Wherein I continue to not do drugs

I've never used crack.

I never thought that would bother me, but now I have strong feelings about a thing called Trivia Crack and I wish I knew just how closely the two are related.

My guess is that, aside from the superficial, market-y, tongue-in-cheek type comparisons (so addictive! fun to share with friends, but then you get mad at each other for weird reasons!) the two actually have very little in common. Trivia Crack may waste some of your time and strain your eyeballs, but it has not been decimating impoverished communities for the last three decades.

This is where my strong feelings come in: Trivia Crack is dumb. The name is dumb, the questions are dumb, and if my victorious record against strangers can be believed, most of the people playing it are dumb (because seriously, y'all, I don't even know where I am most of the time). And yet, I have played maybe fifteen games since downloading it on Saturday. I've seen and heard of many other people playing it. There are t-shirts featuring "Trivia Crack characters".

I don't get it, but it's a thing in America, and so I care (see also: most politicians, the VMAs, Sex and the City reruns).

Dearest America, why are we getting all excited about something named Crack? Why do we not think it is wack? Would you play a game called Trivia Booze or Trivia Endemic Community Problems?

Actually...America has a strange, long, presumably proud history of naming things in a way that one sincerely hopes never turns out to be literal: Death by Chocolate, the surprisingly web-savvy Slap Ya Momma hot sauce, Kahlua Mudslide, Sex on the Beach (think of the sand, people -- it's not worth it!). Hell, we have a long tradition of just calling things "crack" when what we really mean is "it's really good". I've seen crack pie, crack cookies, crack brownies -- almost all sweets, although I'm sure that there's a bacon crack somewhere - the pinnacle of "add this word to anything to make it sound good" mania.

And I guess the "mania" bit is what's really tying me in knots about this game. I don't know much about crack, but I've been led to believe that it makes you feel PHENOMENAL. And then it makes your life EXCRUCIATING. It's a substance of extremes, of power - it gets hold of you, and then your life cannot be separated from it. Naming the best pie or brownies or bacon in the world pie/brownie/bacon crack is still extreme, but it makes sense. I have been transported by pie! I have felt like I might be willing to shiv someone over some really great bacon! I understand the highs and lows, the agony and the ecstasy of America's relationship with food.

Life-changing pie, however, Trivia Crack is not. I've been, at turns, mildly annoyed and slightly smirky about it, just as I've been about a lunchbox-clammy RingDing. Calling it "crack" goes way beyond normal salesman-like braggadocio. It's utter nonsense that tears at the fabric of our shared language and, thus, our culture.

We all know marketers are lying to us, but the lie is supposed to have some hope of truth in it. If we don't stop this fast-rolling boulder of misnaming now, grocery stores will start labeling day-old bread "loaf o' crack"; my terrible mailman will earn the title "bacon mail crack"; TMZ will be "the crack of television journalism"....and then, all of  a sudden, crack will mean bad...and then it will all make sense...

Disregard all of the above, Trivia Crack, and godspeed!

My Ovaries Did Not Steal Your Soul

I write about commercials a lot, I know. Here's the thing: ad men speak the hearts and minds of America. That's their job. They know us better than we know ourselves, and they use that knowledge to hypnotize us into a frenzy of purchasing:

"You have a problem with your dad? This nice, bearded, dad-ish-looking (but not too dad-ish because he's also kind of hot) guy will now sell you soap. Use the soap to wash away the metaphorical ickyness you feel about your dad, and you will feel better about that whole real-life problem thing."

That's fine - pensieve me to pieces, ad-men, because I want to be sold products that are appealing. I love soap! And psychological closure! I don't, however, like it when you sell a lifestyle that is in direct competition with me.

For instance, you know that ad where the guy - just your average dopey white dude - has a beautiful wife and healthy, happy kids and a ridiculously grand house in the suburbs that he surely got using his wife's money because he doesn't seem to ever go to work, just drives the kids around and barbecues?

