tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85273252024-03-13T14:16:43.477-05:00The Vapid VoiceMusings, rants, and essays from all things disparate and random.The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-24661690650655203622009-09-09T14:19:00.004-05:002009-09-09T14:28:37.177-05:00Leave Us Fans Alone!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhufKGeXGYjI2aTTBdYWTSj4Y8AtgdEBu1kbn4MxHIXj5jslMshnZ2EvvE68-dpV_xM7L_ilM-TOEFi674Q78nzh2oZ2v2HBK_BZJgVBQvUGVzf0LxUGzohWHZcWPCoCdcku3PAzA/s1600-h/rafael-nadal1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhufKGeXGYjI2aTTBdYWTSj4Y8AtgdEBu1kbn4MxHIXj5jslMshnZ2EvvE68-dpV_xM7L_ilM-TOEFi674Q78nzh2oZ2v2HBK_BZJgVBQvUGVzf0LxUGzohWHZcWPCoCdcku3PAzA/s200/rafael-nadal1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379550911131083602" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Recently </span>at the U.S. Open, an ardent fan of Rafael Nadal ran onto the court to show his affection. He simply said "I love you!" and wanted to give the tennis star a hug. Nadal, upon seeing the man, actual wanted to reciprocate, saying "No, it's ok!" to the overzealous security gendarmes as they brutally carried the fan away. Now, ESPN has been commenting about this horrible breach of security, and that the players need more protection from the despicable hordes that are sports fans. Subsequent interviews with the tournament's head of security mentioned that former "terrorism exports" have been hired to the security force, monitoring the environment at the event. When did tennis fans become terrorists? I am fine with the idea of searching everyone that enters the facility, using metal detectors if necessary. Nobody wants bombs being detonated or guns being fired from a typically soulless member of an extremist religious group. I also understand that the memories of Monica Seles being stabbed on the court still linger in many minds. But for crying out loud, sports pundits and officials, quit talking about fans as thugs and hoodlums. This is the United States, not Brazil or some similarly soccer crazed country where fans attack referees on a daily basis. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Tennis </span>fans, like spectators of golf tournaments, have an unspoken appreciation for giving the competitors their space, and they are not to be lumped into the crowds that drunkenly fight each other at hockey games. If a sport like tennis wants more followers, it needs to respect the fans, and understand that they are generally an appreciative, safe group. I'll call "foul" on Mike Tirico for citing how "dangerous" the environment can be for professional basketball players at a game, because so many people are "right on top of the court". Tirico might want to think about the fact that more basketball players have attacked fans in recent years than vice versa. If anything, we should be protected from the players, because they are often more prominent thugs than the struggling blue collar workers paying their despicable salaries. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">There </span>was a time, perhaps only about 25 years ago, when upon winning a championship, the fans swarmed the court/field in adoration of their beloved athletes. Nobody was tackled, arrested, or bulldogged to the ground. People could hug their heroes, and if too amorous, the heroes could shove them away. Sporting events did not have hundreds of "secret service" agents suspiciously roving the boundary of the court or field. Several days ago, I was with my friend at a White Sox game, and seated two rows behind the visitor's dugout. She constantly tried to take a picture of Red Sox pitcher Josh Beckett, and never had the chance, because an overweight, sausage-snarfing hog of a "security man", pretending to be protecting the President, constantly blocked her vantage, taking his "post" on the field while the pitcher warmed up between innings. Half the game was spent trying to see around this bloated dessert guzzler with a cheesecake job of standing in everyone's way. Dude, it's the goddamn 5th inning. Nobody's running on the field to attack Beckett. Sit your seven asses down on the bench and attack your twelfth Twinkie, Mr. Arbuckle.</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The respect</span> for fans is just not there anymore. People are assumed to be thugs, and for all events, they may as well just not allow any attendees, but rather have everyone watch the events on a big screen outside the venue. Just build more walls and disenfranchise the already financially strapped sporting audience, without whom the sport would fizzle. If organizers want to embrace a military mentality toward the fans of their respective sport, good luck to them, as respect goes in both directions.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">As </span>for the poor fellow that simply wanted to say "I love you" to Rafael Nadal, he was tackled, brutally taken away, and arrested. The man wasn't interfering with the competition, as the match had long since ended. He was simply trying to break down that wall that tournament organizers had erected between fans and players. It's a shame that this attempt to show love to a great player has been classified as a nefarious incident, rather than a heart warming moment that even Nadal enjoyed.</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-78624976718356165932009-07-27T02:27:00.003-05:002009-07-27T02:40:15.784-05:00Summer Vs Economy<span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>At</strong> <strong>last</strong>, the summer has finally come upon us, and from a personal point of view, it's been a long, cold, winter. Thankfully, I spent most of that winter indoors and was spared much of the aggravation of "driving" (meaning "skidding") along never-salted, under-plowed streets. I can understand the pagan appreciation for the official summer solstice up here on the top half of the third rock. For starters, it's the longest day of the year, and ideologically furthest away from the December darkness that loomed over our afternoon commutes. Most people would readily agree that afternoon darkness is possibly the most depressing, situationally morose aspect of the season of the forgotten sun. Ah, the sun! That bipolar sun, like an alcoholic spouse who rudely left us last night, is back with flowers and apologies. We always welcome back the contrite sun every spring, forgive its drunken abandonment from the wintry night, and forget how crudely it ignored our once thriving flora and fauna. We are free to roam the streets, released from our imprisonment of winter, and seek out all the outdoor festivals and activities otherwise denied us by wind chills and frosty atmospheric intimidation.<br /><br /><strong>Martha and the Vandellas</strong> once sang <em>"Summer's here, the time is right for dancing in the streets"</em>. Normally, that would be true. In densely populated areas like Chicago, street festivals, music festivals, outdoor concerts, beaches and baseball games bring us the smell of grilled food, the incomparable sound of outdoor music, and the sight of scantily clad masses, both good and bad, prancing about with a vivaciousness rarely seen in January. With the economy failing in every physical and industrial corner of the land, people haven't been turning out in droves as with before. Baseball parks are not filled to capacity, street festivals are not as festive, and even golf courses have vacancies unseen since the 1970s. Baseball owners and teams have been long overdue for a reality check, as their ticket and merchandising prices have been ridiculous for years. The Chicago Cubs organization has lazily assumed that Wrigley Field would be filled to capacity for every game, every season. Not to be the case. A mediocre team and a stagnant economy has produced empty seats at Wrigley Field this season, and that's just fine. Perhaps, finally, ticket prices will become reasonable again, and the majority of its fan base, the working class family, will be able to afford a game. Street festivals, because of local business support, are still showing their jewels, sometimes literally. I have noticed, however, that local festivals have morbidly toned down advertising and promotion, likely depending on return attendees from years past. As for the golf courses, screw 'em. I was a competitive golfer throughout the 1980s and 1990s until the fees grew well beyond my means. I could no longer take the game seriously if I could only afford to play a course once every three weeks. In the early 90s, with a relatively modest salary, I was able to play three times a week. The game had an explosion in popularity, supposedly due to that overblown phenom named Tiger Woods, and courses were constantly filled to capacity. With that excessive demand, course owners could raise their rates at whim, and now that demand has ebbed. Perhaps, like trips to Wrigley Field, rounds of golf will become more affordable and accessible as a result of this economic reality check. This is the first summer in a long time for such seasonal institutions to face a harsh economy, and hopefully those institutions, like the housing market, will come back to earth.<br /><br /><strong>As</strong> I've <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2009/06/back-to-garden.html">previously recounted</a>, I went "back to the garden" in a sense, by eschewing the bar scene from glory days past, and to simply become the local suburban gentleman farmer, embracing his .000000001 acres of tillable land. Thankfully, it's been a pleasantly uncomplicated summer, which is one I sought, after many summers of complexity and histrionics. Sometimes, a walk around the block and a quick back yard check of the "crops" are enough to gratify my internal need to be out and about. Perhaps my advancing age and commensurate dwindling energy level keeps me from journeying far beyond the bounds of my personal premises, but for the moment, roughly 36 days into meteorological summer, I've been fine with that. It's financially more feasible to simply stay back at home base and find alternate means of entertainment, rather than dropping fifty clams on a night at some avaricious "eating and drinking establishment" that potentially might provide a night of nothing other than warm beer, mendacious philanderers, and disenchanted collegiate misanthropes. As such, I've previously stated my advocacy of back yard barbecues; some I've hosted, others I've visited. With simple barbecues, I'm with friends, it's usually a controlled environment, and the cost is always less. Going to a bar, I'm overextending myself financially by purchasing five dollar pints of oat soda for the privilege of watching bad sports on big screen television screens, perched prominently above the disinterested bartender, who is obsessed with texting nefarious individuals about a post-closing rendezvous. Regardless of the environment, it always seems more financially tenable to just hang out with friends and, as they say, BYOB. Plus, there's just nothing like a summer night outside, and save for a few Chicago outdoor beer gardens, you just can't replicate that outdoor summer night environment when huddled in a bar full of redundant patrons.<br /><br /><strong>As for festivals</strong>, I've attended one already. Cruefest 2 came to Tinley Park last week. Motley Crue played a forgettable set, made a lot of mistakes, but that was to be expected, as it was only their third show of the tour. The tickets were very affordable, and for once, a musical entity paid attention to the economic drought and kept lawn tickets under thirty bucks. It didn't matter that the Crue played a sloppy set, and bumbled their way through public rehearsals of the entire "Dr. Feelgood" album, since it was the 20th anniversary of its release. I was outdoors and listening to great music with my kindred spirit, Wendi.<br /><br /><strong>We</strong> got away, and had a half-day vacation together, something long overdue and sorely missed by yours truly. Our plan was simple - head down to the area, have a leisurely dinner at Culver's under the setting sun, and wander over to the WORLD THEATRE (I'll never rename it personally). Munching on burgers, I was relaxed, and savored every second. After that, we drove over to the concert, which was like driving to a golf course. No traffic getting to the parking lot, no parking "attendants" pointing to a spot. We just parked where we wanted. Since we refused to pay obnoxious prices for drinks, we simply sipped on bottled water during the show, enjoyed the good songs as they were performed, and had a wonderful day. We found a way to make the trip affordable, enjoy a great dinner with a great friend, and see a show without breaking the bank. It was well worth it. For those that want reviews of the Motley Crue show, check out Wendi's <a href="http://mylifeinlists.blogspot.com/2009/07/motley-crue-review-chicago.html">take</a> on things.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>In</strong> times such as these, we all need to look to our affordable options for summer activities. A person can still have a wonderful summer night out with friends and not spend much, if anything. It can be done, and it's literally right in our back yards!<br /></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-20515047655444033102009-07-12T01:49:00.007-05:002009-07-12T06:22:00.908-05:00Disco Demolition Night - My Story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwRVDFSaF4SsP4DsscjlhuDtvwQgNBfV8s9OI5mHOMV2FlPpwCvPd46BJA0fBa2hpSFhdJHmS6-tM56m5MXAl_0KI0Ql36YZGCLjlOhsXrD5mp-9HZU-n77KG9bwp8KhyphenhyphenrTjAWw/s1600-h/dd1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357466366547701602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwRVDFSaF4SsP4DsscjlhuDtvwQgNBfV8s9OI5mHOMV2FlPpwCvPd46BJA0fBa2hpSFhdJHmS6-tM56m5MXAl_0KI0Ql36YZGCLjlOhsXrD5mp-9HZU-n77KG9bwp8KhyphenhyphenrTjAWw/s200/dd1.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>I was seven years old</strong>, and I was there.<br />It was a rare moment when rock met sports, and ultimately, rock history met sports history. The result was an explosion, in every way. It was Disco Demolition Night, a notorious event that took place on July 12, 1979.<br /><br />Growing up on the far northwest side of the Chicago, my dad groomed me to be a follower of the Cubs. During baseball season, it was as if no other team existed. One innocent day I noticed my brother watching a baseball game on local channel 44, WSNS, with a notoriously boisterous drinker named Harry Caray spitting occasionally accurate commentary while hideously attired players struggled through yet another defeat. It was 1977, and as a curious five year-old, I had to ask about this mysterious team.<br /><br /><em>"There's another Chicago baseball team?"</em> I asked innocently.<br />My brother muttered without averting his eyes, "<em>Yes, you moron, the Sox. They suck. Dad doesn't watch them. I just watch the games because they're funny."</em><br /><br />Gradually, I began watching more White Sox games with my brother, as the games broadcast from this mysterious Comiskey Park were full of low budget hi jinks and boisterous atmosphere. The fans were silly and rowdy, the broadcaster seemed drunk, and the occasional promotions to draw fans to the half-empty park were often hilarious. This baseball circus was more fascinating than the team itself, and I fervently desired to make the pilgrimage to this distant venue. It took me until the spring of 1979 to charge up the courage to ask my dad if we could attend a White Sox game. His defense was immediate.<br /><br /><em>"Why don't we just go to a Cubs game? We'll go there, and have a good time."</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em></em><br />I was not a spoiled brat, though this time, I could not relent.<br /><br /><em>"But, but, but, I just want to see what it's like to see the White Sox. We've already been to Cubs games..."</em><br /><br />I was rather mature for a seven year-old, and my dad, protesting mildly, agreed to find a game on the dreaded White Sox schedule that might coincide with a patch of vacation time, and we would go. He studied the schedule, searching for a date that would offer the least amount of aggravation, in terms of attendance and traffic. He eyed an innocuous game in July, falling on a Thursday night, hosting the Detroit Tigers. Nobody would be there! The Tigers would likely destroy the White Sox, and it wasn't as if the Sox were contenders to begin with. By late April of 1979, the tickets were ordered - three tickets - one for me, one for my dad, and one for my 19 year-old brother, who had a passing interest in attending the game as well. They were for a newly planned twi-night double header, one of which was to be rescheduled from a May 2nd game that had been rained out. We were eventually told that our seats would be honored for both games, and for the price, we figured luck was on our side; an uneventful Thursday game had now become a double header. Better yet, they were great seats, only a few rows behind home plate, along the third base line, somewhat aligned with the on-deck circle. I was already feeling guilty about the effort it would require for my dad to drive us all the way down to the south side from our remote, northwest side residence. The upcoming game, posted quietly on our kitchen calendar, was to be nothing more than a voyage to an empty, disinterested ball park. So it was thought.<br /><br />By the second week of July, the date was only a couple days away, and being a sheltered child, I was unaware that anything was happening in Chicago radio that was to become the Disco Demolition Night promotion. Clearly, my dad was blissfully ignorant of the promotional momentum forming on the Loop, WLUP - FM 98. Steve Dahl announced that anyone entering the park with a disco record could attend for the meager price of 98 cents. Suspiciously, my brother suddenly had other plans, and I unknowingly thought little of it. He knew what was brewing, and I didn't have any idea that the promotion was to coincide with our supposedly routine trip to Comiskey for a supposedly uneventful pair of games. My dad found a friend and co-worker, Al, to use the ticket vacated by my brother, and all the tickets were used - the game was on! Al would meet us near the park, and we were ready to hit the expressway around 5pm, planning to show up during the early innings of the first game.<br /><br /><strong>My dad and I</strong> hit the Kennedy expressway in his new 1979 Plymouth Horizon at around 5 o'clock, meeting a stagnant melee of automotive revelry. With many miles yet to travel, we abruptly tuned to an A.M. radio station and heard the dreaded news - traffic was mired, and everyone - everyone - was headed toward Comiskey Park. It was a paved party of teenagers, with long hair and black shirts, all sitting in their antiquated, oversized cars, stuffed to the edges with humanity itself, while Led Zeppelin songs burst forth from their car stereos. I never smelled marijuana before, and the pungent smell struck me profoundly as we edged slowly down the overcrowded road. Everyone had their car windows rolled down, and records were propped along the rubber edges that lined the tops of the car doors. With the smell of weed emanating from each neighboring car, boisterous drivers pulled aside of us, acknowledging my presence, yelling "Hey! Little rocker dude! Disco sucks!" EVERYONE in this motionless ribbon of vehicular bedlam was headed toward the Mecca that would be Comiskey Park, and I became a noticeable novelty, being a little kid amongst the young adults in adjacent, smokey vehicles.<br /><br /><em>"Hey kid! You heading there? You rock!"</em> one driver said, noticing my increasingly sheepish demeanor. Conversations occurred repeatedly amongst the cars in this hazy traffic jam, and the party had already started, regardless of the destination. My dad, God bless him, realized the dreadful predicament by now. Instead of turning back and heading home, he stared dutifully forward, edging the car along its troubled path. He, being from the early 1950s generation, could not relate to the youngsters and the reasons for the celebratory nature that now surrounded him, his son, and his vehicle. He was not familiar with modern rock and its culture, let alone the disco rebellion it was inciting. It was like seeing Abraham Lincoln at Woodstock - a mixture of anachronistic ideals. Now apprised that he was heading to a celebration, rather than a game, my dad had to ask.<br /><br /><em>"Now who the hell is this disco person? What are they blowing up?"<br /></em><br />I proffered a quick briefing, as eloquently as a seven year-old could.<br /><br /><em>"It's this dance thing. With stupid music and dance stuff. They look stupid when they dance that way. I think they want to blow up records."</em><br /><br />Fair enough. Even dad, grappling with his growling car in a continuous game of stop and go stress, decided that the explanation would suffice. After a laborious two hours of edging along the Kennedy Expressway, we found our way to a neighborhood, albeit depressed, to consider finding parking for the car. In these days, parking was not as cut and dried as they are with current, modern stadiums, and often, bargaining with a neighborhood local for a parking place along a residential street was necessary. My dad recalls:<br /><br /><em>"We found a spot that was near an alley, but it wasn't totally a legal spot. Some guy came out who either worked or lived there, and he offered to put a cone behind the car for a few bucks."</em><br /><br /><strong>Our spot</strong> was near 35th street and Ashland, and we walked dutifully east for the ten block hike along 35th. I remember crossing Iron Street, in a scary, industrial area, long forgotten due to present days of economic regress. I wondered if we'd ever get to the park, as the walk was tiring me out, though we were still a mile from our destination. Vagrants and other disturbing individuals eyed us nefariously, while my dad walked ardently ahead of me, ready to protect me from anyone of ill intent. After an agonizing walk along ancient, broken pavement, the lights, sounds, and humanity of Comiskey came into our perception. Much of 35th street was now blocked by police presence, and by this time, the first game was still in progress, but nearly over. We hustled past all of the ticketless fans, presumably locked out of the newly sold out event. Cops loomed about the entrance at 35th street, and repeatedly we had to produce our tickets to prove that we were legitimate attendees, trying to simply watch some baseball. Little did we know that countless hordes of gate crashers were rushing the entrances, physically bursting past weak and elderly ushers, gaining unauthorized access to the park that had been sold out for hours. Too many people had showed up for the promotion, and despite their 98 cents and disco records, they were denied entrance. We, on the other hand, had our reserved box seats, and appeared to be an anomaly to the dismissive, defensive cops and stadium officials, bitterly expecting more latent pilgrims.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Finally</strong>, into the crumbling, rumbling stadium we went. Its very structure vibrated with stomping, cheering, and chanting. We coursed along its promenade, and amongst the stoned, meandering fans, we finally emerged into the seating area. Noticing the score board, we noticed how late we really were. It was the bottom of the 8th inning, and the White Sox were losing another lifeless game by the score of 4-1. While attempting to find our seats, my dad's friend noticed us and waved us over. Both 45 and 33 rpm records were being hurled above our heads, as we found the seats, thanks to Al's signal. Records continued to float, like Frisbees, over our heads, ultimately hitting the protective net that backed the home plate area. We were at a very choice location, near the field, but the sonic insanity resonated from all areas above, behind, and beyond us. Chants of "Disco Sucks!" obliterated the attention toward the obviously nugatory efforts of the White Sox on the field. My dad's friend Al slid over to allow us to sit, if only for a moment. Al's seat was now directly behind a vertical support beam, affording him little view of the game. I did my best to pay attention to the game on the field, as the top of the ninth approached, and Sox pitcher Ed Farmer took the mound. The 9th inning moved along with haste, while the entire crowd seemed anxious to see the game end. The "Disco Sucks" chant continued, and records continued to fly, in Frisbee style, above my head, with intentions of them being included in the upcoming demolition. My dad's attention was constantly turned away from the field, his eyes scanning the seats beyond, with the intention of shielding me from incoming flying discs. His concerns for my safety were paramount, and as such, he never did see a single pitch on the field during the inning and a half of baseball for which we were actually present. He knew his friend Al, a tough guy in every way, could handle himself, but I was his seven year-old son, in a riotous atmosphere, and he ensured my safety at every moment. The records continued to be flung, the chants continued to be chanted. An impossibly loud, constant ocean of cheering flooded the stadium at ridiculous volume. One out. The crowd grew louder. Two outs. I covered my ears to protect myself from the high decibel hysteria. Anybody walking into this scene would have confused the environment for the final game of an imminent World Series win. Quickly, almost mercifully, the White Sox grounded themselves out of any type of comeback in the bottom of the ninth, and the first game of this dubious double-header was over. Nobody minded that the White Sox lost, and everyone around me was rabid for the disco record explosions to come.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>The field</strong> was cleared, and the deafening roar grew in intensity. Steadily, Steve Dahl and members of his crew drove onto the field in golf carts, waving his arms in acknowledgement of the maniacal masses. Attendants set up a large wooden crate just beyond second base. Dahl screamed into a hastily connected microphone, bringing more fervor to the already tenuous situation. Soon, Bill Veeck himself joined in with the "Disco Sucks!" chant, leading the masses to a frenzy. As the chant continued, after several nervous moments, it happened. The invocation for 1979 anarchy was on, like a starter's pistol signalling the beginning of a race.<br /><br /><strong>KABOOM!<br /></strong><br />The crate exploded with a sound and insanity unexpected by all in attendance. While the public address system was hardly loud enough to be heard over the din, the thunderous explosion was felt throughout our area, and I shuddered from the shock to my already damaged ears. Dahl began a hasty retreat while the chant grew, and after the massive explosion in the middle of the field, the crazed throng began to leak onto the field. Fireworks, presumably from the hands of fans, were heard blasting off in the upper deck areas. More drunk teenagers stumbled over the walls, and like water over a dam, the leak became a flood. Soon, with the chant still echoing throughout the packed stadium, everyone began dancing around on the field. Some revellers picked up fragments of the newly destroyed records and flung them with wanton disregard. After only a couple minutes, it seemed like everyone was walking on the playing field, and with several thousand people out there, most were free to do what they pleased. Some grabbed infield dirt, a couple other picked up the bases. I saw a father and pigtailed daughter simply walking along the infield, as if it were a leisurely tour, sponsored by the team itself. Mock fights broke out, then real fights broke out. After a few confusing moments, the crowd unified in booing as cops took on the masses, complete with riot gear, reminiscent of the 1968 Democratic Convention.