Well, it's about damn time. Welcome back, kids.

On Wednesday, October 4, Lost is back for Season Three. All of the speculation, theories and cliffhangers from Season Two are back into play, along with new castaways and flashbacks as the show takes another change in direction and theme. We all got to enjoy a summer of independent thoughts and actions, perhaps even limited contact with friends and loved ones. But it's time to park ourselves back in front of the television once again, and embrace our faithful Master.

Let's take a peek at where we left off. Here's the skinny of the Season Two finale, courtesy of Lostpedia. Any spelling errors are their fault and I refuse to read it:

THE SKINNY.


(Desmond packed light, opting to only bring along 48 back issues of Maxim magazine.)

The episode begins with the group of funeral-goers being distracted by the appearance of a sailboat moving towards the shore. Jack, Sawyer and Sayid swim to the vessel and pull pistols upon boarding. Closer inspection of the cabin door is met with gunfire, apparently from within the boat itself complete with bullets punching through the wooden cabin ending with the clicking of an empty magazine. The door is opened to reveal a drunk and otherwise surly Desmond, obviously upset about ending up back at the island (seeing the survivors confirms this).

Back at the camp, it is night. Kate quizzes Jack on what has happened: the other survivors want to know. Jack tells her to tell them that Desmond's back. Jack asks Desmond why he came back, and Desmond says he was trying to sail towards Fiji, and he should have been there in a week. However, the first piece of land encountered was not Fiji-it was the island. He states bitterly, "And you know why? Because this is it. This is all there is left. This ocean and this place here. We are stuck in a bloody snowglobe. There's no outside world. There's no escape."

In a flashback, Desmond is released from a military prison and dishonorably discharged from the British military. Outside, in a rainstorm, he is picked up in an automobile by Charles Widmore who is the father of Desmond's estranged girlfriend, Penelope. Mr. Widmore reveals that he has intercepted all of Desmond's letters to Penelope and that Penelope is to be married to another man, and offers Desmond a large sum of money to stay away from Penelope and just run away.

Sayid proposes a plan to Jack involving the use of Desmond's sailboat for a flanking maneuver on the Others' camp. Sayid will scout the area before Michael's party arrives. He will then light a signal fire with black smoke when the coast is clear. He cautions Jack not to tell Michael that they know he is lying, and not to tell the others, either.


(Charlie realizes that he only had three lines of dialogue last season.)

Locke finds Eko at the button and tries to convince him to let the timer run down. They debate the point as the four-minute warning begins to beep, Locke saying that pushing the button is nothing but a psychological experiment and Eko insisting it is important to continue pushing the button. They eventually come to blows when Locke attempts to smash the monitor. Eko throws him out of the room.

On the beach, Jack, Kate, Michael, Sawyer and Hurley meet to organize the meeting party, and depart on their trip across the island.

Sayid meets Desmond as he prepares to launch the sailboat. Sayid says that he doesn't know how to sail it. Desmond suggests he find someone who does. Later, we see Jin approaching Sayid and Sun, who are discussing things on the beach. In Korean, Sun tells Jin Sayid wants Jin's help with sailing the boat. Jin does not want to leave her, but she tells him that she is going with them.

In another flashback, Desmond ends up in the United States. He meets Libby (with a more conservative haircut or wig) in a coffee shop when he realizes that he has no American currency on him and she kindly offers to purchase his coffee for four dollars. He jokingly asks if she has $42,000 more. They sit and have a conversation where she asks Desmond why he needs the $42,000: he says he doesn't yet have a boat. She reacts with a start, and confesses to him to have been recently widowed and oddly, she offers him her deceased husband's boat, the Elizabeth, so that he can enter a race around the world sponsored by Charles Widmore himself, explaining that David, her husband, would have wanted it that way. Desmond thanks her and says, "I shall win this race for love."

Midway on their hike to the meeting with the Others, Kate stops Sawyer from triggering one of Rousseau's traps. They discuss what Sawyer knows about Kate's getting caught in the net, and Sawyer realizes that Jack and Kate were literally "caught in a net" and did not have sex.


(Claire wasn't completely hysterical that day, so naturally, nobody listened to her.)

Suddenly, a large green bird swoops down and squawks the word "Hurley", which disturbs Hugo. However, Sawyer is cynical and doubts that the bird was actually saying "Hurley". Michael tries to shoot at the bird, but he notices that his gun is empty. He questions Jack about it, and Jack says that he forgot to load it. Jack gives him a loaded clip for the pistol, but Michael is already suspicious.

Elsewhere, Locke is fighting with what he thought was the faith that would pull them all through this. After seeing the Pearl station for himself he cannot believe that the island was ever what he had perceived it as. Charlie comes across Locke weeping in the jungle and informs him of Desmond's return.

Jin and Sun tell Sayid they will accompany him on the sailboat. Desmond tells Claire the vaccine is useless as she prepares to give it to Aaron. They discuss the father of Claire's baby, which triggers the third flashback.

In the flashback, Desmond is preparing to run out in the stadium. Jack runs by in the background. Penelope is there waiting for Desmond, and she tells him she hasn't set a date yet for the marriage. Penelope asks Desmond what he is running from. He evades the question, answering "I have to get my honor back...and that's what I'm running to." The flashback ends as he runs away.

Desmond is drinking at night on the beach. Locke approaches and explains his lament to him along with the conviction that NOT pushing the button will have NO effect on anything. He describes the Pearl and we see appropriate clips from the Pearl Orientation Video. Desmond says "you're lying," and Locke shows him the tape cassette, and asks him to sober up and take a walk with him. He says that tomorrow they'll find out what happens when the button doesn't get pushed.


(Eko, upon remembering that he has Superpowers, flies off the island.)

The meeting party is in the jungle at night. Sawyer offers food to Hurley but he declines. Michael is off by himself, and is accosted by Jack. Michael thanks him for coming with Michael to get Walt back.

Out on the ocean, Sayid, Jin and Sun are sailing. Sun is sick over the side of the boat. Jin arrives and says she shouldn't have come on the boat with them. She tells him it's not seasickness. Jin says he knows. Sayid is searching the shore of the island, and sees what appears to be the remnants of a statue: a giant, foot in a sandal. Sayid comments "I don't know what is more disquieting - the fact that the rest of the statue is missing, or that it has four toes."

Eko is working in the hatch, carving on his stick. The lights flicker and he gets up to investigate, finding that a fuse has been removed from an circuit panel and crushed on the ground. He hears the lockdown countdown from the speakers and rushes back to the computer. He does not make it, and we see that Desmond has triggered a false lockdown by manipulating wires to keep Eko out of the control room as Eko is set on entering the numbers. Eko pleads with Locke, and the fourth flashback begins.

There is a flashback of Desmond in a storm on the boat. He descends to the cabin and pulls out "Our Mutual Friend", placing it in a Ziploc bag and inside his garment before running up to the deck and getting knocked out. There is a blurry montage showing him washing up on shore and the blurry images of a man in a yellow HAZMAT suit that picked him up off the beach and brought him inside the Swan Station. The man is Kelvin who, then enlists Desmond as his Swan Station partner. Kelvin shows Desmond the orientation film. Desmond asks why there are missing parts in the video, and Kelvin replies that his partner Radzinsky "made some edits." Kelvin shows Desmond a vial of "vaccine" and an injector, and admonishes Demsond to inject himself every 9 days.

Back on the island, Eko climbs out of the Quarantine hatch, (seeing the wrecked hatch and reading the QUARANTINE label) and heads into the jungle. He runs to the beach where Charlie is playing guitar. Eko asks Charlie how the Quarantine door was opened, and finds out that the castaways used dynamite. Eko enlists Charlie to help him get inside the control room.


(In the distance, Hurley spots a tree made entirely of Slim Jims.)

In the jungle Hurley and Sawyer discuss the possible identity of the Others. Kate spots two people following them. She and Sawyer open fire and kill one. At this point Jack loses his cool and drops the plan that he and Sayid had agreed upon- to allow Michael to continue to feel as though he is in control and not to tell Sawyer, Kate, or Hurley of Michael's plan, and demands that Michael tell the group what is going on. Michael admits that the Others already know that they are coming and that he is the reason they know this. Michael further confesses that he did indeed kill Ana-Lucia and Libby as a means of persuading the group to meet with the Others and to free Henry Gale as per the Others' demands. Hurley and Sawyer wish to head back upon hearing this shocking revelation, but Jack argues that they've gone too far to turn back, and that he wouldn't have brought them here anyway without a plan. Sawyer asks what the plan is.

Jin spots the rock formation with a hole in it that marks the Others' camp, and Sayid prepares to go ashore. Back at the camp, Charlie and Eko enter the Swan. Charlie tries to get Eko to reconsider, but Eko is unyielding. Charlie warns Locke that Eko is going to attempt to blow the blast door open. Desmond is sure the door will hold, saying "It would take an atom bomb, brother. Tell him not to bother."

In another flashback, Desmond triggers a fake lockdown, but blocks the door to the control room with a cart, leaving enough space to duck under and access the control room and living space. Kelvin is painting the map seen by Locke in "Lockdown" with detergent. He then tells Desmond that his partner, Radzinsky, was the one who had the idea to make the map and the one who figured out how to fake a lockdown. Kelvin also reveals that Radzinsky killed himself with a shotgun. When Desmond asks if he can go outside, Kelvin replies apologetically that he must stay and push the button. Desmond claims he can handle himself, as he was in the army. Kelvin replies by saying that Desmond was kicked out because he "couldn't follow orders." Desmond asks Kelvin why he left his army, and Kelvin replies that he left because "men followed my [Kelvin's] orders." He also rues having joined the DHARMA Initiative, mocking the polite and friendly tone heard in the Orientation Film.

Outside the blast door, Eko rigs the dynamite as Charlie pleads with both Locke and Eko. Eko shoves Charlie against a wall, rips off Charlie's belt, and throws it against the magnetic wall, saying "Is that a joke?". The fuse is lit; Eko braces himself against a wall, and Charlie attempts to run out, as it detonates with a huge explosion.


(Libby's bangs do a good job of hiding her lobotomy scars.)

Desmond then has a flashback about a drunk Kelvin under the floor of the control room with a key and fail-safe lock marked "Caution: System Termination". Kelvin explains that behind the wall is as a source of electromagnetism, "geologically unique", stating also that the Incident was 'a leak'. "So now the charge builds up and every time we push the button it discharges it before it gets too big." Kelvin questions whether Desmond would have the guts to blow the Hatch up.

Inside the control room, Desmond comments that "I think your friends just blew themselves up, brother." The two talk, and Desmond asks Locke if "the reason you're letting that clock there run all the way down to the very last tick -- is it because you need to look down the barrel of a gun to find out what you really believe, John?" Locke replies that he "looked down the barrel of the gun and I believed. I thought it was my destiny to get into this place. And someone died -- a kid (Boone). Because he was stupid enough to believe that I knew what I was talking about. And the night that he died for nothing, I was sitting right up there, all alone, beating my hand bloody against that stupid door -- screaming to the heavens asking what I should do. And then a light went on. I thought it was a sign. But it wasn't a sign. Probably just you going to the bathroom."

As Locke describes this, Desmond apparently remembers that night, as he has a look of recognition on his face.

Sayid climbs to the Others' camp, and searches the huts, finding them all abandoned. He proceeds to open the Others' DHARMA station, The Door, and finds only a rock wall behind.

The meeting party stops when Kate sees a large mound of plastic containers in front of a tube protruding from the ground. Upon closer inspection we see that it is actually the pneumatic tube containers with the notebooks from the Pearl Station. Clearly, there are at least 2 or 3 years worth of notebooks that ended up in the middle of nowhere being the end of the pneumatic tube.

Sawyer finds Locke's copy of the Blast Door map.

Jack sees black smoke of Sayid's signal, but miles away. He realizes that Michael has been leading them in the wrong direction. He confronts Michael about it and he admits that he was told to bring them here instead. They start to hear whispers from all around, clearly uttering the name "Elizabeth," and suddenly Sawyer is shot in the neck with a dart and hits the ground in a convulsive state. Hurley freezes, Michael stares around and Kate and Jack run for it. Kate is shot and then Jack. The Others appear and take the party captive with their mouths gagged and their heads covered with hoods.


("Damn, it's been hours since I've stabbed something!")

Back in the Swan, Locke is insistent on NOT pushing the button as he believes that the purpose of the Swan is nothing more than a psychological experiment. Desmond in turn asks Locke if he's sure he doesn't have the theory backwards- maybe it is the Pearl Station that is the psychological experiment, not the Swan. Locke gives Desmond the printout from the Pearl station and Desmond frantically scrutinizes the logs.

In Desmond's flashback, Desmond notices that Kelvin's "quarantine suit" has a noticeable hole while Kelvin is preparing to go outside. Thinking that he is being deceived, Desmond follows Kelvin outside the hatch. Desmond follows Kelvin, and sees him going to Desmond's sailboat.

Kelvin reveals that he was going outside to repair Desmond's boat to leave, using the guise of an infection on the island as an excuse for keeping Desmond in the Swan and pushing the button once Kelvin left. Desmond becomes enraged upon seeing his boat and accidentally smashes Kelvin's head against a rock, probably killing him (unclear). He takes the fail safe key and sprints back to the hatch where the countdown has reached zero. The hieroglyphs have locked in on the timer. Alarms are sounding with the words "SYSTEM FAILURE" heard over and over, and the same phrase appears repeatedly on the monitor. Desmond desperately struggles to input the number sequence. The entire hatch appears to being trembling as though at the center of an earthquake, and everything metal is moving or flying towards the magnet wall area. He finally is given a prompt and enters the full sequence, causing the shaking to stop and the timer to reset.

In the present, Desmond asks Locke when they arrived on the island. When Locke replies "September 22nd". Desmond finds this date on the printout, listed as "922044:16", followed by the words "SYSTEM FAILURE" repeated many times. Desmond reasons that he caused Flight 815 to crash by not entering the numbers in time and causing a system failure.

The meeting party is walked down a pier among the Others. The pier has a "Pala Ferry" sign on the roof. The four survivors are made to kneel and their hoods are removed. Kate tells Mr. Friendly (through the gag in her mouth) that she knows that the beard is fake. Mr. Friendly does not understand, so Ms. Klugh says, "She says she knows the beard is fake, Tom.", accidentally revealing Mr. Friendly's first name. A relieved Mr. Friendly takes the fake beard off and mentions that it is itchy and uncomfortable. Annoyed that Ms, Klugh revealed his name, he reciprocates by revealing Ms Klugh's name, "Bea". She remains impassive. The same boat that was involved in Walt's kidnapping pulls up and "Henry Gale" gets off, barefoot. He greets the meeting party and asks Friendly why he is not wearing his beard in an authoritative tone and seems to be the one in charge here. He says to Michael, "Alright, let's take care of business, shall we?".


("...Because I'm leaving you first. I'm seeing a skinny white guy from Wisconsin.)

Charlie regains consciousness outside the door. He finds Eko lying unconscious and bloody nearby, and tries to wake Eko up. Inside, Locke is dubious and still believes that nothing will happen when the button isn't pushed. Desmond becomes frantic as the timer gets closer to zero. He tries to input the numbers but Locke smashes the computer monitor. Desmond panics, opens the blast doors, and bolts to the bookshelf, finding his copy of "Our Mutual Friend".

Desmond has a flashback on the table in the Hatch, on which is a gun and a book. He finishes a bottle of alcohol, and opens the Dickens book. Upon opening "Our Mutual Friend", an envelope falls out. It's a letter from Penelope that was written before he entered prison. It explains that she has hidden the letter in "the one place you would turn to in a moment of great desperation". She also writes "All we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us. And you have her. I will wait for you. Always. So far away from her, this enrages him and he starts to tear the room apart, despondent and suicidal, when suddenly he hears someone pounding on a wall and screaming. It was Locke, pounding on the hatch asking why Boone had to be killed. He looks up to the where the hatch is and flips a switch making the hatch window light up, placating Locke, and giving Desmond hope as he presumes a replacement is on the way.

The flashback ends and Desmond is frantically looking for the same book, as the hieroglyphics lock in and another system failure starts. Upon finding the book, he removes the fail safe key and runs for the trapdoor to get to the fail safe. He explains to Locke that he now knows that it was he who was pounding that one night that he had given up on life, thus saving his life, and now it is his turn to save Locke's life. Charlie manages to get Eko on his feet, but Eko brushes him aside as he goes into the control room, leaving Charlie to try to escape on his own. A despondent Locke acknowledges his cataclysmic mistake to Eko, stating simply, "I was wrong".

Back in the Basement, we see Desmond insert the key into the failsafe. After pausing to think of Penny and her letter he speaks under his breath, "I love you, Penny". He turns the key and the screen fades to white.


("Wow, is that a tree made entirely of Slim Jims? Hurley, get over here!")

The island is engulfed in a bright white/violet glow accompanied by a loud low droning sound causing Sayid's group, everyone at the dock, and everyone at the camp to cover their ears in pain. It lasts for several seconds and then slowly fades back to normal. Henry Gale is the only person seen here that isn't surprised by the Discharge. An object falls from the sky to the beach just missing Claire, Aaron, and Bernard. It is the hatch door that says "QUARANTINE". Charlie returns to camp, still partially deaf. Bernard asks where Locke and Eko are. Charlie seems surprised that they're not back yet.

At the dock, Henry Gale explains that Michael can leave on the boat, that Walt is aboard, and that Michael will find rescue if he holds a bearing of 325 degrees. Michael asks Henry how he doesn't know he might tell people about where he was. Henry says "Maybe you will, maybe you won't. But it won't matter. Once you leave, you'll never be able to get back here. And my hunch is you won't say a word to anybody because if you do, people will find out what you did to get your son back."

Michael asks, "Who are you people?" to which Henry Gale replies genially, "We're the good guys, Michael". Michael and Walt leave in the boat, passing by the hostages. Hurley is also told that he can leave and that his job is to tell the people from his side of the island not to ever come to theirs. Jack silently encourages Hurley to go. What's left of the meeting party is given one last (possibly meaningful) look at each other before their heads are covered with hoods again.

Later that night, Claire asks Charlie what happened "out there", but he doesn't seem to take her seriously, stating, "Nothing happened". He appears to be surprised by the Discharge. After examining a wound on Charlie's arm, Claire proceeds to kiss him. We see the Camp of Survivors preparing for the night, unbeknownst to them the full events of the day.


("I swear to God, Michael. You murder one more person, and we're taking your gun away.")

The scene suddenly switches to a landscape of snowy peaks in blizzard conditions. We come to focus on two Portuguese-speaking men in a small shelter with equipment and clothes hanging from lines. When playing a game of chess, one of them suddenly notices their computer beeping and a message on screen, reading ">\ 7418880 Electromagnetic Anomaly Detected". They seem to have witnessed it before, as one of them is shouting "That's it, isn't it? We missed it again" The other guy forces him to "make the call". He picks up a yellow telephone and dials a number.

We then see a bedroom table on which is a picture of Desmond and Penny. A woman awakes and picks up the phone and the researcher says "Miss Widmore. It's us...I think we found it."

Well, there you go. I'm sure you all read that; I know I did. Let's move on. Some of this information has been mined from producer interviews and used without permission. Come and get me, nerds; I'll be waiting for you.

THE NUMBERS.


(Santa Claus in June.)

1 - It goes without saying that this season of Lost is going to be different. When I say "different," I mean "it might annoy people and question the judgment of the producers." This is expected, as with a show as fan-obsessed as Lost, any changes in the formula will be met with disapproving clucks, as nerds like me will talk at length about how they could make the show better if they (I) were in charge.

There are going to be new castaways, new Others, new flashbacks and new storylines. The mythology of the show will take a backseat to the more soap-opera and character-driven plots of the series. Sure, there will be sex, violence and bewildering smash-cuts, but trust me, it's going to be different. My opinion was that the Interactive Lost Game that ran during the summer was a way to wring out the last few drops of the DHARMA mystery, in order to focus more on new characters and less sci-fi.

Some people might like this (Mr. Eko? Yay!). Most people won't (Ana Lucia? Boo!). There will still be more mysteries and cliffhangers than any other show on TV, but I honestly don't expect to get too many answers to some of the weirder happenings on the island. What's new?

Season Two was all about the hatch, and the constant mysteries within. This season's mystery will revolve around the Others' association with the island. While I don't think anything will ever match that feeling of "What in the hell?" that Season Two gave us, I still think there are plenty of things left to be revealed to keep us calm and quiet.

2 - This has been discussed to death, but we should talk about the way ABC has decided to air Season Three. Apparently, the network and the producers listened to the "No more reruns!" pleas of their audience and worked out a compromise. The good news is that this season will be rerun-free; but the downside is a huge, 3-month gap in between episodes 6 and 7.

The first 6 episodes will run as sort of a mini-series, bridging the gap between Season Two and the remainder of Season Three. The writers claim that almost all of the lingering Season Two mysteries will be solved by the end of Episode 6, which is another clue that Season Three will ultimately send the series into a new direction and attempt to "burn the bridges" of their previous work.

After episode 6, Lost is off the air for the entire Winter. During that time, we can spend time with loved ones, celebrate Christmas and clean out the basement. Once Lost returns in early 2007, we'll get 17 straight episodes, with no repeats.

Again, there will be no reruns this year. Don't send me e-mails asking if there's a new episode on. They're all new.


(WAAAAAALLLLLLT!)

3 - At this point in the show, some critics and fans have grown concerned that Lost has been making up too much of the story as they go, but during a recent interview, Carlton Cuse remarked that, "We have an endpoint for the show, we have an overarching mythology for the show," though within that, "there's a lot of room for improvisation, to try to keep it organic and reacting to what we see on screen."

Damon Lindelof then insisted, "We never ask a question on the show if we don't have an answer for it," but pointed out the Michael/Jin storyline as an example of altering something due to the actors; in this case, they had originally intended Michael and Jin to remain enemies all first season, but the chemistry between the actors led them to change the storyline so that they became friends.

Lindelof talked about the show having what he saw as a logical endpoint, and balancing that with the network likely wanting the show to go on for several years, saying, "We have four, maybe five awesome seasons planned out, and after that we'd have to start tap dancing, which is something we don't want to do," and pondered telling the network, "Fine, you can do more episodes of Lost, but we won't have anything to do with that." Ultimately, Lindelof observed, "The reality of ending it on our own terms is unrealistic, so we have to work around that."

4 - When asked about the fact that each season only seems to cover just a few weeks of time, Lindelof responded with, "You're making a basic assumption that they've been there as long as they think they've been there," and hinted that perception may be changed in Season Three.

This makes a lot of sense to me. The castaways shouldn't trust their watches or even the setting sun, for that matter. They might have been on this island a lot longer than they think, which might account for Walt's growth or the fact that Sun already had her baby.

That was a joke. Sun's baby is going to look a lot like me, though. Bank on it.

5 - The producers also spoke of writing the characters with the actors in mind, and how Terry O'Quinn's dissatisfaction with Locke's role last season became reflected as Locke became increasingly frustrated pushing the button in the hatch. Lindelof recounted O'Quinn saying, "I want a knife in my hand, and to kill stuff!," and then added, "You'll get your knife back, John Locke."

This is good news for me. John Locke in Season One was the coolest guy in the freaking world.

6 - There is a strong implication that an underwater hatch might exist, and that it might be explored this season. The producers say the hieroglyphics on the timer translate to "underworld."

7 - The monster will be a part of Season Three, as will the polar bear. People are asking what happened to the polar bear, so we will be doing some polar bear stories. Also, the smoke creature and the "security system" are one in the same.


("Dear Penthouse Forum. I never thought I'd be writing to you, but...")

8 - In Season Three, we will understand the real ramifications of Desmond activating the failsafe and what that did. The central issue of Season Three will be what did happen. The island was visible afterwards, but only for an instant. It was also visible for an instant on 9/22/04 when the plane crashed.

9 - The foot statue represents the history and archeology of the island. Season Three will explore what happened on the island before Dharma arrived in the late 70's and who was there.

10 - Lindleof says, "Libby's got this mysterious backstory, of which we've only given you the tip of the iceberg. We know she's spent some time in the mental institution with Hurley, and the idea of killing her before she had an opportunity to explain how she got there... we have a master plan for how we're going to tell that story, but it's all posthumous. You'll start to learn Libby's moves through flashbacks over the course of the next season."

Interesting. Let's move on to the preview. Spoilers ahoy!

THE PREVIEW.

Season 3 - Episode 1: "A Tale of Two Cities." (Jack-centric)
Wednesday, October 4, 2006


(Jack does his best Mime routine to impress the Others.)

4 - Desmond, Locke and Eko are (obviously) okay. We'll find out what happened to them, but not right away. Much like the opening of Season Two, that question will be answered in episodes 2 and 3. The main point of the premiere is the captivity of Jack, Kate and Sawyer.

8 - In Jack's flashbacks, he suspects his wife is having an affair with his dad. As long as I get to see more scenes with Jack and his dad fighting, I'm a happy guy.


("You can't lock me up! Don't you know how sexy I am?")

15 - We will begin to find out exactly what the castaways are up against with the Others. How long they've been around and what they intend to do with them, for starters.

16 - Desmond will be naked in this episode. Mark my words. I think the explosion might have blown his pants clear off.


(Henry Gale's MySpace photo. Funniest caption ever.)

23 - Desmond and (fake) Henry Gale are signed on for the entire season as cast regulars, so expect to see flashback episodes concerning them, along with continued interaction with the main cast.

