Paint Chips & Power Lines

Rear View Girls: I Got Caught

2011-02-18T08:30:00.001-05:00

Just as I was leaving the house for work on Thursday morning, my roommate Steve Lutsk showed me a video on his iPhone. Some girl had strapped a camera to her butt and trolled Los Angeles trying to catch guys stealing glances. Alas, 1:12 into the video, I saw that I had been caught.

To make matters worse, I had my arm around my girlfriend Ashley Brown when Camera-Butt passed by! We had just finished a nice day of shopping as a couple and were headed to Whole Foods when BAM....

...I'm on the Internet.

When I saw the video (below) I couldn't believe it. I felt betrayed. For 26 years, I've had a silent understanding with butts: I'll look at you, if you don't look at me. Now all of a sudden I have to watch out for Big Brother's brown eye sizing me up from between girls' butt cheeks? I don't think so. We had an agreement!

After watching the video a few more times at work (and getting increasingly nervous with every 100k hits), I noticed that I barely even look down at the camera. If anything I mostly look away as we turn the corner. Still, I can’t deny that I’d ignore someone who’d flaunt their stuff so obviously—kind of like this fat man riding a bicycle in a bikini I saw on Santa Monica. But then I started to remember the day, and I swear that I remember seeing something...

It hit me. I remembered looking at a girl's behind that day as she crossed the street because it looked like she had a battery pack strapped to her belt. I even remember saying to Ashley, "Hey, that looks like a battery pack strapped to her belt." Praise the lord I had found my alibi! The ass in question wasn't even all that interesting—certainly not as provoking as the twice-than-life-sized Victoria Secret posters that dot the area. This would surely blow over in no time.

Then the emails came.

Roommates. Friends. Former coworkers. College buddies. It was on Barstool sports. My buddy’s little sister posted on my Facebook wall. The video was nearing a million views. My world was crumbling. Texts came in from people asking if I was okay, if Ashley had seen it (her coworker showed her that morning). I sat at my desk all day dreading a call from Time magazine or worse... People magazine! Not all scandals turn out bad, right?

Right?

As far as scandals go, there are really only two kinds: the ‘so-wrong-but-kinda-classy’ JFK/Monroe scandal, and the ‘what-was-he-thinking’ Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. While the differences are significant, all high profile scandals share the same quality—they are easily swept under rug and forgotten about. Good news for me.

Take former NY Governor Eliot Spitzer’s (right) frequent rendezvous with prostitute Ashley Dupré. Facing certain impeachment, Spitzer resigned and made a half-hearted public apology. His wife was forced to stand next to him as he confessed his sinful ways to the media. His penance? He gets an offer to host his own show on CNN with Kathleen Parker. More good news for me! (If it’s any consolation to the rest of you, the show bombed.)

Most guys caught in scandals don’t really get away with it, but lately nobody seems to care. Remember South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford (left)? Exactly. That guy flaunted his Argentinean affair in front of the state legislature and what did he get in return? Censure. Granted his wife and sons left him because he's a dick, but CENSURE? They didn't even impeach the guy! I'm certainly in the clear.

But Last week the whole game changed when NY congressman Chris Lee (right) got caught sending a topless photo of himself (right) to a woman on Craigslist. The ad was "Will someone prove to me not all CL men look like toads?" Their spicy exchange included the following tidbits:

“Hope I'm not a toad. :)”
“So when was your last date. And how did it go”

That’s it? No sleazy prostitutes, no international rendezvous, no abuse of taxpayer dollars. Just a stupid guy who thought no one would notice when he went all Miley Cyrus on his Blackberry. If scandals were steaming piles of horse dung, this would be the fly's fart. The surprising thing is that he willing resigned with an earnest apology as soon as Gawker made the exchange public.

If this is the new state of scandals in our nation, I’m screwed.

Taking a tip from Lee, I've decided to issue my own public apology for my widely publicized misstep. An excerpt:

"To my family, I am deeply sorry. To my country, I am a disgrace. To planet Earth, you should just swallow me up in a fissure. To God, strike me down with a thunderbolt and damn me to an eternity of mauling by rabid wolverines. And to my girlfriend, Ashley, I swear she was wearing a battery pack."

Posthumous Twitter Accounts

2011-01-20T20:36:00.014-05:00

JFK now has his own Twitter account about 50 years too late. According to ABC News, The JFK Presidential Library is creating the virtual ex-president to commemorate his inauguration... 140 characters at a time. He's even started re-tweeting old news articles and quotes from the likes of Richard Nixon and Walter Cronkite.

It's my hope that this begins a new trend of posthumous Twitter conversations. A few historic tweets to envision:

That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

@MoonManNo1 That’s what she said.

@Buzzy2 Doesn’t make sense, dbag. Don’t be jeal

@MoonManNo1 imaboutto LEAVE you on this moon, b.

