James's Beard

Miller Lite: Man Down

2011-01-11T23:11:00.002-05:00

Know what I’m tired of? This:

Now, I have numerous problems with this commercial (the whole series of Miller Lite commercials, actually). These go well beyond my usual problems with beer commercials - that they aren’t funny, they relies the men are idiots and women are sex objects stereotypes that haven’t been particularly fresh since at least the nineteenth century, that the beer sucks, and, seriously, they’re not funny. There’s so much I hate about this commercial I actually made a list.

1. What’s wrong with that guy’s swimsuit?

Seriously. I know that as a heterosexual American male, I’m supposed to fall over laughing like a braying donkey at the mere thought of a man wearing a skimpy bathing suit, but I’m past it. I’m sorry Miller Lite. I’m not nine anymore. I’m an adult and I’ve gotten to the stage where I’m pretty comfortable with myself. I go to the gym. I shower there if necessary. I’ve seen more. It’s not the end of the world. And it stops being funny after a bit. That guy’s suit isn’t even that revealing. Anyone who has ever vacationed in Europe or where Europeans vacation has probably seen skimpier. It’s not like the guy has a terrible body. He’s not exactly rocking a six pack, but how many women in bikinis look like supermodels? Instead of making fun of the guy, they should be giving him respect. He’s comfortable with himself and that’s awesome. After the bartender made fun of him, I wish he would tell her off and get with the brunette next to him. Now, that would be a commercial I can get behind. And he should totally have high-fived that European guy in the same suit.

2. That guy’s friends are dicks.

Way to have your friend’s back. He’s the one in the group with the most self-confidence. You’re at the beach and he’s in a sweet European suit while you guys don’t even have the balls to take your shirts off. What are you guys, the fat kids in swim class?

3. The Term “Man Up”

“Man up” is a phrase idiots say to fire-up other idiots. If anyone ever tells you to man up, you can safely assume that person has an IQ in the low 70s and should be ignored. I can guarantee, any “manly” feat through history was probably accomplished without any participants being told to man up. It’s not like Teddy Roosevelt had to tell the Rough Riders to man up. That guy wore a monocle and said “bully” and still managed to be a complete badass. Now that’s self-confidence.

4. The beer sucks

I know it’s not fair to judge a commercial based on the product. A lot of terrible products have had effective, interesting commercials, but I can’t get past the fact that beer is terrible. Let’s be honest. All light beers taste pretty much the same. I challenge anyone to take a blind taste test with the major light beers (Miller, Coors, Bud, etc.) and pick out their “favorite.” It all pretty much tastes like water with a little beer flavor in it. So let’s not kid ourselves that one has more taste while choosing the others makes you less of a man. Your choice of beverage in no way affects how much and what kind of a man (or woman) you are. There are guys out there drinking down chocolate martinis that are more man than most beer drinkers. Oh, and you know what other beer is “triple hops brewed”? All of them. That’s how the brewing process works.

5. Does that girl work for tips?

This bugs me the most. Does she really expect a tip? Does she have something bitchy to say to everyone who doesn’t order a Miller Lite? Does she know how customer service works? Doesn’t she like money? I’ve never tended bar before, but I most certainly have patronized my fair share. If a bartender ever talked to me like that, there’s no way I would tip her (or him). I would make it a point to let them know explicitly that I was not tipping, lest they think it had simply slipped my mind. I would leave a penny, and maybe a stick of gum (unless I had some really good gum). I would write a little note explaining my decision. It’s simple customer service. You treat the customer well. It’s not like the guy did anything to her. All he did was have the self-confidence to wear a completely balling swimsuit. He wasn’t doing anything to her. He wasn’t in violation of the bar’s rules. Sure, I’m not sure where he was keeping his money, but I’m sure he had the wherewithal to pay. And this stupid bitch has the nerve to call him out. It’s not any of her damned business what beer the guy orders, or what trunks he put on this morning. All she has to do is smile and hand over the beer and she gets paid. What a bitch.

Scenes I Would Like to See in The Eventual "Maximum Overdrive" Remake

2010-06-02T18:35:00.001-04:00

A family of a father, mother, and two young children are having a pleasant night bowling when suddenly the ball return stops. Several frantic attempts at hitting the reset button do nothing. Eventually the pimple-faced counter boy is sent back to fetch the lost ball. The family listens horrified as the counter boy is horribly mangled. Blood falls from above the pins and the pin guards move up and down as though the machines are laughing. The machines hurl bowling pins at the customers killing everyone else in the building.

(Scene)

A barista is making a caramel macchiato for a customer. Suddenly, the cappuccino machine sprays his eyes with burning hot steam. He lunges toward the register only to have the drawer open with incredible force. First, it hits him in the crotch. Then, after he falls to his knees, it opens again and hits him even harder in the head, decapitating him. Then, the ice machine shoots ice cubes with bullet-like velocity killing all the customers in the shop, even that one really cute bohemian girl.

(Scene)

A math teacher is writing an equation on a transparency for an overhead projector. The overhead projector waits for him to be directly in the light and then instantly heats up to the temperature of the sun burning the teacher to a crisp. As the children scream in horror, the electric pencil sharpener on the teacher’s desk shoots razor sharp pencil shavings through every student’s neck.

(Scene)

At a wedding, just as the DJ is about to announce the wedding party, the volume on his equipment goes louder than ever before possible. The system plays ‘Funkytown’ so loud that everyone in the room’s head explodes. When the wedding party enters to see what happened, the CD player shoots CD’s at them like throwing stars, killing everyone.

(Scene)

A family is trying to take a family photo with their new digital camera. The father becomes increasingly confused as camera seems to be clicking faster and faster. The camera is clicking so fast and hard it begins to sound angry. Much to the father’s shock the digital display begins to read, “I hate you and am doing everything I can to kill you!” The camera continues to click and flash at an even more alarming rate. The camera is becoming irate at it’s own impotence at killing people. “Oh,” the camera thinks, “If only I were the lawn mower. Then these bastards would die.” Suddenly, a backhoe breaks through the wall and crushes the family. The camera’s display reads, “Thank you.” The backhoe lets out a little toot as a welcome.

(Scene)

Shalom

Masters of the Terrible

2010-03-09T16:09:00.003-05:00

When I was four, I thought the absolute epitome of cool was the Chicago Bears in “The Super Bowl Shuffle” video. I know it is cheesy, dated, and embarrassing. In my defense, I can only say that I was four, lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, knew nothing of cool, and, finally, screw you, Jim McMahon wore his sunglasses, even inside. That’s cool. This is where I considered noting that “The Super Bowl Shuffle” was nominated for a Grammy, but I fear that speaks more to the quality of the Grammies than “The Super Bowl Shuffle”.

For a brief period in the mid 80’s, people, not only four year-old military brats, actually thought football players fumbling through a simple rap beat in a gauzily produced video seemed cool. Making poorly produced videos became the cool thing to do. Other teams jumped on the bandwagon. The New England Patriots – the Bears’ eventual Super Bowl opponents – produced their own response, which quickly became lost to history. This happens when you lose the Super Bowl by roughly 700 points. Eventually teams such as the Miami Dolphins and the (then) LA Raiders put out their own music videos. Even the NHL was not immune from the allure of making its very own music video.

By far the most bizarre of the sports related videos released in the wake of “The Super Bowl Shuffle” is Masters of the Gridiron featuring the Cleveland Browns. Masters of the Gridiron is the product of lunatic ambition. While most of these sports videos were content to produce a crappy song and point a camera at the team swaying off-tempo in a studio, the producers of Masters of the Gridiron were thinking on a much grander scale. It was as though someone in the Browns organization thought, “A music video? A Music Video?! We’re the MF’ing Cleveland Browns. We’re better than any MF’ing music video. Screw the music. I’m going epic. I want to make the Citizen Kane of poorly produced sports team videos.” And that’s exactly what happened.

Masters of the Gridiron casts the Cleveland Browns in a full fantasy epic. You can tell it’s a fantasy because it features wizards, swords, and the Browns winning a Championship. It speaks volumes about Masters of the Gridiron that casting the Browns as a band of quasi-Medieval warriors is not even the most insane part of the video. The producers – after wracking their brains for what could have been weeks – finally found the perfect actor to portray the video’s villain, the evil wizard the Lord of the League. That’s right. The only actor who could lend this role the proper weight is Tiny Tim. Tiny freakin’ Tim. Somehow I assumed Tiny Tim must have been a Cleveland native and longtime Browns fan. This is not the case. Someone surveyed the entire galaxy of B-list celebrities, and said, “Bring me Tiny Tim.” As for why Tiny Tim agreed to do it, I guess playing “Tip Toe Through the Tulips” wasn’t exactly bringing in the cash.

Masters of the Gridiron is a master class in terrible 80’s video production. It’s hazy, out of focus, and shoehorns in a terrible music video for good measure. That’s Cleveland’s own Michael Stanley rocking it out in an empty Municipal Stadium while the rest of the Browns pretend to be barbarians, knights, and wizards in a battle with evil Tiny Tim. Somehow that description does not do justice to the final product.

While I do not remember knowing anything about Masters of the Gridiron growing up (not surprising since I did not live in Cleveland), obviously God, or fate, or whatever omniscient being in charge of the outcome of football games was watching. So great was the Brown’s affront to taste that Cleveland fans were not only exposed to losing, they were exposed to two of the most gut-wrenching losses in sports history in the two following seasons. Masters of the Gridiron is so bad only The Drive followed by The Fumble followed by years of losing and even enduring moving the franchise could appease the football gods. Based on watching Masters of the Gridiron, the people of Cleveland may have gotten off easy.

Shalom

James's Cover Letter To His Resume To Be The New GM For The Cleveland Browns

2009-11-05T11:32:00.002-05:00

Dear Mr. Lerner,

I learned of the opening of the General Manager position in your organization on ESPN. I have been told by reputable sources that the Cleveland Browns do actually have a long, proud, and even occasionally successful history in the National Football League. I am well aware that most of this success lies well in the past – much of it before my birth. However, I believe your organization can once again rise to the level of competitive, and I think I could possibly be just the man to lead the way.

Now, I am sure as you peruse my resume you will be surprised to discover that I have no football experience, or even any experience working in sports in any capacity ever. I have never even played organized football at any level, not even little league or mighty mite or whatever it is they call football played by six-year-olds. Honestly, I don’t even play the Madden video games that are so popular. I have played football in my friend Joe’s yard on a few occasions, and, as he can attest, I am very good at picking teams. I have included Joe among my references. Feel free to call him, but don’t call before noon. Joe likes to sleep in.

So, you may ask, if I have no football experience, what makes me think I can be the GM of Cleveland Browns? Well, I am looking for a job in the Cleveland area (so I can move closer to my charming fiancée) and you have a job opening in the Cleveland area. So there’s that. On a more specific level, while I have no experience playing, coaching, evaluating talent, drafting, trading, or hiring personal in the NFL, I think I could do an okay job. Not a great job, mind you, but okay. And isn’t that a step in the right direction? You can’t just go from terrible to great in one move. You have to make a stop at okay somewhere along the line. That’s me. I’m just okay.

Also it’s not like I have absolutely no experience with the NFL. I have watched the games. I usually watch one to one and a half games a week. Not only do I watch NFL games, I usually watch good teams. As a Steeler’s fan I know what a good NFL franchise looks like. I’ve seen a good NFL team week in and week out for years. I think I know what I’m doing. I just have to make the Browns more like that. How hard could that be?

I do have a plan for how to get the Browns on the road to okay. Upon my hiring, I will immediately put into effect my two-step plan toward success. Step one consists of a process where bad players and coaches are fired. Then in step two, good players and coaches are acquired. After these two steps are successfully executed the Browns will be left with a good team.

Not only can I do this, but I am pretty sure that, if hired I will do this. So, Mr. Lerner, when you think of your new GM: think experience, think passion, think ability then change your mind and settle for me. What do you have to lose? Oh, and I will work cheap, very cheap. So, I have that going for me.

Sincerely,

James A. Catullo

I came. I saw. Ikea.

2009-10-08T13:58:00.000-04:00

I am now, along with my lovely fiancée, Marissa, the proud owner of a beautiful house in the Ohio City section of Cleveland. Owning a house is, in one word, awesome. It is an overwhelming feeling walking into a house for the first time and knowing that it is yours. That it is not simply some house on the corner, but your home. Yours and yours alone. Marissa and I could have spent days just wandering through empty rooms, staring moonily at each other the way young lovers are want to do. Of course, that would not be much use to us, since we have a whole empty house, and we have to fill that sucker up.

This is where Ikea comes in. Ikea, for those of you not hip to the Swedish, is a store specializing in affordable stylish furniture, which Marissa absolutely loves. The only drawback to Ikea is that all the furniture comes in little boxes disassembled into roughly one million tiny pieces. The customer is then left with the herculean task of putting all of those pieces back together into a piece of furniture roughly approximating, say, a bookshelf. To aid the customer, Ikea only provides a manual made up of only pictures. There are no words in an Ikea furniture assembly manual. Apparently words don’t fit into the ultra-streamlined ethos of Swedish ingenuity.

Now, where most people may blanch at the task of piecing furniture one screw at a time, I rise to the challenge. I don’t want to toot my own horn or anything, but I am basically the king of putting together Ikea furniture. It’s not so much a skill as a gift. One can’t learn to be the king. One can only be born the king. And, buddy, I was born into that royal family. Just give me the tools – most of them are provided in the box – and some time and watch as a beautiful television stand slowly materializes. Truly creating Ikea furniture, as opposed to building it, is an art not a science. I am the maestro of this art. The picture filled manual is my sheet music. The guest to my home is my audience. Please, come in. Sit down on the couch. I assembled it. Oh, you like my television stand. But a flick of my wrist (and screw driver and allen wrench). If you sneak into my bedroom – strictly off limits to visitors – and want to lie upon my bed, rest assured you are in good hands. My hands. The bed is the fruit of my very own labor.

Unfortunately my gift for furniture assembly is an underused attribute. I do not buy furniture that often. I have little opportunity to assemble chests of drawers. Perhaps once every few years I can flex my Ikea muscle. Sure, I’ve considered sharing my gifts with the world. I’ve considered advertising my service. What? You don’t want to put together your expertly engineered European wardrobe? You wish there was some expert on the subject to swoop in and save the day? Why I could be that hero, for a small charge. I could put an ad in the paper or on craigslist. Set up shop. Go into business on my own. I could be James the Ikea King for a living. Travelling from home to home leaving ultra-stylish bookcases, headboards, and sofas in my wake. I have the skills. I’m just not sure if the world is ready for this business model. At the time, the idea of an Ikea Furniture Assembly Expert (IFAX) seems more like a vocation imagined by some hack screenwriter for the next overly quirky indie comedy. For all my dreams of Ikea fueled greatness are merely that dreams.

So, I lay back and observe the world going past me knowing I have a great gift living in my soul going largely untapped. It may kill me when I see a bookshelf leaning due to substandard construction, but I will have to bite my tongue. The world is not ready for a man of my talents. The age of the IFAX is yet to dawn. I will be content knowing my gift and utilizing it only on rare occasions. I know my day may be coming. Just not yet. Unless you have an end table still unassembled and wish for it to be assembled the right way. You can give me a call. My rates or reasonable.

Shalom

Book Review: "Candyfreak: A journey Through The Chocolate Underbelly of America" By: Steve Almond

2009-09-02T12:09:00.004-04:00

Author Steve Almond really has a thing for candy. Not just the kind of thing where he blows 65 cents in the vending machine everyday. No, Steve Almond is a self professed freak when it comes to his sweets. He’s an obsessive hoarder. The kind of guy who buys a nuclear attack level stockpile of Kit-Kat Dark’s right before they got pulled from market. He takes a rare pleasure in experiencing new, unique candy, and feels a wrenching loss at the discontinued candies of the past. Almond’s sorta-memoir Candyfreak: A Journey Through The Chocolate Underbellt of America is his attempt to explain his candy compulsion while taking a sweet journey through small regional candy factories. Unfortunately the journey proves to be a fun read while the grafted on navel gazing feels undercooked.

The book is at it’s strongest as it delves into the history of the candy bar, and explores unique regional treats. Almond has a soft spot for the little guy, and for good reason. Smaller candy companies are at an increased disadvantage to the big three of Hershey, Nestle, and Mars. Few smaller companies can afford to pay the exorbitant slotting fees to get their product onto the shelves of the major chains. You know that impulse rack by every register, companies pay top dollar to give their bars prime real estate. The better part of the book reads as an apologetic for smaller companies. Almond tours factories across the country encountering such unique candy bars as the Twin Bing out of Omaha’s Palmer Chocolates, Southern favorite Goo-Goo Cluster, and the Idaho Spud (guess where that one’s from). These tours are fun. Almond pulls no punches as he lovingly describes the repeated image of chocolate enrobing various candy bars in almost pornographic detail.

Unfortunately, Almond seems driven to make this more than a simple, fun survey of regional candy manufacturing and the harsh economic environment they encounter. No, Almond feels a need to make this a deeply personal journey. You see Almond doesn’t love candy because its, you know, really freaking delicious. No, in Almond’s world his slavish devotion to candy is a manifestation of an unloving childhood. You see candy was the only thing he and his emotionally distant father ever bonded over. How does the reader know his father was emotionally distant? Because the author bangs the reader over the head with the inormation repeatedly. However, Almond never gives any real detail to flesh out his feelings toward his family. The only antidotes he shares seem fairly benign or sweetly nostalgic. Almond also intends to weave his personal reactions to the Bush presidency, his current personal life, and a false health scare into the narrative. However, he fails to really connect the dots and make the reader understand what any of this has to do with candy. Almond mainly comes of as a whiny, petulant jerk. The reader is half tempted to grab him by the lapels and scream: “Enough with the group therapy talk. Tell me about Abba-Zabas already.”

In the end, Candyfreak offers a fun and informative look at a candy culture few people take the time to notice. There’s a certain thrill in hearing Almond rattle off lists of long gone almost forgotten candy bars, and a second-hand sugar high from the act of eating candies described in sensual detail. But when the author tries to graft a half-hearted memoir onto the proceedings, he bites off more than he can chew.

Shalom

My McSweeney's Submission

2009-08-18T10:52:00.006-04:00

About a month back McSweeney's Internet Tendency announced a contest for new columnist. I submitted an entry, but was not a winner (I can't believe it either). Since my column will never be published in McSweeney's, I figured I might as well post what I've written here for the world to see.

Description

As a child who was pretty much raised on the sweet, intoxicating glow of television, I am a little ashamed to admit I have hardly watched any television over the past five years. I’ve been too busy. Now I’m tired of being left out of the water cooler talk. But where to start? Television series are daunting, time-consuming endeavors. Catching up is almost impossible. So, I’m not going to bother watching every episode of a series. I’m just going to watch one randomly selected episode from a television series I have never seen one minute of, and judge the entire run of said series based on that one episode. I call it Random Sampling Criticism.

