Fight for your right to party

I was on top of the world.

In a few short days, I'd forever be away from Monte Vista Middle School, and I'd be going into high school.

Even better than that, the big graduation trip to Great America was the next day, and this school day couldn't end soon enough.

As it is, I only had a few classes to go. I went to my locker and got my books. Or tried to, anyway. Once I'd opened my locker door, someone slammed it shut. This was fairly common in middle school; at least it was to me.

I didn't know my tormentor; he was a tall kid with a shock of carroty hair and beady Scut Farkas eyes. After the third time he shut my locker, I figured, ah, to hell with it, I'll just get my stuff later since this moron obviously had some kind of problem.

His problem persisted. As I walked away, Carrothead started kicking the backs of my feet, you know, like when you try to trip a guy? You kick his foot while he's walking, hope it locks in the back of his knee joint, causing him to fall, and hilarity ensues.

Alas, he was kicking my foot only when it was firmly on the ground. Taller than me or not, he was pissing me off.

"You know, that works better when my foot is off the ground, ass," I said without looking behind me.

I made it almost around the corner when he shoved me. Hard.

"What the hell?" I asked, trying to keep my Jiminy Cricket voice as deep as it could go.

"What's your problem?" he asked me, shoving me in the chest.

Ever the diplomat, I replied, "I'm just trying to go to class, and some stupid moron asshole is trying to trip me. That's my problem."

"You think you're tough?" he asked, giving me another shove.

In point of fact, no, I didn't, but this hardly seemed the time to bring it up.

"I don't even know who the hell you are!"

"C'mon, pussy!"

Saying that I'm not good with conflict or confrontation is like saying Amy Winehouse is an occasional social drinker. Though I didn't know who this guy was or why he had this problem with me, I did know that I didn't want to get into a fight the day before the Great America trip; I'd already paid for it, and it be in double trouble if I couldn't go because I got caught fighting at school.

I was looking over his shoulder, expecting to see a teacher or school security type show up and break things up before they got to involved; that's how it usually went. You almost never saw an actual full-blown fight.

So the one time in my life I was in the situation, there was no one to be seen. Except for the flocks of kids gathering around to see what was going to happen next.

In this case, it was him repeating himself with various insults, punctuating each one with a shove. I shoved him back.

"Just leave me the hell alone! What the hell is your problem?" I spat.

"Oh, are you gonna cry?" he asked, shoving me yet again. Still there were no authority figures around. Time seemed to stretch. Everything stopped. I had an open shot. His arms were down; he obviously wasn't expecting me to do anything.

But with everyone looking at me, I knew I had to do something in my defense. I watched as my arm shot out reflexively toward his head, at which point I --

-- gave him the Vulcan nerve pinch.

Sigh.

While my instinctive attack did not render my opponent unconscious, it did give me a second to brace myself for the next few seconds while he asked, "What the hell?"

Capitalizing on his size difference, he grabbed my leg to flip me backward. But since I weighed all of 90 pounds with a loaded backpack, I kept my balance, watching as he pretty much lifted me straight up.

For about two seconds, and then we both collapsed. More catcalls from the crowd, mixed with laughter.

I turned around to get up, thinking that I should get up before him just in case he tries something else.

I'd almost gotten to one knee when I saw the word NIKE briefly before the bottom of his shoe connected with my face. The left lens of my glasses fell to the ground, partially from the impact, and partially because the screw had been loose for the last few weeks.

Either way, it looked dramatic as all hell, based on the gasps from the crowd. One of my classmates, Miguel, pushed his way in between us.

"What are you doing, Brian?" he asked. "He's littler than you!"

"But he's older than me," he said. Insult to injury: I got kicked in the face by a seventh-grader. I suck.

"Yeah," Miguel agreed, "but...look at him..."

Blindsided by this tremendous logic, the douche that walked like a boy was distracted long enough to forget why he was bothering with me in the first place. He backed off, and the crowd dispersed.

Fuming with anger that was probably radiating in visible lines from my head, I picked up my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, trying to ignore the stares I felt from all angles.

The bell rang, and I trudged to class, launching my backpack at my seat once I entered the classroom. My teacher looked up to say something, but she apparently saw the look in my eyes and went back to her gradebook.

I waited for the inevitable taunts, but aside from a few questions (Oh, that tall guy? He's an ass. Are you okay?), no one said anything, which made me feel better and worse about it.

At least I got to go to Great America, and that schmuck didn't. Petty? I suppose, but ultimately satisfying.

Vulcan nerve pinch.

Sigh.

Taking a small break

I was going to write about this epic childhood tale, but Jen and I are watching a movie, and I'm laughing too much to really focus on writing.

Later.

I love classic commercials

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I love old TV commercials. One of the places I buy the commercials in my collection is TvDays.com. Archivist Ira Gallen is my hero! Thanks to him, there's a treasure trove of television that I otherwise would never have been able to see.

I usually get a tape or two for either my birthday or Christmas. If you are at all interested in seeing how things were sold in the 50s and 60s, you should buy a tape or DVD from TVDays. I highly recommend them.

I could watch the commercials all day long. Maybe that makes me weird. It sure is weird when I have jingles stuck in my head and they're for products that don't exist anymore.

400!

Well, much to my surprise, this is the 400th post on Siftin'. I will use the occasion to tell one of my favorite jokes:

A guy walks into a bar--and he says, "Ow!"

Thanks, folks, I'll be here all week.

Festive festivities! Huzzah!

First, there's the teaser trailer that came out today for the new Indiana Jones movie (W00t!):



In other exciting news, the Siftin' family of blog entertainment (Our motto: More than just crap) has expanded. Yep, now you can double your pleasure by coming here first, and then going to The Dynamic Adventures of Dork Dad, where I am migrating my parenting-related content.

Tell a friend!

The best export from the Garden State

Slightly more uplifting than yesterday's post, I promise.

One day in high school, I complained to my friend Ken about the paucity of dates occupying my spare time. Seriously. Michael Jackson got more baby-sitting offers than I got dates.

Already used to my near-daily lament, Ken, ever the optimist, would tell me, "There's someone out there for everybody."

"Yeah," I said, "and with my luck, she's on the other side of the country now."

