Friday, March 10

Lost Friday - Attack Of The Rerun Edition!

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(This post contains photos and synopses of upcoming episodes. It's nothing that you wouldn't see from watching the previews though, so suck it up.)

Another week, another Lost rerun. We, however, have much to discuss.

First off, some scheduling business. Here's a rundown of the next THREE weeks of Lost, courtesy of ABC and yours truly:

Wednesday, March 15 - Season 1, Episode 6 - "House of the Rising Sun" (REPEAT)

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("Don't leave me, CDP! I love you more than toast!")

This was the episode where Jin and Michael took turns beating the crap out of each other over the watch that Michael found on the beach. Also, we find out more about Jin and Sun's courtship, along with the secret that Sun can speak English. In the subplot, Locke helps Charlie kick the smack addiction, and the group splits up between the caves and the beach.

Wednesday, March 22 - Season 2, Episode 16 - "The Whole Truth" (NEW!)

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("So it's final then. Sun loves the CDP more than toast.")

Sun wrestles with the thought of telling Jin a newfound secret that threatens to upset the entire balance of the survivors' community. Meanwhile, Locke enlists Ana Lucia to interrogate the prisoner in order to extract more information than he, Jack or Sayid could.

This is going to be a Jin/Sun flashback episode, and if you remember from the preview last week, Sun thinks she might be pregnant on the island. Remember last week when Claire asked Sun if she was a mother? Sun gave her a weird look and answered 'no,' but it was a good lead-in to this week's plot twist.

Wednesday, March 29 - Season 2 Episode 17 - "Lockdown" (NEW!)

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("I want toast.")

When the hatch suddenly takes on a life of its own, Locke is forced to enlist the help of an unlikely ally. Meanwhile, Ana Lucia, Sayid and Charlie go off into the jungle to find out the truth about Henry.

This looks like a Locke episode, which are my personal favorites. It's been way too long. Plus, the hatch is taking on a life of its own? Are you kidding me?

Excited? Hell, I'm so excited that I'm afraid to stand up in front of you.

Moving on rather swiftly, I wanted to bring the following cartoons to your attention. If you read the comic strip Monty, you'll know that he's been doing Lost-themed cartoons for the last week or so. Monty went overboard on a cruise ship in an attempt to snag a T.G.I. Friday's coupon, and washed up on the island. It's been hilarious.

Here then, the strips. After today, you're on your own to find them:

02/28 Strip
03/01 Strip
03/02 Strip
03/03 Strip
03/04 Strip
03/06 Strip
03/07 Strip
03/08 Strip
03/09 Strip

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("I was supposed to meet the toast in room 116.")

If you're wondering what it says on the side of Locke's truck...

Welcome Home
Professional Home Inspection
John Locke, Owner

In other news, it turns out that Darren Aronofsky will NOT be directing an episode of Lost this season. Due to his busy schedule (His Oscar-winning fiancee', Rachel Weisz, is pregnant and his long-awaited film 'The Fountain' is taking years to complete), he dropped out, but will probably direct an episode in season three.

Speaking of season three, do you realize that there's like, only 7 episodes left this season? It seems like only a week ago that we saw Desmond pack his bags and leave the castaways to fend for themselves in the hatch. Wild. I remember when I watched the pilot episode, and I was wondering if Kate or Sayid crashed the plane because they were a criminal and an Iraqi respectively. Those were the good old days, and I'm an idiot.

Okay, get outta here. Here's the gallery of Lost Fridays for your consumption. E-mail me at, and start the discussion in the comments section. Later.


Thursday, March 9

Compensated Editorial.

(The following post has been written entirely by the Angry White Man, who paid the CDP for editorial space. The opinions expressed by the Angry White Man do not necessarily represent those of the CDP and the CDP Network, although they probably do.)

By: The Angry White Man.

Boy, MySpace is a real festering hellhole, isn't it?

Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's take all the joys of High School clique' life, deplorable mall culture, terrible grammar and punctuation, sluts, man-whores, crappy bands, jackasses and loners, and throw them all into a big online popularity contest, where they can slug it out and stay irrelevant for eternity.

I'm sure that deep down, most people really miss all of the stuff that they used to hate growing up; so it was due time for a little recent nostalgia into what makes me want to turn my bowels inside-out with rage.

MySpace, pshhh. MySpace should be called 'The Bottom 10%.' That's all you ever find on there. Every last bottom-of-the-bowl turd, spinning around lazily in the crapper like it's got something to say.

