrestling.  In recent years, they’ve avoided gimmickry for the most part.  But remember that Kane’s first character was Dr. Isaac Yankem, Jerry Lawler’s dentist.  Don’t forget that WCW once had a “mysterious egg” that birthed a dancing turkey called the Gobbledygooker.  Right now, the WWF has had matches between Chavo Guerrero and Hornswoggle, a bearded midget (sorry: leprechaun).  Every match is handicapped in some way (hand tied behind Chavo’s back, Chavo gets blindfolded) and Hornswoggle somehow outsmarts Chavo in a cartoonish manner in order to get the unlikely — yet all too predictable — pinfall.  It’s gotten so bad that fans have started a backlash against these matches.  Ugh.  Sure, some gimmicks work, but they’re quite often a terrible idea.

Let me amend my question from a couple paragraphs ago.  I shouldn’t wonder why gimmicks are normally horrible — they just are.  If I want a car, I’ll choose a dealer based on normal consumer reasoning, not whether they have a bounce house.  I just find it interesting that something that’s normally horrible can be so entertaining in the format of an FM radio station.

No earth-shattering observation here.  I just want to be on record about my preference for twofer Tuesdays and British Invasion weekends.  I’ll talk at you again soon.

-Darrell