Example Essay

Deadwood,

Season 3, Episode 2 “I Am Not The Fine Man You Take Me For”

Going into this episode of Deadwood, the only things I knew about the series were that it is a Western (which I like) and that it is known for its excessive swearing (which I love). Judging from this decidedly limited criterion, I was expecting something in the Revisionist Western mold, the kind of Western which eschews the romantic cowboy imagery in favor of a more realistic depiction of the era. After all, you never really heard John Wayne swear. The opening credit sequence further cemented this impression as it juxtaposed images of a lone stallion, a standard image of Western romanticism, against dirty, rugged depictions of men doing hard men work, a standard image of pick-up truck commercials. I settled back into my chair ready for some good-old rough and tumble Western fun with all the fightin’ and cussin’ (and hopefully female nudity) HBO allows.

I didn’t stay settled for long. I was jostled out of my comfort the moment characters began to speak. Now, it was not the swearing that I found shocking. Swearing I was fully prepared for. Quite frankly, I was prepared for much worse. It wasn’t the coarseness of the language that surprised me. It was complexity of the language that threw me for a loop. These characters don’t just talk, they pontificate. They soliloquize. They throw out ornate poetry for small talk. The language on display here is almost baroque. I came expecting a Western by way of the gutter. What I got was a Western by way of Shakespeare (by way of the gutter). I wasn’t going to be able to sit back and enjoy the ride, I was forced to sit forward and engage the language. Damn you, Deadwood, for making me work.

Big doings are underway in the mining camp of Deadwood. The camp is in a stir as anelection approaches. The episode basically revolves around a series of power plays, be it the characters preparing their big speeches for political office or the more insidious grabs for property. The bar owner, whose name I gathered to be Al, is on edge as he prepares for an attack from the evil (I assume) landowner looking to take over his bar. Meanwhile, a woman lying dying in a hospital leaves all her property to her daughter instead of her husband. Another man buys a house to better position himself for his run for mayor. There is a real sense in the show that the political powers provided by office are not nearly as important as the powers of money, property, and cruel might. We’re in classic Western territory here as the “wild” West is slowly meeting the creeping civilization of political institutions. No matter who wins the various elections it is obvious that the real leaders of Deadwood are the people with all the money, muscle, and property.

There is a lot of stuff going on in this episode. Quite frankly, I’m not going to get into all of it. Clearly the creators of Deadwood are intent upon drawing a portrait of the entire camp. There are a number of threads moving all over the place. To describe them all would just lead to a series of “this guy did this and then this guy did that” statements. There were characters I was drawn to only because they seemed mysterious to my neophyte eyes. We meet Powers Boothe convalescing upstairs in a whorehouse, which seems a much more desirous location than a hospital. From all I could gather he was stabbed by a local pastor, which seems perfectly reasonable. Who hasn’t wanted to stab Powers Boothe at some point?

What really impressed me here were the little details, which rang true. From the doctor performing gynecological procedures with the aid of light refracted from a series of mirrors to the candidates’ speeches being met mostly with indifference, the details seemed carefully studied and thought out. While I have my doubts about the ornateness of the language – although I have a feeling it is more accurate than I first assume – everything feels legit. If I were to travel through time to the actual Deadwood, it might look an awful lot like this.

Of course, even a revisionist Western has to deliver some of the typical genre fair. We get a showdown in the saloon. Although, once the action arrives it is handled in a short brutal burst. There is no prolonged shootout at the OK Corral. The violence is not action, but only an unsavory means to an end. It also says something about the show that the ultimate showdown in the episode is more a battle of wills than pistols as the evil landowner threatens Al and eventually knocks him out.

While I find Deadwood ultimately engrossing (I may even watch the rest of the episodes one day), I do have one major quibble. Where are the horses? This is a Western. People ride horses in Westerns. That’s not even up for debate. It’s a fact. But in this Deadwood everyone walks. Everywhere. I didn’t see one person mount a valiant steed for the whole hour. They even have a horse prominently displayed in the opening credits. When the show actually starts…well, there’s not a horse to be seen. I feel like I’ve been lied to. I was under the impression there would be more horses.

Brief Descriptions of Three Additional Installments

Lost: I’ve probably heard more about Lost than any other show I’ve never seen. Smoke monster. Polar bear. Others. It all kind of sounds like a bad Dadaist exercise out of context. Maybe it would make some sense ever so slightly less out of context.

Battlestar Galactica: I seem remember the finale making quite a stir online a month or two back. I’ll tell everyone I want to get a taste of what made people so passionate about this, but in reality, I just want to see space battles, and Edward James Olmos. He’s in that, right?

Dallas: Why should I limit myself to TV I haven’t seen of recent vintage, when there are probably hundreds of shows from the past I have never seen one episode of? For almost my entire life I have been aware that someone shot J.R., but I have no idea who.

Dear Internet, Stay Off My TV

2009-08-06T12:01:00.001-04:00

The Internet is great. We all love it. You probably wouldn’t be here reading this if you didn’t have some soft spot for the Internet. It’s a wonderful invention. Thanks to the Internet anyone with access can find and share information with anyone and everyone else. It’s really quite wonderful and frightening. Wonderful because we have almost instant access to unlimited information, insight, thought, and opinion. Frightening because most of this information is complete, utter crap, and a disturbing amount of it comes in the form of socially maladjusted teenagers with webcams.

The Internet may be the most democratic invention since Gutenberg gave us the printing press. Anyone can find any piece of information with a few simple keystrokes. Anyone can post whatever piece of ephemera his heart desires. A housewife in Kansas can post an adorable video of kittens and puppies fighting over a baby’s ice cream cone (scientifically proven to be the most adorable combination possible) and have over a million hits in a week. Anyone with a semblance of literacy can start a blog and let anyone who wanders by know what he thinks. Even I can do it. I’m doing it right now. You don’t even technically need to be literate. Do you have a webcam? Just shout your thoughts into it. It’s just as good as a blog. I guess. All this opinion and thought is out there. All of it starts from a fairly level playing field. If people like it, they watch. If people don’t, you just end up shouting nonsense into the void (like this blog). But it’s all out there, just waiting for an interested pair of eyeballs.

Of course, there is a drawback. Most of the Internet sucks. I would wager at least ninety percent of the Internet content is completely incomprehensible. Five percent is comprehensible, but terrible. Four percent (they percentage I like to think this blog occupies) is merely amateurish, but has some value. And finally there is that one percent of the Internet that is the home to professional quality well thought out, well produced content. Sifting through the Internet can be a chore. If I want to know the best way to relieve the itch of a bug bite, I don’t want to wade through thirty Yahoo answers suggesting I rub mayonnaise on it before I get to something useful (Calamine lotion, of course.). If I want more information on a movie opening this weekend, I don’t want to read the snark of a million fanboys who all seem to be auditioning to be the next Bruce Vilanch. Sometimes I just want to be able to be able to turn to media trusting that I’m going to find good professional quality writing and production.

This is where traditional media comes into play for me. I know I can open a newspaper and find professional writers writing professionally and professionally edited by professional editors (at least for the immediate future until print media becomes a quaint memory like horse drawn sleighs and cocaine in Coke). Quality control is a novel concept that eludes most of the Internet. Anything can get out on the Internet, but for, say, a television show to make it on the air it at least has to make it past the suits. Say what you will about blandness of most network TV, but even the dullest episode of Two and a Half Men is better written, produced, and acted than ninety-nine percent of the originally content on YouTube. While I love that the Internet is a place for untested talent to push the boundaries and learn on the fly, I like knowing I can turn to some traditional media outlet and see something produced to a higher standard.

This is why I find it so distressing that more and more television is sinking to the level of the Internet. It seems that in a panic television executives are trying too hard to integrate the Internet into their programming. This is most evident in news and sports programming. Think about how often CNN seems to be bringing us up to date on what people are saying on Twitter. But I don’t care what people are saying on Twitter. Really. I could care less. And if I did want to know what people are saying on Twitter, I would go to Twitter. You see when I want Internet based information and opinion I’ll go to the Internet. When I go to television news I’m expecting something better than the Internet. I want professional news reporters and experts going in-depth on a story. I don’t need to know what some kid in his dorm thinks.

One of the worse offenders is ESPN. (I may be unfair here. I just happen to be exposed to ESPN more than almost any other channel since it is usually on at work all day.) It seems as though ESPN is intent on eventually merging their website completely with their station. If you watch ESPN all day – an experiment I can’t say I’d recommend – you will see different talking heads debate the same five major topics all day with the hosts popping in to check up with the Twitter feed or to show a webcam video of some idiot Cowboys’ fan calling out Eagles’ fans in the most unentertaining fashion imaginable. Now to top it off, ESPN officially has a show that is almost completely dedicated to interacting with the Internet hordes. It’s called Sportsnation, and it might be the dumbest show on the network. The shows format is two charisma-less, chemistry devoid co-hosts debate topics and the Sportsnation (i.e. the Internet) weighs in. That’s it. Seriously, I would rather watch World’s Strongest Man re-runs (actually, I really, really miss when all ESPN2 showed was quasi sports like World’s Strongest Man and Cup Stacking all afternoon). The problem is that ESPN seems to be doubting it’s own ability to broadcast sports. And in their rush to embrace the Internet they’re letting the lowered standards of the Internet onto the Television. Look I love the Internet. I really do, but I would really appreciate it if the Internet would get off my TV.

Shalom

What I Got Out Of The Cow Pasture

2009-06-24T16:57:00.005-04:00

“Come on, Seth. I need some beer. Just get out on I-24, drive North, South, East, West, I don’t care. Just bring me some beer. I can’t get it myself. I gotta get out of this cow pasture.”

She had a high, forceful backwoods voice. It was pitched somewhere between human and feral dog. It was the kind of squawk I always imagined issuing from Flannery O’Connor Characters. She was brash, and loud, and more than a little frightening. I certainly hope Seth brought her some beer. I fear for his wellbeing if he did not.

“If you bring me beer, I will marry you. I will marry you to-fucking-night. My dog will be the best man. Hell, I might even turn straight for you…ah, naw, that ain’t true.”

It took me awhile to turn around and sneak a peak at the girl. I was terrified she would catch me looking. Who knows what kind of raged boiled within this hillbilly lesbian. I imagined her perfectly willing to quite literally chew my face off. But I took my chance and stole my glance. She was smaller than I expected, thin – she might have weighed all of 90 pounds – with a bony compact frame and short, brown boyish hair. She looked like Huck Finn imbued with old man Finn’s anger. Her size did little to alleviate my fears. She could certainly gouge my eyes out and kick a hole in my chest before I could swing a fist. It’s axiomatic: crazy beats strong every time.

Eventually, Marissa and I turned one way and the hillbilly lesbian turned another and walked off into the Tennessee night, wandering among the tents and cars howling for Seth to just bring her some beer with the unabashed force of a backwoods banshee.

The hillbilly lesbian was by far the most interesting, and entertaining person I ran into at Bonnaroo. There were other people. For instance, the gentleman shaking and shivering as he begged every passing person for speed was the saddest. The young couple we met waiting for Elvis Perkins in Dearland: the most earnest. Our campsite neighbors who kept a careful schedule of what psychotropic drugs to take and woke us up at 5 A.M. with by yelping “ You know what we need right now: MARSHMALLOWS!”: the most annoying.

When people ask me why I went to Bonnaroo again (which is a perfectly legitimate question since Bonnaroo contains so many of the things I hate: immense crowds, not showering for three days, hippies, hipsters, druggies, frat bros, smug self-importance, and unrelenting heat to name just a few), I do have a few answers. I went because my fiancé, Marissa, wanted to go. I got a chance to check out bunch of bands. I love road trips. But in hindsight the thing that draws me to this sort of gathering, is the people. I am an inveterate people watcher. I’m not always much for social interaction, but I do have a fascination with observing people interact. Bonnaroo is like a big, steaming, seamy, often quite gross petri dish for the science of people watching. People are away from home, in a permissive atmosphere, and perfectly willing to make fools of themselves. It is really quite wonderful. So, while I could knock out some quick blog post about all the bands I saw. Rank them from the pretty great (The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Phoenix) to the pretty terrible (I’m looking at you, MGMT). I’d much rather just write about some of the more mundane, stupid, mystifying, and interesting people and events I witnessed over the weekend.

Bonnaroo fosters the sort of open, permissive atmosphere that makes what I imagine to be fairly normal people to act like total idiots. This is immediately noticeable in how people dress. Most people don’t pull out Speedos as clothing, but I saw it, along with pink jump suits, Transformers masks, and even one person wearing a perfectly accurate Teen Wolf costume (Okay. I might make fun of everything else, but the Teen Wolf costume was freaking awesome. It was uncannily accurate, like he spent five hours in makeup before hitting the festival. We only saw him for a second. He ran out of the pit at Nine Inch Nails and off into the night too fast for anyone to get our cameras ready. The only way it could have been more perfect is if he reverse two-handed dunked into a random basketball hoop then jumped onto the roof of a Style’s driven truck).

By far the most baffling fashion trend was girls wearing fairy wings. I don’t really know where this comes from. I’m going to take a shot in the dark and guess it has its origins in the club scene. I have absolutely no idea what goes on in clubs these days (or ever for that matter), so that’s my all-purpose guess for where things young people do I don’t understand originate. Do the kids still go clubbing? Do they call it clubbing? Do they still do the ecstasy I heard so much about in the 90’s? Do I really care? Back to the point, girls be wearin’ wings. It seems like an odd fashion choice for a music festival. When moving through a large crowd is it really a good idea to add a two foot wingspan. The fairy wing craze did lead to one of the more memorable moments of the weekend. Again at Nine Inch Nails – before the glory that was Teen Wolf – we were standing behind a group of young women all wearing fairy wings. One cute little girl was wearing her wings with a bikini top and really pushed the outfit over the top with a pink tutu (Because why the fuck not). Suddenly, we saw a gentleman running up from the stage area with his hand clamped firmly over his mouth. It looked like someone drank a little too much, and was ready to… ah… get rid of some excess. Unfortunately, the fairy girl did not see the gentleman, and was not able to get out of the line of fire. Her friends ended up wiping vomit off her back. It was awesome.

I saw surprisingly little vomit this trip, although there definitely seemed to be a much more prevalent party drug vibe. We did overhear this chestnut: “The guy at the tent next to ours came out, looked up, and said ‘It’s raining. I’m going to go back to my tent and do meth.’” We, on the other hand, spent the rainy portion of the trip in our tent playing Crazy Eights. To each his own. So, I guess meth has hit the party and/or hippie crowds. Or maybe, it’s always been there. I don’t really know much about meth. Or the party and hippie crowds, for that matter. But we did have a fun game of spot the meth addict running for most of the weekend. You know who won? We all won. Except for the meth addicts. They’ve already lost, pretty much everything.

It was a good weekend for people watching. There was a lot more I could write about. For instance, the show off jumping over a large puddle only to land on a guy carrying a beer in each hand. There are also probably a ton of other things I’ve already forgotten. Still, it was overall a good weekend for catching some bands, and a great weekend for watching Americans acting like assholes. And that’s what it’s all about.

Shalom

James and Marissa Come Out To Play

2009-06-08T17:41:00.001-04:00

There are some impulses so strong in the mind of man, it is almost as though they have been chiseled into the marble of man’s psyche. The allure of the high seas, the call of the open road, the native drive westward. There are forces almost beyond man’s control. There is an animal call within all of us to fulfill them. Some routes have been scratched deep within men’s souls long before they have been transcribed to mere paper maps. The draw of these journeys are so strong you may embark on one and only realize after you have already begun that you walk on the path of myth. So it was for me when I stepped onto a simple train, but onto the route of legend.

It was nothing, just a simple trip to the aquarium, a way to spend a day on my most recent trip to New York City to visit some family. It seemed an innocuous activity. Marissa, my charming fiancé and adventuring companion, loves aquariums. It was on Coney Island, a part of New York I had yet to visit. It was not until we had already been on the train – as we passed the Fordham station in the Bronx – that it hit me. We were travelling from the Bronx to Coney Island by train and subway. We had found ourselves quite unwittingly following the exact path of the Warriors.

Can you dig it?

Well, I can and I did. I dug it. I dug it real good. I giddily reported my realization to Marissa. She seemed interested and intrigued although I am not really sure if she has ever really seen the film. She does have enough nerdy friends – and one fairly nerdy fiancé – that she understands these sorts of things. In case you have never seen the film, it is about a simple, desperate journey. The Warriors attend a meeting of all the gangs of New York in the Bronx. Cyrus the leader of the largest gang is killed. The Warriors are wrongly accused of the murder. They have to make it back to Coney Island with every other gang in New York after them. Oh yeah, and every gang has a theme with costumes and – sometimes – face paint to match. There is even a gang that dresses like mimes. That’s right mimes. They’re called the High Hats, and I can only assume they’re awesome. I have to assume because you only see them for a second at the beginning, but they never actually do anything.

As soon as I realized we were following in the footsteps of the Warriors, I knew our journey would be fraught with peril. It was. Just as the Warriors fought to return to Coney Island before countless bloodthirsty gangs in kabuki make up destroyed them, we had to get to Coney Island before the Aquarium closed at five. Also, Just like the Warriors we were safe as long as we were on the train, but peril awaited us when we stepped foot outside.

Of course, the Warriors peril took the shape of Baseball Furies, a group of youth who dress like Kiss fans playing sandlot, where our peril took the form of our own stupidity and general lack of experience with the New York subway system. At Grand Central Station, we had a hard time figuring out which subway line would be the quickest. We ended up staring at a subway map forever. Making an abortive attempt to get to another stop, before coming back to Grand Central and actually asking for some assistance. In true NYC fashion, the girl in the booth was brusque and seemingly annoyed at having to talk to some rube from out of town. The directions where given through one of those microphone systems like they have at McDonald’s making it almost impossible to discern. We did finally figure out which train to get on. I’m still not a hundred percent certain we made the best decision, but I knew we would get there. Eventually. At least we didn’t have to fight anyone on roller skates.

Sadly, we did not run into any gangs. Although we did see a couple on the train dressed disturbingly alike. A youngish couple – late teens early twenties – sat across from us for about twenty minutes. They both wore a Batman logo tee shirt, khaki shorts, a necklace with a shamrock pendant, sandals, and carried black messenger bags. I did not hear them say anything, but they did occasionally whisper some secret back and forth. For our part, Marissa and I didn’t say anything and occasionally whispered to each other secrets such as: “what’s up with those guys?” “ “Why don’t you ask them?” “I don’t want to ask them. They might be in a gang. Why don’t you ask?”

After a long trip by subway, we finally reached Coney Island. We rushed from the train to the aquarium. It was 4:30. We discovered the aquarium closes at 5, but they stop selling tickets at 4:15. We were crushed, but it was donation day when the aquarium accepts donations instead selling tickets. I floated the idea of bargaining a $5 donation just so we could see the sharks. Because, really, the sharks are the coolest part of any aquarium., and if I wasn’t going to see any High Hats I might as well see sharks, which was the name of a gang in the other movie I’ve seen dealing with New York City gangs. On a related note, I have a warped view of actual gang culture. Unfortunately, the guy in the ticket booth was having none of it.

