saturday morning fever

On Monday we plan to see the final installment of the Hugh Jackman trilogy, even though the titles of its reviews suggest that it may lack the chutzpah of the previous two movies. But we both watched the X-Men cartoons as kids, and then as teenagers, and now occasionally as adults, and by now we’re hopelessly addicted. When I turned on the TV this morning, I was pleased to see that the fame garnered in recent years had led network executives to air old school episodes of The X-Men in the Saturday morning line-up. However, these were not the episodes I watched as a kid. These were the old episodes, of a crappy animation quality that I was unfamiliar with. (Not surprisingly, Cyclops is a worthless tool in this series as well.) I only caught the last three minutes, but boy oh boy was it exciting!

When I tuned in, Juggernaut was already bearing down on Professor Xavier, Wolverine, Cyclops, Storm, Angel-Guy, Fire-Star and Ice-Man. First, Storm jumped in and tried to rain him to death. When that failed they retreated and the Professor took over the command role: “Follow my mental commands! Cyclops and Wolverine, you will be the second wave of attack!” (That was it—that was his mental command. Maybe he should have included a little more direction.)

Cyclops and Wolverine went after him, but Cyclops couldn’t browbeat Juggernaut into submission, so Wolverine jumped in to slash him up. Unfortunately, Wolverine was retarded, and Juggernaut merely juggled him high into the air and then tossed him into a nearby brick wall, where he got irretrievably stuck, claws first (“I’m stuck!” he cried helplessly).

Then Ice-Man and Angel-Guy had a go—Ice-Man built a wall of ice that probably only served to refresh Juggernaut as he pummeled through it, and Angel-Guy flew around or something. Juggernaut confronted the Professor, stranded in his wheelchair, and cackled: “Ha ha! Now there is nothing between us!” At which point Fire-Star surrounded Juggernaut with a wall of flame (“How’s that for nothing!?”) which he promptly walked through, unharmed.

No one was left to defend the Professor—Juggernaut raised his giant foot to crush him where he sat! But then, suddenly, the Professor was surrounded by netting and lifted to safety, just in the nick of time. I was like, what the hell? Is that one of Fire-Star’s powers? Netting? But then they revealed the unexpected hero—Spider-Man! And I was like, What the hell?! Spider-Man?!! But there was no time to think, because the Professor was giving our hero some mental commands: “We must remove his helmet—the source of his power! Spider-Man, use your special skills to remove his helmet!”

Ha-HA! Juggernaut was doomed! He was no match for Spider-Man’s special skills! Ice-Man quickly froze Juggernaut in place and Spider-Man jumped onto his head and used his "special skills" to defeat the enemy—namely, by trying to rip off Juggernaut’s helmet with his renowned brute strength. Finally—success! Juggernaut mocked them heartily, boasting that his helmet was not the source of his strength. But then Professor Xavier paralyzed him with the power of his brain. Hurray!

A short while later they all gathered in what seemed to be a college student’s living room. Professor Xavier thanked Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends for their help in defeating their foe, and Fire-Star delivered the final zinger: “Usually class reunions are boring, but Juggernaut made this one un-for-gettable!” Cue uproarious laughter. Roll credits.

Cheesy, yes. Awful dialogue, yes. Under-developed action sequences, yes. But I still enjoyed it. Just as I’m sure to enjoy this third X-Men movie, even if it sucks. Probably. Well, especially if Storm gets killed off. And Cyclops cries like a little girl again. And the sexual tension between Professor Xavier and Magneto finally gets resolved.

Boy, I can’t wait.

happy memorial day weekend

I was lost
drowning in a sea of boredom
sulking in the dungeon of early Friday afternoon despair
wishing I were home
or shopping
or dead
anything but sitting in my office
staring at financial status spreadsheets

Then you swept into my life
like a pale bird of paradise
clad in bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt
your legs glowing like mighty alabaster pillars
anchored firmly in leather loafers
to save me from the void

Those beautiful, magical words poured from your lips
"are you familiar with the phrase 'power outtage'?"
I nearly swooned with happiness
"yes!" I cried "yes, I DO! I mean--I AM!"
and you winked and strutted out the door
your chicklet teeth gleaming like tiny beacons of freedom

New Boss Man
I love you

give this man a cape

A few days ago on a flight to Los Angeles Dr. Robert Rey (or “Dr. 90210” as he is called on his plastic surgery/big boob reality show on E!) helped restrain a passenger who caused a disturbance before the aircraft was scheduled to land. This article reports the terrifying event:

Dr. Robert Rey, a plastic surgeon who practices martial arts, told The Associated Press he got out of his seat and intervened when he heard the man make a "big noise" as he pushed a female flight attendant toward the cockpit.

