I love the Olympics!! Not just because I get to see the world's most incredible athletes compete in thrilling races, games, matches, meets, etc., but also because the Olympic theme music was used as the theme music in the short lived 1993 series "The Adventures of Brisco County Jr." A couple of years ago, I bought the series for my friend for his birthday. As we watched the first few episodes, I couldn't help but notice the music sounded strangely familiar, but I eventually concluded that I just remembered it from when I watched the show as it originally aired 15 years ago. That conclusion was debunked a week ago when that same friend pointed out that the Olympic theme music is the same music on Brisco. I became unnecessarily elated at this revelation, but anything involving Bruce Campbell inspires uncontrollable joy within me. So this fusion of campy, early nineties, western/sci-fi TV series and epic, emotional, mind-blowing olympic sports makes for one awesome televised treat.

Saw...it already

I was at the movies recently, because that's where I tend to spend a lot of my time, and I saw a preview that upset me. It upset me so much, in fact, that I groaned, too audibly it would seem, causing the people in my immediate vicinity to whip their heads around and gaze in my direction for a few excruciating seconds before returning their attention to the rest of the trailers. This preview, as you might have guessed (although I doubt you guessed because I haven't revealed any real hints as to what this movie was) was for Saw V. For those of you who might be sadly unlearned in the understanding of Roman Numerals, this is the FIFTH installment of the Saw series. FIVE. Cinco. Funf. Cinq. Cinque. Half of ten. Hold up your hand (or one of your feet) and count the digits...that's how many Saw movies are in existence at this moment. I was hoping, desperately, that Hollywood's little obsession with torture porn flicks had come to an end with the absolute and well deserved FAILURE of the most recent Midnight Meat Train (I think it was in theaters for approximately 12.7 seconds), but no such luck. I'm afraid we are doomed to see Saw (see-saw....heehee) trailers for the rest of time. Who knows? These movies might even surpass Star Wars for the "ENOUGH ALREADY!!" award. Take THAT George Lucas.

The Today Show Tragedy

I think I'm a masochist. Every morning, like some pathetic brainwashed slave, I wander to the kitchen, settle down with my bowl of cereal, and, unthinking, power up the ol' boob tube and set the channel to the Today Show. And every morning, without fail, I bitch about it's stupidity. So why do I continue to torture myself in this way? I guess it's like watching a train-wreck or rubbernecking at a car accident on the freeway- Meredith is the decapitated child in the passenger seat, Anne is the teenager thrown from the car from lack of a seatbelt, Al is the spectator who continually gets in everyone's way, Kathy Lee is the stupid, babbling drunk driver who caused it all but unfairly walked away from everything unscathed, and Matt is the Jaws of Life: cold, dry, mechanical- struggling in futility to salvage this God awful disaster, all the while resigned to the fact there's no saving this pile of twisted, smoldering, carnage-plastered shit.
Seriously Matt...you could do so much better.
As far as I can tell, the Today Show no longer reports the news. I can sit and watch 4 hours (yes, 4 miserable hours) of this show and come away from it LESS informed about world issues than I was before. Watching the today show is like having your IQ slowly sucked away and replaced with facts pertaining to spring fashion, Brangelina's myriad children, how to properly disguise those pesky and unsightly circles under your eyes, and canine geneology..."Well, I'm not really sure what's happening with the war and the election and all, but what's really important is that I now know my little Baxter is not, in fact, part Poodle. Thank YOU, Today Show!"
And what's the deal with all these obesity stories?!? We interrupt this program with breaking news...AMERICANS ARE FAT AND GETTING FATTER BY THE MINUTE!! NO. REALLY? I had no idea. Seriously. Every other day, the today show breaks out the obesity stock footage and we, the unfortunate viewers, are forced to watch those gargantuan ever-expanding bellies jiggle across the gargantuan ever-expanding HD screens and hear about how this has become an epidemic in this country. It saddens me deeply that this qualifies as news anymore. I don't need the today show to tell me that. All I have to do is, you know, go to the mall...or the DMV...or look out the window. And what about those poor people to whom those portly paunches belong? One morning they could be in their kitchen watching their favorite morning "news" show, scrambling up a few dozen eggs topped with bacon, cheese, hash browns, heart palpitations, sleep apnea, and low self esteem...then WHAM. It hits them..."my, that flabby torso looks awfully familiar...and I'm pretty sure that stretched-to-capacity wolf-print T-shirt is mine! I'd recognize that grease stain anywhere. Damn...I'm so fat I've been added to the fat film hall of fame." That's pretty much the last thing these people need, isn't it? To have their bodies showcased as a warning to the rest of the only slightly overweight citizens of this nation. Pile on another helping of low self-esteem there, buddy...it's gonna be a long day. But be sure to keep watching! Because there's a segment during the 16th hour that teaches you how to cook healthy, nutritious meals without feeling deprived! You like turkey burgers and steamed veggies, right? Oh, and the 29th hour has a segment that will help you tone those triceps with soup cans! Can you believe it?? Just try not to eat the soup halfway through the exercise.
When you're not rolling your eyes at the tripe being reported, you're rolling your eyes at the people doing the reporting. If I were to write a letter to each anchor on the show, here's what I would say:
Dear Meredith, stop trying to be funny. See that tele-prompter? Read it, and only it. No one finds your banter and attempts at teasing to be particularly humorous, so please make an effort to end this. I do, however understand that your time spent on the View has warped your personality, making you more irritating and insufferable than you might be otherwise, so I'll blame Barbara Walters for some of your shortcomings...some.
Dear Anne, I think I might like you if I met you out in the real world, but I have to say, you really piss me off when you're on camera. Now pay attention to what I'm about to tell you. YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BE NOMINATED FOR AN OSCAR NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU EMOTE!! When reporting a serious or sad story, pretty much all you need to do is suppress a smile. Stop treating every sad story like it's a personal tragedy. You're trying so damn hard to fill your interviews and reports with swells of sadness and squints of emotional pain that it comes off as phony and obnoxious...I swear to God I'll cry if I have to watch one more heartfelt story in which you interview a kid with Asperger's who made the High School basketball team...and MY tears will be REAL.
Dear Al, Get some help. I can literally see the sanity leaking out of your ears. Take some tranquilizers and a vacation...forever.
Dear Matt, Dude, I really like you. You're genuine, witty, sarcastic, intelligent, and best of all, you hate Meredith too! I'll never forget the utter sweetness of Meredith's first day and the famous hand-holding incident. The way you yanked your hand from hers when she tried to grasp it...Beautiful. I wonder if it made Anne cry tears of fake joy.
Dear Hoda and Kathy Lee, First of all...what the hell kind of a name is Hoda? Second of all, what the HELL?!?!? Kathy Lee...in case you didn't notice, your career was over a decade ago, so stop. Just stop. I can't bear to look into your sliced, diced, and pulled face for another minute. I'm pretty sure your mind is gone too...perhaps the gray matter has been replaced by collagen. And Hoda...Hoda Kotb...how do you pronounce that? Anyway, I could say any number of antagonistic things about you, but I suppose your name isn't your fault AND you have to put up with Kathy Lee. All is forgiven. What the HELL were the producers of the Today Show thinking when they decided to take two of the most outrageously annoying women on the face of the planet and give them an entire hour of television to themselves? I still have yet to hear Kathy Lee form a cohesive sentence...at least one that doesn't contain one or more of her children's names. Somewhere, Regis is rolling his eyes. Along with the rest of fat America.
So it is with great regret and a dash a shame that I write this because I know, despite my numerous complaints, I shall continue to watch. In fact, the familiar sounds of pointless chatter hum in the background this moment as I type, continually reinforcing my theory that morning news programs are about as useful as a poopie flavored lollie pop.
But I better wrap this up because Rachel Ray is about to start. I love watching the act of pouring teriyaki sauce into a skillet being met with overly-exuberant applause. Now THERE is some high quality programming.

