Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I, were flown out to LA recently to witness the premier of a new romantic comedy starring, who else, Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey. This one was special, though, because the screenplay was written by my own personal biographer, Matty.
The film was about McConaughey as this eccentric dude who’s into all these get rich quick schemes. His newest one involves creating a nonprofit organization dedicated to saving lobsters. Kate Hudson is a marine biologist from Maine who happens to love eating lobsters and is an advocate of the Maine lobster fishing industry. They have a mutual friend who invites them over to dinner one night, with disastrous results. As in all romantic comedies, they hate each other’s guts at first. Then they grow on each other. Then they fall in love. It was a sack of paint-by-numbers asscrack, and as you can well imagine, it had a great first weekend, grossing over $14 million.
"I thought it was kind of cute," Mads said.
"You would."
"Bite me."
Friday, April 18, 2008
Mads: It's Okay, I'm With Corporate
I was eating at McDonald’s the other day with my Boston friend and Matty, his personal biographer, when I realized my Big Mac wasn’t made properly.
"This is an outrage," I said. "I’m going to go back there and make this right."
So I jumped the counter and pushed the dude out of the way that was constructing the burgers. There was the perfunctory protest from the manager asking me what I was doing, so I showed him my card and let him know:
"It’s okay, I’m with corporate."
It works everytime, and I was allowed my chance to demonstrate to these nervous teenagers how one constructs a proper Big Mac.
I went back to our table.
"Now come on," I said. "That’s gotta be cool enough to keep me from being shipped out to the Branch Office."
"I don’t think so," Matty said. "It was kind of old hat for you."
"This is an outrage," I said. "I’m going to go back there and make this right."
So I jumped the counter and pushed the dude out of the way that was constructing the burgers. There was the perfunctory protest from the manager asking me what I was doing, so I showed him my card and let him know:
"It’s okay, I’m with corporate."
It works everytime, and I was allowed my chance to demonstrate to these nervous teenagers how one constructs a proper Big Mac.
I went back to our table.
"Now come on," I said. "That’s gotta be cool enough to keep me from being shipped out to the Branch Office."
"I don’t think so," Matty said. "It was kind of old hat for you."
Doug Christie #13 Jersey
I was putting away some laundry for Mads, my Norwegian companion, the other day, when I noticed an article of clothing I found to be very interesting: a Doug Christie 13 jersey. Everyone knows that that jersey is the international sign that some one is being whipped by his woman. Friends give that jersey to friends to let them know: dude, your woman controls you like Doug Christie’s.
I confronted Mads with my new found knowledge.
"A while back, there was this woman, Contessa. She had everything: looks, brains, sexual prowess. I would do anything for her. I wanted to marry her."
"No!"
"Yes, it’s true."
"Well what happened? You obviously didn’t marry her."
"My mom didn’t like her."
"And that was it?"
"That was it."
I confronted Mads with my new found knowledge.
"A while back, there was this woman, Contessa. She had everything: looks, brains, sexual prowess. I would do anything for her. I wanted to marry her."
"No!"
"Yes, it’s true."
"Well what happened? You obviously didn’t marry her."
"My mom didn’t like her."
"And that was it?"
"That was it."
Mayor McCheese: The "R" Word
We don’t know if it’s official, but people are saying it, so it must be true: we’re in the throws of a recession. The "R" word, and you know what that means: big profits for McDonald’s. No one wants to eat anywhere fancy when they ain’t got no cash, but Mickey D's is where it’s at.
Even if we aren’t in a recession, just the mere mention of it causes our stocks to jump. All we need is MSNBC and FOXNews to scare people, and it’s like free advertising.
Even if we aren’t in a recession, just the mere mention of it causes our stocks to jump. All we need is MSNBC and FOXNews to scare people, and it’s like free advertising.
Umberto D.
Matty, my personal biographer, has been on this Italian neorealism kick lately. He saw my copy of Umberto D. when he was over the last time, so we watched it together. It had been years since I’d seen it, and there was an aspect of film I understood now that I’d missed before: who was going to look after me when I got older?
Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home, and I broached the issue with him.
"You’re worried about that? You’re ridiculous."
"I am not. It’s easy for you to say when you have seven or eight kids. You’ll be well taken care of when you’re senile. I have no one: no kids, no family."
"What about your niece with the kid that all the politicos want to get a hold of?"
"Does that count?"
"Why not? Besides, I’m not sure you noticed, but Umberto was struggling to procure 10,000 lira a month for rent. You’re worth like $220 million dollars. Remember, the porn spamming device you and those guys developed at MIT?"
"Hmm, I never thought of it like that. I could probably pay for my own Maria, right?"
"God, Maria, she was hot as hell, huh?"
"She was also 15."
"Well she’s not now, right?"
"No, she’s like 73."
Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home, and I broached the issue with him.
"You’re worried about that? You’re ridiculous."
"I am not. It’s easy for you to say when you have seven or eight kids. You’ll be well taken care of when you’re senile. I have no one: no kids, no family."
"What about your niece with the kid that all the politicos want to get a hold of?"
"Does that count?"
"Why not? Besides, I’m not sure you noticed, but Umberto was struggling to procure 10,000 lira a month for rent. You’re worth like $220 million dollars. Remember, the porn spamming device you and those guys developed at MIT?"
"Hmm, I never thought of it like that. I could probably pay for my own Maria, right?"
"God, Maria, she was hot as hell, huh?"
"She was also 15."
"Well she’s not now, right?"
"No, she’s like 73."
You're Either Old or in High School
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were meeting Matty, my personal biographer, at a local coffee shop so I could give him my weekly wrap-up to put in his blog. These two cute, yet young, girls were looking at Mads and me and laughing. One of them just happened to be at the counter grabbing a napkin while Matty was waiting for his Venti Iced Latte.
