Quasimofo Unmasked!

I'm afraid it's time to end this little charade.

I set up this blog for the purpose of getting a review from humor-blogs.com. You can read the details here.

My real blog is MattressPolice.com. I won't be updating Quasimofo any more, but you can read more of the same kind of semi-coherent nonsense at MattressPolice.com.

Thanks for the kind words and encouragement, everybody! It's been fun.

Diesel out.

I Do Mind! I Do!

The other night my family went out to eat at a local Mexican restaurant, and the hostess asked if we minded being seated "in the back." The way she said "in the back" made me think that perhaps we would have to crawl through a drainage pipe to get there, but being the agreeable sort that I am, I unthinkingly said, "That's fine."

I regretted it immediately. While we waited, I speculated as to what horrors would confront us "in the back." Would there be chairs? Tables? Exposed wiring hanging from rusted nails? Perhaps we would be expected to scavenge our own appetizers from the dumpster behind the meat-packing plant. I looked around for other diners headed for 'the back', anxious to form an alliance to ensure the safety of our guacamole supply.



"We should never have agreed to sit 'in the back,'" I said to my wife. "Now we have no one to blame but ourselves." There would be no point in complaining once we were back there.

"You say you don't mind," the waiter would snarl, befuddled and a bit put out. "Why do you say you don't mind, if you do mind?"

Why indeed? I would have no answer for that. And there we would sit, tossing tortilla chips at rabid monkeys and trying to build a table out of cardboard and packing foam.

As the hostess came for us I wanted to say something, anything, to get out of my commitment to sit "in the back." But what? It's not like she was unclear about what she was asking me. They ask you that question for a reason: Because most people do mind sitting in the back. They mind it one hell of a lot, to tell you the truth. But some people -- maybe they're a little crazy, maybe they have a death wish -- some people don't mind. And there's no switching sides. You don't suddenly go from being someone who doesn't mind to being someone who does mind, just like that.

What kind of explanation could I offer for my sudden conversion? A minute ago I was all, "Screw my family's safety! I want to be Mr. Tough Guy, hanging out 'in the back' with the crack whores and guacamole pirates!" And then just like that I develop an overwhelming need to sit somewhere with modern sanitation facilities and fresh salsa? No, that wouldn't fly. The fronters would never accept us. We'd always be the Table that Thought They Could Make It In the Back But Then Chickened Out.

We took a collective deep breath and headed toward the back. The fronters averted their eyes as we walked by. We passed the bar, the kitchen, the bathrooms... and kept going. As the bright light of the restaurant's main dining room grew ever dimmer, I silently whispered a prayer for protection against the hazards and travails we would soon face. Before I knew it, we were there.

It turns out that "the back" was a lot like "the front," but slightly further away. Hence the name, I suppose. I had the enchiladas.

A Slurry of Monsters

As my wife and I were walking through our cherry orchard the other day, inspecting the trees for blight, rust and urban sprawl, I caught a glimpse of a distant gathering of undead creatures. At first I thought they were zombies, but they could have been ghouls. They're hard to tell apart at a distance. Our orchard was planted on top of an Indian burial ground, so it's not uncommon for us to see various flavors of undead roaming amongst the trees in search of human flesh and a place to whizz. Well, technically it isn't so much a burial ground as it is a casino that collapsed due to God's punishment on immorality and a lack of sufficient sheer support. Efforts were made to rescue the trapped gamblers, but when their relatives were informed that the odds of anyone getting out alive were a million to one, they decided to take their chances elsewhere.

Anyway, now our orchard is plagued by the spirits and/or reanimated corpses of several hundred dead gamblers still trying to beat the odds.

I grabbed my wife's arm and whispered, "Look! A bunch of zombies!"

"A bunch of zombies?" She said disdainfully, barely glancing in the direction I pointed.

"Yeah, look! I think they're grazing...or something."

"I'm pretty sure it's not a 'bunch' of zombies," she said. "And zombies don't graze; they scavenge for carrion."

"What do you mean, it's not a bunch of zombies? There are like eight of them."

"No, I mean it's not called a 'bunch.' You know how it's a pride of lions, a parliament of owls, a murder of crows...."

"A trifling of meerkats," I added helpfully.

"Anyway, I think those are ghouls. They're not scavenging; they're menacing. Zombies scavenge; ghouls menace."

"That doesn't sound right," I said.

"Ok, you're the expert. It's not like I'm a fourth grade teacher or anything."

"Ok, ok," I said. "So what do you call a group of zombies?"

She thought for a moment. "A groan, I think."

"A groan of zombies? You're making that up."

"It's a groan of zombies and a chilling of ghouls. I think that's right."

"What about skeletons?"

"A rattle of skeletons."

"Poltegeists?"

"An annoyance of poltergeists."

"Mummies?"

"Tangle."

"Vampires?"

"Fang."

I thought for a while, trying to stump her. My wife's knowledge of the undead and cryptozoology is formidable. Finally I seized on one that I was sure she wouldn't know.