42 - Speaking of the main cast, expect to see the return of Boone, Shannon and Libby within the first 6 episodes.

I'm tingling with anticipation. Thanks for reading the Season Three Preview. The very first LOST FRIDAY of the season is next week, and I promise it will be much better than this.

Sound off in the comments section or send me an e-mail at communistdance@yahoo.com. If you want to make a donation or buy some great CDP swag, check the links at the top of the page. Cheers.

"My First Job."
(Originally published 02/05.)

During a large part of my teen years, I worked at a Gas Station/Co-Op in the small Wisconsin town I grew up in. Even before I left the place for good, I knew I wanted to write a book about everything that happened to me there. It was these short stories that inspired me to start the CDP in the first place; a free and easy way to tell funny stories to people I didn't know.

Three years later, and I'm still here, telling slightly less-funny stories to even more people I don't know. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks, and enjoy this three-part essay.



PART I - "Death."

In my life thus far, I've been pretty close to death on a number of occasions. I'm sure we all have, really. Close calls with cars on the highway, one misstep away from a 10-story fall, kitchen appliances gone awry. When you consider how fragile and tiny life really is, you start to consider yourself pretty lucky when you find yourself on the "not dead" side of these incidents.

When I was about 7, my family went on vacation in Florida. There, I had an honest-to-God near-death experience in a hotel pool. I couldn't swim (still can't), and I ventured a little too far into the deep end. For the next eternity, it seemed, I tried to find my way back to the surface, taking in huge amounts of water with every wasted breath. I still remember every second of that ordeal, and each time I feel instantly claustrophobic. Water is really my only big fear, which explains why I haven't bathed or showered in years.

The interesting thing I've noticed with all these instances is that I never thought I was going to die when they happened to me. You only think after the fact that you could have lost your life. Come to think of it, there has never been a single time in my life where I honestly thought I was going to die.

Except for once.

I had been working at the Co-Op for a couple of years at this point, and I was 18 years old. I shuffled in a few minutes late as always, positioning myself behind the counter for another typical Wednesday. I stood there for a few minutes, opened the store for business, and wondered where all the employees were.

After about 15 minutes and a dozen customers later, my boss finally emerged from the back room, where the 2 other employees seemed to be hiding as well. He was looking around every isle on his way up to the front counter where I was standing, and he didn't look right. Todd, my boss, was a kind-but-tough man, boasting scarred arms and a black, David Crosby-like 'stache. I've seen him lift hundreds of pounds over his head and put out fires with his bare hands. Today, however, he looked...well, he looked scared. Something wasn't right.

After checking the store for any customers, he escorted me away from the huge window at the front of the store, to a seasonal isle full of rakes and garden gnomes.

"Hey," he said to me, "There was a message on our machine this morning by a guy who said he was going to come in and kill somebody today. We don't know if it was a prank or not, but the police are coming and we're not taking any chances."

I thought to myself, "Not taking any chances? Great! We'll close the store up, and I'll go back home. Hell, my bed's probably still warm. I'll just grab my coat and...."

"Keep your eyes peeled." Todd said to me, and he hustled back into the storage room with the other employees, closing the door behind him.

I crept slowly back in front of the giant window, very much alone for the remainder of the day. Apparently the rest of the staff had a lot of things to do away from the main floor of the store. I'm sure their thinking was that as soon as they heard my dead body hit the floor, they could easily sneak out the back with little to no confrontation. I knew I was going to be on my own.

I tried to keep my wits about me. About 98% of our customers were down-home regulars who probably wouldn't hurt anyone unless they were black. It was just the aimless drifters that I had to keep an eye on. Living in Small Town Wisconsin, trucks came pre-equipped with gun racks, and everyone was capable of taking a human life if only slightly provoked.

As the customers started to file in, I did my best to check them out as soon as they entered the store. I had a small axe behind the counter that I once used to chase a child out with (true story), and I was ready to split anyone's melon should they come in with shifty eyes. I did this for a while, and when the action died down for a couple minutes, I excused myself into the office.

There, I listened to the answering machine message myself. Perhaps I could figure out who left it, or if they were just joking around or not. I'm pretty good at detecting sarcasm, and I can usually match voices to faces. I pressed play just as the cops arrived.

"I'm going to come in there and kill somebody tomorrow!"

I didn't recognize the voice, and I wasn't about to assume they were kidding. The cops took the tape with them, and I was back on my own. Honestly, where the hell did all the employees go?

Anticipating your own murder is really something amazing. You start to wonder if you've lived a decent enough life at the age of 18. I couldn't believe that I was going to be killed behind the counter of a gas station. I helped myself to a few free sodas and candy bars. It was the least I could do.

Eventually, I started to take the defensive. If someone was going to come in and shoot the store up, it was my duty as an employee of the Larsen Cooperative to kill him first. With each strange customer, I clenched the small axe in my hand, looking insane and ready for a killing spree. In normal work situations, your supervisor wouldn't take too kindly to their cashier wielding a hatchet at every smiling face that entered, but he was in hiding and there was no time for rational thought. I was sweating all day, I couldn't stop circling the counter and I wasn't in the mood for talking. Anticipating my own murder soon turned into me anticipating murdering someone else.

(Cue fantasy sequence.)

I had it all figured out. The car would pull up, probably an older American model. The muffler would be loud, and the rust would be creeping up along the edges of the forest green paint. The shooter would wait in his car, looking straight ahead, pausing to look around in wait for the store to empty itself out. Once the last customer had left, he would emerge from the vehicle slowly, looking left and right with squinted eyes. He would slink quickly to the front door and make his way inside, thinking he was home free.

But what he doesn't know... is that I'd be on to him.

He'd take one look at me, and draw his rifle from the front of his pants. I'd catch it from the corner of my eye, glistening under the sickening fluorescent lights. All at once, I'd swing myself in his direction, the butt of the small axe swinging with me. The butt of the axe would make direct contact with the barrel of the gun, sending it careening down the Fertilizer isle. He'd turn in the direction of the rifle, taking his eyes off of me for one second too long.

I'd step out from behind the counter as he scampered down the isle for the gun. Like a Cherokee warrior, I'd throw the axe end-over-end, sinking it deep between his shoulder blades. He'd hit the ground and slide about 2 feet, just 6 inches short of the rifle. The axe would still be sticking out of his back as I slowly walked past him, Doc Marten boots stepping on the hand that was so desperately reaching for the gun. I'd pick it up with gloved hands (I said I was prepared), and he'd look up just in time to see me aiming the barrel right between his dilated pupils.

"You need to control your temper." I'd say to him calmly.

My finger would wrap tightly around the trigger, and he would close his eyes with a grimace, bracing for the final impact. Just then, the police would bust in, take him away to jail and slap a medal of honor on my Co-Op uniform. The next day, the headlines would read, "Local Teen paralyzes nutjob; George W. Bush drinks self to death."

From then on, I'd continue to work at the hardware store from time to time, but I'd receive enough money in shoe endorsements to live comfortably in Paris with the Missus and Kate Winslet.

I was ready to roll.

(End Fantasy Sequence.)

The hours ticked by, but I never let my guard down. If someone came in that I knew, I'd try to keep them around for a while, knowing that I could use them for a crude bullet shield when the carnage began. I was especially friendly to the heftier folks. If a straggler showed up, I hustled them out quickly, fingers sweatily wrapped around my axe. They didn't ask questions.

It should seem obvious to you by now that no shooter ever showed up. Eventually, 4pm rolled around, I punched out and headed back home. We later found out that the message was nothing more than an angry customer thinking out loud while the answering machine was recording. He was mad that we weren't open, and made an ass of himself. We never found out who it was, and no charged were ever filed. Things went back to normal at the Co-Op, and we never talked about that day ever again.

I learned a lot about myself that day. Morally, I learned that life is a tiny gift that should be enjoyed as much as possible. Weather or not we're significant or holy means nothing sometimes.

I also learned that it doesn't take much to go primal every now and then. I consider myself a pretty stable person, but when faced with my mortality I all but scalped the locals to stay alive. I usually frown on mob mentality and mass-hysteria, but I had a one-man breakdown that day because I thought I was going to be killed. I felt vulnerable, weak and irrelevant.

The ultimate irony was that I was never in any danger whatsoever. All those other near-death instances happen to me every day and I never bat an eyelash. But in anticipating something nonexistent, I overwhelmed myself with fear to the point of insanity. It's happened to all of us at one point or another.

So, that's my story about the time I was almost killed by a crazed madman.

PART II - "Explosion."

Working at an establishment that specialized in highly flammable liquids and gasses, you can tell that I've experienced my fair share of things getting blown straight the hell up. Here's a trilogy of Co-Op explosion stories, told in increasing order of destruction.

Explosion #1 - "Butane."

Chad worked in the automotive department as a mechanic. He was a gentle giant with ice blue eyes; a hulking young man that could lift a pool table while simultaneously telling Ford jokes. He invited me and my wife to his wedding, which was incredibly thoughtful of him. Anyways, Chad came over to the hardware store, like he did every morning, to purchase a Mountain Dew and a handful of candy bars.

In between me and him was a large rack of about 100 Bic lighters, all color coordinated and facing the same direction (you're welcome, customers). Not one to turn down a chance to try something fun, Chad dropped his purchase on the counter and began to play with the lighters like a small child.

Each row contained about 15 lighters, and stretched to about an arm's length. Just then, I could see that Chad had some sort of bad idea brewing. Already tired of playing with just 1 lighter, Chad decided he wanted to ignite the entire row all at the same time.

Before I could explain to him the physics behind fire and oxygen (I did see Backdraft, after all), he laid his arm down across the row, pressing down on all 15 red buttons with his forearm, releasing gas as one. He then lit the first lighter in the row with his free hand, and waited for the fire to spread to the remaining gaseous lighters.

It worked. Sort of.

Instead of the flame gracefully sliding across the row, it formed a small fireball and shot straight up him arm.

For a split second, Chad's entire arm was on fire, oil-soaked uniform and all. I stood there, slack-jawed and bewildered, as he windmilled his arm around and batted at the flame. A second later, it was out and the ordeal was over. Chad stared at me, and I stared back at him, both of us feeling pretty embarrassed. As he quietly reached for his Mountain Dew and candy bars, he mumbled, "I singed my arm hair." He brushed the burned hair onto the floor and slunk away.

It was never discussed again.

Explosion #2 - "Air."

It was a calm, spring day. The parking lot was empty, no customers to be seen. I sat on the counter of the store, reading Sports Illustrated and drinking a can of Mello Yello. I was still addicted to caffeine at the time, but I can't for the life of me figure out why I was drinking such an inferior citrus soda that day.

Nevertheless, the 2 other employees (Jon and Dave), were busying themselves in different isles, facing and sorting inventory, just keeping themselves occupied on an otherwise boring afternoon. A customer eventually came in and needed a propane tank filled, so Jon walked across the street to the massive tank we use to refill empty cylinders.

Looking back, I can't believe that I never had a problem working in the vicinity of this tank. It was essentially a bomb the size of a semi trailer, and I parked my 1986 Buick next to it every morning, whistling a happy tune and never thinking for a moment that if it decided to malfunction, they wouldn't so much as find a fingernail with which to identify me with.

I spotted Jon by the tank from my perch across the street, and turned back to my magazine. I looked over to the clock for a second to see what time it was, when...

BOOM!

The explosion was so loud I fell off the counter. It was deafening; I'd never heard anything like it. I got to my feet, but remained ducked behind the counter because I had no idea what in the hell had just happened. Furthermore, I was in no shape to peek over and see pieces of Jon splattered all over the front window.

Forget Jon, what about my car? It took a few seconds, but I worked up the nerve to look out the window to see...

Nothing. The giant tank was fine, Jon was fine, my car was fine. So what happened?

Meanwhile, Todd was in the back of the store when this mysterious explosion happened, and I'm sure he thought that the tank had gone off as well. I say I'm sure because no sooner did I peek over the counter, when Todd burst through the saloon-style doors of the back room and run full speed down the isle and out the front door. Had I not been so confused at the moment, it was probably the funniest thing I'd ever seen.

With my ears ringing and Co-Op employees starting to peer out the windows, we all tried to figure out what had happened. What blew up? Then, staggering out of the shadows, emerged our culprit.

A customer was taking advantage of our "free air" hose, and over-inflated a truck tire to the point of explosion. When he saw what was about to happen, he turned away just in time to not be seriously injured by flying rubber and shrapnel. His ears, however, weren't so lucky.

"What happened?" I asked him as he walked into the store.

He didn't respond. Partly because he was still stunned to the point of a solid pants-crapping, but mainly because he was now stone deaf. After looking at me sideways for a few seconds, he said;

"I think I need to go to the Doctor. I can't hear anything."

True to his word, he got in his truck and drove off, fragments of his spare tire still littered in our parking lot. I never saw him again.

Explosion #3 - "Gasoline."

Our main parking lot was getting more and more torn up with each passing winter day. Snow chains and plows were removing hearty chunks of concrete every hour on the hour. Something had to be done.

The first nice day of April, we had the lot re-sealed. It was another slow day (every day was, really), and I was passing the time by watching these driveway-sealing professionals smoke by the gas tanks and accomplish nothing in 5 whole hours. It was brilliant to see these people in action, and I model my work ethic after them to this day.

After completing a very small task, they placed their tools on the ground and had yet another smoke break. What follows is a Rube Goldberg-ian string of events and dumb luck that almost turned Larsen into an instant ghost town. Let me break it down step-by-step:

Dumbass mistake #1 - The driveway crew left a lit blowtorch running in the parking lot. I swear to God.

Dumbass mistake #2 - This lit blowtorch was unattended, and sitting less than 10 feet away from our gas tanks. Luckily for us, we had the gas tanks roped off with signs that said "Out of Order".

Dumbass mistake #3 - Most of our customers cannot read. No less than 30 seconds after this torch was set down, someone drove their car right through the yellow tape, chose the pump right next to the open flame, and began to fill up. Luckily for us, gas pumps are equipped with an automatic shut-off switch to prevent overfilling and spillage.

Dumbass mistake #4 - This customer chose to only put an inch of the gas nozzle into his tank. Due to his rubbernecking at the progress of the driveway sealing, he left the pump unattended, the tank overfilled, and gasoline started to pool under his car.

I looked out the window and quickly figured out what was going on. All I could do was shake my head in disbelief as I saw the puddle of gas inch closer and closer to the open flame.

I was the only one who could see what was happening, and instead of doing anything about it, I quietly got into the fetal position behind the counter. I was wondering how much of the town would be left when the Co-Op disintegrated. I was also wondering how my family would feel about my death being honored in the Darwin Awards. I really didn't think I was going to die, but I knew I didn't want to live once the wave of fire washed the skin from my bones.

So I waited.

And waited.

I peeked over the counter (which was something I was getting used to doing), and saw the driveway repair guy holding the lit torch over his head, screaming at the inattentive customer who, was in turn screaming back at him.

Laughing quietly, I walked to the back room to grab a bag of that pink sawdust that cleans up after vomit and gasoline spills. "Nobody's going to believe this", I thought to myself.

Sometimes, I still can't.

(You may be saying to yourself, "That last explosion story wasn't really an explosion at all! You're a liar!" Well, that may be true, but sometimes anticipating the explosion is better than the explosion itself. Let that be a metaphor for life, kids.)

PART III "Customer."

On my last day of work at the Co-Op, I did a quick equation to see if I could figure out how many customers I'd checked out over the last 4 years. The number was in the 6-digit range, yet it seemed like I knew everyone that came in by name. Truth be told, it was usually the same 100 people, day in and day out, for 1500 straight days.

I would like to tell you about one customer in particular. Let's call him "Chet". I'm protecting his identity strictly for my safety, for you see, "Chet" is completely insane.

Here's a little backstory on Chet. He has an alcohol problem, a smattering of psychological problems and an anger management problem. He represents the Holy Trinity of what a serial killer profile looks like. Speaking of what he looks like, that did a lot as far as his frightening image went. He looked like Ed Norton in American History X, with the eyes of Marty Feldmann.



I'm not kidding. He was that scary. I'm almost positive that he had the same tattoo.

Doing a circuit court search on Chet revealed a large sheet of offenses:

4 separate DUI charges (with heavy fines)
3 times driving with a suspended license (including jail time)
1 count of driving an ATV on the highway (with suspended license
3 restraining orders
3 counts of disorderly conduct (including jail time)
1 count of domestic abuse (including jail time)

Most of these charges happened just before or just after leaving the Co-Op on any given day.

I first met Chet on the 2nd day of business at the Co-Op. All of the employees were still figuring out how everything worked, and the computer system was chock-full of bugs. Chet walked in and bought some candy and a sledgehammer. I had no idea who he was, and nobody took the time to tell me to be careful around him. I began to ring him up, when the computer decided to lock up on me.

Thinking he would be decent about it, I told him that there was a slight problem with the system, and I'd be more than happy to check him out at the next available computer.

This apparently was too much for Chet to handle.

He stared me down for about 20 seconds with those crazy-ass eyes, then proceeded to berate me for being an idiot. I felt horrible, and worse still, I couldn't defend myself whatsoever. I was terrified of the guy, and he was holding a sledgehammer. In retrospect, there are so many things you would like to say to guys like that, but in the end you just nod and accept the gentle criticism.

He eventually left, and 10 minutes later he was arrested for using the sledgehammer to smash up his neighbors car.

That night, I wanted to quit my job. He gave me a very poor impression of the types of people I would run into, and he also freaked the holy hell out of me. I never wanted to see him again.

But of course, I would see Chet every few days. He would show up just before closing time and buy a ton of things that would take forever to individually ring up (a giant bag filled with 60 different kinds of PVC attachments, for example). He'd mumble constantly, and when you'd ask him to repeat himself, he'd yell. If you didn't ask him to repeat himself, you'd hear him wrong and have to start the transaction all over, and again he'd yell. There was no winning with this guy.

Within a few months, Chet lost his driver's license due to him being a filthy drunk. Always the resourceful fellow, he got into the habit of driving his lawnmower to the Co-Op with a flat trailer attached to it. I could literally hear him coming from a mile away, and I had 15 minutes to get ready for his arrival. All of the other employees would casually disappear whenever he walked in. It was pure torture.

On one particular day, he bought an armload of candy bars and soda, several bags of ready-mix concrete and 12 bottles of ammonia. As he putted off into the distance, trying to steer while drinking a Mountain Dew and eating a bag of chips, he turned hard into a ditch and tipped the lawnmower over. I didn't get the chance to see it, but the mental image alone was enough to make me tear up with delight.

An hour later, the cops were at his house because he had filled his ditches with concrete and covered his driveway with sod. He said he did this to keep the frogs out of his garage.

Chet took his "sod" case to the town board, where it abruptly ended with him making a death threat to one of the head members. The police were notified.

Still, he fought against these frogs, renting a Caterpillar and quickly crashing it into our gas pumps, nearly incinerating the town. I don't think you're supposed to operate heavy machinery when your constantly inebriated and have no license.

The problems and verbal abuse continued for several more months. It was becoming too much for anyone to handle. Something had to be done before he finally killed somebody, probably me. I was honestly considering quitting my job because of him, and getting up for work in the morning was becoming almost impossible.

One night, before going to sleep, I wished out loud that I would never see Chet again, knowing full well that tomorrow would bring another day of his intimidation and bullying.

I got to work the next day, and my manager was the first one to run into me. He told me that the night before, Chet was (once again) arrested for driving drunk with a suspended license, and he was going to jail for 4 months. Along with that, he was forced to attend all sorts of rehab classes, and take scores of pills for his various problems.

I couldn't believe it. My wish came true.

About 6 months later, a car pulled up to the Co-Op, and out of the passenger side emerged Chet. He was accompanied by his brother, who was now his legal guardian.

Chet looked like he had gained at least 50 pounds (because of all the pills he was taking), and was nothing more than a glazed-over shell of a man. He said 'please' and 'thank you,' was soft-spoken and polite, called me 'sir' and looked like he had absolutely no idea as to what was going on.

Apparently, he went through the system, and this was the best that the system could do for him. Instead of hurting other people and himself, he was now incapable of even functioning without someone living with him.

That was the last time I ever saw him.

So long Chet, wherever you are. Ya' crazy bastard.

TOMORROW:
LOST - SEASON THREE PREVIEW.

"Lost Friday."
(Originally published 09/2005 to 05/2006.)



If it wasn't for Lost Friday, there would be a lot less people reading the CDP right now; I can't deny that. Catch up on the entire last season, and prepare for the Season Three Preview on Friday. The countdown ends tomorrow, yo.

SEASON TWO - SEASON FINALE REVIEW
SEASON TWO - FINALE EDITION 2
SEASON TWO - FINALE EDITION 1
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 22 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 21 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 20 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - CLIP SHOW EDITION
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 19 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 18 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 17 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - TEMPORARY EDITION
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 16 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 8
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 7
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 15 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 14 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 13 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 6
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 12 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 11 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 10 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 5
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 4
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 3
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 9 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 8 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 7 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 6 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 2
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 5 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 4 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 3 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 1 REVIEW
SEASON TWO PREVIEW

"The Loud Neighbor Sextet."
(Originally published 01-11, 02-09, 02-16, 02-22, 03-06 & 04-11-06.)

The following six-part post is rated TV-14 for sexual content and dialogue. It's also one of the funniest and most enraging things to ever happen to me. It's not every day that you wage a psychological battle with neighbors that have sex 18 times a day. You'll like it because it almost drove me to murder.

Please read and enjoy.

PART I - "Would You Be Mine? Could You Be Mine?"
PART II - "Take It Sleazy."
PART III - "Skyrockets In Flight."
PART IV - "Man Your Battle Stations."
PART V - "Lock & Load."
PART VI - "Return All Keys Before Checkout."

"Worst Album Covers Of All Time."
(Originally published 03-20-06.)

Here now, a small sampling of the worst album covers ever.

Much like the 'Random" Facts About Chuck Norris' and 'Shockmaster" Incident' posts, the 'Worst Album Covers Ever' post was a long time coming. Sure, I didn't really discover any of these, and the same terrible covers have been tossed around forever, but I felt I needed to bring a similar post to the CDP.

Why? Well, because some people might not have seen these covers yet, and also because I'm fresh out of original ideas.

Away we go.


#15 - Wolf: Wolf

When you put a vicious, snarling animal on the cover of your album, you're normally trying to invoke a sense of fright or danger. You know, let the kids know that you mean business and are capable of getting biz-zay frequently and sufficiently. In the case of this Wolf album, you're left with the theory that the artist was attempting to draw a wolf, but decided to turn it into a gorilla wearing a trench coat and a Freddy Krueger mitt at the last minute. While I respect his or her decision to go with their gut, I don't think it's possible to come up with something less intimidating.


#14 - Country Church: Country Church

This photo was clearly taken at a local Sears or Citgo station, purchased with the money those two guys won at the World Beard & Moustache Championships. How they managed to take a break from life on the farm long enough to pick up matching outfits is beyond me, let alone record an entire album. Now, the gentleman in the middle has his hand on the girl's shoulder, which would explain why he was mysteriously murdered later that day and replaced with her husband on lead tambourine. Furthermore, when members of a church start dressing the same, it is officially a cult.


#13 - Joyce: Joyce

Ah, Joyce. You lovable, lonely woman. No doubt, this albums contains tracks of love and loving lovers lost, with just a dash of hope for the future. Joyce seems vulnerable yet self-sufficient, holding a single rose as if to say, "Look at me. I'm distraught and alone, and that's okay!" Her once empowered female fans were generally upset and confused with the release of her sophomore album, "I Am Totally Down With Being Tyrone's Ho'." She was nominated for a Source award that year, but sadly lost to MC Lyte.


#12 - Roger: The Many Facets Of Roger

For all the 'facets' that Roger seems to have, something tells me that they all end up the same way. Sweating through yet another jumpsuit in the dressing room of a smoky disco, cutting up a rock of coke so big I could set my television on it.


#11 - Mike Adkins: Thank You For The Dove

I found out that this was a spiritual album (really?), which raised a lot of moral questions with me. First off, has God ever dropped your own personal dove from the sky? Ever? If He did, would you keep it? Secondly, I'm completely convinced that Jesus would never listen to about 99% of the crap people write about Him. I could see the Almighty listening to Sufjan Stevens or All Star United, but He wouldn't stand for this. No way. At least, not the Jesus I know. Also, the Jesus I know smells like sandalwood and pine, and never tires of my endless tirades about the government and student loans.


#10 - Manowar: Anthology

Oh, no.

Let's talk demographics for a sec', kay? Who is this appealing to? Male metal fans? Nope. Female metal fans? Well maybe, if there were any. You know who this cover appeals to? Manowar. That's all, nothing more and nothing less. Furthermore, that's up with the one guy who's not shirtless? Did he have a no-nudity clause in his contract? Maybe he thought his moustache was statement enough, which is totally true. Everyone should know by now that the only people you attract with naked men are other men who like naked men. Stick with the scantly-clad ladies that got you here, Manowar.


#09 - Devastatin’ Dave (The Turntable Slave): Zip Zap Rap

First off, Devastatin' Dave is not a DJ. He looks more like a professional wrestler. In any regard, he could almost certainly get his ass trounced by 'Rowdy' Roddy Piper, or 'Mean' Gene Okerlund for that matter. It would also appear that Dave is an African-American fellow, which would make his use of the term 'slave' very odd at the least. Also, did you notice that the word 'zap' is directly placed on Mr. Slave's embarrassingly tight pants? Is that supposed to be some sort of subliminal message? That all being said, I'm quite certain that anything in my pants could spin records better than Devastatin' Dave. In fact, my pantal contents are challenging Dave to a spin-off later this afternoon.