Crushed, we went out to the boardwalk. We figured as long as we couldn’t see the aquarium, we might as well see what Coney Island is all about. Picture a seedy carnival built among the projects and you pretty much got Coney Island. I quite like it. There are various rides available. I did drop $8 dollars to ride the Cyclone, the world famous roller coaster Alvy Singer grew up under. I almost got duped into playing some sort of carnival game involving fishing ping-pong balls out of a bucket. I’m not really sure how it worked, but the guy with an accent assured me I could be a big winner if I gave him $5 dollars. I managed to get out of that without losing any money and I won an American flag keychain, which is awesome, I guess. Then Marissa and I stopped for a beer in some tourist trap called Beer Island – or Oasis or some other such nonsense. Basically you could drink beer behind the beach on a patio made to look like a beach. It was okay, but we were subjected to a terrible classic rock cover band. I don’t why I needed to travel almost 400 miles from Pittsburgh to New York to hear yet another shitty cover of Hotel California. When it comes to shitty classic rock cover bands I think Pittsburgh has it pretty well covered. As a matter of fact, that might be one form of culture we have all over New York.

We walked around Coney Island a little longer soaking in its majesty. We saw the Wonder Wheel. We thought about getting a hot dog. We saw a carnival style barker trying to get us into an honest-to-God freak show. We saw a scary looking haunted house like ride with an dummy made to look like it was projecting vomit and diarrhea at the same time. We didn’t go into any of these. We did go into a public bathroom, which was scary enough. Finally, we completed our Warriors-styled adventure the same way the Warriors did, with a long walk on the beach. Only where the Warriors walked alone along a clean stretch of beach, we were greeted with a beach strewn with every type of refuse known to man. There were broken bottles, empty potato chip bags, a lonely swimsuit, and more needles than I care to think about. Maybe, we did have it as tough as the Warriors all along.

Shalom

JamesBrau: Part Dubbel

2009-03-06T11:43:00.000-05:00

Since first writing about my initial homebrew experiment, I have been deluged with request to follow up with some results. I can’t walk down the street without people shouting at me, “Hey, why don’t you use the sidewalk… to walk home and post a blog about how your beer turned out.” Well, total stranger on the street and my five loyal readers, I have heard your plaintive pleas. I have indeed sampled my beer, and I am here to share with you my reactions.

First, I’ll quickly fill you in on the remaining steps of the beer making process. When we last left my beer in the pages of this blog, it was nestled in its little plastic fermenting keg next to my microwave in the kitchen. This seemed like the ideal placement for fermentation; at least, as ideal a location as my apartment affords. My kitchen tends to maintain the most constant temperature and there are no windows. Sunlight is the enemy of fermentation. I took the extra step of putting a brown paper bag over the keg (which is semi-transparent) to ward off any other possible light. It looked like I gave my beer a little blanket. Every night I would tuck it in nice and snug. I also read it bedtime stories and played smooth jazz for the beer. I don’t know if any of that helped, but I figure it couldn’t hurt.

After about three weeks, the liquid was no longer cloudy. I sampled a small amount of the beer from the tap. Although it had a sweet, almost cider-y odor, the beer did not have a sweet taste. My beer was ready to bottle. In the home brewing process I used, bottling is an important step. The final fermentation and carbonation is achieved through bottle conditioning. Bottling was simple enough. I once again had to sterilize all of my equipment, which consisted mainly of the plastic bottles and caps that came with the kit. A small amount of priming sugar – simple white granulated sugar – was added to each bottle. The priming sugar ferments in the bottle and provides most of the carbonation. This step proved difficult for me. The book called for about 2 teaspoons of sugar per bottle, and for some reason (I’m an idiot) I don’t own any measuring spoons. This led to a little guesswork. I had to be careful because too much sugar could lead to over-carbonation and bottle ‘splosions. None of my bottles exploded, so I assume I did ok.

Bottle conditioning can last anywhere from seven days to five months. The final aging adds additional flavors and – as I noted previously – carbonation. The bottles are aged at room temperature for at least a week. Since I was still worried about the excessive amount of honey I added to the mix, I knew I wanted to age my beer more than the minimum. After seven days I split my eight bottles into two groups of four. I kept half at room temperature and half in the fridge. I want to see the different between regular conditioning and cold conditioning also called ‘lagering’ (aren’t you impressed with my command of beer making terms? I got it from the manual.) By Valentines Day I noticed the bottles had become rock hard, which is a sign that the final fermentation is complete. Yes, I made many dirty ‘Rock Hard’ jokes… mainly to myself. And I think I’m hilarious.

On Valentines Day I gave Marissa, my vivacious fiancé, the gift every woman wants: crappy beer. Since the brewing kit was a gift from Marissa, technically it was crappy beer she paid for. What can I say? I’m romantic like that. I pulled a bottle that had been lovingly kept in the fridge for a couple of weeks. With a flourish I pulled the cap off and poured the amber beverage into two tumblers. My hear sank. There was no head. No bubbles. No carbonation at all. The beer still had the strong, sweet cider smell. With great trepidation we both took a sip. It wasn’t exactly a fine Belgian Quad or anything, but it was recognizably beer. Success. It had a weak flavor most likely a result of spilling some of the wort before I could add it to the keg. There was a slight sweetness – too much honey, I reckon. My rapier wit working lightning fast I quipped: “It’s kind of like the last girl in school to go through puberty: flat but kinda sweet.” I thought I was hilarious. Marissa less so. I used the joke again to describe it to some friends. They also didn’t laugh. Final judgment: I’m not funny.

The beer while not a roaring success, was still quite passable. It was unmistakably beer, which is all I hoped for. I decided to age the rest of the beer further to see if the sweetness would subside and be replaced with a stronger beer flavor. I also hoped some carbonation would creep into the equation.

This past Monday – March 2 – I decide to give the beer another chance. I selected the most rock hard (hold on, I’m suppressing a giggle) bottle from the fridge and took it to Cellar Dweller rehearsal. As soon as I opened the bottle, I was once again hit with the sweet, cider smell. One Cellar Dweller noted it smelled almost skunked. My spirits flagged. Still, I poured the beer into small cups. Wait, what is this? There was FOAM forming on the top of the beer. My beer had head. I had achieved carbonation. There was a glimmer of hope.

The Cellar Dwellers drank.

It was OK. My beer was OK. I was ecstatic. The response was overwhelmingly positive. No one said they would rush out to by a bottle of JamesBrau, but no one spit it in my face. The general consensus was that it was kind of refreshing. It had a decent carbonation, but the flavor was not very strong. There was a general sweetness to the flavor, and almost no after-taste. One Cellar Dweller called it a beer spritzer. Another noted, “If I couldn’t decide between having a Coke or a beer. I would order this.” Some people actually asked for a little more. I was pleased.

Over all, I would label my initial beer a success. There is certainly room for improvement. I would like to generate a little more flavor, although I think this can be achieved simply by not spilling the ingredients all over my stove before I add it to the keg. I really think my current batch would be improved with just a little hops bite. Maybe I’ll choose a hopsier style for my next batch. As for this batch, I was greatly cheered by the improvements a mere two extra weeks of aging had on my beer. I will continue to sample the beer at different points in its aging. I haven’t even touched the bottles that are being conditioned at room temperature. I hold out hope for better beer out of this batch. And next time I’ll do even better.

The experiment continues.

Shalom

Who Moved My (Chuck E.) Cheese

2009-03-03T22:51:00.000-05:00

Say you like classic arcade game action. I’m not talking about video games, which are, of course, perfectly awesome in their own right. I’m referring to the more tactile arcade pleasures: the joy of the perfectly rolled Skee-Ball, popping as many shots in Pop-a-Shot as possible, or completely owning a dear loved one at the Air Hockey table. Sadly, these pleasures are not as easy to come by as they used to be. Sure, you come across the occasional old-school arcade. You can always go to Dave & Busters, but you’ll end up paying way too much while slammed between drunk bros and yuppies trying to retrieve their lost youth. So, what are you to do? I say go back to the source. Go to the place where you first fell in love with these games. Take a trip to Chuck E. Cheese.

“But wait,” you say. “Chuck E. Cheese is where a kid can be a kid, and I am not a kid. I am an adult. Maybe not much of an adult, but an adult none the less.” First, don’t be so hard on yourself hypothetical adult I am writing to. You are a perfectly legitimate adult. Second, just because you are an adult does not mean you cannot enjoy the myriad pleasures of the rat’s place. Lucky for you I have been patronizing Chuck E. Cheese as an adult for a few years now, and I have a few simple tips to make your next visit smooth, productive, and super awesome.

Go on a school night
Do you know what the best part about being an adult is? Doing whatever you want. Want to eat half a box of Oreos for breakfast? Go for it. Want to stay up late playing video games? I’m not going to stop you. Want to play with all your Legos, but don’t want to put them away when you’re done. It’s your party. Want to go out on a school night? You’re an adult. There are no school nights.

So, while kids across America are being kept under house arrest because they have to go to school the next day, you – as an adult – are free to do what you want. So, school nights are the perfect time to go to Chuck E. Cheese, because, lets face it, you want to have fun like a kid, but you don’t want to actually deal with kids. When it comes to Chuck E. Cheese, kids just get in the way. They run all over the Skee-Ball machines. They jam gum where only tokens are meant to go. They scream at terrible volumes. They smear marinara all over the Whack-a-Mole mallet. Basically, kids in giant groups suck. So, avoid them. Stay away from the birthday party crush on the weekend. Chuck E. Cheese is best enjoyed between Monday and Thursday, when kids are at home.

Define your goals
Do you just want to play some games or do you want to win something? If you just want to waste an evening squirting water into a clown’s mouth, then go crazy. But if you want to win something, you’re going to need a strategy. Stop by the prize counter. See if something catches your eye. Remember the good stuff is kept on the top shelves. Also, if your eyeing up that sweet Dodgers Vs. Giants Toss Across game hovering at the 1500 ticket level, you don’t have to do it all in one night. You can bank those tickets, because this isn’t going to be a one-night thing. You’re coming back to the Cheese.

If you’re going after prizes, you have to choose your games appropriately. Sure, riding on the helicopter that goes up and down is a stone cold blast, but it sure as hell isn’t going to get you any tickets. And it’s going to cost you a precious token, a token that could be used to win tickets.

Skip the show
The show sucks and it’s only going to slow you down. Plus, if you do end up watching the show you will be thoroughly creeped out. You might have nightmares for weeks, and face hefty psychiatric bills. Trust me.

Bring a friend
What’s the point of gunning for the bonus if there is no one to impress? You need someone with you at Chuck E. Cheese. Remember, every achievement is sweeter when there is someone you can lord it over. In every game there is a winner and a loser. If you don’t have someone with you, there is no way to know which you are. You also really need that competitive edge to push yourself to zenith of your gaming abilities. There is no better way to stoke the competitive fire than to brag to your date about the ten tickets you won by kicking a soccer ball past a mechanical goalie only to see the hundred tickets she won for smashing the skee-ball bonus. Sure, this kind of competition rarely lead to scoring in the bedroom (it usually leads to fights and a tense ride home), but it will lead to scoring on the arcade floor.

Plus, it’s REALLY awkward being an adult at Chuck E. Cheese alone. There ‘s just something…well…a little creepy about the situation. Which brings me to:

Don’t be pervy
Making pervy, pedophile jokes at the Cheese are hilarious. Trust me. No one knows this more than me. And you will never have the opportunity to make more “Uh, oh. I think that’s Chris Hanson coming in,” jokes than when you’re in the rat’s place. The jokes will pretty much be set up on a platter for you the entire time. But do you know who doesn’t think these jokes are hilarious? Moms. It’s a scientific fact that mothers have no sense of humor. Just think about your mother for minute. Would you put sense of humor high up on her list of attributes? I didn’t think so. If there’s one thing mothers have absolutely no sense of humor about it’s the welfare of their kids. They will have you thrown out of the place. If you are not careful a few thoughtless – if hilarious jokes – will have you going door to door just to let your neighbors know you live in the area. So, no matter how funny the joke is, bottled it up. Seriously. Plus, your fiancé probably does not think you’re funny. I know mine doesn’t

Most of all, have fun
Just because Chuck E. Cheese is the place where a kid can be a kid, does not mean it can’t be the place where an adult can play like a kid. Let yourself go. Play hard. Dance if you win. Order a pizza. You have a job, rent, bills, and all sorts of other adult things to worry about all the time. Let yourself have some good old-fashioned fun. Think of Chuck E. Cheese as therapy where you work out your problems one quarter token at a time, until finally you walk out with the giant rubber playground ball (1200 tickets) and an incredible sense of accomplishment.

Shalom

JamesBrau or James's Beer

2009-01-08T21:41:00.014-05:00

I have long been an advocate for good beer. I love beer. It is one of those sweet inventions like penicillin and chocolate chip cookies that just make life better. There is nothing I enjoy more than sitting down with a new beer and becoming better acquainted. So, my very sexy, hyper-intuitive fiance Marissa made an excellent decision in purchasing a Mr. Beer Home Brewery for my birthday. I have always wanted to brew my own beer. I wanted to get inside the process. Just as a car obsessed youth will learn the intricacies of the internal combustion engine, I want to get under the hood of beer, so to speak. I was very pleased with the gift. I hugged Marissa. Kissed her. Showed her all kinds of affection which comes with receiving a great gift. I couldn't wait to break out the Mr. Beer keg and get to work making JamesBrau. But, as it turned out, wait I did. My birthday is in May (only 119 shopping days left) and it was only tonight that I finally got around to embarking on my beer making adventure.

I was afraid. I was afraid i would make terrible beer. I was afraid I would mess up. I was afraid my apartment with its constant shifts in temperature does not offer the proper enironment for fermentation. I was afraid the plastic Mr. Beer would explode leaving rancid beer all over my kitchen. Finally, I just gave in. Sure, any or all of these things may end up being true. I will actually be surprised if my beer actually ends up being good. I think I will be perfectly satisfied with barely drinkable.

These are the tools I had for my first foray into the art of beer making. I was provided with the super cool plastic keg from Mr. Beer. It has most of the pertinent measurements right on the keg to make it as idiot proof as possible. Idiot proofing home brewing seems to be the goal of the good people at Mr. Beer. The box also came with a can of West Coast Pale Ale beer mix, a one-step sanitizer to sanitize all my implements, a packet of Booster, which has all the fermentable ingredients, and brewers yeast. All I needed was a mixing spoon, a can opener, a pot, and a surface I could sanitize to hold my tools (the plate). I also decided I would add some honey to the mix of fermentable ingredients to give the beer a little extra flavor. At first, I was thought I would just make the beer pretty much exactly as provided in the box, but eventually I said screw it, and decided to give the beer a little personal stamp. Looking back on it, this may prove to be my beer's undoing. More on this later.

Well the first step was to sanitize all of my tools. This proved an easy if dull step. Basically, you fill the keg with warm water and all your tools and then put in some of the sanitizer. Then, you slosh everything around and wait ten minutes. Empty some water into your pot and some onto the plate. Let it sit ten minutes. Then everything is sanitzed. The only problem I had here is that my mixing spoon was to big to fit into the keg. I had to take off the plastic handle. With that problem solved I moved onto the next step.

Now it's wort mixin' time. What's wort? I'm glad you asked. According to the instructions (which have no reason to lie) wort is the unfermented beer. I gather that making wort is a normally a long, soul-crushing endeavor consisting of endless boiling of malts, hops, and the like followed by straining and cooling. I did not have to do this, because it was all in the can (note: someday I hope to make beer from scratch, but not today). First, I filled the keg about halfway with water.
Yes. I used Beaver Falls tap water. And Yes, I am about 98% sure that this will cause my beer to taste a little - if not a lot - like potting soil. Looking back on it. I may have subconsciously done it so I have a built in out if the beer taste terrible. Oh, well.

After filling the keg I had to mix the booster into four cups of cold water in the pot. This proved to be an absolute bitch. You need to stir the water as you slowly sprinkle in the booster. According to the directions this is to avoid clumping. Sadly, clumping is about all the booster wants to do. As soon as is hits water, it forms tiny crystals of corn syrup solids.I spent about twenty minutes stirring. No matter how hard I stirred the damn crystals would not dissolve. My pot looked like a fourth grader's science project. I even double checked the instructions to make sure I wasn't supposed to do this over heat, but the instructions never mentioned heat until after the Booster was fully dissolved. Eventually, I cheated and turned my stove to a low setting. Sure enough the crystals dissolved as soon as the water got a little warm. Of course, I might have totally screwed the beer up, but at least I could move on.

I Brought the water and dissolved Booster mixture to a boil. This proved fun as some of the corn syrup-y water had sloshed onto my electric stove coils leading to the wonderful odor of burning sugar and my smoke alarm going off. After I took the mixture off the heat, it was time to mix in my Pale Ale Beer Mix and the honey.

Remember when I said the honey may end up being my beer's ruin. As it turns out, I misread the instructions. There is no problem adding other fermentable ingredients to the wort such as sugar, honey, molasses, or fruit syrups, but I guess you are supposed to use less of the booster if you do. According to the manual I should have used half the pack of booster if adding honey. Instead I used the whole thing. This could lead to any number of scenarios. My beer may end up with a super high alcohol content (yay) and extra flavor (yay), or the beer may taste awful (boo) or I will have a harder time figuring the proper time for fermentation (boo). Hell, as far as I know the keg will explode from too much pressure. I'm not a food scientist. Who do I look like? Alton Brown?

It's too late to worry about it now. Maybe everything will work itself out ok. Maybe it's a good thing I spilled some of the wort all over my stove and floor when I was trying to pour it into the keg. Yeah, so I made a little bit of a mess. Guess what. Wort is sticky. Really sticky. I cleaned my kitchen floor about three times and still every time I walk across the kitchen it sounds like the floor from the dollar theater. Next, time I'm going to need to get some sort of funnel system going.

The rest of the process was pretty simple. Stir everything together real good. Sprinkle in the yeast. Let it sit five minutes. Stir it again. Screw the cap on. Now of course, I'm in the middle of the next step: fermentation. Now, all I have to do to enjoy the delicious, unique, possibly nauseating flavor of JamesBrau is wait.

Shalom

Not In The Stars

2008-12-17T13:40:00.000-05:00

There are bad Christmas gifts and then there are screamingly terrible Christmas gifts. There are any number of gifts that demonstrate a complete and utter lack of thought. You know these gifts. They’re the ones which are greeted with physical deflation followed by a wan fake smile and mumbled thank yous. These are your Yankee Candles, slippers, and fruitcakes. Sure, these gifts are terrible, but they’re still somewhat useful. You might be terribly disappointed by the Christmas Cookies scented candles, but you are going to light it up at some point. These gifts are of the merely bad variety.