"What about sasquatches?" I said. "Tell me what a group of sasquatches is called, smarty pants."

She sighed and looked bored. "A blur of sasquatches," she said.

Damn, she's good, I thought.

"We should go," she said. "They look like they're menacing in this direction."

"Hey," I said, as they shambled closer. "I think that's just a bunch of drunk teenagers."

"A posse of drunk teenagers," she corrected.

"Still, they're menacing in this direction."

"Yes they are."

"How do you kill drunken teenagers again?" I asked. We didn't get many of those around here.

"Bullet to the brain," She said.

"Thank God," I said. "Beheading is a bitch."

We drew our sidearms and fired.

Crazy Like God

It is often said that there are no atheists in foxholes. This is undoubtedly true; what I find remarkable, however, is that there are no foxes in foxholes.

Interlude: Two French soldiers huddle in a foxhole.

Pierre: Any news from the front?

Jean-Claude: No. All is quiet on the western front.

Pierre: Any news from the back?

Jean-Claude: Quiet there too.

Pierre: Do we have any more croissants?

Jean-Claude: Let me check.

Pierre: Well?

Jean-Claude: Sacre bleu!

Pierre: What is it?

Jean-Claude: Foxes! A whole den of cute little baby foxes feasting on our croissants!

In unison: We surrender!

This, of course, never happened. French soldiers are known to have surrendered to marmosets, chinchillas and, in a particularly embarrassing incident, a small bit of dryer lint, but never to foxes.

I suggest, due to the absence of both atheists and foxes, that from now on we refer to holes dug for protection against an enemy in wartime "God-holes." In addition to being more technically accurate, this new appellation would also give rise to a renaissance in the area of battle-scene dialog writing:

"Get your head out of your God-hole and get me some ammo!"

"You call that a God-hole? I've seen 90 year old grandmothers with better God-holes than that."

"Sarge, have you seen Private Sandusky pretend to walk down the stairs into his God-hole? It's hilarious."

I guess you could use that last one with "foxhole" too. Still, just once I'd like to see somebody in a war movie do that pretend stairs thing. That gets me every time.

It was, coincidentally, a Frenchman who said that there is a "God shaped hole" in each of us. (It was either Pascal or Sartre. Google and I aren't sure which one, but either way, he's French. I'm pretty sure you could attribute the quote to either of them at a party and appear equally snobbish and effete.)

Now if there's one thing the French know about, it's their holes. I wonder, in fact, if maybe that "God-shaped hole" line was misinterpreted. French is a notoriously difficult language to translate into English, particularly for Americans who don't want to learn French. Perhaps Pascartes' statement was not an abstract philosophical expression but rather a very literal admonition to the French people to do what they do best: Run and hide in a hole.

In this light, Pascartes can be seen as advising his countrymen to find the nearest hole and hide in it until the trouble passes. What trouble? you ask. Well, the heaviness of being, for one thing, not to mention the whole problem of never being able to get that damn rock up the hill. Oh sure, maybe the danger is all in my head, but what do I have to lose by hiding indefinitely in a hole? Surely far less than if I were to risk being crushed by a large rock.

Wow, all this philosophizing is making me hungry. I feel like I've got a hole in me the size of a fox.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

It seems to me that there is a lot of unnecessary strife in this world of ours. I think this would be a good time to do what we can to eliminate the petty disagreements among us and live like the brothers and sisters we are in the great family that is humanity. This post is my humble attempt to encourage all of us, whatever our ethnicity, political persuasion, gender, or attitude toward pork products, to put aside our petty differences and focus on what unites us as a species. So here, for your considerations, are a few suggestions that I think could help us move in that direction. This is just one simple American's take on things, but I think if everybody would make an effort to follow these simple guidelines, we could make the world a better place.

1. Speak English. Imagine how many misunderstandings we could prevent if everybody would just speak English. Pretty much everybody important speaks English these days, so there's no point in sticking with whatever doomed language your parents are trying to foist on you. What language did Shakespeare write in? English. What language are the ten most popular movies of all time in? English. What language is the Bible written in? English. The other day I saw something on TV where two kids in Holland were speaking Hollandaise to each other. Now I know for a FACT they teach English in schools in Holland. So these kids were obviously just trying to be provocative. Speaking a foreign language when everybody knows you speak English just raises suspicion. You saw what we did to Iraq; don't be stupid.

2. Use dollars. Everything important is denominated in dollars these days, and frankly your hexagonal coins with the hole in the middle and your paper money with Queen Amidala on one side and a purple chicken on the other are just plain embarrassing. This is especially the case for those of you from countries that peg your currency to the dollar anyway. Your economy is too unstable to support your own currency but we're supposed to be impressed by the portrait of Jose What's-his-face on your peso? Do you know how big the U.S. national debt is? Five trillion dollars. So do you want a piece of that action or are you really going to stick with the purple chicken? Yeah, that's what I thought.

3. Drive on the right side of the road. You know why it's called the "right" side of the road? Because it's the right side to drive on. That's pretty straightforward. I don't mean to be overly harsh, but we invented cars, so we get to decide. If you invent something we'll let you decide how it works.

