Friday, December 21, 2007
As most of you know, training for the Cup-Stacking Olympics can be a grueling and thankless undertaking. And don't get me started on the politics. Aside from the small problems with our first coach -- he really just didn't understand that he wasn't in Slovenia or Slovakia (or whatever Slavic country he was from) anymore and in the United States we have rights. His rules and curfews were as bad as Hitler and his idea of Olympic fashion was atrocious. Once he was replaced, things have pretty much fallen into place with the team.
So don't believe all that trash they've been printing about us. The behind-the-scenes in-fighting and late-night hook-ups simply are nothing like as bad as they've described. Jeannie (the only girl even close to as fast as me) is really a sweet friend. If my style is just a little looser, a little better, than hers, it's not something we fight about. She really did fall down those stairs and since then she has apologized over and over again about making those accusations. Like I've said before, painkillers can make you say crazy things.
Anyhow, I've got pretty much everything in my routine nailed down, but am having "creative differences" with my personal Ukrainian coach. He insists I should do something he calls a "quiet close" (if you ask me it is just a sudden stop) where I place the last cup and make this slow sweeping motion with my arms.
But I'm convinced I need a big finish, something that will leave the folks in the back row of the stadium gasping. If only I can convince the cup-stacking governing body (CSIA), to allow the use of pyrotechnics. Please help me decide what to do. Should I fire Vlad and do it my way, or give him one more try. I will try to figure out how to put a survey on this blog thingee and you can vote one way or the other. Whatever you decide, I'll do.
Just remember, everything depends on the next competitive heat where the new head coach decides who participates in which event. I will just die if my friend Jeannie gets to do the freestyle and I'm stuck with the technical events. She won't say this to the press, because of the gag order, but even she tells me that "No one performs the Flying Dutch Squat like" yours truly
Wish me luck!
We're still recovering from moving in June (or was it July, it's all a blur now). But I think I have finally reached that stage of the healing process where I can talk (or write) about the traumatic experience.
The hardest part about the move (or at least one of the many hard parts) is notifiying everyone and then trying to explain it. So, for the most part, we have ignored it, putting off the chore of sending out change of address notices until now. The holiday season (which I will excoriate in a future posting) has exacerbated the situation. The issue is this -- our address has changed so very little. Not much at all, in fact. Only 9 digits, to be precise. You see our new address is:
1436 Mordor's Way
(not our real new address)
Our old house address was 1445 Mordor's Way.
(not our real old address)
Did you catch that? Do you see the problem?
Old = 1445
- New = 1436
Yes, we moved 9 whole digits away. Let me make that clear. That's 9 digits, not miles, not blocks, not even houses -- 9 digits. And that's even closer here in our part of Merkin, since every lot is equivalent to 4 digits. What all this means is simple -- we moved two houses down. And across the street.
Out of a certain masochistic curiosity, I went to Google Maps and asked for a travelogue of our projected move. Here are the instructions in their entirety:
- Turn Right on Mordor's Way.
- Proceed 187 feet.
- Turn Left.
If I hadn't been staying in the neighborhood I would have, at the very least, flipped him the bird. What I wanted to do was put his bald cranium in a head lock and goose-step him over to my garage. If he thought it was so easy, he could move my shit.
Well, as the Aussies love to say, "No Worries." Especially since I have decided that the next time I move I won't know what year it is and I'll be wearing a diaper under my pajamas.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Okay gang, for those of you who don't know: I have finally been selected to represent the United States in the Cup-Stacking Olympics in 2008. Therefore, I am taking the next year off from my very demanding and busy job of being a hand and ankle model to hone my craft. This is a great opportunity and also reduces the anxiety I have had ever since I started trying to juggle my two passions. I constantly worried that I would injure my hands and lose my modeling gigs, or worse, get so famous as a hand and ankle model that my efforts as a serious athlete would be overshadowed.
Anyhow, I just wanted to let you all know that when you no longer see my wrists modeling the latest in anti-static wristbands, or see my ankles on TV (that work as Victim Number Three - the Hush Puppies sticking out under the car -- in Law and Order is still paying my cable bill!), it is only because I am pursuing an Olympic Gold, and not because of any rumors you may hear about my supposed use of Botox to increase the size of my pinkie-toes.
