Q'ner Industries, Inc.

Hello!

2010-09-12T21:29:00.003-04:00

Oh, right: The blog

2010-04-01T13:01:00.002-04:00

Remember blogs? They were quite the hot item back in the aughts.

If found this one collecting dust in my Firefox browser tab. I started it back in '05 and updated it every day, or every other day. Or every other week. Then month. Now year.

I wonder if I could get the old girl running again?

If I knew it was gonna be that kinda party...

2009-04-02T19:06:00.004-04:00

I didn't really get into the Beastie Boys until 1994.

"Ill Communications" is a great, great album, but when it came out I still had too much Syracuse in me to allow myself to like it. I watched the videos 100 times on MTV and never turned the channel. I heard the album 50 times at the pool hall at Buff State. I liked it, but I didn't officially like it. I considered them obnoxious New York dicks -- and most of their fans at my school were also New York dicks.

"Paul's Boutique" passed me by unnoticed. Nothing jumped out at me, though a lot of my friends call it their best album. Then came "Check Your Head" and I started paying attention. By then I was getting into new music, mostly because the guys I hung out with had better taste. The Beasties converged into the whole wave of new music in the early 90s.

But it all came together for me with "Ill Communication." I loved that album. Still do. And one of my favorite parts is the moment in "B-Boys Makin' With The Freak Freak" when the music stops and they sample a snippet of a dude who says:

"Shit, if it's gonna be that kind of party, I'm gonna stick my dick in the mashed potatoes!" There's this explosion of laughter and then the song kicks back in.

For years, I wondered where that sample came from. A movie? Some random snippet captured during a recording session? Well, today I looked it up on what's becoming the best site ever: YouTube.

It's from a comedy routine by Mantan Moreland. Check out his Wikipedia bio. He's one of those actor/performers who had a really intersting career that spans almost every medium you can think of.

In the 1965 he made a comedy record called "That Ain't My Finger." Which might be the best album name EVER. This is around the time Redd Foxx was cranking out recordings of his Vegas act and selling them as "party albums." Mantan has that same kind of feel.

So watch this bit and enjoy the full setup for the punchline the B-Boys sampled. Give a listen to the whole thing. He is really funny and the reaction of the audience just adds to the feel of it. The language and references are dated, but he's got some really clever, self-effacing jokes that feel totally today. My favorite has to do with demanding hot water from his wife...

Proof that Louis CK is the best comedian working today.

2009-02-13T12:43:00.002-05:00

The Art of Bullshit, Pepsi-Style

2009-02-11T09:41:00.008-05:00

I work in an industry that is fueled by bullshit. Advertising is full of it. It’s also filled with very smart, creative people who work incredibly hard to produce work they can be proud of (Which often has nothing to do with whether or not it’s at all successful at bringing in customers). There's a lot of talent in advertising, no question. There's lot of genuine brilliance. Plenty of beautiful executions. But there is also a whole truckload bullshit to be found.

I once heard a writer pitch a concept that equated the arrival of Internet search marketing to the invention of the Gutenberg printing press. (Hmm. One transformed society, enabling the scientific revolution; the other serves up text ads for Viagra when you Google "limp dick.") The other creatives in the room were choking back laughter as the account team nodded in awe.

Another time I pitched a TV spot at a sister agency to a room full of creative heads from three different general shops, only to have it waved off as being "derivative." The next guy got up and his pitch was simply two words: Michel Gondry. He kept saying it over and over again, like some witch doctor’s incantation. Michel Gondry. Michel Gondry. As though the director himself might materialize on the conference room table and ask in his impish French accent why he was summoned.

But then something amazing happened. Everyone started nodding. Looking at each other excitedly. Michel Gondry. Michel Gondry.

The overpaid-caustic-Eurotrash-consultant-douche presiding over the meeting tapped his waxed, hairless forefinger on the table in approval. I looked at my boss. He stared down at the table. Meeting over.

As we left the conference room, people in office cubicles were crying and packing their belongings in boxes. Saying goodbyes. Hugging. The new business guy whispered to us that their agency had just lost Coke and was going through layoffs. Now they were going to another major client with their big idea: Michel Gondry.

A week later I learned they lost the account. Two months later, I saw the spot I originally pitched air on TV. A Winter Olympics spot. Those fuckers.

All of this is just a preface to say that I’m no stranger to the power of bullshit. But nothing could prepare me for the leaked Pepsi rebranding presentation I downloaded last night. This is advertising bullshit of a caliber I’ve never seen. It belongs in some ethereal realm of ideal forms of bullshit, towering over lesser forms of bullshit like, say, the justification for invading Iraq or the testimony before congress by the cigarette CEOs.

I read the entire presentation (crafted by the Arnell Group), mesmerized. Never have I beheld such a heaping load of bullshit so fearlessly presented. They name-drop Pythagoras and Da Vinci. They reference the Theory of Relativity and the Golden Ratio. They use nonsensical diagrams filled with random geometric equations. They draw circles around old Pepsi logos, then draw other circles within those circles. They fucking suggest that their new design (dubbed “BREATHTAKING”) exerts a gravitational pull upon the consumer as he walks down the aisle.

You think I’m fucking with you on that last point. I am not. This is so cuckoo that I have to actually try to describe it. Here’s the connection they attempt:

The sun streams light outward in a straight line. Yet the Earth (a sphere), by the nature of its (also spherical) spinning center, exerts a magnetic pull called gravity that works with the sun’s mass to create a spacetime curvature that effectively bends the light toward it. (Or something like that) It’s almost as though the light of the sun is irresistibly attracted to the spherical design of the earth.

Now get this shit. Like the sun’s emanating rays of light, the consumer’s line of sight in a typical shopping aisle travels in a straight line, from one end of the aisle to the other. Yet as he moves down the aisle, his line of sight bends toward the spherical design of the new Pepsi logo. He can’t help it any more than the sun can help it. It’s physics.

The best part is that this connection is not presented as an analogy. That would be pretentious but forgivable. No, they seem to be suggesting the two scenarios are the same – governed by the same scientific laws. To get customers to pay attention to Pepsi at the Harris Teeter, the Arnell Group recreated the solar system. Nice work, SVA designers.

And that’s not even the most ridiculous connection attempted in this document. It’s entirely constructed out of non-sequiturs. No single thought connects to the next. It’s almost disorienting. You get dumber reading it.

Just to level set for a moment. The entire point of the rebranding is to sell a carbonated, fructose-filled beverage. Soda.

And yet, it won! It extracted hundreds of millions of dollars from one of the most powerful companies in the world. It made the agency rich. It secured the careers of everyone involved. The new logo is everywhere.

Therefore, it's genius. Why is it genius? Three reasons:

1) A creative director once told me that if you convince the client that your concept is right, the execution is almost irrefutable. This Pepsi presentation actually references 5,000 years of design, mathematics and science to back up the reasoning behind the concept. So if you have a problem with the concept, you must not agree with Da Vinci, Einstein, Euclid, Descartes and Mobius. That’s balls.

2) There is a perfect mix of pretentiousness and nonsense that works particularly well in big meetings. Imagine a creative director presenting this, perhaps in a light British accent, to a room filled with clients. These aren’t dumb people. They’re analytical and logical. But they also want to seem hip and creative. So no one dares raise a hand. No one dares disrupt the meeting to say: “Excuse me. But what the fuck are you going on about?” Because they don’t want to be the dumb one. Years of conditioning have taught them to read the room and follow the pack. So they nod their heads. To stride into such a room with this level of bullshit is brilliant. It’s like wheeling in the Trojan Horse. Here’s your gift, motherfuckers.

3) The thinking behind the logo is so fuzzy, loose and psychotic that it's actually hypnotizing. It seems to be constructed, not to make logical sense, but to disconnect the audience from its powers of reasoning. It’s a visual hallucinogenic, leaving you stunned and dreamy. This is the sort of trick the Joker would perpetrate upon the Gotham City Council (“a pernicious PowerPoint presentation”), leaving the council members in a trance as his henchmen steals away with bags of money.

In conclusion, I am at once repelled and in awe of this presentation. Please give it a read. But wait at least an hour after you eat.

Find it here.

One more cup of coffee

2009-01-14T16:50:00.003-05:00

Bob Dylan is maybe the coolest guy who ever lived. And here's one of my favorite lyrics from a great song off an under appreciated album:

Your sister sees the future
Like your mama and yourself.
You've never learned to read or write
There's no books upon your shelf.
And your pleasure knows no limits
Your voice is like a meadowlark
But your heart is like an ocean
Mysterious and dark.

That last line kills me. Fucking genius. And the violin is devastating.

That whole song evokes in me a short story by Steinbeck called "Flight." Don't ask me why. It might be a tone thing. Maybe it's the mix of American mysticism and hard reality. Maybe it's because the two families described could be neighbors. Maybe it's the outlaw themes. Read the story here.

Watch a performance of the song here:

Happy Holidays

2008-12-18T15:12:00.005-05:00

Here's this years holiday card we just completed for Wunderman. We sent out mail and emails to clients wishing them a happy holidays and introducing the concept: You don't need to spend millions on a TV spot when you have robots that can do the same for free. It's the perfect answer to these challenging economic times.

A link directs to the flash application that lets you create different genres of commercial that are quasi-customized to your business.

You wouldn't believe how hard it was to get this working. We shot the video and then used voice technology to supply the audio. But getting the audio and video to synch up took hours and hours of actionscript coding, which I sort of sat and watched being done in awe.

Here it is!

Big Fucking Lebowski

2008-12-16T18:23:00.002-05:00

This goes out to Mike. It's a fucking brilliant edit of one of the funniest fucking movies of all time. They fucking cut out just about everything except the word fuck. And fucking A, you can kinda tell what the fuck's going on.

Fucking enjoy.

Emmit Otter's Jug Band Christmas

2008-12-16T11:49:00.007-05:00

Another Christmas classic, this one from Jim Henson. A genius.

Emmit's competition. Never has evil so honestly assessed its own badness.

"When the River Meets the Sea." From early in the movie. A beautiful song with an Amazing Grace feel to it. Yes, the clips are out of order. Who cares? You're out of order. This whole court is out of order!! Sorry, another lost 70s reference. Enjoy.

Rich Little's Christmas Carol

2008-12-14T20:08:00.003-05:00

Ah, the late 70s/early 80s. I used to watch this every time it came on. Remember this?

I missed November

2008-12-04T15:49:00.002-05:00

Why?

Slideshow

2008-10-20T15:32:00.002-04:00

So I made this slideshow for my niece, Aidan. As you probably know, she has Juvenile Diabetes. It's a disease that affects people I love, from friends to family.

I scored it to a song that my sister requested. It has special significance to her and my brother-in-law, because it's one of the first songs they heard after Aidan was diagnosed.

It took a while to do this. Getting all the images in order, putting on basic effects, writing the words, syncing it all to music. But I think it came out nice. Enjoy.

Siskel & Ebert Uncensored

2008-10-14T20:04:00.002-04:00

Siskel & Ebert were the best duo ever. Best movie duo, best infighting duo, best comedy duo. Just listen to them start riffing here. So good.

