TIME FOR A NEW BREED OF LEADER.

One man.

One vision.

Many odors.

It's time for a new breed of leader.

I Wanna See a Dirty Movie

Another family Christmas has come and gone, again with a great deal of drama and stress, which my sister has written about. There was also a lot of fun, too, like this:




Yes, that is my grandmother.

And there were rocket balloons. Lots and lots of rocket balloons.

Ka BOO ki

I used to work for an organization that spent a lot of time trying to talk Congress into increasing public funding for the arts. To be frank, Congress doesn’t much care about most forms of the arts, except, apparently, kabuki theater.

If you don’t know what kabuki is, don’t feel bad. Congress doesn’t either. In fact, only once in the past 20 years has the word “kabuki” been used by members of Congress to actually describe the form of traditional Japanese theater. Considerably more often, it’s used as an almost laughably inappropriate metaphor. In the first half of December of 2007 alone, for example, the term was used twice. In a December 13 Washington Post article detailing problems that congressional democrats have had working with each other, Senator Evan Bayh (D-IN) is quoted as saying, "I understand the frustration; we're frustrated, too…but holding a bunch of kabuki theater doesn't get anything done." A week earlier, on December 4, Senator Max Baucus (D-MT) expressed frustration with the Senate’s inability to move a tax bill. “If that is where we are going to end up,” said Baucus, “let's just do it, not go through this kabuki here, these games.” (Note: Baucus probably meant to say “kabuki theater,” since Congress always seems to say "kabuki theater" or "kabuki dance.")

As these examples show, Members of Congress use the term kabuki to describe a congressional dog-and-pony show, a lot of posturing and debate that is ultimately meaningless and produces nothing. As Senator Chuck Schumer (D-NY) put it, “We have to do an elaborate kabuki dance to make it seem as if we are doing something but not do anything at all.” (May 19, 1999) One could argue that based on this definition, Congress itself is nothing but a big Kabuki theater, and maybe these lawmakers are using the term correctly after all. Let’s take some facts about Kabuki and see if they also pertain to Congress.

1) “Kabuki” can be roughly translated as “the art of singing and dancng.” When you get right down to it, Congress is about little more than singing and dancing.

2) Kabuki is traditionally performed on a rotating stage equipped with trapdoors through which the actors can appear and disappear. This does not describe either congressional chamber, but it’s something they should strongly consider. Imagine Senator X is giving a speech about Senator Y. Senator Y is not in the room. Senator X says “Senator Y’s bill doesn’t work, and he’s an idiot for introducing it.” All of a sudden, BAM, up through the floor comes Senator Y, wearing traditional kabuki makeup, and screaming at the top of his lungs. He ritualistically guts Senator X with a shinto sword. Ratings for C-SPAN would skyrocket.

3) In some performances, an actor’s costume would be attached to wires, and he would appear to fly over the stage or through the auditorium. Again, Congress needs this. The sight of a flying Ted Kennedy? Forget about it.

4) In 1629, women were banned from performing Kabuki. As a result, according to Wikipedia, “Young male boys began taking the role of women due to there youthfulness and higher pitched voices in comparison to that of a grown male man.” Mark Foley is probably a fan of Kabuki.

5) The men performing in the plays, according to Wikipedia, “also performed a lot of romantic scenes. Theses scenes were fully played out with one another.” Larry Craig is probably a fan of Kabuki.

6) One type of Kabuki, Aragoto, is known for it’s over-the-top style - the actors exaggerate their words and gestures, and use multiple props. Can't think of any members of Congress who might do that.

So there certainly are similarities. As a result (and given how often they use the term) you’d think members of Congress would know more about it. But let’s go over some more quotes, all from the Senate or House floor.

“The gentleman has now acknowledged that nothing in his amendment does anything about the deficit. He says it is a two-step dance. It is a Kabuki dance. It is a Dance of Seven Veils. It has got an unrepresentative argument here.” Rep. Barney Frank (D-MA), May 17, 2007

Wow, Barney, that’s a lot of dancing and a whole lot of odd cultural references. I don’t get the two-step dance reference at all. The kabuki dance is slightly more odd, but keeps with the usual misuse that whatever you're referring to is ultimately meaningless. But the dance of the seven veils thing is even more odd – so, you’re saying if the amendment passes that I’ll need to bring you John the Baptist's head on a platter? Or simply that you’ll do a saucy dance for me if I give you my vote? You lost me, Barney, but you’re well-dressed, as always. (Seriously, is there a "Queer Eye for the Queer Guy?" Can we hook Barney up?)

“It is kind of a kabuki show here, because we know full well from the Government Accounting Office reports that the money, after 2 years, will not be required because there will be additional revenues.” Sen. John McCain (D-AZ), November 2, 1995.

Yes, Senator McCain, that’s exactly what constitutes a “kabuki show,” detailed Government Accounting Office reports. Those were all over the works of higher Japanese culture.

“'We do not like your budget.’ I have been through that Kabuki dance before. We have been guilty on occasion where we have said, ‘we are not going to offer our budget resolution; we will just attack yours and offer amendments.' And we were made fun of by the other side.” Sen. Trent Lott (R-MS), May 18, 1995.

Okay, again, kabuki has very little to do with reports and/or budgets. And do you notice that most members of Congress refer to kabuki as a dance? In its infancy, that was true, but dance was phased out as the art form went on. So, apparently, did talk of reports and budgets.

“I am not going to spend a lot of time on this because this is just kabuki tonight. Everyone knows this is not a serious effort.” Sen. Max Baucus (D-MT), November 15, 2005.

Kabuki was very serious business, Mr. Baucus. There are no kabuki comedies. You notice that he again did not refer to it as dance or theater? He probably just thinks it's a word that's synonomous with "smoke and mirrors" and has no idea that there's an artistic connotation to it. I don't imagine a lot of kabuki gets performed in Montana.

“I will, therefore, vote no on this cloture vote because I still think that, arguments about politics to the contrary, neither side having totally clean hands on all of this, the controlling factor ought to be the substance of the bill, which I think is good, and that the controlling factor on a vote ought to be how one feels about whether or not one can continue to debate product liability and hope that the leadership will come together in some kind of an arrangement, as, indeed, in this sort of Kabuki dance there has been.” Sen. John D. Rockefeller (D-WV), July 9, 1998.

I can’t even fathom what the sentence means. I have no clue where in the world he was trying to go with this. Context doesn’t help; I read the whole speech and won’t waste your time reprinting it here. I wonder if he just threw in “kabuki” to make himself sound smarter. Plus it’s a fun word to say. “Kabuki! Kabuki! The girl who’s hard to get! Kabuki! Kabuki! But you can win her yet!”

“The Senate is being reduced to something close to a farce. It is becoming rapidly not the world's greatest deliberative body but instead the world's greatest kabuki theater, a place where speeches are given to which very few people listen, no minds are changed, and votes are then held with complete predictability of results.” Sen. Evan Bayh (D-IN), November 12, 2003.

A few quibbles with this. I would argue that really doesn’t describe kabuki. First of all, most audience members were held in rapt attention. In fact, the plays were intended to go on for a full day and, unlike in Congress, people actually listened. The metaphor is completely lost when you start talking about votes. To my knowledge, there was no voting in kabuki. In fact, there wasn’t much voting in ANY part of feudal Japan. But good try. On the other hand, you have to hand it to Representative Jim Oberstar (D-MN), who actually takes the time to explain a little bit about kabuki:

“Now, there are discussions, back door, called it in one meeting kind of a Kabuki dance, wearing a mask, putting on a uniform and doing this dance, and we are supposed to understand what is happening behind the dance.” June 23, 2004.

EXACTLY! You’ve got it! Thanks, Jim! The actors do put on uniforms and makeup, they dance and act, and you, the audience, are meant to interpret what’s going on, even if it doesn’t make any sense! Just like Congress!

Finally, for some reason, Rep. David Obey (D-WI), chairman of the House Appropriations Committee, REALLY likes kabuki theater.

“I want Members to understand that there is a little kabuki dance going on here, and that is required by the refusal of the majority party to provide an allocation to this subcommittee strong enough to meet our national responsibilities.” (June 22, 2000)

Little known fact – a lack of allocations to the subcommittees was the inspiration for a lot of kabuki plays.

“We then saw a Kabuki dance engaged in by the President and various Members of this House. The same day that that conference was being considered, the President said in a speech that he was in support of the content of the Kohl amendment to extend the milk program.” October 9, 2004.

I was unable to find a connection between kabuki and milk. However, if such a link exists, I’m sure Obey is aware of it.

“Madam Chairman, I do not want to rain on anybody's parade, but in a sense I do. What we have just witnessed here is our annual Kabuki dance on the question of the arts.” May 19, 2005

Now that would be sweet – every time the arts are brought up in Congress, the debate has to be performed in kabuki. We’d have folks with obnoxious makeup caked on their faces popping up through trapdoors, flying around the stage like big, fat vultures, and screaming in Japanese. That is democracy I can get behind.

