Confession: I play the lotto for the daydreams

26 May

On my evening commute home from work I pass a sign for the Oregon lottery. The billboard has a large screen where the amount of the jackpot is shown in big red numbers.  Not every night, but most nights the sign catches my eye and instantly carries me away to a make believe world where I have crazy amounts of money. I know what Biggie said, and yes, I heard it a thousand more times with the Puffy Daddy remixes, but I simply don’t buy that mo money equals mo problems (maybe I don’t have enough money to buy it?). In fact, I would be more than willing to be a guinea pig for any laboratory in the world that would like to give me Bill Gates-style money, and then study the affects of said money on my life.

The main problem with my little lotto dream world is that in order to win the lottery, you have to play the lottery. I suggested to a co-worker that we start throwing in a few bucks here and there to buy lotto tickets each week. He loved the idea and instantly his mind swept him away to a world where he had just won the lotto.

“Oh man, if I won like $60 million, that would be about $30 million after taxes. I would pay off my house, probably buy a better car, put some of the money away for my daughter’s college fund, I’d probably have to still work…” This is where I cut him off.

“Wait a second… In your lottery fantasy you still have a job? You need to work with your 4-year-old daughter on your imagination and make-believe skills!”

In my fantasy, my wife and I never work another day in my lives. We buy a small island and travel the entire world to go snowboarding and surfing. We have houses in Tahoe, Hawaii, Portland and all over the world. We have courtside season tickets to the Blazers, and enough money left over to save the world.

But to me, playing the lottery and expecting to win is like moving to Hollywood and expecting to become a star. It could happen, but it’s most likely just a pipe dream. But isn’t that dream worth indulging every once and awhile?

I traditionally only play the lotto when it has grown to some ridiculously large dollar amount. The type of number that even has my parents‑ who claim the lotto is a waste of money‑ asking, “Did you buy a lotto ticket.” The last time I bought a lotto ticket, I think the jackpot was over $300 million. When it gets that big, it gets everyone’s attention; which is why it is so stupid to buy a ticket then. I’d have much better odds playing the “small” jackpots. But the small jackpots don’t indulge my fantasies the way the big ones do.

Although the entire world had probably bought tickets, it didn’t stop me and my roommates from playing. I didn’t win, obviously, but the money I spent on tickets was well worth the daydreams they provided of me being filthy rich. A group of steel workers in Pittsburg won and I heard on NPR that a few of them actually showed up to work the next day. They tried to paint the winners as good guys who didn’t want their other coworkers to fall behind because they were short staffed, but I’m sure the only reason they showed up at work the next day was to constantly remind everyone, “I’m rich, BITCHES!”

The first time I played the lotto was the weekend after I graduated from college. I pulled into a gas station to buy beer and saw a sign for a $72 million jackpot. I thought it was a sign, I knew I was going to win. So I bought some tickets and spent the weekend planning my trip around the world on my new sailboat, which I was going to buy with my winnings. At the end of the weekend, it was announced that some other person won my voyage.

It is such a long shot, and the people who win usually die young and or go broke, but there’s still an allure to me. Who knows, maybe it’s the millions of dollars. But it’s not the money and the possessions that really indulge my fantasies, it’s the thought that I could make my own reality, do whatever I wanted to do for a living, not simply log hours behind a desk to pay the bills and mortgage. But my wife claims that she would still work even if we won the lotto. She said she would get bored without a job. I told her that’s fine, and I would support her decision. I also promised to call her every night, because I would rather be bored sitting on a beach in Fuji, than keeping myself busy behind a desk.

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Confession: Impersonating Michael Jackson could get you arrested…

21 Apr

Sitting behind a computer all day for work, I see a lot of crazy headlines and news stories; but this one may take the cake… From the Detroit News, “Michael Jackson impersonator charged with molestation.”

Now, I’m not sure if anyone properly explained to this man, the art of impersonating a famous person. The goal is to emulate the things the person is best known for, not the things the person was sent to jail for (or should have gone to jail for). For example a good Michael Jackson impersonator should: wear one white rhinestone covered glove; they should do the moonwalk; they should yell, “A-hee-hee” and grab their crotch before attempting to balance all of their weight on the tips of their toes; they should wear a candy-apple-red leather jacket with metal studs on it, a pork-pie hat, aviator shades and penny loafers. They should not molest kids.

