Nina was your typical American 17 year old girl: Blond, petite, loved rock music and history, did well in school, had a line of steady boyfriends and even attracted the attention of a few older men here and there, much to her own delight.
But unlike most typical American Girls, Nina had a sort of twisted sense of humor; she would giggle at inappropriate times, like during her history class's viewing of "Schindler's List" or two years ago when a classmate died in a car accident and she started the rumor that the accident was caused because the classmate was giving the driver head. It was later told to her that it had been her father driving the car, which only made her giggle harder.
So imagine Nina's rapture when Hitlerland announced it was finally going to open in nearby Huntersville, a short two hour drive from where she lived.
Hiterland was exactly what it sounded like: A theme park which, as it's creator and chief executive officer Don Marty was quick to dance around, celebrated World War Two and primarily the history of Adolf Hitler.
Of course there was a whole storm of controversy that followed the idea of Hitlerland, from Jewish Leagues, Veteran's Societies, People With Good Taste, etc. Don Marty pushed hard for three years before finally being able to sell the idea as a "historical" theme park. With some funding from less than upstanding groups, Hitlerland was set to open this weekend.
Nina could barely contain herself. The whole idea, even to this twisted young lady, seemed completely ludicrous. How could this thing ever be built? She wondered to herself as she thumbed through the park's webpage. She couldn't stop giggling when she would read the ride descriptions: Himmler's Science Lab, The Holy Grail Cup Ride, A Night in Eva's Bunker, and it went on and on. Most of what she saw in the pictures was typical of most theme parks she had been to. A few stock photos of roller coasters, smiling children with pink puffs of cotton candy on sticks, with the captions that no actual photos from Hitlerland were available yet. Ticket prices were modest, a day pass would cost her forty bucks. Nina picked up her little cell phone and started calling numbers.
To her surprise, no one, all eighty-seven contacts on her phone wanted to go with her this weekend. Some of her friends laughed and asked if she was serious, her other friend, a young lady by the last name of Goldstein hung up on her. She just thought her friends were stuck up and needed a laugh.
I mean, it's a theme park about Hitler! She thought, it can't be taken so seriously!
The next morning Nina got up and got dressed. She had a thin little body, with tiny breasts, her blond hair cropped just below her ears. She put on her usual amount of eye liner, which was way too much, but it's what the popular kids did these days, and put on a tight pair of low rider jeans and a white tank top. It was just getting close to summer and she had a feeling this wouldn't be her last trip to Hitlerland before school started up again in a few months.
She hadn't told her parents about her planned trip because deep down she knew they would object, and likely make her stay home and do chores. It was eight am, and the park would be opening at about eleven. She figured if she took her time, she would get there right before the gates opened.
She picked up her keys, her camera, her little bag and bopped out the door, her parents not even noticing her leave. She got into her older brother's old Camry and drove off towards Huntersville.
When she got to Huntersville, traffic snarled wickedly. She thought to herself, wow, a lot of people want to check this place out. As she inched her way through the coils of cars on Rt 9, she began to notice the crowds and cars. Some of the bumper stickers on the cars were downright filthy, messages of hate were the theme on a lot of them. She snickered at one that said "My Child Bombed Your Child's School" in relation to the honor roll student bumper sticker that had been around forever. Another one was slightly less pleasant "If you let niggers and jews into your town, you're letting in disease and strife." Well, there was nothing really funny about that one, was there? She frowned and turned up the music in her car.
The people in the cars were disturbing as well: Fat bald bearded men in white tank tops, kids with scruffy mullets, shaved heads, women looking tired and worn out, smoking cigarettes between long withered fingers. Everyone looked poor and cheap, cars were more than ten years old and kept in poor condition, cracked windshields, loud hate filled heavy metal being blasted out of the open windows where children and dogs leaned way too far out of to be safe. A few big black motorcycles roared up the sides of the breakdown lanes. The men on the bikes were big, dressed in all black, with big Swastikas on the backs of their jackets. Nina's stomach suddenly turned as she wished she hadn't come alone.
"They're probably working for the park," she said to herself, her mouth dry, the thought that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time worming it's way into her brain.
By 1230, she finally found a parking space for twenty dollars about a mile away from the park entrance. She had pulled off of Rt 9 and parked where someone had opened up their front lawn to motorists with a homemade sign on white clapboard and red paint.
Nina hadn't worn the most practical shoes for walking, so by the time she had made it to the ticket booth her feet were throbbing and blistered. Just outside the gate were a sea of protesters with their own home made signs. Most called owner Don Marty an anti-Semite, a monster, an opportunist, etc. Nina found it very difficult to wade her way through the crowd to get her all-day pass.
But she did, after being called a number of not-so-nice names, and she was through the big red and black wrought iron fence with barbed wire adorning the top. Her eyes were wide and a little wet as she was marched through the gates and into the park. Suddenly Nina didn't think this was all that much fun.
The interior of the park was littered with more people she saw in traffic, in jackboots, shaved heads, white suspenders off their shoulders, tight white tank tops eating ice cream and wandering about. Her all-day pass was a bracelet that was covered in stylized Swastikas and she desperately wanted to take it off. Around the park were loud speakers on poles that blasted period music, mostly slow crackly jazz, which intermittently was cut off by the sound of a needle being taken off of a vinyl record, and a loud heavily German-accented voice would bellow out the park rules. This happened about once every twenty minutes and soon was very grating.
"YOO VILL NOT TAKE UNTA PHOTOS IN ZEE PARK, YOO VILL ENJOY YOURSELVES, ACH, YOO VILL EAT SWEETENS, UND YOO VILL HAVE UNTA GOODEN TIMEN, ACH" The voice screamed out. Nina wandered over to a section of the park called "Ceremony Walk Way" where elaborate Nazi decorations hung from high pillars along a walk way which lead to a giant stage. On the stage, big projection screens displayed old film footage of Hitler giving speeches, which would subtitled for the layman's advantage. At center stage, a large plaster life-like statue of Hitler himself, in full dress stood, pointing out towards the small crowd of obvious white supremacists that had gathered to take in the media propaganda. Nina raised her digital camera to take a shot of the scene, when from behind her, a heavy gloved hand fell on her shoulder.
"Sorry Fraulein, no photographs," the voice, which was very midwestern sounding, said from behind her. She turned and looked up at a very tall and very blond looking young man, maybe a year or two older than her, dressed in a black Nazi SS uniform. Her lower lip quivered, utterly impressed with this sight before her. "I'm going to have to take that from you," he continued, and held out his gloved hand.
"But it's a Cannon, it's a 300 dollar camera..." she said weakly, knowing there was no way she was going to win this argument.
"I don't even know how you got it through the gate, but I gotta take it from you."
"Well, can I get it back?" She asked up to his square chin. He glanced around, about fifty yards away two more, she guessed they were security guards dressed up like Storm Troopers, were watching them.
"I don't know, give me your name, and I'll put it on a slip of paper and keep it in the office here," and she gave him her name and asked where the office was. The SS man pointed towards the giant gothic-looking church at the center of the park. "Go in there and tell them that your camera got taken when you're ready to leave." She nodded dumbly and he walked off.
She wandered around some, getting more and more sick at what she was seeing. It wasn't funny anymore, especially the "It's A Perfect World After All" which was a play on the Disneyland's "It's A Small World After All" where sing-song little Aryan dolls sang about the Third Reich and eradicating those who had less than pure blood. She was ready to go.
As she made her way to the big gothic-looking church to retrieve her camera, she came across something rather peculiar for a theme park themed on such an ugly aspect of world history:
Batting Cages.
She couldn't believe it, and she wandered over to it, where mostly little boys were lined up with helmets and baseball bats. It seemed so out of place in a theme park that celebrated the existence of hatred.
Nina loved baseball, she was a rabid Royals fan, even though they were perennial cellar-dwellers. She stood in line and when she came up to the rack of bats and helmets, she took one of each and waited for a stall to open. When one did, she walked over towards it, but was stopped short by a big sweaty palm across her small chest.
"Whoa, hold on there missy, where's your gold coin?" A slow drawl spoke over her. She wasn't sure what she was most offended by, the hand lingering across her small chest or the smell coming from it's owner. She looked up and tipped back her helmet and dropped her jaw. Standing over her was Mick Gilpatrick, long time Royals catcher. What was he doing here?
"What're you doing here, Gil?" He was known by fans affectionately as 'Gil' and he had a wad of chew in his cheek as he slowly withdrew his hand from his fan's chest.
"Aw hell, they made me a deal, that if I came down here and you know, stood around, signed a few autographs, shit like that, they'd give me a hunk of change here," he leaned back and spat a long jet of black. "Now where's your gold coin?" Nina felt all the eyes in the line behind her burning holes into her body, which didn't help the fact she felt dumb for not having this gold coin on her person so she could swing the bat. What made matters worse was that one of her childhood heroes was standing over her, clearly not impressed.
"I, uh, don't have one, I didn't know I needed one," she stammered. Gil slapped a sign overhead that read, in three inch gothic letters "One Gold Coin Per Round."
"Oh," she said, her voice felt numb leaving her mouth.
"You get them over at the booth there, you ask for a gold coin, but they give you these silver ones. These are just as good," Gil said.
"So why doesn't the sign say silver coins? Why does it say gold coins if there's only silver coins?" She asked up at her hero. He looked over at the booth and rubbed his chin.
"How about an autograph then, just so you don't walk away here empty handed?" And Nina beamed, and the major leaguer avoided answering the question. This was the first thing that made her even remotely happy since walking through the big scary gates. She nodded, her eyes bright. Gil produced a Sharpie from his back pocket, and without saying a word, simply leaned down and scribbled his signature across Nina's white tank top. He pressed in hard across her breasts, even slyly cupping one to get a better surface to write on. Nina stood in shock, and before she could protest, Gil stepped back admiring his work, a black streaky scribble across this jailbait's chest. "There you go little missy, now get out of the way so we can get s'more batters in here," and dumbly Nina stepped out of the way, amid the snickers of some of the adolescent skinheads in line.
She was on the verge of tears when she finally made it to the gothic church and pushed her way through the heavy doors. This was such a bad idea, she thought to herself as she approached a big dark wood desk, a sharp looking, very serious woman in female SS dress sat behind it. Nina, in her ruined tank top and eyeliner-streaked face stood shaking a little in front of the desk, feeling tiny. The woman on the opposite side of the desk looked up at her from over her rimless and cold eye glasses.
"Vat," she said more than asked.
"Um, I was told I could pick up my camera here by a ... guy. He took it from me, and I gave him my name and he said I could, could," she swallowed hard, "get it back here. It was a very expensive Cannon Digital." The woman made a show of shuffling around paper work on her desk and then looked up at Nina.
"No camera was turned in unto us, I'm sorry," she said quickly and coldly.
"It was a three hundred dollar camera! It was a birthday present from my mom and dad!" She was getting loud and whiny, making the woman behind the desk shoot a glance to someone behind her. Nina spun around and saw two men dressed in SS garb walked towards her. Their boots clicking loudly on the stone floor, and terror struck Nina hard in the stomach.
She puked a little and it ran down her shirt, over the Gilpatrick autograph.
Nina soon found herself in a jail cell somewhere beneath the church. She was crying hysterically, scared out of her mind. The cell was cold and drafty, wet and dank, where you'd expect political prisoners of the Nazi Party to be held as they waited to be dragged out to the woods kicking and screaming before being shot in the back of the head while standing over a shallow ditch hastily dug by some Nazi underling.
After she was alone for about ten minutes she heard a whisper from behind her, she stopped sniffling and turned her head towards the sound.
"Hey," came a sharp short whisper.
"Hello?" She said in reply. The whisper shushed her and she crawled on her hands and knees towards the far wall. "Hello?" She whispered.
"Hey," the whisper came back. "I'm in the other cell,"
"Why are you here?" She asked.
"I was handing out these," and a small white pill came rolling into her cell from between the wall that separated the captives. She ducked down and tried to peek through the crack where the pill came from. There was a little light but not enough to see. She picked up the pill and looked at it.
"What is this?"
"Try it and see," the voice came back.
"No! How do I know this isn't a drug!"
"It is a drug, but try it, you'll feel better," the voice was strangely soothing. She looked at the pill with a sense of dubiousness and blew the dirt particles from it. She slipped it into her mouth and dry swallowed, coughing a little. The voice came back from the other side of the wall.
"Prepare for lift off," and before she could ask what that meant, the wall to the cell melted right before her eyes, and on the other side stood a giant toad smoking a cigarette. Suddenly Nazis marched past her on the other side of the bars to her cell, goose stepping, rifles at right shoulder arms, each one staring at her with glowing yellow eyes. It was like she was watching a very real version of Pink Floyd's "The Wall," which she'd only seen parts of with her older brother when he was home from college last year.
She couldn't taste anything, but she could smell something burning, and instantly thought it was her brain. Her head was on fire she figured, that would explain the burning sensation in her scalp. She began to wither and she fell to the floor of her cell, and around her the floor rippled like a pond and she was a pebble. She let out a scream but it came out too deep to be her voice. She felt another charge of vomit working it's way up her throat but she couldn't seem to work it past her trachea, and she committed to the idea she was going to die on the floor of this wet cold cell, choked to death on her own drug-induced vomit that was handed off to her by some racist Nazi skinhead piece of white trash.
Why had she gotten herself into this mess?
Nina woke up in a hospital room with a tube in her nose and machines surrounding her. She jumped with a start and panicked but then settled down. It was night time, the lights were off in the hallway that made up the hospital. Her mother was asleep in the chair to her right, her dad was no where to be found. On a tiny table next to her was her Cannon Digital.
Her hand felt like a thousand pounds but she manages to reach the camera and put it on her chest. She opened up the little panel on the side and dug around for the memory stick, but couldn't find it. Well, she thought, at least I got the camera back. Just then, her mother stirred and came awake.
"Nina?" She called softly.
"Momma," she replied. Her voice was weak and throat sore. She glanced over to the table and a blue cup of water with a straw sticking out of it rested there. She motioned for the cup and her mother was on her feet in a second. She handed the cup to her daughter and patted her head.
"The police brought you here," she started. "They say you were passed out along the side of a road over in Huntersville? What happened?" Nina couldn't avoid her mother's eyes and at the same moment she loathed this woman for prying into her personal hell, she had never felt more secure in her life. "You didn't try to go to that... that.. park out there, did you?" What could she do, a lie would be obvious at this point. She looked out into the hallway from her bed, took another sip of water and looked back at her mother.
"Yes," she said softly. Her mother looked absolutely horrified, but not surprised. She sat back down in her chair, which she had pulled closer to the edge of the bed.
"But why?"
"I wanted to see what it was like, I guess," Her mother simply sat looking at her.
"We won't tell your father about this, you know how upset he'd get. He'd probably march down there and set the place on fire," and to Nina, that sounded like the best solution for Hitlerland. Burn it to the ground with everyone inside. Give them a taste of their own medicine. And make sure if Mick Gilpatrick or Don Marty ran out of the flames, trying to escape Hell itself, daddy takes them out with a rifle blast to their heads. She let a slow smile spread across her face but hid it quickly when she noticed her mother looking at her funny.