You don't know which one I'm talking about? Come on, the one where the guy has all this, but he's still sad because something's...missing?

You still don't know? No? And the kids grow up, and fake iPhone commercial music plays in the background with hipsters going "Oh oh oh OH" and you maybe want to cry but you're not sure why? That one? You know! You don't?

TRICK QUESTION! You will never figure out which one I am talking about, America, because it is ALL OF THE ADS that are designed to appeal to my husband:

"Are you a man? Are you a man with ABSOLUTELY NO PROBLEMS because you are in the charge of the entire world? Buy this thing anyway - just in case."

The SadWhiteDude-ificiation of America continues. Cars, soaps, watches, cheeseburgers - it doesn't matter what the product is because the thing being sold is a man and the maintenance of his manliness. Man-tenance seemed silly but harmless, until I realized that somehow, some way, the thing getting in the way of every man's manliness - according to the commercials - is me. A man's living his life, growing chest hair, polishing guns, whatever, until some lady shows up. Then, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, she drops a cute farmhouse on his head, and it's all over for him (although, you  know, he lives in the farmhouse with babies instead of shriveling up underneath).

There's a car commercial out now that exemplifies this whole "women are master hunters of the man beast" thing. The commercial tracks the relationship of a man with his automobiles. There are other human people somewhere in this guy's life, but they are irrelevant to his trajectory. He is a meteor of manliness streaking across the night sky in his shitty foreign car, and none may touch him in his glory. He gets his first car when he is 16 because, of course, privilege. Then he goes to college (like, of course! white dudes!) where he majors in grilling and pranking. Then marriage. There's a fleeting shot of a babe in a white dress; SHE DOES NOT MATTER. Then kids. Gotta drive them around for, like, ever. But then, THEN -- praise God who is clearly a dude -- those little turds go off somewhere, the wife is...out (shopping? who cares!), and Man Guyly can finally go back to driving his little red roadster, which is all he's wanted his whole life so leave me alone, okay? Gawd! The tagline is something like, "Be yourself again."

What kind of gaslighting has that babe in the white dress been running on this poor man for all of these years? Did she clunk him on the head each morning? Convince him his name was Darren? Force him to stay at home grilling all those nights when really all he wanted was a nice Panera salad?

In other words, how in the world did having a wife and kids and a billion new cars over the last 25 years stop this guy from feeling like "himself"? How much more himself would he have been living alone in his roadster on the edge of a picturesque cliff? Either this commercial is demented or I need to reevaluate my entire understanding of the man psyche.

"The old ball-and-chain" is a weird idea to be reintroducing to the American public right now. Poor old Man Guyly and his roadster do not have to sneak off to the Elk Club to get a little peace and quiet, and I'm not sitting at home in fluffy slippers fretting over whether he'll like my Jell-o salad. I'm not trying to be married to a guy who hides his true identity from me for decades or who turns into DadBot3000 (generic model, no upgrades) the moment our family gets too big for a two-seater coupe.

Yet, thus spake the ads, and thus my concern. Is this what dudes really feel like? As they circle the board in the Game of Life, do they feel not victory but
? If so, what can I possibly do to stop it?

It's almost enough to make me want to go out and buy some stuff - you know, fun things, cars, cheeseburgers, make-up - just to improve my life a little bit. Just in case. So I can feel like myself again.

Wherein I hate on oft-used English phrases

I am so over the term, "Like a fish out of water."

I don't know if all of you have had the extensive icthyologous experience that I have, so I'm just gonna tell you: A fish out of water is dead. It's not "like" anything, except maybe something that flops sadly on its side for a few minutes before expiring.

Really, the only way I can see it working as a simile is:  "He was shot in the stomach, and, for a brief moment, as his life flashed before his eyes, he was like a fish out of water. Then, when he died, he was like a fish who had been out of water for too long. Only his eyes weren't so buggy." Morbid, but possibly effective.