The real Michael Jackson was never found guilty of molesting kids, but there is one major difference between the real Michael Jackson and all of his impersonators…. he was the voice behind Thriller. Yes, that’s right; if Michael Jackson had not done the Thriller album, his ass would’ve been thrown in jail. No one gets off, no pun intended, with charges of molesting children multiple times; but MJ did. The reason? P.Y.T. Billie Jean. Beat it. That Girl is Mine. Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’. Thriller is the best selling record of all time; I bet it is impossible to find one person in the world, who has heard the album, who does not love at least one of the songs on that album. It must have been impossible to find an impartial jury…
“Juror No. 4, have you ever heard of Michael Jackson?”
“Uh, you mean the King of Pop! Hell yes, I love MJ.”

So to prevent any further confusion for impersonators, I thought I would provide a small list of things they should not do.

R. Kelly impersonators…
Do wear weird masks and sing Bump N’ Grind. Do not have sex with underage woman and videotape yourself peeing on them. You will go to jail.

George W. Bush impersonators…
Do mispronounce words and pretend to be generally confused about life. Do not attack a foreign country in search of WMDs. You will go to jail.

Britney Spears impersonators…
Do dress like a slutty schoolgirl and sing Oops I did it Again. Do not marry a backup dancer, use your child as an air bag and then go crazy. You will probably go to jail?

Lindsay Lohan impersonators…
Basically everything you could to impersonate her will likely land you in jail, find another career path.

OJ Simpson impersonators…
Do try to look as much like the man as possible, maybe carry around a Heisman Trophy or wear a Raider’s jersey. Do not murder two people, get away with said murders and then rob a sports memorabilia guy. You will most likely go to jail for the murders, but if you don’t, they’ll nail you on kidnapping and robbery. You will go to jail.

Remember, if you’re going to go into this line of work, only impersonate the things that made them famous. You know, the things that allow them to get away with the crimes you or I would surely go to jail for.

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Confession: I bought a Barbie doll…

17 Mar

“Look Dan, I got a Barbie!” my niece Lucy called out, placing the doll in my hands for me to inspect. The first thing I noticed about her Barbie was that her hands had been quite badly chewed. The teeth marks had flattened and stretched the plastic to the point where it no longer looked like Barbie even had hands, instead it looked like her forearms were simply attached to two large, battered, skillets. I later found out it was my wife who had done the chewing, presumably when she was Lucy’s age, at least I hope.

“Mom doesn’t like her Barbie,” said her older brother Sam. “Mom says she looks hungry.”

“If your mom doesn’t like the Barbie, who got it for her?” “She brought it home from grandma and grandpa’s house, it was mom’s Barbie when she was little,” Sam told me.

“I’m hopefully going to get another one for my birthday,” Lucy hinted with a mixture of excitement for what was to come and pride for the doll she currently had clung to her chest.

It was Lucy’s fourth birthday; which I’ve come to realize is one of the biggest birthdays in a kid’s life, simply for the fact that when they turned three-years-old, they really don’t remember turning two. But at four, they clearly remember their third birthday and all of the presents, cake and attention that come along with it. They are pumped out of their little adolescent minds to turn four.

So this being the biggest birthday of her entire childhood, we wanted to get her something good, and the only thing good in Lucy’s mind was a tall bleach-blonde doll sporting double d’s and a smile.

Talking with Lucy’s parents about birthday presents, the topic of Barbie quickly came up again.

“I really don’t like her playing with Babies,” her mom said. “Not only does she look hungry, but her waist is tiny and her boobs are huge.”

I understand why she didn’t want Lucy to get a Barbie, after all, most of the doll’s we found had Barbie wearing clothes that made her look like she was a shoe-in for either the cover of the next Girl’s Gone Wild DVD, or a place on the cast of the next VH-1 celebrity dating show where she would spend the majority of her time in front of the camera trying to convince the audience that she was not only old enough to know who this celebrity was, but also that she was madly in love with him before she found out about the auditions on Craiglist that morning.

“He’s my soul mate,” she would say over and over into the camera. If she made it just far enough along in the dating selection, or caused enough drama to shame her entire family, she might even get her own spin off show.

There obviously isn’t some predetermined equation that proves any little girl who plays with Barbie Dolls will develop body issues and spend most of their adult lives trying to look exactly like Pamela Anderson. My sister Tricia played with Barbie dolls when we were growing up. She now goes by the name Trash, drums in a crusty-punk band and dates a woman with hairy armpits; so you just never know.

