By TPerl
In case you missed it, MTV is finally allowing The State DVD to be released.
July 14th.
You may now commence ball-dipping.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A Disgrace To The Name
James Harrison - you know, the 242-pounder who somehow managed to trudge a slow 100 yards to score a touchdown in the Super Bowl before collapsing - is skipping the Steelers' White House visit this week.
Prior obligation? Loyalty to McCain? On the no-fly list and concerned about the rising price of gas?
Nah.
He just thinks the president doesn't want to see him bad enough.
"This is how I feel - if you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. As far as I'm concerned, he [Obama] would've invited Arizona if they had won," Harrison told a Pittsburgh TV station.
This is probably too dumb to even bother blogging about. But just for kicks...
Harrison seems to be under the impression that the president customarily invites his favorite football team to the White House. Or that Barack Obama and his predecessors (Harrison also skipped the team's 2006 meeting with George W. Bush) had nothing better to do than shuffle through their NFL trading cards to decide which spandex-clad giant they'd most like to hang out with in the rose garden, then command that it be so. Or that Obama invited the Steelers for any substantive reason besides they fact that they. won. the. Super. Bowl.
Seriously. On Harrison's logic, Nicolas Sarkozy should reject his next White House invitation on the grounds that, had Segolene Royal won the election, Obama would be inviting her instead.
But in case you were worried that Obama would be missing out because of this non-snub, Harrison's pre-Super Bowl brush with fame occurred after he was arrested for allegedly slapping his girlfriend during an argument about their son's baptism. The charges were later dropped after he took an anger management class.
Truly. The loss will be Barack's.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Favre Christ's Sake
Quick thoughts on the reincarnated speculation Brett Favre will once again un-retire and try to play football.
When Favre played for the Packers, I always rooted for him. Right up to the very last interception he threw against the Giants.
When Favre played for the Jets, I rooted for him. But only because, as a Jets fan, I had to. (See: Rick Mirer, Bubby Brister, Ray Lucas, Frank Reich, Browning Nagle, Neil O'Donnel, etc.)
If Favre comes back to play for the Vikings or some other team, I will root against him. With rabid glee.
And if he stays retired, struggling with the finality of his decision while mowing his Mississippi lawn with a tractor, I swear to God, I will root for the weeds.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
And Knowing Is Half The Battle
For those of you who grew up watching G.I. Joe, here's a more mature take on the franchise from Adult Swim. People actually get shot. No convenient parachutes from exploding helicopters. And it still hits the nostalgia sweet spot. I don't know what to make of this summer's life-action movie, but this came out of nowhere and entertained me.
And enjoy the spoof public service announcements above. Pork chop sandwiches!
Monday, April 13, 2009
100 Ways To Procrastinate
A compilation of "The 100 Most Iconic Internet Videos."
Go ahead. You know you have nothing to do today.
Friday, April 10, 2009
When Will The World End?
I remember learning about the five Ws in elementary school. These were the question words. All of the world's answers lay just beyond their asking.
In our global, digitally connected society, that has never been more true.
Still, I never really think of asking Google direct questions. Mostly I use keywords. The idea of typing “Why does my ass hurt?” doesn't seem, to me, as productive or as elegant as simply typing “hemorrhoids” or “sex play riding crop injury.”
But all you need to do these days is type a word or two into the Google search box, and by perusing the automated suggestions you can get a pretty good idea of what's on people's minds.
Some are scientific: Why is the sky blue? What does my name mean?
Some are political: Who should I vote for? Where do I vote?
Some are paranoid: Where was Obama born? Why do men cheat?
(Be careful typing in something like “why do black.” At least if anyone is watching you. Or you have a sense of shame.)
And my favorites are philosophical, enigmatic, and – if you don't recognize the pop cultural significance of the phrase – absurd: Where the hell is Matt? Who moved my cheese? When will I grow up? Why do men have nipples? Why do dogs eat poop? Why did I get married? Where are they now?
Indeed. Questions for the ages.