"Could be."

"I scarcely see how that's helping me now."

And while I went on to recite the usual litany of gripes to my pal in sunny California, my wife-to-be was attending high school in South Jersey.

Okay, technically, she was probably already home, what with the time difference, but that's not really important.

What matters is that, despite my pessimism, I was right.

I just had to wait another 7 or 8 years to meet her. Had I known that then, I might not have been so damned moody.

All right, maybe not all the time.

Putting the 'hopeless' in 'hopeless romantic'

I don't know what the hell I was thinking.

Having bailed on the Halloween dance after getting slammed at the door by a wave of heat and too much perfume and cologne, I decided I'd try the whole school dance thing again.

On Valentine's Day.

Lost to the mists of time is any logical reason 11-year-old me thought this was a good idea.

Let me draw you a quick sketch:

It's 1986, and I've only been 11 for a few months. I'm short, have shaggy brown hair that tends to get greasy within a few hours of washing it (thanks so much, puberty), and though I know I wanted to dance in theory -- I had a mental list of songs that I'd hear on the radio and think that someday, I'd dance to them with a pretty girl -- I'd never actually danced. I had no idea how.

On top of that, I'm socially retarded, and I don't mean that in a pejorative sense. I can't read body language that well, and to make matters worse, I'm completely uncoordinated even when I know what I want to do.

And the pickle on the crap sandwich that was preteen alienation: Given the chance, I'd rather draw superheroes or read than play football. As you can imagine, living in a small football-centric town, this didn't make me the slightest bit popular with my peers, except as an easy target.

Maybe it was nothing but morbid curiosity; wanting to see what "normal" kids did. I'd become increasingly aware that I was different from my classmates -- or was at least perceived as such. Maybe I could mimic normal behavior enough to not stick out so much. Who knows?

While I was still blasted by a tangible wave of heat at the multipurpose room door, this time I paid my money, waved off my mom, who had dropped me off, and attended my first school dance.

I was given a slip of paper with a number -- 17 -- on it. This, the chaperon explained, was one of two like numbers. The other belonged to one of the girls attending. Over the course of the dance, I had to try to find my counterpart, which meant I'd have to mingle and ask girls I didn't know (pretty much all of them, really) to dance.

I frowned. I'm shy. Like really shy. Best-case scenario, I got a mad case of the stuttering duhs trying to make small talk. Keep in mind, I hadn't been in town quite a year yet, and I didn't know hardly anyone my age, let alone the older kids, let alone pretty girls with their makeup, their perfume, and in some cases, their boobs.

How was I going to interrupt their good time to make them talk to a short, dorky kid wearing floods?

I immediately needed a drink. I spied a table on the other side of the multipurpose room that had a giant orange jug with a haphazard assortment of cups next to it.

Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was the mystical McDonald's-sponsored orange drink of victory. Devoid of carbonation and watered down more than a cocktail at a cheap casino, it was barely a step above Bug Juice.

Still, it was wet, and it kept me from having to interact with anyone.

"Hey."

I looked up from my drink, wiped the orange moustache off my lip, and saw an eighth-grade couple.

"Huh?"

Had I taken his drink? Was I standing in the wrong place? Ohcrapohcrapohcrap.

"What number do you have?"

"17."

They looked at each other and smiled.

"That's my girlfriend's number. Trade with me."

"Um," I said, taking another sip of Orange Death to buy time to think of a response. The chaperon said we weren't allowed to swap numbers with anyone. Why he couldn't just dance with her anyway, I didn't know, but he was adamant about wanting to trade.

"Well, who has your number?"

"I don't know; I've just been asking about both of our numbers. C'mon, buddy, help us out, wouldja?"

"Okay," I said, forking over my paper. I didn't want to stand in the way of true love, and I certainly didn't want to get my ass kicked. I got a 9 in place of my 17. The happy couple mumbled thank you and disappeared into the ocean of people.

Meanwhile, I had to find the other number 9.

I wandered among the groups of people while The Beastie Boys' "Brass Monkey" played, knocking the crap out of the auditorium's feeble speakers. I tried thinking of ways to find Miss 9 without having to, you know, actually talk to anyone.

I got a tap on the shoulder. I turned around; it was the new Mr. 17, and I had no idea what he wanted.

"Hey, little dude, I found the other 9. I think she's your age."

"Oh yeah?" That sounded promising.

"She's over there," he said, hefting a thumb at the area behind him.

"Okay. Um, thanks," I said.

Well that certainly solved that problem. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to come to the dance after all. A girl my age had my matching number. Maybe it was one of the cute girls I saw in the hallway every day after lunch.

You all know where this is going, right?

Following "Brass Monkey" was Run-DMC's "You Be Illin'," which, in retrospect, was more than a little fitting. As various people got into the music, the crowds parted, just like in the movies, and without asking, I knew precisely who had the other number 9.

She was standing near the stairs to the stage area, her hands folded together in front of her at the waist: one of the girls in my homeroom class who didn't like me. Not that this distinction narrowed it down much, but still. She must have read it on my face, because she broke out into laughter.

"You have number 9?"

I felt the heat rise above my collar; I was embarrassed, mortified and pissed off like only an 11-year-old social pariah could be.

"Don't worry," I said over the booming bass, "You don't have to dance with me."

As the song ended, I walked away -- before she could say anything else -- and out the door, at which point I was reminded that there were no in-and-out privileges.

I silently nodded my head, afraid that if I tried to talk, my voice would crack.

I trudged to the pay phone, dropped in my dimes and called my mom for a ride, making sure to put on my best voice.

"Hi," I said evenly when my mom answered. "I'm ready. Yeah, it was pretty boring. Okay, thanks. Bye."

Before I parked my carcass on a cement planter to wait for my ride, I peered through the open door of the multipurpose room, seeing everyone dancing and having a good time, and hoping that someday I would fit in.

From me to you

Valentines were an important undertaking in elementary school. Teachers had gotten wise and sent home class lists to ensure that no one got left out.

But you first had to pick cool valentines, and for me, that usually meant ones that featured Superman and his pals. And then you had to worry about which superhero was on which valentine you gave to which classmate.

Seriously, you would just about get your ass kicked if you gave a Catwoman valentine to one of the tough kids.