"That chick was talking on her phone about you," he said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, she said you were a hot old guy."
"Old guy? I’m not even thirty-eight yet."
"Five days," Mads said. He and I share a birthday, one of the cool things we have in common.
"Of course you’re an old guy," Matty said. "And I am too."
"Okay," I said, "I’ll bite. What’ve you got?"
He opened his backpack and pulled out an anthropology journal. On the front cover I saw listed under his name: "You’re Either Old or in High School: How Teenagers Frame Their World, and How This Affects Teacher/Student Relations in the Classroom".
"Long enough title?"
"Here’s the deal: there was this ring tone with a high pitched sound that only young people could hear. High school kids were using it so they could take calls in class. Anyway, this one teacher’s only 28, and she can hear the ring tone too. The kids were shocked, because they were certain only kids could hear it. You’re either old, or you’re in high school."
"You based an entire journal article on that thesis?"
"Si. I did an ethnography of a high school in Maine, examining the interactions between the students and teachers. My findings were quite profound."
"And how about you? Did the kids think you were old since you’re not in high school?"
"Yep, but a Cool Old Guy."
"Oh, because you were into their music and watched The Hills?"
"Nope, because I bought them beer."
"That chick was talking on her phone about you," he said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, she said you were a hot old guy."
"Old guy? I’m not even thirty-eight yet."
"Five days," Mads said. He and I share a birthday, one of the cool things we have in common.
"Of course you’re an old guy," Matty said. "And I am too."
"Okay," I said, "I’ll bite. What’ve you got?"
He opened his backpack and pulled out an anthropology journal. On the front cover I saw listed under his name: "You’re Either Old or in High School: How Teenagers Frame Their World, and How This Affects Teacher/Student Relations in the Classroom".
"Long enough title?"
"Here’s the deal: there was this ring tone with a high pitched sound that only young people could hear. High school kids were using it so they could take calls in class. Anyway, this one teacher’s only 28, and she can hear the ring tone too. The kids were shocked, because they were certain only kids could hear it. You’re either old, or you’re in high school."
"You based an entire journal article on that thesis?"
"Si. I did an ethnography of a high school in Maine, examining the interactions between the students and teachers. My findings were quite profound."
"And how about you? Did the kids think you were old since you’re not in high school?"
"Yep, but a Cool Old Guy."
"Oh, because you were into their music and watched The Hills?"
"Nope, because I bought them beer."
Mads: Making My Case
This whole being shipped out to the branch office in Western Europe was making me uneasy. I know my Boston friend was unconcerned, but that didn’t make me any better. I felt I needed to converse with the source.
"So, are you really shipping me out?"
"Shipping you out?"
"To that Mads guy and your Western European branch office."
"You’re the only Mads guy in my life."
"Don’t patronize me. I think you’re making a big mistake."
"You do?"
"Listen, I can still be of use to you. I heard Will Farrell was interested in adapting a screenplay based on my blogs here."
"No you didn’t."
"Well, a friend of mine, he said..."
"No, he didn’t."
"Well, you can imagine... right...?"
"Um... okay...?"
"So, are you really shipping me out?"
"Shipping you out?"
"To that Mads guy and your Western European branch office."
"You’re the only Mads guy in my life."
"Don’t patronize me. I think you’re making a big mistake."
"You do?"
"Listen, I can still be of use to you. I heard Will Farrell was interested in adapting a screenplay based on my blogs here."
"No you didn’t."
"Well, a friend of mine, he said..."
"No, he didn’t."
"Well, you can imagine... right...?"
"Um... okay...?"
The Sober Friend
My buddy Jonas just came back from LA. He seemed beat, and so Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I, had him rest on the couch so he could get his strength back.
"What were you doing out there?" I said.
"You wouldn’t believe it if I told you."
And he told us. He was making a living as a sober friend. Sober friends are hired by celebrities to keep them on the straight and narrow.
"It’s harder than it sounds: not too much to drink. Keep them away from the coke. What’s that in the medicine cabinet? I don’t think he prescribes that many at a time. Do you really need Red Bull at 3AM? After a while I just couldn’t take it.... And the paparazzi, don’t get me started! I needed these over-sized Jackie Onassis sunglasses just to keep from losing my sight with all those flashbulbs!"
"I was a sober friend once," Mads said.
I looked at him. He couldn’t keep a straight face, and we both laughed.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Fuckers like you were the reason I couldn’t get any rest at night."
We looked at each other again. You thinking what I’m thinking? We jumped up and gave Jonas a huge wedgie.
"What were you doing out there?" I said.
"You wouldn’t believe it if I told you."
And he told us. He was making a living as a sober friend. Sober friends are hired by celebrities to keep them on the straight and narrow.
"It’s harder than it sounds: not too much to drink. Keep them away from the coke. What’s that in the medicine cabinet? I don’t think he prescribes that many at a time. Do you really need Red Bull at 3AM? After a while I just couldn’t take it.... And the paparazzi, don’t get me started! I needed these over-sized Jackie Onassis sunglasses just to keep from losing my sight with all those flashbulbs!"
"I was a sober friend once," Mads said.
I looked at him. He couldn’t keep a straight face, and we both laughed.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Fuckers like you were the reason I couldn’t get any rest at night."
We looked at each other again. You thinking what I’m thinking? We jumped up and gave Jonas a huge wedgie.
Francesco Totti
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were out with some chicks the other night. They were really hot, and really dumb (the best kind, right?). Anyway, this one that thought she was smart was giving us her profound take on the differences between men and women.
"See, women are cool with their sexuality. We have no trouble saying when another woman is attractive. You guys can’t do it. You’re afraid people will think you’re gay."