But I remember a similar discussion about women’s body image when a college friend of mine found out his girlfriend was pregnant and was having a baby girl.

“I’m not going to let her get all Britney Spears and think that’s the way women are supposed to look,” he said.

Mind you, this was before Britney got married to one of her background dancers, got pregnant, and then drove her car around with her baby in the air-bag position. This was long before she went on a yearlong bender, became bffs with Paris Hilton, got tattoos when she could barely stand, shaved her head at 4 a.m. and then ran off and got married to a member of the papa razzi. No, this was the “Oops I did it again” Britney, the most wholesome version of the woman we would ever come to know, and he was still worried.

In the following year, even Britney fell victim to trying to live up to the Britney Spears’ image, and, from what I gathered from the trashy magazines that line the check out lane of every grocery store in Amercia, it nearly drove the poor girl insane. I wonder in Britney ever played with Barbie dolls as a kid?

When it finally came down to buying Lucy a birthday present, we decided we could either buy her something she would be disappointed with, or get her a Barbie; we decided on the doll.

While looking for the right Barbie it was important to find one that Lucy would really like, so that meant the doll had to be a princess, preferably sporting pink. Luckily my wife found just the doll, a Barbie that was apparently involved in a story line with the Three Musketeers. According to the packaging, this particular Barbie was featured in an animated story, which was available on DVD for additional purchase.

While at the store, my wife called and informed me there was a sale. With the purchase of a Barbie, you could either get a free Ken doll from the same story line, or additional dresses for the doll. I voted for the Ken doll because the last time I saw Lucy playing with her dolls, Belle and Sleeping Beauty seemed perfectly content with their female dance partners, but it seemed Snow White was longing for some male companionship.

At home, while we were wrapping the presents, we noticed something about the packaging. Both Barbie and Ken had word bubbles coming up from their mouths like they were speaking, but what they were saying was completely different. Barbie’s word bubble said, “This is my first ball,” while Ken’s said, “I want to be an inventor.” At first we were amused by it, but then, like the drama a few years back where a talking Barbie said, “Math is hard,” we wondered if these stereotypes weren’t more harmful than Barbie’s body issues. Basically what they were saying was, Barbie is a party girl who is excited to go dancing; while Ken is a smart young man determined to make something of himself when he grows up. How old are Barbie and Ken supposed to be by the way?

But unlike the talking Barbie, this doll would only have one chance to get her message across, because once Lucy saw the pink-gowned princess beneath the plastic, that packing was toast. And another thing, Lucy can’t read yet.

In the end, Lucy was extremely excited to get the Barbie and Ken dolls. Her eye’s lit up for at least a half of a second, which was about the time it took for her to refocus her attention on the other unopened presents sitting next to her on the floor. The next present was a Polly Pocket beach set with all sort of different bikinis, swim fins, snorkels, flip flops and other beach gear for Polly to change into and out of. Although Polly is much smaller than Barbie, I couldn’t help but notice she was built in a similar fashion, and just like that, Barbie was pushed to the sidelines for a smaller version of herself with skimpier clothing. If Barbie is Britney Spears, then Polly is Millie Cyrus; she just doesn’t have the bad reputation- yet.

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Confession: We bought a haunted house…

5 Feb

My wife and I are in the process of buying a new house and I swear, I haven’t signed and or initialed this many things since I was applying for college. I had to use the force to channel my social security number, which I had stored away long ago behind countless song lyrics and pointless movie lines. We’re really excited about the purchase, but when I say we are buying a new house, I simply mean that it is new to us. The house itself was built in 1925, but it is in a great neighborhood and we got a pretty amazing deal.

Such an amazing deal actually, that I’m starting to grow concerned about the history of the house. Not so much the structural history, we hired an inspector, and for a small fortune he prodded around the house and snapped pictures with a digital camera of all the things we needed to fix. I’m talking about the actually history of the house.

A friend joked that the only reason we got such a great deal was because someone used the place to perform satanic rituals, or that someone was murdered there. Normally this is the type of thing I’d laugh off, but my wife and I just finished watching an unhealthy amount of Dexter in an extremely short time, and now I’m super paranoid that everyone I know or anyone I pass on the street, is in fact a serial killer. I’m in the process of searching all of my friend’s homes for trophies of their kills.

This paranoia has built to the point where I’m now completely confident that I’ve purchased the home of a serial killer and or Satan worshiper. I’m also convinced that although I’m completely joking (only 99 percent serious), my wife will not be able to sleep the first night we stay at the house because of this post.