#08 - Mike Crain: Karatist Preacher - God’s Power

Mike Crain is a triple threat. Not only is he a singer as well as a man of the cloth, he's also a black belt! That's more than I can claim, so I can't bust on this guy too much. Say what you will, but when was the last time you saw a preacher smashing bricks with his palms in church? Maybe if there were more guys like Mike Crain around, I'd go to church more often. You know what? This might actually be the best album cover ever.

"The power of Christ compells you...to break these bricks of Satan! Yaaahhh!"


#07 - Jim Post: I Love My Life

As much as it pains me and my 'stache loving friends to say this, Jim's super-thick 'stache is what ruins the cover. You know, a whole lot of album covers have the lead singer standing naked under a waterfall or frolicking in a Finnish sauna, but they normally don't sport a crumb catcher that can absorb a good 9 quarts of liquid. Look at the damn thing! Can you imagine how much that mass weighs right now? Brutha's gunna have a stretch mark on his philtrum. After some digging around, I found out that Mr. Post now does side work as a Mark Twain impersonator (really).


#06 - John Bult: Julie’s Sixteenth Birthday

Oh, hell no.

John, what are you doing? There's nothing even close to legal with this situation, whatsoever. You took this girl to a bar; now you're drinking a beer, smoking a butt and holding her hand. Who's going to drive her home when you pass out? You could have at least taken her to Chuck-E-Cheese so she could be around people her own age. Maybe if you got rid of that lousy hat, you could find someone over 16 that wants to be seen in public with you. Thank you, John Bult, now I need a shower, maybe two.

Upon closer examination of the cover, you can see that the Julie in question is gazing longingly at the cigarette and mug of beer (probably Blatz, possibly Billy). So maybe, just maybe, the concept of the album isn't rampant pedophilia and a pending child molestation charge, but just that Julie's depressed she's too young to smoke and get smashed.


#05 - Freddie Gage: All My Friends Are Dead

You can take the title of this album one of two ways. One, you could see Mr. Gage as an unlucky and depressed fellow who has seen his most beloved people parish in this cruel and unpredictible thing we call life. Or, you can see it for what it's worth. That Freddie Gage is an unstoppable serial murderer and you should avoid being his friend or acquaintance at all costs. What could this guy possibly be singing about? Smiths covers, I assume. And if all of his friends are dead, who's buying his albums?


#04 - Jeff: Something Special

You know what? Forget it. I'm not touching this one.


#03 - Mike Terry: Live At The Pavilion Theatre - Glasgow

This is the only cover on the list that makes me laugh every time I lay eyes on it. Mike Terry appears to be having a great time playing his piano. Oh, and he's also stuffed like a beef sausage into a suit that Liberace gave up for being 'entirely too gay.' I can only imagine what the cover of Volume One looked like. Furthermore, look at his neck. It looks as if the costume is on backwards, dangling dangerously and clinging onto his waddle for dear life. Maybe he's wearing a spandex jumpsuit under this, and he tears it off during a rollicking Scottish rendition of 'Great Balls Of Fire.' (roll tongue on the word 'great' for maximum effect)


#02 - Ken: By Request Only

Oh, don't act like you don't know what time it is! This is Ken, man!

The two things about this cover that strike me the most are 1), the shot on the right is most certainly in an outhouse, and 2), the shot on the left is a crude, carved stone figure of the man on the right. This is widely regarded as the worst album cover of all time, and just sleeves of this album go for big money on Ebay. Something tells me that 'By Request Only' means his set list consists of about half a song before he's quickly escorted back to his customized barstool, where he's fed vodka tonics for the remainder of the night. Then at 2am, he'll stumble back into the ballroom, fart into the mike and fall off the stage.


#01 -Heino: Liebe Mutter…

Okay, there's something you need to know about the cover of this album. The translation reads, 'Dear Mother...A Bouquet That Never Wilts.'

Thanks, Oedipus. Way to expand your fan base.

Can you imagine what this album sounds like? Really? For my money, all the booze, weed, shrooms, smack, rock, ice, airplane glue, gasoline, Knightmare Juice and shoe polish in the world wouldn't even get me in the same ballpark. Thank you, Heino. This is truly the funniest and most unsettling album cover I have ever seen.

So, there you have it. Sound off in the comments section about your favorite album cover, and feel free to submit your own.

"Intro-Feedback-Setup-Punchline-Repeat."
(Originally published 11-08-05.)



A Lifetime Of Laughs: The Boycott Unity Retrospective.

Immediately following the 2004 Presidential Election, I had what friends and loved-ones would remember as a “freak-out of embarrassing proportions.” The phone was shut off, the CDP went on hiatus and I wore nothing but black to work. I shut the television off; sat down, and thought about all the work I had gone through over the last few months to ensure that what happened… didn’t happen. It was a huge feeling of failure and deflation, like when I got kicked off of the golf team in High School because I was failing Geometry.

I sucked and everyone knew it.

Every day felt like I was drowning in thick gravy, and not the good kind that Grandma used to make. Everyone in Madison walked around town like they had just been punched in the gut. I came to the quick conclusion that me and the Missus didn’t have enough money to leave the country for good, so I settled on the next best thing.

I started a political cartoon.



Boycott Unity was born. If anything, it was a way to cheer myself up, sling some mud and act like I was actually making a difference. I couldn’t draw, and Paint was the only program I was proficient in, so I took pride in the fact that it looked like hell, and just focused on the dialogue.

Boycott Unity centered around 2 main characters. They didn’t have names, and were told apart only by the size of their mouths. The small-mouthed fellow was the self-intelligent liberal. The voice of progress and sarcasm, logic and reason, but always quick to realize his place in the big picture. He knew what was wrong and how to change it, but he normally sunk his energy into things that mattered none to his future. He's a lot like me.



The larger-mouthed gentleman represented everything that I dislike about the right wing, and everything logical conservatives dislike about the right wing, as well. He talked without thinking, conversed without listening and believed the unbelievable. He was essentially the worst conservative ever; a composite of everything that keeps you from talking to men in suits.



Without question, these characters were satires of both ends of the spectrum. People like this don’t really exist, although everything they said came from somewhere in reality. It just made sense for me to use two political representatives who really had no business giving their opinion. I think that this cartoon summed this mindset up perfectly.



Most of the time, Boycott Unity focused on current events and world happenings. Around the time of the strip, the war in Iraq was picking up more steam and critics, and George Bush was re-elected to office. The debate was hot over the concept of pre-emptive strikes.



Already, people were talking about who would bring the Democrats to glory in 2008.



For about a week, I had a storyline where our Conservative friend attended the President's inagural ball.





A lot of strips focused on misconceptions we have concerning opposing political parties. The idea that we like to mash together everything we hate about conservatives or liberals and assume that they all think that way is foolish and irresponsible.



As was shown in the 2004 elections, some Liberals take things for granted, they don’t work hard enough to invoke change and they focus too much of their time on things that make no difference whatsoever. This angers me, mainly because I’m living proof. These strips were mostly about how mad I am at myself, because I’m slacking off on doing something important.



I wrote this strip shortly after the death of my Grandfather. It cheered up my family as much as it could have.



Other times, I removed politics entirely from the strip, and just let the characters screw with each other. Every now and again, you had to remember why they enjoyed each other’s company in the first place.





The song he's singing here is "Mama Said Knock You Out," by LL Cool J. It's funnier when you know that going in.



Sometimes, things were written directly out of problems I was having in my own little world. Things like work, relationships and family would eventually make their way into a Boycott Unity cartoon.





Every once in a while, the bad news and mud got so deep I couldn't help but get serious for a second. Well, you know, as serious as a stick figure can get, I suppose.



This was one of the most commented cartoons I've ever done. It generated a lot of positive feedback, and for that I am proud.



Well, this one may have actually received more feedback, now that I think about it.



People always asked me, “why are they friends?” My answer is that they need each other. One can’t exist without the other in the real world, and people often forget that. Everyone needs a counter weight, and everyone needs someone to fight with. Otherwise, the imbalance would destroy them. They knew that they needed each other, and they were willing to accept that.

After about 70 of these little 4-paneled turds, I decided to call it quits. First and foremost, I didn't like doing them anymore. You'd be absolutely amazed at how much work goes into something as simple as this cartoon. Try creating a few of them, and you'll drive yourself insane. You'll try to remember what life was like before you had to make a joke every fourth line of a conversation. I felt like I did what I wanted to do, and it was a good time to knock it off before the strip started to really suck.

Another reason I gave it up was that not a lot of people seemed interested in it. The CDP was getting good traffic, but it was like pulling teeth to get people over to Boycott Unity. I was feeling frustrated, which led to this; one of the last strips I did.



Looking back one year later, I found myself actually enjoying these; probably a little too much. For some reason, I took a lot of pride in these damn things. Once I pulled the plug on the strip, I removed all of the comics from the interweb permanently (until now, of course). Afterwards, a few people told me that they missed them and wanted to see them again, which made me feel fuzzy.

It's funny how angry I was a year ago. Either that, or it's sad how jaded I am one year later. People get used to their surroundings, and for better or for worse, that has pretty much happened to me. Sure, the news still makes me sick, I refuse to engage in debates anymore and the Fox News Channel needs a severe keelhauling, but I don't feel the need to take it to the streets too much anymore. I haven't given up, I just temporarily forgot what I was fighting for.

I'm not an angry Liberal. I'm not a Conservative hater. I'm a concerned, smart-ass American who can't draw. As you've hopefully noticed, I don't talk politics on the CDP anymore, because it's neither the place nor the time for such discussion. Rather, I hope that this entertained you somewhat, and perhaps reminded you of where we have been in the last year.

At the very least, I think they're pretty funny.

"The Homecoming Quadrilogy."
(Originally published 04-24, 04-25, 04-26 & 05-01-06.)

Here is a four-part story about one of the most stereotypically teenage nights of my life. Someday, I will turn this into a screenplay and make millions with the CW network. If this countdown were up to me, this story would have been closer to #1, but I was shot down by the Voting Academy. Links have been used as to not clutter the main page.

Please read and enjoy.

PART I - "Love Tha' Player, Hate Tha' Game."
PART II - "J. Crew & The Mystery Girl."
PART III - "Brace For Impact."
PART IV - "Three Strikes, You're In."

"You're A Woman, I'm A Machine."
(Originally published 04-14-05.)



"Time Sharing Is Sharing Time" - By: The CDP.

I couldn’t believe my ears.

The loud man on the other end of my phone was trying to explain it all to me nice and slowly. Apparently, while waiting for a veggie sub at Cousin’s last week, my wife had dropped her name into a drawing to win four round-trip tickets to almost anywhere on the continent. Today was our lucky day, and I was skeptical.

You see, today is never my lucky day. It just doesn’t work that way. My name (or my wife’s name for that matter), doesn’t get chosen from a rotating plexi-glass drum for any reason whatsoever. Not for money, not for a vehicle, not even for a car wash. My streak of mediocrity and sheer immunity to good luck was something that my wife knew about long before she married me, and it was beyond me why she even exerted the energy to fill out the contest card.

Nonetheless, the loud man assured me that her name had been drawn and the tickets were ours to pick up.

“Oh, just one more thing,” the loud man said, as I braced myself for the impact. “All you have to do to claim your tickets is sit through a 90-minute presentation on the benefits of timeshare ownership. Sound good to you?”

It most certainly did not sound good to me, but it wasn’t my decision to make. I put my wife on the phone, and six days later we were on our way to the Fairfield Resort in the Wisconsin Dells.

The game plan was simple, and we rehearsed it for the entire drive there. We were going to smile and nod, politely refuse, collect our tickets and get the hell out of there. The official letter clearly stated that there was no obligation to buy, and if we just stood our ground, we’d be the proud new owners of nothing but four free tickets to Honolulu.

The trick to “winning” these contests has nothing to do with folding your entry card a certain way or stuffing the ballot box. The big thing is that insignificant line that impolitely asks you what your annual income is. The higher the digits, the more phone calls you’ll receive. They don’t want to pitch timeshares to people who can’t afford them, so make sure you check the highest box every time. Sure, they’ll run a credit check just to keep you honest (and ask you about fifteen times), but sometimes it’s just funny to screw with them a little bit.

We arrived there a little early, made a solemn vow not to sign anything, and entered the building with our checkbooks and credit cards safely back in the glove compartment.

The second we opened the doors, we were hit with an atmosphere of psychological warfare the likes of which I had never seen. The XM Satellite radio station was cranked to a specific station that played nothing but “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang, and the room was so cold I couldn’t help but dance. I glanced at my watch to see if the 90 minutes were over yet, as young businessmen laughed loudly and high-fived in front of a huge dry-erase board full of sales figures. I was already more than happy to give up the free tickets just to go home.

“Bill” was the salesman handpicked just for us (the single black woman in front of us got the only black salesman in the building, the elderly couple got the elderly one, and we got the youngest). Bill had massive, Kip Winger-esque teeth that probably made the “ting” sound when he smiled, had it not been for the loud disco music drowning it out. His breath was minty-fresh, his handshake was firm and he knew exactly where we were coming from.

“I know exactly where you’re coming from!” Bill yelled from across the table. Why wouldn’t he? We had been friends for 15 seconds now, and he made me feel right at home.

“Coffee?!” he screamed, as I kindly declined.

For the next 45 minutes, we talked about absolutely nothing. Bill used this time to establish some sort of bond by asking us questions that were none of his business. He would later use the answers to these questions to try to snare us into writing him a $30,000 check.

To his credit, Bill certainly knew what he was doing. When he realized that I wasn’t budging, he began to ignore me and talk solely to my wife. I would chime in with a good reason as to why a timeshare wasn’t for us, and he would cut me off in mid-sentence and ask her how she felt about it. When she became aloof and indecisive, he pounced on her, pummeling her with loaded questions and double talk. He would berate her until I was inches from taking a swing at him, then he would turn his focus back to me, allowing her to catch her breath and leaving me disoriented for the next round of interrogation. He was putting up a good fight, and I respected him for not going easy on us young newlyweds.

After the first question-and-answer round, we were whisked away to a screening room to view a short movie about the timeshares in question. The movie was nothing more than paid testimonies from people who could obviously afford something as useless as a timeshare. They hit you with every demographic, ethnicity and excuse in the book.

In one testimony, a single mother sat on a couch with her 3 young children. “The world isn’t secure anymore,” she said as she held her kids tightly to her. “I just like to have something in my life that’s secure.” If that wasn’t jaw-droppingly awful enough, the last one did me in for sure.

An elderly couple was talking about how they were going to include the timeshare in their will, as to “pass on a legacy to their children”. Sandwiched in between these bleary-eyed confessionals was stock footage of couples enjoying the good life together (walking on the beach, snowmobiling, siding a house), most of which I had remembered seeing used in a commercial for personal lubricant some years ago. The video concluded and I wanted to vomit, but there was plenty more to see on the tour.

It should be noted that at no time during this sales pitch did we ever give Bill the slightest inclination that we were going to buy anything from him. There was many times where I thought he was going to throw in the towel, especially all those instances when I said “We have no intention to purchase anything here today.” Bill just smiled, swayed to KC & the Sunshine Band, and took us to the next leg of the tour.

Finally, 155 minutes after we arrived, we got down to business. He laid everything out on the table for us, and played his Trump Card. He showed us a cartoon image of a small, crowded hotel room, complete with unhappy, crowded people. Next to that, there was a cartoon image of a large, sprawling timeshare, complete with happy, sprawling people. He showed us the prices in comparison, and tapped his pen impatiently onto the cartoons, making it clear how insane he thought we were for turning down such an amazing money-saving opportunity.

As we had discussed in the car, we politely told him that we liked the crowded hotel room better. We also tried very hard not to laugh when the blood vessel burst in his forehead.

Bill had finally run out of replies. There was no way he could argue against something so completely ludicrous. He looked up at us like we had sprouted extra arms and legs, and watched his commission evaporate. Ever the professional, he told us that we had “decided to file our future under the word ‘someday’”. He composed himself and shook our hands, crumpling the paper and throwing it over his shoulder in a trademark huff he had used on hundreds of others.

Five minutes later we were clutching our free plane tickets.

On the way back home, we couldn’t help but feel a little bad for people like Bill. Even though he would just move on to the next group of suckers and forget our names, we felt a bit guilty for making him work for two hours to no avail. Come to think of it, timeshare ownership certainly is a money-saving opportunity. Maybe we were too closed-minded to see the true value in what he was selling. Maybe we’ll go back there someday and listen with a more open ear.

Screw it, I’m going to Hawaii.

"No Scents Whatsoever."
(Originally published 03-15-06.)



As you can probably imagine by looking at photos or recklessly fantasizing, I smell great.

I mean, I always smell great, regardless of whether I just stepped out of the shower or a condemned bait shop that's on fire. It's one of my few gifts (along with my ability to eat a 16-inch sub in 39 seconds), one which I truly respect and treasure. Sure, I sweat and get filthy like everyone else, but it takes my body mere seconds to attack and destroy the foul perversions of cleanliness, leaving nothing behind but the fresh scent of pine and cinnamon. If you ever were to meet me, you'd be enthralled and encapsulated by my pheromones, unable to stand more than 4 inches away from me at all times.

My current cologne of choice is Swiss Army. While this particular scent isn't the most popular in the world, you can find at almost any department store. It's about $60 for a thimble-sized amount, but it's totally worth it to smell original. I haven't met a lady yet who wasn't completely smitten with it. It's a secret weapon that I trust you not to share with too many guys. My reputation is at stake. Some of my other favorites include Cool Water, Preferred Stock and Polo, although most of these have been collecting dust under my bathroom sink for some time now, shuddering with awe in the presense of the Army. I have a Cool Water air freshener in my car, too, in case you wanted to know that the Wild Stallion smelled like. I know you did.

Scents are important, and are the closest thing to a time machine us (we) humans have. Scents instantly transport us back to the most memorable time we last took it into our lungs. It's crazy the things you can remember when floored with the right smell; or sometimes, the things you would rather forget.


(According to legend, my Grandpa designed the wolf still used as the team logo. No foolin'.)

When I was a freshman in High School, I wore traditional Old Spice aftershave and cologne, mainly because it was already in the house and I didn't want to go buying anything else. Besides, there was something about the red sailboat on the bottle that screamed 'manly!' to me, even at such an oily and adolescent age.

One night, before a big football game, I slathered it onto my tiny 14 year old body with the ferocity of a man on a mission. Well, a little boy on a mission, at least. It was going to be a big night for me, as I was all set to make my move on a friend I had been sidling up to for a while. While I don't recommend attempting to turn good female friends into possible mating partners, sometimes you just gotta go for it, and let the Old Spice do all the heavy lifting.

So, there I was, sitting in the bleachers next to her. We'll call her 'Margaret.' I was insanely overdressed for a football game, sporting the single best outfit I had in my arsenal. Unfortunately for me, my best outfit in 1996 was an extra-large plaid collar shirt and super-tight pants. I hadn't yet learned that when I picked out things to wear, other people would actually, you know, see them.

Besides, that's what was popular in 1993, and I hadn't gotten around to buying any new clothes since then. My mom figured that I'd be an extra-large someday, it was only a matter of time before the plaid fit me perfectly. My pants, however, shrunk every day with my ever-growing puberty frame. I felt like the Incredible Hulk, pants tearing up the seams, rivets popping out like old Chevy pistons.

Denim squeaking and tugging with every shift of my buttocks on the freezing cold bench, I got closer to Margaret as we talked. In the distance, a friend got my attention and remarked that my outfit was "Lookin' good!" Of course, he was almost certainly making fun of me, or too far away to even make out who I was. Come to think of it, that guy wasn't even talking to me.

Me and Margaret talked about school and whatnot, getting closer with each break in the conversation. My braces and oily T-zone glistened off of the floodlights as I pulled out every joke and 1970's celebrity impression I could think of (I do a mean Richard Nixon).

She took it in like I was the Toronto skyline.

At the exact same time I made my move to hold her hand, the almost toxic scent of Old Spice wafted into her nostrils like an unleashed chemical weapon. I could tell she was investigating what the odor was, and it was only a matter of time before she became drunk off the fumes and passed out into my lap, begging me to take her to the backseat of her mom's Chrysler LeBaron.

"Oh, you're wearing Old Spice," Margaret said, looking directly into my eyes with a kind of calm urgency.

"Yup, that's right," I fired back, smooth as a silk pillow.

"Well, my dad wears Old Spice," she said, slowly looking down and letting go of my hand.

I was ruined. It was all over. Nobody wants to think of their own father when they're in a situation like this. Out of all the colognes and aftershaves in the world, I had to choose the same one that her stupid dad liked to wear. In the distance, I could hear him laughing and slapping gallons of Old Spice onto his neck and cheeks, content that he successfully chastised me from over 35 miles away.

In less than five minutes, Margaret was gone, talking to that guy who made fun of my outfit. The football game hadn't even started yet.

Cradling my head in my hands and trembling with defeat, I looked around for a friendly face. I found some friends that were sitting in the top row of bleachers, and took a seat. I told the guys what had happened, and they did their best to cheer me up and take my mind off of the situation.

Now, when most guys are faced with this sort of monumental rejection and humiliation, they normally do something monumentally stupid to compensate for it, and that's exactly what I did. My friends had this horrid idea to take off a piece of clothing every time our team scored a touchdown. Thinking that the game would be a blowout in the opposite direction, we all talked big and swore that we were game for the stunt. Bear in mind that it was probably 35 degrees out that night, so if we didn't get kicked out, creeping death would come knocking eventually. If this wasn't bad enough, someone had plastered me with maroon lipstick at some point, which were our team colors.

As you would assume, this happened to be the night our team scored 63 points.

Off came the giant plaid shirt, down came the painted-on pants. A small mound of shoes, socks and baseball caps started to form under our bench. There I stood, in front of Margaret and about 500 of my new best friends, making sure everyone knew that I could handle rejection and teenage defeat with amazing bravado and charm. Bare feet freezing to the bleachers, my nipples rock-hard and blue with frost, I made a stand. If anyone was going to make me look like an ass, it was going to be me, or at the very least, my friends.

We were asked to leave before it all went terribly wrong, but know that I would have finished what I started.

Shivering and clutching my clothes, still radiating Old Spice in all directions, I walked into the parking lot and waited for my Mom to pick me up. Adding insult to injury, the lipstick that I was wearing caused an allergic reaction, swelling and cracking my lips to Jolie-like proportions. I looked like I had been robbed of my clothes, repeatedly punched in the face and left for dead in a freezer. On the inside, however, I felt toasty warm with pride.

And that's what I think of when I smell Old Spice.

"The CDP's Guide To Vegetarianism."
(Originally published 06-12-06.)



Hello. My name is the CDP, and I'm a vegetarian.

Hold on, don't leave! We've got to talk; me and you. It's important. It's about the age-old debate between carnivores and herbivores. You know, if the dinosaurs would have just sat down and talked about their differences like rational beasts, they might still be around today. Hell, we might have even had a Brontosaurus as President. Sweet.

I offer today's post as a public service to carnivores, vegans and everyone in between. By shedding some insight into what shapes people's beliefs, you have a better understanding of what shapes the world around you, and what causes people to make certain life choices. Also, I fancy talking about myself, and I'm quite skilled at it.

First off, there are some things you need to know about me:



1. I've been a vegetarian for 5 years now. After trying and failing a few times, I finally gave up meat for good when I found myself sitting alone in a Culvers booth, sneaking in a bacon cheeseburger while my wife was at school. This troubled me, as I was now faced with the truth that I felt guilty about eating meat, so much to the point of actually hiding it from the Missus. I didn't give up meat because of the Missus, mind you. I gave it up for many reasons I'll explain later, culminating with the depressing Culvers epiphany.

2. I'm not trying to convert anyone to vegetarianism. In fact, I'd rather you didn't convert, because it would make us herbivores much less of a novelty; therefore, much less cool.

3. I loathe hippies; cannot stand them one damn bit. I don't do drugs, I don't own tie-dye and I don't participate in any marches, regardless of the cause. If you are standing in between me and what I want, chances are that I don't like you.

4. I hate PETA with a blistering passion. Their marketing campaigns and tactics have done nothing but turn people off of a vegetarian lifestyle, and caused a lot of meat-eaters to get a very negative view of vegetarians. They should be using their donated money towards better things than naked protests at circuses and throwing paint on supermodels. Screw you, PETA; you're ruining it for everybody.

5. I grew up in a meat-eating household. My dad was (and still is) an avid hunter, trapper and fisherman. I've been hunting on many occasions, and participated in the murdering, cleaning and gutting of many deer and small mammals. In my youth, I killed many pigeons and vermin for the fun of it. I also spent most of my childhood on a dairy farm, which cares about cows only as a source of revenue and profit. I've seen some nasty things concerning these animals, but I don't look at any of those things as ethically wrong. Business is business, and dairy farmers are only doing the job they were raised to do. I'm just trying to hammer the point home that the meat-eating and country lifestyle are not lost on me; that was my life for 19 years.

6. I'm not anti-meat, nor am I anti-hunting. I'm not an idiot; I know that steak tastes good, and many people refuse to deprive themselves of such a luxury. Fair enough. I also refuse to deprive myself of a lot of things that I enjoy, but some people find evil and wrong (such as television, gambling, alcohol consumption, death metal and snuff films).