Why, Pandas? Why??

Pandas need to die. I say this not out of malice. Pandas have never exhibited any kind of hostility toward me, they've never offended my moral sensibilities, they have never wronged me in any way. In fact, Pandas have never done a goddam thing except continuously reinforce the fact they should no longer be alive. It seems to me that nature is doing everything in her power to extinguish the last few miserable little raccoon-eyed bears, and in direct opposition and blatant defiance to the will of mother nature, humans are trying desperately (and most likely in vain) to keep them alive. This process is painful and tedious and I liken it to the plight of modern medicine. Just like we are keeping people alive long beyond when they would normally die were nature to have her way, we are struggling to perpetuate a species the world has clearly given up on and has deemed a monumental waste of time and resources. Humans, not very concerned with what mother nature wants, are apparently blissfully unaware of the fact that species have come and gone throughout the course of Earth's history. Insects, for example, are in a constant state of flux, with entire species dieing out under our noses...not necessarily because we are causing it, but because they got their shot, they didn't give 110%, so nature, in her infinite wisdom and tidying-up skills, struck them from the face of the planet, making room for a stronger, more effective and contributory species. But we don't care about losing insects...no...because insects are not cute. If Pandas had compound eyes that bugged distressingly out of their heads, 6 flailing, multi-jointed legs, cellophane wings, and a proclivity for throwing up on their food before consuming it, I can guarantee we would not be dedicating ourselves so vehemently to rescuing these doomed creatures. Being cute is their ticket to fruitless pursuit for preservation, because they damn sure don't have anything else going for them...lazy bastards. I mean, these animals are so disinterested in keeping themselves alive, they can't even be bothered to reproduce. One of the fundamental and most important acts at which species must succeed in order to survive is procreation. Pandas choose to ignore this. Most organisms on this planet reproduce like there's no tomorrow, unleashing a plethora of offspring in order to ensure at least some percentage of survival (because let's face it, life's a bitch) and the offspring who do survive are stronger than the ones who perished, and, thus, go on to do the same...that Darwin knew what he was talking about. Pandas do not take this approach...they actually don't really take any approach, but I'll go ahead and lay out their reproductive strategy, if you can call it that. First of all, female pandas are only fertile for 2-3 days once a year. So for about 363 days a year, they're basically barren. When those fateful few days do roll around, however, more often than not, the timing isn't synced up, so the mating window is closed almost as quickly as it is opened, or fertilization never even occurs despite copulation because the male, having to mount the female several times to increase the chance of fertilization, just couldn't perform. Strike one. It should not be THAT HARD to make a baby!! This is mother nature gently saying, "I'm not trying to be mean or anything, but I really think you've overstayed your welcome and we just don't really need ya around anymore. So I'm just going to make this painless by cutting off your reproductive efforts and you can live out the rest of your days in peace until your eventual extinction. Really, there's no point in trying too hard with this. Just let it go."
So for the sake of prolonging this panda bashing session, let's say, by sheer luck, a female gets knocked up. She will give birth to one or two cubs. When the babies are born, they are blind and deaf and utterly helpless. As a result, the baby requires every second of the mother's attention
(because the mother was just too uncomfortable or inept to let gestation finish inside the womb) and when i say every second, I mean every second. This means, that if the mother is lucky enough to bear 2 sad little pink blobs, she shows her maternal elation by abandoning one of the cubs so she can give one her undivided attention. The neglected cub dies shortly after birth. This gives whole new meaning to sibling rivalry and child preferential treatment. Wow. Strike two. Not only are these babies underdeveloped and completely dependent when born (dude, baby giraffes fall 6 feet to the ground when they are born and learn to stand and walk IMMEDIATELY thereafter), but if there are two, the mother lets one die...post-partum depression? They should give Brooke Shields a call. So now the mother has to dedicate the next few weeks in isolation to this wormy, overprivileged little succubus. The baby subsists on the mother's milk, if you can call it that. Pandas' diets consist of nothing more than bamboo, which is very low in, well, everything except fiber. You might say, "but if that's all pandas are able to eat and digest, you can't hold that against them!" You'd be wrong...and stupid. I'm the one writing here, so pipe down. Pandas still have the digestive system of a CARNIVORE and do not have the ability to digest cellulose efficiently (Bamboo is mostly cellulose), and thus derive little energy and little protein from consumption of bamboo. Strike three. It's almost as if Pandas are TRYING to kill themselves by not eating what they're supposed to eat! They choose to eat what essentially amounts to big, empty paper towel rolls, instead of opting for that delicious, nutritious, life-giving slab of juicy meat. Maybe they're dissatisfied with the lack of good marinades available in the bamboo forests. Who knows? What I do know, is that this is ridiculous. Anyway, due to the lack of nutritional value in their food of choice, pandas, when they're not too busy NOT mating and NOT contributing to the food chain in any meaningful way with the exception of maybe keeping the bamboo forests in check, spend most of their day eating just to stay alive. So really, they're eating in order to have enough energy to eat. But damn it all, are they REGULAR! Now back to the damn baby. This milk they're unfortunate enough to have to drink, is very poor, and (surprise!) not nutritious, which makes the maturation of the little tyke that much slower. It's no shocker that fewer than 50% of baby pandas survive to adulthood. So if my math is right, and I like to think that it is, (weak babies/crappy milk)+low survival rate=inevitable population decrease and extinction. Then again, even if the little brats reached sexual maturity, it wouldn't really matter all that much because, chances are, they wouldn't make any pathetic little children of their own.
In an effort to remedy this, the humans, with good, albeit misguided, intentions, take the bears into captivity to try to replenish the ever depleting panda population. Ironically, this act does more harm than it does good, because once the pandas are in captivity, whatever little sexual drive they had out there to begin with in the wild completely dies. That is to say, they seem to completely lose interest in the opposite sex and put forth zero effort to mate. Well, shit. This throws a bit of a wrench in our plans to make more panda babies, so zoologists, biologists, and wasting-a-buttload-of-time-money-and-resources-to-
save-these-worthless-panda-ologists have resorted to many odd measures in an effort to increase panda reproduction. These include artificial insemination, showing them videos of pandas mating ("panda porn"), and giving male pandas Viagra. Yes, Viagra. Nothing really seems to be working. Strike four. If panda porn isn't enough to get your mojo going, I don't know what is.
So what we have here is a species on the brink of extinction...for good reason. It is clear these animals are not supposed to be alive anymore. Humans are treating the plight of the pandas the way a 2 year old would treat the discovery of his dead goldfish. We keep playing with it, tapping the glass, tossing food into the tank all the while oblivious to the fact the thing is dead. DEAD. And we just don't know it yet. We're messing with mother nature's decision making process and if we're not careful, she'll tire of our misguided, naive, and somewhat adorable attempts to keep the pandas alive despite all the evidence they really don't seem to want to be, and we're going to piss her off. Mother nature was pms-ing when she killed the dinosaurs and wasted no time with wiping them out and starting over from scratch. Let the pandas go quietly and gently, otherwise, we might have another case of asteroidal annihilation on our hands, and that's not good for any of us...especially those of use who want to keep living.

