Caruso in a box

While watching the semi-hilarious "Dick-in-a-box" video from SNL's Andy Samberg with Justin Timberlake, I realized two things. One: Justin's wearing a wig that looks exactly like David Caruso's hypnotically red "hair;" and Two: I'm probably going to end up blogging about this. Oh, and Three: I no longer believe I have a great shot at stealing Cameron Diaz away from Justin. Now, there's only two others Caruso's wig should fit, based on the size of ginormous melon, and that's present day Barry Bonds, and an African elephant, which begs the questions, is Justin a pachyderm on 'roids, and why is everyone so obsessed with David Caruso.

Oh, Possum!

Thursday night, quite drunk, stumbling back from my boss' housewarming party, I turned the corner on my block and came face to...uhm, ankle, with an opossum. I'd never seen a live one in the wild before, so despite it's rat-like appearance, I was quite excited. I was also intoxicated enough to believe it was Splinter. It was so surreal, standing on the corner of my block in Brooklyn, with an opossum on the curb in front of a car (probably not its own, they're notorious for riding shotgun) that I didn't even think to take a photo with my camera phone as proof against naysayers. By the time I thought about it, Mr. Opossum had smoothly slid under the automobile, out of sight, and a little voice in the back of my head told me reaching my hand into a dark space to grab the opossum was a bad idea.

I've also discovered parrots (or perhaps parakeets) in my neighborhood, but haven't been able to take a photo of them yet. Watching one fly with wire in it's beak to build/repair their nest on top of a telephone pole was quite cool. Plus, I thought maybe they'd be good for home improvements on my condo.

Unfortunately, both of these species do not belong in Brooklyn, further underscoring the problems with global warming and keeping exotics as pets, which is often times how exotic birds end up in Hasidic areas of Brooklyn. Hmmm, maybe global warming isn't so bad, if it will eventually allow kangaroos to migrate to Brooklyn too.

Dream Log 6907.2

Everyone always wonders why I'm perpetually late to everything. It's because I sleep. I oversleep. And I don't do this out of any immense feelings of being tired. No, I do this because my dreams, as you will see once again, are simply awesome:

I woke up (in my dream of course) to find Ms. Dynamo (his girlfriend, not mom) eating my bagels. There was only one left, a multi-berry from Massachusetts. I'll be damned if I'm going to let her eat it!* I told her I was upset with the amount of bagels she'd already consumed and if she touched that one, I'd run her through with my saber.**

I sort of realized this was a dream when my apartment contained a tank full of 3 ducks, who were often quiet, but one moment when they thought I wasn't paying attention, they all had a contest to see who could hold their breath the longest. I also had 2 puppies who could sort of talk, miniature grizzly bears (mom and cub) that lived in a fish bowl, and a terrarium full of terrarium creatures.

Next up, I was hanging out by a pool, showing off my really tanned skin, huge pecs and generally awesome physique, when Cynthis (name changed to protect identity of Cynthia) rides up to me on a bicycle. This was made more impressive owing to her being in the pool, ON TOP OF THE WATER (like Jesus, if you're missing the damned analogy), peddling. Sure, she was swaying back and forth a little bit, but who has perfect balance biking on H2O?

She was one of my 4 girlfriends in my dream. It was just like the time there were 4 Supermen in Metropolis, but all were fake Supermen, and 1 was the 1/2 cyborg Superman who was all evil and totally bent on world domination. Only this was way more useful, because I had FOUR GIRLFRIENDS. None of them wanted to kill me with cyborg strength, but rather with kindness. They were all fighting over me, wearing short skirts or performing Christian miracles for my affection.

Now I recognized 2 of the women, the third didn't matter (yea, I love em and leave em in my nocturnal slumber), but the fourth intrigued me. She was 1/2 Asian, 1/2 something else, and all ridiculously fine. Being as how my dreams are portents of the future, 1/2 Asian woman, wherever you are, don't make me wait. I mean, we're going to be together again (probably tomorrow night after about 11:30 PM), so let's get started on this now. Neither of us really has a choice anyway, since it's fated. I just hope you don't ride an early train, cause that'll make this all more difficult.


*Note: Not that she's not super nice or anything. But, it's a multi-berry bagel from Massachusetts!

**Note 2: I don't condone violence, especially towards women, and the closest thing I've ever owned to a saber is a broom whose handle I took off and waved menacingly.

The Prestige

I recently saw The Prestige, a movie that can't quite be described without then being ridiculed. That's not to say that it wasn't good, because it was. Quite good, in fact. However, the premise contains some elements of science fiction as well as the possibility of the occult. Two magicians, Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman, are constantly dueling and sabotaging each other's acts in a relentless obsession of one-up-manship.

Unfortunately, I couldn't watch Christian Bale without "I am Batman" running through my head, and was quite pissed when Hugh Jackman didn't simply eviscerate Christian with a simple Snick-snick-snickety-snick of his claws. This might just be me, because I also had brief, nightmarish flashes of Hugh in Kate and Leopold.

Some other notable scenes/thoughts during the movie:

• Hugh Jackman wanders into a giant, alternating current, crazy-ass lightning machine, in the hopes of mimicking Storm's powers.


• Christian Bale picks up a woman by showing her nephew a magic trick. He later takes her out for dinner, and drops her off at her apartment, where she refuses to let him in. Being a magician, he decides to break in, and when she turns around, he's offering her a tea kettle. She laughs at this. Yes, breaking and entering, with the possibility of sexual assault, is apparently the way into her heart.


• At some point, Christian's wife is railing on and on about how she knows what he is. I guessed correctly, but I also wondered if he was somehow a zombie. Then I realized being the undead probably wouldn't help you make canaries disappear, would lead to a constant threat of decapitation by overzealous zombie hunters and would cause dogs to bark at you.

So if you want to convince your friends to see this movie, which was really quite good, please do not try to explain the plot. Trust me, Christopher Nolan tells the story WAY better than you would.

Movin' on up

Dynamo and I finally moved in to our condo in Midwood, Brooklyn. For those of you unfamiliar, Midwood is EXTREMELY close to Manhattan, has a lot of really cool, hip things to do, and all the meats are easily identifiable at the neighborhood stores.

However, things aren't all perfect. I'm living out of my suitcase, but at least my bed is in my room to stay and will never be in the living room and the PS2 is set up. But I predict in the next 2 weeks, I'll be cooking all my meals and buying tons of groceries and putting them in our new fridge that will replace the old one that doesn't fit, using any single spatial dimension, in the space it was meant. And though I don't currently have internet access right now (which means this blog was created in the future and sent back through time somehow), I also predict my computer will soon be here, along with a nice dresser for my clothes. Yes, everything will go smoothly in the next two weeks, I can feel it.

Photos of new apartment are sure to follow.