I’m a little less stressed out now that I Googled “serial killer, murder, murdered, satanic ritual” and our address, only to have nothing solid pop up in the search results. I’m sure the house is fine, we’ve toured it a number of times, even at night, and found nothing strange.

Well, we did find a pretty eerie photo of a young boy, in the basement, placed prominently on the furnace. It looked like he used to live in the house, but it was pretty strange because the house has been abandoned for a number of years, then completely gutted and redone by a company who bought and flipped the place. They even replaced the furnace. So how did the photo end up on furnace? Who put it there and what were they trying to tell us? Oh shit… it just hit me! We bought a house that is haunted by a little boy. I’ve got to go call our real estate agent.

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Confession: I’m dying…

26 Jan

Recently I haven’t been feeling well, so I decided to see what an expert had to say about my symptoms. Today I was hit with some very bad news, I’m terminally ill.

According to the search results I obtained from Googling my symptoms, I could be dying from at least 10 different illnesses. I was surprised to find out from Wikipedia that all of the diseases I’m suffering from are incredibly rare, some of them have never even been diagnosed in the U.S.- just my luck.

I decided to seek out a second opinion, so I Googled Web MD and then searched my symptoms there, only to find out my first diagnosis was completely accurate; I’m dying.

I’ve always thought it would be difficult to find out you are terminally ill, but usually there is one disease you are fighting and the doctors have a plan to alleviate your suffering. In my case, it’s not that easy. Some of my diseases have never even affected a man before; others haven’t been diagnosed in decades or are routinely found in only animals. There is no cure, and since I forgot to bookmark the Wikipedia pages for each disease, I already forgot at least seven of the illnesses I’m dying from.

My only hope now is that NBC will do a mini-series on my heroic struggle, battling at least 10 different terminal illnesses (that number will probably increase by the time I’m done reading through all of my search results). I hope they get someone fantastic to play me, like Neil Patrick Harris, or get Justin Timberlake and make it into a musical.

This news is obviously upsetting, but it really makes me think about what’s important- search engine results. Before I go and draft my will— deciding who will get my most cherished possessions, like my iPhone and my Jesus bobble-head doll— I’m going to work on redefining my symptoms for Google and see if it will re-diagnose me with something non-life threatening; like a sinus headache, which is what I thought I had to begin with.

- Daniel Savickas

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Confession: I wear Gap boxers with Santa on them…

15 Jan

We’ve all heard the expression, “Daddy’s little girl,” and everyone knows atleast one Dad who simply does not want to see his daughter turn into a young woman. The reason for this is simple, dads were once young men and long before that they were boys; in the middle lies the teenage years, and all dads know what they were like as teenage boys and more importantly, what they wanted from teenage girls. So dads keep their daughters on a tight leash and try to intimidate their daughter’s boyfriends, hoping and praying that their daughters will walk entirely unnoticed throughout their teenage years.

I’ve begun to realize that although mothers don’t go through the exact same experience, they do go through something similar with their sons. Now, most mothers aren’t worried about their sons falling prey to some smooth talking high school girl, but they do go through a stage in their parenting where they want to turn their sons into a “Mama’s boy.”

While mothers are less likely to try and intimidate their son’s girlfriends by showing them their gun collection or telling them, “I have a shovel and big back yard, I don’t think anyone would notice you’re missing,” I think they have a much more passive aggressive way of trying to accomplish the same thing.

I think mothers can, and will do little things to sabotage their son’s love lives in order to keep women away from their sons and keep their sons close to home. The reason for my hypothesis is simple: flannel boxers from the Gap.

The boxers aren’t even really flannel, in fact, they’re 100 percent cotton, but they feel as hot as flannel without any of the flexibility.

Now, I used to think that my mother was just a thrifty shopper for buying Christmas themed boxers in the spring and sending me a box full of them, but recently I’ve begun to question her motives.

Think about it, what woman in here right mind is going to date a grown man wearing navy blued boxers with little snowmen sporting Santa Clause hats? Continue reading →

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Confession: TGIF

8 Jan

I’ve always hated the saying TGIF and I’m not sure why. If I could establish a clear relationship between the abbreviation and the run of Friday night televisions shows it represented while I was in elementary and middle school, I’m sure I’d have fonder feelings towards it.

