Friday, February 29, 2008

Tale of the Tape: David Hasselhoff vs. Roger Clemens



Today I was sitting in the cube thinking about two of my favorite people, Roger Clemens and David Hasselhoff. In particular, I spent an hour going back and forth over which one of them is the bigger star. For newcomers to my blog, you should be aware that, yes, I hate my job, yes I have too much free time, and yes, these are exactly the types of pointless issues I struggle with on a fairly regular basis.

I tried to compare both men based on an impartial set of criteria, and these are my findings.

NICKNAME

Hasselhoff: The Hoff

Clemens: The Rocket

Edge: Clemens

BELOVED BY

Hasselhoff: Tone deaf Germans

Clemens: Texas rednecks

Edge: Even

ASSOCIATES

Hasselhoff: bouncy blonde lifeguards, a talking car, puppies

Clemens: Brian Mcnamee, Andy Petite, lawyers

Edge: Hasselhoff

MORE MEMORABLE QUOTE

Hasselhoff: “There are many dying children out there whose last wish is to meet me.”

Clemens: “I think he misremembers”

Edge: Clemens

LESS EMBARASSING MOMENT

Hasselhoff: Videotape of being drunk eating a cheeseburger

Clemens: Accused of letting another man stick needles in his ass

Edge: Hasselhoff

BRIGHTER FUTURE

Hasselhoff: Vegas stage shows and Knight Rider cameos

Clemens: Prison

Edge: Even

According to my count there’s a tie, which is admittedly kind of weak. If anybody wants to cast the deciding vote, be my guest. If not, the debate may end, since I really need to delete this image of David Hasselhoff from my computer before IT security runs it's weekly porno sweeps. I'm all about uncomfortable moments, but even I would like to avoid a conversation with my boss about why I keep an image of a naked, puppy covered Hoff on my desktop.


Read more!

Monday, February 25, 2008

States Worse Than New Jersey


I was born and raised in New Jersey. To me, the Garden State is more than just big hair, Italian gangsters, and funny accents. It’s more than an area of 8,729 square miles that has produced luminaries such as John Bon Jovi, Jack Nicholson, and Shaquille O’Neal. It’s more than the bastion of wealth that boasts an overly educated and high earning population, yet also has within it’s borders two cities ranked among the ten most dangerous in America. To me, the land mass that stretches from the Jersey shore to Hoboken produces people with an attitude, energy, and outlook on life so staggeringly unique that whenever I hear it’s name one word dominates my subconscious, and that’s home.

Even as an unbiased native, I’ll be the first to admit that New Jersey is not without its quirks. Those rolling hills bordering the turnpike are actually overflowing landfills (On the positive side it was recently announced that all our landfill space is full!). That guy walking down the street in an undershirt wasn’t planning on wearing anything over that. And a fat cat isn’t an obese feline, but rather a heart attack inducing sandwich comprised of two cheeseburgers, French fries, lettuce, tomato, and onions crammed onto a single sub roll.

I love all of these things, but living in Virginia the last few years, I’ve discovered that the sentiment is not mutual. In fact, there are a lot of folks around here who openly dismiss Jersey as an “armpit;” code for a festering black hole of shit from which nothing good could ever emerge.

I encountered one such hater two weeks ago, and upon our first meeting she had no trouble launching into a fifteen minute diatribe about what she believed to be the many deficiencies of my home state. When I inquired where she was from, she replied, “Indiana.” Sadly, such encounters with total ignorance are not unique.

So in an effort to combat the confusion that exists, I’m going to return the favor, and list all the states I’ve visited that are far worse than New Jersey.

1. Kentucky-Just take a look at who wears those, “Getting Lucky in Kentucky” t-shirts, multiply by 4 million, and you’ll understand.
2. Mississippi-The state with the worst education system inexplicably has the hardest name to spell.
3. Indiana-I’m naturally suspicious of any people who would willingly refer to themselves as “Hoosiers.”
4. Alabama-Here they go out of their way to recognize the things that are truly important, like God, football, and incest.
5. Delaware-Home of tax free shopping is the perfect target for annexation by New Jersey.
6. Utah-How a can a place filled with preachy Mormons, polygamists, and an NBA team have so little alcohol?
7. New Hampshire-State motto is Live Free or Die, and after visiting the latter option didn't sound so bad.
8. Arkansas-This state’s biggest industry is poultry farming, which makes it the perfect spot to visit if you happen to love chicken poop.
9. North Dakota-You know things are bad when your citizens are jealous of those who get to live in the frozen emptiness that is South Dakota.
10. Michigan-People here will show you their town’s location by pointing it out on their hand because they think it looks like the shape of the state. From what I’ve seen, they’d be more accurate using their ass.