After getting tired of having to write and rewrite envelopes because I lost my place on the class list, I eventually resorted to addressing them all like this:

To: You

From: Me

All I had to do was make sure I had enough, and I was all set. And since it was plain to see that they weren't addressed to anyone in particular, I could get away with a tough guy getting a Wonder Woman valentine. Pretty clever, no?

Oh, sure, it probably seemed impersonal, but really you just wanted to make sure you got one. Some kids would make them by hand, and some would include little candy hearts, but I didn't want anyone to notice any favoritism directed toward my female classmates, as it was, you know, not cool for boys to like girls.

Well, not cool to admit it; I didn't know many guys who didn't think at least one or two girls were cute despite our protestations. I got enough crap trying to explain how, despite being a really fast runner, girls usually managed to catch me when they chased me at recess.

Luckily, I came up with the Cootie Effect, and they agreed that science really ought to come up with a cure for that.

Because I'm a caring individual, here's a free valentine you can print out and give to your pals, cooties notwithstanding.

So happy together

Well, my wife has returned, and we got to spend a nice day together, which was nice. We all missed her, and she claims to have missed me as well.

I'm going to miss hanging out with the kids now that I'll be back at work, and I'll miss not having to commute every day, but until I hit the lottery, such is my lot in life.

Now it's back to obsessing over pop culture on the train to and from work. And at lunch. I even dug out my Totally Mad CD set that has every issue of Mad, well, up until like December 1998, but still.

I'm starting from 1974 this time to see how it has changed during my lifetime. If I come across anything interesting, I'll likely post it here.

And WonderCon is coming up in a few weeks, which is pretty cool. My pal Karyne is going with me this year (first-timer), so it'll be sorta like taking a kid to Disneyland for the first time. Except less waiting in line.

Among the scheduled guests: Steve Carell and Anne Hathaway, who will be there to promote their Get Smart movie. I promised my wife that I would do my best to dissuade Miss Hathaway from following me around the convention all day long in case she, you know, decides she just can't live without me.

Cross I have to bear, you know?

Home Alone, Day 4: The home stretch

Well, Jen gets back from her trip tomorrow, and huzzah, huzzah, I managed not to burn down the house or lose either of the kids to roving bands of gypsies or supervillains. On top of that, Ramona helped me vacuum (she hung out in the Baby Bjorn), and I got a load and a half of laundry done.

Of course, Jen does that and more while juggling various freelancing projects, but for me, it's still impressive.

So is remembering to shave both sides of my face before leaving the house, but hey, baby steps, right?

Home Alone, Day 3: Things get goofy

I have managed to heal my son, which is good, because if he was motionless much longer, I think my daughter might have tried to eat him. She likes the food.

We're currently watching Goofy cartoons, which both Brody and I enjoy quite a bit. The skiing one is probably my favorite, but just about any Goofy cartoon is better (for me, anyway) than watching There Goes a Dump Truck for the skrillionth time.

The next cartoon is starting, so I'd better get going.

Home Alone, Day 2: I'm only sleeping

Brody seems to be sleeping off the tummy bug he picked up; poor little nubbin. He's keeping hydrated and getting some rest.

In other news, you might have noticed that I've got a new header graphic up there, and now you can submit posts you love to Reddit, Digg or StumbleUpon. Handy, no? I do this for you, dear readers. Because I care.

My stupid stomach

In keeping with the practice of wanting things it can't have, my stomach is seriously craving some Cooper cheese, which, of course, I can't get out here. My parents brought some back from a trip back east, but it didn't last long. I could polish off a 5-pound block in no time.

Grrrr.

Home Alone, Day 1: He tasks me...

So natch, the first day I'm in charge of the kids, my son decides he's going to do the Technicolor yawn. Barfing kid--always a crowd-pleaser. Meh.

Ramona's not being too bad so far, although I'd like to eat at some point. Oh well. Not like I'm going to waste away to nothing...

Impending doom?

For the next 5 days, I'm going to be in charge of the kids, as my darling wife is going away on a trip. Now is the time for you all to place your bets on how I'll do.

My prediction: I will have a beard by the time I go back to work Tuesday.

The kids are pretty good, so I should be all right. Plus, I did used to be home with Brody every day, so it's not completely new.

A question for the ages

Seriously, what does "Yah Mo B There" mean?



Thanks to pal Jen at work for getting the song stuck in my head. To be fair, it was sorta in retaliation for this:

Hello, and how are you today?

I'm not suggesting that you bug your co-workers with puerile phone pranks, but if I were, I'd suggest you start with the Miss Cleo soundboard.

Just sayin'.

Watching the game

Just like starting over

So I finally decided to restring my guitar so I play like a lefty playing a left-handed guitar, as opposed to how I've been doing it, which is to just take a regular guitar and play it upside down.

This, by the way, is a good way to get freakish stares at Guitar Center.

When I was first learning on my brother's guitar, I almost gave up until I realized that I played air guitar like a lefty but was trying to play real guitar like a righty. I flipped it over, and started learning from there.

There are a few drawbacks. For starters, I popped about 44.8 billion high E strings trying to rock out with a Nirvana song because those took the brunt of my ham-handed strumming.

I learned to rein it in (I'm cheap if nothing else), but I'm for crap at actual leadwork because frets and strings that are easy to reach for most players are on the other end for me. Kurt Cobain was a lefty, but I don't know if he restrung his guitar (and I'm too lazy to look it up).

So now I have to take all the chords I've been playing for 15 years and flip them over in my head to play them the right way. It's a pain in the ass so far, but in a way, it's sorta like playing Guitar Hero all the way through on Easy, and then starting over on medium.

Wish me luck.

Goodness, gracious...

Every now and then I see a headline that I really wish I'd written. Case in point:



Awe. Some.

Herd mentality

Growing up, I'd see cows and other livestock out in fields, and sometimes they'd have those nutty locator tag earrings that the cool cows wear.

I always thought that was kind of a bummer to always have to have it with them. This, of course, was ignoring the whole "becoming food and clothing" that they also had to look forward to.

I'm a detail person.

I was glad that, not being a cow, I didn't have to deal with such foolishness. I was a person, and I could go where I wanted, right?