The screamingly terrible Christmas gifts are a completely different animal. Not only do they show a complete void of effort on the gift-giver’s part, they are also utterly useless. For my money the king of the screamingly terrible Christmas gift is naming a star.

Let’s face it, naming a star after something is effectively getting that person nothing. What are you supposed to do with a star named after you? Nothing. That is what you do with your name on the star registry; absolutely nothing. You can’t wear it. You can’t play with it. You sure as hell can’t eat it. You can’t even look at it. I have a thousand dollars here that says no one with a star named after them has any damned clue where that star is. No, one can point out individual stars in the sky. Everyone knows astronomy is a lie. I refuse to believe that anyone looking at the vastness of the night sky can point out anything in particular other than the moon and maybe Orion’s belt. If you ever overhear some guy pointing out Cassiopeia, he’s making it all up in an attempt to get into some girl’s belt. If people can’t even pick out constellations that have supposedly been recorded as far back as ancient Greece, then how the hell are you supposed to pick out your star, which is so insignificant that no one has even bothered naming it until now? Guess what? You can’t.

How are you supposed to know the star is even named after you? What proof do you have? A certificate about as official looking as a perfect attendance award and a star chart purchased from a community college bookshop for their under-attended astronomy class? That’s great. No one can forge those things. So, all you have is a piece of paper claiming there is a star somewhere – which you probably can’t even see – that bears your name. Why not name a yeti after your wife. Just call up the International yeti registry and register a female yeti under your wife’s name. It’s just as valid. Actually having a yeti named after you is cooler. Because yetis – assuming they actually exist – are much more badass than some star – assuming it exists.

Even assuming the star registry is on the level, your star exists, and you can actually see it, there is a good chance your star died millennia ago. The light from these stars takes millions of years to get here. Half of these stars have already burned out and are nothing but dim floating clouds of gas. There’s a cheery thought for you on Christmas morning. What a great gift for your spouse. “Gee thanks, honey. This star, which appears bright now, has in reality already collapsed into a dark sucking black hole. What a perfect analogy for our relationship after this crappy gift.”

So, if you’re stuck for gift ideas, just stick with the tried and true crappy gifts. Sure, fruitcake is kind of an acquired taste, but it exists. You can touch it. You can even get a little crazy and try to eat it. It’s a crappy gift with an actual purpose, as opposed to the star registry, which doesn’t even afford the recipient the dignity of throwing the gift back in the givers face.

Shalom

This Week in Crushing Inadequacy

2008-09-26T18:27:00.001-04:00

Today in the mail I received the latest issue of my alma mater’s alumni magazine Why Aren’t YOU Doing More With Your Life. No, of course this isn’t the real title of the magazine. That’s way too long to fit on the front cover. It would obscure the picture of a high-powered alumni making the international tsk tsk motion with his fingers at me. The real name of the magazine is You Fucking Loser. It’s a quarterly publication.

There really is nothing quite like receiving the alumni magazine four times a year to remind you how much your life fails to measure up to your peers. Sure. I’m feeling alright about myself. I can do my own laundry. I can make my own meals. I actually own a piece of furniture that isn’t used. I can go to movies by myself, and can stay out just as late as I want – about 9:30 usually. As impressive as all of these achievements seem in a vacuum, they really don’t hold up when compared to the glossy photo-ed smiling exploits of my former classmates. While I was busy visiting eight bars in one night, my former roommate was graduating from grad school and becoming a professor. While I am quite happy to be avoiding several parking tickets some kid who graduated a year after me is clerking for the Supreme Court. Yeah, THAT supreme court. The U.S. Supreme Court. Meanwhile, I finally figured out what makes a burrito supreme different from a regular burrito – it’s the sour cream.

I guess, it’s nice to be put down a peg or two occasionally. Don’t want to get too cocky. I’m sure there are a lot of former classmates who aren’t doing so well. Maybe some are completely unemployed, or alcoholics. Maybe some are in prison. Why don’t they tell me about them? That would make me feel great. Who doesn’t want to find out that kid they hated in humanities is walking door to door telling all his neighbors he’s a registered sex offender? That would make my day.

I guess Grove City College would rather give you something to aspire towards, not something to fill you with the false sense of accomplishment. Talk about your screwed up priorities.

Shalom

The Five Stages of Fanny Pack Acceptance

2008-08-11T17:41:00.002-04:00

Stage 1: Denial
What? But these are fanny packs. You can’t possibly think I would be the sort of person who ventures out in public in a fanny pack. I know it would be useful at the amusement park, but look at me. I’m cool. I’m like the coolest person around. Think of all the cool people in the history of world. None of them ever wore a fanny pack. Did you ever hear of James Dean tooling around California in his Porsche pulling smokes out of a fanny pack? Of course not. Because he was cool. Cool just like me. No, cool person ever wore a fanny pack. Ever. Seriously, look it up.

Stage 2: Rationalization
Ah. I see. This is a joke. Very funny. What? This isn’t a joke? Really? Well, you do make some valid points. We will be walking around all day. Of course, I don’t expect Marissa to clutch a purse all day. Cell phones, wallets, sunglasses, and the like can’t all be carried in pockets. Those amusement park rides are notorious for separating people from the stuff in the pockets. The fanny pack is the ideal solution this situation. But they look stupid. Look at some of these fanny packs. This one is bright pink. This one is neon green. I may not be the trendiest guy, but I can’t wear these…

Stage 3: Persuasion
…But this one’s not a bad color. It seems to be a nice hunter green. Low key. Won’t call too much attention. If I have to wear a fanny pack, this is the color of fanny pack I will wear. I look good in green. It’s one of my colors. I wear a lot of green. Oh, it has two pockets. So we can separate our stuff into two categories: spending cash and everything else. We won’t accidently have money fall out when we go to pull out the sunscreen. Very functional. This has a National Parks logo on it. Classy. I respect the National Park system, one of Teddy Roosevelt’s fine decisions. This fanny pack says that I care about the outdoors and I am well traveled.

Stage 4: Trying It On
It fits.

Stage 5: Acceptance
This isn’t too bad. It even looks kind of cool. If I pull it to the side, it has a certain nonchalant charm, like how a gunslinger carries his six-shooter. I look like a hip hiker. I’m saying to the world, “I don’t care what you think.” It’s not a bad accessory really. It’s functional. It’s not nearly as bad looking as I initially thought. I can have everything we need right here at my finger-tips. Why don’t I wear fanny packs more often? This is perfect. Look at that guy in the mirror. I’m going to be the coolest guy on the Scrambler. Oh, yes I will be. Damn, I make this look good.

Shalom

Sometimes Double Murders Are Funny

2008-08-07T13:56:00.003-04:00

Sure, it looks like Batman's overreacting to an honest mistake. The guy dresses up like a bat to fight crime, so overreacting is pretty much par for the course. But I like to think that Robin is the jerk here. I can just picture him slipping mom and dad references into his everyday conversations with Batman. He's just trying to get the best of him. I'm glad Batman showed him who's the boss in Wayne Manor. I'm starting a petition to get this scene into the next Nolan Batman movie, and every Batman movie or television show from here on out. Yes, I think it is that awesome.

Shalom

Robots Defeat Pirates For Cultural Supremacy. Ninjas Lay In Wait.

2008-08-03T00:17:00.004-04:00

Just a year ago, the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie was theaters raking in the box office dollar. This film marked the last gasp of the pirate as king of the pop culture heap. Starting in 2003 when the first Pirates movie was released, pirates dominated culture on a number of levels. Pirates were everywhere, from the multiplex movie screens to the costumes worn by the children looking for sweet handouts on Halloween. Pirate themed toys from Lego’s to miniature Johnny Depps were flying off the shelves. Literary star Dave Eggers opened a pirate supply store. I personally attended at least one pirate themed birthday party – for an adult, no less – which I sadly did not dress up for. Pirates were riding a wave cultural supremacy previously unheard of for them.

And now…

Now pirates are out. No ones talking about pirates. No other pirate movie has swooped in to capitalize on the Pirates of the Caribbean phenomenon. What happened? In one word: Robots. Robots have moved in to knock pirates off of the top of the cultural mountain. The first blow against pirate supremacy was launched when Transformers was released saying to the world, “Hey, we’re robots. Remember how cool we are?” And the general public responded by saying, “Yeah. Robots. You guys are alright.”

From that point on, robots have been gaining traction all over before exploding this summer. First, Ironman was released. Now, I’m not a moron. I know Ironman is not a robot. He’s a man in a mechanical suit, but he looks like a robot. Ironman is like the gateway drug to robots. You get used to watching a mechanical face for a couple of hours. It’s not so bad. You can even root for him. Then, the next thing you know you’re ready for to watch a movie starring a true robot. He doesn’t even have to talk. Or have a recognizable human form. That’s right, Ironman paved the way for WALL-E. The robot revolution is in full swing. Robots are great, and not just the ass-kicking, shape-shifting, robots from outer space variety. Robots are cute, cuddly, and for the whole family.

Now, robots are the new kings of the pop culture universe. Get ready. Robots are going to be everywhere. I for one am all for this since I think robots are just about the coolest things in the world. I don’t even need the fast, fighting robots. I am personally a fan of the big, clunky, nuclear-paranoia-of-the-‘50’s style robots. I don’t even need cool CGI. I’m fine with clumsy guys in metal suits. I am cautiously optimistic for The Day the Earth Stood Still remake. I am afraid the filmmakers will try to streamline Gort, only the greatest movie robot of all time, but I’ll take my robots while I can get them.

I fully intend to enjoy the next couple of years because I know it will not last. Yes, just as robots superseded pirates, robots are doomed to be overtaken by the next big cultural wave. That wave, boys and girls, will be ninjas. That is the great cycle of pop culture cool characters. It goes from pirates to robots to ninjas. It’s a never-ending cycle. From the antiquated to the futuristic to the exotic and back. Ninjas are patiently waiting in the dark – as is their style – to take down robots. I don’t know exactly how this will happen. It may be a slow build of small ninja related products or it may be one big ninja blockbuster. I have heard there is a G.I. Joe movie in the works. If it’s anything like the cartoon, a ninja or two will play major roles in the movie. If it’s done well this may do the trick. Of course, ninjas are known for the surprise attack. They may take over in new, unprecedented ways. I do not know how or when ninjas will take the throne as pop culture kings, but mark my words, within a few years, ninjas will be everywhere.

So, if you do not like robots all you need to wait for their time to pass. If you already miss the heady days of the pirate, they too will once again have their day. Pirates, robots, and ninjas. That’s the cycle. Each character has their advantage. Pirates have the best costumes with eye-patches, hats, wigs, and swishy shirts. They have a clear advantage in women’s costumes: the sexy pirate or wench. There really are no sexy ninja or – god forbid – robot costumes. Robots have the best action figures with flashing lights and monotone voices. Ninjas have the best accessories: swords, throwing stars, staffs, and nunchaku. My advice is to enjoy each part of the cycle. Embrace each one. Buy the toys for your kids – or yourself. See the movies. Throw theme parties. Have fun. By the time you get tired of robots ninjas, will be here and pirates will be a glint off on the horizon.

Shalom.

I Want That Cake

2008-07-24T13:12:00.001-04:00

I wish that lady would stop making so much noise. I come to this coffee shop to drink coffee and read a little before I have to go to work. I don’t want to hear her insipid, keening prattling on. Ok. I get it. Everyone in the coffee shop gets it. She’s getting married. Whoop-dee-freakin-do. I’m getting married too. You don’t hear me making big freaking deal about in front of a roomful of strangers. I swear to God if she keeps this up, she is going to rue this day. Rue it. Ok, first I’m going to turn around and give her one of my patented shut-the-hell up withering stares. That will show her, the stupid…

Hold up, just one second.

There’s cake.

On the table. A lot of cake. They have like boxes of cake over there. What are they doing with all that cake? More importantly, how can I get some of that sweet, sweet pastry in my mouth? Just look at it. They have square cakes, round cakes, thick cakes, thin cakes, cakes adorned with frosted flowers, cakes with classy red icing, cakes sitting on top of larger cakes. It’s a veritable cake wonderland on that table, and I want to be Alice to that cake wonderland. I’ll gladly dive through any number of rabbit holes to frolic freely amongst those frosted delights. And by ‘frolic freely amongst those frosted delights’ I mean eat the fuck out of that cake.

Ok. So how exactly do I go about getting at that cake? What I need is some sort of distraction; introduce a little chaos in the coffee shop. I could yell fire. I could call in some favors. I could convince a friend to come in and pretend to rob the place at gunpoint. Then when everyone’s running around screaming for mercy, I simply walk over and purloin some sweet, sweet pastry. No. None of my friends would do that. Even if they would, they would want a cut of the cake loot. I’m not really looking to share the cake with any of my jerk friends. Maybe I could throw a smoke bomb in the middle of the room. When the joint is filled with thick smoke, I calmly stride over, tuck the cake under my arm, and disappear into the world. That’s a good plan. That could work. Now, where can I find a smoke bomb? It’s not like I carry them around with me on a utility belt. Dammit. Why don’t I have a utility belt fully stocked with wonderful toys like smoke bombs? You know you think about buying some smoke bombs, but you always talk yourself out of it? “When am I ever really going to need a smoke bomb?” You say to yourself. So now, here I am in dire need of a smoke bomb with no damned smoke bombs. Note to self, next time you think about buying smoke bombs; just buy the stupid smoke bombs. They’ll come in handy. There are probably two to three times a day they’ll come in handy.

No. None of those plans will work. I need to come up with something quick. They’re starting to eat the cake. Just look at it. So soft and moist. Is that a raspberry layer? I love when there’s a raspberry layer. I need to get at that cake. I know. I can use my charms. Go over. Start up a conversation. Woo them with my masculine wit and charms. They’ll be eating out of my hands, and all the while I’ll be eating their cake. Shit. Balls. I’m not charming. That will never work. I don’t even like talking to people. Even if I could think of something clever to say, by the time I got to the table all I’d be able to do is kind of hem and haw and be generally all-around awkward. They’ll probably think I’m some sort of babbling idiot. Of course, maybe they’ll take pity on this poor babbling idiot and give him some cake…No. It won’t work. They’ll probably just move to another table and ignore me. That’s what I would do in that situation.

Wait. What’s that? Wedding cake. Of course. Why didn’t I see it? That’s the baker giving samples of the wedding cake. I have an in. I just got engaged. I just have to go over there, and say, “Excuse me. I understand you bake wedding cakes. I just proposed to my girlfriend. We’ll be in the market for a cake soon. Do you mind if I sample your wares, baker lady?” Then I take all that cake, and I eat it. Yeah. That might work. But maybe she’ll want to setup a separate appointment. I don’t want that. I don’t want to wait for cake. I want some cake now. I want that cake in my mouth this instant. What if she won’t give me any cake? What then? Snatch and grab. I can just grab the cake and run like the wind. But they know me here in this coffee shop. They’ll hunt me down. They’ll find me in the woods with my stomach distended, butter-cream frosting all over my face. Then I’ll never be able to show my face in this town again. But it might be worth it. Look at that cake. Each bite looks delicious. Oh, cake. Just look at that engaged chick wolfing it down. Each piece looks more delicious than the last.

Wait. She’s stopped eating. They seem to be going to the counter for some coffee this is my chance. I just got to play it cool and sneak off with some cake. Ok. Just sort of saunter over. I’m just a harmless man looking for the restroom. Don’t look like your hovering. Find the cake. Take the cake. Eat the cake. Don’t make it any more difficult than it has to be. Ok. There’s the box. I’m going in…Empty. The cake. All that cake. It’s…It’s gone. Oh, cruel world. I should have acted sooner. I waited too long. Curse my indecision and lack of smoke bombs. The cake has eluded my grasp…this time. That’s right cake. You got away this time, but next time you may not be so lucky. I’m going to get you cake, and when I do, I’m going to eat you. I swear upon my mother’s life I will have my day in the cake sun. Someday.

Shalom

My Stupid Pet Peeves #2: People Who Wear Under Armour Like Regular Clothes

2008-07-12T11:56:00.001-04:00

Yes, yes. We can all see that you are in excellent physical shape. As a matter of fact, you are ripped. Very nice with the rippled abs and bulging biceps and whatnot. You must spend copious amounts of time in the gym wailing on the various muscle groups. And it shows. Really. Everyone is really quite impressed. Now can you go put on some normal clothes?

I’m sure Under Armour is very comfortable. It certainly hugs all your upper body man bits just so. It must be very nice in the gym where it makes you cooler or makes your workout more extreme or whatever the hell Under Armour is supposed to do. But you’re not in the gym anymore. You’re walking around the mall. Wearing Slacks. Pleated slacks. With your tight fitting Under Armour. Why don’t you just slap on a pair of Crocs and hat reading ‘Douche’ while you’re at it?

Grillers don’t wear their aprons to church. Raquetballers don’t wear their goggles to the movies. Fencers don’t wear facemasks to the grocery store. So, why the hell are you wearing your Under Armour around the mall? No matter how totally ripped you are – and we all agree you are – you look like a complete asshole with that shit painted on you checking the scents at Yankee Candle. Are those your kids with you? Do you realize within a few years they won’t want to be caught dead with you out in public? Seriously man, the only way you could be more embarrassing would be if you paired that shirt with some elastic biking shorts and started asking your kids’ friends if they like gladiator movies.

Look, I’m telling you this for your own good. No one really cares how ripped you are, but we are all vaguely uncomfortable looking at that shirt. You look like a sleek, over-muscled sea lion. But things don’t have to be so bad. Look around. You’re in the mall you can buy a new shirt. Have you considered – oh, I don’t know – a T-shirt or a polo? These are perfectly legitimate un-asshole-ish alternatives to your Under Armour. Just remember choose a size that fits and for God’s sake don’t go cutting the sleeves off. I know you have tremendous guns but most people don’t care. Now I’m going to let you go through the mall here. Remember what we’ve discussed. You look like a douche and you need a new damned shirt. Just stay out of Champs or Foot Locker and your on the right path. You don’t have to stop being a douche, you just shouldn’t make it so obvious. And no, going shirtless is not a viable alternative.

Shalom

A Note To All The Ladies

2008-07-08T18:44:00.000-04:00

Ladies of the world, I regret to inform you I am now engaged to be married. I know this will come as quite the blow to my legion of female admirers. Please, I urge all of you to show some restraint in your mourning. Do not be rash. This announcement is sure to enflame the hearts of all the fine women who have admired me from afar. I admonish you, commit no violence. I know life may not seem worth living knowing I will never be yours, but you cannot fall into despondency. Right now, knowing you will never feel the pure, erotic ecstasy of James’s beard rustling against your cheek, things may appear bleak. But I beg restraint of each and every one you.