"When you get a black belt, at that stage your brain just clicks into action," the doctor said. "I restrained this gentleman in a very aggressive way without hurting him."

The elderly non-English speaking gentleman who caused the ruckus was described as “very frail” and somewhat mentally unstable.

Thank God there was a plastic surgeon on board.

did you get the memmo?

"Typing and writing always brings out my poor spelling."

Semper Slo, Department Manager*


*Name has been changed to protect the innocent. And the Department Manager.

the rules of kickball

Question for the guys: Do you rub up on other guys at work? You know, squeeze or rub their upper arm, shoulder or back? I’m curious. I need to know.

Because based on personal observations, I suspect that the overwhelming majority of men do not do this to their fellows, but I wanted to check with you guys first just to make sure. You see, there is a man at my workplace who regularly touches, squeezes or rubs the arms, shoulders and backs of the women in the office. In fact, it happened to me yesterday—he walked into my office to talk to my co-worker, and rubbed my shoulder on the way in AND on the way out. Twice in 10 seconds. I know what you’re thinking—how is this guy still walking around? Why isn’t he hunched over in pain or writhing on the floor coughing blood? Well, considering my tried-and-true method of the past, by all rights he should have been. But for once I restrained myself—you wouldn’t believe how much kicking someone in the balls is frowned on around here.

This brings me to my dilemma: How to convey to him my vomitous rage over these unwanted touchings while still maintaining an amicable working relationship? Now before you jump in with some “just explain that it makes you uncomfortable” HR harassment training bullshit, let me first inject a bit of real world background. From experience I know that making a formal complaint does not work. A male manager sits down with the male offender to explain the complaint, the offender signs a statement that gets filed away in his work record to document the complaint, the complaint is stamped “resolved” but the offending behavior continues and the very next week the offender is sent out alone on a long-distance business trip with one of the young women who contributed to the complaint about his inappropriate workplace behavior. Meanwhile, she gets branded as a whining bitch who can’t take a joke and doesn’t have the thick skin required to make it in this business. The ‘good ol’ boys club’ is still alive in most workplaces and thrives in others, so even “physically abusive hard-ass” is better than “whining shrew.” That rules out filing a complaint with upper management.

Second, addressing the issue directly with the offender (the HR-recommended route) poses the same risk as filing a complaint with a manager. Except that instead of everyone whispering behind your back you get a profuse, overly sincere apology followed by a denial of bad intentions and an extensive survey of the office to loudly demand everyone’s personal feelings on the matter: You don’t mind when I put my hand on your shoulder, right? I’m just being friendly, I don’t mean anything by it. You know, we’re friends, we all work together! There’s nothing wrong with that, right? That’s what I thought, too!

Third, the guy in the background complaint-fiasco scenario is a sleazeball, while the guy at my current workplace is merely a bozo. This factor, more than anything, makes me rethink the traditional genital-kick course of action. Whereas Sleazeball definitely deserved pain and suffering for the blatant abuse of his female co-workers, I believe that Bozo is oblivious and his inappropriate behavior is just an outlet for his nervous energy and need to be loved by his officemates. (Of course, this was my initial diagnosis of Sleazeball, so we’ll see how this hypothesis pans out.) So, I can’t kick Bozo—not yet, anyway. Pre-emptive strikes without evidence of wrongdoing can be messy, and I prefer to reserve my nuclear option for a sure thing. Thus, it’s a no-go on kickball until more intel comes through on the rogue agent.

So, what option is left? I don’t want to risk my career by filing a complaint or ruin my work environment by confronting Bozo. Do I just sit tight, grin and bear it? Or change jobs to avoid any course of action to deal with this particular bozo/sleazeball? Or chalk it up as a character-building exercise in the School of Life Isn’t Always a Party?

Of course, all of my bitching and whining might be moot depending on how the guys answer the question above. If guys DO rub up on other guys, and not just on women, then fine—obviously there is a breed of man out there who feels the need to convey his sense of comraderie through touchy-feely displays of workplace affection.

But if guys only rub up on women, then we have a problem: If you are a creep, you better wear a cup and avoid splayed-leg stances because I’ll figure you out sooner or later. And if you’re just a friendly guy, you should realize that every woman you touch probably has you pegged as a creep. Some women might not mind the occasional pat on the back or arm squeeze, especially if you look like George Clooney or that cute guy from that one band. But most of them do. And—just to warn you—some will kick you in the balls.

belated

Jed's head courtesy of Alice.

a beautiful day in memoryhood

This article got me thinking about He-Man and all of the other shows I wasn’t allowed to watch as a tender kindergartener. At the time my family belonged to an evangelical church that believed in banning all things magical and/or Communist, and instilling a healthy fear of hellfire in young, overactive imaginations for the good of their souls. As a result I was not allowed to watch He-Man, She-Ra, My Little Pony, The Smurfs, or The ThunderCats—basically, 90% of what I desperately wanted to watch. I was also limited to only one hour of television per day. This posed somewhat of a problem since I was obsessed with three TV shows: Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, and Batman.