Robots Amongst Us

I think my coworker is a robot. Of course I'm scared, cause all robots are programmed to kill, usually women named Sarah Connor. Ok, so this guy/metal man isn't The Terminator, but he could be A terminator. I'd like to present Exhibit A, an email conversation with him, as evidence:

Me:

Mr Roboto,

I assume Angl0-Saxon Roboto is a
decently common name, but I came across this while searching for myself:
http://tedleoguide.com/tedleolive.credits.html

Were you ever affiliated with the band in some way?
I took photos of them back in the day that they used on their site…

Possible Robot Guy:
Not me. You are right both my first and last name and the combination of the 2 are very com-mon in the U-nited States of A-mer-i-ca, England, Ireland and Scotland. Please give me robot food.
*arms swinging back and forth mechanically*

And if that's not enough to convince you that the robot invasion is in full swing, witness the picture I found on the internet and decided looked just like him:

Viral Self Defense

About a month ago, I was required by my job to complete a security awareness training course. There were a couple of parts to the course, including Email Awareness, which involved knowing that electronic mail messages are now all the rage, and Defend Yourself Against Viruses, which I was so excited about passing that I printed up the certificate and hung it on my cubicle wall.*

All of the sections had a course to read through before taking the quiz, which of course I skipped and went straight for the tests. Who needs background information when you're a genius in your own mind? This backfired when I failed one of the categories. A 75% is passing. As long as I get 7.5 out of 10 right, I'm good. Sadly, there was no partial credit for a half-right multiple choice answer.

Rubbish! I closed and reopened one of the sections, as I decided the tests were getting too taxing and wanted a short break. That counts as a failure, and I only have 5 tries per test. Not I look like I complete dullard!

Perhaps the best part, even better than the questions, was the goofy illustrations




*Is there a more depressing sentence than this? Maybe only involving land mines.

Eat at Joe's

Do you live in broadleaf or coniferous forests, 5 to 10 thousand feet in altitude? Like resting in the trees but feel constantly pushed out by developers taking your land? Do you posess a pseudo thumb, useful for grasping stems and shoots as you sit, human style, on the floor? If you are an up to 250 pound male, or 220 pound female, with distinctive black and white marks, and the above applies to you, why don't you come snack on our delicious bamboo flooring. Stop on by. Dynamo and myself are always receptive to visitors. We have only the finest caramelized and pre finished bamboo planks, and for your convenience, they're just sitting in tons of boxes in Dynamo's room. Help yourself. Perhaps enjoy a side order of drywall, or bring back some screws for the kids to play with. The deliciousness is limited, so call today.

Sorry, but zebras, red pandas painted white, and all other imposters WILL be turned away.

The Strongest Bird

At my superbly creative job, I'm in charge of digitalness. One aspect of this tremendous responsibility is handing hard metal objects, with cords and cables, to creative types who take said objects, head to Brazil for a week, and drink on the beach. The metal objects, or hard drives, which should be used to store images in the form of digital information, are more often used as frisbees or pawned to buy more caipirinhas.

To keep these coveted items safe, I ordered Pelican cases, which are hard on the outside, soft on the inside (think Arnold Schwarzenegger in "Kindergarten Cop"). These suckers are tough. A tank could run over them, even stopping to rest on them while the driver does presumably more important things (like shoot at the enemy a la G.I. Joe) and the case would hold up.

But like all superheroes and strong cases, Pelican has its weaknesses. While searching the website, I found the comforting "Pelican Unconditional Lifetime Guarantee of Excellence" section. This was followed by the less comforting "The above guarantee does not cover sharkbite, bear attack or children under 5" section. I wonder if real pelicans need be so worried by Jaws, ursines and toddlers.

Halloween

I've become increasingly less enamored with Halloween. It's still a more sacred holiday to me, than say Bastille day, but for how long? I've been driven to this position by costumes, as well as my neighbors.

Now I'm not attacking all the cute little kids in costumes. At least, not right now. But I will, to steal all their candy, and then I'd be the Candy Don, ruler of the sugar market. I think children usually dress up cute, and I applaud parents for taking them around, like a pack of really dense locusts, whatever area they live in to get food that will rot their teeth. In addition, I officially approve of costumes for women. So what if they're completely ridiculous, and basically an excuse for women to dress up like sluts. I remember Halloween parties in college where every single woman was either a sexy nurse, a sexy angel, a sexy devil, a sexy catwoman, or in very rare cases, a slutty, strip teasing, sexy nurse who moonlights as Catwoman. Thus is my concept of Heaven.

My problem isn't even that I never have a really good idea for Halloween, and if I did I think of it in February and then forget it well before the time to implement it. My problem is I can't dress up for Halloween without revealing my secret identity:



















A few of my neighbors have put up a ridiculous amount of tacky decorations, including, but not limited to: saran wrapper bats on the walls, fake cobwebs on plants with plastic spiders, a sad looking dracula but an excited Frankenstein, etc. Do they keep all this elaborate nonsense the entire year? It seems a shame to throw it out, especially the giant skeleton on the door. The worst part, however, is a witch in the corner of the hallway, which everytime I walk past, I think is a person lurking to get me, and I immediately drop into Chuck Norris mode. The damned wicked witch also apparently lights up and cackles. I'm gonna drop kick that motherfucker!

Celebrating closing

Here, Dynamo and I have perfected the fine art of celebration. After one of the biggest moments of our lives, we ate gyros from a nearby, Hungarian/Turkish gyro shop; washed it down with Arizona's fine 99 cent green tea from a can, 2006 vintage; and relaxed on our only piece of furniture, a heavy wooden desk and rolling chair.

WOOOOOOOO PARTAY!

Closing Costs

Friday, October 6, 2006. Dynamo and I were scheduled to meet at Michael and Swerdloff, attorneys-at-law's office. The name itself throws me off, because very few people use their first names for the law firm. Take, for example, Crane, Schmidt & Poole, the law firm on spectacular TV show Boston Legal (I may have a man-crush on James Spader). Those are all last names. They're pure fiction, but so is the use of Swerdloff as a first name.

After searching around for what we imagined the law firm's building would look like, we found a house. With a sign. A paper sign. Taped in the window. An 8 x 11, printed on an inkjet printer, sign taped to the window mostly hidden by blinds, welcoming us to the law office of Michael and Swerdloff. It was more like a dentist's office. We all took seats in the waiting area, half expecting a swerdly looking oral hygienist to come out and offer to clean our teeth while we closed.

Closing went smoothly, except for a few things. Such as our lawyer not understanding basic principles of math. Us not understanding basic principles of not getting extra money back. Finding out our monthly payments were going to be $500 higher than originally expected. Being moved from the first room because some guys had to do something with air ducts or something .

Closing is an exciting, yet extremely stressful time, and any little thing sent my eye twitching. We wanted to make sure everything was completely in order. Two and a half hours later we were in the clear. Except, at the very last moment, I noticed my name was spelled incorrectly on the housing deed and title, which actually were not in the expected Monopoly form. If it wasn't for my timely actual reading of the papers thrust before me to sign, the small error would have granted my condo to Phinneas Q. Sherberthead.