I mean, come on. Who didn’t love themselves some Urkel? For me, Urkel represented one thing, and one thing only- pure comedic genius. And who could forget Full House? The first time I headed into San Francisco I lowered the top on my Jeep and imagined I was Danny Tanner cruising across the Golden Gate Bridge in a red convertible with Uncle Jessie and Uncle Joey. CUT. IT. OUT! Of course the first time I drove across the bridge, as well as the second and third, it was so foggy I could barely see. I thought to myself, “Danny Tanner lied to me!”

Now days I don’t really associate Friday nights with quality television broadcasting. I guess if I associate it with anything I associate Fridays with the freedoms Saturday mornings provide. Friday means I don’t have to wake up early the following morning and if I want I can go out, stay up late and do whatever I want for as late as I want. But I usually don’t, the older I get the more likely I am to stay in on Friday nights, go to bed early and think back to a time where Friday nights meant ordering pizza, drinking massive amounts of pop and hanging out with my homeboys Urkel, Danny Tanner an Uncle Jessie.

- Daniel Savickas

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Confession: My ass is literally worried about airport security. And Charlie Sheen…

6 Jan

I’m getting on a plane to head to Vegas in a month and all I can do is think about is a recent news article I read. In Saudi Arabia a member of Al Qaeda smuggled a bomb up his ass in attempt to kill Prince Mohammed Bin Nayef, head of Saudi Arabia’s counter terrorism operations, in his palace. The report was alarming to me, since, according to the broadcaster, the bomber “avoided detection by two sets of airport security, including metal detectors and palace security” before gaining access to the palace. Apparently, the technology that is necessary to check for bombs being stored in ones anal cavity does not exist yet. The article maintains that Al Qaeda lifted the technology, ie. cramming things up your ass, from drug smugglers- yet another reason we should end the war on drugs, in my humble opinion.

The saddest part about this story, to me, is that even if this suicide bomber was greeted by Allah, and a handful of virgins, he did not mutter the only phrase that would’ve made this a tolerable or worthy act. “Rectum, I damn near killed ‘em!”

And this was the case, because although this asshole (no pun intended) managed to cram a bomb up his butt, he literally only blew up his own ass. The bomb was apparently detonated by a text message, and although security officials have no clue what the text said, I believe it was something like this: “OMG! I still can’t believe you shoved a bomb up your ass, you’re so gay! JK! Good luck, and know that we think you’re the bomb! No homo. L8.”

The Prince was mildly injured in the explosion, but the real story is, what’s next for airport security? Then on Christmas day, after asking myself that question, another man smuggled an explosive material onto a plane underneath his taint.

After the shoe bomber people had to start walking through airport security wearing socks or barefoot, while their shoes were x-rayed. Then there was the liquid bomber, the people that were going to mix liquids together to blow a plane out of the air. This resulted in people having to pack Barbie sized portions of shampoo, toothpaste and any other remotely liquid looking substance. Now we’ve had two bombers with explosive materials up or stored directly near their ass. What’s it going to take to clear airport security now?

Continue reading →

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Confession: I miss smoking

9 Dec

I’ve often wondered what it is that keeps me from writing a novel or a collection of short stories. Inevitably it’s A.D.D. or my sheer lack of motivation, but I prefer to pretend it’s something much deeper than that, perhaps something I can simply acquire by going to the store, or better yet, buy it on-line from Zappos. I’ve seen plenty of movies involving accomplished authors, and as I began to look back at these characters for clues of what makes someone a published, successful, writer, a trait emerged. At first it wasn’t easy to see, but after awhile it was as clear as day and it hit me like a brick – all great writers are smokers.

I remember back in college when it seemed like all I did was write words on paper and I smoked then. Why did I ever quit? David Sedaris quit, but when he smoked it provided him with plenty of content, and when he did finally quit, he wrote half of a book about his journey to become smoke-free.

I remember my first cigarette clearly. Nine months shy of my 18th birthday, I bummed a Marlboro Red off of a friend. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever felt cooler than the first time I lit up that cigarette, except maybe the first time I lit up in front of a girl who smoked. I’d pretended to smoke thousands of times before, but somehow the awful taste of tobacco just made me feel so much cooler than all of those times I’d lit a fake cigarette made out of marshmallow, or simply held my fingers up to my mouth in a thin horizontal V.