--------------------------------------
Google's suggestions for life's burning questions in April 2009:
Who wants to be a millionaire
Who is
Who wants to be a millionaire online game
Who killed the electric car
Who is big poppa on real housewives of altanta
Who wants to be a millionaire game
Who is winning the election
Who should I vote for
Who moved my cheese
Who is my congressman
What not to wear
What is my ip
What does my name mean
What time is the inauguration
What is my ip address
What time is it
What i like about you
What is a good credit score
What is twitter
When i grow up lyrics
When is easter 2009
When is the superbowl
When does twighlight come out on dvd
When is the superbowl in 2009
When is superbowl 2009
When will i die
When is thanksgiving
When will i grow up
When will the world end
Where do I vote
Where does the vice president live
Where was Obama born
Where the wild things are
Where are they now
Where is Santa
Where do I go to vote
Where the hell is Matt
Where are you Christmas lyrics
Where am I registered to vote
Why is the sky blue
Why do cats purr
Why do men cheat
Why so serious
Why did the chicken cross the road
Why do men have nipples
Why lyrics
Why did i get married
Why do dogs eat poop
Why georgia lyrics
How to tie a tie
How i met your mother
How to kiss
How to get pregnant
How stuff works
How to cook a turkey
How to
How to lose weight
How to draw
How to knit
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Raise The Bridge!
Roger Ebert fucks with O'Reilly. A fun little take-down.
For some wonderful nostalgia of a dying newspaper, don't miss his latest blog post.
For some wonderful nostalgia of a dying newspaper, don't miss his latest blog post.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Dead Trees And Me
I've had lots of jobs.
I've been a camp counselor -- only marginally interested in kids. I've stacked boxes, delivered Chinese food and calzones, shuffled paper and procrastinated at temp jobs at Lehman Brothers and Madison Square Garden. I've been a recruiter for an ethically challenged technology consulting firm and answered the phone for a crew of truck salesmen in Secaucus, N.J. I serviced the irrational whims of pharmaceutical marketing managers and tyrannical creative managers in a Manhattan advertising company. For 10 amazing months, I taught English to children in Thailand, suffering the occasional thumb up my butt.
Few of these offered any semblance of satisfaction. For most, my greatest skill lay in the ability to foster an illusion of competence. Just enough to get a promotion or avoid getting fired. Sometimes not enough of either.
My first job, when I was 17, was helping to stock the shelves before the opening of a Linens N Things in East Hanover, N.J. What sticks out in my memory was the Top 40 radio piped in through overhead speakers. It was the year Wayne's World came out, and at least once every two hours I was forced to listen to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” There's only so many times a man can hear “scatamoosh, scatamoosh, can you do the fandango?” before it induces a psychotic breakdown.
My favorite job was restaurant delivery. Just me in the car with some tunes, cruising all over town, eating for free, bullshitting with the kitchen guys and other drivers, using minimal brain power to make change and calculate who stiffed me on a tip. In a busy eight hours I could make more than $150 cash.
Teaching was also great but damn hard. And it's not like I had any real idea what I was doing or any way to measure my effectiveness. For one gig, I taught the same one-hour lesson to nine different classes of 40 or more students of varying ages and skill levels each week. It was exhausting and exhilarating.
When the semester ended, four of the nine classes presented me with gifts. The least impressive of which were flowers, a plastic glowing musical desk pen holder shaped like two roses, a small wooden replica of The Mayflower, and an ultra-shiny Thai silk tie. The most impressive of which were two letters declaring in broken English how much they love and will miss Teacher Rick, how without Teacher Rick they would have no English and how now they not scared so much foreigners.
At least two girls were visibly crying. There were grateful faces and much applause. I couldn’t help but smile. The feeling I had was impressive. Stirring. Foreign. A job well done.
Go figure.
But these were all jobs, not careers.
Which brings me to my least favorite topic of conversation and the one I'm most asked about these days: The Imminent Death of Newspapers.