4. Be respectful of normal people's lifestyles. If you're gay, or Hindu, or vegetarian, or whatever, that's great. But keep it to yourself, would you?

5. Stop using the metric system. Our system is WAY easier, trust me. There are 12 inches in a foot, three feet in a yard, and a hundred yards in a football field. Simple, right?

6. Stop making us ask permission to fly over your country. We have important shit to do on the other side. You wouldn't understand.

7. Stop making Mexican food that tastes like crap. I am really tired of food in foreign countries not tasting like it's supposed to. You people in South America are particularly bad. You seem to think you can improve on Chevy's. Well, you can't. First of all, you don't use enough cheese. Good rule of thumb: You can never have too much cheese. Also, nobody likes corn tortillas. Chevy's would probaby fly somebody down to help you out if you're having trouble.

8. Stop making your own movies. You don't have enough money to make them any good. And nobody wants to read a movie (see #1). We don't mind making the movies for you. Also, music and TV. And books, magazines, and software. Consider it our gift to you.

9. Show some appreciation. We don't mind defending the whole free world from the Nazis, Communists and Islamofascists. But it would be a nice gesture if you would say thank you once in a while. Maybe have a parade for us. Oh, and you could pick up a check occasionally.

10. Use the term "American" correctly. I know that this is kind of confusing, so I thought I would get it out in the open for once. Here's the deal: People from the United States of America are called Americans. I don't make the rules; that's just the way it is. There's really nothing else you could call us. United Statians? No, we're Americans. Which means that nobody else can be Americans. If you live in North America and you're not American, then you're Canadian. And if you live in South America, then you're Hispanic or, more formally, Mexican. Pretty easy when someone explains it, right?

Peace and goodwill toward all of you, especially those living in backward countries where you don't have a bicameral legislature or Wal-Mart.

A Small Proposal

A lot of people ask me what, in my opinion, is the biggest problem facing the world today. I answer, without hesitation, "global warming." Why? Because I value a quick response over accuracy, that's why.

If I were given a little more time to think about it, I would probably say "overpopulation." Because think about it: If the population were a quarter of its current size, greenhouse gases could be cut to a quarter of their current levels, we'd have four times as much food per capita, and they would have to cancel Fear Factor because of the dropoff in viewership.

So, you ask me, how do you reduce the size of the world's population by 75%? The answer is simple: We assemble the earth's brightest minds in one place and assign them a single task: to genetically engineer smaller people.

If this doesn't immediately strike you as a good idea, just imagine how much better the world would be if we were all a quarter of our current size. Consider, for a moment, how impressive the world's largest ball of twine would be. That's right, it would be sixteen times as impressive. Wait, you object, don't you mean four times as impressive? No, intrepid reader, I do not. For as you may recall from high school calculus, as one's height decreases arithmetically, one's susceptibility to being impressed by mundane objects increases geometrically, making that one seriously impressive ball of twine. And holy crap, don't get me started on the pyramids, because they are freaking huge already. Speaking of which, why don't they put the big ball of twine in front of the Sphynx, so it looks like a big cat toy? OMG that would be SO cute!!!

Anyway, let's move on to the part where you say, "Ok, that does sound like a good idea. But is it technologically feasible?" To this I respond: Did John F. Kennedy pause to ask whether his plan was technologically feasible before committing 400 American "advisors" in an unwinnable conflict in Southeast Asia? No sir, he did not! And yet, JFK is revered as a hero for his exploits as captain of PT-109, demonstrating that if you have to go on a trip with a Kennedy, the surest way to avoid drowning is, ironically, to travel by boat.

You may object that there are logistical challenges to reducing the size of the population of the entire world by 75% simultaneously (my understanding of genetic engineering is that it works something like sorcery). I am way ahead of you on this one, which is why my plan is to shrink the population one geographic region at a time, starting, of course, with the Middle East. Now I'm aware the "Middle East" is a somewhat nebulous term, but I believe it can be roughly defined as the region between Europe and Asia whose geology is characterized by layers of shale and petroleum deposits, covered by a layer of sand, and topped off by a layer of crazy people who want to kill me. This combination of strategic importance and collective insanity make the Middle East a prime candidate for shrinkage. And if something goes horribly wrong, hey, dibs on the free oil!

Any questions?