We had finally closed! And the first mortgage + city taxes + pickle taxes + not having a pet dingo charges weren't due until December 1st! Free ride, baby! To this end, we hopped in my pimped out pimpmobile (1993 Mercury Villager with questionable turn radius) crusin' and playin' Wu-Tang (on the radio)...with no particular place to go.

Everything was high 5s and W signs, until we got close to the apartment. There, in an act of ridiculously bad driving, I managed to hit a cop. Not a cop car. An actual, ticket-giving, clearly-shouldn't-have-been-walking-so-far-in-the-road, definitely-shouldn't-have-raised-his-left-arm-when-he-did, cop. My right side-view mirror cracked back into the passenger side window and I had an "Oh Crap" moment. I always considered myself a rational person, until Dynamo had to calm me down and direct me not to flee from the scene. I pulled over, got out the car, and walked towards the policeman, shaking like a Polaroid picture the entire time.

"Holy crap, oh crap, are you okay? I'm so sorry. I have no idea what happened, I thought I was further over on the left, and I think a car came into the lane and I moved over and didn't have as much space as I thought..."
"It's okay, I'm fine...you barely grazed my elbow, which was jutted out way into the road while I made my 'I'm a little teapot' pose."

Well, I'm glad he was fine, but my mirror was cracked right down the middle. And those things are not cheap to fix. I'm still waiting on the cop to give me money for the damage he caused!

A P-Killer Dedicated Polar Bear Update

This post is dedicated to P-killer, who always makes an effort to get me to write more consistently and considerately provides this blog space with humorous commentary. And as we all know, humorous posts plus humorous comments is a great recipe for chili.

It's been a solid 15 days (or what the experts refer to as "more than enough time to get a polar bear) now since we've painted the apartment "Polar Bear," and still no luck. Thinking perhaps the paint was not so much a lure as a way to transform our condos walls into living, breathing, actual polar bears, I started petting the walls. To no avail. Not only are the walls NOT super furry, cuddly and seal-hunt-ly, but they're filled with roller drip marks.

This proved my original idea of paint as a lure must have been correct, and yet so far only failure. Meditating on the problem, I thought maybe the polar bears were actually being camouflaged, and running out before we could properly introduce ourselves. To this end, I painted one wall "Chile Pepper," figuring there's no way a polar bear could blend in against a bright red/orange wall. That is, until I watched Lost and realized how smart they were. The bear could paint itself bright red/orange as well! This was going to be trickier than I thought.

On this same episode of Lost, however, I realized some polar bears (some, not all, before you start badgering innocents) are actually quite dangerous and live in caves on lush tropical islands and eat people with walking sticks. Dynamo had a cane, and maybe these clearly insane polar bears can't differentiate, so maybe it's best not to lure one in.

I'd do more research on this topic, but I've got to go paint my walls "Delicious Golden Honey." To lure in grizzly bears, of course.

Polar Bear Picking

In a last ditch effort to attract a polar bear companion, Dynamo and I painted our new condo. Planning for days, we decided to paint it white. But not just any white. Polar Bear white. And not just any Polar Bear white paint, but Behr Premium Plus. You know, for more Behr attracting action. While Behr is spelled incorrectly, I can assure you their logo is an actual bear, which in turn reassured me that my plan would work.

So far, however, all I've gotten is 3 kittens and one cat, who may or may not be feral but are ridiculous cute anyway, that crap a lot in our condo's shared backyard.

While this is a hotly debated issue, I've come up with a few reasons why so far a polar bear hasn't sauntered into our living room:

1. I calculated incorrectly, and their favorite color is yummy seal gray or coca-cola black
2. It's not yet cold enough
3. The paint that attracts them is flat finish; we used eggshell and semi-gloss

Terrorsaurus Teddy

"It's kind of a cute little teddy bear and people wouldn't think that a cute
little teddy bear would be able to kill fish."

Ok, what are teddy bears based on? Right, real bears. And what do real bears do? Yes, beg to be cuddled and wrestled with and ridden through the Holland Tunnel as my personal, eco-friendly transportation. But also, kill fish with the express purpose of eating them. And while this teddy bear probably bit off more than he could chew, his instincts were in the right place. Yes, 2,500 is a lot, but maybe he was real hungry at the time, and ended up having eyes that were bigger than his stomach. That's why everyone cautions grocery shopping while hungry. Same principle.

Read the whole article here: http://msnbc.msn.com/id/15004927/?GT1=8506

By the way, don't go expecting 2-3 posts a day in the future, because you'll be severely disappointed. Like I was when the tooth fairy turned out to be my father in his underpants.

I should be an economic advisor

The following dream like sequence took place when "shelled out the 5 beans to enter" was read as "shelled out the 5 bears to enter." From the opening statement of a photoset from pkiller's privately run Home for Good Photos:

Itchy for more sunshine, brother dear and I shelled out the
5 beans to enter Riis Park, where a hidden pitch-n-putt course and topless beach
await! (Unfortunately for this photo set, we visited neither.)

I was in an alternate future, ripe with deliciousness, and delirious with possibilities. 5 bears. Imagine that! An economy based on using bears as currency. Grizzlies and polar bears would be worth more than black and sloth bears, of course. Pandas would flood the market, much like Keropi gear in Chinatown 5 years ago. Koala bears would be looked upon like 2 dollar bills - everyone wants one, but nobody's quite sure that they're still considered legal tender. Bear dogs and the binturongs (nicknamed the bear-cat), as they aren't real bears, would be viewed like Canadian money. Trying to pass a teddy bear off as real currency could earn you 3 to 5. Should you come across a ghost bear on the street, pick it up! It's like finding a 1969-S Lincoln Cent with a Doubled Die Obverse!

But consider the ramificiations of a marketplace driven by this furry legal tender. By this, I mean in regards to my personal finance, because I see no way in which a future society governed by the economic principles of bear trading is bad. Unless, of course, everyone uses bears to purchase Segways. I would be extremely better at saving, because why would i want to get rid of bears? I'd have a huge vault, like Scrooge McDuck, but it's probably easier to do the backstroke through dubloons than ursines. I'd end up selling everything I own, including my jointly recently purchased condo, just to gain more bears. Actually, before this alternate future happens, I'll probably lose the condo when I decide playing craps is a good way to pay off the mortgage. I'd have 1 set of clothing, eat off other people's plates at restaurants (to be fair, that's currently something I aspire to) and probably have to cut back on buying Green Lantern merchandise. None of this matters, as I'd have AN ARMY OF DIFFERENT SPECIES OF BEARS!!!!

The saying goes, "Money can't buy you happiness." But that's only because we're still on the dollar.