Growing up in rural Wisconsin, I also know that deer hunting is an almost vital and necessary tool in controlling and re-populating forest areas. However, when deer hunting, I believe that your kill should be used for something other than sport; I.E., you should eat the meat or donate it to food pantries. If you have the balls to kill, clean and serve an animal to your family, you deserve to eat it, and we all wouldn't be here today if that wasn't the case.

7. When I was a teenager, I experimented with different diets to see how they would affect my health. One week, I ate nothing but chocolate-themed items. Another week, I only took in things that were the color green. Yet another week, I ate nothing but foods containing meat (it damn near killed me). In my blue-haired punk days, I spoke against vegetarianism, boasting my position at the top of the food chain.

Clearly, I'm not your stereotypical vegetarian. So, why don't I eat meat?



Well, for vegetarians, there are three main reasons why you avoid meat. They are:

1. Moral/Ethical.
2. Health.
3. Religion.

I consider myself a little of all three.

Morally, I no longer place humans above animals in the dominant chain. This is either because I've grown to love and appreciate animals more, or my disdain for human life is growing stronger. Show me a cow that's minding his or her own business, and I'll show you something that's not bothering me. I now know that you don't need to eat meat to live a healthy life, and I'm not down with the concept of mass murder, human, chicken or otherwise. The treatments, business and sanitation procedures involved in the process of getting a hamburger to my plate is about as corrupted as a stream of Barry Bonds' urine, and I refuse to be a part of it.

I care for and respect animals, and I've done enough bad things in my life without having more guilt on my conscience. More important than my love for animals, however, is my disdain for greedy people. For me, avoiding corporations like ConAgra foods is the same as me avoiding a Wal-Mart. If you're against what someone does, you disassociate with them, and that's what I do to protest.

As a side note, I always find it funny when I see some punk or anti-establishment person smoking a cigarette. Here's this person who refuses to be a cog in the corporate machine, yet he's puffing on a product manufactured by one of the largest and most vile conglomerates on the planet. In my opinion, you might as well be wearing Nike shoes and spooning with Sam Walton's corpse, because you're an idiot.

Health-wise, eating meat isn't all that great for your body. We all know that, but we don't really like to bring it up. True, things like fish and poultry are far healthier and beneficial than red meat, but it's not like we're comparing apples to lard, here; it's all filler. Eating red meat causes heart disease, slows your body down and clogs damn near everything in your chest. Vegetarians are far less-likely to get heart disease, certain cancers and many other serious illnesses. Now, I don't have the exact numbers and percentages on hand, but please look them up if you think I'm way off. I'm not.

Religion-wise, I'm not down with murder; plain and simple. When I look at my cats, I see animals that are pretty much without sin. I don't see cats cutting me off in traffic. I don't see puppies taking forever in line at the bank. I also believe that Heaven isn't just for humans, and you're going to have some pretty awkward afterlife moments when you run into all those animals you killed.

I know what you're thinking. "But we don't eat cats and dogs! Everyone knows that's wrong!" Obviously, that's not true for the rest of the planet. The animals we choose to civilize are the same animals that other ethnicities dine on, and vice versa. Who are we to pick and choose what animals deserve to be spared and which ones require worship? Sure, you may think that eating a cow is more ethically sound than eating a cat, but the billion-plus population of India would tell you otherwise.

We see this all the time in the media, as well. Whenever there's a story where a domesticated animal dies, people put more emotional stock into it than if it were a human life. Meanwhile, millions of other animals are being fed to the woodchipper without so much as a whimper from the dog and cat loving Americans.

Finally, I'd be lying to you if I didn't say that my wife was a factor in the equation. She wasn't a big factor, but certainly someone who made me realize how big of a hypocrite I was being to myself. She's got this knack for making me feel crappy about myself, which in tune instigates a huge change inside of me for the better. I'd have divorced her a long time ago if she wasn't totally right most of the time. She's been a vegetarian for longer than me, and she was responsible in opening my eyes to all of the things you don't see when it comes to getting a hamburger. I'm not one to be easily manipulated, but when someone dangles the honest and raw truth in your face, it's hard to contest it.

I mean, I knew that it was wrong; I could feel it deep down inside, but I kept shutting it up for fear I would have to...you know... do something about it (much like a lot of meat-eaters on the verge of changing). It was that lonely night at Culvers that changed me for good. I came to the obvious realization that I wasn't being honest with myself, and needed to mature to the point of making difficult decisions for the greater good of living with some honor.

So I went home and committed ritual seppuku. Gutted myself like a fish and died, right then and there.

Now, I know that a lot of my readers are meat-eaters, and perhaps some of you are considering making the Big Switch. Here then, a starters guide to vegetarianism: How to start, why to start, what to eat and how to deal with your relatives.



1. You don't need meat to live. This is the big thing people need to know. It seems foolish that anyone would actually think this, but sometimes it needs to be spelled out to remind you. Meat is a food group, yes, but it's not vital. There is nothing in meat that you can't get in other foods (or, at the very least, supplements). That being said, don't obey the food groups. Anything institutionalized by the government in the 50's and never updated cannot be what's best for you.

Case in point; I'm doing just fine. I've been off of meat for almost 5 years, and I'm in the best shape of my life. I look and feel better, I've participated in distance running and greatly expanded the amount of healthy things I put into my body. When I ate meat, I was sluggish and needed caffeine to function (I've actually been away from caffeine longer than I've been away from meat). I got sick more and needed more sleep to feel rested. I had slight asthma problems and couldn't breathe deeply. That's all changed now, and it's not because I'm a tremendously healthy eater.

Remember, this is just my own personal story and results, but it's all true. Except for that ritual suicide thing.

2. Stop looking away.

Most meat-eaters don't want to know how their food is prepared. They don't want to know how it gets to their plate, pressed into a nice circle with fake grill-marks on the patty. They don't want to know because they do know it's a nasty process, and if they did know they'd have to do something about it. People are ignorant and lazy in general (we all are), and feel that if something is out of sight, it's out of mind. Never mind the slaughterhouse kill-floors, never mind the holocaust-style feed lots, never mind the legal allowable amount of feces contained in the burger you're eating. Hell, if you knew all that, you'd probably spoil your appetite.



Quick Tidbit: If you took all the farmland that was being used to simply house the cows we eat, we could grow enough vegetables and crops there to feed almost everyone on the damn planet. Imagine that. If you truly want Bono to shut up once and for all, stop eating beef.

Did you know that the burger you ate last night wasn't just one cow? Nope, it was essentially scooped from a conglomerate vat of usable cow meat, and when you eat a burger at McDonalds, you could in theory be taking in the meat of over 50 cows. Trust me, not all of them were healthy and clean when they got killed in the rendering plant. In fact, I bet that a few of them were rather unpleasant looking.

Also, there are legal standards as to how much animal feces and rat hair can be contained in your food, and trust me, it's not zero percent. I'm not trying to freak you out with scare tactics or anything, it's just the truth. Believe me when I tell you that when you eat a hamburger from a fast-food chain, you're taking in feces, among other things you wouldn't even see on Fear Factor.

People tend to ignore things when they bother them or make them feel bad. It's the same reason we turn the channel when a commercial comes on for the Christian Children's Fund. It's the same reason nobody watches the Jerry Lewis Telethon. As long as you stay uninformed about what you eat, you don't have to question what your morals and ethics are, and everything stays normal for another day. Why change? It's much easier to stay in the dark about it.

You're probably getting agitated and annoyed with me right about now. Antsy. Squirmy. You probably want to stop reading. That's exactly what I'm talking about. It's how I felt at Culvers. It sucks.

3. There's plenty of food out there.

Oh, man. "What do you eat?" I get this all the time. My answer? "What don't I eat?" Listen, meat is just a small percentage of what you should be putting into your body, so if you eat meat exclusively, you've got bigger problems than what I can help you with. Remember, I tried that diet and almost went belly-up at age 17.

For just about any meat product you can think of, there is a soy and veggie alternative that tastes really good. Trust me, I'm a notoriously picky eater, and I'd tell you if something tasted like crap. Companies like Boca, Gardenburger and Morningstar Farms make meatless equivalents of practically everything that's in your freezer right now (depending on if you have human body parts in your freezer, which is entirely possible, I suppose). Here's what's been in mine over the years:

Gardenburger Chicken Patties
Morningstar Farms Breaded Chicken Breast
Morningstar Farms Sausage Patties
Boca Sausage Links
Boca Chicken Nuggets
Boca Lasagna
Gardenburger Burgers
Gardenburger Ribs
Morningstar Farms Meatballs
Morningstar Farms Hot Dogs
Morningstar Farms Corn Dogs
Morningstar Farms Sloppy Joe Mix
Morningstar Farms Veggie Burgers
Morningstar Farms Spicy Black Bean Veggie Burger
Morningstar Farms Tomato and Basil Pizza Veggie Burger
Morningstar Farms Fajita Burgers
Morningstar Farms Philly Cheese Steak Veggie Burger
Morningstar Farms Cheddar Burger
Morningstar Farms Mushroom Lovers Burger
Morningstar Farms Bacon

These are just 20 of the many meatless products you can use to transition into vegetarianism. I can assure you that all of these products taste quite good, look and smell just like the real deal. Only these are full of soy and proteins, they don't harm animals and they contain all the healthy parts of real meat, without the bad stuff. They can be microwaved, grilled or put in the oven, used as a side or a main course. My freezer is chock-full of these things on any given day.

Quick Tidbit: Critics will tell you that veggie and soy substitutes are higher-priced than raw meats. In my shopping, I've noticed little to no change, seriously. Furthermore, if you could instantly improve your health and ethical mindset for pennies a day, wouldn't you do it?

Also, Tofu sucks. Whoever started the smear campaign that said vegetarians only eat tofu and rice was an ass. I've had it on about a dozen occasions, and I've probably been impressed once. It's all in the preparation and can pretty much taste like whatever you're making it with, but don't think you have to eat it to survive. Nope. Not even a little bit.

You don't need to eat salads and green vegetables every day, either. Personally, I still don't like green vegetables all that much. Obviously, with all these vegetarian substitutes, your diet doesn't need to change very much at all. If you want a burger, you can eat a veggie burger. If you want tacos, you can use the shredded veggie hamburger as a base, and it tastes exactly the same. Same goes for ribs, chicken, sausage and bacon. Don't be afraid to make the switch because you're afraid you won't have anything to eat; you can eat everything you're eating now. In fact, your diet will expand to include things you never realized you enjoyed. Like beer.



4. What's the best way to do it? What do I tell Mom?

If you finally want to get off the meat wagon and make the Big Switch, I would recommend doing it in stages, taking baby steps. For starters, rid yourself of the meats that you eat the least. For example, if you only eat fish once a month, drop that first. You won't miss it too much, and you'll still have other meat items to chow down on. After a couple weeks of that, drop another type of meat. Then another, until you're done. While you're doing this, continue to substitute what you're getting rid of with their vegetarian equivalents. After a month or two of this, you'll realize how easy it was, how smooth the transition was, how much you don't miss real meat, and kick yourself for not doing it sooner.

That's another thing. You won't miss it. Really, you won't. You think you will, but you won't.

In recent years, I've seen celebrities like Drew Barrymore and Julia Stiles talk about falling off the vegetarian wagon and going back to meat, describing the transition as 'orgasmic.' Not only does this set a horrible example for those trying to adopt a healthier lifestyle, it also paints these people as weak, moral-less losers who only gave up meat because it was trendy in the 90's. It's not like you're giving up meth or anything. You won't be convulsing on the floor or begging people on the street for bacon, I swear it.

Honestly, the most annoying part about being a vegetarian is the conversations you have with ignorant people who should know better (which is sort of why I'm doing this post). Normally, I don't bring this up unless I absolutely have to, and 8 times out of 10 I get some sort of crap for it. These people think they are clever to wave a steak in front of your face and ask you if you're jealous, not knowing that they're about the brazillionth damn person to do that to you. The trick is to keep your cool, answer their questions without exposing them for the shallow turd they are, and make them realize that not all vegetarians are pansy, bleeding-heart fools. Pity them, for meat has driven them mad and rendered them sterile.

(It should be noted that I'm in no way calling meat-eaters idiots. It's when you start mocking non-meat-eaters when you start looking foolish. In fact, whenever you start mocking anything you don't understand, you run the risk of exposing yourself as a fraud.)

5. Don't preach.

Okay, so this entire post has been preaching. However, like I stated before, I don't care if you switch or not, I'm just helping out those who want to switch.

If and when you decide to go vegetarian, don't go around flaunting it over anyone's head. They will resent you and take you off the Christmas card list, and you'll deserve it. You don't want to come off like an angry young man or woman at a pride parade, sporting a sign that says "We're here, we're meatless, get used to it!" because that will only turn people off to the cause and make them squirmy. Be classy about it, try to only bring it up when asked or when discussed in conversation. It's not like you have to keep a secret or anything, just don't be annoying.

Quick Tidbit: In my five years as a vegetarian, I've been able to find a decent meal at every restaurant I've eaten at, with the exception of one. This includes literally hundreds of eateries, including steakhouses. Darn near every burger joint on the planet offers a veggie burger substitute, and you can order just about everything to be cooked to your specifications (potato skins without bacon, pasta dishes minus chicken, etc.). When those around me choose where to eat, I never fret and neither should you; you'll find something good.

In conclusion, I think this post has been a long time coming. If you're already a vegetarian, I hope that this reaffirmed your cause. For those on the fence, I hope that this convinced you to make the dive. For those of you who continue to support the meat-eating lifestyle, good for you. Seriously. Don't let anyone tell you what's good for you, but make sure to always listen to your brain and heart before you listen to your stomach.

Questions? Concerns? Arguments? Anything I left out? Sound off in the comments section, or e-mail me at communistdance@yahoo.com. If you have something to say, say it; either in the comments section or via e-mail. Peace.

"Tackling Reggie White."
(Originally published 08-09-06.)



With the 2006 NFL season on the horizon, I wanted to share with you one of my favorite personal experiences with football royalty. Even if you're not into sports, I think you'll still enjoy this.

Is this story better than the time I got Brett Favre's autograph, only to have my then 6-year-old sister destroy it with a Sharpie? I believe so.

If I may digress for a minute, I don't hold ill will towards my sister or anything. I'm sure there will come another time when I'll be able to sit down and talk with the single greatest quarterback ever to play the game; a man that won a Super Bowl, three MVP awards and my unwavering worship for the last 14 years. I mean, I'm certain that you get more than just one chance to meet your idols over the course of a lifetime. I'm not too worried about it; never mind all the crippling nightmares I've had about the situation since I was 10.

No, this story is about the greatest defensive player in NFL history, who just so happened to play with the Green Bay Packers for six seasons.



Reggie White. #92. The Minister Of Defense.

For those unfamiliar, here's a quick history lesson. It's only a paragraph long, so read it:

(Some quick football terminology for you. When a quarterback is tackled before he can throw a pass, it's called a 'sack.' You're going to need to know that, otherwise the following paragraph would sound horribly obscene.)

Reggie White averaged 1.75 sacks a game, and has a lifetime total of 198. He has had more sacks than the number of games he has played. This amazing record still stands today, along with his franchise sack records for both the Philadelphia Eagles and the Green Bay Packers. He's been to the Pro Bowl an astounding 13 times, and won 6 different NFL Player Of The Year honors. He won the Super Bowl with Green Bay in 1997, has had his number retired with three different organizations, and was selected for the NFL's All-Time Team in 1994. Off the field, he was a husband, father, minister and Evangelical Christian that devoted his life to what he believed in.

In short, Reggie was the baddest-ass mo-fo I've ever seen on a football field. If you know even the slightest bit about the game, then chances are you share my sentiments. Off the field, he was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken giant. On the field, he was a monster. He could knock 400-pound linemen off of their feet with one arm. Watching him run around with the Lombardi Trophy after Green Bay won the Super Bowl is etched into my memory forever.

Reggie died at the age of 43, on December 26, 2004. He had suffered from sarcoidosis for many years, and it had caused a cardiac arrhythmia that stopped his breathing in his sleep. I remember waking up the day after Christmas, turning to ESPN and watching grown men cry as they related the news to the public. It was absolutely heartbreaking to see someone like him go at such a young age.



Now that you're all caught up, let's get to my story.

In 1993, my family went to Green Bay to watch the Packers practice at Training Camp. They have an area set up for the public to watch the team run drills and prepare for the upcoming game. This was a chance for people to see their* team up close and personal, and considering that Packer season tickets are nothing short of impossible to come by, this was the best chance most Wisconsinites got.

(*The Green Bay Packers are the only professional sports franchise in the nation that does not have an owner. They are a community-owned team with 112,000 stockholders in tow. They are owned by the fans; my family being one of them. If I have to explain to you why that rules, we're no longer friends.)

The big news this season was the acquisition of Reggie White from the Philadelphia Eagles. Already the most prolific lineman in the game, we were all very excited to see what he would do to revolutionize our lacking defensive line. There we stood, faces pressed against the chain-link fence, watching our beloved Packers do wind sprints and pass patterns.

As an 11-year old, this was amazing to me. I had never been to an actual game before, and seeing these people up-close was a dream come true. Everyone was huge; even the Kicker was larger than anyone I had seen in real life. Frankly, they could have all been doing crossword puzzles behind that fence and I still would have cheered them on.

Reggie White was a beast. Despite proving himself every single week, he worked as hard in practice as he did on the field. Every play, he would explode across the line, leaving a scattered pile of rookie linemen in his wake. As far as I was concerned, he should have been wearing a cape. I was in awe.

Now, the Packer practice facility was on the other side of the street from the stadium, where their lockers and showers were. That meant that when practice was over, the entire team would walk across the parking lot together, wade into the crowd and chat with the fans. Some of the kids would often lend their bikes to the athletes, so they could bypass the crowd and get to the stadium quickly. In exchange, the players would give the kids photos and autographs, as well as the dream of riding along with their favorite Packer player.



When practice was over and the team migrated off of the field, they were instantly swarmed by the hundreds of people in attendance. I felt like I was on the steps of a high-profile court case; it was absolute chaos. I was there with my cousin at the time, and we were just looking around for any Packers that were kind enough to sign autographs. Some were more than willing to give you a few seconds of their time; most of them just wanted to take a shower and go home.

Children, adults and giant athletes were everywhere, waving pens, helmets and anything else they could to get one another's attention. In the midst of the insanity, I lost track of where my cousin was. I became disoriented and started looking everywhere, anywhere for a familiar face. People started pushing and shoving, so I attempted to make a beeline out of the crowd.

As I made my way out of the unruly mob, I made the mistake of taking my eyes off of the oncoming human traffic for a fraction of a second. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a herd of fans, snapping flashbulbs, and what looked like police officers. One of the cops was shouting, "Give him room! Give him room!" Everything started going in slow-motion.I turned around just in time to see a giant, green mass with the number '92' imprinted on it.

I hit the ground and everything went dark.

Seconds later, I looked up to see Reggie White, The Minister of Defense, and about fifty people looking down at me. While every other Packer did what they could to avoid the crowd, Reggie was doing his best to sign every piece of paper that was thrust in his direction.

He also ran right into me in the process, knocking me straight off of my feet. I didn't have a prayer; I could have used one of his pant legs as a sleeping bag.

"You alright?" Reggie asked me.

I looked up at him, in a balled-up heap on the pavement of the Lambeau Field parking lot. He was already a massive guy; from this view, he was positively God-like.

"Uh...yeah...I think." I stammered back. I quickly got back to my feet and ran out of the mob.

I met back up with my family, where they griped a bit about not getting any autographs. They asked me if I got anything signed. I told them no, but that it really didn't matter to me. I didn't need a piece of paper to remember what happened to me that afternoon.

It was the day I was sacked by the greatest defensive football player of all time.



Last Saturday, Reggie White was officially inducted into the Pro Football Hall Of Fame, which is what reminded me to share this story. The plaque under his name will say that he sacked 198 people, but I'd like to think of myself as #199.

"Insect Karma Revolt."
(Originally published 09-21-05.)



I was leaning against the door frame of a co-worker’s office, chatting about Lost, when I heard someone yelling my name from across the room. A quick scan of the cube farm brought my gaze to a young intern named Anna. She was staring a hole in my head.

"Come here, quick!" she said, muffling the receiver of her telephone, which she was simultaneously using while summoning me.

I quickly skipped across the perimeter, approaching her cube and wondering why on earth she would need me so urgently. Anna and I don’t really talk to each other, as she resides on the second floor; I only go up there to talk with people about things like television and beer. As I peeked into her cube, I saw that her face was a light shade of red, and she was slowly tucking her knees under her chin, folding herself up in a fetal position on her chair.

“What’s going on?” I asked, sincere and mystified.

“There’s a…aaaugh!” she shot back, sticking her right leg straight out and kicking her desk drawer shut to reveal a millipede inching along the wall of the cubicle.

I should have expected nothing less. I’ve been the designated killer of insects and vermin since I started working here over a year and a half ago. It wasn’t that I necessarily minded the side job; it was just disconcerting to know that Anna was aware of this role that I played. It’s not something I’ll be using on a resume anytime soon. Nonetheless, I grabbed a few pieces of Kleenex from her embroidered tissue cozy and did what needed to be done. After a deep sigh, she thanked me.

“You know,” I said to her, “when the step ladder was invented, I was convinced that women no longer had any use for men, seeing as they could now reach high things on their own. But as long as there are spiders around, I’ll always mean something to someone. It’s why I’m married.”

Anna laughed, I didn’t look like too much of an ass, and I gracefully left the second floor like a war hero. I was feeling pretty good about myself, and thought that it would be a good time to eat lunch. After all, nothing celebrates the murdering of an innocent millipede than by enjoying a butterscotch Snak-Pak.

I shut the door to my office and settled in for 45 minutes of silence and eating. On the menu today was a plate of instant macaroni and cheese, two butterscotch Snak-Paks, a single serving of cinnamon applesauce and a bottle of Aquafina. It’s surely no surprise to you that I am the picture of health for a 23 year old. I put on a Talking Heads album, and started reading the newest issue of the Onion, which features a fantastic interview with documentary filmmaker Errol Morris.

It should be noted that, since my promotion, I’ve been residing in my own personal office. I’ve temporarily graduated from cubicle half-walls to wood paneling and an honest-to-God door. I’m not bragging by any means (I said it’s temporary), it’s just pivotal to the story.

I had just gotten to the part of the interview where Mr. Morris was discussing his oscar-winning The Fog Of War, when I heard the buzzing. It sounded like one of the fluorescent lights had suddenly gone wonky, so I looked up for an inspection.

It was then that I saw the largest horsefly I had ever seen. He was clinging to the low ceiling, focusing on me with his 90-some odd eyes, and humming like a massage chair.

Allow me to interject for a brief moment.

Is it at this point where most rational people would open his or her office door, allowing the lumbering beast to exit the room with a minimal level of welts and bloodshed. I, however, am not a rational person. I was smart enough to know that once I opened my door, I had immediately absolved any and all existing lunch rights, and people would start bothering me with work again. To open the door would mean to lose my temporary sanctuary, and I was not willing to give this up. Not today.

The horsefly was in for a fight. I nick-named it “Buzzy”.

I slowly got up from my once-peaceful lunch, rolling up the newspaper behind my back, so Buzzy couldn’t see what I was doing. He was looking at me, trying to figure out what he could do to finish my macaroni and cheese. I was hungry though, and with the killing of a millipede still fresh in my mind, I wasn’t in the mood to share.

I took a half-jump into the air, skimming the ceiling with the newspaper. I missed Buzzy by at least a yard. He took off, but in a 7 by 8 office, he didn’t have too far to go. He flew over to a side wall, trying to blend into a map of Wisconsin that the previous employee had taped to the wall. He was perfectly still, residing near Janesville on the map when I spotted him.

I wound up and took a mighty swing at Buzzy, whiffing entirely and colliding with my applesauce on the backswing. Buzzy once again fled the scene, but my Mott’s single serving wasn’t so lucky.

I made the unfortunate mistake of taking my eyes off of Buzzy for a fraction of a second, making sure that the applesauce wouldn’t spill on the floor (it most certainly did). I no more than turned around when I again made eye contact with this massive sting monkey, making a complete beeline straight for my left eye.

It’s not often that a gnat decides to attack you, but I believe that he saw the urgency of the situation. Buzzy knew that one of us was going to die, and he rightfully didn’t want it to be him.

Seeing this bottle-cap sized, winged disease machine attempt to kamikaze itself into my ocular jelly sent me into a panic. I yelled out loud and dropped to my knees in an attempt to dodge the beast. I blindly and frantically tomahawked into the air with my newspaper, Talking Heads calmly muffling the sounds of the horrid struggle now taking place in my office. I raked my fingers feverishly through my hair to see if Buzzy had decided to burrow himself into my scalp. By doing this, he could camp out for the day, and kill me as I slept this evening. Smart horsefly.

As I stumbled back to my feet, I tried to collect myself. I used the spilled applesauce as a crude war paint for my face (okay, I didn’t), and stood perfectly still. I quietly reached over to the stereo and paused the disk, listening intently for the trademark hum.

“Come on, Buzzy,” I whispered. “Show yourself.”

Once again, I caught him in the corner of my eye, making another mad dash for my face. I took a baseball swing at him and connected, sling-shotting him across the room and onto my computer desk. He lay there, twitching and missing a leg, but very much alive and dangerous. I gave him another shot for good measure, and he stopped moving. I didn’t want to touch him, so I used the sticky end of a Post-It note to transport Buzzy into my trash receptacle.