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>My dad</strong> vehemently "recommended" that we leave immediately and give up on seeing the second game of the double-header, which was still planned to take place once the revelry cleared. The sight of police, a fire in the right field stands, and alcoholic peril convinced me, and we were soon sprinting down the aisle toward the stadium's exit. Al, despite a pronounced limp, hobbled along with us, having given up on the future of the evening. He also was hoping for a ride home. Al was born with one leg shorter than the other, and grew up in a nearby tough area of the south side. To accommodate his short leg, he developed his upper body, and was a very strong fighter, one who you'd want on your side in any moments of danger. That said, my dad was more than happy for him to escort us for the never-ending walk back to the car, with the promise that he would give Al a ride home. Sorting through the chaos, I realized how dangerous the environment was becoming. I happily ensconced myself between my dad, a former M.P., and Al, a man that could fight off a nuclear missile with his fists. Any cops that hadn't already been assigned to riot control were lingering nervously along 35th street, ready to beat the heads of anyone who chose to defy orders. Seeing myself, a little boy, and my rugged protectors, they let us pass, and we set out for the distant car, parked a mile away, hopefully safe, with a single orange cone designating its legality. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>After</strong> countless inquiries from the desperate homeless, we eventually found our way to the car. The cone was still there, and so was the vehicle, so with rugged determination, we stuffed ourselves into the little hatchback and evacuated from the war zone. Our early departure, long before the second game was declared cancelled, afforded us the opportunity to drive away from the chaos of the area, and avoid the hideous traffic which greeted us only hours before. It couldn't have even been 10pm by the time we dropped off our limpy friend and found ourselves on a mercifully clear expressway toward home. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Once</strong> safely home, the local channels were already broadcasting the breaking news of the riot at Comiskey. We walked into the family room, with news coverage already blaring, and my mother's arms were crossed with silent disgruntlement. With head shaking, she gestured her thoughts and reminded me that I needed to go to bed, since I had summer day camp early the next morning. She barely spoke to my dad, and to this day, I'm not sure how long it took before her anger wore off. It was a family outing gone horribly wrong, and it was an innocent kid being pulled into a world of 1979 rock and roll insanity. In retrospect, I am glad I was there, as it was a moment forever preserved in baseball and music history. Rarely, if ever, have those two legions crossed paths, and I was a first hand witness to its notorious effects. I had always thought I was born too late, wanting to have gone to Woodstock in 1969 and to have seen a Led Zeppelin concert during the 1970s. This was as close as I ever got to being a part of 1970s rock history, something which I admire and study adamantly. Most of the most interesting stories about Woodstock attendees involve how they got there, and with my experiences, that holds true. It was the journey, not the destination. Though I didn't realize the era and its importance in our musical and cultural history at the time, I was "there" for something that forever lingered in my mind and perhaps, just perhaps, formed my ideologies for the future.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-36805989964374795262009-07-01T00:16:00.011-05:002009-07-01T15:51:39.109-05:00TV - The Boring and the Disturbing<p></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I Survived the Charlie Rose Show!</span></strong> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRBxAsA97-Zwj4HKp1E9nZgnHqlcX2hMoGAxTefqfgeJ-e5lKW_N4ayBijqbhZLxZVGGXDplGC2x8iGjcyLdor7MMzNIdPf8FcuJjdPKTbQbUdKy6M2U219VgJiT6877PqvCDuQ/s1600-h/charlieroseshow.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 164px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353403998473474978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRBxAsA97-Zwj4HKp1E9nZgnHqlcX2hMoGAxTefqfgeJ-e5lKW_N4ayBijqbhZLxZVGGXDplGC2x8iGjcyLdor7MMzNIdPf8FcuJjdPKTbQbUdKy6M2U219VgJiT6877PqvCDuQ/s200/charlieroseshow.jpg" /></a><br />I recently did the impossible. I sat through an entire broadcast of the Charlie Rose Show. It required the presence of General Electric CEO Jeffrey Immelt, not because of the person, but my odd fascination with the frightening, monstrous company. I suppose if <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon_Panetta">Leon Panetta</a> came on the show, I'd be equally fascinated by his frightening, monstrous company. I freely admit that I need more to capture my attention than the typically boring political guests, Charlie Rose's soft questions, and that spooky, boundless black background that gives us the impression that they're floating in deep space. The looming darkness, enveloping the hapless subject, lends a disturbing sense of infinite doom. This show literally looks like it goes on forever, physically and temporally. The show has nothing to break up the monotony of an hour's worth of two people talking about politics in space. If they broke things up with a segment - any segment, or shot occasional meteors behind the somnolescent guest and host, the viewer's desire to be jostled free of the televised anesthesia might be assuaged. I don't admit to having a flawless attention span, but there is hardly a way to stare at a dismal, staid televised image for more than a few minutes, regardless of the nature of the conversation taking place. How long can any of us stare at a painting? If Charlie reanimated Jimi Hendrix and propped his tattered body onto the guest "hot seat", most people might make it through ten minutes, and it would be off to another channel. This is the rare example of a show that belongs purely in transcript mode. I know I would much prefer to read this show than to watch it. That's right, Charlie, just mail me the show. My television time is far too valuable for your motionless meanderings.<br /><br /></p></span><br /><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Can Someone Help The Six Flags Guy?<br /></span></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRM9seKRFi4KG8WbvMOymiBJl0G4NpSUw0lIFBvyM0jmtg7bE1T0iHZ3CpwzY55UvDVxNwYX_A4nM-eqXQ6cxxFL91kprbctN69E_NbZMVokjudTSwRS2gvIph6n5x10ZI7nvLoA/s1600-h/mr_six_old_guy_lg.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 154px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353359151823088610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRM9seKRFi4KG8WbvMOymiBJl0G4NpSUw0lIFBvyM0jmtg7bE1T0iHZ3CpwzY55UvDVxNwYX_A4nM-eqXQ6cxxFL91kprbctN69E_NbZMVokjudTSwRS2gvIph6n5x10ZI7nvLoA/s200/mr_six_old_guy_lg.jpg" /></a><br />Many of us are all too familiar with the dreaded Six Flags Guy, a supposedly old man that dances relentlessly, occasionally driving a Six Flags bus to round up innocent bystanders. The man clearly is suffering from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amphetamine_psychosis">amphetamine psychosis</a>, and when he's driving a bunch of innocent women and children around in a bus, it's a problem. If you see this bus behind you, remember, the man is speeding (in several ways), and move the hell away from the bus. For more recent promotions, the troubled speed king has broken his silence, with his popcorn kernel head popping out of the commercial's banner in 2.5D, screaming "More flags, more fun, Six Flags!" His demeanor for this tag is so aggressive and disturbing, certainly the children, who comprise 90% of the target audience, are cowering behind a couch, asking mom if that scary man has finished his televised home invasion. Somebody must help this man. My solution is to take all of the leftover bags of medication from Michael Jackson's house and funnel-dump them into this psychotic soul's expansive gullet. Several have noticed the Six Flags Guy's resemblance to Junior Soprano from <em>The Sopranos</em>.<br /><br /></span></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Late Night with (unfortunately) Jimmy Fallon</span><br /></strong><br />I have born witness to late night train wrecks before. I watched Magic Johnson, Alan Thicke (many years ago) and Chevy Chase journey into the talk show circuit, and these programs ground to an eventual halt. Television critics and ardent viewers all look back upon these adventures as flops. The shows did what they could to copy their high profile competitors of the time, namely Letterman and Carson. At least they had an excuse - they were up against late night monsters. Most dismissed the shows as doomed, due to the stiff competition and supposed incompetence of the hosts, as perceived by television pundits of the day. As I mentioned, I had seen these shows, and I can promise you, nothing can compare to the agony felt from watching <em>Late Night With Jimmy Fallon</em>. I'm sure Fallon is a charming fellow in person, but his true personality, that which he is compelled to exhibit on his new show, does not translate well at all through the cameras. Fallon succeeded on Saturday Night Live by portraying other characters - not by just being himself. The experience with Magic Johnson's show proves that success in other areas does not create a competent talk show host. Fallon stares stiffly at his guests, the teleprompters, and occasionally, the cameras, as he delivers his canned dialogue with deer-in-headlights fashion. It truly hurts to see this robotic script-reader go through his motions and make no effort to even act comfortable in such an unsuitable role. Speaking of roles, couldn't ol' Jimmy just play the character of a real talk show host? Clearly his penchant for role playing garnered him significant popularity during his tenure at SNL, so why not let that momentum guide his hosting? In short, he'd be a lot more watchable if he weren't so...himself. They could have pulled a hot dog vendor from the Manhattan streets, plopped him into the host chair, and that vendor would have been equally camera shocked, but significantly more interesting. To make matters worse, the writing staff might possibly be the worst from any show I've seen, ever. There was an ill-fated sitcom with abysmal writing called "Buffalo Bill" back in 1983, and that had held top honors for worst writing. Fallon's show, however, threatens that 26 year-old honor. The punchlines during bits are painful and consistently met with nervous, isolated chortles from the hushed audience. They'll often take a promising premise, such as "New IPhone Apps", and take it right to hell, complete with overuse of a random outmoded celebrity, such as Kirk Cameron. With horrible writing, a stagnant host, silent audiences and an average lineup of guests, one would assume the show will be cancelled shortly. Right? Guess again. His competition includes the ratings-challenged Craig Ferguson's show, and most of the NBC propaganda has been brazenly trumpeting the fact that Fallon's show has been outgunning CBS during this troubled time slot. Many attribute Fallon's continued lead in the ratings (by a mere 200,000 viewers over Ferguson and Kimmel) to the coat tail effect from Conan O'Brien's move to the slot preceding Fallon. I am highly suspicious about these ratings, and can't imagine why Jimmy Kimmel's show, with far more creativity and energy, isn't the ratings leader. NBC should have grabbed Kimmel while they could, and put him into the spot ultimately filled by the hopeless Fallon crew. Kimmel is definitely the better Jimmy. If Fallon is still host of the show one year from this posting, I'll happily pretend to eat my hat. </span><br /></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Ambulance Chasers</span><br /></strong><br />It's inevitable that legal firms will take their cause to the national stage, and brazenly ejaculate their "come hither" pick-up line to hordes of likely candidates. Several have been conspicuous in their offers for, well, "help".<br /><br /><em>"If you or a loved one WAS diagnosed with mesothelioma..."</em><br /><br />The dangerously poor grammar (the word in capital letters should be WERE - I'll explain later) should be an immediate sign of incompetence in litigation. The quote above is the opening line for a commercial seeking juicy, low-hanging fruit in the form of asbestos sufferers, should any still exist. Clearly, no intelligent rhetoric would be necessary to rope in any surviving, lungless fossils who have, to date, not had the wherewithal to seek out legal representation. Nevertheless, here they are, polling the masses, believing that pissing on the beach still hits many grains of sand, be they indiscernible until a later date.<br /><br /><em>[Begin grammar spiel]</em><br />As for my criticism of the poor grammar in the above quote, when a sentence has a compound subject, in this case, "you" and "a loved one", it is generally expected to use predicate that would match the first subject term spoken ("you"). The question here involves whether to use "was" or "were". To find out which one is correct, we simply would omit the extra subjects of the sentence and test how it would sound. If we removed "or a loved one" from the quote in question, we'd be left with "If you...was diagnosed...". Obviously not correct. Stupid writers! They're all stupid!<br /><em>[End grammar spiel]</em><br /><br />Speaking of that which is indiscernible, another creepy commercial comes courtesy of the fine folks at Binder & Binder.<br /><br />During idle afternoons, presumably prime time for disabled workers and all things disgruntled, the folks from Binder & Binder sprinkle their commercial into the soundtrack of the day. The "voice" of the commercial, in the eeriest, scariest whispers imaginable, recommends that we seek revenge for whatever physical, industrial, or psychological malady that was imparted upon us by those "bullies" of the business sector. The nefarious narration makes one think of the Devil whispering in one's ear. One might even compare it to Mephistopheles from Marlowe's <em>Doctor Faustus</em> or "Sam" from the "Son of Sam" murders. Clearly, the script for this campaign was penned by a former victim of bullying, and perhaps years ago, little Ernie, complete with his broken glasses and dishevelled Trapper Keeper, thought, "I'll show those bullies! I'm gonna write scary copy in the future!" The commercial typically ends with a disturbing send-off, such as "Don't let the big guys keep you down". I would find it ironic if a law firm's ghostly, inspirational quotes ultimately sends some unstable bastard to a former employer for some .38 caliber "clean up work". </span></p><br /><p><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">A Brief Acknowledgement of the Departed</span></strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXFY78unNAn7fGmaxX9sRRSJnND8FnYVZ2UG9s8S1aAb6i8azHye93Uhy4IriohgBxBrD1Tmxs4ahtL-jF7aPycxAFOiE6xnl1nMHoWu_UnhsBxubkvNypDKGRTqADPpf3_Bgebw/s1600-h/farrah-fawcett-poster.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY2TOXOiW2ql5HZncKa6GAs-1LLVRnOWIl-LrblIxl0P-d83QrKsOb0kRwX_mIbsn0K6KLQnpm8oOXhZN0_cMPWDFpIxEv9OE_2xo-g3AtKi6NpW47eXgbHglqBI7v7hbnBu01gQ/s1600-h/farrahswimsuitalt_jpg_w300h375.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 160px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353392219929370562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY2TOXOiW2ql5HZncKa6GAs-1LLVRnOWIl-LrblIxl0P-d83QrKsOb0kRwX_mIbsn0K6KLQnpm8oOXhZN0_cMPWDFpIxEv9OE_2xo-g3AtKi6NpW47eXgbHglqBI7v7hbnBu01gQ/s200/farrahswimsuitalt_jpg_w300h375.jpg" /></a><br />Michael Jackon's demise was a sad conclusion to the scrapbooks of many people, like myself, who grew up in the 1980s. I will miss the black Michael Jackson, but he died 25 years ago. Once the masks came on, the chimp came out, and the kids went along, I no longer considered him the person he once was. Michael was dead a long time ago, and this was a final absolution. Farrah and Ed, they were the true cultural staples of television in their day, and both died still struggling for life. I'll particularly miss Farrah. As for Billy Mays, I don't understand his sudden deification, but I'm just happy that his screaming is finally quelled. </span></p>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-47872820512025328162009-06-24T13:34:00.003-05:002009-06-24T13:40:23.982-05:00Back To The Garden!<span style="font-family:verdana;"><em>Welcome back, dear reader!<br /></em><br /><br /><strong>At</strong> last, the summer has finally come upon us, and from a personal point of view, it's been a long, cold, winter. Thankfully, I spent most of that winter indoors (way, way indoors), and was spared much of the aggravation of skidding along never-salted, under-plowed streets. I can understand ancient appreciation for the official summer solstice up here on the top half of the third rock. For starters, it's the longest day of the year, and ideologically furthest away from the December darkness that loomed over our afternoon commutes. Most people would readily agree that the prominence of darkness is the most morose aspect of the season of the forgetful sun. Ah, the sun! That bipolar sun, like an alcoholic spouse who rudely left us last night, is back with flowers and apologies. We always welcome back the contrite sun every spring, forgive its drunken abandonment during the wintry night, and forget how crudely it ignored our once thriving flora and fauna. We are free to roam the streets, released from our imprisonment of winter to seek out all the outdoor activities otherwise denied us by wind chills and frosty atmospheric intimidation. <br /><br /><strong>"...and we got to get ourselves...back to the Garden..."<br /></strong><br /><strong>With</strong> summer suddenly becoming too expensive for most upwardly mobile individuals, obviously the cheaper alternatives float to the surface. There are countless simple alternatives to high profile activities in the local metropolis. Many will go to the woods, and many more will go to the beach or local white trash lake. Others will just hang out in the yard. Ah, the summer yard party - my personal favorite. They'll have a few beers, get baked by the sun (and whatever else they consume), and have a perfectly good time for few bucks per person. The kids can play in and jump around the historically unsafe above-ground pool, from which several head injuries will occur when little Dylan tries to somersault off the unfriendly, tractionless, hot aluminum railing. Traumatic head and limb injuries with those mercurial kids are a rite of summer, and with proper medical insurance, rather affordable. <br /><br /><strong>For</strong> us older folks, gardening always proves to be a cheap, if not frustrating, diversion. I've gone back to the garden, to quote Joni, and like most other living organisms in my life, the plants are spiteful bastards, taking root with suspicious sluggishness. It started in May, when I started to laboriously break up the ground, and enjoyed the annual tradition of dumping forty pound bags of top soil into the crumbly, oddly ditchy, garden area. The sweaty bags of elderly top soil resided quietly in a corner of the garage, and provided a cozy, damp environment for countless insects, some of which surely have yet to be documented by entomologists. Occasionally, I'd find a hole in the bag, chewed out by some retarded mouse or squirrel that was so stupid it decided that soil might be worth eating. It's possible that the rodent in question might have been trying to dig into the bag for a winter shelter, but I much prefer the retarded rodent story. Speaking of retarded rodents, a squirrel got into the house a few weeks ago, and soon disappeared into the basement. Instead of going anywhere else in the house to find a drink, it decided to jump in the basement toilet for a drink. The squirrel was found dead in something like 3 inches of toilet water. Now THAT'S a retarded squirrel. Rodents notwithstanding, top soil needed to be poured. I will never understand what magic force of suburban erosion constantly steals my garden dirt, but it disappears every despicable winter, without any influence by man, machine, or dog. I don't live on a hill, in a canyon, or near a river. There is no drainage path nearby, naturally or man made. My theory is that the planet is stealing my dirt, very very gradually. The earth is reclaiming my yard, a square inch at a time. I find no other suitable explanation.<br /><br /><strong>In</strong> late May, the supposedly reliable tomato plants were lovingly welcomed to their freshly tilled bachelor pads. Thanks to the abysmal late spring weather, these plants chose to grow at the rate of three microns per week. Seriously, if the folks from the original "3-2-1 Contact" were to post time lapse cameras on these bastards, it would be like staring at a postcard. And what a lousy postcard that would be. Moving along the terrain, I planted questionable pepper seeds, given to me by the neighbor who tosses pears at me every autumn, and the seeds were either on birth control or in disagreement with the unseasonably cool month of May. I took out my various garden weasels, chompers, rippers, and hoes (can we invent a new word?), erased the earthen slate, and subsequently planted actual pepper plants. I bought the pepper plants very late in the planting season, when only a few unclaimed plants could be still found for sale. I'm already suspicious of these plants. I'm sure they've adopted a bad attitude by feeling like they were playground kids who were last to be picked for a team. Great, now I'm putting my pepper future into a bunch of dumpy, near-sighted, nonathletic plants that none of the other cool shoppers wanted. My nerdy, embittered pepper plants have since taken well to their new habitat, though they, like the tomato plants, are growing at postcard speed.<br /><br /><strong>Chalk</strong> it up to hippie Woodstock symbolism, but I decided to try growing sunflowers in a forgotten area near the alley. I might simply have a predilection for all things tall. I had never grown them before, and as a friend often told me, they are very happy looking plants. To wit, it's certainly easy to imagine little smiley faces on sunflowers, not unlike seeing Wile E. Coyote dressed up as a cactus, romping around the desert road. Since I've already gone to embarrassing lengths to personify various other plants, I might as well run with the smiley faced sunflowers. At the store, I picked out a packet of seeds, chosen from myriad other varieties and colors. The happy picture on the seed packet was crudely offset by the harshly printed words "GROW TALL" and at the bottom, "EDIBLE SEEDS". I'm sure the latter is printed for reasons of safety around children, but how hungry are these kids, that they're considering eating an unsalted, unroasted, bland sunflower seed? Of course I tried one. I also tried dog biscuits when I was a kid. A KID. I liberally planted the seeds, burying them well below the surface of the soil, lest the avaricious birds nag their way into the dirt and ruin my smiley faced dreams. After a few days, sprouts! Only a few, but enough for a start. After a few weeks of slow growth and fighting off the neighborhood bullies known as weeds, the plants gained some prominence in their domain. Since they are growing as gradually as their grouchy brethren across the yard, I doubt they will be knee high by the fourth of July. If they grow four feet tall by September, I'll be surprised. If they grow with smiley faces, I'll be checking myself for head injuries along with little Dylan.<br /><br /><strong>Finally</strong>, I decided that one forgotten area in the corner of the yard could be rescued for growing something - anything. Once again, I pulled out my various garden implements; the weasels, the gobblers, the stompers, clompers, and soilerators. The till-o-matic, the garden devil, and of course the hoe (again, can we change that name?). Unfortunately, adjacent to the area to claim, the ecologically unfriendly air conditioning compressor loomed without approval while I worked the ground. I wondered if anything might grow in an area so close to a factory, so to speak. I poured some more Amazonian top soil into the plot, dunked some bean seeds, and soaked it with fervor. Weeks passed, and obviously the bean seeds protested the presence of the neighboring aluminum skyscraper. None of the seeds decided to bring seedlings to the party, and the entire tract of land, though painstakingly groomed, has given way to a bean seed cemetary. Gardening is like hosting a party - some won't show up at all, some will take their time, some will hog the area, and others will be picky. But it's the summer! Go outside! </span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-55919139483227807782008-12-27T19:43:00.002-06:002008-12-27T19:52:10.013-06:00Commercials - #11<span style="font-family:verdana;"><em>Only highlighting a couple commercials this time around, though it's all about quality, not quantity. Can I get an "Amen"?</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Jitterbug</strong><br />To preface, I don't necessarily have a problem with this service, but rather the inherent stupidity of its <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Luddite</span> target market. It's a cellular phone, with an accompany service, both of which are intended to appeal to the old timers who can't "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">figger</span> out these gosh-darned, blasted buttons and blips and bloops" on normal cell phones. As for the phone itself, the buttons are huge, as if meant for infants in a playpen. Handy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">buttonin</span>' for those shaky, poop-encrusted fingers, I tell ye! Cue the old man voice : </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><blockquote><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"No hat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wearin</span>' <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">skateboardin</span>' punk is gonna have a cell phone nicer than this one! To hell with ya rapscallions, ya miscreants, ya ruffians, with yer <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">pacman</span> and Dan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Fogelberg</span>! I got me a cell phone too! Nuts to you! I can send one of those text messages anytime I wanna...and another <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">thingzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz</span>."</span><br /></blockquote></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Ok</span>, we're back. Another feature of this dumbed-down phone is its screen, featuring insanely HUGE letters and numbers. Great for them old timers and their bifocals. I can only imagine how insanely loud the ringer and speaker must be for this phone, it's got to be NASA loud.<br />These things I've yet to investigate, and fortunately I'm not old enough to need such features.<br />As for the service, it's basically advertising the company's ability to coddle their leathery, raisin-mouthed clientele. These poor bastards working in the customer service department. The commercial shows, for example, a service representative confirming that yes indeed, he can add a new contact to the customer's phone. Huh? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">C'mon</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Gramma</span> Myrtle, there's a god damned "Contacts" option, press that with your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Mixmaster</span> finger, then after that 20 minute battle, you'll see an "add new contact" option. All phones have something similar. It's like a three step process! You're so decrepit, you have to call someone to have them add the new number? What a sorry old buzzard. Plus, if they can't manage the "add new contact" process on their own, how are they going to have the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">wherewithal</span> to find the customer service phone number, and dare I say, figure out how to dial that tricky phone? The Jitterbug reps probably have to dictate verbal messages and turn them into text messages too. Now that would be a fun job, assuming it was time to get fired. Example:<br /><br />Say <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Gramma</span> Myrtle calls and wants to dictate a text message to the nefarious customer service rep, Simon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Barsinister</span>. Myrtle asks Simon to send the following text message to great-great-great-great grandson Barry...<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><blockquote>"Merry Christmas, honey. Thank you for the happy card!"<br /><em>...at which point, Simon the nefarious costumer service rep decides to translate it to:<br /></em>"Barry, kiss my ass, sonny. Fuck you, I crapped in your yard!"</blockquote><br /><br />Sure, Simon gets fired, but oh the pranks. The whole hand-holding service makes me wonder how many more of such services are out there. A company for helping <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Gramps</span> program one of those dag-blasted video <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">tapin</span>' machines? I can imagine the extent of the stupid questions the Jitterbug reps must get from the extra senile:<br /><br /><br /><blockquote>"Can you find me the Lawrence <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Welk</span> Show?"<br />"Will you come over and help me clean the mess in my trunks?"<br />"I'm lonely."<br />"It feels like I'm sitting on my apple pie. But I don't remember making one...did I make a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">doopsy</span>?"<br />"Can you help me find my way out of this voting booth?"<br />"Where are my butterscotch candies?"</blockquote><br /><br /><br /><strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Shamwow</span><br /></strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Ok</span>, this pin head is starting to get on my nerves. He wears a futile, apparently decorative, headset while on camera, as if he's hawking his product at an contextually inappropriate trade show. The guy just looks creepy anyway. That said, this latest miracle product is supposedly the latest great reusable cloth, meant to clean up monstrous amounts of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">spilled</span> liquid, and to soak up five million times its own weight in whatever urine or other noxious spills might plague the consumer. A quick clean up, and it lasts forever! I've seen mixed reviews about its functionality, but that isn't necessarily for me to decide, as I won't deign to order this and be sucked into that "buy an extra one, and just pay processing and handling" scam. What bothers me most, from this type A barker, is that he says "It's made by the Germans, so you know it must be good." Great, now we're selling out the Germans. Sounds eerily familiar to my rant about Heat Surge recently (which drew a response from the company itself). The Germans...so it must be good? The Germans tried to wipe out a race of people, plus they took on the entire planet in a war...they must be good! Germans are good at a couple things; beer and cars, and I'm not even sure about the latter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Billy Mays (sigh, again)</strong><br />I was amused by </span><a href="http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Billy_Mays"><span style="font-family:verdana;">this page</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> about Mister Mays. The only props I'll give him is that he recently parodied himself for an ESPN commercial. The spot featured him loudly, as usual, extolling the virtues of </span><a href="http://espn360.com/"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ESPN360.COM</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> for its web-based broadcasts of otherwise <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">unviewable</span> sporting events. He says something like "Look! The sports come through this little wire!" Fair enough.</span><br /></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-36345233165579273622008-12-21T03:46:00.002-06:002008-12-21T04:05:52.077-06:00Commercials - #10<span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Cooking With Nintendo</strong><br />The latest Nintendo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">DS</span> ads have dusted off the star-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nonymous</span> Lisa <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kudrow</span>. A new commercial promotes software for the very portable <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">DS</span> system, with the ability to provide step by step instructions for "whipping up" an exotic dish in simple fashion. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kudrow</span> and her daughter (where's the man?) decide on Chinese food, somehow by touching a particular geographic area of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">DS's</span> world map. The recipe is verbally dispatched, and boom! They just happened to have green onions handy. And chicken. And a wok. It's just that easy! Being Nintendo, I was figuring little Mario would interrupt and say "ah come on-uh, you no wanna make-ah no ah pizza pie?" Then a barrel would hit him over the head.<br /><br /><strong>Fathead</strong><br />First of all, what a dismal name for a company and brand. All these "Fathead" things are gigantic, life sized "stick-on" posters of athletes that dateless, gourd-humping sports fans can hang on their walls. What red-blooded male wouldn't want to come home to a seven foot, two-dimensional likeness of a scary football player looming over his tacky furniture and empty beer cans? And the ladies! Come back to Joe <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Lunchpail's</span> bachelor paradise, and listen to him pitch woo while <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Peytonzilla</span> looms over his drooling, beer-scented mouth! Fathead. The first product line that was named for its consumers.<br /><br /><strong>Heat Surge<br /></strong>I'm slightly disturbed by the apparent exploitation of a religious/cultural group. Heat Surge is some type of fake fireplace which safely acts as a heater. Fine. The advertisement becomes strange when the announcer touts the fact that these wooden <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">faux</span> fireplaces are made, by hand, by the Amish. The commercial goes on to show typical Amish-looking men (never women), with suspiciously fake-looking beards, hammering away at the product, as if part of a human assembly line. The worst part is when the marketeer claims that the deal is so appealing, "the Amish" have requested that each customer be limited to two "fireplaces" per order. The Amish? They make it sound like they can't speak for themselves, are basically "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">oompa</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">loompa</span>" creatures from the Willy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Wonka</span> factory. <br /><br /><strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Snuggies</span></strong><br />A classic example of a middle aged woman writing the copy for this product, packed with some of the most annoying, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">waspy</span> phraseology anyone could devise. It's basically a blanket with sleeves, and somewhat a cross between a blanket, robe, and sweater. According to their rhetoric, blankets are just oh so cumbersome, and restrict your arms from doing anything. What? It's a blanket, not a straitjacket. Move hand out from under blanket, grab remote, use remote, shut the hell up. The irritating soccer mom doing the voice over intimates that "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">bwankets</span> be so bulky <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">wulky</span>, and can weed to cold footsie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">wootsies</span>". Makes me sick. Then this incredibly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">effiminate</span> product (and promotion) is purely targeted at old women, yet they show men wearing it while "grabbing a snack" (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">oof</span>) and attending sports events. Any male wearing this hideous thing would be beaten to a pulp before halftime. <br /><br /><strong>Obama Coins</strong><br />Much like Sports <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Illustrated's</span> <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/02/show-me-those-commercials.html">"Champion of the month"</a> promotions, now the greedy coin people are jumping on the "historic" election of Obama. His typically troubling visage is being pasted onto various alleged "coins", as if they were being produced by the U.S. Mint itself. Let's just cut to the chase here. The U.S. Mint does not make coins for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">slick</span>, newly elected candidates with ugly color likenesses. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Nobody's</span> out recalibrating all the vending machines for the influx of the $20 Obama commemorative coin. It's not a coin. It's a piece of scrap metal, melted into something resembling a disc, tickled with a color-by-numbers likeness of the supposed new savior of the western world. Might as well be a poker chip. Sure, buy the coin now, and savor it during his first political scandal around mid 2009. Don't make me say "I told you so" again.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><strong>Geico</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Now these advertising wizards are vacillating between the typical caveman adventures (in which now he seems to have a hot blonde girlfriend) and newer, disturbing promotions involving a stack of money with eyeballs perched on it. First of all, nobody, and I mean nobody, should ever believe that the hairy grouchy caveman idiot would ever bag a girlfriend, let alone an attractive one. The advertisers just had to antagonize the male viewing public by conceiving this whole "Beauty and the Beast" subplot. Not buying it, or your lame insurance. The gecko was irritating enough, but this beats all. It's even more disturbing than the latest spots, which showcase a personified stack of money, intended to be all the money we could save by switching to Geico. Trust me, I've done some web research...they aren't always going to save us money. My policy is nice and affordable the way it is, thank you, and isn't (and never will be) with Geico. I have a low rate from accident-free driving and never having been cited for a moving violation. <em>(Personal message to one dear friend of mine: Shut up you!)</em></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-57446743395160607882008-12-03T12:39:00.007-06:002008-12-03T13:02:19.450-06:00Reality Show Ramblings #2<span style="font-family:verdana;"><em>The saga of reality shows continues, with a few more from the cable channels...<br /></em><br /><br /><strong>Airline</strong><br />There are two versions of this series, one from England and its uglier, more <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKweZ5gkzlFI5auBlziqp96tfs_-ivDnWsl20i1G864AB4mgjboDpHIQFQG8bjBoYFLikBHrv5pPoE5ML5_-eItBhlkG8o4wMHcIRk9vwBNNDQH7FajhIqa78SZbG-1fElWEgOQ/s1600-h/Airline_S1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275640571614036610" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 122px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKweZ5gkzlFI5auBlziqp96tfs_-ivDnWsl20i1G864AB4mgjboDpHIQFQG8bjBoYFLikBHrv5pPoE5ML5_-eItBhlkG8o4wMHcIRk9vwBNNDQH7FajhIqa78SZbG-1fElWEgOQ/s200/Airline_S1.jpg" border="0" /></a>interesting North American sister. As for the latter, it chronicles the daily meanderings of Southwest Airlines' customer service staff. One word I think of when I see "customer service staff" : complaints. And plenty of them. Clearly, the executives from Southwest took a gamble with allowing this amount of television exposure. On some occasions, we'll see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">immersive</span> human interest stories about emotional reunions or staff tribulations. On other occasions, we'll see an employee going the extra mile to assist one or more of the following:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">- The dizzy 200 year-old prune of a woman who can't find her way around and shouldn't be travelling anyway<br />- The rowdy unshaven drunk guy, usually on his way to Vegas, that has been denied boarding and can't understand why<br />- The super fat guy that needs to purchase nine extra seats to accommodate his <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Earl_Hughes">Robert Earl Hughes</a> frame (and the subsequent load balancing problems)<br />- The idiots who try to check a 1200 pound suitcase<br />- The creepy people from third world countries who try to check things that don't even resemble baggage, and invariably have bugs crawling out of them (both the creepy people and the baggage)<br />- The rest of the idiots that aren't around the gate when the final boarding call comes, or those that can't understand the definition of "standby passenger"<br />- The questionable people who try to come on board with knives, guns, gasoline, etc.<br />- The bitter, angry jerks of passengers who claim discrimination because they are fat/black/middle eastern<br /></span><br />Sure, it's likely good public relations to show Southwest handling these situations, generally involving dialogue that begins with the phrase "Sir/Ma'am, we can't..." That said, a vast majority of the segments focus on the airline's screw-ups. Lost bags, lost passengers, lost pets, cancelled flights, late flights, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">overbookings</span>, and other <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">miscommunications</span> between the airport staff and the infamous reservation center. These situations seem to far outnumber the "feel good" moments of the show, and simply illustrate that the airline is rather incompetent in allowing these constant problems to rear their ugly heads, like a whack-a-mole game from hell. I'm sure that the other airlines make quite a few mistakes as well, but they are all smart enough to keep them off a nationally broadcast reality show. I'm sure the show has, in the end, done more harm than good to Southwest and its reputation.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Iron Chef (Original Japanese version)</strong><br />The oddly disturbing and off-putting predecessor to <em>Iron Chef America</em>, this show was the beginning of the reality cooking competition frenzy. The show features<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPB92Y1IuFBXmJdR5Gb_xaUuzg4hf3DFMONuwrqfWV9MNel2N-ua-q21rrRInFIJUN_3XNSqlRIUa6V40doHh0cvAdPDVttTOpDvRqeLUWw2uwbFSC0Gka8HDR5qKnri8o_Z8zcA/s1600-h/ironchef.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275640282740672370" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPB92Y1IuFBXmJdR5Gb_xaUuzg4hf3DFMONuwrqfWV9MNel2N-ua-q21rrRInFIJUN_3XNSqlRIUa6V40doHh0cvAdPDVttTOpDvRqeLUWw2uwbFSC0Gka8HDR5qKnri8o_Z8zcA/s200/ironchef.jpg" border="0" /></a> two chefs, set into "battle" in which each chef needs to create dishes based on the episode's secret ingredient. Most of the time, the secret ingredient is an obscure fish or creepy sea monster, none of which are even remotely familiar to the culinary fans from the western hemisphere. A "challenger" chef, generally snatched from a strange restaurant in Japan, takes on one of the four "Iron Chefs", who are deemed to be the best in their particular cuisines. There's one who specializes in Chinese cuisine, another for Japanese, another for French, and the perennially forgotten fourth chef, who specializes in Italian. First of all, there is the amusing aspect to the two chefs who are supposed experts in Italian and French cuisines, because they are both Japanese. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">C'mon</span>, there's just a question of authenticity here. Why couldn't they dredge up a chef from Italy to be "Iron Chef Italian"? Same for the French thing. If I saw a Japanese guy preparing my spaghetti, I'd be running for the hills. Sure, there are great Italian restaurants in the United States, and while this isn't Italy, the people behind these restaurants probably, at very least, have an Italian heritage. I don't expect too many Japanese people to have Italian blood in them. The "Iron Chef Chinese" is Chen <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kenichi</span>, a Chinese person. Fine, at least he's from the right country. My favorite, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Morimoto</span>, charged with all things Japanese, is from Japan. Fine again.<br />As for the ingredients used, they are always disgusting. Fish roe, lobster brains, squid ink, you name it. When they have ducks around, they don't use the meat, like normal humans. Out come the beaks, feet, kidneys, heads, eyes, and similar offal. Where do these savages come from? Can't these people use things that don't induce vomiting, like vegetables, rice, and things that aren't so gooey? I know Japan is a seafood nation, but really, grow some damn asparagus and keep the show from looking like an unedited episode of <em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quincy,_M.E.">Quincy</a></em>.<br />The commentary is amusingly dubbed into English, for us thick American viewers. The voice actors that replace the original dialogue always go overboard. Really, do we need things like laughter to be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">redubbed</span> into English? It sounds incredibly embarrassing. The original lead commentator, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Kenji</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Fukui</span>, is constantly, constantly, constantly, interrupted by a supposed roving floor reporter named <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Ohta</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Ohta</span> constantly breaks into the running commentary by saying "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Fukui</span> San?". I've counted upwards of 50 interruptions during the course of 40+ minutes of program time. If <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Ohta's</span> interruptions were to be turned into a drinking game, I'd be plastered by the 20 minute mark. I invite others to try it, but I know I wouldn't last. It's painfully oppressive. I'm also suspicious of this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Ohta</span> guy even really being on the floor during the competition. I've never seen him out there on the cooking floor during the competition, only during interviews.<br />Upon the completion of cooking, the plates are submitted to the judges for commentary. The judge's panel is normally comprised of local Japanese actors, actresses, artists, and some crone introduced as a "fortune teller". Upon the tasting, the judges overuse the words "flavor", "salty", or "spicy". After the tasting, the winner is determined - or not. Sometimes, there's a tie, and guess what - that means they go into overtime! Worse yet, the overtime isn't edited into the original episode, it comes in a later broadcast! Thanks for leaving us hanging. Shut up and eat your sea urchin.<br /></span><div><div><div><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Storm Chasers</strong> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />A new favorite show of mine from the Discovery Channel, it chronicles the ongoing quests of several tornado chasing teams as they traverse the featureless terrain of tornado alley during the summer storm season. Season after season, a poor bastard named Sean Casey tries to drive his tank-like "Tornado Intercept Vehicle" (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">TIV</span>) into the middle of a tornado, with the intention of finishing an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">IMAX</span> film, into which he has already sunk oodles of money. Unfortunately, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix81pXBtR0l7UkSQM7paFuCs9rf5XdL-qG0PrqEm8CVDJb_WsB4kUrSn1HOl20XegCSdkojzzswR6t6koOB86qXz-8a9KwnxEyQBNO4TELw2ufQ7lpF5ycdzy3rymgiA7PWor_rQ/s1600-h/StormChasers_PrfDisaster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275640046388697730" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 142px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix81pXBtR0l7UkSQM7paFuCs9rf5XdL-qG0PrqEm8CVDJb_WsB4kUrSn1HOl20XegCSdkojzzswR6t6koOB86qXz-8a9KwnxEyQBNO4TELw2ufQ7lpF5ycdzy3rymgiA7PWor_rQ/s200/StormChasers_PrfDisaster.jpg" border="0" /></a>Casey's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">TIV</span> is guided by the apparently hapless tornado scientist Josh <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Wurman</span>, who, despite his doctorate and years of expertise, can't seem to successfully guide Casey into that ultimate moment of intercepting a tornado. Come on already, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Wurman's</span> got a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">doppler</span> radar unit in his vehicle, and he still can't lead Casey into a tornado after five years? Something must be said for the level of expertise here.<br />Conversely, a "rival" team of chasers, who merely seek to film tornadoes and sell the footage to news stations, is headed by an ambitious guy named Reed Tiller, who was actually one of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Wurman's</span> students. This team can't seem to miss tornadoes, in that they find themselves trying to escape them more than find them. Wouldn't Casey's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">IMAX</span> project be best served by following this team? I don't get it. Regardless, I keep tuning in each week to see if Casey might finally get his ultimate tornado footage, though it seems like a destiny unfulfilled. Now the season finale is upon us, and I doubt he'll get his wish.<br /></p><br /><div><br /><strong>The Girls Next Door</strong><br />Yes, yet another disturbing reality show. This one showcases the three (soon to be booted) <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">blond</span> girlfriends that live as sycophants, concubines, and attendants to the old and dirty Hugh Hefner. Some males hate the show out of jealousy, because the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">ol</span>' bastard has everything he wants in the world, including his<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgib89BnIBtjfxlLjXCwl39FwoVXrSpb0sPj-L5dyFA3LIgZ4fgSoBSLXmnubQci83nWd9-TThyphenhyphenocxcfKXJssejr99OQ7LiXnEIboIra4kTTAXX9H14gKAWkEN26uWlGR0nNRvJPQ/s1600-h/girls-next-door-season-4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275639606708597842" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 134px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgib89BnIBtjfxlLjXCwl39FwoVXrSpb0sPj-L5dyFA3LIgZ4fgSoBSLXmnubQci83nWd9-TThyphenhyphenocxcfKXJssejr99OQ7LiXnEIboIra4kTTAXX9H14gKAWkEN26uWlGR0nNRvJPQ/s200/girls-next-door-season-4.jpg" border="0" /></a> harem. Other males like the show, perhaps to live out personal fantasies or something. I have yet to figure out why anyone would want to watch an old fart have unlimited sexual access to young girls in a mansion that most people couldn't afford to see, let alone visit or purchase. Now <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Hef</span> has roped in a set of twins, though apparently the original three girls, while they are likely out of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Hef</span> bedroom, have signed onto another season of this tripe. I don't understand it, like it, or care about it, and frankly can't wait for Hefner to just finally die. I mean, really, this guy looks like an ash tray after a long poker night. I can't even say "Dry up and die already", because he's already completed step one. Let's go with step two.<br /><br /><em>More to come, as always...</em></span></div></div></div></div>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-42969330377027379652008-11-28T01:14:00.012-06:002008-11-28T16:50:03.670-06:00Reality Show Ramblings #1<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>I've</strong> <strong>stumbled upon</strong> a ticklish little corner of television known as the Fox Reality Channel. While probably not available in all markets and on all systems, it is a strange cousin of yet a stranger channel, called "TruTV". Though these channels are devoted to the world's obsession with reality based shows, many other channels dip their lanky fingers into this cauldron of "humansploitation". Discovery Channel, Food Network, the Fox Network, MTV, VH1 and Bravo are leading finger-dippers in this area. The depths to which these networks have sunk has steadily increased. Since there are dozens of reality shows worthy of commentary, I only intend to touch upon a few at a time. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A parting thought - we have the Fox Reality Channel - how about the Fox Realty Channel? Could be spicy! Foreclosures, bidding wars, overzealous agents, and those people that use the bathroom at open houses! Juicy stuff. As Radar used to say..."Wait for it!"<br /><br /><strong>Hell's Kitchen</strong><br />This one tops the list, and while not necessarily a pioneer in the field, it has the most exposure, thanks to Fox and heavy promotion. It feat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyToYlc3eSSde8a6KTt5ycvRcG7F-icXsNQ6Jjj4Gmh2K0lHbwD7k4gdkWoGmAQ3yqr4rAFSz_3IQBnKL5gEIQCDrlWvcqX3OzKhZaY-wAs8vy0u84KQ-YeJBSKmkr0FPbccqyQ/s1600-h/Hells%2520Kitchen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273611878544595746" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 92px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyToYlc3eSSde8a6KTt5ycvRcG7F-icXsNQ6Jjj4Gmh2K0lHbwD7k4gdkWoGmAQ3yqr4rAFSz_3IQBnKL5gEIQCDrlWvcqX3OzKhZaY-wAs8vy0u84KQ-YeJBSKmkr0FPbccqyQ/s200/Hells%2520Kitchen.jpg" border="0" /></a>ures the cantankerous Gordon Ramsay, a bitter, foul-mouthed bastard of a Briton, who looks like he grew up in a cigarette factory and has the disposition to match. I reserved judgement on his misanthropic behavior as long as possible, until I started watching him in other shows; suffice to say, he just isn't that nice a fellow. Like most shows, <em>Hell's Kitchen</em> begins its season with a group of aspiring chefs, all hoping to win the final prize of running their own restaurant. Each week, the group is presented with a "challenge", and throughout the episode, the group is d<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis287DTMS6Aj31u66F8z4iyS03-u0_I45G0gKnhAvo3Az-2gChskkKcM4juv6X9hlioVX5LebODn_Nn99XjdifEWutKzePIsqJjuvDD1V_z1YOsN4zLCDQRr6ZYYOzFf7Ah6Phgg/s1600-h/hells-kitchen%25203.