Homeownership, Actually

It took 2 months, many lost papers, many irate calls from the real estate broker and much frustration, but Dynamo and I finally got clearance to close. Our mortgage was approved! Now, all we have to do is...well, I'm not really sure, but sometime next week we'll be signing documents until our hands hurt. That is, of course, contingent on the bank's attorney and the State of New York Mortgage Agency not losing any papers. Which isn't a given, given that one of the first questions was how to spell our names "since I can't locate the papers at the moment." Sigh.

Segway Voluntary Recall

Dear Segway PT* Owner:

Segway's parent company, Stupid Transportation Ideas, in cooperation with the Committee That Oversees Things (CTOT), has voluntarily recalled all PT(s)** Apparently, there's a software defect that makes all riders look like tools. While independent market research has asserted riders were tools before purchasing our Personal Transporter (cause and effect relationships in the marketplace), a recent aggrieved lazy person was thrown while trying to ride in reverse, causing the software to come under scrutiny. Models H/HU***, WHY**** and Jesus, Just Get A Damned Scooter are not being recalled because they don't run on software. Fortuitously, these models run off the shear stupidity involved in such a vehicle.

Our updated software for the PT will include a holographic projection of rapper Master P, in an attempt to gain some street cred. While everyone knows Segways are bought by the terminally lazy and the stupid in society, we're hoping to gain market share by infiltrating the 'hood. Convinced that Master P drives a PT, ghetto youth will flock to the market, quickly pimping out PTs with 22"s, spinners, and bulletproof...well, there's nothing really to be bulletproofed, but we'll work on that. Seeing the popularity, suburban white kids with tons of money and no sense of individuality will quickly be sucked in. Frankly, the higher ups at Segway aren't quite sure why the sawed off motorized scooter sells so well, as it's rather useless and stupid looking, but we won't say no to profits.

At Segway, making stupid transportation ideas come to life is our job. Well, that and providing rich, corny looking people a device that makes them look even cornier. Hoverboards were beyond our technical expertise, so we made these things instead, and they have caught on among people who forget they have legs to walk with. We will do our best to make the Master P hologram's gold teeth as realistic looking as possible.

Sincerely,

Stone Derron


* Pretty Tacky
** Pterodactyled Tire(s) (I wish)
*** Highly/Humorously Useless
**** Would you buy this?

Furniture Hunting with a Turkey Gun

Dynamo and I are going to be roommates in 2-3 weeks. Maybe more, since his knee "still hurts." Waaah. We need a coffee table, and I, stupidly, passed on the ideal one about two months ago. Mainly because a coffee table, despite being glass and modern and ridiculously amazing, is rather useless without an apartment. However. this didn't stop us from buying 5 bar stools, and we don't have a bar either.

While searching on Craigs List recently for a coffee table, I came across a post titled "Black Panther glass coffee table." Wow, I thought, the Avenger in coffee table form. But wait, I also thought (this thought came later in time, yet before I looked at the picture), what if it's a coffee table promoting the militant black rights' group? Is glass Huey P Newton really something that says: Come, sit down, eat some of our baba ganouj, but keep your damned fingerprints off me? Actually, probably. Luckily, it was a black panther, like the large deadly jungle cat, holding an oval of glass on it's back. It was deemed tacky by my coworkers. Luckily, I was able to find this rustic, yet elegant, specimen, which simultaneously says I'm cute, with incredible balance, endurance and strength, but steal my honey and I'll rip you apart with my razor sharp, dangerous claws.

I hate Sherman

Only in the literal sense.

My Nigerian Food Misadventures

Excited isn't the word. There was definitely some trepidation, but Dynamo knows me, knows what kind of food I don't eat (neither spicy nor disgusting) and had been there before. Plus, he's laid up with a "recovering-from-surgery-knee." Milking it, is what it is. Nonetheless, I felt obligated to go where he wanted.

And I'm so glad I did, because now I feel fully qualified to present my list of...

What Not To Do At The Nigerian Restaurant:

Expect your waiter to listen to you while he's talking on the phone. It's rude to interrupt someone's conversation

Expect your waiter to not sell CDs out the back of the restaurant (bootlegged or otherwise)

Turn the waiter away when you're not ready to order. He will go sell CDs out the back of the restaurant

Order goat head

Order mixed meat

Order anything if you can't handle spicy food and don't want to eat with your hands

Be white

Expect the waiter to bring you what you ordered

Order fish. Your meal, even if it's plantains with rice, will undoubtably come with fish of some sort

Try ordering food that's not on the menu. This actually probably goes for all restaurants

Repeatedly insist you heard there was a Ghanian woman who made good Red Red here. This tends to sound like you're trying to score drugs, or powerful Kool-Aid

Let the waiter pick which sauce to put on your fish dish. He WILL opt for the "slimy sauce"*

Yell how you prefer Senegalese food as you run out the front door, even if it's true




*When the waiter gave the "option" of slimy sauce, this is what popped into my head: http://oldschooltoons.tripod.com/images/slimer.jpg

Telly Tragedy

For those fans of Sesame Street, or more specifically, obscure muppets from said television show, this has nothing to do with the beloved honker. Sadly, I don't know enough about his recent ongoings to write about. In this case, "Telly" is merely a shortening of the word "television." "Television" is still in trouble.

Despite my manifestos, mandates and recently installed mandibles, reality TV prospers, a giant "fuck you" waving from their Survivor banner. Speaking of which, they recently divided into tribes based on ethnicity, to battle over who gets to cake themselves in mud and eat locusts to Survivorize. What a novel concept. I remember other tribes that had segregated themselves based on race and ethnicity. And look what happened to the Navajo, Lakota and Iroquois (not to mention Soiux and Cree)! They lost Manhattan for some beads and all the buffalo vanished. Wait, maybe this isn't the right place for my "don't trust white men with beads" theory. I'll save that for my Mardi Gras post.

David Caruso is still giant hack-ing his way through the bastard child of Crime Scene Investigation. Wonder when his character will ever solve the mystery of why Caruso is such a huge deuschbag. It reminds me of those Cinnamon Toast Crunch commercials:

Leiutenant Horatio Cain (played by David Caruso) of the Miami PD solves crimes all day, relying on his keen intellect, totally natural red hair and the hard work of people around him. Using tweezers and plastic gloves, he can find the tiniest DNA clues at a crime scene. But can he figure out how David Caruso's massive head manages to stay on his body?

The State of the Programming Nation Address Part 4

Part Quatro: Where I make everything good. Real good. Yea.

As your governor, you are all under my command. So girls, send me panties. Damned tangents. I meant, I'm here to fix all the problems of television and make everything good again. Its going to be a David vs Goliath tale, only I'm going to be Goliath, and David is going to be one red-headed, overly dramatic hack by the name of Mr Caruso, and his ass is gonna get stomped on. Just like that, TV will be cured.