So the other day while walking from the BART station to work, I noticed that many of my fellow working slobs shared something in common:

We all had ID badges dangling from various articles of clothing.

So really, the cows are a step ahead (aside from the aforementioned food and clothing thing) of me, because they don't have to ask for a temporary badge and worry about looking like an absent-minded schmuck if they leave it at home.

So next time you see a tagged cow, don't feel so smug.

Word to your udder.

No sleep till...24th Mission

After about 8 months of working in San Francisco, I finally fell asleep on BART and missed my stop this morning. And the one after that, and the one after that. I woke up by the next one, dragged myself upright and exited the train, headed to the other side of the platform, and waited for the next train to take me back.

Just to make sure there was no repeat, I stood until I reached my destination. But dammit, I was still on time for work. How much do I rawk?

You know, aside from the whole "being a dumbass who fell asleep on public transit" thing...

I rawk.

Had a chance to finally finish off Rock Band just now. On Medium, because I'm old, and I suck. It was pretty fun. I rented it from Gamefly, so I pretty much just did the guitar part, since I don't have the drums and I can't sing worth a crap.





Now I just need to finish the last bit of the first Guitar Hero, then I can tackle the 80s edition.

If these keep being as successful as they are, they're eventually going to run out of ideas, and I'll be posting a picture of me beating Guitar Hero: Porno Movie Soundtrack Classics.

Chicka-chicka-bow-bowwwwwww....

Hi there, nice rich people...

If there are any readers out there who are overburdened with cash and want a way to remedy the situation, here's something you can buy me:


Only $2,500 if you use Buy It Now!

It's the mighty cartoon booth of my youth. Rarely did a trip to Woolworth's at Southland Mall go by without me pestering my mom for a quarter so I could watch a Mighty Mouse or Woody Woodpecker cartoon.

Of course, 9 times out of 10, it was a Deputy Dawg cartoon, but the world is an unfair place.

But it was a great day when I plunked in my quarter and got this, my favorite Woody Woodpecker cartoon:

And the things I draw come true...

Being a failed artist, I'm always keen to see how people who can actually draw well actually do it.

Here's a nifty video capture of an artist using his tablet. I have a similar tablet, and I can pretty much guarantee you won't see something like that come from me.

Oh well. At least I have lots of hair.

Oh wait.

Crap.

Well, crap.

Found this while poking around the Intarwebs. Guess I wasn't so original after all:

Really wishing I understood Japanese

Thanks to Siftin' superfan and pal Dorf, I have encountered yet another awesome Japanese program. And because I'm all kinds of magnanimous, here are a few samples.







And from the "That's how you get pink eye" department:

It's not what you think...

It's not often you'll find me posting a picture of a girl playing with herself at work, but here you go:



OK, it's my pal Karyne rocking out with her Guitar Hero shirt, but that's probably as racy as it gets here.

Huzzah!

Just a brief shout-out to my little brother, who is now proud papa to a baby boy. Way to go, Scrote!

In honor of the momentous occasion, here is one of my favorite kid-related videos, which my wife tells me is old, but that's OK, because it's funny, dammit.

Things they don't tell you in broadcast journalism classes...

There is a chance, however slim, that you will be called to report a story that involves repeated use of the words "Jesus, wieners, and poopie."



Wiener poopie sounds like failures in the Wienerschnitzel test kitchen if you ask me.

Another brick in the wall...

Who doesn't like Tetris? People who suck at it, that's who.

My wife and I, back in the days of spare time before children, used to wage Tetris war till the wee hours of the night, cursing at each other complimenting on each other's skills. Sometimes a little Tetris makes your day better.

With that in mind, here's a variety of Tetrisness:

Japanese Tetris comedy sketch

I wish I spoke Japanese, but even with the language barrier, I found myself chuckling at this clip, especially toward the end.


Human Tetris

I think when they get a big enough auditorium, they'll do Doom.


Marching band Tetris

Sure, there are other video games in there, but there is Tetris. So there.


Human Tetris II

I love Japanese TV. How else would you see something like this?



And because bikinis make everything better:



Clearly, they've missed the opportunity to rename that game more appropriately given its participants...

God bless the Japanese again. This has nothing to do with Tetris, but you gotta love a country that has a game show with this as its goal:

Here's something I never thought I'd say...

Check out this cool Tesla video:




(via Kotaku)

Here's a handy tip

Because sometimes it seems that no one knows.

In this great Hall of Justice...

This is still one of my favorite toys. I've got one waiting for Brody should he be interested in superhero stuff. The Hall of Justice is just the coolest. I remember waiting and waiting when the second or third wave of Super Powers figures came out, and I saw the Tower of Darkness, which was basically a Hall of Justice for Darkseid and the bad guys.

The reason we could never find it was that it was shelved. I wouldn't see it in person for years, when someone had a prototype on display at a comic convention. That was also when I was *this* close to a Cyborg figure--the only one in the whole collection that I never found.

At some point, I'll probably babble more about these toys in depth. But for now, check out this rad commercial:

You have died of dysentery...

It appears that I caught something while playing Oregon Trail on Facebook today, so in lieu of an actual post, I give you another LOLRamona:

What can I say, I'm easily amused...

I am a sucker for funny pictures. I've been known to laugh myself to tears over some, which in retrospect, really weren't that funny.

Here is an assortment of pictures I came across recently that made me chuckle:

Could've been worse, I guess

What song was No. 1 the day you were born?

On the U.S. chart: "You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet," Bachman-Turner Overdrive


On the U.K. chart: "Everything I Own," Ken Boothe:


On the Australian chart: "The Night Chicago Died," Paper Lace:



Do you have better songs? Worse? Share your misery in the comments.

Unless you were born on April 4, 1964, in which case the top 5 songs were all by the Beatles, and I don't want to hear about it.

Not for the kids...

I usually try to stay PG-13 around here, and I'm not quite sure if this makes that rating. Nonetheless, I laughed my ass off, so I figured I'd share.

Also, I saw this at the awesome blog List of the Day, which has a cornucopia of hilarity, so go check it out.

I really don't have much more to say about this, except watch:

Enter here for what?