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273611132473728562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 174px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis287DTMS6Aj31u66F8z4iyS03-u0_I45G0gKnhAvo3Az-2gChskkKcM4juv6X9hlioVX5LebODn_Nn99XjdifEWutKzePIsqJjuvDD1V_z1YOsN4zLCDQRr6ZYYOzFf7Ah6Phgg/s200/hells-kitchen%25203.jpg" border="0" /></a>emoralized as if they were boot camp recruits. I never could imagine someone being called a "piece of shit" for overcooking a scallop or adding too much pepper to a dish. I can understand Ramsay singling someone out for stupid mistakes, but does it need to go to that point? He's slammed food into people during a tirade, and thrown food at contestants for messing something up. When it gets into character assassination and physical acts like that, then a level is being crossed that just doesn't belong in the culinary profession. I have no idea how contestants from past seasons have been able to exercise restraint from simply hauling off and attacking the abrasive ass. I'm not one to fly off the handle, but I wouldn't have lasted through any single tirade of his without jumping him. Unfortunately (and it's a big "unfortunately"), stupid people like myself are entranced by the fear that encircles the contestants, and the layer of eggshells on which they dance. Ramsay's abrasive nature, the wide-eyed contestants, and the high ratings, simply prove that we viewers love to see people being abused. Hell, we're sitting in a warm living room watching people suffer, and like sex itself, suffering sells.<br /><br /><strong>Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares/Kitchen Nightmares</strong><br />The former is the BBC incarnation of the show which ultimately burst upon the North American markets as simply <em>Kitchen Nightmares</em> in the wake of <em>Hell's Kitchen</em>. The premise of the show involves Ramsay coming in as a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhh2mhCqYuI4eULuFW-NGbnt_Xd8PUNfBCdB1aGnNoCwuRaU2pNVgmxgXipZ6d9vBrruye2Mv8G7kQQ6efdJAxEdfY87NjjaCEVPcGRDmA1de4Pa80KLLsGl_hWr016q_vvBX5sA/s1600-h/kitchennightmares.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273610855649233810" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 116px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhh2mhCqYuI4eULuFW-NGbnt_Xd8PUNfBCdB1aGnNoCwuRaU2pNVgmxgXipZ6d9vBrruye2Mv8G7kQQ6efdJAxEdfY87NjjaCEVPcGRDmA1de4Pa80KLLsGl_hWr016q_vvBX5sA/s200/kitchennightmares.jpg" border="0" /></a>"consultant" (with all the subtlety of Godzilla) to rescue and reorganize a failing restaurant. Apparently "consulting" involves yelling at the managers and owner, avoiding any element of civility in pointing out their misgivings, and cursing every fourth word. I'd submit that the "nightmare" isn't the failing restaurant itself, but rather the insane manner in which Ramsay attempts to, um, help the place. Again, it is a successful show, for the same "suffering sells" reason as with <em>Hell's Kitchen</em>.<br /><br /><strong>Real Housewives of Atlanta</strong><br />I briefly watched this show, and couldn't understand the point. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rQzqZUbcgx8vweXNz2cla39ldQLKQAB55NZJrz45Ee7NtUnbnErCMYYsD5OeamvNWTuSrhlkT_R_gmfeSPWT-ELmZw9W7RwFJ9nX1Ntm_nmFIvNj7BaoVK1pykstquuXsmIpxQ/s1600-h/housewivesofatlanta12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273609911951258962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 148px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rQzqZUbcgx8vweXNz2cla39ldQLKQAB55NZJrz45Ee7NtUnbnErCMYYsD5OeamvNWTuSrhlkT_R_gmfeSPWT-ELmZw9W7RwFJ9nX1Ntm_nmFIvNj7BaoVK1pykstquuXsmIpxQ/s200/housewivesofatlanta12.jpg" border="0" /></a>I easily could figure out why the show was created, since almost all participants were self-entitled, finger-waving black women, full of the "mnuh uh!", "talk to the hand" and "don't go there chile!" aphorisms. Why, therefore, do we need to focus on elitist Oprah-wannabe women, if we have the technology to show some real black housewives? How about "The Real Single Mothers of (anywhere)". Show them chasing their kids around... "Advil, get over here!" "Tylenol, what you doing in the oven?" <em>Bravo</em> seemed to pass on such ideas, and show the Cosby families, not the <em>Good Times</em> families.<br /><br /><strong>The Osbournes<br /></strong>Yes, I understand that this show is already passe with the populace, but it appealed to me for basically one sad reason - the meandering life of all things Ozzy. It would be inaccurate to say that watching him was like seeing a train wreck; rather, it was like watching a train still wobbling along, with missing wheels, its locomotive on fire, and most of its cargo stolen by bandits. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcrBQPaxxYVkY7bPMbjseyRqgmZgg_VSCAw2yf33qqPLR05l7mh7Du2eiwOXn1iS5wAQTCrvHZDVgenr-s-z2q44mOUrvjuM_kAwsty4Pj1zOP7P3tOGpZVt1i8QANl5MiumMig/s1600-h/the-osbournes1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273609361495451058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 185px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcrBQPaxxYVkY7bPMbjseyRqgmZgg_VSCAw2yf33qqPLR05l7mh7Du2eiwOXn1iS5wAQTCrvHZDVgenr-s-z2q44mOUrvjuM_kAwsty4Pj1zOP7P3tOGpZVt1i8QANl5MiumMig/s200/the-osbournes1.jpg" border="0" /></a>I could always be entranced when watching poor ol' Ozzy, the supposed "Prince of Darkness", cleaning dog crap, taking out the garbage, or trying to figure out where the refrigerator went. Sad and funny at the same time. Worse yet, seeing his children exploit his finances to death was enough to create plenty of personal ear-smoke. A bit of an aside - why, in current commercials, does Ozzy claim he's been the Prince of Darkness since 1979? His music career started many years before that. Just curious. Did quitting Black Sabbath earn him the title? Must have been a promotional move. Be a solo artist now? Well you're a prince of something. Prince had his "Revolution" group, then he was a prince by becoming Prince. Then a symbol. Now even I'm confused. Bad aside. Aside from bad asides...<br /><br /><strong>Hogan Knows Best<br /></strong>A VH1 production, the show captured the viewing public's interest for various reasons. Some were ardent "Hulkamaniacs" from his glory days of the 1980s, and sought anything related to the Hulkster. They never grew out of the classic Hulkster era, and his famous three "demandments" (train hard, say prayers, and eat vitamins). Others simply were hooked on the notion of watching the goings-on of high profile families, known as the "Osbourne Effect". Then <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUmXYtDGlw5vSn3os_KtxFAVGCia2KnzWdnQz3Sz2GINZ1lLIOlWq36twpa1AkJukj6srMqkNo9XXJi6Q20emyNa1vMJ6wOIo9LzEcJqf1EuDyG_Ef_oZmrjT8XNv3vAxnraxPA/s1600-h/brooke-hogan-400a0427.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273609033328673170" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUmXYtDGlw5vSn3os_KtxFAVGCia2KnzWdnQz3Sz2GINZ1lLIOlWq36twpa1AkJukj6srMqkNo9XXJi6Q20emyNa1vMJ6wOIo9LzEcJqf1EuDyG_Ef_oZmrjT8XNv3vAxnraxPA/s200/brooke-hogan-400a0427.jpg" border="0" /></a>there were the rest, who simply wanted to ogle Brooke, the bright-eyed, blond, bimbo daughter. She was this century's answer to Kelly Bundy. People who know me well enough will likely throw me into this category. Fine! Consider me thrown. Anyway, the recent sequel <em>Brooke Knows Best</em> is slightly less compelling, as she's already starting to resemble her withered mother, and that the element of the family epic, post divorce and his son's arrest, has dissipated. That said, it was good for its time.<br /><br /><strong>Trading Spaces<br /></strong>Ah, to long for the glory days, lo these many years ago, when reconstructing a room wasn't punctuated with that annoying phrase "Move that bus!". Great catch phrase. I'm sure that will unseat "Where's The Beef" in no time. But then again, that is a different show. As for <em>Trading Spaces</em>, the era around 2002 had a small, yet predictable cast of interior decorators (two per episode) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEbsbwOt6zQcU7l0rbcX1xMY7Eg7Nn1J1CCQpyAebQq0kJa8mxvPcjY4gbV9eSOB2z5Cgq04OG0c5z8tnARZpxe-ULNNTFge_iNmxGHWZofncO-NPHKaf0cjMyzW0C_Y5qknxABg/s1600-h/header_leftGutter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273608287182516498" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 164px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEbsbwOt6zQcU7l0rbcX1xMY7Eg7Nn1J1CCQpyAebQq0kJa8mxvPcjY4gbV9eSOB2z5Cgq04OG0c5z8tnARZpxe-ULNNTFge_iNmxGHWZofncO-NPHKaf0cjMyzW0C_Y5qknxABg/s200/header_leftGutter.jpg" border="0" /></a>who offered their expertise and personality while helping a couple redo a friend's room. The men featured the ambiguously gay Frank and Doug, with the more palatable Vern as one to round out the crew. The girls featured Hilde, a glamorous brunette with strange sense of design, and the bubbly blond Genevieve, pictured at right, who's my favorite (again, those who know my type...). Like the Brooke Hogan syndrome, many of us red blooded males were hoping the episode would feature one of the ladies, as the rest were too annoying. Speaking of annoying, host Paige Davis was ever intrusive, and one we'd all hope would just go away. Didn't help much when she returned to the show years later.<br /><br />I'll stop here for now, but there are more to mention! Hope you all had a good holiday!</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-51842781162726049652008-11-20T02:11:00.003-06:002008-11-20T15:53:34.298-06:00Winter and Chicago Sports<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>There were times</strong>, years ago, when Chicago's winter professional sports teams were exciting to watch, and captured our attention. These teams, specifically speaking, were the Bulls, Bears, and Blackhawks - the dreaded three B's. Their greatest moments have since been permanently emblazoned upon the cold bronze that is the city's sport fan community. Allow me to recapitulate:<br /><br /><strong>The Bears</strong> brought immense anticipation and enthusiasm to a fervent Chicago crowd, starting around 1984, when they were forming a prominent defensive presence, and playing competitive games against the best teams in the league. It was an exciting season, and a sign of more to come. All of the pieces of the puzzle were in place, and I recall quite a bit of excitement for their victories that season, and for the season to come. The season to come, well, came. 1985 brought forth a dizzying, dreamlike autumn for Chicago football fans, with a run of 12 impressive wins in a row to start the season. The only elements that spoiled this potentially indefatigable season were the dreaded notion of broadcast television, named Monday Night Football (which thus disrupted the team's rhythm and momentum) and a talented quarterback named Dan Marino. I remember, as a 14 year-old fan of Bears' seasons good and bad, literally crying as I realized that the bastard Dolphins were about to defeat the Bears that dreaded Monday night during week 13. If there was ever to be a greatest football team ever, this was it - and it was to be spoiled on national television. I hated hearing the howls of the suntanned idiot fans in the Dolphins' home stadium. Miami didn't deserve that win, but tried to make a mockery of the hardest working team in recent history. Miami, the city that deserved a football team as much as Elvis deserved his black belt.<br />The Bears, that season, regained their composure, and played a strange, presumptuous card by recording their "Super Bowl Shuffle" song well before the end of the regular season was even in sight. The Bears held true, however, and steamrolled their way through the post season and provided ardent fans a long-sought Super Bowl title.<br /><br /><strong>The Blackhawks</strong> were an exciting team in the late 1980s and early 1990s. They made it to the Stanley Cup finals in 1992, and around 1989-1990, I went to most of their home games, having a friend who invested in season tickets. There was nothing quite like the environment of hockey in the Madhouse on Madison, being Chicago Stadium. Everyone was drunk and rowdy, and during games against local rivals, fights on and off the ice were common. It was a paradise for the typical male sports fan. When at those games, the team was agressive, exciting, and every game was a close one - fortunately, with the Blackhawks often gaining victory. Again, in those years leading up to their Stanley Cup push of 1992, there was an element of excitement, anticipation, and progress. Nothing seemed stale, and every season seemed promising. Even though they didn't win it all in 1992, they were still champions to most, if not all, of the old school Blackhawk fans out there.<br /><br /><strong>The Bulls</strong> were mostly a joke in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Management was abysmal, draft picks were local jokes, attendance was amusing, and media exposure was nil. Even in the late 70s, I remember promising players such as Reggie Theus, Artis Gilmore, John Mengelt, etc. Nevertheless, the coaching of such legends as Larry Costello helped keep the Bulls away from the pressures of playoff contention and participation. Finally, things took a turn for the better in 1984. Yes, that's when the Bulls drafted Michael Jordan, a #3 pick. People seem to forget that the team wasn't instantly better with Jordan's addition during his early professional seasons. Jordan was still a thin, lanky punk, and his game was not polished at all. He was, however, exciting to watch, and while his game was nowhere near what it ultimately became, it drew crowds, more money into the till, and ultimately, the power to acquire stronger players in upcoming years. The true unsung hero leading to the Bulls' eventual dynasty was the coach of the team in the late 80s, named Doug Collins. At this point, all things about the Triangle Offense and other strategies involving Jordan were being set in place - and the assistant coach was a nobody named Phil Jackson. Strategic geniuses named Johnny Bach and Tex Winter were also on the coaching staff during those anticipatory late 80s runs, and their contributions not only led to the Bulls' ultimate Championships, but Jordan's "best ever" performances as well. Once again, those late 80s seasons were exciting to me - something was building. Pieces of the proverbial puzzle were steadily added into the mix as attendance figures (and finances) improved. Scottie Pippen was added in 1987, then Horace Grant, and ultimately Bill Cartwright. John Paxson's steady shooting and court wisdom (that which could be compared to John Stockton) stabilized the on-court presence. Jordan was finally a piece of the greater puzzle, rather than the savior of the team, even though his scoring dominated every game. It was inevitable that the Bulls would become a title-ready team, and once they pushed themselves past the dirty tactics of the Detroit Pistons, the NBA championship was theirs for the keeping. 1991 was their first NBA title, and rather poetically, a passing of the torch from an aging Magic Johnson to the peaking Michael Jordan. The dynasty to follow was something beyond most fans' expectations, and the Bulls could arguably have won eight straight NBA titles if Jordan hadn't abandoned all things basketball for his attempts at minor league baseball. Unfortunately, we Bulls fans got accustomed to the annual championships and the great breakup of late 1998 was all too sobering. The coach left, Jordan (for the moment) retired, and Pippen was poised to leave the team as well. But one of our winter teams was exciting to watch, and gave us thrills right into the early summer's post-season competition.<br /><br /><strong>These days</strong>, the fans of the three cold weather teams in Chicago are left with a bad taste in their mouths. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>The Bulls </strong>are showing nothing promising, even with the lucky lottery opportunity to have the first draft pick, in Derrick Rose. Rose is somewhat like a young Jordan, unpolished, not yet the savior of the team, and about four years away from true prominence. The fan base has worn away, media coverage is fleeting, and coaching changes happen with the flipping of the calendar. Joakim Noah (the previous year's wasted first draft pick) is an embarrassing member of the team. He's an arrogant, pot-smoking dork that rarely contributes anything other than personal fouls and missed lay-ups. I'll never understand why anyone drafted this bozo, and as I watched the NBA draft on live TV, I screamed out loud "WHY?!". The Bulls won't be much to watch for several years to come, at least. It's a shame to say that, but trust me, it's not must see TV. They are bottoming out, and it won't be long before they are playing in a 1/4 filled United Center.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>With the Blackhawks</strong>, it's the same old story. Constant personnel changes, and seasons that might have been. WIth good coaching and passion, they could've made the playoffs last season, but seemed to give up the ghost in the final couple weeks. Except for goalie Nikolai Khabibulin, who is by far the biggest name on the team, nobody is interesting to watch. To make matters worse, their games in the early part of the season have been frustrating at best, with them unable to hold a lead in the late minutes of the game. The other team would tie the game, and eventually win a shootout. Nikolai can only do so much.<br /><br /><strong>The Bears</strong> - forget it these days, though I was excited for them during their 2006 season. There were two reasons why the Bears fared so well that year - Thomas Jones, the running back, and their receivers. Jones always could provide first down runs, seemingly no matter what yardage was required. They unfortunately didn't win the Super Bowl, and the geniuses in the front office decided to dispense with Jones during the ensuing off season. Everyone knows that a strong running game is critical to keeping options open for a more effective passing game, and Jones was the reason why the Bears quarterbacks could complete passes with reasonable reliability. Since 2006, the Bears chose to pass (pun intended) on grabbing a "real" quarterback over and over again. They have become much like the Cubs, opting to trade away established superstars for one or two supposedly promising rookies. The Bears are once again, a joke, with too much media exposure and nothing to show for themselves. They're destined for a 7-9 season, missing the playoffs, and a new round of "wait until next year" rhetoric. As such, I don't watch their games, because in a rare case, it's the car accident that I don't slow down to observe.<br /><br /><strong>The winter</strong> is depressing enough for a climate such as Chicago's. The summer baseball teams at least show promise, talent, and excitement, but then again, it's summer - everyone is out of the house, enjoying the weather. During winter, when Chicagoans are trapped in their living rooms on cold days, the teams that offer escape through televised sports are nowhere to be found. Sadder still, I don't see the trend changing anytime soon. It will be even worse when the Cubs and Sox lose their stamina and revert to 4th place teams in their respective divisions.</span><br /></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-5405025607602837442008-11-13T01:59:00.002-06:002008-11-13T03:16:26.017-06:00A Night At The Opera, Part Two<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>After</strong> a full day of being herded through endless mazes of confusion, heat-induced delirium, and cyclic fatigue, the long journey through the basement of Cook County was nearing an end. It felt like it was midnight, but unfortunately, it was only 6pm, based on the spurious guesses of fellow incoming thugs. We entered the area where a strange, futuristic three dimensional x-ray machine scanned the body completely, presumably looking for stashed goods. It was an odd, plexiglass phone booth, in which several rings moved around the person and presented a live image of the body incarnate. Back to bullpen twelve. About two hours later, it was time to be entered into the computer system. We sat on the cold concrete floor, in a long line, while data entry personnel howled last names from our herd to be logged into the computer. The computers were, appropriately, frighteningly old and outdated, still using a DOS based system to enter newcomer's names, addresses, next of kin, and phone numbers. After the irritatingly redundant process of being entered into the system, we each received our "number", in black marker, on the forearm. The thoughts of being a Nazi concentration camp inductee unfortunately crossed my mind. If anyone takes exception to that comparison, first of all, fuck yourself, and second of all, remember (or find out) that many modern prison intake procedures were directly "learned" from Nazi methodology in this era. That said, we were physically branded with numbers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>We</strong> then were herded back to a bullpen, cramped shoulder to shoulder, until someone called a few of our names to check in our property. Mine was already checked in, but we all still had to get in line, confirm what we had, and suffer a few screams of "stand up straight, muthafucka!" from the stormtroopers patrolling the floor. After I confirmed my possessions, the guy stamped my arm with something else, some type of indiscernable symbol to show I'd been through this station. Back to the bullpen. I heard my name again, and was told by a dumpy, loud, near-sighted black guard, I need to see one of the people on the other side for "psychological evaluation". I found an empty booth, and sat down.<br /><br />"Name?"<br /><br />Gave it.<br /><br />"Number?"<br /><br />Gave it.<br /><br />"Ok, do you have any psychological problems?"<br /><br />"No, but I did get..."<br /><em><data></em><br /><br />"Ever try to commit suicide?"<br /><br />"Well, not really but..."<br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em><data><br /></em><br />"Ever think of doing it?"<br />"Well there had been times..."<br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em><type><br /></em><br />"Ok, put your right arm out."<br /><em>Faceless data entry person writes a "P" in marker on my now heavily branded forearm...</em><br />"You're done...go to the end of the room for a picture and your ID."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">That was my psychological evaluation. I had now assured the fine bunch that I wouldn't harm myself or that I had any psychological problems in the past. I'm sure the virtual forms were filled out for me long before sitting down with this highly trained individual.<br /><br /><strong>Off</strong> to get my picture taken for my formal ID, inasmuch as my entire identity, wallet-wise, was in the possession of some profanity obsessed asshole behind the protection of chain link fence and other similarly scourged co-workers. The picture taking was the easiest of steps...one, two, three, and very DMVish. I signed off on my picture and was directed back to the original bullpen stuffed with the usual hostile, hungry, vocal, thirsty, hungry, and fatigued mortal frames with which I had endured the previous multiple hours' journey.<br /><br /><strong>At</strong> this point, I found out it was after 10pm, and we had been enduring this process for over 10 hours. Standing in cramped cages, enduring screamings and guard abuse, wishing for a drink of water and ultimately, a bunk in some cell to collapse. Fortunately, at this point, I had a comaraderie with many of the fellow incoming "monsters". 80% of them in our group were massive gang people, many who knew each other, and they all thrived in the roughest parts of the city. I had a pretty intelligent conversation with a guy about how I thought Obama was a fake, and he was leading the blacks on. His "posse" was right there with me, agreeing completely. Turns out two of those guys were picked up on warrants for murder, and another one just was given $750,000 bond for gun possession and armed robbery. These folks were my talk buddies. I didn't care - I was pretty scary looking myself, and had already earned the nickname "Big Man" during the process. Oddly it would stick. I was myself - not scared, just tired and pissed. This whole process would be a badge I'd have to earn, and I was gonna earn it. When I wanted a drink from the occasional functioning faucet in the bullpens, I'd line up and take my time. Nobody would mess with me because I had nothing to lose. I was super tired and desperate for a place to lie down.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>We</strong> all found out, while stuffed into that caged bullpen, that it might be about three more hours before we get to the point of receiving uniforms and being assigned to a cell. That's all we wanted - a place to lie down - we wanted our cell. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Finally</strong>, fatigue got the best of me, and after midnight, I realized that I could lie down on the cold tile floor underneath one of the benches that lined the walls of the bullpen area. That said, I crawled under people's legs, who were sitting on the bench, and found my little dark solace underneath the bench. There was garbage, roaches, grime, and other debris underneath this bench, but now I had floor space on which to lie down. I took both of my shoes and used them to rest my head upon, and despite the noise, dirt, cold, and uncertainty, I was able to catch a nap.<br /></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-70331141903688480662008-11-10T03:46:00.003-06:002008-11-12T22:49:01.188-06:00A Night At The Opera, Part One<span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>I</strong> had a rough October, with issues from the past having caught up with me. The state of Indiana had some legal issues with me, some that ultimately were never resolved, though the impetus of these issues came from an era of unstable decisions several years ago. That said, things didn't get cleared up, and eventually, the State of Indiana decided they were very interested in seeing me...thus leading to an ugly Sunday in October when a few local officials were ringing my doorbell:</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Hi sir, it looks like your car out front might have been damaged last night - can you come out and check it? We just noticed it passing by..." </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Stupidly, I bought this one, and came out wearing only shorts and socks... </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Nope, looks fine to me, thanks for checking though..." </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Officer Friendly suddenly took a different tack:</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Have you ever been in Indiana, like a couple years ago, maybe [name omitted] County down there?" </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Shit. All I could do was shake my head "no" and try to get back into the house. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Are you sure you were never in Indiana, maybe got taken in for anything? If not, we can go to the station and clear up the mistake..."