“Last night, in a very interesting kabuki dance, the majority party managed to finally find the votes some more than a month late to pass their budget resolution in this House.” May 18, 2006

“Hey Bob, we just don’t have the votes for this budget resolution. Should we try bribing? Offering plum committee assignments? Hookers? Oh wait, what if we sat the opposition down in a room, get all dolled up, and reenacted the story of the 47 Ronin? That’ll be fuckin’ SWEET. Dave Obey will be pissed.”

“I would like to comment on what has happened with respect to local law enforcement assistance over the past 3 years. We have had a Kabuki dance going on for years between the White House and the Congress of the United States.” July 25, 2007

Now Bush is getting in on the dance! It’s like there’s warring factions of kabuki dancers, like a crazy, Washington-based Japanese West Side Story!

When you're a Dem
You're a Dem all the way!
From your sad, bleeding heart
To your morals of clay!

When you're a Dem
If the spit hits the fan,
You’ll yell and you’ll scream
about withdrawal plans!

You're always alone,
You're always dejected!
You’ll get nothing done
like the voters expected!

(And hey, we’re bipartisan – to the tune of “Gee, Officer Krupke:)

George Bush is a bastard
Cheney’s an S.O.B.
McConnell’s always plastered
While he fucks the bourgeoisie
Condi wears a mustache
Larry Craig wears a dress.
Thank god we’ve suspended freedom of the press

Happy Patrick Swayze Holidays

As you may know, this blog is named after a throwaway joke from Mystery Science Theater 3000, the greatest show of all time. Therefore enjoy this blog's wishes for a happy holiday:

A Festivus Miracle

I work for a nonprofit organization that represents a certain group of medical specialists. There are groups like mine for every medical specialty; dermatologists, podiatrists, plastic surgeons…I don’t work for any of them, but you get the idea.

There are about 300 people in my office, and if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say 15 of us are Jewish, and that’s a very liberal estimation. This surprised my wife; she asked how an office full of people in the medical profession could be so devoid of Jews. It’s simple; most Jews become actual doctors. It’s schmucks like me that work on their behalf. My theory is proven when a search of our database reveals that more than 100 of our members are named Levine, but none of our employees.

This results in a lot of wonderful situations in which I am the token Jew. Never was this more apparent than last week, on the first day of Chanukah. To most Jews, Chanukah is not a particularly big deal. You get presents, you light some candles, eat latkes, and it’s a great time. But as a converted Jew I can tell you that Jews don’t get nearly as excited about Chanukah as Christians do about Christmas. We take Passover, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur very seriously. Those are “big deal” holidays, on par with the Christian passion for Christmas and Easter. But Chanukah, not so much. My wife once told me that Jews made a big deal out of Chanukah primarily so kids could feel better about missing out on Christmas. The goyim just don’t get this. “It’s like your version of Christmas!” they say. But let’s examine this:

• We’re celebrating the victory of a group of farmers, led by a guy nicknamed “The Hammer,” over the entire Syrian army, and the rededication of our temple, during which an oil lamp managed to burn for eight days when it only held enough oil for one.
• Christians are celebrating the birth of their savior, who was born to a virgin in a stable, after which he was bestowed with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh by three kings who heard angels and followed a star. Christians celebrate by decorating trees, hanging stockings, and shopping.

So yes, there are similarities in the stories. For example, in all likelihood, they didn’t really happen. At least not exactly like that. As good a leader as Judah “The Hammer” Maccabee may have been, there was probably a much larger army on his side than history would indicate. In addition, the Syrian king at the time, Antiochus, had outlawed Judaism, and if history has shown us one thing, you don’t piss off the Jews. Finally, the first book of Maccabees makes no mention of the oil thing. In fact, some historians believe that though a major celebration did take place during the rededication of the temple, it may have been a delayed celebration of Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret, which the Maccabees couldn’t observe at the correct time because they were busy slaughtering Syrians.

As far as Christmas, no one seems to agree on when Jesus was born, only that it probably wasn’t December 25. And, as everyone knows, most of the symbols and traditions of Christmas have pagan origins. To my knowledge, there is no mention of stockings, mistletoe, Santa Claus, or FAO Schwartz in the bible. But then, I glossed over a lot of the New Testament, so I could be wrong. So the similarities between the two holidays end, ironically, with their discrepancies. (Though each religion has managed to produce one high quality holiday film – It’s a Wonderful Life and the Hebrew Hammer. Christmas has far superior children’s specials, however, No one will ever argue that "Rugrats Chanukah" is more entertaining than "A Charlie Brown Christmas." They’ve also got us beat in children’s literature; last year I bought my son both How the Grinch Stole Christmas and When Mindy Saved Hanukkah. The ratio of requests for the Grinch to requests for Mindy remains about 15-1.)

Christians (and nonreligious folks that observe Christmas) REALLY get into their holiday, and can’t understand why Jews don’t get as jacked up about Chanukah. This resulted in five – count them, five – people asking me why I was at work on the first day of Chanukah. I emailed a Jewish coworker about this, inquiring as to whether or not she’d been getting the same question. Her two word response: “It’s Chanukah?”

I realized I could have taken the whole week off and no one would have said anything out of fear that they could be fired for religious persecution. I began thinking of ways I could use this to my advantage. We have an annual office/cubicle decorating contest. The flyer that was handed out for the contest featured the following pictures: the Grinch, Scrooge, a wreath, Christmas ornaments, a family of folks in red and green sitting around a table, a dog wearing a Santa hat, and a gingerbread house. Yet nowhere on the flyer did the word “Christmas” appear. No, it was a “holiday” decorating contest. (I should add in the interest of full disclosure that when I saw one of these flyers on someone’s desk I would draw a star of David and write “Chanukah!” or “Jew!” in large friendly letters.) I asked my coworker who designed the flyer if my people were intentionally left off and, realizing the oversight, she reacted in horror. Knowing she was on the ropes, I told this coworker (who is black) “Look, you’re fortunate enough to come from a people who have never known exclusion or oppression. You don’t understand how something like this makes us feel – how we think we’ve advanced in society only to find out that we’re not as important as, say, a dog with a Santa hat.”

I decided that I would enter the “holiday” decorating contest and completely plaster my office with menorahs, stars of David, bags of gelt, and other decorations - maybe throw in a seder plate and a shofar because really, who’s going to know the difference? Then if I didn’t win, I would argue that there was a clear bias toward Christians. Also, I could have gotten the decorations cheap since judging for the contest took place two days after Chanukah had ended.

I realized, though, that this would only add to an already existing belief that people who don’t celebrate Christmas get upset or offended at the sight of anything Christmas-related. That’s why they’re called “holiday trees” now instead of Christmas trees. I would like to state here, on the record, once and for all, speaking on behalf of my people everywhere around the world: WE DON’T CARE. Seriously. Calling it a “holiday tree” implies that it represents other holidays besides Christmas. Hell, it doesn’t even represent YOUR holiday, its origins are from a pagan winter solstice ritual. You should feel free to be as loud and celebratory as you like, just like we Jews are for Yom Kippur. (I’ll give you a minute to look up Yom Kippur on Wikipedia. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Get the joke? Good, moving on.)

Anyway, I elected to come to work on each day of Chanukah, and only once did I intentionally try to make people uncomfortable. During our holiday party, a raffle was held during which we handed out some pretty lavish gifts to employees. I was lucky enough to win a two-night stay at the Ritz Carlton in Las Vegas (it pays to work in the medical field). As I accepted my prize, I took the microphone from our CEO and bellowed “Finally, things are looking up for the Jews!” The applause and smiles turned to looks of horror, and the silence was only broken by the laughter of my fellow members of the tribe.

Lack of Updates

I apologize for the lack of updates. I am currently writing two funny things, one about Chanukah, the other about Kabuki theater. In the meantime, enjoy this, which I did not write but wish I had.

Survey

Please take our brief informational survey. Your answers will be held in the strictest confidence, until I post your personal information all over everything, including public restrooms.

NEXT

I had made a personal decision that I wouldn’t use this blog for editorial reviews of books, music, or films. Because no one cares what I have to say. Nor should they. However, if I can stop one – just one – person from reading Next by Michael Crichton , I will consider my life a success.

I had heard nothing of the book before I purchased it. Not to be elitist, but I don’t read a lot of bestsellers because they are almost always total crap. For every Kite Runner, you get a Runaway Jury. However, my flight from Dallas to New Orleans was delayed by six hours, and the only place to buy books was a snack shop which carried only the top ten paperback bestsellers. All the books looked at sounded exactly the same - they all had titles like “Hard Luck” or “Bad Medicine” or “Final Truth” and were about “the world of medicine gone wrong” or “when the law goes bad” or, in the case of some book called The Last Templar, the exact same plot as the Da Vinci Code. I’m not sure how that was even legal.