You'll often find Brody in his Lightning McQueen garage tent that he got for Christmas. He loves it; it is quite cool. But looking at it today, something caught my eye.



Looks like someone forgot to run spell check...

The Force is strong with this one

Last month, I thought I'd start a Christmas tradition by watching The Star Wars Holiday Special with my son.

So I put it on, with Brody sitting next to me. He sat patiently and watched the opening credits, and the extended Chewbacca's family scene that has nearly no dialogue.

But just after the painful cooking show segment with Harvey Korman, Brody stood up, looked at me, and said (a touch patronizingly), "Dad, I think that's enough."

And he went to go play with his trains.

Oh well.

Hot Nuts?

Catchy little ditty, ain't it?

From the beating a dead horse department...

My pal Karyne (who has red hair, so I tease her and call her Ginger) and I got on the subject of the "Don't tase me, bro!" guy. Here's a nifty remix of the pertinent part, set to a snappy beat:



Somehow, it evolved into a contest to see who could come up with as many lame parodies as possible.

It started clever enough. For us, anyway. I asked her if at some point, she'd go to Walgreen's for a candy run. She said maybe, and I replied with "Don't tease me."

Ginger: don't tease me, bro

Jeff: I want to draw of a picture of a Klingon on his knees with his hands up, while Kirk and Spock are aiming their phasers at him. "Don't phase me, bro!"

Ginger: heh

Jeff: or a college freshman: "Don't haze me, bro!"

Ginger: or a cinnamon bun: don't glaze me, bro

Jeff: i've seen that with a donut

Jeff: Someone who works for a nonprofit: Don't pays me, bro!

Ginger: or a building: don't raize me, bro

Jeff: a flower

Jeff: don't vase me, bro

I should point out that this was over the course of the day--we were actually working as well. Honest.

Then at one point, it got goofy.

Jeff: Broken video game sign: Don't plays me, bro!

Ginger: jewelry: don't appraise me, bro

Jeff: Jennifer Grey: Don't Swayze me, bro! **artistic license**

Ginger: king kong: don't fay wrays me, bro

Jeff: Ballerina: don't plies me, bro!

Jeff: Crowd to cheerleader: Don't "Ready, OKs" me, bro!

Ginger: mom to teenager: don't "anyways" me, bro

Jeff: Joint to stoner: Don't blaze me, bro!

Ginger: agent to bruce willis: don't yippee-ki-yays me, bro

Jeff: Miss Piggy to Kermit: Don't yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaays me, bro

Jeff: Dumb Donald to Fat Albert: Don't "Hey, hey, heys" me, bro!

Then somehow I managed to get all kinds of historical:

Jeff: Samuel Tilden: Don't Rutherford B. Hayes me, bro!

That's funnier if you look up Rutherford Hayes on Wikipedia or something.

Not much, but we passed funny long ago, didn't we?

After that, we got punchy.

Jeff: Edith to Archie Bunker: Don't "Those Were the Days" me, bro

Jeff: Kitten in cardboard box before being dumped in the middle of nowhere: Don't strays me, bro!

Jeff: HMS Titanic to engineers: Don't raise me, bro!

Jeff: Critic to Sandra Bullock: Don't "28 Days" me, bro

Ginger: metropolis to superman: don't up, up, and aways me, bro

How much sadder could we get?

Well, by the time I tried "Environmentalist to McDonald's in the late 1980s:
Don't Styrofoam trays me, bro!" we knew that we had officially stomped the life out of this particular meme.

Oh, except for the neat LOLcat I submitted to I Can Has Cheezburger?:


moar funny pictures

Click on it and vote the hell out of it, and I might make the main page. I should get something out of wasting this much brain power.

Guitar Hero side-effects

I've played a bunch of Guitar Hero and Rock Band, and I've noticed a few things.

1) That weird vertigoey feeling you get when you've been playing for a while (say, a week or two, straight) and you look away from the screen. Everything seems to be moving away from you--almost like going into a wormhole or something.

2) Self-consciousness about rocking too hard. Sure, you want to do well, but at what point do you cross the line from keeping up with the notes to Pete Townshend windmills at the end of your song?

3) That brief feeling of apprehension you get when you hear a song from the game out in the real world. For just a second, your hands tense up, trying to make sure your fingers are in the right place.

Or maybe it's just me.

My commute...and welcome to it

This is what I hear in my head when I drive to BART every morning:

LOLRamona, part 2

That Sounds Familiar!

Today's entries into That Sounds Familiar are two songs that occupy a permanent spot in my brain's song rotation.

They don't really sound alike but for the same chord progression. So just to be weird, I like to sing the chorus of the older song during the chorus of the newer song.

And my wife already knows I'm a big, big freak, so I don't have to worry about looking weird when I do it.

First song: "Atlantis," by Donovan


My parents had this album, and they played it a lot when I was a kid. I liked the song fine enough, but the talking at the beginning bored me to tears. I already knew what happened to Atlantis. I read Aquaman, didn't I?

Donovan already got points with me for naming dropping Superman and Green Lantern in one of his other songs, so I sat through the talking.

Second song: Damn Good Times, by They Might Be Giants



I love They Might Be Giants. Love. Thanks to Here Come the ABCs, my son loves them, too. I can't wait for Here Come The 123s, which comes out next month.

I stumbled on to this when I was putzing around on the guitar trying to pick out the chords. Once I had the chord progression, I thought it sounded familiar. I started playing it slowly, and then I had it.

I should also mention that there is a really cool book by Tim English, called "Sounds Like Teen Spirit." Since this is a subject that I've been interested in for a long time, I was happy to get it for Christmas. If you like this kind of thing, I recommend you pick it up; it's a great read.

It also limits what I will cover with this feature, but that's OK; Tim is more thorough and informative.

Signs that I'm online way too much

When I spied the bag of Stacey's Pita Chips on the counter, I read the cholesterol listing on the bag as "Oh my God! Cholesterol" instead of zero milligrams.

And when I realized my error, I wanted to hit Ctrl-Z.

Hopeless, I tell you.

Counting down the hours...

I'm getting ready to check out Skidoo at long last. Being a Harry Nilsson fan, I've already listened to the soundtrack, and now I'll get to see how the songs fit in with the movie.

