The ornaments look pretty, but they’re pulling down the branches of the tree.
Over the last decade, maybe longer, there has been an apparent war on Christmas. And just like the “war on drugs”, it will be a constant, never ending problem for people who are concerned and an undemanding annoyance to the others who simply don’t give a shit.
People get angry when somebody says to them, “happy holidays,” instead of “Merry Christmas.” Why? Why get angry? First of all—now I’m not a master of the English language (in fact, I got a C in regular English my Sophomore year of high school)—but if you celebrate Christmas and New Years within a week of each other, that would pluralize the word “Holiday.” If anything, people of Buddhist religion should be offended by such a statement (all they get is New Years and Nirvana). Secondly, if you get really upset when somebody, whether it be a store clerk, mailman, or a kickball referee who seemingly makes up the rules during a playoff game, says to you, “happy holidays,” would you rather them say “take care,” “goodbye,” or “smell you later?” Would you rather them not say nothing at all? I guess what I am trying to say is that when somebody tells me, “happy holidays,” or “have a nice holiday” I am, even for a moment, reminded of what this season means—family, friends, celebration, reunion, crab cakes, ugly yet awesome sweaters, and another copy of Pearl Jams VS (quick note: just because I like the band, doesn’t mean I need another copy of their critically acclaimed, best selling CD).
There is also a lot of controversy about companies like Best Buy, who use the word “holiday” during the “holidays.” And really, again, who gives a shit? Do you really care if the guy selling a 76 inch TV 10% less under a deal called a “holiday sale” really affects the sanctity of the birth of our Savior? The point is, whatever you call it, whatever it is; the meaning behind it is far greater than any word or any phrase preached by man.
I am a Christian. I do understand that the 25th of December is, most likely, not the actual anniversary of Jesus coming to earth, but the annual day we as humans acknowledge the night the Lord popped out of Mary. But, as a Christian, praising God and thanking Him for Jesus, is something I do everyday. Christmas, however, is a bit different, a bit more special. And the reason this is to be is directly associated with the lure around the season.
Traditionally, the opening of the Christmas season is on Thanksgiving (unless you’re Sears, in which case it is August). This is because Thanksgiving is the last holiday before Christmas and it is conveniently one month before the holiday (thus giving plenty of time to get gifts). So as a kid, this was the day you made your present list…
Now a few years ago a great, local, social philosopher named Basenfelder (I forget which Basenfelder it was exactly) created a fool proof plan to get the absolute number one gift on your list. Say you wanted a Playstation Two and Madden 2003, which is a very expensive gift. If you were to comprise a list of things like the new Strokes album or a VHS of Bad Boys 2, and then add to that list Playstation Two and Madden 2003, your parents are more inclined to go with the cheaper gifts (like the action packed thriller ride starring Will Smith and Martin Lawrence). The point is; if you provide a choice between gifts, the parents will most likely go for the least expensive. So what you have to do is comprise a list so outlandish that everything else seems a bit mediocre in comparison.
Say you want that Madden ’03. Now, don’t come off the bat wishing for it right away. In the Basenfelder plan, asking for presents is like dating a girl; bringing a condom on a first date can be a turn off. You don’t want to be too straightforward. Now, this may go against the modern form the Christmas asking process—if Christmas movies from the 50s-1994 have taught us anything, it is that one must plead with your parents to the point of tears for your favorite gift until you find that Christmas is about family values (in which case when you learn this lesson, the gift will miraculously appear before the end credits)…But no, this plan, the Basenfelder plan, has you holding on to your wish until the very last second.
You must first ask for a trip to the moon or Antarctica. Then for a horse. And then for the government to deregulate Four Loco before your date with the girl from Alpha Omega Tri. Then for Canada. Just ask your parents for Canada. Now get a little softer. Ask for the entire collection Masterpiece Theater on Blueray or a one year old Samoyed. Then gradually get less expensive until you reached the bottom of your list, which will be the Playstation Two and Madden ’03. Your parents will have no choice…suckers. Compared to the horse ride on the moon, Playstation Two is a perfectly assessable gift. And before you know it, you’ll be playing with Donovan McNabb on the easy level dominating the other teams until he screws up too many times and gets traded to Washington, who will ultimately bench him for Rex Grossman, all on your brand new Playstation Two. EA Sports: It’s in the game! And it’s a Christmas Miracle!!!
……………….
It’s all in the magic of Christmas. You know, it may be balmy to get caught up in the world of presents. But the idea of giving somebody you love a gift once a year and having a gift given to you, whatever that gift may be, kind of says something about our society. In this rush hush world of Facebook, Blackberries, and Coke Zero, it’s really nice to have a day where everything shuts down and people remember “the love we take is equal to the love we make.” And whether you are religious or not, that’s what Christmas does.
Now although Basenfelder may have rolled his eyes when I wrote about my belief in God’s visit to earth, he was one who truly understood and valued the holiday of Christmas. I feel that whether you are personally an Atheist, Christian, Buddhist, Jewish, or Canadian, the idea of friends and family traveling distances, short and long, to get together under one roof. To have dinner and talk about the year. To speak with frank certainty and careful thought. To reflect. To love. To argue. To forgive. To be as one. That it is a true day of celebration. And whatever you call it or for whatever reason you do it, nothing will take away it’s impact. It is used as a yearly reflection and time of comradely. And if the business of Christmas allows for families, who would not normally see each other, get together, than isn’t it all worth it?
Who gives a shit if people say, Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, or Go Fuck Yourself—nothing takes away the celebration of amicableness and the honor of love that comes with Christmas—whether it is 12 days, 12 hours, or just a few minutes on the phone. Soooo……
HAPPY HOLIDAYS! FROM YOUR FRIENDS AT MY BLOG. (WHICH IS JUST ME) (MEANING, YOU HAVE ONE FRIEND)
Quick program note: I actually don’t know if it was Steve Basenfelder or John Basenfelder or even Josh Barbash who told me about the Christmas Present Plan. It could have been nobody. It could have been just me thinking about this plan while I was simply just hanging out with one of the Bases.’ Either way, earlier in this article I definitely stole a line from Johnny Base, and it’s from a speech he gave in either the late 90s or the very early 2000s. Can you guess which one?
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Measure for Measure
This one is for the artist, the person who hates art, and the people in between (not to be confused with everyone)
What it means to say you know what it means to be art.
I guess art is a fun word to say. We use it all the time. Some people say “the art of” something. Even if the something has nothing to do with art. Saying there is an art behind ANYTHING means that the (insert anything here) has a bit more meaning. “The art of using public restrooms” is just a nice way of saying, “how to shit without touching the seat.” The problem with using the word “art” is that as soon as you do, it is automatically qualified for criticism. People absolutely love criticizing art. But this is not a bad thing. If people are inheritably able of criticism, they are inheritably able of acceptance. Art is in our blood. In our brain. In our balls. This instinctual criticism is at the level in which, when somebody doesn’t like a painting, it as though they believe the painter consciously was trying insult them. When I see a 50 foot paper clip in Center City I reflexively think the artist was actually trying to piss me off.
But Chuck, art is an expression of self:
If art did not matter to people, people wouldn’t feel anything when they viewed it. Music, film, paintings, and photographs all have meaning to everyone. However, if it has no meaning to the person doing it, does it have meaning at all? Is it even art? Say, if the film, Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch meant nothing to a single person, including to the most naïve of children or dogs—if it literally was not enjoyed by a single breathing creature—but if the filmmaker put his true soul into, expressing his complete self, how can you not call it art? Or if George Lucas put nothing into nor could care less about Star Wars—if he worked on it just as if it were a job at a salt mill—can it still be considered an art? Or would Star Wars just a hobby for nerds? Now, of course I think Lucas put his heart into Star Wars and Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch was made solely for monetary gains (not artistic value), but the point is that art starts and ends with the artist. The process of analyzing the art is somewhere in the middle.
I consider filmmaking, for the most part, to be an art form. And though the final cut is a collection of expressions from many artist; the director, the writer, the actors, the set designer, the DP, costume designer, ect, the ultimate achievement is the art. A painter expresses you the world through what he feels. And on a smaller (and sometimes more intimate) scale, this process is similar to the way the filmmaker express’s himself. In either art form, generally speaking, the artist first experiences life then reflects upon it. This reflection may not be completely true to the experience, art can be a balance between cogitation and creativity. Johnny Cash may have only stayed in jail for a few days at the most, but he can certainly sing about a lifetime in Folsom Prison.
When I go to the cinema (I say cinema because it’s classier than saying movies) with people or I watch a film in a crowded living room, I often hear someone point out the fallacy of a particularly scene. They’ll say, “There’s no way that could happen,” or “people don’t talk like that in real life.” And for a few moments, I think to myself, “Well, duh, it’s a movie…I wonder if they’ll mind if I put hot sauce on the popcorn. I love hot sauce on popcorn. I just don’t want to ask them straight up, because maybe they will think I’m weird. Ah, I’m sure they would like it if they tried it… kind of like watching hockey. There you go, putting hot sauce on popcorn is the hockey of food. It may seem like a mess at first, but once you start, you’ll never turn your head… I’ll write that in my blog. Marks, you are a genius.” Anyway, when I get the “people don’t talk like that in real life,” what I would like to point out to them that the film is not real life. These are ALL fictional characters. These are ALL fictional lines. This whole world is fictional. And though the people are humans and not robots and the places are usually real, like New York (where a lot of films take place), it is still all fake. Whether a narrative filmmaker bends the truth of the world to the extreme or not at all, it is and will always be fiction. If you want to watch a film completely accurate to real life, watch CSPAN or security video’s from elevators. Even so called Reality TV is so controlled and cut so delicately that it creates false moments in subjects lives—highlighting certain conversations or certain situations that would otherwise (in real life) be totally unmemorable. Just add some dramatic music and cut to a commercial and any life moment can be a cliff hanger. Is that reality?
Chapter Two:
Recently, an old friend and cultural philosopher told me sports take our instinctual thirst for war and destruction and places it in a controlled setting, which is significant sign of a civilized society. Though there can be violence which stems from sports (I was almost in a fight twice during a kickball game a few weeks ago), for the most part sports is an outlet or a medium to express competitiveness than can otherwise go to (perhaps) war, battling, dueling, and other channels of aggression. I know that people like Rand Paul would like dueling to be around again, but I’ll stick with watching The Flyers.
There are many things that go into having a civilized society. I believe that we are critical of art because we know we need it to survive as a society. It helps us understand society. And when we see art that doesn’t help us understand our world, we can sometimes shun it as though it has failed us. I even feel like a failure as I view it. If I make it through an entire, one hour long episode of Jersey Shore, with commercials, I actually feel like a failed—as if by seeing that the show was on, life gave me a pop quiz.
Now this says more about me than the makers of the show. I certainly do not blame the creators of Jersey Shore for people watching Jersey Shore. Their intentions and goals were to, with the help of hint fabrication, document a particular kind of character from a particular kind of culture that was previously only seen on youTube or the boardwalk. The intellectual problem with the show is not caused by the colorful characters nor is it the flamboyant theme; it’s that we never learn anything about the souls or thoughts of the characters. It is as though the characters (Pauly D, Snooki, and company) are used like animals in a zoo. We know very well how they act, but we no nothing of how they feel. And for this same exact reason, the show succeeds.
Which brings us to another, yet more confusing issue; we as a society still love crap.
But how is this true? If a film is trying to be intelligent, yet comes up short, we for some reason dislike it more than a product which has no goal of intelligence. I know a lot of very smart people who absolutely despise Juno, yet find Jersey Shore totally acceptable. I suppose it is easier or perhaps more fun to point out the dumb parts in a smart product than to point out the smart parts of a dumb product. It is though we want to prove that the smart product is certainly not smarter than us, and that we are smart enough to enjoy things seemingly stupid. It’s like smart, college kids who ironically watch Sponge Bob or Friday the 13th. “I’m smart enough to see pass the stupidity.”
This is a prime example of how we as humans are instinctively competitive. (See how I go full circle?)
Pointing out the flaws in films is a way for people to win a battle with a defenseless entity. It’s like arguing with a barking puppy. People should just look pass the barking part and admire how Dodger wags her little fluffy tail. If we go through life pointing out what is wrong with it, we will never see how cute it is when it chases its tail.
Chapter 3: Pearl Jam
I love the flaws. Perfect art is not perfect to life simply because life is not perfect. With the exception of Back to the Future, is there such a thing as perfect art?
I think a lot of people could agree that most of Beethoven’s symphonies are the most perfect pieces of music ever assembled. As much as musical brilliance as anyone could ever achieve or comprehend. Take everyone who would agree with that statement and ask them if they prefer to listen to Beethoven 9th over their favorite rock album. What would they say?
When I listen to bands like The Beatles, Radiohead, or Wilco, I think to myself that their music is perfect rock and roll. I have also been to 42 out of 50 states in America, and feel that New York is the greatest city in the country. However, Philadelphia* is my favorite city and Pearl Jam is my favorite band.
It’s hard to say there is more stuff to do in Philly than New York or that Yield is musically better than Kid A. I’m not trying to make that argument. But I love Philly and Pearl Jam for very similar reasons; the imperfections. Pearl Jam reminds me of myself; energetic at times, emotional at others, straightforward, sometimes profound, and sometimes full of crap. I like Eddie Vedder because he rambles nonsensically for many minutes, yet is sincere with what he says. Vedder doesn’t succeed all the time, but he tries. Life is a batty mixture between candor and bullshit; I feel Pearl Jam is the same way.
I could never write a song as good as any Pearl Jam song, yet I feel like I can. This, for whatever reason, makes me feel good when I listen to them. I feel like the imperfections in their music, both live and on disk, is similar to my own failures and success.
I am Pearl Jam.
*this can be explained in my blog titled, The Philadelphia Story. Go ahead, read it some time. Not now of course, you have another chapter to go.
Chapter Four:
I was watching the Eagles game with a friend of mine and a commercial came on asking for money for a youth centered organization. It was like the YMCA, yet I feel it was some other organization…so let’s just call it the YMCA. During this commercial for the “YMCA,” the ad in some way or another mentioned that the group was, “allowing kids to go on field trips,” then, “allowing kids to learn about space (or some shit)” and then finally, “allowing our kids to explore the world of the arts.” Now it wasn’t until this last part when my friend said, “I’ll support the other stuff, but I’m not going to give to the arts.” This bothered me a bit. Those little minority children reminded me of myself when I was that age. I was that kid in High School who prayed for funding for artistic activities.
I, of course, understand the need to promote the sciences and mathematics and field trips—these things are obvious. It’s less obvious to point out the importance of the arts because what society gains from the arts is not seen physically. Rockets and iPods don’t come from Shakespeare. But the arts are just as important because its creates the gift of free thought. Sure, we can concentrate exclusively on construction of property and advancement of comfort through technology, but to have life with this narrow isolation—to live under the notion that all we need is food, shelter, and water, metaphysically speaking we will be nothing more than any other mammal on earth. If we received God’s gift of reason and critical thought, wouldn’t it be a waste not to use it? Would you really want a world just black and white and robotic with existence?
The arts undermine the establishment, but yet the establishment is completely fine with it. Music is, was, and will always be the simplest, and yet, at the same time the most complicated form of communication. A picture is worth a thousand words, yet a million thoughts. Films and theater show examples of life, love, and loss—they are used for reflection and advice. We need these things like we need water. The iPod has been around for 10 years. Automobiles have been around for over a hundred years. But art has been around forever. And it will always be.
Here’s the moral of the story; you need the arts…dick.
What it means to say you know what it means to be art.
I guess art is a fun word to say. We use it all the time. Some people say “the art of” something. Even if the something has nothing to do with art. Saying there is an art behind ANYTHING means that the (insert anything here) has a bit more meaning. “The art of using public restrooms” is just a nice way of saying, “how to shit without touching the seat.” The problem with using the word “art” is that as soon as you do, it is automatically qualified for criticism. People absolutely love criticizing art. But this is not a bad thing. If people are inheritably able of criticism, they are inheritably able of acceptance. Art is in our blood. In our brain. In our balls. This instinctual criticism is at the level in which, when somebody doesn’t like a painting, it as though they believe the painter consciously was trying insult them. When I see a 50 foot paper clip in Center City I reflexively think the artist was actually trying to piss me off.
But Chuck, art is an expression of self:
If art did not matter to people, people wouldn’t feel anything when they viewed it. Music, film, paintings, and photographs all have meaning to everyone. However, if it has no meaning to the person doing it, does it have meaning at all? Is it even art? Say, if the film, Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch meant nothing to a single person, including to the most naïve of children or dogs—if it literally was not enjoyed by a single breathing creature—but if the filmmaker put his true soul into, expressing his complete self, how can you not call it art? Or if George Lucas put nothing into nor could care less about Star Wars—if he worked on it just as if it were a job at a salt mill—can it still be considered an art? Or would Star Wars just a hobby for nerds? Now, of course I think Lucas put his heart into Star Wars and Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch was made solely for monetary gains (not artistic value), but the point is that art starts and ends with the artist. The process of analyzing the art is somewhere in the middle.
I consider filmmaking, for the most part, to be an art form. And though the final cut is a collection of expressions from many artist; the director, the writer, the actors, the set designer, the DP, costume designer, ect, the ultimate achievement is the art. A painter expresses you the world through what he feels. And on a smaller (and sometimes more intimate) scale, this process is similar to the way the filmmaker express’s himself. In either art form, generally speaking, the artist first experiences life then reflects upon it. This reflection may not be completely true to the experience, art can be a balance between cogitation and creativity. Johnny Cash may have only stayed in jail for a few days at the most, but he can certainly sing about a lifetime in Folsom Prison.
