How Bout That Crazy Curling Huh?

Another Winter Olympics gone, another two weeks of lazy curling comedy out of the way. Comedians, we get it. Curling's weird. Shouldn't be a sport, let alone Olympic. Black people don't like ice/snow/skating. It's cool, point proven. Your task over the next four years is to come up with something new. Maybe something about how they're competing in the Olympics in polo shirts and slacks. They could be striving to see who's the best in the world, or they could be waiting tables at Applebee's.

And is shuffleboard on ice really that much stranger than throwing yourself off a ramp on the side of a mountain with two pieces of wood strapped to your feet and seeing who can fly the farthest? I ask you.

Seriously, when Leno's using curling in promos for his return to hypnosis of the elderly, you know it's a dead horse.

Set your sights on the Trampoline event at the 2012 London games. That shit's weird. And sort of awesome.

What the Super Bowl Ads Taught Me about Myself

As I am a straight white male age 18-34, CBS is very glad I tuned in to the Super Bowl last night. As I am an intelligent critical-thinking cynical ad-proof liberal, I was pretty pissed off by what I was told I'm supposed to like. The advertisers see me as they want to see me, in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions: a man's man who cannot be himself because he carries the heavy yoke of a relationship with a woman; all I want to do is drive my car and drink bland, watery beer, but I can't because a woman cast her menstrual spells on me and now I have to carry her purse and watch movies with Valerie Bertinelli and/or J Lo. And they tell me I hate abortions. As an atheist Democrat this is partially true; the Democrat in me wants to carve up all the pregnant bellies in America, but the atheist in me wants to eat those babies alive. Tough call.

If I may drag Orwell's dead body into this again, and I may, the reason I find all this irritating is that it's just so lazy. Cliches are shortcuts, which is why they're necessary in 30-second TV spots, but they do your thinking for you. Fact: I married my wife because, among other reasons, I enjoy hanging out with her, I can truly be myself around her, and we let each other do what we want. Myth: men always force themselves into marriage to fit societal expectations and/or get someone to feed them for free, then resent their wives because being an asshole is no longer tolerated. I encountered similar thinking during my engagement. I'd tell an older guy that I was getting married, and he'd bitch about his wife. It's not my fault you made a terrible decision as a younger man, so don't make me feel bad for holding out for the good stuff.

And you guys all realize that none of the beer advertised during the Super Bowl is American, right? I didn't see any Sam Adams commercials, or Yuengling or Sierra Nevada. Even PBR, the largest American-owned brewery now that European conglomerates bought all the other big ones, outsources its brewing to South Africa. Not that I would drink the crap if it was American. I went through that phase. It's called college. The reason beer is an acquired taste is because everyone starts out drinking the worst of it. Was your first beer a Dogfish Head Brewery creation, or a Rogue ale, or something European you couldn't pronounce? No, it was room-temp Natty Light out of a red Solo cup, which you were drinking to get drunk, not to complement a steak. The owner of Dogfish Head Brewery told me (and about 200 other conventioneers) that the major beer companies all make pretty much the same product, which is based on a centuries-old German edict limiting beer to three ingredients: water, barley, and hops. There's really only so much variation you're going to get in products made by that guideline.

Sure, I got a few chuckles out of last night's broadcast (thank you Betty White and adorable Doritos kid; no thank you Leno, not ever), but given the amount of hype and the disgusting amounts of money spent, shouldn't we have gotten better?

And hey GoDaddy, moderately attractive women in plain tank tops with your logo across the chest just aren't as hot as you seem to think.

Confused by the 'Lost' Premiere?

[spoiler]You're an idiot![/spoiler] But seriously, this will be a spoiler-free post.

A lot of digital ink has been wasted on how confusing and befuddling and mind-breaking Lost can be. Let me clue you in to something: it's not that hard. Getting cheap healthcare to a first-world nation without accruing massive debt is hard. Predicting ups and downs in an economy that may or may not be following Keynesian cycles is hard. This is just a TV show. They have to make money. Thus, they have to please a lot of people. Thus, they have to provide answers at some point.