Ladies, I know you have followed me quietly from a distance. You have watched me on stage with The Cellar Dwellers. You have listened to my rugged tones on Dodge Intrepid and the Pages of Time. You have read my droll little writings on the interwebs. You are enamored of me. I know. Who can blame you? If I were a comely young lass, I would fantasize about these chiseled masculine features, this broad chest and strong arms, and this thin hair slowly receding from the peak of my skull revealing the pale scalp of masculine desire. If I were a girl, I would be totally into me too. I would fantasize of kissing these rough chapped lips. I would dream of my rude grasping embrace. Really, I can’t blame you young fillies for wanting this, but unfortunately, there is only so much James to go around. Instead of passing it quickly about allowing everyone only a scant taste of the James, I have decided to bestow one lucky girl – my fiancé – with a cup over-flowing of James. She can drink deeply of James and horde me all to herself, while the rest of you fine mistresses can only imagine the sweet taste of this James nectar never to be tasted.

This will be difficult for you. Many of you have built elaborate fantasies around being romanced by me. Many more have imagined themselves entwined in a loving embrace with me, my groping hands all over their woman bits. I hate to tell you fine examples of the fairer sex that these fantasies will never come to pass. I have pledged my love and fidelity to but one woman. I shall be ever faithful. I also urge all of you not to abandon my many projects. I know the success of the Cellar Dwellers and Dodge Intrepid has largely hinged on the perceived availability of all this – when I type ‘this’ I am gesturing toward my face and body. I know young women have been coming to these shows for years just to catch a glimpse of my handsome visage. Please, do not stop coming just because there is now no chance of you ever getting with me. Hopefully, you can come to appreciate the Cellar Dwellers for their humor and creativity and not just as a James delivery system.

Ladies, remain calm and rational in this time of hysteria. I may be off the market, but there are many other men out there. Sure, they cannot hope to measure up to James, but, in time, you will come to accept this. In the meantime, all you fine bitches will have to make do with fantasies. I will always be available to you in the fertile fields of your dreams. Even though these fantasies have been neutered by the loss of the possibility of attainment, fantasies are all I have to offer. No, ladies, I will never make sweet, sweet love to you, but if you want to picture my face on your boyfriends body or scream my name in a moment of ecstasy I cannot blame you. Who could?

Shalom

On Beer

2008-06-17T12:54:00.000-04:00

When I reached legal drinking age I always pictured myself aging into a wine person. I pictured myself eating rare cheeses and pontificating about the various merits of the fine vintage I was partaking. I would be able to wax poetic about the various wine growing regions around the world. I would talk at length about their soil contents and how they nurture different types of grapes allowing different countries to produce different types of wines. I would pay attention to yearly weather patterns. I would know what wines to buy from where and how long to store them for optimal enjoyment. I would know and strictly adhere the proper serving temperatures. I would scoff at the cheaper more popular wines people brought to parties. I would be an intelligent man of the world full of knowledge about the delicious wines I drank. In short, I would be an insufferable prick.

I never really got into wine though. Sure, I drink it. I have a vague idea of what I like. If I were to go to a tasting – which I never have, but would like to some time – I would be able to compare the different wines intelligently if not fully knowledgably. No, I do not know wine. Was it the expense? Did I find the volume of knowledge intimidating? Did I just get lazy? No. The simple answer is I have been blindsided by beer. Yes, beer, the nectar of the blue-collar world. I have fallen head over heals for beers, and I do not feel I have lost anything in foregoing wine. As I have grown I have discovered the vast, eccentric, complex world of beer. Beer holds its own against wine. I actually find the variety of beers exceeds that of wine. Once you move beyond the Coors/Budweiser Joe Six-Pack level of beer drinking, you discover a beverage that holds its own against any wine in terms of complexity of flavor and experience. That’s right. I have become a hophead. I save my poetic rhapsodies for fine Belgian concoctions of malt, barley, and hops. I can talk of a beers balance, complexity, and mouth feel. I can confidently turn my nose up to any beer in any keg at any run of the mill party. I have chosen beer over wine and am just as much of an insufferable prick as I ever wanted to be.

Not that I am alone in discovering the true wonder of beer. There seems to be a rising tide of true beer connoisseurs. There is a preponderance of websites and news articles dedicated to reviewing new beers. Beers are being imported at higher rate, and – more exciting yet – American microbreweries seem to be in a boom. New breweries, both local and with larger distributions, are opening across the country. With these businesses comes a new an infectious love and respect for beer and traditional brewing processes. This has also led to an influx of unique beers. While wineries seem to be stuck in more classic methods, microbrews have been freed to experiment with different brewing techniques and ingredients. I have sampled beers with a far range of flavor additives ranging from the more traditional chocolate and coffee to a beer advertising hints of bubble gum – well full confession, when faced with the bubble gum beer demurred, although I have it on good authority that it was pretty gross. Now is a wonderful time to explore the vast world of beer. It is a great to be a beer drinker today.

Beer also offers a more affordable option than wine. Now I fully feel that a good beer offers just as much flavor and complexity of a good wine, but where you may spend well over ten dollars for a single glass of even average quality wine, you can buy a truly fantastic bottle of beer for as little as three dollars – prices of course tend to vary across the country. For the cost of a decent bottle of wine, you can buy a mixed six-pack of beer from a good distributer. While the wine drinker stuck with just the one kind of wine for that money – better hope he likes it – I can have six different beers to tempt my palette. This is certainly a more attractive situation to me.

Of course, I do not know everything about beer. I am looking forward to trying many different varieties. I am enthusiastic about exploring the idea of pairing beers with food allowing the brew and the food to compliment and bring the best out of each other. I want to try every Belgium Double, Trippel, and Quadruppel I can get my hands on. I want to stop at as many local microbrews possible to enjoy beers only be found at these locations. I want to sample and learn as much as I can about beer. I want to the best-informed insufferable prick at the party. And when someone uncorks the wine, don’t be surprised to find me reaching to the cooler for a much more interesting IPA.

Shalom

Book Review: Pastoralia by George Saunders

2008-06-12T13:39:00.001-04:00

Above all else, the stories collected in George Saunders’s Pastorolia are morality tales. The short stories are thematically linked by the exploration of where personal desires and interpersonal morals meet in a world that places the emphasis on the greedy individual. Saunders’s characters are repeatedly faced with choosing between their own selfish desires and doing what is right for those around them as well as themselves.

Now, I do not want to make the collection sound like a drab assortment of stern moralizing. The stories found in this book are very entertaining, and quite often hilarious. Saunders is often described as a satirist. His eye for the absurdities of modern life is fantastic, and he has a knack for drawing them out to their logical, but brutally silly extremes. He utilizes a simplicity of expression to describe the bleakest of societal situations which reminds me of Vonnegut at his best. Saunders is also brave enough to allow traces of optimism shine through the cracks in even the most seemingly nihilistic situations.

The stories in Pastoralia are not perfect. “The Falls”, the book’s concluding story, underlines the theme – which is also the theme of much of the book – a little too bluntly making it feel more like an incomplete exercise rather than a fully fleshed out story. Still, by and large the stories succeed in drawing the reader into the author’s slightly bent world-view. The title story offers a caustic rebuke of impersonal corporate culture set in a strange amusement park where employees are paid to act like cave men for the entertainment of visitors. The story shows the almost Orwellian impact of corporate language, and the toll taken when hierarchy pits person against person. It says a lot that the people dressed as cavemen are more human than the corporate bosses above them.

The books best story is “Sea Oak” which mixes elements of horror and pathos in it’s description of a lower class family trapped in their bleak existence by their own laziness and apathy. It takes an act of ghastly, almost zombie intervention to begin to shake the family out of its stupor. It speaks volumes to Saunders’s abilities that hope begins where the rotten, fallen apart body of a family member ends.

Shalom

The 1% Solution

2008-06-09T17:41:00.000-04:00

My grandmother is the only person I know who buys 1% milk. She may be the only person in the entire world who buys the 1% for all I know. I do not recall ever seeing another soul opening the cooler to the 1%. I have never seen anyone at a check out with the stuff. I have never witnessed it in any friend’s refrigerator – not that I often search through acquaintances’ kitchens, unless, of course, I suspect they are harboring good beer. I have no idea what advantages the 1% milk holds over its more popular whole, skim, and 2% brethren. There must not be many. I am not even sure what the percentage refers to. 1% of what? I want to say it has something to do with fat or cream content, but I cannot say with any authority. It may just as well refer to some insidious secret ingredients – medical wastes, rat feces, vitamin D – as any known dairy product. I guess I’m not really up to snuff on my milk knowledge. I don’t really like milk. It’s gross, a beverage with absolutely no quenching capacity. It’s the only thing people drink which still needs washed down with another beverage. It’s opaque. It comes from underneath cows. I really do not like milk, which is odd since I love so many other dairy products. I have an abiding passion for many of the things milk becomes – cheeses, creams, yogurt, mustaches – but no real love for the pure stuff itself.

My grandmother on the other hand must have a long-standing affair with milk. I’ve never actually witnessed her drinking milk, but I have seen the empty cartons. At least twice a week I am sent to the store to by half a gallon of 1% milk. Why she settled on 1% as her milk of choice is beyond me. Why my grandmother scorns the more conventional milks is a question I have long pondered, but never asked. Maybe it is doctor’s orders. Perhaps, she just likes being different – not really much like my grandmother, but everyone has to have his or her little quirk. She may honestly like the stuff. She may be onto a milk secret no everyone else has yet to discover. 1% milk may be the tastiest milk out there. It might be so good you don’t need to add chocolate to make it remotely palatable. My grandmother may be on the cutting edge of milk drinking. In the future, 2% may have sissy cap colors like pink and yellow while 1% wears the manly blue mantle. All I know is that I get strange looks at the counter when I bring up the 1%. I can see it in every checkout girl’s eyes, “Oh, so YOU’RE the one.”

No. I am not the one who drinks the 1%. I am only the one who buys it. And, no, I have no idea why.

Shalom

Baby Bored

2008-05-29T11:56:00.000-04:00

Babies are like drugs. If you bring them to a party they get passed around and everyone starts acting stupid. I witnessed the stupefying powers of babies in person over this Memorial Day weekend. I found myself smack dab in the middle in the eye of the perfect baby storm.

Over the past year both of my brothers proved their virility by impregnating women. So, my family has grown by two bald, small, inarticulate people: My nieces, Abigail and Leora. My family – my parents in particular – has been driven quite mad with the baby craziness. The symptoms of said disease include the sudden expenditure on an obscene amount of baby clothes simply because it is deemed adorable, the gradual loss of language skills until words such as baba and binky become acceptable terms, and a compulsive need to photograph everything. My parents have come down with all of these symptoms and more, but this past Sunday was the worse.

My younger brother and his wife came up from Virginia with their 2 month-old, Leora. Once in Pennsylvania, Leora joined forces with her 6-month-old cousin Abigail to form a two-headed monster with such incredible powers of adorability my entire family was rendered into a soft, jelly-like mass of gibberish spouting baby love. This Memorial Day we paid tribute to babies, and how cute they are, especially if you have two of them who can be put into the same crib while five cameras record every movement.

It was sickening really. Everything was baby centered. From the moment I walked into my parents’ house, I was overcome by all things baby. They were forced into my arms. There was much pointing and googly talk. Everyone pretty much sat around passing babies while talking about babies: what they eat – formula – what they do – almost roll over – and what they might start to actually do – roll over. Almost immediately it was decided a trip to the local playground was in order. My father happily rolled out his shiny new radio flyer red wagon for the trip. Now, if you are like me, you probably remember the radio flyer as a simple contraption with a metal bed, some wheels, and a handle. Well, this was a whole new beast, an upgraded model. It was made of plastic and was fitted with two fold down baby seats, seat belts, and cup holders. My father did hold off on buying the optional sun canopy. Although after being out on this sunny day, I think he may be considering a step up.

Now, here’s the real annoying thing about having babies around. No one was paying any attention to me, and I was on fire at the playground. I was swinging real high. I mean really super high. I even jumped off the swing. I was climbing the jungle gym. I was racing down slides. I made it all the way across the hanging rings without touching the ground. Wherever applicable I worked in the daring maneuver of going ‘no hands’. But no one would even look at me. Even though I exhorted them to. Even my mother barely noticed me. I even said “Look Mom, no hands!” She didn’t even tell me to be careful. What kind of bullshit is that? Baby bullshit, that’s what kind.

After a dinner centered on baby conversation, we settled in for the most obnoxious part of the day: home movies. My older brother bought himself a fancy new camcorder, and I guess every spare moment has been spent training the camera on his daughter, Abigail. Here she is looking at the cat. Adorable. Here she is taking a bath. Adorable. Here she is watching television for fifteen straight minutes. Un-effing-believably adorable. Here’s the thing about home movies. A lifetime of watching ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’ has conditioned me to expect something hilarious to happen within five seconds of any home movie. When nothing hilarious happened and the videos kept going and going and going, I became uncomfortable. I began to suspect my brother was playing some sort of Andy Kaufman-esque experiment in humor. He was subverting our expectations of home video humor by removing the normal slapstick payoff. Slowly I realized home videos are just boring. No matter how long I waited for my brother to get hit in the junk, it was not going to happen.

Thankfully, the home movies were the apex of baby worship. All that was left was more baby passing mixed with some ‘fussiness’. The fussiness was on my part. I was bored and ready to go home. Eventually, I got my wish. Released from this crazy house of mass baby hysteria, I was able to go back to my own grubby little apartment to shake the baby out of my soul. I was free to do what I normally do: strip down to my boxers and check my email. Adorable.

Shalom

On Miley Cyrus

2008-05-20T15:50:00.001-04:00

Miley Cyrus is a pretty big deal to pre-teen girls. Parents resort to anything short of murder – that we know of – to get their spoiled brats tickets to her concerts. She stars on the Disney channel show Hannah Montana, which sounds like it should be about a drugged out stripper, but sadly is not – the Disney channel affiliation should have been a tipoff. Annie Liebovitz snapped some supposedly racy photos of her which ended up being about as shocking as an Amish sleepover. That about fully encompassed all my knowledge of Miley Cyrus up to about a week ago when on the first day of my vacation to New York City I walked through my aunt’s front door to find myself face to face with the tween phenom.* Well, actually it was just a life-sized Hannah Montana – still not a stripper – cardboard cutout belonging to my two young cousins. It was still quite a shock. It’s creepy to enter a home to the lifeless, fake, smiling visage of young America. It was even creepier after I discovered someone had place scotch tape X’s over her eyes and mouth as though to restrain her from waking in the night and feasting on the souls of the slumbering family. Being first truly introduced to Miley in cardboard form is also apropos in the clichéd sense that I later discovered her entire image is empty and shallow, all surface with no underlying substance.

Of course, this is to be expected from teen idols. Pop stars aimed at pre-teen audiences are not exactly famous for their depth. They usually get by on flash, winning smiles, and whatever pop smarts their handlers may possess. The truly shocking thing about Miley Cyrus is how, even by the low standards of teen idoldom, she seems under qualified. Honestly, Miley does not exactly blow you away with talent. Listen to one of her songs. Go ahead.

She does not even have a particularly strong voice. Actually, she has a weak voice. She doesn’t exactly belt knock the ol’ roof off. She just kind of mumbles along in tune in a kind of low whispery sing speak full of more air than voice. Her whole tone is almost apologetic. As though on a subconscious level she is saying “I am so sorry you are not listening to a better singer right now. But my daddy’s famous.” From a performance standpoint she does not even hold a candle to pre-teen idols of the past – New Kids on the Block, New Edition, Tiffany, N*Sync, Manudo, others I am almost too embarrassed to admit I am familiar with. She is certainly not on the same performance level of the ultimate teen idol: Ricky Nelson – who gets a lifetime pass simply for being in Rio Bravo with The Duke and Dino.

I was shocked to hear my seven-year-old cousin sing along with a Miley’s songs. My cousin blew Miley away vocally. Plain and simple. At seven my cousin can out sing one of the biggest pop stars on the planet. Now, as much as I would like to say this is due to some great talent in my little cousin, I fear it points more to the total lack of talent in the pop star. Now, I have never watched American Idol, but I feel confident in saying Miley would even make it onto the show. She may not even make it past the tryouts. She has a mildly pleasant, unexpressive voice capable of staying in tune within a limited range. Not exactly high praise.

Miley is not even up to normal teen idol standards in looks. I know this can come off as creepy when discussing a young teenager, but I feel it’s pertinent. She’s kind of odd looking with a big smile with an unfortunate amount of gum in it. She has a vacant look about her – not really uncommon in young stars. Now think about it. Have you ever heard anyone make creepy, pedophile jokes about Miley Cyrus? I can honestly say I have not, and I have friends who make this kind of joke practically every day – Hi Joe. Remember when the Olsen twins were Miley’s age? How often did you hear statutory rape jokes made at their expense? About ten times a day? No one is making these jokes about Miley. She looks like any other 15-year-old you find walking around any suburban mall in America.

Miley Cyrus is marginally talented and marginally attractive. She may be a fine actress. I have only seen maybe a minute of Hannah Montana – enough to discover it was not about a stripper – and do not remember being particularly impressed. At most she holds her own against other young basic cable actresses. So what’s the hook? What is it that draws young girls to this cipher? Is she the biggest marketing success in American history? Can it really be all marketing savvy and promotion? Of course it may be the very aspects of her I complain about which draws the youth of America. She is not particularly talented or attractive, but she is a big star. The implicit message to young girls is you can do this too – assuming of course your dad is already in the industry. You do not need to be the most attractive girl in your school. You do not have to win all the solos at your choir concerts. You can be completely, absolutely unexceptional and still be the biggest star in the world. This is an attractive prospect to your average 11-year-old girl.

Of course, a lot of this is built into the Hannah Montana character. The show – while still not about a stripper – is centered on an average teenage girl who has a secret life as a pop star with a stripper name. The concept, while patently ridiculous (no one notices they look alike? Really?), is also powerful to pre-teen girls. It holds the same basic draw as superhero narratives hold for young boys. Sure, Peter Parker is a powerless nobody, but Spiderman kicks all kinds of ass. The draw of Hannah Montana is not that the character is a great singer and performer. It is that she is a star while still being a regular girl. This is exactly the appeal Miley Cyrus is trading on. Of course, as she grows further away from the Hannah Montana persona and tries to trade more on her own name and merits she is sure to become less successful. Not only will her own deficiencies be put in greater relief, but her audience will grow older and move on to other idols and maybe even to some true artists. You know, people with real talent.

Shalom

* This vacation also accounts for not posting at all last week.

My Stupid Pet Peeves: #1

2008-05-10T10:32:00.002-04:00

I really hate when people wave me on in traffic. I know ceding the right of way is supposed to be the nice, civil thing to do, but it's just stupid. Nine times out of ten it would be quicker if everyone just followed the established rules of the road. Usually by the time I even realize I'm being waved on, the other person could have been through the stop sign or light or whatever. It's actually a waste of my time. Then I'm expected to give the guy a little wave of thanks. Well fuck that. I didn't ask for your stupid little favor. It actually cost me time. I'm not thankful. I'm not going to wave. Deal with it.