In case you haven't noticed (perhaps you don't read newspapers), here are only the most recent developments: The Rocky Mountain News closed after 150 years, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer stopped printing its paper in favor of a skeleton online operation, the Tribune Co. has filed for bankruptcy, The Detroit Free Press now only delivers three days a week, The San Francisco Chronicle has threatened to close if it can't find a buyer (possibly making it the first major American city without a daily), the supposedly healthy New York Times has cut salaries by 5 percent after rounds of buyouts, and Gannett and the Newark Star-Ledger have imposed work furloughs.
That's just in the last few months.
The perfect storm of poor planning for a post-Internet world, crushing debt from stupid purchases, shrinking advertisement dollars, the global economic crisis and -- who knows, probably solar flares and cow farts -- have contributed to an unprecedented decline in a once booming and vital industry.
Add to this mess the public's inexplicably low opinion of journalism as something to be mistrusted (but free!) and you can see there doesn't seem to be a bright future here.
I've been a camp counselor -- only marginally interested in kids. I've stacked boxes, delivered Chinese food and calzones, shuffled paper and procrastinated at temp jobs at Lehman Brothers and Madison Square Garden. I've been a recruiter for an ethically challenged technology consulting firm and answered the phone for a crew of truck salesmen in Secaucus, N.J. I serviced the irrational whims of pharmaceutical marketing managers and tyrannical creative managers in a Manhattan advertising company. For 10 amazing months, I taught English to children in Thailand, suffering the occasional thumb up my butt.
Few of these offered any semblance of satisfaction. For most, my greatest skill lay in the ability to foster an illusion of competence. Just enough to get a promotion or avoid getting fired. Sometimes not enough of either.
My first job, when I was 17, was helping to stock the shelves before the opening of a Linens N Things in East Hanover, N.J. What sticks out in my memory was the Top 40 radio piped in through overhead speakers. It was the year Wayne's World came out, and at least once every two hours I was forced to listen to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” There's only so many times a man can hear “scatamoosh, scatamoosh, can you do the fandango?” before it induces a psychotic breakdown.
My favorite job was restaurant delivery. Just me in the car with some tunes, cruising all over town, eating for free, bullshitting with the kitchen guys and other drivers, using minimal brain power to make change and calculate who stiffed me on a tip. In a busy eight hours I could make more than $150 cash.
Teaching was also great but damn hard. And it's not like I had any real idea what I was doing or any way to measure my effectiveness. For one gig, I taught the same one-hour lesson to nine different classes of 40 or more students of varying ages and skill levels each week. It was exhausting and exhilarating.
When the semester ended, four of the nine classes presented me with gifts. The least impressive of which were flowers, a plastic glowing musical desk pen holder shaped like two roses, a small wooden replica of The Mayflower, and an ultra-shiny Thai silk tie. The most impressive of which were two letters declaring in broken English how much they love and will miss Teacher Rick, how without Teacher Rick they would have no English and how now they not scared so much foreigners.
At least two girls were visibly crying. There were grateful faces and much applause. I couldn’t help but smile. The feeling I had was impressive. Stirring. Foreign. A job well done.
Go figure.
But these were all jobs, not careers.
Which brings me to my least favorite topic of conversation and the one I'm most asked about these days: The Imminent Death of Newspapers.
In case you haven't noticed (perhaps you don't read newspapers), here are only the most recent developments: The Rocky Mountain News closed after 150 years, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer stopped printing its paper in favor of a skeleton online operation, the Tribune Co. has filed for bankruptcy, The Detroit Free Press now only delivers three days a week, The San Francisco Chronicle has threatened to close if it can't find a buyer (possibly making it the first major American city without a daily), the supposedly healthy New York Times has cut salaries by 5 percent after rounds of buyouts, and Gannett and the Newark Star-Ledger have imposed work furloughs.
That's just in the last few months.
The perfect storm of poor planning for a post-Internet world, crushing debt from stupid purchases, shrinking advertisement dollars, the global economic crisis and -- who knows, probably solar flares and cow farts -- have contributed to an unprecedented decline in a once booming and vital industry.