This is where the "confusion" sets in. Answers will be provided. They will not be provided when you want them. This is not confusion. This is just impatience. This isn't Twin Peaks (and even if it were, that wasn't as obfuscating as people make it out to be); David Lynch doesn't rely on cause-and-effect. Abrams and crew most certainly do.

Let's say character X died in season two, yet in this season we see X walk out of the jungle in a suit. "Whuuuh?" you say, cheese dip and sweat mixing on your upper lip. "But he's...he's...DAID!" Well, clearly he isn't, and in a matter of time the writers will tell us why not. No confusion necessary, just patience. And don't bother trying to explain it yet, because chances are you don't have all the necessary information, which will be provided at some point. Congratulations to me! I just nullified hundreds and hundreds of silly conspiracy-laden fan sites.

Now, let's say someone like David Lynch is in fact behind the show. Character X dies in season two, probably by autoerotic asphyxiation. In this season, he walks out of the jungle in a suit, scuba gear, and point shoes, talks backwards for a while, farts on Sawyer's face and exits. X is never mentioned again. X's actions in no way advanced the plot. At this point, confusion is not only acceptable, it's the only sane reaction.

You were given a one-hour recap before this last season premiere, not to mention plenty of time to catch up on DVDs. You have a whole season in front of you in which the writers will wrap up loose ends and explain that initial cold shock of the season premiere. And by now you damn well oughta know how the show works. So why are you so stupid?

And why do I care? I guess because at this point, it's become a cliche that Lost is such a confusing, dense show with hundreds of unanswered questions, and I'm of the Orwellian school when it comes to cliches. They're lazy; they are mannequins of actual thought. It's a great show. Sit back and let it prove that to you.

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Tis the Season...

...for obligatory "Best Of" lists. Were I a more ambitious, skilled writer, I'd try to cover the whole decade. Or this year. Or this week. But I'm not. So just let me muse a while.

I didn't even realize it was the end of a decade til a week or so ago. It's amazing to think of the amount of pop culture trends the Oughts have encompassed. The Boy Band Craze was still in full effect at the turn of the decade/millennium. God, that gives N Sync a bit more credibility, right? "Which band was #1 at the beginning of the Third Millennium of the Common Era?" And at the end of the decade, "No Strings" is still the best-selling album. Because everyone stopped paying for music somewhere around 2003.

It was quite a decade for me personally. I became a man in the truest sense of the word, which for my people means drinking the blood of your enemy. I should mention my people live in Bartertown and compete regularly in the Thunderdome. I started the decade a man-child, and finished it a married man-child.

This was the decade of Lord of the Rings, The Matrix, and that adorable Anakin Skywalker with his bestest buddy sidekick, Uncle Jar Jar Tom. Comic book movies, Xbox, and Halo. At the end of the decade that truly solidified my tastes as 100% Geek, it's hard to imagine a better collection of movies and cultural phenomena in the future. Fortunately that future ends abruptly in two years.

This was also the decade of Reality. Which is unfortunate, considering that the reality of the decade was so depressing. Television ceased providing the escape that it has provided for us for over 50 years, and instead served as a crushing reminder of what man becomes when he has everything he wants. He becomes Bret Michaels. He becomes Flava Flav. Speidi. Omarosa. The naked guy from Survivor. What has this trend taught me? Within our heart of hearts resides a power-hungry stripper who loves money and doesn't understand that character is a finite resource, nor that fame is a shimmering, translucent, double-edged sword.

We've been so knee-deep in batshit crazy these last couple months, it's hard to get perspective over that molehill to see the decade behind us. We finally turned the corner away from the Heenes only to be met with the professional do-nothing Salahis asking us to take a picture of them with the Pope and Elizabeth II. We ducked into the nearest doorway and there was Tiger Woods, busy becoming the Wilt Chamberlain of golf (or if the body count keeps rising, the Wilt Chamberlain of Wilt Chamberlains).

What a strange and wonderful journey it's been. Have a great summer and keep in touch*!

*we won't keep in touch

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News of the WTF?!

Apparently the military actions (or "wars," if you like) in which the US has been engaged have been resolved, the economy has stabilized, and everyone has totally free health insurance, because the two news stories dominating my world are Tiger Woods forgetting how to drive a car and two very privileged people complaining their lives have been ruined because they achieved their goal of infamy after crashing a White House dinner.