Drums and piano

2008-09-30T14:34:00.002-04:00

Every day the Internet coughs up another gem of brilliance that is so simple you wonder: "Why the hell didn't I think of that?"

Lasse Gjertsen can't play drums or piano, but he's a virtuoso editor. The result is awesome. I just wonder how many cuts he had to make to put this all together.

All my wisdom comes from 80's sitcom theme songs

2008-09-26T14:04:00.006-04:00

ON ACCEPTING YOUR FATE
You take the good you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the facts of life.

ON DIVERSITY
The world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you might not be right for some.

ON RELAXATION
Making you way in the world today takes everything you got. Taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot.

ON SELF PROMOTION
Gimme a break, I sure deserve it. It's time I made it to the top.

ON SELF DISCOVERY
Early to rise, early to bed. In and between I cooked and cleaned and went out of my head. Going through life with blinders on, it's tough to see. I had to get up, get out from under and look for me.

ON SELF ACCEPTANCE
I used to be sad, I used to be shy. Funniest thing, the saddest part is I never knew why. Kickin' myself for nothin' was my favorite sport. I had to take off, start enjoyin' 'cause life's too short.

ON APATHY
Maybe the world is blind. Or just a little unkind. Don't know.

ON FALLING IN LOVE
What would we do, baby? Without us? What would we do, baby? Without us? And there ain't no nothing we can't love each other through. What would we do, baby? Without us?

ON BREAKING UP TO BECOME A DJ
Baby, if you've ever wondered, wondered whatever became of me: I'm living on the air in Cincinnati. Cincinnati, WKRP.

Prank Call

2008-09-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

Here's a fun short from the genius at eatpes.com

Awesome

Help fight juvenile diabetes

2008-09-23T11:12:00.003-04:00

Three years ago, my niece Aiden was taken to the hospital because she was having trouble breathing. The doctor told her mom (my sister) that she probably had a cold, and sent her home.

A few hours later, her condition got worse. This time they tried urgent care and the doctors took a look at how sick she was and ran a diabetes test. The results were positive. At just 18-months old, Aiden was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.

Worse still, she had actually gone into diabetic ketoacidosis and was immediately hooked up to an insulin drip to combat the toxic levels of glucose in her body. After a few harrowing days, she stabilized and was sent home.

Today, Aiden is a happy, outgoing girl who bravely undergoes daily monitoring and treatment for her illness. My sister and her husband Josh are now well educated on diabetes, and they work tirelessly to ensure Aiden's levels are as stable as possible.

They also started joining a walk for juvenile diabetes. And this year, on November 1, I'll be joining them. If you have extra money that you just don't know what to do with, you can put it to noble use by making a tax-deductible donation at Aiden's Web Page.

Thanks!
Brian

Infinite Rest

2008-09-13T23:38:00.004-04:00

Farewell, DFW.

Help a bald brother out

2008-09-05T12:02:00.001-04:00

Larry David: Still funny.

Europe '08

2008-08-26T18:51:00.021-04:00

I have a tendency in this blog to write about nonsense and post nothing about what I'm actually doing in my life. Hey, it's my blog, right?

But I'll break from the random here and post on the trip I took to Europe in June.

The actual, official reason for my trip was to attend the Cannes Advertising Festival in France. It's the same Cannes where they hold the film fest and a bunch of other fests throughout the year. It's a fest kinda town.

Here's a picture of me "working." This shot in from cafe inside the Grand Palais where all the work was shown throughout the week.

The best part? The many, many free parties held continuously just outside the Palais, along the Mediterranean. My AD and I would just walk up to these parties, show our festival badges and suddenly we'd be sitting on the beach with a glass of Champagne in one hand and a little plate of appetizers or a sorbet in the other. Here's a shot from a beach chair.

After grinding it out in angry, dirty New York for almost ten years, Cannes was a glimpse at how good life can be. Happier people, sunnier skies, cleaner air and calmer. Much calmer. My AD said it's seventy-four degrees and sunny in everyone's head, all the time. Which pretty much nails it.

The first night we grabbed dinner at the worst restaurant in Cannes, then took a hike up some winding side streets to check out the Old Cannes Castle. It's an amazing floodlit castle that sits on a hill overlooking the city. And in true Europe fashion, you just wander around the grounds with no one bothering or hawking Cannes Castle key chains.

Here's a shot from atop a wall and peering through a stone turret, in the same spot I imagine a bowman would position himself during an attack. If the French fought.

During the day we saw some really amazing creative work from around the world, none of which I'll post here. At night there were the awards ceremonies and then the parties.

Midway through the week the festival held it's opening night gala. It was probably the biggest single party I've ever attended. One giant stage in the center, surrounded by tables and tables of food and desserts, Champagne, wine and beer. All set up on a beach and stretching out to a long ass pier.

An English, all-female vocal band performed a handful of songs and then the stage became a dance floor. Or as I call it, that thing you have to skirt around to get another beer.

Here's a tiny clip from the party, which I only have because I hit the wrong button on my camera. In the foreground is part of the stage/dance floor. In the distance is the Carlton.

After the party we went to a bar that is locally called "The Gutter." It's small corner bar that, after 2pm, is suddenly swarmed with (seriously) well over a thousand people. Nightmare, right? But this was Cannes. Imagine two thousand people and no elbowing, no fights, no dumb screaming frat drunks. Everyone is happy in their linen pants and Mediterranean tans.

The party spilled from outside the gutter bar, into the street, across to the parking lot of the enormous Carlton Hotel, into the foyer of the Carlton, through the Carlton's bar, outside to the pool area, and alongside a path to about a dozen cabanas. I have no pictures from that party. I forgot to use my camera at that point.

I didn't actually stay in Cannes. My hotel was located about six miles away, in a little beach town called Juan Les Pins. Here's a random snapshot I took in Juan Les Pins while running in the morning.

My girlfriend Lauri flew in later in the week and joined me for the last day of the festival. She actually arrived the morning after the gutter bar. Here I am super hung over.

But I got over that quick enough and we were having a lovely dinner that very night.

Here's Lauri at our beach side dinner.

We also hung around the hotel pool in Juan Les Pins.

The last morning we ordered room service, then took off for a few days in Turin, Italy. But I'll post that leg of the journey later.

Another writing exercise

2008-08-26T09:39:00.002-04:00

In the writing class I mentioned below, the deal was that you'd read a novel, short story or poem every week, and then write a selection based upon the tone, mood, perspective or writing style of the work. This was written from a story called "Dr. Safi." This wouldn't go anywhere, but I do like the dog dreaming part...

Travels with Homer
Jeffery didn’t have a job. He was 30 and lived with his dog Homer in the basement of his parents’ house, which he’d converted into a small apartment. He liked to sit on his bed with his back to the painted cement wall and watch TV or read old magazines from the 60s, like LOOK, while his dog slept curled in an “O” at his side. Upstairs his parents trampled around and called to each other as from across a great distance, and in the morning the aroma of his father’s coffee filtered under the basement door and permeated his dreams.

On the weekends Jeffery would pull together a few dollars and buy a little baggie of weed from some guys who hung around the university across town. He’d drive his old Impala to pick it up. It was a long, blue car that he called Mothera because there was a dead Monarch Butterfly that had been preserved for years in the space where the windshield almost met the dashboard. When he got home he’d play a tape by Tangerine Dream or Vangelis and roll a joint. He liked the idea of smoking a joint even though he wasn't very skilled at rolling one, and sometimes he’d finish rolling it only to have to unroll it and start over. But Jeffery didn’t mind if it took a while. It’s the weekend, he thought.

One Saturday evening after he’d smoked an oblong joint and was sitting on his bed listening to the Alan Parsons Project’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination, Jeffery had a vision. He closed his eyes and from the inky blackness saw a vast blue landscape arise, which he took to be a representation of the music, or perhaps his mind, but which also looked a lot like Utah or some other western state. It was a vivid and defined landscape that stretched toward all horizons and he hovered above it, watching. He soon realized that he could “fly” through the contours of this dark terrain, and so he did -- soaring across stretches of smooth bedrock, over granite abutments and down into scooped out riverbeds, feeling the rush of mossy air on his face. It was a sensation that he remembered having as a child when he dreamed of flying; the absolute certainty that it was real. And the more he explored, the more he realized that he’d visited this place before. Not just in his mind, but physically. This place existed in the real world, he was sure of it.

He got up off of his bed and walked over to a map on his wall. He turned on a table lamp that was balanced on top of some CD cases and bent the neck up so that it illuminated the map. Hmm, he thought. Where had he visited out West? Had he ever been out West? He looked over at Homer who was watching him from the shadows of the bed. “When was I out West?” he asked. Homer stood up on the bed and stretched, his mottled tongue unfurling from his blond muzzle, then plopped back down.

Jeffery stood there frowning at the map. He then got a beer out of his mini-fridge and walked out through the basement door into the backyard. It was a warm June night and the sky was filling up with pale stars and crickety sounds. I’m going to go out west to find this place, he decided. I’ll get some things together tomorrow and drive out with Homer.

Inside, Homer was also dreaming about flying. In the dream he was chasing a bluebird across the lawn, running and running as the tiny bird flittered just beyond his snapping reach. Suddenly he realized that he was airborne high above the house and Jeffery was calling for him. “Hooomerrr!” Jeffery called, but his scrabbling legs found no purchase in the air and he sailed helplessly away as the house got smaller and smaller. When he awoke in the frowsy darkness, he sensed that Jeffery wasn’t in the room. He wobbled off of the bed and walked through the laundry room into the old family room, pausing to listen at the stairs. Then, his nails clacking on the cement foundation, he walked outside to where Jeffery was sitting and the two of them stared into the night.

Space Invaders

2008-08-26T09:28:00.002-04:00

I came across this the other day. It's from a writing class I took from 02 to early 04. I should really take that class again.

Space Invaders

It is 1978 and the Japanese Beetles are everywhere. They come to our neighborhood from above, from the endless recesses of summer sky, of pure blue -- from somewhere out there. They swirl like television static across the sloping lawns and through the low, painted fences that demarcate property lines. They drop into the elastic pockets of hanging bed sheets, sink into slime coated kiddie pools and fall onto picnic tables like dry, scrabbling rain. They keep coming and coming until all of the trees are studded with their ceramic green and copper shells and the leaves sag under their pennyweight. And even after they strip the foliage away, tearing and chewing, leaving only gossamer veins, they still keep coming.

“They’re ruining my whole yard,” Mrs. Merante says as she plucks the beetles off of the hedges that separate her lawn from ours. I watch her squash one between her thumb and forefinger -- squinting beneath her floppy bonnet -- and drop it into a plastic bag.

It’s early afternoon. High above my house a silver jet draws white across the blue sky as I sit baking on the driveway, shirtless in my cutoffs. Chucky sits across from me, also shirtless, a copper arrowhead necklace resting on his chest. We smile at each other grittily, each pretending the heat from the driveway that is melting into our legs doesn’t hurt, but actually feels really nice. I grin to let him know that I’m just getting started. Ah, I could do this all day. He closes his eyes, stretches, like he’s ready to drop off to sleep. I know he’s faking. But it doesn’t matter because all at once the heat penetrates me, rubbing under my skin like sandpaper, and I jump up and run over to the cool grass. “Ah ha!” Chucky raises his hands in victory.