Kite thing went cr8zy 2day. Gotta get my drank on to shake the shakes (@ Paddy’s Brothel w/ 6 others)

@Watson Come here I wanna see you!

@AGBell 's aight. im cool

@Watson But I just invented the telephone!

@AGBell #obsolete

So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them.

@SonOMan I said I was sorry

@MMagdeline ‘sup slut

@SonOMan Are you tweeting again? You know how I feel about you tweeting. You are grounded!

#FML

Sunburned Penguin Wetsuit

2009-08-14T09:37:00.008-04:00

Ralph, a penguin at the Hampshire zoo, has been given a homemade wetsuit to protect against sunburn during the day and chills at night. You're probably asking yourself right now, Where can I get my very own penguin wetsuit? Bill Hall explains how to make your own:

"It's quite easy, really. You get someone to donate a second hand wetsuit, you grab your penguin, you drop it down the leg of the wetsuit, you measure where all of it's things stick out, you cut holes. There you go. Penguin wetsuit."

I don't know what's cuter, the penguin or the guy talking about the penguin.

The US had it's own penguin wetsuit story in April 2008, but this one focused on how Pierre (the penguin) "got his mojo back." The CNN anchor (using my #1 least favorite adverb) also added, "Apparently, the ladies are very happy to have their old Pierre back." Apparently, CNN are experts on penguin mating habits and attraction.

A final thought: why do we need a team of expert biologists to custom order our penguins' wetsuits when zookeepers in England are fashioning their own à la MacGyver?

Snap Into a Slim Jim

2009-06-10T10:59:00.004-04:00

Coincidence... OR CONSPIRACY?!

Two people are dead and nearly 40 were injured yesterday after an explosion rocked ConAgra's Slim Jim factory in Garner, North Carolina.

Although a tragedy, the blatant irony is unavoidable:

Also in yesterday's news, WWE released a brand new 3-disk DVD set, Macho Madness: The Randy Savage Ultimate Collection DVD.

"Macho Man" Randy Savage was suspiciously unavailable for comment after the Garner incident.

L&C: Irish-less Boston?

2009-06-04T11:27:00.000-04:00

In today's Letters & Correspondence, we have a guest writer. Little is known about this young man other than that (he wears glasses and a yellowed undershirt over his portly middle) and (he wordlessly dropped this hand-written letter on the counter of my grandmother's Irish import store in Pittsburgh). Sadly, he fled the mall before I could realize the (genius) of his letter; however, I have decided to share his inspiring thoughts with (you).

The Italian North End? Irish Southie? But I digress... As Mr. Rulli challenges (traditional) history, I also challenge you to submit your own response to this debate. If not to him via USPS, then to me via BLOG. Ciao.

Sportings!

2009-05-31T23:41:00.011-04:00

In light of last night's tragic loss to the Red Wings, I'd like to offer a piece of wisdom to Penguins' coach, Dan Bylsma.

Hire Sean Chuthers, the next hockey super-star. He's got heart, a killer wrister and "skills on the playing surface (ice)." He's even got an eye for dramatic hockey, something that takes even the best players months of watching themselves on ESPN to figure out. He's well-read and already has his own jersey. All you'd have to do is stick Sean on the ice and watch him take over (the jock-strap-jean-shorts combination is also a plus). But don't take my word for it—take his.

With a cast like (Blonde Jagr, Speed Ball, Muskeetoe and Mike) how could you not hire him? In closing, I'd like to re-quote Sean's quote:

We love you. You're the greatest. You're going straight to the top. Trust me on this one. You're big. You're gonna get bigger. You could be... the biggest. ~Barry Williams

G20: Pittsburgh!

2009-05-28T20:10:00.015-04:00

The next G20 summit will be held in our very own Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. After the initial excitement of having such a high profile meeting in our modest little village, we began asking ourselves: "Pittsburgh? WTF?"

Most news sources chalk the surprising decision up to our amazing comeback from (a smoggy steel town with nothing to offer except for three polluted rivers and rampant black lung) to (a real city). They think that staging the G20 summit here will show the world that real urban change is possible. Before jumping into a hilarious analysis of our urban renewal, I'd like to provide you with

A Brief History of Pittsburgh.

1779 - Indians. They're dead.
1816 - Pittsburgh. It's official.
1872 - Heinz. Anti-union.
1892 - Carnegie & Frick. Really rich & violently anti-union.
1945 - Steel. Lots of it.

1945 steel was selling faster than 1995 pogs, but the demand would never be as great as it was during WWII. The rest of the world started producing steel like maniacs so most steel towns in Western PA buckled (Oil City, Braddock, etc) except for Pittsburgh.