"Not true," I said.
"Absolutely not," Mads said.
"Okay, name one guy you’d want to sleep with."
We looked at each other and said at the same time:
"Francesco Totti."
"Who’s that?"
"Francesco Totti?" I said. "Star striker for AS Roma? Only the coolest guy ever."
"And also ten kinds of hot."
"Okay, name another."
But we ignored her and went on talking about Totti.
"You know," Mads said. "It’d be way cooler to just hang out with him instead of sleep with him."
"Yeah, doing him in the butt would ruin it. We’d need a more feminine dude to do. Besides, Totti’d have so many women around him, we’d totally hook up with some of them instead."
"Oh yeah, just hanging out with Totti’d be awesome enough, but then you figure some of those women would sleep with us just to get closer to him, like chicks who sleep with the other band members in the Goo Goo Dolls."
"Only Totti’s way cooler than the Goo Goo Dolls’ lead singer. Can you imagine doing some chick, and Totti’d come in after having done three others that were way hotter?"
"And all at the same time."
"Of course. And he’d pat you on the back and say something like 'nice work', and we’d be so stoked that we got a complement from Totti. We’d be high-fiving after he left the room."
"Oh, it’d rule."
We noticed the girls had left us. We thought about going after them, but then went back to daydreaming about hanging out with Totti.
"See, women are cool with their sexuality. We have no trouble saying when another woman is attractive. You guys can’t do it. You’re afraid people will think you’re gay."
"Not true," I said.
"Absolutely not," Mads said.
"Okay, name one guy you’d want to sleep with."
We looked at each other and said at the same time:
"Francesco Totti."
"Who’s that?"
"Francesco Totti?" I said. "Star striker for AS Roma? Only the coolest guy ever."
"And also ten kinds of hot."
"Okay, name another."
But we ignored her and went on talking about Totti.
"You know," Mads said. "It’d be way cooler to just hang out with him instead of sleep with him."
"Yeah, doing him in the butt would ruin it. We’d need a more feminine dude to do. Besides, Totti’d have so many women around him, we’d totally hook up with some of them instead."
"Oh yeah, just hanging out with Totti’d be awesome enough, but then you figure some of those women would sleep with us just to get closer to him, like chicks who sleep with the other band members in the Goo Goo Dolls."
"Only Totti’s way cooler than the Goo Goo Dolls’ lead singer. Can you imagine doing some chick, and Totti’d come in after having done three others that were way hotter?"
"And all at the same time."
"Of course. And he’d pat you on the back and say something like 'nice work', and we’d be so stoked that we got a complement from Totti. We’d be high-fiving after he left the room."
"Oh, it’d rule."
We noticed the girls had left us. We thought about going after them, but then went back to daydreaming about hanging out with Totti.
Bathroom Polo
Right now... he’s probably dabbing on three dollars worth of that bathroom polooooooooooo...
"My problem with this song is thrice fold," Mads, my Norewegian companion, said.
"Okay, hit me sweet cheeks."
"First, we all know for a fact she doesn’t shoot whiskey and couldn’t swing a Louisville Slugger if Wade Boggs gave her step-by-step instructions. This is obviously a transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of that sweet girl box using some type of female-empowerment applause anthem."
"Well, who’s worse? The PR people, or the women who can’t see through the transparent attempt at an applause/female-empowerment song and eat the crap up."
"Ooh, good point."
"I know. Okay, go on."
"All right, second, she carves her name into his upholstery. No one with any experience in breaking the law at all would do something like that. Now the cops know who to catch. Right?"
"It just goes back to the transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of the good girl box. Neither they nor her know anything about breaking the law. It’s as silly as Crash was in discussing race relations."
"The movie with James Spader?"
"No, the bad one with Don Cheadle."
"Oh, but he was good in that, didn’t you think?"
"He was, but the movie was lame. Okay, bring it home."
"Okay. Third, she talks about the guy wearing Bathroom Polo. Who is that a bigger indictment of? The cheeseball who wears that crap, or you for dating him?"
"Oh, you for dating him, of course."
"Of course. It’s just stupid."
"Well, what if this is a post modern depiction of a white trash chick from the South?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if it’s not an applause song? What if the chick is as much the subject of the songstress’ ire as the guy and his hoochie fling? What if it’s a statement of the whole Jerry Springer culture?"
"You’re giving them way too much credit."
"You’re right."
"My problem with this song is thrice fold," Mads, my Norewegian companion, said.
"Okay, hit me sweet cheeks."
"First, we all know for a fact she doesn’t shoot whiskey and couldn’t swing a Louisville Slugger if Wade Boggs gave her step-by-step instructions. This is obviously a transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of that sweet girl box using some type of female-empowerment applause anthem."
"Well, who’s worse? The PR people, or the women who can’t see through the transparent attempt at an applause/female-empowerment song and eat the crap up."
"Ooh, good point."
"I know. Okay, go on."
"All right, second, she carves her name into his upholstery. No one with any experience in breaking the law at all would do something like that. Now the cops know who to catch. Right?"
"It just goes back to the transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of the good girl box. Neither they nor her know anything about breaking the law. It’s as silly as Crash was in discussing race relations."
"The movie with James Spader?"
"No, the bad one with Don Cheadle."
"Oh, but he was good in that, didn’t you think?"
"He was, but the movie was lame. Okay, bring it home."
"Okay. Third, she talks about the guy wearing Bathroom Polo. Who is that a bigger indictment of? The cheeseball who wears that crap, or you for dating him?"
"Oh, you for dating him, of course."
"Of course. It’s just stupid."