"I'm ok mom," she said softly.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Mountain Dew is Making Me Sick For Other Reasons Than its Taste
As always, I'm up late sitting at my computer with my iTunes on and the tv on at the same time. Why do I do this? Because everyone else between the ages of 15 and 30 do this. We all sit in front of our computers, typing away, whether it's in an IM box, a Facebook wall post, whatever, and we keep our music on with the tv on at the same time.
It's part of our culture: to have as many screens in our faces at any given time, being overloaded with as much media as possible. We literally want to stuff out faces with as much stimulus as we can get our hands on.
What will our predecessors think of this? Not much, considering they'll be too busy uploading the latest episodes of The Real World to their rotting organic brains, slowly being replaced by cybernetics like something out of "Ghost in a Shell."
Speaking of "Ghost in a Shell" I haven't watched that in forever. Damnit I miss my tivo.
Anyway, I'm getting super off track. My gripe tonight is this commercial I saw while watching Kevin James' stand up special on Comedy Central. Apparently the people at Mountain Dew want to experiment in open democracy by having their... um, drinkers? Fans? What do you call people who religiously buy a product, anyway? ... Consumers falls short. Whatever, not important.
Anyway, Mountain Dew wants YOU to join the "Dew-ocracy" (groan). You, the consumer, get to choose the color scheme, name, possibly the flavor, how much Yellow-Five, whatever, goes on the new Mountain Dew. This tells me two things: Mountain Dew has either fired it's entire ad department/the ad department is on vacation, or Mountain Dew wants to take it to the "Extreme!" and have a carbonated drink named "Shizzle Dizzle Fa Rizzle Soda" or "Yo This Shit Be Good Soda."
At this point in the article it'd be easy for any of my readers to claim I have zero faith in democracy in any capacity, from Presidential Elections on down to the naming of soft drinks, and my readers would be right. I mean, we got the Presidency wrong - twice - America, do I really trust us with naming a can of soda?
Fuck to the no I don't.
And besides, who the hell drinks Mountain Dew so religiously that they would jump at the chance to be the guy who names and designs the latest Pepsi product to be born stillborn? Need I bring up Mountain Dew Red Alert? How about Chrystal Pepsi? I could name a hundred more, but I don't keep a long-term memory for things that totally suck on balls.
Hence why I can't make hilarious "Fraiser" episode references.
The point I'm trying to make is that as noble of an attempt it is for the people down at Pepsico to get kids (and it's primarily kids this is targeting. You should see the ad, it's a ridiculous amount of production. I'll try to find it and embed it at the end of this article, but you'll see who exactly this is geared towards. They make no attempt to try to hide what demographic they're targeting.) interested in voting for something. But it's all for not; no one is going to be interested, no one wants to be that guy who's going to be walking down the street, see "his" Mountain Dew being consumed and go "Yo DUDE! I fucking named that SHIT!"
What would the response be? What would you say to someone who came up to you and said "hey I named that product you're using." You know what I'd say? I'd say:
"So?"
So here's the bottom line (cuz Stone Cold said so...), ignore this propaganda. The fact that I'm talking about it sickens me anyway, but I've been dry on articles since resurfacing into reality last week, and I'm trying to catch up. But c'mon, to insinuate that your average skate boarding 17 year old is the next jungle war fighting revolutionary because he picked which berry the next Mountain Dew is going to taste like is disrespectful to actual jungle war fighting revolutionaries.
Besides, jungle war fighting revolutionaries drink actual mountain dew, from a dented canteen.
It's part of our culture: to have as many screens in our faces at any given time, being overloaded with as much media as possible. We literally want to stuff out faces with as much stimulus as we can get our hands on.
What will our predecessors think of this? Not much, considering they'll be too busy uploading the latest episodes of The Real World to their rotting organic brains, slowly being replaced by cybernetics like something out of "Ghost in a Shell."
Speaking of "Ghost in a Shell" I haven't watched that in forever. Damnit I miss my tivo.
Anyway, I'm getting super off track. My gripe tonight is this commercial I saw while watching Kevin James' stand up special on Comedy Central. Apparently the people at Mountain Dew want to experiment in open democracy by having their... um, drinkers? Fans? What do you call people who religiously buy a product, anyway? ... Consumers falls short. Whatever, not important.
Anyway, Mountain Dew wants YOU to join the "Dew-ocracy" (groan). You, the consumer, get to choose the color scheme, name, possibly the flavor, how much Yellow-Five, whatever, goes on the new Mountain Dew. This tells me two things: Mountain Dew has either fired it's entire ad department/the ad department is on vacation, or Mountain Dew wants to take it to the "Extreme!" and have a carbonated drink named "Shizzle Dizzle Fa Rizzle Soda" or "Yo This Shit Be Good Soda."
At this point in the article it'd be easy for any of my readers to claim I have zero faith in democracy in any capacity, from Presidential Elections on down to the naming of soft drinks, and my readers would be right. I mean, we got the Presidency wrong - twice - America, do I really trust us with naming a can of soda?
Fuck to the no I don't.
And besides, who the hell drinks Mountain Dew so religiously that they would jump at the chance to be the guy who names and designs the latest Pepsi product to be born stillborn? Need I bring up Mountain Dew Red Alert? How about Chrystal Pepsi? I could name a hundred more, but I don't keep a long-term memory for things that totally suck on balls.
Hence why I can't make hilarious "Fraiser" episode references.
The point I'm trying to make is that as noble of an attempt it is for the people down at Pepsico to get kids (and it's primarily kids this is targeting. You should see the ad, it's a ridiculous amount of production. I'll try to find it and embed it at the end of this article, but you'll see who exactly this is geared towards. They make no attempt to try to hide what demographic they're targeting.) interested in voting for something. But it's all for not; no one is going to be interested, no one wants to be that guy who's going to be walking down the street, see "his" Mountain Dew being consumed and go "Yo DUDE! I fucking named that SHIT!"
What would the response be? What would you say to someone who came up to you and said "hey I named that product you're using." You know what I'd say? I'd say:
"So?"
So here's the bottom line (cuz Stone Cold said so...), ignore this propaganda. The fact that I'm talking about it sickens me anyway, but I've been dry on articles since resurfacing into reality last week, and I'm trying to catch up. But c'mon, to insinuate that your average skate boarding 17 year old is the next jungle war fighting revolutionary because he picked which berry the next Mountain Dew is going to taste like is disrespectful to actual jungle war fighting revolutionaries.
Besides, jungle war fighting revolutionaries drink actual mountain dew, from a dented canteen.
Monday, December 24, 2007
The Brief History of Heavy Metal According to My Father
(The Scene: I'm wrapping Christmas gifts in the living room, listening to the Time Warner Cable "Arena Rock" station on the surround sound when my dad enters, drinking a beer at 10:30 in the morning. Yes's "Owner of a Lonely Heart" is playing for some reason.)
Dad: Oh man, I used to love Yes. They were one of my favorite bands.
Me: Really?
Dad: Way back when, Yes was like, for a lot of people, their first step towards heavy metal.
Me: Yes? Yes was the first step towards metal?
Dad: Oh yeah, "Owner of a Lonely Heart?" That's like, where Motely Crue and all of them got their ideas from.
Me: Maybe "A Flock of Seagulls" and "Asia"....
Dad: What's wrong with Yes?
Me: Nothing, ... I mean, the 80's were a confusing time for a lot of people. People were doing a lot of coke and listening to gender-bending musicians back then. No one blames you. But to say that.... a band like .... Yes, were the stepping stones to metal.... dad, you need to lay off the pipe.
Dad: I had their tape.... it doesn't make me gay....
Dad: Oh man, I used to love Yes. They were one of my favorite bands.
Me: Really?
Dad: Way back when, Yes was like, for a lot of people, their first step towards heavy metal.
Me: Yes? Yes was the first step towards metal?
Dad: Oh yeah, "Owner of a Lonely Heart?" That's like, where Motely Crue and all of them got their ideas from.
Me: Maybe "A Flock of Seagulls" and "Asia"....
Dad: What's wrong with Yes?
Me: Nothing, ... I mean, the 80's were a confusing time for a lot of people. People were doing a lot of coke and listening to gender-bending musicians back then. No one blames you. But to say that.... a band like .... Yes, were the stepping stones to metal.... dad, you need to lay off the pipe.
Dad: I had their tape.... it doesn't make me gay....
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The Ford Motor Company Thinks We're Idiots.
I take notice when I see a brand new Ford F-150, in black, rolling up behind me at a stop sign or on the highway or whatever. It's a mean looking truck with a big grille. I'm actually kinda surprised that Michael Bay didn't use one in his Transformers film.
Oh that's right, GM footed the bill.
Anyway, Ford is kicking a whole lot of ass in the automobile manufacturing thing. Granted, they don't make their vehicles in the United States anymore, and well, there was that whole "Explorer Roll Over" thing from a few years ago but for the most part, their product design and marketing is smoking the competition.
That was, until I saw their latest series of television ads.
Instead of explaining the ads to you, let me break down the meeting between the ad exec and the CEO of Ford Motor Company:
"Ok, we got this whole new approach to our advertisements in the first quarter," says the ad exec.
"I'd love to hear it." Says the CEO.
"Ok, what's better than a customer testimonial?"
"I don't know, customer testimonials are pretty solid,"
"I know, but what if we could get non-Ford owners to say how much they love our cars, without them actually buying one?"
"My god, how could we pull off such a feet?"
"Well, we'll track down some 'average Americans', the shittier their car the better. If they drive a GM or a Toyota, even better! We'll lend them one of our brand new, top of the line automobiles for a week. I'm talking the best editions, with the in-dash video screens and leather interiors. You know, the 60K models."
"I think I see where you're going with this, but go on..."
"We'll lend them these cars, then take them back and then have them look into a camera and say how much they enjoyed the 'Ford Experience.' It's fool proof."
"You're right, American buyers will eat it up, because they're idiots. They'll never realize that we've taken someone's shitty, horrible, takes-three-good-hard-turns-of-the-key-to-start cars, with the paint peeling off of them, and replaced it with a brand new 2008 model of one of our pricier models. This is genius!"
So there, Ford thinks Americans are idiots. I mean, who else could possibly be hypnotized by some 'average Americans' thinking that a brand-new Ford is vastly superior to a GM that's 15 years older?
I enjoy the ride in a Ford, and I've had far too many bad experiences with GM vehicles to have much faith in them much longer. But still, if the Ford Motor Company really wants to sell more cars, I would recommend to them that they starting treating their perspective customers as more than complete imbeciles.
Oh that's right, GM footed the bill.
Anyway, Ford is kicking a whole lot of ass in the automobile manufacturing thing. Granted, they don't make their vehicles in the United States anymore, and well, there was that whole "Explorer Roll Over" thing from a few years ago but for the most part, their product design and marketing is smoking the competition.
That was, until I saw their latest series of television ads.
Instead of explaining the ads to you, let me break down the meeting between the ad exec and the CEO of Ford Motor Company:
"Ok, we got this whole new approach to our advertisements in the first quarter," says the ad exec.
"I'd love to hear it." Says the CEO.
"Ok, what's better than a customer testimonial?"
"I don't know, customer testimonials are pretty solid,"
"I know, but what if we could get non-Ford owners to say how much they love our cars, without them actually buying one?"
"My god, how could we pull off such a feet?"
"Well, we'll track down some 'average Americans', the shittier their car the better. If they drive a GM or a Toyota, even better! We'll lend them one of our brand new, top of the line automobiles for a week. I'm talking the best editions, with the in-dash video screens and leather interiors. You know, the 60K models."
"I think I see where you're going with this, but go on..."
"We'll lend them these cars, then take them back and then have them look into a camera and say how much they enjoyed the 'Ford Experience.' It's fool proof."
"You're right, American buyers will eat it up, because they're idiots. They'll never realize that we've taken someone's shitty, horrible, takes-three-good-hard-turns-of-the-key-to-start cars, with the paint peeling off of them, and replaced it with a brand new 2008 model of one of our pricier models. This is genius!"
So there, Ford thinks Americans are idiots. I mean, who else could possibly be hypnotized by some 'average Americans' thinking that a brand-new Ford is vastly superior to a GM that's 15 years older?
I enjoy the ride in a Ford, and I've had far too many bad experiences with GM vehicles to have much faith in them much longer. But still, if the Ford Motor Company really wants to sell more cars, I would recommend to them that they starting treating their perspective customers as more than complete imbeciles.
What It's Like To Be A Woman
This all starts early yesterday when I fielded a call from my recruiter. I'm less than a week away from going off to Basic Training and he wants to touch base with me and see how I'm doing.
"So uh, you've been staying out of trouble, huh? No problems with Johnny Law, right?" He says. I haven't had any trouble with the Man, in fact I haven't even so much as sped on the highway in the last month. I back my car down when it touches 75 mph, which is super out of character for me. "Good good, and you've been staying safe, no stupid injuries or anything like that?" And he goes on to tell me about how another recruit that was supposed to be leaving with my group smashed his fingers all to shit while moving boxes, so he's a no go. I don't dare tell him about my bum hip/thigh and figure I'll fuel up on pills before and after work outs if necessary.
"Ok, great, good to hear everything's on the up and up. Oh, and how's the weight?" And it starts. Now I know what it's like to be a woman.
Let me explain the whole "weight thing." See, in order to be admitted to basic training, you have to meet a certain weight limit based on your height, neck size, wrist size, shoe size, whatever they do. I'm about 199 right now as I write this article, which is three pounds over my limit, based on those previously mentioned parameters. It's gotten to the point where I'm obsessing like a woman about my figure.
I was weighed twice before and barely made weight the first time and the second time got under the wire by three pounds by starving myself for a weekend. I don't want to have to do that again. It's madness. So what I've been doing, along with my daily hour-plus work outs is consuming about twelve fluid ounces of pure grapefruit juice and drinking tons of water through the day. Also, I've tried cutting back on carbs. Actually I've cut back on eating all together.
I'm eating like a chick basically.
So fast forward a couple of hours later and I'm having lunch with one of my friends. We're sitting in a pub in Portsmouth looking over the lunch menus and I'm complaining about what I can and can't eat. The roast beef, turkey and bacon club sandwich looks great, especially with a side of waffle fries, but my dining partner suggests I try a bed of greens with grilled chicken. I look at her from over my menu with a look that probably could cut a glacier, like out of a scene from "Sex and the City."
I order the club with the fries. I'm my own worst enemy.
I didn't get to the gym either yesterday which frustrates me. The whole day I feel fat and slobbish and have to keep reminding myself that I'm a dude, I should feel fine in my own skin. So what if I have a little beer belly, so what if I like to eat crap, I'm a guy, there's no societal rules established that say I have to be trim and sexy.
I can think of all sorts of stereotypical archetypes of grossly fat dudes with hot wives, based on sitcom television: Kevin James, Jim Belushi, Homer Simpson, Jackie Gleason, Bill Clinton (though his wife isn't all that hot, he can score top shelf pussy at will), Peter Griffin, etc. Granted these people's lives are all based on pure fiction, society regularly agrees that fat funny dudes score smoking hot wives.