And special thanks to Mark Evanier for putting out the word about this being on Turner Classic Movies and making the swell banner above.

Tonight at 2 a.m. Set those Tivos, kids. If you see only one movie in which Jackie Gleason trips out on LSD, make it this one.

O is for 'Oh, hell no!'

Sometimes you can just smell quality when perusing movie titles, especially if you have synesthesia. Take the latest winner in the Bad Movies From A to Z sweepstakes: Over 18...and Ready. This review may not be suitable for all audiences. The movie is suitable for no one...

Also at this point, I'd like to mention the scarcity of movie titles that begin with "O."

The movie in a nutshell: Girl goes to Hollywood to be an actress and starts from the absolute bottom. I think that's what happens in the movie, too, for that matter.

The story: Honestly, it doesn't start off too bad. It's a travelogue of sorts, showing you what Hollywood looked like back in the day, which, judging from the marquees we see (Paper Lion, Camelot, Barbarella) I'm going to guess late 1968, early 1969. This was supposedly released in August 1969.

I should mention that despite that film date, the movie is in black and white, which to someone of my generation, still makes me think it should be a lot older.

At any rate, after 2 minutes of Hollywood, we get our title card, and a splendid one at that.


Barney Merritt, hip mogul at Nu-Art Continental Pictures, bemoans the lack of starlets for his newest project. And given that he refers to them as "broads," one gets the impression that he's not working on one of those Merchant Ivory pictures.

His secretary, Lyn Stevens, aside from having a bra so pointy that it's an occupational hazard, also has a desk setup that would send any workplace ergo evaluator into conniption fits. Her typewriter is in front of her, sure, but her phone is off to the left of that, so when she answers it, she reaches across with her right hand to speak into the receiver while reading from the script surreptitiously placed in front of her.

Clearly, her mind is on other things than ergonomic safety. In fact, she wants to be in Barney's next picture, even though, as he points out, he makes exploitation films.

No problem, says she. She came to Hollywood to be an actress. You've gotta start somewhere, right?

Right?

Later, Barney complains to his wife, Billie, about the casting situation. His wife, you can tell, is married to an important Hollywood type because she wears an ascot and smokes with a cigarette holder. Tres cool. But before he gets too into the conversation (like after two sentences), he realizes that darnit, he left his briefcase at work. On a Friday evening, no less.

Oh noes!

Billie suggests that he call Lyn. At home. You know, rather than just get off his lazy ass and drive back to work and get it himself. That's why they have help, I suppose.

He calls, and wouldn't you just know it? She's in the tub when the phone rings. Ain't that always the way? Oh well. Lyn, as we find out, is a very thorough bather. I don't think they missed an angle from which to show her scrubbing something.

When Barney explains that he needs his briefcase before going back to work Monday (maybe it has the soul of Marsellus Wallace or something), Lyn's 5K brain hatches a plan.

On Saturday morning, Lyn goes to a photographer to get some nude shots taken of her. That way, she reasons, she can show that she has the parts for the part. I hope Barney likes what she looks like, because she can't do a natural line reading to save her life. Even in post-production looping.

Let's talk briefly about pacing, shall we? No, not like the kind you're apt to do while this is on your TV. In the crap movies I've seen, nudity is often used to keep the viewers' attention. Intro, boobs, story, story, scare, story, boobs, etc.

So why do we need to see her complete nude photo shoot only minutes after we saw her bathe? I realize it's the next day and all, but damn. Even better, the skeevy photographer decides to take an alternate form of payment for the rush developing job. Maybe it's just me, but photography aside, if this is how you accept payment, I wouldn't make a big point of how fast you can get done.

Bow-chicka-bow-bow.

On the plus side, he's fully clothed while he makes out with her, and there's an arty cut to an acoustic guitar (no G string joke here, folks) before anything too graphic.

Sunday morning rolls around, and Lyn dutifully brings Barney's briefcase. Lyn meets Barney's wife, Billie, who talks to her about the movie Barney is working on. Billie doesn't beat around the bush.

"You have a very nice body, my dear," she says.

Skeeeeeevy....

"Do you think you can act?" she asks.

"Oh, I know I can," Lyn replies. "And you don't have to be the best actress in these kinds of movies." True. A very meta moment for a late-60s movie, don't you think?

Billie helpfully mentions that she's going out of town for a few days. Even more, dinner's already done -- Billie says that since she's leaving, Lyn should stay. Right. Uh-huh. That could happen. In the bedroom, Billie asks Barney if he's going to use Lyn for the movie. She says he should see the pictures of Lyn in his briefcase.

"Au naturel," Billie says.

"You're kidding. In the nude?"

This brilliant deductive reasoning, no doubt, is why this cat is a studio head, even if it is a crap studio.


Billie demands that he use Lyn. In the movie as well, I presume, but I may be overthinking this. Barney acts all butthurt about his wife's demands. Yes, it's a stone-cold bitch when your wife demands that you use your giant-racked secretary in your next flesh feast and have her over for dinner as well and forces you to look at naked pictures of her.

It appears to be a case of Barney protesting too much, because once Billie's out of the picture, he decides to butter Lyn up to appear in his film.

OMG.

"How do you think all the other dames make it in this business? On their backs, of course." -- Barney, on why Lyn should bone him.

She has to think about it. See, darling Lyn has some standards. Sure, she got nudie pics taken of herself and then stuck them in her boss' briefcase, but still, she's not that easy. You know, I don't think they covered this kind of scenario in those videos you have to watch at work during sexual harassment training.

Ah, romance. With the precision skill of a surgeon (who is not only blind drunk on moonshine but also had both arms fall asleep), Barney undresses her, and I'd imagine that an inflatable doll would have a more lifelike countenance. I'd have to ask my brother to be sure (rimshot).

Seriously. It's like watching boobs on a plank of wood. But less realistic.

Lyn gets, um, more employment questions, and sure enough, there are openings to be filled. She gets the position.

But oh, snap! She hauls ass out of there while Barney's asleep. This bird has flown, Norwegian Wood.

On Monday morning, Gary the skeevy photographer asks Lyn on a date to celebrate her impending stardom, to which she agrees.

