Somehow, this year I forgot about my campaign to turn Thanksgiving into Xgiving. So remember, when you're relating the stories of familial horror, it happend on Xgiving. We can make this happen.
Movie Review: Let the Right One In
As far as vampires are concerned, there's not too much new under the sun, so "Let the Right One In" is a pleasant surprise. It's Swedish, which means it's arty and moody, but beyond that the story is a bit different: a 12-year-old boy (Oskar) who doubles as a bully magnet is intrigued when a 12-year-old girl (Eli) moves into the apartment next door. Never mind that she wears short sleeves in the snow and only appears at night!
She's a vampire, but not exactly an evil one; yes, she murders people, but it's only because a girl's gotta eat. As Oskar navigates his awkward tween existence he also forms a bit of a crush on Eli and vice versa, but things are complicated to a certain extent by all the dead bodies that keep turning up around town. She can't keep her secret from Oskar forever, and how will their relationship change when all is revealed? And what about the bullies?
It's a quiet and melancholy coming-of-age story punctuated with sudden violence, and the overall effect is very intriguing. Plus the ending is fantastic. It's easily the most unusual vampire story I can remember seeing, and so my streak of "movies that are unbelievably unsusual" continues. I'm enjoying it!
Bowl Bowl Bowl
Xgiving weekend festivities included a visit to the local bowling parlor, in which it was once again proved that the vast majority of Americans have fat fingers and are so weak that they must use 12-pound balls. You can NEVER get a 12-pound ball with fat finger holes, and that is the only way I know how to roll. I had to go with all kinds of inferior substitutes, which is why I failed to crack 100 in three games. Yeah, that's it.
Bowling was on a Saturday, so that meant "extreme bowling," which I believe is now federal law. Just try to find an alley without it! The general thinking is that the bowling experience is greatly enhanced by a) darkness; and b) black lights that let everyone know who uses cheap detergent. There's not too much outside of having sex with ugly people that's improved by darkness, so I'm not sure why this has become the national standard. I think we need to move on to a new level of extreme, where people are forced to wear leather hoods, or else fire is somehow involved. I'm open to suggestions.
Flower Power
I also got over to the National Portrait Gallery this week, which had a fine display of Georgia O'Keefe paintings. If you're not familiar with her work, she painted New Mexico, and also flowers, to look like a large series of vaginas. You would think after the eleventh or twelfth one, she'd say, "you know what? I've got this whole vagina thing down, maybe I should move on to something new." But nope! She kept going, all the way to the end, hammering home the fact that vaginas are all around us. And you ladies wonder why we're always horny!
Tenacity is the true measure of greatness.
Ad Nausea
Back me up, world: The Xbox 360 ads in which a camera pans around a human head to show the back missing, with some kind of theater on the inside of the skull, are creepy and strange. Right? Huh?
From the modern art chapter of my forthcoming coffee table book, "Things My Guests Should Know":
Wilhelm der Roosten, Munich, Germany (1963 - ). Born in Nutley, New Jersey to third-generation Irish leatherworkers, der Roosten moved with his family to East Germany in 1971 in search of greater opportunity. This transformative relocation has become the inspiring theme for much of the artist's portfolio, which combines sculpture and performance art; his most famous work, "Mason Luna," has featured the artist attempting to break through a cinderblock chrysalis since March 1983, with only one arm free as of publication. Despite the limitations of being wrapped in cinderblocks, der Roosten has continued to work tirelessly. "Oblast in White," a 3-hour interpretation of Cold War using one sock puppet and a Diet Coke, opened to extremely posititve reviews at P.S. 1 in November 2004.
Anya Dingera, Auckland, New Zealand (1949 -). An assistant ranch hand on a sheep ranch until the age of 43, in 1992 Dingera was struck by lightning and then was trampled by a flock of spooked ewes; on awakening from a coma in 1994 she immediately began work on a series of large installation pieces evoking the gentle intricacies of mortality, produced primarily by electrocuting sheep and scattering them around large fields. Despite a complete lack of artistic training and an inability or lack of desire to speak, Dingera is now widely acclaimed as one of the most insightful students of the human condition, as her instillations have produced astonishing crowd reactions, and complaints about the smell, in cities worldwide.