So why am I obsessing about my weight like a chick? ...Oh, because I have to go to boot camp.
At Basic it's often said you'll drop (and keep off) at least twenty pounds. As I write that last sentence, I'm thinking of myself at a trim 185. Then I snap out of it and hate myself a little more.
Fast forward again yesterday, and I've left my friend at the pub and met up with another friend at the mall. We're in the GAP and I'm trying on jeans. I put on a pair of 35/32s, standard fit. They fit fine, but I can't get a good look at my backside so I step out of the dressing room where my friend is waiting and turn around.
"How does it look?"
"How does what look?" They ask.
"...My ass.... how does it look?"
"What? I'm not looking at your ass dude."
"C'mooonnnnn..." I catch myself wining. My skin bristles. "I can't see how it looks back there. Just tell me if my wallet sticks out too much."
"Dude." He stops himself. "It's fine, really, can we go?" I frown and shuffle back into the dressing room to change back. I buy the jeans hoping my ass will look hot in them.
Ugh.
I think this is why women are so fucking crazy. They starve themselves and obsess about standards set by Hollywood and society. Every time they turn around, there's another picture of some chick modeling jeans or a coat or whatever, looking stick-thin. I mean, that plus they bleed from their crotches every couple of weeks is enough to send anyone off the deep end. Of course they don't care about sports or which friend can drink the most beer without puking into a 50 gallon drum outside of a sketchy night club, they've got way too much pressure on them to fit into a frame that easily 1/1000 maybe fit into.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to eat this pile of leaves.
"So uh, you've been staying out of trouble, huh? No problems with Johnny Law, right?" He says. I haven't had any trouble with the Man, in fact I haven't even so much as sped on the highway in the last month. I back my car down when it touches 75 mph, which is super out of character for me. "Good good, and you've been staying safe, no stupid injuries or anything like that?" And he goes on to tell me about how another recruit that was supposed to be leaving with my group smashed his fingers all to shit while moving boxes, so he's a no go. I don't dare tell him about my bum hip/thigh and figure I'll fuel up on pills before and after work outs if necessary.
"Ok, great, good to hear everything's on the up and up. Oh, and how's the weight?" And it starts. Now I know what it's like to be a woman.
Let me explain the whole "weight thing." See, in order to be admitted to basic training, you have to meet a certain weight limit based on your height, neck size, wrist size, shoe size, whatever they do. I'm about 199 right now as I write this article, which is three pounds over my limit, based on those previously mentioned parameters. It's gotten to the point where I'm obsessing like a woman about my figure.
I was weighed twice before and barely made weight the first time and the second time got under the wire by three pounds by starving myself for a weekend. I don't want to have to do that again. It's madness. So what I've been doing, along with my daily hour-plus work outs is consuming about twelve fluid ounces of pure grapefruit juice and drinking tons of water through the day. Also, I've tried cutting back on carbs. Actually I've cut back on eating all together.
I'm eating like a chick basically.
So fast forward a couple of hours later and I'm having lunch with one of my friends. We're sitting in a pub in Portsmouth looking over the lunch menus and I'm complaining about what I can and can't eat. The roast beef, turkey and bacon club sandwich looks great, especially with a side of waffle fries, but my dining partner suggests I try a bed of greens with grilled chicken. I look at her from over my menu with a look that probably could cut a glacier, like out of a scene from "Sex and the City."
I order the club with the fries. I'm my own worst enemy.
I didn't get to the gym either yesterday which frustrates me. The whole day I feel fat and slobbish and have to keep reminding myself that I'm a dude, I should feel fine in my own skin. So what if I have a little beer belly, so what if I like to eat crap, I'm a guy, there's no societal rules established that say I have to be trim and sexy.
I can think of all sorts of stereotypical archetypes of grossly fat dudes with hot wives, based on sitcom television: Kevin James, Jim Belushi, Homer Simpson, Jackie Gleason, Bill Clinton (though his wife isn't all that hot, he can score top shelf pussy at will), Peter Griffin, etc. Granted these people's lives are all based on pure fiction, society regularly agrees that fat funny dudes score smoking hot wives.
So why am I obsessing about my weight like a chick? ...Oh, because I have to go to boot camp.
At Basic it's often said you'll drop (and keep off) at least twenty pounds. As I write that last sentence, I'm thinking of myself at a trim 185. Then I snap out of it and hate myself a little more.
Fast forward again yesterday, and I've left my friend at the pub and met up with another friend at the mall. We're in the GAP and I'm trying on jeans. I put on a pair of 35/32s, standard fit. They fit fine, but I can't get a good look at my backside so I step out of the dressing room where my friend is waiting and turn around.
"How does it look?"
"How does what look?" They ask.
"...My ass.... how does it look?"
"What? I'm not looking at your ass dude."
"C'mooonnnnn..." I catch myself wining. My skin bristles. "I can't see how it looks back there. Just tell me if my wallet sticks out too much."
"Dude." He stops himself. "It's fine, really, can we go?" I frown and shuffle back into the dressing room to change back. I buy the jeans hoping my ass will look hot in them.
Ugh.
I think this is why women are so fucking crazy. They starve themselves and obsess about standards set by Hollywood and society. Every time they turn around, there's another picture of some chick modeling jeans or a coat or whatever, looking stick-thin. I mean, that plus they bleed from their crotches every couple of weeks is enough to send anyone off the deep end. Of course they don't care about sports or which friend can drink the most beer without puking into a 50 gallon drum outside of a sketchy night club, they've got way too much pressure on them to fit into a frame that easily 1/1000 maybe fit into.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to eat this pile of leaves.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Tips for Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse
Since joining Facebook about a week ago, I've come across a group called "The Hardest Part of the Zombie Apocalypse Will Be Pretending I'm Not Excited." This group has various discussions that are based around the idea of surviving the day and days after the zombies rise from the dead and start their slow shuffling march across the world.
What troubled me the most was how unprepared so many of these group members were. They all claimed they had "zombie knowledge" or a heightened sense of survival, but when I read through some of the posts, I could only shake my head and mutter "amateurs" under my breath.
I don't know why I would want to help instruct people on how to survive this biblical catastrophe, when the best part of the Zombie Apocalypse would be how the human race would be thinned out, but maybe it's just the nice guy in me. He's struggling from underneath that pillow I've put over his face, and he wants to help his readers have a slightly advantageous experience should the decayed flesh hit the fan. So here now, along with author Max Brooks (The Zombie Survival Guide) are some tips on what you can do to have a leg up over other survivors and of course the undead.
1. Choose your weapon wisely:
One of the topic threads in the facebook group was "If you could only take TWO weapons with you, what would they be?" There was a stipulation as well, your weapons could not include anything biological (such as flesh eating bacteria) or nuclear or a tank or a fighter jet or something unconventional. They wanted to keep to the spirit of the ground fighter, the survivor, the everyman. The everyman doesn't know how to fly a jet, but he does know how to swing a baseball bat. He's some of the responses to the question:
"I'd bring a crowbar because you can bash a zombie over the head with it, and also use it to open up doors and crates, etc."
"I'd bring a baseball bat because you can swing it faster, and then if I had to I would sharpen the end into a stabbing point,"
"I'd bring a katana blade because you can slice through zombies and the blade never gets dull,"
What troubles me most is that a lot of people mentioned the crowbar, probably because of the tool's appearance in the computer game "Half-Life," where the main character, Dr. Gordon Freeman wields one to smash open the heads of brain crabs. The thing is a crowbar is a horrible choice because it's a heavy, oblong shaped object. Yeah, you can smash a zombie's skull into mush with it, but carrying it is going to be cumbersome. A crowbar weighs, depending on it's size, between 5 and 15 lbs. Also if you drop it, it clatters very loudly. The crowbar is the deadman's choice.
Author Max Brooks, in his book "The Zombie Survival Guide" suggest the use of blunt instruments stating "blades don't need to be reloaded," and favors the ancient Chinese weapon of a half-moon shaped cutting blade on a long pole because it can be waved side to side at a great distance. Well Mr. Brooks, when the zombies start breaking into my apartment, I'll be sure to run down to the Chinese Historical Center and start looking for one of these things. Pfft.
Here's what I suggest: A blade is a good back up weapon. I would prefer taking a Ka-Bar military fighting knife, but a machete will work well too. They're very durable, hardly ever get dull and utilitarian. The Ka-Bar/machete can do everything a crowbar can do, but it's lighter and you can wear it in a sheath on your belt.
For a main weapon, I would choose either a compound bow and arrows, because it's silent and you can retrieve your ammunition, or I would take with me a battle rifle of some sort. Most likely, an AK47. The Kalashnikov rifle is world renowned for it's durability and light maintenance, its heavy but not cumbersome to carry due to it's sling. The ammo is a heavy 7.62x39mm round that has a high penetration potential that will allow you to shoot through barriers or multiple skulls, should your zombie prey line up in a straight line. If you run out of ammo, the weapon has a heavy butt-stock that can be used like a hammer, or held across your chest as a barrier to push zombies backwards.
2. Your Gear:
Brooks suggests cutting your hair short and wearing tight clothing, and here's where I agree. Should the zombie apocalypse start up and there's madness in the streets, I would let things simmer down for a few days before venturing out to outfit yourself at a sporting goods store or even Wal Mart.
Here's some things you should look out for:
First things first: You need good foot wear. Shoes and socks are going to be essential to your survival. I would suggest heavy duty tactical boots with lots of ankle support, but a good pair of cross trainers will do in a pinch. Bring plenty of socks, at least three pair and change them often. If you lose your feet, you lose your life.
You're going to need some sort of body armor. If you don't have privilege to a bullet proof vest, you can always wear multiple thin layers. I would start with a long-underwear or Underarmor-type base, and then a sturdy durable pair of rip-stop BDUs or heavy denim jeans. Then maybe a long sleeve cotton shirt, on top of that, a short sleeve shirt, and then maybe a non-hooded sweat shirt, depending on the time of the year. With all this on, your movements won't be as restrictive as wearing a coat or a jacket and with layers you can always take something off and put it into your bag should you get hot.
I would also suggest a MOLLE-system carrier. A MOLLE carrier is a tactical vest with these different spaced out velco-like straps that you can hang various pouches from. If you have a sporting goods store or vacant police station in your area, check them out for one of these vests. With this vest you can carry more supplies such as extra ammunition, grenades, canteens, etc, at ready access. The MOLLE system also prevents jingling and bustling, making you quieter as you move.
The next important thing to have is a durable backpack. Here's where it gets tricky though; you don't want a bag so big that it weighs you down, because you'll think you have to fill it, nor do you want a bag too small that you can't get all your essential equipment in to it. So I suggest carrying two medium sized bags. Label one with some designation on it so you know it's your "essentials bag," that in case of an emergency, where as the other bag can be left behind if need be. More on this in the next section.
Some other items to consider taking with you:
A Cambelbak, or canteens, compass, maps, flashlight, fingerless gloves, batteries, multi-channel radio/walkie-talkie with an ear piece, a small flat piece of metal to cook on, and anything else that will be small and seem handy in the future.
3. Pack Light.
As you're getting your gear together remember one thing, and one thing only: You have to stay mobile. A sitting survivor is a survivor no more. Even Brooks states that "no place is safe, only safer. Keep moving." So with that, I suggest taking with you the very bare essentials to your survival.
One thing to consider is food. Granted there could be a few days where you will be out of contact with anyone, including zombies, other survivors, even small towns or cities, believe it our not. You should keep without enough food to last you about two days. I would shy away from canned goods just because they're heavy and take up room in your pack, but sometimes you just have to suffer. If you can find MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) from a local army base or survival store, snatch them up. They're light and easy to pack and contain everything you need to stay healthy, as far as nutrition is concerned.
As I suggested in the last section, keeping two packs is ideal. In one, your "essentials" pack I would keep food for one day, plus your maps and compass, extra ammo, first aid stuff and any other hard to come by items that you need. In the secondary pack, keep the bulk of your food, extra blankets, the gear you can find any where else if need be. Remember, the zombies have taken over, and killed a large portion of the population, there's going to be supplies you can find anywhere. Don't become married to canned goods and blankets.
Also, there's absolutely no need for frivolous supplies like tent kits, mess kits, sleeping bags, etc. You can find that stuff anywhere and there's going to be plenty of vacated shelter you can spend a night in and then move on in the morning. Worse case scenario, you rough it out in the woods over night, or just keep moving til dawn. You don't need to be slowed down by a three man tent set because you love comfort.
4. It's Easier To Run:
Just because you have an assault rifle, found some grenades, or are wielding a chainsaw doesn't mean you can get all Bruce Campbell on some undead assholes. By packing light you can maneuver around zombies or escape if you have to.
Killing a zombie is tough work. Usually what's needed to put a member of the undead out for good is destroying their brain, either with blunt force or with a piercing. Zombies seldom wander about alone as well, so think of that before you engage. The time it takes an unprofessional zombie slayer to kill one zombie in a pack of four, allows the remaining three zombies to get that much closer. Only fight if you've run out of room to run in, and even then, keep looking for an escape.
5. Fire Bad - Explosives Good:
Fire won't kill a zombie, well not right away. As I stated in the last section, the only way to truly bring a zombie down is by destroying the brain. Eventually, if set to fire, a zombie's brain will catch and burn, but that could take precious minutes to happen. In the meantime, your wandering undead target that you've set ablaze is shuffling towards you, now on fire, setting fire to everything else he or she comes into contact with.
I would only use fire as a weapon if I could use it in a way to trap a number of zombies together. Say you've managed to lead a pack of zombies towards a structure. You get them to follow you inside, where you manage to get out, maybe from a second floor or back entrance, and then bar them in. Setting the structure on fire will kill them, but this is a rare case indeed.
Instead, I would suggest the use of timed explosives. Sticks of dynamite, hand grenades, land mines if you can get your hands on them are great tools to totally destroy a zombie. Even if you only manage to blow off their legs, you've at least incapacitated it long enough to get away. Also, explosives have a wider range of damage, allowing you to take out whole groups at a time.
Go to your local library and learn about home made explosives. ....The Government will be along shortly to help you with your search.
6. Fortifications:
If you do have to stop running and take refuge someplace, whether it be for a night or even for a longer stretch due to weather or medical reasons, get on to a second story. Brooks suggests this as well, advising that survivors smash out the stairs behind them. Zombies can't climb ladders (or so it's thought) and without access to the second story, the only thing you're going to have to put up with is there never-ending moans for your brains. Bring earplugs.
Brooks also suggests that if you remain perfectly silent for an extended period of time, zombies will usually lose interest in you or become engage in something/someone else and leave you alone. Zombies have excellent, almost preternatural hearing, so the slightest bump could bring them back on your tail.
If you can't find a second story, I would suggest a basement with a heavy door and very little outside access (such as windows or a storm door.). Barricade your door and set up a number of obstacles between yourself and the door so that if they should break through the door, you'll at least be able to slow them down enough to take a few head shots, before probably having to do yourself in with the last bullet.