And next, without the benefit of transitions or segues, Barney goes over the ins and outs (so to speak) of exploitation film shooting.

Meanwhile, poolside at Chez Merritt, Billie and Martha the Maid swim in the nude and soak up some rays. I don't know what they're paying Martha, but it can't possibly be enough to be rubbing suntan lotion on Billie.

But wait, wasn't Billie supposed to be gone for a few days? Yep. But she came back early, which really frosts Barney's cheese wheel.

"You just can't wait to get your hands on her," Barney says upon her early return.

Cut to Lyn and Gary out on their date. They're parked out on some kind of lovers' lane. She says they can't go further in their relationship. It's too complicated.

"Uh-huh," Gary says, and the camera pans away as they play some tonsil hockey.

Some time later (see, the scenes are just shown in order without any great effort at establishing date and time. There's no tomorrow or yesterday, it's just next. Next. Next.), Lyn visits the Merritts. Billie looks a bit eager and tells Martha the Maid to take care of their guest. In most of the other movies I've reviewed, that would mean that Lyn is about to meet an untimely end. But in this flick, well, you do the math.

Lyn takes a second as soon as she's in her guest room to break a date with Gary, and as you can imagine, he's not happy.

The next day, Billie and Lyn are on the beach. Billie, who looks as though she's seen the sun a lot, helpfully slathers Lyn with sunblock, paying special attention to her chesticles. Don't want those babies getting burned, do we? Then all of a sudden, it's a girl-on-girl From Here to Eternity homage.

Back on the ranch, Martha the Maid brings Barney breakfast in bed. Main course: Martha.

Again, she can't possibly be paid enough. For reasons unknown, she bolts out of bed and dives into the pool. By the time I looked up from my notebook again, they were back in bed performing the rejected video for "Ebony and Ivory."

Finally, the first day of shooting arrives. Huzzah. Lyn's character is tied to a pole, stripped, and whipped. Maybe it's a movie about Joan of Arc or something. The shots seems to follow a formula: show up, get naked, repeat.

Now that I think about it, Billie reminds me a little of Mrs. Roper from Three's Company. So if you ever fantasized about the Ropers getting it on, this movie was made for you. Forty-seven minutes in and I finally realize that Barney and Billie are both supposed to be horny and middle-aged. Barney just looks like he had a mishap with some white shoe polish and guyliner.

Next (see what I mean?), Gary reveals his love for Lyn. And then, because he's Mr. Effing Smooth, he says, essentially, all the other chicks Barney employs end up in the sack with him -- how about you?

And while we're reeling from that lost scene from Love Story, Barney says shortly after to Lyn that he only stays with Billie because of her money. Once his movies have made the fortune they obviously will, he can kick her to the curb. Ah, young love.

Jilted Gary tries calling Lyn at home to no avail because she's once again staying with the Merritts. She also has to take another bath. And in case we forgot what that experience is like, we get to see it again. In the same order. She is obviously a creature of routine.

Oddly, the Merritts seem to have the exact same tub as Lyn's. Or they just reused the bath footage, thinking that the viewer would be so distracted by nakedosity that he wouldn't notice.

No number of baths are going to make me feel less dirty for sitting through this crapfest. Not even with a full box of Mr. Bubble.

And because Lyn hadn't been naked onscreen with Martha the Maid yet, Martha rubs moisturizer on Lyn after her bath. Who says you can't get good help these days?

At this point, I notice that the film is nearing the end of its supposed running time, and it's nowhere near a logical chain of events for an ending. I think the filmmakers noticed this too, as things start to move quicker. Or to be more precise, even more disjointedly.

Billie, Barney, Martha the Maid and Lyn hang out on the back porch, either watching footage from Barney's movie or having flashbacks.

Afterward, they share a joint before Billie and the nude-except-for-her-apron (sure, why not?) Martha the Maid head back down to the beach. While they're out, Barney decides that he wants to do the bow-chicka-bow-bow with Lyn, who, showing at least a few synapses firing, says no.

Gary arrives at Chez Merritt and sneaks into the house. He stumbles upon the pot remnants and hears Lyn telling Barney to leave her alone. Gary busts in, punches Barney, flees, and drives away in his car, leaving Lyn to chase after her Prince Charming.

While she drives after him, she thinks about all the things that have happened to her in the period of time the movie covered, which is a dandy excuse for reusing yet more footage. The cuts get more and more rapid, presumably as her state of mind gets more and more erratic.

Finally, it's all too much for her, and she plows into a tree and dies. But at least she has the presence of mind to die with one boob hanging out. Rest in peace, classy lady...

Afterthoughts: Well, that sucked.

I'm not going back to check -- one viewing was more than enough -- but I believe this is the first movie wherein pube continuity was a problem. In her first bath scene, she's like Kojak, has a fro on the beach with Mrs. Roper, and then is clean-shaven again a day or so later when she bathes again. Either they did indeed reuse the bath footage from the beginning of the movie, or Lyn has the world's fastest growing hair.

Oh. Um, I hope you weren't eating when you started reading this.

This movie has it all: plotless plot that makes The Bikini Carwash Company seem plausible, inane dialogue, feeble acting, and boobies, boobies, boobies.

All with a running time of 66 minutes, part of which is repeated footage. You can watch this film thanks to the wonderful folks at Something Weird Video, without whom these kinds of films, as bad as they are, would be lost forever. Over 18 and Ready is the back-end of a double bill DVD with Alley Tramp, which sadly, I did not have the intestinal fortitude to attempt to watch following this travesty.

As always, the Something Weird disc offers a host of extras, making it well worth your time if you have a lot of it to kill.

Dumb Things I've Done (10 in an occasional series)

In junior high school, I was doing dishes (under duress, as usual), and since the batteries to my Walkman had run out again, I was humming to pass the time while my fingers got progressively prunier. After zoning out, I found myself humming a tune that, upon reflection, I couldn't quite place. Where the hell had I heard it? Finally, it came to me. It was from this commercial:



Why that stuck in my head, I can't tell you.

Yes, it's so last year...

Get in on the ground floor with what I'm sure will be the coolest thing going in 2008: The LOLRamona:

So long, 2007...

What a year.