Musicality

Today I heard an interesting song on my way to the gas station. The song is called, "I Kissed a Girl," by Katy Perry. Yes, Katy Perry is a woman...singing about kissing a girl. The lyrics aren't particularly insightful, poetic, or creative and the song doesn't carry any kind of profound or meaningful message. The gist is that she kissed a girl just because she wanted to and thought it would be a fun, innocent experiment, and she wonders aloud if her boyfriend would care. If we've learned anything from the male gender, not only would he not care, he'd most likely encourage such action, but that's beside the point. As my finger rested on the scan button, poised and ready to skip swiftly to the next station, I felt oddly compelled to continue listening to this song. Sure, the lyrics are, for lack of a better word, dumb, but there was something about the beat, the background music, the baseline that kept me interested in an otherwise lame and banal ballad. This triggered a realization...i have a shallow musical ear. I don't need to have deep revelations when i listen to the radio; I don't want to have to decipher symbolic phrases embedded in weird instrumental rifs to derive some depressing meaning. No. All I need is tempo. If the song has a good beat, decent vocals, and simply entertains my ear for a full 3 minutes (which can be very difficult with the music on the radio nowadays) I'm sold. The song could be about watching paint dry, picking up dog poop, or girls kissing girls, but if it sounds cool, dammit, I'm going to listen. So I will not be ashamed of myself for liking "I Kissed a Girl." And I know that came out wrong, but if you listen, you might see my point.

Graduation (written for my sister's masters graduation)

Graduation is a funny thing. The ceremony itself doesn’t seem to properly highlight the meaning and magnitude of the accomplishment. First of all, graduates are forced to wear odd flat square hats. These seem to symbolize that the cranium has been lodged up against a ceiling, and the ceiling says, “this far, no further!” The image evokes a feeling of stagnation, complacence- of having reached the end of a journey or fulfilled all of one’s potential. In fact, those wearing the metaphorical ceilings have not arrived at the end of anything, but rather the beginning of everything. If the graduates are to be forced to wear a hat, it should be conical in shape, pointing skyward, because the sky is, as the saying goes, the limit. Ok, so that would be almost as stupid as the flat hats and would make the convocation more closely resemble a wizard convention rather than a graduation, but hopefully you get my point. While we’re on the topic of apparel, I might as well comment on the rest of the ensemble as well. All the students wear the same drab gown, and, upon observation by the semi-conscious audience, blend together into one monochromatic mass, unwillingly conforming to the crowd. This contradicts the significance of what graduating means. You’ve distinguished yourself both as a student and a person; proven that you are capable of anything and have established your individuality in the academic and post academic world. If anything, students should be allowed to “pimp” their gowns, so to speak, and make it their own, thus reflecting what they have done for their futures. The students’ stunning and unique personalities should be showcased at a graduation as it is these personalities, and components thereof, which allowed them this moment.

Rant as a result of Heath Ledger's passing

1) First of all, I feel I must address the Heath Ledger issue. Why the FRICK did his stupid housekeeper call Mary Kate Olsen before she called 911?? Who in his/her right mind sees a naked guy lying face down on his bed, oh yeah and NOT BREATHING, and thinks "I know...I'll call whatever the hell is the first phone number I see in his cell phone...That person will no doubt know what to do...MARY KATE TO THE RESCUE!!!!" I mean come ON! AND, it doesn't even stop there! Mary Kate, bless her itsy-bitsy heart, proceeds to call her bodyguard when hearing the news of her friend's cessation of respiration (note the continuing absence of police and/or ambulance in these perplexing and frustrating clusterfuck of unfolding events). Poor Heath really had some first class dolts working for him. I'm not saying if the housekeeper had called 911 before the teeny-tiny Olsen twin that Heath would still be with us today, I just wanted to rant about the random idiocy of those involved.
2) Eels. Why? Why do these creatures exist? I know, in evolutionarily and ecosystem-balancing terms, there must be a great explanation for them, but just for the sake of randomness...does the world really need these horrifyingly ugly, slimy, eerie, evil, slippery, underwater-hole-dwelling monsters? I submit that it does NOT.
3) On the subject of monetary coinage- pennies- will there ever be a time when these one-cent copper discs become obsolete? It seems that all they're good for is weighing down purses, wallets, and pockets. Everyone has an extensive penny collection whether they want one or not, because even when we have the rare intention of using them in our attempt to provide exact change to that nice lady in the Arby's drive through, we inevitably are hit by a wave of laziness and pull out a 20 at the last minute because the idea of counting out all those little coins then risking dropping them and having to start all over is just far too daunting a task for the day. Thus, the 20, that beautiful, easy to carry, lightweight, pristine 20 dollar bill, is viciously broken up into dozens of smaller bills and coins only adding to our ever-growing stash of pennies and perpetuating the tiny-tender-buildup cycle.
4) This random thought goes out to our buddy Stallone- why all the remakes, Sly? Has no one told you you're 61 years old? Will those steroids you took for Rambo (and most likely Rocky Balboa) interact with your viagra and smattering of other old-man medication? Be careful, dude. I hear there's a scene in Rambo in which Stallone actually punches a guy's head off. Just punches it right off the neck...snap. If that doesn't make you want to see it, i don't know what will. So in light of all these remakes, what do you reckon we'll see from him next? Another Cliffhanger? What about Over The Top 2? I personally would love to see Demolition Man 2: John Spartan vs. the Three Seashells.
5) And finally, a truly random observation...I've noticed throughout my typing of this email, I have the tendency to capitalize words right in the middle of sentences...and they're not titles or proper nouns or anything like that, just random words...it's like my pinkie finger starts missing the Shift key (!there's an example!!) and wanders over there independent of my control. As a result of the wayward finger, I've had to make several corrections, changing many unnecessary capitals to lowercase. This has taken some time. I think I should seek professional Help...damn it. I Can't Be Stopped!