Tiger Woods celebrated the Thanksgiving weekend by banging up his SUV in front of his house at 2:30 in the morning, then hiding in his bedroom for a few days hoping everyone would forget about it. This guy's been a total Boy Scout in the many years he's been a superstar, so I have to assume the worst here. He and his wife got hopped up on meth and accidentally killed the 12-year old Thai hooker they ordered, and he flipped out trying to ditch the body. Or, you know, he had his first Zima and tried to satsify a Cheetos craving. Either way, he'll be fine.

Tareq and Michaele (pronunciation? anyone?) Salahi, on the other hand, are rapidly approaching the Heenes on the patented Gosselin scale of oh-my-god-go-away. They crashed a dinner at the White House in honor of India's Prime Minister. Or, according to them, "no we didn't." Were they on the guest list? No? Then "yes they did." So they committed the minorest of minor Secret Service security breaches. They ate samosas. No one got hurt. OK. Cool.

But what's this? They say their lives have been "destroyed." Really? You lost all your money? No? Got fired? No? Someone took your house away? No? Threats of physical harm? No? Oh, a lot of people are taking pictures of you in advance of your media circuit? I see. Yes, yes, that certainly could qualify as having your life "destroyed," if you've never heard the word "destroyed" before. From CNN:

"We will begin doing press and media next week providing exclusive interviews and press junkets," Jones said in an e-mail to CNN on Thursday. "If you would like to be considered in our media circuit we request that you hold your proposed published profile until then."

I'm thinking, just maybe, if you're not crazy about having people inquire into your lives and follow you around and whatnot, you do your best to keep from crashing public dinners at the house of the most famous man in the world. I don't know. Just spitballing here.

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Old Dogs: What Your Movie Poster Really Says

John Travolta: "This is what Tarantino brought me back to life for? Really?"

Robin Williams: "Don't look at me. I was a Madoff client. I need this."

Seth Green: "I'm the creator of Robot Chicken! I'm supposed to be better than this!"

Gorilla: "Amy. Love. Man-boy. Amy. Want. Fire. Agent."

Sorry about the Russian version. I swear this is in English all over the NYC subway system, yet inexplicably there is no English jpeg of it.

And by the way, they were shooting this movie like two years ago in the city. Protip: a two-year delay in releasing a film with little to no post requirements (no special effects, etc) is a bad, bad sign.

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Wonderful Pistachios Hates Pistachios

That's the only message I'm gathering from the new ad campaign from Wonderful Pistachios. What else could possibly motivate them to cast such fresh faces as Levi Johnston, that developmentally disabled preposition-happy beauty queen from South Carolina, a big guy who was probably on "The Sopranos," a dominatrix, and, um, Dara Torres (why Dara why)? And the campaign presents a wonderful thought experiment. What's worse? Being lashed open with a whip, or touched by Levi Johnston*?

Perhaps the ad exec's mother was killed by a mutant pistachio, and he's been biding his time until he could exact complete vengeance upon the industry. And what better vengeance than forever attaching the wonderful nut to people whose 15 minutes ran out in 5? No longer do I associate the pistachio with good ice cream, or the unfortunate color palette of the 70s. No, no, now when I crack one open I'm thinking of a satellite celebrity with strong seed, or places like the Iraq such as wheretofore. Clearly the pistachio people were too busy trying to get that red dye off their fingers to approve the ad, and here we are.

And how is it that someone can appear so awkward, Mr. Johnston, when all that's required of him is to walk forward, stop, and open a pistachio? Let's keep in mind that your shoot took no less than eight hours, and what we're seeing is the absolute best thing that happened in that eight hours. Take a look, and note the awesome NASCAR-font tattoo of his own last name on his forearm (for when he's that shitfaced):

Well done sir. From obscurity to notoriety to pistachios to Playgirl, all in less than a year. It's like the life cycle of a monarch butterfly. So mysterious. So fragile. So douchey.

Just remember what you're really paying for, next time you open your wallet for Wonderful Pistachios.

*experts† agree this is worse.
†the expert is Bristol Palin.
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