I brush off my legs and walk over to the Japanese Beetle trap that is set up in the center of our lawn. It’s a weird-looking contraption -- a yellow, hourglass shaped-plastic bag resting atop slender plastic legs. Every lawn has one, and together they look like a fleet of tiny alien craft that had landed during the night. The traps emit an awful smell that is inescapable: At once sweet and rank, grassy and chemical, the scent hangs low across the neighborhood, seeping through the soft window screens into our kitchens and bedrooms and filling our senses as humidity fills a locked room. Chucky comes over to help inspect the trap. In the bottom of the bag a few beetles convulse, moving their pointed heads in busy circles. I flick the bag with my finger and immediately hear my mother’s voice calling out from her bedroom window. “Michael! What did I tell you about touching those traps? Get in here now and wash your hands. Now!”

Chucky’s on the front porch when I come back. “What do you want to do now?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He spits on our cement walk. “Wanna pretend we’re the strongest men in the world?”

“OK.

“But I’m just a little stronger than you are.”

“No, we’re exactly as strong as each other.”

“OK, but I’m just a teeny, eeny-weeny bit stronger than you.” He holds up two fingers to show me how small the difference is.

“I don’t want to play.”

Outliers

2008-08-26T00:53:00.002-04:00

Written 20 minutes after taking a sleeeeeeping pill. mmmmm

Outliers
We do not conform to social construct. Not the more obvious, middle of the road choices most people fall into, quite comfortably and naturally, in their early 20s. To them, it's like putting on pants. We never made that connection. And we remained undefined. And in some cases, pantsless.

We tried subculture, that tangle of weirs that awaits just downstream. All the really smart, fat chicks and the short, pimpled poets find themselves defining themselves in place they learn to accept over time. Until one drunken night you look around your dark circle of friends in some bar or basement, and the rising high lifts you out of your apathy and you feel, for the first time you can remember, that you just might have control over your life. And that you've finally hooked into a group that understands. You. Fucked up people, who are funny and talented--or at least have the desire to be talented. And there's the music and moves and shit to do. But in the moring you wake up with a hangover and every thing's gone to shit again. You are not part of this group. That was a delusion brought about by the excessive, some would say, desperate consumption of so much liquor in such s short time. Really, you were out of control. Far beyond the pale of group 2's different, but still important senses of moderation and fair play. Begone, we'll still be friends, knowing it's an act.

Drop on level. Now say to yourself that you're finally home and you grin. But you hate it all again in the morning. But we also do no fit in with the several subgroups that exist below the line of accepted society—punks, Goths, gangstas, nerds, dorks, gamers, fan boys.. There are the last outposts of belonging, slight off the center but sill cozily within acceptability. I don't have the jewelry or makeup skills, my body is not build for goth, unless you count way-too-old and boxy-shaped goth with a giant fleshy face and a corporate card. Gangstas, please. I avoid you at all costs, only because you tend to be loud, obnoxious, confrontational and easily insulted I'm not walking that minefield

Go a further step subculture and find dominatrices, TV, sex addicts, drug addicts, bondage freaks. Hay, a night out is a night out. BU theres a commitment even here, perhaps especially here. Look at tall the equipment that must be kept clean. Giant devices and complicated knots and whole dramatic why of speaking the embarrasses me.

So where are we, the outliers?

We are undefined, ill-fitting, tongue-tied, flush-faced fuckers. We travel through your valleys and mock your consistency (while smelling the flowers and stealing tomatoes). We are visitors in every sense. To you word and the commitment that constructs it. We can commit, but only for short times. We can love, but it's a strange love, maybe cerebral. We do great things in short spurts of inspiration knowing our concentration and interest each have time limits

Down here with us are some of humanities darkest. Criminals, murderous, perverts, maniacs, sociopaths, inmates. There are also artists and writers, people who would kick a dog to death or another who would lie to his own mother.

G.I. Ho

2008-08-07T14:38:00.001-04:00

Ah, Lil Kim.

Margarito/Cotto

2008-07-27T14:17:00.003-04:00

Margarito is a monster. Hit him all you want. He'll keep coming. Here's the end of his war with Cotto.

A Better Beowulf?

2008-07-22T00:04:00.006-04:00

I haven't seen the film Beowulf, but I am probably one of a handful of people who enjoyed reading it in college (and, more recently, the Seamus Heaney version.)

A writer I know claims that the movie version "fixes" the original tale, giving it plot structure and cohesion that was lacking in the classic work. Hmm.

Apparently, in this better version of the 8th Century Anglo-Saxon epic (Punched up by Roger Avery, and Neil Gaiman of "Babylon 5"), Beowulf slays Grendel, then must face the wrath of Grendel's mother.

So far, so good. But here's the thing. Grendel's mother? Hottie. Total fuckin' aquatic piece of monster ass. Like an Angelina Jolie, maybe. And she is so pissed about what Beowulf did to her son, she demands Beowulf give her another baby. And she wants him to make it the old fashioned way. Boom-Chicki-Boom.

Hey Beowulf's only a man, right? Cue the sexy Berlin song and flip on the blue lights. Steamy? You betcha. Take my breath away.

Now get the angle on this. For his "duties," Beowulf becomes king. Sweet, right? But as punishment for his moment of sexy weakness, the child that Mama Grendel pops out don't look much like Pops at all.

Papa was a rollin' stone, but junior is a dragon. And he's got a case of the colic.

Now for the tragedy. Beowulf must save his own kingdom from the wrath of dino-boy by slaying the little fella -- his only begotten son. Wow. Almost Biblical, but hotter 'cause it's got Angelina.

Roll credits. The end. There's not a dry eye (or seat) in the house. Thank you, Robert Zemeckis.

Yea, I'm skeptical that a Hollywood development team and some CGI programmers could "fix" one of the seminal poetic works of our language. Or that it even needs fixing. Beowulf was a spoken work, memorized and shared by bards who would embellish and expand upon the story as fit the occasion. There was no structure to the tale because it was a cumulative work created by generations.

Actually, I like to think of Beowulf as a story people kept building upon, until they finally got sick of telling it. Originally, it was probably just a great campfire story to scare the shit out of the kids. "There was this monster, Grendel, who terrorized a Mead Hall -- maybe one that wasn't too far from here. But a hero named Beowulf swam across the sea to save the day. He waited for the Grendel to attack, then bam! There was a great battle, and Beowulf won!

And someone said: Tell us more!

"OK, well. Let's see. The monster had a mother, who was even worse than him. And she lived underwater. And when she found out about Beowulf, she started killing people, too. But Beowulf swam down to her lair to get her. There was a great battle, and Beowulf won! The end.

And someone said: Is that all?

"Um, no, no. Because, there was this dragon. A big, fire-breathing serpent who terrorized the town and was way, way worse than those other monsters. And Beowulf fought it. There was a great battle, and Beowulf won.

And someone said: What else....?

"No, no, no. Wait, I'm not done. You see, because WHILE Beowulf was in the act of delivering the death blow, he was also wounded by the dragon. And he died. And they burned his body in a pyre and sent him out to sea to make sure he was dead. And he was. Dead.

And someone said: Is that all?

"Yes! Go to sleep!"

Bubble wrap

2008-07-21T16:52:00.001-04:00

This has been going around IM today. Everybody loves it. I think you will, too.

It's BUBBLE WRAP!

The Dark Knight

2008-07-18T23:27:00.011-04:00

Saw the film this evening. Fantastic.

Don't worry. No spoilers here.

Performances. Let's start with the Joker. You know how they said playing the role of the Joker messed with Heath Ledger's mind? I thought that was just some Hollywood silliness. But seeing the movie, I can believe that playing the character he plays could actually fuck with your head. It is an intense, exceptionally dark, but funny and wildly charismatic performance.

Heath steals every scene. The Joker's dialogue is the strongest of any character. His crimes are exceptionally clever, anarchic gags that have layers of meaning and deliver sudden, violent punchlines that make you wince and laugh simultaneously. The Joker is a moving art exhibit -- like a terrorist Banksy. You hate him. And he truly earns your hate by being horrifyingly cruel. But you sit up and grin every time he comes on screen.

There is something essentially human in the Joker: a wicked, destructive, selfish, spontaneous, id-driven lust-for-life that balances Batman's sense of order and discipline. (There is a line by the Joker in the movie that sums up this mutually definitive relationship perfectly and hysterically) However, while the Joker professes to play by no rules, don't believe it: He has daunting creative standards that inform everything he does.

What is so stunning is how Heath somehow gets evil and funny into the Joker seamlessly and at the same time. Nicholson's goofier portrayal lacked the subtlety to pull this off. Heath simply defines the character of the Joker.

Christian Bale is solid. I actually prefer him as Bruce over Batman -- his performance, anyway. Nobody plays trust fund, Ivy Leaguer like Bale. There were a few scenes in the movie when Bale's portrayal of Wayne as a social scenester evoked a touch of Patrick Bateman. Hm, Batman -- Bateman. Neat.

Maggie Gyllenhall. Same downturned expression of Katie, minus the empty-headed perkiness. Richer performance. She fully understands and therefore believes, and therefore sells the dialogue, which Holmes in her Dawson Creekiness could never muster. But that is underselling Maggie. She brings a calm, centered selflessness to the character that is essential to the story. Nolan knew what was required here. And he made the right choice.

Caine and Freeman are Caine and Freeman. Understated and perfect, both.

I've always been a fan of Oldman's chameleon-like ability to sink into his roles. But somehow Gordon is my favorite. Why? I Think of Dracula, Drexyl, Sid Vicious, Jackie (State of Grace). All big characters, played big. But Gordon is the quiet man. Good, moral, brave, but ordinary and middle aged. Sagging and a little sad. He's the guy we could aspire to become, because what he exhibits is attainable.

After Ledger, Aaron Eckhart might have the most demanding role in the film. His character certainly has the biggest arc. I don't want to say too much about his performance lest I give something away. But it's a damn tricky role, and the naturally reasonable, affable Eckhart nearly pulls it off.

OK, no more. The plot is wide and reaching -- even silly, I suppose, if you stop to think about it. But real wars are started on sillier premises. Go see it. Like now. Surrender and be that annoying first wave of fanboys who simply must see it TODAY, and have their laptops all fired up and ready to go so they can blog their impressions to the world (as I have done here!).

And Ledger. Damn. His performance is so good that I promise you won't do what I feared I would do the whole movie -- think about how I'm watching someone who has since died. I never thought it once. (OK, maybe once.) This role was a revelation for me. I never knew how good he was.

And Nolan. After Memento, Batman Begins, The Prestige and The Dark Knight, I have to place him way up there among the best directors today.

PS, Iron Man is also great. Bye.

Western Spaghetti

2008-07-14T23:08:00.002-04:00

This is absolutely brilliant. So is everything else at eatpes.

My funeral song

2008-07-11T15:28:00.000-04:00

"My life"

2008-07-09T14:09:00.000-04:00

This has always been a favorite Mr. Show sketch of mine. I loved when they took a ridiculous premise to it's logical conclusion, if that makes sense.