Don't you feel clean - oui or non?

I'm writing a lot about shower products lately. Bear with me - I spend a lot of time either in the shower or thinking I should be in the shower because I smell kinda funky (thanks, Tom's of Maine deodorant stick of worthlessness!).

Getting so much face time with bath products has made me curious: why is everything written on the bottle in perfectly clear English repeated in French on the exact same bottle?
This bizarro, French copy-catification happens on soap, shampoos, rasors, lady products - pretty much everything having to do with personal hygiene. These things are not, to my knowledge, being sold to French people. Nor are they created in France, so I am confused about this extraneous and careless use of the French language. If I've learned anything from Pepe LePeu cartoons and/or the type of people who brought us "freedom fries," it's that the French are not anywhere close to experts on the subject of personal hygiene. Love, oui. Wine, bien sur. Soap - maybe once a week if vee can stop zee smooching for long enough! Honhonhon!

Obviously, given the above, extremely factual example, the idea that the French would have any say in America's cleanliness is ridiculous.

This is either some sort of nefarious plot by the French that is too complicated for me to even explain, a kind but misguided effort to encourage more American-like bathroom behaviors among our French brethren, or, even worse, a ridiculous attempt by American marketing people to fancify an American product for American consumers...by talking about it in a language none of these people knows.

My money is on choice #3. Only the type of people who appreciate "Burst"-scented things would think a French is a sexysexy surefire way to sell people on soap. It's not enough for these people that my shaving cream smells like a cabana blender or that my soap is "purifying" me instead of just cleaning me - my shower now has to be French as well. It's elegant, like when a restaurant puts "gateau" on its menu instead of "cake" or when people order "french fries" instead of "freedom taters."

Meeting My Needs

There are many things in this life that I truly, desperately need: liquid assets, a place to live, a magical portkey to the world of Harry Potter (minus that trollop Ginny Weasley). These things are serious, and I will not live happily without them.

There are other things, though, that I can admit to not needing. In fact, I would go so far as to say the world does not need them. One of these things is legs that smell like "Strawberry Tangerine Twist."


Yes, I own this. And no, thank God no, my bottle of it does not have a sparkly, lumpy popsicle-thingy (or sea creature?) on it. It has sparkly strawberries - it's new and improved.

But really, world, when and why did we decide, "You know what's too simple? Showering. There are not enough scented things and definitely not enough sparkles in America's showers. Let's jazz that situation up!"

Between the "coconut" in my shower gel, the peppermint in my shampoo and this, all my shower needs is some hard liquor to start a tiki bar with all the mixers. I guess that's where the "twist" comes in.

Please, world, if you love me at all, stop dumping hours of research and millions of dollars into shavescent technology. Let's focus on things we need - like a house for me. It won't smell like My Little Pony, but it will probably be cheaper, and it will get me out of your hair. Especially if it has a portkey.

WALMART understands

Hey! Know what's really hard? Harder than putting your pants on one leg at a time? Harder than crushing a beer can on your head? Way harder than Loving America, even when the Lib'rals are in charge?

Buying stuff. That is HARD. And buying stuff for someone you know? On, like, a special day or something? Goldang that's hard!

Sometimes, even when I don't have to think about other people or what they might like, I just spend hours wandering around the WalMart NOT BUYING ANYTHING. They have so much stuff there! How is a simple guy like me supposed to decide whether I need a new rifle or a big-screen TV? And that's just for ME. For funsies, like, on a Tuesday morning when I'm calling in sick to work.

For my wife? For a reason? I don't even know when the VALENTIMES Day is. I don't know what it is, and I don't know why we have it. But I know I have to buy my wife something for it if I want her to let me watch my NASCAR in peace.

And look, I don't pretend to know much about women, either. In fact, I might know less about them than I do about SANTO VALENTINO or whoever. But I do know that they like PINK and they like BOWS and luckily for me, those seem to be what VALENCIA DAY is all about.