Read more!

Thursday, February 21, 2008

How Do You Help An Alcoholic Friend?

One of my best friends in recent years is a guy we’ll call Dan. Dan is an alcoholic. We met, of course, at a bar, where we were both trying to gain the attention of the same girl. I tried to engage her by asking if she had any interest in books, while Dan, staying true to his indomitable style, asked if she had any interest in sex. Shockingly, neither of us got the girl, but Dan and I hit it off and wound up exchanging numbers.

I’ve now known Dan for three years, and learned that he is actually two very different people. Sober Dan is quiet, contemplative, and regularly goes out of his way to help others. He enjoys watching Animal Planet on TV and working at his pizza shop. Drunk Dan is boisterous, rash, and crude beyond all belief. He enjoys alcohol, women, and more alcohol. These personalities are so different it’s hard to fathom that ten Bud Lights are all that separates them.

In spite of this contradiction, I’ve seen the transformation happen a lot, as Dan and I go out to bars once or twice a week. On those nights, Dan will be drinking when I arrive at his apartment, and he will also drink in my car on the way to the venue. In fact, like a cagey squirrel, Dan has mastered the art of hiding beer in my car, as I have discovered bottles in the trunk, under the seat, and, my personal favorite, in the glove compartment where I keep my license and registration.

Dan’s roommate, John, is also a lush, and at 3am they will frequently start wrestling, demand Taco Bell, or both. For example, last week they were able to order without incident, but at the pickup window John put Dan in what he called a “rear naked choke.” Dan responded by getting out of the car and challenging John. John’s response was to charge Dan, knocking him into the bushes where they would spend the next twenty minutes grappling. Unfortunately, I didn’t have money to pay for their Cheesy Beefy Melts, and the ten cars behind me started honking, while I did the best I could to avoid the glare of the drive-through cashier, a young, cross-eyed Asian guy, who probably thought earlier in the day that life couldn’t get any worse.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about Dan’s drinking, my role as an enabler, and what, if anything, I can do to help him quit. Having raised the subject of alcoholism to him before on numerous occasions, I know that when confronted Dan will acknowledge he has a problem, tell me “I’m ten years too late,” and then quickly change the subject. I’ve considered not driving Dan to the bar anymore, however I fear he will attempt to drive himself, or turn to John, who is no better an option.

So that’s where the situation currently stands. If anyone has any suggestions they would be greatly appreciated, since I have no experience dealing with alcoholism and am completely out of ideas. Until then, I don’t see anything changing, and Dan’s steady deterioration will continue.



Read more!

Friday, February 15, 2008

To Dye or Not to Dye: A 30 Year Old Guy Battles Grey Hair


It used to be that worrying about one's appearance was a strictly female enterprise. These days, the paradigm has shifted, and this has placed men in an interesting position. We are post Queer Eye and the metrosexual revolution, where gay dudes taught us that we could manscape and spend $80 for shirts, yet a little of the sagging and plumping that accompanies normal male aging is still considered distinguished, even sexy, by a certain segment of the female population.

These parallel lines of reasoning presented me with a quandary when I noticed my first grey hair earlier this year. The tipping point in favor of action came when one of my company’s interns referred to me as “sir.” Sir! While ideally she would have referred to me as the “cool guy who is going to come over later and tear through me like a tornado in a Texas trailer park,” any vulgarity or profane adjective that comes to mind would have been far preferable to sir, a designation she probably reserved for old men of her father’s generation.

My initial plan to combat the grey involved plucking them out with tweezers I bought at the local supermarket after telling the cashier a long winded story about how my girlfriend needed them because they caused her less irritation than traditional waxing. Having procured the tweezers, and befuddled the cashier, I would spend fifteen minutes every week in front of a mirror searching for and removing any grey hairs I could find. Although I did this alone, I began feeling somewhat self conscious, and mentioned this weekly ritual to my doctor. His response was, “I wouldn’t worry. My wife does that.”