When I go to the cinema (I say cinema because it’s classier than saying movies) with people or I watch a film in a crowded living room, I often hear someone point out the fallacy of a particularly scene. They’ll say, “There’s no way that could happen,” or “people don’t talk like that in real life.” And for a few moments, I think to myself, “Well, duh, it’s a movie…I wonder if they’ll mind if I put hot sauce on the popcorn. I love hot sauce on popcorn. I just don’t want to ask them straight up, because maybe they will think I’m weird. Ah, I’m sure they would like it if they tried it… kind of like watching hockey. There you go, putting hot sauce on popcorn is the hockey of food. It may seem like a mess at first, but once you start, you’ll never turn your head… I’ll write that in my blog. Marks, you are a genius.” Anyway, when I get the “people don’t talk like that in real life,” what I would like to point out to them that the film is not real life. These are ALL fictional characters. These are ALL fictional lines. This whole world is fictional. And though the people are humans and not robots and the places are usually real, like New York (where a lot of films take place), it is still all fake. Whether a narrative filmmaker bends the truth of the world to the extreme or not at all, it is and will always be fiction. If you want to watch a film completely accurate to real life, watch CSPAN or security video’s from elevators. Even so called Reality TV is so controlled and cut so delicately that it creates false moments in subjects lives—highlighting certain conversations or certain situations that would otherwise (in real life) be totally unmemorable. Just add some dramatic music and cut to a commercial and any life moment can be a cliff hanger. Is that reality?
Chapter Two:
Recently, an old friend and cultural philosopher told me sports take our instinctual thirst for war and destruction and places it in a controlled setting, which is significant sign of a civilized society. Though there can be violence which stems from sports (I was almost in a fight twice during a kickball game a few weeks ago), for the most part sports is an outlet or a medium to express competitiveness than can otherwise go to (perhaps) war, battling, dueling, and other channels of aggression. I know that people like Rand Paul would like dueling to be around again, but I’ll stick with watching The Flyers.
There are many things that go into having a civilized society. I believe that we are critical of art because we know we need it to survive as a society. It helps us understand society. And when we see art that doesn’t help us understand our world, we can sometimes shun it as though it has failed us. I even feel like a failure as I view it. If I make it through an entire, one hour long episode of Jersey Shore, with commercials, I actually feel like a failed—as if by seeing that the show was on, life gave me a pop quiz.
Now this says more about me than the makers of the show. I certainly do not blame the creators of Jersey Shore for people watching Jersey Shore. Their intentions and goals were to, with the help of hint fabrication, document a particular kind of character from a particular kind of culture that was previously only seen on youTube or the boardwalk. The intellectual problem with the show is not caused by the colorful characters nor is it the flamboyant theme; it’s that we never learn anything about the souls or thoughts of the characters. It is as though the characters (Pauly D, Snooki, and company) are used like animals in a zoo. We know very well how they act, but we no nothing of how they feel. And for this same exact reason, the show succeeds.
Which brings us to another, yet more confusing issue; we as a society still love crap.
But how is this true? If a film is trying to be intelligent, yet comes up short, we for some reason dislike it more than a product which has no goal of intelligence. I know a lot of very smart people who absolutely despise Juno, yet find Jersey Shore totally acceptable. I suppose it is easier or perhaps more fun to point out the dumb parts in a smart product than to point out the smart parts of a dumb product. It is though we want to prove that the smart product is certainly not smarter than us, and that we are smart enough to enjoy things seemingly stupid. It’s like smart, college kids who ironically watch Sponge Bob or Friday the 13th. “I’m smart enough to see pass the stupidity.”
This is a prime example of how we as humans are instinctively competitive. (See how I go full circle?)
Pointing out the flaws in films is a way for people to win a battle with a defenseless entity. It’s like arguing with a barking puppy. People should just look pass the barking part and admire how Dodger wags her little fluffy tail. If we go through life pointing out what is wrong with it, we will never see how cute it is when it chases its tail.
Chapter 3: Pearl Jam
I love the flaws. Perfect art is not perfect to life simply because life is not perfect. With the exception of Back to the Future, is there such a thing as perfect art?
I think a lot of people could agree that most of Beethoven’s symphonies are the most perfect pieces of music ever assembled. As much as musical brilliance as anyone could ever achieve or comprehend. Take everyone who would agree with that statement and ask them if they prefer to listen to Beethoven 9th over their favorite rock album. What would they say?
When I listen to bands like The Beatles, Radiohead, or Wilco, I think to myself that their music is perfect rock and roll. I have also been to 42 out of 50 states in America, and feel that New York is the greatest city in the country. However, Philadelphia* is my favorite city and Pearl Jam is my favorite band.
It’s hard to say there is more stuff to do in Philly than New York or that Yield is musically better than Kid A. I’m not trying to make that argument. But I love Philly and Pearl Jam for very similar reasons; the imperfections. Pearl Jam reminds me of myself; energetic at times, emotional at others, straightforward, sometimes profound, and sometimes full of crap. I like Eddie Vedder because he rambles nonsensically for many minutes, yet is sincere with what he says. Vedder doesn’t succeed all the time, but he tries. Life is a batty mixture between candor and bullshit; I feel Pearl Jam is the same way.
I could never write a song as good as any Pearl Jam song, yet I feel like I can. This, for whatever reason, makes me feel good when I listen to them. I feel like the imperfections in their music, both live and on disk, is similar to my own failures and success.
I am Pearl Jam.
*this can be explained in my blog titled, The Philadelphia Story. Go ahead, read it some time. Not now of course, you have another chapter to go.
Chapter Four:
I was watching the Eagles game with a friend of mine and a commercial came on asking for money for a youth centered organization. It was like the YMCA, yet I feel it was some other organization…so let’s just call it the YMCA. During this commercial for the “YMCA,” the ad in some way or another mentioned that the group was, “allowing kids to go on field trips,” then, “allowing kids to learn about space (or some shit)” and then finally, “allowing our kids to explore the world of the arts.” Now it wasn’t until this last part when my friend said, “I’ll support the other stuff, but I’m not going to give to the arts.” This bothered me a bit. Those little minority children reminded me of myself when I was that age. I was that kid in High School who prayed for funding for artistic activities.
I, of course, understand the need to promote the sciences and mathematics and field trips—these things are obvious. It’s less obvious to point out the importance of the arts because what society gains from the arts is not seen physically. Rockets and iPods don’t come from Shakespeare. But the arts are just as important because its creates the gift of free thought. Sure, we can concentrate exclusively on construction of property and advancement of comfort through technology, but to have life with this narrow isolation—to live under the notion that all we need is food, shelter, and water, metaphysically speaking we will be nothing more than any other mammal on earth. If we received God’s gift of reason and critical thought, wouldn’t it be a waste not to use it? Would you really want a world just black and white and robotic with existence?
The arts undermine the establishment, but yet the establishment is completely fine with it. Music is, was, and will always be the simplest, and yet, at the same time the most complicated form of communication. A picture is worth a thousand words, yet a million thoughts. Films and theater show examples of life, love, and loss—they are used for reflection and advice. We need these things like we need water. The iPod has been around for 10 years. Automobiles have been around for over a hundred years. But art has been around forever. And it will always be.
Here’s the moral of the story; you need the arts…dick.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Music and Women and Garlic Mashed Potatoes
It was in the early stages of Chuck when:
In the late 1990s, as a youngster in grade school, I invented the flip ‘up in the front’ hair style and the iPod. Though other people like Steve Jobs and Carson Daily took credit for both of these things, it was I who truly first came up with each concept. Growing up with my grandparents I was introduced to the hair style ‘up in the front’ look while I watched 50s and 50s style TV shows like Leave it to Beaver and Happy Days where predominate characters in each had the hair due exactly like a young Chuck Marks. So obviously, I didn’t “invent” the hair style, but I re-introduced it to youth of the 90s. As a third grader, when everyone was socially into the elementary school version of grunge (Ace of Spades), I was kicking it with the ‘up in the front’ look. It wasn’t until 6th grade, when people graduated to the Backstreet Boys, that they realize I was right, and before you know it everyone was using level 8 max hold Xtreme hair gel to completely flatten every inch of their skulls except the very inch from their forehead thus creating a “up in the front” look. Then when I did it everyone called me a poser. Later that year I stopped gelling my hair and started listening to Pearl Jam.
As disappointing as it is to not receive credit for UITF (up in the front), it is much harder to realize that I was the one who came up with the iPod and not get my proper due. Hair styles come and go but Steve Jobs will always be a weirdo. It’s not like I told Steve Jobs my idea, so certainly he did not steal it. And it’s not like I wrote him a letter; at that time, computer screens were still black and green and I was receiving extra help in English (though it was my native tongue). I guess the idea sparked as I was struggling to listen through a scratched and skipping compact disk. See, no matter how much a took care of my CDs, no matter what I did, they always, always wound up scratching. (If I only knew that my CDs would be a prelude to my love life I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and actually studied in school instead of thinking about women… In the end, with CDs and relationships, thinking back I could have given a bit more effort.) Anyway, as our family was coming back from a Christmas party in New Jersey, my CD (being played by a CD player with a 30 ESP), was skipping like little school girl. I put the CD player down in disgust and ask my father how songs get put onto CDs and why CDs were so sensitive. He first said that CDs were not that sensitive and that I just don’t take care of things the way I should. After a lecture on how to properly put my bike away, he then professed that information gets digitally placed on the CD and the player reads the info off of the CD to create the sound, which in my case he claimed was shitty. After defending Beck’s album Odelay for a few inconvincible minutes, I said that the walkman companies should just put the information directly on the CD player without using the CDs. And just call it a player, thus throwing the whole concept of a compact disk out the window… My whole family said it was a good idea, and then we started complaining about garlic mashed potatoes. Now it was understood that garlic mashed potatoes can be a good add on for a meal of this caliber, a Christmas meal, but one also has to have real mashed potatoes too, I mean it’s Christmas not Flag Day. Aunt Dotty didn’t think so. And when I, plate filled with biscuits, turkey, crab cake, stuffing, cole slaw, and other fixings, looked for the potatoes, Aunt Dotty pointed solely to the garlic mashed potatoes. I carefully chuckled, thinking it was a Christmas joke. I looked at the counter behind me. I looked in the oven. I looked in the cupboards. The refrigerator. The Microwave. Behind the couch. Then I realized that there is no such thing as a Christmas joke. This was a Christmas reality. No regular, American made, terrorist free, mashed potatoes. Instead, drastically replaced, Al-Qaeda loving, Mussolini style, garlic mashed potatoes. If there is an antonym for the phrase “Christmas Miracle”, I would use it. And if it wasn’t for Twisted Metal Two on Playstation one, Christmas would have been ruined forever.
Now, over ten years later, my invention the iPod is one of my favorite devices. I have become addicted to it. But like all drugs, the good ones at least, there are some side effects. For one, I can no longer go for a run without listening to the This American Life, Preston and Steve, Adam Carolla, or the Fresh Air podcast (nothing gets me pumped up like Terry Gross). Since I am conditioned to have something playing in my ear while I run at all times, when my jog last an hour or more, I am not able to bear my own thoughts. I keep thinking to myself, “You’re a bad runner because you are a bad person. You are a bad runner because you are a bad person.” I need a little Ira Glass to help me along and get my mind off of things.
But that’s more of a personal problem…
One technical problem with the iPod is something you (as a musician) can take advantage of:
When the iPod is touched inappropriately and goes into the PLAY ALL mode, the songs start aphetically. I can not comprehend the total number of times I inadvertently heard the synthesize drums on the opening seconds of Ah-Ha Take on Me. I can’t be the only one who ever made this mistake.
Though I play the drums and guitar, I am by no means a musician nor do I ever aspire to be in a band (and If I were to ever drum for a band, I assure you that it wouldn’t be a good enough band that could get me hot, tattoo chicks with bangs. Or a band that would ever be on someone’s iPod.) But, as a guy who owns an iPod, I would suggest this to someone with musical skills; whatever your band name may be make sure it starts with an A. If your name is, for example, The AAA’s, and somebody just so happen to have your band on their iPod, but they don’t go out of their way to listen to you, they will be forced to listen to at least the first couple of seconds of your song every single time they touch their iPod inappropriately. Your band could be the next Ah-Ha. See, every time my iPod PLAYS ALL, I am reminded of Ah-Ha. For at least 3 minutes, I think about Ah-Ha. I think about that fun pencil cartoon music video. I think about 80s films. I think about Val Kilmer as a teenager. And if your band was called The AAA’s, I would think about you.*
This is a technical problem, but:
One of the biggest side effects from the iPod, on a societal level, is a much more exigent matter to discuss. Most of us in our mid-twenties can claim that growing up we listened to our music on either a walkman cassette or a CD player. The magic of both of these devices is that it was required to listen to whole albums all the way through. I guess in theory you could skip your way to your favorite song, which is perfectly fine, but if you chose not to sit there in your Grandpa’s Ford Escort in silence, you were kind of forced to listen to the rest of an album as well. This made the album, the record in its entirety, vitality in it self.
So think about this:
If Dark Side of the Moon made its debut in March of 2010, would it have the same effect as it did in March of 1973? Now, there are many different variables that go into this of course. For one, rock music was much more popular back in ’73 than it is now. So the music itself, if made today, would probably be celebrated amongst people who were into today’s version of that style of music rather than the, Justin Beaver centered, larger audience. But, because of the iPod and iTunes, I argue, if Dark Side came out today there would be many more people downloading Money and Time rather than downloading and listening to the album in its entirety. And the lack of this notion, the lack of technology like iTunes which eludes people with the option to download just one or two songs, I say, is the reasons why Dark Side of the Moon has made such a mark on time…(that and it’s cool to fog the air and link the record up to The Wizard of Oz.) The point is I feel that the album is more appreciated because people were forced to listen to the whole thing.
Which poses another question, if an album that came out in the 2000s, but had the equal conception and exotic uniqueness of Dark Side of the Moon—say for example, if Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot came out in 1973, would it be now more of a house hold name? Even if a more conventional band, like the very popular group Nickelback were to make a dreadfully experimental concept album, would people listen to it? Or would they only listen to that song about photographs and guys named Joey. Would a band like Nickleback even exist if the iPod were not invented?
I wonder how many bands would not even exist if you couldn’t buy their single on iTunes.
Chapter Two:
There are only a few people, the ones born in my generation, know the true excitement of making a mix tape. Of course there are mix CDs, but for some reason it just doesn’t add up to the rush of putting together a solid mix tape. Sitting there with your hands on the STOP button, waiting for the perfect moment to end the song, followed by the impassioned analytical process of figuring out which song to play next—which of course is based on mood, tape motif, the ending of the previous song, and beginning of the next potential one. Sure, you get all of this pressure while making a mix CD, but if something doesn’t sound quite right—if the order of songs is not in perfect harmony—in a mix CD, the change you make in the playlist is unnoticed. However, when making a mix tape, if you decide to make a change, there will be a loud unavoidable click; therefore allowing the listener know that you’ve made an initial mistake, in which case you are named a failure and you get put on a list.
Making a mix tape also takes time. Unlike a mix CD, where all you have to do is listen to the first and last seconds of each song, when one makes a mix tape one must listen to the entire song. All the way through. And carefully. You can’t just put it on and walk away, you have to sit there and listen to it and stop the tape before the next song begins.
On a side note: whether it’s a tape or CD, putting two songs in order as they originally appear on the album is most likely cutting corners. There are exceptions, most notably, Queens We Will Rock You and We are the Champions.
No pain no gain: It’s really the effort you put in a mix tape that makes it unique and special. Making it easier to mix songs takes the sweat out of it. A sweat that only a few were likely enough to enjoy.
Plus it shows that you care…
I haven’t made a mix CD for a girl in years, but it’s been way longer since I have made a mix tape. I think if I met a girl who would enjoy listening to a mix tape, and had access to a tape player, I would marry her on the spot…
This ultimately brings us to how music affects my love life. See, I want to be able to have conversations with women about music. A girl can be of a different religion, race, or of a different political philosophy as me—she can literally say that we should go back to the gold standard, say that Global warming was created by Nancy Pelosi, be dreadfully convinced that (because of her vast foreign affairs experience) Sarah Palin can solve the Palestine / Israel problem, like garlic mashed potatoes, even love garlic mashed potatoes, be a Dallas Cowboys fan, hate ice cream, hate crab cakes, love canned cranberry sauce, absolutely hate cigarettes, absolutely love cigarettes, absolutely hate hamburgers, be literally the biggest fan of the Big Bang Theory, hates my blog, wears a DARE shirt non-ironically, absolutely love hamburgers, or thinks that Spin City was the only credible thing Michael J. Fox has ever done, and I would STILL like her and STILL date her and STILL marry her if I could have a 45 minute, intelligent conversation about Paul Simons Graceland or John Coltrane’s Giant Steps…and if she likes my two dogs. You know what? Even if the girl like today’s pop music, but hold’s an intelligent conversation about it, I could still dig it. If a girl can fully explain why the forth track of the latest Flo Rida record succeeds on a contextual and socially evocative level, that girl would still be the one for me. The point is, finding a girl who is truly and sincerely and intelligently into music, trumps all other qualities. So, I guess, if you are a girl and you read all of my ramblings on music that eventually got you to the end of this blog—to this very sentence you are reading right now and you were not bored, give me a call and let’s go on a date…you can even wear your vintage, McCain/Palin ‘08 shirt.
Chuck 0ut.
*If you are an artist, feel free to take the name The AAA’s. That is my gift to you.
In the late 1990s, as a youngster in grade school, I invented the flip ‘up in the front’ hair style and the iPod. Though other people like Steve Jobs and Carson Daily took credit for both of these things, it was I who truly first came up with each concept. Growing up with my grandparents I was introduced to the hair style ‘up in the front’ look while I watched 50s and 50s style TV shows like Leave it to Beaver and Happy Days where predominate characters in each had the hair due exactly like a young Chuck Marks. So obviously, I didn’t “invent” the hair style, but I re-introduced it to youth of the 90s. As a third grader, when everyone was socially into the elementary school version of grunge (Ace of Spades), I was kicking it with the ‘up in the front’ look. It wasn’t until 6th grade, when people graduated to the Backstreet Boys, that they realize I was right, and before you know it everyone was using level 8 max hold Xtreme hair gel to completely flatten every inch of their skulls except the very inch from their forehead thus creating a “up in the front” look. Then when I did it everyone called me a poser. Later that year I stopped gelling my hair and started listening to Pearl Jam.