Even a Traffic Whore Has Some Standards

I'm a traffic whore. I labor under the delusion that if some day my readers outnumber the teachers who wrote on my report cards "Not meeting his potential," my desperate hunger for approval will at last be sated. To this end, I occasionally submit my site to blog directories. I don't think this generates much traffic for me, but I figure it can't hurt, unless the blog directory is called "Blogs That You Should Never Visit Because They Are Hella Lame." And even then, I'd probably submit mine, because how much damage could it really do? Judging by the number of blog directories out there, somebody must be starting a new blog directory every time a Starbucks opens. Or maybe every time somebody orders a Venti Carmel Macchiatto. I think at this point there are more blog directories than blogs, and since every man, woman and child alive has 12 blogs, that's a lot of blog directories. Anyway, the other day I ran across a blog directory that didn't list my blog, let's call it Not Another Blog Directory. So I dutifully filled out the submission form and waited for the hit to come rolling in. Not long after, I received the following email:

Hello Quasimofo,

Your blog has not been added to the Not Another Blog Directory. Due to the amount of submissions, we cannot explain the reasons for each. Most likely it is due to one of the following:

• blog is listed more than once in the directory
• site is not a blog
• blog is offline
• blog is new (must contain 5 posts and be at least 7 days old due to excessive spammers submitting).
• site contains nudity
• site is a shill site intended to simply promote products/affiliates
• site construes something illegal If you believe your blog should be added, please contact us (be sure to mention what your blog URL is).

- Not Another Blog Directory Team

This, of course, hurt me deeply. In an effort to mask my pain, I fired off the following email:

Hello Not Another Blog Directory Team,

I don't care. Due to the amount of blog directories, I cannot explain the reasons for not caring about each. Most likely it is due to one of the following:

• Your blog directory differs in no meaningful way from the 17,000 other blog directories.
• Your blog directory contains too many other blogs. - Some of the other blogs suck.
• Your blog directory still has the price tag on it, and is wrapped in cellophane.
• Your blog directory uses a color scheme which reminds me of the wallpaper in my bedroom during 5th-7th grades. This was a difficult time for me. Thanks for bringing the memories flooding back.
• Your blog directory does not list my blog; ergo it sucks.
• You used the phrase "amount of submissions," when what you really mean is "number of submissions."
• Not a single blog about Jewish race car drivers.
• Tasteful nudity is what separates us from the animals.
  

If you believe I should care, please contact me (be sure to mention why I should care).

- Quasimofo "Team" (we haven't really been a team since we lost our power forward)

I'd give their real name and a link, but due to the amount of not caring on my part, I don't have the energy.

A Fitting Tribute

If you're like most people, you probably can't imagine living without me. The fact is, however, that one day I'm not going to be around any more, and you need to be prepared for it. Relax, I'm not planning anything; I just want you to be ready for my eventual demise. By which I mean, of course, that you should be prepared to immortalize me in some suitable way. I like the idea of an eternal flame, but I don't want that Bangles song ringing in my head for eternity. A bronze statue would be nice, but those things tend to turn green over time and I wouldn't want people to look at it and go, "Whoah, what's up with the giant emaciated Hulk?" There would be less confusion if I didn't insist on being sculpted wearing only a pair of torn purple trousers, but hey, that's the way I want to be remembered. Sure, for the first 50 years or so the locals would be like, "That's not the Hulk. That's Quasimofo." But eventually that generation would die off and no one would be left to correct the tourists who insisted on meeting "at the Starbucks across from the Skinny Hulk." And just like that, I'm forgotten.

So I'm thinking T-Shirts. Everbody loves T-Shirts. What's not to love? It's a shirt, but shaped like a letter T, unlike most shirts, with a long vertical part for your body and then two short horizontal bits at the top for your arms. But not your whole arms, just the shoulders and your upper arms. Brilliant. It's functional, and it has the most apropos name since they called those things that broke on the space shuttle 'O-Rings.' You know, because they're round, with a hole in the middle.

Where was I? Oh yeah, T-Shirts! All the famous historical figures are on T-Shirts these days: John Lennon, Bob Marley, Jesus, Chuck Manson.... It's like a who's-who gallery of people who really made a difference. That's where I want to be, not hanging out across from the Starbuck's in my purple pants with tourists putting out cigarettes on my feet. So I've been doing some research, trying to figure out the criteria the T-Shirt people use to determine whether one is T-Shirt material. I've come up with the following guidelines for helping my chances:

1. Be a fictional character. People love Batman, Superman, Mickey Mouse, Pocahontas and other colorful, nonexistent individuals. Unfortunately, my odds of achieving a purely imaginary existence are rapidly dwindling as I continue to incur credit card debt attesting to my corporeality. Oh, I can hear the existentialists out there insisting that any idea of Quasimofo as a definitive being is fictional in the sense that there are an infinite number of potential Quasimofos existing at any given moment, no one of them any more or less real than any of the others. But let's face it, none of that is going to turn me into the Tazmanian Devil.

2. Die at a relatively young age. This worked for John Lennon, Jesus, and James Dean, among others. Unfortunately, I'm already older than all of them were when they died. Also, it seems to help to be murdered by Romans or a crazed loner, and I don't know how to go about arranging that. I'd hate to go to the trouble of provoking the residents of the Lombardi Home for the Criminally Insane into offing me only to find out that I missed the age cutoff by six months.

3. Have crazy hair. Crazy hair makes for great T-Shirts. Check out Albert Einstein, Bob Marley, Che Guevara, Jimi Hendrix and countless others. I think I could pull this one off. But very few people make it into the ranks of T-Shirt immortality based solely on their hair. The only one I can think of is Peter Frampton, and I'm not leaving the house looking like that.