After having been completely emasculated by my doctor, along with his wife, I stopped plucking and decided to explore the world of over the counter dyes. I went to the drug store with my friend “Irish” Patrick for support. Irish was 29, had a similar issue, and was considering the possibility of splitting a bottle of Just For Men. We have different hair colors, as mine is black, and his is brown, but we figured we might be able to get a shade in the middle, saving ourselves some cash in the process.

The selection we encountered was staggering. Everywhere you looked there was a box adorned with a rugged guy enjoying the freedom and confidence his newly invigorated coif provided. In spite of this initial optimism, things went downhill fairly quickly. Irish and I couldn’t agree on an intermediate shade, and then all of the products I saw for my hair color featured black guys with beards and jheri curls. Twenty minutes later we would leave the store empty handed.

So that’s where I'm at right now. On a theoretical level, I believe that human beings should age naturally, without the use of artificial means to preserve an image that is hollow and vain. On a more practical level, I like dating 21 year old girls, which means my battle against grey hair will continue.


Read more!

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Warning: Barak Obama Can Be Addictive


Living in the Washington, DC area for the better part of five years, I have witnessed my share of rabid political supporters, from the conservative Christian base of George W. Bush, to the liberal feminists lined up behind Hillary Clinton, to the roving bands of Oompa Loompas that follow around Dennis Kucinich and his hot young trophy wife. However, I have never seen anything comparable to the unmitigated devotion inspired by Barack Obama in recent weeks.

Obviously, Obama, as the first serious African American contender for President, has been drawing a tremendous following from the black community, spearheaded by none other than all powerful Oprah, but what has been most amazing to me is the wide cross section of Americans who have been streaming into the Obama camp. I had two experiences this weekend that cemented this view of Barack as the Real Uniter.

The first took place near the mall, as I walked past a group of Puerto Rican youths gathered around their cars and blasting music with a thumping baseline. Being somewhat ignorant, and an avid watcher of the nightly news, I thought that the assemblage was gang activity, or at the very least an impromptu car wash.

Upon closer inspection, I was shocked to find that the meeting was political in nature, with people holding up signs reading "Obama for President" and "Obama para presidente." Eventually, the Hispanic teenagers were joined by older white people, many of whom tapped their feet and reminisced about Jennifer Lopez's performance in Anaconda.

The second incident occurred over dinner at a Moroccan restaurant downtown. My friend's wife was celebrating her birthday, and one of their guests was a doctor from Israel. He entered the establishment clutching a picture of Barak with Hebrew writing that translated to "Barack for President." Apparently, he had decided to have this poster with him at all times until the election, and yet, somehow couldn't quite figure out why he didn't have a girlfriend.

Moments into the meal, a member of the Muslim wait staff came across the poster, and asked who it belonged to. Due to historical concerns, everyone at the table became anxious until the waiter broke into a toothy grin, announcing that he would also be voting for Obama. On this night, Barack’s power was such that he was able to bring together Muslim and Jew in a soulful duet of political kinship.

I am still firmly in the corner of John McCain, but if Barack's ability to garner support across the political and cultural spectrum is truly as strong as demonstrated this weekend, then he will be our next President. On the one hand, it makes me proud that as divisive and angry as our nation can sometimes be, we can move past those differences and elect an African-American President. On the other hand, it pisses me off that Oprah is right again. She already decides what we watch, what we read, and what we eat, and now she picks the president too.

We might as well prepare for a Dr. Phil/Steadman ticket in 2012. You heard it here first.


Read more!

Monday, February 11, 2008

Love Really Does Hurt

Thursday will be the first time this decade that I'm going to be spending Valentine's Day on a date. In previous years, I had been able to insure that I was either not in a relationship, or we happened to be on a "break" when February 14 rolled around. Things are different this year because Mandi, the girl I’m sort of seeing, proved to be a diabolically clever opponent.

Mandi laid the groundwork for her scheme about a month ago, after we had a discussion regarding how I hadn't been to a college basketball game since school. A few days later she called to tell me that she had purchased tickets for us to attend Georgetown vs. Villanova on February 11. When I first heard about the tickets, I was touched, and considered them to be a harmless gift borne out of an agenda free spirit.