(cue hilarious analysis)

Soon, we elect Mayor David L. Lawrence who, at the end of his term, displaces low income residents to build a $22 million hockey arena. Historic Allegheny City, present day North Side, was significantly demolished to create some apartments to make it look like we didn't forget about the displaced residents. This pumps people up for a while (minus the newly homeless) so we scrape together another $55 million for a football/baseball arena. In 1974, we spend a lot of money on a big park with a fountain so that we have some green space from which to gaze at our new stadium.

The steel industry is still shrinking, but more businesses are suddenly growing: banking, education, ketchup.

BUT NOT FOR LONG!

The 1970s and 80s see huge layoffs in manufacturing. Steel mills have been closing like woah and—the icing on the cake—Heinz sells their century old factory to Del Monte. Pittsburgh doesn't know what to do. We're pumping out college grads faster than the Irish conceive, jobs are plenty filled up already, the public transit authority's pants are sagging with debt, our pets' heads are falling off...

What could we possibly do to improve our situation?

( t h i s )

It is my hope that when leaders of G20 nations come to our great city, they see our shining example and take note: the only way to thwart a global recession is to build expensive stadiums where overpaid athletes can play their blood sport.*

God speed, gentlemen of the world... God speed.

*Let's go Pens!

Racist Nail Polish

2009-05-10T18:21:00.006-04:00

So I was recently with a few friends in Pittsburgh when one of them busted out some culturally insensitive nail polish: "BLACK RAGE." After our initial bewilderment, we decided to play along and make up some more racist colors that Pure Ice could also sell to Walmart for $2 a pop. And here they are...
Order soon! I'm sure these puppies will be a huge hit with the... uh... wait, who hasn't been offended yet? Oh yeah—nobody.

Jumpsuit Made Entirely Out of Velcro

2009-04-04T12:52:00.005-04:00

Oh, I've been waiting so long... IT'S BRUNO!

When Facebook Loses Its Levity...

2009-03-28T14:54:00.003-04:00

Plan B: Taxidermy

2009-03-03T02:26:00.009-05:00

I've been going to school for six years now with the expressed purpose of becoming a writer. There's a lot of money involved in six years of education. A lot of time. About six years worth of time. And somehow this is still the backup profession for douche bags like former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich who has struck up a six-figure book deal to tell his sad, sad story of how evil politics is (big surprise, Rod).

And thanks to well-read and very-Canadian Andrew Ladd, I've discovered that renowned and awesome neurologist Oliver Sacks is so god damned bored with studying the human brain that he's taken up writing cool books and articles related to his work as an apparent genius.

So what will I do in 5, 10, 11 years down the line when I get tired and/or fired from my future job as a writer? I will become a taxidermist. And I will mount and display dead writers with their dead literature. When Mr. Sacks' super-human brain becomes too big for his skull, and he doesn't notice because he's too busy writing about how people can die from their brains becoming too big for their skulls, I will make him my first project.

I will call it, "Mounted: Sacks of Overachieving Manure."

(Can you guess which one is stuffed?)

L&C: Ryanair May Charge for Toilet

2009-02-27T10:16:00.009-05:00

Dear Ryanair,

I read an article today that said you're going to start charging passengers to use the toilets on your airplanes. Your own rep uses the phrase "spend a pound to spend a penny." Personally, I'd add a few more. Let's go with "drop a dime to drop a deuce." Or in keeping with the currency, "a p for a pee."

All jokes aside, I believe this is a great business maneuver. I'd even suggest you guys take it to the next level: tiered pricing. For instance: 20p for going number one, 50p for going number two, 5p for every square of toilet paper used, 10p for taking longer than four minutes. There would be no charge for using the sink, but there would be a penalty of 30p for not washing your hands. Forgetting to flush? That's 70p down the toilet.

Some would say this system is too hard to regulate and control, and that CCTV cameras would violate passengers' privacy by allowing their private bits to be shown to an undisclosed audience. That's why a short-statured flight attendant would be with you at all times in the toilet. He would be able to keep passengers company with friendly small-talk, all the while going down his list and checking off their dirty deeds.

Finally, I can't remember my last point, but I did come up with another slogan: "Pay per Poo." You can cut me in on the profits later. Right now, I've got some deucing to get to.