4. Kill a lot of people (Charles Manson, Che Guevara, etc.). The problem with this is that I wouldn't know where to start. And I certainly wouldn't know where to stop. Also, I don't want to go to jail.

5. Be a pop star. Unfortunately, I have no talent. Which wouldn't matter except, as I mentioned, I'm also old.

6. Be a hot chick. Well, I'm tall and I have great hair. I'm practically Jessica Rabbit. See #1.

Well, that's all I've got. I don't like my odds. I'd better press my purple pants.

Sorry You Feel Like Crap. Have Some Dog Hair!

I could never be an alcoholic. I say this not to brag about my willpower, as I have little. My problem, in fact, is the opposite. I lack the discipline to force myself to drink all day. I used to be pretty good at getting drunk. In college I would go to a party and down six or seven beers in a couple of hours, and then pass out on a couch or small shrub. It helped that at the time I weighed about as much as Kate Moss at the nadir of the binge/purge cycle, but I attribute my ready inebriation primarily to youthful enthusiasm. In college, I had a single goal in mind: get wasted in as little time as possible. As I got older, I lost focus. It was no longer about just getting wasted; I became seduced by the allure of sleeping in my own bed and not vomiting into a strange man's dresser. When I finally gave in to the desire to avoid making an ass of myself, I could no longer maintain the drive I needed to drink three beers during an episode of Alf. By the time I started to actually drink beer for the taste, it was all over.

Sometimes I can still get pretty toasty by having several rum-and-Cokes or Seven-and-Sevens in a row, but I have to psych myself up first so that I can keep my focus. I can't be distracted by other activities, like "socializing", "eating", or "driving". I need to be head down with a drink in both fists. And don't be slowing me down with pretzels or peanuts -- I need to focus, people! Only when I've got a healthy supply of alcohol on its way to interfere with the proper functioning of my synapses can I allow my vigilance to waver even slightly.

Even when I was in college, I couldn't drink when I was hung over. I needed a good three days before I could stomache alcohol again. I never got the whole "hair of the dog" thing. I never even understood it as a metaphor. "Sorry about that rabid dog tearing into your quadracep, but hey, have a clump of its hair!" The only thing I would want from a dog that bit me was its head on a plaque. The saying should be "Have the head of the dog that bit you on a plaque." But come to think of it, I can't see how a line of bottle caps mounted on my wall would make me feel any better about vomiting up my pancreas either.

It's a losing battle. The older I get, the harder it is to get drunk and stay that way. I might as well accept it:

My name is Quasimofo and I'm sober.

Zipping Thru Town

Sometimes I'll be driving through a strange town and need to stop for gas. I put my credit card in the pump and it says "ENTER ZIP CODE." This irritates me. How would I know the freaking zip code? I'm new in town.

The locals always look at me funny when I ask them to tell me the zip code, because they're not big on cheating or whatever. Get off your high horses, people, I just need some petrol for the old coche. Usually they give me some bogus zip code that doesn't work, so I'm like "Thanks for NOTHING, jerkwad!" I hate townspeople.

Occasionally they'll give me a zip code that's like 9 digits long, and I'll be like, "NOT! Zip codes have 5 digits, smartass." A nine digit zip code, I'm sure. I was born in the early evening, but not last early evening, pal.

What really worries me is that pretty soon they might start asking what the state bird is, or the name of the local high school football mascot. I'll guess "PANTHERS" or something, and the gas pump will shoot flames at my head and townspeople with pitchforks will appear and poke me to death. Time to steal some more of those AAA guidebooks. Do AAA guidebooks list the local high school mascots? Maybe I'll write a series of guidebooks called Zipping Thru: What You Need to Know to Get Gas in Local Towns Across the U.S. and the Habitated Parts of Canada. A sample entry:

South Egypt, Kansas
ZIP Code: 62323
High school mascot: The Caustic Sphynxes
Sister City: Akimbo, Thailand
Mayor: His Hon. Skip "Skippy" Clinkenbeard
Best Place for an omelette: Denny's
Turn-Ons: Sherman Parkway
Turn-Offs: McKinley Ave & 4th St.

Man, I am going to make millions on this idea. What? Oh, my zip code. Yeah, that makes more sense. Nevermind.

A Penny for Your Nickelback

This morning I was struck by a piercing, insistent pain in my temples that lasted for about 3 minutes. I passed out briefly, and fortunately when I woke up the James Blunt song was over.

James Blunt, in case you live in a cave in pre-glacial Spain, is a hot new pop music import from England, who is remarkable in that his testicles are apparently still across the Atlantic. He has actually been around for a while, but for the first few years of his career only dogs could hear him singing.

His latest song appears to be the culmination of some sort of elaborate joke, which began with a track that rips off the sad walking away music from the 70s TV show The Incredible Hulk and ends with an auditory assault that is reminiscent of a trip to the dentist. It's a rare song that makes me drool blood onto a paper napkin pinned under my chin.

