The Dark Knight

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

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

My funeral song

"My life"

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

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

Demetri Martin is funny

Adam Corolla's brilliance

Goodbye, Tim Russert

My Sundays will never be the same without you.

Behind the Scenes: HBO "Starship" intro from 1982

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

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



Watch a higher-res version here

They meet

And it's perfectly crazy.

Whatever, it's FUNNY

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

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

...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!

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

Like A Rolling Stone

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

Get human

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

Everything is great about this.

Bank Brat

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

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

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

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?

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

Kip Soundboard

Napoleon Dynamite

This is here mostly so I can play with it.

Woody and Billy

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

Witty, thoughtful and entertaining. At least Woody is.

The Moose

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

Neil's Letter

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

The last three miles is pure pain

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

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

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

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.

That's right, dude. Shaolin Shnutz.

Two of the greatest videos ever made

Period.

YouTube: Knee jerk or just jerks?

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.

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

I think the watering pot threw off her balance.

Like, totally

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!

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

This looks delicious.

Bruce!

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

It'll leave skid marks on your soul!

Ice Hockey

Sexually harrass women right from your car!

Chophouse

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.

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.

This is one of my favorites.

Lynching advertisers

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

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.

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

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.

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

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?

"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

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.

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

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

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

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?

I did, this morning. Did you?

Work blog

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

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

It's been a while...

I haven't posted anything in a while. Now I have.

Why the absence? Lot's of reasons, none of them good. Busy at work, that sort of thing. So here's what's new:

I got a new iPod, which is also my first iPod. It's the big one -- 80GB Video. I love it. I love the packaging. I love the little case it came in. On Friday I bought some cables so I can hook it up to stereos and even TVs to output music and video. How cool is that??

I'm still getting to the gym, but also still smoking.

Work has been nuts. No, really. It's been nuts.

My brother's coming into town this weekend to run the marathon. My sister-in-law and niece are also coming in. So we'll proabably do a NYC thing on Saturday. BTW: Lion King = Expensive.

Vote, vote vote! Even if you don't think it makes a difference in your particular district. Vote anyway.

Go to iTunes and download The Feebs. You won't regret this advice, I promise.

Haven't seen many movies lately. Except Little Miss Sunshine, which is very good. Need to see The Departed, Science of Sleep, The Prestige, Last King of Scotland and, of course -- Borat! So looking forward to that one.

Had a discussion with a fan of the American "Office." He likes it better than the British version, mainly because it takes a bit to understand the English accent. I say it's worth the effort. In fact I downloaded some original Office MP4s for my new video iPod. Did I tell you about that? I love it.

I'm sure I'll think of some more stuff to say at some point.

Funk Dat!

Bless YouTube. It's fast becoming the resevoir for things often (and sometimes best) forgotten. Like this little ditty from 1993.

Remember this guy? How he seemed so annoyed by even the most ordinary occurences, like getting a phone call? His whole rap is just a list of cranky complaints. So funny.

Myrtle Beach

Ahhh.

That's how I still feel after spending last week at a condo in Myrtle Beach.

Again, that's: Ahhh.

I left last Friday amidst a shitstorm at work. Major reconcepting of a major campaign. Due in days. And now I was hightailing it outta there for a week, which put them down a writer.

Nick, my art director, summed it up. "Fuck, dude."

I did that little dance where you click your heels together in mid-air.

Actually, I don't shake work off that easy. I was still somewhat concerned about the reconcepting as my taxi nudged toward JFK.

But by the time Lauri and I got to the airport, my concern level had been downgraded from "somewhat" to "vaguely." A blue on the alert scale: Guarded, but don't let the terrorists stop you from traveling or they'll win.

Speaking of terrorists, those bastards got something right for once. After making us wait in endless lines, remove our laptops, take off our shoes, toss our lighters and spread like drug smugglers while some bored TSA official wands us, they actually did us a solid with the whole liquid/gel thing.

Let me explain.

By limiting the amount of luggage we are allowed to bring on the plane, boarding and de-planing is now a lovely experience. Fast. Efficient. No Oakley-wearing douchbags elbowing you in the head as they panic to remove their oversized overhead luggage. No pricks blocking the drink cart, so they can retrieve a Golfer's Digest from their stowed overnight bag. No confused "bag ladies" staring vacuously up and down the isle to be sure they have their purse, handbag, rolling luggage, copy of Vogue, laptop and frilled shawl.

I'm not saying these characters aren't on the plane. They are, but their shit is stowed safely beneath them, so they have nothing to fiddle with. I picture them chewing on the emergency instructions cards, crunching the ice from their complimentary sodas. (Must get to luggage!)

The flight itself was quick. You know: Fasten seatbelts, turn off cell phones. Taxi, takeoff. Soda? Chips? Upright positions, welcome to Raleigh. You'll find your luggage somewhere inside.

My parents met us outside, where I was sucking down a cigarette. By now my work concern level was down to green. All clear: Osama's dead and Iran loves us.

We drove down to Myrtle the next day. My brother and sister, brother and sister-in-law and three neieces and nephews. It was the first time I'd been in 10 years. I actually lived there during the summer of '94. A lot has changed.

I lived in Calabash, NC and worked in North Myrtle Beach, SC. The ride took about 20 minutes on a good day and you passed a lot of nothing on your way. Some BBQ restaurants, scattered strips of shops, a Jesus sign or two. Things didn't get commercial until you were right at Barefoot landing. And they didn't get truly tacky until you were into Myrtle Beach proper.

No more. Like a spreading fungus, the tacky has worked its way up Highway 17, obliterating old landmarks, swallowing genuine trashy southern culture whole in the plastic jaws of molded shark entryways that front the ubiquitous Waves stores. You can't throw a golf ball without hitting a mini golf center. Courses that look like volcanoes, or pirate ships, or that have an aviation theme, or a jungle theme. Then there's the go-carts. A NASCAR go-cart amusement park with six separate tracks. Or, if NASCAR isn't your bag, you can go to the Formula One go-cart amusement park. There's even a place that has both go-carts and mini-golf. It's called "Fun World," a name that conjures two guys sitting at a table kicking around names until one finally says: "Fuck it, we'll just call the goddamned thing 'Fun World.'"

Headline of the day

Found this on CNN. Seriously, is The Onion even necessary?

Megadeth angry at United Nations

Mustaine on organization: 'It's an abomination what they're doing'

NEW YORK (Billboard) -- Heavy metal maven Dave Mustaine is so angry with the United Nations that he is naming his group Megadeth's next album "United Abominations."

"I was watching TV and saw the trucks that said 'UN' on them and said, 'Man, you are so uncool, ineffective, anything," the singer/guitarist said in a recent Billboard interview.

"I thought, 'Wow, I've got to run with this. I got it -- United Abominations, 'cause it's an abomination what they're doing!'

OK, this is just brilliant

"Sunday Bloody Sunday" as "sung" by George W. Bush. Amazing!

I love this line

"60% of the time it works every time."
It bears a striking resemblance to the claims I'm dealing with right now.