I bought Next because it had a simple, one-word title, came in multiple colors (seriously – I bought the bright green one), and the cover featured a monkey with a barcode. I’ll pretty much read anything with a monkey on the cover. Also, the back cover featured no description of the book, which I thought was ballsy. I gleaned from the reviews that it was about genetic modification and testing, and being in the medical field myself, I thought it would be educational. I plunked down my $9.95. In retrospect, I should have used that ten bucks on a really cheap hooker in New Orleans, gotten genital warts, and castrated myself. That would have been more fun than this book.

Next features, at a conservative estimate, 27 different plotlines, all introduced one after the other, until you’re about 400 pages in before they even begin to connect. And in point of fact, only some plotlines connect to each other; most don’t. Several times characters are introduced which we are led to believe will be important, but are never revisited. The biggest of these plots include:
1) The story of a guy named Burnet whose genetic materials were gathered without his permission and sold to UCLA, and as a result they somehow now legally owned his whole body. And his daughters and grandson’s bodies, because they carry the same genes.

2) The story of a guy who discovers a “maturity gene,” which makes immature people grow up. His brother accidentally snorts it and becomes a banker.

3) The story of a guy who combined his own DNA with an ape, then for some reason leaves the creation in a lab in Bethesda, only to find out that it actually worked and there is now a ten year-old half-ape/half-human kid living in a cage in his old lab. He is able to go to the National Institutes of Health and take Monkeyboy away with no difficulty at all. No one comes after him. He then passes Monkeyboy off as a real kid, even sending him to public school. His wife and family are okay with this, even encouraging.

4) The aforementioned daughter and the grandson of Burnet, who are on the run from bounty hunters from UCLA who want their genetic materials, which they somehow plan to harvest in the back of a Hummer. The descriptions and actions of the bounty hunter and his assistant are 100 percent stolen from the film Dumb & Dumber. It’s almost uncanny. I was waiting for the guy to be killed by ingesting hot peppers. Instead he has his ear bitten off by Monkeyboy.

5) The story of a woman who has genetically modified her parrot to be much smarter than average parrots. The parrot, named Gerard, carries on full conversations and is portrayed as being smarter than most of the human characters. Hundreds of pages are devoted to the adventures of the parrot; the woman’s husband gives the parrot away, the recipient of the parrot doesn’t like the parrot so he gives it to a flight attendant, who then sells it to a pet store. The pet store owner decides to give it to his mother, so sets off on a cross-country jaunt with the parrot. All told, approximately 200 pages are devoted to getting the parrot to California for the purpose of one horribly convoluted plot point which also involves Monkeyboy.

6) The story of an orangutan that can speak Dutch and French. We spend at least five chapters on this orangutan only to have him killed by a hunter and never brought up again.

There are many, many other plots in the book, most of which don’t tie together.

It would take longer to document my problems with this book than it took Crichton to write it. Here is what springs immediately to mind:

1) We don’t need to know the absolutely massive backstories of minor characters. For instance, pages upon pages are devoted to an analysis of the relationship between the woman who genetically tinkered with the parrot and her husband, all for the purpose of explaining why the husband gives the parrot away. The parrot could have flown out a window, been taken by animal control, been kidnapped by aliens, anything. But no, we get descriptions of affairs, descriptions of mistresses who aren’t part of the story, descriptions of the rooms in which the affairs take place, all for the purpose of getting the parrot to California for one laughable plot point.

Let’s look at this another way. Here is how various authors would ask for a tissue:

Elmore Leonard: “Gimme a tissue.”

Stephen King: “I think I need a tissue. My nose is

Dissolving melting leaking from my skull

running.”

Richard Russo: “Life in a small New England town had taught him one thing; sometimes you just needed a tissue.”

Christopher Hitchens: “God Sucks.”

Now, here is how Crichton would do it:

“Last Saturday it was raining slightly, with a slight chill in the air. John Peterson went outside to get the newspaper, the front page of which announced that trade talks with China were ongoing and the Redskins beat the Buffalo Bills the night before. Didn’t cover the spread, Peterson noticed, but won. Bout time, he thought. He ran into his neighbor Estelle Wankman, an older woman with attractive features. Her long, gray hair had clearly once been a luxurious shade of blonde, but not anymore. On the whole though, he thought she’d aged gracefully. They made small talk, mostly about Estelle’s youngest daughter Sarabeth, who’d won the Phillips Country spelling bee four times in high school before joining the Marines and shipping off to Guam. Peterson always liked Sarabeth and the way she’d squint while talking to him. Peterson chatted with Estelle perhaps longer than he should have, the cold air finally creaking through his bones, up his body and eventually into his head where it settled. Later that day Peterson couldn’t help but notice a thin, mucousy discharge slowly flowing from his nasal cavity. He decided it had to go, and so he went looking for a tissue. He found Pete Johnson, his college drinking buddy turned supervisor at his usual place by the water cooler, no doubt talking about the Redskins, and inquired as to whether or not Johnson might have a tissue, so that John could wipe his nose. Johnson said he did, so they adjourned back to his office.”

2) Crichton commits a cardinal sin in fiction writing – he gives two characters the same name. Not just two characters, two kids, both about the same age. At first (after I figured out that they were not the same kid) I thought he just hadn’t noticed he’d done it. Turns out he did it (why else?) for a horribly contrived plot point near the end of the book. And the name is Jamie – how many boys are named Jamie these days? He couldn’t have called them Jake, or Matt?

3) Monkeyboy. There’s so much to tell about Monkeyboy. Talks as good as a human, but he’s got monkey hair, and lots of it. We’re told that he can pass as a real boy, but he can climb as well as a monkey (he proves this several times with fences, trees, telephone poles, etc.), can run unbelievably fast (he catches up to a speeding Hummer) and, during one scene (which is supposed to be emotional and dramatic) he THROWS HIS POO AT PEOPLE. And the scientist’s family just accepts this new member of their family. This guys wife (who, to her credit, does ask if the guy made ape whoopee) just settles in and starts raising Monkeyboy, even facing him away from her and grooming him like a real monkey mother would.

4) The parrot. The parrot’s name is Gerard, and he’s very, very annoying. He believes he is smarter than all of the humans in the book and keeps saying as much. Now that I think about it though, he’s right. Gerard eventually gets from Paris to California, where the bounty hunters are pursuing Burnet’s daughter and grandson, one of the two Jamies. (While we’re on the subject, the daughter’s name is Alex. Took me three chapters to figure out she was female. Monkeyboy’s name is Dave, in case you were curious.) Gerard makes a sound like a shotgun loading, which fools the bounty hunters, and they run away. That’s it. Hundreds of pages devoted to the genetically modified parrot just so he could make a sound like a gun.

I’ve decided I don’t feel like writing about this piece of crap anymore. That’s the beauty of blogs, I suppose. I will add that at one point, about halfway through, I thought Crichton was writing a comedy, along the lines of Dave Barry’s two novels Big Trouble and Risky Business. “Madcap” is the word that kept going through my mind, which I would assume is not what you want your audience to think when they’re reading what is supposed to be a heavy, dramatic treatise on genetic testing and modification. In fact, the only thing that convinced me that Crichton wasn’t being totally tongue-in-cheek was a twenty page diatribe at the end of the book in which he bitches about ownership of genetic materials and the patenting of genes. He says this will lead to humans not being able to own their own bodies – if a company has a patent on a certain gene, he argues, and that gene is in your body, you are in possession of stolen property. Thus they can send Joe 'Mental' Mentalino after you and harvest your DNA in the back of a Hummer. Or at least try to, before they’re warded off by Monkeyboy and Parrotman.

Do us a favor man, go back to books about dinosaurs. Those were fun.

MInutes of 11-27-07 Meeting

10:00 a.m. – Meeting convenes. A motion to call to order is offered, seconded, and put to a vote. The vote is not unanimous as Steve doesn’t say “aye” or “nay.” He explains that he didn’t think it was necessary for him to say “aye” since he assumed it was understood that the meeting would eventually convene. "Otherwise," he argues, "there would be no meeting." A discussion ensues about the importance of teamwork, and just to prove the point, the vote is retaken. This time there is unanimous “ayes” and the meeting begins.

10:20 – FONTS
The first order of business was a discussion about the fonts used in our PowerPoint presentations. A motion for Arial was offered; however, there was no second. The benefits of Courier were discussed for 47 minutes, with the main point of contention being that it is too boring. Steve argued it looked like “what people in 1980 thought the writing of the future would look like.” In the end, it was decided that Courier was too sterile. A recommendation for Chiller was offered, with the suggestion that it would “liven things up.” The employee making the suggestion was promptly fired. It was ultimately decided that we would use Times New Roman except in cases where a major point was to be emphasized, in which case we would use Garamond.