I wasn’t too graceful with my first cig, but my years of pretending and watching R-rated movies had given me some clue of how to properly flick the ash from the end of my phallic torch. The awesomeness I’d felt with my first few drags quickly turned into what can only be described as flu-like symptoms. Before I knew it, I’d ditched the cowboy-killer into a 20-oz bottle of Cherry Coke and jumped in the nearby lake to cool off. Cold sweats seemed to plague every inch of my body. Although I didn’t throw-up, I came close; and yet this was not the last time I smoked. Continue reading →

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Confession: I believe in Santa Claus, again…

7 Dec

I still haven’t decided whether or not I believe in Santa Claus. When I was a child, I believed in him without a doubt and I was rewarded with a stocking full of candy and plenty of presents under the tree. One time I even received a note from Santa, which was horribly scribbled. He apologized for the poor penmanship, citing bad weather and a bumpy sleigh ride down from the North Pole. As I got older my faith in Santa faded, as did the number of presents under the tree and the amount of candy in my stocking; until one year I just flat-out no longer believed. And since then, Christmas has never been the same.

I understand that Santa is the single greatest tool in motivating a child. Even in mid-July there is a chance that threatening a child with, “Santa is watching, you don’t want to get on his naughty list do you?” will result in the child instantly cleaning his or her bedroom or removing their fist from a sibling’s face. Once fall hits and the realization that Christmas is quickly approaching, kids become borderline saints and putty in their parent’s hands. Everything they do is motivated by the fact that they think Santa will put them on the nice list.

I remember going to see Santa Claus at the mall when I was younger and it seemed like he always asked, “Have you been a good boy this year? Have you been listening to your parents?”
If parents were smart they’d slip the Santa a twenty to ask a series of questions.
“Are you being nice to your sisters, cleaning your bedroom, doing your homework, letting your parents sleep in?”
Continue reading →

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Confession: People Yahoo weird stuff

3 Dec

This week Yahoo released its list of the top ten things people used their search engine to find out more about, this year. The results lead me to believe the two main types of people using the Yahoo search engine are men, and teenie booper girls. Here’s how this year’s numbers broke down.

1. Michael Jackson took the number one spot, proving once again that the best thing an artist can do to improve their image and boost album sales is to simply die.

2. The Twilight Saga came at number two, which really makes me wonder if I’m missing out on something great. I’ve heard the books are as addictive as crack, but that still doesn’t mean they’re worth reading. After all, how good can crack be for you, really? I know I freak out when I meet anyone that hasn’t read the Harry Potter series, but something tells me Twilight cannot possibly live up to its hype. And besides, didn’t HBO make this same plot into a TV show?

3. WWE took the three-spot. What can I say? Wrestling is super entertaining and will always have a place in the heart of every man living in the good U.S. of A. The WWE is a total guilty pleasure of mine, but not as much as when it was the WWF. I watch wrestling, maybe, a few times a year, when I happen to catch it, but it always grabs my full attention. I grew up a Hulk-a-manic and was part of the Warrior-nation; it’s in my blood. And for my money, there are no better shit-talkers on the planet than professional wrestlers. Face it; professional wrestling is hands down the longest running, and best, soap opera ever!

4. Megan Fox… When I was telling my wife about this top ten the other night at dinner, a woman sitting next to us asked, “Are you sure it wasn’t ‘Megan Fox naked?’” I’m pretty sure it was, but Yahoo would probably like to pretend that Internet is used for something besides porn and skin shots of celebrities.

5. Moving down the list all the way from last year’s number one spot… Britney Spears. Sorry Britney, it looks like people are much more interested in you loosing your shit, than they are with the shitty music you make.

6. Naruto was number six, and since Yahoo’s search engine sucks, I Googled it find out more. Apparently Naruto is a manga comic. If you don’t know what manga comics are, don’t worry. you’re not alone. According to Wikipedia, magna comics include a broad range of subjects: action-adventure, romance, sports and games, historical drama, comedy, science fiction and fantasy, mystery, horror, sexuality, and business and commerce, among others. Like most things American’s couldn’t care less about, manga comics are big in Japan.

7. American Idol rolls in at number seven. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but didn’t it come out that the fix was in on this show? The only redeeming quality about this show is that Ellen is now, or is going to be, a judge on the show. Ellen is fabulous, teen-aged-singers that get record contracts from this show and then put out shitty music, are not.

8. Kim Kardashian takes the number eight spot, proving once again, it doesn’t matter that no one knows who you are before your sex tape “accidentally” gets leaked on the Internet, afterwards you’ll be a celebrity. But seriously, did anyone know who they hell she was before she make a sex tape with Moesha’s brother?