Spinal Tap's album reviews

2008-07-09T12:42:00.001-04:00

Inspired by a MOoT post. How much fun did they have writing these reviews?

Demetri Martin is funny

2008-06-30T00:02:00.001-04:00

Adam Corolla's brilliance

2008-06-29T17:36:00.000-04:00

Goodbye, Tim Russert

2008-06-13T15:39:00.001-04:00

My Sundays will never be the same without you.

Behind the Scenes: HBO "Starship" intro from 1982

2008-05-20T23:43:00.012-04:00

The HBO "Starship" intro used to give me chills. I probably saw it five hundred times. So much so that I was bothered when they tweaked the end music, and when they dropped the first scene featuring that super white couple perched uncomfortably on the couch.

Here's an HBO Behind the Scenes special from 1982 featuring the making of this damn near perfect intro. I remember watching this special about a million times. It's still fascinating. The craftsmanship that went into the project was incredible. Today they'd make the whole thing with computer effects. And it wouldn't be as good.

The only thing I seem to have forgotten about this special is the stunningly cheesy song that plays throughout. It's called "Illusion," by this guy, and it has the sound of a segment from the Great Space Coaster. Oh, that and the awesome early 80's haircuts and beards. Which were still really late 70s styles.

There were a lot of different HBO intros from the late 70s through early 80s. Some I remember, others not so much. But we probably all remember the adolescent male strategy of trying to hide the fact that we were watching an R rated movie by deftly turning the channel after the intro but before the ratings bump, with its stentorian recitation of the nudity, violence, graphic language, adult situations and (the motherload) Strong Sexual Content that were about to further stiffen the unyielding zipper folds of our Toughskins.

If my mom overheard the R rasting (And she always did), she'd be halfway down the basement stairs in moments. "Oh, no, no, no."

So I had the timing of that ratings warning down to the second. As soon as the "R" appeared I'd click over to see what, say, Kate and Alley were up to. I'd camp it out on network TV for a couple of family approved jokes, then flick back to the super-soft porn goodness of "Class," "The Last American Virgin," or "She's 19 and Ready."

There were a few strategies for flying under the parental radar when you were 13 and lived in a suburban home.

The first tactic was the simplest, but also the least effective: Simply turning down the volume to watch the action without the grunts, shrieks and "oh gods" parents are trained to detect right through the kitchen linoleum from a floor up. Unfortunately silence is it's own warning bell. Shenanigans thrive in quiet spaces, maybe even flowering into perversions. Why's he so quiet? What's he doing down there? Smoking? Sniffing glue? Petting the dog strangely? Maybe we should check...

There were two other strategies available.

One was that you simply found the filth you wanted and mentally mapped it on the switchbox as a flyby area, meant to be dive-bombed for momentary glimpse, and then -- before anybody within earshot could possibly make sense of the animal grunts and teen titters -- you clicked off the channel for more age-appropriate viewing. War Games was good, because Mom could believe you'd watch it. Brain Games held slightly less credibility, as did Fraggle Rock. Bob Ross was basically a confession.

So you'd get an impression of the nudity, then flip to Matthew Broderick talking to Dabney Coleman. You'd wait a few moments for a segment of whiny dialog from Matthew Broderick, (Mom upstairs heard and thought: Ah, Matthew Broderick. Nice boy.") then you'd jab that evil channel button -- BAM! -- back to the porn, get an impression, leave. Get an impression, leave.

There were complex moves, predicated on two sets of criteria. A) How to convincingly you sell the idea that you're watching a wholesome movie on HBO downstairs to your parents who might be listening from the upstairs kitchen. B) How to time the crucial moments spent AWAY from the porn channel to ensure you'll coming back in time to full nudity. It was an optimization strategy: Maximize nudity viewed while minimizing risk.

So you'd build a time line of the movie action in your head, working out the logistics of how long it takes to fill the hot tub, how many buttons on her blouse and how long he's going to sped "comically" fumbling with her bra. These were 70/80s soft porn rejects. Everything worked up to total nakedness inexorably and very, very slowly. So it was critical that you balanced your channel surfing strategy perfectly, flicking back and forth so you could reassess the nudity schedule.

The other method, employed for pay channels you didn't get, was more complex and took a bit of skill and a bit more luck.

You'd try to jam the cable box by pressing buttons around the porn station button. This would create a third "meta-channel," composed of blobby video images and confused sound -- sometimes surprisingly from an entirely different channel. There was not much meaning to be seen at first glance. BUT, there was a fine tuning wheel. And if you worked that wheel of fortune just right...A boob! Two boobs! I saw an ass maybe. She was in a tub! It would hold for a brief, wonderful moment. In color. In black and white. The image assembled into flesh, and then contorting into a fun mirror shape and returning to nothing.

Animated Wall Painting

2008-05-19T16:47:00.003-04:00

This is amazing work. Imaginative, sprawling, funny and incredibly ambitious. What did you create today?

Watch a higher-res version here

They meet

2008-05-19T00:27:00.000-04:00

And it's perfectly crazy.

Whatever, it's FUNNY

2008-05-15T11:46:00.002-04:00

I know posting YouTube crazes is a little lazy, but this is really funny. Really well edited.

E.A. Robinson wrote the best endings in all of poetdom

2008-05-13T23:33:00.006-04:00

Three examples:

Eros Turannos
Meanwhile, we do no harm, for they
that with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea
where down the blind are driven.

Richard Cory
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Miniver Cheevy
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.

Wallace Stevens on explaining a poem

2008-05-10T00:37:00.000-04:00

...things that have their origin in the imagination or in the emotions very often take on a form that is ambiguous or uncertain. It is not possible to attach a single, rational meaning to such things without destroying the imaginative or emotional ambiguity or uncertainty that is inherent in them and that is why poets do not like to explain. That the meanings given by others are sometimes meanings not intended by the poet or that were never present in his mind does not impair them as meanings.

I missed April!

2008-05-01T07:48:00.001-04:00

Been so busy, missed posting in April. By a lousy day!

Like A Rolling Stone

2008-03-31T00:51:00.002-04:00

Two versions of one of the greatest, meanest songs ever written. Sprawling, jangly, rusty. Totally fresh even today.

First Dylan in Newcastle, 1966. Then Hendrix at Monterey one year later. Just because.

More Lynch greatness

2008-03-13T16:02:00.000-04:00

Get human

2008-02-15T15:54:00.002-05:00

This could be the first genuinely helpful post I've ever done here.

And it's a doozy!

Don't you hate calling companies and navigating their byzantine, often circular answering systems? It's really technology at its worst. You spend ten minutes listening to a recording of menu options, pressing buttons like a monkey, just trying to get to a real person. And if you hit the wrong button it's a total do over.

So now there's Get Human, a very old-school looking Web site that does something beautiful: It lists a whole shit load of companies and tells you how to circumvent their systems to quickly get a real person on the line.

Did you go there? Great, right? Because when you have a problem, you don't want to deal with technology--you want a person.

On the other hand, there are times when technology is preferable over human contact. Like a brilliant site called Open Table, which not only offers a searchable database of area restaurants (including menus and reviews), but also awesomely lets you make a reservation without having to talk to some snooty restaurant host.

So you can avoid that uncomfortable American Psycho moment when Patrick Bateman calls for a reservation at Dorsia and is greeted only by sneering, incredulous laughter. No wonder he went on a killing spree. Imagine if he had to navigate an answering system.

Me like

2008-02-07T17:46:00.001-05:00

Everything is great about this.

Bank Brat

2008-01-09T11:47:00.000-05:00

Here's a TV spot my art director and I did for Nationwide. We shot it in like August I think and it came out a few months ago. It was a blast to shoot. Only problem is this version is out of synch. I should probably post a version that works.

Actually, you can watch a properly synched version of it on the Nationwide site.

Cell phone usage ban: Exception #1

2008-01-04T11:35:00.000-05:00

In my proposed ban on the use of cell phones outside the home, I have identified certain exceptions to the rule. Here is one:

Women stuck in elevator for 2 days
Two cleaning women, trapped inside a broken elevator for two days, survived on two cough drops and six aspirin until they were rescued.

Beata Bartoszewicz and her mother, Roma Borowski, entered an elevator in an empty building in this Chicago suburb on December 22. After the elevator doors closed, the women discovered they were stuck on the first floor of the two-story building.

There was no response from an emergency call alarm and the women couldn't pry open the doors, Bartoszewicz said.

Neither had a cell phone or water and the building wasn't due to open until after Christmas.

The duo became dizzy from hunger. "I was close to thinking I was going to die," Bartoszewicz said.

The women tried to sleep on their coats and used a corner of the elevator as a bathroom.

Bartoszewicz said her mother continually reassured her.

"She kept saying, `We're going to be OK, and we're going to spend Christmas Eve at home,"' the 25-year-old said.

Two days later, on Christmas Eve, an employee of the building happened to go to work. Borowski said she heard him talking on his cell phone. The women yelled for his attention and he heard them.

Fire crews freed the women an hour later.

Bartoszewicz said the moral of the story is simple: "Always take your cell phone with you."

Secret Santa

2007-12-21T19:25:00.000-05:00

Merry holidays from my parents' couch in NC! Here's a holiday card I did for Wunderman. It's a guide to cheating at Secret Santa. We made mailers and emails, both of which quickly set up the premise and sent people to these vids. Check it out.

How to cheat at Secret Santa.

Some good performances here!

This country has gotten way too informal

2007-12-14T10:32:00.000-05:00

I just read an article in Forbes about the most expensive restaurants in the country. Surprisingly, only three of the top ones still require a jacket. Americans, the article notes, want the elegant experience but also want comfort.

I say, pick one or the other you spoiled fucks.

I read another article in Time about airline travel. It was one of those little humor bits in the back of the mag, the kind I usually don't find all that funny. But this one was spot on. The author lamented the days when airline travel was special, but didn't expect them to come back. He simply wanted the airlines to make people act less like douche bags (my words) on the flight.

He mentioned all the characters I hate: The passenger who starts squawking into his Blackberry the moment the flight lands. The guy who blocks the aisle while he fastidiously folds his blazer. The dude who brings in stinky food. And all those dicks who feel its completely appropriate to remove their shoes and rub their disgusting feet.

I'll add a few more to the mix. There's the guy in the forward row who immediately reclines his seat back so that his head is in your lap and you have to eat your bag of pretzels with your arms all scrunched up like a T-rex. There's the can't-sit-still guy who has to get up and pace the aisles the second the seat belt lights go off. This guy also loves to "joke" with the attendants, and has also been known to hold up the whole deplaning process so he can ask the pilot if the plane is a Boeing 6432.

Then there's the guy who simply must retrieve something out of the overhead bin after takeoff, and stands there with his crotch in you face as he rummages through his enormous "carry-on." Or the three assholes who, after landing, spring from their seats to seize their precious overhead bags even though the attendant clearly asked everyone to stay seated until the plane has stopped and we hear the little ding.

Finally, there's the cretins who refuse to follow the normal, front-to-back deplaning procedure and come bullrushing up through the aisle as though they're late for a fucking speech at the U.N.

This lack of humanity is sweeping into every nook of daily life, from restaurants and airlines, to movie theaters, retail stores, gyms, the post office, online and basically every other public area. People have lost the gene that tells them to act like people. Private and public are now synonyms.