Exhaling deeply, I cleaned up my mess and tried to put the trauma behind me. I didn’t have anything to read now, but I could still finish my lunch because….

What the hell was that noise?

Looking over to the trashcan, I saw Buzzy crawling up the side of the discarded newspaper. He was flipping me the bird. Horrified, I threw my spilled container of applesauce at him, and he disappeared. He’s was no longer in the trashcan, and he wasn’t anywhere else in the office either. He simply disappeared.

That meant that he was on me. He had returned from the grave to finish the job.

Whipping myself into a frenzy, I did a rain dance in the office, pulling all of my clothing in every direction while messing up my already psychotic-looking hair. No sign of Buzzy whatsoever.

He made it out. He beat me.

Flabbergasted, I threw myself onto my chair and blinked hard. This was karma for killing that millipede earlier. I tampered in God’s domain, and I got what I deserved. In this case, what I deserved was to be mercilessly tormented by a horsefly the size of an apple fritter.

Well, back to work.

"Subbin' It Up."
(Originally published 02-21-06.)



I love subs about as much as legally possible. Believe me, the law is not flexible on these things.

I'd eat them 3 meals a day if I could survive the lethal strain it would put on my heart. For my money, they are as close to perfect as food can be. You have great tasting, soft bread (Garlic Herb is my favorite), a thick, artery-sludging inch of heavy mayo, expertly sliced cheeses of your choice, fresh shredded lettuce and crisp, red onions to top off this most wondrous creation.

As I don't eat meat, that's all I take in my sub, and it's all I will ever need to be truly happy.
I could go for one right now. In fact, I'll be right back. Hang on a minute.

Okay. As I was saying, sub sandwiches make me happy. However, because they cost money and aren't good for me at all the way I like them, I've been restraining myself to only one per work week for lunch. The remaining four days, I'm stuck with frozen pasta or macaroni and cheese. Believe you me, I look forward to 'sub day' like I look forward to pay day.

In Madison, we have approximately 68 million different sub franchises. Cousins, Subway, Blimpie, Milio's (formerly Big Mike's), Sub's Ahoy!, Yellow Submarine, Tubby's Subs, Rub-A-Dub-Subs, George Michael's Sub Machine; the list goes on forever (I might have made the last few up, I can't remember). It's one of the reasons I'm never moving, along with the fact that my wife and cats live here. This abundance of sandwich goodness makes them all very hard to resist, but it has given me a great cross-section to sample and rate. I've been to every sub shack in this fine city, and have become a pro when it comes to the beautiful dance that is sandwich creation and consumption.

I'm offering today's post as a public service announcement to other fellow sub lovers. Heed my words, I'm about to make your next sub experience worlds more enjoyable.



Let's get right down to it. When it comes to the bottom-of-the-barrel, lowest common denominator, absolute worst sub franchise in America, Subway wins this contest, hands-down. It may be the biggest and baddest franchise in the nation, but overall, they can't hold a greasy candle to anyone else in the game.

For starters, their portions are out of touch. They're still sticking with the tried-and-true 6 and 12-inch styles. For the same price, you can get a 7 and 14-inch sub at Cousins or an 8 and 16-inch sub at Milio's (a Dane county staple). That's an extra 4 inches for free! That should be enough right there to send you elsewhere. I've been known to cross state lines just to get the sandwich I happen to be craving at the time.

Secondly, they have the worst customer service I have ever seen (not to mention, the ugliest store design on earth). Every single time I walk into a Subway, I'm instantly reminded of why I should never go there again, and feel like I'm about to be shot in the back of the head. For some reason, Subway always seems to hire one of two types of terrible employees.

The first type is the attitude and angst-ridden high schooler. This young boy or girl hates their job so much that they refuse to even look at you during the course of the entire transaction. They talk openly about hating their job, even as they make your sandwich, and will take frequent breaks to do other things during the process. Because of their lack of eye contact, you'll need to tell them what you want on your sandwich a half-dozen times, and they'll still get it wrong. Eventually, they'll spot a friend of theirs, and spend the next five minutes talking to them while your lunch slowly spoils behind the sneeze-guard. For the time it takes them to construct this ragged masterpiece, I could have jumped behind the counter, killed everyone wearing an apron and still made the sandwich faster.

That's another thing I can't stand about Subway. The 'Sandwich Artist' buttons those employees have to wear. It's not an art form to put edible things in between bread for the purpose of consumption. Besides, I have never been handed a sub that made me want to place it behind a velvet rope for viewing. At least, not one from Subway.

The second type of employee is the attitude and angst-ridden middle-ager. Clearly, I'm not being judgemental concerning age here, because the young and old can equally suck at making my sandwiches. This specific type of person makes your sandwich with such staggering contempt and apathy, you think they're going to slit your throat or pass out, whatever's easier for them at the time. They don't even try to hide the fact that they hate you with the flaming intensity of a thousand suns.

It never fails. I'll walk into a Subway, and a 6 foot 4, 600 pound Sandwich Artist will stand there with her hands on her hips, looking at me as if I wasn't wearing pants. Head cocked, eyes wide open, just counting down the seconds in her head until she can take her break and never see me again.

"What you want?"

"Um, a foot-long, please. Just lettuce, cheese and mayo."

(She's not making eye contact with me, therefore she's not hearing a damn word I'm saying.)

"Hmmm!?"

"Um...just lettuce, cheese and mayo. Foot-long, please."

(At this point, she starts constructing my 6-inch sandwich. Without even looking up at me...)

"Lettuce?"

"Yes, lettuce."

"You want cheese?"

"Yes, please."

"6 inch?"

"No, a foot-long, please."

(At this point, she looks up at me like I somehow made a mistake that completely and utterly destroyed her day. Now angry at me for supposedly changing my mind about the length of my sandwich, she exhales loudly and starts over.)

"Want sprouts?"

"No, thank you. Just lettuce, cheese and mayo."

(Another heavy exhale. The phone rings, and as she walks away to answer it, knocks my entire half-made sub into the vat of sprouts. Later, she pretends it didn't happen, seemingly forgetting that the barrier between the two of us is made of glass. I say nothing, for fear she will yell at me. I'm running late as is.)

"What else?"

"What? Nothing, thank you."

It is at this point where she wraps my sandwich up in paper, but realizes that she put way too much lettuce in it to close properly. Instead of rectifying the situation, she just flattens the sandwich temporarily and wraps it up as quickly as possible, essentially spring-loading the damn thing to surprise me later. When I take it back to the office to enjoy, I notice that the sub package is all but vibrating with pressure, waiting to explode all over me. All it takes is for me to put a slight tear into the side of the paper for the entire sandwich to come sproinging out like a worm-filled can of novelty peanuts. Lettuce and mayo covers my important documents and newspaper. Thanks, Subway.

It should be mentioned that everything I just said has happened to me at one point or another.



Look, it's not all bad, though. Mainly because every other sub joint in the city is amazing. Cousins is my favorite.

Why? Because they hire ex-convicts.

Former inmates make good sandwiches because they don't want to go back to jail. They put far more pride into their work than teenagers, and understand efficiency and assembly-line ethic from their prison and factory experience. They were tailor-made to make sandwiches for a living.

They always call me 'sir,' and talk nice and loud. They're usually missing a tooth or two, so they whistle when they talk.

"Isss that all, sssssir?"

"Yup, that'll do it, thanks."

"Sssssix sssssixteen, sssssir! You wanna reccccceipt?"

"Thanks!"

They really shine when it comes down to the science of a sandwich. They are quick-draw ninjas with the condiments, and keep the mayo in a holster.

"Ex-ssssstra mayo, sssssir?"

"Sure!"

(He then pulls a bottle of mayo from the holster in his side-pocket, twirls it three times and splorts it liberally onto my Garlic Herb bread before twirling it again and placing it back in its chamber. It's usually at this point when I place a dollar or two in the tip jar. It's worth it, because I didn't just get a sub, I got a show!)

Speaking of which, should you tip at fast food places? Some people think not, because they aren't doing the normal tasks of a waiter at a restaurant. Personally, I tip when they do a good job. For example, if I go to a place so many times that they know my order by heart, that just earned them an extra dollar. way to go!

In conclusion, I don't like Subway. Sub sandwiches rule; you might want to consider eating one for lunch or dinner today. Tell 'em the CDP sent you; they probably know who I am. Sound off in the comments section, and tell me what you like on your sub.

"It's My Costume."
(Originally published 10-13-05.)

Here's a quick Halloween story to get you in the spirit.

When I was in Kindergarten in 1987, it was the school's policy to have everyone in the building parade around each other for the afternoon. Every year, all the kids would dress up in their favorite Halloween costumes, and show them off for the remainder of Winneconne Elementary to view.

I think the big thing in the mid-80's was the California Raisins, so there were a lot of kids in purple-face, wearing garbage bags stuffed with newspaper. This was not only sad and lazy on the part of the parents, but also a tad racist. I never quite jived with the thought of 4 overweight prunes donning sunglasses and singing soul tunes. Maybe I'm just sensitive; after all, it was the most successful marketing campaign in fruit and vegetable history.



Anyways, my Mom was much too cool to send me to school wearing a garbage bag. Man, I was set. Today, I was Sylvester the cat, complete with full costume and a giant head. I looked like the mascot for a football team, that's how rad this costume was. Screw the plastic masks with the rubber band and the staple, I was going for broke this year. If this didn't score me some more friends, I didn't know what would.

On the day of the parade, I brought my amazing costume, neatly folded and packed in a paper bag, and placed directly under my hanging jacket in our cubby section along the wall. There it would sit, unassuming and quiet, waiting patiently for the afternoon to arrive to spring itself free from the bag and blow the minds of about a thousand educated minds. I felt like a suicide bomber before the big moment. Before you could say "Allah," the moment had arrived.



Frantically, the entire Kindergarten class darted over to the cubby, tearing their meager raisin costumes and cheap masks out of their horrible paper bags. I sauntered over slowly, as to not draw too much attention to myself. The time for that would be soon enough. As the dust began to settle, I strolled in and started looking for my costume.

But...I couldn't find it.

The bag that I thought it was in was empty, and all the other bags seemingly belonged to other kids. After a thorough check of all the bags again (thorough for a 5 year old, mind you), I realized that my awesome Sylvester costume was no more. It was either stolen or had simply disappeared.

Again, being a cool Mom, my Mother was actually there as a chaperone for the proceedings. She asked and re-asked me if I was absolutely positive that my costume wasn't over by the cubby. I gave her my word that it had dropped off the face of the earth. Suddenly I went from almost being the coolest kid in Kindergarten to the loser without a costume. Something needed to be done, and my Mother was getting a bit frantic.

Mrs. Broderick, my Kindergarten teacher, had a plan. "We have some spare costumes in the closet," she said, doing her best to make the most of a bad situation. She was an amazing teacher, and away she went, digging around to find something for me, just minutes before the big parade.

"Here we go," she said. "Try this on."

"This" happened to be the saddest looking dog costume I've ever seen. Yes, a dog costume. Why someone would neglect a costume like this, leaving it for dead in a Kindergarten closet for 80 years was beyond me. Oh, wait, it was because the costume sucked a boatload of ass.



Imagine the cheapest Halloween costume you can think of. Good, now pretend that it's of a dog. Okay, good. Now cross-breed that dog costume with a clown costume, make it horribly ill-fit and make it orange and yellow striped, and you're getting into the ballpark of what this costume looked like. It certainly didn't look like something a dog would wear, but the mask assured me that it was indeed a canine outfit. Perhaps this particular dog worked at a circus or something, but I was really in no position to ask questions. While my Mom literally held back tears of embarrassment and anger, I slipped into a skin-tight circus dog uniform.

(INTERMISSION.)

I want to use this break in the story to tell you a quick joke I was just reminded of.

A dog walks into a hardware store and says, "I'm looking for a job."The clerk says, "I'm sorry, we don't hire dogs. Why don't you work for the circus?"The dog looks at him and says, "What would the circus want with a plumber?"

(END OF IMTERMISSION.)

Okay, back to the story.

So, furious, sad, heartbroken and humiliated beyond my wildest dreams, I was forced to get in line with my friends and respected quad-partners, and parade this obscene costume in front of every single person in the school, grades K through 8.

Peering at the other kids through the tiny plastic slits in the mask, I didn't know if they were making fun of me, or just didn't recognize who I was. It doesn't really matter if any of the kids remember this moment, because I will remember this humbling experience for the rest of my life. For a fleeting moment, I was on top of the world. I had everything I needed for a successful afternoon, and in less than a minute, everything came crashing around me. Instead of going out with a bang, I was wishing to God that I would turn into a California Raisin.



It didn't happen.

I learned a valuable lesson that day, at the tenderest of ages. Life is hard. Nothing should be taken for granted. If you think that everything's going to go well, that's going to be your first of many mistakes. Billie Joe Armstrong says, "Don't pat yourself on the back, you might break your spine." Well, on Halloween 1987, I gave myself a Christopher Reeve-style thrashing.

It was one of the worst days of my entire life.

So, after the parade, everyone was changing out of their costumes and getting ready to go home. I was peeling the circus dog outfit off of me, dripping with sweat and failure, when my Mom asked me a question that I'll never forget.

"Hey, what's in that bag over there?"

I don't think I have to tell you what I found in it.

"10 Stupid Jobs."
(Originally published 01-17-06.)



Unless you're handicapped or some kinda jerkass, you have to work for a living. You have to do it; I have to do it; the American People have to do it. It's nothing I'm too happy about, but I take pride in knowing that about 85% of the population probably hates their job more than I do. That alone is refreshing enough to get me through the day.

I've got a pretty decent handle on my job. I make important decisions and change peoples' futures by the mood I'm in. I get to write expensive checks and charge them to Wisconsin taxpayers like myself. Sometimes I have to wear a tie. On Friday of last week, I used a Magic 8-Ball I keep in my cubicle to solve a problem I was having ('outlook not so good').

Even though things are going fine enough, I had much bigger plans for myself than to become an Exam Administrator. I feel bad that somewhere out in the workforce, there sits a guy who's only goal in life was to work with state codes and statutes pertaining to professional regulation, and I'm not appreciating it nearly as much as he would. It's not fair to either of us.

Even if I could get paid boatloads of cash to write full-time, I'd probably still find a way to be miserable. It's just the way I operate. Even the freelance stuff I do chaps my hide, mostly because it turns my hobby into a profession; which instantly sucks the life out of anything you enjoy. I don't care what you do for a living; chances are you'll get sick of it after a while.



Do you honestly think that Babe Winkleman likes Bass fishing every day of his life? Not even millions of dollars, Blu-Blocker sunglasses and that sweet beard can keep a guy happy day-in and day-out, especially when he's coming home to his family reeking of dead fish and about 10 bottles of Blatz. It's just not logical, folks.

In my life thus far, I've had 10 jobs. Some of them didn't earn me a penny. Most of them didn't earn me a penny. I've quit 90% of them, and I've never been fired. I may have liked two of them, tops. I've had to do things I don't wish on anyone. I've also met some of the biggest weens alive.

Allow me to share my sordid employment past with you.



Job #1 - Helping Out On The Olson Farm.
Length Of Service - 1989/1994
Salary - $0.00/hr.

I grew up on a farm; so when I didn't do a good enough job of busying myself away from prying eyes, I had to put my ratty clothes on and do chores. I fed calves, shoveled various feeds and animal excretions, herded cows and drove tractors. Seriously. Most of the time, I found various ways to almost turn myself into a double-amputee, but those are different stories for a different time.

For all the hard work, I learned a lot about a very difficult and thankless profession. I also got to hang out with hundreds of cats and bottle-feed baby calves, so it wasn't all bad. But for every baby puppy I got to hold, there was a cow that was all set to kick the taste out of my mouth, so it was a life and death trade off for most of the duration.

One summer, my Dad caught me and my cousin using my new golf clubs to hit rocks on the road, so we were subject to a week of 'hard labor,' baling hay in the 90-degree heat. It was the worst week of my entire childhood. Sunburns, every muscle aching and varying rashes on my body made it clear to me early that I wasn't going to be carrying on the family business anytime soon. I'm clearly not built to be a farmer; even hauling a gallon of milk to my car is a massive chore for me. Eventually we moved away from the farm, and I was allowed to throw away my feces-encrusted boots...



Job #2 - Handing Out Flyers For Aluminum Siding Company.
Length Of Service - 1995
Salary - 10% Commission On Sales ($0.00/hr.)

Over summer vacation in the 7th grade, I went door to door, bothering people and sticking flyers everywhere for a home improvement business in Appleton, Wisconsin. I did most of my work in Winneconne, where I went to school. For those three months, I dragged around my then-girlfriend in the blistering heat, ringing doorbells and having shotguns pulled on me. I was shocked beyond words when she dumped me mere weeks later.

Every day, I would walk down every street, steaming with heat lines, as she trailed behind me with an ice-cream cone. I kept telling her how much money I was about to be making, and she did her best not to smash the cone in my face and walk home by herself. I can't remember what I was wearing at the time, but I can figure it was unappealing and sad. I wish she would have told me then that I was getting screwed over by this businessman. She obviously knew, but didn't feel like sharing.

The guy in charge of the business assured me that I would see hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars in commission should anyone bite on the flyers. I know now that he was staggeringly full of crap and a total fraudulent businessman. I had no choice in the matter then, however, because my Mom was living with this guy at the time. See, this is why I don't like to talk about the past a whole lot. I tried to quit once the summer was over, but Mr. Fraudulent Businessman had a bigger and better job waiting for me...



Job #3 - Odd Jobs, Lawnmowing In Neighborhood.
Length Of Service - 1996
Salary - $10/lawn.

Freshly dumped and living with an aforementioned fraudulent businessman, I did what any teenager with dignity would do. I took my shirt off, put on some cut-off shorts, cried and mowed lawns all day. I mowed my Grandparent's lawn, the lawn at the Post Office where my Mother worked at the time, along with the lawns up and down my street in Appleton, Wisconsin.

We lived on a street full of duplexes in Appleton, next to a Hmong family of about 29, and a sad, single woman who used to watch me when I went rollerblading. Once, one of the Hmong girls broke her arm in front of my place. Before the ambulance got there, I took a good look at it and it was shaped like the letter 'S'. I almost threw up. Another time, I was selling pizzas for school, and I knocked on the sad single woman's door. She answered wearing a towel, and I thought it was the coolest thing I had ever seen up to that point. Way better than the broken arm. Let's get back to the story.

The first two lawns in question used a push-mower, but the neighborhood job allowed me to use a monolithic Golf Course-sized mower (see photo). I was given approximately 10 seconds of instruction on how to use the thing, then I was left on my own to handle about 60 acres of grass. Within 5 minutes, I had gone right over the top of someone's brand-new baby tree (with them watching me, I might add), and within 10 minutes, I took a hard turn and crashed right through the fence separating the backyards from the busy highway. All true. I again got to quit once my Mother wised up and we moved out of the city...



Job #4 - Cleaning The Steerhead Saloon.
Length Of Service - 1997
Salary - $20/day.

Back in my hometown, I started working for my Dad at the bar he owned. (Doesn't this all just SCREAM 'Wisconsin!' to you? I can't wait for Sufjan Stevens' take on the dairy state.) As it was, he also set aside the family farming business for a life of booze peddling. He needed someone besides himself to make sure the bar was in pristine condition before 8am, so it could turn into a vomit-soaked nightmare by 2am. Every early morning during the summer, I would bike a mile to the bar and get a move on.

Clearly, cleaning up a redneck bar is one of the filthiest jobs you can imagine. Stocking the coolers, wiping things down and scraping ashtrays is one thing. But scrubbing toilets and mopping up is yet another. Any and every bodily fluid was located in the bathrooms. Blood and teeth were mopped up on the dance floor. Ashtrays has spit in them. Everything was sticky. I damn near had a breakdown every morning. I took to making myself drinks and stealing quarters to play pool just to make the job seem worthwhile.

I didn't want to do the job anymore, but it was hard to tell my Dad that I didn't want to work for him anymore. Instead, I just started doing a progressively worse and worse job until he started to get angry. Every morning, I would plead with him to fire me, but he knew that would mean having to clean the bar himself. Eventually, we worked out a compromise...



Job #5 - Bartending At The Steerhead Saloon.
Length Of Service - 1998
Salary - Maybe $50 a week, tops.

My Dad was known for making borderline illegal business decisions, and hiring his 16 year old son to bartend seemed to be one of those choices. In fact, there's no 'borderline' about it. He needed some additional help during football season, and he didn't want to have to pay anyone anything, so I was on the top of the list, throwing caution and child labor laws to the wind.

When you work in retail, there's a line of people who all need service. You help the people by who's next in line, and that works pretty well. When you bartend, there is no line, just 50 drunks waving empty glasses at you. Learning to make the drinks was hard; learning to assert myself around these people was much harder. Fights would break out. Vomiting was a nightly occurrence. Breasts that were never meant to be seen again were seen by all. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and by age 16, I was freakin' Superman.

I took in next to nothing in tips, despite being the youngest bartender in the nation. I had to quit after the stress started messing with me, and the football season was over. I certainly didn't want to end up like the people I saw there every night, so I jumped ship and went looking for work in the city...



Job #6 - Movie Theater Usher For One Day.
Length Of Service - 1998
Salary - $0.00 & One Free Movie.

I got hooked up to this job by a friend at school who worked there. I didn't really want it, but anything was better than bartending. Besides, if I couldn't find anything different, I would be right back at the Steerhead Saloon. My opinion was that cleaning a filthy theater was still worlds better than cleaning up a backwoods tavern.

The interview/training was unlike anything I've been a part of. It was basically 2 hours of training tapes about how movie theaters make 100% of their revenue through concessions, and that I needed to sell tons of them at all costs. Tickets meant nothing, and nobody cared who snuck in, as long as I moved product. I was offered the job, and accepted. I then spent the rest of the night taking in the luxury of a free movie, which was the Gus Van Sant remake of Psycho, arguably one of the worst movies ever made. I was fitted for a sexy usher's outfit, and was all set to return the next week.

Problem number one came up because I didn't have my own car. Borrowing my Mom's car every day for work just wasn't going to fly, and I didn't have money to buy my own. Of course, nobody around me had any money, either. Problem number two (the closer) came when I found out that I had to work on Christmas day, which is a big day for losers to go to the movies and celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ with a Jennifer Aniston flick. I quit over the phone, and sent the usher's outfit back with the friend that got me the job in the first place. Dejected, I hung my head low and looked for something closer to home...



Job #7 - Clerk At A Hardware Store.
Length Of Service - 1999/2002
Salary - $6.25/hr, tops.

The Larsen Co-Op was right across the street from the Steerhead Saloon, so I didn't make it quite as far away as I wanted to. They were opening a new hardware store, and needed a nerd to run computers and make sure nothing blew up. My Mom got me the job, as she worked at the Post Office that was also right across the street from the Steerhead (Yeah, I'm from one of those towns).

For the next four years, through high school graduation and right up until I left for college in Madison, I wasted away there. You've read some of my accounts of the place in the past, and I honestly think I could write an entertaining novel about the stretch of time I was there. Things exploded, people died, sexual harassment was rampant, a 17-year old was having an affair with a married man with a hook for an arm. The rotten underbelly of Anytown, USA was alive and well in Larsen, Wisconsin. I lived on a steady diet of candy bars, Mountain Dew and microwavable hamburgers until I was 20.

I worked 13 days on, 1 day off, full-time after graduation, year-round. Seriously, I put a lot into that job. I was able to buy my first two cars because of the job, and have a steady, bill-free income to spend on the future Missus. In terms of expendable income, I'll never have another job that comes close to what I had there. I left there in the summer of 2002, and I haven't set foot inside since...



Job #8 - College Student.
Length Of Service - 2002/2004
Salary - $22,000 debt; out of pocket.

I consider being a college student a job. Who wouldn't? Following a long line of doing things for myself because I had to, I bought myself another reliable automobile, got a tiny apartment with the Missus, and wrote a hefty check for a two-year music, sound and business program in Madison. Sometimes I went to classes. Sometimes, I slept until noon and never wore pants. Sometimes I went to classes without pants.

I did well. Very well, in fact. I got to learn a ton about music and music business, produced a few albums on the amazing equipment the school had to offer, and eventually got some writing work based on my degree. Sure, I'll be paying off the loans for the rest of my life (6 figures after interest), but what else could I do? The big city was calling, and I'm not down with suckling on the Government's (or anyone's) withered teat. I was getting sick of people thinking I was spoiled or lazy (based on what you know about me now, does that honestly sound anything like me?), and I had been taking care of myself for this long, so I have no regrets in the matter. The best way to handle things is to do them yourself, and there was no way in hell I was going to stay at the hardware store for another year.

I don't really talk about the college thing much, mainly because it was kind of a blur and it's not incredibly exciting to anyone but tech nerds like myself. The most important part of those two years were me and the Missus adjusting to roommate and independent life. We pulled it off without a hitch, and that's so much more important than my silly degree. Eventually, the loans started to take their toll and the Missus wasn't bringing in enough cash for our lavish lifestyle, so I used my charm and zero office experience to land a position at the State level...



Job #9 - Receptionist/Mailroom At State DRL.
Length Of Service - 2004/2005
Salary - Dude, I worked in a mailroom. You figure it out.

In trying to get into state service, I blew a ton of interviews before getting the formula down right. One particular interview had me sitting bleary-eyed and delirious in front of a room full of suits. They asked me what my biggest flaw was, and I scoffed and murmured, "Modesty." They got my ass outta there pretty quick. Eventually, my current office hired me and I started on the ground floor, answering phones and opening mail all day.