Add to this mess the public's inexplicably low opinion of journalism as something to be mistrusted (but free!) and you can see there doesn't seem to be a bright future here.
Solutions all appear to suffer from flaws. Internet micropayments? Nonprofit, government-subsidized status? A rise of independent bloggers suddenly blessed with the interest, know-how and funding to cover the drudgery of municipal meetings and conduct deep and possibly unfruitful investigations? All presented in an easy-to-read and easy-to-understand format? (If you have any doubt about the value behind a talented and principled group of reporters, look no further than Newsweek's seven-part, behind-the-scenes election post-mortem).
So, yeah. I'm wondering about the wisdom of choosing to join an industry akin to a rotting corpse sinking in a sea of shit. Kind of like what I imagine might be the ultimate feeling of whoever wins this year's "Rock of Love Bus with Brett Michaels."
But strangely, though the economy gets worse each day and newspapers fall all around us, though I have no backup plan nor the inclination to form one (yet) -- I'm happy. I've spent too many years working soul-sucking jobs or more-or-less unemployed in Manhattan to fritter away what might end up to be the last gasp of print journalism until the country wakes up sometime in 2021 and realizes that hey, we've got nothing to write snarky blogs about if we've got no fucking reporters reporting the fucking news.
My soon-to-be-bride writes for the longest continuously publishing daily newspaper in the country. It's also the currently bankrupt Tribune Co. property that has halved its newsroom in the last 13 months in a suicidal attempt to stay afloat.
I'm not sure how long this will last, and I'm not foolish enough to think it will. But I like what I do. Maybe its unrealistic to expect a career in which I can live a charmed life of the mind, following my curiosity wherever it leads -- basically learning for a living. Learning about people, institutions, and laws. About bio-diesel, land use law, antiques, soldiers, foster care, murdered pigs, lying politicians, gold, gays, cops and kooks.
So, yeah. I'm wondering about the wisdom of choosing to join an industry akin to a rotting corpse sinking in a sea of shit. Kind of like what I imagine might be the ultimate feeling of whoever wins this year's "Rock of Love Bus with Brett Michaels."
But strangely, though the economy gets worse each day and newspapers fall all around us, though I have no backup plan nor the inclination to form one (yet) -- I'm happy. I've spent too many years working soul-sucking jobs or more-or-less unemployed in Manhattan to fritter away what might end up to be the last gasp of print journalism until the country wakes up sometime in 2021 and realizes that hey, we've got nothing to write snarky blogs about if we've got no fucking reporters reporting the fucking news.
My soon-to-be-bride writes for the longest continuously publishing daily newspaper in the country. It's also the currently bankrupt Tribune Co. property that has halved its newsroom in the last 13 months in a suicidal attempt to stay afloat.
I'm not sure how long this will last, and I'm not foolish enough to think it will. But I like what I do. Maybe its unrealistic to expect a career in which I can live a charmed life of the mind, following my curiosity wherever it leads -- basically learning for a living. Learning about people, institutions, and laws. About bio-diesel, land use law, antiques, soldiers, foster care, murdered pigs, lying politicians, gold, gays, cops and kooks.
The world is filled with people who work just to survive. People who dread their jobs or don't have the luxury to think about improving them. I'm fortunate in so many ways. I get to go places I'd have no other reason to visit and speak with people I'd have no other reason to meet.
Some day, I might get a letter from someone thanking me for a job well done (I won't hold my breath waiting). But this isn't really a job for me. It's a career and a life. And I'm not done with it yet. Even if I'm forced to take one of those job-jobs while waiting.
Some day, I might get a letter from someone thanking me for a job well done (I won't hold my breath waiting). But this isn't really a job for me. It's a career and a life. And I'm not done with it yet. Even if I'm forced to take one of those job-jobs while waiting.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Universe Is a Hologram
It's true. Maybe. I think so. (Actually, I'm not sure what I think or why I think it, which might be the whole point). Please read, and discuss.