Sincerely,
Constipated & Rich

A Sexy Reunion/Rendezvous

2009-02-24T01:15:00.011-05:00

Heinz: Hello, blog. It’s been a while. How have you been?
PC&PL: Fuck off, penis breath.
Heinz: I’m sorry I didn’t post on you for Valentine’s Day. There was so much going on
that it honestly just slipped my mind.
PC&PL: Of course, you must have been very preoccupied at that slut-fest in Chicago.
Heinz: You mean the AWP conference?
PC&PL: Is that what they call it nowadays?
Heinz: Alright, blog. That’s enough! I’m not going to take this shit from you.
PC&PL: That’s fine because I’m going to start letting other writers post on me.
They’re gonna fill me to the brim with their hot wit and throbbing Canadian puns—
Heinz: You… why are you hurting me like this?
PC&PL: How’s it taste, BITCH? A little bitter? A little salty? Fuckin’ right it does.
Now you gotta swallow it anyway and pretend like you like it. That’s my life, Heinz.
Or I should say: that WAS my life. I’m so over this.
Heinz: I missed you.
PC&PL: DON’T YOU SASS ME… what?
Heinz: I… I missed you. I have a stack of posts that I was just too scared to send.
PC&PL: But, why? After all this time, why are you telling me?
Heinz: Because I need you, blog. I can’t live without you.
PC&PL: I don’t know. You really hurt me. I’m going to need some time to think
about this—
Heinz: I’m on my way over.
PC&PL: Say it.
Heinz: You sure?
PC&PL: I just want to remember what it feels like. Say it once more.
Heinz: I missed you.
PC&PL: *swoon* Don’t forget the lube ;)

The Blog of My Dreams

2009-02-21T19:32:00.004-05:00

I woke up this morning and the remnants of last night's dream were still in my mind. I was dreaming that this would be my next blog post:

Heinz just stomped the last of his grapes for wine-making. False.

Not only did this at one point make sense, it was also funny. True story.

Imposter Alert!

2008-12-13T01:35:00.004-05:00

It has always been known that there are several Heinz's parading around and posing as the original (H.J. Heinz, W.C. Heinz, Hines Ward, Heinz Burt). But they have only been stealing my name. Chris Dane Owens, however, has been stealing my SONGS!

He has over-produced a cover of my original hit "Shine" and reworked it to fit his rock fantasy. Me, I'm OK with it. Namely because he's doing everything I wish I could have done in my song (horses, fire, swords, wizards, battle ships, giant iguanas), but I didn't have the budget for.

So here's to you, Chris Dane Owens. May your musical career be exponentially weirder than mine!

Look Who's Wagging the Finger Now.

2008-12-05T01:25:00.010-05:00

China tells US to steady economy.

Remember that one time when you were fourteen years old? Dad came home from "the office" drunk again and threatened to hit mom. But you! You were much older then, with even a growth spurt or two under your belt. So you gathered all the courage you had, marched right up under dad's whiskey breath and gave him a stern talkin' to.

Well it seems as though this scene is playing out on the Big Stage: China has grown some rather large testicles! Good for China, I say. They've been around for much longer than the US, and all they get is crap for the whole Communism thing. Or the contaminated baby formula. Or the poisioned plastics in their toys. Or opium. Tibet. Infanticide. Can we just get over it? It was a one time thing. I'm sure China didn't even mean to do it!

Although, dad never did listen to your sober lecture, and beat the bejesus out of you and mom anyway; China might be in for one hell of a spankin'.

Australia Needs Her Some Man

2008-09-02T17:51:00.002-04:00

For such a reputable news source, BBC comes up with some crazy headlines. For instance:

Australia Suffering 'man drought'

Somehow there are 100,000 more females in Australia than there are males. This doesn't account for much, but cities are substantially unbalanced in ratios. Men are emigrating from the country's metropolitan areas in search of better work, and throngs of women are fleeing coastal towns to take their place. With few able bodied men around, they must be desperate for a piece!

Picture this familiar scene: your average college dive, overrun with frat boys, jocks and the occasional creepy old guy. They lurk in the shadows, circling a school of girls who sip their cosmos and dance within the safety of their own group. But what's this? One girl strays from her pack. There's blood in the water; and the men smell it. They lunge! Grind! Spill! Egad! One has managed to trap her tongue within his oral cavity. There's no hope now. She's a goner...

Back to the issue at hand. Picture that scene again, but picture it with you, nine of your ugliest dude friends and one million sex-starved girls (it's a pretty big bar). There is no better situation for any man, ever, unless you're Tom Brady. If you are the opposite of Tom Brady and seem to be having trouble imagining such favorable odds, then take a minute to mull over this little fun fact--in their heaven, Muslims only get 72 virgins.

1,000,000 > 72. You feel me now, nerd?

With the word out there now, the once criminal-laden continent of Australia will undoubtedly be overrun by single males any day now. Especially with such an enticing photo attached to the article. Ah BBC, how you amuse us so...

Rock and Roll part 3 (The Sad End)

2008-08-03T02:32:00.001-04:00

This is in response to a shocking news article titled,
"Gary Glitter 'release date set'"

It's from BBC (also shocking, I know)

In this enlightening article, I learned three things:

Gary Glitter is still alive.
Gary Glitter has been in a Vietnamese prison for the past 3 years.
Gary Glitter was put there for molesting two kids and possessing child pornography.