Sal da Vinci, Peioria, Illinois (1953- ). The most accomplished peformance artist in the world. Since birth, this dedicated artist has poignantly mocked the Middle America experience by living the life of a Meineke brake specialist for the last 55 years. In his relentless focus, da Vinci has gone so far as to endure two marriages to mildly unattractive women, three overweight and ungrateful children and regular floating credit card debt, mixed with intermittent layoffs at the Meineke, all the while insisting angrily to observers that he is not an artist and that they should get the hell off his lawn, which is mostly crab grass.
Philipe Schwa, Santiago, Chile (1973- ). The son of a Colombian oil baron and a Left Bank prostitute, Schwa inherited $328 million at the age of 19 when both of his parents and all five of his siblings died in a tragic marina fire in the Atacama desert. His wealth has afforded him the raw materials necessary to pursue his own artistic vision: Schwa purchases Impressionist masterpieces at auction, dips them in red paint and then presses them against naked swimsuit models. He then copulates with the models, often on a bed of money, or cocaine.
Turn on Your Tail Light
I struck a blow for manhood yesterday by boldly casting aside all garage-based assistance and replacing a burned out tail light ON MY OWN! It only took two trips to Auto Zone, a screwdriver, and some permanent damage to my trunk liner. Then I crushed a beer can on my forehead and subscribed to Swank.
It's the little things like this that will add DAYS of extra life and TENS OF DOLLARS to my car's resale value, which is currently, according to several blue books, at negative $3,214. When you factor in the great cupholder rebuilding of 2007, I think I might be a semi-professional Volkswagen mechanic. If anyone knows of a certification mill on some godforsaken Caribbean island, by all means pass along the Web site. I'm gettin' paid, son.
The biggest ever Happy Hour Trivia night is now in the books! We played two separate games (three rounds each) with the crowd (which got in free, also a new experiment) of about 100 people. Not too shabby, say I.
The first game was a bit of a shin-kicker. Round one was "Dirty Dozen," 12 questions based on the number 12. For example, how many dozens in a great gross? Round two was a pretty tough video set which I filmed on my recent travels to Atlanta, Seattle, Philadelphia and Ohio. For example, why did they build the Space Needle in 1962? For the third round we made things a bit easier, with every question giving the team a 50/50 shot. For example, who's shorter, Gary Coleman or Emmanuel Lewis?
Your winners were the honestly named "You Had Me at Free," which is actually built on the foundations of the October champions (24 out of a possible 32). Second went to the honestly named "Couples Staying Together Because of the Poor Economy," and after a dramatic tiebreaker which involved naming Mariah Carey's No. 1 hits, "You have been awarded no points and may god have mercy on your soul" locked up third place. Here they are, in order.
And by the way, 144, the World's Fair and Emmanuel Lewis by five inches.
Most people stuck around for game two, which kicked off with questions about elements -- off the periodic chart or otherwise. (What elements make up Captain Planet?) Then there was a video round, followed by questions that used the Ten Commandments as a departure point (honor the Sabbath, by telling me who replaced Ozzy when Black Sabbath kicked him out in the late 1970s).
"Sqizzle" took the top spot after winning a dance-off with the "Golden Triangle Gun Club B-Team"; both managed 26 out of 33, but Sqizzle had the moves. That's how they roll. The Couples Staying Together snagged third with a 25. The pictures:
And by the way, earth wind fire water heart, and Ronny James Dio.
Extracurricular-wise, we watched "Tangents 2" from the White History Project, saw a pitch from The Ginger Fund, and then at the end of the night I dropped some karaoke on the crowd. It was a fun evening. Probably a little too long -- if we do a "supersized" trivia night again, we might try one game of five rounds instead of two matches. If you were there and have any suggestions, I'm all ears -- e-mail trivia@dcstandup.com.
And now, the video round. Name the country shown in each picture. Enjoy, and get your answers right here.