Yet another cynical email (Feb 11, 2008)

Today's list of grievances is born of a trip I made to the Chandler mall
yesterday.

Fake hair kiosks: Why would anyone want a disgusting wad of plastic hair clamped into her own?? Furthermore, why is it that every time I go to the mall, there are actually people AT the kiosk, checking out the various
rodent-like cranial attachments? Creepy, tacky, and just plain stupid.

Playgrounds inside the mall: Really? There are so many things wrong with this concept. If you don't want to drag your screaming child around while you shop, don't take him/her with you!! They're called baby sitters! Or your kid's friend's house! Or just go to the friggin mall when he/she is at school! And if you're going to make the brat's father sit and watch the stupid kid climb around for hours while you look for yet another pair of overpriced shoes (or fake hair-see above), why didn't the two just stay home since they're not participating in unnecessary purchasing, and have a nice relaxing day playing in the quiet yard or watching TV? And aside from all that, why is the playground devoid of any kind of padding? This thing is a giant pit of garishly colored rock-hard plastic trees and toadstools. No kind of cushioning anywhere...it's like the mall is just
begging for a big vat full of broken and battered children...as if they weren't screaming enough already...speaking of which...why-oh-why is the playground located DIRECTLY outside Barnes and Noble??? I thought bookstores were generally quiet places where people can relax and read and be free from major distractions like, oh i don't know, the bone-rattling, eardrum-piercing din of 600 kids juuust outside the door. Madness.

Abercrombie and Fitch and Hollister: So, do they actually sell clothes at these places? As far as I can tell, based on the posters, mannequins, and emanating odors, they sell primarily well-abbed male torsos and very strong cologne. No thanks, I'll pass. If my eyes could roll out of my head, they'd be in my lap right now.

Pretzel stands: What is this fascination with huge soft pretzels? And why must there be so many in one facility? I realized there are 3, I repeat, 3 pretzel stands in the Chandler mall. Is that really necessary? Are people that highly selective that they can't buy a pretzel from Auntie Annie's (those are INFERIOR twisted knots of bland dough!) and have to go to Wetzel's Pretzels to satisfy their bizarre craving instead?? Or is it just that once they have a pretzel from the lower level, by the time they've wound their way up and around to the second level several hours later, they're hungry and craving another pretzel...or maybe 2. And for dessert, they can head over to Mrs. Fields for dessert!

Sales people at cell phone kiosks: Just leave me alone, please.

(Teeny-tiny) sales people (cheerleaders) in Victoria's Secret: LEAVE ME ALONE.

Mall maps: Those things are actually really helpful...when you can FIND them!! When I know where I'm going, I see those darn things everywhere, but when I'm truly lost and need a little guidance, they're nowhere to be found! Then I get all excited when I see one over by the escalators, but to my dismay, instead of finding a much needed floorplan within that freestanding display case, i find nothing but a poster for Cartier on one side and a poster for The Cheesecake factory on the other! I don't want a diamond bracelet, and while a slice of cheesecake would be nice, it's not going to help me find Hallmark! Damn you!

And finally- Coldstone Creamery: This ice cream is terribly overpriced and oh so bad for you, but it calls to me every time I go shopping, which fortunately is not often. I try my hardest to resist, but yesterday I was not strong. You won this time, Birthday Cake Remix...you won.

Email to a friend about visiting him in Seattle

I do possess the ability to read, thus, I did not miss the invite included in your card. The rub, however, is that I have neither the time nor the money to justify a visit up to Washington at this point...I know saying that is going to draw a lot of flak from you, but I can't help but notice the fact you never consider visiting Arizona...interesting, is it not? You seem content to hassle me about taking time out of my schedule and money out of my account to drag my ass up to Seattle, yet you've never offered to do the same in favor of heading south. Short of threatening to send a Third World Baby as proxy, you appear to be glued to your hippie/yuppie home. I think you're afraid of the desert. Your poor composed-of-70%-water body won't be able to adjust to and handle the severe dryness we experience down here in the Phoenix area. At night, when your brain might wander toward the possibility of a visit in my neck of the woods, you dream of sweet-smelling orange trees blossoming in the spring, brilliantly clear blue skies, and silhouettes of palm trees stretching above the twilight purple horizon...but the dream suddenly transforms into a nightmare. You step off the plane and your shoes instantly begin melting off your feet- fusing to the tarmac. You try to run to shelter, but the sun blinds you and you trip over an astonishingly large Gila Monster. You lay helpless on the pavement, your throat dry and swollen, aching for the caress of cool, sweet, water, but none is to be had...you're in the desert. The noonday sun begins to take it's toll, draining your exposed body of precious moisture. You feel the H2O molecules being sucked from your flesh. You try to scream, to yell for help, but alas, your vocal chords have dried up...they now resemble the blades of grass comprising an unwatered arizona lawn in July and produce nothing more than a pathetic screech somewhat akin to that of a stray cat outside my apartment. The process takes only minutes. Your body, now flattened and wrinkled like a human raisin, turns to dust in the arid breeze and joins the parched land in Arizona. You came to visit, but stayed forever. Terrified, you violently tear yourself from slumber and vow never to venture to that awful place. You much prefer the comfort of a land where water is plentiful and the temperatures fair. Hence your persistence to lure me northward.