Oh, and don't get me started on layout. MySpace has quite simply the most atrocious template on the internet, and it's further perverted by people who have no business creating pages in the first place. All the time, you see these horrid landscapes of pink text on yellow wallpaper, unintelligible netspeak and lingo; it really is the online equivalent of high school. "What were you thinking wearing that?"

I've been avoiding MySpace, and I don't intend to ever go to the dark side. I get enough attention buying space on the CDP as is without having to whore myself out to the lowest common denominator. I'll keep a web page because I like to write, not because I want to stay in touch with people I stopped calling on purpose. I also don't feel the need to meet new people who'll want to knock on my door at 2am looking for a party. If I really wanted everyone to know everything about me, I wouldn't have turned down that offer to host that cooking show on the Food Network four years ago. Get a new hobby, get over yourself and learn some HTML, fool.

Just because you can type, and just because you can create a free web page, doesn't necessarily mean you should. Natural selection thrives online just like in the wild, and eventually the MySpace turds will be flushed away by the toilet bowls of common sense and functionality. That's two poop metaphors in one post, and it's more than deserving.

If you had the choice between MySpace and Blogger (and you do), it's a no brainer, unless you couldn't care less about anything resembling a layout or a rational thought. Web pages are like houses. You need things to match, stay clean and dust-free to remain happy and current. Most every MySpace page I've seen is like a house I never want to go back to again. Unfriendly, disgusting, ugly and void of all intelligent and humorous conversation. It's like when you went over to your friend's house when you were younger, and there were spiders and cockroaches everywhere, and their family liked to eat cereal for dinner in their underwear. That's someone I'm scratching out of the address book.

You do realize that Fox owns MySpace, don't you? Need I say more?

This is kind of a risky rant for me, because a whole lot of people have MySpace pages (59 million), and get very sensitive over them. Criticizing their page is like criticizing them. I can understand that entirely, but in this case, my page wouldn't suck to the subterranean level of the MySpace clones.

The 'friend' list is what does it for me. It's just like High School culture to want to attach a number and ranking to the amount of friends you have. That's disgusting and insecure, plain and simple. Unless you're making money off of the amount of friends you have, the concept is worthless. In fact, the only reason to have any friends whatsoever is for profit. I only keep people around nowadays if they donate to my charitable organization, or buy me dinner and Cosmopolitans. Everyone else can go straight to hell.

In conclusion, MySpace is a direct representation of those who inhabit and frequent it. Cookie-cutter, shapeless lumps of tired fashion and dried-up rhetoric. It's so unoriginal, NBC just signed it to a 3-season deal. You get what you deserve, and in this case, MySpace exists as nothing more than a holding ground for people who don't understand the concept of...well, anything.

Now, stay tuned for more Chuck Norris and Tony Little jokes, here on the CDP!

(Edit from the CDP: I apologize if the Angry White Man's rant offended anyone. Of course, if you would be offended by something like this, you probably can't read anyways. Send hate mail to

Tuesday, March 7

5 Things That Exist.

1. "Hey, what are you watching tonight?"

7:00-8:00 - American Idol (FOX)
8:00-8:30 - Sons & Daughters (ABC)
8:30-9:00 - Sons & Daughters (ABC)
8:00-9:00 - House (FOX/TiVo)

Tonight, we get to see if Sons & Daughters can capture the Arrested Development-style of sitcom they're shooting for. No laugh track, documentary-style camera work and many ad-libbed lines place S&D squarely in the AD mold, but will they be as clever?

2. "Hey, what's on your mind today?"

First off, Streetlight Manifesto's re-working of the 1998 classic Keasbey Nights is finally out today. According to frontman Thomas Kalnoky, Victory Records wanted to re-release the album with perhaps some new cover art, but no change in recording. Kalnoky didn't like the idea of fans possibly spending money on essentially the same album with no changes, so Streetlight remade the album, knowing that Victory was going to re-release it regardless. So, if you like Keasbey Nights (still easily one of my top 10 favorite albums ever), pick up the re-release, and know that Streetlight put some elbow grease into it.

Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire comes out today as well. Don't tell the Missus, but there will be a copy waiting for her when she comes home from work today. I rule, pretty much.

According to a few online news sources, Darren Aronofsky will NOT be directing an episode of Lost this season. Due to scheduling conflicts (fiancee' Rachel Weisz is pregnant, yo), he's got other things to do. Maybe season three, perhaps.