</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I knew it wasn't a mistake...panic mode. I cooperated... </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Ok, well let me run in and get a shirt on, and a jacket..." </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"No you can't go back in there...we'll get a shirt for you." </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>The</strong> "bad cop" out of the good cop/bad cop pairing was now blocking my front door, with all the subtlety of a freight train. I knew I was toast, and that it would be a long long week. I also knew right away, I was destined to be extradited to Indiana, and just admitted that I did have a legal run-in down in southern Indiana a few years ago. It was too late to keep denying things, computer records don't make mistakes! Yeah right! </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>They</strong> put me in their car, didn't read me Miranda rights, and off we went.After a night in the local holding pen, I was whisked off to the place I fear the most... Cook County Jail. I would have castrated myself right then and there to bargain my way out of spending even one night in a place that is normally referred to as "the worst place in the country". Unfortunately, there was nothing I could say or do to avoid being shipped there while waiting for officials from southern Indiana to pick me up. I figured, fine. Those folks will come for me in the afternoon, I'll be out of Cook County in less than a day, assuming the Indiana folks were to send someone to pick me up immediately. Or so I thought. Off to Cook County I went, and was soon sitting in a large room waiting for a hearing which allowed me the right to fight extradition - something I wanted to summarily waive, so the Indiana folks could pick me up and rescue me from this hell hole. At 6:30 in the morning, there I sat in this large room, waiting for my 11am hearing. Nothing beats trying to sleep, in a panic, on hard benches for 4 hours. Around 7:30 am, a friend of mine, who happened to be a Cook County Officer, had heard I'd be there, and he took me aside to talk. He was always a dear friend from my dart/bar days, and it was nice to see a friendly face. He, in an eerily stoic way, directed me into a side room. Nevertheless, it was nice to see a familiar face, after having dealt with harsh, faceless soldiers of justice. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"What happened?" he innocently asked.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I explained things, and that I was just hoping to not have to spend the night in this place, and that ideally the Indiana people would be here in hours to retrieve me. Then my heart sunk as he started to speak, with an element of resignation.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Well, they have 30 days to come get you, so you may be here for a while."</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>The</strong> panic meter went beyond the red zone in my torso. All I could do was nod, ask if he could help keep me "safe" while there, which drew the "I can't help ya, buddy" response. I was hopelessly alone. Alone amidst a labrynth of cinder blocked walls, cold cement floors, graffiti, screaming, roaches, and uncertainty. After a relative eternity (first of many to come), I was given my moment in front of the judge to say I would be waiving my right to fight extradition. Hell, I could be fine in a small, southern Indiana county jail, the sooner I got down there, the better. Unfortunately, after the news about potentially being trapped here for a month, I didn't know how soon was "sooner". By 11:30, I was already beginning the process of being processed. I was stuck into a group of 200 people who were also due for being processed into the system, all of which were destined to spend at least one hellish night there. All 200 of us were loudly ordered through various stations along the process, and were held in caged "bullpens", which had room to seat 50 at most. Hours at a time would go by, being stuffed with others in these bullpens, forced to stand, for lack of room to even sit on the floor. Most of the fellow incoming deadbeats were really dangerous types, reciting gang tales and the like. Some were too dope-sick to stand up. I almost fainted twice from the lack of oxygen, water, and sheer fatigue. Little did I know that we'd be shuttled through 15 of these bullpens over the next 14 hours, and that I wouldn't eat anything or lie down in a cell's bunk until 2:30am. Thus, the night at the opera continued, and little did I realize that my adventures there would last another 3 days. Stay tuned.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-87149971795930191332008-11-09T07:43:00.004-06:002008-11-09T07:55:51.459-06:00Resolve Things<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>I doubt</strong> it would have been hard to notice, but after my 100<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> post, I had a bit of an extended absence. As such, I should address the reasons for the sudden leave of absence. It's of a personal nature, and without divulging too many details, I'll wrap things up in a neat little package, with a moral of the story as well.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>I had</strong> to take some time to resolve some icky legal issues with the state of Indiana, those of which I put off handling, and eventually, it simply made things worse. During all of the months when these loose ties went untied, I couldn't rest comfortably at all. There was no such thing as peace and quiet at night. Slumber was kidnapped by nerve-induced cycles of sheer panic, offset with self-assurance that the complacency needed to end soon. Having such things hanging over ones head is simply too much for a person with copious amounts of time to think. Over the course of many months, the logic became "live to fight another day", instead of much more substantive logic, dictating that it would be best to clean up any unresolved issues and face the music. I knew, by then, that I was incapable of facing said music. It became too convenient to slip into the cycle of simply not taking care of things hanging over my head, but to rather attempt to ignore them and self confirm that I'd handle it later on. Then the bad dreams took form, almost on a nightly basis, to the point where I was afraid of falling asleep, despite the fact that pure unfettered rest was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">exactly</span> what I needed for the moment. Nightmares became recurring - of being on a plane about to crash, being kidnapped, drowning, etc. While all of which were too easy to analyze, the bottom line was that they were a result of continual anxiety about things not having been resolved. More recently, I let a dear friend down by, again, putting things off, when I should have been building up a web site with sufficient support and promises of things to come.<br /><br /><strong>Moral being</strong>, get things resolved now! Few things are worse than having unfinished business hang over one's head on a daily/nightly basis. It grows to constrict, confine, and distract. If you have tax returns to file, face the music! It won't be pleasant, but the burden will have been lifted. Make that uncomfortable phone call you may have been putting off. Personally, I think a moment of discomfort beats an indefinite period of avoiding the inevitable.</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-13281700174821486692008-10-03T06:01:00.013-05:002008-10-03T07:38:19.600-05:00100<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Finally</strong>, I've arrived at the long-anticipated 100th article. It's a watershed moment, and I don't mind saying, I had every intention of it being self-celebratory. It's a time to take stock of what I've written, what I've said, where I've been and where I'm headed. It's been a long time coming. I'm proud of the body of work I've laid out here, and what you'll see is basically a "best of Mikey" highlight reel, replete with links to my past works. That said, bear with me throughout the celebration.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;"><strong>History</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">In the summer of 2004, many people approached me with the idea that I should have an outlet for my writing, and that my thickly worded emails often went to waste. As such, I sought out a means for writing my thoughts, and ultimately decided that I could serve myself well with an outlet, so to speak. At that point, I had been working on a musical project, and was sufficiently frustrated by all things external. In the end, I decided upon using blogspot as a host for any of my writings, figuring that since it's endorsed by the almighty Google, it wouldn't dissolve and thus take my works with such dissolution. Without much deliberation, I decided it would be called "The Vapid Voice". Being inherently self-deprecating, I wanted to intimate that my words are vapid, or without any more value than anyone else's opinions, comments, or observations. My writings would not be declarations; they'd merely be a mixture of my thoughts about the world around us all, and without any intention of implying self-importance. The word "Vapid" implied a sense of emptiness, and as such, my thoughts carried no weight other than the theoretical ink on which it was printed. With a name selected, I was off to the races; and after posting a rant about Howard Stern, which was subsequently removed, on August 3, 2004, I posted my </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/08/cards-everywhere.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">first article</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Innocuous enough, it was an observation about the burgeoning poker boom, and at the time, likely abortive. Knowing that the title of my site wasn't necessarily restrictive, I posted serious posts as well as comical ones. Most of the time, the humorous ones drew the most reaction from the early adopters. I'll cover the best of those below. The second post </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/08/relationship-injustice-part-one.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">began</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> a ten article series called "Relationship Injustice", and was a suitable outlet for all things wrong with relationships around me, including those of my own. While serious in nature, it drew quite a response and, dare I say, helped some people out in a therapeutic way. From there, the ball was rolling. I'd write humorous observations, cathartic, serious essays, and throw them out there for anyone to digest. Fortunately, many took to them right away, and I grew to love the positive feedback. I'll be forever grateful to all of you who regularly checked in to see if I posted anything new, and without your collective feedback, I would not have bothered continuing this literary voyage! That about sums up my historical perspective; I've been through a lot during the four years of Vapid Voice's existence, and I hope it's been entertaining, if not insightful. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;"><strong>The Vapid Voice FAQ</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em>Questions that have come up during the last few years...</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Q: Why do you put the starting word of a paragraph in a bold font?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A: Style, just thought it would be a unique thing. It was also a nod toward 19th century works and publications, which often printed the first word or letter of an article or paragraph in a large font. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Q: What do you prefer writing, the funny stuff or the serious?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A: Overall, the serious stuff. The humor angle gets the most response, and readers always loved it. But the serious things were most cathartic for me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Q: Is the "Relationship Injustice" series done?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A: Yes. I am a fan of the number 10, and preferred to call it upon the 10th post.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Q: Have you considered seeking a publishing deal?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A: Yes, I've submitted content, but to date, no takers.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;"><strong>Highlights</strong></span><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'll provide the links to some of my best stuff, hope you enjoy the articles as much as I did writing them...</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><strong>The Relationship Injustice Series</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I was surprised this series drew so much acclaim, as I figured I was speaking into the ether. Most of the time, the articles were a result of personal frustration, but often they were observations of another injustice happening around me. For the first time in world history, all the links shall be presented to you, dear reader, in one convenient place! </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/08/relationship-injustice-part-one.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 1</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/08/relationship-injustice-part-two.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 2</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2005/12/relationship-injustice-part-three.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 3</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2006/07/relationship-injustice-part-four.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 4</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2007/02/relationship-injustice-part-5.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 5</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2007/05/relationship-injustice-part-6-your-1.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 6</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> -</span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2007/07/relationship-injustice-part-7-fidelity.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 7</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2007/10/relationship-injustice-part-8.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 8</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/01/relationship-injustice-part-9.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 9</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/03/relationship-injustice-part-10-this-is.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Part 10</span></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><strong>Religion/Philosophy Posts</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Without question, my most contraversial article came from an angry moment in which I, shall we say, lashed out at Jesus, God, and all things religious. It drew the most ire, and I debated about removing it, and ultimately decided in favor of keeping it up there, for sake of offering a snap shot of my mindset at the time, and the frustration therein. It's the only article I never wanted to show my mom. Some people in my life just didn't need to see this:</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2005/12/open-letter-to-christ.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">An Open Letter To Christ</span></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Eventually, there were a couple more notable philosophical essays that came to pass...</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2006/12/religion-part-one.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Religion</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2006/05/ghosts-and-near-death-experiences.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ghosts</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2006/09/reduction-and-realization.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Reduction and Realization</span></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After posting </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2006/11/ouija-boards-oh-no.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">this one</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">, there were a lot of odd ghosts floating around me for a few days. No I'm not crazy, just sensitive to all that paranormal stuff.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><strong>Rants</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;">People loved my little rants, and here are several of the best...</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/10/i-hate-driving-part-one.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">I Hate Driving</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/11/i-hate-store.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">I Hate The Store</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2006/06/i-hate-restaurants.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">I Hate Restaurants</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2005/02/wheres-that-equator.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Where's That Equator?</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2007/01/its-about-time-and-i-know-people-miss.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Generic Rant Time!</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/07/parking-lots.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Parking Lot Rant</span></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><strong>Lists</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;">A couple of my more amusing lists...</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2005/02/my-two-personalities_13.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">My Two Personalities</span></a><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/12/what-difference-century-makes.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">What A Difference</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - Far and away my funniest one...</span><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2007/09/falls-commercial-complaints.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Stupid Stupid Commercials</span></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><strong>The Spam Review Series</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;">I did a series of 10 (there's that number again...) postings in which I'd review spam emails and comment appropriately... here they are all in one place (I'm so sweet...)</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2007/11/spam-review-part-1.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 1</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/01/spam-review-2.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 2</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/01/spam-review-3.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 3</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/02/spam-review-4.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 4</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/02/spam-review-5.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 5</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/02/spam-review-6.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 6</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/03/spam-review-7.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 7</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/03/spam-review-8.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 8</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/05/spam-review-9.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 9</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - </span><a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/06/spam-review-10.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spam 10</span></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">That about sums it up. This is Vapid Voice, and I hope you all continue to read the best and worst of my future articles, and perhaps delve into the archives as well. I'm glad I made it to the 100th post, and look forward to #200. Who knows where I, or you, will be when that landmark moment comes around. Thanks for reading!</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-54041486856085796052008-09-22T02:37:00.001-05:002008-09-22T02:40:52.708-05:00Reunions<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>In</strong> recent weeks, through the means of <a href="http://www.facebook.com/">Facebook</a>, I've been able to catch up with a lot of old friends from high school, electronically, telephonically, and physically (the last not being in the biblical sense, thank you). It's been almost 20 years since I've seen these people, heard from these people, or caught up with their lives. I, being the eternal bachelor, was admittedly a bit bummed from seeing the pictures of classmates' families, spouses, and the like. Perhaps it's simply a case of "life envy" and rather unfounded, as we all choose are own paths in this little journey, but then again, the grass is always greener. Reunions invariably conjure up a sense of self-examination; comparison to others who, many years ago in high school, were at the same starting gate, with the same opportunities and future. For the most part, the process of being back in touch with high school classmates has been great. A few of us have already met up to rehash old times, revisit old memories, and see how everyone looks. <br /><br /><strong>The</strong> same people I occasionally envied for their establishing families have also occasionally been ones to send me messages complaining how burned out they are from shuttling kids around to various activities. While these apparent renditions of domestic bliss might be compelling, there is always another side to having a family, and it envelops 90% of one's time. I have yet to do the family thing, and sometimes, in the face of my advancing age, I regret it. A lot of my fellow classmates trumpet pictures of their kids, and that merely shows the good, not the uglier moments when kids are puking all over, getting suspended from school, or wrecking the car. To that end, I console myself by realizing that having kids and a family is tiring but rewarding, and that the facade presented on Facebook might be just that - a facade. It's been very strange to be out of touch with people for 20 years, then to pick up and talk again, after so many years of change. Many of these people have sons and daughters in high school, which is still mind-blowing to me. One old friend is even poised to be a grandmother. Comprehending all this, having known such people when they were kids themselves, is at best, a challenge. On a positive note, I've realized that most of those classmates never moved out of the metropolitan area, and as statistics dictate, a vast majority of people live their entire lives within 50 miles of their birthplaces.<br /><br /><strong>Many</strong> times, pundits have said how people don't change. I find that to be very inaccurate. Most of the people I've reconnected with are of a different mindset than from the days of high school. The years after high school are most likely to define one's character, goals, and philosophy. High school is merely a starting point, not a defining point. I've seen so many classmates change radically after 20 years, and why should I be surprised? It's been 20 years of the most volatile times in an adult's life. Many of the close friends of mine from those days are now completely different people, in appearance, ideals, and status. Some have risen to greatness, some haven't. Personally, these reunion moments have been enlightening and depressing in the same moment. It's a time for wishing I did more over 20 years, but also a time for renewing old friendships that should have never ended in the first place. Everyone <em>has</em> changed; time and life experience does that to everyone, but revisiting the days of youth, even for a moment, can be invigorating itself. Never be afraid to reach out and find that old friend. It's rewarding in the end.<br /><br /><strong>A few</strong> final notes. I still hate the Vonage commercials, but they've finally tapered off, and there's even a new one floating around which is far less irritating and obsessive. Secondly, this is my 99th post! Next one is the biggie! I've been working on it at times, and all I can say is that it will have some highlights from my better postings, and basically celebrate the achievement. I'm hoping to get that done in a couple weeks (or less). Thirdly, congratulations to the Cubs! Very happy they are playing well again. See you at number 100! Maybe I'll rope in some special guests!</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-12446121384098779202008-09-03T04:40:00.011-05:002008-09-14T23:53:28.600-05:00The 2008 Olympics Part Two<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>I've</strong> written my initial thoughts about the Olympic Games in the previous essay, and I had a bit more to say. Thus, here comes part two. Sure, there are more political meanderings (and I hate politics), but there are always exceptions.<br /><br /><strong>I mentioned before</strong> that I didn't really pay much attention to the opening or closing ceremonies. Everyone else seemed to watch them, and all can draw their own conclusions. I'll just say that it was a job well done, despite the penalties potentially incurred upon any Chinese citizens that didn't cooperate. Hats off to those that volunteered, perhaps under penalty of death. Sure, it was nice to see that, as a Led Zeppelin fan, Jimmy Page played "Whole Lotta Love" in representing the upcoming London Games of 2012. A nice gesture, but couldn't the rest of the surviving members of the band have taken the time to participate with Page in this worldwide ceremonial moment?<br /><br /><strong>That said</strong>, it was amusing to hear that the Chinese government found some type of way to magically clear all of their earth-killing pollution haze in anticipation of the Games to come. China was every bit of that unflappable kingdom <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0f6biXJ_HUEB6LWiTtUXOW3-rB-oG50q_guDBeJ8thncFZeLsG1MG33Ozp1uqbglm6wYcfEPRyRVBoEpOLSb1ykSoCH1v31HWffU2MSQsj774wTqE2IosbA-z3v-uUlBYYL0qQ/s1600-h/beijing1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241730668382921554" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0f6biXJ_HUEB6LWiTtUXOW3-rB-oG50q_guDBeJ8thncFZeLsG1MG33Ozp1uqbglm6wYcfEPRyRVBoEpOLSb1ykSoCH1v31HWffU2MSQsj774wTqE2IosbA-z3v-uUlBYYL0qQ/s200/beijing1.jpg" border="0" /></a>that, in its view, could do no wrong, and still decided to clean up the air and act as a warm host for the two weeks of propaganda to come. Their efforts to westernize were admirable. My dad even noticed an interesting thing, in that the Chinese even wore uniforms, in many events, with the English word "China" emblazoned upon it. Quite amusing, since the Chinese language doesn't use letters, period, just a mess of lines and symbols. It showed that China is finally getting it; despite not being a continent, they are truly the definition of the "dark continent", well behind the times, and desperate to catch up to the rest of the dreaded "western" world. The country is barely catching up to the world of the internet, and even that (pun intended) "connection" has been slow in its expansion. They've resisted vehemently to join the rest of the world, but finally its big cities show signs of westernization. Hopefully these Olympics will show that dreaded government, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Sure, it's convenient for the rest of us lazy Americans to know that everyone on the planet will need to adopt some forms of English, but that's simply based on rules of the commercial majority. They may have the most populous country on the planet, but us English speakers control the commerce with which the Chinese people ultimately need to survive. The subplanet that is China has politically painted itself into a corner, and it's up to that same stubborn entity to join the rest of the globe and adopt English as a language and participate in westernized idealism. China put their Olympic pawns out there, and they were affable pawns. People amongst the Chinese teams hugged teammates, hugged the American opponents (in the case of the culmination of the gymnastic events) and acted, well, human. Chinese people seemed friendly but guarded; it's up to their overlords to release the grip on the remaining elements of humanism that have kept them so contained and distanced for centuries.