That's a Lot of Crap
We had one super bonus question: in "The Twelve Days of Christmas," how many birds does the singer receive? What was particularly fun was that team had to sing the dreidel song as loud as they could to signal that they'd reached an answer. So for about three minutes we had people shouting "Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel" until there was finally a winner. Priceless.
Anyhow, if you factor in that you get 12 partridges (every day you get one!), 22 turtledoves (11 days you get two!) and so on, it comes out to 184 birds. (Days 1, 2, 3, 4, 6 and 7 are all avian.) That means that your "True Love" is giving you 184 creatures that require care and feeding, and in all likelihood smell like death. What better way to say "I love you?" Not to mention the expense of housing and feeding maids a milking, lords a leaping, pipers piping ... And are they your contract employees, or slaves, or what?
What I'm getting at is, your true love is an inconsiderate jerk who apparently deals in human trafficking. You can do better.
Run Like The Wind
Rock Creek Park is one of DC's "go to" destinations for fitness -- a gajillion people bike and jog there, because it's pleasant and because everyone else goes there. It's so popular that a steady stream of sexual assaults and murders in the park over the last 20 years hasn't really deterred the public. My overwhelming sense of shame prevents me from exercising around large numbers of people, but since it was a cold weekday, I figured on Wednesday I'd give it a shot.
Usually when I go for a run, I stick to routes I've mapped in advance, and I go somewhere between four and five miles. At the end of the run, I'm very sore and tired. When I haven't calculated the distance beforehand, I always end up running farther and faster. Today I just winged it, and I ended up running 6.5 miles, which is a personal best. I wasn't crawling across the finish line. Somehow, if I don't KNOW I'm pushing myself, I actually do a lot better than the occasions where I TRY to push myself.
There might be a lesson here about the limitations we place on ourselves, and how the biggest barriers to success are our own mental hang-ups. But I choose to believe instead that we should never prepare for anything, because it makes most of my career decisions much easier.
If you found this inspiring, please send me money.
... to my sainted mother. The whole White clan was able to meet up for the happy occasion last weekend, because we love my mother dearly. The fact that 3/5 of the White clan got a very fancy dinner without paying had nothing to do with it. It's just a huge bonus. I had the jerked lamb shank, because if there's one thing Jamaica is known for, it's jerked lamb. And also pot, but that wasn't on the menu, and I wouldn't have ordered it anyhow, even if it was jerked.
My mom has three boys. She always wanted a girl, and so as a good son, I feel it is my duty to be as girly as possible. It's why I took up baking. My secret plan was to make her a birthday cake, so when I left DC en route to Philadelphia, I packed all the ingredients and a cookbook in my car. Stopping in ?the shop where she works, I found out that a co-worker had already made her a cake pretty similar to what I was planning.
But no problem! Work cakes don't really count. But when I got to the house (ahead of my mom, who was still at work), there was ANOTHER cake sitting on the kitchen counter. My aunt apparently dropped it off the night before. But no problem! Surely she'd feel obligated to eat a cake made by her own son, plus the ingredients were spoiling in my car, so I went ahead and made that cake. We had some that night. And then, the next night at the restaurant, dinner included the fanciest and best cake of all. So my mom got FOUR birthday cakes.
If you get four cakes in two days, you're clearly doing something right. Keep up the great work, mom.
Jingle Bells
The last two years my older brother has very thoughtfully foisted his musical tastes upon me by making mix tapes of really strange holiday songs. Did you know there are disturbing number of songs by indie rockers which involve Santa having sex? There are! Because nothing sticks it to the man like the mental image of a 350-pound magical fatso cheating on his cherubic wife with an endless procession of desperate housewives. I look for a lot of things in a Christmas song, but a tune can't really capture the reason for the season unless it has the prevailing theme of women trading sexual favors for gifts. Joyeux Noel!
Karaoke Challenge: Round Seven
When you set out to sing eight karaoke songs in a year, it seems impossible ... but then, a mere 11 months and one week later, you're staring at the finish line. It's a true testament to the strength and resilience of the human spirt. Yea, the karaoke challenge between myself and the lovely Allyson Jaffe is almost over. (Click through if you want all the backstory.) The latest news:
We knocked off song number six during a vacation cruise in October. Allyson sang something by The Beatles (her choice) and then mercifully let me get away with another Stevie Wonder song, "A Place in the Sun." Nothing too exciting.