As disappointing as it is to not receive credit for UITF (up in the front), it is much harder to realize that I was the one who came up with the iPod and not get my proper due. Hair styles come and go but Steve Jobs will always be a weirdo. It’s not like I told Steve Jobs my idea, so certainly he did not steal it. And it’s not like I wrote him a letter; at that time, computer screens were still black and green and I was receiving extra help in English (though it was my native tongue). I guess the idea sparked as I was struggling to listen through a scratched and skipping compact disk. See, no matter how much a took care of my CDs, no matter what I did, they always, always wound up scratching. (If I only knew that my CDs would be a prelude to my love life I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and actually studied in school instead of thinking about women… In the end, with CDs and relationships, thinking back I could have given a bit more effort.) Anyway, as our family was coming back from a Christmas party in New Jersey, my CD (being played by a CD player with a 30 ESP), was skipping like little school girl. I put the CD player down in disgust and ask my father how songs get put onto CDs and why CDs were so sensitive. He first said that CDs were not that sensitive and that I just don’t take care of things the way I should. After a lecture on how to properly put my bike away, he then professed that information gets digitally placed on the CD and the player reads the info off of the CD to create the sound, which in my case he claimed was shitty. After defending Beck’s album Odelay for a few inconvincible minutes, I said that the walkman companies should just put the information directly on the CD player without using the CDs. And just call it a player, thus throwing the whole concept of a compact disk out the window… My whole family said it was a good idea, and then we started complaining about garlic mashed potatoes. Now it was understood that garlic mashed potatoes can be a good add on for a meal of this caliber, a Christmas meal, but one also has to have real mashed potatoes too, I mean it’s Christmas not Flag Day. Aunt Dotty didn’t think so. And when I, plate filled with biscuits, turkey, crab cake, stuffing, cole slaw, and other fixings, looked for the potatoes, Aunt Dotty pointed solely to the garlic mashed potatoes. I carefully chuckled, thinking it was a Christmas joke. I looked at the counter behind me. I looked in the oven. I looked in the cupboards. The refrigerator. The Microwave. Behind the couch. Then I realized that there is no such thing as a Christmas joke. This was a Christmas reality. No regular, American made, terrorist free, mashed potatoes. Instead, drastically replaced, Al-Qaeda loving, Mussolini style, garlic mashed potatoes. If there is an antonym for the phrase “Christmas Miracle”, I would use it. And if it wasn’t for Twisted Metal Two on Playstation one, Christmas would have been ruined forever.
Now, over ten years later, my invention the iPod is one of my favorite devices. I have become addicted to it. But like all drugs, the good ones at least, there are some side effects. For one, I can no longer go for a run without listening to the This American Life, Preston and Steve, Adam Carolla, or the Fresh Air podcast (nothing gets me pumped up like Terry Gross). Since I am conditioned to have something playing in my ear while I run at all times, when my jog last an hour or more, I am not able to bear my own thoughts. I keep thinking to myself, “You’re a bad runner because you are a bad person. You are a bad runner because you are a bad person.” I need a little Ira Glass to help me along and get my mind off of things.
But that’s more of a personal problem…
One technical problem with the iPod is something you (as a musician) can take advantage of:
When the iPod is touched inappropriately and goes into the PLAY ALL mode, the songs start aphetically. I can not comprehend the total number of times I inadvertently heard the synthesize drums on the opening seconds of Ah-Ha Take on Me. I can’t be the only one who ever made this mistake.
Though I play the drums and guitar, I am by no means a musician nor do I ever aspire to be in a band (and If I were to ever drum for a band, I assure you that it wouldn’t be a good enough band that could get me hot, tattoo chicks with bangs. Or a band that would ever be on someone’s iPod.) But, as a guy who owns an iPod, I would suggest this to someone with musical skills; whatever your band name may be make sure it starts with an A. If your name is, for example, The AAA’s, and somebody just so happen to have your band on their iPod, but they don’t go out of their way to listen to you, they will be forced to listen to at least the first couple of seconds of your song every single time they touch their iPod inappropriately. Your band could be the next Ah-Ha. See, every time my iPod PLAYS ALL, I am reminded of Ah-Ha. For at least 3 minutes, I think about Ah-Ha. I think about that fun pencil cartoon music video. I think about 80s films. I think about Val Kilmer as a teenager. And if your band was called The AAA’s, I would think about you.*
This is a technical problem, but:
One of the biggest side effects from the iPod, on a societal level, is a much more exigent matter to discuss. Most of us in our mid-twenties can claim that growing up we listened to our music on either a walkman cassette or a CD player. The magic of both of these devices is that it was required to listen to whole albums all the way through. I guess in theory you could skip your way to your favorite song, which is perfectly fine, but if you chose not to sit there in your Grandpa’s Ford Escort in silence, you were kind of forced to listen to the rest of an album as well. This made the album, the record in its entirety, vitality in it self.
So think about this:
If Dark Side of the Moon made its debut in March of 2010, would it have the same effect as it did in March of 1973? Now, there are many different variables that go into this of course. For one, rock music was much more popular back in ’73 than it is now. So the music itself, if made today, would probably be celebrated amongst people who were into today’s version of that style of music rather than the, Justin Beaver centered, larger audience. But, because of the iPod and iTunes, I argue, if Dark Side came out today there would be many more people downloading Money and Time rather than downloading and listening to the album in its entirety. And the lack of this notion, the lack of technology like iTunes which eludes people with the option to download just one or two songs, I say, is the reasons why Dark Side of the Moon has made such a mark on time…(that and it’s cool to fog the air and link the record up to The Wizard of Oz.) The point is I feel that the album is more appreciated because people were forced to listen to the whole thing.
Which poses another question, if an album that came out in the 2000s, but had the equal conception and exotic uniqueness of Dark Side of the Moon—say for example, if Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot came out in 1973, would it be now more of a house hold name? Even if a more conventional band, like the very popular group Nickelback were to make a dreadfully experimental concept album, would people listen to it? Or would they only listen to that song about photographs and guys named Joey. Would a band like Nickleback even exist if the iPod were not invented?
I wonder how many bands would not even exist if you couldn’t buy their single on iTunes.
Chapter Two:
There are only a few people, the ones born in my generation, know the true excitement of making a mix tape. Of course there are mix CDs, but for some reason it just doesn’t add up to the rush of putting together a solid mix tape. Sitting there with your hands on the STOP button, waiting for the perfect moment to end the song, followed by the impassioned analytical process of figuring out which song to play next—which of course is based on mood, tape motif, the ending of the previous song, and beginning of the next potential one. Sure, you get all of this pressure while making a mix CD, but if something doesn’t sound quite right—if the order of songs is not in perfect harmony—in a mix CD, the change you make in the playlist is unnoticed. However, when making a mix tape, if you decide to make a change, there will be a loud unavoidable click; therefore allowing the listener know that you’ve made an initial mistake, in which case you are named a failure and you get put on a list.
Making a mix tape also takes time. Unlike a mix CD, where all you have to do is listen to the first and last seconds of each song, when one makes a mix tape one must listen to the entire song. All the way through. And carefully. You can’t just put it on and walk away, you have to sit there and listen to it and stop the tape before the next song begins.
On a side note: whether it’s a tape or CD, putting two songs in order as they originally appear on the album is most likely cutting corners. There are exceptions, most notably, Queens We Will Rock You and We are the Champions.
No pain no gain: It’s really the effort you put in a mix tape that makes it unique and special. Making it easier to mix songs takes the sweat out of it. A sweat that only a few were likely enough to enjoy.
Plus it shows that you care…
I haven’t made a mix CD for a girl in years, but it’s been way longer since I have made a mix tape. I think if I met a girl who would enjoy listening to a mix tape, and had access to a tape player, I would marry her on the spot…
This ultimately brings us to how music affects my love life. See, I want to be able to have conversations with women about music. A girl can be of a different religion, race, or of a different political philosophy as me—she can literally say that we should go back to the gold standard, say that Global warming was created by Nancy Pelosi, be dreadfully convinced that (because of her vast foreign affairs experience) Sarah Palin can solve the Palestine / Israel problem, like garlic mashed potatoes, even love garlic mashed potatoes, be a Dallas Cowboys fan, hate ice cream, hate crab cakes, love canned cranberry sauce, absolutely hate cigarettes, absolutely love cigarettes, absolutely hate hamburgers, be literally the biggest fan of the Big Bang Theory, hates my blog, wears a DARE shirt non-ironically, absolutely love hamburgers, or thinks that Spin City was the only credible thing Michael J. Fox has ever done, and I would STILL like her and STILL date her and STILL marry her if I could have a 45 minute, intelligent conversation about Paul Simons Graceland or John Coltrane’s Giant Steps…and if she likes my two dogs. You know what? Even if the girl like today’s pop music, but hold’s an intelligent conversation about it, I could still dig it. If a girl can fully explain why the forth track of the latest Flo Rida record succeeds on a contextual and socially evocative level, that girl would still be the one for me. The point is, finding a girl who is truly and sincerely and intelligently into music, trumps all other qualities. So, I guess, if you are a girl and you read all of my ramblings on music that eventually got you to the end of this blog—to this very sentence you are reading right now and you were not bored, give me a call and let’s go on a date…you can even wear your vintage, McCain/Palin ‘08 shirt.
Chuck 0ut.
*If you are an artist, feel free to take the name The AAA’s. That is my gift to you.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Dodger Dog and other points
Listen, I know I walk a tight rope. I don’t have a good paying job. I don’t live in a cool apartment. And really, I’m no Brad Pitt or even a Liam Nesson, for that matter. So when I approach a woman in a bar or the park or at a garage sale, I have to make sure everything I say and do is absolutely spotless. Now the cooler the girl, the easier it is, but when you start quoting Back to the Future Two it’s a real gamble. Odds are, as seen in Knocked Up, girls have no idea who the hell Doc Brown is, let alone Biff Tannen, Jennifer Parker, or the dynamics of the space time continuum (which explains why the film only rated a measly 8.4 out of 10 on IMDB.)
Sports references are okay with the ladies, but don’t start telling a story about Tommy Greene just because the girl is wearing a Phillies shirt. What I noticed is that 8 out of 10 times a guy should NEVER bring up sports, but if a girl shall approach the subject, it’s okay to go with it as long as you don’t debate her on issue’s like Andy Reid’s decision to have Mike Vick run it up in the middle on 4th and 1 with less than two minutes left in the game. Even if you do wind up dating this woman, would you really want your first conversation be an argument?
Obviously having good teams in the city is always a magnificent thing. You can’t walk 90 feet in the city without seeing someone with a Phillies cap. It’s great. But the draw back is that everyone starts to know everything about the team. When the team is the forefront of social activity, things start coming arise. Take for instance, a girl who simply likes sports, but doesn’t watch ESPN or listen to Mike Missanelli every day—a girl who gets into a particular sport for the in-moment excitement and nothing else—she most likely doesn’t give a shit about it outside the minutes within the game. If you were to move your conversation, with said potential lady, to the topic of the Philadelphia Hockey Flyers and you started spitting off random facts about the importance of icing during a 3 on 5 or Canada, you know you could lose the girls interest very easily.
There are certain risk you take when bringing up sports in conversation.
1) The potential girl will lose interest and start to look around for her friends. She’ll find her friends and leave you to watch Sports Center on mute.
2) The potential girl will know more about the sport than you do and you look like an idiot who likes dogs and magic cards.
OR
3) She actually wants to continue speaking with you, but due to lack of knowledge on the newly introduced topic, she now has nothing to offer to the conversation—which makes her feel uncomfortable.
In the latter case, she will search in her mind drastically to make some sort of relevant comment, which will mostly result in, “Dan Carcillo is really hot. That mustache is makes me quiver.” At that point, you now know at least this one thing; Carcillo is now your enemy. You find yourself rooting against him. You drop him from your fantasy team in the fantasy league you previously forgot you were apart of. Remember the Ryan Howard dilemma in my previous blog, Sports and Wine? A woman telling you that she has a crush on the guy you athletically look up to is basically the same thing; you won’t be able to look at him the same way. He will score a goal and you will cheer, but only a great sense of reluctance and jealously.
It is along these lines that over the last few years I have learned to hate Chase Utley for the same reason guys from New York/Jersey secretly hate Derek Jeter. If you ever go to Phillies ballpark you’ll find EVERY SINGLE GIRL is wearing an Utley shirt. The same goes with Jeter at Yankee stadium. If you were to take all of the talent and all of the skill of Jeter or Utley and put it in the body of Paul Giamatti, do you think every girl in the Tri-State/Delaware Valley area would be sporting their numbers? Meh, I think not. It’s kind of similar to hating Brad Pitt or Leonardo Dicaprio—they are both pretty boys who you are instinctually commanded to hate, yet one made Fight Club and the other Inception, which makes it hard to have any revulsion towards them. It’s fun to make fun of a pretty boy if he strikes out or stars in All the Pretty Horses, but once he does something of merit like win the World Series or anchor The Departed it’s hard to preach against him.
When I was living in LA:
I was taking my morning run through South Central near USC. Now you may have heard of South Central, Los Angeles in Dr. Dre songs, but I assure you it is not as bad as the doctor suggest. A friend once said to me that it is earthly impossible to have a dangerous ghetto if palm trees are present. Which is true. The only problem I ever had in South Central was when the taco guy on the corner of Fig and 38th shorted me 35 cents. (Hector, if you are reading this, I will get you. I will get you one day Senor. !Venganza! Venganza, indeed)
Anyway, I was running this one fine morning in the June of 2009, when I saw a raggedy young puppy in the middle of traffic. She had the dirty fur of a Columbus night walker and a fresh collection of real bad ass dread locks—not the kind of dreads rich kids from the suburbs who listen to Phish wear, but actual, Malibu Rum commercial dread locks. She was all alone, nobody calling after her, nobody caring. She ran amongst the cars, slightly evading each one as if it the highway was a game of dodge ball. And I stood there for a moment and watched for second. Then I did what anybody would have done. The most logical thing—what anybody would have done…I continued running. (I was in the fucking zone).
I continued running through the warm California air, admiring how the smog highlighting the Los Angeles sky is oddly handsome, when I came back to see the same dog doing the same exact thing in the middle of the street. And really, in true Los Angeles fashion, though this cute puppy dog was inches away from getting smashed by each passing Prius, nobody gave a shit. So, for the first time in a long time, I picked the girl up and took her home.
That day my roommate and I took her to various veterinarians to see if she had a chip in her that could identify if she was loved or not. She was not. We then went to the LA County SPCA to drop her off to puppy prison. I asked the puppy warden how long they’d keep her before she goes to puppy death row and the man said, because of over crowding, only four days. All of California has this problem; human and dog prisons alike. I then asked if it was a likely chance she might get adopted before the four days. The man sat there in his official brown button down shirt, Smokey the bear hat, and dollar store silver badge, arms crossed, while he shook his head claiming no. It was at that very moment when the dark eyed doggie sitting in my arms looked right into my eyes and with the love of a thousands pounds of kibble, licked my unshaved face. It was over. She was mine and I was hers and there was nothing either of us could do.
At first I thought I could just be a foster parent to her—take care of her, while I looked for a permanent guardian. Who knows? Maybe she could see angels in the outfield during an Angels game like in the movie Angels in the Outfield staring the Inception guy from 3rd Rock from the Sun…But that didn’t wind up happening. However, similar to Angels in the Outfield, I had to learn the lesson that raising a foster child is difficult because the minute you get attached, the child gets adopted by Danny Glover. And exactly what happened, I got attached.
When it was time to move back to Pennsylvania, it was a no brainer to bring the pup back with me. There we were, driving up the 10 out of LA, heads out the window, yelling, “So long, Stink Town!” She and I traveled back east in the summer zephyr, both rejected from the city of Los Angeles and on our way back home.
I named her Dodger. My mom and dad named me Charles. I go by Charlie and Chuck interchangeably. Dodger goes by Dodge sometimes and sometimes I call her Fiffa World Cup or Dodge Caravan or Dodge Stump the Fans or BuBu; all for different reasons which you can ask me about in person.
My little Dodger is one of things I am most proud of, even though she is a pain in the ass sometimes… But aren’t we all? In life, sometimes we shit on the rug and other times we don’t, as long as somebody takes us for a walk every now and we’ll all be cool.
People say to me that I should tell girls the story of Dodger. But how do you bring something like that up at a bar? Whenever I walk my two dogs in the park or down the shore and another dog sniffs my dogs ass, I always know if the dog is a rescue. You know why? Because the pompous prick tells me as soon as he or she gets a chance. “This is Fluffy. I rescued her. I’m telling you this because I want you to think that I am awesome. Did you rescue this one? Are you as good of a person as I am? Because I’m really awesome. I rescue dogs. I also read books and donate to public radio.”
I don’t want to be that guy. Just because you didn’t pay for your dog, doesn’t mean you rescued it. I only have Dodger because she is stupid enough to run through traffic and she is fucking cute. If she were a less cute animal like a squirrel or a giraffe, I would have kept running and thought nothing of it or that the circus is in town. Let’s face it; dogs are cute and friendly as hell. Most of them have true love in their hearts. I guess the point is that I needed Dodger just as much as she needed me. I’m no hero; I’m just a guy without a girlfriend.
Back to the issue at hand:
Finding the right thing to say to a girl is tough, but using stock stories like “rescuing” a dog just sounds cheap. And I feel cheap telling it. It’s kind of cheating. Wouldn’t it be more rewarding to find a girl by thinking quick and with wit.
See, in the amount of time you have to make an impression—the thinking on your feet, making every word count, type of interaction can either make you or break you. Picking up a girl and going to an interview is essentially the same thing; in both cases, you’re trying to receive some sort of “job”. (Don’t think too hard about that pun). But in both cases, don’t make a great deal out of something small. You’ll just feel silly.
Sports references are okay with the ladies, but don’t start telling a story about Tommy Greene just because the girl is wearing a Phillies shirt. What I noticed is that 8 out of 10 times a guy should NEVER bring up sports, but if a girl shall approach the subject, it’s okay to go with it as long as you don’t debate her on issue’s like Andy Reid’s decision to have Mike Vick run it up in the middle on 4th and 1 with less than two minutes left in the game. Even if you do wind up dating this woman, would you really want your first conversation be an argument?