<br /><br /><strong>I watched</strong> the competitions, most notably swimming and gymnastics. Having already commented on the swimming achievements, I will say that despite my normal ambivalence toward gymnastics in general, I was quite excited by the USA's successes as a team and their appropriate individual efforts. Sure - in the swimming world, Michael Phelps, as I mentioned, performed well, as did Jason Lezak during important four person relay events. Nevertheless, I was particularly impressed with Nastia Luikin from the gymnastics team. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTE1DWzS9L9k6TB_RqdXMV_A9Nvrqbs7cw1JAxKiGADHSDkt0JoG-mmjyHu6AgkyPNbkEZUJsFOOn74dmkr8BqFUEDQ5P6aydPpOhR9P9bW00TdQysGvv3QsISDF-Jy9WYGHsIQ/s1600-h/3676681656.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241729283159888562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTE1DWzS9L9k6TB_RqdXMV_A9Nvrqbs7cw1JAxKiGADHSDkt0JoG-mmjyHu6AgkyPNbkEZUJsFOOn74dmkr8BqFUEDQ5P6aydPpOhR9P9bW00TdQysGvv3QsISDF-Jy9WYGHsIQ/s200/3676681656.jpg" border="0" /></a>Her father was an Olympic medalist for Russia, and not unlike Maria Sherapova, she eventually was raised in the United States and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnB7pWzv105mrZFBkArzPjtRwqksQVGGz3LmqLdegX7mONW3xcErJftGHBxJrHV-o7cu2UgWuwV7-TAzlaCbjkOateAnfQVED_D_gmdAiQcg6l4oXaSg2v7mpl31XNusofE1P_cw/s1600-h/US_Visa_05_Nastia_Liukin_BB_0702.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241733601425255474" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnB7pWzv105mrZFBkArzPjtRwqksQVGGz3LmqLdegX7mONW3xcErJftGHBxJrHV-o7cu2UgWuwV7-TAzlaCbjkOateAnfQVED_D_gmdAiQcg6l4oXaSg2v7mpl31XNusofE1P_cw/s200/US_Visa_05_Nastia_Liukin_BB_0702.jpg" border="0" /></a>groomed to succeed. While one of the darlings of the Olympics, she seemed to lack the cutesy cuddliness that Mary Lou Retton belched during the 1984 Summer Games. Nastia is a great gymnast and invariably poised to be the next Maxim cover, but she maintained that typical Russian-born coldness that all too many expatriated athletes brought to our soil. As a result, many of the network interview shows tried to crown gymnast Shawn Johnson as America's next darling, but I doubt it will stick. Conan O'Brien's show has already used her in a comedy bit, comparing her to a picture of "Howdy Doody". Very cruel and undeserved, she didn't ask for that level of publicity; she merely wanted to perform well. That said, I suppose Nastia is the "cutie" and Shawn is the "doody". Where's the justice? Shawn Johnson was a great competitor, and seemingly a sweet person, so leave her alone. She's just a kid.<br /><br /><strong>During</strong> several of the team competitions, especially with gymnastics, I noticed another depressing use of a human being by the Chinese empire. Wherever the various gymnastics teams' "benches" were for sitting and warming up, a Chinese girl had to hold a sign up designating the particular country's name. Couldn't they have used a metal pole for this purpose? I understand that there are 1.3 billion people over there, but are humans cheaper than poles? (Insert your favorite ethnic joke here). Bad jokes aside, they seemed forced to hold up this sign for the duration of the events. Inasmuch that team gymnastics took hours to complete, I truly felt sorry for the poor (perhaps literally) girls that had to hold various team's signs up throughout the duration of the events.<br /><br /><strong>Continuing</strong> with the review of the gymnastics competitions, may I humbly ask why Bella Karolyi <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjySAsX3DsuAZat144bESsR7fyTt0WoCjshvAN16mNlRpVrEXy8Qel273YobFeYjUgyzHnzbPgzUxWFILdlKFORw77hqFsu6tcGE5wwW9wqjstBtcGoAlEP3KiAM8Br_i5vLKYw/s1600-h/bella.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241735307638135330" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjySAsX3DsuAZat144bESsR7fyTt0WoCjshvAN16mNlRpVrEXy8Qel273YobFeYjUgyzHnzbPgzUxWFILdlKFORw77hqFsu6tcGE5wwW9wqjstBtcGoAlEP3KiAM8Br_i5vLKYw/s200/bella.jpg" border="0" /></a>was asked to sit in with the always arrogant Bob Costas during the aforementioned gymnastics events? All Karolyi did was utter unintelligible aphorisms, accuse the Chinese of using underaged competitors, and abjectly root for whomever was up next in the competition. While I appreciate his history as a gymnastics coach, his emotional comments clearly never passed the "I shouldn't say that" filter. He's a typically creepy guy with former coaching achievements, and that's it - he was never fit to be a commentator. What little that could be discerned from his broken English was largely jingoistic and embittered. It must explain why his wife was out there doing the actual coaching, rather than himself. Sure, he's retired. Uh huh. I further enjoyed his passive thoughts about the usually prominent Romanian team, since Romania was his country of origin.<br /><br /><strong>Another</strong> sham event - the "Beach Volleyball" competition - was so horribly westernized, it showed that the Chinese government was simply trying too hard. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX1bMDzBxu2PI5cIATQAY_Bk1Qvc2LI8hBwk21ua1L5i5NFNcpSGi0SwvQu1fRuPCqbxhTCd5JB0G2eCOoL8W8eb5DatLURaMnMDT95D9Rpr5TLlMB8WtUElgWkzl6zIp_FJpQAQ/s1600-h/126629_m03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241732582172702386" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX1bMDzBxu2PI5cIATQAY_Bk1Qvc2LI8hBwk21ua1L5i5NFNcpSGi0SwvQu1fRuPCqbxhTCd5JB0G2eCOoL8W8eb5DatLURaMnMDT95D9Rpr5TLlMB8WtUElgWkzl6zIp_FJpQAQ/s200/126629_m03.jpg" border="0" /></a>During breaks in the action, music was blaring from the P.A. system blaring sadly outdated "western" rock music. I heard 80s songs by Europe, AC/DC, et al. For some reason, this "event" needed some pathetic rock and roll attitude to it, and it was so artificial, I couldn't stand keeping my T.V.'s volume up any further. With both indoor and outdoor volleyball competitions, the Cuban teams kept coming up. Could they have been any darker skinned? Those Cubans looked peculiarly African to me. Sheesh.<br /><br /><strong>I was incredibly amused</strong> when Bob Costas, back in the studio over there, casually mentioned that his guest for the current segment was this guy named George Bush. Since Bush Jr. is an idiot anyway, the lack of build-up for the supposedly "casual" interview was all the more gratifying. So George Jr. sat in, with his relaxed persona, and fielded questions from the typically verbose Costas. My favorite moment came along when Costas preceded a question with "given all the problems in the United States right now...". It was amusingly fielded by Bush, responding with "Well, Bob, I don't think there are any problems in the United States right now." Economic crisis? Gas prices? Hello? A sad, pathetic answer in front of millions of people. Hell, he has no reason to say the right things any more (when did he start?), being months away from relinquishing his post, but he was an incredible dullard in the "casual interview" role, despite passive attempts by Costas to avert attention from the comedy of his guest.<br /><br /><strong>In the end</strong>, the Olympics allowed a nice attempt by China to show their human side. They did a good job, overall, and this dark region of the earth showed that brightness can still exist. I loved the achievements of our country's best athletes. Several people have asked me if I wanted Chicago (finalist) to earn the rights to hosting the 2016 Games. Yes, it's my home, and it would be two weeks of insanity during the fortnight. Technically, yes, I do want Chicago to win the bid. A significant competitor to this bid is Madrid. Why go back to Spain? The Summer Games were just recently in Barcelona (1992), and Chicago deserves the chance. The city has hosted various expositions before, granted they were over a century ago, but it's about time. Regardless of Los Angeles and Atlanta's games of 1984 and 1996 respectively, I'd love to see the world turn its attention toward a city like Chicago. It would be all too amusing to see the Rowing event take place on the Chicago River; first team whose boat doesn't dissolve is the big winner. Seriously, it's a nice city to host the Games, and I'll be far too old to care anyway. Anything but Madrid. Those dusty Spaniards stay up too late anyway.<br /><br /><strong>One</strong> more article until #100! The 99th article might be just another essay, but that 100th - what will it be? Stay tuned. Thanks for the support.</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-18864573507627231112008-08-27T06:27:00.004-05:002008-08-27T06:51:22.861-05:00The 2008 Olympics Part One<span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>The</strong> Olympic Games from Beijing have come and gone. Several have even wondered when I would comment about them. With all due consideration toward brevity and a salient overview, I decided to wait until everything was finished before vomiting my usual arcane thoughts. As such, the time has come. I've ingested the Clorox, and it's time to induce vomiting. Where is Mister Yuck! Some of the more ardent readers might expect a verbose tirade about all that had transpired, and I'll be sanguine enough to say that it wasn't all that bad. On with the show...<br /><br /><strong>Upon</strong> the Games' commencement, multiple NBC commentators noted that this was the first Olympic Games on the Asian Mainland. I knew this was an incredible inaccuracy, but <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/08/commercials-9.html">recently cited</a> the Moscow Games of 1980 as a predecessor. A devoted, yet occasionally irksome reader <a href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8527325&postID=7900543504842381780">correctly noted</a> that Moscow was actually part of the continent of Europe, being west of the Ural mountains. I won't whine, but a continent was traditionally defined, in the archaic sense, as a "continuous tract of land", and that technically speaking, there were four continents : North/South America, Europe/Asia, Africa, and Antarctica. They were significant land masses defined by cartographers as being unique entities, even though, geologically speaking, Asia and the Americas are connected by a land bridge (submerged by shallow water) and that Africa is barely connected to the Eurasian land mass. Per the University of California Press: "Continents are understood to be large, continuous, discrete masses of land, ideally separated by expanses of water."<br />Continents shouldn't be divided by arbitrary means, like mountains. So technically speaking, Europe and Asia share a common land mass and Greece hosted Olympic games ages ago, but I won't complain any further. Bottom line is that NBC was wrong, since Seoul hosted the Olympics back in 1988. I'm right, and can happily call "foul" on NBC's inept researchers, despite my past references.<br /><br /><strong>There</strong> couldn't have been a more frightening, intimidating, anarchonistic place to host a world event than China. This place has developed itself into a different planet for thousands of years; arbitrarily cut off from the rest of the world, and historically intent upon defining its own laws, religions, languages, regimes, and subcultures. The wizards from the International Olympic Committee may as well have held this year's games in the Amazonian jungle. At least the air quality would have been better. Anthropologically speaking, it seems like the Chinese people (all 390 trillion of them) were ridiculously sweet and hospitable, and I'll even wager that their wonderful nature wasn't at the forceful behest of their totalitarian leadership. Oddly, thousands and thousands of Chinese people volunteered for the Olympic ditch digging, and most of them cited national pride as the reason for doing so. Plenty of stories (that made it past the censors) revealed how commoners like cab drivers and Olympic volunteers spent years learning basic English in anticipation of the Games. Their zeal seemed sad and wonderful at the same time - full of warmth and hospitality, but (cynically speaking) under the forceful insistence of the omnipotent and frightening government. The government clearly wanted to show that China is a warm, humanistic nation, but one can only assume that the citizens were bullied into "playing nice" to fulfill national jingoistic ideals. Again, without question, the Chinese people seem to be a wonderful bunch, but the overlords were always manipulating their strings. I'm not one to speak about political topics, but this entire fortnight was a well planned, ten billion dollar propaganda bomb, detonated to the "real" people of planet earth. China wants us to leave them alone, but still trade with them, and give them plenty of our money.<br /><br /><strong>I</strong> have to admit, I did not bother to watch the opening or closing ceremonies. I'm sure they were incredible and likely to overshadow any future Olympic spectacles, but then again, when a government has over a billion people at its disposal, I'm sure the show would be flashy. Eventually, China admitted to doctoring up some of the apparent pyrotechnics with computerized effects, and it was a miracle that such a stoic bunch could even own up to such falsification. China's sleight of hand continued with debates that members of their powerful gymnastics team were under the age of sixteen, the minimum age for participation. The jury is still out on this simmering controversy, and likely will never be put to rest. I'm sure a brutal government can hunt down a few fake IDs for some girls...who of us hasn't back in our college days? I heard that Jimmy Page appeared for London's part of the closing ceremonies (in anticipation of the 2012 games), which is very cool, being a Led Zeppelin connoiseur and afficionado. The mere notion of "Whole Lotta Love" echoing into the China sky brings ironic joy to this poor soul.<br /><br /><strong>As</strong> for the Games themselves - of course, I'm happy for Michael Phelps. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-kpHr_jSOcEhGTHGYr8QCR1UyyVBLf2y-tkjfmfndNJTL9p3a1aYGl62e5fLncoE71dEGju-KP36nQUtUAOGcHMs0oib-Bl6Vq8x8cHHGnUDaCxFl8AsOvjC8CUT4CLRqa50Tg/s1600-h/phelps.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239159809618204050" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-kpHr_jSOcEhGTHGYr8QCR1UyyVBLf2y-tkjfmfndNJTL9p3a1aYGl62e5fLncoE71dEGju-KP36nQUtUAOGcHMs0oib-Bl6Vq8x8cHHGnUDaCxFl8AsOvjC8CUT4CLRqa50Tg/s200/phelps.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Who isn't? I watched all of his races, and, not being a swimming fan, still found much excitement and gratification in his achievements. The best had to have come early on - prior to the 4 X 100 relay event, the French team said they would "smash" the American team. The anchor swimmer, Jason Lezak, came from behind to beat those jerks. A wonderful moment, and another medal for Phelps. Phelps seems to be a bit of a dork, with bad teeth and a dumpy mother, but his medal record deserves special note. Mark Spitz was ticked off that he wasn't invited to the Games, and he just seemed like a bitter has-been from days past. It was all about him not being there, not the support of other swimmers.<br />I rather enjoyed the swimming races, perhaps mostly for our country's dominance. As I mentioned before, some of the dramatic clips aired by NBC were longer than the races themselves, but I suppose it's understandable. I noticed that 1988 Olympic swimming hero Janet Evans was going to be appearing on some weird reality show. Yet another reality show. I was her grade school classmate in 1982, and everyone picked on her because she was allowed to leave school early every day to practice swimming. Poor kid, well, she did fine for herself, I suppose.<br /><br /><strong>A</strong> North Korean athlete was disqualified because he failed a test for doping (a nice way of saying "steroids"). While not surprised that somebody would fail such a test, this guy was competing in shooting. Shooting? Who the hell needs "juice" for shooting? That's like taking steroids for a chess match. For that matter, I'm sure it's happened before. Put an asterisk by Kasparov's name....he hit that chess time clock a little too hard some times.<br /><br /><strong>Stay</strong> tuned for the next installment. Only TWO (2) more articles to go until #100!</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-79005435048423817802008-08-15T03:53:00.003-05:002008-08-15T04:05:22.606-05:00Commercials - #9<span style="font-family:verdana;">I call this "part 9" because I have no idea how many times I've whined about commercials. For those who care, I had a very quiet, do-nothing birthday. Nobody? Fine. Sure, I get it. Just wait for Mister Wacky to write another pile of poop for the next break between incoming sales calls. Sure, just call me Mort Walker. Pry open the "funny pages" and expect more wild adventures from Beetle Bailey. Mn'uh huh. Nobody ever thanks the bloggy guy. Well, <a href="http://www.vanessarousso.com/">someone</a> did, but she was referenced in my <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/08/cards-everywhere-part-iii.html">previous posting</a>. Anyway, yeah yeah, commercials. Grumble. Yeah yeah, three (3) posts to go until #100. I mean #100! Acting excited. On with the show.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Creepy Wendy's Cartoon Character</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong></strong><br />In retrospect, I wasn't very impressed with the tiresome campaigns of the 80s and 90s, in which Dave Thomas himself insisted on "acting" in the commercials. For some odd reason, people took to the old dullard, and I suppose that was good enough for the strong economic times. Eventually, dear old Dave bit the burger, so to speak, and like the conundrum presented by Orville Redenbacher's demise, the marketing geniuses needed to come up with a new main character. In a positive light, Wendy's didn't make the same mistake as with the Redenbacher people, when they feigned Orville's reanimation with a creepy impersonator. With Wendy's, it wasn't reanimation, but just plain animation. They took the supposedly lovable caricature of "Wendy" with her red hair and pig tails, and made her into a cartoon character for the newest ad campaign. Now she frowns and has a creepy Hanna Barbera visage going. It's just plain disturbing to see the formally staid "logo" become a two dimensional, living, breathing cartoon girl. They, of course, decided to use a cutesy teenaged girl voice for the narration of said commercials, and the tone carries all the charm of a New York stock broker. Snotty, bratty, self-ingratiated, and oh so burger-licious. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Olympics Marketing</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Ah, the Olympics are back, and since I don't watch the Winter Games, I can honestly say that enduring the marketing campaign every four years is frequent enough for my tolerance level. For starters, NBC's melodramatic promotional clips are driving my head into the desk. They've been running ten minute, dramatic montages, leading up to a one minute swimming race. Too much! There should be a rule that the sappy montage shouldn't ever be longer than the event itself. Then again, if following that rule, NBC could run a feature length film for the marathon event, or even the 10,000 meter race.<br />For additional inaccurate amusement, the promotional wizards claimed this was the first Olympics on the Asian Mainland. Hello? Does anybody remember Moscow in 1980? Perhaps I'm just jaded and dated. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Life Alert</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Yes, I'm sure it's a good thing for all of the lonely old bastards that have to sit in their temperature uncontrolled hovels and count daily poops. Basically, it is the emergency electronic locket that was made famous with the old bat saying "I've fallen, and I can't get up!" This old crone was also featured in a commercial for "The Clapper". Clearly, she got up. Somebody butter her stairs, please. Anyway, there's a new ad campaign featuring C. Everett Koop (apparently nobody is hangin' with Mister Koop) and another old bag of bones. The latter is mumbling so incoherently as she says "All senior citizens should have life alert", they have to subtitle it. That's just patently humiliating; when English is your first language, and they still have to subtitle your mumblings - very sad. That said, the company sunk to a new low when, during their "out" screen, with name and address, they literally printed "The 'I've fallen and can't get up' product" or something similar. Nice job, make a mockery out of a mockery. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Computerized Animation - With Animals?</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />There are all too many commercials which now, through computer enhancement, show the animals mouthing plain english words, while a desparate voice-over artist fills in the funnies. I won't be the first to say this is a disturbing image, and I certainly won't delve into the creepy aspects of, with similar computers, making babies talk/sing/form harangues.<br />Recent anti-flea commercials have featured puppies singing dopey songs like "oh there ain't no bugs on me..." while the wonderful world of computerized animation forms the hapless animals' words in selling the pitch. Not exciting, and as I said before, patently disturbing. Things that shouldn't be animated, well, shouldn't be animated. I just finished making such a proclamation in the above Wendy's campaign complaints.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Royal Carribean</strong><br /><br />Another bunch of marketing geniuses that decided to use Iggy Pop's "Lust For Life" as the catchy, happy and bouncy soundtrack for their commercial campaign. Bear in mind, this campaign has much to do with a surly tween girl, suddenly cracking a smile during a family cruise. That's great, except for the fact that "Lust For Life" refers to a guy full of liquor and drugs. Nice try. Hope the tweeny doesn't catch on.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Progressive Insurance</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Someone please carry out a hit on "Flo", the all too gregarious, bubbly dingbat who brandishes her "I Love Insurance" badge as she blurts out wacky aphorisms with all of the subtlety and timbre of Olive Oyl. The company dangles precariously close to the ledge, as it were, off of which Geico fell a long time ago, thanks to their Cavemen and gecko. Don't be next. Kill Flo. Come on, I don't watch that much TV, and if I do, I'm busily dodging the Vonage commercials, please don't make me dodge another painful campaign (wow, painful campaign, that's a gut shot alliteration straight!) <br /><br /><br /><strong>Cheerios</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Cheerios is now pushing this "challenge" for people to, using Cheerios, reduce their cholesterol by 4% in 6 weeks. 4%? Holy hell, I can set up my lawn sprinkler once a day and lose more than that. If I sat in the same room with a bulb of garlic, I'd lose 4% in 6 weeks. To boot, I'm sure the requirements for this "challenge" involve never eating, drinking only water, climbing Mount Everest, and pummeling that damn Subway guy into submission. Subway submission! Sounds like a Saturday night robbery downtown. (Ok, Chicago only has a few miles of subways, but play along. What, no? Oh that's, it, I'm leaving, then. Oh man, forgot about the McDonald's rant. Fine...)<br /><br /><br /><strong>Mack Donald's</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />I love the newest campaign. "Mickey Dee's" has never made any apologies about marketing toward the black folk, and it's becoming more and more egregious every quarter. Now they're marketing this southern-inspired chicken slab of death on a greasy biscuit, and my arteries clog just by seeing the promotional spot. Additionally amusing that you won't find a white (or, as it were, non-black) person in the commercial. I suppose they figure that they have the demographic pinned down, might as well kill them with kindness. For the record, yes, I say "white" and "black". Anyone that was not born in Africa is not African American, they are American. Otherwise, I suppose we'd all be "Pangean American". So you're black, I'm white, we're American. Shut up and eat your biscuit, McDonald's says so. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Vonage</strong><br />Need I say more? I shan't.<br /><br />Stay tuned for more fun from Beetle Bailey!</span><br /></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-48814654552763040162008-08-08T03:04:00.020-05:002008-08-08T05:57:06.887-05:00Cards Everywhere, Part III<div><span style="font-family:verdana;">The third in the series devoted to televised poker...</span></div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><div>Time to move into the world of the poker professionals - the otherwise rank-and-file players who've turned into characters on the boob tube. I present to you <em>Snow White and The Seven Dwarves of Poker</em>! Bratty, Catty, Frumpy, Dumpy, Sneaky, Creaky and Spooky. FOUR (4) more posts until #100!!!<br /><br /></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The Dwarves...</span></strong><br /><br /><strong>Phil Hellmuth - "Bratty"</strong> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMdEd1pe20eOpf9knPFTb5ORCFEbtROMX8QIk4uldvz9O0Bgap2MZ_M2eybc2ZOHoACjyEnOwwL4jv_5iFtWSWr7OSLCMEDaHthoXv1-EGILNKub_GwCTnv0GCDW3lUFqQBk_kww/s1600-h/Phil_Hellmuth.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232092995331458818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMdEd1pe20eOpf9knPFTb5ORCFEbtROMX8QIk4uldvz9O0Bgap2MZ_M2eybc2ZOHoACjyEnOwwL4jv_5iFtWSWr7OSLCMEDaHthoXv1-EGILNKub_GwCTnv0GCDW3lUFqQBk_kww/s200/Phil_Hellmuth.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcTqbfwMGbB_V0bcE5OZRi0slP3L1dD_5t8WgZSO_Sgmd5K3XmZHxZmR27rm1Xf_pkJAzZBXOA0uJ277EsOhOpnGcuDwiyRcx7F-2IUdWHw1XmoY-VY5FrqKrPkrA91j8X0EufQ/s1600-h/Phil_Hellmuth.jpg"></a><br />A player that endeared himself to the nickname "Poker Brat", even though he's hardly the youthful sprite that won the World Series Main Event back in 1989. He's played up the "brat" characterization, but he's not actually all that bratty. More accurately, he's just a sore loser, plain and simple. He tends to be rather mercurial and loquacious when the going is good, such as when he wins a hand or a tournament. Phil writes a lot of checks that his performances can't cash, like when he reminds everyone that he's the greatest Texas Hold 'Em player in the world, and that he has the most "bracelets" (awarded to the winner of any given World Series of Poker event). Now larger than life, he's turned himself into a merchandising machine, marketing shirts, hats, and endorsements for Ultimatebet.net, which is nothing more than just another poker web site. Either larger than life, or too big for his britches (as he has become a bit doughy), he's a staple for the merchandising machines that drive poker's continual prominence on the web and late night cable channels.<br /></div><div> </div><div><br /><strong>Annie Duke - "Catty" <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRGukuEq4soeNLI2tKoyCpaBCDiNfQD1wzPjRY8pRnt39NDWWB7ykaUHgwmI0dxo-tRYJqyq5tCTFnBvpYmYGDjBUsb8DYpyNMyw7TJmwV2lSQhT3QFXH6GzssCwdzxiSv0nYww/s1600-h/annieduke.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232067452328806946" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRGukuEq4soeNLI2tKoyCpaBCDiNfQD1wzPjRY8pRnt39NDWWB7ykaUHgwmI0dxo-tRYJqyq5tCTFnBvpYmYGDjBUsb8DYpyNMyw7TJmwV2lSQhT3QFXH6GzssCwdzxiSv0nYww/s200/annieduke.