To be sure, however, its probably best if you send them panties. Seriously.

This will not be an easy change (despite my previous claim). It will take hard work, dedication, and a lot of researched facts on my part. We will have to attack television on many fronts, forge new alliances, bring back old shows, and have delicious snacks. Due to the toll this heavy burden of a position has taken on me, I was ready to resign from my post and start pursuing other noble goals, like teaching rottweilers to fly. This changed when I recently saw an episode of CSI Miami and David Huge Ass Red Head Caruso showed up, with his huge ass red head. I swear, he was leaning to the side, due to the weight of his enormous, stupid head. He was hitting on this ridiculously beautiful Latina woman, and she was actually responding to him as if he wasnt the grossest thing ever. Then again, women will sometimes have sex with horses. Look it up if you dont believe me, but be prepared for some awful stuff.

This is a time for us to unite. In going forward, we shall promote television shows, not harp on the mistakes of the old regime (American Idol, American Idol!!!!). We, well really I, will take back the networks and force good programming on the viewers. Two positive steps have already been taken: the combination of the WB and UPN into one network that will now cater to both the teenage AND the uneducated market, and 7th Heavens series finale. Now that its holier-than-thou religious morality is done with, the long-haired, could-be-easily-mistaken-for-a-woman star is now in his own new show, and hopefully the producers will agree to my demands of a show co-starring me and Jessica Biel. In addition, there are tons of good cartoons geared towards adults on Cartoon Network and Comedy Central, though almost none involving Green Lantern or Thor. These cartoons need to be made and put on primetime network television, because I wont wake up early in the morning and I refuse to pay for cable. Accommodations MUST be made!

I shall even use my tremendous amount of power and influence to correct the commercials between the programs, since I govern all. By hook or by crook, but hopefully by hook because I love pirates, we shall take those damned Axe/Tag/Bod ads off the air. Women, it turns out, are not sluts for scents and do not maul guys when they smell the new generic body shot fragrance. Not all commercials are so inaccurate, such as the informative Mentos commercial in which birds crave Mentos, and as such will not be banned.

One of my main solutions to the programming problem is to bring back shows which I found terrific, though clearly a larger (dumber) audience didnt agree. Im not talking about syndication, though I could watch these shows 7 times a day 6 days a week (Sunday programming will continue to be totally irregular), but new episodes. For starters, Two Guys and a Girl and The Norm Show will both be resurrected and continue to crack me up. Id also like to see Alf come back, and The Muppets Show with Jim Hensons cryogenically frozen brain making all the decisions. Dark Angel, as well, should be brought back...hmmm, pre-too-skinny Jessica Alba.

Other shows I'd like to see brought back:

- Meth and Red, featuring classic one liners like shut up, stop-sign head

- Malcolm and Eddie, which needs no explanation why it should be shining on primetime again

- NYPD Blue, and yes, I liked Zach Morris on the show...who wouldnt? He can call a time out in the middle of a crime, and kill someone with his giant portable phone (also useful for calling for backup, a pizza, or tricking Mr. Belding)

- The O.C., well really just the one episode where the hot chick makes out with the other hot chick. It sounds like good television and the plot intrigues me.

There are some others, but we can't just dwell on the past. We must forge ahead and bring more excellent television shows to the audience. New blood must be infused, such as a cooking show, hosted by Mo Vaughn, during which after every dish he makes, he hits a homerun. Then eats the entire dish. Cookie Monster could be a recurring guest. Lost, Arrested Development, 24 and Prison Break must all be made available every day, and maybe even doubled in length. In fact, Jack Bauer is hereby promoted to Lieutenant Governor, or whatever the hell position he wants, because he's Jack Bauer.

The clouds of Americas Next Top Inventive Idol are dissipating, allowing rays of sunshine to, uhm, shine through. Warmth is spreading, and causing women to give me their panties. Damn, again. The future looks bright, and my thousand years reign of television shall bring prosperity. And David Caruso's monstrously large head on a spear.

The State of the Nation Programming Address Part 3

Part Three: Dealing with the Scourge, or What to do with reality TV

Let me state my thesis in one sentence: I hate reality TV shows. Now I dont watch them much, so its possible that I dont really know what Im talking about. Truth is, thats not going to stop me.

Reality shows are the slut of television, and, much like successful hospital drama ER, are responsible for spawning hellacious rip-offs at every level possible. I swear, these shows breed like rabbits, and not the cute Thumper type neither.

Reality shows fall in to two categories. The first is shows that involve contestants in some sort of stupid challenge, with those lucky enough to be chosen getting eliminated by either their peers, own incompetence, or even worse, audience members dumb enough to watch the show. These usually involve some sort of prize to be won: Grandmas chocolate chip cookie recipe, the prize watermelon from the state fair or a huge wooden chest full of doubloons. There is one exception: Whos Your Daddy and the Bachelor/Bachelorette, on which you win a love interest or a parent. Cant you just import mail order brides/husbands like any normal person?

Shows like Survivor, Big Brother, Fear Factor and others that I dont know of fall into this first category. On Survivor, and Gilligans Island, if Im not mistaken, contestants are given tasks to complete and then they get to hang around. However, the shows are set up, especially Survivor, as contestants being dropped in the middle of a remote place and have to fend for themselves.

Bullshit. They dont have anything to survive from. Nothing threatens them except for the inevitable big sweaty dudes nasty odor and painful non stop boners from the inevitable hot, scantily clad chick. The shows about as real as Lost. At least there they have awesome killer polar bears, which somehow can live on a tropical island, yet never venture into my apartment building when I set cupcake traps. Yes, bears love cupcakes.

The other kind of reality show is even worse, and is somehow becoming even bigger. Yea, there have been 35 different Survivor series already, but at least they start every year or so. It hasnt even been 2 weeks, and the new Apprentice is on the air, pitting privileged people versus slightly more privileged people in the battle of who gets to dye Donald Trumps hair Donald Duck yellow. This variety of show is called the televised interview with created drama show, because thats all it is.

Finally, rich super companies have found a way to get more publicity and make more money for themselves. Some genius discovered if they held auditions and then ran an hour show, once a week for 12 weeks, showing what happened to the job candidates and who finally got the job, people would stupidly watch and love it. Shows of this type include: the aforementioned Apprentice, everyones favorite American Idol and its Missy Elliot rip-off, and Americas Next Top Model. Now I know what youre thinking: L BO loves scantily clad beautiful women. However, instead of watching all the drama theyre dealing with (and listening to them talk), I can look at naked women online.

I think they should target me for a reality TV show, in which they cover MY job interview process. It would go something like this:

Episode One:

L BO graduates college, entirely positive that hes going to become a world famous photographer, adored by his model fan club and loved by his pet bear, Jamal. Man the future looks bright!!!

Episode Two:

L BO applies for his first job. The episode ends on a cliff hanger, with him checking his email the next day. Does he get a positive email?