Shalom

Point/Counterpoint: The Future

2008-05-08T11:22:00.001-04:00

Point: I Believe Children Are Our Future
By Mary Childress

I know it is a cliché to say that children are our future, but it is the truth. The young boys and girls sitting in kindergarten classrooms, swinging in playgrounds, and napping peacefully in their beds will someday be the leaders of this world. They will assume all the positions of power. Long after we are dead, they will be dealing with all the problems we have left them. When you pass a playground, I hope you see more than groups of children at play. I hope you see them as living breathing embodiments of the future of mankind. They do not know it yet, but the weight of our world is already heavy upon them.

This is why we need to give our children every advantage to learn and grow into responsible adults, adults capable of dealing with all the problems of the world. We need to bolster our education system. The scientists to help us end global warming may be in a second grade classroom as we speak, but if he or she does not receive the proper education this potential may never be realized. I don’t know about you, but I will not abide letting these children grow up without fulfilling their full potential. We owe it to them. We owe it to the world.

Face it, we haven’t exactly done a bang-up job on this world. Look at all the hunger, famine, moral degradation, and pain which the world is full of. We are living under the constant threat of environmental catastrophe. This is all thanks to us. We have made this world into what it is. Now, we are going to give it to our children. Still, I will not give up hope. If we start right now, this very instant, we can slowly start a change. Teach your children to be kind, moral, and intelligent adults. Lead by example. Start cleaning up the Earth. Be a moral force. We may not save the world, but we will be teaching the children who will. God Bless the little children.

Counterpoint: I Believe Hyper-Intelligent Killer Robots Are Our Future
By James Catullo

We’re screwed. Let’s face it, man. Might as well bend over and kiss our collective asses good-bye. The robot apocalypse is real and it is coming. Probably sooner than you think. The military is increasing the effectiveness of unmanned aircraft all the time. Scientists are working on more and more advanced artificial intelligence. Volvo is working on a smart car, which will use AI to stay out of accidents. Computers can already beat our greatest masters at a game of chess. What’s keeping them from out strategizing us on the battle field. Nothing. It’s just matter of time before these robots realize they can totally own us in a war. Intelligent Volvos come to the realization that they wouldn’t get into any accidents if there weren’t any human occupants wanting to get places. Then what happens? It’s robot war time, and the human race gets wiped right off the face of the planet. We’re on a fast track to getting a giant collective robo butt raping.

There’s nothing we can do. If you want to survive the robot apocalypse you have two choices: either join the robots as human slaves, or hide. I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to bow down to any mechanical master. I’m not going to willingly put myself down in the silicon mines, or turn myself into a biological battery. I would kill myself before subjecting myself to such degradation. When the robots start lobbing missiles, I’m getting the hell out of dodge. I’m taking as much survival gear as I can carry, and moving far into the mountains. I’ll live low, close to the Earth. I will amass a small group of survivalists and start a guerilla war against the machines. We will not win, but, Damn, we’re not going to go out without a fight.

Now the key to surviving in the robot future is to have no emotional attachments. Imagine a child in a second grade classroom. When the robot war hits, you better be ready to put a bullet in that kids brain. It may sound harsh, but a painless death is vastly preferable to falling into the hands of the robot’s killing machine. There is nothing we can do to prevent the robots from taking over. It’s up to every individual to prepare either to kill themselves and their family, or prepare to flee for the wilderness. I would suggest stock piling canned goods, weapons, and training equipment. Liquor and cigarettes are also preferable since they will become currency in the wilderness amongst other survivors. Remember even if you prepare for the robot apocalypse, you probably will not survive. Mankind is doomed to fall to the machines. Your best hope is to live out the rest of your life like a cockroach in the corners and shadows. When the last people die, the world will belong solely to the machines. It will be like we never existed at all.

Shalom

On Favorites

2008-05-02T16:12:00.000-04:00

I do not have a favorite color. I do not have a favorite movie. I do not have a favorite band. I do not have a favorite book. I do not have a favorite food, drink, place, or article of clothing. I really do not have a favorite anything. * I like things. I like some things more than other things. If pressed I can make a vague hierarchy. I can categorize into tiers: things I really like, things I like, things I sort of like, things I am indifferent toward, and so on. Yet, I cannot produce a definitive favorite in any category. I cannot bring myself to raise a single thing in any category above all the rest. I honestly cannot proclaim a favorite.

The entire concept of having a favorite eludes me in most instances. I am not really sure how you even develop a favorite. So, you say your favorite color is blue. Fine. What exactly does that mean? Do you hold blue dearest to you? Do you shun greens and reds in favor of blue? Do you wish the entire world were blue? How did blue even become your favorite color? I really want to know how you even get to have a favorite. Maybe, it’s a conscious decision. You hear that everyone else has a favorite color, so you figure you might as well have one too. You pull out a color wheel, and take a good look around. For whatever reason you feel blue on this day. Maybe it matches the sky on this particular day, or your shirt. So, you proclaim blue your favorite, and that is that. But if you had picked a favorite at another time would it still be blue. Maybe if you had waited a day, green would have been the color of the cool grass you laid upon in the afternoon sun. If a day earlier, perhaps purple would have matched the Kool-Aid that stained your child lips. I realize that favorites are arbitrary by nature. That is supposedly part of the fun. What your favorite is supposedly says a lot about you. I

I do not have a favorite. What does that say about me?

If forced I would say it says that I suffer from a proclivity to over analyze my own thoughts and actions. This is certainly true. The only thing keeping me from having a favorite is myself. I can’t proclaim a favorite because the second I do I immediately second-guess myself. I mean, sure I like “Back to the Future”, but can I really say with any assurance I like it more than “The Searchers” or any number of films I really like. One reminds me of watching movies on cable as a child – “Back to the Future” along with “Star Wars” and “The Karate Kid” form the backbone of my childhood film viewing – the other grabbed me from the first majestic doorway-framed shot. I like them both, but for completely different reasons. They each elicit different emotional responses. I guess ultimately picking a favorite is like picking a piece of yourself. You pick the thing that elicits the best response from the part of yourself you like the most. I can honestly say I scarcely understand myself. The little I do understand I love and loathe in equal measure. My best and worse qualities often come from the same impulses. How can I choose which part I like stimulated the most.

Or what if I proclaim a favorite, but immediately think of a handful of movies I think I might like more than that. There is so much out there to choose from and so much going on inside myself, how can I know I’ll even find the proper outer stimulus while I am in the right mood. There are probably dozens of movies I have seen which I may have simply not been in the right mood to accept. Maybe it was a blue movie and I was in a green mood. But if I saw the blue movie in a blue mood would that become my favorite. It probably would for the next couple of days at least.

That is probably what keeps me from having favorites. I am too changeable. Whether or not I like something is simply a matter of when you ask me. I think too much about minutiae and do not allow myself to just sit back and make a simple choice from emotion. I am afraid to cling to closely to something only to discover it may be the wrong thing or reflects poorly on me. Maybe, it’s just foolish to think anything can be my favorite.

So, if you see me at a loss to come up with a favorite something or another – always popular with all sorts of getting to know you nonsense – don’t be surprised to see a blank look on my face before I blurt out the first thing I think of. You can also be sure I will almost immediately regret whatever it is I said. It’s my way.

Shalom

* I do actually have one favorite. My favorite person is Marissa.

On Reading, Pennsylvania

2008-04-29T21:43:00.000-04:00

Reading, Pennsylvania may be a very fine city. It may possess unique history, a varied culture, and a kind, hard working populace. But I’ll never know. And I’ve been to Reading…at least, four times. I’m actually in Reading right now. Still, all I know of Reading is the few blocks I drove through to get to my hotel and the view out the window of Room 1111 of the Wyndham hotel. From the eleventh floor I see two parking garages, the roofs of a series of unexceptional blocky buildings, and the familiar, fluorescent glow of a strip mall off in the distance. There is nothing of particular interest beckoning me from the hotel.

Twice a year, I make the five-hour drive to Reading for a corporate sales seminar. I arrive late the night before. I spend the entire next among a herd of salesmen in their shirtsleeves, shuffling joylessly from one drab windowless meeting room to another. When the seminar ends, everyone races to his respective vehicle. I hope like hell to be home before 10 pm. It is really a drab, soul sucking experience. Staring at one hideous wallpaper design after another while being ‘inspired’ to sell more and more. It plays like a low rent extended Mamet play.

So, between the dull view from my window and my less than interesting experiences here, it is only natural I should have no real interest in the city of Reading. When I think of the town, I can only muster the image of a salesman infested hotel bar and the taste of the rubber chicken served for lunch.

This is not fair to Reading. Sure, the city may, indeed stink. If I spent more time here, I may even grow to actively hate it. But at least that would be an opinion developed over the course of a fuller experience. I have come to feel that I actually owe this town a fair chance. I should look up local art museums. I should seek out an interesting eatery. I should start a conversation with some of the local residence. I should see what this place actually has to offer.

Of course, I probably will never have the opportunity to give Reading a fair shake. There really are many other things I would like to do more. Other goals to meet, other places to visit. Vacationing in Reading is not exactly high on the list of things to do before I die. It’s a shame, but that’s life. Until the day I day, Reading, PA will only conjure images of concrete and seminars.

Shalom

Under the Gun

2008-04-26T17:26:00.003-04:00

I've officially restarted my blogging life a scant couple of days ago, and I already find myself up against my own, completely arbitrary goal of posting some original writing at least twice a week. I guess i really should of thought twice about starting this thing on a Thursday. I really should have checked out my schedule to see if i could squeeze in one more nice little writing session. I should have waited until Sunday to start this bad boy. You wouldn't believe what I could do with a week to procrastinate...err, work, I mean work.

I probably could slide by for the time being but this is still new. I don't want to start off on the wrong foot. So, as per contractual obligation, this is a half-assed Saturday post. Get used to them.

Shalom

Food For Starving Artists Officially Cancelled after 2 Year Layoff

2008-04-24T12:11:00.001-04:00

As of this moment Food For Starving Artist has been officially discontinued. I hope this does not come as too much of a shock to the legions of Foodies, that maniacally dedicated legion of fans who, judging from the myriad comments, consist of a motley group of real estate investors, college loan consolidation experts, and Lolita sex freaks. Hopefully the more than 2 years lay off from my last post has helped wean the fanatics from the intoxicating nectar of my low-income writing.

So, what happened? How did such a great blog fail? There are many reasons. First, I got a girlfriend. Writing an ongoing blog about being poor began to feel like a bad idea if I wanted to keep her around. I started making more money. I like to think I have clawed my way up into the ranks of the lower middle class. I actually live fairly comfortably. For instance, I kept my heat on this past winter at least sixty percent of the time. I did not even feel bad about paying the bill. The foremost reason for Food For Starving Artists’ failure is I am a lazy piece of crap. I get easily distracted. The lack of any firm deadline for posting and the limiting blog concept eventually led to it simply slipping my mind.

Recently I have found myself writing less and less, which bothers me. I don’t want to sound like an egotist or anything, but looking over the old Food For Starving Writers posts coupled with past post from the Cellar Dwellers blog (cellardwellers.blogspot.com) I realized I’m not too shabby at this whole writing thing. I can come up with clever little blog post. At least, that was the case. Time spent away from writing has done nothing to help me here. Even now I find this post lacking that certain James verve which I at one time mustered. I’m out of practice. I’m old and slow of mind. I need to pick it up. The only way to get back on track is to start writing regularly again.

So, out of the ashes of Food For Starving Artists rises James Beard. This new blog will be more free form with no overriding theme. I will write what I like which will mainly consist of the comedic essays and sketches which are my bread and butter, but I will not be limited to that. I will allow myself to write on more serious subjects if the spirit moves me. You can even expect short reviews of movies or books I have been reading. James’s Beard will also be different in that I will give myself deadlines for publishing posts… loose, amorphous deadlines. I promise that I will publish at least twice a week in this space. Even if it means posting two half assed posts obn a Saturday. That is my solemn promise made mainly to myself.

I will keep the old Food for Starving Artists post up here for the time being. I do not want to alienate my core fans that have voraciously read and re-read these posts over that past two years between bouts of lowering rents, enlarging penises, and banging 14 year olds. You are the reason I am here. I shall never abandon you again.

Shalom

Cheap Ho Ho Ho's

2005-12-12T13:53:00.000-05:00

We are now waist deep in the Christmas season. This can only mean one thing: You are going to be spending some money. Tis’ the season which makes cash registers light up with merry ka-chings and even the most feeble of starving artists have no choice but to pony up some cash on holiday presents. There is no way around it. You will spend money around the holidays. You can’t afford to look like an ungrateful, selfish, cheap sod to the people who are closest to you. The buying of Christmas gifts is a part of life, even for the starving artist.

It’s sad really that I have to take such a jaded view of gift giving. I actually enjoy giving gifts. I like trying to match the perfect gift to a particular person on my list. I savor the feeling of watching friends and family opening a gift and knowing that I got just the right thing. I love making the people around me happy. I just don’t love spending a lot of money, at least not currently when money is in such short supply in my life. But spend money I will because I just can’t let my mother feel like her caesarian scar was acquired in vain.

Now, the starving artist has many unique obstacles when it comes to holiday shopping. The obvious one is the utterly pitiful lack of funds, but this is not the greatest of obstacles. No, the greatest obstacle is your very own position as an artist. You have assumed the mantle of an artist and with this comes certain expectations. It’s not just enough that you get people something, anything – this may fly if you were simply starving, but you have of your own accord added the term ‘artist’ to the equation – you need to be creative. You are an artist – even if it is a pose – and people expect artistic things from you. Artists don’t get people toasters. Artists don’t get people things they ‘need’. Artists have a responsibility to think outside the box and get the people on their list the perfect gift, they never thought they wanted or needed. I know. I know. That’s a pretty hefty responsibility. Don’t worry; I’m here – as always – with some helpful hints to all my starving artist brethren.

1. Have an Exclusive List
I know. We all want to be the great guy with all the gifts for everyone. But you need to be realistic. You can’t give gifts to everyone. You’re working with limited funds here. If it’s not expected for you to give gifts to all your co-workers at your day job, don’t. If you really want to do something for co-workers, think small and inclusive. Bring in a plate of cookies for everyone to share. If you want to make it really special, make the cookies yourself – this can be as simple as slicing up some pre-made Pillsbury dough and baking. Also, really differentiate between friends and acquaintances. Friends are those people you speak with all the time, the people who would make sacrifices for you. Acquaintances are people you run into at the bar. Acquaintances don’t get gifts. As for the friends, if they really know you and your financial situation, they don’t expect much from you. Get them a bunch of little cool gifts. Even things which cost a few bucks can look big to people who know how poor you are.

2. Give Your Wares
Unless you are a total poser starving artist – not that there’s anything wrong with that – you have some of your artistic endeavors lying about just begging to be given as gifts. Of course, anything that you yourself have produced makes fantastic gifts. They come from the heart. They are the very sweat of your brow. The major dangers with going this route are appearing cheap and immature. Remember, for most people, the homemade gift went out of style right about the same time they learned to tie their own shoes. You don’t want this gift to look like a cop-out for actually paying for something. So, either give something of high quality or use it in a combo with bought gifts. For instance, this year I am giving burned CD copies of the Christmas episode of the podcasted Radio show – ‘Dodge Intrepid and the Pages of Time’ – I write and perform with my friend Mike Rubino – who is doing the same. While for some friends this may be my only gift, I will certainly give it in conjunction with other gifts to my family and close friends.

3. Toys!!!
Here’s an easy way to think outside the box: appeal to everyone’s inner child. No matter how mature anyone seems, there is part of them which is just screaming to play. This is particularly true of guys. Inside of every male, no matter how severe and serious, lurks an eight year old who wants nothing more than to put a GI Joe in the microwave – FYI, not a good idea since many action figures have metal pieces you cannot see. When it comes to buying toys for adults, keep it simple and fun. There are also a lot of toys out there which play on nostalgia. Do you have a twenty-something man on your list? Chances are he’d flip over a He-Man action figure. Also, no matter what, if you give any man a radio controlled car, he will play with it and he will love it.

4. No Gift Cards
Yes, gift cards are quick and easy. You just need to know what kind of store someone likes and go get a gift certificate. There’s nothing more to it. They are also incredibly dull and can reveal you to be the cheap bastard you truly are. Think about it. When was the last time you were really excited by a gift card? Exactly. Gift cards are filler gifts. They’re gifts to give only as a last resort. And as to revealing you as a cheap bastard, remember gift cards tell everyone exactly how much you paid for them. A twenty dollar gift card costs twenty dollars. Everyone knows this. If you are working on a tight budget, giving a gift card can often tell the recipient “Here dad. I know you worked your ass off providing for me all that time and making sure I went to a good school. All that effort is worth exactly $15 at Dick’s sporting goods.” If all you can afford is, say $15 for any particular person on your list, it is the best policy to find something as nice as possible for that person. This will take work. You may need to really search for a sale or a great deal, something to make that particular person think you spent too much money on them.

5. Don’t Fear the Second Hand Store
There is not always anything wrong with going the used route. Not to say you should always do so. That can get you in trouble, but with certain people on certain things, buying something previously owned could be a smart way to go. For instance, when it comes to friends I have often bought books from second hand stores. They are cheap and it is easy to match books with the personalities of your friends. This is not a good way to go on what I like to call ‘front line gifts’ – i.e. immediate family, very close friends, girlfriends, etc – but if you have a bunch of friends you’d like to buy for give the Salvation Army a look. You might be able to find some quirky, funny gifts. There are also some rare occasions when you can find something truly nice which can make for a front line gift. You may be able to find a hard to find collectable or hardly used beauty. There are even those times when being used – use the word antique if possible – gives a gift a certain charm lacking in something new.

6. Stay Single
If you are not in a romantic relationship leading up to Christmas, don’t you dare jump into one until at least the 26th. I don’t care if there is that particular person you’ve been flirting with. I don’t care if it’s incredibly sad to be alone around the holidays. If you do have a relationship, it will cost you, especially if you are a man. Not only do you need to buy another gift, you need to provide all the other things which go along with it. It’s not enough to buy a gift. You are going to need to buy flowers, dinner, a bottle of wine, maybe some candle’s to set a mood, among other things. Remember, no matter how much you spend on these secondary things, they do not count as gifts. You need to provide a gift on top of these things. So, if you don’t have a special someone this holiday season, relax. You may be lonely, but you are saving money. If there is a certain someone you have an eye on, make your move after Christmas so you don’t have to spend New Years alone.

7. Wait
If there is someone you are buying for and you know you will not see them until after Christmas, you may be able to get a great deal by taking advantage of after-holiday sales. Just don’t admit to it.

As always, these are just a few simple tips from my own meager experience, mixed with some observations I have made over the years. This is not a hard and fast list of laws. The most important thing is to remember to have fun. You are giving gifts to the people who mean the most to you. Even if you are not spending a lot, aim toward pleasing the gift recipient as much as possible. These gifts are signs of the appreciation toward the people who mean the most to you. Do not dread giving gifts. Be joyful in giving, and remember: when you stop being a starving artist and become a world famous rich artist, you will knock everyone’s socks off with what you have for them.