Obviously having good teams in the city is always a magnificent thing. You can’t walk 90 feet in the city without seeing someone with a Phillies cap. It’s great. But the draw back is that everyone starts to know everything about the team. When the team is the forefront of social activity, things start coming arise. Take for instance, a girl who simply likes sports, but doesn’t watch ESPN or listen to Mike Missanelli every day—a girl who gets into a particular sport for the in-moment excitement and nothing else—she most likely doesn’t give a shit about it outside the minutes within the game. If you were to move your conversation, with said potential lady, to the topic of the Philadelphia Hockey Flyers and you started spitting off random facts about the importance of icing during a 3 on 5 or Canada, you know you could lose the girls interest very easily.
There are certain risk you take when bringing up sports in conversation.
1) The potential girl will lose interest and start to look around for her friends. She’ll find her friends and leave you to watch Sports Center on mute.
2) The potential girl will know more about the sport than you do and you look like an idiot who likes dogs and magic cards.
OR
3) She actually wants to continue speaking with you, but due to lack of knowledge on the newly introduced topic, she now has nothing to offer to the conversation—which makes her feel uncomfortable.
In the latter case, she will search in her mind drastically to make some sort of relevant comment, which will mostly result in, “Dan Carcillo is really hot. That mustache is makes me quiver.” At that point, you now know at least this one thing; Carcillo is now your enemy. You find yourself rooting against him. You drop him from your fantasy team in the fantasy league you previously forgot you were apart of. Remember the Ryan Howard dilemma in my previous blog, Sports and Wine? A woman telling you that she has a crush on the guy you athletically look up to is basically the same thing; you won’t be able to look at him the same way. He will score a goal and you will cheer, but only a great sense of reluctance and jealously.
It is along these lines that over the last few years I have learned to hate Chase Utley for the same reason guys from New York/Jersey secretly hate Derek Jeter. If you ever go to Phillies ballpark you’ll find EVERY SINGLE GIRL is wearing an Utley shirt. The same goes with Jeter at Yankee stadium. If you were to take all of the talent and all of the skill of Jeter or Utley and put it in the body of Paul Giamatti, do you think every girl in the Tri-State/Delaware Valley area would be sporting their numbers? Meh, I think not. It’s kind of similar to hating Brad Pitt or Leonardo Dicaprio—they are both pretty boys who you are instinctually commanded to hate, yet one made Fight Club and the other Inception, which makes it hard to have any revulsion towards them. It’s fun to make fun of a pretty boy if he strikes out or stars in All the Pretty Horses, but once he does something of merit like win the World Series or anchor The Departed it’s hard to preach against him.
When I was living in LA:
I was taking my morning run through South Central near USC. Now you may have heard of South Central, Los Angeles in Dr. Dre songs, but I assure you it is not as bad as the doctor suggest. A friend once said to me that it is earthly impossible to have a dangerous ghetto if palm trees are present. Which is true. The only problem I ever had in South Central was when the taco guy on the corner of Fig and 38th shorted me 35 cents. (Hector, if you are reading this, I will get you. I will get you one day Senor. !Venganza! Venganza, indeed)
Anyway, I was running this one fine morning in the June of 2009, when I saw a raggedy young puppy in the middle of traffic. She had the dirty fur of a Columbus night walker and a fresh collection of real bad ass dread locks—not the kind of dreads rich kids from the suburbs who listen to Phish wear, but actual, Malibu Rum commercial dread locks. She was all alone, nobody calling after her, nobody caring. She ran amongst the cars, slightly evading each one as if it the highway was a game of dodge ball. And I stood there for a moment and watched for second. Then I did what anybody would have done. The most logical thing—what anybody would have done…I continued running. (I was in the fucking zone).
I continued running through the warm California air, admiring how the smog highlighting the Los Angeles sky is oddly handsome, when I came back to see the same dog doing the same exact thing in the middle of the street. And really, in true Los Angeles fashion, though this cute puppy dog was inches away from getting smashed by each passing Prius, nobody gave a shit. So, for the first time in a long time, I picked the girl up and took her home.
That day my roommate and I took her to various veterinarians to see if she had a chip in her that could identify if she was loved or not. She was not. We then went to the LA County SPCA to drop her off to puppy prison. I asked the puppy warden how long they’d keep her before she goes to puppy death row and the man said, because of over crowding, only four days. All of California has this problem; human and dog prisons alike. I then asked if it was a likely chance she might get adopted before the four days. The man sat there in his official brown button down shirt, Smokey the bear hat, and dollar store silver badge, arms crossed, while he shook his head claiming no. It was at that very moment when the dark eyed doggie sitting in my arms looked right into my eyes and with the love of a thousands pounds of kibble, licked my unshaved face. It was over. She was mine and I was hers and there was nothing either of us could do.
At first I thought I could just be a foster parent to her—take care of her, while I looked for a permanent guardian. Who knows? Maybe she could see angels in the outfield during an Angels game like in the movie Angels in the Outfield staring the Inception guy from 3rd Rock from the Sun…But that didn’t wind up happening. However, similar to Angels in the Outfield, I had to learn the lesson that raising a foster child is difficult because the minute you get attached, the child gets adopted by Danny Glover. And exactly what happened, I got attached.
When it was time to move back to Pennsylvania, it was a no brainer to bring the pup back with me. There we were, driving up the 10 out of LA, heads out the window, yelling, “So long, Stink Town!” She and I traveled back east in the summer zephyr, both rejected from the city of Los Angeles and on our way back home.
I named her Dodger. My mom and dad named me Charles. I go by Charlie and Chuck interchangeably. Dodger goes by Dodge sometimes and sometimes I call her Fiffa World Cup or Dodge Caravan or Dodge Stump the Fans or BuBu; all for different reasons which you can ask me about in person.
My little Dodger is one of things I am most proud of, even though she is a pain in the ass sometimes… But aren’t we all? In life, sometimes we shit on the rug and other times we don’t, as long as somebody takes us for a walk every now and we’ll all be cool.
People say to me that I should tell girls the story of Dodger. But how do you bring something like that up at a bar? Whenever I walk my two dogs in the park or down the shore and another dog sniffs my dogs ass, I always know if the dog is a rescue. You know why? Because the pompous prick tells me as soon as he or she gets a chance. “This is Fluffy. I rescued her. I’m telling you this because I want you to think that I am awesome. Did you rescue this one? Are you as good of a person as I am? Because I’m really awesome. I rescue dogs. I also read books and donate to public radio.”
I don’t want to be that guy. Just because you didn’t pay for your dog, doesn’t mean you rescued it. I only have Dodger because she is stupid enough to run through traffic and she is fucking cute. If she were a less cute animal like a squirrel or a giraffe, I would have kept running and thought nothing of it or that the circus is in town. Let’s face it; dogs are cute and friendly as hell. Most of them have true love in their hearts. I guess the point is that I needed Dodger just as much as she needed me. I’m no hero; I’m just a guy without a girlfriend.
Back to the issue at hand:
Finding the right thing to say to a girl is tough, but using stock stories like “rescuing” a dog just sounds cheap. And I feel cheap telling it. It’s kind of cheating. Wouldn’t it be more rewarding to find a girl by thinking quick and with wit.
See, in the amount of time you have to make an impression—the thinking on your feet, making every word count, type of interaction can either make you or break you. Picking up a girl and going to an interview is essentially the same thing; in both cases, you’re trying to receive some sort of “job”. (Don’t think too hard about that pun). But in both cases, don’t make a great deal out of something small. You’ll just feel silly.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Philadelphia Story
This is one part of a long essay I wrote about Philadelphia. It took forever to write and this blog post does not include the whole thing, it’s more of a summary.
The Philadelphia Story.
If you have read this blog before you’ve probably notice a lot of my sports and cultural references are related somehow to the city of Philadelphia. This is in fact because I am from the city of Philadelphia. And just like everyone who is from the city of Philadelphia, I grew up 10 minutes outside Philadelphia. Churchville, Bucks County, Pennsylvania to be exact. I later moved to Newtown, PA, which is about 20 minutes from the city. And when I say the city, I mean Northeast Philly. The Northeast is the part of the city which consist of spread out establishments like bowling allies, diners, and now finally a Sonic. Yes, the new Sonic in town was the long awaited fast food institution where the waitress’ actually wear roller blades. Roller blades?! WOOOAAAA! Yes, yes Roller Blades my friend. Roller blades! Scream it. So now that I live in Newtown, I am only 20 minutes from getting my chili cheese hot dog delivered to my car from a chain smoking roller blader who most likely hates me—but really 45 minutes from anything else. The real part of Philadelphia, the skyline in which we all come to love, is located in Center City, which is a good 45 minutes from Newtown. Yet growing up, I just figured it was all Philadelphia. I mean, our local news always talked about the city as though we all lived there. Since there wasn’t a NBC Bucks County, or any of the other big four (Montgomery, Chester, and Delaware), everything got lumped into Philadelphia. Everywhere on the news was called Philadelphia. If something happened in Germantown, it seemed like just another neighborhood, like ours in Churchville. Now if Philadelphia was structured the same as Los Angeles, Chicago, or New York, those big four counties would actually be technically a part of Philly. The Churchville or Holland or Broomall of Los Angeles would simply be Los Angeles. That’s why LA seems so big. They like to include everybody.
When I first attended Penn State I was awakened to the truths of many things (namely Marijuana), but mostly to the fact that I am not essentially from Philadelphia, but a suburb outside. I also learned to hate the Pittsburgh Steelers and that PA is not nearly as urban as I originally thought. Growing up in Churchville and 10 minutes from Philadelphia County, my surroundings were mostly building-based. In fact, I really didn’t see much farm land until family adventures to New Jersey. I remember taking pride in the Pennsylvania metropolitan culture and looked at New Jersey as though it was solely filled with tomatoes, corn, and Pauly D. I also thought that every person in America is huge Eagles fan. It wasn’t until I came to the middle of rural Pennsylvania when I realized I was actually an outcast.
As I grew older and traveled these United States, I have found more and more often that people didn’t think much of Philadelphia. Even going as close Hazleton, PA people made fun of the way I spoke. Usually accents are treated as a fun novelty people like to imitate. It’s fun for people from the mid-west to talk like they are from New York or Boston, but ask them to do Philly accent and they’ll get side tracked, “Speaking of Philly, that cheesesteak with wiz is disgusting. I also heard those people hate Santa Clause… Is two and half men on TV tonight”? For some reason when people think of Philadelphia they automatically think about Cheesesteaks and airborne batteries, not the signing of the Declaration of Independence or the forming of the US Marine Corps. Instead of thinking about George Washington crossing the Delaware on Christmas day just a few miles north of the city, people associate Philly with the pelting of Santa Clause via snowballs and homophobia (thank you Tom Hanks).
While were on the subject, film directors, even the ones actually from Philadelphia, won’t even attempt to have their actors talk with a southeastern PA inflection. If you ever see a film or TV show that takes place in the greater Delaware Valley, everyone is given a New York accent. Yes, doesn’t matter if the character is Italian, Irish, Jewish, or Polish, everyone in Philadelphia speaks like Tony Soprano. Oh and Mr. Kevin Bacon isn’t helping either. In fact, the only time Hollywood really highlighted an unattractive accent, is in HBO’s The Wire—and that takes place in Baltimore.
But Hollywood actually has tried to materialize in the Philadelphia. After numerous attempts to build studios in the surrounding area, it became clear that Philadelphia was making a bid to become the east coast Hollywood. This was solely based on the tax credit Pennsylvania gave major studios to invest in the community by shooting multi-million dollar pictures within the state. It works like this: the major motion picture studio spends millions of dollars within the state and the state in turn recognizes the enormously large amounts of buying within local currency. The local economy is stimulated like a 15 year old boy who just looked at the November ’95 issue of Victoria Secret which he stole from his Aunt Dotty (Aunt Dotty couldn’t possibly fit in those skimpy outfits anyway. Speaking of which, why did she even have them delivered to the house? She would never in a million years spend more than $12 on under garment or anything else for that matter. $5 in a birthday card? What is this, the 1940s? Cheap Aunt Dotty…So if Aunt Dotty didn’t actually wear or buy the underwear….Oh. My word, Aunt Dotty is a lesbian. Not like there is anything wrong with that, in fact it clears up a few questions I had. I always wondered why Uncle Mitch wore a two piece swimsuit). Anyway, it’s not like the government is giving money to these Hollywood studios, it’s a simple fact that the government doesn’t tax as much as it would for other business’. Mathematically speaking, for every $1 that the PA state government loses by not taxing the movie studio, the local community makes $4. When big productions come into any given town, thousands upon thousands of dollars are spent on anything from hotel rooms to cigarettes and everything in between.
Let’s digress…
Politics are the greatest example of Newton’s 3rd law; For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Politics have morphed from people doing social justice to people taking part in an absurd version of football—politics is the rugby of society; you try to make sense of it, but it just looks like a bunch of homoerotic, nonsensical series of tackles and kicking. This happens on both sides of the isle (the evil side and the stupid side)—one person says one thing and another person, without reverence, is cogently obligated to say the exact opposite. Since this movie studio taxing option becomes an issue, like all issues, it is constrained to have somebody for it and somebody against it. If a democrat approved the order, a Republican must oppose it. If a Republican approves an order, the democrat (first cries, pouts, then does nothing about it), but ultimately opposes it. In the case of the Hollywood tax credit, the democrat was for it, and the Republican opposed. Which was kind of funny I thought, because Republicans are in favor of the exact same thing; tax cuts for the rich. Essentially, the Bush tax cuts and the tax incentives for Hollywood studios are the exact same thing—except the CEO of a big companies who will reap the awards from the tax cuts, spend will their money on yachts in Cape Cod and trained monkey butlers who wear funny little outfits as they feed crab cakes into your mouth and do back flips. “This is Geeves, my pet monkey. He makes a mean martini and is remarkably well informed in real estate.” And the Hollywood studios spend their money on promoting local business’ and communities and yes they monkey butlers as well, but environmentally friendly monkey butlers. (Anybody can be a production assistant if they are well enough connected)
But I digress…
So if it’s not necessarily the film community which projects such a strong opposition to Philadelphia, why is this city so widely misunderstood and harshly judged? Could all of that impedance be solely based on word of mouth? Maybe. Perhaps a few miscues in direction through the drive to south Philly for a cheesesteak put some unapprised tourist in a bad neighborhood where unpleasantness occurred. They go back to their respected village in Ohio or North Dakota and spread word of the brutal nature of the Philly ghetto—when in actuality, a perfectly cognizant person could completely avoid sketchy situations in Philly and throughout life if they are simply self aware of their surroundings. In Philadelphia, it is actually 10 times easier to get a parking ticket than to get mugged or get your car broken into… That’s not because there is no crime in the city (because like all cities, there is crime) it’s more of a statement on the Nazi influenced Philadelphia Parking Authority. Stupid bastards.
But barbarous meter maids and the occasional stabbing is an ingredient to any major city throughout the states, what makes Philly any different? Why are tourist so threatened? Somebody will say it is the high murder rate. Yes, this is true; the murder rate is too high for comfort. What is not mentioned is that the high influx of shootings occurs in sections of neighborhoods within the people who live there together. Beef is what’s for dinner. These are murders which occur in retaliation of other offenses. Most murders within the city are gang on gang. Here’s a bit of info: Don’t join a gang and you won’t get murdered. Don’t go to Taco Bell and you won’t have what seems to be an angry brown midget shoot out of your ass at 3 a clock in the morning. If you don’t want your car to be broken into, don’t park it near boarded up houses and a guy named Bubbles who has a shopping cart filled with copper and toilet paper. Be aware of your surroundings.
Thus it is easier to get a parking ticket than to get mugged because the Philadelphia Parking Authority is looking for you—they are unavoidable. Stupid bastards. They will search, manipulate, and hunt you down wherever you are. Taking a “short cut” down a dark alley way in North Philly is completely avoidable. The dark alley doesn’t come to you, you go to it. Cause you are stupid.
So it could be Pennsylvania politics. It could be tough parking rules. It could be a possibility of crime. But really, the reason people don’t like this city—the biggest and most probable answer comes to us in the 1983 Huey Lewis album, the one where they really came into their own—commercially and artistically, that is of course: SPORTS!
You knew I was going to go there. You knew this was the foundation of the essay—one of the reasons I started writing an article on Philadelphia, is to create a medium to tell you why Philly sports is much better than the sports that come out of whatever stupid village you’re from…I guess right there, that’s it. An example of why people hate Philadelphia; our unique cockiness with no backing besides one World Series and one Arena Football League Championship since 1983. Yes, we don’t have much to go off. Which is why it makes more sense to yell than to cheer.
But really, the true reason why this city is not loved, the truth behind the hostility against it can come down to six words; Joe. Buck. Joe. Buck. Joe. And Buck. It’s all Joe Buck’s fault (and a little can be accosted to Cris Collinsworth) (though he is not as bad as he used to be)
Now I would have to write an entire new article on the particular dynamics of Philly sports, but it comes down to this; we hate everybody including, at times, our own teams. A lot of writers and journalist around the country criticize our fans for being “too hard” on the teams that represent the city—but shouldn’t we be? A ticket for an Eagles game cost roughly $100. Add $20 for parking, $20-$50 on tailgating food, $8 for a Miller Lite inside the stadium, include gas and that is almost $200, maybe up to $300 if you go all out. On top of the $300, because of traffic, it could take you almost an hour to get out of South Philly. Think of it as this, if you were to pay $300 at a four star restaurant that it took 2 hours of total travel time to attend, and the food that comes out is on par with a Wendy’s or a McDonalds or a Sonic, wouldn’t you say something to the waiter? Wouldn’t you want your money back? Well, when a team doesn’t perform as well as they could—if it seems like they are half-assing—just as if a restaurant half asses their cooking and service, don’t you have the right to complain? The National media; the Joe Buck’s, Mike and Mike’s, and Cris Collinsworth’s of the world, only see our fans as harshly criticizing our own players from an outside point of view. They don’t see week after week of McNabb throwing interceptions and then smiling while pounding his chest or Brad Lidge blow a 4 run lead in the 9th—they don’t see every heartbreaking play of every game and they certainly are not coughing up the hundreds of dollars to do so, and really, they shouldn’t—but they also shouldn’t shout about or disparage Philly fans for expecting results for an expensive product.