Yanni got arrested, and that's always funny.

3. "Hey, what are you reading?"

Naked, by David Sedaris.

4. "Hey, what are the last 10 CD's you've listened to?"

Michigan: Sufjan Stevens
Broken Social Scene: Broken Social Scene
Irresistible Bliss: Soul Coughing
The End: Three 6 Mafia
With Love And Squalor: We Are Scientists
Blank Wave Arcade: The Faint
Keasbey Nights: Catch-22
In Case We Die: Architecture In Helsinki
Rock And Roll Part Three: Ozma
Greatest Hits: James Brown

5. "Hey, what else is going on this week?"

Nothing much. The house is spotless and the bills are paid, so we're just looking for things to do. I've been shopping around for a notebook so I can write even more than I do now, and my boss is on vacation, so I'm taking it easy around the office. I'll possibly be attending a ceremony at the Capitol Building today, in recognition of the $37,000+ I helped raise for charity. I'm pretty proud of that, it looks good on a resume, and I think they serve cake.

What's going on with you? Sound off in the comments section, and make your plans known.

Monday, March 6

Lock & Load.

The following post has once again been rated:
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For violence, sexual content and dialogue. Strap in and stay still.

Loud Neighbor Update - Part V:
'A Call To Arms.'

Once upon a time, in a world much like our own, there stood a beaten man with his back against the wall. He had nowhere to turn, and nobody to trust but himself. When faced with a difficult decision, he was given one of two choices.

One, he could back down and live a life of quiet submission, dying heartbroken and alone.

Or two, he could make a stand and fight back.

Upon accepting his fate, he said something that has been quoted by historians for ages:

"I could have killed 'em all. I could kill you. In town, you're the law, out here it's me. Don't push it. Don't push it or I'll give you a war you won't believe. Let it go. Let it go.

That man was John J. Rambo, from the 1982 classic, First Blood.

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I consider myself to be a lot like Rambo. He makes decent split-second decisions, lets his fists do the talking when he's too hung over to think, and has killed literally thousands of Viet Cong. Watching First Blood is like looking into a slightly less muscular mirror.

If you remember from PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE and yes, even PART FOUR of this never-ending saga, we have been in a 3-month long battle with our loud neighbors. If you're just tuning in, or are too lazy to take a look back, our neighbors have this habit of round-the-clock, headboard-banging, Tourette's syndrome sounding thrust sessions. It was entertaining for the first 14 seconds back in December, but it has escalated into an all-out war between apartments.

Where we last left off, the neighbors have promptly ignored not only a firm-but-fair letter from us, but also a letter from the leasing office. The Missus issued some tough love by banging on the wall and yelling some nights ago, but eventually, everything has since returned to its original volume and annoyance level. Showing compassion for the neighbors, and attributing most of the blame to faulty architecture and soundproof insulation, we compromised. For the next few nights, we slept with earplugs in and a running fan for cover noise. Some nights, we even slept in the living room. We've altered our lives for the sole purpose of not being jerks to our rude neighbors.

Idle no more.

Yesterday, the Missus talked to the leasing office for the second time concerning the noise. We wanted to go through them so everything's mature and on the up-and-up. Besides, fear of eviction is the only thing keeping us from turning their lives into a wide awake nightmare.

The leasing office left a message with the Missus, stating that-- get this...

The day after the leasing office left the letter with the neighbors, the girl called the office back, and told them she had no idea what we were talking about, and that they weren't making any noise whatsoever.

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Say whaaat?

Oh, now you've done it.

They could have been big about it, shown some spine. They could have at least pleaded the fifth with the leasing office out of embarrassment, but you know, actually shut the hell up for fear of future embarrassment.

Instead of doing anything even resembling tact or class, they told the leasing office that we must be bat-crap crazy, or trying to purposely sabotage them for some reason, and they by no means plan on turning down the constant Spice Channel that is my bedroom wall.

Nice. I feel bad for them, really. They have no idea who they're living next door to.

We gave these people the benefit of the doubt for three months. We assumed they were newlyweds. We assumed they were trying to have a baby, and were choosing these ridiculous mating times because they were consulting some sort of chart for optimum fertility. We wrote a kind note where most would have threatened them. We slept in the living room where most would have banged on the wall until order was restored. We wore earplugs and slept with a God damn fan in the winter where most would have stormed over there and beat the crap out of both of them months ago.