Phoenix Ironman (written Apr. 13, 2008)

Today, according to the local news, is going to be the first day of the year the temperature will reach 90 or above. That's right, it's going to be 92 degrees by mid-afternoon. Yay, Arizona. The Ironman triathlon is today too, so that was good timing...
God I can't imagine how hard it would be to do a triathlon. I'm pretty sure I would drown a quarter of the way through the initial swimming portion...everyone would be marveling at my impressive "dead man's float" technique. Jealous? The biking wouldn't be too bad, but the chafing is the real challenge there. And then there's the 26.2 mile run. Because a marathon by itself wasn't insane enough, we decided to tack it onto the end of a 2.4 mile swim and 112 mile bike ride! Oh that's ok...you weren't going to use those muscles again anyway, were you? Did these people not hear the story of the battle of Marathon in which a messenger ran 26.2 miles from Marathon to Athens to announce the defeat of the Persians? Did they not hear said messenger DROPPED DEAD from extreme exhaustion upon delivery of the news?? Apparently not. And that guy probably wasn't wearing a wetsuit having just hopped off a bike. Nutty! Have you seen footage of people nearing the finish line at the Ironman in Hawaii? Many of them get to the point they no longerhave the ability to control their bodies. These people literally can't stand anymore, let alone run, so they hobble, wobble, and more often than not, crawl, helplessly across the finish line. It looks so painful and morbidly silly. I can't feel bad for them because, well, they brought it upon themselves. Enjoy your accomplishment while lying in a hospital bed with an IV jammed in your arm in an effort to rehydrate your terribly overworked body! Good work!

Airplane!