7. Be Prepared.
This seems silly, especially at number seven on the list, but being physically and emotionally prepared for the zombie apocalypse will pay back in spades. I would advise getting into a regular exercise routine that involves cardiovascular training would be a good start. You should be able to run up to two miles with gear without getting too winded if you want to be able to survive out there amongst the never tiring undead. A lifting regimen is strongly advisable as well.
Learn how to use a firearm and an edged weapon with accuracy. Train so that your selected weapons become extensions of who you are, so there's no awkwardness in wielding that javelin you stole from a local high school or that rock hammer you swiped from a dead roommate's room in your house. Never hesitate to use your weapons either.
Emotionally, prepare yourself to see things you've never thought you'd ever see. The dead walking the streets, your long gone grandparents shuffling their way down Main Street in the tattered clothes they were buried in. Your old friends, young children, recently turned, thirsting for your blood. Think of it like this: You're giving these people the ultimate gift of release from these unholy shells they've become, by blasting their heads off with an automatic rifle. If you hesitate, you become one of them. That's likely how they got there in the first place.
8. No One Is Your Friend:
Lastly, people will likely band together and reform societies. I mean, after all that's why you're fighting for survival in the first place: to rebuild. But in these uncertain days leading up to the rebuilding, trust no one. It's every man for him or herself, and everyone's an opportunist. There are no laws, and God's on vacation so watch your back. Never get so committed to anyone that you can't leave them in a hurry if you have to. Helping others is the fastest way to get yourself ripped to shreds and eaten.
Stay vigilant, stay tough. Eventually the zombies will walk themselves into an ocean or off a cliff or on to one of your home-made explosive devices. Cities will burn, but you're a survivor now, use the strength you gathered in the zombie wild to rebuild, and never forget.
What troubled me the most was how unprepared so many of these group members were. They all claimed they had "zombie knowledge" or a heightened sense of survival, but when I read through some of the posts, I could only shake my head and mutter "amateurs" under my breath.
I don't know why I would want to help instruct people on how to survive this biblical catastrophe, when the best part of the Zombie Apocalypse would be how the human race would be thinned out, but maybe it's just the nice guy in me. He's struggling from underneath that pillow I've put over his face, and he wants to help his readers have a slightly advantageous experience should the decayed flesh hit the fan. So here now, along with author Max Brooks (The Zombie Survival Guide) are some tips on what you can do to have a leg up over other survivors and of course the undead.
1. Choose your weapon wisely:
One of the topic threads in the facebook group was "If you could only take TWO weapons with you, what would they be?" There was a stipulation as well, your weapons could not include anything biological (such as flesh eating bacteria) or nuclear or a tank or a fighter jet or something unconventional. They wanted to keep to the spirit of the ground fighter, the survivor, the everyman. The everyman doesn't know how to fly a jet, but he does know how to swing a baseball bat. He's some of the responses to the question:
"I'd bring a crowbar because you can bash a zombie over the head with it, and also use it to open up doors and crates, etc."
"I'd bring a baseball bat because you can swing it faster, and then if I had to I would sharpen the end into a stabbing point,"
"I'd bring a katana blade because you can slice through zombies and the blade never gets dull,"
What troubles me most is that a lot of people mentioned the crowbar, probably because of the tool's appearance in the computer game "Half-Life," where the main character, Dr. Gordon Freeman wields one to smash open the heads of brain crabs. The thing is a crowbar is a horrible choice because it's a heavy, oblong shaped object. Yeah, you can smash a zombie's skull into mush with it, but carrying it is going to be cumbersome. A crowbar weighs, depending on it's size, between 5 and 15 lbs. Also if you drop it, it clatters very loudly. The crowbar is the deadman's choice.
Author Max Brooks, in his book "The Zombie Survival Guide" suggest the use of blunt instruments stating "blades don't need to be reloaded," and favors the ancient Chinese weapon of a half-moon shaped cutting blade on a long pole because it can be waved side to side at a great distance. Well Mr. Brooks, when the zombies start breaking into my apartment, I'll be sure to run down to the Chinese Historical Center and start looking for one of these things. Pfft.
Here's what I suggest: A blade is a good back up weapon. I would prefer taking a Ka-Bar military fighting knife, but a machete will work well too. They're very durable, hardly ever get dull and utilitarian. The Ka-Bar/machete can do everything a crowbar can do, but it's lighter and you can wear it in a sheath on your belt.
For a main weapon, I would choose either a compound bow and arrows, because it's silent and you can retrieve your ammunition, or I would take with me a battle rifle of some sort. Most likely, an AK47. The Kalashnikov rifle is world renowned for it's durability and light maintenance, its heavy but not cumbersome to carry due to it's sling. The ammo is a heavy 7.62x39mm round that has a high penetration potential that will allow you to shoot through barriers or multiple skulls, should your zombie prey line up in a straight line. If you run out of ammo, the weapon has a heavy butt-stock that can be used like a hammer, or held across your chest as a barrier to push zombies backwards.
2. Your Gear:
Brooks suggests cutting your hair short and wearing tight clothing, and here's where I agree. Should the zombie apocalypse start up and there's madness in the streets, I would let things simmer down for a few days before venturing out to outfit yourself at a sporting goods store or even Wal Mart.
Here's some things you should look out for:
First things first: You need good foot wear. Shoes and socks are going to be essential to your survival. I would suggest heavy duty tactical boots with lots of ankle support, but a good pair of cross trainers will do in a pinch. Bring plenty of socks, at least three pair and change them often. If you lose your feet, you lose your life.
You're going to need some sort of body armor. If you don't have privilege to a bullet proof vest, you can always wear multiple thin layers. I would start with a long-underwear or Underarmor-type base, and then a sturdy durable pair of rip-stop BDUs or heavy denim jeans. Then maybe a long sleeve cotton shirt, on top of that, a short sleeve shirt, and then maybe a non-hooded sweat shirt, depending on the time of the year. With all this on, your movements won't be as restrictive as wearing a coat or a jacket and with layers you can always take something off and put it into your bag should you get hot.
I would also suggest a MOLLE-system carrier. A MOLLE carrier is a tactical vest with these different spaced out velco-like straps that you can hang various pouches from. If you have a sporting goods store or vacant police station in your area, check them out for one of these vests. With this vest you can carry more supplies such as extra ammunition, grenades, canteens, etc, at ready access. The MOLLE system also prevents jingling and bustling, making you quieter as you move.
The next important thing to have is a durable backpack. Here's where it gets tricky though; you don't want a bag so big that it weighs you down, because you'll think you have to fill it, nor do you want a bag too small that you can't get all your essential equipment in to it. So I suggest carrying two medium sized bags. Label one with some designation on it so you know it's your "essentials bag," that in case of an emergency, where as the other bag can be left behind if need be. More on this in the next section.
Some other items to consider taking with you:
A Cambelbak, or canteens, compass, maps, flashlight, fingerless gloves, batteries, multi-channel radio/walkie-talkie with an ear piece, a small flat piece of metal to cook on, and anything else that will be small and seem handy in the future.
3. Pack Light.
As you're getting your gear together remember one thing, and one thing only: You have to stay mobile. A sitting survivor is a survivor no more. Even Brooks states that "no place is safe, only safer. Keep moving." So with that, I suggest taking with you the very bare essentials to your survival.
One thing to consider is food. Granted there could be a few days where you will be out of contact with anyone, including zombies, other survivors, even small towns or cities, believe it our not. You should keep without enough food to last you about two days. I would shy away from canned goods just because they're heavy and take up room in your pack, but sometimes you just have to suffer. If you can find MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) from a local army base or survival store, snatch them up. They're light and easy to pack and contain everything you need to stay healthy, as far as nutrition is concerned.
As I suggested in the last section, keeping two packs is ideal. In one, your "essentials" pack I would keep food for one day, plus your maps and compass, extra ammo, first aid stuff and any other hard to come by items that you need. In the secondary pack, keep the bulk of your food, extra blankets, the gear you can find any where else if need be. Remember, the zombies have taken over, and killed a large portion of the population, there's going to be supplies you can find anywhere. Don't become married to canned goods and blankets.
Also, there's absolutely no need for frivolous supplies like tent kits, mess kits, sleeping bags, etc. You can find that stuff anywhere and there's going to be plenty of vacated shelter you can spend a night in and then move on in the morning. Worse case scenario, you rough it out in the woods over night, or just keep moving til dawn. You don't need to be slowed down by a three man tent set because you love comfort.
4. It's Easier To Run:
Just because you have an assault rifle, found some grenades, or are wielding a chainsaw doesn't mean you can get all Bruce Campbell on some undead assholes. By packing light you can maneuver around zombies or escape if you have to.
Killing a zombie is tough work. Usually what's needed to put a member of the undead out for good is destroying their brain, either with blunt force or with a piercing. Zombies seldom wander about alone as well, so think of that before you engage. The time it takes an unprofessional zombie slayer to kill one zombie in a pack of four, allows the remaining three zombies to get that much closer. Only fight if you've run out of room to run in, and even then, keep looking for an escape.
5. Fire Bad - Explosives Good:
Fire won't kill a zombie, well not right away. As I stated in the last section, the only way to truly bring a zombie down is by destroying the brain. Eventually, if set to fire, a zombie's brain will catch and burn, but that could take precious minutes to happen. In the meantime, your wandering undead target that you've set ablaze is shuffling towards you, now on fire, setting fire to everything else he or she comes into contact with.
I would only use fire as a weapon if I could use it in a way to trap a number of zombies together. Say you've managed to lead a pack of zombies towards a structure. You get them to follow you inside, where you manage to get out, maybe from a second floor or back entrance, and then bar them in. Setting the structure on fire will kill them, but this is a rare case indeed.
Instead, I would suggest the use of timed explosives. Sticks of dynamite, hand grenades, land mines if you can get your hands on them are great tools to totally destroy a zombie. Even if you only manage to blow off their legs, you've at least incapacitated it long enough to get away. Also, explosives have a wider range of damage, allowing you to take out whole groups at a time.
Go to your local library and learn about home made explosives. ....The Government will be along shortly to help you with your search.
6. Fortifications:
If you do have to stop running and take refuge someplace, whether it be for a night or even for a longer stretch due to weather or medical reasons, get on to a second story. Brooks suggests this as well, advising that survivors smash out the stairs behind them. Zombies can't climb ladders (or so it's thought) and without access to the second story, the only thing you're going to have to put up with is there never-ending moans for your brains. Bring earplugs.
Brooks also suggests that if you remain perfectly silent for an extended period of time, zombies will usually lose interest in you or become engage in something/someone else and leave you alone. Zombies have excellent, almost preternatural hearing, so the slightest bump could bring them back on your tail.
If you can't find a second story, I would suggest a basement with a heavy door and very little outside access (such as windows or a storm door.). Barricade your door and set up a number of obstacles between yourself and the door so that if they should break through the door, you'll at least be able to slow them down enough to take a few head shots, before probably having to do yourself in with the last bullet.
7. Be Prepared.
This seems silly, especially at number seven on the list, but being physically and emotionally prepared for the zombie apocalypse will pay back in spades. I would advise getting into a regular exercise routine that involves cardiovascular training would be a good start. You should be able to run up to two miles with gear without getting too winded if you want to be able to survive out there amongst the never tiring undead. A lifting regimen is strongly advisable as well.
Learn how to use a firearm and an edged weapon with accuracy. Train so that your selected weapons become extensions of who you are, so there's no awkwardness in wielding that javelin you stole from a local high school or that rock hammer you swiped from a dead roommate's room in your house. Never hesitate to use your weapons either.
Emotionally, prepare yourself to see things you've never thought you'd ever see. The dead walking the streets, your long gone grandparents shuffling their way down Main Street in the tattered clothes they were buried in. Your old friends, young children, recently turned, thirsting for your blood. Think of it like this: You're giving these people the ultimate gift of release from these unholy shells they've become, by blasting their heads off with an automatic rifle. If you hesitate, you become one of them. That's likely how they got there in the first place.
8. No One Is Your Friend:
Lastly, people will likely band together and reform societies. I mean, after all that's why you're fighting for survival in the first place: to rebuild. But in these uncertain days leading up to the rebuilding, trust no one. It's every man for him or herself, and everyone's an opportunist. There are no laws, and God's on vacation so watch your back. Never get so committed to anyone that you can't leave them in a hurry if you have to. Helping others is the fastest way to get yourself ripped to shreds and eaten.
Stay vigilant, stay tough. Eventually the zombies will walk themselves into an ocean or off a cliff or on to one of your home-made explosive devices. Cities will burn, but you're a survivor now, use the strength you gathered in the zombie wild to rebuild, and never forget.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
October's Man of the Year: Sir Richard Branson
"Rebel Billionaire" Sir Richard Charles Nicholas Branson was born in England in 1950 and is currently worth over seven billion USD.
Branson first made his money at the age of 16 when he published a magazine called "Student" which he then rolled over into a record album mailing service, which he rolled over into record stores, which rolled over into a music label, which rolled into an airline, which rolled into him actually buying The Virgin Islands.
Everything, strangely for Branson, involves virgins.
But fame and fortune didn't just fall into Branson's lap. The Billionaire Rebel had to overcome dyslexia, and soon after turning 16 he left his third private school for the last time, instead focusing on his entrepreneurial ventures.
Since then, Branson's worked with the likes of Bono, Bishop Desmond Tutu, Pope John Paul II, Nelson Mandela, and the United Nations for humanitarian initiatives. Branson recently donated a large sum of money to the "Find Maddy" fund, a fund built to help raise money to help locate the missing Madeline McCann, a toddler who went missing while her parents were on vacation in Spain.
With his entrepreneurial efforts, his philanthropy, you wouldn't think that Sir Richard Branson would have time to do anything else.
Well you're wrong. Very wrong.
Sir Richard Branson has set numerous world records for traveling great distances in record times. He first crossed the Atlantic Ocean (after one failed attempt) in 1986, and then, with other "rebel billionaires" set about to circumnavigate the Earth in a hot air balloon. Sir Richard has yet to complete that record, failing numerous times, but setting record paces along the way.
Branson has garnered much media attention, and is a beloved figure in his home of the United Kingdom as well as around the world. A fun loving spirit, he recently appeared on Comedy Central's "Colbert Report" with Stephen Colbert, to announce that he had named one of his new aircrafts after Colbert. The two then engaged in an on-air water fight much to the puzzlement of the audience and stage crew in attendance.
Sir Richard Branson is October's Man of the Year for his hard-working spirit, philanthropy, and sheer balls. In a world that seems to be flooded with pompous asshole rich people, Sir Richard is truly the rebel amongst billionaires.
Branson first made his money at the age of 16 when he published a magazine called "Student" which he then rolled over into a record album mailing service, which he rolled over into record stores, which rolled over into a music label, which rolled into an airline, which rolled into him actually buying The Virgin Islands.
Everything, strangely for Branson, involves virgins.
But fame and fortune didn't just fall into Branson's lap. The Billionaire Rebel had to overcome dyslexia, and soon after turning 16 he left his third private school for the last time, instead focusing on his entrepreneurial ventures.
Since then, Branson's worked with the likes of Bono, Bishop Desmond Tutu, Pope John Paul II, Nelson Mandela, and the United Nations for humanitarian initiatives. Branson recently donated a large sum of money to the "Find Maddy" fund, a fund built to help raise money to help locate the missing Madeline McCann, a toddler who went missing while her parents were on vacation in Spain.