Don't get me wrong, it was a nice enough job. It's just that I'm not built to answer 300 phone calls per 8-hour day. I don't like talking on the phone, although I was decent enough at it. Usually I did mailroom stuff, which allowed me to meet a lot of the higher-ups and establish contacts. People started to notice how efficiently and super-awesomely I got work done, and supervisors started fighting over me. Everyone, including myself, wanted me doing a job where I could use my brain and make decisions.

After a year of this, I interviewed for, and was offered a few higher-paying jobs downtown. I was loyal to my office, however, and played hardball for a job that I wanted in-house. Eventually, the bargaining paid off, and I took the position in the Examination Office that I hold to this day...



Job #10 - Exam Administrator At State DRL.
Length Of Service - 2005/?
Salary - Just enough to not have to burn my cats for warmth.

Well, here we are. This was the State job that I fought for, and I'm settling in quite nicely. For the time being, it will pay the bills and keep the household happy. I've talked about this before, but basically I work with state testing for professional licensing. Doctors, Chiropractors, Real Estate Agents, Engineers, Nurses, Accountants, almost anything that you pay someone else to do for you, they go through me.

I keep quiet in my corner cubicle, bringing in another toy from the rumpus room every day for flair. The crew here is good, and my Exam Office only has 4 other employees, so that rules. I work under an 'Examination Specialist' that's on the verge of retirement, so if they decide I'm game to take his place, I can look forward to a salary of about $50,000 a year. Truth be told, I probably wouldn't take it even if they asked me. My job is stressful enough as is; I don't need the damn Governor and about 10 TV stations yelling at me because a serial killer got issued a Medical license.

We had a big Medical Board hearing here several months ago in the matter of a Doctor who sexually abused patients and colleagues. He was also an honest-to-God midget. When I got to work, there were protesters and news crews everywhere, waving signs and blocking the doorway. After the hearing was over, the midget in question was drowning in microphones and lawyers, and he started freaking the hell out. He was pushing people around and shouting obscenities. Some days here are better than others.

So, what have we learned about me? Well, I'm not all that lazy. In fact, I'm very goal-driven and task-oriented. I've had a lot of crappy jobs, most of which foreshadow equally crappy life experiences. My autobiography is a best-seller that doesn't exist yet, and I can't trust anyone else to take care of me but myself. I'm not a professional writer yet, but maybe it's better that way.

What have I learned about life? Well, I learned that Golf Course mowers need experienced drivers behind the wheel. Babe Winkleman is a fraud. A good way to die is to work on a farm. A good way to die inside is to work at a bar. All siding salesmen are terrible people. You can sneak into movies without getting into trouble, provided you buy some popcorn. Small towns are just as seedy as huge ones, if not seedier. College isn't so bad, and Hmongs have brittle bones. Those are rules to live by, people.

So, what will be Job #11 on the list?

Bikini Inspector, God willing.

"Where's My Promotion?"
(Originally published 06-11-05.)



A couple weeks ago, a customer came in to work, telling me how much my office reminded her of "The Office". Maybe she was right.

At work yesterday, I was cornered in the hallway by the frantic administrator of the Wisconsin Real Estate Board. He looked like he was in a hurry, and this somehow involved me.

“Quick, I need you to make a snap decision for me.” He said, waving his arms around.

But, here’s the thing. I misheard him, and thought that he said “snack” decision. It didn’t register that this important person would need my opinion on anything vital, so I just figured it concerned food. I mean, why would my input be necessary concerning laws or statutes? My best guess was that there was a Zagnut and a Milky Way staring back at him from behind the plexi-glass in the machine, and he needed me to break the tie.

“Sure!” I shot back to him. “What are you hungry for?”

His eyes narrowed. Then they got very wide, as he cocked his head to the side in a futile attempt to make sense of my folly.

“What?” He squeaked.

“What?” I deadpanned back to him.

“Um…I’m going to go and get Bill’s opinion on this.” He said, slowly making his way around me in the hallway and eventually out of sight, leaving me to wonder where I went wrong. Later, I asked “Bill” what was up, and that’s when the full force of my stupidity struck me like a concrete watermelon.

I’m an idiot.

On the bright side, I made it through another day without having to make any actual decisions. Perhaps I should respond this way to every query I get at work.

“Hey CDP, can you get these forms done by lunch?”

“Sure thing, are you in the mood for something salty?”

(Long pause)

“Um…you know what? I think I’ll go ahead and take care of those forms myself. Thanks anyway, though.”

“You betcha.”

"The Bit."
(Originally published 02-15-06.)



For most of my life, people have told me I should do stand-up comedy. This is due in part to the fact that not only am I good looking, but also insanely funny. So funny, in fact, that I should be allowed to talk into a microphone on an illuminated stage, thus proving that my jokes are more important and thought out than yours. It's the only real way to separate the contenders from the pretenders.

The thing is, my public speaking woes have all but destroyed these dreams, leaving me to wonder what might have been. Also, I'm pretty pale, so when those stage lights hit me, I disappear completely from sight. To those in attendance, it would look as if a radiant, heavenly glow was standing behind a microphone, talking at length about airplane food and fanny packs.

Nevertheless, I often fantasize what my routine would consist of, and how it would be received....



MC: All right, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming out to Open Mic night here at the Ha-Ha Hut. Let's all give a warm welcome to a young man making his first stand-up appearance ever. Here he is, the CDP!

(Polite applause from friends and family, pompous silence from locals and other comics. Brief camera flash as my mom takes a picture. I take the stage sporting a fake moustache and briefcase, and pull the mic from the stand.)

CDP: Thank you. Thank you very much. I appreciate it.

Well, it's great to be here in (name of city); I took a walk downtown this morning. Hey, did you ever notice that the homeless guys always make you feel bad for not giving them money?

(Very light applause, somone in the back says 'yeah!')

It's like, excuse me, buddy, but it's not my fault that you were drafted in Vietnam, right? I mean, it's not my fault that you were spit on when you returned, and your wife and kids up and left you without a dime. It's not my fault that you took shrapnel to the head, so you can't hold down a decent job. I mean, come on!

(Crowd is stunned. My mom claps twice before she's restrained by my sister.)

...Okay.

Well, nevermind. I'm just kidding the homeless. They're good people. Some of my best friends are homeless. It's not like there's any homeless people in the crowd tonight. Shopping carts aren't allowed in the club.

(Muffled laughter from the back.)

So, like I was saying, I was walking around downtown this morning, and I went to McDonalds for breakfast. I had an Egg McMuffin. Have you ever seen these things, these Egg McMuffins?

HECKLER: No!

CDP: You've never seen an Egg McMuffin before, Sir? Well, they take ham, cheese and eggs, and-

HECKLER: Not funny!

CDP: You got that right, it ain't funny. Instead of Egg McMuffin, they should call it a 'Dead...Mc...Dead.....Dead.'

(One person laughs really hard. The sweat from my upper lip causes my fake moustache to go limp on one side.)

CDP: And what's the deal with Ronald McDonald? If you ask me, I think there's something going on between him and the Hamburglar. Am I right, people?

(Slight chuckle from young ladies in front row.)

Like, I think they might be re-routing donation funds from the Ronald McDonald house to support their prostitute and meth habits.

(Crowd gasps. Two women in the front get up and leave.)

CDP: Oh, don't act like you weren't thinking it!

HECKLER: I think you suck!

CDP: Fair enough. Now, who's up for some impressions?

(Crowd groans as three more people get up and leave, including the Missus. I try to get my moustache to stick back on, but it's hanging by a soaking wet thread.)

CDP: Okay, this is my impression of the President.

HECKLER: This is my impression of your mom!

CDP: You don't even know my mom!

HECKLER: You idiot! I'm your dad!

(My dad throws money onto the table for the waitress and storms out of the club in a huff.)

HECKLER/DAD: This guy sucks!

CDP: Um...let's give it up for my dad, everybody!

(Nobody claps, not even my mom. Moustache finally falls off.)

CDP: Okay, what was I going to do now? Oh yeah, my impression of the Hamburglar.

(Reach into suitcase and put on bandit-style Hamburglar mask. The elastic band snaps, and I'm forced to hold it over my eyes with my left hand, while holding the mic with my right.)

CDP: My fellow Americans, this is your president, George-

(Varied groans.)

NEW HECKLER: OH, COME ON!

CDP: What?

NEW HECKLER: YOU'RE WEARING THE GODDAMN HAMBURGLAR MASK!

CDP: Oh, that's right. Robble-Robble!

(Remaining crowd begins to boo loudly.)

CDP: (Still doing Hamburglar voice) Come on, Ronald! We don't need these people. Let's go smoke crack in front of some sick kids!

(Coasters begin to whiz past my head. In the distance, I hear the sound of a shotgun cocking.)
MY MOM: I HATE YOU! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! (Gets up and leaves.)

CDP: ...So anyways, I was at the grocery store the other day, when-

(50-pound stage light suddenly comes loose and lands on my head. Microphone, mask, suitcase and myself hit the floor in a heap. Silence and shock engulfs the crowd.)

NEW HECKLER: ...Woah...what a finale. (Starts clapping.)

(Suddenly, the whole club begins to applaud and cheer, standing up and hollering for an encore.)

OVERHEARD IN AUDIENCE: You know, I didn't really 'get' what he was doing until the very end. That bit with the stage light was brilliant.

WOMAN WEARING SCARF AND HORN-RIM GLASSES: Oh, I know! What a great performance artist. He's symbolizing the death of the traditional 'stand-up' comedian. And that thing he did with his 'dad,' genius!

HONEST-TO-GOD GROWN MAN WEARING DEPECHE MODE SHIRT: Amazing. I wonder if he'll do a second show.

(I'm still on the ground, completely and totally unconscious. An audience member picks the fake moustache off of the floor as a souvenir. Eventually, I'm taken to the hospital by club staff, where I'm treated for massive blunt-force trauma. The very next day, I'm offered a $50 million deal with Comedy Central. Fake moustache from first show ends up selling on Ebay for $8,000.)

Hmmm. Maybe I will try stand-up someday.

"Harry Potter - The IMAX Experience."
(Originally published 01-03-06.)



I took the Friday before Christmas off, in lieu of some last-minute shopping and packing for the trip home. One of my errands that day was to run to the other side of Madison to pick up a gift certificate from The Exclusive Company, one of the better independent record stores in Wisconsin. At about 10am (after SportsCenter and a bowl of Clusters), I hit the road.

The trek to the other side of the city takes at least an hour, round-trip. I had to make this journey alone and without a CD player, as mine was on the fritz due to a massive wiring short in my car. I would later find out from my Father-in-law that it was merely a blown fuse, and it took less than 8 seconds and 25 cents to remedy the situation. I bet he worries about his daughter constantly when he's not around, and I really don't blame him.

I spent most of the trip singing out loud to myself and drumming on the steering wheel. That morning was particularly frigid, so my voice shivered off-key. It was then that I found out I do a very good Bright Eyes impression when the circumstances are right. I made a mental note of it and focused on the road.

Just then, my eyes caught a glimpse of a huge billboard on the eastbound side of the beltline. It was an ad for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I took the Missus to see 'The Gobb' the day it came out, for which she was pleased, but this billboard was a little different. They were going to be showing 'Gobb' at the only IMAX theater in the county.

This represented a moral dilemma in my eyes. Do I tell the Missus that she has the rare opportunity to watch a 4-story-tall Rupert Grint make dumbass faces into the camera for 150 minutes? Or do I keep my fool mouth shut, confident that she's content in just seeing 'Gobb-Gobb' on the little-big screen once in her lifetime.

I gave in and spilled the beans just as quickly as I could, and before you know it, I was attending the 7pm showing of 'Gobble-Gobble' at the Fitchburg IMAX-itorium.



I had never been to an IMAX theater before; presumably because my Mother was afraid of them. The Missus, on the other hand, was an IMAX aficionado, hitting screens from here to Vegas in her short 22 years on the planet. She gave me a briefing before we got there, just so I didn't puke the instant I entered the theatre.

The show was sold out, which always spells trouble for any paranoid neurotic. To me, there's nothing worse than a sold-out kids movie that's also appreciated by college-aged nerds. It's almost like they're in a heated battle royale to see who can annoy me the fastest. Fortunately, I have the jump on them, as I get annoyed minutes before my ticket is even ripped.

If you've never been to an IMAX theater, imagine a film being projected off of the Washington Monument, while pressing your nose against the first-floor elevator. Oh, and since the action is super-sized, so are the prices. Two tickets to 'Gobble-Tron' ran us $22.50. Throw in a large popcorn, two sodas and some Junior Mints for yours truly, and we're talking close to $40. Add that to the fact that we've already seen this movie once before, and we've pretty much given $75 to the 'Robble-Robble' film franchise.

Before I get into the actual IMAX film-watching experience, I want to share my thoughts with you concerning the movie theatre itself. By following by 10 simple rules, movie theaters can be a much more rewarding and memorable experience for all the right reasons. I like to call it:

"Shut The Damn Hell Up And Sit Perfectly Still: Movie Theatre Etiquette."



#1 - Charge more for tickets. Double the price, I don't care. Kids and adults alike are going to movies without any intention of even watching them. If tickets were $25 apiece, less fools would show up, and only those who really cared would be in attendance. This would bring more film lovers out of the woodwork to pick up the slack, and the industry wouldn't miss a beat. There are already high-class theatres across the nation that are having much success with this formula.

#2 - With the aforementioned jack in ticket prices, they can do more to make the theatre a comfortable place. Wider lanes, comfier seats and a larger menu could all boost profits. Put in a vertical row every 5 chairs, so losers who can't hold their urine aren't always stepping on your feet and getting in the way. Install tray tables and serve pizza, burgers and fries; they're quiet foods to eat, and nobody will think of hurling them at others, because they will cost $18 each. Again, some theatres are already doing quite well with this shift in consumerism.

#3 - At showtime, the doors lock. Nobody can get in and nobody can get out. If you have to whiz or grab a bag of Goobers, you can leave, but will not be permitted back into the theatre. Screw the 'vertical row every 5 chairs' business, because once you sit, you're not standing until the credits roll.

#4 - If someone 'reserves' a row of chairs by placing personal goods on them, such as coats or concessions, you are allowed to not only take their chairs, but you may also help yourself to their things. In the real world, the concept of 'savie-savie' is strictly forbidden and stupid, and for all intents and purposes should be punishable by death.

#5 - If you applaud or cheer for a trailer or the start of the film, you will be asked to vacate the premises. Your ticket will not be refunded.

#6 - Each chair will be equipped with a motion and audio sensor that measures how many times you shift, talk, stand up or kick the chair in front of you during the course of a film. If you exceed the set number of parameters for your specific chair, it will explode.

#7 - Before entering a theatre, your picture will be taken and electronically linked to your ticket stub, which you will swipe on the armrest of your chosen seat. If you decide to switch seats, talk, answer your phone, or do anything that will otherwise disrupt the experience of those around you, the movie will instantly stop and be replaced by the picture of you. The viewing audience will then have the option to ask you to leave or make your chair explode, depending on the majority vote. They will then be provided with your license plate information and home phone number.

#8 - The MPAA will alter its rating system based on demographics. G,PG,PG-13,R and NC-17 shall now be included with 'Everyone under 21' and 'Everyone over 21.' This will give viewers the luxury to not have to see the film in the company of children or teenagers, or vice-versa.

Parents may accompany their children if they are under 13, and alcohol will be served at 'Everyone over 21' shows. Beer will cost $13 a bottle.

#9 - If you are under 13, you will buckled into your seat. If you are over 13 and can't sit still, your chair will explode (see previous rules on chair explosion).

#10 - In between each chair, optional dividers will be provided, much like those used on Jeopardy.

If cinemas would start adapting just a few of these rules into their gameplan, I'm sure they would notice an immediate change in sales and morale.



We were sitting in a row just behind 7 children all under the age of 5, accompanied by adults who were louder than the kids were. To the left of us, a young couple who fell asleep in each others arms 30 minutes in, and to the right of us were three of the loudest college nerds I've ever seen.

These grown men and women were going on about how cool it would be if theatres introduced 'Smell-O-Vision' into the viewing experience. They were talking as if they had come up with a radical new idea, while the Missus kept muttering, "Polyester! John Waters already did it with Polyester in 1980! Aaauugh!!!"

(For the record, John Waters used 'Odorama' as an homage to 'The Scent of Mystery,' a 60's movie that is to this day the only 'Smell-O-Vision' feature in existence. Now you know.)

The best thing about the IMAX is that once the movie starts, it's deafening. Nobody can talk, because you can't even hear yourself think. I remember the usher saying something about 12,000 watts of power, which is large enough to run a small radio station if my math is correct. Sadly, once you get over the fact that the screen is really, really big, it just becomes another movie. Watching 'Gobb-O-Matic 5000' was nice even the second time around, and when the film was over, I was in a much better mood than when it started. I don't know if this had to do with the experience itself, or the fact that I was now stone deaf and blind.

In conclusion, watching a movie on an IMAX screen that's not made specifically for an IMAX screen (like space exploration or natural disaster documentaries), is nothing too special.

However, during the bathtub scene, Harry's nipples were the size of doorknobs, so we all had that going for us.

"Let's Go To The Mall."
(Originally published 11-13-05.)



We're all probably several weeks away from starting our Christmas shopping this year, but I'm fairly certain that I'm already sick of the mall.

This happens to me every year, without fail. I've never been a huge fan of the mall; not when I was a kid, not even when I was a teenager. To me, the mall is like High School with cash registers. Everyone is better looking than you, everyone has more money than you, everyone is more in tune to what's popular at the moment, and everyone's in your way.

This weekend, me and the Missus went to the mall in Madison so she could pick up some new clothes. I was in the mood for a bit of a buying frenzy myself, as I've had an awful week and spending hard-earned money always seems to cheer me up.

When we go shopping together, I can circumnavigate an entire store in about 15 seconds. It doesn't take me long to see that they have nothing that I want. This is due to the fact that women shop and men buy. This doesn't sit too well with the Missus, who now has to entertain me while I peer over her shoulder, bored and ready to go home. The remedy for this was simple; we split up and meet at a neutral location at a set time. I'm not allowed to bother her until this set time, no exceptions. This gives her plenty of time to look for important things that she needs, and it gives me plenty of time to drink an Orange Julius and fall asleep on a bench.

We gave each other a couple hours, entered the mall and went our separate ways. You should know that it's not wise to have me go shopping alone. I always end up buying things that I don't need, purely out of boredom. It's the equivalent of grocery shopping on an empty stomach. You get home, and you start to question why you purchased a metric ton of Gummi Worms and an entire bag of Carnation Instant Breakfast. Had you eaten before you shopped, you would have bought only what you needed, and if you hadn't gone to the mall in a bad mood, you might still have money in your checking account once you got home. It's a bad recipe.

So, the Missus ran off to get her clothes, and I stood in the main corridor of the bustling mall, already wanting to kill anyone within a foot of me. Allow me to break down a few specific things that put me in thy murderous mood:



1. The Christmas Season Starts On November 1.

The very second that the last shopper leaves the mall on Halloween night, they lock the doors and transform the place into Christmas Towne. Every song over the PA becomes a carol, Santa poses for pictures in front of non-denominational slogans (Happy Holidays! Merry Winter!), and fake snow covers the isles, although we won't get snow until late December. The Mall Christmas Season is almost 60 days long now, which is almost the length of an actual season. Weather I like it or not, the mall has violently thrust me into a holiday buying frenzy. Apparently, Thanksgiving isn't much of a spending holiday, so malls are in the habit of pretending that it doesn't exist.

2. When I Walk Into The Arcade, I'm The Only Person Who Speaks English.

Now, I know for a fact that Caucasians like video games. I'm absolutely sure of it. However, every single time I step into a local arcade, I'm instantly surrounded by men of all ethnicities but mine, sporting shaved heads, impossibly baggy clothing and 8 year old girlfriends. Even though I know for a fact that I won't play anything at the arcade, I always seem to find myself in one every time I go to the mall.

I consider it a carry-over from my childhood. Something always tells me that I'll find something fun to do in there, even though I never, EVER do. It always ends with me playing a game of Tekken with some Hmong kid that destroys me in a 4 second barrage of button mashing. Well, that was a blast. I specifically don't carry change on me anymore just so I don't feel tempted to enter arcades at the age of 23. Especially after I found out that I enjoy Dance Dance Revolution.

3. XXXL or XXXXL?

Women complain because there's nothing at the mall that's big enough for them. Most men complain that there's nothing at the mall small enough for them. Who gets the shorter end of the stick? Men do. In a mall that has 89% of their apparel geared towards women, they can always find at least something they'll be happy with. Me, I've seen 3 stores that carry small shirts for men. If you're not a 7 foot 9 male that weighs 1400 pounds, you won't find a shirt that fits unless you ask someone to dig around in the back for you.

When it comes to men's shirts, I'm a size small. On a bet, go looking for a shirt in a size small that's not the gayest thing you've ever seen. I dare you. People wonder why I wear nothing but black t-shirts and goofy sweaters. It's all I can find! Believe me, if I could put on 80 pounds, I would. Until then, please put some small-sized shirts on the rack. Small-chested American boys thank you.

The only places I can get small shirts that don't outright suck are Target, Express and the Gap, and even that's a stretch. Sure, there are other stores that carry small shirts for men, but I'd prefer not to wear a shirt that advertises the store's logo in GIANT LETTERS ON THE FRONT OF MY SHIRT. If I wanted to be a billboard, I would have sold space on my forehead to Golden Palace.com long ago. Keep your logos off of my clothes, and I'll stop messing up your carefully folded garments.

4. Kiosks Ahoy!

Don't buy stuff from kiosks. They are of poor quality and they are being sold by pushy foreigners who are on the run from the law. They stand in your way when you try to walk into actual stores, and they spray you with horrid fragrances and splort body lotion into your palms. 'Nuff said.

Kiosks are much like those little shops that you see in airports. Like Jerry Seinfeld says, "Do these people have any idea what the prices are everywhere else in the world? Tuna sandwich? Eighteen dollars. Tuna is very rare here." I once saw a board game for sale at a kiosk that was twice as expensive as the same game in the store right across from it. That's stunningly arrogant, and just bad business.

5. Don't Buy Books Or Music From Barnes & Noble.

Barnes & Noble is a cool place, seriously. They have a huge selection of books, a decent CD collection that rivals most chain stores, and a Starbucks in the lobby. The atmosphere makes you feel smarter and more sophisticated almost instantly. Problem is, you shouldn't ever buy anything there.

First off, the books are overpriced. Chances are, if you can find a book at Barnes & Noble, you can find it at Waldenbooks for cheaper. Remember Waldenbooks? That's the smaller book store at the other end of the mall that's going out of business because of Barnes & Noble. Give them a try someday, their employees are very friendly and lonely. They could use the company.

The music is INSANELY overpriced. They're one of the few stores on the planet that still sells albums for $19.99. I was looking at the new Fischerspooner album there, and it was $17.99 for 10 tracks. No, thank you. If shopping for albums at chain stores is in your wheelhouse, you'd be much better suited looking at Best Buy. There's always a Best Buy within 5 minutes of a Barnes & Noble, the prices are cheaper and they have a better selection. Besides, you should be supporting your local independent record store anyways.

Starbucks? Are you serious? What year is this? When at the mall, go to Gloria Jeans. They're the coffee shoppe on the other side of the mall that's going out of business because of Starbucks. They have a better selection, they are cheaper and the store smells really good. Besides, caffeine is no longer hip. Meth is making a huge comeback, so hop on that train while you still can.

6. Wing Stores Suck.

JC Penney, Macys, Bloomingdales, Boston Store, Younkers, Sears. For all the floor space they gobble up, you'd think they'd have something there you'd want. I could count up all the things I've purchased at wing stores on a one-fingered guy's hand. Too much variety is a bad thing, because then you miss out on the specialty stuff that sets you apart from other stores. When you lose variety, you become stale and people go elsewhere. If you think I'm full of it, there's plenty of unemployed Sam Goody salespeople who would like to have a word with you.

7. The Food Court Is The Most Depressing Place On Earth.

My God. If you've ever felt suicidal, but needed that one last push to justify your actions, look no further than your local food court. There, you will find society in various stages of mental, physical and social decay. Allow me to flashback you to a line from my last rant about the mall:

I don't like the crowds of kids that congregate at the Food Court and never buy anything. I'm just trying to get my Julius Smoothie and hit the road, and some kid who's barely visible through his massive sea of giant, baggy clothes is in my way and not moving. Hey kid, 1997 called and they want their raver pants back.

Whenever I find myself watching people at the food court, I get quite philosophical. I start to wonder if I'll be sitting in this same uncomfortable chair when I'm 80, sucking on the same hot chocolate and becoming part of the sorry mob I see before me. I begin to wonder if this is all there is to life. Showing up at the mall, spending money on things that don't matter and listening to Christmas carols in early November. It's usually at this time that the Missus shows up with a bag of clothes and a big smile, and things start to make sense again.



We can't leave fast enough, but you can bet we'll be there again next weekend. Merry Holidays.

"Razor Burn."
(Originally published 12-11-05.)

I was having a discussion with a co-worker about beards the other day (who am I kidding, I was talking to myself over my lunch break). We (I) came to the conclusion that there were really only 10 good reasons for growing facial hair of any kind. I thought I could take a moment to explain these to you, in a segment I'm calling:

Know Your Beards.