I get the argument that, “well you shouldn’t look at a game as a product.” Which is true. But the owners and the players have turned it into exactly that; a product, a manufactured good. Merchandising and ticket sales have replaced the love of the sport. And if the sport is mechanically designed to please those who shell out money; those who buy the product are certainly allowed—like with any product—to criticize and complain about its flaws. That’s capitalism baby. If capitalism is American and America was born in Philadelphia, booing McNabb for throwing up on the 50 yard line during the Superbowl is as American as apple pie and cheesesteak’s.
So when you read articles or listen to the national media grumble about how Philadelphia unfairly treats its own players; remember this; a true fan (of both America and Sports) will always, ALWAYS demand the most out of their players. Those who think that fans should just quietly sit on their hands when they are upset are not only foolish, but un-American.
Joe Buck is a communist.
We can conclude that Philadelphia is a tough city. But it’s a good one. So when you think of Philly, look at the good things not the bad things; think The Roots, not Boys 2 Men. Think Bill Cosby Pre-1996, not Will Smith Post-2008. Think America, not Joe Buck.
On that note, I should say that I am probably moving to Albuquerque.
The Philadelphia Story.
If you have read this blog before you’ve probably notice a lot of my sports and cultural references are related somehow to the city of Philadelphia. This is in fact because I am from the city of Philadelphia. And just like everyone who is from the city of Philadelphia, I grew up 10 minutes outside Philadelphia. Churchville, Bucks County, Pennsylvania to be exact. I later moved to Newtown, PA, which is about 20 minutes from the city. And when I say the city, I mean Northeast Philly. The Northeast is the part of the city which consist of spread out establishments like bowling allies, diners, and now finally a Sonic. Yes, the new Sonic in town was the long awaited fast food institution where the waitress’ actually wear roller blades. Roller blades?! WOOOAAAA! Yes, yes Roller Blades my friend. Roller blades! Scream it. So now that I live in Newtown, I am only 20 minutes from getting my chili cheese hot dog delivered to my car from a chain smoking roller blader who most likely hates me—but really 45 minutes from anything else. The real part of Philadelphia, the skyline in which we all come to love, is located in Center City, which is a good 45 minutes from Newtown. Yet growing up, I just figured it was all Philadelphia. I mean, our local news always talked about the city as though we all lived there. Since there wasn’t a NBC Bucks County, or any of the other big four (Montgomery, Chester, and Delaware), everything got lumped into Philadelphia. Everywhere on the news was called Philadelphia. If something happened in Germantown, it seemed like just another neighborhood, like ours in Churchville. Now if Philadelphia was structured the same as Los Angeles, Chicago, or New York, those big four counties would actually be technically a part of Philly. The Churchville or Holland or Broomall of Los Angeles would simply be Los Angeles. That’s why LA seems so big. They like to include everybody.
When I first attended Penn State I was awakened to the truths of many things (namely Marijuana), but mostly to the fact that I am not essentially from Philadelphia, but a suburb outside. I also learned to hate the Pittsburgh Steelers and that PA is not nearly as urban as I originally thought. Growing up in Churchville and 10 minutes from Philadelphia County, my surroundings were mostly building-based. In fact, I really didn’t see much farm land until family adventures to New Jersey. I remember taking pride in the Pennsylvania metropolitan culture and looked at New Jersey as though it was solely filled with tomatoes, corn, and Pauly D. I also thought that every person in America is huge Eagles fan. It wasn’t until I came to the middle of rural Pennsylvania when I realized I was actually an outcast.
As I grew older and traveled these United States, I have found more and more often that people didn’t think much of Philadelphia. Even going as close Hazleton, PA people made fun of the way I spoke. Usually accents are treated as a fun novelty people like to imitate. It’s fun for people from the mid-west to talk like they are from New York or Boston, but ask them to do Philly accent and they’ll get side tracked, “Speaking of Philly, that cheesesteak with wiz is disgusting. I also heard those people hate Santa Clause… Is two and half men on TV tonight”? For some reason when people think of Philadelphia they automatically think about Cheesesteaks and airborne batteries, not the signing of the Declaration of Independence or the forming of the US Marine Corps. Instead of thinking about George Washington crossing the Delaware on Christmas day just a few miles north of the city, people associate Philly with the pelting of Santa Clause via snowballs and homophobia (thank you Tom Hanks).
While were on the subject, film directors, even the ones actually from Philadelphia, won’t even attempt to have their actors talk with a southeastern PA inflection. If you ever see a film or TV show that takes place in the greater Delaware Valley, everyone is given a New York accent. Yes, doesn’t matter if the character is Italian, Irish, Jewish, or Polish, everyone in Philadelphia speaks like Tony Soprano. Oh and Mr. Kevin Bacon isn’t helping either. In fact, the only time Hollywood really highlighted an unattractive accent, is in HBO’s The Wire—and that takes place in Baltimore.
But Hollywood actually has tried to materialize in the Philadelphia. After numerous attempts to build studios in the surrounding area, it became clear that Philadelphia was making a bid to become the east coast Hollywood. This was solely based on the tax credit Pennsylvania gave major studios to invest in the community by shooting multi-million dollar pictures within the state. It works like this: the major motion picture studio spends millions of dollars within the state and the state in turn recognizes the enormously large amounts of buying within local currency. The local economy is stimulated like a 15 year old boy who just looked at the November ’95 issue of Victoria Secret which he stole from his Aunt Dotty (Aunt Dotty couldn’t possibly fit in those skimpy outfits anyway. Speaking of which, why did she even have them delivered to the house? She would never in a million years spend more than $12 on under garment or anything else for that matter. $5 in a birthday card? What is this, the 1940s? Cheap Aunt Dotty…So if Aunt Dotty didn’t actually wear or buy the underwear….Oh. My word, Aunt Dotty is a lesbian. Not like there is anything wrong with that, in fact it clears up a few questions I had. I always wondered why Uncle Mitch wore a two piece swimsuit). Anyway, it’s not like the government is giving money to these Hollywood studios, it’s a simple fact that the government doesn’t tax as much as it would for other business’. Mathematically speaking, for every $1 that the PA state government loses by not taxing the movie studio, the local community makes $4. When big productions come into any given town, thousands upon thousands of dollars are spent on anything from hotel rooms to cigarettes and everything in between.
Let’s digress…
Politics are the greatest example of Newton’s 3rd law; For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Politics have morphed from people doing social justice to people taking part in an absurd version of football—politics is the rugby of society; you try to make sense of it, but it just looks like a bunch of homoerotic, nonsensical series of tackles and kicking. This happens on both sides of the isle (the evil side and the stupid side)—one person says one thing and another person, without reverence, is cogently obligated to say the exact opposite. Since this movie studio taxing option becomes an issue, like all issues, it is constrained to have somebody for it and somebody against it. If a democrat approved the order, a Republican must oppose it. If a Republican approves an order, the democrat (first cries, pouts, then does nothing about it), but ultimately opposes it. In the case of the Hollywood tax credit, the democrat was for it, and the Republican opposed. Which was kind of funny I thought, because Republicans are in favor of the exact same thing; tax cuts for the rich. Essentially, the Bush tax cuts and the tax incentives for Hollywood studios are the exact same thing—except the CEO of a big companies who will reap the awards from the tax cuts, spend will their money on yachts in Cape Cod and trained monkey butlers who wear funny little outfits as they feed crab cakes into your mouth and do back flips. “This is Geeves, my pet monkey. He makes a mean martini and is remarkably well informed in real estate.” And the Hollywood studios spend their money on promoting local business’ and communities and yes they monkey butlers as well, but environmentally friendly monkey butlers. (Anybody can be a production assistant if they are well enough connected)
But I digress…
So if it’s not necessarily the film community which projects such a strong opposition to Philadelphia, why is this city so widely misunderstood and harshly judged? Could all of that impedance be solely based on word of mouth? Maybe. Perhaps a few miscues in direction through the drive to south Philly for a cheesesteak put some unapprised tourist in a bad neighborhood where unpleasantness occurred. They go back to their respected village in Ohio or North Dakota and spread word of the brutal nature of the Philly ghetto—when in actuality, a perfectly cognizant person could completely avoid sketchy situations in Philly and throughout life if they are simply self aware of their surroundings. In Philadelphia, it is actually 10 times easier to get a parking ticket than to get mugged or get your car broken into… That’s not because there is no crime in the city (because like all cities, there is crime) it’s more of a statement on the Nazi influenced Philadelphia Parking Authority. Stupid bastards.
But barbarous meter maids and the occasional stabbing is an ingredient to any major city throughout the states, what makes Philly any different? Why are tourist so threatened? Somebody will say it is the high murder rate. Yes, this is true; the murder rate is too high for comfort. What is not mentioned is that the high influx of shootings occurs in sections of neighborhoods within the people who live there together. Beef is what’s for dinner. These are murders which occur in retaliation of other offenses. Most murders within the city are gang on gang. Here’s a bit of info: Don’t join a gang and you won’t get murdered. Don’t go to Taco Bell and you won’t have what seems to be an angry brown midget shoot out of your ass at 3 a clock in the morning. If you don’t want your car to be broken into, don’t park it near boarded up houses and a guy named Bubbles who has a shopping cart filled with copper and toilet paper. Be aware of your surroundings.
Thus it is easier to get a parking ticket than to get mugged because the Philadelphia Parking Authority is looking for you—they are unavoidable. Stupid bastards. They will search, manipulate, and hunt you down wherever you are. Taking a “short cut” down a dark alley way in North Philly is completely avoidable. The dark alley doesn’t come to you, you go to it. Cause you are stupid.
So it could be Pennsylvania politics. It could be tough parking rules. It could be a possibility of crime. But really, the reason people don’t like this city—the biggest and most probable answer comes to us in the 1983 Huey Lewis album, the one where they really came into their own—commercially and artistically, that is of course: SPORTS!
You knew I was going to go there. You knew this was the foundation of the essay—one of the reasons I started writing an article on Philadelphia, is to create a medium to tell you why Philly sports is much better than the sports that come out of whatever stupid village you’re from…I guess right there, that’s it. An example of why people hate Philadelphia; our unique cockiness with no backing besides one World Series and one Arena Football League Championship since 1983. Yes, we don’t have much to go off. Which is why it makes more sense to yell than to cheer.
But really, the true reason why this city is not loved, the truth behind the hostility against it can come down to six words; Joe. Buck. Joe. Buck. Joe. And Buck. It’s all Joe Buck’s fault (and a little can be accosted to Cris Collinsworth) (though he is not as bad as he used to be)
Now I would have to write an entire new article on the particular dynamics of Philly sports, but it comes down to this; we hate everybody including, at times, our own teams. A lot of writers and journalist around the country criticize our fans for being “too hard” on the teams that represent the city—but shouldn’t we be? A ticket for an Eagles game cost roughly $100. Add $20 for parking, $20-$50 on tailgating food, $8 for a Miller Lite inside the stadium, include gas and that is almost $200, maybe up to $300 if you go all out. On top of the $300, because of traffic, it could take you almost an hour to get out of South Philly. Think of it as this, if you were to pay $300 at a four star restaurant that it took 2 hours of total travel time to attend, and the food that comes out is on par with a Wendy’s or a McDonalds or a Sonic, wouldn’t you say something to the waiter? Wouldn’t you want your money back? Well, when a team doesn’t perform as well as they could—if it seems like they are half-assing—just as if a restaurant half asses their cooking and service, don’t you have the right to complain? The National media; the Joe Buck’s, Mike and Mike’s, and Cris Collinsworth’s of the world, only see our fans as harshly criticizing our own players from an outside point of view. They don’t see week after week of McNabb throwing interceptions and then smiling while pounding his chest or Brad Lidge blow a 4 run lead in the 9th—they don’t see every heartbreaking play of every game and they certainly are not coughing up the hundreds of dollars to do so, and really, they shouldn’t—but they also shouldn’t shout about or disparage Philly fans for expecting results for an expensive product.
I get the argument that, “well you shouldn’t look at a game as a product.” Which is true. But the owners and the players have turned it into exactly that; a product, a manufactured good. Merchandising and ticket sales have replaced the love of the sport. And if the sport is mechanically designed to please those who shell out money; those who buy the product are certainly allowed—like with any product—to criticize and complain about its flaws. That’s capitalism baby. If capitalism is American and America was born in Philadelphia, booing McNabb for throwing up on the 50 yard line during the Superbowl is as American as apple pie and cheesesteak’s.
So when you read articles or listen to the national media grumble about how Philadelphia unfairly treats its own players; remember this; a true fan (of both America and Sports) will always, ALWAYS demand the most out of their players. Those who think that fans should just quietly sit on their hands when they are upset are not only foolish, but un-American.
Joe Buck is a communist.
We can conclude that Philadelphia is a tough city. But it’s a good one. So when you think of Philly, look at the good things not the bad things; think The Roots, not Boys 2 Men. Think Bill Cosby Pre-1996, not Will Smith Post-2008. Think America, not Joe Buck.
On that note, I should say that I am probably moving to Albuquerque.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sports and Wine
Prelude:
A lot of times when I’m out with my closest guy friends, I will say something unflattering about myself to get a laugh—this sometimes comes to the expense of other people, but mostly my jokes are purposeful insults at myself. I accidentally cross the line and I often get caught on the other side. The same can be said about this blog. I say a lot of different things for the sake of story or out of context humor. Please take it with a grain of salt.
The beard experiment:
For the run of the Flyers postseason—the 2010 season in which the team came one goal and three periods away from winning the Stanley Cup—I grew a near equally impressive, yet totally awkward beard. Hockey playoffs are almost the only time you are permitted to have beard. You can have a beard in the regulatory year (non-hockey time) only if you accompany the beard with a scarf, sweatband, flannel shirt, fixed gear bike, ripped jeans with the leg folded up, and a remarkably scornful hatred towards corporate America…but then again if you had all that, you’d probably be a dick anyway. You would be hip, no doubt, but undoubtedly a dick…nonetheless.
On a side note: do hipsters know they are hipsters? I will look at a person who totally resembles a hipster, but yet they themselves will make fun of hipsters. Every hipster that I thought was a hipster claimed to hate hipsters. So hipsters for me have become like a ghost; everyone claims they have seen one, but nobody can point one right out to me… Do ghost know they are ghost? Is there a ghost alliance? When they are not haunting and gooling are they playing X-Box or watching a DVD? Will they go from DVD to Blueray? Can they get On-Demand? Will there On-Demand suddenly not work and give me an ER-55? (Stupid Comcast)… The same can be said about hipsters. I don’t think hipsters know they are hipsters; they are the ghost of society. Just the other day, I thought I saw a hipster. I was certain. But it just turned out to be this guy John who really likes the Arcade Fire. Nice guy, that John.
*
Anyway, when rocking an intense beard from April to June, there are some things that you just have to be cognitive of. By week two of the beard, one has to know that picking up women at this is point is wholly out of the question—which is good if you have friends who pressure you into talking to women at the bar, “Sorry man, can’t do it. I got the beard.” It makes your evenings less pressured and (in my case) less disappointing. You get to enjoy your Lager and you can fart all you want in bed that night.
On another side note: sleeping with someone who you just met—and I’m not talking about just having sex, but to actually sleep with someone for the entire night can be painful if you’ve been drinking Yuengling and eating late night dollar slices of pizza. It’s worse holding it in at night, then say at a during the day at your office, because at night you’re trying to sleep. You can’t travel to dreamland when you’re packing some intense luggage in your stomach. It’s not just the uncomfortable nature of holding your bowels as tight as a Chinese finger trap, but it’s the mental game. You spend all night tossing and turning, hoping one calamitous bubble of noxious air doesn’t slip during the sleeping hours of spooning.
And what if you do get to the activity of intercourse? If something is brewing in your stomach as you try the 9 minute push and pray with your newly acquired mate, you can get distracted by your internal suffering and not be at the top of your game… One way to get out of this jam is to do some recon immediately upon arriving in the apartment or room of your knew friend. If there is only one bathroom and it’s located inside of her bedroom and it has no fan, sorry Charlie, you’re going to have to pex (Pex; verb; to have sex when you really have to poop). But if there is a fan, in a bathroom in another part of the apartment, you have some room for a victorious release. Just make sure no roommates are around.
The best way to evade all of this internal conflict is to avoid sex until marriage…or at least to the point where you can fart in front of the person.
Tricks of the trade;
Whether you are married, engaged, dating, or just picked up a woman from Silk City, performing with adequacy is a must. Seeming in command of yourself is an attractive quality to find in a mate, which makes it seem unfair that men can’t fully control their own, well, “manhood.” I can control what my arm does. I can control what legs do and I am able to tell my body that I want even my smallest toe to wiggle. And I do these things and many more with great ease. So why can’t I tell my penis exactly what I want? The problem is, since Junior High, my penis has developed a most unfortunate independence—it acts on its own at mass, the supermarket, and even sometimes during visits to Grandmas. I could be there, having a nice conversation with Aunt Dotty about Olive Oil and Bocce Ball, when all of a sudden… Woops. Look who decides to stand up?**
Then what do you do?
Well, if you are not at the beach with your shirt off, you can isolate yourself and do what we in the business call, “The flip up.” The problem with that is, when you are at half mass, a few moments later, you have to stand awkwardly hunched in order to create an illusion that your pants are just crunched at the crotch area. “Stupid pants, got them at Target,” is the innocent look you give everybody. Looks like Uncle Jim has the same pants. See what I mean?
Back to the issue at hand; adequacy. As I claimed before, sometimes your downstairs soldier can go AWOL and shoot without orders. As the commanding officer, it is the man’s duty to seize fire until ready—which respectfully must come after the enemy (in this case the Vagina) shoots first. Sex is basically the Geneva Convention.
One of the most often used and simple method to prevent an early explosion is to think about things unsexy. Your mind becomes the main character in “The Hurt Locker,” as you frantically scramble to think about baseball players, bumble bees, the Republic of Haiti, or anything really that to get your mind off of sex. All of this is in order to communicate to your penis to delay action.