These and other deep thoughts on my mind after reading 370 lengthy comments and counting on Roger Ebert's discussion of "Knowing," a film I didn't plan to see, but likely will now. ("Dark City" by the same director was a great, forgotten sci-fi flick from 1998)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
And I Feel Fine
Let's review.
The global economy is circling the drain with dramatic sloshing not seen since The Great Depression. Two satellites crashed in space adding to a cloud of debris that may one day prevent us from even safely launching anything into space. Two nuclear submarines collided in the Atlantic Ocean. Andy Dick appears to be one of the more well adjusted residents of VH-1's "Sober House." Peanut butter can kill you. And a Connecticut woman has her hands ripped off by a rampaging, Xanax-popping, wine swilling, plant-watering 14-year-old 200-pound domesticated chimpanzee.
Please draw your own conclusions.
The global economy is circling the drain with dramatic sloshing not seen since The Great Depression. Two satellites crashed in space adding to a cloud of debris that may one day prevent us from even safely launching anything into space. Two nuclear submarines collided in the Atlantic Ocean. Andy Dick appears to be one of the more well adjusted residents of VH-1's "Sober House." Peanut butter can kill you. And a Connecticut woman has her hands ripped off by a rampaging, Xanax-popping, wine swilling, plant-watering 14-year-old 200-pound domesticated chimpanzee.
Please draw your own conclusions.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Names
I have unilaterally decided my unborn (and unconceived) children will be named Dunaci (rhymes with "moon in sky" and Laguaszjaton (rhymes with "he weighs a ton" with more of a Zhivago sound in the middle). That is all.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Brain Games Is Now Over
Farewell, George W. Bush. Be careful not to trip over that criminally low bar you've set on you're way out.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Magnus, Thor and Jens
A wondrous collection of Swedish dance band pics from the 70s, courtesy of T.B. Chief. Who are you to resist mustachioed men with hockey hair in matching sequined jump suits revealing their chests?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
If you need help, use your SHIN to contact me. But not between 4 and 5; that's WILLY'S time!
Long live the Internets. Find stuff you never knew existed at the click of a mouse. Such as this amazing documentary of the making of "The Shining" shot by Stanley Kubrik's then 17-year-old daughter.
It's strangely fascinating watching Jack order rice and noodles and brushing his teeth. But then you realize he's walking to the set for the climactic axe-through-the-bathroom-door scene.
All sorts of insights into Kubrik's filmmaking process, Shelly Duvall's apparent fragility and gutsy professionalism, and a touching and unexpected emotional reaction from Scatman Crothers.
Well worth 35 minutes.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Does Not Compute
A few questions for the record:
Why would a robot do calesthenics?
What do robots have to do with football?
Why does this robot remind me of Ray Lewis?
Will somebody please make this fucking robot go away? They can get Al MacInnis to slap it in the head with that moronic glowing puck.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Playoffs?
By TPerl
I really wish I could say I hate all those Coors Light ads, but this one always makes me crack up, to the point where I walk around the house shouting "Playoffs?" every 3 seconds. And then my kids start saying it, and it gets even funnier.
Anyway here's to the 2008 playoffs. Oops - sorry Bones. Hopefully this cheers you up anyway.
I really wish I could say I hate all those Coors Light ads, but this one always makes me crack up, to the point where I walk around the house shouting "Playoffs?" every 3 seconds. And then my kids start saying it, and it gets even funnier.
Anyway here's to the 2008 playoffs. Oops - sorry Bones. Hopefully this cheers you up anyway.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
The Years Flash Before Our Eyes
It occurred to me last night, as I rang in the new year on my couch with minimal fanfare, that 2009 will be the last year people will be able to wear eyeglasses shaped with the year's numbers. 2010 would be all lopsided, right?
So here's a requiem to all those enterprising novelty eyewhere tycoons out there. It was a solid 10 year run. See you all in the year 3000.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