Song seven, though ... on Sunday night we hit up the Galaxy Hut in Arlington. Allyson, choosing her own poison, went with "Kiss," by Prince. It turned out to be the Tom Jones version. No one threw their underwear, and this apparently took her off her game, because it was maybe the worst version of "Kiss" ever performed. I tell you this not to denigrate Allyson, but to praise her: most people would have walked off halfway through a rendition that bad, fearing prosecution by a war crimes tribunal. But she stuck with it. Way to be.
Allyson also had the luxury of choosing my seventh song, which was the Taylor Dayne classic "With Every Beat of My Heart." It's a touching, upbeat number which explores the magnificence of love, and while Allyson undoubtedly chose it in the hopes that I would humiliate myself, I inspired the crowd with my beautiful and throaty voice, and also by telling them that my grandfather had requested the song on his deathbed. Lying is completely OK in the service of showbusiness.
We stuck around a bit afterward, with Allyson actually turning in a pretty good rendition of "Don't You Want Me Baby," and me once again changing people's lives by singing "Rich Girl" by Hall and Oates and "Photograph" by Weezer. I think if push comes to shove, we can safely say we hit our targets for the year, but we might try to get an "official" eighth song in before 2009 arrives. I'll keep you posted.
Lost in all the stink over Rod Blagojevich being a horrible crook (really, he's terrible at it) is the fact that Illinois voters, against all reason, elected someone with Rod Blagojevich's hair. I ask you, which is the bigger crime?
Good to see that he's back to work, though. There must be some great office conversations going on, because who would ask their boss about his arrest? It would just be too awkward. I bet you he's asking his secretary about last week's "Gray's Anatomy" and doing the Lumberg coffee sip.
GOD NO!
NPR is cutting staff. Maybe if they just cut back on the coffee mugs and tote bags that you get with your donation ... On the positive side, this means about 100 new people to profile for "This American Life."
Suck it up
Here's a story about people who never get sick. As one of these people, I will save you the time: the key to not getting sick is pretending you aren't sick. There are people who legitimately get slammed by germs, but the vast majority of the sickly are just people who enjoy the attention they get from whining about being sick all the time. Anything short of vomiting and fluid in your lungs, you should probably be shuffling off to work and pushing on through.
Please note this does not work for compound fractures.
I just finished another interview for the DC Improv, this time with Steve Byrne. He had a one-hour special on Comedy Central that debuted over the summer; plus he's been on Leno and Kimmel and a bunch of other stuff. You might recognize him as the guy who always wears a black suit with a black tie (he explains in the interview). All told he was a very pleasant guy, and the conversation gets into his thoughts on performing and evolving his act, which any comedy fan will definitely appreciate. (Plus it's funny.)
Or, if your taste in podcasts runs more to the inane, download the Chris Coccia episode from Thanksgiving ... we start out talking about deep frying things and then it snowballs from there. Fun.
The preview for "Doubt" insinuates pedophilia by a priest, and then shows Meryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman screaming at each other for about three minutes. Bust out the Oscar polish, right?
Not quite. There's something missing. It's well-acted, and the story is intriguingly ambiguous (is the priest a molester?), but it's not as intense or gripping as it should be. The guy who wrote the theater version is also the screewriter and the director, and he probably should have staffed some things out, like the screenwriting and the directing. The whole movie isn't bad (I'd even recommend it) but it just feels like you're watching a play that happens to be on the big screen. Every now and then he tilts the camera, just to make sure that you know he wants to symbolize something.
It's just a little too flabby.
Get in Line
At the movies on Saturday, we got to witness some awful line management. Everyone wating for any movie had to get into the same line, about only half of which was cordoned off. When they called "Doubt," people at the back, assuming most of the line in front of them WASN'T for "Doubt," started walking right along the uncordoned area and to the front. This caused a first class hissy fit from some guy in the line (actually not me, believe it or not), who thought that saying "hey" repeatedly in a snarky gay stereotype voice would somehow fix his problems. Oh, if only the world worked this way. International diplomacy would be SOOOOO much more interesting.