With his entrepreneurial efforts, his philanthropy, you wouldn't think that Sir Richard Branson would have time to do anything else.
Well you're wrong. Very wrong.
Sir Richard Branson has set numerous world records for traveling great distances in record times. He first crossed the Atlantic Ocean (after one failed attempt) in 1986, and then, with other "rebel billionaires" set about to circumnavigate the Earth in a hot air balloon. Sir Richard has yet to complete that record, failing numerous times, but setting record paces along the way.
Branson has garnered much media attention, and is a beloved figure in his home of the United Kingdom as well as around the world. A fun loving spirit, he recently appeared on Comedy Central's "Colbert Report" with Stephen Colbert, to announce that he had named one of his new aircrafts after Colbert. The two then engaged in an on-air water fight much to the puzzlement of the audience and stage crew in attendance.
Sir Richard Branson is October's Man of the Year for his hard-working spirit, philanthropy, and sheer balls. In a world that seems to be flooded with pompous asshole rich people, Sir Richard is truly the rebel amongst billionaires.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Un-mailed Letters, Pt. 5: Angrier Than The Last Four Combined!
A wise man once said that if something pisses you off, write a letter about it, but don't mail it. I now present to you, the fifth installment of my un-mailed letters.
To My Tenants:
Where do I begin with you pack of ungrateful assholes? After spending the whole summer fixing up this decrepit building, you turn your kids, or even you yourselves against it. Every morning when I wake up I find something else broken, trash strewn about the property, gum left on the brand new five-thousand dollar drive ways. We've spoken to you each separately, pleading with you to please mind the grass, don't let your kids rip up the posts that mark the property, please don't step in the wet paint and walk all over the place, please don't park your car across the goddamn lines we painted for parking spaces... etc etc.
So, instead of just making this a general proclamation of my discontent with you ingrates, I'll break down your specific crimes, so everyone can see exactly what you're doing.
First, to the couple who live underneath me. I won't even bring up the fact that I constantly hear random banging and crashing down there, and add the fact that your toddler is in an arm cast. I won't even mention that when I went into your apartment, I was knee deep in a sea of loose garbage and trash. Unpacked boxes cluttering the floor and counter spaces. Food left out, spoiled. You're animals. I can't believe you're even trying to raise a child down there.
You claim, sir, that you "teach break dancing" to local kids, using the end of the driveway as your studio. Not once, ever, have I seen you "teaching" break dancing to anyone. I see a bunch of punk kids disrespecting my property and loitering maybe... I also notice that they get really hush-hush when I'm around, probably because you're selling drugs to them. That would also explain the scent of burning marijuana that comes up into my apartment from below, because you're smoking it all the time.
Awesome, thanks for turning my beautiful apartment building into a crack den, asshole. I won't even mention how stupid and ugly you're live-in girlfriend is. How about next time you have a complaint against me, you come out from behind your fucking girlfriend's skirt and talk to me directly like a man would, you dickless bitch.
To the tenants who share a kitchen wall with me. Thanks for finally paying your electric bill that is still under my parents' name, that you seem to "forget" to change back to your names, you lying shitheels. Thanks too for cutting us a bad check and making my mom lose her pay check to cover the bounce. If you can't get your shit together, come to us and tell us. Don't literally cut and run - by cutting us a bad check and then getting the fuck out of town for the weekend. You're lucky that you did leave town though, because I probably would've kicked your skinny bi-sexual-looking ass off your freshly painted porch, jumped down after you, and continued to kick your ass across the freshly seeded lawn, you mother fucker. I don't care that you lost your job because you lost your license, I want my fucking money. In case you didn't hear that, I said: I WANT MY FUCKING MONEY!
You can't pay, you can't stay. Simple as that.
And also, you spineless coward, send your pregnant wife to beg us to let you back into your shitty apartment, and I'll give her the keys, walk over, and beat you in the street like the mangy dog you are.
To the asshole who lives on the first floor, front: Thanks for finally doing the bare minimum by hanging those doors we bought almost two months ago. You kept telling us and telling us that you were going to get them done "by this weekend" but every time I walked by your place, there you were on your couch drinking Coors Light. "Oh, I forgot my tools again," you'd whine, you sniveling bitch. We have a whole tool shop in our garage, maybe you missed us working our asses off every day on this building. Also, get your fucking destructive 8 year old under control. If I find one more post ripped up, I'm going to beat him with it. How do I know it's him? Because there's little toy cars left on the ground next to the ripped up post you schmuck. I'll ram one up your ass if it helps get the point across.
I know we paid you in advance to hang those doors, and that was our fault. But you took advantage of us and had that money spent before you even hung door one. We had to ride your ass for over a month to get them up, and they're not even done. I swear to go if I ever see you crossing a street, I'm going to swerve and hit you.
Sincerely,
Your Building Manager.
To The Lady At Church With The Staring Problem:
Ma'am, I do realize that I have a mohawk, and that I'm in a house of worship. But God doesn't care, so why should you? Does it disrupt your prayer, your communication with God? No? Good, then stop glancing at me from the corner of your eye. I'm a practicing Catholic just like you, I bring my grandmother here every Saturday- and she's proud to be on my arm- and I am probably the sharpest dressed motherfucker you've ever seen grace these hallowed halls, so stop looking at the top of my head.
Bitch, it's just hair. And I look badass.
Signed,
Your Worst Nightmare, Apparently.
To The Twat At Crapplebees Last Night:
Who the hell do you think you are, cheering for Cleveland? Do you not know you're in New England? I mean, I would stand the cheers for the Yankees, just because geographically it makes a little more sense than cheering for fucking Cleveland. I hope you heard me when my date asked me where I thought you and your party were from and I responded with "Bitchsburg."
I'm all for showing support for your favorite team, but at the excess that you were doing it was uncouth and irresponsible. I would send you a drink to get you to shut up, but I would be too compelled to smash the glass over your head and then kick you in the face as you took to the fetal position.
Sabathia, pfft.
Sincerely,
Red Sox Nation Member 14,098
To My Old Boss:
Hey ******, I want to send you a little note of thanks. Thanks? I know, it seems weird. Don't bother to check this paper for anything suspicious; the topical agents I use would pass a black light and a chromatography test.
Anyway, no I'm extending to you genuine thanks. Your bitchiness, unobtainable high standards, your constant double-speak, the way you tried to befriend me and then when I told you I wouldn't sleep with you because it was unprofessional-attitude gave me the push I needed to excel into a direction that I needed to head in.
I was wasting away behind that desk, in that office. I did nothing all day and never felt I was making an impact on the world or even my local society. I was just a drone, buzzing away in the hive under a malicious and pernicious queen. I hated that job, and I hated getting up every day to drag myself to it. I loved the people I worked with, but I couldn't stand your management style. You're a piss poor leader and I imagine, friendless.
You had a hot daughter though, kudos for that.
So, thanks for pushing me out the door with the boot and having security escort me out of the building in a humiliating fashion. Thanks for making me the topic of rumor in my mother's office across the hall too, might I add. But thanks, truly, for letting me see my true potential.
I hope when that office does finally collapse around you, your death is quick. You deserve that much.
Love,
Your Former Employee.
To My Tenants:
Where do I begin with you pack of ungrateful assholes? After spending the whole summer fixing up this decrepit building, you turn your kids, or even you yourselves against it. Every morning when I wake up I find something else broken, trash strewn about the property, gum left on the brand new five-thousand dollar drive ways. We've spoken to you each separately, pleading with you to please mind the grass, don't let your kids rip up the posts that mark the property, please don't step in the wet paint and walk all over the place, please don't park your car across the goddamn lines we painted for parking spaces... etc etc.
So, instead of just making this a general proclamation of my discontent with you ingrates, I'll break down your specific crimes, so everyone can see exactly what you're doing.
First, to the couple who live underneath me. I won't even bring up the fact that I constantly hear random banging and crashing down there, and add the fact that your toddler is in an arm cast. I won't even mention that when I went into your apartment, I was knee deep in a sea of loose garbage and trash. Unpacked boxes cluttering the floor and counter spaces. Food left out, spoiled. You're animals. I can't believe you're even trying to raise a child down there.
You claim, sir, that you "teach break dancing" to local kids, using the end of the driveway as your studio. Not once, ever, have I seen you "teaching" break dancing to anyone. I see a bunch of punk kids disrespecting my property and loitering maybe... I also notice that they get really hush-hush when I'm around, probably because you're selling drugs to them. That would also explain the scent of burning marijuana that comes up into my apartment from below, because you're smoking it all the time.
Awesome, thanks for turning my beautiful apartment building into a crack den, asshole. I won't even mention how stupid and ugly you're live-in girlfriend is. How about next time you have a complaint against me, you come out from behind your fucking girlfriend's skirt and talk to me directly like a man would, you dickless bitch.
To the tenants who share a kitchen wall with me. Thanks for finally paying your electric bill that is still under my parents' name, that you seem to "forget" to change back to your names, you lying shitheels. Thanks too for cutting us a bad check and making my mom lose her pay check to cover the bounce. If you can't get your shit together, come to us and tell us. Don't literally cut and run - by cutting us a bad check and then getting the fuck out of town for the weekend. You're lucky that you did leave town though, because I probably would've kicked your skinny bi-sexual-looking ass off your freshly painted porch, jumped down after you, and continued to kick your ass across the freshly seeded lawn, you mother fucker. I don't care that you lost your job because you lost your license, I want my fucking money. In case you didn't hear that, I said: I WANT MY FUCKING MONEY!
You can't pay, you can't stay. Simple as that.
And also, you spineless coward, send your pregnant wife to beg us to let you back into your shitty apartment, and I'll give her the keys, walk over, and beat you in the street like the mangy dog you are.
To the asshole who lives on the first floor, front: Thanks for finally doing the bare minimum by hanging those doors we bought almost two months ago. You kept telling us and telling us that you were going to get them done "by this weekend" but every time I walked by your place, there you were on your couch drinking Coors Light. "Oh, I forgot my tools again," you'd whine, you sniveling bitch. We have a whole tool shop in our garage, maybe you missed us working our asses off every day on this building. Also, get your fucking destructive 8 year old under control. If I find one more post ripped up, I'm going to beat him with it. How do I know it's him? Because there's little toy cars left on the ground next to the ripped up post you schmuck. I'll ram one up your ass if it helps get the point across.
I know we paid you in advance to hang those doors, and that was our fault. But you took advantage of us and had that money spent before you even hung door one. We had to ride your ass for over a month to get them up, and they're not even done. I swear to go if I ever see you crossing a street, I'm going to swerve and hit you.
Sincerely,
Your Building Manager.
To The Lady At Church With The Staring Problem:
Ma'am, I do realize that I have a mohawk, and that I'm in a house of worship. But God doesn't care, so why should you? Does it disrupt your prayer, your communication with God? No? Good, then stop glancing at me from the corner of your eye. I'm a practicing Catholic just like you, I bring my grandmother here every Saturday- and she's proud to be on my arm- and I am probably the sharpest dressed motherfucker you've ever seen grace these hallowed halls, so stop looking at the top of my head.
Bitch, it's just hair. And I look badass.
Signed,
Your Worst Nightmare, Apparently.
To The Twat At Crapplebees Last Night:
Who the hell do you think you are, cheering for Cleveland? Do you not know you're in New England? I mean, I would stand the cheers for the Yankees, just because geographically it makes a little more sense than cheering for fucking Cleveland. I hope you heard me when my date asked me where I thought you and your party were from and I responded with "Bitchsburg."
I'm all for showing support for your favorite team, but at the excess that you were doing it was uncouth and irresponsible. I would send you a drink to get you to shut up, but I would be too compelled to smash the glass over your head and then kick you in the face as you took to the fetal position.
Sabathia, pfft.
Sincerely,
Red Sox Nation Member 14,098
To My Old Boss:
Hey ******, I want to send you a little note of thanks. Thanks? I know, it seems weird. Don't bother to check this paper for anything suspicious; the topical agents I use would pass a black light and a chromatography test.
Anyway, no I'm extending to you genuine thanks. Your bitchiness, unobtainable high standards, your constant double-speak, the way you tried to befriend me and then when I told you I wouldn't sleep with you because it was unprofessional-attitude gave me the push I needed to excel into a direction that I needed to head in.
I was wasting away behind that desk, in that office. I did nothing all day and never felt I was making an impact on the world or even my local society. I was just a drone, buzzing away in the hive under a malicious and pernicious queen. I hated that job, and I hated getting up every day to drag myself to it. I loved the people I worked with, but I couldn't stand your management style. You're a piss poor leader and I imagine, friendless.
You had a hot daughter though, kudos for that.
So, thanks for pushing me out the door with the boot and having security escort me out of the building in a humiliating fashion. Thanks for making me the topic of rumor in my mother's office across the hall too, might I add. But thanks, truly, for letting me see my true potential.
I hope when that office does finally collapse around you, your death is quick. You deserve that much.
Love,
Your Former Employee.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
My Love For Karaoke Bars
Typically I'm not the type of person who loves the spotlight.
No that's a lie. I'm sorry, I didn't take my "truth pill" this morning. I've been running around town telling everyone I'm Andrew Jackson's great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson. It's been a real mess.
Anyway, there's an amazing facet of American life that I think is all too often shadowed, if not outright ridiculed: The Karaoke Bar.
I know what you're thinking reader "haha, yeah ok, good one, let's all get drunk and yell into microphones all night. I got the first round of scorpion bowls!" No. No you don't and shut up while I tell you why you're wrong and I'm right.
Karaoke is a sport of shameless self promotion and exploitation. Like all sports it takes guts to get out in front of a crowd of people and give it all you got for their adoration and respect. And just like any other sport, if you blow it big, the crowd won't hesitate to let you know from the peanut gallery.
You wipe the sweat out of your eyes, the track (which, because of copyright issues, is always played in an different key) and you glance at the words as they scrawl across the little monitor in front of you. You hesitate, your stomach clenches, the sudden soberness of the situation strikes you due to the fact that this is a song you've selected because of your knowledge of the words- yet can't remember a damn lyric. I mean, you sing it almost everyday in the car on your way to work; this all seemed like such a good idea twenty minutes ago when you signed up. Now you're looking down the barrel of scorn and shame.
"Dontcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me..." comes a voice similar to yours from your own mouth, much to your own shock.
What also makes Karaoke like a sport is the fact that it's televised for our collective pleasure. "American Idol" is in it's 8th (or close to?) generation, and if anyone tells you that "American Idol" and the Karaoke night down at your local pub are different, you tell them to shut the fuck up, because they aren't. In fact, where else can you go to watch assholes screech out warble-y versions of your favorite tunes? Half the fun of both "American Idol" and Karaoke night is seeing how awful the people are. No one gives a shit for the mediocre masses that make up the bulk of both venues, because they're nameless, faceless entities that leave no impression. But we always remember the winners and the losers.