Got a new job, got an addition to the family, served on a jury for the first time, and I got a lot closer to figuring out why I am the way I am.

Yep, 2007 wasn't dull. Here's to a pleasantly eventful 2008.

Cheers!

The season of giving...

Because it's stuck in my head, allow me to share it with you. Cheers!



This brings up a few interesting questions:

Is a hobo-humpin' slobo babe considered "hobosexual"?

OMG, did she lick that guy's armpit?

What the hell is slobo?

Did the video need at least 166 separate cuts?

Why don't more videos have cute girls and trampolines?

Is trampoline a synonym for a short girl who looks kinda slutty?

Why are you still reading this?

Turkey Television actually existed

My friend Karyne and I talk about You Can't Do That on Television on a fairly regular basis.

Yes, to the point that our conversations begin with:

"Hey, Alanis..."

"Yes, Alasdair?"

But I managed to find a neat clip while poking around on YouTube as I often do. It's from the less-remembered Turkey Television, which often followed YCDTOTV.



And because now you're thinking of it, here's a clip from YCDTOTV:

Gift ideas

You know, now that the holidays are almost here, you might be looking for the perfect gift to give. Now say you can't quite afford Amazon's new e-book reader, the Kindle:



Not to fear. You can, instead, buy some sweet Siftin' merch from my store. And even if you don't have a need for an undergarment with my face on it, there are also neat-o T-shirts to have, too.



You know you want one.

That sounds familiar...

A new feature here at Siftin' is That Sounds Familiar, in which I pair up two songs that sound a little similar, whether it's the whole song, or just pieces.

First up, two songs that you probably have on a mix CD: "Top of the World" by the Carpenters, and "Pass the Dutchie" by Musical Youth.

In this case, it's the beginning of the verse of both songs. There's not much similar in the rest of the song, but I hear this in my head:

"Such a feeling coming over me (How does it feel when you got no food?)"






And that's how this works. Some will be shockingly similar, and some, I suspect, will only sound the same to me.

Rhythm is gonna get you whether you like it or not

I was watching "We Are the 80s" on VH1 Classic this morning while my son dutifully played with his Thomas the Tank Engine trains (unleaded, thank you).

A video by Miami Sound Machine came on:



Brody stopped what he was doing, walked over to me, and asked in all seriousness, "Dad, what is that horrible noise?"

So yeah, I guess I don't have to worry about getting him Gloria Estefan's greatest hits for Christmas.

And that's a gift for both of us.

But since this is a season of giving, here's the video for Miami Sound Machine's "Bad Boy," featuring the understudies for the cast of "Cats," and introduced by Ted Danson and Howie Mandel. Yeah, don't blame me if you get nightmares.

They've got what I'm looking for

Old Bay Area TV stations came up in conversation yesterday, and it got me thinking of the promos TV 20 used to do that featured various pets from people in the area.

As luck would have it, I found the best one on YouTube:

From the "Who gives a crap" department...

At least now I have proof that I wasn't hallucinating it. Back in the early to mid-80s, it seemed like everyone wanted to capitalize on NBC's TV Bloopers and Practical Jokes, so there were specials every now and then, and of course, the shameless imitation.

On ABC, I think it was (I could look to be sure, but I'm lazy), to compete with Dick Clark and Ed McMahon, they paired Steve Lawrence (8-year-old me: Who?) with Don Rickles (8-year-old me: Oh, that CPO Sharkey guy who calls everyone a hockey puck). And if that team-up wasn't magical enough, there was the name: Foul-Ups, Bleeps and Blunders.

Note the way it flows off the tongue.

If memory serves, the two shows even competed in the same time slot for a while. I'd check out the ersatz Dick and Ed during the terminally long practical joke bits, which were rarely if ever funny.

I don't know if the show even lasted a whole season, but it is for some reason locked indelibly in my memory.

And now (at least temporarily), I can inflict it upon you, loyal reader. The clip is a little bit of Star Trek blooperness, brought by the Shat himself.



And while on the subject of inflicting, here's a clip I found from the Steve Allen-hosted Life's Most Embarrassing Moments, which I think was a special, also on ABC. And wouldn't you know it, it's the one clip that I will never be able to get rid of.

Nanowrimo progress

Well, it seems unlikely that I'll make the goal by the end of the month, but for the first time, I'm writing regularly on the story--every day on BART. Even better, I'm not tired of the story yet. That's probably because I don't know how it ends.

But I'm not going to worry about how many words I need to write a day; I'm just focusing on the fact that I'm actually writing.

The story, in case you want to know if you should start saving money to buy it, is about two brothers, neither of whom are particularly happy. One brother is stuck in the past; everything reminds him of something from back in the day. The other brother is stuck in the present; a present he thought would be different, and worse, a future looming that he doesn't want any part of.

They end up going on a road trip to various points around (and just outside) the state.

Here's a brief sample from one of the many flashbacks our narrator has:

When we were in junior high school, we went camping with our parents a few times every summer. They belonged to one of those membership campground things, so it was pretty easy to find somewhere to go, even in the summer when everyone wanted to go camping.

Harbor and I had grown up sharing a tent, and we constantly pestered our parents to kick in for an extra tent so we could sleep separately. This was because Harbor, in addition to being a sleep-farter, was such a heavy breather when he slept that we often woke up first thing in the morning to a miniature rainstorm inside the tent. The condensation built up all night, and in the morning, it just started falling. Not as steady as rain, but intermittent enough to keep you from falling back asleep.

Plus, I don’t know what he did, but his shoes smelled like rotten ass. His feet alone were no bed of roses, either, but his shoes were so foul that we couldn't leave them anywhere near our tents, lest our noses be assaulted by his foot funk.

On the upside, it kept animals away.

Not so with the mosquitoes. That was the other weird thing; despite sharing a tent, Harbor woke up practically poxy with mosquito bites. I would have maybe two or three. My parents joked that I must have been too bitter for the mosquitoes to like. Harbor thought this was hysterically funny despite the fact that he spent the better part of his day--when not forging new trails through the wilderness or finding the perfect rock to skip across the water--scratching like a flea-ridden dog.

So if you end up seeing my book someday, now you can say your read part of it before it was a best-seller and adapted for the big screen. (Ha.)