Batman was my absolute favorite and since every other episode ended with a tune-in-next-time-same-bat-time-same-bat-channel cliffhanger with an image of Batman and Robin trapped in an ironclad room with a ticking time-bomb or dangling precariously over a vat of boiling acid, I simply couldn’t afford to miss it. Perhaps taking a cue from my favorite feline super-villain, I soon devised an ingenious way to watch all three shows every day. As in many Batman episodes, the scheme was deliciously simple—I just watched Sesame Street at my house and then walked across our adjoining back yards to my friend’s house to watch Mr. Rogers. I thought I was so incredibly clever. Such underhanded conniving was surely deserving of a sequined face mask and cat-ear headband. Alas, I’ve since discovered that my mother knew all along that I was sneaking out to disobey her, and simply let me go. Drat! Such overwhelming powers of perception have no place in the imaginary TV show of my romanticized childhood—fire her and eject her from the set immediately! Get her, boys!! Raaawrrr!

I’m still not sure if watching these shows led to or is a result of my lifelong obsession with Muppet-humor, kind old men, comic books-turned-action movies, and—let’s face it—Batman. (My patient love for the Caped Crusader has weathered painfully kitschy tributes by Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer and George Clooney and has finally been rewarded with an appropriately dark portrayal by my beloved Christian Bale, singing and dancing superstar of The Newsies.) Now that some of these older shows have been released on DVD, I’ve contemplated re-watching them. But I don’t think I will. I’ve moved onto another Wayne, re-watching Sesame Street would literally take another lifetime, and I can’t watch Mr. Rogers without sadly remembering that he’s since passed into the Land of Make-Believe. But it’s okay. These shows are probably best remembered in the glow of childhood, not scrutinized under the harsh light of adulthood. And the cartoons that were forbidden to me as a child hold little appeal now. They lack nostalgic relevance and I’ve outgrown disobeying my mother.

Besides, they’re probably complete crap anyway.


For some interesting results from Googling “He-Man” images click here and here. For unfortunate results click here and HERE.

no more pasta before bedtime

Yesterday I read a Slate Magazine article on the woeful demise of a timeless television classic, 7th Heaven. I am being facetious of course, because a mere glimpse of a 7th Heaven 10-second spot ad, let alone a detailed description of the cast and show premise, nearly nauseates me with its cheesy fumes of creepy Christian family perfection. And really, I think it’s the whole religious tilt that pushes me over the edge—it warps my entire perception of the family. There are many wholesome shows and movies that feature a big family with a stay-at-home mom, quirky sibling interaction and toothy all’s-well-that-ends-well finishing smiles. But unlike its wholesome counterparts, 7th Heaven emits an undeniably creepy vibe. It’s hard to put your finger on, but it’s definitely there. In the father’s overly concerned gaze, the mother’s sad clown smirk, the sunny shots of the house and the slow-motion depictions of slack-jawed gasps and beaming happiness—all infused with a chilling WWJD undertone that lurks just beneath the smooth veneer of good ol’ fashioned family values. It’s like that feeling you get when Dr. Phil talks about sex or when Bill O’Reilly steps over your grave. Eeeiiish.

There's no way the finale was as exciting as it could have been. Screw the triple twin pregancy surprise, nothing says 'drama' as well as worm-like alien life forms tearing out of each family member’s chest cavity during a touching church scene where the pastoral father weds one of his children to some unsuspecting yet impeccably coiffed victim. Then he rips off his own face to reveal the crazy demon grimace that has become Tom Cruise’s sole expression. RA-wrrr!!!