"Well, what if this is a post modern depiction of a white trash chick from the South?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if it’s not an applause song? What if the chick is as much the subject of the songstress’ ire as the guy and his hoochie fling? What if it’s a statement of the whole Jerry Springer culture?"
"You’re giving them way too much credit."
"You’re right."
Monday, April 14, 2008
Mads: Nightmare
A while back me and my Boston friend were traveling in England. We met a boy, coincidentally also named Mads, who ran a shop. The weird thing about the shop was that it sold stuff from Matty, my Boston friend’s personal biographer’s, past. Things like the movie Bad Taste or a baseball bat for hitting mailboxes. The boy explained that he was Matty’s branch office in Western Europe.
I had a dream last night that I was stuck in that office. It was very disheartening to say the least. No one wants to be put out to pasture. I woke my Boston friend up and told him my fears.
"It was just a dream. We’re too cool to end up over there. Besides, we’re real, they’re fake. Real people don’t get stowed in branch offices. Now go back to bed."
I wanted to believe him.
I had a dream last night that I was stuck in that office. It was very disheartening to say the least. No one wants to be put out to pasture. I woke my Boston friend up and told him my fears.
"It was just a dream. We’re too cool to end up over there. Besides, we’re real, they’re fake. Real people don’t get stowed in branch offices. Now go back to bed."
I wanted to believe him.
The Beard
I hadn’t seen Gwen, the Cappie, in a long time. I didn’t really think anything of it, until Matty, my personal biographer, mentioned he was commissioned to write the script for the new Captain America movie.
"Jesus," I thought, "I haven’t heard from Gwen in a while."
I called her and we agreed to meet at a coffee shop. When I got there, I was stunned: she looked exactly like she did before I had given her her make-over. This was somewhat distressing. I needed an explanation, simply for my own edification, if anything else.
"I was tired of being your beard."
"My beard?"
"You know, a woman used by a gay man to--"
"I know what it is. What gave you the impression I was gay?"
"You and that Norwegian friend of yours."
"Mads, my Norwegian companion?"
"Yeah. Don’t pretend you don’t have anything going on."
I couldn’t convince her otherwise: she was adamant that I was a homosexual. There was no real reason for me to hide my gay lifestyle if in fact I had one, but that wasn’t enough for her. I left her at the cafe, wearing the gross guy jeans and over-sized shirts she had on when I first met her all those years ago. C’est la vie.
"Jesus," I thought, "I haven’t heard from Gwen in a while."
I called her and we agreed to meet at a coffee shop. When I got there, I was stunned: she looked exactly like she did before I had given her her make-over. This was somewhat distressing. I needed an explanation, simply for my own edification, if anything else.
"I was tired of being your beard."
"My beard?"
"You know, a woman used by a gay man to--"
"I know what it is. What gave you the impression I was gay?"
"You and that Norwegian friend of yours."
"Mads, my Norwegian companion?"
"Yeah. Don’t pretend you don’t have anything going on."
I couldn’t convince her otherwise: she was adamant that I was a homosexual. There was no real reason for me to hide my gay lifestyle if in fact I had one, but that wasn’t enough for her. I left her at the cafe, wearing the gross guy jeans and over-sized shirts she had on when I first met her all those years ago. C’est la vie.
Barack Out With My...
Months ago Hubert Humphrey disappeared from the '08 presidential race. It was a disappointment, because he was really the only candidate I could get behind. Now I was stuck with Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. Yay!
So I asked Matty, my personal biographer, who he thought I should vote for, considering he at one time was pursuing a post-graduate degree in Political Science.
"I’m voting for Hillary."
"Why?"
"Because she sent me a letter to my folks’ house to go to the local high school and caucus for her."
"That’s it? Not anything special about the issues or her plans on health care versus Obama...?"
"I’m sorry man, I don’t know what to tell you."
I asked Mads, my Norwegian companion, what he thought about all this. He was playing FIFA ’08 as SK Brann, and trying to win the FA Cup in England.
"It just so happens I’ve kept a running tally of every time we’ve been contacted by either campaign’s staffers."
"You have?"
"Yeah, just to see who I should vote for. I like Matty’s system for picking a candidate."
"But you can’t vote. You’re a Norwegian citizen."
"They don’t know that."
"Yes they do."
"No they don’t. I’ve been voting here since 1996. Now do you want to hear who we should vote for?"
"Fine, all right."
"From letters, phone calls, and people yelling at me on the street, we’ve been contacted by Hillary 13 times, and Obama 15."
"I guess we’re voting for Obama then."
"See," Matty said. "It’s people like you who are dividing our party!"
So I asked Matty, my personal biographer, who he thought I should vote for, considering he at one time was pursuing a post-graduate degree in Political Science.
"I’m voting for Hillary."
"Why?"
"Because she sent me a letter to my folks’ house to go to the local high school and caucus for her."
"That’s it? Not anything special about the issues or her plans on health care versus Obama...?"
"I’m sorry man, I don’t know what to tell you."
I asked Mads, my Norwegian companion, what he thought about all this. He was playing FIFA ’08 as SK Brann, and trying to win the FA Cup in England.
"It just so happens I’ve kept a running tally of every time we’ve been contacted by either campaign’s staffers."
"You have?"
"Yeah, just to see who I should vote for. I like Matty’s system for picking a candidate."
"But you can’t vote. You’re a Norwegian citizen."
"They don’t know that."
"Yes they do."
"No they don’t. I’ve been voting here since 1996. Now do you want to hear who we should vote for?"
"Fine, all right."
"From letters, phone calls, and people yelling at me on the street, we’ve been contacted by Hillary 13 times, and Obama 15."
"I guess we’re voting for Obama then."
"See," Matty said. "It’s people like you who are dividing our party!"