11:13 – HOLD MUSIC
The next discussion revolved around whether or not the “hold” music should be changed. It currently runs a loop of smooth jazz versions of “Wind Beneath My Wings,” “The Way It Is,” “My Heart Will Go On,” and “Unskinny Bop.” Debate ensued about the possibility of switching to real music but no one knew if we needed some sort of FCC license or other paperwork. A suggestion was made that we could “stream” a local radio station but decided it wouldn’t be beneficial to have someone call, get put on hold, and hear ads for the local grocery store, car wash, or strip club. Steve suggested that, whatever we offer for hold music, we periodically have a recording break in letting our callers know that the call is important to us, and that our first available representative will be with them shortly. This suggestion was wildly lauded as brilliant, and a motion to proceed with the idea seconded and passed. A motion to have Tom L. record the voice, because he usually sounds really happy, was also seconded and passed. Regarding the music, it was decided that, given the popularity of the three songs currently in our rotation, we would leave them as is.

11:57 – STEVE
During a digression from the agenda, it was discovered that the employee we’d all been calling Steve was actually named Phil. A motion to keep calling him Steve to alleviate confusion was seconded and passed.

12:02 – THE HANSCOMB INCIDENT
Next on the agenda was the best way to deal with the “Hanscomb Incident.” A motion to hire a professional cleaning service to clean and sterilize Hanscomb’s cubicle as well as the surrounding area was offered and seconded. A motion to involve the police in the investigation was not seconded. All calls from Hanscomb’s wife will continue to be placed on hold and not answered. It was suggested that the recording of Tom L. may help cheer her up a little.

12:20 – COKE ZERO
In another non-agenda item, a motion to provide Coke Zero at future meetings in addition to the current selections of Coke, Diet Coke, and Sprite was offered, seconded and passed.

12:25 – NONAGENDA ITEMS
A motion to no longer allow items that are not on the agenda to be brought up was brought up and passed.

12:28 – KOI POND
There is concern that the fish in the pond in front of the building like to eat the grass that grows in the semi-shallow water in the pond. A question was brought up about what the technical name for that area is – the part that’s about 2-3 feet deep. Steve was assigned to look it up and report at the next meeting. There was concern that the fish eating the grass would contribute to global warming, and as a "green" organization, we could be sending the wrong message. A motion was offered to remove the fish. Jenkins noted that many of the fish already suffer from hypokinesia and akinesia, probably from the coal mine runoff that flows onto our property, and will likely die soon anyway. A motion to leave the fish alone and see if they’ll die of their own accord was offered, seconded, and carried unanimously.

12:45 –FIRE EXTINGUISHERS
Jerry noted that there is apparently a law on the books in our state that requires the building to be equipped with fire extinguishers. It was unclear as to why this was necessary; there have been no reported fires in the history of the building. The legal department promised to look into the matter. In the meantime, in order to comply with state and local officials, it was decided that large buckets of water would be dispersed throughout the building in the event of fire, that the shoddy wiring on the fourth floor would be addressed, and that Jenkins should make a concerted effort to remember not to put his spoon in the microwave when he cooks his oatmeal.

1:06 – ADJOURNMENT
A motion to adjourn was offered, seconded, and passed. Most employees remained in the meeting room, not wanting to appear to eager to leave lest they be thought of as not being team players. Eventually a motion had to be offered to force people to leave the meeting room. As usual, the leftover food and drinks were offered to the janitorial staff in lieu of pay.

TONIGHT...JUSTICE makes a PHONE CALL

Recently, Verizon, AT&T, and several other phone companies were sued for turning records and information about their customers over to the Justice Department. Forgetting for a minute the gross illegality of giving up the records of perfectly innocent people who probably did nothing worse than calling grandma on her birthday, I’m amazed at the reported ease with which Justice was able to acquire the information. Based on my dealings with Verizon, I’ve got to believe the process went like this:

VERIZON: Thank you for calling Verizon.

JUSTICE DEPARTMENT: Hi, my name is…

V: If you are calling about a service request, press one. If you are calling about adding new services, press two…

J.D.: (presses zero)

V: Please hold and I will connect you to the first available operator. Your approximate wait at this time is…TWENTY SEVEN…minutes.

J.D.: Damn.

(34 minutes later)

V: Thank you for calling Verizon, this is Patrice, how can I help you?

J.D.: Hi, my name is (NAME REDACTED) and I’m with the United States Justice Department. We’re trying to catch some terrorists and we were wondering if maybe you wouldn’t mind turning over your customers’ private phone activity records?

V: (pause.) I’m sorry sir, you’re interested in DSL?

J.D.: Uh, no, I’m with the U.S. government. We’d like access to your customers’ records on the off chance that, you know, someone called Osama Bin Laden.

V: Uh-huh.

(pause)

J.D.: So, uh, yeah. Do you know who I might talk to about that?

V: Hold on please.

(Muzak version of “Right Here Waiting” by Richard Marx begins playing.)

(Ten minutes later.)

V: Okay I’m going to transfer you to records. I think someone there can help you.

J.D.: Thanks, I…

V: Thank you for calling Verizon you have a nice (click).

(Dial tone)

J.D.: Shit.

(Calls back, presses zero, wait eighteen minutes)

V: Thank you for calling Verizon, this is Letitia, how can I help you?

J.D.: Yes, my name is (NAME REDACTED) and I’m with the Justice Department. I was wondering…

V: Sir are you calling for a repair?

J.D. No, I…(explains situation again)

V: I think I know who you should talk to. Hold please.

J.D.: Okay, but that last time…

(Click. Silence.)

J.D.: Umm...

V: Thanks for calling Verizon Communications, this is Omar, how can I help you?

(J.D. explains his request.)

V: Okay, I think we can probably help you out with that. We’ll get someone out to you with those records tomorrow, sometime between noon and six p.m.

J.D. Well that’s kind of a long window of time, isn’t it?

V: I’m sorry sir, that’s the best we can do. Were you also interested in Verizon’s digital cable package?

J.D.: No, just the records would be fine.

V: Nine-hundred channels of HD quality programming? And the first three months are only $9.99 per month. Plus free Showtime.

J.D.: Free Showtime? Really? I mean uh, no, just the records will be fine.

V: Okay sir, noon and seven tomorrow.

J.D.: I thought you said si…

(click)

(Next day at 5:30)

V: Thank you for calling Verizon, this is Abdul, how can I help you?

J.D.: Uh, yeah, I was told that someone would be delivering me some records today…

V: What was the name sir?

J.D.: (NAME REDACTED).

V: Let me look that up for you, hold please.

(Muzak version of “Just the Way You Are” by Billy Joel begins playing.)

(Nine minutes later.)

V: Okay it looks like our guy was there at about 2:30, but nobody answered the door.

J.D. Uh, no, that’s impossible, I was here the whole time.

V: I’m sorry sir, would you like to reschedule?

J.D. Yeah, uh, I guess, but I don’t see…

V: The next time I have available is the 24th between nine a.m. and seven p.m.

J.D. Uh, the 24th isn’t for two weeks, and that window of time…

V: I’m sorry sir that’s all we have right now.

J.D. Okay, uh, I guess I’ll take it.

(Two weeks later)

V: Thank you for calling Verizon, this is Uruguay, how can I help you?

J.D.: Yeah, uh, I was supposed to have some things delivered to our offices, some records and such. But, uh, it seems like the guy just gave us digital cable. That’s not really…

V: That’s not what you asked for sir?

J.D. No, see, I’m with the Justice Department, and I…

V: Hold please.

(Muzak version of “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion begins playing.)

(Nine minutes later.)

V: Okay, I’ve gone ahead and disconnected the digital cable. I’ll just need you to return the cable box to your closest Verizon dealer. The disconnection fee will be $14.96. Is there anything else I can do for you today?

J.D. Uh, well yeah, the digital cable wasn’t our biggest issue, in fact some of us here at Justice were really getting into that show Weeds, but I really need those records.

V: Records, sir?

J.D. Yeah, I’ve been trying for a couple of weeks to get…

V: Hold please.

(Muzak version of “Margaritaville” by Jimmy Buffett begins playing.)

(Seven minutes later.)

V: I think I see the problem here sir, so you needed all of our customers personal and private records, is that right?

J.D.: Yes sir. Uh, ma’am, I mean.

V: I’m a sir.

J.D.: My apologies.

V: Happens all the time. Anyway, to get those records you’re going to have to call our east coast regional customer specialty service questions line.

J.D.: Isn’t that what I called?

V: No sir, you called the east coast regional customer specialty service technical issues number.

J.D.: My bad.

V: No problem sir, let me just connect you to that number. Hold please.

(Sound of phone ringing.)

V (electronic voice): Thank you for calling Verizon’s east coast regional customer specialty service questions line. All of our operators are currently assisting other customers. Did you know that most of your questions can be answered online by visiting Verizon.com? That way you won’t have to be on hold for 47 minutes, which is what’s about to happen. If you’d like to waste your life this way, press one, and I’ll put you in the queue.