To make matters worse, I was also just subjected to the latest Nick Lachey song, which is - surprise! - apparently about exactly the same thig as his last song: breaking up with Jessica Simpson. Dude, I cried too when my mom threw away my copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, but I got over it. Somebody needs to tell this guy there are more chickens in the sea.

Why am I listening to this crap? Well, I listen to music all day while I'm working, and there is no longer any kind of rock or alternative music station in the entire Central Valley. Somehow this area can support 16 Spanish language stations but not a single station that plays Audioslave, which tells me that either the immigration problem has really gotten out of hand, or that Latinos have a lot more disposable income, per capita, than 16 year old boys do.

The station I'm listening to right now has taken to calling itself "the New [station name here]," even though they've been around for like 10 years, presumably because they recently tweaked their format to sound more exactly like another station right next to it on the dial. They just played Nickelback and Three Doors Down back to back, and I'm rocking so hard I can hardly stay awake. If the gods of rock knew they were being represented in this area solely by the likes of Nickelback and 3DD, they would probably feel the way that Russian people do about Yakov Smirnoff.

Gotta go, Kelly Clarkson's on. Crank it, dude!

The Best Things in Life Are Free (Unless You Are Stupid)

Look, I'm not going to be guilted into writing a blog entry every day, just to amuse you. I'm just not. If my employer can't get me to show up before 10:30am on a regular basis with what they're paying me, then I don't see how you can expect me to cater to your blog addiction for free.

They say the best things in life are free, but that sounds more like a lousy business model than a viable worldview to me. If they were really the best things, they would cost a lot more. Just try going to Best Buy and loading a 62" plasma into your car without paying for it. What kind of twisted worldview doesn't consider a top of the line Hi-Def Plasma TV as one of the best things in life? (I have to admit, though, that the police car ride was pretty fun and technically didn't cost me anything.)

Oh, I know, there's sunshine and oxygen and blah blah blah. But it's all supply and demand. You'd pay for oxygen if I was holding a plastic bag over your head, and if you don't believe me you can ask my little brother. (I just hope you have more money.) And if you've never paid for sunshine, you've obviously never lived in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Do you know how desperate for sunshine you have to be to pay someone $50 so you can lie in a coffin and be showered in cancer-causing radiation? There were days in January in Michigan when I would have paid someone to shove my face into a frying pan and call it a sunburn.

Some day I'm going to find a way to bottle sunshine. They already charge stupid people a dollar for a little bottle of water. And while people who can't figure out how to get water into a bottle apparently comprise a pretty big market, I'm willing to bet that the market for bottled sunshine is even bigger. The bottled water people are so stupid they don't even realize that Evian is "naive" spelled backwards. I'm going to call my bottled sunshine KramYsae or Ssabmud. Or maybe I should name it after the mystical source of the product, in the manner of Crystal Geyser or Ice Mountain. I'll call it, um, The Sun. Ooh, I know! I'll combine the two methods and call it "The Sun, Ssabmud."

You'll be happy to know that I did some intense research* for this blog entry, and I discovered that "All over the world, water is one of the most popular drinks." That's a bold statement. I'd like some additional supporting information. For example, do thirsty people drink more than non-thirsty people? Do people prefer to drink their water in liquid form, or inhale it as steam? How do people feel about drinking very dirty water, say, with cat urine and mercury in it?

I also learned that the difference between tap water and bottled water is that tap water comes out of a "tap," whereas bottled water is generally surrounded by a plastic container known as a "bottle." According to some reliable website that I don't feel like giving credit to, "Aquafina is municipal water from spots like Wichita, Kansas. Coke's Dasani (with minerals added) is taken from the taps of Queens, New York, Jacksonville, Florida, and elsewhere. Everest bottled water originates from southern Texas, while Yosemite brand is drawn from the Los Angeles suburbs."

So if you're a health conscious Glendale resident breaking open a bottle of Yosemite, keep in mind that you've just paid someone a dollar to fill up a bottle with water from your kitchen sink. That's like paying a dollar for a little mirror so that you can go outside and enjoy the sunshine. Hey, that gives me an idea....

*Google search

Just Give Me a Sign

I have a confession to make. Most of the stuff on my MySpace profile is lies. I wasn't really born on another planet, those aren't my favorite TV shows, and the movies I listed were selected purely for their metallurgical properties. I really am a Taurus, though, which explains all the bullshit.

I debated whether I should display my zodiacal sign, because I don't really buy into that stuff (Tauruses as a rule are skeptical about astrology). In my case the profile does fit, though: I'm stubborn and opinionated, and I spend a lot of time charging full speed at colorful objects that are dangled in front of me only to be jerked away at the last second. I don't make a lot of make a lot of major decisions based on my horoscope, although I did buy a Ford Taurus once, which turned out to be a big mistake. So was my Ford Bronco II. Ford loves naming vehicles after temperamental animals. Maybe if they came out with the Ford Labrador, people would start buying their cars again.