DVR Etiquette
There was this Wednesday a while back that was a great day for soccer, what with a Premier League fixture and the second leg of the UEFA Cup tie between Everton and Fiorentina. Of course, I was out of town for these events, and needed to TiVo them. Much to my chagrin, neither game taped, due to insufficient space on our DVR box. I looked, and 90% of it was taken up with Reba episodes.
I called in Mads, my Norwegian companion.
"What?"
"Do you know anything about this?"
"Oh, yeah, there was a marathon. I figured I could get all of them at once, and not have to buy them on DVD. I plan on converting them on your DVD burner."
"Dude, we both share this DVR box. You can’t just take up 90% of it for an inordinate amount of time."
"Why can’t I?"
"It’s rude, in the first place."
"How is it rude?"
"How is it rude?"
"Yeah. I mean, the idea of TiVo is so new, there really haven’t been a list of guidelines laid out for DVR etiquette."
He made an excellent point. Too excellent, in fact. I felt like it was my job as a concerned citizen to remedy this issue. I asked Matty, my personal biographer, what he thought.
"Yeah, I was just talking to my buddy Brett about the same thing. He too was suggesting a sort of DVR etiquette."
I took up the torch.
Elements of DVR Etiquette:
RULE 1: DVR space must be allocated equally among all members of the television watching household. If one or more members of said household wish to relinquish some or all of designated space, an arrangement may be made to dole this space out amongst the remaining members in a manner that is fair and equitable.
RULE 1a: Always keep in mind that Hi-Definition programing takes up more space than regular broadcasts. One may only tape a few shows, but each show may take up much more of the allocated space than he or she expects.
RULE 2: If an individual must temporarily exceed his or her space limit, this must be done with the rest of the household’s consent. Once consent is given, the person exceeding the limit must make haste to watch his or her program swiftly and erase it so that the space is returned to the rest of the household.
RULE 3: Sporting events by their very nature exact a heavy toll on a DVR Box: not only do they take up large amounts of space, but the time they tape and the need to extend the designated recording time in case of overtime and whatnot tends to cause conflicts with already scheduled recordings. Sporing events should always be dealt with very carefully.
RULE 4: If two programs are recording at the same time, thus forcing anyone watching television at that moment to watch one or the other, the person watching at that time can cancel one of the recordings to watch his or her own program, especially if no prior arrangement has been made with respect to the two programs being on at the same time. Just because one individual is not present and must tape his or her programs, does not mean the rest of the household has to suffer and not enjoy their own programs.
RULE 5: Finally, when recording The Banana Splits, one must never keep more than two episodes saved on the DVR hard drive at any time.
I presented the rules to Mads, and at first he didn’t accept them. When he saw the Martha Stewart stamp of approval I received after I ran them by her, he was forced to relent. I can now with all assurances say that only 50% of our DVR box is filled with Reba.
I called in Mads, my Norwegian companion.
"What?"
"Do you know anything about this?"
"Oh, yeah, there was a marathon. I figured I could get all of them at once, and not have to buy them on DVD. I plan on converting them on your DVD burner."
"Dude, we both share this DVR box. You can’t just take up 90% of it for an inordinate amount of time."
"Why can’t I?"
"It’s rude, in the first place."
"How is it rude?"
"How is it rude?"
"Yeah. I mean, the idea of TiVo is so new, there really haven’t been a list of guidelines laid out for DVR etiquette."
He made an excellent point. Too excellent, in fact. I felt like it was my job as a concerned citizen to remedy this issue. I asked Matty, my personal biographer, what he thought.
"Yeah, I was just talking to my buddy Brett about the same thing. He too was suggesting a sort of DVR etiquette."
I took up the torch.
Elements of DVR Etiquette:
RULE 1: DVR space must be allocated equally among all members of the television watching household. If one or more members of said household wish to relinquish some or all of designated space, an arrangement may be made to dole this space out amongst the remaining members in a manner that is fair and equitable.
RULE 1a: Always keep in mind that Hi-Definition programing takes up more space than regular broadcasts. One may only tape a few shows, but each show may take up much more of the allocated space than he or she expects.
RULE 2: If an individual must temporarily exceed his or her space limit, this must be done with the rest of the household’s consent. Once consent is given, the person exceeding the limit must make haste to watch his or her program swiftly and erase it so that the space is returned to the rest of the household.
RULE 3: Sporting events by their very nature exact a heavy toll on a DVR Box: not only do they take up large amounts of space, but the time they tape and the need to extend the designated recording time in case of overtime and whatnot tends to cause conflicts with already scheduled recordings. Sporing events should always be dealt with very carefully.
RULE 4: If two programs are recording at the same time, thus forcing anyone watching television at that moment to watch one or the other, the person watching at that time can cancel one of the recordings to watch his or her own program, especially if no prior arrangement has been made with respect to the two programs being on at the same time. Just because one individual is not present and must tape his or her programs, does not mean the rest of the household has to suffer and not enjoy their own programs.
RULE 5: Finally, when recording The Banana Splits, one must never keep more than two episodes saved on the DVR hard drive at any time.
I presented the rules to Mads, and at first he didn’t accept them. When he saw the Martha Stewart stamp of approval I received after I ran them by her, he was forced to relent. I can now with all assurances say that only 50% of our DVR box is filled with Reba.
Strippers Have Feelings Too
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were rocking out to a little Morrissey and reading the paper, when Matty, my personal biographer, stopped in.
"Sweet, Morrissey, I love this... the more you ignore me... the closer I get..."
"I know," I said. "It’s hot."
Mads turned the page. He was sitting with his legs crossed, like Jean-Luc Picard on the bridge of the Enterprise.