Or, it could be something like my dream last night: The Camden clan (father, mother and their 7 kids) are sitting around a large round table (think King Arthur) in a dark, country-decorated living room and shuffling through piles of manila file folders, looking for the perfect kid to adopt into their ever-expanding family. Four of their previously adopted kids—a mixed race girl, a teenage Yao Ming look-alike, and a pair of pre-teen Hilary Swank clones—sit around the table with them, weighing the pros and cons of each candidate’s case. Finally the adoption agency arrives, hobbling up the front path in the pouring rain followed by a line of four crawling toddlers. The Camdens inspect the children while the adoption broker lists the attributes of each baby, like a used car dealer trying to unload a lemon. Mixed Race Girl secretly calls the birth parents on the phone, needling them about their family psychological history. When the agent discovers what she is up to he gets angry but the whole family erupts in raucous oh-dear-isn’t-she-cute laughter. Meanwhile, the Swank twins won’t stop spitting chatter through their extensive mouth gear long enough to hear Young Yao Ming Look-Alike’s concerns about adopting the Asian baby (What if the baby doesn’t grow up to be a basketball superstar like him—won’t that scar him emotionally? All he’ll be left with is violin! Maybe we should just go with the Romanian kid.). Feeling the deal slipping away, the broker quickly pulls out the latest in adoption technology—Pasta Babies. These bundles of pasta may seem like regular spaghetti but once you add boiling water and simmer for 10 minutes—BHAM! Instant baby!! The Camdens are all enthralled. Maybe a pasta baby is the best way to go. Everyone smiles. And then I wake up screaming.

Thank God—it was all a dream.

rhymes with 'orange'

I find this pure genius and don't care who knows it.

the stabbing pain of stay-at-home illness

I'm home sick today with a head cold. After putzing around in bed long enough to finish a mediocre suspense paperback about (what else these days) the deceitful secret workings of the Vatican, I stumbled into the living room to watch some TV. It being early in the afternoon, there isn't much on besides soap operas and re-runs of the Cosby Show. But then I came across Grease on CMT. Over the years I've heard several people profess their undying love for this movie and its signature dancing numbers. So, since I've never seen it and have some strange and unholy attraction to John Travolta's bouffant, I watched what turned out to be the closing musical numbers: "You're the One That I Want Ooh Ooh Oooooh" and "We Go Together Like Shama-lama-lama-landi-boogie-a-ding-ding-dong".

It was like watching a fucking train wreck. The skin-tight black outfits, the wholesome smiling and carnival atmosphere. I just couldn't turn away. This is--by far--the DORKIEST thing I have ever seen in my entire life. Christ. It's physically painful. John Travolta's grinding hips and what can only be described as "the gayest jump off an elevated platform ever" are forever seared into my corneas. I must find a way to dull its awfulness. But what could possibly help? For once Animal Planet isn't showing any gory puppy abuse and I'm too weak to drive myself to the theater for a matinee showing of Flight 93. Who will save me? Where is U-571 when I really need it??

Oh, thank God--a Savior. A NyQuil caplet and one dose of Maury Povich's disgraceful self-serving righteousness should do the trick. Ugh. I never should have gotten out of bed.

home again, home again jiggity-jig

It seems that every time I stop working for longer than two days I become sick. In fact, it never fails. This time I felt it as soon as I boarded the plane for home. Hence, I’ve recently rekindled my love affair with NyQuil. It insulated but did not completely shield me from last night’s rowdy upstairs neighbor sexcapades. Or this morning’s. No wonder I dreamt of home-remodeling demolition and falling ceiling tiles. Damn those young hooligans and their insatiable noisy libidos!

san francisco treats (parts II & III)

A long walk through Chinatown yielded a satisfying haul of bubble tea, hot pork buns, spicy noodles and cheap souvenirs. At House of Nanking a belligerent hostess bullied us into ordering much more food than we could handle and everyone but the South American tourists received forks instead of chopsticks. Note: Moon cakes are tasty, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat the yolk. Blegh.

Guys, do you ever want to wear low-cut pants to show your tantalizing ass-crack at the club but aren’t slutty enough to feel comfortable shuffling about with your pants around your ankles? Then the Castro district has the perfect pair of pants for you! Equipped with a cinching strap to fit across the top of your buttocks, these extremely low-cut pants allow for optimal ass-viewing without that irritating waistband-slippage. Also, ample crotch room allows for prominent frontal asset display as well.

Here’s a tip: If you are a hobo and you want neither my money nor my pity, you should definitely insult me after I politely refuse your patronizing question about whether or not I need to hear your “long, sad story” beforehand. Only if you already hold a job in customer service can you afford to be so surly.

I am confused as to why many of the promoters standing outside the clubs and adult show theaters are dressed in three-piece suits, trench coats, shiny wing-tips and fedoras. I assume they’re supposed to look like snazzy mobsters, but they really just skew ‘mobster’s accountant’ or even ‘hasidic Jew.’

$12 standing room tickets at the Giants stadium will buy you a clear view of Winn’s flying third-out catch on the fence in the eight inning and Alou’s winning home run at first at bat in the ninth. A couple bucks more will get you a four-flavored bag of cotton candy and a sugar high.

The only effects of the May Day marches that I witnessed were that buses throughout the city were delayed or held up completely. And the only people I saw this affect were the elderly Chinese shoppers and baby-toting mothers waiting with us at the Chinatown bus stop.