This leaves me with three dilemmas:

Do I get excited for the comeback record?
Should I renew my Gary Glitter Fan Club Membership next year?
I still kind of like waking up to "Rock and Roll parts 1 & 2." Is that bad?

I hope this isn't like the time I had to burn all my Michael Jackson paraphernalia. I have twice as much Gary Glitter shit.

Letters & Correspondence (6.13.08)

2008-06-13T03:36:00.002-04:00

Dear Soup on the Floor,

I hope your situation improves. For both of our sakes.

Sincerely,

Heinz

Dateline: "The Otherside" (6.11.08)

2008-06-11T18:23:00.001-04:00

Chinese babies named 'Olympic Games'

It is not uncommon for Chinese children to be given
names of common events and popular slogans - such
as Defend China, Build the Nation and Space Travel.
~BBC

This article is great! It finally explains all those German teenagers named "Berlin Wall," and the hundreds of South Africans who bear the name "Dave Matthews Band."

The BBC goes on to explain how some babies are being named "Hope for Sichuan" to show solidarity with earthquake victims, which proves a point I've been trying to make for years:

Nine-Eleven would be an AWESOME name for a kid. How would you like to be the class bully who gave Nine-Eleven an atomic wedgie? Nobody would trade you their snack packs at lunch. Nobody! I bet the janitor wouldn't even help you scrape the sloppy Joe off your tray. You'd have to do it all yourself. In front of everyone.

So that does it. Nine-Eleven has been moved up to #1 on my list of kid names, followed closely by Space Travel--but I guess that one isn't as original as I had hoped...

Letters & Correspondence (6.6.08)

2008-06-06T03:01:00.001-04:00

Dear Boys of Toluca Town, Burbank,

Please shut up. Throughout your infantile gossiping and monkey-bar antics of the past two hours, you have not once used the word “orgasm” correctly. Only one of you, I believe the one who proudly sings all the words to some Hannah Montana song, knows what a vagina is; this is because you have one. On hot days in the Valley, I like to keep my window open for a little California breeze, not to hear your unimaginative account of some sexual proximity. I don’t care how many girls you almost felt up; nobody cares! Maybe after you get older, and before you get some unfortunate girl pregnant, you will figure out how to work that “magic stick” you so boldly speak of. Then, unless you have some fantastical change in attitude, you’ll probably only be able to get it from drunk college girls who have recently broke up with their boyfriends, and who will accuse you of rape when they get back together with said boyfriends.

Anyway you shake it, your life is unpromising. I suppose you should enjoy your evening on the swing set outside my window: it’s the best you’ll have in a long time. Just, please, enjoy it quietly.

Prophetically yours,

Resident of Apartment H105

Flippin' Sweet

2008-06-01T13:42:00.001-04:00

While researching my previous post, I came across the actual patent for the upside-down visor. US Patent 6810533, “visor with inverted display material,” is held by three Armenians who live just outside of Boston. The legal jargon gets a little hairy, so allow me to break it down for you.

A visor construction with inverted display material for enabling the visor construction to be worn on a head of a wearer in an upside down orientation while providing an upright disposition of display material […]

When you flip it, you still be frontin’ your logo.

[A] header panel with a first, outwardly facing surface and a second surface for being disposed adjacent to a head of a wearer […]

Now your homies on the left know who you’re frontin’ no matter how much tilt you be rockin’.

[A]n arcuate bill fixed to the header panel wherein the bill projects transversely from the second surface of the header panel and wherein the arcuate bill has a convex surface and an opposite concave surface […]

Your bend is still certified fly.

[…]the means for adjusting the size of the loop defined by the strap is chosen from the group consisting of a buckle arrangement, a hook and loop combination, and a button combination.
Keeps the lid on your dome no matter how full your fro is.

All of this is mildly amusing, but what is most striking about this invention was the date it was published: November 2004. So what compelled these Armenians to patent a style that faded faster than Sega CD? I believe it dates back to the 1991 Grammy Awards when the flipped visor anthem “Ice Ice Baby” lost the Best Rap Solo Performance Award to the swishy pants theme song “U Can’t Touch This.” It was the biggest upset of the decade. I'm sure you remember.

Obviously, the Armenians are preparing for the resurgence of the feuding styles, and the inevitable rap battles which will ensue. For seventeen years this conflict has been steeping between 'flippers' and 'swishers,' and is now at the breaking point. Lock your doors and stock up on your upside-down visors while there is still time.

Just don't market and distribute your own--that's totally wack.

For more information, contact David Nahabedian, Mark Avedikian, Vasken Babigian or Vanilla Ice.

What's That Poof Thing on Top of Your Head?