Having had a chance to reflect, I now realize that she knew the obligation of the game would keep us together until the middle of February, and that this kind of shared experience, combined with the impending holiday, would prevent even the coldest of hearts from ignoring her on the 14th. In essence, these tickets conferred upon me admission not only to the game, but also to a Valentine's Day where I have to pay for candy, flowers, and dinner at a restaurant that doesn’t have a slogan along the lines of, “eating good in the neighborhood,” which means it will be expensive.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with Mandi; she’s a cool girl and we have a lot of fun together. However, there is a major sexual problem that threatens our relationship. Without getting too graphic, she has informed me that we don’t fit together very well, and she believes that this space issue, combined with my vigorous nature, may have caused her to suffer internal bleeding and bruising.

My reaction to her statement has been twofold. Firstly, I was surprised by her use of the adjective “vigorous” to describe my style, as I had previously heard ladies throw around terms like sweaty, surprising, methodical, and unorthodox, but never vigorous. Secondly, I can now definitively say that while there are many aphrodisiacs in this world, having a girl explain that you are causing her internal bleeding and bruising is not one of them.

In light of these obstacles, I suppose that this Valentine’s Day will be a test to see whether Mandi and I actually have a chance, or if we are simply two different people spending an evening together out of the fear of loneliness and the bonds of social obligation. Either way, due to our physical incongruity, there will likely be no sex at the end of the night, and if that’s the case, maybe we’ll wind up at Applebee’s after all.



Read more!

Friday, February 8, 2008

No IPOD: Am I Weird?


So I'm going to confess once and for all that I do not own an IPOD. That's right, no Shuffles, Touches, Nanos, MP3 players, or Minis, in any of the various colors, shapes, and sizes available. If you don't believe me, you can search my apartment, and even go into my closet, where you'll find no IPOD related undergarments, such as the IPOD boxer shorts or the new IPOP bra (link below).

http://www.pocket lint.co.uk/news/news.phtml/2964/3988/ipod-accessories-iron-ibra gadgets.phtml

How do I play mp3s when I'm at the gym or walking outside? I don't, I actually listen to what's going on around me, which can be beneficial. For example, if a car is coming straight at me while frantically honking its horn, I will hear it and move, whereas my hip friend entranced by the beats emanating from his 15GB Nano will not. Perhaps this is modern evolution via technology. Take that Galapagos turtles.

While we're on the subject of technology, I might as well also admit that I do not own a TIVO, a video game player, anything hi-def, a blue tooth, a flat screen TV, premium movie channels, Wi-Fi, a BlackBerry, a satellite dish, a home computer, or most of the other modern marvels that people claim they can't live without. My cell phone does not flip, nor does it feature a camera with any megapixels to speak of. I do have a DVD player, but it is of such low quality that I have seen better in the shopping cart of the local homeless man whom I pass every morning at the bus stop.

I have been informed by my new blogging friends that many of you reading this admission will find my circumstances quite strange, particularly since most in the blogger community are quite savvy when it comes to the latest gadgets. While I understand your amazement, from my perspective, waiting in line for the privilege of being among the first to plop down $400 for an IPhone, or spending all day at the Apple Store salivating over the selection of products would feel equally weird.

Basically, I've gotten along okay for 30 years being firmly entrenched behind the technology curve, and I don't see myself changing any time soon. Of course, if somebody ever buys me a pair of IPOD boxers, then perhaps I'll have to make an exception.


Read more!

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The End of Will Ferrell?


Like a lot of you, I have been a staunch Will Ferrell supporter for many years, from his days as prodigious cowbell maven Gene Frenkle on Saturday Night Live, to his legendary performance as the excitable Frank "the Tank" in Old School, to the seminal moment in AnchorMan when his character Ron Burgundy reveals to the world that San Diego actually means whale vagina. However, I think that Will is starting to brush up against the wall many comedians face when their shtick goes from fresh and hilarious to tired and antiquated. Part of this transformation is actually a sign of distinction, that one's style of comedy has been so successful, and consequently imitated, that its no longer original.

To me, Ferrell's problem stems from over exposure and formulaic movie choices. Usually a comedian has only so much funny in him, or in extreme circumstances, none at all, ie Jimmy Fallon/Dane Cook. He can either stretch the funny out over several years, or work incessantly to produce as much content as possible over a relatively short period of time. Will has obviously taken the latter approach, and I think it was his lackluster Super Bowl commercial that finally broke me.

In case you didn't see it, Will was hawking Bud Light using the character Jackie Moon from his latest film, Semi-Pro. Jackie is a basketball player from the 70s, and for this role Ferrell really stretches, playing a guy with bad hair and a huge gut, who blurts out random, disjointed phrases with an assured glare that is quickly betrayed when his features reveal him contemplating a final moment of self-actualization as to his own absurdity!