Like zombies, the assholes are taking over and infecting others.

The author of the airline article made the unfortunate error of calling himself the "cranky reporter." There's nothing cranky about expecting people to think just a little about the fact that there are other people in the world. You're not a crank if you expect a modicum of, if not class, at least civility. Don't weaken your argument by making concessions out of modesty or politeness. They wouldn't.

But that's the power shift that's happening in this country. It's becoming normal to conduct yourself as though you're the only person in the world, attending to your every desire even if it annoys or disgusts others. Used to be you could shame a slob with a withering look of disgust. Now the same look will elicit not shame but defiance and outrage that you dare assert your rules on others. Today, it's the polite who are rude. How exactly did that happen?

I blame it on the Internet. I blame it on reality TV. I blame it on Mr. Rogers and his comfy sweater vests and those shoes he's taking off every two minutes. I blame every parent who thinks correcting a child is a form of abuse. I blame it on sweatpants and drive-through fast food. I blame it on the shrinking spirit and expanding ass of a once great nation.

What is a heart attack?

2007-12-11T17:01:00.000-05:00

Alex Trebek was hospitalized today after a minor heart attack. Let's hope me makes it to final jeopardy

Kip Soundboard

2007-12-07T17:26:00.000-05:00

Napoleon Dynamite

This is here mostly so I can play with it.

Woody and Billy

2007-12-07T10:04:00.000-05:00

Watch and wonder if this sort exchange would happen on TV today.

Witty, thoughtful and entertaining. At least Woody is.

The Moose

2007-12-07T00:35:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite bits of all time. Early Woody genius.

Neil's Letter

2007-12-06T08:48:00.001-05:00

Found while watching a Young One's clip on Lantern Fishworks. I love this.

The last three miles is pure pain

2007-11-06T13:18:00.000-05:00

That's me about to cross the finish line of the first annual City of Oaks marathon in Raleigh, NC. I finished the hilly 26.2 mile slog in 4:13:34, which equates to a nine minute and forty-one second mile. I'm pretty happy with the time (and the fact that I finished), considering the journey.

Last February on Superbowl Sunday, I smoked my second-to-last cigarette. I'd been meaning to quit for a while -- about ten years, actually. That's how smoking works. It's a short-term habit that lasts a decade. But I had finally come to the realization that it was now or never. After all, if I never got around to making the effort, I would always be a smoker. So I read a book about quitting and threw my last pack away Sunday night.

Monday afternoon I bought a new pack.

I walked up and down 40th avenue, whacking the pack with my palm and looking for a place to smoke. I felt a little criminal, or at least juvenile -- like my parents were around somewhere waiting to register their dissapointment. I opened it up and tapped out a cigarette. Lit it up and took about three good drags. Drags that filled my lungs and made my brain tickle with neuronal gratitude. Then I stubbed it out, crumpled up the pack and tossed it. Done.

I'm not going to say it was easy. It wasn't. I still have dreams about smoking. I'll be walking down the street with a cigarette in my lips, telling myself I'm still a non smoker even though I'm smoking. Then I wake up physically feeling as though I'd sucked down a cigarette.

I gained a few pounds back that I'd shaved off over the previous year. That fucking sucks, you know? Getting punished for quitting a filthy habit? But that's the wrong way to look at it, I tell myself.

And it's true, because my clothes no longer smell. My hair isn't smoke-cured and my breath doesn't taste like an ashtray. I don't wake up coughing and no longer have to clear my throat constantly. My energy is good. My eyes don't sting. I can breathe again. And it's done wonders for my running.

So it all led up to last Sunday. I'd done my marathon training. Flew into NC last Thursday. Was all set to do my first marathon. And then I couldn't sleep.

The race started at 7am. I'd set the alarm for 5:45am, enough time to drink a couple diet red bulls, pull my shit together and wait for my brother (also running) to pick me up. But after watching a little TV and lying down, I suddenly wasn't tired. Then I really wasn't tired. Then was positively wired. Tossing. Turning. Thrashing.

At 3am, I drank a glass of old Merlot in desparation. Nothing. Finally I fell asleep at 4am, then woke up an hour later after dreaming I overslept. Fell back asleep for about another 45 mintues.

Turns out it didn't affect me all that much. The excitement of the race pulled me through, along with about eight caffeine-laced gels. I cruised through the first half, hit the park and felt great. The second half was hilly. I mean, really hilly. By the 22nd mile I was hurting. But I kept trogging ahead. I ran slow but I kept running, never stopping to walk.

Got my medal and I'm stiff as hell. I've been hobbling around like an 80-year old. But it was worth it. I'll definately do another one.

Conspiracy

2007-10-02T15:27:00.001-04:00

OK, here's the deal. I got an IM saying that a truck had crashed into city hall here in NYC. The IM said it was a breaking story on CNN.

But when I went to CNN, nothing. No breaking news, no top story, no reference at all. Same thing on NY1.com.

That can mean only one thing: CNN and the government have a highly covert agreement of deceit and fabrication that benefits both parties while preying on the fear of the American public.

What happens is this. CNN's editorial staff works with the state department to set up what is known as an "events calendar." This is much like an editorial calendar, with one crucial difference: The events to be reported upon are predetermined by a select committee, then outsourced to Blackwater to execute.

You see, every once in a while the American public requires what is called a "fear adjustment" to keep them supporting the highly profitable and diversionary war effort. The secret CNN/goverment committee decides what those events will be, and when and where they will occur.

THESE ARE COMPLETELY STAGED EVENTS DESIGNED TO KEEP US AFRAID.

The government benefits because the public remains fearful and therefore supportive of the current administration. CNN benefits because they get the early scoop on the events. In fact, so meticulously planned out are these events that CNN often writes the articles days beforehand.

Which is precisely what they did with this story about the truck crashing into city hall.

Only problem is that the story somehow made it onto the homepage for a minute before being taken down. You can be sure whoever made that mistake is already dead.

Check CNN tonight and tomorrow. You will see a story about a truck crashing into city hall. Frightening.

UPDATE: The person just IM'd me again and sent me the link for the story. It happened in NC. I thought she typed NYC. My bad.

RANODM #5

2007-10-01T13:51:00.000-04:00

On seeing a small blob of doodie on the toilet seat.

Oh, hello.
You startled me a bit.
How'd you get up there?
Normally your kind stays in the bowl.
I didn't mean anything by that.
But you usually don't make it to these parts.
What am I up to?
I'm actually here to poo.
Yeah, it is kinda funny when you think about it.
Can I confide in you?
This is a little uncomfortable.
I have a dilemma.
I want to clean the seat.
But that means I run the risk of touching you.
But if I don't clean the seat then I might sit on you.
Nothing against you, but you're not one of mine.
That's just how I feel about it.
Sorry.
Don't be like that.
Fine, I'll just find another stall then.
Take that back!

The preceding was inspired by a recent events that took place here on the 14th floor.

The idea that doodie on the seat disturbs us because of culturally enforced ideas about where matter belongs comes from the (seriously) excellent book Poop Culture by author and office mate Dave Praeger.

Global Warming will eat your brain

2007-09-29T13:32:00.000-04:00

When I think of global warming I think of melting ice-caps, polar bears stranded on ice floes, rising beaches, flooding, heatstroke and Al Gore.

I don't think of killer amoebae eating their way up my optic nerve to feast on my brain.

But that is another grim reality of global warming--dangerous new forms of life blooming in algae-thick lakes and kicking our asses in strange and horrible ways. Like this ameoba that has recently killed six people in the south and southwest.

You get it by swimming in lakes and ponds that harbor the ameoba. They say guys get it more than girls, probably because we splash and flip around like idiots and are more likely to get a blast of infected lake water up our noses. Once the amoeba takes hold you start getting headaches. Then you start to hallucinate. As your brain is consumed, you lose the ability to function. And that all happens in like a week-and-a-half. By the weekend you're dead. Nice.

Did you know there's a postion at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that specializes in "recreational waterborne illnesses?" And did you know that the guy who holds that position has the last name of "Beach?" I find that funny. But what's not funny is that Michael Beach predicts more of these kinds of diseases to occur as water temperatures continue to rise. Awesome.

My girlfriend says she's not worred about the amoeba because she doesn't swim in lakes. Case closed, next topic. But she does worry that global warming will ruin barbeque. That's because she read that global warming might be behind the sudden drop in bee population, which could wipe out our supply of honey. And honey, according to my Dinosaur Barbeque Cookbook, is the number one ingredient used in barbeque. What a conservationist.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to snort some pond water.

It's come to this.

2007-09-26T16:13:00.000-04:00

That's right, dude. Shaolin Shnutz.

Two of the greatest videos ever made

2007-09-24T20:33:00.000-04:00

Period.

YouTube: Knee jerk or just jerks?

2007-09-19T22:11:00.001-04:00

An anti-creationist group put up some pro-evolution videos on YouTube. An angry creationist organization sent copyright requests to YouTube, because the videos used clips taken from the organization's Web site.

Even though it appears the videos are protected by fair use, YouTube jumped the gun and took down the vids. And after the anti-creationist group called foul they banned them completely.

Let's hope YouTube comes to its senses soon.

From my widget to you.

2007-09-12T23:31:00.001-04:00

I've loaded the blogger widget on my laptop, so all I have to do is hit f12 and a panel pops up and lets me type the entry I'm typing now. Then I hit publish post and we're good to go.

Cool.

Eighty-seven pounds crashes to the ground

2007-08-28T18:24:00.000-04:00

I think the watering pot threw off her balance.

Like, totally

2007-08-28T14:30:00.000-04:00

I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because uh some-a people out there in our nation don't have maps and uh I believe that our a education like such as in South Africa and the Iraq and everywhere like such as and I believe that they should our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. um er should help South Africa and should help the Iraq in the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future...FOR OUR CHILDREN.

Chocolate Rain!

2007-08-15T20:12:00.000-04:00

Here's a little tune that will burrow it's way into your brain and not leave even though you want it to. It's equal parts bizarre, inane, goofball, catchy, clever and snot-nosed-college-punk-shaddup-you-little-suburban-brat.

His name is Tay Zonday (already annoying) and he sings kinda the way Michael Clark Duncan speaks in Green Mile. That might not be the greatest comparison but you get my point. It's a very old fashioned, affected way of singing that is sort of fascinating. Some of his lines are clever and even nice, but he's also a dopey 25 year old college kid.

By the way, Wasklewicz found this. He always finds good stuff.

Then watch this. Of all lame video responses, this is the best. Some very good lines in here.

Chicken with pears

2007-08-11T13:11:00.000-04:00

This looks delicious.

Bruce!

2007-08-01T23:45:00.000-04:00

We've been looking at directors' reels at work and came across this Old Spice spot by the Perlorian brothers. Only later did me and my art director realize that (duh!) the guy at the piano is none other than Bruce Campbell! Now the commercial is six times cooler.

By the way, the Perlorian brothers also did this great spot. A pattern emerges?

Pole Position

2007-07-30T16:46:00.000-04:00

It'll leave skid marks on your soul!