2008-05-30T12:09:00.001-04:00

Hey, baby! Yeah, you at the bar. I was just admiring how attractive your body was when I noticed that lump on your dome. I really have to ask you: what is that thing on top of your head? That mound of scalp or something buried under your hair. I don’t mean to pry, but it looks like a bump or some other kind of physical deformity. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable to talk about...

What's that? It's not something you were born with? Then surely the trauma must have happened recently. Is your boyfriend here? I know this may be hard to deal with at a bar and all, but I have the number of a really good abuse hot-line if you want it. My friend works there and says that 75% of all domestic abuse incidents are never even reported...

So you don't have a boyfriend? Well, I'm just all out of ideas here. You don't mind if I poke it do you? Oh, that's weird. It's sort of hollow, and crunchy. Is that like a secret reserve of hairspray that you can use when you’re at the bar? I can see how all the moisture and smoke in here could frizz you out. It must be a bitch to carry around an aerosol can of that stuff in your purse...

Hey! I'm sorry; I didn't know you were so sensitive about people touching your head. So you don't use that poof of hair to hide stuff? Then you must use it to minimize the appearance of your enormous forehead. That's a smart move. I had this friend in kindergarten who had a whole lot of face, too. He ate crayons, but that was the least of his worries...

No?

Surely, it must help you slice through the thick atmosphere in here. It takes me, like, 10 minutes just to make my way over to the bathroom. With the sleek aerodynamic design of your poof you must make great time getting through the crowd. I know that the bulky college football guys here are big obstacles, but I can totally see how wind resistance adds to that effect. Hell, it probably even makes your dance moves a little quicker…

Please don’t walk away! I’m terribly sorry that I was so insensitive to you before. I can clearly see now that you are just embarrassed of your height. What are you, like, 5’1” without that updo? I didn’t realize it before, but that thing adds at least four inches to your total clearance there. I can sympathize with you on that one. My aunt has this little Chihuahua that gets visibly self-conscious around bigger dogs…

Oh, yea. You are right. I am over analyzing the situation. You just thought that you’d give the inverted-bangs haircut a try since regular bangs went out in middle school. I mean, what’s cooler than the opposite of uncool, right? It’s like when visors were totally out of style, Vanilla Ice came along and—bam!—there’s the upside-down visor right there. That was wicked sweet until fourth grade…

OK, if it's not any of those then what's the deal with your dome? Maybe you’re short on cash and need to look mildly retarded when you go out at night because it gets you a discount on cover. I agree: the prices here are simply outrageous. How can they expect us poor students to fork over seven dollars for every Cosmo? I’ll tell you what, if I give you a couple of bucks, do you think you could get me a few beers at your special price?

No? Nothing?

Well, I’m fresh out of guesses here. Can I at least buy you a drink and maybe later raunchily make out with you at the bar? Sweet. Just one more thing. That shit won't still be on top of your head in the morning… will it?

[Article first appeared at College Humor]

Letters & Correspondence (5.29.08)

2008-05-29T04:12:00.001-04:00

Dear Dunkin Donuts,

I am writing to let you know that coffee is black; coffee with cream is white; coffee with cream and sugar is too much. When I order a small coffee, I expect to be given just that—coffee. Not coffee loaded up on non-dairy creamer and artificial sweeteners.

I recently ordered a small coffee at one of your local Boston establishments. I observed the employee filling my cup with heaping spoonfuls of sugar and promptly reminded her, “No sugar, please.”

“No sugar?”

“No sugar. Just coffee. Please.”

“No milk?”

“No. No sugar, no milk. Nothing but coffee.” She raised a defiant eyebrow.

“So you meant black coffee.”

“Does it come in any other colors?”

“Yeah—regular.”

I want to advise you, the corporate mind behind Dunkin Donuts, that I, Heinz Healey, am waging a personal war against your business. Every time I order coffee I make it a point to order just that. And every time your employee pours me one of those mouth-puckering contraptions that you call coffee, I ask for another one.

I’ll have you know I’m not the only one. I have enlisted the help of one of my good friends, Adam. Together, we make up the Crusaders for the Ethical Treatment of Coffee (CETC). So when you look at your monthly sales chart and see a slight dip, that’s because of us. For every cup of coffee we purchase, one is thrown away. This will continue until improvements are made. We stand our grounds.

Rebelliously caffeinated,

Heinz Healey— Founder CETC, & Adam Phillips— CEO CETC

The Hut of Ill Repute

2008-05-28T05:21:00.001-04:00

Oh, no—I can see the headlines now, MOLESTED: BOY BUYING VINTAGE WASH SURFSIDE FULL-ZIP FLEECE.

People will talk. How did they ever let him into that den of sin? What else could he expect from the scantily clad mannequin sentries at the entrance? Why did he even try to buy that fleece if he’s not on the “Hollister California Surf Team?”