I'm only telling you all of this should I be arrested and sent to trial. Anything that happens to the neighbors from this point forward will be hereby considered temporary insanity.

In fact, I'm the only thing standing between them and my wife's boot in both their asses. They should be thanking me constantly for my patience and resolve, and having unnecessarily loud sex in my name and honor. My wife wanted to settle this with a brutal double-murder weeks ago.

Again, I don't care what they do in their own home. They could be batter-dipping kittens over there for all I care, and I wouldn't say a peep, provided it didn't disturb my day-to-day life. It's when the activities invade my space where I start to get cranky. You should understand by now that I don't get cranky often, but when I do, brother, it's all over.

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"What'cha gunna do, brother, when the CDP--"

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"Aaaugh! It's Racky! I mean Rombo! PLEASE HELP!"

I equate this noise to a fight or a loud party. It's noise, it's loud, and I can't sleep with it. Done and done. Me and the Missus are constantly respectful of our neighbors. When we have a party, we make sure the noise level stays decent late at night. When our fighting gets out of hand and the police are called, we request that they keep their sirens off. When we enjoy each others' company, we do so in a closet on the second floor that's been specially lined with egg-crate foam by yours truly. We don't bother people in the hallway, we don't show up to apartment-wide events. We're the perfect neighbors.

Until you cross us, that is. So, what should we do?

Obviously, the Missus wants swift and bloody Rambo-style justice. I, however, believe that psychological warfare is our strong suit. Nobody can top me and the Missus when we're working together to drive someone slowly and completely insane. Considering that's exactly what the neighbors are doing to us, it's due time we put a stop to this amateur hour, and show them how the pros do it.

The trick with psychological warfare is to keep the enemy on their toes, 24 hours a day. They have been using this tactic on us since the beginning, constantly leaving us to wonder when the other shoe's going to drop. When we can hear them, we wonder when it's going to stop. When we can't hear them, we wonder when it's going to start. It's kind of horrible, and I really think they need to experience that.

So, submitted for your approval, the complete Loud Neighbor Battle Plan, sponsored by Billy Beer.

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1. The next time we hear them over there, moaning and slapping about like an echo chamber haunted by the ghosts of cavemen, a second letter from us will be written and sent. The tone will be considerably more harsh than the previous one, specifically informing them what their actions have done to our side of the wall. In the letter, they will be informed that we know about the conversation they had with the leasing office, where they claimed that they had "no idea what we were talking about."

This may or may not spear a response letter from the neighbors, who at this point are probably tired of the explicit letters being stuffed in their door on a weekly basis. If this were to happen, the letter will be scanned and posted here on the CDP for public view. Let's move on.

2. Upon sending the letter, a recorder will be set up in our bedroom for the next few nights. Me and the Missus will spend these nights camping out on the living room floor, roasting Smores in front of the fireplace and downing bottles of Pinot, laughing heartily at their upcoming demise.

3. After compiling a few nights of said moaning and slapping, a copy of the tape will be sent to the neighbors and the leasing office with an accompanying letter. Samples will be posted on the CDP for a nominal fee, along with their names, phone numbers and photos I've snapped of them entering and leaving the apartment.

4. Enjoy the chaos. Watch laughing from balcony as U-Haul truck backs up to their door. Sip a Mimosa in boxer shorts and sleep for 8 days.

Failing all this, Plan B is simply to inform the neighbors they are now being recorded, and should really have no problem with this if they have "no idea what we're talking about." In this scenario, no recorder will be set up, but the neighbors will think there is, and that should be more than enough to silence them. The mere thought of being recorded while intimate would cause most folks to shut down faster than a Vespa with a gas tank full of Go-Gurt. In reality, that lack of sexual shame is the only edge that Scott Stapp has over me.

In short, I can't wait for them to make noise again. Thank you, John Rambo.

What do you think? Sound off in the comments section, and prepare for battle.

Image hosting by Photobucket The latest Commie Award goes to Natalie Portman. More specifically, for her SNL Digital Short, which can be viewed right here. Forget ' 'Lazy Sunday,' this left me wiping tears from my eyes. The rest of the episode was pretty good, too. Her ripping on the Star Wars crowd in the monologue was especially hilarious.

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Spend Monday with me in the comments section.

(Edit: Video link has been changed, and is now functional.)