You may be wondering to yourself, "Only 10 good reasons for growing a beard and/or moustache? You're sky-high on the meth!" Truth is that I am sky-high (on life), but I'm still right. Let's get started.



Beard #1 - The Winter Beard.

The Winter beard could be considered the most important type of beard, because it actually serves a purpose. In this case, a thick layer of fur is grown in order to survive the bitterly cold elements, traditionally used in the Midwest and Canada. Winter beards serve no fashionable purpose, although these hunters and lumberjacks did receive a lot of unwanted company when grunge was big. (See: Shackleton, Hemmingway, Red Green)



Beard #2 - The Beard Of Shame.

The Beard of Shame usually surfaces on men after a breakup or divorce. This is due in part to the combination of reclaiming one's manhood mixed with the crippling depression of a hardcore dumping. The wearer of the beard thinks that they are making an independent statement with said beard, but appear even more dejected and alone than if they had just shaved in the first place. (See: Any recently-dumped man with enough testosterone to grow facial hair, Ben Affleck)



Beard #3 - The First Beard.

When a young man starts to notice hair growing in places that it previously didn't, he gets scared and excited. This presents the youth with the first of many puberty-related decisions. To shave or not to shave? To start showering more than once a month or risk losing friends?

Usually, young men allow their facial hair to grow until a friend makes fun of them, or until they work up the nerve to ask their Fathers to teach them how to shave. (See: Any and every Middle and High School in the nation, women who can't help it if their hormones are messed up)



Beard #4 - The Emo Beard.

The blazer, the scarf, the black-framed glasses and the scruffy beard. This is the emo look for winter, and the man in the picture has it down pat. Emo beards exist as another way for men to impress women, this time to appear even sadder and more world-weary than while smooth-faced. The illusion of the Emo beard is to convince people you do something other than read People magazine and eat Kix all day. (See: 41% of all male college students, that one kid on the High School drama club that turned out to be gay anyways)



Beard #5 - The Molester Beard.

While this is technically a moustache (the moustache of former Green Bay Packers coach Mike Holmgren, to be exact), the Molester beard is a tricky one. In this case, the facial hair exists to assume some sort of dominance over whoever it is you would like to intimidate. On the bright side, molesters can be spotted from miles away while they sport these things; it's like a tracking device that they don't even know they're wearing. (See: Domineering fathers, men on trial for sexual harassment, priests and Mormon dads)



Beard #6 - The Funny Beard.

Woo-hoo! It is so awesome to have a beard! The Funny beard is a personal favorite, in that it turns the wearer of the beard into a willing punchline for a social joke. People who sport funny beards do so because they know it's funny, making them funny as well. Funny beards don't normally look good, but that's the point. In doing this, the Funny beard makes fun of those who sport serious beards. (See: My Name Is Earl, Salvador Dali, Benjamin Jenkel, I hope)



Beard #7 - The Youth Minister Beard.

This is funny because it's true. I did a Google Image Search for "Youth Minister" and up popped 15 pages of guys with this goatee. Most youth Ministers are really nice guys who try to spread their message while remaining open and hip with today's youth. I don't know why they think the goatee is a good way to do this, but I guess it's up to them. Other youth Ministers shave their heads to draw more attention to the goatee, making them look like they should be the frontman for a Christian ska band. (See: Your local youth Minister, the O.C. Supertones)



Beard #8 - The Porn Star Beard.

I knew better than to go looking for pictures of porn stars with moustaches, so I'm putting up a picture of this old-timey guy instead. This is a staple of the adult film industry, most notably in the 70's, but even going as far back as when this guy was alive. Come to think of it, he probably is a porn star. I wonder what his stage name was. Mine is "Jasper Sauby." (See: The roped-off section in the back of Family Video)

(Note: If you don't know how to figure out your Porn Star name, take the name of your first pet and combine it with the street that you grew up on. Again, I'm Jasper Sauby.)



Beard #9 - The Spite Beard.

I believe that the spite beard was invented by yours truly. In fact, that's me in the photo, straight rocking the phase one beard (phase two to never follow). A Spite beard is grown for the sole purpose of showing your significant other that you are still in charge of your body, and can do whatever you want. It's like a married version of the Beard of Shame. In my case, the Missus forbid me from growing one, so I unplugged the razor and let it grow for a week. In a radical display of reverse psychology, she took a shining to it, which frightened me and caused the subsequent shaving of it. She won again, mainly because she's smarter than me and knows what's best for my well-being. It was still a cool beard, though. (See: Me)

(Note: It should be noted that I consider my beard to be a combination of every beard on the countdown. It's diverse like that.)



Beard #10 - Alex Trebek.

If you're Alex Trebek, you can do whatever the hell you want, and still rule. 'Nuff said. (See: Alex Trebek)

I hope you learned something today; I know I did. Sound off in the comments section, and tell me what your favorite beard is, along with your porn star name.

"Support Your Local Cat."
(Originally published 11-09-05.)



As promised yesterday, I wanted to give everyone a full update on Gabe. First, the back story.

If you don’t already know, Gabe is one of my two cats. If you’re a newlywed 20-something couple who lives in an apartment, it’s a prerequisite that you pick yourself up a couple of cats. Upon moving to Madison some years ago, that’s exactly what we did.

Gabe is a Blue Point Siamese male. Since we adopted him from the shelter, his exact age is unknown, although we have since figured him to be about 5 years old. When we saw him in the shelter, his ribs were sticking out from his chest and he looked quite underweight. Since then, we have him at an ideal weight for his breed and age.



He’s an amazing and intelligent feline. He runs down the stairs when you call him, jumping into your lap and purring without fail. He hasn’t bit or scratched a soul, regardless of what awful things we do to him. When the Missus enters the apartment complex after work, he can tell she’s home before I can. He recognizes the jingling of her keys, separating the sound from all of the other jingling keys he hears all day. He’s playful and wildly affectionate, relaxed and Zen, brilliant and resourceful. He’s pretty much the coolest cat I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen thousands.

Gabe is a needy soul. He’ll cry when he’s not around you, simply because he wants to be in your lap. He’s never annoying about it; he just lets you know that he misses you when you’re away. When you come home from work, he’s right at the door to greet you. He’d fetch me my slippers if I wore them. Most people that meet Gabe say the same thing, that he acts more like a dog than a cat. His loyalty rivals that of a Golden Retriever, only he doesn’t need to be walked and can whiz in the house. He doesn’t have an enemy in the world.



Gabe’s past, however, seems a bit more sordid. Apparently, he was seized from a house that was overrun with cats, which usually means poor health and disease. The fact that he came from a place like this and still maintains his temperament is a sight to behold. It’s as if he’s making a decision every morning to be nice to everyone he meets. Not to mention, he’s a beautiful specimen. He keeps his coat smooth and well-groomed, sometimes spending hours on a rigid cleaning routine. At first glance, he may appear intimidating and stoic, but instantly becomes your new best friend. He has the prettiest eyes I've ever seen on a non-human.

When we brought him home a couple of years ago, we already had a Siamese female in the house. When she initially rejected his company, rather than fight back, he anxiously chewed the fur off of his feet. Make no mistake about it, this is a cat that loves and wishes to be loved. Now, the two of them curl up on the couch together most every night.


(He looks upset because he has an ass pressed against his ribs.)

Keeping his past and breed in mind, it wasn’t a surprise that Gabe contracted a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). We first noticed it a couple of months ago when we saw that he had taken to whizzing in the Missus’ bathtub. When cats get a UTI, it hurts too much to pee in the litter box, so they try to find a smooth, cool surface, like the tub (I've been known to do this on occasion when the toilet gets too repetitive for me). We were all set to take him to the vet, when he made a full recovery. We considered ourselves lucky, and forgot about the whole thing.

What we didn’t know was that Gabe had kidney-stone like particles in his kidneys and bladder. Just because he passed the stone and got over the first hump didn’t mean that he’d pull it off every time. This reached a head on Monday morning.

The Missus had called in sick on Monday, as she was feeling awful from the weekend. By the time she woke up, Gabe was already howling outside of the bedroom door. When she opened up, a clearly frightened Gabe ran and hid under the bed, which is something that he never does. The Missus knew something was wrong, and tried to figure out what was up. Gabe was howling in pain and growling deeply, which was completely new for him. Not really knowing what to do, the Missus called me at work and filled me in. I told her to immediately call the vet and set up an appointment. I skipped out on work for the afternoon and raced home.

When I got there, the Missus was feeling rather helpless and scared, and Gabe was no better. He was still hiding in the bedroom, sitting in such a way that indicated that it was the only position that didn’t hurt him. We stuffed him into the crate and took him straight to the vet.

Gabe was in the vet’s office for no more than 30 seconds when we figured out what was wrong with him. As soon as the vet touched his tummy, he screamed in pain and hid under the chairs. “Your cat can’t pee,” the vet told us.

“This is an emergency situation that requires an immediate decision,” she told us. Cats can literally have their kidneys explode on them, killing them slowly and painfully, and Gabe was verging on this circumstance due to a severe blockage. A surgery needed to be conducted instantly, and the vet left the room to get us forms to sign.

For the few minutes me and the Missus were alone in the room together, we talked it over. Without question, we were going ahead with this operation, regardless of weather it meant we would have to live on cheese sandwiches for the rest of the year. The operation required for them to insert a catheter into Gabe’s bladder, working on removing the stones and allowing him to urinate on his own again. Apart from that, we needed a slew of antibiotics, special food and a lot of hope to make sure that he would be okay.

It should be noted at this point that if the Missus wouldn’t have called in sick that day, we would have come home to a dead cat. No question about it. Take from that what you will; I’m just giving you the facts.



We signed the papers and left the vet’s office. Several hours of waiting by the phone later, it finally rang. They did what they needed to do to him, the catheter was still inserted and he seemed to be doing as well as he could have. The thing with UTI’s is that the same thing could come back a week later. We’re hoping this doesn’t happen, but it’s very possible, and is another conversation for another time.

When Tuesday rolled around, we finally got a call from the vet’s office at 2:30pm. The catheter was removed; Gabe was urinating on his own and was ready to come home. We picked him up (along with a ton of medicine and food), gave the Sun Prairie Animal Hospital $500 for saving Gabe’s life, and settled him back into the house.

For the next two weeks, we have to force-feed him two different kinds of medication, feed him prescription food and put an ointment in his ears. If you’ve ever owned or been near a cat, you’ll understand why this will be almost certainly impossible, regardless of how nice they are. After two weeks, we’re taking him back in for a follow-up appointment, and scheduling him for a vigorous teeth cleaning. Remember the house overrun with cats that Gabe was rescued from? Apparently, the crazy cat woman didn’t believe in proper dental habits. Two of Gabe’s back teeth needed to be extracted, barely hanging from the sockets to begin with.

Don’t believe me? I saved the teeth.



Sorry about that; I just wanted to hammer the point home. What you need to know is that Gabe is safe and sound at home again, shaken but recovering. We're all adjusting to the new routine; doing what we can to keep him healthy and happy. We must keep a very watchful eye on him, make sure he gets his meds and comb over his litter box daily, but it’s worth it to have the family together again.



I’ll keep you posted on his progress.

"I've Got Perfect Words To Say."
(Originally published 11-19-04.)

It's a little past midnight on Friday right now, and I'm just getting ready to go to bed. The house is clean, the cats have been fed and properly groomed, and I'm wearing my flannel pajama bottoms. As you can see, married life has turned me into the man I've really always been.

It's pretty obvious that the Missus didn't have to work very hard to rope me into this. I was never much into casual dating, I disliked parties to no extent, and the women I hung out with had such crippling emotional baggage that I almost went gay my Sophomore year. The thought of waking up next to someone I truly cared about was what sent me onward and upward, looking for that person who would settle for a egomaniacal knob like myself. I'm more true to myself lint-rolling the furniture than I ever was pretending to listen to 15-year olds go on about their boyfriends.

Most guys like choices. They compare it to cereal. If you could choose between eating the same bowl of cereal for breakfast every day for the rest of your life, or getting to pick from the variety pack all the time, what would you choose? It sounds simple, but what guys tend to forget is that variety isn't an earned privilege. Just because you're single doesn't mean you get free reign over anything you want. Aside from that, the variety packs always leave me unfulfilled and ashamed.

Nothing turns women off faster than a single guy. Single guys don't know how to take care of themselves. Without a gentle-but-firm female counterpart around, guys fall to pieces. They put on weight, refuse to shave, listen to terrible music, buy clothing that most women can't stand and then they wonder why the phone's not ringing.

Meanwhile, a guy with a significant other is well taken care of. The woman drags your ass out of bed, wipes the crust out of your eyes, and puts a ironed shirt on your back. Suddenly, women won't leave you alone. It's unfair, it's completely baffling, it's women in a nutshell. I couldn't love it more. What women don't like about men, GOOD men REALLY don't like about men.

All around my place of employment, I hear bitter women venting about how much men suck. Suddenly, after 20 years of marriage and 4 kids, they realize that they can function on their own. They finally realize that they married a selfish, unresponsive, sexist prick that has no idea or intention of making their wife happy. The truth is simple. Most men DO suck. Most men think about themselves first, and refuse to make decisions with anyone else in mind. Most men cannot recognize any pain in their significant others unless she's crying or bleeding. Most men are selfish without even realizing it, and when confronted with the facts, will have the nerve to try to blame it on the nagging of the woman.

Listen, jackass. If that woman wasn't there for you, you would have absolutely no idea how to function as a normal human being. Sure, you THINK you'd be okay, but you'd be a damn mess and you know it. You should be so lucky that this wonderful woman has offered you the rest of her life to attempt to whip you into decent shape, simply so she can show you off to her friends at gatherings. Do NOT let her down. She deserves better than you, and you'd better make damn sure that she never realizes that.

It's not hard to make a woman happy, despite what you may think. Allow me to share with you the simple, 3-step process to making a woman content for the rest of her life:

Step #1 - Listen.
Step #2 - Understand.
Step #3 - Repeat.

I'm not writing all of this because I want to impress anyone, or to show off my feminine side. (Although my feminine side is quite a rare wonder.) You just need to understand that I don't like guys very much. For the last 22 years, I've had to listen to the most asinine comments come out of the lips of men, and pretend to agree with it. Friends, relatives, politicians, everyone. It troubles me to no end to think that behind each of these men, there's a women who's upset because of it. No doubt, the women are firmly in control of the relationship, but it's still not fair to hurt someone you love because you're retarded.

Not only that, but I don't think that all these loser guys deserve the women they're with. Regardless of all the mind-bogglingly awful things that we do, men still get more women than any other species on the planet today. This isn't right. The next time your man pisses you off, play hardball. Tell him that you're going to run off with a Yak, or perhaps a Teddy-Bear Hamster. An animal who knows where the nearest stream is, and who keeps in shape on their little exercise wheel. Obviously, it's getting late, and I'm starting to ramble a bit.

My final thought is this. Men, you have no idea how easy you have it. All women ask of you is that you treat them the way you want to be treated. They may never make up their mind about where they want to eat dinner, but they'll never waiver on the respect thing, I promise. Some women have serious problems, some men have serious problems, but the majority of people just want a pair of eyes looking back at them and nodding.

It's the least we can do.

"Toronto Diary - Days 1,2 & 3."
(Originally published 06-27/29-05.)

(These posts have been linked for the sake of keeping the main page from being overloaded with images. They are also very humorous, entertaining and full of color photography. Please enjoy.)

Toronto Diary - Part I.
Toronto Diary - Part II.
Toronto Diary - Part III.

"On Getting My Head Chainsawed Off."
(Originally published 01-09-06.)

(The following post is rated TV-PG for violence.)
"Screaming Like The Littlest Of Girls: The Resident Evil 4 Story."

I'm what the hipsters would call a 'retro-gamer.' Having grown up in the golden age of home gaming, I've devoted a huge chunk of my childhood (along with an embarrassingly large piece of my adulthood) to video games on my television.

Up in the CDP rumpus room, you'll find an Atari 2600, NES, Sega Genesis and (basic) Coleco Vision in perfect working condition with dozens, maybe hundreds of games. It's a beautiful sight, and I'm quite proud of it. Throw that in with my ever-growing collection of Pac-Man memorabilia, and you've got yourself a shrine to a wasted youth. I sometimes go up there to cry when the Missus is sleeping.

I've resisted the urges to hop on the next generation of console games, strictly because I don't like the direction they're heading. From the time I was 6, right up until now, video game manufacturers have been targeting me as their prime demographic. In the 80's, video games were for kids my age. In the 90's, video games started to be marketed towards teens my age. In the 21st century, video games are outselling feature films, and they are marketing them towards male adults just like me.

I'm in the male minority when I say this, but I don't really like the marketing. I think video games should be for kids, first and foremost; regardless of if they educate or entertain. I recall that feeling of magic and amazement when I played Missile Command for the first time on my 2600; it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. These days, kids have to grow up fast enough as is; now they don't even have any decent games to play. Each day of a child's life is spent wanting to be older, and when they lean their heads against the display case at a video game outlet, it's the same story. That sucks. I can't argue with results and cash, it's just sad that my generation has been the only one fortunate enough to be marketed by this billion-dollar conglomerate for the last 24 years.



I dragged myself into the new millennium when I purchased a GameCube last month. Sure, it's already 3 years old and out of date, besides being the least-popular console of the 'Big Three,' but I chose it for the reasons I stated earlier. The GameCube has more user-friendly and multiplayer-oriented games, and they focus more on less-complicated titles for novices. In a nutshell, it's a great console to play with the Missus when we're bored. If I wanted to sit by myself and play complicated video games, I wouldn't have gotten married and cut my hair in the first place.

So we picked up Mario Kart and Mario Party for the both of us, along with The Sims 2 for her and Madden '06 for me (all awesome games, by the way). I also acquired the Sonic the Hedgehog collection to satisfy my retro-needs. Sure, I have those original Sonic games in the rumpus room, but that's all the way upstairs. I enjoy the way the GameCube handles; and their limited library is not a problem whatsoever for me and the Missus.

Looking for a good game to utilize the components of a last-generation console, along with something scary and engaging, I picked up Resident Evil 4 last week. Most people will tell you that RE4 is one of the best, scariest and jaw-droppingly gory games ever made. I've never had the opportunity to show my ID when buying a game, so this whole experience was altogether new to me. I played the original Resident Evil on a Playstation that I owned for two weeks when I was 17, and it seemed pretty cool then, so I popped the game in and got down to the getting of getting on.



I'm far from what you would call a 'manly man,' but I can hold my own. I have a soft spot for splatter films and I'm only afraid of like, two things (drowning and Zell Miller). I watch sports constantly and senseless violence bounces off my forehead like a ping-pong ball. Underneath this sensitive indie shell, I guess I'm sort of a club-dragging loser, but within two minutes of playing Resident Evil 4, I pooped in my pants. In fact, I pooped in the Missus' pants, too. If this game is scary and intense to those who play them constantly, imagine what it's like for a guy who's been in a video game time capsule for 7 years.

The first time I screamed like a girl was when I got my head chainsawed off (see top photo). There I was, minding my own business in a filthy, blood-speckled farmhouse. I had just dusted off a few zombie-like townsfolk with a shotgun blast to the noggin (including a few women, which sort of unsettled me), and was admiring a female corpse that had been affixed to a wall via a pitchfork to the head. It was rather nasty, and I can still see it when I close my eyes really hard.

All at once, I heard the door behind me burst open, with the unmistakable sound of a revving Skil saw. I turned around just in time to see this lumbering whale of a man looming over me, wearing bloody overalls and a burlap sack over his head, with cut-out eyeholes.

I screeched like a Yoko Ono record. You should've seen me; I looked like I was being electrocuted. Sparks should have been emitting from my body.

One meaty swipe and a half-second later, I fell to the ground in two pieces. I looked over to the Missus, who was pale-faced and laughing her ass off. It was all over; there wasn't a dry seat on the couch.

The biggest asset to the terror factor is the rumble pack. For those who don't know, your controller vibrates in your hands now, based on the action on the screen. So, when a snake jumps out at you, or say, Burlap Leatherface decides to split you down the middle, your controller jumpstarts you like a difibulator. I'm still not used to it, and I've got a laundry basket full of soiled Dockers that proves I'm not lying.



You see all those guys? If they catch you, they're going to eat you. In the grand scheme of things, there's no reasoning with someone who plans on digesting you once they get their mitts on your tender brain. No peace treaty. No utopian society. Not even a head start. They're even going to show them eating you, and it's going to be bad, so don't let them eat you. What more explanation do you need?

I'm about 5% of the way through the game, but I fully intend to finish it. To ratchet up the atmosphere, I always make sure the lights are off and the volume is up. I didn't spend $45 so I could play this game at noon with the dishwasher running. I pay top dollar for my scares, which it why I own two Limp Bizkit albums.

That's why video game companies keep following me around. It works.

"I Just Don't Understand."
(Originally published 01-10-05.)

An open letter to the person who stole my lunch at work today.
By: The CDP.

To Whom it may Concern,

This morning, I awoke at 6:15 and prepared myself for work. I washed my hair, checked the news to see what the weather was like, and chose against shaving. Just before I left my home, I packed myself a lunch, as I tend to get hungry everyday at about noon. I've been doing this every day since May 16, when I was first employed here.

The items contained in the lunch were carefully selected by myself days earlier at the local Supermarket. I chose these items because I enjoy to eat them, and I like to make my lunchtime experience as comfortable as possible. I look at lunch to be like a brief vacation from work, as most people do. Today I had brought along a Stouffer's frozen microwavable plate of macaroni and cheese with broccoli, as I do 4 days out of the week. Accompanying this dish was a vacuum-sealed portion of Mandarin oranges, as well as a butterscotch-flavored Snack Pak and a can of caffeine free Diet Pepsi. I brought along a plastic spoon and fork with which to enjoy these dishes.

Upon arrival to work, I placed all these items (save spoon and fork) into the refrigerator that is shared by approximately 50 people in my section. I neatly marked each individual item with a blue Sharpie brand marker, initialing them "CDP". It's office policy to do this, determining who's responsible for what lunch. It prevents old lunch build-up and confusion.

This system was supposed to be foolproof.

That was until 11:58 today, when I opened the refrigerator to retrieve my lunch. The Pepsi, Mandarins and Snack Pak were where I had left them, but the Macaroni and Cheese was missing from the freezer. I chalked it up to misplacement on my part, and did a thorough check through the piles of other employee lunches. Sure enough, my main course was gone. Someone had taken it, and used it for their own lunchtime enjoyment.

What is wrong with you? I cannot for the life of me understand how someone can open a freezer, take out something that is clearly not theirs, and claim it for their own. Did you think it was your own lunch? If so, wouldn't there be an extra Macaroni and Cheese still sitting in the freezer? There wasn't, so that argument won't work. Did you not see my initials on the top of it? Even if you didn't, you couldn't possibly forget that you brought something completely different to eat for lunch that day, or perhaps you brought nothing at all. Which leads me to another upsetting aspect of this. Did you forget your lunch at home and decide to steal mine, or did you purposely leave your lunch at home so you could steal someone else's? Either way, that's not even close to cool on your part.

Perhaps you're a diabetic, and you needed the sugar. May I remind you that there's not much sugar in Macaroni and Cheese. Only 7 grams, to be exact. There's candy bars for sale right next to the refrigerator that have 5 times the sugar that was in my lunch. They were only 70 cents. No, you made a conscious decision to take someone's lunch, knowing full well that that person wouldn't be able to eat today because of your laziness and selfishness. Shame on you!

Usually, I would bring along 2 or 3 backup lunches in case something like this would happen. However, I was in a hurry today and didn't have the time. You see, I hurt my neck badly this weekend, and it's hard to turn my head back and forth. I'm in a good deal of pain, and it's hard to work as efficiently as I usually do. Today was very draining, and I was really looking forward to that lunch to pick me up and help me through the rest of the day. Imagine my disgust when I found out that you took it from me. Sure, I had oranges and pudding to eat, but I was reminded of a saying that my Dad used to tell me before I went to bed:

"As far as good meals go, lunch takes the cake, but snack pak and mandarins, a lunch does not make."

You bastard. I hope that you don't know who I am. I hope that you're a new employee or something, because my initials were on the top of that lunch you ate today. Why don't you like me? Why did you take my lunch? There were, like, 30 lunches in that freezer that were bigger and more expensive than mine, but you purposely dug through those to get to mine. For the life of me, I cannot understand why you wanted to hurt me today. I wasn't at work all last week, so I couldn't have done anything to piss you off recently. Oh, and don't bother pretending that your initials are the same as mine, because I'm the only "CDP" in the damn book.

Save it, Judas. You stood there for 4 minutes and 30 seconds while my lunch rotisserated in the microwave, thinking about what you were doing.

I hope that the Macaroni and Cheese tasted like stale lies and betrayal, because I went hungry today because of what you did.

With Deepest Regret,
The CDP.

(Here are some tips to prevent yourself from neck injury while sleeping.)

"Biggest Downer Ever. (Welcome Back!)"
(Originally published 01-26-05.)

The time has come to talk about death.



Well, that wasn't the right picture at all.

Oh well, I'll fix it later. Besides, it lightens the mood a bit. It's best to talk about death over muffins and your favorite breakfast beverage. Not death in general, or the death of you, for example. This is much more important, because it concerns the death of me.

I decided to crunch some numbers and attach some sort of equation to my mortality. Knowing me, you'll understand that I have to do this in order to get an accurate grasp of something like this. I'm not trying to be too depressing, and I sure as hell don't want this to turn into some chain e-mail, like "Cherish these moments!" It's just that I find myself wasting a lot of time during the day, either willingly or otherwise (work + sleep, for example). Every week, every day and every hour adds up, so pay attention to where they all go.