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></strong>The sister of the eternally creepy Howard Lederer (he would be the eighth dwarf), a red-headed "spitfire" of a woman who tries her best to be a sex<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSpM38Jp0ZIdKEDNaQKIiuv4Q_trTzWd4wyxiu3VNEfMDVK0qMZ9tC5b5yKIGqhEAO4Wuc9XzZSvLcwNCuFEwtxhr0dbKhtLkox5m5crvFhaxOUP_Y_P2lbC4e_Mma5vnI-Bb4gw/s1600-h/annieduke.jpg"></a>y, independent E.R.A. type woman of the new millenium. She always hugs and cuddles with anyone she knocks out of a tournament, and seems truly sorry to win any given hand. She almost cried once when she knocked her own brother out of a "Tournament of Champions" event; she went on to win the event, and seemed consistently apologetic in the process. She's a mother of four kids, however, and I've been told she isn't the nicest of people when dealing with the lowly general public. I can't confirm it, so don't send the law my way, Barney Fife.<br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Jennifer Harman - "Frumpy" <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhoGI6xpEJz7HNkBrM1atlMIGxnUlRa14ngMtT7eqAWZfdb0VkQNL3y_bIB-RwnquQpPd51Nk9p5WDYBkArUSrYfOOJRFqY86w2Vazr5e2SjgzIkx0hMpANDy2qiE5nNO3KgQEg/s1600-h/jenharman.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232069770347235570" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhoGI6xpEJz7HNkBrM1atlMIGxnUlRa14ngMtT7eqAWZfdb0VkQNL3y_bIB-RwnquQpPd51Nk9p5WDYBkArUSrYfOOJRFqY86w2Vazr5e2SjgzIkx0hMpANDy2qiE5nNO3KgQEg/s200/jenharman.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></strong>This chick shows up to every poker show imaginable. She has a constant frowny face, and seems a bit too mopey for all the television exposure she receives. Kinda reminds me of Ellen DeGeneres, but only in voice and demeanor. She's a decent player in terms of success, but having blonde hair, some circles decided that she must be one of the very few "poker babes" in such a male-dominated "sport". I just don't get it at times. That said, I will give her big props for her having dealt with plenty of health problems and never complaining about them, so I'll merely give the "frump" tag to her for her facial expressions, not attitude, per se. Frumpy in the nicest way.<br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Mike "The Mouth" Matusow - "Dumpy" <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7krb1ui2Hjz0HDUWGaqK-F4dsdzhJqn7Lqq7uRWKyHF8FXSVn79XjAc7bgxrWHa4xMTFqItCoaW-9ixEgU7LPRadRP6VpdYOWnvRfeOoxTXVWl62YzYxMYioHGYJCieJnNx10Q/s1600-h/mike-matusow-1560.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232066660449297122" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7krb1ui2Hjz0HDUWGaqK-F4dsdzhJqn7Lqq7uRWKyHF8FXSVn79XjAc7bgxrWHa4xMTFqItCoaW-9ixEgU7LPRadRP6VpdYOWnvRfeOoxTXVWl62YzYxMYioHGYJCieJnNx10Q/s200/mike-matusow-1560.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></strong>Again, in any other walk of life, he'd just be a dumpy boob with too much to say. His nickname of "The Mouth" came from constant harrassment of other players while butting heads during a particular hand. As with Hellmuth, his mouth wrote many checks that his card playing couldn't cash, and he'd wither away with small stacks of chips after suffering a humiliating loss. Matusow gained prominence on the airwaves by mere legend, far more than his success at winning tournaments.<br /><br /><strong></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong>Daniel Negreanu - "Sneaky"</strong> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNpDHobMmDPWtB_9TUX4Zac_NGDqvo1OUoOBjsWOUq9eBe6JTeCdbtfoaaCBZGsb7pCiKyjzeg6VNtp5jmMF1vecej5az6mu2ASddLnVIVRpDuTgDnSHMPwJagvNLrQRBRmW5RQ/s1600-h/daniel-negreanu2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232082900338872434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNpDHobMmDPWtB_9TUX4Zac_NGDqvo1OUoOBjsWOUq9eBe6JTeCdbtfoaaCBZGsb7pCiKyjzeg6VNtp5jmMF1vecej5az6mu2ASddLnVIVRpDuTgDnSHMPwJagvNLrQRBRmW5RQ/s200/daniel-negreanu2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A poisonous type of clever fellow who talks too much and has a nefarious sense of what cards are in another player's hand. His demeanor is affable, well mannered, and appreciably sociable. That said, his non-stop chatter is an effective weapon, pancaked upon his ability to figure out, based on "tells" and the like, what the other players have in their hands. He's the definitive example of the friendly neighbor that will loan you a cup of sugar, help rebuild your staircase, and then sleep with your wife. Again, a nice guy, but there's just something about him...<br /><br /><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong>Doyle Brunson - "Creaky" <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9UvBOsJqPS9GFrY8JvF_cYNV22A20U3POEFC_UWkt5kQnMuPC9yHtPc25vsYSaUlNIY5hkTfORZT0yXHRBEngpbT78Gx2n-CZya5FEQb0t1EivEIKWAkRLiuCgK3p1qCQWuI1A/s1600-h/doyle_brunson1280x390.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232083819897864754" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9UvBOsJqPS9GFrY8JvF_cYNV22A20U3POEFC_UWkt5kQnMuPC9yHtPc25vsYSaUlNIY5hkTfORZT0yXHRBEngpbT78Gx2n-CZya5FEQb0t1EivEIKWAkRLiuCgK3p1qCQWuI1A/s200/doyle_brunson1280x390.jpg" border="0" /></a></strong><br />The great-great-great-great grandfather of so-called "modern" Texas Hold 'Em poker. He's approximately 240 years old, looks twice his age, and seems at the brink of an instant freeze dried transformation into nothing but ashes and a hat. While he is regarded as a genius for the strategic books he's penned, he constantly plays oddly weak hands, and bets when a player of sound mind would have passed on the given cards. Seems like a truly nice guy, so no offense intended. He carries elements of lore and history with him, and he's won quite a few World Series of Poker bracelets, but other than that, he's an anachronistic museum piece that commands respect from the likes of Bratty, Sneaky, Spooky, and Dumpy.<br /></div><br /><div><br /><strong>Chris Ferguson - "Spooky"</strong> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3zpXkDjiTiWqx__y8mnMdPb8_nGc84r9G7X247PC5bF4uU9oPVoY6sXeTuM7ETgDZnKt2xH-agrbFidRHeClD6Bfe1gKPAI8AlcMdKnR0Pz8_q2OwC_eXJbwk_MYMArAljdbAA/s1600-h/chrisferg.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232085760556110978" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3zpXkDjiTiWqx__y8mnMdPb8_nGc84r9G7X247PC5bF4uU9oPVoY6sXeTuM7ETgDZnKt2xH-agrbFidRHeClD6Bfe1gKPAI8AlcMdKnR0Pz8_q2OwC_eXJbwk_MYMArAljdbAA/s200/chrisferg.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A spooky, long haired phantom of a guy who hides behind sunglasses and under a wide-brimmed hat. This guy would be denied a job from just about anywhere if for no other reason than the frightening appearance. His long hair and scraggly beard has earned him the arguably sacrilegious nickname of "Jesus". Invariably, one is stuck with hearing commentators continually saying "Jesus has an open ended straight draw" or "Jesus folded". In various modes of partial consciousness, hearing these comments can conjur up some rather wacky dreams.<br /></div><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">And Finally, Snow White!</span></strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>Vanessa</strong> <strong>Rousso</strong> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkeGjCwGqgH2u6-80vMTKn28cUWozp69MC-37ESRdQplSkfqgjcLTNmUnC7xhW4hklh1sAv-7mPvcKB-6v6qmWwMOGyMRSN50ASpgGk4nstBjiorp8Z_dA5C1QTjrPx5TrUbAj8A/s1600-h/vanessa_rousso_xlarge.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232091910666454546" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkeGjCwGqgH2u6-80vMTKn28cUWozp69MC-37ESRdQplSkfqgjcLTNmUnC7xhW4hklh1sAv-7mPvcKB-6v6qmWwMOGyMRSN50ASpgGk4nstBjiorp8Z_dA5C1QTjrPx5TrUbAj8A/s200/vanessa_rousso_xlarge.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Of course, the only true "Poker Babe" title has to go to <a href="http://www.vanessarousso.com/">Vanessa Rousso</a>, oh I just love her. She isn't always on televised poker events, but she has won a tournament or two, and looks great in doing so. Smart as a whip (with a newly acquired law degree) the girl can conquer the world. I'm proud of her, and she's the ultimate poker girl in my mind, no apologies for being biased. She's featured in a PokerStars commercial as a bungee jumper, if that reminds anybody. She'll always be my favorite, and I can only hope to see her out in the poker world more often. From what I've discerned thus far, she's very charming and well grounded. I wish her the best. Fine, I have a right to my crushes. Blah. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>And Lest We Forget...</strong></div><br /><br /><div>None of the aforementioned people have shown up in a Vonage commercial. Stop the Vonage commercials! I hate this dreaded ad campaign, and it's driving me to drive them, and its minions, out of business. </div><div><br />See you next time! Four (4) posts to go!</span></div>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-89708557639711582532008-07-31T03:38:00.002-05:002008-07-31T03:45:35.650-05:00Cards Everywhere, Part II<span style="font-family:verdana;">Finally! A new poker post! It's been four years since my <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/08/cards-everywhere.html">last one</a>, and it's amazing that the entire televised poker world has slipped under my bloggian radar for so many years. Time to catch up. I might have been somewhat prophetic in my initial article, but now, I'll throw some quips about the cast and characters involved, with their requisite shows. I'll start by stating the obvious; poker, as a game, trend, or phenomenon, has grown far too big for its general britches. That said, here are my thoughts about the televised poker scene these days, as it has to do with its shows and commercials. Next one will have to do with the people. For now, eat up. I'll say it again, but FIVE posts until #100!<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">TV Shows</span></strong><br /><br /><strong>World Series Of Poker<br /></strong>Shown on ESPN and its myriad child channels, this series is run into the ground, showing all main event competition from 2003 forward, over and over again. The commentators are good ones, particularly Norman Chad, a wise-cracking fellow with plenty of catch phrases and self-deprecating thoughts to support the main commentator, Lon McEachern. Unfortunately, since Chris Moneymaker broke new ground by winning a few years ago, ESPN has been running all of the tournaments into the ground. <br /><br /><strong>Poker After Dark<br /></strong>The show airs on NBC late at night, and focuses on a single table of "high rollers" who are supposedly prominent in the poker world. The show, however, will put anybody to sleep, due to its limited commentary and focus on table talk. As such, the viewer is subjected to constant hypnotic sounds of chip jangling and utter silence. Really tough to get through a one hour episode after a long day. It's snore city.<br /><br /><strong>World Poker Tour<br /></strong>Usually, this series involves an odd assortment of characters that nobody had ever heard of before, competing in a strange venue like an offshore island. For cryin' out loud, the show only airs on the Travel Channel. I'm sure people looking for prospective travel destinations would love to see a bunch of gruff poker monsters tossing chips at a table in Bermuda. Nothing beats the bright commentary of the always relevant Vince Van Patton, however.<br /><br /><strong>US Poker Championship<br /></strong>Again, aired by ESPN to death. It invariably involves a bunch of New Jersey based players with rough attitudes, cab driver hats, and bad personalities. Fortunately, they haven't been showing these reruns as much lately, but it's never interesting, because nobody involved in the final couple tables are ever interesting.<br /><br /><strong>High Stakes Poker<br /></strong>Another annoying show, mostly because of the money that the invited poker players bring to the table. It is supposedly a pure cash game, with chips and a dealer, but invariably some players insist on bringing along a stack of bundled 100 dollar bills for use when necessary. Ok, I don't want to see someone throwing around a 10,000 dollar stack of cash when I am grousing for dollars in the real world. It's just an arrogant show of wealth and simultaneously sickens me when these players bet money that could be going to a charity or similar good cause. Nothing more than a bunch of rich players showing off for the "have nots".<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>The Commercials<br /></strong></span><br /><strong>Ultimatebet.net<br /></strong>The always entertaining Phil Hellmuth is the spokesperson for this poker-based web site. He's warmed up to being the brat of poker, and takes to stupid stunts with bad production in the commercials for this site. One commercial shows him driving a new "Ultimate Bet" race car, and subsequently driving it into a concrete structure. Another shows him "testing" the company's web site's capabilities, but never once does he touch a mouse. Sure, we all use the internet without touching a mouse. Okie dokie.<br /><br /><strong>PokerStars<br /></strong>In these commercials, various poker "celebrities" are signed on to do dramatic spots for the PokerStars site. One involves <a href="http://vanessarousso.com/">Vanessa Rousso</a>, the only true cutie in poker, so I won't whine about her participation; hey, money is money, although since she just completed her law degree, I don't understand why she decided to sell out for this. That said, this site is a substantive one, employing many poker professionals and spotlighting a couple odd ones for commercials. They keep running this Russian player that we're all supposed to know, some Katya Kasdlkjyflya or whatever, and I've yet to see her in any televised poker competition. Good luck, my Russian comrade! <br /><br /><strong>Vonage!</strong><br />Yes, I told you I'd mention these jerks in as many postings as possible. They suck! <br /><br /><em>Stay tuned for the next post, which will be very soon, about poker players and the "celebrities" they've become. Five (5) posts until #100!!!</em></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-45676016762067273092008-07-15T01:16:00.006-05:002008-07-20T06:18:11.497-05:00Revenge Of Commercials<span style="font-family:verdana;">Time to revisit the annoying commercials of late, there are, as usual, too many to mention. Six (6) postings to go until the gala 100th posting celebration!</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>National Collectors Mint</strong><br />They strike again (minting pun intended) with some weird, silverish $20 piece that's intended to commemorate the 7th anniversary of 9/11. 7th? And again, pulling the 9/11 rabbit out of a hat, with that implied 9/11 guilt tactic at hand. If we don't purchase this important "piece of history" then uh oh, we're so careless and evil, we should be shunned from society. In addition, the Statute of Scumitations now must apply, since it's been enough years that this sleazeball operation won't even bother donating even a modicum of its sales toward the various (very active) funds for the familes affected by the original tragedy. Kindly roast in hell, National Collectors Mint.<br /><br /><strong>Secret Commercial<br /></strong>A painfully, painfully annoying chick runs around town, finding pointless excuses to raise her arms and flash her stupid pits. She hails a cab, the cab pulls over, and tells the poor, hard working driver that she didn't need a cab. She goes on to give a "high five" to someone and salute an aged doorman. Finally, she holds her arms up in a "surrender" position while standing in front of a police car, again to show off her arm pits. They should have arrested this bimbo on the spot.<br /><br /><strong>VONAGE VONAGE VONAGE<br /></strong>I was intending to work an anti-Vonage rant into every article until I hit the magic 100th posting. Well, I suppose I somewhat dropped the ball on that. I <em>did</em> manage to figure out that the woman in the commercials is Liz Beckham, she even has a little self-promotional web presence. Apparently she used to appear on Chappelle's Show. I'd say that her appearances on these commercials is a bit of a career downfall, but then again, she's neither had, nor likely will have, such disturbingly extreme exposure.<br /><br /><strong>Ass-Wiping Bears</strong></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />A toilet paper company keeps peddling its wares by utiilizing a motherless family of fat, dumpy, lumbering cartoon bears. Invariably, the wisened father figure shows the stinky, unwiped, junior bear what should be used on his tender bottom. Since when did bears start buying and using toilet paper? They're out in the wild, they've got leaves, or rabbits, or whatever. Since when does toilet paper indicate the further development of an entire cartoon species? We don't need to horrify children any further. What about Pernell Roberts' stinky kids out in Africa? They don't even have pants. The cartoon bears don't either, but they have plenty of ass paper.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>Goldkit.com</strong><br />Another one of the latest and greatest. We eager consumers are told to scoop up our presumably discarded gold jewelry - you know, unimportant heirlooms and wedding jewelry - and dump them into a tacky mailer. Who's stupid enough to put all their gold into an envelope and mail it away? That's worse than sending cash in the mail. I wonder what this company's stock response would be..."Gee, you sent us gold? Boy oh boy, we never received it, sorry Zeke - you know how unreliable the postal service can be." At this point the sounds of office laughter are curtailed by a "shush" gesture from the office bitty.<br /><br /><strong>The Planter's Scary Woman</strong><br />Getting a little tired here! Certainly not to the dreaded Vonage level, but the commercial involves an ugly, uni-browed woman, prancing in the streets with guys fawning over her. Why? She rubbed a Planter's nut on her body. It just ends unpleasantly (as if it started pleasantly) with a snippet of her rubbing the nut between her "rack". Something about seeing this ugly woman in my mind's eye inherently precludes any appetite I might have had for their highly processed cashews. Have fun, peddle thy wares with ugliness.<br /><br /><strong>Midas</strong><br />I have no idea where they found this crackhead, but apparently there's been a trend for mining frightening-looking monsters for commercials, such as the annoying bozo with the huge afro haircut in the Alltel spots. Anyway, this burnout drives his car through the Midas station's front door, and calmly states (with all the demeanor of a 'lude addict) "I think I need new brakes". The attendants, much too old to be stuck at a Midas franchise, calmly mention the company's new brake checkup plan, and don't think anything of the $30,000 of structural damage imparted by the the wacky prescription forger. The whole scenario makes no sense, and merely invites idiots from the chaotic real world to start wantonly driving their cars into auto repair shops with a lame excuse that their brakes were worn.<br /><br /><strong>Crest Whitening Strips</strong><br />FINALLY! Some advertising agency out there actually wrote some semantically correct copy. They mentioned that the dental strips or whatever will help brighten the teeth <em>with</em> 5 minutes a day. Not "in", but "with". I <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/12/nitpicking-language.html">ranted</a> about this before. Tons of Vapid Voice props are due to the brilliant copy writer that finally did things properly. Make yourself known! I command thee! That said, purchase this product! Shameless endorsement. Hey, it is a good counter to my constant protests against stupid Vonage.<br /><br /><strong>The Stupid Fox (Again)</strong><br />I've mentioned this one before, but yes, the stupid cartoon fox still leaves his money hungry stench in the corners of that which is late night television commercials. Once again, the fox is convincing us to start a home based business, and listen to the testimonials of doughy middle American PCH rejects who supposedly struck it rich by listening to a poorly animated cartoon character.<br /><br /><strong>Creepy Foot Care</strong><br />There are a couple disturbing foot care commercial that are shown all too often. One involves the "Ped Egg", which scrapes away dead tissue. Fine, don't show me before/after clips, I'm eating here. Then there's a Tinactin commercial with some ugly cartoon guy burning up from Athlete's Foot, hammered home by the consistently over-the-top voice of John Madden. Finally there is the always untrustable Japanese foot pad commercial, which claims to detoxify one's body in a mere fortnight. No thank you, again - I'm eating.<br /><br /><strong>Boris The Whore</strong></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong><br /></strong>Now Boris Becker is showing up sporadically for commercials during tennis tournaments. Why? To promote tennis equipment? Nope, it's to promote the fact that he's back. Not in tennis, though. Poker. He's hawking a poker web site and latching onto what's left of his notoriety, and clearly just trying to dig out from all of his past tax evasion attempts.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><strong>SIX MORE POSTINGS UNTIL #100!!! </strong></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-25636914354172141942008-07-05T08:41:00.005-05:002008-07-05T09:11:55.584-05:00Parking Lots<span style="font-family:verdana;">I've had past rave-ups about the wonder worlds of <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/10/i-hate-driving-part-one.html">driving</a> and <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2004/11/i-hate-store.html">going to the store</a>. Well, hell, why not combine these wonderful side-thorns into the beautiful middle ground between the two, known as the store/mall parking lot! It's peanut butter and chocolate for bitter misanthropes like yours truly. I wondered if I'd have enough material for a respectable posting, but after some extensive consideration (i.e. going to a parking lot), it was a landslide vote toward justification of its own article, and as such, infinite internetness (New word, honey, you know who you are). For what it's worth, the parking lot is a fascinating microcosm of all that is annoying about people, and by extension, the vehicles that they use to exude their inner pathetique. Happy 4th. Yes, I know it's now the 5th, but I'm late to everything. By the way, kids, only SEVEN more posts until the big 100th article jamboree! Do NOT miss that one! Coming in August, dates to be mentioned later. I'm working on it. Sadly I really am. C'mon man, I got nowhere else to go! I got nowhere else to go! Ah, Gere. Ah, Bach. Oh by the way, I decided, at least until I get to #100, I'll be creating cryptograms for a select few people that might understand my intentions. Trust me, they aren't worth the time to decode, and they are just personal things anyway. Just ignore them, it's more just for self gratification. Thanks and pardon our dust! On with the show.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em>(Cryptogram : The CTA Train took the Confederate General, would not pass this, and then followed anchors. Check your bottlecaps. Anyway, on to the article...)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em></em><br /><br /><strong>The Cars Have Eyes</strong><br />Every time I sit in a car for more than 2 minutes, invariably, there will be a couple creepy lurkers, sitting in an adjacent car, watching me. If I do anything mildly odd, like talk on the phone in my car, or drink something while chilling out in the car, I always see these creepy people staring back at me through the window of their broken down El Camino in the next spot. What are you people doing? If I drop some groceries or trip over something, it's a guarantee that I'll look up to see one or two pairs of beady eyes leering at me through their partially (and unprofessionally) tinted windows. Who are you people? Either leave the car or leave the premises. I can even tolerate the ones that are taking a nap in their parked car - hey, more power to ya, at least you aren't watching my every move.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br /><strong>Cart Corrals<br /></strong>They came up with the cart corral thing about 20 years ago, with the intention of all the happy customers "pitching in" and putting their shopping carts all into one place. First, the signs always say that by helping put the carts into this makeshift set of parallel bars, that the customers would help keep prices at a minimum. Why? The stores still have full time employees collecting the damn carts anyway, now they just don't have to walk as much. You know what, pot-head Metallica fan cart collector guy? I'm going to put my cart right by my car. You can come get it. The extra leg work will help you appreciate that hastily purchased weed so much more. You're welcome. Rock on.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>The Snow Plow People<br /></strong>When the hell of a nice hefty winter snowfall comes around, then the magic of the store parking lot takes on a whole new identity. First of all, after about six inches of snow, you won't see the plow people till the lot is at its emptiest, like at four in the morning. Fine, great, wonderful. The problem is, if you're one of the unfortunate souls looking for a frozen pizza and some skinny jimmys around that time, you have to become Snake Pliskin in an icy equivalent of downtown hell. These plow people will salt your car, assault your car, salt you, assault you, run you over, run after you, you name it. They're amped up on God knows what, plowing snow into 20 foot tall embankments at 30 miles per hour, doing doughnuts in the middle of the lot like a Zamboni with a penicillin allergy. Yes I know Zambonis are machines and can't technically have allergies, but be creative, dear reader. By 8am, the lot will be well plowed and cleared of snow and ice, in time for the morning rush. Unfortunately, there will be several casualties trapped in a few man made snow piles - you'll find them by looking for the second hand galoshes and Totino's box.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Bad Timing</strong><br />Every time I am trying to get in or out of my car, the following will be the case. An crumbling old bat will be taking hours to get in or out of her car's door in an adjacent parking spot, thus forcing me to wait until Grandma Ethel moves her walker, cane, and heart meter in/out of the vehicle. Only when I am needing to enter/exit my car. Similarly, I'll run into the situation when the happy mommy needs about 40 minutes to buckle/unbuckle her kids, and spray all the car doors open on either side, thus paralyzing all adjacent parking spots until little Audrey, Blake, and Dylan are safely in their new spots. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br /><strong>River Raid Syndrome</strong><br />I discussed this long ago in my complaints about driving. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/River_Raid">River Raid</a> was a game when you, a plane flying along the middle of a river at nearly its surface, would have to shoot or dodge boats that and other things that would conveniently pop out from the side at the worst possible times. That said, when I'm trying my best to drive down an aisle toward the typically inconvenient exit point, the bright white "backup lights" will start popping up on either side, and it's just a matter of time before one of these dopes back out right into the side of my car. Some of them have to do it through blind guesswork, thanks to...<br /><br /><br /><strong>The Wall of SUVs</strong><br />Another fascinating wet Pringle of irony that visits my vehicular ballet known otherwise as parking lot navigation is the visual wall of SUVs and vans. When perpendicularly parked in a lot with an aisle that's barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass each other in opposing directions, it's a great festival of guesswork to be parked between two hulking, tall vehicles. That wondrous twist of fate leaves me with no choice but to blindly back out of the spot and hope for blue sky, expect the grouchy extended horn honky from a passing driver, or dread the sound of metal hitting metal. It's always one of the three, and these days, I'm lucky to have avoided the third one in this wondrous game of low speed Russian Roulette.