I pop back into reality as the warm scent of Aunt Annie’s Pretzels reminds me of my awkward position in the middle of the mall walkway. There are people pushing, swinging oversized Gap bags and hurrying their way through the vein of this American shopping powerhouse. They do not take notice of the imminent peril that looms so unexpectedly in this dark corner: Hollister Co.

The storefront screams rape. There is a large poster advertising not apparel, but a shirtless man, his body as hairless as a Chihuahua, and mannequins as equally exposed. Narrow window-like entrance ways and few actual windows remind me of sneaking in through a back door brothel. It is only reasonable for me to expect to be confronted with the provocative possibility of a saucy encounter.

But all I want is a trendy pullover, and maybe a pair of jeans that were rubbed on jagged rocks by an underpaid Chinese kid. Is it too much to ask for a quick purchase without a quick poke? I decide to take my chances and drudge through the bordello in search of my garments.

It is dark inside the hut and I am frightened. The seconds feel like hours as my eyes adjust from the incandescent glow of the mall. All I see are moving figures, and a musky aroma tantalizes my senses. I hear a voice cut through the faint murmurs:

“Hello. May I help you?”

Egad! Run! Hide! Bump into a table of rugby shirts, pick-and-roll past another victim and dodge a coat rack as I narrowly escape the temptress by taking refuge behind a wall of jeans. I am safe… at least for now.

I have to move quickly and get to the check out line before anyone else accosts me. Scan the wall for my American-style Asian-wash jeans. Huntington Low Rise Slim, no. Zuma Boot, no not that either. I wish I had a flashlight, oh! Here they are: cheap-labor fit. But the size? 32, 36, 40…

“Can I help you find a size?”

Ah! I’m cornered. Think fast: “NO!”

Forget the jeans! Run! Faster!

The store blurs together in a vintage earth-tone haze as I run deeper into the bowels of this beast. I grab, grab for anything I can hold onto. My hand sinks into a shelf, grasps a soft garment, pulls. Everything spins, but somehow through the dim-lit confusion I see the dressing rooms. Thank the lord; sweet refuge! Or is it?

It could be dangerous. Are they for dressing or is it actually a code word for undressing? A sign reads: CLOTHING OPTIONAL BEYOND THIS POINT, but is the choice really mine to make? I’ve already come too far for second guessing; there can’t be any turning back now. I bite the bullet and barge through the nearest door.

It’s empty—just a simple regrouping room: three walls and a mirror. I should use this time to collect my thoughts, formulate an escape plan, maybe call the mall cops.

No, I should go straight to the top: the military, the president, Oprah… oh, this shirt looks really good on me. And it’s just the right length, too. Nice stitching…

But, really, I need to contact someone; send them to get help. I’m sure that the embassy will send a reconnaissance team… and the material! It’s so soft—almost as if a weathered, buff and shaved surfer had already broken it in for me. I really look like I care more about surfing than this $50 sweatshirt.

Alright, I’m sold. So what if the garment is shoddy and overpriced? I’m paying for the brand name and the implied lifestyle that goes along with it.

I may not be a surfer; I may not even live near a body of water larger than the pothole in front of my house, but goddamn it I’m an American and I am entitled to buy up every single piece of over-priced name-brand apparel that has been assembled by under-paid Asian children so help me God.

I bust through the door with my head held high, leaving a wave of triumph in my wake. There is an oversized American flag above the register, which I salute it with a sparkle in my eye.

“Did you find everything OK today, sir?”

“You’re goddamn right I did, lady! I found it all!”

I swing my big Hollister bag as I sashay out of the darkness and into the incandescent shopping mall. Some call me bigoted, some call me cocky; but screw them! I’m confident and I’m proud. I am a Victorious American who knows that a redundancy such as that is no more than palpable pride.

It’s been a long day. Conquering the bordello of Hollister Co. and giving into American consumerism really works up an appetite, so I head to the food court for some free samples of General Tso’s Chicken.

Jesus, it’s almost like they want you to exploit them!

Letters & Correspondence (5.27.08)

2008-05-27T03:08:00.001-04:00

Dear Woman in Craigslist Personal Ad,

I came across your listing while mindlessly searching for information pertaining to “whales, and whaling.” The machine behind Google must have sensed the sheer mass of blubber in any one of your posted photographs, but unfortunately it mistook you for a twelve-ton sperm whale. I say ‘unfortunate’ because after seeing the photos, I immediately diverted my eyes toward the text of your ad to avoid overexposure to the harmful rays of your ugly, but I was immediately blinded by the blatant misspellings and grammatical errors of your pitch. One would think that your 200 word dissertation on “true love” and “fidelity” would be better organized and thought out before purging your innermost thoughts and spreading them out among the entire internet community: I believe the description of your several cats was more coherent and compelling. Your priorities do not reflect kindly on you.