The dilemma:
So you’re there in the groove, giving it your all, thinking about Ryan Howard’s 2008 batting average, when suddenly you are struck with the notion that you are moments away from fulfilling nature’s obligation. You try to fight as best you can. You pray. You plead to the angel of love that you’ll volunteer at the homeless shelter, you’ll call you’re mom more often, you’ll even take to lunch that weird cousin in New Jersey who nobody likes only for a few more moments of pure bliss. Now you are intense. You’re not even looking at the girl anymore—she’s not even there. She becomes Rue McClanahan and all you are thinking about now is Ryan Howard. Ryan Howard; .301 average. Ryan Howard; 43 RBI’s. Ryan Howard; 199 strike outs. But no. It’s all over… You precipitately opened fire. You are left sweaty, disappointed, inadequate, and on your way to the bathroom to pick up a towel for clean up.
And it is there at the bathroom where you are hit with the terrifying realization that while you were at your peak climax, when you were at your ultimate glory and the only few seconds of the day where you feel complete elation, at that exact moment, you were in fact thinking about a 240 pound, St. Louis bred, Ryan Howard. You just defiled a Phillies legend.
Now you can’t even look at him the same. He goes up to bat and you have to go get a beer. When people talk about Ryan Howard you quickly change the subject to the weather or the Flyers. If Ryan Howard is on the front page of the sports section of the paper, you flip to something less depressing, like Economy page or news from the Middle East… The point is, if you are thinking about ball players in order to calm things down in the sack, make sure it’s a Greg Dobbs type player.
Back to the beard part two:
Before you can even think about the Ryan Howard dilemma or interrelations of any kind, you probably have to be clean shaven or at least in a developmental beard commonly known as the scruff. Think Chase Utley, not Jason Werth. Girls like the scruff…well this is what I thought at first…
It was a few weeks into the playoffs. The Flyers, who tired the series 3-3, were in the mist of fulfilling the best Philadelphia comeback in recent history by beating the Bruins—this was when I had a nice Rocky IV, log cabin type beard. At this point the bristles were all up in my neck and as thick as an alcoholic Jack Sheppard, when women, yes women, were actually speaking with me. Not out of kindness or in short form, but actually speaking candidly, flirting even... I figured the first woman I spoke with was some sort of mistake. Maybe she didn’t have her glasses on or her jealous ex-boyfriend was near by—but it happened again. Another conversation. A nice one at that. A conversation ending with a received phone number. This happened on several different nights at separate venues. But I have a beard? A beard! What are these women thinking?
This made me uneasy. It maybe out of self doubt or complete correctness, but whenever I get involved with a woman I think there is a catch. There must be a catch. There is always a catch. When I really like a girl and she, out of ignorance or disillusionment, really likes me back, there is something in the back of my head that says, “Jeez, this girl really has low standards. Do I really want to be with a girl such low standards? I mean if she is willing to be with me who knows what kind of hobgoblin she has been with before?” It seems odd, but if a girl actually wants to be with me, I tend to raise my eyebrow in curiosity and trepidation. I guess it’s like parking on a street in the city. The better the spot, the more you look around for that DO NOT PARK sign. And if you can’t find the do not park sign, you read every sign around it and read and re-read every detail. I have found that women are as confusing and most similar to those signs that say, “Do not park on school days,” when it’s the middle of the summer. It’s a Tuesday, but it’s July. Does that count? You’ll spend the whole day thinking about if you are going to get a ticket. Sometimes I think about getting a ticket the entire time I am parked there. The whole night. The whole weekend.
Earth is nothing but one big parking authority. And I already have a shit load of tickets.
So what can we conclude with the great beard experiment of ’10? Nothing. Who knows what the fuck girls are thinking? Just look at the 90s Sci Fi drama, The X-Files. Mulder can literally go back in time through the Bermuda triangle to the 40s and become a passenger aboard a Nazi ship, over take the ship, and solve the mystery of the dead girl, but it takes him 15 years figure out Scully has a crush on him.
Ah, whatever.
On another side note: Can ghost get summoned anytime? What if they are having coffee?
Chuck 0ut.
*You know what? I ride a bike. I like flannel shirts and The Decemberist. I think Bush was a lousy president….Oh. My. Gosh.
**My penis.
PS I’m sincerely sorry, Ryan Howard.
A lot of times when I’m out with my closest guy friends, I will say something unflattering about myself to get a laugh—this sometimes comes to the expense of other people, but mostly my jokes are purposeful insults at myself. I accidentally cross the line and I often get caught on the other side. The same can be said about this blog. I say a lot of different things for the sake of story or out of context humor. Please take it with a grain of salt.
The beard experiment:
For the run of the Flyers postseason—the 2010 season in which the team came one goal and three periods away from winning the Stanley Cup—I grew a near equally impressive, yet totally awkward beard. Hockey playoffs are almost the only time you are permitted to have beard. You can have a beard in the regulatory year (non-hockey time) only if you accompany the beard with a scarf, sweatband, flannel shirt, fixed gear bike, ripped jeans with the leg folded up, and a remarkably scornful hatred towards corporate America…but then again if you had all that, you’d probably be a dick anyway. You would be hip, no doubt, but undoubtedly a dick…nonetheless.
On a side note: do hipsters know they are hipsters? I will look at a person who totally resembles a hipster, but yet they themselves will make fun of hipsters. Every hipster that I thought was a hipster claimed to hate hipsters. So hipsters for me have become like a ghost; everyone claims they have seen one, but nobody can point one right out to me… Do ghost know they are ghost? Is there a ghost alliance? When they are not haunting and gooling are they playing X-Box or watching a DVD? Will they go from DVD to Blueray? Can they get On-Demand? Will there On-Demand suddenly not work and give me an ER-55? (Stupid Comcast)… The same can be said about hipsters. I don’t think hipsters know they are hipsters; they are the ghost of society. Just the other day, I thought I saw a hipster. I was certain. But it just turned out to be this guy John who really likes the Arcade Fire. Nice guy, that John.
*
Anyway, when rocking an intense beard from April to June, there are some things that you just have to be cognitive of. By week two of the beard, one has to know that picking up women at this is point is wholly out of the question—which is good if you have friends who pressure you into talking to women at the bar, “Sorry man, can’t do it. I got the beard.” It makes your evenings less pressured and (in my case) less disappointing. You get to enjoy your Lager and you can fart all you want in bed that night.
On another side note: sleeping with someone who you just met—and I’m not talking about just having sex, but to actually sleep with someone for the entire night can be painful if you’ve been drinking Yuengling and eating late night dollar slices of pizza. It’s worse holding it in at night, then say at a during the day at your office, because at night you’re trying to sleep. You can’t travel to dreamland when you’re packing some intense luggage in your stomach. It’s not just the uncomfortable nature of holding your bowels as tight as a Chinese finger trap, but it’s the mental game. You spend all night tossing and turning, hoping one calamitous bubble of noxious air doesn’t slip during the sleeping hours of spooning.
And what if you do get to the activity of intercourse? If something is brewing in your stomach as you try the 9 minute push and pray with your newly acquired mate, you can get distracted by your internal suffering and not be at the top of your game… One way to get out of this jam is to do some recon immediately upon arriving in the apartment or room of your knew friend. If there is only one bathroom and it’s located inside of her bedroom and it has no fan, sorry Charlie, you’re going to have to pex (Pex; verb; to have sex when you really have to poop). But if there is a fan, in a bathroom in another part of the apartment, you have some room for a victorious release. Just make sure no roommates are around.
The best way to evade all of this internal conflict is to avoid sex until marriage…or at least to the point where you can fart in front of the person.
Tricks of the trade;
Whether you are married, engaged, dating, or just picked up a woman from Silk City, performing with adequacy is a must. Seeming in command of yourself is an attractive quality to find in a mate, which makes it seem unfair that men can’t fully control their own, well, “manhood.” I can control what my arm does. I can control what legs do and I am able to tell my body that I want even my smallest toe to wiggle. And I do these things and many more with great ease. So why can’t I tell my penis exactly what I want? The problem is, since Junior High, my penis has developed a most unfortunate independence—it acts on its own at mass, the supermarket, and even sometimes during visits to Grandmas. I could be there, having a nice conversation with Aunt Dotty about Olive Oil and Bocce Ball, when all of a sudden… Woops. Look who decides to stand up?**
Then what do you do?
Well, if you are not at the beach with your shirt off, you can isolate yourself and do what we in the business call, “The flip up.” The problem with that is, when you are at half mass, a few moments later, you have to stand awkwardly hunched in order to create an illusion that your pants are just crunched at the crotch area. “Stupid pants, got them at Target,” is the innocent look you give everybody. Looks like Uncle Jim has the same pants. See what I mean?
Back to the issue at hand; adequacy. As I claimed before, sometimes your downstairs soldier can go AWOL and shoot without orders. As the commanding officer, it is the man’s duty to seize fire until ready—which respectfully must come after the enemy (in this case the Vagina) shoots first. Sex is basically the Geneva Convention.
One of the most often used and simple method to prevent an early explosion is to think about things unsexy. Your mind becomes the main character in “The Hurt Locker,” as you frantically scramble to think about baseball players, bumble bees, the Republic of Haiti, or anything really that to get your mind off of sex. All of this is in order to communicate to your penis to delay action.
The dilemma:
So you’re there in the groove, giving it your all, thinking about Ryan Howard’s 2008 batting average, when suddenly you are struck with the notion that you are moments away from fulfilling nature’s obligation. You try to fight as best you can. You pray. You plead to the angel of love that you’ll volunteer at the homeless shelter, you’ll call you’re mom more often, you’ll even take to lunch that weird cousin in New Jersey who nobody likes only for a few more moments of pure bliss. Now you are intense. You’re not even looking at the girl anymore—she’s not even there. She becomes Rue McClanahan and all you are thinking about now is Ryan Howard. Ryan Howard; .301 average. Ryan Howard; 43 RBI’s. Ryan Howard; 199 strike outs. But no. It’s all over… You precipitately opened fire. You are left sweaty, disappointed, inadequate, and on your way to the bathroom to pick up a towel for clean up.
And it is there at the bathroom where you are hit with the terrifying realization that while you were at your peak climax, when you were at your ultimate glory and the only few seconds of the day where you feel complete elation, at that exact moment, you were in fact thinking about a 240 pound, St. Louis bred, Ryan Howard. You just defiled a Phillies legend.
Now you can’t even look at him the same. He goes up to bat and you have to go get a beer. When people talk about Ryan Howard you quickly change the subject to the weather or the Flyers. If Ryan Howard is on the front page of the sports section of the paper, you flip to something less depressing, like Economy page or news from the Middle East… The point is, if you are thinking about ball players in order to calm things down in the sack, make sure it’s a Greg Dobbs type player.
Back to the beard part two:
Before you can even think about the Ryan Howard dilemma or interrelations of any kind, you probably have to be clean shaven or at least in a developmental beard commonly known as the scruff. Think Chase Utley, not Jason Werth. Girls like the scruff…well this is what I thought at first…
It was a few weeks into the playoffs. The Flyers, who tired the series 3-3, were in the mist of fulfilling the best Philadelphia comeback in recent history by beating the Bruins—this was when I had a nice Rocky IV, log cabin type beard. At this point the bristles were all up in my neck and as thick as an alcoholic Jack Sheppard, when women, yes women, were actually speaking with me. Not out of kindness or in short form, but actually speaking candidly, flirting even... I figured the first woman I spoke with was some sort of mistake. Maybe she didn’t have her glasses on or her jealous ex-boyfriend was near by—but it happened again. Another conversation. A nice one at that. A conversation ending with a received phone number. This happened on several different nights at separate venues. But I have a beard? A beard! What are these women thinking?
This made me uneasy. It maybe out of self doubt or complete correctness, but whenever I get involved with a woman I think there is a catch. There must be a catch. There is always a catch. When I really like a girl and she, out of ignorance or disillusionment, really likes me back, there is something in the back of my head that says, “Jeez, this girl really has low standards. Do I really want to be with a girl such low standards? I mean if she is willing to be with me who knows what kind of hobgoblin she has been with before?” It seems odd, but if a girl actually wants to be with me, I tend to raise my eyebrow in curiosity and trepidation. I guess it’s like parking on a street in the city. The better the spot, the more you look around for that DO NOT PARK sign. And if you can’t find the do not park sign, you read every sign around it and read and re-read every detail. I have found that women are as confusing and most similar to those signs that say, “Do not park on school days,” when it’s the middle of the summer. It’s a Tuesday, but it’s July. Does that count? You’ll spend the whole day thinking about if you are going to get a ticket. Sometimes I think about getting a ticket the entire time I am parked there. The whole night. The whole weekend.
Earth is nothing but one big parking authority. And I already have a shit load of tickets.
So what can we conclude with the great beard experiment of ’10? Nothing. Who knows what the fuck girls are thinking? Just look at the 90s Sci Fi drama, The X-Files. Mulder can literally go back in time through the Bermuda triangle to the 40s and become a passenger aboard a Nazi ship, over take the ship, and solve the mystery of the dead girl, but it takes him 15 years figure out Scully has a crush on him.
Ah, whatever.
On another side note: Can ghost get summoned anytime? What if they are having coffee?
Chuck 0ut.
*You know what? I ride a bike. I like flannel shirts and The Decemberist. I think Bush was a lousy president….Oh. My. Gosh.
**My penis.
PS I’m sincerely sorry, Ryan Howard.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Song for the Dumped
“No jobs, no work here in Kansas, but I hear there is work is Missouri,” the man with the straw hat and overalls slowly claims as he goes back to hustling some hay. I know it sounds like a scene from the 1930s, but besides the blatant racism, there aren’t too many differences between now and then. People, my peers in entertainment who are trying to get work, have been gang raped by a bunch of thugs.
At least gang members let you know they are gang members. They have the decency to let be up front from the start, “I’m going to rob you, stab you, and then inappropriately touch your female companion,” the nice Crazy 88 gentleman says. A quick rob, a quick stab, and you’re done—but when the rich white executive befriends you, treats you to nice dinners and conventions, and gives you some market advice, before you know you lost your family’s fortune. So let’s put it in perspective, the gang member robs you of a hundred dollars at the most (really, how much money do you carry around in your wallet at any given time?), he may or may not stab you (and if he does stab you, you’ll have an awesome looking scar and a crazy story that you can tell some girl at a bar), and you wind up moving back to the suburbs…big whoop. It’s the high powered middle aged white dude who will steal your whole life savings, stab your soul, and rape your families name and reputation. It’s the middle age, wearing a hat to cover his bald spot while driving his convertible, fast talking but always seemingly listening to your concerns, white man who is the very person or who is a part of the very group of people responsible for the meltdown of the most powerful market in the world. They’re the scary ones. They are the thugs. I’ll hang out with a guy who looks like Bernie Mac over the guy who looks like Bernie Madoff any day. It’s hard to believe that in the world of the Bank of America, AIG, Toyota, and Enron, people are still prejudice towards anyone excluding a middle aged white man.
And I’m not trying to be a phonie working class hero, I’m ranting for other reasons…
Recently, I got laid….off.
For a lot of people, most of America, getting laid and getting laid off are very similar; in the end it’s confusing, sweaty, and you find yourself pleading that you can perform more adequate if given another chance. In my case, I understood that the project I was working on, at the place I was working at, was the only opportunity to work there and that when the project were to be complete, I would be no longer necessary. But for a lot of people, getting laid off is more of a shock—not a shock that it’s happening, but it’s a shock that it’s happening to you.
Working in the film industry, you are laid off every time production ends. This makes it tough because, unless you are well connected, you are unemployed every three months. The shock of getting laid of, at this point, always gets easier for me, but the soul crushing boredom of not working is always the same. You walk the streets in the middle of a weekday and you feel like everyone is looking at you and thinking to themselves, “Look at this putz, at a Ralphs at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday. He probably doesn’t have a job. He probably doesn’t even want a job. He is a bum… I should pick up some peanuts. Cashews are good. They are kind of expensive though. Why is that? 5 bucks seem a little high for this small container. Wow, they have a lot of fat in them. But it’s the good fat, right? Good fat? I never understood good fat. I mean, fat is fat, right? They say that about olive oil too…I hope Juno is on Starz tonight. That girl is so witty.” I’m sure people think a lot about a lot of things in a short period of time, but when you are unemployed you feel as though everyone is secretly judging you all the time.
Before I moved out of Los Angeles, my roommates had a yard sale on a weekday. A woman came up to me and before she asked about prices or product, she said out of habit and embarrassment, “I was a school teacher, then the school had cut backs and now I’m out of a job.” It was as though she, before anything, had to make sure that I knew that she wasn’t a bum. That she was there on our porch, on a weekday, looking at our used cheese grater and microwave because of public school cut backs, not because of her own laziness. That word, “laziness” is prevalent because it’s exactly how you feel, lazy. You can spend day after day, hour after hour submitting résumé’s and unique cover letters but yet feel lazy. A lot of people have jobs where they can get away with doing the absolute minimum, yet if they do the minimum 5 days, 40 hours a week, it seems they are more productive—a more respected human. It seems that even prostitutes have more respect walking the streets—at least they are providing a service of some kind.
I heard that losing your job has the same emotional effect as losing a loved one or ending a relationship… In the case of the latter, I just wish there was severance package that the girl could offer after she breaks up with you. Maybe something like hand jobs for the next 5 months…you know 60% of what you were getting before. The thing is, after you break up with someone, there’s always somebody who says, “Oh, I know the perfect girl for you. You guys would really click.” Nobody says that when you lose your job. Not these days. You’ll get calls from people who say, “I think there is work in New Mexico,” or elsewhere. It’s like looking for gold in the 1800s, people have a hunch where it is, but when you travel west there is nothing but CZ and toothless Dodgers fans.
It’s my fault. I chose the profession. I was the one who studied film at the state university. I could have studied something that may have landed me a nice paying job in a nice city—but I was told to try out the American dream. Our society centers on the idea to follow your dreams, but when dreams fail you become nothing but an inimitable American failure… Whenever somebody says to you “follow your dreams” there should be the fast talking radio commercial disclaimer guy who says quickly (read this part fast), “Some dreams are more obtainable than others. Offer is only available in striving economies and mostly only available to those who have connections. ‘Follow your dreams’ is a trademark of America. Void where prohibited, which in the case of now, is everywhere in America. Good luck. You’re going to need it...sucker” It always seems that the disclaimers in radio ads are a lot longer than the actual ad. There is no such thing as a free lunch.