Airport security. That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it? Case in point: The last time I traveled via airplane, I tried a little experiment. I did my patriotic duty and allocated all my dangerous chemical substances like shampoo, deodorant, and lotion to 3 ounce bottles in one…and only ONE…quart size clear plastic bag. When I got to security, I even removed it from my bag for the security guards to examine, along with my shoes, belt, watch, sweatshirt, laptop, dental records, urine sample, medical history, mother’s maiden name, fingerprint card, and political party affiliation. However, in order to test the credibility and efficacy of these security precautions, I left a cigarette lighter and a book of matches in my purse. So I walked through the metal detector, silently praying the button on my jeans or the iron in my blood wouldn’t set it off, and waited patiently for my belongings to finish their ride through the x-ray machine. The security staff stared intently and dutifully at the video monitors, presumably visually combing through all items that could potentially harm innocent travelers, personnel, planes, or democracy. A brief pause here and there hinted at their spotting of at least the lighter, but, to my complete lack of surprise, out came my purse, still chock full of incendiary devices! The thing that made it that much more ridiculous, was that a man in an adjacent line was being reprimanded for not putting his anti-bacterial hand gel in a clear plastic bag. Thank God he was put in his place…I’d hate to be on an airplane with the threat of being sanitized to death lingering at the back of my already paranoid mind. But, of course, if he were to go on a rampage of obsessive disinfecting, I’d be able to fashion a makeshift flamethrower with overpriced beer or alcohol and my trusty lighter and fend off the maniacal bastard. Dear airport security, stop nitpicking toiletries and start doing your jobs. Love, Britny.
So once you get past the joke that is airport security, you’re on your way to the next leg of your travels…duty free shopping. Ok, so that’s not really worth discussing, but I will say the magazine selections are impressive…the soda selections, however, are not. You find your gate, park yourself and all your carry-on stuff in a bench style cantilevered leather chair, hopefully in a spot with at least one empty chair between you and the nearest person, because you really aren’t in the mood to speak to anyone at this point. Once you’ve sat for what feels like an eternity, you realize you have to use the restroom before you board the plane. You are suddenly acutely aware of the fact that you are alone and lack a traveling partner to watch your things while you’re away for approximately 3 and a half minutes. You would ask that seemingly harmless person sitting a couple seats away to watch your things, but it’s safe to assume based on what the news and that eerie computerized voice on the PA system has told you, that person is a terrorist. And that terrorist has a plethora of explosives, firearms, and stabbing weapons hidden in his daughter’s hello kitty rolling suitcase (as if that’s fooling anyone), and he’s just itching to stuff it all in your backpack the second you turn your head. So you refrain from requesting his help, and load all your bags onto your already tense shoulders, and haul it to the restroom, which always seems to be a little too far away. Now comes the hard part. The narrow stall proves a formidable obstacle upon entering…the jostling and struggling shakes the flimsy, hollow walls, but finally you manage to shut the door. Your relief at this accomplishment is short-lived when you see that the hook on the door for hanging the bags has at some point ripped off and 3 misshapen holes stare you in the face, mocking your disgust at having to place your luggage on the icky floor…oh to have some of that dangerous sanitizing hand gel instead of this stupid, harmless, useless cigarette lighter…oh well. Anyway, you resign yourself to the inevitable filth and stack your things as neatly as possible on the floor, you do your business, and quickly retrieve the bags before that puddle, that seems to be getting bigger somehow, reaches them. Now exiting the stall. The door really should be designed to swing outward, AWAY from the toilet, but I guess that would be too inconvenient for all those poor people, you know, washing their hands and stuff, so the doors open inward, forcing you to stand on or in the toilet in order to get the door open wide enough to maneuver yourself and all your stuff back through it. I myself am an expert in airport bathroom contortionism. You finally make it back to the gate, only to find your seat has been stolen, and even though that buffer seat is still empty, you choose to stand rather than sit that close to other people…after all, you’re going to be doing that for the next 4 hours anyway…why start now? Boarding begins and you take the long trek down the jet way toward the source of your physical and psychological pain for the next several hours. As you make your way toward your seat, you cast woeful and bitter (but discreet) glances at the first class passengers, silently cursing them for having more money than you and hoping that overly pampered baby behind them cries uncontrollably the whole flight and the towel warmer malfunctions and they have to dab their stupid wealthy faces with lukewarm towels. What’s that? Your complimentary champagne went flat? Take THAT, high rollers! Finally you find your seat, thank God you were lucky enough to get the coveted aisle, and you stuff your larger bag in the overhead bin, awkwardly apologizing to everyone behind you for holding up the line and in doing so, take even longer than you would have had you just