Furthermore, it is obvious from your dastardly pictures that you, having no friends to assist, slyly extended your stubby T-Rex arms to their maximum length and snapped the photo yourself. Alone. Please note that turning slightly askew did not conceal your “robust” figure. We can clearly see that your forehead is the length of a rugby ball; your cheeks, the width. Finally, associations abound from that last glamour shot of you, overall-clad and leaning on a barrel of hey—we all know that was taken during high school. And that was seventeen years ago. Most girls grow out of the pony thing somewhere around fourth grade.

In conclusion, based on my analysis of your Craigslist posting, pictures and frequency of uploading the exact same ad (nine times per month), I determine you to be unfit for the internet. Thank you for participating, and better luck winning the affection of your mangy cats.

Best,

Craig List, Sr.

Welcome to La-la Land

2008-05-26T03:03:00.001-04:00

I toured Hollywood as anyone would: photographing the sidewalk and buying sunglasses. Once this activity exhausted its excitement (15 minutes) I bought a map of Los Angeles and promptly drove beyond the area detailed in said map.

The Avenger (a Dodge) and I roared up the Pacific Coast Highway with the ocean to our left and mountains to our right. Tom Petty blasted through the stereo as LA shrunk in the rearview, quaking with each pump of the bass. Contrary to the rich Hollywood mentality, I had the sudden urge to shed my clothes and go hiking. I didn’t.

I turned off before a naval base, narrowly avoiding the industrial complex, and careened up a seldom-used service road. The Avenger and I wrestled the curves, fighting the urge to steer close to the unsecured ledge. Together, we rose above the horizon like an airplane at take-off until the road ceased to ascend.

We parked at the summit, but the radio didn’t go off until I opened my door. I stepped out and immediately noticed the lack of noise—I listened, but there was nothing to hear. With the Avenger cooling off, I was alone. In Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Boston, LA there are always some distant rumblings of economy, but on this mountain there was only silence. I was so shocked by it that I just sat and listened desperately for anything.

The Avenger and I soon continued, snaking through the valleys of Nowhere, California. The road got narrower, but there were still a few houses on the way. I stopped in one area when a swarm of baby squirrels skirted across the road. To my left was a bush full of screaming Macaws (they looked like Macaws), and beyond that were horses chilling out in the valley. Back on the highway I thought I saw a dotted pack of sea lions, but they were just surfers clad in black wet suits. Unreasonably disappointed, I stopped across the street for a bite.

Neptune’s Net is a fish market, shack and bar. I ordered a fish sandwich and a Sol, and sat on the front patio. There I watched the beginnings of a beautiful sunset over the ocean with a myriad of characters: a Mexican family splitting a bottle of white wine between two clear plastic cups, a leather-clad biker gang, an old hippie in a red bandanna talking to a pony-tailed Indian and a couple of lesbians in flight jackets. (To my dismay, my sister later informed me that the Olsen twins set multiple scenes here in their TV series “So Little Time.” Further research shows that this was also a filming location for, sadly, The Fast and the Furious).

I relieved myself in the port-a-john that was directly beside a port-a-john in which two frogs made passionate love, and then I walked across the road and sat on some rocks on the beach. I tried to imagine what it was like to hear nothing again, but it was impossible to focus with the mammoth Pacific crashing at my feet. The tide was coming in and I was about to leave when I noticed a nearby rock move. Upon closer inspection I saw that this rock was actually a sea lion who, likewise, was contemplating the sound of silence. We talked for a while before I offered him a ride to my apartment where he could live in the pool and hang out with child celebrities. He declined, so I drove back to LA by myself.

I didn’t listen to music. I didn’t mind.

Letters & Correspondence (5.25.08)

2008-05-26T00:09:00.000-04:00

Dear Woman Doing Tai Chi by the Airport Window,

You are at one with those Aluminum Monsters, playing into their terminal game. Nothing is natural about the rest of these tired people reading today’s Times on yesterday’s vinyl seats, but you are 100% certified organic. You, silhouetted against the rain (it is about that time for Christmas songs), were the target demographic of this airport carpet design—mechanically repeating geometric certainties. But rising above this artificial world of concrete, steel, polyester and fiber glass, you center your chi somewhere between Au Bon Pain and Wonton Express, stretching… stretching! Stretching until every last drop of aggravated traveler is out of you, breathing deep a liter of sterile air scented by an exotic plastic palm tree. If my flight was delayed I would ask you to teach me your ancient secrets and maybe live with you in your tiny Zen house in Chicago, but the bell tolls for me and I must go to Atlanta. Enjoy life and don’t under any circumstances over-water your bonsai.

Best,

Airtran Passenger 27A