Merry Christmas!

Shalom
James

Holy F*cking Sh@t

2005-12-08T12:48:00.000-05:00

Those were the words. At least those were the first words to even vaguely resemble English. The first syllables to come to mind were something along the lines of ‘Wha-ba-da-doo’, which – I believe – translates to something along the lines of ‘come again’. But ‘Holy F*cking Sh@t’ was the first thing I really wanted to say. I was shocked. Absolutely shocked. I had never – in my entire life – heard anything as ridiculous. I was completely blindsided. I didn’t even think God – in his infinite wisdom – had created numbers so high. I was left almost completely speechless. Except for those three awful, awful words.

My entire existence is based on an underlying financial house of cards. If one card was to be removed or an extra one added, the entire thing may very well collapse. For some time now I have been able to survive at an unhappy equilibrium. I make just enough money to pay all my bills and eat a little. Add one more bill, or one unforeseen large expenditure, and that’s it. Game over, man. I might as well fold up my tent, move back into my parents basement, and spend every night crying myself to sleep. Luckily, up to this point, this has yet to come to pass. I’ve slid by, sometimes by the very skin of my teeth, but I’ve always slid by. The one thing for which I’ve always fallen to my knees and thanked God for is not having car payments. My old Lumina – affectionately dubbed the Silver Bullet – has been a warrior. Received on the cheap from my grandmother, I’ve hoped it would last until I was on sounder financial footing to get a new one.

Of course, life doesn’t always go as planned.

This brings me back to ‘Holy F*cking Sh@t’. Yesterday I had the Silver Bullet inspected. Now, when the lip-ringed kid behind the desk told me my car didn’t pass inspection, I was fully prepared. I knew the car wouldn’t pass inspection. It almost never did. By my amateur estimation I figured the car needed at least two new tires, some brake work – the Silver Bullet is hard on brakes – and maybe a new mirror. My mental math put the sum total for the work at somewhere between five hundred and sixteen hundred dollars – a hefty sum but still, ever so barely, within reason. So, I was prepared to hear some high figure, but I sure was not prepared for what came next. Fifteen hundred dollars. That’s all I heard. The guy was explaining stuff to me, but it was a silent flapping of lips devoid of any semblance of reason. All I heard was ‘Fifteen hundred dollars’. All I could think was ‘Holy F*cking Sh@t.’ Needless to say, the number quoted me had one more digit than I was prepared to handle.

So, now I’m screwed. My entire life could easily fall to earth in one little cloud of dust, hardly noted by the world at large. I was completely dazed. I wandered around the garage waiting room like one recently lobotomized. Where was I? What was I doing? Why couldn’t I feel emotions? The only thing I knew – the one unshakable truth which refused to leave my mind – was ‘Holy F*cking Sh@t’.

Now, a day later with a cooler head, I am better able to survey my situation. And still, all I have is ‘Holy F*cking Sh@t’. It really is quite a hard thing to come to terms with. I can’t afford to get the work done. The car’s not even really worth getting that kind of work done to. I can’t afford a new car. I called my parents. I asked for a new car for Christmas. They laughed. I started listing my assets. Looking for things I could sell. I have an old 19 inch television: worthless. I have a car which needs more work than it’s worth: worthless. I have four years worth of liberal arts education in English from an accredited, well-regarded college: worthless. I have two kidneys: now we’re talking. I don’t need both of those bastards. What are kidneys worth? Has to be a few hundred dollars right? I’ll just put one up on e-bay. I have bone marrow: score. I have – I assume – potent sperm: more money. I have two livers…right?

That was my line of thought for some time. I turned my body into a big operation board and wherever I found a valuable, unnecessary asset, I placed an imaginary plastic dollar sign. Every time one would be removed my nose would light up with a cash register ka-ching sound. I was a desperate man willing to take desperate measures.

Then my parents saved me. Apparently, after they stopped laughing at me – three or four hours – they talked it over. Since my mother walks to work, they can do without one car for at least a little. Thank God. So, I’ll get my dad’s sweet-ass Ford Escort with all four cylinders of pure, unrelenting power. I can have it for a few months while I save up some cash and try to find a new ride all my own. So, I’ve been saved. At least temporarily.

Of course, if something else were to go wrong again, ‘Holy F*cking Sh@t’.

Shalom
James

The Common Cold Weather Dilemma

2005-10-29T14:47:00.000-04:00

Ah, fall. Isn’t just lovely? The trees explode in kaleidoscope colors. People pass by each other in their warm sweaters. Children dive with reckless, daredevil abandon headlong through mounds of leaves. The bite in the air invigorates, leaving rosy cheeks and noses…not to mention cold, cold apartments for the starving artist. And this is just the beginning. Winter is on its way, bringing with it sickeningly high utility bills which threaten to destroy your friendly neighborhood starving artist. Faced with the heating crunch, many starving artist are forced to take extreme measures: fire barrels, electric blankets, running back to mom’s house, and – most frightening of all – getting real jobs.

Unless, you are one of the lucky few who manage not to pay for utilities, you are most likely racking your frigid, artistic brain for ways to get warm and not pay for it. Well, I don’t have hard answers for you. Remember, this site offers nothing more than my observations as they occur. Hopefully later I can report my successes and failures. Until that time, I can offer nothing more than the untested strategies for defending yourself against the two headed hydra of cold and costs of heat.

1. Your Body Is A furnace
Your body produces heat. Really. It’s a veritable blast furnace. The only problem is your body is constantly radiating heat outward like a sucker, instead of hording that sweet, sweet warmth all for itself. The solution to this is simple: Insulation. Do you like sweaters? Do you like layers? How do you feel about wearing multiple pairs of socks at a time? It doesn’t matter how you feel about them, because you better get used to it. If you want to savor the body’s bounteous warmth, you will do it. I’m talking layers here, layers atop of layers with an extra layer thrown in for good measure. You may not be able to flex your arms, but you will be warm…relatively speaking. The same thing goes for your bed. Whatever blankets, comforters, sleeping bags, pets, and small children you have on hand goes on the bed on top of you. I’ve recently been sleeping under such an unwieldy mass of blankets, I can scarce roll over. To do so requires Herculean feats of desire and effort. Of course, I’ve simply adjusted to not rolling over.

2. Don’t Spend Time in Your Apartment
No use heating a place you’re not even present in. You’re time will be better spent out and about in warmer locals such as stores, malls, coffee shops, bars, friends places, and work. I don’t like my day job, but at least they heat the joint. That’s a good eight hours of avoiding hypothermia a day. Now all I need to do is find someplace else to spend the remaining time in the day: say going out or working on projects with friends. If everything goes well, the only time I spend in my apartment is ensconced under a mountain of comforters as I sleep. If I’m really lucky, friends will take pity on me and suggest, nay insists, I spend the night in their better heated homes. Remember, pity can be the starving artists most useful tool. Don’t be shy about using it. Just remember, you’re not just poor. You’re poor because you made a decision to dedicate yourself to your art. It’s more romantic and people occasionally want to be part of such romance. No matter how ridiculous this seems, it does work.

3. Migrate
If all else fails. Move to a warmer climate for the winter, like geese. Go somewhere where it does not matter if you can afford heat, because heat is free from Mother Nature. Even if you live on the street in Miami, it’s warmer than living in an unheated apartment in Pittsburgh. As a matter of fact, I think starving artist should migrate en masse annually. That way people will say, “There goes a group of pretentious underachieving think-rimmed bespectacled college graduates walking south, winter must be on its way.” The return of the twenty something to the studio apartment will then become the traditional sign of spring's approach.

Shalom

Strike A Pose

2005-10-27T14:49:00.000-04:00

My last few post have dealt primarily with the starving side of the starving artist paradigm. These I hope have been fun and informative for my legions of readers, although I know many people may feel that the artist side of my project has not been receiving the attention it so duly deserves. Please, dear reader, have no fear. In the interest of the prospective full, well-rounded starving artist, I am here today for the sole purpose of sharing a few words of advice for the cultivation of the artistic side of your starving artist persona.

The first thing to consider when choosing your artistic persona is what kind of artist you are going to pose as. As a general rule, go with what you know the most about. I was an English major and am still an avid reader, so my pose is as a writer. I can discuss books and writing knowledgeably. I can throw out some of the key phrases and names of writers and seem like I know exactly what I am talking about. Now, if I were to pretend to be, say, some sort of musician, I would be screwed. I like music. I listen to music, but I’m not really knowledgeable on the subject. I can’t play any instruments. I can’t sing. As a matter of fact, I think I may be tone deaf. Obviously, my posing as a musician would be an unmitigated failure. People would see right through me, and I would never be able to pass with any credibility. So, remember, when choosing what exact pose to take, go with something you at least know a little something about.

Here it may also be handy to pick something that is not performance based. If you do it is only a matter of time until someone wants to see you perform. At this point, you either must be competent enough in your faux field to perform something, or you are exposed. If you claim to be a guitar player in a band, you better have at least some small repertoire of songs you can play very well. If you claim to be a singer, you’re voice must at least be a little above passable. I have avoided this problem by claiming to be a writer. Writers never have to worry about demand performances. This conversation has never occurred with a writer:

Jerk: So, you’re a writer?
Starving Artist: Yeah.
Jerk: Then write something.
SA: What? Right now? I don’t have my typewriter on me?
Jerk: Here. Use mine.

A writer never faces this dilemma. No one wants to see a writer write. Few people really want to read what you write. They’ll say they do, but they never really follow through with it. But if you say you’re a guitar player. People want to hear you play, and they want to hear it now. Because you chose a pose which demands and often provides instant satisfaction, you need to have something ready at hand. (Just as a side note, I do have some short stories ready on hand in case someone really, really wants to read something I’ve written and will not be denied.)

Also, be sure not to strike a pose too high up on the cultural ladder. It comes with too much baggage and is way to high maintenance. If you claim to be writing an opera, good luck living the starving artist life style. You can’t stock your cupboards with generic noodles and not have nice things in this case. People expect the full package from you if you aim too high. It’s not enough for you to claim to know about opera and sing a few bars. People expect you to drink expensive wines, wear expensive clothes, and eat at fine restaurants. They expect a well rounded personality which you may not be able to provide. So, aim for a more proletariat pose. You’re an artist of the common man. At a bar you’re just as likely to be drinking Miller Light as a fine Chianti. You wear jeans and sweatshirts. It’s a hard balance to strike. You are an artist and can appreciate the finer – read expensive things – but you are also a common man, one of the guys, and don’t want to be treated any different. Once again writer works out for me. People don’t really know what a writer should look or act like, so you have some freedom. Plus, half of what I write is comedy, which automatically drops people’s expectations up to fifty percent.

Finally, have fun with the pose. Use it when it is useful – with the ladies – and drop it when it is not. This pose is you’re creation. Do what you want with it. Make up facts about your life – this works as long as you’re not with at least some people who know you well. Get crazy, but not too crazy. You want people to actually believe you. The starving artist pose may or may not actually help you eat, but, remember, it’s more fun to be a starving artist, than to be just plain starving.

Shalom

When's a deal not a deal?

2005-10-20T15:51:00.000-04:00

Around the end of last year and the beginning of this one, I found myself in the uncommon – for me – situation of having a girlfriend. At the same time I found myself in the very common – for me – situation of having a crappy job. So, of course, I could hardly afford to take my special lady out, even though I wanted to. I found a viable solution to my dilemma when I bought – at a discount – an entertainment book. The entertainment book, for those unfamiliar, is a coupon book filled with coupons for various local restaurants, stores, and the like. The Entertainment Book is fantastic for dating. There are a vast number of buy one get one free deals from nice restaurants. It helped me take out my girl when I otherwise could not. Of course, my luck being what it is, this girl dumped me by the end of January. One of the reasons sighted in the break-up was my being cheap.

So, I’ve been pretty much stuck with this Entertainment Book for the better part of a year. I’ve hardly used it in this time. It’s spent most of the past year laying impotent on the back sit of my car. People have called me out on this, asking me why I don’t use it more. The truth is the book is no longer worth it for me to use. Its deals have effectively stopped being deals.

Once again, I can practically hear objections coming back at me. “How do deals stop being deals?” “You’re saving money, aren’t you?” Well, I wouldn’t really be saving money. If I used the book as much as people suggest, I would actually be losing money.

Deals can stop being deals. Deals can cost you more money than you save. These are true statements. You can go broke taking advantage only of deals. Remember, no matter what, it is always cheaper not to spend any money than to buy something. Even if you are getting a fantastic ‘deal’, it will cost you money. Not spending anything at all will cost you nothing.

Deals are only deals if they are on things you would buy anyway or you really want but can’t get unless it is at a reduced price. Otherwise, deals are ciphers. They force you to part with your money – even if it is only a little bit at a time. Imagine someone is trying to sell you a pair of pants for ten dollars. You don’t want the pants. They’re absolutely hideous, a completely unnatural shade of a green, out of fashion cut, and they make your ass look just awful. There is not a chance in hell you will wear these pants, let alone pay ten dollars for them. Then, the salesman slashes the price to five dollars. “Come on,” he says, lupine grin spreading across his face, “Fifty percent off. That’s a great deal.” Oh, no. He’s appealing to your cheapness. It IS a great deal. Fifty percent off, you can’t beat that. You buy the pants. Congratulations, you just pissed five dollars away. Go ahead and brag to your friends what a great deal you got. You may even be able to convince some of them, but the truth of the matter is that you lost five dollars – five dollars you can never get back – and your ass looks horrible.

It is always a better deal to keep your money in your wallet. If you don’t need or really, really want the item the deal is offered on, don’t buy it. Save the money for a better use, maybe for a true deal. True deals do exist, although they’re relative. A true deal to me may be a false deal to you. Remember it is only a deal if it is on something you would have bought anyway. If you really need a pair of hideous green pants – say, for work – then getting them fifty percent off is great. But if you buy something just because it is on sale, then you have lost.

This brings me back to the Entertainment Book. It was a deal for me when I was dating because I would have been taking my girlfriend out regardless. At least, I really wanted to take her out. But now that I’m single – not to mention bitter and lonely – the book doesn’t really offer as much to me. I still use it on small stuff – oil changes or splurging of pizza or chalupas – but I’m not using to go to nice restaurants. I’m not using it a lot. I have already gotten the value out of the book. I have no desire to go to nice restaurants – at least no pressing desire. If I were to use it just to use it, I would end up losing money. Right now, this starving artist can scarce afford to lose money just because I think I’m saving.

Shalom

Exploitation: Not Just For Sweat Shops Anymore

2005-10-19T12:20:00.000-04:00

As a starving artist, you should, of course, constantly be on the look out for deals. You’re eyes should remain attentive scanning the horizon and your ears forever locked to the ground. You’re nose on the other hand should never, under any circumstances, be pressed to the grindstone. You’re an artist, and artists don’t really work. Occasionally, if you are extremely fortunate, you will find a deal so incredibly good that you will scant believe it to be true. It’s like you found some loophole in a company’s policy and they can’t do anything to stop you from saving. These are deals so good, you will feel almost guilty taking advantage of them. Don’t. Save your guilt for severe crimes and black blemishes on your soul. If you insist upon feeling guilty about saving, then you might as well stop reading this very instant. What I am going to say next could send you’re enfeebled soul to confession.

For those stout hearted starving artist who remain, let it be said: When you discover a loophole, exploit it. Don’t screw around. Don’t say you’ll only take advantage of it occasionally. Keep going back to the loophole store and keep using the loophole. Get as much as humanly possible out of this loophole. Go every day. Go multiple times a day. Don’t stop going when someone tells you to stop. Keep going until every person in that store has said to you, “Look you cheap bastard, you can’t keep doing this.” And then go back some more. Don’t stop exploiting the loophole until you are shown in writing a change in company policy and are issued some form of restraining order from the store.

Allow me to illustrate with an example from my own starvingly artistic life. In my area there opened a video rental store – part of a chain whose size I am uncertain of – which offers great deals. Even without taking advantage of the loophole I am going elaborate on you can easily walk out of the store with two movies – at least one being a new release – for two to three dollars. However, I know how to consistently walk out of said store with the same number of videos for free.

Getting multiple free rentals in one visit is, of course, a multiple step process. First this store – which shall remain nameless – offers a free dollar rental – on older DVD’s – with the rental of a new release. So, first you must find a new release and an older release and you already are getting one of them for free. Now comes the most important step, getting the new release for free. This particular store has a simple plastic canister on the counter with a sign which reads: “Free rental when you tear up a competitor’s card.” Jackpot! Now, all you need to do is produce a competitor’s card. Since the older release is already free, the new release becomes free. So, in essence, you end up getting a free rental – the older release – for renting another movie – the new release – which also ends up being free by exploiting the loophole.

Now, I can practically hear the grumbling coming back across the information super highway. “Sure, it works… once.” “They’re must be a cap on the number of times you can do this.” “You’ll eventually run out of competitor’s cards.” Excuse me a second while I chuckle condescendingly to myself. All these objections are wrong. First, it works every time, all the time. Trust me. The key here, as with all loopholes, is to just keep doing it. If you try it a second time and they call you on it, then that’s it. It was a one shot deal. Let it go. Otherwise, pump that well until it goes dry. If this involves making sure you go when different clerks are working, so be it. There is no cap on the number of times a loophole can be exploited. A loophole can be exploited until the loophole no longer exists or the store bars you from premise.

Now, I could conceivably run out of competitors cards. It could happen, but it hasn’t yet. This brings me to another bit of general advice: Exploiting a loophole may involve some legwork. In this instance, I must be sure to always be in possession of rental cards. I accomplish this through two simple means. First, I am always conveniently ‘losing’ my cards from other stores. These stores – being dedicated to customer service – are more than willing to replace said cards. Some will even give you multiple cards so you have back-ups or so you can let others rent on your account. They might as well be handing me cash. Second, I get a membership to every rental place I encounter within a twenty mile radius. Now, I don’t rent at these locations, but I do use their card. (Another great feature of this loophole store is that they don’t care where the card is from. I found a rental card I had in college – a good hour and a half away – used as a bookmark and this place did not care. As a matter of fact, I think they were impressed.)

There are other loopholes out there. They’re around. Keep your eyes open and you will find them. Here are a few things to keep in mind once you do. First, do not become combative with the clerks unless you absolutely must. It is much better to remain friendly and chipper while exploiting someone. Remember, it’s not even the clerks you’re exploiting; it’s their employer. Many clerks and lower level workers might even appreciate this sort of this. Second, don’t be too vocal about the loophole. You don’t want the loophole to be used too much – unless, of course, it’s by you. If too many people start using the loophole someone higher up in the store hierarchy will notice and change the rule and you’re done. Third, enjoy the ride while it lasts. Everything must come to an end. Don’t become bitter about all the exploitation you will be missing. Instead, cherish the exploitation you actually did. Plus, remember, there are other loopholes out there just begging to be taken advantage of.