Episode Three:

No, in fact, all his inbox contains is a letter advertising a free rowing machine for signing up for a bank account. Money, at this point, is a novel idea. L BO eats some ice cream and plans a future where Jamal is joined by a pet kangaroo (or at least a wallaby), an ultra smart porcupine and a 3 foot tall commando duck. The future once again looks bright!!

Episode Four:

The last episode of the season is a montage, showing email after email sent by L BO NOT getting returned. Key cinematic shots include a split screen of L BO making a phone call to a company while on the other side, the recruiter (played by David Spade) casually ignores the telephone ringing while grooming his cat. Stay tuned for next season, where L BO does all this on an abandoned space ship. In actual space.

Next season of The Freelancer, coming out directly to DVD. Real soon.

Before you complain and tell me I forgot about certain reality shows that dont fit into my categories, Im going to launch a pre emptive strike and let you know that I dont care what you think. But in the interest of thoroughness, here is a list of shows:

-Wife Swap and Trading Spaces: This was a brilliant idea for a television show. I cant wait for the spin off called trading species. In this series, every week we explore the hilarity and hijinks, along with high tension moments, that occur when the male of one species is traded for another. On the first episode, a gorilla is taken from his family and traded for a lion.

-Makeover ambush shows, Live Like a Celebrity, etc. fit into the GARBAGE category, as no one should watch this junk.

-Shows that profile celebrity couples, like Newlyweds, fit into the I know youre smarter than that category. Seriously, go read a book.

-Quotes from real people about the new hit show Whos Your Daddy:

"Its probably going to be a stupid show, but Im going to watch it anyway." Do I need to say anymore?

-Then theres the Simple Life. I think everyone can agree with me theres only one thing anyone wants to see Paris Hilton acting in. She does have some useful talents.

-Temptation Island seemed like a great idea, but it had two downfalls: not enough naked women, and no girl on girl action. BASTARDS!!!

-The Biggest Loser is a show where people that need to be taken around in a forklift compete to see who can lose the most weight. The real biggest loser? Whoever is dumb enough to watch. I never thought Id like Jared the Subway guy more than anyone else.

-Supernanny Teach your kids how to behave yourself or do what any other parent would do sell them.

-And finally, there are shows like Real World, which I actually have no real problem with, with the exception of its cult like fan base and the fact that its been on since 1972.

So as you can see, reality shows are the worst thing to ever hit television and there doesnt seem to be an end in sight. I take that back. That overly melodramatic David Caruso is still there. Well, Im going to go get ready to take back television. And promote The Freelancer.

The State of the Programming Nation Address Part 2

Part Two: How David Caruso ruined television

Now maybe it's not so much what's on TV as what is NOT on TV, namely more Dolphins games and bears doing what they do best: being awesome. Or, that could be the point of the fourth part, titled solutions, and so I should just stick to causes for television programming being worse than an entire franchise of Anne Hathaway princess movies.

An examination of the channel guide would provide plenty of fodder for this metaphorical cannon of mine. Awful timing, useless channels, and not funny sitcoms make up the list, which doesn't include Reality shows, as they are the focus of the next rant.

By timing, I don't mean that inevitably whatever shows I want to watch are on the same night and the same time, which drives me crazy and provides stacks of videotapes of old programs that I will never get around to watching. No, my protest is far more important: all of the good cartoons on Saturday morning are on at the ridiculous hour of 9. That's in the AM too. Of course, the good cartoons are on at the same time on different channels, and the most childish or crappiest cartoons (anime and pokemon) are on closer to hang-over-wake-up time.

And let's be honest, when I say good cartoons, I mean these couldn't hold the jockstrap of old G.I. Joe, He-Man, Batman or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cartoons. Yes, I could make a list of all the good old cartoons, and it would also include Thundercats and Transformers and Spiderman, but I don't want to. Sure, Static Shock was good while it lasted on network television, as is Jackie Chan, but the new batman and new teenage mutant ninja turtles couldn'twell, hold the jockstrap of the old ones.

This obviously segues nicely into a discussion of the low quality of today's television shows. I watch a lot of daytime television nowadays because I don't have a full time job (besides Governor of television) and most of it is awful. Besides, of course, the Cosby Show, Just Shoot Me, Yes Dear and Spin City, which is the diamond of the gems in my pimp goblet of daytime TV.

That said, I prefer channel 16 at Ithaca when nothing is on, to all of the soaps, talk shows, judge shows and game shows that manage to be on for 8 hours a day. I've already accepted all of the above as necessary evils, as some people are not smart enough to NOT watch soap operas or Judge Judy (Judge Joe Brown or Judge Horace from the streets are the only REAL judges), but that doesn't mean I can't complain about them.

Nighttime TV is made up of reality shows (again, wait till the next friggin post!), sitcoms, drama shows and the news. New sitcoms all have one thing in common: they're not funny. I watch BET and I can't find any show on UPN at night funny. Alright, fine, I watch Eve, but only because I keep hoping Eve and Ali Landry are going to make out. Or at least give me a shoutout.

It's not that Everybody Loves Raymond is all that funny, because it most certainly isn't, but at least its not one of those watered down, everybody has already heard the joke, no talent, never heard of actors, probably won't even last 10 episodes, sitcoms on channels that have never produced a decently funny show. Yes, I'm talking about you CBS and ABC. Stick to golf, drama and college basketball.

In the drama category, there are too many "son of" shows. For example, NCIS is the bastard "son of" CSI and JAG. When one show is good, leave it at that, because I don't want to watch the exact same thing but in a different city. All of the Law and Order spinoffs are fine, because they can stand on their own as shows and deal with different things. This doesn't apply to all, as CSI is a great show, but its successors are garbage. Now maybe it's just David Caruso being a smarmy, egotistical, show stealing, no talent ass clown who randomly leaves every show he's on because he thinks he can be on something better, but CSI Miami and CSI New York need to go away. Fast.

In addition, there are too many channels on cable that have no use to me. When am I ever going to watch the Japanese or Indian channel, unless I want to be amused by obvious cultural differences and derisive remarks made while watching people dance around in cloud castles. The sewing channel? Sci Fi? Country Music? The Carson Daly 24 hour marathon channel? Even Cartoon Network, which provides me with the Justice League Cartoon, is completely useless 18 hours of every day. Damned Power Puff Girls.

In summary: shows are never on at convenient times, unless you have nothing to do all day, which I don't; networks peddle junk to watch, but the ignorant masses stupidly stay glued to the boob tube; and David Caruso is a tool. And his hair is too red.

The State of the Programming Nation Address

Part One: Introduction and an examination of TV's problems

"Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls of all ages, and those squirrels in the rafters that are rapt with attentiveness, please give it up for your Governor of Television, L BO!!!!"