9. Of course NASCAR was going to make the top ten. I’d love to make a joke about all of the ignorant rednecks that watch the sport, but one of the most intelligent people I know is a die-hard NASCAR fan. But I think he’s the exception to the rule. It’s safe to say that 99.9% of NASCAR fans think Sarah Palin is a political genius with great values and that global warming is a myth. NASCAR is also one of the fastest growing sports in the U.S.- be afraid, be very afraid.

10. Rounding out the top ten is Runescape, a video game. Never heard of it, but then again I’m not an avid gamer. This game does sound pretty cool though. I wonder if you can get it for Atari?

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Confession: Chuck Klosterman reads my blog

3 Dec

Chuck Klosterman reads my blog! Or on-line collections of essays as I like to think of it. I don’t know this for sure, but today I got a hit from someone who followed my link from Facebook; and it just happens to be the same day Chuck Klosterman accepted my Facebook invitation to be friends. In related news, Chuck Klosterman and I are now friends.

I’m now sitting around daydreaming about Chuck Klosterman reading my essays. I wonder if he laughed at anything. I hope he at least cracked a smile. I’m sure he did, and at this moment he’s probably back on Facebook doing one of two things… writing me a message, or poking me. There is a possibility I’ll be able to go home today and tell my wifey, “Honey, today I got poked by Chuck Klosterman.” She’d be so happy for me.

If you haven’t noticed, I love Chuck Klosterman. Klosterman is the David Sedaris for people who are obsessed with music and pop culture. My sister-in-law recently asked, “Is he that one guy that makes all those pop-culture references I don’t get?”

Before reading Chuck Klosterman I didn’t realize that anyone had the same type of thoughts as I do. I was especially excited to find out that someone let him write several books about such thoughts. For years I thought I was the only one that spent my spare time writing at great lengths over who would’ve been more likely to prevent Sept. 11, the Delta Force, or John Cutter from Passenger 57. Or which celebrities would make up an all-star team to win the office Dead Pool. I believe Klosterman is the type of guy that I could have a beer with and seriously discuss the topic of whether Tupac would have an iPhone or a Blackberry Curve, if he were alive today.

I look forward to talking with him about many important issues on the Facebook chat option, during our new Facebook-friendship, but for now… I’m just really honored to find out that Chuck Klosterman reads, or may have read, my blog.

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Confession: I hate your blog

18 Nov

I hate blogs, including this one. There, I said it. I can admit it, blogs suck, they are evil creatures. Without blogs, it’s fair to say the world would be a much better place.

I remember when I first heard about blogs, I thought they would be a great idea. But like most things, they are only enjoyable when experienced in moderation. Nowadays everyone has a blog. Most likely even your Mom has a blog.

There are blogs about food, music, movies, bikes, stuff white people like, pop-culture, design, politics… Then there are blogs that deal with all of the above and more. There are even blogs about blogs. It’s too much, there are too many, the Internet is too flooded with them. I’ve even seen blogs about religion. If the post I read was true, and there is a God… Please help, please eliminate all of the blogs in the world, including this one. Thanks God.

Sarah Palin’s fame is even credited to a blog. Before some small political blog raved about her, she was widely unknown; man I miss those days. But now, thanks to some stupid blog, her face and annoying smug little smile is everywhere for everyone to see. And what do we know about the blogger who first praised this woman? Well of course we know he’s an idiot, because after all, he praised Sarah Palin… But besides that, we don’t know anything about him. Why does his opinion even matter? For all we know he could worship Captain Kirk, his diet could consist solely of Cheetos and Reb Bull and he could be planning to marry his sister when he grows up.

That’s my point; blogs would maybe be useful or entertaining if they were used by important people to say intelligent or funny things. Now I know what you’re thinking, ‘Who determines who is intelligent or funny enough to get a blog?” I don’t know the answer to that question, me maybe? But I know this; someone has to do something. They used to do this back in the good old-fashioned days when people still read newspapers. The people who made these decisions were called editors and the people they chose to push their views, humor and or opinions onto you were called columnists, and it was awesome.

Now, as I’ve said before, columnists are dead, and the only thing that’s left in their place are bloggers and tweeters (is tweeter what you call a person who uses Twitter?). If you have a blog, most likely I’ve read it to kill time at work, and most likely I think less of you for having it; just like my self-esteem goes down several points every time I click the publish button on this blog.