J.D. (presses one)

V (electronic voice): Your funeral, loser.

(47 minutes later)

V: Thank you for calling Verizon, this is Patrice, how may I help you?

J.D.: Yes, I’ve been trying for quite some me to get…

V: You don’t have to take that tone with me sir.

J.D.: I’m sorry?

V: I’ll do my best to help you sir but I don’t think there’s a need for that attitude.

J.D.: What attitude? What? What did I say?

V: What can I help you with sir?

J.D.: Um, well, uh, if it’s not too much trouble, I’ve made several requests to get some records delivered. See, I’m with the Justice Department, and…

V: Sir, I believe you’re going to want to call our east coast regional customer specialty service technical issues number.

J.D.: But they just transferred me to you.

V: Yeah. They shouldn’t have done that. I can either give you the number or I can transfer you back.

J.D.: Um, well I guess…

V: Would you like me to transfer you back sir?

J.D.: You know what? I think I’m good. I think we’ll just tap people’s phones instead.

V: Very good sir.

Home Repair Tips

I was doing some minor repairs to our upstairs bathroom last night, after we discovered that every time we took a shower, water would begin seeping through the ceiling above our stove downstairs. The upside was that we now had a second sink, albeit in a rather inconvenient place. The downside was that the leak, if left unfixed, would eventually rot the wood between the floors of our house and probably cause the whole structure to collapse. Probably not worth that extra sink, especially since I was getting shower water all over my scrambled eggs in the morning.

I took out my trusty caulk and used it to fill in a few leaky areas around the faucet and in the walls. I have become quite good at home improvement, especially as it pertains to the bathroom, and I thought I’d share some tips and tricks to ensure that your family’s plumbing achieves maximum satisfaction.

1) Always shake your caulk before you use it. If your caulk is too soft going in, it will not adequately plug the hole. If your caulk is too hard, however, it could injure the delicate area around the hole.

2) Move your caulk up and down the edge of the hole prior to using it. This will make it considerably easier to get all of your caulk in when you’re ready.

3) Try not to squeeze your caulk too hard. This could lead to too much coming out too fast, creating a sticky mess around the hole.

4) Some caulk may have an unpleasant, medicinal smell. This is actually normal and no cause for alarm.

5) Make sure that the hole your caulk will be plugging is as open as it can be, even if you need to reach inside the hole and massage it to make it a little wider. It’s very important that your caulk fill every inch of the hole.

6) Use your caulk in slow, rhythmic motions. Do not use your caulk too fast, as this will not adequately fill the hole. Using your caulk too slow, however, will cause too much to come out too quickly. The hole will be plugged, but you’ll be left cleaning up the sticky residue left behind.

7) Do not use your caulk around children. Remember, as fun as caulk can be, it is not a toy. Many children have been needlessly injured or killed as a result of their parents’ caulk.

8) Not all holes can be plugged with caulk alone. There are times when you’ll need other materials such as spackle, duct tape, or plumber's cement to plug the hole. Once you’ve used these materials on the hole, it’s best to not try to use your caulk on it anymore.

9) Unfortunately, there are times when your caulk simply won’t do what you want it to; it comes out too fast, to watery, or, no matter how hard you try, it will not plug the hole. When that happens, it’s usually best to just dispose of your caulk and look into buying a replacement. In addition, after the initial use, good quality caulk will take up to twelve hours to get hard. In the event that your caulk is still not hard after twelve hours, consider replacing it and trying again.

10) Always clean off the tip of your caulk when you’ve finished. Failing to squeeze out those last few drops can cause your caulk to become plugged up, and you’ll have to clean it out with a nail the next time you want to use it.

Just throwing this one out there. More to come.

So I’m at the grocery store the other night, buying bananas, Cap’n Crunch, chocolate milk, cranberry juice, and condoms. Cashiers are usually intuitive enough to glean a few things about you from your purchases; in my case that I have kids, that I don’t want any more, and that I have a urinary tract infection (or am simply concerned about getting enough antioxidants and potassium). Or, possibly, that I’m gay and lonely. Truth be told, it’s a little of both.

Anyway, I’m in the express lane, and there are three people behind me. As I’m paying for my meager purchases, a svelte, well-dressed woman of about 45 or so walks up to the front of the line and, even as my cashier is ringing up my items, interrupts to ask him a question. “Where are the paper plates?” she asks. It’s as if the three people behind me and I don’t even exist. The woman is wearing expensive sunglasses (inside on a cloudy day) that make her look like she’s either dodging the paparazzi or hiding the fact that her husband takes a pop at her every once in a while.

My cashier, a young African-American man no older than 20 (probably a student at George Mason University down the street), snaps out of his conveyor-belt induced coma and stares at the woman, uncomprehendingly, for a second or two, before telling her that the paper plates are in aisle three. He gives me a “what can you do?” look before returning to robotically running my items over the scanner.

The lady, however, doesn’t move. It’s as if the young man hasn’t said a word. “And the ketchup?” she asks. “Where is the ketchup?” She asks the question in a terse manner, as if she’s already asked it twice. The cashier gives me an apologetic glance. I look back at him with a look that I hope conveys that I too have worked in a grocery store and know how annoying some customers can be. It’s a hard look to master, involving many facial tics and muscle twitches that could easily be mistaken for epilepsy. But I think this cashier gets me. I’ve been there man, my look says. I'm with you.

“Aisle four,” he says. At this point, he and I are both thinking the same thing. Fine, you don’t know where the paper plates are. That’s not an easy one. Sometimes they put them with other paper products such as paper towels. Other times they put them near the plastic bags and Saran Wrap. In the case of this store, paper plates and plastic utensils are, for whatever reason, right near the spices in the baking aisle. If she was guilty of anything with that question, it was merely interrupting a cashier in the midst of his duties.

But ketchup? In every grocery store, there is always a large, easily recognizable condiments aisle – mustard, Tabasco, salad dressing…they’re all in the same place. Doesn’t everyone know that? Not only that, but ketchup is the most popular condiment in the United States. There are large signs hanging in every aisle that tell you what items you’ll find there – the one hanging over aisle four doesn’t merely say condiments, it actually says KETCHUP in big friendly, easy-to-read letters. Maybe her gigantic sunglasses make it hard for her to read. Hell, these shades are so dark, maybe she thinks she’s blind. Perhaps I should take her glasses off – it would be like the Douglas Adams line about a man who spends years thinking he's blind only to discover he's wearing too big a hat.

Oh, but we weren’t done.

“And the cheese?” she asks. Now the cashier just stops altogether. He looks at me. It’s a look that says, is she kidding? Are we on some sort of reality show? How in the name of Sam Walton can you not know where the fucking cheese is?

“It’s in the dairy aisle,” says the cashier, in the same voice I use to answer my daughter the 400th time she asks me “Why?”

“Where’s that?” asks the lady. There is a noticeable tittering in the line behind me. It’s as if we’re witnessing something historic. That we will remember this moment for the rest of our lives. We’ll all tell our spouses and our children and our coworkers about the day we went to Safeway for a few small things – cereal, granola bars, milk, juice, bananas to sodomize; you know, the simple things – and found ourselves face to face with the Bug-Eyed Lady Who Didn’t Know How the Grocery Store Works. It will be a bestselling novel, then a movie. There will be t-shirts.

Our cashier doesn’t know what number the dairy aisle is, because he’s never had to know. Saying “dairy aisle” usually does it. It’s the aisle with all the fucking dairy in it, that’s what aisle it is. He is very good natured, though. He smiles, and calls a coworker. “Mike,” he grins, “would you show this lady where the cheese is?” Mike stares as if the question were asked in Mandarin. Mike is VERY sure he is being toyed with, but he doesn’t quite know how.

“Okay…” he says. Mike and the lady walk away and that is the last we see of her. I envision her still standing there to this day, like that scene in Borat, relentlessly inquiring about the cheese until Mike finally loses it and starts bludgeoning her to death with a block of Velveeta. “HERE’S YOUR CHEESE YOU MORON! EAT IT! EAT IT YOU BUG-EYED FREAK!”

She walks away and our group lets out a collective exhale. The moment is over. Our cashier did not do what any normal person would have done, which is smack this woman with the plastic grocery divider and slit her throat with a shard of her own sunglasses. He is to be commended for that.

Nothin' But Olives...Mountains of Olives...

My sister Stacie recently posted a somewhat unflattering piece about my gift-giving skills in her blog. I am a man who prides himself on giving high-quality gifts that are entirely appropriate for the occasion. Examples: on various holidays and birthdays I have given my wife such generous, thoughtful gifts as cookware, books, a CD by the guy who played Giles on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and a WNBA sweatshirt. For Hanukah last year, I got my son a full-size, solid hardwood violin. He was three.