Ice Hockey

2007-07-29T12:50:00.000-04:00

Sexually harrass women right from your car!

2007-07-19T14:18:00.000-04:00

Chophouse

2007-07-11T15:40:00.000-04:00

I have no plans to make this a dream blog, but I did have another weird one last night. Scary as shit when it happened, but not so sinister thinking about it now. It's short:

I'm at work at around 11pm. This art director Ryan asks me if I want to get some lunch at "The Chophouse." Instantly my mind conjures a chopped steak and cheese sandwhich and we leave.

We go outside, but instead of midtown Manhattan it's a town park in upstate NY, and we're sprinting through the inky darkness of moonless night. I can barely see Ryan. He's a dark shape against a black background. But as we race up a grassy hill another human shape (a sinister shape) passes in front of us. We're not alone and I know we should keep running, but just then Ryan pulls a hamstring and yells out for help. I turn around and see him collapsed on the grass as the other figure now slows to a stop and starts moving slowly toward him.

I want to keep running, but I can't leave him there. So I yell out. "I'm coming to help. Let me just get my knife out. And my gun!" I try to talk all street but it comes out soft and suburban. Comical.

And then I wake up.

Dreams are all about mood. This one, recounted in the light of day, is a fairly bland little story. But it was terrifying at the time. And I think "The Chophouse" is a great touch, don't you?

I gave the most brilliant speech in a dream last night

2007-07-10T13:47:00.000-04:00

I don't know whose ghost I was channeling last night. But when I woke up this morning I had the sensation some great unwritten novel had been whispered into my ear as I slept. And I repeated the words of the dream over and over and over as I lay in bed, knowing if I simply remembered them I would have something Great.

Then I forgot the dream completely, only to remember it now. All that remain are it's ruins; like a once great civilization whose ancient pillars sit like broken teeth on a hillside. I have fragments, remembered bits. Phrases. And images of the disapproving looks on the fat faces of my audience.

Here's what I remember. (I can't emphasize enough how fucking genius this was in it's original form.)

This group came in and I spoke with them about the meaning of commitment. “People talk about change all the time,” I began, “but it never leads to actual change.”

“You know the kind of discussions I’m talking about,” I said. “You’re sitting in some meeting room with a bunch of people and it’s like 11:30 and there’s half a stale croissant on your plate from the continental breakfast bar. And some guy wearing a bad tie is talking about how to create a Sea Change in an Enterprise Company as you watch the clock tick toward lunch.

"Everybody nods in agreement at everything this douche says, but they know full fucking well they’re not gonna do a goddamned thing differently than they did yesterday. All he represents is the dickhead standing between them and lunch, and their nodding heads are the key that gets them out the fucking door."

"And why don't people change? Because people are lazy."

Then I told them about how a guitarist by the name of James Marshal Hendrix taught himself how to play the guitar left handed, and how he willingly took a secondary role in an obscure blues group so he could give himself the freedom to master the guitar. “That,” I said, “is the commitment to change.”

I don't know where all this came from. Why did I refer to Jimi as "James Marshall?" Is the anecdote I gave about him even true? And what about the awful corporate phrase "sea change," a buzzword straight out of 1999, filed in the same box as "e-business" and "monetize?" Where did it all come from?

Strange dream. But trust me, it was genius shit when I dreamt it.

Four years ago.

2007-07-09T13:27:00.000-04:00

The diner is overflowing. People standing in the doorway waiting for a two-top, a four-top, a six-top.

"Two, two" the owner says, wiping a table, his fingers in a "V."

A man and a woman follow him back, follow him back. A man and a woman. A woman and a man. Men, Women, in neat, complimentary pairs. And I'm watching from my two-top (for one) by the window.

A plate slides in front of me. "Two eggs over easy, a side of bacon and white toast. More coffee?"

My, that's a lot of bacon on my plate. And look at all those potatoes. I put my book down to eat, but I'm not happy with what I ordered. I'm never happy with what I order. It's a problem. I get overwhelmed by all of the choices on the menu. I want pancakes and eggs but I don't want to look like a pig, so I only order one. Invariably, it's the wrong one. Then, while I'm waiting for my meal to arrive, someone at a table next to me gets the thing I should have ordered. The hot, fluffy thing that steams from their plate while they hover toward their lover, who also has made a wise choice. Then I get jealous. Jealous of their meals and jealous of their lovers. Jealous, jealous while I spread jelly on my toast. While I jab a yolk with my toast. While I wipe the crumbs from the corners of my mouth in my corner of the diner.

Take all twelve inches of Snow

2007-06-26T14:10:00.000-04:00

I've got an old song stuck in my head and I don't want it there anymore. It's "Informer" by Snow, and I have no idea how it got there. It was stuck in my head in 1993 when it first came out and somehow it's come back.

So I'm posting the video here, hoping that by putting it in your head it will leave mine -- kinda like how the devil goes from Regan to Damien Karras at the end of the Exorcist.

But wait, there's more! I was curious about whatever happened to this guy after '93. Turns out he's maintained a moderately successful career in his native Canada. (Not "Informer-successful," but successful) In fact, here's a "hit" video he did a few years back featuring Bubbles from the Trailer Park Boys. This is mesmerizing in a way that Mesmer only wishes he could have been.

Funny? Yes. Bad? Sure, but don't give me any of that "he's so white" nonsense. It's no different than any other R&B/Reggae crap out there today.

Bubbles makes it work.

How I love Scientology

2007-06-26T12:46:00.000-04:00

The Germans, however, do not. Which is why the country is barring the filming of a movie that stars Scientology's most public, not-at-all-insane member -- Tom Cruise.

Cruise is set to star as Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg (A name best said while sporting a waxed mustache), a German officer who tried unsuccessfully to assassinate Hitler by placing a bomb under der Furher's table. Hmm, an unsuccessful bomb. How very Cruisian.

Cruise and Co. wanted to shoot in Berlin, but Germany says nein doch!

Here is a typically blunt German assessment of the situation, from a Defense Ministry spokesman: The film makers "will not be allowed to film at German military sites if Count Stauffenberg is played by Tom Cruise, who has publicly professed to being a member of the Scientology cult." (I love that: cult). Another statement from Berlin: Scientology masquerades as a religion to make money.

What is comedy, friends? It is the meeting of celebrity Scientology wackiness with humorless German bemusement.

What is Scientology?

Who are Scientologists?

Amazing animal footage

2007-06-12T16:15:00.000-04:00

Next time you think your life is hard, watch this. Things go from bad to worse for this little guy, but then the tides turn. Inspiring.

Remember the good times

2007-06-10T22:06:00.001-04:00

Perfect ending to one of the most beautiful shows ever. No, Tony wasn't shot, stripped of power or arrested. He wasn't forced to pull a Henry Hill and eat egg noodles and ketchup like some schnook. And his family stayed with him.

So what did happen? Nothing. No resolution, because the point isn't in what happens but in how you accept what happens, and how you manage to be happy despite what happens because you can't ever really control what happens.

So we get the family in a diner as a lineup of potential assassins enters the restaurant -- everyone from the gangbangers who might be hired guns or perhaps representatives of a new power order, to the goomba you'd expect might do it, to the guy who looks like an ordinary nobody so you think, yea, it's gonna be him.

Of course, that would be too easy. But I still squirmed and leaned forward as Meadow struggled to parallel park between two cars you think might go off like a Pinto when she grazes the bumpers.

The camera moves around restlessly between Meadow and the family in the diner. Every new shot looks like the one set up to stage the final violent act -- we've all been trained to look for it, the way the camera lingers, the target slightly off center. It doesn't come.

And when Meadow gets the car parked, and A.J. recalls Tony's wisdom in a moment of understated epiphany that could finally mark his own turning point, in bursts Meadow to what you are sure will be a big explosion that takes out the whole family.

But no. Instead we get ten seconds of black screen without a sound or graphic. And just as you sit up and wonder if the fucking cable went out at a critical moment -- up comes the credits, silently.

And you think, huh? And then it hits you that it couldn't have ended any other way.

Beautiful.

Pulp Fiction in Typography

2007-05-02T17:20:00.000-04:00

Dave W. sent me this link, and it's fucking great. I remember when Pulp Fiction came out, and what a huge impact it had on me. Great characters, insane situations and dialogue that was so much better than what was being written at the time.

Here's one of the more famous scenes, done as a type treatment. Enjoy.

I don't know. Bored?

2007-05-01T17:39:00.000-04:00

Did you know there is a huge segment of Americans who lack the ability to read and write, think critically, perform basic computation skills and even dress themselves? These humans also tend to have an abnormally strong oral fixation despite having no teeth, are bald and tiny, and they poop when and where they please. In fact, they're so helpless and irresponsible that they sleep in a bed enclosed in wooden gates, often with a simple spinning object above to keep their simple brains occupied.

I'm sure you figured out by now what group of little rascals I'm referring to. That's right, I'm talking about retarded, toothless midgets with male pattern baldness. They're disgusting. And they must be stopped.

Don "No Soul" Simmons

2007-04-30T15:14:00.000-04:00

We had a voice-over recording session with an actor whose father wrote and produced some really famous music in the 70s and early 80s. He told us about some of the best and worst songs his father wrote, which led to a discussion about some of the worst songs ever. One of our creative directors mentioned a 45 he had of "Honey," a really maudlin single by Bobby Goldsboro.

For a second, I couldn't place the song. Then I remembered this bit from Amazon Women on the Moon.

Enjoy the skit, and watch for Simmons' even sappier rendition of the inexpicable hit from 1968.

alluc.org: Brilliant while it lasts

2007-04-27T12:54:00.000-04:00

Here's a simple idea. Comb all the various major video hosting sites for posted movies, TV shows, sports, cartoons, anime and the like. Aggregate these links and post them in a well organized manner on a single Web site, so you have TV shows by season, movies by genre, etc. Allow members to update the site with fresh, working links. Make all content accessable with a click or two.

Voila, you've got what amounts to an on-demand menu for produced content. Check it out at alluc.org It's like the old program guide channel on cable, only this points to stuff on the Web. By expanding its reach beyond YouTube to several sites, it maximizes the available content. And by limiting its catalog to produced entertainment, it avoids distractions like "boy picks nose."

Is this ethical? I feel a twinge of guilt for posting this. I know if I spent time, effort and lots of cash creating a TV show, I'd be pissed if its DVD or iTunes sales plummeted because of a site like this. On the other hand...well, it's just kinda fucking cool.

Awful things and Vonnegut

2007-04-19T12:14:00.000-04:00

I particularly hated the news this week. How about you?

There was the story about an unfunny shock jock saying something dumb and provoking all sorts of mock horror, apologies and professional bullying, proving again that it is still impossible to rationally discuss issues of race in this country.

There was a crazy fuck with a bunch of hollow tip bullets and no playwriting talent who killed people.

There was the constant reminder that Iraq is still the reigning champion of senseless death.

There was Sanjaya.

And somewhere in there we lost Kurt Vonnegut. He just sort of bowed out modestly amidst all the reality-tv histrionics and lunacy that comprises modern culture.

Vonnegut made writing look easy. He wrote simple sentences. Used plain language. He was one of those authors I would read as a kid and think, "I could do this."