Alas, I still have to pay that legal bill (that doctor so needed his tires slashed), so I have taken a job at (only until the cup-stacking endorsements start rolling in). I am a Customer Service Representative (so pretentious) in the Financial Accounting department, and I am sure you can't wait to start hearing about all my adventures here. My job is only fifteen minutes from home, and they have some state-of-the-art exercise facilities here that will be a great help in my "bid for gold."
My new phone number is 212/555.6624.
Please don't give my phone number to any sports agents or studio reps -- I don't want the folks here to treat me like some kind of celebrity -- I'm enjoying this little bit of anonymity. Of course, I'm sure my coworkers will soon spot the similarities between my right hand and the blood-drenched hand on the poster for that great indie flick, Elvis's Hand Lives.
And for god's sake, don't let Nan Talese know you've heard from me -- she hasn't left me alone for five minutes since I was her stunt double on that Entertainment Tonight special.
Of course you can always reach me through my agent at Hillbilly Hands and Feet (I do so wish they'd change that name, but the original founder, bless her soul, discovered Granny, and just won't let it go).
Friday, June 15, 2007
Under a broad new set of laws criminalizing speech that ridicules the government or its officials, some resurrected verbatim from Saddam Hussein’s penal code, roughly a dozen Iraqi journalists have been charged with offending public officials in the past year.
from: Iraqi Journalists Add Laws to List of Dangers
By PAUL von ZIELBAUER
Published: September 29, 2006
Ahh, Democracy is wonderful! I have images of a new comedian -- a Yakov Smirnoff for a future Iraq. His shtick will be an Iraqi who, now that he is liberated and free to taste the manna that is American Democracy, loses his job as a taxi driver to foreigners coming to Iraq to get jobs. Unfortunately, he gets arrested for telling a joke about George Bush, Jalal Talabani and a donkey named Barbara.
The irony will be that he heard Laura Bush tell the exact same joke on an HBO special.
After 3 years in Gitmo he gets released for lack of evidence and is sent back to Iraq, where he is killed 4 days after returning by American soldiers who mistake him for Osama Bin Laden.
The funny part is that at this point in the future, everyone knows that Osama Bin Laden is doing nightly sold-out shows in Vegas with Charo and George Hamilton.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
I braced myself. I gripped the arms of my chair. I fixed my eyes on my monitor in the hopes that that would keep them from rolling into the back of my head. I wondered if I could get out the front door before she said another word.
"Have you ever had,"
TOO LATE! ! TOO LATE! !
"one of your toenails suddenly turn black?"
But she didn't stop. . . .
"I think it's my boots . . ."
I tried to shut my ears to the incessant roar. The vacuum that is Wendy's brain.
A moment passed. Is it safe? I let my attention wander from the massive effort of feigning deafness. Only for a moment. But long enough to hear Mick say, "If a doctor were to drill a hole in the toenail you would see a small pool of . . ."
AAAAA! AAAAA! AAAAA! AAAAA!
I must get out.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
In an effort to avoid saying those things that always seem to pop into my head during interviews, I've decided to start an ongoing feature detailing some of the stupid questions I get, some of the idiotic answers I give, and those things I'd really, really like to say, but am too desperate to utter.
Of course, I will also share some of the hole-digging tactics I seem to excel in, as well as when not to use the word "fuck."
And that is my first bit of advice. When asked to give an example of how you handled working with a difficult co-worker, do not say, "I remained calm and tried to strike a conciliatory tone, although almost anyone else would probably have told the guy to fuck-off."
This will not score you points, and may lead to a hasty end to any hope you may have had to work for slave wages (in a city with the highest cost-of-living on the eastern seaboard) at a small prestigious publishing house.
So, you are now forewarned.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Anyhow, that movie (or at the least the parts I saw) give new meaning to the words plodding and predictable. Like I said, I didn't see the whole thing (what person with two fully-functioning hemispheres and the ability to change the channel would?), but I had a quick idea for a major re-write. In the original,
A screenwriter does research for his new script by actually kidnapping and drowning young girls. He then places them in his "garden" of other dead girls coming back daily to check on them. One girl narrowly escapes and the other bodies are found leading to an ingenious plot to try and capture the killer.
-- totally stolen from IMDB.
If M. Night Shyamalan were directing (he of surprise endings i.e., Sixth Sense), the whole thing would be a buildup to the point where Judd's escaped female victim is safe with police officer Boone in a motel room -- She tries to get him to stay by making her nipples very hard and erect so that they are quite protuberant (thesaurus to the rescue!). He extricates himself with some difficulty and goes back to work to catch the killer -- the aforementioned Judd Nelson .