put the damn bag in the bin and kept your mouth shut, then sit down, most likely directly on the metal buckle of the seatbelt, jarring your tailbone…that’s gonna feel GREAT later. Well, at least I never really use my tailbone unless I’m sitting…oh wait…shit. Wiping a tear from your eye, you watch as more passengers file by, evaluating each one, determining which ones you would definitely NOT want to sit next to. That guy is too fat, that woman is wearing an unnecessarily large hat, that little boy probably smells like vomit and Oreos, that woman looks like she wants to have a really long, inane conversation about travel or Christianity...nope, none of these people are satisfactory row mates. But oh dear…what’s this? A loud, eccentric looking couple is headed you way. You glance at the 2 empty seats next to you, then glance back at the couple, chatting like lunatics. You do the math. You feel your doom. Sure enough, you get to sit next to these hyenas, and of course they immediately try to strike up conversation with you. You smile and oblige with a few minutes of polite small talk, all the while yearning for the safety presentation to start so you can think of an escape. Finally the flight attendant appears with the familiar seatbelt and life jacket, telling us for the billionth time how these impossibly simple contraptions function. I have a suggestion for that little spiel- this is how it should go: “In the event of a crash, neither this nor this will save you. You will die. Horribly.” Moving on, now that you have a brief reprieve from the Chatty McChattersons, you pull out your ipod and shove in your ear buds, fully aware the battery is completely dead, and pretend to listen to music because you can’t bear to fall back into conversation about how hot it is in Arizona and how hot it isn’t in Minnesota. Duh. Silence is sweet when the alternative is idiocy. Now the plane has pushed back and takeoff is imminent, and you begin to become aware of just how uncomfortable this journey is going to be.
Air travel. The wave of the future. One of man’s most astounding achievements. We were not given the gift of flight, so we built contraptions that allowed us that ability. Humankind has such an amazing ability to inquire, to conceive, to build, to design, to invent, to advance…and yet we can’t figure out how to make a freaking airplane seat comfortable? Sure, those business class/first class jackoffs get to lounge in ultra-wide leather sofas or recliner/bed transformer monstrosities, but that’s not what I’m talking about when I say airplane seats. I’m talking about coach. Where the vast majority of people sit (the word ‘vast’ here having more than one meaning regarding people, but that’s a whole other pit of despair we’ll discuss later). I know there are people out there applying physiology, anatomy, ergonomics (which is just a fancy term for ‘making sure our ever expanding asses will fit in this lump of foam and leather’ as far as I can tell), and other human sciences to the development of adequate seating apparatus for commercial airlines, but I have to wonder if these people actually ever SIT in the furniture they create. Sure, they might compute a bunch of computations in their computers and graph a few graphs on their graphing calculators (I don’t really know what they do, honestly), but do they ever just sit in a chair for 3, 5, maybe even 8 hours just to see if that seat in front of them leans back just a little too far (making it necessary to shift their knees at an awkward angle which only gets more awkward as time passes…ever so slowly)? Do they ever attempt to sleep in the chair (to approximate what it might be like on a red eye) and try to figure out why, once you’re juuuust getting ready to nod off, your head, completely independent of support, snaps violently forward, jerking you awake? By the end of the flight, you’re head has flopped uncomfortably in every direction except backwards onto a comfy pillow, your neck muscles are stiff and sore, and you’ve gotten approximately 13.8 minutes of sleep, most of which involved some degree of droolage you tried to hide with that nonchalant brush of the hand over the lips or somewhat less than discreet rubbing of the cheek on the now tense shoulder, all the while the equally uncomfortable passenger next to you knows exactly what you’re doing and takes some comfort in witnessing another persons’ misfortune because he or she is just as miserable as you are. Do these people measure the degree of numbness experienced in the buttocks and attempt to design seats that allow for better circulation to the hindquarters area? Because really, I’m going to need those butt-cheeks later…I plan on using them to walk my sore ass off this damn plane as fast as I possibly can. I’m really not asking for much, people. Just 2 more inches of legroom would do wonders for both the recliner and reclinee. A headrest with padded retractable wings would allow for more pleasant head position whilst sleeping, not to mention provide a nifty little shield to hide that inevitable drool from your neighbor. As far as the numb-butt issue, that appears to be unavoidable, but may I put forth my idea of Sky-Clench? Sky-Clench: A 10-15 minute block of time set aside on each flight over 90 minutes during which the flight attendants lead the passengers in a rigorous session of butt-clenching in an effort to revive circulation and alleviate the discomfort of what I like to call “flat bottom syndrome.” But anyway…in the midst of the torture that is sitting in coach, you feel a slight tinge of relief when you notice the flight attendants readying the drinks trolley. Oh joy! Something to nibble and sip and keep my mind of the hell that is this aluminum tube of discomfort. Ever so slowly, the cart inches toward your