Let's get started.



God damn it.

The average passing age of a person living in the US is about 74 years. This breaks down to about 27,010 days in a lifetime. I'm a non-smoker, vegetarian, a rare drinker, and I don't do drugs. I do, however, suffer from crippling stress and have a family history of serious medical problems.

I'm figuring I'll make it to 70, barring an accident, of course. Anything beyond this has always been considered bonus time in my book. Making it to 2052 sounds like a decent enough goal.

This means that I will have 25,550 days in which to live my life. Problem is, I'm already pushing 23 years old. Doing the math, that leaves me with 17,155 days left. I've already used up 8,395 days in my couple decades on the planet, averaging to about 33% of my life already being over. That's ONE-THIRD! Make a pie graph out of that, and you'll see how much of a segment that is. Did I use that 33% of my life wisely? I think I was more responsible with my first 22 years than most. Plus, it got me to where I am now, which is better off than I ever thought I would be. If it was pass/fail only, I can look back and honestly say that I passed. I have few regrets, a few traumatic moments and a few really good moments. I'm satisfied enough.

So, I have 17,155 days left. What am I going to do with them?

Well, before I start rationing out how I plan to spend the rest of my time here, we have to subtract a few necessary functions.

I sleep about 6-7 hours a night. I can't function without it anymore. I'm sure this number will only get larger as I get older. For the sake of argument, let's say that throughout the rest of my life, I will sleep an average of 8 hours a night. That's 33% of your day, and 33% of your life spent unconscious on a mattress.

17,155 days quickly turns into 11,437 days. Woah, I need a muffin break.



(Munch,munch) You know, 11 thousand and some odd days isn't that much time, and we're not even close to done subtracting crap yet. Let's talk about eating, for example.

We spend at least 2 hours a day just eating stuff. You can't live without food, so I suppose it's good that we devote that much time to Cinnamon Toast Crunch and grilled cheese. Sure, we use this time to converse with each other and watch "Cops" on FX, but the bulk of this time is purely spent shoveling grease into our collective maw. Doing the math, it seems that I will spend at least 22,874 hours eating food. That averages out to 951 days, almost 3 full years spent doing nothing but eating. My total amount of days has now dropped to 10,486.

You know, that food has to come out at some point. You'd be amazed at how much time you spend in the bathroom on a normal day. Taking into consideration expelling of waste, shaving, showering and preparing for Inaugural balls, I spend at least an hour a day in the can. That's being mighty conservative, too. This translates into 437 total days, and my number has now become 10,049.

Do you have a job? I sure do. It makes me sick to think that I spend more time during the day with total strangers than with my wife and family. For 5 days a week, I spend 8 hours and 45 minutes at my job, essentially getting paid to not see my wife. Assuming that I have a full-time job until the age of 55 (Jesus, I hope not), this will translate to a whopping 2805 full 24-hour days spent at work. My death clock has now spiraled down to 7224 days. Considering that I've already been alive longer than that, it's starting to get a little sobering.

Here's something I'm a little hesitant to admit. I watch a whole assload of television. Actually, I think I watch at least 24 hours of television a week. That equals 2248 hours of television every year, and 2444 entire days watching the tube. This leaves me with 4780 days left, kids. (Notice that I didn't say anything about cutting back on it.)

Speaking of television, I spend a lot of time on the computer outside of work, too. I would argue that I spend an average of 10 hours a week on this thing. This translates into 520 hours of computer time a year, and 1,018 total lifetime days spent looking up useless trivia and Googling my own name. I don't plan on giving this up, and my death clock is now ticking down to 3762 days.



I like the blueberry ones the best, but I don't like blueberries on their own. Interesting.

When I get home from work, I can't just sit on my ass and drink Wobblers until the Missus comes home. I have to balance my checkbook, change the cats' crap-boxes, make the bed, things like that. I would figure that on any given day, I spend at least 2 hours doing things that I really don't want to do. We all spend many hours doing things that we'd rather not be doing, but have to. This translates out to 728 hours a year, and a lifetime total of 1,426 days spent doing things that we hate. It's truly unfair, and it makes my amount of usable days tick down to 2336.

How's my math? I've been checking and double checking, but I keep thinking that something's wrong. Turns out that my math is correct, It's just not very pleasing. Don't doubt me, I have a calculator and I passed Algebra II with a D-minus.

So, what am I missing? Plenty! I don't know if you're like me, but I have a car and I live in Madison. I spend more time behind the wheel of a car in a day than most people do all week. It's sort of like the slogan for the Marines, only for driving. There's no doubt that I spend at least 10 hours a week driving around. It's an average, and it's conservative. Throw in a few trips back home, and one week will more than make up for a quiet week spent locked up in the apartment. That's another 1,018 damn days behind the damn wheel of my damn car, and I'm down to 1318 days.

So, what are we left with? According to my calculations, by subtracting just the bare minimum of normal things that I do on a daily basis, I'm left with a little over 1,300 days in my life which I can use however I like. I didn't consider health problems, I certainly didn't consider having children, I didn't consider anything that wasn't certain. Best case scenario, I have maybe 3 years left in my life that are currently unclaimed. These bits and scraps of totally free time will be handed to me in 30-second chunks sporadically over the next 47 years.

Woah. What am I going to do with them?

Well, for starters, I'll analyze it until it's gone. I'm doing that right now, and it keeps me happy. Secondly, I'll do a lot of general worrying and venting about everything. Life is interesting, and I'll never stop finding faults with it. Everyone does it, and you know it.

If you're younger than me, you probably have more free time. If you're older than me, well...sorry I brought this up.

Have a muffin.

"The Long And Winding Road."
(Originally published 03-28-06.)



The boat almost left without us, and you know I can't swim.

I had heard from my mom that American English, the world's greatest Beatles tribute band, were playing at a resort in Mishicot, about 150 miles north of Madison. Some of my family members had seen them a few months back and gave them glowing reviews, so we wanted in on the action. Besides, we desperately needed something to do over the weekend. Anything to get us out of the house and into the unseasonably warm weather we were having.



Opting to forget about the show until the last possible minute, we reserved one of the last rooms (2 queen beds? perfect!) and snagged a pair of the last 'A' Section tickets, speeding out of the city at about 2pm on Saturday afternoon.

The drive to Mishicot was beautiful, as is most any road trip through Wisconsin. The resort was on the right side of lake Winnebago near lake Michigan, a place that I've seldom been in my 24 years as a Wisconsin resident. The only time I remember being over there was when I was about 6 years old. I went there with my parents to watch a friend of my dad race in a stock-car tournament. A blinding downpour cancelled the event and my family's 1983 Buick Skyhawk literally burst into flames on the highway. As presumably toxic black smoke billowed through the air vents and into our lungs, my dad had to hitchhike back to town to find someone to help us out. We vowed as a family never to return, and that promise still stands 18 years later.

We had never been to this particular resort before, so when the webpage started talking about The S.S. Fox Valley and a Magical Mystery Cruise and lido decks and port bows and whatnot, we assumed that at least some of the entertainment would be taking place on a boat or cruise ship.

Nope, not even close. How silly of us.



In reality, the Fox Hills Resort had just decorated the place to look like a cruise ship, and no agonizing detail was spared. Every employee was wearing Love Boat-style uniforms, people kept saying 'welcome aboard!' to us, and there were Hawaiian leis everywhere. I helped myself to a handful and showed myself to my room, trying very hard not to 'salute' any of the poor costumed people forced into this charade. I was secretly glad that I wasn't really on a ship, because I'm afraid of the water and would somehow find a way to tumble overboard. It always happens.



Despite being built in the 60's or 70's, the resort was actually pretty cool. The staff was great, the rooms were nice and the floorplan was unlike any hotel I've ever stayed at before. Long and skinny, it really did look like a cruise ship. Stairways went to nowhere. Hallways would end without prior warning. It was like the Winchester Mansion, but more claustrophobic and less ghosts.



Also, there was gambling (yay!) for charity (boo!). There was also wireless internet, so I made sure to bring my laptop for no reason whatsoever, other than to appear cultured in the lobby that was covered in life preservers and tiki torches. The walls between rooms were thinner than the ones in my apartment; and with all the alcohol and foolish hats I was seeing the guests carry around with them, I was mentally preparing myself for a long night of sleeping in the car.



After we unloaded, we got ready for the 4:30-6pm pre-party at the pool (they called it the lido deck or veranda or something). Basically, for those of us who purchased the Titanium-Clad package deal for the night, we got to go to this 90 minute, all inclusive, 'all you can eat/get as drunk as you possibly can for free' gathering before the show.



When we walked into the pool area, all the employees were standing in a line, decked out in their best sea captain outfits, each sporting copious amounts of liquor and cheeses.



I shed a single tear, told them where I would be sitting, and kindly asked them to check on me every 45 seconds until I was asleep or floating face-down in the pool.



Not being used to this sort of thing, me and the Missus sort of felt bad to have these people handing us free stuff over and over again. Once we realized that we did, in fact, pay for this in advance, we made a vow to rob them blind. It was nothing but Rum Punch and tortilla roll-ups for the duration. We made a point not to speak to each other, because that would waste valuable time spent eating and drinking. There would be plenty of time for chit-chat before the concert.



I was stumbling around well before 6pm. Each trip back to the bar got me closer and closer to realizing my dream of seeing someone fall in the pool, although the person in question would have been me. When it was all over and they filed us drunks out, I called my mom for some reason. I wanted her and my sister to show up, as I knew they really wanted to see the show and only lived a half hour away. I even told them I'd pay for the tickets, and they could share our 2 queen bed room if they wanted to stay the night (read:I'll pay for everything). They politely declined, told me to drink some coffee and hung up.



There were still a couple hours before the concert, so we shot some pool in the game room, which had themselves a genuine Dig-Dig machine.



I tried to steal it, but it was bolted to the ground for some stupid reason. Still not fully satisfied with being well-fed and drunk on the hotel's dime, the Missus ordered a pizza and I hit the bar. The guy delivering the pizza was exceedingly late, so we only had about five minutes to mow it down before the doors opened for the show.

I should mention that this resort was chock-full of middle-aged resort folk, Beatles fans, alcoholics and barflies. It was like a packed college dorm with 40-50 somethings instead of complete dumbasses and horribly-tanned waifs. I couldn't even stumble through the halls in peace without some English teacher or small engine mechanic grabbing at me and screaming 'WHOOO!' for some reason. Empty bottles were everywhere, the 50's music was inescapable and I couldn't stop laughing. It was like spring break for married couples and lonely divorcees.

The ballroom where the concert was being held was a nice enough place. There were tables reserved for us supercool A-Section folk, and a dancefloor for those who couldn't seem to get their appreciation across by merely clapping. Our seats were great, although I didn't get many good photos. The lighting showed up very poorly on the camera, and my hands were less than steady.


(Photo of actual American English show.)

In short, American English was perfect. Spot on. Note-for-note amazing. They looked, talked, sounded, played and bantered exactly like the Beatles. Their harmonies and attention to detail were surreal; along with their period costume changes to represent the eras and songs of the Fab 4. The PA wasn't the greatest, so when they put in too much gain or all sang at once, the faint pops and hisses sounded just like vinyl. I can't say enough good things about these guys; they are professionals all the way. They knew how to handle drunks getting on stage without dropping their accents or losing their charm. George sounded like George, John sounded like John, Paul played bass left-handed. From where I was sitting, their mannerisms and playing style looked uncannily like I was seeing the real deal.

They played for three hours, and the dance floor consistently had about 100 people on it at all times.


(Photo of actual American English show.)

I hadn't heard a lot of the songs they played for quite some time, which gave me the chance to enjoy their music in a new light and mindset. Look, if you honestly don't like (or at the very least, respect) the Beatles, you probably don't like music, or shouldn't. Any and every American and English band for the last 45 years has been inspired by their work, period. If it's been a while since you've listened to Sgt. Pepper's or The White Album, I suggest you do so sometime this week.

Watching all these middle-aged folks dance, sway and make fools of themselves moved me. At first, I was annoyed. After all, I didn't pay to watch them stand on chairs and scream 'Ringo!' over and over. Then it started to make sense to me. This is how normal people have fun, and I had to respect that, even if it didn't agree with me. I looked around and saw a lot of people doing a lot of different things, wearing ugly clothes and drinking ugly beer, but everyone was happy. If I wanted to sulk and piss my night away, I certainly could have (I've done it many times before), but a lot of things made sense to me at that point. Beatles music and, to a far greater extent, alcohol, are the great uniters, and for three hours it mattered not what you were on the other side of the ballroom door. That's neat to me.

(My photo.)

When the show was over, hundreds of people spilled out into all corners of the S.S. Fox Valley, even louder and stumbly-er than before. On my way to the vending machine for some water, I went past the pool and again remembered why it's not such a bad thing that I can't swim. Booze + hot tubs + dozens of middle-aged people = the most bizarre game of grab ass ever played. I'm still not entirely certain that this place wasn't a front for a swingers club.

Judging by all the open doors, along with how many people kept stopping me to talk in the halls, I might be right. I was nice to the first few people who accosted me, but eventually I just clutched the ends of my blazer in fear and made a beeline for my room. Perhaps it was because of how dead-ass sexy I looked that night (see top photo). I got to bed around 3am.

We woke up around 9 on Sunday morning and checked out before 11. Not needing to head home so soon, we decided to spend the afternoon in Kohler, a small village a few miles south of Mishicot.



Kohler is a weird place. It was built by rich white people, lives by a doctrine of perfection they call 'The Master Plan,' and the median income is in the six-figures. The U.S. Open is regularly held on one of their many golf courses, and every house comes equipped with an extra-high gate. Our kind was not welcome here, which is why we went. Kohler is also home to the Kohler company, manufacturer of fine home fixtures and designs. There's a good chance that your house has a Kohler sink or toilet.



Oooh, the water's coming out of the mirror!

We wanted to tour the company, but we needed to eat first. All the country clubs looked rather intimidating, so we stopped at a gas station to ask where all the eateries were. "There are no restaurants in Kohler," sniffed the clerk. She was serious; there aren't any places to eat in Kohler. Period. This place reminded me up and down of The Truman Show; I was waiting at any moment for a stage light to fall out of the sky. We had to actually drive to the next city over just to find a place to eat. Worse still, it was an Applebee's. I'd rather eat drywall; but we compromised.



They take their toilets pretty seriously here. Same goes for their showers, which are fully capable of stripping the flesh from your bones, should you choose that particular setting.



At this point, I want you to know that I think it's funny what my life has amounted to. When I was a kid, I would have absolutely despised a day trip such as this. Nowadays, it doesn't seem the least bit strange to ask the Missus if she wants to go and see the 2006 line of bidets.



Maybe I'm getting older. Maybe I'm an idiot; I don't know. It's probably the company I keep. Frankly, I could go to a kick-me-in-the-balls-with-a-steel-toe-boot convention and have a good time as long as the Missus is around.



For such a deep tub, it wasn't nearly long enough to accompany my massive 5'9" frame. And what day out would be complete without me trying to hit on a woman made of plastic?



The streak continues. After our tour through Poop Towne, we made it back home before prime time.

"The Price I Pay."
(Originally published 10-10-04. Posted early due to online issues.)

"I hope you're ready for a little free-floating hostility." - George Carlin.

With the election reaching a fever pitch, I've had little to no time to spend on anything else but my intense hatred and disdain for George W. Bush. Sadly, this has taken away from what I usually spend most of my time on.

Hating other people.

During the course of a normal day, I will openly vent and rant about no less than 30 people I cannot stand. My life span has been greatly shortened due to stress and ulcers caused by the utter disgust and vile manner in which certain people live their lives. Circumstances being what they currently are, these people have gotten off the hook temporarily.

But today, I'm staying up late to pummel a specific person who's responsible for this migraine headache I've been suffering all weekend. His name?

Mark Thomas Kluepfel.

You probably don't know him, but I would willingly donate my teeth to the homeless for the chance to put this guy in the Hospital for 23 years. Here's the backstory:

Mark is the lead singer of the "hot" new band, "Action Action". They are a mix of new wave, dance and dark, melodic rock. Their new video and single are making the rounds on Fuse, MTV and Music Choice. Here's a picture of the band, proving just how new wave they are.



You'd think I'd be happy. Another new wave dance band for me to spend my hard-earned cash on, right? Not this time, jerk ass. You see, me and Mark go back 5 years. If you learn anything from what you read today, understand that this guy is a total fraud, a hypocrite, and a money-motivated musician who desperately needs to feel like he's part of what's popular. And he's a real asshole, too.

I saw the commercial for their new album on TV yesterday. The voice-over tells us that "If you're a fan of The Faint, Interpol, Franz Ferdinand or The Killers, you'll love Action Action! "Wow!" I thought. "They must sound just like all the popular bands today! What a coincidence!" With new wave and dance making a big comeback this year, it's a good plan to start a band that rips them off, and then drops their names to sell your unoriginal CD. I was already upset. But let's go back a couple years, shall we?

In 2001, Mark was in a band called "The Reunion Show". My band was privileged enough to share the stage with these guys a time or 2. The Reunion Show was a keyboard-driven ego fest, with some emo lyrics to satisfy the trend at the time. When he wasn't singing about how much of a pioneering quartet his band was, he was whining about how hard life was. Here's a picture of him, proving just how emo he was.



Mark's job was the lead singer. He was also the keyboardist. And the guitar player. If you're wondering how he manages to do all this, the answer is that he doesn't. Usually, a Reunion Show show was Mark running from instrument to instrument, and throwing a tantrum when things didn't work. He swore, he broke things, he put on a terrible show, and then had the balls to act like an ass to all the fans that had come to see him fail. I've met the guy no less than 4 times, and he's never been cordial to me or my friends. That's 3 times too many to be a fluke.

Much like Action Action, The Reunion Show jumped on the wagon a little too late, just as the trend was dying down. Since they weren't cool anymore, and not selling records, they called it quits. Here's a quote from Mark concerning the breakup:

"When the record was going to be released, there was a lot of buzz, and it just didn't do as well as expected. We're watching our friends sell- at that point I think Taking Back Sunday broke like a hundred thousand records, and we're like, Holy s**t!"

Because they didn't sell a hundred thousand records with their tired sound, they quit. Let's back up further still, shall we?

In 1999, Ska was big. Kids filled sweaty clubs to see Mustard Plug, Reel Big Fish and the like. With the mainstream success of the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and No Doubt, people were starting Ska bands with no real affliction to the genre whatsoever.

Guess who was first in line?

Mark was the lead singer of Step Lively. They were a rocking ska band with rocking ska lyrics. Here's a picture of him without pants on.



Does this look like the Depeche Mode wanna-be singer of Action Action? In the Step Lively bio, he lists his influences as "Foo Fighters + Weezer."

Listen, it breaks down like this. I've watched this guy genre-jump and band jump for no reason other than album sales and popularity for 5 years. Musical tastes may change, but to pretend like you've always been a poetry-writing electro-pop superstar is a completely different topic. I dislike him because of his attitude, his total lack of competent musical talent, and his inability to be loyal to anything but himself. He's not a very nice person, and he's driven by anything but music.

Some people may say that I'm jealous because he's good-looking.



I think not.



Is this a overly-harsh lashing out at someone who barely deserves it? Perhaps, but consider this point that perfectly sums up my argument, which I've greatly shortened to spare you readers.

The title of the new Action Action CD is "Don't Cut Your Fabric To This Year's Fashion." This is an obvious reference to people jumping onto trends and popular culture. It is also a complete crock of egotistical crap, and a blatant lie. For an obvious knock-off artist playing in another knock-off band, the sheer amount of blind narcissism it takes to say something like that should make you sick.

You can e-mail Mark at (mark@action-action.com). Please tell him what you think. I sure did.
Y
ou can e-mail me at communistdance@yahoo.com Tell me how shallow I am. Goodnight.

(NOTE - If you think he used to be good-looking, he has a beard now. Imagine an egg with a beard, and you'll get a pretty good idea of what he looks like. I tried to find a good picture, but even the Internet has standards.)

"Adventures In Broadcasting."
(Originally published 03-15-05.)

I have always wanted to be an announcer.

This comes as no surprise to people who know me. When other kids were dreaming of making the last second shot that wins the NBA Championship, I was dreaming of what I would say on the air shortly thereafter. I quickly put all thoughts of becoming an actual athlete behind me once I turned 13 and still wasn't tall enough to ride the Gravitron at the county fair. I have to play to my advantages.

In the case of broadcasting, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of trivia and statistics, along with a leathery-smooth radio voice. I think I like sports, too.

When I was a Sophomore in High School, me and my friend 'Vinny' were offered the job of announcing the Winneconne Wolves basketball games. This was a big deal to me, as previously mentioned. Me and Vinny worked on our routine and rehearsed for a week before the big game, learning how to pronounce names and carefully selecting music for time outs.

I forgot to mention that this particular game was basically the biggest of the year. This was the game in which we hosted our cross-town rivals, the Omro Foxes. The place would be packed, and the game would be huge.

True to thought, the seats were packed just as we finished setting everything up for the evening. The sound was just right, the music was cued up, and we took our places behind the scorer's table for the first of (hopefully) many nights behind the microphone. Little did I know that in less than 2 hours, I would be right in the middle of the biggest Winneconne sports controversy in years.

Because Vinny managed to get the job for us, we made the deal that I would announce the Junior game, and he would do the big Varsity game. (Is that what they're called? Junior and Varsity? I can't remember anymore. Feel free to correct me.) It was a good call for me to do the first game. People were still filing in, and nobody seemed to care all that much. I did a flawless, professional job, and I got nothing but compliments from passerby as I exited the gym in between games.

I began to help Vinny set up for the big headlining event, and I realized something a bit disturbing. You see, Vinny is somewhat of a showman. More accurately, he craves attention. I love the guy, but he loves to chew the scenery whenever he can. I instantly realized that he was going to attempt to put the focus on him that night, instead of the big game. (Any professional broadcaster will tell you that's the cardinal sin of the job; always know your place.) It looked like he was getting ready for a stint on a wacky morning radio show. I was afraid, yet too compelled to turn away.

The gym got crazy, and the game was underway. I was working sound for the game (done perfectly, may I add), and Vinny immediately went into his shtick. He introduced himself with some wacky nickname, much to the anger of the Winneconne head coach. After the introductions, he settled into game mode, and things went fairly well up to halftime. The music was supposed to cue for the cheerleading squad, but through no fault of my own, something went wrong. The cheerleaders stood in the middle of the court amongst silence and tumbleweeds, waiting for something, anything to bail them out.

Where most professional broadcasters would scramble for stats or something relating to the game, Vinny had a random person from the audience come onto the mic and tell a story. Thinking back, I'm almost positive this person was Ben. Thinking that this was somehow part of the act, the raucous crowd got collectively and humorously quiet, listening intently to what this person (Ben) had to say. Of course, he had nothing to say, and stumbled through a story about a cat, or something to that effect. The downward spiral was careening out of control at this point, and people were starting to get upset. Tension was thickening.

The second half was a tightly contested match. Vinny got mostly back to business after a good scolding, and when the game got right down to the wire, he knew better than to do something stupid. Unfortunately for the hometown crowd, the Wolves lost to the Foxes at the very last second.

I cued the exit music, the mostly depressed and angry crowd started to leave, and Vinny started an impromptu speech into the microphone. This wasn't the time nor the place.

Never one to keep his opinions and feelings to himself, he said "To you Omro fans, I hope you get into a car accident on your way home".

Or something to that effect. You see, I was a few rows up from the scoring table, messing with the stereo. What I DID hear was the collective gasp from about a thousand people.

That's when all hell broke loose.

All at once, about 80 screaming people started heading right towards me, pointing fingers and flinging accusations left and right. I had no idea what was going on, all I knew was that I had to say something. I've done a lot of nice things for Vinny in the past, and blindly sticking up for him was something I was good at. Had I known what he said, I would have been the first one down there to kick his ass. Instead, I waded into the unruly mob, playing mediator so he wouldn't be murdered.

So, there I was. This was supposed to be the coolest moment of my High School career, and all at once I was surrounded by a lot of parents and students that wanted to badly hurt me.

What did I do?

I started fighting.

Frankly, I didn't know what else to do. "Take it up with the school!" I said, pushing and shoving. "Apologize!" They fired back, as Vinny quietly snuck his way out of the gym. "For what?!" I replied to the mob. I got right back in their faces, a collective uncorking of 16 years of hatred for PTA parents and jackasses on the school board. I didn't really care what the reason was at this point, I just wanted a reason to yell back. "I hope your happy!", some old guy yelled. "You're gunna get expelled!"

"Take it up with the school!" This was the only comeback I could muster.

I did this for a few more minutes, then I managed to escape just before people started getting escorted out. Nobody got hit, but I'm really surprised that I didn't. Only much later, did I catch up with some friendly faces, who told me what had happened, and what I put my ass on the line for.

I wanted to kill Vinny. Not only was I going to get suspended at best, I was going to be banned from announcing Wolves games for life. I fought in the bleachers with nearly 100 people because of a single foolish comment that I didn't even make. Unbelievable.

A few days later, Winneconne's principal issued a formal apology in the local paper, and I was thankfully cleared of all charges. Vinny was hit with a suspension, and had to write a lengthy paper on broadcasting. I was told to keep a watchful eye on the company I kept.

The kicker?

He got the announcing job back. I didn't.