There definitely should be more cars named after signs of the zodiac. (There was the Dodge Aries, of course, but that name was wasted on a car that Chrysler, in a moment of marketing genius, had already named after the letter K.) I know I would jump at the chance to own a Toyota Saggitarius or an Oldsmobile Cancer. Actually, GM doesn't make Oldsmobiles any more, do they? I wonder why not. Most companies would kill for a brand that suggests the product is outdated as soon as it's rolled off the assembly line. As if to indicate that the division was in on its last legs, in the mid-80s GM came out with the Oldsmobile Omega, the most ominous sounding car name since the AMC Death Knell.

I don't actually know anything about cars, of course, and like most people I fill the gap in my knowledge with fear and superstition. This is why automobiles and astrology are such a perfect fit. Why stand on the side of the road with your hood up acting like you're trying to figure out if the fetzer valve is properly connected to the flux capacitor, when you could just blame the problem on the alignment of the planets and wait for a towtruck? Speaking of which, I should go call my mechanic, because my Saturn is in retrograde again.

Friends Olde and Gnu

Well, the day that I have been waiting for is almost here. According to MySpace, I now have 9 friends, which is 8 more than I had in grade school. And I think the teacher is technically required to be your friend, so I'm not sure that even counts. Anyway, I'm this close to having double-digits. I've got a couple of requests out, so here's hoping Waiting4Luv_17 or DungeonMaster1975 find me worthy. In the meantime I've taken a screenshot testifying to my current friend total, in case some of my current friends back out, like that time the guys and I went snipe hunting in junior high. I'd post the screenshot on my MySpace page, but it seems really difficult. What, do I have to upload it to some image hosting service and then link to the url from my blog? What a pain. Did I mention that I build web applications for a living? I'm developing my own version of MySpace called "An unexpected error occurred." That way, millions of MySpace users will be bombarded by advertising for my site every day. MySpace is the kind of website that makes web developers everywhere think, "Holy crap, why am I working so hard? I should just throw a bunch of open source components together, come up with a catchy name and wait for the desperate singles ad revenue to start rollin' in."

Anyway, it's that kind of cynicism that draws potential friends to me like flies. Or, to complete the simile, like flies to those sticky strips coated with stuff that smells so bad that you can kind of see why flies like it. Why am I so cynical? I attribute it to an incident in 7th grade, where I was required to list the books of the Old Testament in order on a Bible test. I completed the assignment flawlessly, and then for an added flourish I wrote "Ye Olde Testament" across the top in flowery letters. The result? Minus 7 points for misspelling "Old." That's right, I know how to spell "Habbakuk," but "Old" was giving me some trouble. Better mark me down so I'll be sure to work on that for next time. The joke was on the teacher, though. Next week we did the New Testament, or as I like to refer to it, the "Gnu Testament." Best 7 points I ever spent.

I'd like to think that my cynicism has increased the quality of my friends even as it decreases the quantity. After all, you have to be a really special person to put up with me. Hmm, I just checked, and I'm still holding steady at 9. Maybe I should look up my 7th grade teacher. I'm sure he could use some gnu frends.

Dispatches from the Displaced Plutocracy

For those of you who haven't heard yet, I've got some bad news: terrorists have blown up Pluto. I know it seems impossible, but I totally saw most of something about it on the news, and it's true. There is no longer a planet Pluto. No word on who is responsible yet, but I assure you there is no truth to the rumor that I was recently spotted in the vicinity by my very elderly mother.

Despite the lack of leads, the Bush administration has vowed swift and certain vengeance. I have it on good authority that they are working on a plan to attack Alderaan, on the grounds that Tantooine is too remote for an effective demonstration. Of course, there is no room for unilateralism in an interplanetary war. We'll need the help of Admiral Akbar, which means buttering up the Mon Calamari. Mmmmm.... Buttered calamari....

But I digress. We must not allow our jingoistic ferver to cloud the issue. This war, like all wars, will end some day. But no victory, no matter how distracting, will change the fact that from this day on, whenever you travel to Neptune and stare out at the cosmos, all you will see is Uranus.

Reflections from a Basket Case

Being a hot air balloon captain is a lonely existence. I imagine. I've never actually been in a hot air balloon, but I have spent several hours alone in a wicker basket, and it's no picnic. It's close to a picnic, but not close enough that you can actually have a slice of watermelon or play red rover with the other kids in your Sunday School class. Yes, you're hiding in a picnic basket because you forgot to put on pants that morning. Technically you didn't forget to put them on; you merely forgot the importance of putting them on -- a fine distinction, I'll admit. It's like when you forget that you're not supposed to drink alcohol while you're on cold medication, and that LSD technically isn't cold medication, and then you spend the rest of the day trying to peel your hardwood floors with a soup spoon.

So there you are in a picnic basket, reassessing your priorities, "pants" having shot to the top of the list. What you don't realize at the moment is that this incident will become on of your most cherished childhood memories. Yes, that's how bad the rest of your childhood will be in comparison.