*Cheers and loud applause, along with a catcall. And a tomato thrown at me, by my mom.*

I know what you're all thinking, already and maybe before you even considered it. Pretty incredible, but that's because I am. Why did I become Governor, instead of chief, president, mayor, major, CEO, or commander. Come to think of it, commander or colonel of television would fit me pretty well too. But back to the question: I think it's high time that I'm referred to as Governor Larry. Furthermore, television needs help.

I don't mean television as in cable, satellite or DirectTV, because I don't have any of those. I have basic channels, which includes CBS, NBS, FOX, ABC, UPN, WB, PBS and channel 6, the security camera in my basement. To start with, I have 5 security cameras, and yet only one of them is turned to an actual entrance to my building. The rest show continuous coverage on the gray paint, which is terribly fascinating, especially in black and white, where EVERYTHING IS GRAY! Back in the day, when I was about 14 or so, my friend James and I decided to make a movie based on those cameras, which actually worked at the time. We had no plot, because a movie like that pretty much writes itself, and didn't need a video camera, as we would just tape it on the VCR. Face it: we were the original Blair Witch Project, only I would pay to see my movie.

If done today, my movie would include such awesome things as: bears; a stuffed, kind-of- fuzzy-but-more-hairy armadillo; 3 supermodels, scantily clad of course; someone in a gorilla suit; egg crates, of the dozen size; and probably Bo Jackson. Hands down, it would be the best thing ever.

Back to my original point: television, or those 7 channels I have that show more than my own building, is in a terrible state of disrepair. There are a few reasons for this, which will conveniently be discussed in parts two and three. Solutions, as well as anything else I feel like rambling about, will be discussed in part four.

The Downward Facing Dog is a Bitch

Tonight I decided to try yoga for the first time. For the health benefits and peace of mind, of course. Flexible females, and the impressing of them, had nothing to do with it. It was a free one day trial, held in a conference room next to our kitchen. Ok, so I can't touch my toes. I wasn't expecting the first class to be easy. Just maybe, I don't know, more relaxing. Less...impossible. I couldn't even do the corpse pose correctly, and that involved lying on my back with my arms stretched out to the sides.

The instructor was very nice, and extremely helpful through it all. One of my favorite pieces of advice was after telling us to close our eyes, she reminded us "if you can see anything, your eyes are not closed." Later, while doing a spinal twist (not what Chuck Berry had in mind), she urged me to "make your chest and hips further apart." Well, OK! If you say so. She assisted by pushing and pulling various body parts in opposing directions. It was a little like being stretched on the rack, only with the executioner constantly disparaging you. "No, no, no! Be relaxed while the machine turns, it's the only way to properly stretch your limbs out. You're getting tortured ALL WRONG!"

The last time I had really stretched was playing junior varsity basketball in 10th grade, and I've decided this will really benefit me. Again, nothing to do with flexible females. However, it's going to take a lot of practice on my part to get passable at this. Determined to do yoga, I ended up looking more like Yogi Bear than a yogi.

Bar Bee Cued

Yesterday night. We were at Brother Jimmy's BBQ, a place most people go in a last ditch effort to invite heart disease. I watched in horror as first Pris Killer, then Dynamo, shoved ENTIRE slices of lemon and lime into their mouths, devouring the entire rind in the process. I've always viewed rinds on fruit the same way I view shells on shrimp and plastic wrap on candy; something that is pretty to look at, fun to play with, and not to be eaten. Not wanting to be left out of this gastronomic Sprite inspired experiment, I nibbled on a lime. While the sourness of the fruit was enough to make my cheek hurt, the rind was exactly as I feared...it tasted like Pinesol would, if I ever had the urge to drink furniture polish. Perhaps, in their semi-piratical mindsets, they were just more worried about, and dedicated to, fighting off scurvy than I.

Due mostly to the amount of butter that had replaced the blood normally in my veins and arteries, my dreams last night were far from normal. The dream started off normal enough, with my mother driving our old, and now deceased, Cadillac, before succumbing to exhaustion/slow driveritis, allowing me to take wheel. I guided the car through the movie set city, towards the nonexistent Lexington Avenue bridge, going a little faster than the speed limit. Approaching the bridge, for some reason we got out and ran, and then we noticed the bridge had a huge ammount of human traffic. Weaving in and out of slower humans, I noticed the flashing lights of police cars. Though I hit my own breaks, moved all the way to the otherside, and stopped weaving, I couldn't avoid being caught for long, and soon had a ticket for speeding. SPEEDING! I was running!! Of course I was trying to go fast. I plead my case, and asked the officers if they'd ever heard of track and field or the Olympics, but all for naught.

Fast forward to a night club, where some skanky women were trying to make out with me because it was their birthday. I finally relented, giving one woman a birthday present she could always treasure. Next thing I knew, I was in Nick Lachey's limo, hanging with him and a few of my friends. We were having some deep conversations, until Nick would go in the back to make out with slightly homely 20 year olds. I realized Nick wasn't a bad guy, and he was pretty cool to hang out with. I told Nick and his homely harem of hoey chicks the speeding ticket story a few times, to much laughter. I couldn't wait to tell everyone the next day about my crazy night. It was while swimming at a surreal YMCA pool that someone noted none of this had happened, and I was dreaming. Made sense. That made me tell my girlfriend about the whole escapade, though I left out the birthday smooch. Turns out, I could have been honest with her, because she and everything else was a dream too.

The Matrix is one of the few things that rivals the strangeness of a hushpuppies-with-maple-butter induced dream within a dream. Treat this as a cautionary tale

Gideon Defoe

Everyone should go read Gideon Defoe's aptly named genius novels, "Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists" and "Pirates! In an Adventure with Ahab." They are aptly named, because Pirates have an adventure with scientists (specifically Charles Darwin of the popular, except in Kansas, theory of evolution) and with Captain Ahab in the second. Go read these brilliantly funny books now, before Gideon's second book comes out. I feel his books are what would happen if Casey, Jesse, Steve and I ever wrote a book to impress a woman. Well, it would have to be several women, because if we were each going after the same one, it would potentially cause some problems, and the book wouldn't be a harmonious collaboration. Add some Britishness to our quartet, some extra ham references and make it coherent, and you'd have a Gideon Defoe Canal Street knock-off.

Visit his website at www.GideonDefoe.com (You'll note it's linked on the side of my blog, with some trepidation, as he's way funnier than me, and I worry he'll steal one of the two loyal readers I have).

Nighttime Ruminations

I've never been a very sound sleeper. In fact, despite what everyone thinks, I'm not very good at sleeping, even though I enjoy it so much. Once, a girl I was going out with karate chopped me in the neck while we were sleeping in bed, which is weirder than most things I'd done, until now.