At times I wish I lived in China where they restricted things like Facebook, people’s blogs and other information. It must be nice to not be so overwhelmed with all this bullshit. I understand that you might think I’m crazy for feeling this way and I might have offended you, but I don’t really care. What are you going to do, blog about it?

No bloggers where injured in this blog post.

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Confession: I ate cow

10 Nov

Yesterday, after ten years of eating what most of my friends referred to as twigs and bark, I finally ate what they consider to be “real food.” After a decade of having a cow-free mouth, I chewed and swallowed a 1/2-pound of cow at happy hour.

It was an interesting experience. I didn’t feel any guilt about it at the time; after all, killing an animal was never the reason I gave up eating meat in the first place. I became a vegetarian after learning about all of the hormones that go into today’s meat. But the piece of a cow that I ate belonged to a cow who was “hormone-free and grass feed.”

It’s pretty crazy to me that those things even need to be on a menu. Cow’s digestive systems aren’t meant to eat anything but grass, but something tells me the people who don’t know this, or care to know this, are fine to eat any type of cow, even the mad ones which feed on bits of other cows and newspapers and all sorts of things. And I’m sure they don’t care that the typical cow ingests more pharmaceuticals than Janis Joplin did in her lifetime.

After I starter to think about it, I started replaying vegetarian-propaganda bumper stickers over and over in my head- meat is murder. And then I started to feel badly about it.

But I’d like to the think the piece of cow that I ate came from a really depressed cow; one that kept itself in really great shape, but deep down was really just unhappy with life and was going to commit suicide any day now. I’d also like to think that if the cow knew how to read and write, it would’ve written a suicide note that stated, “When I’m gone, please serve me up on an onion bun with garlic lemon aioli, pepper bacon, lettuce, onion, tomato, and a choice of Rogue blue cheese or Tillamook white cheddar, ketchup and mustard, with an ice-cold IPA.”

Then I read the menu a bit closer and saw the piece of cow I ate came from a place in Oregon called Strawberry Mountain. I started to think about it, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought of how wonderful Strawberry Mountain sounded. In fact, Strawberry Mountain sounds like the nicest, happiest place on earth. Who could be depressed there? Surely not a cow who sat around all day in the sun eating grass; one who had no care in the world until its life was cut tragically short and then served up to me on an onion bun with garlic lemon aioli, pepper bacon, lettuce, onion, tomato, and Tillamook white cheddar, ketchup and mustard, with an ice-cold IPA. Damn it! Now I feel like an asshole. I should’ve never eaten that bit of cow!

But what’s done is done, and now I feel like I owe it to that cow to at least let it spend the rest of eternity with those it knew and loved. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to happy hour; I’ve got a reunion to attend to.

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Confession: technology is crazy, stupid!

3 Nov

A few months back, my wife bought me an iPhone; I’m pretty sure she’s regretted it everyday since. She claims to be looking into support groups that help people who have a problem with their cell phone. I told her I’m not addicted; I’m simply exploring it and learning about all of the thousands of helpful apps. I’m know that somewhere out there is a programmer who is writing an app that will help me convince my wife that not only am I not playing with my iPhone too much, I’m not playing with it enough.

But in all seriousness, the iPhone is pretty amazing and I find myself wondering on a daily basis how I ever lived without one. Something tells me I was simply more resourceful, but I like to pretend like I was barely getting by before this invention.

It seems like ages ago when I would have to leaf through hundreds of thousands of dull-colored yellow pages looking for the number to the local movie theater. Then there was always the dilemma of whether they listed it under “theaters” or “movies.” I never remembered which one it was. Then there was the robotic woman’s voice that would slowly read out each movie, its run time, rating and all of the possible show times. Her voice haunts me to this day. Now I simply have an app that lists all of the movie times in my area, or I use my voice controlled Google search app to find the exact theater I’m looking for.

Technology is amazing, and it has made our lives unbelievably easy, but it does have its down sides. Before my iPhone days, I always carried a mini notebook and pen on my persons to scribble down all of the things I loved or hated about life at that particular moment. Sure I don’t miss forgetting to take the pen out of my pants before washing them, only to have the pen explode in the dryer and have the ink permanently heated into every thread of my clothing; but there is something about writing on actual pieces of paper. Lately I find myself typing all of my random thoughts into the notepad app on my phone, and although it looks like I’m typing on a legal pad, it’s just not the same.

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