Who was that semi-retarded Chinaman from a few years ago? That motherfucker put out a Christmas album- I shit you not. And we all remember Kelly Clarkson, The fat black guy, that chick who looks and sounds like Lianne Rhymes, and the other chick who apparently couldn't read, if I remember correctly.
It's the same at Karaoke night; you watch a few people go through who have the bare minimum of talent and it's boring. But everyone once in a while you get someone who's really good, who maybe sings in your local church's choir or took lessons when they were in high school. And if you're really lucky, you get some inebriated fool who thinks he can harmonize to "Three Times a Lady." He has a pack of smokes rolled into his Ted Nugent' Live in '95'-concert t shirt, his jeans are tar stained, his lungs are beer stained, and he lets loose a salvo of off-tune notes from his beer belly, while showering the mic with gobs of partially digested food and spittle.
All of that, for the price of maybe two beers? It's almost as if I'm ripping off the bar.
My favorite song to sing at the bar? I'm glad you asked. If I could sing at all, it'd be Cory Heart's "Sunglasses at Night," but that's a little too emo-ish. I think songs at Karaoke night need to be fan favorites that everyone knows and can sing along with. The last thing you should do is sing a song from some indie-label, underground hipster band no one but you and your shitty friends have heard of. You can never go wrong with a classic rock selection, just make sure it's between two and three minutes, because much longer than that and you'll probably bore/drive the crowd into a riot with your awful rendition.
Another Do: Feel free to get into the crowd and walk around, sing to people sitting at tables if the mic cable stretches that far. This not only get the crowd more into your performance, but it also shows that you know the words and aren't anchored down by the monitor.
Don't: Drink and sing. Like drinking and driving, you're only going to manage to spill your drink all over yourself, and when holding a live mic, that can be bad for every one.
Don't: Do an encore. One song per night is enough.
Do: Take requests. See what people want to hear, feel out the crowd. As demonstrated in the 1980 film "The Blues Brothers" when the Band played a gig at some shit-kicker joint out in the wilderness, they nearly got killed by playing "negro music." Quickly, Jake and Elwood changed their sound to a more honky-tonk flavor for their audience. So take heed when selecting a song to perform, unless you like the idea of being dragged out into the woods chained to the back of a pick-up truck, and brutally raped by moonlight.
No that's a lie. I'm sorry, I didn't take my "truth pill" this morning. I've been running around town telling everyone I'm Andrew Jackson's great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson. It's been a real mess.
Anyway, there's an amazing facet of American life that I think is all too often shadowed, if not outright ridiculed: The Karaoke Bar.
I know what you're thinking reader "haha, yeah ok, good one, let's all get drunk and yell into microphones all night. I got the first round of scorpion bowls!" No. No you don't and shut up while I tell you why you're wrong and I'm right.
Karaoke is a sport of shameless self promotion and exploitation. Like all sports it takes guts to get out in front of a crowd of people and give it all you got for their adoration and respect. And just like any other sport, if you blow it big, the crowd won't hesitate to let you know from the peanut gallery.
You wipe the sweat out of your eyes, the track (which, because of copyright issues, is always played in an different key) and you glance at the words as they scrawl across the little monitor in front of you. You hesitate, your stomach clenches, the sudden soberness of the situation strikes you due to the fact that this is a song you've selected because of your knowledge of the words- yet can't remember a damn lyric. I mean, you sing it almost everyday in the car on your way to work; this all seemed like such a good idea twenty minutes ago when you signed up. Now you're looking down the barrel of scorn and shame.
"Dontcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me..." comes a voice similar to yours from your own mouth, much to your own shock.
What also makes Karaoke like a sport is the fact that it's televised for our collective pleasure. "American Idol" is in it's 8th (or close to?) generation, and if anyone tells you that "American Idol" and the Karaoke night down at your local pub are different, you tell them to shut the fuck up, because they aren't. In fact, where else can you go to watch assholes screech out warble-y versions of your favorite tunes? Half the fun of both "American Idol" and Karaoke night is seeing how awful the people are. No one gives a shit for the mediocre masses that make up the bulk of both venues, because they're nameless, faceless entities that leave no impression. But we always remember the winners and the losers.
Who was that semi-retarded Chinaman from a few years ago? That motherfucker put out a Christmas album- I shit you not. And we all remember Kelly Clarkson, The fat black guy, that chick who looks and sounds like Lianne Rhymes, and the other chick who apparently couldn't read, if I remember correctly.
It's the same at Karaoke night; you watch a few people go through who have the bare minimum of talent and it's boring. But everyone once in a while you get someone who's really good, who maybe sings in your local church's choir or took lessons when they were in high school. And if you're really lucky, you get some inebriated fool who thinks he can harmonize to "Three Times a Lady." He has a pack of smokes rolled into his Ted Nugent' Live in '95'-concert t shirt, his jeans are tar stained, his lungs are beer stained, and he lets loose a salvo of off-tune notes from his beer belly, while showering the mic with gobs of partially digested food and spittle.
All of that, for the price of maybe two beers? It's almost as if I'm ripping off the bar.
My favorite song to sing at the bar? I'm glad you asked. If I could sing at all, it'd be Cory Heart's "Sunglasses at Night," but that's a little too emo-ish. I think songs at Karaoke night need to be fan favorites that everyone knows and can sing along with. The last thing you should do is sing a song from some indie-label, underground hipster band no one but you and your shitty friends have heard of. You can never go wrong with a classic rock selection, just make sure it's between two and three minutes, because much longer than that and you'll probably bore/drive the crowd into a riot with your awful rendition.
Another Do: Feel free to get into the crowd and walk around, sing to people sitting at tables if the mic cable stretches that far. This not only get the crowd more into your performance, but it also shows that you know the words and aren't anchored down by the monitor.
Don't: Drink and sing. Like drinking and driving, you're only going to manage to spill your drink all over yourself, and when holding a live mic, that can be bad for every one.
Don't: Do an encore. One song per night is enough.
Do: Take requests. See what people want to hear, feel out the crowd. As demonstrated in the 1980 film "The Blues Brothers" when the Band played a gig at some shit-kicker joint out in the wilderness, they nearly got killed by playing "negro music." Quickly, Jake and Elwood changed their sound to a more honky-tonk flavor for their audience. So take heed when selecting a song to perform, unless you like the idea of being dragged out into the woods chained to the back of a pick-up truck, and brutally raped by moonlight.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Move
I've been toying around with the idea of getting rid of my Myspace.com account for probably about a year now. It started out as a thought, and then kinda bloomed into this whole ambitious undertaking that you see before you now.
My reasons for leaving myspace (for the second time) are far and wide: I was mostly tired of having to delete armies of cambot friend requests, the massive amounts of ads taking up space along the boarders of my home page, the frequent site crashes. I was pretty much disgusted with the site as a whole, from the people I would randomly come across and their shitty pages which made my urethra burn when I took the actual time to read what little they had to say; from fifteen year olds in parent's bathrooms wearing nothing but underwear, to creepy forty year olds sitting in front of their computer's web cam with goofy, sadistic looking grins on their faces, I had enough.
It was the cesspool of social networking sites. It was too big. It ballooned like a grotesque glutton, literally over two hundred-million pounds in size. The only thing that can save Myspace is self destruction. Tom needs to push the red button.
As I said before, this isn't the first time I've left myspace out of utter disgust. I left back in the summer of 2006 for a period of about ten weeks. I wanted to get away from the site for the above mentioned reasons and found it no longer useful to my day to day life.
But I went back, inexplicably; even now I can't imagine why I would've gone back. Maybe because people loved my writing and I had no other outlet that would let me write and post my pictures (both self portraits and random things, ad nauseum). Maybe I needed the attention? I'm not saying that I don't still need those things, I mean, c'mon people, this is me we're talking about. I just no longer want to piss in the same pool as hundred of millions of scrotes.
Call me an elitist. Whatever.
So I moved to Facebook, and started this new blog because Facebook doesn't support long drawn out ramblings filled with mixed metaphors and references to pharmaceutical abuse. I'm going to try to find a way to link both of these things together with some sort of feed or rss link, whatever, so I can keep fans informed of when I post.
Also, I took liberty in bringing over last months posts. Originally I wanted to bring over all my old articles so people could browse through at their leisure, especially after I'm gone off to training, but I hadn't realized how big my old blog was. And there was a lot of crap in their I didn't feel like re-visiting.
So below, there's maybe 5 or 6 recent posts, just to give this thing some momentum. Keep an eye out for new updates, maybe twice a week-maybe more, maybe less. And if you're on facebook, feel free to look me up.
My reasons for leaving myspace (for the second time) are far and wide: I was mostly tired of having to delete armies of cambot friend requests, the massive amounts of ads taking up space along the boarders of my home page, the frequent site crashes. I was pretty much disgusted with the site as a whole, from the people I would randomly come across and their shitty pages which made my urethra burn when I took the actual time to read what little they had to say; from fifteen year olds in parent's bathrooms wearing nothing but underwear, to creepy forty year olds sitting in front of their computer's web cam with goofy, sadistic looking grins on their faces, I had enough.
It was the cesspool of social networking sites. It was too big. It ballooned like a grotesque glutton, literally over two hundred-million pounds in size. The only thing that can save Myspace is self destruction. Tom needs to push the red button.
As I said before, this isn't the first time I've left myspace out of utter disgust. I left back in the summer of 2006 for a period of about ten weeks. I wanted to get away from the site for the above mentioned reasons and found it no longer useful to my day to day life.
But I went back, inexplicably; even now I can't imagine why I would've gone back. Maybe because people loved my writing and I had no other outlet that would let me write and post my pictures (both self portraits and random things, ad nauseum). Maybe I needed the attention? I'm not saying that I don't still need those things, I mean, c'mon people, this is me we're talking about. I just no longer want to piss in the same pool as hundred of millions of scrotes.
Call me an elitist. Whatever.
So I moved to Facebook, and started this new blog because Facebook doesn't support long drawn out ramblings filled with mixed metaphors and references to pharmaceutical abuse. I'm going to try to find a way to link both of these things together with some sort of feed or rss link, whatever, so I can keep fans informed of when I post.
Also, I took liberty in bringing over last months posts. Originally I wanted to bring over all my old articles so people could browse through at their leisure, especially after I'm gone off to training, but I hadn't realized how big my old blog was. And there was a lot of crap in their I didn't feel like re-visiting.
So below, there's maybe 5 or 6 recent posts, just to give this thing some momentum. Keep an eye out for new updates, maybe twice a week-maybe more, maybe less. And if you're on facebook, feel free to look me up.
Trends of the Last Century Present: ESPN
If you're like me, between the years of being in middle school and up until now, ESPN's been apart of your morning. You might leave it on in the background as you go through your morning routine of getting coffee and getting dressed. Also if you're like me, you've probably noticed how different ESPN's become over the years.
ESPN sucks now.
Sadly it's true, from the top down, the "World-Wide Leader in Sports" has a heavy crown to bear, and I believe the weight is slowly breaking the network's own neck.
Gone are the days of Rich Eisen (The NFL Network) and Keith Oberman (MSNBC's "Countdown with Keith Oberman) manning the helm of SportsCenter, cutting through highlights with one liners that you'd take to school or to the office with you and use all day. What we're left with is the one leftover from those days, Stewart Scott - an analyst as lazy as his own left eye.
It's true, the analysis of ESPN's desk people is shallow and uninspired at best. I routinely watch "Baseball Tonight" with Chris Burman and his panelists, and listen to the scraped-together facts provided by some statitician in the bowels of the ESPN Complex in Bristol, CT. For instance, "Baseball Tonight" panelist, and former first baseman John Kruk grunted and pushed out this gem a few nights ago:
"The Red Sox have such strong hitting in the middle of their line up with Ortiz, Ramierez and Lowell. You can't pitch around Ortiz without having to face the power of Manny or Mike Lowell's ability to bring in runs."
What the hell is that? I'm not getting anything that I couldn't readily figure out for myself by browsing the stat section of my local sports page.
I don't necessarily blame ESPN though, I think the problem mostly lies in the fact that ESPN has gotten too big. Literally, the network is a monster, and it has to be, because they claim to be the "World-Wide Leader of Sports" and that means something. That means, if there's a cricket match in Bombay, ESPN's there. If there's F1 Racing in Germany, ESPN's there. If there's women's basketball playoffs, ESPN2's there. They even cover competitive eating, I shit you not.
So with all this coverage, of course analysis has to be shallow. The longest SportsCenter of the week comes on for two hours on Sunday. After all the highlights, score updates and recaps, the obligatory interview with some sports writer from some local town where something's happening, and a soft feature piece with some retiring college coach/NFL star giving back to his crack-addeled community/recently outed gay high diver, there's little room left over for in-depth sports analysis.
Of course if you're a fan of a huge, well known team say as the Red Sox or Yankees, The Patriots or Eagles, Tony Stewart or Tiger Woods, sure there's going to be just enough coverage of your team to sustain you. But what if you're a Padre's fan? Or a Bangels fan? Or a proud follower of the Montreal Canadiannes? You're just shit out of luck.
Also, the rest of the line up at ESPN are these adversarial topic shows, such as "Pardon The Interuption" or PTI as it's referred to, where two assholes scream over each other to the tick of a clock counting down before they have to move on to the next subject. It's literally like taking two drunks from a bar, giving them a list of talking points, and running an egg timer. I should also mention that they have two or three other shows that use this same format, one of which lovingly comes with a mute button (Around The Horn), thank god.
Again, if I want to watch a pack of dickheads yell at each other, over each other, about today's sports topics, I'll grab a stool down at Mulligan's, where someone will eventually get punched in the side of the head, and no one's wearing a pretentious-looking suit.
I really wish ESPN would back it down a bit. Not everything in the sports world needs 24/7 coverage. If you miss a Busch Series race or a college football game here and there, so what? Don't bear the burden on yourselves, hand off some to the local area sports networks like NESN or New England Sports Network (that is, if you're reading this and live in New England). I'm sure other regions have similar networks in place.
Go back, ESPN, to your roots of just doing highlights with witty commentary. Get rid of the college interns/boss's sons who sit behind their desk on set and read from the paper, sounding as if they're actually reading from a paper. Put a little heart into the shows you're putting on the air. And for the love of Christ, no one cares about those soft little feature pieces on the handicapped karate instructor or the Iraq War Vetrans Vollyball League.
Turn back before it's too late.
ESPN sucks now.
Sadly it's true, from the top down, the "World-Wide Leader in Sports" has a heavy crown to bear, and I believe the weight is slowly breaking the network's own neck.
Gone are the days of Rich Eisen (The NFL Network) and Keith Oberman (MSNBC's "Countdown with Keith Oberman) manning the helm of SportsCenter, cutting through highlights with one liners that you'd take to school or to the office with you and use all day. What we're left with is the one leftover from those days, Stewart Scott - an analyst as lazy as his own left eye.
It's true, the analysis of ESPN's desk people is shallow and uninspired at best. I routinely watch "Baseball Tonight" with Chris Burman and his panelists, and listen to the scraped-together facts provided by some statitician in the bowels of the ESPN Complex in Bristol, CT. For instance, "Baseball Tonight" panelist, and former first baseman John Kruk grunted and pushed out this gem a few nights ago:
"The Red Sox have such strong hitting in the middle of their line up with Ortiz, Ramierez and Lowell. You can't pitch around Ortiz without having to face the power of Manny or Mike Lowell's ability to bring in runs."