However, as wonderful as those gifts are, I have always prided myself on the gifts I have given Stacie. I spared no expense, and went above and beyond in terms of class and taste. For example, last year I gave her cat butts and a book of paper dolls shaped like the Kennedys. In her younger days, I bought her such treasures as plastic hot dogs, bags of Funyons, rice pilaf, and cans of beans. (When you think about it, she should have seen the 20 pound can of olives coming from a mile away.) Yes, perhaps I oversold the olives, promising her a gift that would forever change her life. But was I wrong? Here we are, over ten years later, and we’re still talking about it.

The larger issue here is that Stacie’s complaining about my gift-giving diminishes all the other wonderful things I have done for her and all the valuable life advice I have given her over the years. For example:

Human Can Opener

Like me, my sister was born with horribly unfortunate dental work. Some kids just need braces; we needed entirely new forms of orthodontics and maxillofacial surgery. These were not simple, easily correctable, malocclusions – we practically had teeth growing out of our ears. As a young lady, Stacie was especially sensitive about her teeth, probably because of the way they protruded out of her skull like some sort of warthog. Hers were not teeth as much as they were tusks.

Being the sensitive, protective older brother that I was, I decided I would illustrate to Stacie that her teeth were not a curse, but rather a blessing. Thus, when she was about eight or so, my friend Brett and I had Stacie attempt to open a 46-ounce can of Hawaiian Punch with her teeth. Stacie didn’t even object, God bless her, and upon our mark clamped down on the top of the can with all of the force her mandibles could muster. After about ten seconds she turned red and began breathing heavy. We waited for that loud “THUNK” sound of air escaping the can that always accompanied the puncture of the can opener. Unfortunately, after about thirty seconds she released her deathgrip, complaining that it hurt and that the can tasted funny.

Brett and I saw that there were two quite impressive tooth-shaped dents in the top of the can. My God, we thought, this may actually work. “You can’t give up now!” we yelled. “You’re halfway there!” So again, Stacie clamped down and bit into the heavy, possibly toxic aluminum can as hard as she could. Again, after ten seconds, she had all she could take.

Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but the benefit of age and experience has taught me that biting through a 46-ounce aluminum can of fruit punch is a lot like giving birth to a baby. Some people get through it relatively quickly and painlessly, but for others it’s a long, slow, painful, arduous process. If Stacie gives birth the same way she bites through an aluminum can, I don’t envy her husband Joe having to be by her bedside. It’ll take days. Try as she might, Stacie could not get those massive incisors through the can. It was not for lack of encouragement; Brett and I vociferously cheered her on, offering nothing but solid encouragement and kind words. “BITE THROUGH THAT FUCKING CAN, YOU FUCKING WIMP” I believe we said.

In the end, Stacie was unable to get those walrus tusks of hers to puncture the can, and our experiment failed. Stacie got braces not long after and we were unable to repeat the experiment. But more were to come.

Sledding Without Snow

Stacie and I have always been avid sledders. We grew up in a very hilly area near the Berkshires and snowfall was always met with glee as school was cancelled, sleds were dug out of the shed, and we headed to the large picturesque hills near our house.

I will go into the details of our competitive sledding another time; this story concerns what happened when Stacie approached me during the summer when she was around eight or so, saying she wanted to go sledding. Again (perhaps not coincidentally) I happened to be playing with my friend Brett, and we had a flash of inspiration. We decided to take Stacie sledding. Down the stairs to our basement. In a laundry basket.

A couple of things about the stairs at our house. The good news is they were carpeted, as was the landing where the stairs bottomed out, in thick blue shag that would have made a crash landing relatively painless. The bad news is the stairs had no railing. Steer too hard to the left and you would fall into our guest bedroom and bounce off the dresser, which would probably flip you over and cause you to slam headfirst into the floor. No way you’d take that fall with less than a broken arm and a concussion. Too hard right, however, would have been even worse; there you would drop behind a wet bar with linoleum flooring. Not only would you crash at about 40 miles-per-hour, you’d probably flail your arms a bit on the way down and knock a couple of liquor bottles off the shelves, which would almost certainly land on your skull. I don’t think Evil Knievel would survive that fall, much less a skinny eight-year-old girl. But that is the price one pays for being a daredevil.

Stacie was all for this plan. Children (as I’ve learned from my own kids) have absolutely no concept of their own mortality. As far as Stacie knew, her older brother told her she was going sledding, so she was going sledding, and nothing bad happens when you’re sledding. We lined the laundry basket up at the top of the stairs. Brett held it still while I loaded Stacie in it. There were only about twelve stairs, but we knew the carpeting would make the trip fast, assuming of course she didn’t careen off the stairs altogether. We began the countdown, Brett and I looking at each other in that way that preteens do when they’re doing something they know will get them into MASSIVE trouble if they get caught, but ultimately deciding, fuck it, it’s worth it.

We didn’t just let Stacie go. If we had, I’m reasonably sure the basket would have started slow and possibly turned around, causing Stacie to fall out and probably break her neck. Instead, on three, we pushed her as hard as we possibly could. As a result, the laundry basket flew over the top three steps, causing Stacie to lean back (another reason she didn’t fall out) and start flapping like a ragdoll as the basket bounced hard two or three times before landing sideways on the soft carpet at the bottom of the stairs. At this point, seemingly in slow motion, Stacie did pop out, flying about three feet and hitting the wall at the bottom of the stairs quite hard. Brett and I stared at her lying there, half-in, half-out of what was now a noticeably damaged laundry basket, thinking about various ways one might dispose of a human carcass. Fortunately Stacie popped up laughing seconds later, instantly making basement stairs sledding the new sport in our house. We even tried taking the laundry basket outside in the winter, but it just wasn’t the same. You can’t mess with a classic.

The Bed

Stacie managed to overcome her bad teeth and facial injuries from stairs sledding to become quite a talented actress. After I'd started going to UMass, I traveled back to our hometown to watch her in her first starring role in a high school production of A Christmas Carol. The play required the strategic placing of a large bed on the stage, and Stacie, always one for going all out for the cause, volunteered the use of her bed, which was my bed until I moved to Amherst and she claimed it. It was a queen-size four-poster, surprisingly tasteful given my parents seemingly random style of decorating, and fit the role of Scrooge’s bed perfectly.

So it’s opening night. Stacie is a little nervous, mentally going over lines, checking her costume, and focusing on the upcoming performance. She is also nervous because all her friends are here to see the production, as is our entire family. I have brought my new girlfriend, Debra, the woman who would eventually become my wife. It is the first time she and Stacie have met, and Stacie is worried about making a good first impression.

So we’re making small talk about ten minutes before curtain, and the conversation comes around to the bed; how they were able to get it in the building and onto the stage. How it’s somewhat surreal to be in your own bed, yet on a stage in your high school in front of a hundred people. How it’s not in the best of shape, and may in fact collapse during the performance. Stacie is nervous about this happening.

There is a brief lull in the conversation, and during the nervous silence I say, matter-of-factly, “Hey, I had sex with (NAME REDACTED) in that bed.” Both Stacie and Debra looked at me stunned. They don’t say anything. “Yup,” I add, “deflowered her on that very same piece of furniture. That one, right over there.”

So now, in addition to being nervous about acting in front of an auditorium full of family and friends AND being worried that parts of the scenery may very well fall apart during the production, Stacie has to spend a portion of the play in a bed on which she now knows her own brother got biz-zay. As if that weren’t bad enough, (NAME REDACTED)’s sister is in the play; she’s one of Stacie’s costars. In fact, isn’t this a happy coincidence, (NAME REDACTED) is here, in the audience! I wonder if she notices what bed is up there on stage? Maybe I should ask!

Despite the severe emotional trauma I have inflicted on her, Stacie soldiered through, making every play that she was in from that day forward seem like a walk in the park, even if it involved killing zombies.

So as you see, I should not be judged on the basis of one simple, albeit brilliant birthday gift. I have taught my sister that when the road of life brings you to a staircase, you hop in your laundry basket and slide right down. I have taught her that when life gives you a can of olives, you open that fucker with your teeth and you dig right in. I have taught her that’s impossible to come up with any analogy about a bed your brother had sex in that is not completely disturbing. And that is the most valuable gift of all.

An Ode to Our Babysitter

There was a time where my wife and I could watch whatever we wanted on TV, whenever we wanted. If we felt like flipping on CBS Sunday Morning and watching a bowtied Charles Osgood do his best Garrison Keillor imitation, we would. Oh, Bill Geist is going to take us on a tour of some tiny town outside of Pittsburgh that has the world’s largest free-standing indoor cylindrical freshwater aquarium? Fantastic, I’m in.

Now we’ve got kids. And since we’re new-agey, halfway decent parents it means two things:

1) We don’t turn on the TV that much.