Now, I know WALMART has that pink and bows stuff somewhere, but if I have to walk around the whole store looking, I might just black out and end up buying an 80 gallon aquarium and a lawnmower! I can't be trusted to search the whole darn place for something a lady might like!

If only shopping at WALMART could be simplified. If only they could make a giant room full of things that are pink and covered in hearts and with big signs that say VALENTINE! HERE! Then I could just run in and grab something without having to think about it at all.

A night of flabbergastation

A few days ago, I saw a commercial for this stuff: http://tinyurl.com/yj9yypm

Yes, it IS a paint roller for your FACE.

How bad do you have to feel about yourself to get to the point where you're just like, "F it. I'm spackling the heck out of this!" ? Is this what we've come to, ladies? Just because we cannot ever, possibly, in a million bajillion years look as flawless as Miz Beyonce does in the commercial for these things doesn't mean we have to resort to construction-site levels of facial maintenance. She has make-up ARTISTS, after all, and it's obvious that, were one to paint one's face (or newly remodeled kitchen), one would choose an artist over one's untrained self any day.

This commercial came early in the exciting whirlwind that was "Watching the Golden Globes Alone While Eating Frosting." Apparently, I do not watch enough live television because "face spackling apparati" were among the least shocking things I saw that night.

For instance, I was also inordinately confused by the McDonald's commercial wherein a man woos his hot neighbor lady by asking her if she's heard about McDonald's breakfast. First of all, ew. Second of all, are you implying something about my weight, neighbor dude? Second, no, wait, third, a conversation about fast-food breakfast is not going ANYWHERE, no matter what delicious, greasy lies the McD's ad guys are feeding you.

What were you thinking, laundry-room guy? You NEVER just go up to a cute girl and say, "Hey, have you heard about McDonald's breakfast?" Because yes - she lives in America - of course she has heard of McDonald's breakfast! And once she tells you that, where do you go? "Oh, okay, so you know about sausage biscuits?" Yes. "And coffee? They have coffee now!" Yes. I read that in the Times last year - when it was actually new. "Oh, so, you know there's.." Eggs? Hashbrowns? Everything else that's served at fast food breakfast places around this great nation, with the notable exception of Chik-fil-A Chicken Biscuit, which is a genuine loss?!?!?! Yes! Yes, I know what breakfast is you dolt, now stop staring while I fold my underpants.

Would a Darlene by any other name...

It's weird how much a name can mean.

When I was five or six years old, I really wanted my name to be Christina. I thought that was the prettiest, and that having such a name would equate to having a rainbow-colored glittery gown and possibly also being a mermaid. That's just what happens to people named Christina.

Kids with names like Bubba and Jeb have a different path carved out for them than kids who introduce themselves to their montessori school classmates as Zachariah and Llewellyn - who are themselves teased in high school by the Jasons and the Ashlees. Names mean something. It's not fair, and it's not right, but when was the last time you hired a lawyer named Tequila?

The importance of a name was cemented for me in high school. I went to private school in Georgia, which means I was surrounded by rich white people who had lived in the same town for generations. I guess those people eventually run out of inspiration for names, living in the same place for 8 thousand years, because a lot of recycling happens there (and believe me, not a lot of recycling happens in the south) - last names become first names, first names start to look like last names, middle names multiply, and everything is book-ended with numbers and honorifics. I actually went to school with a girl named Forrest (handed down by an extra-kind male relative, certainly), not to mention strapping young men with names like Mulford, Bentley and Johnson (heh).

These names were important to people in the south because they let everyone else know critical information, like who their momma's grand-pappy had been, and what buildings he owned (the name recycling extended to important landmarks, like highways and the local mental health center). Of course this public advertising of blood-lines still didn't stop some people from dating their cousins, but, we were on the Alabama border.