What the hell is that? I'm not getting anything that I couldn't readily figure out for myself by browsing the stat section of my local sports page.
I don't necessarily blame ESPN though, I think the problem mostly lies in the fact that ESPN has gotten too big. Literally, the network is a monster, and it has to be, because they claim to be the "World-Wide Leader of Sports" and that means something. That means, if there's a cricket match in Bombay, ESPN's there. If there's F1 Racing in Germany, ESPN's there. If there's women's basketball playoffs, ESPN2's there. They even cover competitive eating, I shit you not.
So with all this coverage, of course analysis has to be shallow. The longest SportsCenter of the week comes on for two hours on Sunday. After all the highlights, score updates and recaps, the obligatory interview with some sports writer from some local town where something's happening, and a soft feature piece with some retiring college coach/NFL star giving back to his crack-addeled community/recently outed gay high diver, there's little room left over for in-depth sports analysis.
Of course if you're a fan of a huge, well known team say as the Red Sox or Yankees, The Patriots or Eagles, Tony Stewart or Tiger Woods, sure there's going to be just enough coverage of your team to sustain you. But what if you're a Padre's fan? Or a Bangels fan? Or a proud follower of the Montreal Canadiannes? You're just shit out of luck.
Also, the rest of the line up at ESPN are these adversarial topic shows, such as "Pardon The Interuption" or PTI as it's referred to, where two assholes scream over each other to the tick of a clock counting down before they have to move on to the next subject. It's literally like taking two drunks from a bar, giving them a list of talking points, and running an egg timer. I should also mention that they have two or three other shows that use this same format, one of which lovingly comes with a mute button (Around The Horn), thank god.
Again, if I want to watch a pack of dickheads yell at each other, over each other, about today's sports topics, I'll grab a stool down at Mulligan's, where someone will eventually get punched in the side of the head, and no one's wearing a pretentious-looking suit.
I really wish ESPN would back it down a bit. Not everything in the sports world needs 24/7 coverage. If you miss a Busch Series race or a college football game here and there, so what? Don't bear the burden on yourselves, hand off some to the local area sports networks like NESN or New England Sports Network (that is, if you're reading this and live in New England). I'm sure other regions have similar networks in place.
Go back, ESPN, to your roots of just doing highlights with witty commentary. Get rid of the college interns/boss's sons who sit behind their desk on set and read from the paper, sounding as if they're actually reading from a paper. Put a little heart into the shows you're putting on the air. And for the love of Christ, no one cares about those soft little feature pieces on the handicapped karate instructor or the Iraq War Vetrans Vollyball League.
Turn back before it's too late.
Etiquette Enforcement: The Gym
I've been spending an inordinate amount of time at the gym lately. I've probably mentioned this about a hundred times in the last few posts, so I'll spare you the details on how much time exactly I've been lifting. However, as I'm lifting, I wouldn't be me if I wasn't observing human interaction and behavior. So for you, the reader, I've broken out some rules that may or may not be in existence, to help facilitate a more productive and comfortable self-improvement session at your local trendy gymnasium.
1. Don't Be A Dick:
I can't stress this enough. No one likes a dick, not even the most semen stained pornstars. What people like a lot less is the dick at the gym. The dick is the guy wearing the tight Underarmor t shirt and leggings, bench pressing too much weight without a spot and letting everyone know in earshot because he'll be grunting through his hernia. He slams weights, yells and never wipes down benches and equipment when he's done, leaving a sweaty puddle/hand print every where he goes. When he's resting between sets, he's giving "pointers" to other gym goers on how their technique is off. He knows all about "isolating" certain muscle groups, and even though you've got earbuds in, he still talks to you in the middle of your set. The dick is no one's friend.
2. Don't Rest On The Equipment:
Even I do this, and I really try not to. Resting on the equipment, especially when you're at the gym during busy hours, is like being the selfish three-year old at day care hogging the 'good' blocks. If you notice someone hovering around, and they may not be right on top of you, get up and stretch. If they come over and ask to work in, let them. So what? You're going to rest between sets anyway, might as well let someone else get their work out done in a timely manner.
3. Change Back Settings:
If someone does allow you to work in between their sets, be the cool kid and set their weight and seat settings back to where they were at before you sat down. The seat settings might be tricky, but if you change them drastically, try to put it back as close as possible. Take note of what weight they were using, and set it back to that weight when you're done your set. They'll be sure to set yours back for you in return.
4. Wipe Down The Equipment:
As aforementioned, no one likes to sit in someone else's sweaty leavings. Nothing is less attractive than grabbing a handhold or bar or whatever, and seeing a big sweaty paw print on it. No one likes to climb up on the treadmill and see it soaked in your spray. So take a few seconds, get a towel, and wipe it down before the next guy uses it.
5. Be a Good Spotter:
If someone asks you to spot them, be a good spotter by being attentive and encouraging. Someone's trusting you to make sure they don't get hurt, so in the very least pull the plugs out of your ears and be focused on them. It's ok to give them encouragement as well, but watch what you say. Acceptable words or phrases would be "c'mon up", "go, push", or "almost there." Unacceptable words or phrases would be something like "Yeah baby, push it up there" and "Mmm yeah feel it, dig deep" because you'd sound like a total fag.
6. Eye Contact:
Don't make it with anyone. Ever. Especially if you're spotting them.
7. The Opposite Sex:
In 2007, chicks go to the gym too. It's usually considered poor taste to try to flirt with someone at the gym because we're all supposed to be there to be working out, not hooking up. But if someone does catch your eye (and on that, don't stare. A casual glance is acceptable), either if you're a guy or a girl, it's ok to talk to them in a non-threatening way. Bring up something about the excersise you're doing and ask how you can improve on it - ask for tips. Do not try to inform them of what they're doing. No one likes unsolicited advice. And wait until their done their set. If the other party is receptive, then take it from there as you normally would. If they kinda brush you off, because they're at a gym and not at a bar, walk away and get back to work.
Remember guys, you're basically looking at a chick as she would appear during rough doggystyle sex. Be a gentleman and try not to point that out as an ice breaker.
8. Cell Phones:
Most gyms today have policies restricting cell phone use on their property, so adhere to this. If your gym doesn't have a policy in place, do not, and I repeat, do not use your phone in the gym area. If you have to make/take a call do it outside. It's annoying for one, to have to listen to someone on the phone while you're working out, two how do I know you're not taking a picture of me while I look like I'm engaging in rough doggystyle sex? I don't.
9. Know your limits:
Don't push it. Grunting isn't sexy nor is leaving the gym on a stretcher because you've blown your testicles through your scrotum. No one likes to have to stop in mid set to save your ass because you had too much pride to ask for a spot. Also, no one likes to have to slow down their set to watch you struggle with weight that's too much for you to handle, in case you drop a bench bar across your throat. My tip for picking the best weight to work out with: Go up to an easy weight, where it's no problem for you to do ten reps, then simply add five to ten pounds to that weight. You'll have just enough resistance to build muscle without looking like a jackass who's trying too hard. No one's impressed, because no one's looking at you. Trust me.
10. Being a Regular:
If you find yourself at the gym more than three times a week, it's safe to say you've established yourself as a regular. Being a regular is nice because you get to know the people at the gym. But don't let it go to your head and turn you into a dick. Gyms are public places, open to whoever want to join. Remember, you were once the new guy that people wondered about too. If you notice someone new and they seem to be lost or confused by the equipment, no one says you can't walk up and introduce yourself. Ask if there's anything they need help with, or just offer a spot if they need one later. Having a friend at the gym is helpful and prevents you from looking like a total tool who lifts too much.
I hope these tips help give you some insight into behavior, acceptable and unacceptable, at your local gym. I can only educate, it's up to you guys to put it into practice.
1. Don't Be A Dick:
I can't stress this enough. No one likes a dick, not even the most semen stained pornstars. What people like a lot less is the dick at the gym. The dick is the guy wearing the tight Underarmor t shirt and leggings, bench pressing too much weight without a spot and letting everyone know in earshot because he'll be grunting through his hernia. He slams weights, yells and never wipes down benches and equipment when he's done, leaving a sweaty puddle/hand print every where he goes. When he's resting between sets, he's giving "pointers" to other gym goers on how their technique is off. He knows all about "isolating" certain muscle groups, and even though you've got earbuds in, he still talks to you in the middle of your set. The dick is no one's friend.
2. Don't Rest On The Equipment:
Even I do this, and I really try not to. Resting on the equipment, especially when you're at the gym during busy hours, is like being the selfish three-year old at day care hogging the 'good' blocks. If you notice someone hovering around, and they may not be right on top of you, get up and stretch. If they come over and ask to work in, let them. So what? You're going to rest between sets anyway, might as well let someone else get their work out done in a timely manner.
3. Change Back Settings:
If someone does allow you to work in between their sets, be the cool kid and set their weight and seat settings back to where they were at before you sat down. The seat settings might be tricky, but if you change them drastically, try to put it back as close as possible. Take note of what weight they were using, and set it back to that weight when you're done your set. They'll be sure to set yours back for you in return.
4. Wipe Down The Equipment:
As aforementioned, no one likes to sit in someone else's sweaty leavings. Nothing is less attractive than grabbing a handhold or bar or whatever, and seeing a big sweaty paw print on it. No one likes to climb up on the treadmill and see it soaked in your spray. So take a few seconds, get a towel, and wipe it down before the next guy uses it.
5. Be a Good Spotter:
If someone asks you to spot them, be a good spotter by being attentive and encouraging. Someone's trusting you to make sure they don't get hurt, so in the very least pull the plugs out of your ears and be focused on them. It's ok to give them encouragement as well, but watch what you say. Acceptable words or phrases would be "c'mon up", "go, push", or "almost there." Unacceptable words or phrases would be something like "Yeah baby, push it up there" and "Mmm yeah feel it, dig deep" because you'd sound like a total fag.
6. Eye Contact:
Don't make it with anyone. Ever. Especially if you're spotting them.
7. The Opposite Sex:
In 2007, chicks go to the gym too. It's usually considered poor taste to try to flirt with someone at the gym because we're all supposed to be there to be working out, not hooking up. But if someone does catch your eye (and on that, don't stare. A casual glance is acceptable), either if you're a guy or a girl, it's ok to talk to them in a non-threatening way. Bring up something about the excersise you're doing and ask how you can improve on it - ask for tips. Do not try to inform them of what they're doing. No one likes unsolicited advice. And wait until their done their set. If the other party is receptive, then take it from there as you normally would. If they kinda brush you off, because they're at a gym and not at a bar, walk away and get back to work.
Remember guys, you're basically looking at a chick as she would appear during rough doggystyle sex. Be a gentleman and try not to point that out as an ice breaker.
8. Cell Phones:
Most gyms today have policies restricting cell phone use on their property, so adhere to this. If your gym doesn't have a policy in place, do not, and I repeat, do not use your phone in the gym area. If you have to make/take a call do it outside. It's annoying for one, to have to listen to someone on the phone while you're working out, two how do I know you're not taking a picture of me while I look like I'm engaging in rough doggystyle sex? I don't.
9. Know your limits:
Don't push it. Grunting isn't sexy nor is leaving the gym on a stretcher because you've blown your testicles through your scrotum. No one likes to have to stop in mid set to save your ass because you had too much pride to ask for a spot. Also, no one likes to have to slow down their set to watch you struggle with weight that's too much for you to handle, in case you drop a bench bar across your throat. My tip for picking the best weight to work out with: Go up to an easy weight, where it's no problem for you to do ten reps, then simply add five to ten pounds to that weight. You'll have just enough resistance to build muscle without looking like a jackass who's trying too hard. No one's impressed, because no one's looking at you. Trust me.
10. Being a Regular:
If you find yourself at the gym more than three times a week, it's safe to say you've established yourself as a regular. Being a regular is nice because you get to know the people at the gym. But don't let it go to your head and turn you into a dick. Gyms are public places, open to whoever want to join. Remember, you were once the new guy that people wondered about too. If you notice someone new and they seem to be lost or confused by the equipment, no one says you can't walk up and introduce yourself. Ask if there's anything they need help with, or just offer a spot if they need one later. Having a friend at the gym is helpful and prevents you from looking like a total tool who lifts too much.
I hope these tips help give you some insight into behavior, acceptable and unacceptable, at your local gym. I can only educate, it's up to you guys to put it into practice.
Fear and Loathing at The Fryburg Fair
Nothing sits in the hearts of Americans, both your rural hayseed hick and your most jaded urbanite than the country fair. Something about the air, the animals, the crowds, the cotton candy and candy apples makes a collective of Americans jostle about with smiles pasted to faces as if we're all standing in the Free Hand Job Line behind the Denny's in Portland.
I wake up early and make myself breakfast, and then take to the road towards the hamlet of Fryeburg, Maine, it's only claim to fame is this fucking fair. But this isn't just a run of the mill, country-of-Maine-country fair, this is THE fair. This fair makes all other fairs in this state look like the cheap asbestos-stuffed stuffed animals hanging from the overhead displays of the crooked games that line the midway. The Fryeburg Fair is the gem of fairs in an otherwise mud puddle of competition.
Shortly after 930 Sunday morning I arrive in town, navigated by a Garmen computerized GPS device that I borrowed from a friend. I name the voice Meredith for some reason, and on my trip through rural backroads lined with red and orange foliage, the occassional wild turkey, banjo-plucking inbred, I'm instructed on distances before turns, direction of turns, all while a helpful orange citrus-colored display scrolls by, at center a red arrow indicating my presence in the all seeing eye that is the satellite looking down. I follow the directions as Meredith speaks them to me, and soon I'm paying five dollars to a rough-looking biker type in a leather vest and kahki-colored cargo shorts.
"Oh man," he starts in after we exchange early morning pleasantries. He smells like Parliment tobacco and after shave. "Yesterday was awful, what a mess. You picked a good day to come. People were getting pissed and trying to leave all at the same time. What a mess," he continues on. I watch his mouth move from behind my sunglasses and nod along in the right places. I turn my head to the side a little and fish-eye him, yet he still keeps talking. I wait for my change from the 20 dollar bill I gave him.
He guides me to a spot up front, right at the access point. I can't believe how great of a spot it is. No one blocking my egress, should I have to leave in a hurry.
I stash my pistol in the center console and shut down the GPS.
The walk to the fair grounds is short, five minutes tops. I find that traffic is snarled closer to the fair, obviously, as people are sacrificing a few extra dollars more for a spot two hundred yards closer, and five hours longer to get out of. I smirk, knowing the game ahead of the curve. Soon I'm in a parade of converging fair-goers, tourists, leafers, children in crocs with shiny plastic backpacks and juice boxes. Mothers pushing strollers, an inordinate amount of woodland camoflauge sweatshirts and Dale Jr. baseball caps. A man to my front and right spits a jet of black from his mouth into the woods.