But his type of writing is actually the hardest. You have to be dead sure about what you're saying. You can't hide behind fancy language or the endless, slogging asides that cause me to say, "get to the point, fuck!" If you're truly brilliant, you can be simple. And looking again at the headlines that have dominated the news over the past couple weeks, I'm really gonna miss simple.

Wildlife can be disarming.

2007-04-12T18:26:00.000-04:00

A Taiwanese veterinarian is crying "what a croc!" after having his arm bitten off by a roughhousing reptile. The zoo doc was simply trying to remove a tranquilizer dart from the beast when the lounging lizard awoke and mistook his arm for breakfast in bed. Zowie! Those weren't crocodile tears our hero was shedding!

Luckily the armless animal expert was escorted to a hospital and had his limb stitched back on. Rock on, doc!

A great opening sequence.

2007-04-09T11:16:00.000-04:00

This is one of my favorites.

Lynching advertisers

2007-04-05T12:53:00.000-04:00

I can't say I've loved everything David Lynch has made, but I still think Hollywood is a far better place with guys like him around. Here's an example why.

IMDb can be so cruel

2007-02-22T14:38:00.000-05:00

You probably don't have to tell Michael Emerson that he's creepy looking. He's making a nice little career in Hollywood out of his "unconventinal look," playing everything from the icky guy on "Saw" to the yucky guy on "Lost." Emerson, who looks a little like Rob Schneider if he got his head caught in an elevator door, is cornering the market on unsavory.

Still, how would like it if you looked yourself up on IMDb (and you know all actors do this), only to find the following headline in the very first post of comments section:

ugliest man ever

You'd click on it, wouldn't you? You'd have to. And this is what you'd find:

"Im sorry to say this but i think this man is soooo hideous. he gave me nightmares after seeing him in SAW. im not kidding either. he looks like he could be some kind of gross pedophile. he also sort of reminds me of steve buscemi!"

I don't care how evolved you are, that would have to hurt.

The comment is a treasure trove of illiterate insults, beginning with a false apology and ending with a added insult against Steve Buscemi. It's a homemade nail-bomb, wounding everything within a 15-foot radius. Terribly written, yet it acheives a sort of brutal perfection. I have to break this down.

"Im sorry to say this"
A bitchy pre-apology that is so overused it's lost its original meaning and now simply announces the coming of an insult.

"but i think this man is sooo hideous."
He doesn't look hideous. He doesn't act hideous. He simply IS hideous.

"he gave me nightmares after seeing him in SAW."
Not because of his brilliant performance, mind you. He's just hideous.

"im not kidding either."
You thought I was being satirical? Ha!

"he looks like he could be some kind of gross pedophile."
The worst kind.

"he also sort of reminds me of steve buscemi!"
Best ending to a comment EVER.

Nick waves goodbye.

2007-02-16T14:28:00.000-05:00

Meet Nick Ito. Now you see him. Now you don't.

A week ago or so he up and left this fine DM shop, gathering a few meager possessions and personal effects into a couple cardboard boxes. He's had enough for now, thank you. No more, please.

Ito said Finito.

Now he's preparing to go on an extended trip to Panama/Costa Rica. So when I say he's probably home waxing his surfboard, I am for once not speaking euphemistically.

As many of you thousands of loyal readers know, Ito was my Art Director. He's a very creative fellow, much more serious about work than his dude-ish facade might suggest. He was always very good at steering my unschooled impulses into a direction more resembling actual creative.

We shared many adventures over the years here at this DM wonderland. There were incidents. Shennanigans. Moments of disbelief, flashes of anger, spells of drunkeness and peals of evil laughter snaking through the beige corridors. Ask me about the magic 8-ball concept. Or the time we pitched a commercial to a roomful of ad clichés, who kept barking: "Michel Gondry! Michel Gondry!"

Now the cube next to me is empty. Empty like my heart, you ask? Of course not. Don't be stupid. But it is a bit lonelier around here. There are no more sudden eruptions of hall-filling laughter, for example. On the bright side, there aren't any startling eruptions of cube-filling flatulence either. (He always liked his burritos.)

Anyway, let's all wave goodbye to Mr. Ito as he leaves us for a better place. A warm, happy place filled with waves and sand and weed and cheap beer.

So long, good sir.

And F-U for leaving me with this shit!

Just kidding.

Seriously though.

Chuck

2007-02-13T13:33:00.000-05:00

Great pic of Bronson in front of the Brooklyn Bridge, probably shot during the filming of Death Wish -- 1973-74.

I like to think that Vincent Gardenia is standing just off camera, maybe to Chuck's left, eating a hot dog.

There's nothing funny about vomiting.

2007-01-02T16:24:00.000-05:00

If Gallup ever polled people about what causes them to vomit, the two most popular culprits would likely be excessive drinking and illness. Somewhere down the list, but certainly not in the top three, would be one of the most embarrassing reasons: overeating. Sadly, this is exactly what caused me to vomit one sultry night in Myrtle Beach a dozen years ago. I puked from overeating.

To clarify: I'm not talking about the Roman version of gluttony-induced regurgitation, where you tickle your epiglottis with a "vomiting feather" before dessert. I mean simply gorging yourself with so much food that your stomach, stretched like overtaxed Hefty Bag, suddenly decides to send everything back from whence it came.

In my case, it happened twenty minutes after feasting at one of South Carolina's more expansive buffets.

First, a quick word about my relationship with the buffet. Back in college, my housemates and I used to breakfast at one of two local eateries: The Ponderosa and China House. Both featured all-you-can eat options on their menus. At Ponderosa, the "salad bar," as it was understatedly called, came for a special price when you ordered one of their low-cost entrees. The trick was to get the entree to go, stuff yourself on the buffet, and then re-heat the entree at home for dinner.

The whole package came to one of the worst six dollars you could spend.

I'd order one of their defrosted sirloin steaks, which often came curled up around the edges like a Shrinky Dink and smelled oddly similar to their fish entree, and go hit the mac and cheese and garlic bread. And I'd wash it all down with a giant plastic cup of Pepsi, which was refilled on demand by one of the most morose waitresses ever to don an apron.

The better bet was China House, where for five bucks or so you gained access to a glistening feast of cheerfully misspelled buffet items. You'd scoop up a serving of "shimps," then help yourself to a syrupy mound of "meatball." And after you were filled to the brim with cornstarch and MSG, you "topped off" with that most ancient of traditional Chinese desserts: vanilla pudding.

All of this is to simply say that I'm no stranger to the buffet. I've had my share of having more than my share. I've lain prostrate on a gloomy couch, paralyzed by a flood of insulin as daylight waxed and waned across the face of a television set. I've felt the paradoxical pangs of hunger that so often vex the buffet enthusiast just hours after the feast. I've even publicly swore off buffets forever, knowing only too well that it was just another damned lie.

But I'd always kept the food down. Which, I suppose, is a point of pride in some counties.

Back to my story. As I already recounted on this blog, I spent the summer of 1994 in Myrtle Beach. One night my friend Paul and I decided to go out to eat. As I recall, we decided on a place called "The Captain's Buffet." This place was the Disney World of food. For volume and variety, it had no rivals. Giant crab legs, chicken wings, egg rolls, salmon, burgers, endless sides, all drenched in butter, and a separate dessert station for the truly obese...or foolhardy.

I was over stimulated, like a six year old on Christmas. Pacing nervously up and down the isles off food, afraid that I might overlook the steamed dumplings or spare ribs, I heaped serving after serving on my plate. I ate so fast my body didn't have time to register the fact that I was full. I must have had four full plates of food and a couple desserts.

And then, I didn't feel so good. I sat back and sort of pursed my lips, hitching my thumbs in the pockets of my acid-washed jeans. All the myriad smells that had tempted me an hour before were now palpably revolting. I felt thick and off balance. Paul, who had exercised more self-control during the meal, was amused at my discomfort. We paid up and left.

The plan was to now go to a bar and have several drinks. We crossed Highway 17 and made our way along a parking lot lined with rows of U-Haul Trucks.

The early stages of nausea are disorienting. You don't quite know what's happening and your expression conveys this bemusement to everyone around you. I kept wincing and crooking my neck as though trying to hear some far away music. My tongue felt fat and I kept swallowing. Paul walked along beside me, asking me if I was OK.

One more thing I should mention: Paul thinks vomiting is the funniest thing ever. Ever.

We kept walking. The bar was a few blocks away. I could smell exhaust from the fleet of trucks to my right.

Suddenly -- and it always happens suddenly -- I felt that awful swirling sensation. My stomach was a washing machine and my head was the dryer. I leaped behind a truck and started vomiting. Copiously. Uncontrollably. I was pitched forward, clutching my arms around my waist, undulating like an untended garden hose as the spray issued forth. I would stop, thinking it was over, only to start vomiting again. It went on and on.

During all of this, I'd lost sight of Paul. It was getting dark now, but I could no longer see his shape by the side of the road.

That's because he was on his back, rolling back and forth in a ditch and laughing as hard as I ever seen him laugh. He laughed longer and more violently than I'd vomited. And he kept laughing, hours and days later, every time he thought of me vomiting. And when he was done, he'd wipe the tears from his eyes and say: "Too funny." And then start laughing again.

We never made it out that night. I was exhausted and Paul couldn't have ended the night on a higher note. But really. There's nothing funny about vomiting.

When not to die

2007-01-02T15:19:00.000-05:00

MTV had it all wrong: The real celebrity death match happens when two or more luminaries die within a week of each other and the world sits back to watch which one will get the coverage. Apparently, the hot list continues even when the body is cold.

I first noticed this when Princess Diana died in a car crash, and five days later Mother Theresa slipped away quietly from a prolonged illness. Both women were great, both mourned, but it was the 36-year old Princess who got all the press. Didn't seem fair to me. Mother Theresa set the standard for selflessness. She defined it so completely that people used her name as shorthand for kindly people, the same way we use Einstein to describe brainy people. She was a real Mother Theresa, that Mother Theresa was.

But by the time she died, the Princess Diana media mourning machine was running so hard, Mother Theresa barely graced the cover of the NY Post. If she had just held out for another few weeks, she might have got the sendoff she deserved.

When you're famous, timing is everything, in life and in death.

Which brings me to the current batch of deaths: President Ford, James Brown and Joe Barbera. A president, a musical genius and the guy who drew Huckleberry Hound.

With all respect to Barbera, the real media battle was between Ford and Brown. The former prez got nearly a week of painstaking, 24-hour, blow-by-blow coverage on cable news ("The car holding the casket appears to be coming into view now. Once again, the former Michigan football star and president whose controversial pardoning of Nixon may have helped heal a nation, appears to be in the second car from the front..").

The Godfather of Sould got a slew of musical retrospectives on VH1, preempting their usual line-up of smart-ass B-listers making wisecracks about Modern English and the Rubik's Cube, and histrionic ho's bitch-slapping and defecating their way to Flava Flav's oversized heart.

Winner: Ford, but Jamie Foxx may already be negotiating the rights for a bio pic, which could tip the scales back to James.

As for Barbera, he would have done himself a huge service by hanging in there until all this hoo-ha settles down. After all, most of us have had more exposure to his work than that of Ford or James Brown.