This past weekend, when I was back in the glorious south ruining Steeplechase (see other blog), we happened to tailgate next to a pretty rowdy crew. Four middle-aged women and one gray-haired man of indeterminate age and intelligence (he didn't say much and disappeared halfway through the day) had set up shop and were determined to keep the party going all. day. loooong. The ringleader, who started migrating over to our lot in the early afternoon, spent most of her time crowing such sweet nuggets of knowledge as:

"We're sorry, but we ain't sorry for nothing!"

and

"She didn't steal my third husband - I gave him to her!"

I imagined she had read these on a set of refrigerator magnets or embroidered pillows at some sassy southern gift store, but they suited her. She wasn't really talking to us - just yelling to the crowd at large - but I think she got her message across, especially the part about being "NEWLY DIVORCED" - which seemed more directed at my dad than some of the other comments.

Between the four of them, these wild southern women seemed to have had 27 husbands (though some may have been pass-alongs - do they only count once?), 18 houses and more than a few frozen margaritas. They ended the day by tickling my dad with sunflowers and then hugging it out with him - while my mom quickly ushered us all into the car.

Before my mom could close the car doors (and, believe me, she tried), this ringleader - she of the southern-fried aphorisms and the vodka soaked (but friendly!) embrace - poked her head in to say thanks for the fun time. My mom said, "you're welcome."
[silence. did i mention my mom is the only sober person here?]
Woman: "Are y'all putting up those pictures you took today? On the Facebook? They were soooo fun."
Mom, mentally: "The ones of you rubbing my husband with various flora?"
Mom, out loud, "Oh...I don't really DO Facebook."
[another attempt at driving away, with or without the woman hanging from the door]
Woman: "Oh, yeah, I understand that. Would y'all e-mail them to me?"
Mom: "Um, okay. What's your e-mail?"
Woman: "Well, my name is Darlene and so it's...."

Darlene. God bless you, Darlene, and God bless the south, and God bless my mom for giving me the most boring name on the planet so that mean girls don't write blog posts about me.

Matches made in Heaven, vol. 1

Keith Olbermann (seriously? two n's?) and Seth Rogen.

Huh? What?

Yes. Listen to their deep, throaty, crazyperson growls. I am convinced they were created in the Jim Henson Creature Shop(pe) and then, to the great dismay of the puppeteers, managed to escape. The Olbermann character, originally intended for Sesame Street, was eventually replaced by Sam Eagle (see graphic a., below). Rogen was never truly replaced, but was fondly remembered during the creation of Snookums the giant monster creature.

These two need to do voice work on a father-son/buddy cop animated feature, stat. Entertainment demands it.

Figure a.:






RIGHT?!?!?

USAUSAUSAUSA

I was walking past our friendly neighborhood porn store the other day, when a sign in the window caught my eye.

No, it was not the poster for Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge (a real movie -- whose title I googled for you, dear readers, to avoid the mistake of calling it Pirates II: [Some sort of pun about treasure chests], which would not have been very classy of me.).

The sign -- very small and handwritten on a scrap of cardboard -- said simply "European DVD on sale." This aroused [teeheehee] my curiosity. "Which European DVD?" I asked myself. "Of all the wonderful pornographic cinema exported by our dear trade partners across the sea, which classic film has, fortuitously, become affordable to even the poorest of nudie-film connoisseurs?"

But then, I wondered, Why promote a European DVD? We are in a national economic crisis, Serendib Video Place! Why not promote a good ol' American-made porno? Lord knows our proud porn-trepeneurs right here in the States could use a little help these days. Are our American "hot chicks" not good enough for you? Is there no demand for videos of strapping young PATRIOTS in action? I find that HARD TO BELIEVE.

Obviously, Serendib has some sort of unsavory deal happening -- probably with the French. So I urge you, my fellow Americans, do your part. Support the country. Buy American -- I promise Pirates II will not disappoint. There are probably explosions AS WELL AS sex. That's the American way.