<br /><br /><br /><strong>The Parking Lot Snipers<br /></strong>In larger mall lots, you'll find the wide, lazy expensive cars that seem entitled to a parking spot that is one of the top 50 or 60 closest spots amongst the 6000 in the entire lot. These wizards of strategy will sit and block one lane of traffic in an aisle for as long as necessary, while Grandma Slowmenstein bumbles with her dozens bags containing ugly sweaters and shirts for her adorably spoiled descendants. While Grandma S. sorts out her belongings and packs everything away into the car that is parked in such a prime spot, Aunt Fatass sits there in her Lincoln Contental, content to block traffic and listen to "My Beautiful Balloon" in climate controlled comfort. These idiots will sit long enough for people to siphon their gas.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><p><br /><strong>The Unlucky Samaritan<br /></strong>Maybe it's just me (that should just begin every passage), but especially in winter, I always get stuck coming back to my car that's parked next to the guy whose car needs a jump start. Grumble, it's midnight, I'm cold, and now I'm risking electrocution for an idiot whose 1979 Horizon still has a Die Hard battery from back when Sears was thriving on selling soft pretzels and bad <em>Pacman</em> cartridges. If I'm in any type of helpful frame of mind, I'll help the poor bastard even though<br /><br />- None of my good deeds ever go unpunished,<br />- All my good deeds have never yielded good karma<br />- Nobody's ever around to offer help for my car<br /><br />On a similar token, I'll be asked for help from the moron who's locked out of his/her car. Now, I've been locked out of my car twice - once it wasn't my fault, and the other time was 19 years ago. How hard is it? Keys out of ignition, put in pocket, lock door, enter store. I know I sound like Professor Falkan from <em>War Games</em> there, and maybe I am a living version of same. </p><p><br /><strong>Parking Lot Teen Losers<br /></strong>These are the kids that just hang out in a big parking lot, usually in a big group, and either perch on their bikes or skateboard around. Ok, I was a teen once, and one that knew enough people to justify hanging out. There were always five billion better places than the middle of a grocery store parking lot for hanging out. It's so stupid. There are parks, malls, anything. Stupid, stupid.<br /></p><p><br /><strong>Call PETA<br /></strong>Unfortunately, I often see the insane dog, locked in a car, on a questionably warm day. That's just wrong. Sometimes the window might be cracked, like that's going to provide a zephyr of air conditioned comfort to an animal covered in fur. Nice call, Mitzy - you go shop for your quality cuts of tenderloin, while Fido boils in his own entrails. And for that matter, does anyone name their dog Fido, Spot, or Rover anymore? I'd almost be inclined to take a poll. Anyway, getting back to the topic, I've been tempted to open the doors and just take the damn dogs before, and if the door is unlocked the next time I see such a situation, I'm moving in. I suppose I could leave a nasty note telling Mitzy where she can reclaim her par-broiled companion of convenience. Bitches. And I don't mean the four-legged ones.<br /></span></p>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-31677924044880053872008-06-28T16:49:00.005-05:002008-06-29T22:32:03.025-05:00Disappointing Songs From Artists I Like<span style="font-family:verdana;">Bear in mind, while I might like these artists, these are just some of their most forgettable efforts.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Fame - David Bowie (w/John Lennon)<br /></strong>This one takes a pathetic hack at funkiness with a tattered effort at "groovin" in the worst, most white, way. The lyrics are stupid, the singing, thanks to a cackling John Lennon, sounds like cats fighting over who gets prime litter box territory. The song, in general, comes off like filler - or an afterthought. There's no cohesion to it and the voices are just plain annoying to hear. Painful.<br /><br /><strong>Man On A Mission - Van Halen</strong><br />The opening riff just tears through the eardrums. The song makes no sense, just bad Sammy Hagar rhetoric with no point to the lyrics, a horrible chorus. They must've "written" this song in like 3 minutes and had thrown it onto the album as an afterthought for filler.<br /><br /><strong>Good Day Sunshine - The Beatles</strong><br />This song is so sickening, saccharine sweet, and full of happy flowers and sunshine, it's intolerable. Talk about vomit. Just the phrase "I feel good, in a special way..." is too much for me to handle. I hate HATE when McCartney writes this happy-dappy garbage.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Rag Doll - Aerosmith<br /></strong>The video is intolerable; slutty models ultimately hanging off of Tyler, with painfully bad fake live footage. The song itself just doesn't go anywhere, with a chorus that really isn't much of a chorus. It simply was devoid of any depth - and trust me, I can understand the need for some songs to just be "fluff" and fun, but this one seems to drone on and on.<br /><br /><strong>One At A Time - The Who</strong><br />From the <em>It's Hard</em> release, an album with plenty of thoughtful, insightful writing, this one was the song to keep on the cutting room floor. It comes out of the gate and just hurts the ear with screaming, circus-like horns, a dopey riff and an overall bad attempt at a moment of light-hearedness.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>My World - Guns n' Roses<br /></strong>From the <em>Use Your Illusion II</em> release, it's the mystifying, very Axlish closing track that just leaves one scratching his or her head - or in my case, scratching my head and covering my ears (imagine how that would be anatomically possible). A very oppressive sonic bucket of water in the face, employing Axl's bitchy and whiny litany, enveloped in a nasty rap context. Full of distorted bleeps and bloops, it's one of those songs that I'd use on an alarm if I really needed to be jolted out of bed.<br /><br /><strong>Atom Heart Mother</strong> (the whole album) <strong>- Pink Floyd</strong><br />Twenty years of trying to like this album, and it's just not going to happen. The volume ranges from typically too quiet to discern anything, to loud screaming choirs and random, unstructured attempts at an opus. I heard things from earlier years and, of course, later years, but this one just defies logic. Too much experimentation and attempts at being an artist, rather than creating listenable pieces.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Chip Away - Jane's Addiction<br /></strong>Lots of hangover-inducing pounding and overloaded screaming. For that matter, it just is the musical equivalent to a bad hangover headache. Listen with caution. I will say, on stage, it does present a cool visual, which involves 3 members of the band, hammering away in unison. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>She Goes Down - Motley Crue<br /></strong>This song, from the <em>Dr. Feelgood</em> album, must have been targeted specifically to the crowd aged 12 to 16. Any song that starts with a lame sound effect of a zipper being undone and a devlish female laugh, well, that's one for the recycle bin. Hell, throw it in the landfill instead. A rare hiccup on an otherwise strong release.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Bicycle Race - Queen<br /></strong>Stupid stupid stupid stupid! And not to use this in the classic homophobic context, but the song is sooo gay! Plus Freddie, rest his soul, buried more gay code phrases into this song than he did with guys' heads into his lap. The irritating ringing of the bicycle bells at the end of the song are also a relief, because the painful listen is finished.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Loving You Is A Dirty Job - Ratt<br /></strong>Good band, lots of great 80s rock, and then they dropped this revival effort in the early 90s. It was a weak track, and they were better off just calling it a day after the rather strong Reach For The Sky album. The song has a lame chorus, and everything around it is even less memorable. Kind of left a bad taste in one's mouth, and they really could have just let things be and ended everything on a high note. I know that this was also in tandem with a greatest hits release, but then just release the greatest hits! Stick to the solid stuff. Stupid.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;">Moby Dick - Led Zeppelin</span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Yes, of course I had to attack my own, sooner or later. Rule #1 - hell, rule #0 - DON'T RELEASE DRUM SOLOS ON ALBUMS. Especially crappy ones. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;">Sunday Afternoon In The Park - Van Halen</span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Van Halen's second appearance, though this one is from the DLR era. From <em>Fair Warning</em>. It was clearly filler, and the band was already angry with each other at its recording's outset. They needed something to throw in here, and it was a lame attempt to showcase Michael Anthony on bass. Oops.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Bright Light Fright - Aerosmith<br /></strong>Well, it takes quite a bit for a band to show up twice on this list, but leave it to them. This song, from <em>Draw The Line</em>, was a lame Joe Perry throwaway song, they were, at this point, just messed up and looking for ways to fill up an album. There's no discernable riff or melody to this, and a painful waste of recording time. Hell, the lyrics from the "chorus" should say it all...<br /><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family:verdana;">I got the sunlight blues<br />I can't find my shoes<br />The only thing on TV<br />Is the good morning news<br /><br /></span></blockquote><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Candle In The Wind - Elton John<br /></strong>Ok, this one's just personal, but hell, I'm entitled. This song has historically been a truly cursed track, as over time, any time I've heard it, something would happen that same day. Heard it one morning on the way to high school, two minutes later, I smashed the back of someone's car. Heard it another day on the way home from work, then on the way to basketball later that evening, some idiot plowed into my car. Heard it come on the radio another time, frantically turned it off, but it was too late, and later on that day, I busted my ankle. Same frantic turn-off moment a few months later, but again, the curse was imposed, and I lost my wallet. So you can imagine why I'd rather not hear this song, and made for the post Princess Di death era all the more interesting, with lots of artful dodging. </span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-30432848384552701652008-06-26T22:47:00.002-05:002008-06-26T22:53:31.167-05:00More Mini Lists<span style="font-family:verdana;">Just rattling them off at this point. Don't forget to check the preceding <a href="http://vapidvoice.blogspot.com/2008/06/strawberries-and-cream.html">article</a> I posted earlier today! It was a doozie! </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Signs You're An Old Coot<br /></strong><br />-Use of the enraged phrase, "I'll show ya!"<br />-Saying anything involving the word "nickel"<br />-Thre</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">atening, "I'll give ya a knuckle sandwich!"<br />-Use of the words "fella", "youngster", or "whipper-snapper"<br />-Making pointless references to "Post Toasties"<br />-Recalling when cigarettes were a nickel a pack (see item #2)<br />-Listening to A.M. Radio - while at home<br />-Referring to a girl as a "lass"<br />-Continued use of the ol' record player<br />-Wasting the postal carrier's time with 20 minute stories<br />-Driving Oldsmobiles<br />-Continued maintenance and repair of the avocado green refigerator and dishwasher<br />-Meeting friends and only talking about which mutual friends have most recently fallen down the stairs<br />-Candy dishes<br />-Installation of a hand rail in the bath tub<br />-Consistent purchase of epsom salts<br />-Reading the paper on the toilet<br />-Being abrasive to that apparently "flimsy" male cashier<br />-Arguing with toll collectors<br />-Arguing with toll collecting baskets<br />-When whoopie cushions are replaced with hemorrhoid pillows<br />-Bathing suits become "swimming trunks"<br />-Referring to the electric bill as the "light bill"<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Signs You're An Annoying Punk</strong><br /><br />-Wearing a sideways "bee bop" baseball cap<br />-Obsession with talking "street"<br />-Prominence with playing the Madden football series<br />-Wearing shorts that are longer than pants<br />-Spurious use of the word "hizzle"<br />-Only watching games that are preceded by the letter "X"<br />-Constant use of the interjection "Dayyyamn!"<br />-Always having spray paint cans in the trunk/bike basket<br />-Calling yourself a "baller" without ever having played basketball in real life<br />-Careful grooming of an almost goatee<br /><br /><br /><strong>Signs That I Need A New Car</strong><br /><br />-Car presents me with divorce papers<br />-Memories of lost hubcaps<br />-Not needing a key to start it<br />-Cigarette lighter creates a fountain of sparks<br />-Exhaust pipe is all "banana'd out"<br />-Brake pads are sections of moist phone books<br />-Oil change becomes just the process of adding new oil<br />-Cassette player rewinds any inserted tape, then devours it<br />-Tires announce they are officially tired<br />-Being rebuked by other Mustang owners<br />-Two words: Floppy spoiler<br />-Car gradually strips itself down to primer<br />-Window defroster causes a fire<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Get Off The Road If You...</strong><br /><br />-Still have a "Baby On Board" sign in the back window<br />-Drive a mini-van</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">-Have a flag of any type flying outside the vehicle<br />-Have more than two bumper stickers<br />-Own those annoying (and locally illegal) purple headlights<br />-Own those annoying (and locally annoying) hubcaps that spin independently<br />-Have some poorly restored 80s-mobile with those noisy glass block mufflers<br />-Ever attended a "glass block muffler" convention (yes I've seen one from across the street)<br />-Still drive anything from AMC<br />-Drive that "Dee-troit" way where you slink down to the side while at the wheel<br />-Make out with your chick at stoplights<br />-Can't identify a green light in less than 3 seconds<br />-Go 20 mph over the speed limit, and are behind me<br />-Go 10 mph under the speed limit, and are in front of me<br />-Stop in the middle of a busy street for no reason, without signalling that you're about to turn left<br />-Have a Kicker box and more than 100 watts of stereo power<br />-Have those ridiculously fat tires<br /> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Commercials That Need To Stop</strong><br /><br />-Vonage. No explanation necessary.<br />-Anything with Billy Mays hawking the product. Half of them are questionable in quality anyway.<br />-Geico commercials, particularly with the caveman. Haven't we suffered enough? Not to mention the stupid gecko, the annoying kid at the race track, and the bad cameos from K-List celebrities.<br />-Sports Illustrated - Champ of the month... Have whined about this enough<br />-Ocean Spray - Stupid guys that are supposed cranberry farmers, standing in a bog. Just too demeaning.<br />-Wendy's - Still creeped out from the animated Wendy cartoon character.<br />-Sonic - Always two idiots talking in a car, presumably at a drive-thru. We don't have Sonics around here, give it up.<br />-Coors - People being way too excited about vented spouts in the cans and how the label turns blue at the right temperature. <br />-Prostate commercials - No need to explain.</span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527325.post-23596106800546796972008-06-26T15:02:00.003-05:002009-06-24T17:17:32.497-05:00Strawberries And Cream?<span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>As</strong> a fledgling tennis fan (not to mean I'm a fan of fledgling tennis - gotta watch those dangling participles), I've been watching coverage of Wimbledon's first four days. Watching it almost to exhaustion, might I add. On DirecTV, they have six additional channels available, so one can watch the action on various courts. It's scary to think that such immersion is made available to hungry tennis fans, and scarier to admit that I've been one of the zealots, fluttering about from channel to channel, like a schizophrenic butterfly zipping from flower to flower. Somewhere out there, I just know there's a classic rock cover band named "Schizophrenic Butterfly". It's a name just like "Acid Reign" or any number of names that are adopted by area high school rockers. With this amount of coverage, it's easy to start seeing tennis courts in bad dreams, and you bet they would be bad dreams. Nevertheless, watching hours of Wimbledon coverage invariably leads to me to noticing peculiarities of the tournament, the "tradition", and jolly old England itself.<br /><br /><strong>First</strong> of all, being all grass courts, the baseline area from where the players stand and run the most, is a worn out, brown patch, presumably from too much wear and tear. That's fine and understandable, as most of the courts at the club are used for other events during the warmer months of the calendar year. On one hand, I suppose it's inevitable, but couldn't these days of science miracles solve this? Or couldn't they just spray a green dye over these brown patches just to make the courts look better? Plus, with all that wear and tear over the 3800 years of play at that antiquated place, why haven't the players just worn a trench into the ground there? If they can avoid the trench, they can avoid the brown. There, that's my slogan for my next political campaign when I run for mayor of Schaumburg. Hell, why not, they've got some good eateries out there, plus all the shopping! I'd imbezzle that sales tax revenue like Mayor Quimby. Next point about these brown patches that just annoy the hell out of me... The Centre Court (their spelling) is used once a year - just for the Wimbledon tournament. That's understandable, since they want to keep the court in as pristine a condition as possible for the big matches during the tournament. That being the case, then <strong>why are there still brown patches</strong>? For Pete's sake, after a year of non-use, can't this magic rye grass actually grow green along that baseline area? Drop some fertilizer and a little water on the area every once in a while. Teeing areas on golf courses are similarly shorn, get tons of traffic, and even the cut rate golf courses know how to keep the area green. Teeth and grass, those folks over there have some learning to do for both. I'm starting to think that they've hired some certified Brown Patch Specialist to pour Clorox and lard all over those areas just to keep it a nice crappy brown. I'm sure the stiff shirts over there would make some type of excuse that the anomalies add to the "character" of the All England Club. Yes, when I see a state of disrepair, I think of character. It's only a matter of time before I have yet another nightmare in which I'm being attacked by ravenous underground brown patch monsters.<br /><br /><strong>Next</strong>, there's the stuffiness and rigidity of the whole thing, as if this is some brown-patch-laden, outdoor department of Parliament. Players must wear "mostly white". Mostly? Is there a Royal Judge of All Things Mostly? "Hmmm sorry, ol' chap, that outfit doesn't satisfy our mostness standards. Get most mostish and then we'll let you play on our mostly green courts." Of course, the line judges, staff, and related officials all wear, to an extent, uniforms. The judges have to stand completely stoic, which is understandable during the progress of play, so as not to distract. But these poor bastards stand still, like Buckingham Palace guards, to the bitter end of the play, even when the ball has been ruled "out" and is zipping toward their expressionless faces at 130 miles per hour. Put a hand up, Nigel! Duck out of the way, Quentin! You're probably being paid crappy shillings anyway, so have some self-preservation and protect what's left of your hawkish face. I don't get it. These people would stand still if a live grenade were tossed to them. Lord knows we don't want to break the rules and risk distracting the grenade-throwing player. On another level altogether, spectators aren't allowed to leave or return to their seats until there is a break in the game, such as between sets or when players change sides. That could be a hell of a nightmare if some poor shmuck in the tenth row suddenly gets a potty emergency after a bender of too many fish and/or chips. And who decided this was a friggin' opera all of a sudden? Is there a Wimbledon brig for any offending individuals that cough, sneeze, or break into a seizure? I'm sure cell phones are banned from a ten kilometer radius surrounding the place, Heaven help anybody that forgets to turn theirs off and allows it to ring. Off to the brig with the sneezers. No talking, don't cheer too much, just sit quiet. It's the sporting world's equivalent of study hall.<br /><br /><strong>There's</strong> far too much emphasis placed on the whole "strawberries and cream" garbage. This is the signature concession that receives way too much attention during the course of the events. Now I'm as big a fan of strawberries as the next guy. They're juicy, nutritious, and quite a tasty snack. But for a sporting event? With cream? I've never had them with cream, I suppose I'm a bit left of center by preferring them straight up. But now with the cream involved, you need utensils, a cup, it's like those stupid cereal commercials in which people are shown with a bowl and a spoon wherever they go; at work, in the woods, on the train, etc. Too much work. Just sell the damn strawberries and skip the cream. You can serve the strawberries in a little box like french fries (sorry, chips) and it becames a handy, mobile munchable. These folks certainly haven't figured out the secrets of convenient snacking. Worse yet, commentators seem obligated to report the total amounts of strawberries and cream sold, which I'm sure is a far better use of expensive live television broadcast time than, say, I don't know...like reporting the results of the damn tournament. Who cares! I want cream data and strawberry tonnage! Now! Get me the queen.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><strong>On</strong> a slightly - very slightly - more realistic note, they also sell fish and chips. Ok fine, this is jolly old England, and for once, this could actually be conceived as a good walking snack. I could see myself engorging on this fare, but it makes me wonder if they sell beer at the site. I'll bet they don't, perhaps one of the devoted readers can do the leg work on this and comment back. If they don't sell beer (which is like soda in the U.K.), then I can't quite see the point of having the fish and chips. That kind of thing is pub grub, and pub grub requires pub drinks. Anything else would be like white wine with red meat. Then again, a ban on alcohol sales at this church of a sporting event would reduce the likelihood of wacky hooligans, drunken ruffians, stander-uppers, and sneezers. They'd need a bigger brig anyway.<br /><br /><strong>There</strong> are a few things that really could use some modernization for that place. I will grant them a nod for working on installing a retractable roof over the Centre Court, slated for availability in 2009. This was done so that important matches wouldn't be spoiled by the area's inevitable lousy weather. If the stodgy folks at the club can make such strides, why are people, on many courts, still operating the scoreboards by hand? What the hell is this, Wrigley Field? Come on already, my damn grade school gym, which was built some time before Westminster Abbey, had an electronic scoreboard in the late 1960s. Every time I saw one of these dopey scoreboard operators manually swapping and sliding tiles, all I could think of was Gene Rayburn saying "Slide it, Earl!" (<em>This obscure Match Game reference was brought to you by Rice A Roni - the San Francisco treat!</em>) I understand that this plague of Amishness only tainted the ancillary courts (there are nineteen of them in play), but jeez, join the 20th century.<br />In addition, there's a slightly new feature of pro tennis - the option to challenge a line judge's call and utilize a system called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawk-Eye">Hawk-Eye</a>. This system uses triangulation and multiple cameras to track exactly where the ball landed, down to an absurd level of precision. It's a nice feature, and comes in handy for overruling a bad call. So I ask, why not just use this damn system all the time and remove the chance of human error in an important match? Of course, we can't mess with tradition, and it would remove the human element from the sport, but I think we have that covered by the humans actually competing in the sport. Who knows, some day, umpires and officials in all sports could theoretically be replaced by such computerized analysis systems. Wouldn't bother me, as long as the call was accurate.<br /><br /><strong>As</strong> for the players, I don't know how this <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ana_Ivanovic">Ana Ivanovic</a> could be seeded #1, she looked like an amateur out there. I'm betting she'll get bounced soon. As for the American players, I suppose all our hope will reside with the Williams sisters, be they a bit brash, all the other heavy hitters have been knocked out. Blake was bound to lose, and Roddick just lost, though he's kind of a stubborn jerk anyway. Nice fast serve, though. None of the American players are particularly pleasant. Though Russian born, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_sharapova">Maria Sharapova</a> is pretty much an American, she speaks without an accent, is the darling of photographers, she's rather abrasive, and she's also out of the tournament. I was ducking in my tornado position for her post-defeat press conference. There's no requirement to be "nice" in tennis, I suppose (unless Wimbledon imposes one), but she's rather catty, so I've seen.<br /><br /><strong>I'll</strong> be cheering for my boy <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rafael_Nadal">Rafael Nadal</a>, of course. Federer's cool, but I always love to see these two play each other, and hope it happens again in the finals. Federer's deemed unbeatable by many, and I always like supporting the underdog in this case. At press time here, only two rounds have been played. My dark horse would be Hewitt, but I'd assume Federer will do his thing. I have to think that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serena_williams">Serena Williams</a> might pull this one off herself. We shall see, and I'm sure I'll be wrong.<br /><br /><strong>And</strong> once again, I am SO SICK of these Vonage commercials at this point! They are on every damn channel, during every commercial break, at every time of day. How can these jerks afford the advertising expense??? It's ridiculous. Don't give them a penny, there are other options. Screw them. Sorry, had to stick this in. It's driving me batty.<br /><br />Cheers from suburban London!</span><br /></span>The Vapid Voicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731875334895612352noreply@blogger.com2