row…perhaps row 16 or 17, but regardless of the number, it’s most likely the row right next to the wing, so your poor ears are subjected to the roar of jet engines for the entirety of the flight, but I digress. Finally, the refreshments arrive! By this time, you’ve already lowered the tray table, which probably sits slightly askew (and has ever since that woman thought it would be a good idea to use it as a changing table for her screaming infant), in anticipation of the goodies. You extend your eager hand, expecting a mini package of pretzels, peanuts, or airplane shaped crackers to be generously placed within it. Instead, you are given merely a napkin and told if you wish to purchase a meal, your choices are an 11 dollar Asian chicken salad, a 7 dollar ham sandwich, or a 5 dollar “fun box” filled with tiny versions of snacks you could have bought in the airport before the flight that were 4 times larger and a quarter of the expense. Wow! That really IS fun!! Thanks. Jerks. After having your heart crushed by the lack of food, you settle for a soda (because you won’t shell out 5 dollars for warm beer, even though you’d kill for some booze right now…you have principles), only to be disappointed yet again when you are told you can’t have the entire can, but only that little 6 ounce cup, 3 ounces of which are ice. So there you are. Sitting on a plane that’s too old, in a seat that’s too small, with a headrest that’s too absent, with legs that are too long and a butt that’s too numb, next to a person who’s too judgmental of your drooling problem, not eating anything, sipping your itty-bitty beverage worried you might, in fact, die of dehydration as a result of this injustice, all the while wondering in the back of your mind if you really need/want to go to Hawaii or Paris or New York or Milwaukee or wherever you happen to be headed.
As you begin to drift off into a beautiful daydream in which you’re simply sitting at home in that old recliner chugging a carbonized kiddie pool from 7 eleven, the PA system clicks on and the pilot (in that airline pilot voice that seems to be the same on every single flight) informs the despondent passengers that we are approximately 1600 miles from our destination…thanks Mr. Pilot Voice Man…why don’t you keep that kind of nausea-inducing information to yourself, mmmkay? Good thing we have these nifty little barf bags in the seatback cushions which have probably been there since the 70s, along with dozens of stale peanuts (from back when they gave you peanuts) and the catalog selling bug vacuums and yoda backpacks. On second thought, I think I’ll choke it down and wait to throw up in a receptacle more deserving of my upchuck…like a toilet. And not the maddeningly tiny airplane toilet in an even more maddeningly tiny airplane bathroom. Oh, you have to go to the bathroom? Well, we have 4 matchbook sized compartments in the plane in which we’ve squeezed thimble sized toilets and pinhead sized sinks, 2 of which are all the way at the back of the plane where people seem to always be standing in line and it always seems to smell a little like Satan’s armpit, and the other 2 are all the way up in the front of the plane, but because that location requires that you walk back past those first class a-holes and witness their unhindered sleep and uncrushed patellae, you opt for standing in a stinky line, relegated to the rear of the plane like a modern day airborne Rosa Parks. This may be the one instance in which you actually dread arriving at the front of the line because that means you have to utilize the facilities once you get there. So you get to the door. You ready your tetanus shot and antibacterial hand gel you borrowed from that terrorist behind you and secure your elbow pads and nose plugs. You’re goin’ in. Once inside, the first thing you must do is plaster the tiny seat with tissue- this takes a few minutes because the tissue is actually little squares of 5 inch by 5 inch transparent paper that feels a bit more like something you’d rather wrap a Christmas gift in than wipe your ass with, but you’re not going to complain because at least there’s something to use. Once you’ve adequately covered the bacterial breeding ground that is an airplane toilet, you prepare yourself for this undignified ritual, adding a few fresh bruises to your knees and elbows in the process of unbuttoning your jeans and plummeting somewhat less than gracefully onto the cold seat. Once finished, you flush the toilet, watching as that odd blue syrup whisks away your waste and wonder where the hell it goes then quickly tell yourself you really don’t care to know. Turning to look at the sink, you notice there is no soap, only one damp and mangled paper towel dangling from the dispenser, and a small sign indicating the water is not potable (prompting you to wonder who in his/her right mind would ever want to drink something from that disgusting little Petri dish masquerading as a sink). The whole idea of even having a sink in the first place seems ludicrous because if the water is not suitable for drinking, why would it be suitable for cleaning our hands? This thought further prompts you to wonder if you just solved that little mystery of where the toiled flushes go, but you shake your head, refusing to believe the airline industry would sink THAT low…but decide to use that hand gel…just in case. You stumble clumsily back to your seat (because regardless of how smoothly the flight is going, you always seem to be off balance) and right as your sore bottom hits the cushion, the captain’s voice crackles once more over the speaker. Holding your breath for bad news, you are delighted instead to hear that you are nearly to your destination. Never before have the words, “we are starting out initial descent” sounded so sweet.