Know what I’m sayin?

2006-12-15T11:44:00.000-05:00

"Know what I’m sayin? You know what I’m sayin! Know what I’m sayin? You know.

"Shit.

"Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Hell yeah. Heeaalll yeeaaah. Can I get a hell yeah? No, that ain’t it. I mean a heeeallll yeeeeaah!

"Wait..what happened?

"She did not just say that to me! Oh, hell no! That bitch crazy! I’m about to get all up on that ho. She wanna fuck with this? She wanna fuck with this? No, no, no, no, no! I will mess this bitch up. I will mess her up. That bitch gonna wish her mama’s baby-daddy never met her mama and had that bitch as a baby. Hold me back! Hold me back!"

Evel Knievel cracks me up

2006-12-13T10:40:00.000-05:00

Evel Knievel is pissed off at Kanye West for impersonating him in a video in which West dresses up like the stuntman and tries to jump Snake River Canyon in a rocket car. Knievel's suing him for "infringement on his trademark name and likeness," and "damage to his reputation."

But what's funny is Evel's grouchy critique of the video. The 68-year old stuntman said: "That video that Kanye West put out is the most worthless piece of crap I've ever seen in my life, and he uses my image to catapult himself on the public."

That's sooo Knievel.

This is a guy who doesn't suffer fools well. In 1977, a former promoter of Knievel wrote a book in which he claimed that the famous stuntman abused two things: drugs and his wife. To say Knievel didn't take this very well is understating things. Despite having both arms in casts after a motorcycle crash in Chicago, he flew to California and tracked down the author, confronting him in a parking lot. Never one to mince words, Evel pulled out an aluminum baseball bat and beat the holy shit out of the author. He whacked him in the head, shattered bones in his arms and wrists and ultimately knocked him unconscious -- all the time yelling "I'm going to kill you!"

He didn't end up actually killing him, but the author's mother did die of a heart attack upon hearing the news of the attack. And he did kill the author's semi-professional tennis career. For his outburst, Evel was fined and spent a few weeks in jail, but it apparently didn't do anything to soften him.

Note to Kanye: You don't want to piss this guy off, even if he is in failing health and is currently connected to an oxygen tank. If I know Evel, he'll just use that tank as a bludgeoning weapon.

Evel Knievel. Now that's gangsta.

I'm moving up.

2006-12-08T12:37:00.000-05:00

Less than two weeks after complaining about my downgraded office digs, I am now somewhat happy to report that I've been somewhat upgraded to a better cube. Just look at it! Much cozier, less noisy and few people walking by and saying things like: "Ah, checking out blogs, huh?"

Like my lava lamp? Cool, huh? I've decorated the cube to showcase my taste and pop culture inspirations, neither of which have moved an inch since 1992. Beer, Simpsons, books about prolonged adolescence. It's all here.

So stop on by cube 14-43 if you get a chance. I'll be here. Looking at blogs.

Chemical refreshment

2006-12-06T10:43:00.000-05:00

Do I look refreshed?

A coworker who shall go unnamed gave me a couple of Ambien yesterday. I took one last night and had a pretty good sleep. It would have been a better sleep, but I had to pee the whole night and was too tired to get up. So I woke up a few times and weighed the benefits of getting up to pee, always deciding against it, then drifted back to chemically facilitated sleep.

So how does this little nightime helper work? I learned on the Web site that it works with GABA, a neurotransmitter that "may" be responsible for "dampening" electrical activity in the brain. It "may" help GABA do its job better, which "may" result in a better night sleep.

I'm here to report that it "may" actually work great. I'll have to give it another try tonight.

I also checked out the side effects on the Web site (having already taken the pill last night). It includes the usual list of headaches and dizziness you expect any time your drug trials include hypochondriacs and woosies, and it also added a few of those ironic side effects that are so entertaining -- like how Ambien may cause drowsiness and daytime sleepiness, the very complaints it's supposed to address.

It also can affect coordination, which I can attest to as I dropped not one but TWO cigarettes on my way to the gym this morning. All in all, though, I feel more energetic today. I think. I won't be sure until I take a couple more. It's sort of like a science experiment.

I wonder what Ambien would be like with a snifter of Knob Creek? Mmmmm. Knob Creek.

Greetings from Cubevania

2006-11-27T10:32:00.000-05:00

My meteoric rise in direct marketing is officially over. What remains is a sizable hole in the ground and a rapidly cooling rock.

No, I haven't been fired. And I haven't quit either. I've been ousted from my office and forced to work amongst the common folk.

I'm typing this eulogy from my new cube, which is actually more of a cubicle, but is so small that a passing GCD labeled it a "cubiclet." It's little more than a bit of L-shaped desk space situated in the hallway of a darkened corner of floor 14. If I drilled a hole in the floor beneath my feet, I'd have a top-down view of the cubicle where I sat as a freelancer three years ago today.

If only I could drop a message down to that young go-getter, something to the effect of: "Get out now."

I wasn't a freelancer for long. I accepted a full-time position three months after I began, and was relocated in a slightly cozier hallway on 15. Then I joined a new group and was promoted to a small office, which became a larger office and then a larger office still.

Then we got a new creative head who got into his creative head a creative new seating structure that would revitalize creative: put everyone in cubes. A few understandalbe grumbles aside, I had no problem with the idea. But me and my art director were placed in the abolute worst two cubes ever created. The guys who made these cubes had to be laughing when they made them. It's like when a slum lord bisects a closet with a hunk of drywall and advertises a cozy two bedroom apartment.

I feel like a private who worked his way up to captain, only to have his medals and stripes ripped off so they don't get in the way of his new potato-peeling assignment.

Worst of all is that I'm aware of how petty this sort of grumbling is. This is what corporate life does to you, friends: One day you're a semi-idealistic college graduate full of ideas and bullshit, and the next you're a graying copy-monkey, beating your little chest over the injustice of having no door.

I finally get Les Nessman. I hear you, brother.

Mincing toward Gomorrah

2006-11-10T11:52:00.000-05:00

Fellow liberals,

Nice job. We managed to convince Americans that we have the moral high ground. Can you believe it? Us! The ones who pee on crucifixes and call it art! We're suddenly the good guys. How awesome is that?

Excuse me while I do some blow.

Now that we're in power, allow me to say a few words to all the disillusioned conservatives and trusting Christians who took a chance on us last Tuesday.

Bwahahahahahahahahaha!!

Fools! Do you know what you've done? There's gonna be gay nude wrestling on every channel -- even the Disney Channel! We're instituting a law that illegalizes different-sex marriages, except in the case of human-animal nuptuals.

Marijuana will now be sold next to Blow-Pops in the candy isle of every 7-11.

Needle-weilding doctors will be given full access to hospital nurseries so that they may selectively harvest stem cells.

Effective now, we're cutting off all funding to Iraq and will funnel the money toward a program that teaches Evolution in churches.

That's just a sampling of what you can expect. Let the hedonism begin!

Who voted?

2006-11-07T10:54:00.001-05:00

I did, this morning. Did you?

Work blog

2006-11-06T10:49:00.000-05:00

A month or so ago everyone in the creative department was asked to post a Web page on the internal server here at work. I was going to just throw up a link to my blog, but I decided to post this instead. It's what happens when a copywriter learns just enough photoshop.

Accident Prone

Random IM thread from 9/16/04

2006-11-01T13:01:00.000-05:00

I'm going through all of my old emails and files here at work. Never mind why.

Anyway, I uncovered this rambling gem of an IM conversation between me and Jon Clarke. The idea is that Sony's 2004 purchase of some new properties gave them control over almost half of all Hollywood movies ever made. So how might Sony leverage this to market their products?

Here's the thread (There's a funny skit in here somewhere):

jonflclarke (2:15:50 PM): Including the titles owned by MGM, the Sony group will now control about 40 percent of all movies ever produced by Hollywood, according to some estimates.

Qner (3:47:28 PM): "Nice work, Spiderman. Good thing you had the new Sony Cyber-shot Pro digital camera to document Dr. Octopus' nefarious experiments. Starting at just $399, the 8 megapixel camera is as inexpensive as it is invaluable for capturing life's most infamous moments."

jonflclarke (4:00:42 PM): Can't believe it took them two movies to come up with that one

Qner (4:02:45 PM): Wait a minute. I don't remember Kurtz listening to a Sony Discman in his hut before.

jonflclarke (4:03:09 PM): LOL

Qner (4:11:00 PM): "Mrs. Robinson, my love for your daughter is clear. Almost as clear as the picture on Sony’s new 42" plasma WEGA flat panel TV with enhanced definition screen."

jonflclarke (4:11:29 PM): You're doing way too much research on this

Qner (4:11:37 PM): hahaha

Qner (4:12:05 PM): More than I put into my last project, I can tell you.

jonflclarke (4:33:36 PM): "You could have been Senator Corleone, Governor Corleone and you can be too with the new SONY Plastation 3. 64 bits of family goodness from the old country."

Qner (4:34:46 PM): hahaha

Qner (4:34:57 PM): BTW, I'm on the waiting list for Patton Oswalt tix. They must have went right after you got them.

jonflclarke (4:35:42 PM): Show up anyway. I bet there'll be cancellations

jonflclarke (4:38:05 PM): "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. But I will give you a text message with SONY's new PCS service. AS God as my witness, I'll never go text free again."

Qner (4:41:25 PM): "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore! But if I want to take music with me, I'll download it to Sony's 64mb memory stick. Portable, powerful - and priced for everyone - the new memory stick is enough to soften the most hardened newsman."

jonflclarke (4:41:47 PM): LOL

jonflclarke (4:43:16 PM): Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges. But we do need SONY's new GPS3000. It helps us find our way as we rove the Mexican countryside, sacking, pillaging and murdering Humphrey Bogart. Ariba!!!

Qner (4:43:35 PM): hahahaha

Qner (4:47:54 PM): "Use the force, Luke. The force of a 10x zoom lens and 800mb of storage space that comes with Sony's new digital Camcorder. With data transfer faster than the Millenium Falcon, it's ready to fly out of the box."

jonflclarke (4:48:26 PM): It's the camera that made the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.

jonflclarke (4:49:54 PM): Throw me the idol I'll throw you the new SONY VAIO laptop. iIt's our lightest yet and with extra battery life you can keep cracking the whip form morning till night. No time to argue.

Qner (4:50:21 PM): hahaha

jonflclarke (4:50:37 PM): This can go on forever

Qner (4:52:15 PM): "What we have here is a failure to communicate. That's why we're switching to Sony ClearVoice wireless phones."

jonflclarke (4:54:08 PM): Scully, thruth is out there.

Qner (4:54:24 PM): ...and with the new handsfree headsets, your hands will stay cool"

jonflclarke (4:55:06 PM): No Mulder, with the new CLIE handheld, it's all in here. The latest games, personal photo gallery and video clips ion vivid color. That's the truth

jonflclarke (4:55:52 PM): This is all bordering on self parody isn't it?

Qner (4:55:56 PM): The truth? You can't handle the truth! But you can certainly handle the new VOA portable tablet.

Qner (4:56:16 PM): Literally could go on forever.

Qner (4:56:24 PM): But it's addictive