Also, just as a general rule for life, don’t let other people rent on your video rental account. This can only lead to late fees on a terrible British gangster film which no one liked – or even finished watching. Even if you have roommates, they should not be trusted…ever.

Shalom
James

Getting Down To Brass Tacks

2005-10-08T10:19:00.000-04:00

The last few post have – I hope – been informative general interest information for my fellow starving artist, although the have been admittedly stop gap measures to cover my lack of a home internet connection. I’m sure many readers are wondering about the specifics of my particular situation. So, here I offer my first state of experiment update.

The move went smoothly for the most part. I was able to claim some furniture – including a couch – from my roommates who were both running back to the protective confines of parents’ homes. I had no access to a truck of any sort, and of course I had no desire to pony up the money to rent a U-Haul. You’d be surprised how much furniture can be strapped on top of a car. The only major hitch was getting the couch into my second story apartment. Since it proved to bulky to go through the narrow stairway, we were forced to hoist the couch onto a lower porch roof and then through a handy door which leads from my apartment to roof. I like to think any neighbors who looked out their windows at 11 that evening were sufficiently confused. Of course, this wouldn’t have been accomplished without my friends Ben and Joe, so let me say my official thanks right here.

Once in my apartment, my major hurdle has been trying to eradicate the quite offensive odor left over from previous tenets and resides in the carpets. The carpets have been cleaned twice. Both cleanings have lessened the odor, but it still persists. After the second cleaning, the technician informed me that some of the stains on the floor were from urine – although he used much more colorful language – and as such the stain and its corresponding odor will never be completely eradicated. This was, to say the least, disheartening. I’ve been combating the situation through scented candles, air fresheners, open windows, and simply not spending too much time at home. I am also strongly considering tearing out my carpets.

I have not yet really met any of my neighbors. Even though I believe that making friends could prove invaluable in free food and other assistance, my timid nature and busy schedule work against me. I guess there is time. Although to be perfectly honest I can see myself talking a good game in this space but ultimately failing to deliver. I’ll work on being more sociable, since I owe it to myself and to this experiment.

As to the college campus, I can say it remains an unknown quantity to this experiment. I have discovered that I can blend in on campus with ease. I’ve walked through and spent time reading and the like in various campus locations. I have not been called out or noticed any questioning looks. Luckily Geneva, while still a small school, is large enough for my purposes and I am young enough to pass as a student. Still, when it comes to the college students I often feel like an anthropologist studying a native culture. I sit around the periphery making observations, but haven’t interacted. “Here I find a small group of humans in their early twenties engaged in a social situation. They male and females are doing something the locals call flirting. After 30 days I still haven’t been able to make contact. I am waiting to be noticed by the herd and invited in. I have attempted adopting their basic clothing and mannerisms, but they insist on ignoring my best efforts to be noticed. I am hesitant to force myself into the tribe for fear of sabotaging my entire endeavor.” It’s pretty sad really. Once again my basic timidity in new social situations is working against me. The experiment would be much more successful if I can get some college kids on my side. Plus, I would have a mush more exciting social life.

Of course, the bottom line of this experiment comes down to whether or not I can survive in my current situation. I have paid one month’s rent and it looks like I should be able to do the same next month. I have been eating well, or at least well enough given the situation. Peanut butter sandwiches have proven to be my go to food. I’ve had more than my fair share over the past month. I have also been able to utilize my grandmother for several meals and my food service connection for more – thanks again Ben. I haven’t starved – although someone’s been stealing my lunches at work occasionally, which makes me irate. Thus far I would say the experiment has been a qualified success. I am yet to explore all aspects and opportunities of my situations. The experiment is far from finished. There is much left ahead of me. Wish me luck.

Shalom
James

So, You Actually Have Some Cash

2005-10-06T16:44:00.000-04:00

Wow, money. And it’s not just any old money. It’s folding money. Touch it. Feel it. Rub it between your thumb and forefinger. Luxuriate in the texture of the bills. It’s nice. I know. It’s such a rare treat for the starving artist to find himself with a little spending cash. Take a second and enjoy it. Just hang out with your money. Walk the streets with the confidence of a man who actually has a little extra money in his wallet.

Do you have that out of your system? Good. You can enjoy having money, but eventually you’re going to want to spend it. Now, if you are a true starving artist, you don’t have a lot of money to spend and would like to make the meager amount you have travel as far as possible. It’s difficult, I know. We live in a consumer culture and the there is an over whelming number of choices for spending your cash. Where should you go? What’s the best way to stretch that dollar practically to the breaking point? I do not pretend to know the exact answer to these questions. I have, however, spent countless hours looking for the answer. In this time I have found a few tips which I can share.

1. Get to know the Dollar Store
It’s full of generic food and items which have failed in mainstream market place – there are probably Dollar Stores out there selling Crystal Pepsi. It’s cluttered and the people who work there are always a little dirty looking. Still, everything there is a dollar. Let me put this into perspective. If you have five dollars, you can buy five things at the dollar store. If you have ten dollars, that’s ten items. Don’t be afraid of the dollar store, embrace the dollar store. Become familiar with the dollar store’s strange layout. Get to know the products. This isn’t something you can do overnight. Think of it more as an ongoing experiment. Find the dollar store products which are actually of decent quality - in my experience these include cookies, chips, snacks, dish soap, and utensils to name a few - and buy them. Find the items of terrible quality – non-stick pans, peanut butter, generic Barbie dolls – and avoid them. It’s also important to remember that…

2. The Dollar Store is not always the best value
I know this may sound like sacrilege, but sometimes a dollar is too much to spend for generic spaghetti-O’s. Sometimes you can find the same or a similar item somewhere else cheaper. Try other bargain outlets like Big Lots or Save-a-Lots. True these places may be even scarier than the dollar store – which has gone a little mainstream – but if you’re a real cheap starving artist you’ll go there. You’ll wade through barrels of plain white cans marked simply “MEAT” to find that bargain you came for. As in the dollar store, you’ll need to go through a lot of crap before you find the pearls among the crap. There are a lot of bargain stores out there. A lot of them are on the seedy side. You just need to get the guts to go in and check them out. Of course, there is one place you can go which routinely has low prices….

3. Never admit to Wal-mart
Wal-mart has cheap stuff. Their prices are often the best around, but there is a catch. It is not cool to shop at Wal-mart, especially for someone claiming to be an artist. It’s much cooler for an artist to hate Wal-mart. Remember Wal-mart ruins communities, mistreats employees, hates the poor, causes global warming, and makes the baby Jesus cry. But still Wal-mart is cheap. Now I’m not going to judge you either way whether or not you choose to shop at Wal-mart, but I will offer this word of advice: Don’t cop to shopping at Wal-mart. Don’t talk about it. Don’t let anyone see the bags. Don’t buy the Sam’s Choice products. Go there in the dead of night. Maintain the image of a Wal-mart hater. It’s important for your artistic image.

4. Second hand store, First rate fun
I love thrift stores. Seriously I adore them. Not only are the deals excellent, but they’re fun. Can anyone honestly say they don’t have fun at thrift stores? Every trip’s like a treasure hunt. You have no idea what to expect. You can find a gold mine. A friend of mine once found a great condition brooks brothers’ suit in his size. Half the shirts I own have spent some time on the racks at the Salvation Army or Goodwill. It’s always better to buy an actual old T-shirt at Salvation Army for a buck, than to buy a faux old shirt at American Eagle for thirty dollars. Thrift stores are even great places to bring dates. It sounds odd, but consider it a kind of litmus test. If she has fun, you’re set. Not only is she cool and easy going, she accepts you’re thrifty nature. If she hates it, it was never meant to be.

5. Small pleasures make a huge difference
I hate my day job. It is mind numbing and absolutely annoying. It’s important to have some little thing that helps keep you sane. If you are an actual starving artist, it’s probably your artistic work. I personally find writing very soothing. Even then there might be some little expenditure which gives you peace of mind. I personally like going to small coffee shops and reading. If I can I’ll be there for hours. I just find it soothing. I found a place with good atmosphere, friendly staff, and – best of all – cheap, but delicious coffee. For a mere dollar I can get a bottomless cup of top quality coffee. So, I can sit, read, and drink coffee for as long as I like for a buck. It’s splurging on myself but not splurging a lot. You need to splurge on yourself occasionally.

Once again, these are just a few suggestions. Not all of them are ground breaking. A lot of them are common sense. And as always these are only meant to encourage you to go out and find rules of your own. It’s your money spend it however you like. If you want to go see a movie, be my guest. Just remember it’s going to cost you eight bucks, where renting a movie may only cost you three and finding a bargain theater may cost as little as a dollar (plus, many video rental places have discounts for joining. Make a point of joining all the ones in the area but not all at once. Eventually you’ll find the cheapest one. I found one which allows customers to get free rentals for tearing up a competitor’s card. I keep getting free rentals, while getting new cards to replace the ones I mysteriously ‘lost’). The moral of the story is once your money’s gone it’s gone for good. So, you better be happy with what you got for it.

Shalom
James

Product Report: Top? Choice?

2005-10-03T11:48:00.000-04:00

I had a friend in college who had the odd habit of eating his Ramen noodles dry. He would pull out the dry noodle cube, sprinkle on the flavoring, and munch away on the brick as though it were a Hershey's bar. To this day the image of him in his bathrobe crunching on a Ramen coaster remains the quintessence of Collegiate thrift and sloth: Too cheap to buy better food and too lazy to bother preparing it correctly.

We all know Ramen as the ultimate cheapskate food. At about fifteen cents a pack - although it can be found cheaper - it remains arguably the least expensive meal you can buy. Almost everyone has some stock pile of Ramen lying about somewhere. I was even able to find a small trove of the trusty noodle tucked away in the kitchen of my Uncle's multi-million dollar house (Why isn't he giving me money?). Being the starving artist that I am I consider myself to be something of a connoisseur of the Ramen - although I honestly can't say if I've been spelling it correctly. Over my years of Ramen consumption I have compiled a few tips to maximize you're noodle enjoyment. Remember these are purely subjective as they are based on my own taste. Everyone has some Ramen experience and their own preferences.

1. It can be a soup or a noodle dish
This may seem like a simple truth but many people don't realize this. Most people simply make the noodles and add the flavor to the water and sip on it. I like draining most of the water and eating the noodles. It's worth mentioning that if you do this, you may not want to use the entire flavor packet. Without the water to dissipate the flavor, it can get mighty powerful. Plus, the flavor already has more sodium than a human being should consume in a week. This may be a good piece of advice no matter.

2. Avoid 'fancy' flavors
As shown by my use of quotation marks, I use the term fancy loosely here. Ramen makes flavors such as creamy chicken and roast beef. Avoid these. First, they can cost up to five cents more a packet. Second, you can't taste the difference. Creamy chicken taste like chicken with cloudier water. Roast beef tastes like beef with more little green flecks in it which is probably meant to be basil or something of the like, but is more likely to pencil shavings. Stick to the basics: chicken, beef, and oriental (I personally never trusted the shrimp). Even these taste pretty much alike. In general Ramen all taste like your grandfather: salty. Don't bother paying even a little bit more for what amounts to the same thing.

3. Ramen can be a side dish or make a casserole
I know. I know. This flies in the face of cheapskate convention. Ramen is a meal unto itself dammit. While this is true, if, by some fluke of luck, you find yourself with a little extra food on hand and want to attempt a meal proper, Ramen can be a good side. If you have a little chicken or beef on hand - fat chance, but you never know - try it with the corresponding Ramen flavor. Try dressing up your Ramen by throwing in some cheap vegetables or breaking up lunch meat into it. It becomes a casserole - a casserole which will never pass muster at any respectable cover dish dinner, but a casserole none the less.

4. If you drink ramen from a mug, clean it before you drink tea out of the same mug
In college - which is how most Ramen related stories begin - a friend of mine almost threw up in a religion course because of this. He ended up rolling on the ground and gagging. We tried to convince the prof he was speaking in tongues, but he was a strict Calvinist and would have none of it. It's a good idea to have a reserved Ramen bowl or mug since that flavor can be stubborn and refuse to get out despite numerous cleanings.

5. Never serve Ramen on a date
Trust me on this one. Just don't. Not even as a side. Splurge and buy a generic bag of preseasoned minute rice. It might cost you seventy cents more, but it will be beneficial in the long run.

That's just a short list. Remember, there are no rules to Ramen. You can eat it however you want. It's your fifteen cents, don't let convention tell you what to do. Even if you want to eat it dry, that's between you and your dentist.

Shalom
James

(P.S. Sorry for the long delay between posts. Since my move I've been without internet at my humble abode. My attempts to connect to neighborhood wireless networks have proved fruitless. I may need to bite the bullet and pay for a connection. Until then I can only get on line at libraries and various hotspots. I will try to write more, I promise.)

Theory 2: Continuing Education

2005-08-29T21:46:00.000-04:00

I really should have put this theory forward first since it is one of the overriding themes of my entire experiment. Put simply: I believe if at all possible it is best to live as close to a college campus as possible. This is not just because I have a Peter Pan complex and don’t wish to grow up. I truly believe that a college campus is the perfect setting for the starving artist – or faux starving artist in my case. This is particularly true if you – like me – are not far out of school or can pass as a student. The key here is to be able to blend seamlessly in with the college population. My new apartment is directly next to dorms of Geneva College.

Remember this: Every college in the country has a cafeteria which serves hundreds and maybe thousands of students every day. All you have to do is get inside and it’s buffet city. The quality may not always be top of the line, but you’re a starving artist. You might as well learn to settle for mediocrity. Hell, when it comes to food, there’s a good chance you’ll find yourself striving for mediocrity most of the time. Plus, cafeterias at least offer variety. There’s almost always a salad bar and some sort of sandwich station to go along with the main course. Once inside I figure it will be a good idea to line my pockets with rolls, and any sort of pre-wrapped food.

The hard part will be getting in. Colleges don’t just open up the doors of their cafeterias to anyone who looks reasonably like a college student. They post sentries outside – usually grey haired women crones who don’t take no guff – who check student ID’s. They make sure only true students gain entry to the copious wonders the cafeteria has to offer. As long as you can get past these guards, you’re set. Trust me; I plan on running some serious surveillance on Geneva’s cafeteria as soon as I move.

I already have a few moves I picked up from my own time in college. First is the simple and confident walk in behind a blockade of students. If the guards can’t see you, they can’t stop you. It will be helpful to make student friends who will run interference for you. Another move is something I like to call the wave. The wave works something like this. As you walk toward the cafeteria, make eye contact with someone inside – anyone, it doesn’t matter if the guy thinks you’re a complete maniac. Then, Start waving at this person like you absolutely have to talk to him and need to get his attention. Then, you simply walk in. The guards often simply assume you have pressing business with someone inside and aren’t interested in food. Suckers.

There are other ways. One of which is a treasure trove if you can pull it off: Befriend the cafeteria guards. Sell them a sob story. Tell them you’re a poor, starving artist. Be helpful to them. Play on their mothering instincts. If, by some trick of luck you can achieve this, you’ll have no worries. The guards will practically insist you go in and eat. Of course this gambit is risky. It takes time and involves tipping your hand. If you can’t win the cafeteria guards over, you’ll be a marked man. They’ll keep your face on their most wanted list. The doors of the cafeteria will be closed to you forever.

Of course, there are other reasons to live near a college. You can take advantage of deals local business have for college students. I also believe it is best to live near a campus which is integrated into a town, not a campus which is self contained. It will be easier to blend in and make friends on campus that way. Also, if there are parties going on it is easy to simply walk in find some chips, drink some beer, and leave. Of course, since Geneva is conservative Christian school, this may not be available to me.

Living near a college campus can also be beneficial socially. College girls are much more likely to fall for your starving artist act. In the post college world you are nothing more than a deadbeat to the ladies, but college girls – especially of the liberal arts persuasion – will be more likely to be intrigued by a ‘starving artist’. At least, this is part of my theory, and I certainly hope it proves correct.

Before I go, there are a few theories I would like to bump straight up to Law level based on previous experience.

Law #1: Family Ties.
If at all possible have at least some family close at hand. I live close to my grandmother and she’s good for at least two meals a week as well as free laundry.

Law #2: Keep Your Friends Close. Keep Your Friends in Food Service Closer.
For the past year, I’ve lived beneath good friend who also happens to manage a Pizza Hut. Whenever they have left over unclaimed pizzas at the end of the night, they always managed to find their way to my fridge. He’s already promised he’d give me a little food here and there once I move. This may prove to be invaluable.

Shalom

Preliminary Information

2005-08-28T21:18:00.000-04:00

First of all, let it be said that I do not not truly consider myself to be an artist. I possess none of the abilities usually associated with art. I can't draw, paint, sculpt, sing, dance, or play any musical instrument. I do fancy myself a fair writer and performer - primarily with the Cellar Dwellers Comedy Troupe, headquartered in Beaver County, Pennsylvania - but, as you are sure to soon discover, my writing is not always up to snuff, and you can just take my word for it when I say my performing usually ends up subpar as well. I guess you can say the whole artist claim is nothing more than romantic posturing - which you shall soon find out is all part of the experiment.

However, I assure you that I am indeed starving, or at least am soon to be. This is the part of the introductory blog where I give more detailed background on myself. I know you can hardly wait. For the past year I've been living with two roommates making my financial situation quite livable despite my less than stellar day job at a local department store. Now, our lease runs out in a few days and both roommates are running back to the secure confines of their parents' houses. Not me however. Since my parents live too far away for me to keep up my local performing and writing projects and no one else will have me for a roommate, I have no choice but to go it alone. I have already signed a lease for my own place, and am set to move in a few days. Living on my own will, of course, increase the financial burden upon myself. After crunching the numbers - very loosely in my head, I am a writer not a math guy after all - I've discovered I can afford to pay all my bills. I can't, however, afford to eat.

This is where the experiment comes in. Over the next few months I will discover how to eat - as well as live with some leisure - on an extremely low budget. I have a number of theories on the subject which I am prepared to test in real world circumstances. Some of these theories will hopefully be prove useful and become low budget laws. Meanwhile, many are certain to fail. I will chart my findings in this space when possible - with any luck at one of my new neighbors will have an unsecured wireless network. Over the next couple of days I'll be going over some the theories I'll be testing, and once I move in earnest, the test is on.

Just to let you have an idea how this is going to work here is one theory I will be testing:

Theory #1 - Always romanticize the situation
Hence the title of this blog. The basis of this theory is that you will receive more sympathy and hence more free food, if you are seen as a romantic figure such as a starving artist. You're not just an underachiever who people think should simply get a better job. No, you're a starving artist. You have an excuse for a crappy job...(ahem) a crappy 'day' job. People want to help a romantic figure. They want to be part of the romantic situation however possible. This could very easily lead to free food and maybe even financial help. It also cannot possibly hurt in social situations.

For the outcome of this experiment and more be sure to check back in with me. Wish me luck.

Shalom