Sure, I've pushed a girl out of bed before (I toss and turn a lot, hot huh?) and everyone knows the old pillow/marshmallow joke. My variation was dreaming about Rebecca Romijn while caressing a compatriots leg. Caressing, NOT HUMPING, as I've been accused. I'm a gentle man, not a dog. But these events were scattered over many years. Lately, my strange nighttime behavior has increased, and I've stopped eating anchovy pizzas before bed.

It all started with a dream a few months ago. I was a secret agent for Hugh Hefner, a double agent in fact, though I'm not sure who else I was working for. Definitely not the Reds though. It was me and this sergeant guy, and we'd hang out in Hugh's apartment. He no longer had the mansion, but instead lived on an old, beaten up couch in a modest apartment and lay under a blanket a lot. There were no playboy bunnies, and ol' Hugh didn't look so good. I don't quite remember the mission, but I ended up watching a weird muppet-like creature espousing the benefits of his new theology, or ideology. It might have had something to do with Communism, and he was convinced it was going to work, as he ambled along on a dirt road, carrying a giant tree trunk. Something about him, led me to believe it would!

Since then, I've dreamed I was on a river flume type ride, on a real river, riding a real log, past asian guys I knew in high school, calling them the wrong names even though it was the second time our paths crossed in that dream. That's just unacceptable, I mean it's not like it was the first time I saw them. From the log flume, I ended up in Sudan, hanging out with rebels, but friendly ones who liked candy and checkers. Maybe they were children. Then I had a bad feeling that we were being surrounded, I grabbed my friend Shiva out the bathroom where he was fixing his hair, went all invisible commando and ending up escaping. My next dream, the next night, sent me to the Amazon river, which had been relocated to Africa. Leaving the temple we were in, my band of 4 or 5 set off, when one man broke off and drove his pickup in the Amazon to find his way back to camp. But he went the wrong way. Meanwhile, I tried to capture dolphins with a hastily made net so they would lead us to camp. My efforts failed. The art director in the pickup came racing backwards up the river, yelling about ants and we had to get out of there. The doors to the temple were locked! The art director said we had to run to the sand, but I knew better. Ants hate water, but in fact love sand. With their swarming and buzzing getting closer, we lunged for the pickup and with the dolphins showing us the way, headed back to camp and safety. I hope.

But even these crazy dreams aren't that bad. I've always had strange, vivid and surreal dreams. What really got me was my sleepwalking. I was told about this later, but I left my room, walked down to the living room where my dad was sleeping on the couch bed, curled up on the side (which wasn't very comfortable because he was sleeping diagonal and his feet were in the way) and drifted back to sleep. The whole time, I kept saying, as if in a trance, Sleep, Sleep, Sleep, Sleep, Sleep, Sleep.

Eventually I was back in my bed, where I did indeed sleep, sleep, sleep. Just not very well.

Monkey Business

I'm currently the Digital Editor at "We Make Images, But Only Because We Can Sell Them For Money" Photo Company. My job title is a bit of a misnomer. I don't actually choose, or "edit" any photos. I'm also not digital, except for my cybernetic right arm. What I do do is retouch photos, adjust images, and problem shoot our digital workflow from my two computers. This means I spend a lot of time on said electronic machine, though most of that is reading Doonesbury cartoons, instant messaging, writing electronic mail messages, and cyber stalking the San Diego Zoo panda bears via a nifty webcam.

Like everything in our field, and especially our business, the digital workflow is constantly changing and evolving. A lot of my job duties are being passed along to a different department, which is less specially skilled at getting digital with it than I. It was during a recent discussion on how to best transition that my boss let his true feelings slip out. I mentioned my concerns that people who had never used Photoshop before might struggle at first resizing and flattening images or converting from 16-bit to 8-bit mode, all of which require 3 mouse clicks at the most. My boss said it'd be easy to write a quick guide on how to do these complicated tasks. Then, apparently growing frustrated with his lack of cookies for the day, he lashed out and said "let's be honest, a monkey could do this."

I strive for honesty and felt I needed to prove him wrong. What better way than to bring in an actual monkey and sit him at my desk for the day? What's that boss? The monkey's flinging poop at you? Hmm, that doesn't sound like an understanding of photoshop. He's eating a banana and not doing work? Yea, that does sort of sound like me too actually. You can't get the monkey to stop picking lice out of your hair? No, that doesn't sound like he's troubleshooting the digital workflow and notifying photographers of errors. It also sounds like you should wash your hair more often.

Even without this experiment, I think people by now should know not to say "a monkey could do that job." Where does this high regard for the working skills of monkeys come from anyway? If monkeys were such good workers, why do they have an almost 100% unemployment rate? In addition, the entire primate economy is based on bananas. Doesn't sound too profitable nor economically enlightened to me.

So please, next time you feel the need to disparage someone's job by letting them know a simian could do it, stop and think first. Monkeys. They're just not humans.

Titular Trouble

"Good news. I've been promoted. Yay me!"

"That's terrific." Geez, I have no idea what her old title was. "So you're now the..."

"I'm the junior art associate magazine job of some sort Swedish Chef."

"Wait, the what?"

"Junior editing glossy magazine pages assistant art."

"O, wow, that's awesome." That's it. That's as clear as it gets for me.

I've never been able to remember people's job titles, and have an even harder time understanding what they do. I used to frown on my friends who didn't know what their own twin sister was doing in Japan, and get real exasperated with my parents when they didn't understand what it is I do. I mean, Digital Editor should be fairly straightforward, even though I don't actually edit anything. Then I realized that I couldn't describe other people's jobs or remember they're proper job title, or even the name of their company.

I used to think this was because many of my friends worked in fields not akin to mine, and who cares what kind of dorky computer title someone had. As far as I'm concerned, you're either building robots (the helpful kind, that can impersonate you when you don't want to go to school/work/church/see "Little Man" at the movie theatre and can also whip up a mean mac and cheese, baked of course) or you're in IT. So I don't think twice when I explained my three friends, all of whom have degrees in different fields of computer engineering, were working as "computer dorks", with wide ranging job duties including databasing-something-or-other and making computadors work.

I assumed I'd better understand and easily know the titles and the functions of people who were in my field, who were in the arts in any sort of way. That fantasy changed quickly, when I referred to Dee's job as "internet writing for Baby Making, or Baby Having magazine, whatever. Geez!" Then there was Dara, who'd been working at Elle Decor, which I had assumed was a made-up magazine. Did you know there are magazines besides Maxim, Playboy, Sports Illustrated and Good Housekeeping? Oops, almost forgot Swank too!

Dara told me her job title, and I forgot it. On a train ride back from the Clerks 2 screener, she told me again. I forgot before we went one stop. Now maybe I was all preoccupied with why I liked every other Kevin Smith film that included Jay and Silent Bob better. I mean, I'm all proud of her and everything; she even gets her name on the page in the magazine that has people's names who do things to make the magazine. That being said, instead of becoming "Art Production Assistant," why couldn't they have given her a normal and easy title to remember? Like, Magazine Woman.