I try to keep this in mind when dealing with my own children. It's not enough just to love your children, to feed and shelter them, and to make sure they receive adequate overtime compensation for double shifts at the sheet metal plant. Sometimes you have to make an effort to create memories with your children. For example, the other morning I was making school lunches for my two children, Will and Maddie. Will, who is seven, asked me why I was making three sandwiches instead of two. Seizing on what I recognized as a "teachable moment," I explained gently to my son that the third sandwich was for his older brother Chuck, who had mysteriously disappeared after the first season, but who might still return some day. Oh sure, I knew it wasn't true, but Will didn't need to know that. He would learn soon enough that Chuck was a superfluous character, and that the popularity of a local hoodlum would ensure that Chuck would never again shoot hoops in the driveway at dusk, dispensing brotherly advice.

Maybe that's the real lesson in all this. It could be that in the end we're all Chucks, characters who don't quite fit in with the rest of the cast, who fear being eclipsed by charismatic pseudo-Italians and child actors who would really rather direct. Maybe we're all doomed to be cut after the first season, never to be thought of again.

Review: The Widow of Turmeric Falls

I've always wanted to make a movie. I've also kind of always wanted to be a big-time movie critic. As neither of those dreams is likely to come true, I've decided to simply write a review of the movie that I would have made if I weren't such a loser. Here it is.

The Widow of Turmeric Falls, the first effort by novice writer/director Quasimofo, is a dismal and sordid work, full of promise and yet failing to deliver on virtually every level. The writing is pedestrian, filled with lines like, "Where's a good old fashioned bottle of whiskey when you need one?" and "He would have killed her if he had had the chance. But she was already dead. And so was he."

The film's elaborate premise should have been ample fodder for an intriguing psychological thriller: A mentally challenged man, long thought dead, returns to the site of his apparent murder only to be mistaken for his own killer. He is tried and executed by a jury of vigilante hillbillies in a sham trial occuring during Superbowl halftime. Years later, a woman claiming to be the man's wife shows up to seek her revenge, only to find that the ring-leader of the court is in fact her own father, as well as the father of the victim (and supposed murderer). Quasimofo tacks on some additional twists to keep us guessing, but unfortunately the "surprise" ending is telegraphed by an arty black and white montage occuring during the opening credits.

The camera work is amateurish, alternating inexplicably between a jittery hand held camera and a slightly less jittery camera attached to a long bamboo pole. The latter third of the film is essentially a Powerpoint Presentation, which drains the climax of much of its dramatic impact. The sound effects are excellent, but about ten minutes in I realized that Quasimofo had merely lifted the entire soundtrack from Apocalypse Now. The music is a combination of lousy Europop and what sounds like Aerosmith B-sides.

Quasimofo, who was known primarily for his extensive dental work prior to the release of this film, is mercifully absent from the cast. The lead is a physically unimpressive Filipino actor identified only as Kosmik XXX, who seems to be trying to channel early Brando, but sounds more like late Tony Danza with a bad head cold. Quasimofo's wife Julia is stunning in the female lead role, but there is no chemistry between the two actors -- a situation that is not helped by the fact that the director insisted that the two remain at least 50 feet apart in all scenes.

There is one enjoyable scene, in which the characters watch the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer gets a hot tub, but it's too little, too late. The rest of the movie makes you yearn for the early days of Quasimofo's career -- the days before he had actually made a film.

Does Quasimofo have a future as a filmmaker? That depends on how much money he has. He's not likely to earn much on this movie, so that's heartening. But dreams don't die easily, and a director with such vision is unlikely to see the writing on the wall. There is a rumor that "Widow II: Death Doesn't Take No for an Answer" is already in the works. And like it or not, it's my job to go see it.

What I learned this morning from a sea turtle

I was accosted this morning by a large sea turtle. I had arisen early to steal the neighbor's newspaper (I cancelled my subscription when I learned the editor was a freethinker and a bigamist), and just as I stepped outside, I saw it. The turtle must have been a good 5 feet long and 3.5 feet wide(these are shell measurements), and I would estimate that it weighed at least 200 pounds. I certainly couldn't lift him, and I'm hella strong. I attribute my exceptional strength to a daily regimen of vitamins and backgammon, although I'm also 1/32 Apache Indian, so that's sort of an X factor.

It's hard to say what the turtle wanted. He insisted that I relate his demands to the world in Cantonese, and my accent isn't so good. Frankly, I had some difficulty understanding him as well. At first I thought he wanted all the tops to my old cereal boxes, but upon retrospection that may have been due to some baseless preconceptions on my part. It's really not fair to make generalizations about all sea turtles based on a single previous experience.

Having learned my lesson about stereotyping and intolerance, I shot him. I abhor violence, except when it comes to large things I fear and don't understand. I guess I'll never know what he wanted. Maybe just a chance to live out his dreams, to laugh, to fall in love, to experience new things, to see if he could hold his breath longer than all the other sea turtles in his class to impress some girl sea turtle who is busy talking on her cell phone and putting on nail polish at a green light with like sixteen other sea turtles honking their horns behind her. Who can say?

I buried him in the backyard with all my old cereal box tops, just in case.