2) When we do, we watch kids shows. And since our kids are aged 4 and 2, we’re not watching mildly amusing tweenie shows like Hannah Montana or even Spongebob, shows that I might be able to watch without trying to shove the Tivo remote into my brain or hang myself with Barbie hair. No, we watch programming that is actually intended for our children’s ages. Revolutionary concept, I know - most of my son’s friends come into preschool raving about older, considerably more mature shows like Fairly Oddparents or, gasp, Power Rangers. (In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that my son has watched portions of the original Star Wars trilogy and the Princess Bride. These are classics and they know no age limitations. But before you get your knickers in a twist, I’m not showing him Solo frying Greedo or Inigo Montoya calling Count Rugen a son of a bitch, so save your calls to protective services.)

Having become something of an authority on children’s shows over the past four years, I can safely say that all preschool programming can be divided into three distinct categories:

1) Shows that suck.
2) Shows that suck a little less.
3) Shows that suck but are so bizarre as to be somewhat amusing, much like Cirque de Soleil or Britney Spears.

As a public service to all you parents and, to a lesser extent, those of you who want to have a psychedelic experience without the use of hallucinogenic narcotics, I’ll categorize a few of the more popular shows.

(Note: Even if you don’t have kids, you’ve probably been exposed to the insane popularity of Dora, Diego, Blue’s Clues, Barney, the Wiggles, and Pooh. So for the sake of brevity we’ll stick to all the crap you’re lucky enough not to have seen. Also, I know a lot of studies have come out lately saying that a child under the age of two should not be watching TV at all. The psychiatrists and pediatricians who recommend this either don’t have children of their own, or have never had to make them dinner or take a shit. And let's face it, there are also times when you need to put your kid in front of a TV because you’ve hit a wall and the alternative is to release them to the wolves and let them fend for themselves. Let’s be realistic here, scientists.)

Shows That Suck

1) The Doodlebops

Long story short, a long time ago Disney bought the rights to rebroadcast old Wiggles shows, leading a generation of three year-olds to call each other “beauty” and congratulate each other by saying “good on ya, mate!” Problem was, all the money from Wiggles merchandising and concerts went into the Wiggles’ pocket. Something you might not know about Disney - they REALLY enjoy making money. So they bought the rights to a Canadian horrorshow called the Doodlebops, a group of three heavily costumed talent-free lunatics who make bad, bad music and are slightly less funny than scoliosis. If the Wiggles are the Beatles of children’s music (they’re not, but that’s another blog entry), the Doodlebops are Milli Vanilli - they don’t play their own music, have no discernable talent, and are fucking each other.

2) Hi-5, aka “Look, Diversity!”

The Wiggles spawned a fair share of knockoffs in their home country, the most popular of which was a show called Hi-5. To be fair, Hi-5 was not a complete ripoff; for instance, the Wiggles had four members; Hi-5 has (you guessed it) five. The Wiggles wear different color shirts to differentiate themselves; Hi-5 wears different color skins. The Discovery Channel decided to knockoff the knockoff, creating an American version of Hi-5, possibly the most condescending, sugar-coated piece of crap in the history of television. Originally, it starred White Guy, White Girl, Black Girl, Hawaiian-but-Asian-Enough-that-we-get-diversity-credit Girl, and Native American Guy. Unfortunately, realizing that they still had time to salvage a career, Native American Guy and Black Girl left the show and were replaced by Other Black Girl and Ethnic Guy of Indeterminate Origin.

3) Thomas and Friends, aka “Buy Me That Small, Easily Breakable $10 Wooden Toy”

Yet another import, this is actually the least annoying of several shows that have been imported from England. It is, however, almost inhumanely boring. Your children will stare wide-eyed as Thomas, a small blue tank engine, fixes a bridge, or helps a friend get a new whistle, or hypnotizes you into mortgaging your home to buy 5,129 easily breakable, lead-paint encrusted toys. The show exists mainly to introduce more characters in order to sell more toys. My son has friends who couldn’t tell you the names of their own siblings, yet if you ask them the name of the light purple engine they’ll yell “ROSIE!!” Having George Carlin as the narrator is just a tease - you’re just WAITING for him to launch into an aristocrats joke that never comes.

4) Oobi

Here’s the pitch - we want to make a children’s show, but we don’t have the budget for puppets, actors, sets, or scripts. So we’ll stick googly eyes to our hands, talk in incomplete sentences using horribly grating voices, and that’s our whole show. That’s it. Talking hands, googly eyes. Which isn’t to say your kids won’t like it; quite the contrary. You’ll soon wonder how long your child can talk to his own hand before you call the pediatric psychiatrist. “Oobi puke! You puke!”

5) Maisy

The Sports Guy summed up Maisy better than I ever could:

“Maisy is a female mouse who hangs out with a group of animal friends, including Eddie the Elephant, Talula the Duck, Cyril the Squirrel and Charlie the Special Needs Alligator. You know cartoons have gone too far when somebody decides that a special needs alligator is a good idea. Of course, he's the funniest character on the show and the one my daughter loves most. The point is, when you have little kids, completely inane topics like ‘Is it a good thing that my daughter is delighted by a special needs alligator?’ start clogging your brain when you should be thinking about more important things like, ‘Why don't I feel more strongly about Wade Phillips' dooming the 2007 Cowboys?’”

One other story - one day my daughter and I were watching the show and we both forgot the duck’s name. Coming up empty, I told her the duck’s name was Chimichanga. Now every time we see the duck I say “Hey, it’s Chimichanga!” My daughter says “No, Talula!” And I look at her confused and say “Fallujah?” and she says, “No, Talula!” Again, I look confused and say “Prince Abdullah?” Now she’s REALLY pissed off and yells “NO, TALULA!” Say what you will about the quality of the show, this never fails to get a laugh out of me.

Shows That Suck a Little Less

1) Jack’s Big Music Show

Created by a Sesame Street alum, Jack’s Big Music Show is not only quite funny, it frequently features musical guests that are infinitely more deserving of their own show than the Doodlebops or Hi-5. It’s also one of two kids shows on which Jon Stewart has made a guest appearance (the other being Between the Lions.) A bit of trivia - the show on which Jon Stewart appeared also featured a musical performance by Steve Burns, the original star of Blue’s Clues who left that show to start a music career, which brought him right back to a children’s show. (He’s now mostly famous for continual internet rumors about his death.)

2) The Wonder Pets

The Wonder Pets are a guinea pig, a turtle, and a duck, who venture out of their cages to help animals in trouble. They have saved fish, flamingos, dragons, gophers, manatees (but who hasn’t?), themselves, and, inexplicably, a tree. The curse of the show (like the more popular Backyardigans) is that the original songs are catchy as hell, and if your child sees more than one episode you can guarantee that a call to your house will result in your child singing at the top of their voice “The PHONE! The phone is RING-ing!” Hell, even I sing it once and a while.

3) The Upside-Down Show

Created by the Umbilical Brothers (who also provide the music and voices for Maisy) and developed by the Sesame Workshop, the Upside Down Show was a bizarre experiment in interactive camera trickery, wherein kids were encouraged to use an invisible remote control to influence the content of the show, pausing the characters, turning them upside down, speeding them up, etc. My son would sit wide-eyed, invisible remote in hand, marveling at how the characters were doing EXACTLY WHAT HE TOLD THEM TO DO (right after they told him to tell them to do it). This show has the distinction of being the only show on this list to make me laugh out loud frequently, the loudest being a scene in which the two main characters were desperately searching for their refrigerator. After being told by the omniscient voice that lives in their house they did not in fact own a refrigerator, one character frantically asked the other, “What are we gonna do with all that CHEESE?” Of course, like all shows that I even remotely enjoy, the Upside Down show wasn’t picked up for a second season.

4) Little Einsteins

From the company that brought you Baby Einsteins, aka Totally Hypnotic Baby Crack, comes this show about four idiot savant kids and their ultra-high-tech-but-somewhat-stupid rocket ship. Each show utilizes one major piece of art and one major work of classical music to tell the story, the theory being that it will help your children learn about one major work of art and one major work of classical music while at the same time making sure they bug you for Little Einsteins toys. I hate to admit it, but it works - both the learning and begging. My son became fascinated with a work of art featured on the show, Hokusai’s “Great Wave Off Kanagawa.” We even went to see the original at an exhibit here in DC, not that my son knew the difference between the 170 year-old original and the gift shop print on his wall. Also, we were once walking through a bookstore and my son, who was barely three at the time, saw a book of Asian art and yelled at a decibel level equal to a taxiing 747 “THAT’S THE WAVE OF KANAGAWA!” I got that smug look on my face that said, yup, that’s my kid, and he’s a genius. Two minutes later he had his hands in his pants and was playing with himself. I guess Asian art gets him excited.