Overhead comes the chopping of whirring blades. Jesus Christ! We're under attack! I think to myself. I look skyward and watch an old Sikorski Schweizer fly slow and lazy over head. A sign by the entrance advertizes "helicopter rides" with an arrow pointing to where to go. Throughout the day I would watch this helicopter encircle the fair grounds as if hunting VC amidst the tractor pulls and merry-go-rounds.
I pay my eight dollar entrance fee and instantly hand the ticket off to a sentry manning a gate. Literally the ticket stays in my hands for thirty-seven seconds, and brings to mind the point of even buying these tickets in the first place. Seems like an inefficient waste of money and time. I let it go when I see the gluttonous exhibition of hasheries circled literally like wagons defending an indian attack. Cotton Candy, Giant Turkey Legs, Blooming Onions, Soups in Bread Bowls, you name it, they have it. I approach a vendor, wallet in hand.
"What can I get you?" Says the man behind the glass. I look at the menu and exclaim aloud:
"Good god! Three dollars for a corn dog!" My shock is not wasted on the man behind the glass. He rolls his eyes a little and glances back.
"You want one?" I slowly step away, feeling eyes on me, burning holes into my back.
I spend the next few hours drifting from food vendors to animal exhibits. My mother gave me ten dollars to find a catnip pillow for her cats, but I find nothing that is worth spending the money on, so I pocket it for food later.
Nothing really excites me at the fair. There's a menagerie of wares and crafts that are extremely over priced. I can appriciate the artisanship and craftwork that went into a cabinet, but there's no way I can justify spending seventy-five dollars on a "knife caddy" painted in Hydromorphone-induced puke green. There's crystal balls that hang from leather teathers that spin to the slightest touch, intricate designs painted on them. There's wine bottles with Christmas lights in them. Vibrating pillows and super absorbant mops. Men with microphones affixed to their faces harken back to carnivale barkers, pitching their wares to the throngs that slowly shuffle by gawking like rubberneckers at a fatal car accident.
As I step out into the sun, a display catches my eye, and like that I become zombie-bitten like the rest of the horde in the craft house. A man is selling varying types of jerkies. Salted, marinated, sweetened, toughened, bits of chewy-dried meat displayed behind glass. It's in ropes and in sheets. I push my tongue into the corner of my mouth just as a salesperson approaches.
"Would you like to try a sample, sir?" He speaks to me. I pop an eyebrow over my sunglasses and I must grin because he's already got the tub of shredded sample pieces in hand, cover off. I dig in and take out a chip and chew. It tastes like the sole of a used boot fished out of a river. I manage a smile and tell him that it has a "kick," which makes me laugh inwardly, referencing the boot-like taste. He agrees, telling me it's blah-blah-blah marinated and that a rope would cost me three dollars.
"Man, three dollars gets me a whole corn dog," and he looks confused at my statement. I bid him farewell, still gnawing down on the chip of jerky and enter the sunlight.
The bit of jerky sparked my appetite and I find a wagon that sells french fries. A whole tub of fries with cheese costs eight dollars. I nearly choke the carney when I read that a medium soda is three dollars. I get nine dollars in change, take what I would believe would equate to five dollars in napkins and go enjoy my cheesey fries and coke.
After my snack I wander to the Alpaca section. Alpacas are not Llamas, as people often confuse them. There's a difference, and any Alpaca farmer will tell you what those are. But I am not an Alpaca farmer, so they basically look like Llamas, but you'll have to believe me when I tell you they were Alpacas and not Llamas.
I lean over and take a picture of one and a man approaches me.
"They sure are a precious beast," he says. He's about 40ish and in over alls. He picks at his teeth with, no joke, a toothpick that he has parked between his lip and gum.
"Are you the owner of these fine pack animals?" I ask.
"Sure as shit am," he responds with a nod. I nod along as well, feeling the fine Alpaca fur as the beast eats hay from a dispenser.
"How much," I say.
"How much for what? The wool? Well, a sweater's about 50-" he starts.
"No, no. How much for the Alpaca."
"The Alpaca?" He asks. I affirm. "Well, he's not... not for sale, sir" The man says somewhat bewilderedly.
"I know he's not for sale! How much does one cost!"
"Oh, well ok, um, a kid will cost between 1000 and 1500 depending on their genes and the quality of the mother's wool, you see-"
"Do they make good jerky?"
"What?"
"Alpaca jerky. I want to grow and sell Alpaca Jerky." He stares into my black sunglasses for a long time.
"You're a nutty shit, huh?" He says finally.
"Which way to the helicopter rides?" And I'm off on my way.
It's twenty-five dollars for what appears to be a five minute trip around the fair grounds from about five thousand feet. I wait my turn in line and watch as the Sikorski drops in low and fast, never shutting down it's rotors as it drops off and picks up new passengers. There's a minimal ground crew, and it seems to be a purely cash operation. While I wait in line I start to budget out the money made at the Fryeburg Fair for some of these people. This is what I come up with in a round about way of factoring:
If you charge some dickweed local three dollars for a corn dog that costs one dollar, you're making two dollars on every deep friend piece of styrofoam you sell. Plus you're selling soda at 1000% profit. Rental space is probably 1000 bucks for a week, costs for supplies are probably another two grand.
By my estimates these vendors have paid for their rental and supplies in the first day. More so if the weather cooperates.
But by now I've reached the front of the line and the chopper is coming in for a landing. The rotor wash is enough to rock me back in my tennis shoes and an attendant opens the gate and motions me through after taking my money. We duck walk over to the chopper as it sits running' the departing passengers egress from the opposite side, a very efficient operation indeed.
I sit in next to the pilot and put headphones on with a mic attatched.
"You it?" He says in a cowboy-twangy kinda way. I nod and he shuts the door. "We're gonna go up to about 7500, and I'ma swing around the whole grounds, let you see things from up above, ok?" The voice crackles in my ear. I give the thumbs up and we're off into the air.
It's jerky and you can feel the wind against the air-lite frame. Soon we're over trees and there's another jerk as we come out of the verticle climb and move forward. I lean over a bit and look through the glass floor down below.
"It's real nice up here, huh?" The crackle comes back. I nod.
"Good for hunting the VC?" I say back. The pilot is facing forward, stock still. His aviator sunglasses reflecting sunlight in a sunburst against my own dark sunglasses.
"Yeah" comes the delayed response, and suddenly my asshole clenches because I think he's flipped some switch and gone back to the jungle. The rest of the ride is very quiet and full of tension.
We land and I decide to call it a day. I have a turkey dinner and a piece of a friend dough before walking back to my truck. Meredith greets me and I ride home conversing with the robot steering my car.
I wake up early and make myself breakfast, and then take to the road towards the hamlet of Fryeburg, Maine, it's only claim to fame is this fucking fair. But this isn't just a run of the mill, country-of-Maine-country fair, this is THE fair. This fair makes all other fairs in this state look like the cheap asbestos-stuffed stuffed animals hanging from the overhead displays of the crooked games that line the midway. The Fryeburg Fair is the gem of fairs in an otherwise mud puddle of competition.
Shortly after 930 Sunday morning I arrive in town, navigated by a Garmen computerized GPS device that I borrowed from a friend. I name the voice Meredith for some reason, and on my trip through rural backroads lined with red and orange foliage, the occassional wild turkey, banjo-plucking inbred, I'm instructed on distances before turns, direction of turns, all while a helpful orange citrus-colored display scrolls by, at center a red arrow indicating my presence in the all seeing eye that is the satellite looking down. I follow the directions as Meredith speaks them to me, and soon I'm paying five dollars to a rough-looking biker type in a leather vest and kahki-colored cargo shorts.
"Oh man," he starts in after we exchange early morning pleasantries. He smells like Parliment tobacco and after shave. "Yesterday was awful, what a mess. You picked a good day to come. People were getting pissed and trying to leave all at the same time. What a mess," he continues on. I watch his mouth move from behind my sunglasses and nod along in the right places. I turn my head to the side a little and fish-eye him, yet he still keeps talking. I wait for my change from the 20 dollar bill I gave him.
He guides me to a spot up front, right at the access point. I can't believe how great of a spot it is. No one blocking my egress, should I have to leave in a hurry.
I stash my pistol in the center console and shut down the GPS.
The walk to the fair grounds is short, five minutes tops. I find that traffic is snarled closer to the fair, obviously, as people are sacrificing a few extra dollars more for a spot two hundred yards closer, and five hours longer to get out of. I smirk, knowing the game ahead of the curve. Soon I'm in a parade of converging fair-goers, tourists, leafers, children in crocs with shiny plastic backpacks and juice boxes. Mothers pushing strollers, an inordinate amount of woodland camoflauge sweatshirts and Dale Jr. baseball caps. A man to my front and right spits a jet of black from his mouth into the woods.
Overhead comes the chopping of whirring blades. Jesus Christ! We're under attack! I think to myself. I look skyward and watch an old Sikorski Schweizer fly slow and lazy over head. A sign by the entrance advertizes "helicopter rides" with an arrow pointing to where to go. Throughout the day I would watch this helicopter encircle the fair grounds as if hunting VC amidst the tractor pulls and merry-go-rounds.
I pay my eight dollar entrance fee and instantly hand the ticket off to a sentry manning a gate. Literally the ticket stays in my hands for thirty-seven seconds, and brings to mind the point of even buying these tickets in the first place. Seems like an inefficient waste of money and time. I let it go when I see the gluttonous exhibition of hasheries circled literally like wagons defending an indian attack. Cotton Candy, Giant Turkey Legs, Blooming Onions, Soups in Bread Bowls, you name it, they have it. I approach a vendor, wallet in hand.
"What can I get you?" Says the man behind the glass. I look at the menu and exclaim aloud:
"Good god! Three dollars for a corn dog!" My shock is not wasted on the man behind the glass. He rolls his eyes a little and glances back.
"You want one?" I slowly step away, feeling eyes on me, burning holes into my back.
I spend the next few hours drifting from food vendors to animal exhibits. My mother gave me ten dollars to find a catnip pillow for her cats, but I find nothing that is worth spending the money on, so I pocket it for food later.
Nothing really excites me at the fair. There's a menagerie of wares and crafts that are extremely over priced. I can appriciate the artisanship and craftwork that went into a cabinet, but there's no way I can justify spending seventy-five dollars on a "knife caddy" painted in Hydromorphone-induced puke green. There's crystal balls that hang from leather teathers that spin to the slightest touch, intricate designs painted on them. There's wine bottles with Christmas lights in them. Vibrating pillows and super absorbant mops. Men with microphones affixed to their faces harken back to carnivale barkers, pitching their wares to the throngs that slowly shuffle by gawking like rubberneckers at a fatal car accident.
As I step out into the sun, a display catches my eye, and like that I become zombie-bitten like the rest of the horde in the craft house. A man is selling varying types of jerkies. Salted, marinated, sweetened, toughened, bits of chewy-dried meat displayed behind glass. It's in ropes and in sheets. I push my tongue into the corner of my mouth just as a salesperson approaches.
"Would you like to try a sample, sir?" He speaks to me. I pop an eyebrow over my sunglasses and I must grin because he's already got the tub of shredded sample pieces in hand, cover off. I dig in and take out a chip and chew. It tastes like the sole of a used boot fished out of a river. I manage a smile and tell him that it has a "kick," which makes me laugh inwardly, referencing the boot-like taste. He agrees, telling me it's blah-blah-blah marinated and that a rope would cost me three dollars.
"Man, three dollars gets me a whole corn dog," and he looks confused at my statement. I bid him farewell, still gnawing down on the chip of jerky and enter the sunlight.
The bit of jerky sparked my appetite and I find a wagon that sells french fries. A whole tub of fries with cheese costs eight dollars. I nearly choke the carney when I read that a medium soda is three dollars. I get nine dollars in change, take what I would believe would equate to five dollars in napkins and go enjoy my cheesey fries and coke.
After my snack I wander to the Alpaca section. Alpacas are not Llamas, as people often confuse them. There's a difference, and any Alpaca farmer will tell you what those are. But I am not an Alpaca farmer, so they basically look like Llamas, but you'll have to believe me when I tell you they were Alpacas and not Llamas.
I lean over and take a picture of one and a man approaches me.
"They sure are a precious beast," he says. He's about 40ish and in over alls. He picks at his teeth with, no joke, a toothpick that he has parked between his lip and gum.
"Are you the owner of these fine pack animals?" I ask.
"Sure as shit am," he responds with a nod. I nod along as well, feeling the fine Alpaca fur as the beast eats hay from a dispenser.
"How much," I say.
"How much for what? The wool? Well, a sweater's about 50-" he starts.
"No, no. How much for the Alpaca."
"The Alpaca?" He asks. I affirm. "Well, he's not... not for sale, sir" The man says somewhat bewilderedly.
"I know he's not for sale! How much does one cost!"
"Oh, well ok, um, a kid will cost between 1000 and 1500 depending on their genes and the quality of the mother's wool, you see-"
"Do they make good jerky?"
"What?"
"Alpaca jerky. I want to grow and sell Alpaca Jerky." He stares into my black sunglasses for a long time.
"You're a nutty shit, huh?" He says finally.
"Which way to the helicopter rides?" And I'm off on my way.
It's twenty-five dollars for what appears to be a five minute trip around the fair grounds from about five thousand feet. I wait my turn in line and watch as the Sikorski drops in low and fast, never shutting down it's rotors as it drops off and picks up new passengers. There's a minimal ground crew, and it seems to be a purely cash operation. While I wait in line I start to budget out the money made at the Fryeburg Fair for some of these people. This is what I come up with in a round about way of factoring:
If you charge some dickweed local three dollars for a corn dog that costs one dollar, you're making two dollars on every deep friend piece of styrofoam you sell. Plus you're selling soda at 1000% profit. Rental space is probably 1000 bucks for a week, costs for supplies are probably another two grand.
By my estimates these vendors have paid for their rental and supplies in the first day. More so if the weather cooperates.
But by now I've reached the front of the line and the chopper is coming in for a landing. The rotor wash is enough to rock me back in my tennis shoes and an attendant opens the gate and motions me through after taking my money. We duck walk over to the chopper as it sits running' the departing passengers egress from the opposite side, a very efficient operation indeed.
I sit in next to the pilot and put headphones on with a mic attatched.
"You it?" He says in a cowboy-twangy kinda way. I nod and he shuts the door. "We're gonna go up to about 7500, and I'ma swing around the whole grounds, let you see things from up above, ok?" The voice crackles in my ear. I give the thumbs up and we're off into the air.
It's jerky and you can feel the wind against the air-lite frame. Soon we're over trees and there's another jerk as we come out of the verticle climb and move forward. I lean over a bit and look through the glass floor down below.
"It's real nice up here, huh?" The crackle comes back. I nod.
"Good for hunting the VC?" I say back. The pilot is facing forward, stock still. His aviator sunglasses reflecting sunlight in a sunburst against my own dark sunglasses.
"Yeah" comes the delayed response, and suddenly my asshole clenches because I think he's flipped some switch and gone back to the jungle. The rest of the ride is very quiet and full of tension.
We land and I decide to call it a day. I have a turkey dinner and a piece of a friend dough before walking back to my truck. Meredith greets me and I ride home conversing with the robot steering my car.
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