"So last weekend," Matty said. "I was at this bachelor party. Well, it wasn’t so much a bachelor party as much as a bunch of guys going out and getting wasted and hitting a strip club before some dude I barely knew was getting married."
"So a Poor Man’s bachelor party."
"Exactly."
"And you barely knew the groom to be?"
"Friend of a friend. So anyway, we hit the strip club, and me and a couple buddies weren’t really in the mood, you know?"
"Not in the mood? To see vaginas?"
"Well, it’s Maine, so you don’t see vaginas anyway. And it wasn’t that I wasn’t in the mood to see them, just not to pay for them."
"I got you."
"So my buddies and I are off to the side, watching the action, and one of them comes and sits on my lap."
"A stripper? Just sits right down?"
"Sits right down. And my buddies and I are kinda put off. I mean, she was just trying to get us to buy some private dances."
"Of course."
"And we weren’t having it."
"Well no, you didn’t want to spend any money."
"Right."
Mads adjusted his legs and scratched his crotch, then turned the page again.
"So things are getting kind of uncomfortable, because she realizes this ain’t goin’ no where, and she’s still on my lap."
"Was she hot?"
"Not so much."
"Okay, go on."
"So then she says, get this: 'Oh, I’m sorry, I must be crushing your lap', and she gets up. Then I say, and here’s the crazy thing: 'Oh, you weren’t crushing my lap', like I’m trying to say 'No, you’re not fat.'"
"Well, was she fat?"
"No, of course not."
"Well, I don’t know."
"I just thought it was crazy how all I wanted to do was get this stripper off me, but then I had to be polite because I was afraid she thought I thought she was fat."
"Well, that’s just how it is. Whenever weight’s brought into the conversation, the first reaction of the guy is to say: 'you’re not fat.'"
"He’s right," Mads said from behind his paper. "And it’s not like strippers don’t have feelings to consider too. They’re only human."
"Born to make mistakes."
"Okay, what if the woman in question’s a 300 pound behemoth? What do I say then when weight’s brought into the conversation? Saying she’s not fat would just be disingenuous."
"Then you tell her she has a really pretty face."
Mads put down his paper and uncrossed his legs.
"Strippers really don’t show vagina in Maine?"
"Sweet, Morrissey, I love this... the more you ignore me... the closer I get..."
"I know," I said. "It’s hot."
Mads turned the page. He was sitting with his legs crossed, like Jean-Luc Picard on the bridge of the Enterprise.
"So last weekend," Matty said. "I was at this bachelor party. Well, it wasn’t so much a bachelor party as much as a bunch of guys going out and getting wasted and hitting a strip club before some dude I barely knew was getting married."
"So a Poor Man’s bachelor party."
"Exactly."
"And you barely knew the groom to be?"
"Friend of a friend. So anyway, we hit the strip club, and me and a couple buddies weren’t really in the mood, you know?"
"Not in the mood? To see vaginas?"
"Well, it’s Maine, so you don’t see vaginas anyway. And it wasn’t that I wasn’t in the mood to see them, just not to pay for them."
"I got you."
"So my buddies and I are off to the side, watching the action, and one of them comes and sits on my lap."
"A stripper? Just sits right down?"
"Sits right down. And my buddies and I are kinda put off. I mean, she was just trying to get us to buy some private dances."
"Of course."
"And we weren’t having it."
"Well no, you didn’t want to spend any money."
"Right."
Mads adjusted his legs and scratched his crotch, then turned the page again.
"So things are getting kind of uncomfortable, because she realizes this ain’t goin’ no where, and she’s still on my lap."
"Was she hot?"
"Not so much."
"Okay, go on."
"So then she says, get this: 'Oh, I’m sorry, I must be crushing your lap', and she gets up. Then I say, and here’s the crazy thing: 'Oh, you weren’t crushing my lap', like I’m trying to say 'No, you’re not fat.'"
"Well, was she fat?"
"No, of course not."
"Well, I don’t know."
"I just thought it was crazy how all I wanted to do was get this stripper off me, but then I had to be polite because I was afraid she thought I thought she was fat."
"Well, that’s just how it is. Whenever weight’s brought into the conversation, the first reaction of the guy is to say: 'you’re not fat.'"
"He’s right," Mads said from behind his paper. "And it’s not like strippers don’t have feelings to consider too. They’re only human."
"Born to make mistakes."
"Okay, what if the woman in question’s a 300 pound behemoth? What do I say then when weight’s brought into the conversation? Saying she’s not fat would just be disingenuous."
"Then you tell her she has a really pretty face."
Mads put down his paper and uncrossed his legs.
"Strippers really don’t show vagina in Maine?"
Mads: Foxwoods
Me and my Boston friend needed a break from the city, so we hopped in a car and shot down to Foxwoods. Nothing like gambling to make one feel better, you know.
While my friend spent his money on exotic horse bets and high stakes craps tables, I went for the gusto: grinding it out at the 2-4 limit poker table. Sure, I have more cash than I’ll ever spend, and the money I make or lose at that table over the course of 16 hours is nothing, but playing 2-4 limit is more than just about the money: it’s about the love of the game-- kind of like playing professional soccer for the Major Indoor Soccer League.
So my Boston friend shows up so we can go to dinner right as I get the hand of the night. I'm dealt pocket queens. I’m in the small blind, so I limp into the flop with another dude-- one of those losers who talks about poker strategy and bad beats while everyone else at the table wants to kill him. Anyway, I know his hand before he bets: Ace and some face card kicker: no problem.
The flop comes Ace-Queen-Seven. Now I know I’ve got him. He’s betting his 2, raising to four, raising to eight, and I’m calling him. The turn comes up: Queen. Quad Queens. Now I’m golden. The kid’s betting his life off: I know he’s holding Ace Queen. River’s meaningless: 8. The pot’s like $40 or so, and the kid smugly turns over his Ace-Queen.