Anyhow, my rewrite has Boone not leaving, but instead staying (reluctantly) and then he and nipple-girl have wild wilde wilddee sex. Just as Boone climaxes, he grabs her head and knocks her out against the headboard. You see, Judd was just a writer obsessed with the killings, and while he had kidnapped this chick, he hadn't killed the first 5 girls, and really never planned to kill her. Boone was the killer the whole time.
Instead of my great switcheroo, we have another 40 minutes or so of complete bullshit -- In fact here's a great scene (bear with me here) -- Judd has the heroine and his female director (I don't honestly know where she came from) on a boat on the lake. He's being chased by Boone and others (hippie friends of the heroine, I think). Well, Judd ties the women to a cement block, and pushes the block overboard. He then stands between them easily holding them on the ledge of the boat in a display of very bad movie physics and gives some stupid-ass speech to Boone, et al. I think it starts with, "I was born in the house my father built," and goes downhill from there. When he finishes, he lets go of the women and gives them a push. They are immediately dragged straight to the bottom of the lake.
Instead of shooting Judd, as any red-blooded-american-that-hasn
Now, a mask is sort of necessary to see, however it isn't a requirement -- especially in this remarkably pristine British Columbia lake. And any diver smart enough to breath through a regulator ought to know how to clear a mask of water. But maybe her mind is too muddled by the cannabis. She forgets all about the director, and Boone is too busy staring at his heroine's chest to think clearly. I was confused too, by a couple of things. One being the lousy-ass knot the hippie chick tied (Dude, unless it's a T-shirt, I don't know what I'm doing, man. Why else would I wear these stupid moccasins?). Another detail that seemed odd was the clearly visible crease on the heroine's face, obviously made by a mask. Where did this mask come from? Where did it go? Maybe she grabbed the hippie girl's mask and that's why the hippie girl forgot about the director.
After talking the situation over for a minute, they finally go to retrieve the director. But wait! They can't find her. How can they be expected to find a women in a bright red dress, even though they haven't changed their position since leaving her to die and visibility is easily 100 feet? When they finally do recover her body, guess what? In an effort to maintain predictability to the end, Judd is missing. I won't waste your time with more of this crap.
Well, if you haven't seen the movie, I'm not sure any of that makes sense. But for god's sake, don't take this as a reason to sit through this excrement. It was bad. So bad it has no redeeming value. None. Instead, put The Shaft in your Netflix queue if you haven't already laughed your ass off at the creature that looks like a giant, over-cooked muffin from the I Love Lucy show.
Friday, May 18, 2007
"How can you argue with that?" she asked. "No one is 'Pro-Death' but that's what is implied. And the worst part is you can't argue with these labels -- once you are labeled, you lose the chance to make the case for your own position."
I paused for a minute, considering my response. "Well," I said, "I might be Pro-Death. But really I guess Pro-Pandemic might be closer to the truth."
I can explain, but you're not going to like my explanation any more than you like the idea of someone being "Pro-Death."
There are just too many damn people on this planet. I mean way too many people. I'm not talking about the simple cramped quarters of everyday life. Nor, is this a rant that traffic is a 24-hour problem now, or that I have to get to the theater 45 minutes before a movie starts, or it will be sold out. A simple winnowing of the populace in my general geographic area (somewhere on the Northern Hemisphere). No, I think that if this planet is going to survive (while sustaining a human-centric populace) for even just another 1,000 years some radical changes must take place.
If you keep reading this blog (and if I keep writing), you will probably discover that I am something of a fan of the Dark Knight (you know -- the protector of Gotham City, the Caped Crusader, the big man -- none other than Batman). Bruce Wayne's alter ego is a big hero of mine, However, on this subject I have to agree with his major nemesis Ra's Al Ghul. In the very good recent adaptation, Batman Begins, Ra's Al Ghul has this to say about destroying Gotham City:
Anarchy and chaos will spread, mankind will ravage itself, the species will be culled and the balance of nature restored. The planet will be saved for all species.
I'm not going to go through all the personal friendly chit-chat about how I love ponies (I don't) and like to spend my free time watching re-runs of Space 1999 (what's free time?). I don't care about that personal crap, and neither should you.
Instead, I just want an outlet for my own twisted observations. I'm not shooting for wisdom, art, or notoriety - I just figured I'd put a little bit of everything out here and see what happens.
So, let's see who I can offend first.