While Little Einsteins may do wonders for your child’s appreciation of fine arts, it will do nothing for their common sense. Yes, the Little Einsteins may have a multi-billion dollar, light-speed flying, time-traveling rocket. However, at least once an episode a problem will arise that could easily be solved by utilizing rocket’s capabilities, and instead the Little Einsteins opt for a completely inconvenient and infinitely more time-consuming method of attack. For example, they once needed to get into Buckingham Palace (there are no laws against trespassing in children’s shows). There was a guard at the gate, and they could only approach him if his back was turned, so the audience was asked to tell Rocket to move when we saw that the guard wasn’t paying attention. After fifteen seconds my son asked me “Why don’t they just fly over the fence?” I had been thinking why don’t they just shoot the guard? but I don’t have the innocence of a four year-old.

5) Jakers! The Adventures of Piggly Winks

A show about a fat Irish pig spending the whole day telling crazy stories, and yet it’s not about my dad. Each episode of Jakers begins with a kindly old grandfather pig regaling his grandchildren with stories of his exploits as a kid in Ireland. He drinks a lot, has dozens of children, and bombs Protestant churches. Oh wait, that’s MY grandfather. Jakers is something of a throwback to a simpler day of children’s programming - there aren’t any asides for the adults, and all the stories have an innocence about them without being condescending. Also, somewhat randomly, Mel Brooks shows up now and again as a sheep. This raises a larger question my wife always brings up – who gets editorial control over which creatures will be anthropomorphized and which animals will be just animals? For example, on Jakers, the pigs, cows, ducks, and goats all wander around wearing clothes, shopping, and living regular lives, but for some reason the sheep are just sheep. Yes they talk, but only to each other, and they don’t wear clothes or live in houses. Is there an unwritten cartoonist rule about which animals make better protagonists and which make better comic relief? Some shows smartly avoid this by moving from animals altogether and making absolutely anything a character (see Oswald, below).

Shows that Cause Flashbacks

The concept of providing overwhelming audio stimuli and completely surreal visuals is not new – think Land of the Lost or H.R. Pufnstuf. However, those were intended for older kids already in grade school. I think the most exciting thing I saw on TV as a preschooler was that pinball machine thing on Sesame Street. There has been a trend lately of shows that have no plot and little dialogue, but an overabundance of pretty colors, shiny things, and funky music.

1) Yo Gabba Gabba



I almost hesitate to try and describe this show; it really has to be seen to be believed. In short, the show is hosted by an UNBELIEVABLY happy black guy with a huge puffy orange hat named DJ Lance Rock. He and his five toy monsters, Brobee, Foofa, Muno, Plex, and Toodee, do stuff for a half-hour. These are things I have said out loud while watching Yo Gabba Gabba:

· Is that Elijah Wood dancing?
· Is that Biz Markie showing me how to rap?
· Is that Mark Mothersbaugh from Devo showing me how to draw a cartoon dog?
· Is that the Shins?
· Is that food doing a dance in that monster’s stomach?
· Is that Tony Hawk dancing? If so, how is it that a guy with the athletic ability, balance, and dexterity needed to be a professional skateboarder has absolutely no rhythm at all?
· Is Super Martian Robot Girl the best thing on television?

If Sesame Street was accused of giving kids short attention spans, Yo Gabba Gabba may very well be accused of making their heads explode like Michael Ironside in Scanners.

2) Oswald

Based on the children’s book by Dan Yaccarino, Oswald brings a lot of the surreal elements of the book to the show. Oswald is a giant octopus voiced by Fred Savage who lives in a town called Big City. Apparently there are no zoning laws in Big City - just about anything can serve as a house – giant fishbowls, baseballs, ice cream cones, etc. Also, the show doesn’t limit the anthropomorphizing to animals – Oswald’s friends include a tree, a daisy, two eggs, and a cactus. Unlike Yo Gabba Gabba the show moves at a snail’s pace, but as Oswald moves about town you find yourself asking, um, was that a snowman driving an ice cream truck? Is that singing starfish being voiced by Tony Orlando? Why do talking rabbits seem to own all the stores and control all the currency? (My wife suggested that the rabbits are the jews of Big City.) Children’s shows are supposed to educate and inspire your children, not make parents question their own sanity.

In addition to the lack of zoning laws, apparently public nudity is also not an issue in Big City. Oswald himself, for example, wears a hat but no clothes. His best friend Henry (a penguin) wears nothing. On the other hand, the talking cactus dresses like a cowgirl, and the two eggs (Eggbert and Leo) dress like English fops. This follows a long cartoon tradition, of course; Mickey Mouse didn't wear a shirt and Donald Duck didn't wear pants. Again, I think there needs to be consensus among cartoonists which animals talk and which should be required to wear clothes.

3) Boobah



Given the children’s shows that have come out of the U.K., it’s a miracle that the English are as reserved as the stereotypes would indicate. I can’t imagine that a steady diet of shows like the Teletubbies and Boobah leads to anything but a lifetime of ritual killings. Here is every show:

1) The five Boobahs wake up and dance around, making little clicking and whistling sounds and also, apparently, farting. Just like me when I get up, actually.

2) The Boobahs give something to the “storypeople,” a family of seven that clearly enjoys adoption as they are all radically different ethnicities. The storypeople play with whatever the Boobahs have given them, be it blocks, a forklift, or a dildo, for about ten minutes.

3) The Boobahs dance and fart a little more.

4) Random children are featured in a segment called “Look What I Can Do.” Often the children can’t do too much, but we’re forced to watch them try things like spin in a circle, or twirl a baton for ten minutes.

5) The Boobahs get back in their little Boobah Spoon-Looking Traveling Device Thing and fly away.

To their credit, it’s more imaginative than Oobi.

The good news is Ratatouille came out on DVD today, so I'll be spared the horror of these shows for about a week. Also, they're releasing episodes from the first seasons of Sesame Street, so my kids can see what a REAL kids show looks like:

(Scene opens with our hero, alone on a stage, writing on a laptop computer...)

About ten years ago or so, I started a blog-type thing at my old job. It was a hard-hitting, up-to-date website detailing the days top issues, such as which members of Congress were ugly, and whether or not you could be killed by a baby penguin. It was a lot of fun, kept me busy, and most importantly, kept the public informed with the kind of high-quality information they just couldn’t get from the traditional media. To date, the page has logged over 250,000 views - impressive for a site that hasn’t been updated in nearly four years, and proof that there is still nothing good on the internet.

Unfortunately, circumstances arose which caused me to abandon the website – I got a job that required actual work, and my wife popped out a coupla kids. Add to that the time constraints inherent in my crack addiction, lasso lessons, fierce loyalty to the DC Rollergirls (“With Liberty and Justice to Brawl”), and m aking my own sushi, and I had very little time for the high-quality intellectual material my audience had come to love.

Not only that, but everyone and their sister began creating blogs, many about the most meaningless, boring things. “Oh, I just had a hard time at the DMV, I’ll blog about it!” “Oh, I found a great recipe for chicken marsala, better blog about it!” “Oh, I saw Senator Martinez in an alley behind a strip joint getting a hummer from a twelve year-old Asian boy, perhaps that’s newsworthy!” Seriously people, get a life.

I have put off creating a blog for two reasons:

1) No one cares what I have to say. Nor should they.

2) I don’t care what other people have to say. It’s like when someone tells you that you look good, or they like your outfit, when in fact they’re really fishing for compliments about themselves. “Oh, you look good too!” I didn’t read other blogs, yet I knew if I began one myself, I would expect people to not only read mine but comment on how wonderful it was. This is selfish.

However, I have come to a realization – selfish is who I am. It’s how I roll. Not only that, I’ve got some time on my hands these days. I’m still busy as a mofucker at work, but the beauty of blogs is, I suppose, that if you have one funny thought in a whole day, you post it and leave it be, rather than spend the kind of time I did on the old website turning it into 500 words. I mean, some of those articles took up to twenty minutes to write, and that doesn’t include finding funny pictures.

Not only that, I’ve got a wealth of material to choose from these days. I still live and work in the weirdest city in the world, I’ve got two children, and of course I’m going through a sex change. I know what you’re thinking – there are hundreds if not billions of bloggers in DC, everyone blogs about their kids, and my finally becoming a man is not headline news. The fact is, however, that my blog will be funny, my kids are MUCH cuter and funnier than anyone else’s moronic critters, and penis reassignment surgery is rare and not well documented.

So with that, welcome to the Manchingo Coniglium. (See, the last website had a catchy, easy-to-remember name, the Froo Froo, and a simple URL; I decided to make this thing next to impossible to find and/or pronounce, just for shits and giggles.) Stop by every once in a while, put your virtual feet up, have a virtual glass of apple juice, and bask in the virtual comedy.

I leave you for now with a quote from Steven Wright, talking about painting the ceiling of his bedroom as a kid:

“I painted Jesus and Santa Claus on a seesaw. I put Jesus at the bottom, even though he’s lighter.

Cuz he’s Jesus.”

I have a blog

I like strippers! And bread!