As I left the table, my Boston friend chided me on my play:
"You moron, you could’ve raked in 50 Gs with a hand like that at the tables I play in. That won’t even pay for our meal at The Dragon."
"You know," I said. "You’re the reason for the teardrops on my guitar."
"Am I the only one with enough of you to break your heart?"
"Yep."
While my friend spent his money on exotic horse bets and high stakes craps tables, I went for the gusto: grinding it out at the 2-4 limit poker table. Sure, I have more cash than I’ll ever spend, and the money I make or lose at that table over the course of 16 hours is nothing, but playing 2-4 limit is more than just about the money: it’s about the love of the game-- kind of like playing professional soccer for the Major Indoor Soccer League.
So my Boston friend shows up so we can go to dinner right as I get the hand of the night. I'm dealt pocket queens. I’m in the small blind, so I limp into the flop with another dude-- one of those losers who talks about poker strategy and bad beats while everyone else at the table wants to kill him. Anyway, I know his hand before he bets: Ace and some face card kicker: no problem.
The flop comes Ace-Queen-Seven. Now I know I’ve got him. He’s betting his 2, raising to four, raising to eight, and I’m calling him. The turn comes up: Queen. Quad Queens. Now I’m golden. The kid’s betting his life off: I know he’s holding Ace Queen. River’s meaningless: 8. The pot’s like $40 or so, and the kid smugly turns over his Ace-Queen.
As I left the table, my Boston friend chided me on my play:
"You moron, you could’ve raked in 50 Gs with a hand like that at the tables I play in. That won’t even pay for our meal at The Dragon."
"You know," I said. "You’re the reason for the teardrops on my guitar."
"Am I the only one with enough of you to break your heart?"
"Yep."
Had to Get Rid of It
I woke up the other morning, and found Mads, my Norwegian companion, sitting in my living room, reading about Nicole Richie's baby in the new People.
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be running your McDonald's?"
"No, not anymore."
"What? Why?"
"We decided to get rid of it. It just wasn't working."
"Wasn't working?"
"Yeah, as a premise it wasn't working. It was like on Roseanne when they won the lottery. It was just a bad idea. A bad way to wrap things up, you know?"
"Ooh, I remember that. When she was walking around on the show in just her bra. Ugh!"
"Exactly."
"So what do you want to do now that you have the day free?"
"Go to Harvard and fuck up some smart kids?"
"Sounds like a plan."
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be running your McDonald's?"
"No, not anymore."
"What? Why?"
"We decided to get rid of it. It just wasn't working."
"Wasn't working?"
"Yeah, as a premise it wasn't working. It was like on Roseanne when they won the lottery. It was just a bad idea. A bad way to wrap things up, you know?"
"Ooh, I remember that. When she was walking around on the show in just her bra. Ugh!"
"Exactly."
"So what do you want to do now that you have the day free?"
"Go to Harvard and fuck up some smart kids?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Table Manners
It's been a while since I've had contact with Matty, my personal biographer. It all happened when we were eating at Mads, my Norwegian companion's, McDonald's. We were discussing the cease and desist order McDonald's sent him because his franchise was hurting the overall image of the chain.
"So," Matty said, "do you think he'll really close this?"
"It's Mads. Of course not."
"Really, dude? You're doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"You're napkin in your lap? You're at a fucking McDonald's for Christ's Sake."
"First off, I'm not sure what business it is of Christ's how I keep my napkin. And second, I apologize if I feel the need to maintain a modicum of decorum in my everyday life."
"That's right, because you're so much better."
I threw the table over in front of us in a fit of anger.
"That's right, mister, I am so much better. And you better recognize."
"Have fun with your fois gras. I'm outro."
And that was the last I'd heard from him, until three weeks ago, when I bumped into him at a club in Boston called The Liquor Store. His buddy had gotten a limo, and Matty was fairly inebriated on TNTs.
"I'm sorry for the whole table throwing thing."
"I'm sorry for the whole table manners thing."
"Friends?"
"Friends."
"So," Matty said, "do you think he'll really close this?"
"It's Mads. Of course not."
"Really, dude? You're doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"You're napkin in your lap? You're at a fucking McDonald's for Christ's Sake."
"First off, I'm not sure what business it is of Christ's how I keep my napkin. And second, I apologize if I feel the need to maintain a modicum of decorum in my everyday life."
"That's right, because you're so much better."
I threw the table over in front of us in a fit of anger.
"That's right, mister, I am so much better. And you better recognize."
"Have fun with your fois gras. I'm outro."
And that was the last I'd heard from him, until three weeks ago, when I bumped into him at a club in Boston called The Liquor Store. His buddy had gotten a limo, and Matty was fairly inebriated on TNTs.
"I'm sorry for the whole table throwing thing."
"I'm sorry for the whole table manners thing."
"Friends?"
"Friends."
Boybandification, Poppunkification
I have this habit of falling asleep with the TV on, and when I wake at 3 AM, I find the weirdest things showing.
This time it was something like the Charlie Rose show, where this dude was interviewing another dude about his new book.
"I'm here with Ted Cameloshinswin about the book, Poppunkification, how people crave stupid music but don't exactly want to admit it. People are hailing this as the most definitive critique of people's tastes in music since Adorno."
"I do take some umbrage with that. Adorno was saying that Jazz was crap compared to Classical. I personally believe that Jazz is amazing."
"Okay, okay, I understand. Anyway, let's discuss your book."
"Let's."
"You say that the late nineties early new millennium music scene was saturated with bubble pop acts... what you termed the Boybandification of popular music."