Chapter 2:
Now for the past six months, I’ve been working in an office. There are some perks about office work, but there are some things I won’t miss at all. The one thing that strained me in my office position was the fact that you are not alone. Ever. If you want to talk on the phone, you have to know that the entire office will be listening. You can talk about something like going to the Phillies game, but you can’t have a 10 minute debate on the phone about the probability that Enzyte* will actually make your penis longer or if it’s just a hoax and a waste of $40. When you buy Enzyte you have to go into it like you are going to Atlantic City to gamble; just think of it as you already lost your money, it would be nice if you win a few bucks at Blackjack or whatever, but if you lose you can’t go back to the ATM. The point is, when you go down to AC or buy Enzyte, there is a slight finical risk involved. You must accept the fact that you already lost the money.
ANYWAY, the biggest problem with working in an office is that when you have gas, you can’t get a completely accurate estimation if it’s a nice poop coming on or if it’s just methane that has to get out of your system. Either way, you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom. You can’t just fart in a cubical and expect to get away with it… On your way to the bathroom you have a lot of obstacles; you have to say hi to those who you make eye contact with, you have to look at the new baby pictures, you have to complain about Kyle Kendrick** all the way down the corridor until you finally reach the bathroom.
Once you’re in the bathroom, you have a whole other process to go through.
Now if you are like me, using public bathrooms can be very tricky. I’ll go in there, examine the seat, grab a horde of tissue paper (maybe a few wraps around the hand), wipe the seat, then grab three more pieces of tissue paper to cover the seat (one across and two down), then I’m finally able to drop pants and sit down.
All that work, all the preparation, and now it’s time to deliver…
You hear a loud, self fulfilling thunderous sound—one that bounces off the walls in an echo heard bathroom wide. But wait! No splash? You look down and to your bewildered displeasure there is nothing to show for it. You just shot a blank…Maybe a second push will do the trick….Ah, still nothing. You find yourself left with self doubt and a toilet bowl filled with tissues.
Just gas? All this work, this sacrifice just for gas? And just as General John Burgoyne*** after the Battle of Saratoga, you have to convince yourself that retreat is the only option.
To make matters worse:
There is somebody in the bathroom that you make small talk with before you go to the stall. If you get into the stall and realize its just gas, you can’t flush and stand up right away if the person is still there. The person in the backroom will think your some kind of freak if it only takes you 45 seconds to take a shit. So you just have to sit there on the toilet as a failure until the person leaves or a few two minutes roll by. This is why I like when people write on the walls; it gives you something to read as the time rolls by. Not in an office setting though. No bathroom graffiti there. You just have to sit there and literally count 65 Mississippi’s before even thinking about getting off that toilet.
As I said before, when going to the bathroom you have to walk past a whole barrage of people who know exactly where you are going and what you are going to do and how long it takes you to do it. Those people also know exactly how many times you do such a thing, so if you waste a trip on a fart, when you actually have to poop later on you can’t go without somebody saying to you on the way back, “are you feeling okay?”
When you are at work and around people all the time, everyone knows your business. When you by yourself most of the day you don’t get bothered. But you kind of miss it. It gets lonely all by yourself.
Farting whenever you want < eating and living life because you have a paycheck.
Releasing gas is nice and all, but I’ll take eight hours of holding it in any day. I guess the point of all of this is that work can get strenuous sometimes. It can get irksome and tedious as well, but being unemployed is far worse. People don’t want to be unemployed, even with all the freedom in bathroom use. So don’t be one of these people who say, “They should cut unemployment benefits because people are too lazy to get jobs.” Saying that is not only untrue, but it’s also un-American. To think that Americans and the American way and that our society is not of the utmost strongest—if you feel that we’ve become lazy, just get out. You forgot the definition of this country and the meaning behind it. You’ve missed the boat. You forgot the first, and often most elapsed word in the name of this ultimate nation; UNITED. We are United before we are states. We are United before with are America. We are the UNITED States of America. Don’t forget that….asshole.
Chuck 0ut.
*the natural male enhancer
**A young Phillies pitcher with a 5.0 ERA
***A British General who failed to bring down the American troops during one of the most important battles in the revolutionary war. (Go America! Screw the King!)
At least gang members let you know they are gang members. They have the decency to let be up front from the start, “I’m going to rob you, stab you, and then inappropriately touch your female companion,” the nice Crazy 88 gentleman says. A quick rob, a quick stab, and you’re done—but when the rich white executive befriends you, treats you to nice dinners and conventions, and gives you some market advice, before you know you lost your family’s fortune. So let’s put it in perspective, the gang member robs you of a hundred dollars at the most (really, how much money do you carry around in your wallet at any given time?), he may or may not stab you (and if he does stab you, you’ll have an awesome looking scar and a crazy story that you can tell some girl at a bar), and you wind up moving back to the suburbs…big whoop. It’s the high powered middle aged white dude who will steal your whole life savings, stab your soul, and rape your families name and reputation. It’s the middle age, wearing a hat to cover his bald spot while driving his convertible, fast talking but always seemingly listening to your concerns, white man who is the very person or who is a part of the very group of people responsible for the meltdown of the most powerful market in the world. They’re the scary ones. They are the thugs. I’ll hang out with a guy who looks like Bernie Mac over the guy who looks like Bernie Madoff any day. It’s hard to believe that in the world of the Bank of America, AIG, Toyota, and Enron, people are still prejudice towards anyone excluding a middle aged white man.
And I’m not trying to be a phonie working class hero, I’m ranting for other reasons…
Recently, I got laid….off.
For a lot of people, most of America, getting laid and getting laid off are very similar; in the end it’s confusing, sweaty, and you find yourself pleading that you can perform more adequate if given another chance. In my case, I understood that the project I was working on, at the place I was working at, was the only opportunity to work there and that when the project were to be complete, I would be no longer necessary. But for a lot of people, getting laid off is more of a shock—not a shock that it’s happening, but it’s a shock that it’s happening to you.
Working in the film industry, you are laid off every time production ends. This makes it tough because, unless you are well connected, you are unemployed every three months. The shock of getting laid of, at this point, always gets easier for me, but the soul crushing boredom of not working is always the same. You walk the streets in the middle of a weekday and you feel like everyone is looking at you and thinking to themselves, “Look at this putz, at a Ralphs at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday. He probably doesn’t have a job. He probably doesn’t even want a job. He is a bum… I should pick up some peanuts. Cashews are good. They are kind of expensive though. Why is that? 5 bucks seem a little high for this small container. Wow, they have a lot of fat in them. But it’s the good fat, right? Good fat? I never understood good fat. I mean, fat is fat, right? They say that about olive oil too…I hope Juno is on Starz tonight. That girl is so witty.” I’m sure people think a lot about a lot of things in a short period of time, but when you are unemployed you feel as though everyone is secretly judging you all the time.
Before I moved out of Los Angeles, my roommates had a yard sale on a weekday. A woman came up to me and before she asked about prices or product, she said out of habit and embarrassment, “I was a school teacher, then the school had cut backs and now I’m out of a job.” It was as though she, before anything, had to make sure that I knew that she wasn’t a bum. That she was there on our porch, on a weekday, looking at our used cheese grater and microwave because of public school cut backs, not because of her own laziness. That word, “laziness” is prevalent because it’s exactly how you feel, lazy. You can spend day after day, hour after hour submitting résumé’s and unique cover letters but yet feel lazy. A lot of people have jobs where they can get away with doing the absolute minimum, yet if they do the minimum 5 days, 40 hours a week, it seems they are more productive—a more respected human. It seems that even prostitutes have more respect walking the streets—at least they are providing a service of some kind.
I heard that losing your job has the same emotional effect as losing a loved one or ending a relationship… In the case of the latter, I just wish there was severance package that the girl could offer after she breaks up with you. Maybe something like hand jobs for the next 5 months…you know 60% of what you were getting before. The thing is, after you break up with someone, there’s always somebody who says, “Oh, I know the perfect girl for you. You guys would really click.” Nobody says that when you lose your job. Not these days. You’ll get calls from people who say, “I think there is work in New Mexico,” or elsewhere. It’s like looking for gold in the 1800s, people have a hunch where it is, but when you travel west there is nothing but CZ and toothless Dodgers fans.
It’s my fault. I chose the profession. I was the one who studied film at the state university. I could have studied something that may have landed me a nice paying job in a nice city—but I was told to try out the American dream. Our society centers on the idea to follow your dreams, but when dreams fail you become nothing but an inimitable American failure… Whenever somebody says to you “follow your dreams” there should be the fast talking radio commercial disclaimer guy who says quickly (read this part fast), “Some dreams are more obtainable than others. Offer is only available in striving economies and mostly only available to those who have connections. ‘Follow your dreams’ is a trademark of America. Void where prohibited, which in the case of now, is everywhere in America. Good luck. You’re going to need it...sucker” It always seems that the disclaimers in radio ads are a lot longer than the actual ad. There is no such thing as a free lunch.
Chapter 2:
Now for the past six months, I’ve been working in an office. There are some perks about office work, but there are some things I won’t miss at all. The one thing that strained me in my office position was the fact that you are not alone. Ever. If you want to talk on the phone, you have to know that the entire office will be listening. You can talk about something like going to the Phillies game, but you can’t have a 10 minute debate on the phone about the probability that Enzyte* will actually make your penis longer or if it’s just a hoax and a waste of $40. When you buy Enzyte you have to go into it like you are going to Atlantic City to gamble; just think of it as you already lost your money, it would be nice if you win a few bucks at Blackjack or whatever, but if you lose you can’t go back to the ATM. The point is, when you go down to AC or buy Enzyte, there is a slight finical risk involved. You must accept the fact that you already lost the money.
ANYWAY, the biggest problem with working in an office is that when you have gas, you can’t get a completely accurate estimation if it’s a nice poop coming on or if it’s just methane that has to get out of your system. Either way, you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom. You can’t just fart in a cubical and expect to get away with it… On your way to the bathroom you have a lot of obstacles; you have to say hi to those who you make eye contact with, you have to look at the new baby pictures, you have to complain about Kyle Kendrick** all the way down the corridor until you finally reach the bathroom.
Once you’re in the bathroom, you have a whole other process to go through.
Now if you are like me, using public bathrooms can be very tricky. I’ll go in there, examine the seat, grab a horde of tissue paper (maybe a few wraps around the hand), wipe the seat, then grab three more pieces of tissue paper to cover the seat (one across and two down), then I’m finally able to drop pants and sit down.
All that work, all the preparation, and now it’s time to deliver…
You hear a loud, self fulfilling thunderous sound—one that bounces off the walls in an echo heard bathroom wide. But wait! No splash? You look down and to your bewildered displeasure there is nothing to show for it. You just shot a blank…Maybe a second push will do the trick….Ah, still nothing. You find yourself left with self doubt and a toilet bowl filled with tissues.
Just gas? All this work, this sacrifice just for gas? And just as General John Burgoyne*** after the Battle of Saratoga, you have to convince yourself that retreat is the only option.
To make matters worse:
There is somebody in the bathroom that you make small talk with before you go to the stall. If you get into the stall and realize its just gas, you can’t flush and stand up right away if the person is still there. The person in the backroom will think your some kind of freak if it only takes you 45 seconds to take a shit. So you just have to sit there on the toilet as a failure until the person leaves or a few two minutes roll by. This is why I like when people write on the walls; it gives you something to read as the time rolls by. Not in an office setting though. No bathroom graffiti there. You just have to sit there and literally count 65 Mississippi’s before even thinking about getting off that toilet.
As I said before, when going to the bathroom you have to walk past a whole barrage of people who know exactly where you are going and what you are going to do and how long it takes you to do it. Those people also know exactly how many times you do such a thing, so if you waste a trip on a fart, when you actually have to poop later on you can’t go without somebody saying to you on the way back, “are you feeling okay?”
When you are at work and around people all the time, everyone knows your business. When you by yourself most of the day you don’t get bothered. But you kind of miss it. It gets lonely all by yourself.
Farting whenever you want < eating and living life because you have a paycheck.
Releasing gas is nice and all, but I’ll take eight hours of holding it in any day. I guess the point of all of this is that work can get strenuous sometimes. It can get irksome and tedious as well, but being unemployed is far worse. People don’t want to be unemployed, even with all the freedom in bathroom use. So don’t be one of these people who say, “They should cut unemployment benefits because people are too lazy to get jobs.” Saying that is not only untrue, but it’s also un-American. To think that Americans and the American way and that our society is not of the utmost strongest—if you feel that we’ve become lazy, just get out. You forgot the definition of this country and the meaning behind it. You’ve missed the boat. You forgot the first, and often most elapsed word in the name of this ultimate nation; UNITED. We are United before we are states. We are United before with are America. We are the UNITED States of America. Don’t forget that….asshole.
Chuck 0ut.
*the natural male enhancer
**A young Phillies pitcher with a 5.0 ERA
***A British General who failed to bring down the American troops during one of the most important battles in the revolutionary war. (Go America! Screw the King!)
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Legality of Dance!
My good friend, Ross basically forces himself onto girls through the art of dance. What he told me is that, “When you force yourself onto someone through dance, this is not date rape. It’s a boogie.” Put the same motions on a girl as you would on the dance floor, the exact same touching, groping, and suffocation, without music, without anybody around, in a dark alley, and this will land you behind the walls of the state penitentiary for 12-18 years. But on the dance floor, it’s just another Saturday night. Approaching a strange woman on the streets and dry humping her leg = assault and sexual harassment. Dancing up to a woman (in a dance club) and dry humping the shit out of her gets you her number and a hi five from your friends followed by five minutes of chanting Kappa Sigma rules! This is why dancing is so confusing; same action, same movements, touching in all the same areas, but yet completely different results. Take the number of relationships which start from dancing and compare that number with the amount of relationships which get started with assault and battery and I think you’ll see my point. How did dancing turn into this phenomenon?
There are other things in life that confuse me as well. Right now, like thousands of others across the country, I am writing this blog in a café. I have coffee at home as well as a coffee machine. I actually drove to this coffee establishment. Not on my way to work or anything—there was no reason to be out of my house. In fact, it’s raining. I left my home, where I have coffee and a coffee machine to go to a place, wait in a line, and pay for a 300% more expensive, yet totally similar tasting cup of Joe. How am I allowed to do this? If an Alien saw me do this, I would be completely embarrassed.
Thank God for humans.
I can sort of understand why people go to Starbucks because they make coffee products with whip cream. I can’t do that at home. I mean I could buy the whip cream, but whenever I do I feel a bit kinky. “No this is for coffee, not toes.” I have to explain to the man with the furry mustache. He gives me a “yeah, that’s what they all say” type of look. So it goes.
Coffee places are one thing, but I am really confused with popularity of bars or taverns or establishments where people get their “crunk” on. The establishment itself is not as confusing as the concept behind it. Bars were pretty much around for two reasons;
A) To starts revolutions and the Marine Corps. This happened when a bunch of proactive Eagles fans in Philadelphia decided soccer is not a real sport and that America should be free from England and Manchester United. Note: America couldn’t have gotten started in a tavern in Pittsburgh, Boston, Ann Arbor, Columbus, or Queens because future sports franchises’ in those cities suck. Note: Fly Eagles Fly! Lets Go State!
And the second reason for the establishment of taverns is;
B) To pick up women.
Both, starting an independent revolution from England and picking up women are tough feats, but after years of fighting and bloodshed, both opposite parties (England and Women) will eventually give in.
The problem with revolutions/women is that, as I said before, they both take a lot of time and there will be many battles lost before you win the war with either. Right now for me, the red coats are winning…
When you are out of college and away from the grateful world of girls not having many standards or expectations, single men have to meet girls in bars where they are only given a brief few sentences to make an impression. The first has to be solid. This is what we in the business call a ‘pick up line’. Now the problem with pick up lines is that the girl knows you are using a pick up line. So what you have to do is use a pick up line that doesn’t seem like a pick up line. This is where I fail.
Whenever I go to speak with a strange woman in a bar I feel as though they know what I am up to—like I’m tying to get away with something. I mean, their right. I don’t need to know if they have any new perspectives about the domestic economic polices or how to get a milk stain out of corduroy pants, I can Google those things; all I want from a strange woman is to obtain a set of numbers which allow me to contact this strange woman so that one day she won’t be strange…and we can make out. They know it. I know it. The bartender knows it, yet our conversation is stricken to Miller Lite and the weather.
Chapter Two:
Sometimes we go to the bars as married or relationshipped people and sometimes we go “just to dance with our girlfriends.” And this is what I really can’t comprehend—which confuses me because I do the exact same thing. I go to the bar sometimes, not to pick up women or plan a fight with England, but to simply hang out with my cronies. But why? Why do I do this? Why do we as a society do this? I’ll go to a bar and buy a $6 Miller Lite and tip the bartender, just so I can sit and scream at my friends so they can hear me over the blasting Lady Gaga song. This seems even more absurd than the coffee place. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t want to hear any theories or details of life and world; I just want to hang out with my friends. I enjoy the fact that there are people sitting around the bar, but I don’t want to talk to any of them. In bars people kind of become ornaments; nice to have around but I don’t want to bother with them. In order to make drinking seem more reasonable, for some eccentric reason, we like to drink around people (but not with them).
We live life to make life more comfortable. So drink up.
And if you are a woman sitting at the bar and you’re not starting a revolution, don’t get upset if a guy comes up to you and tells you your hair smells nice.
Chuck 0ut.
There are other things in life that confuse me as well. Right now, like thousands of others across the country, I am writing this blog in a café. I have coffee at home as well as a coffee machine. I actually drove to this coffee establishment. Not on my way to work or anything—there was no reason to be out of my house. In fact, it’s raining. I left my home, where I have coffee and a coffee machine to go to a place, wait in a line, and pay for a 300% more expensive, yet totally similar tasting cup of Joe. How am I allowed to do this? If an Alien saw me do this, I would be completely embarrassed.
Thank God for humans.
I can sort of understand why people go to Starbucks because they make coffee products with whip cream. I can’t do that at home. I mean I could buy the whip cream, but whenever I do I feel a bit kinky. “No this is for coffee, not toes.” I have to explain to the man with the furry mustache. He gives me a “yeah, that’s what they all say” type of look. So it goes.