This latest offering means that in only a few short years Ferrell's covered NASCAR, soccer, figure skating, and basketball. God Will, just because a sport exists doesn't mean you need to make a movie about it. Is jai-alai next on the agenda? What about pinochle? Nobody has done anything of note lately in the elderly women card game genre.

I realize that I'm doing quite a bit of hating here, but I'm hating because I care. As a fan, I don't want to watch Will Ferrell descend into the murky depths of safe, predictable comedy. Hopefully, if enough of us speak up the message will get through, and come next Super Bowl we'll be spared the sight of Will in full jockey regalia, selling Bud Light from atop a racing camel.


Read more!

Monday, February 4, 2008

Super Bowl Sunday as the New Father's Day


I watched the Super Bowl yesterday at a friend’s house in Arlington. All of the attendees were Giants fans, with the exception of a lone, brooding Patriots fan who displayed the same arrogance and lack of sportsmanship we’ve come to expect from Belichick and company. Overall, it was a fun time, as there were plenty of people, beer, and cupcakes.

I was, and still am, shocked that the Giants won. Growing up in New Jersey, I’ve followed the team my entire life. While their victory was pleasing, this was not for me; this was for the hardcore fans. For those of you unfamiliar with the hierarchy of football fandom, allow me to break it down:

Hardcore fan: Daily uniform consists of red, white, and blue Giants zebra pants, white hi-top Reeboks, #56 jersey, mullet, and wrap around sun glasses. Staunchly anti-gay yet has nightly dreams of holding Phil Simms. Weeps after losses. Would attend Giants game over birth of first born child.

Regular fan: Watches most games on TV. Attendes one game per decade. Claps politely after Giants victory.

Speaking of first born children, not only was this a day for the hardcore Giants fans, but this was also a day for fathers. On a more personal level, I think about my friend who hosted the party. He has a 1 ½ year old son, and is a great Dad. From watching him and some other new Dads, I’ve picked up a few rites of passage that appear integral to modern fatherhood.

1). Once you have the baby, the first thing you do is go out and purchase a really good TV. I’m talking about a big screen, blue ray, Hi-def, surround sound monster complete with over a thousand channels and a TIVO.
2). Then you call up and order a piece of home fitness equipment, like a bow-flex or one of those total home gyms that claim you’ll get buff in only twenty minutes a day three times a week. The trick with this piece of equipment is you don’t actually use it, but you stick it in the corner of your basement, toss some clothes over it, and have it sitting there just in case you ever have the need to bang out some last minute bicep curls or leg extensions.
3). You get all kinds of baby equipment in manly colors. Diaper changers, baby carriers, and strollers now come in black, silver, and even camouflage for that Dad who still wants to look badass while cradling a newborn. Its like saying, “Once the little one finishes eating his stewed peas, and I change this diaper, you are so dead.”
4). Finally, you alter your speech patterns so that your voice shifts from a deep bass to a lighter, more delicate tone, making sure to end every other word in an “ey” sound. For example, whereas before you might say “Champ, put down that wire cutter before you get hurt,” as a new Dad you would say, “Champy, give Daddy the sharpy before you get an owy and go cry to Mommy.”

On a more national paternal level, I think about Eli Manning’s father Archie, who had to endure years of the fans and media lambasting his son Eli on everything from his performance to his aloof demeanor to his patchy facial hair, while his other son Peyton was winning a championship and being exalted as a football God in Indianapolis. Even Archie had to admit that Eli often looked like he was more cut out to be the assistant manager at a rural Georgia Waffle House than an NFL quarterback. Seeing brothers who were such polar opposites was a lot like the movie Twins, where Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character is perfect, a flawless specimen physically and mentally, while Danny Devito plays the short, unattractive brother described as being “all the crap that was left over.”

Prior to Sunday, Eli was in some respects the proverbial, “crap left over,” and I’m sure Archie had a few pep talks ready in case of a Giant’s loss. Fortunately, such speeches would prove unnecessary because Eli’s play propelled him into the stratosphere of New York sports legends. For Archie, the hardcore Giants fans, and all the other fathers out there, this Super Bowl victory exemplified the persistence, determination, and toughness they show every day. It also means that somewhere in Georgia there’s a Waffle House with an assistant manager opening, and it looks like their going to have to wait to fill it for at least one more year.


Read more!