"Right. Then there was a backlash, because people felt dumb for listening to it. I'm not saying they were, they just felt like that. Some acts survived. Justin Timberlake, for example, got himself a Ghetto Pass."
"I see."
"Christina Aguilerra (sp?) transformed from a suburban white girl from outside of Pittsburgh to a Boricuan princess from Spanish Harlem. Others weren't so lucky. Ask Britney. You could even say Fred Durst was a victim of collateral damage."
"Right, I get it."
"But, the problem was, we needed bad pop music to fill the void left by the end of Boybandification. Remember, we still like bubble gum."
"Enter Poppunkification?"
"Exactly. With popunkification, you had acts like Avril Lavigne, Blink 182, and Good Charlotte, who were essentially giving us bubble gum pop hits, but were packaging it in this edgy box that included spiky hair, tattoos, and rebellious clothing. Now the buying public could get their cheesy pop fix, but not feel like they were sacrificing their integrity. No choreographed dances, guys who played guitars-- everyone felt better."
"Okay, so I guess the big question is: when's the backlash?"
"I'm not sure I see one."
"Really?"
"You may see a backlash against individual acts, like people may be sick of hearing Fall Out Boy on Verizon Wireless commercials, but the overall genre may be here to stay."
"Amazing. So people can listen to dumb pop without feeling as dumb."
"It's a very good thing."
I switched it off then turned on my stereo.
It's tearin' up my heart...
I'm not ashamed of liking boy bands.
This time it was something like the Charlie Rose show, where this dude was interviewing another dude about his new book.
"I'm here with Ted Cameloshinswin about the book, Poppunkification, how people crave stupid music but don't exactly want to admit it. People are hailing this as the most definitive critique of people's tastes in music since Adorno."
"I do take some umbrage with that. Adorno was saying that Jazz was crap compared to Classical. I personally believe that Jazz is amazing."
"Okay, okay, I understand. Anyway, let's discuss your book."
"Let's."
"You say that the late nineties early new millennium music scene was saturated with bubble pop acts... what you termed the Boybandification of popular music."
"Right. Then there was a backlash, because people felt dumb for listening to it. I'm not saying they were, they just felt like that. Some acts survived. Justin Timberlake, for example, got himself a Ghetto Pass."
"I see."
"Christina Aguilerra (sp?) transformed from a suburban white girl from outside of Pittsburgh to a Boricuan princess from Spanish Harlem. Others weren't so lucky. Ask Britney. You could even say Fred Durst was a victim of collateral damage."
"Right, I get it."
"But, the problem was, we needed bad pop music to fill the void left by the end of Boybandification. Remember, we still like bubble gum."
"Enter Poppunkification?"
"Exactly. With popunkification, you had acts like Avril Lavigne, Blink 182, and Good Charlotte, who were essentially giving us bubble gum pop hits, but were packaging it in this edgy box that included spiky hair, tattoos, and rebellious clothing. Now the buying public could get their cheesy pop fix, but not feel like they were sacrificing their integrity. No choreographed dances, guys who played guitars-- everyone felt better."
"Okay, so I guess the big question is: when's the backlash?"
"I'm not sure I see one."
"Really?"
"You may see a backlash against individual acts, like people may be sick of hearing Fall Out Boy on Verizon Wireless commercials, but the overall genre may be here to stay."
"Amazing. So people can listen to dumb pop without feeling as dumb."
"It's a very good thing."
I switched it off then turned on my stereo.
It's tearin' up my heart...
I'm not ashamed of liking boy bands.
Cease and Desist Letter
"Dude, we dropped our hookah in the Metro and it shattered everywhere and the bus drivers were all laughing at us... how ignorant is that?"
These were the kinds of conversations that made it difficult to read in a coffee shop. After the girl complained about the less than sensitive livery workers, her friend explained his plan for upward movement at the Burger King he worked at.
"I'm the only one there who knows all the jobs. They can't afford to lose me."
I was waiting for Mads, my Norwegian companion, to meet me, and he was fifteen minutes late. An older man approached the kids' table and spoke to the girl.
"You know you'd be very attractive if you took all those nasty piercings out and washed your hair."
"Wow, that's a nice suit," she said. "Do you work for GM?"
"No... why?"
"Aww, that's too bad. Otherwise you could trade in that dumbass face for a Caddy."
Oh, snap! How could that line come from the same girl that had the unfortunate hookah accident? I had little time to ponder, as Mads finally showed. Before I could inquire as to his tardiness, he dropped a letter in front of me, printed on McDonald's letterhead.
It was a cease and desist order, signed by the big man himself. Apparently Mads' idea of a McDonald's is not contiguous with the brand they're trying to project.
"What do you think of that?" He said.
"That's very ignorant."
These were the kinds of conversations that made it difficult to read in a coffee shop. After the girl complained about the less than sensitive livery workers, her friend explained his plan for upward movement at the Burger King he worked at.
"I'm the only one there who knows all the jobs. They can't afford to lose me."
I was waiting for Mads, my Norwegian companion, to meet me, and he was fifteen minutes late. An older man approached the kids' table and spoke to the girl.
"You know you'd be very attractive if you took all those nasty piercings out and washed your hair."
"Wow, that's a nice suit," she said. "Do you work for GM?"
"No... why?"
"Aww, that's too bad. Otherwise you could trade in that dumbass face for a Caddy."
Oh, snap! How could that line come from the same girl that had the unfortunate hookah accident? I had little time to ponder, as Mads finally showed. Before I could inquire as to his tardiness, he dropped a letter in front of me, printed on McDonald's letterhead.
It was a cease and desist order, signed by the big man himself. Apparently Mads' idea of a McDonald's is not contiguous with the brand they're trying to project.
"What do you think of that?" He said.
"That's very ignorant."
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