Coffee places are one thing, but I am really confused with popularity of bars or taverns or establishments where people get their “crunk” on. The establishment itself is not as confusing as the concept behind it. Bars were pretty much around for two reasons;
A) To starts revolutions and the Marine Corps. This happened when a bunch of proactive Eagles fans in Philadelphia decided soccer is not a real sport and that America should be free from England and Manchester United. Note: America couldn’t have gotten started in a tavern in Pittsburgh, Boston, Ann Arbor, Columbus, or Queens because future sports franchises’ in those cities suck. Note: Fly Eagles Fly! Lets Go State!
And the second reason for the establishment of taverns is;
B) To pick up women.
Both, starting an independent revolution from England and picking up women are tough feats, but after years of fighting and bloodshed, both opposite parties (England and Women) will eventually give in.
The problem with revolutions/women is that, as I said before, they both take a lot of time and there will be many battles lost before you win the war with either. Right now for me, the red coats are winning…
When you are out of college and away from the grateful world of girls not having many standards or expectations, single men have to meet girls in bars where they are only given a brief few sentences to make an impression. The first has to be solid. This is what we in the business call a ‘pick up line’. Now the problem with pick up lines is that the girl knows you are using a pick up line. So what you have to do is use a pick up line that doesn’t seem like a pick up line. This is where I fail.
Whenever I go to speak with a strange woman in a bar I feel as though they know what I am up to—like I’m tying to get away with something. I mean, their right. I don’t need to know if they have any new perspectives about the domestic economic polices or how to get a milk stain out of corduroy pants, I can Google those things; all I want from a strange woman is to obtain a set of numbers which allow me to contact this strange woman so that one day she won’t be strange…and we can make out. They know it. I know it. The bartender knows it, yet our conversation is stricken to Miller Lite and the weather.
Chapter Two:
Sometimes we go to the bars as married or relationshipped people and sometimes we go “just to dance with our girlfriends.” And this is what I really can’t comprehend—which confuses me because I do the exact same thing. I go to the bar sometimes, not to pick up women or plan a fight with England, but to simply hang out with my cronies. But why? Why do I do this? Why do we as a society do this? I’ll go to a bar and buy a $6 Miller Lite and tip the bartender, just so I can sit and scream at my friends so they can hear me over the blasting Lady Gaga song. This seems even more absurd than the coffee place. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t want to hear any theories or details of life and world; I just want to hang out with my friends. I enjoy the fact that there are people sitting around the bar, but I don’t want to talk to any of them. In bars people kind of become ornaments; nice to have around but I don’t want to bother with them. In order to make drinking seem more reasonable, for some eccentric reason, we like to drink around people (but not with them).
We live life to make life more comfortable. So drink up.
And if you are a woman sitting at the bar and you’re not starting a revolution, don’t get upset if a guy comes up to you and tells you your hair smells nice.
Chuck 0ut.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme and fat free yogurt.
Memories make me want to punch the wall, yet I create them every day—well, as much as I can. Sometimes it’s hard creating new memories when you work in a cubical for eight hours a day listening to talk radio via podcast. The days start to blend together like the weather in the seasons or fruit at the bottom of a yogurt. Speaking of which, why isn’t the fruit already blended in? Is this “mix it yourself” philosophy a way to create a sense of accomplishment? Why do I have to be the one to mix the fruit? Can’t that be done at a factory? If not, are you telling me you have the technology to separately put the fruit and yogurt in the container, but you don’t have the machine that can mix it together? I mean, I could blame this lack of technology on the economy, but come on; this was clearly an issue before the recession. Plus spoons are pretty plentiful in America—there’s a dollar store on every corner of downtown USA. And even if the yogurt companies can’t afford a proper machine-like mixer, they can at least hire people to mix the fruit. Take some of that stimulus money, go to the dollar store and pick up a shit load of spoons (this stimulates the local economy), get some unemployed people to mix the yogurt (this helps the unemployment problem), and put the yogurt in my belly (which solves my mid-day hunger). In this fast pace world of bluetooth and blackberries, who has time to mix fruit and yogurt?
Sometimes my memories are the fruit and sometimes my memories are the white tasteless substance that you have to get through in order to get to the fruit. And like any “fruit at the bottom” yogurt, the white tasteless substance is 80% of the container. I just had one of those tasteless moments at the gym the other day. Now it may seem as though all of my blogs somehow include the gym or the awkwardness of working out—this is because in my suburban 40 hour work week, the only real activity besides failing to pick up women in the city bar, is to go to the gym (and in my case, write about it in a blog nobody reads). To prelude my next awkward encounter at the gym I must first talk about short shorts. Girls, either out of ignorance or arrogance or a bit a both, tend to wear shorts that reveal the exact shape, bend, and attitude of their (hopefully tight but plentiful) buttocks or ass (if you will). I say the word “attitude” based on the fact that they sometimes have that exact word written smack dab in the middle of the “sweet spot” of their shorts. Girls aren’t dumb. They figure, “well as long as the men are looking there I might as well give them a one word description of how I am feeling.” This is what I call ass poetry. Simon and Garfunkel touched on it in the song, “A Poem on the Underground Wall,” which’s describes a poem comprised of one word. My favorite ass poem is “juicy.” There are others, but I think “Juicy” is like the “Hit me baby one more time” of ass poems. It combines my two favorite things in life; a girl’s ass and lemonade. It’s the only time that I get both horny and thirsty at exactly the same time. I think girls should wear other words on their ass too, like “immigration.” Not “pro-immigration” or “stop immigration,” just have it say “immigration.” I think ass poetry should be bi-partisan. Remember, shorts reach across the isle (well, at least to the other butt cheek).
Ass poetry is not necessarily what goes on with those short shorts, girls also put other things like, “Phillies” or “Cheerleading,” teams they like or activities they do. Others put schools. This is really where the story begins…
There is this girl at my gym that I see almost every time I go. She goes on the treadmills and I go to a distance where she can’t see me look at her creepily. You know how old men will sometimes stare at young women without at all trying to hide the fact that they are very much blatantly eye raping the shit out of them? This is because old people are always tired. So they say, “Ah, fuck it. I’m too tired to hide it. Let me see that young’s ass.” See, after I long work out, when I am really tired, I feel the same way. My back aches, my legs ache, and I’m too tired to be subtle. So I stare blatantly, but from a distance. Anyhoo, I was staring one day and noticed that the girl was wearing shorts that read “Penn State” (cheek to cheek). I went to Penn State! Ah, there’s my in. A way to start a conversation.
I wait for the perfect time in the perfect position and I make the approach. I go in for the kill. “Oh, did you go to Penn State,” I say confidently.
“Yeah, I go there now. Senior year coming up.” The woman says with a distracted smile.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” I say with a scramble and a plea.
“Yeah. I love it.” The pretty lady says this as she walks away with a polite smile and careful eyes.
Not a bad exchange as I thought to myself. It doubled every other conversation I had with a woman in the last 4 months. Maybe I’m back in the game. As I dissected the conversation on my pathway of thoughts before sleep, I started to realize exactly what I did. What I didn’t notice at the time was that the girl started slowly walking away from me directly after I said the words, “Penn State.” From that point on, our entire conversation took place while walking. Mostly, her walking away from me. Then it hit me. She wasn’t wearing a Penn State shirt or a Penn State hat. The only thing that implied Penn State was directly written across her ass. There was no other way I would know she had interest in Penn State unless I looked directly at her ass. Which I did. I was caught red handed. I guess it will be just one of those tasteless memories.
Sometimes my memories are the fruit and sometimes my memories are the white tasteless substance that you have to get through in order to get to the fruit. And like any “fruit at the bottom” yogurt, the white tasteless substance is 80% of the container. I just had one of those tasteless moments at the gym the other day. Now it may seem as though all of my blogs somehow include the gym or the awkwardness of working out—this is because in my suburban 40 hour work week, the only real activity besides failing to pick up women in the city bar, is to go to the gym (and in my case, write about it in a blog nobody reads). To prelude my next awkward encounter at the gym I must first talk about short shorts. Girls, either out of ignorance or arrogance or a bit a both, tend to wear shorts that reveal the exact shape, bend, and attitude of their (hopefully tight but plentiful) buttocks or ass (if you will). I say the word “attitude” based on the fact that they sometimes have that exact word written smack dab in the middle of the “sweet spot” of their shorts. Girls aren’t dumb. They figure, “well as long as the men are looking there I might as well give them a one word description of how I am feeling.” This is what I call ass poetry. Simon and Garfunkel touched on it in the song, “A Poem on the Underground Wall,” which’s describes a poem comprised of one word. My favorite ass poem is “juicy.” There are others, but I think “Juicy” is like the “Hit me baby one more time” of ass poems. It combines my two favorite things in life; a girl’s ass and lemonade. It’s the only time that I get both horny and thirsty at exactly the same time. I think girls should wear other words on their ass too, like “immigration.” Not “pro-immigration” or “stop immigration,” just have it say “immigration.” I think ass poetry should be bi-partisan. Remember, shorts reach across the isle (well, at least to the other butt cheek).
Ass poetry is not necessarily what goes on with those short shorts, girls also put other things like, “Phillies” or “Cheerleading,” teams they like or activities they do. Others put schools. This is really where the story begins…
There is this girl at my gym that I see almost every time I go. She goes on the treadmills and I go to a distance where she can’t see me look at her creepily. You know how old men will sometimes stare at young women without at all trying to hide the fact that they are very much blatantly eye raping the shit out of them? This is because old people are always tired. So they say, “Ah, fuck it. I’m too tired to hide it. Let me see that young’s ass.” See, after I long work out, when I am really tired, I feel the same way. My back aches, my legs ache, and I’m too tired to be subtle. So I stare blatantly, but from a distance. Anyhoo, I was staring one day and noticed that the girl was wearing shorts that read “Penn State” (cheek to cheek). I went to Penn State! Ah, there’s my in. A way to start a conversation.
I wait for the perfect time in the perfect position and I make the approach. I go in for the kill. “Oh, did you go to Penn State,” I say confidently.
“Yeah, I go there now. Senior year coming up.” The woman says with a distracted smile.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” I say with a scramble and a plea.
“Yeah. I love it.” The pretty lady says this as she walks away with a polite smile and careful eyes.
Not a bad exchange as I thought to myself. It doubled every other conversation I had with a woman in the last 4 months. Maybe I’m back in the game. As I dissected the conversation on my pathway of thoughts before sleep, I started to realize exactly what I did. What I didn’t notice at the time was that the girl started slowly walking away from me directly after I said the words, “Penn State.” From that point on, our entire conversation took place while walking. Mostly, her walking away from me. Then it hit me. She wasn’t wearing a Penn State shirt or a Penn State hat. The only thing that implied Penn State was directly written across her ass. There was no other way I would know she had interest in Penn State unless I looked directly at her ass. Which I did. I was caught red handed. I guess it will be just one of those tasteless memories.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Speaking in tongues, through Buddy.
Prelude:
A few years ago, local businessman Buddy Davis and I decided to start writing our stories down. Buddy has been in many odd discussions with life by living it to the fullest. This is his story through my mouth. I wrote this like a mad man, so it will probably be very confusing. I guess that’s life. The story is about how Buddy Davis made an old woman feel weird.
Pre-Run
Story by Buddy Davis
Written by Charlie Marks, 2008.
What goes on in the minds of old people? Are they constantly thinking of how they are getting screwed by the younger generation? I wonder what their thought stream is. I can predict it is a balance between apples, social security, and how awesome it is to just block everything out of their brain that matters and be concerned with the most trivial effects in life like arguing that the color red isn’t how it used to be. Old people love apples. We all love what we can’t have. Do colors evolve like old people? Is the red of today the same as the red of the 50s? The only way to find out is to become old—but when you become old nobody believes you anyway. It’s a big cycle. The one thing I know is that old people love when things shake up their lives; it gives them something to talk about. That’s my job.
I came back from a run in the state park next to my high school. I was decompressing like a steam engine, tired but relaxed and refreshed. Is Tomas the Tank Engine his full name? If he is a tank engine, wouldn’t that be assumed? People don’t call me Buddy the Human Being because I am a human being. Tomas is an arrogant prick. Even the little kids who watch the show know that Tomas is a tank engine; I mean kids are stupid but I would like to think they can tell the difference between a human being and a tank engine. Now telling the difference between other tank engines; that’s a challenge—especially being a human.
The run went well, but at that particular moment my engine spotting skills were a little off. It was a different kind of engine that approached our location—this one ran on gas, not steam. My buddy Joe Lavin, a fellow runner and proud owner of a 1983 grey Oldsmobile, serenely drives near me and the group of decompressing runners. My energy was like a plane not ready to land but yet touches the ground briefly. I decided in a most exempt movement to run straight at the moving vehicle as though I was in Die Hard—explosions following as I jump from the 9th story of federal building right on top of the Ronald Reagan Oldsmobile.
I was on the hood of the car staring down at my bewildered friend and noticed that my friend had curly Jackie Kennedy brown hair, telescope thick glasses, crusted eyes, and skin so loose and dry it could be sold on the half off chicken rack in the local Super Fresh if there were such an isle. I study Physics. In my studies I have never came across any device that can transform the looks and emotions of people the way Eurkle could transform into Stephane on the TGIF show Family Matters. I always trusted TV, but I will never be able to be convinced such a device exists. It does not. I could probably come up with such a thing, but I have stories to tell. My friend did not transform into an 80 year old woman. I was standing on a piece of metal that separated me from a 1983 Engine that belonged to a woman born about 60 years before the car.
It was too late. I was already on the car. There was nothing I could have done. It was fact. Not opinion, not an assumption, it was fact. So at the moment of realization I had two choices. I will tell you the first—the one I picked—you can assume the other.
I looked at the woman as though I was looking into the eye of Aaron Burr or Clint Eastwood. I drew first. I walked from the front of the car—feeling with each step the amount of pressure applied to its grey painted metal until I was on the other end of the bumper. I walked right over the old biddies car and found myself on the other side. The woman kept driving—excited to tell her heart playing friends and uninterested husband the news of her day, as I walked nonchalantly to the rest of the team who watch with great excitement and much dismay. I guess the woman was used to her government walking all over her, that a fit track runner seemed like a good change of pace. My friends, the fellow runners said I was crazy. I said it was nothing. I was wrong and they were right. Like true craziness, it was not pre-mediated. It was me.
If Tomas wants to be specific he would be preferred to be called Tomas the Blue Tank Engine. But who needs do to specific? If life were a series of specifications I would be specific in mentioning how random it could be. That old woman loved me. Her love for that moment is as large as the amount of time she complains about it.
A few years ago, local businessman Buddy Davis and I decided to start writing our stories down. Buddy has been in many odd discussions with life by living it to the fullest. This is his story through my mouth. I wrote this like a mad man, so it will probably be very confusing. I guess that’s life. The story is about how Buddy Davis made an old woman feel weird.
Pre-Run
Story by Buddy Davis
Written by Charlie Marks, 2008.
What goes on in the minds of old people? Are they constantly thinking of how they are getting screwed by the younger generation? I wonder what their thought stream is. I can predict it is a balance between apples, social security, and how awesome it is to just block everything out of their brain that matters and be concerned with the most trivial effects in life like arguing that the color red isn’t how it used to be. Old people love apples. We all love what we can’t have. Do colors evolve like old people? Is the red of today the same as the red of the 50s? The only way to find out is to become old—but when you become old nobody believes you anyway. It’s a big cycle. The one thing I know is that old people love when things shake up their lives; it gives them something to talk about. That’s my job.
I came back from a run in the state park next to my high school. I was decompressing like a steam engine, tired but relaxed and refreshed. Is Tomas the Tank Engine his full name? If he is a tank engine, wouldn’t that be assumed? People don’t call me Buddy the Human Being because I am a human being. Tomas is an arrogant prick. Even the little kids who watch the show know that Tomas is a tank engine; I mean kids are stupid but I would like to think they can tell the difference between a human being and a tank engine. Now telling the difference between other tank engines; that’s a challenge—especially being a human.
The run went well, but at that particular moment my engine spotting skills were a little off. It was a different kind of engine that approached our location—this one ran on gas, not steam. My buddy Joe Lavin, a fellow runner and proud owner of a 1983 grey Oldsmobile, serenely drives near me and the group of decompressing runners. My energy was like a plane not ready to land but yet touches the ground briefly. I decided in a most exempt movement to run straight at the moving vehicle as though I was in Die Hard—explosions following as I jump from the 9th story of federal building right on top of the Ronald Reagan Oldsmobile.
I was on the hood of the car staring down at my bewildered friend and noticed that my friend had curly Jackie Kennedy brown hair, telescope thick glasses, crusted eyes, and skin so loose and dry it could be sold on the half off chicken rack in the local Super Fresh if there were such an isle. I study Physics. In my studies I have never came across any device that can transform the looks and emotions of people the way Eurkle could transform into Stephane on the TGIF show Family Matters. I always trusted TV, but I will never be able to be convinced such a device exists. It does not. I could probably come up with such a thing, but I have stories to tell. My friend did not transform into an 80 year old woman. I was standing on a piece of metal that separated me from a 1983 Engine that belonged to a woman born about 60 years before the car.
It was too late. I was already on the car. There was nothing I could have done. It was fact. Not opinion, not an assumption, it was fact. So at the moment of realization I had two choices. I will tell you the first—the one I picked—you can assume the other.
I looked at the woman as though I was looking into the eye of Aaron Burr or Clint Eastwood. I drew first. I walked from the front of the car—feeling with each step the amount of pressure applied to its grey painted metal until I was on the other end of the bumper. I walked right over the old biddies car and found myself on the other side. The woman kept driving—excited to tell her heart playing friends and uninterested husband the news of her day, as I walked nonchalantly to the rest of the team who watch with great excitement and much dismay. I guess the woman was used to her government walking all over her, that a fit track runner seemed like a good change of pace. My friends, the fellow runners said I was crazy. I said it was nothing. I was wrong and they were right. Like true craziness, it was not pre-mediated. It was me.
If Tomas wants to be specific he would be preferred to be called Tomas the Blue Tank Engine. But who needs do to specific? If life were a series of specifications I would be specific in mentioning how random it could be. That old woman loved me. Her love for that moment is as large as the amount of time she complains about it.
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