As a former movie theater usher (and a great one at that) this sort of stuff bothers me, because it's a simple fix: Like most problems, it can be solved with rope, adequate manpower and yelling. But most theaters do not even try to manage lines properly, and most movie patrons are just willing to stand in or cut on any line they see, because they are jerks.
That's why I am hereby offering my services as a line management consultant. I will analyze your line situation, study the space available, estimate the career prospects and enthusiasm of your employees, and then design a line system to suit your needs. You will notice that the line of people waiting for my services is zipping along in an orderly fashion, in part because there is no one in it, but mostly thanks to my amazing skills.
In this economy, I'm happy to sort out bread lines if needed. Just call me.
This is a huge couple of days for me, cosmetically speaking, because I have to renew my driver's license. In 2004 I was lucky enough to experience the finest ID photo ever taken of me, which means that I didn't look like an earlier stage in man's evolution. There was glare off my glasses, but I wasn't smiling broad enough to make any extra chins and I didn't have anything in my teeth.
I think I can do better this time, though. So I'm getting a haircut. Then, I'm going to beat my face repeatedly with hot rocks wrapped in a towel, because that seems like something people would do a spa. From there, it's a short drive to the formal wear shop, where my special license tuxedo is waiting. The makeup artist I found on Craigslist arrives at the house about an hour later, and my personal smile consultant will run me through all the usual warm-up drills, plus use Face Spackle (TM) to seal up any unfortunate smile lines I've picked up in my march toward middle age. Then, I will use one of those floor buffing machines to give my face a healthy coat of wax, thereby sealing my freshness in, and it's off to the DMV!
At which point the lady working the digital camera will take an awful picture where I'm blinking and then refuse to take it over again, even though it's a digital camera.
I was in the bedroom that my brother and I shared as kids, only we were both our current ages and sleeping in queen-sized beds. We were both tucked in and the lights were out.
My brother had a pet jellyfish which was glowing fluorescent green. It was also floating around the room, which was unusual, since the room was devoid of water. I couldn't stop looking at the jellyfish, because every time it drifted near my head I was scared of getting stung.
So, what does it mean? Am I gay? Or do I just hate my parents? I have to lock this down before Christmas dinner, or else we'll have nothing to talk about. Your help is appreciated.
License to Drive
Man, that was a great movie.
I did get my D.C. driver's license renewed, and thanks to a change in the law, it's good for EIGHT YEARS! As long as I don't move out of the District, I'll be 32ish and beautiful in my wallet until my 40th birthday. The one concern: I put on the renewal form that I was 190 pounds, but they instead kept the 195 listed on my old license. How am I going to flirt my way out of speeding tickets when saucy lady cops think I'm a chunky 195? I don't do ten crunches a week so that bouncers can think I'm anything more than a lean, toned 190.
I'm thinking they changed from 4-year to 8-year renewal to reduce the horrible burden on DMV employees, who are apparently so beaten down from their duties that they are no longer able to smile, make eye contact, return simple greetings or use a tone of voice that doesn't indicate disdain for all living organisms that might have business at the DMV. These people are suffering. They need rest.
Hmm ...
I've never been a middle-aged woman with a big rack, so I'm asking in all sincerity: is the best time to show off that rack at an office Christmas party? "Honey, this is my boss. Sir, these are my wife's middle-aged boobs in a cocktail gown that's the envy of any Atlantic City escort, and also my wife. Happy holidays!"
There's a holiday treat waiting for subscribers of my super-awesome podcast. It's a three-minute sketch of sugary goodness which really captures the spirt of the season. If you want to give yourself a free present this year, subscribe through iTunes ... you'll get any sketches like this that I produce, plus all the interviews I do as part of the Dc Improv Podcast. What a bargain.
If you just want to download it without going through the podcast business, you can always get it straight from the link on the Podcast page.
Happy holidays!
Looking Back: Holiday Humor
Here's something I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy.
EDITOR'S NOTE -- the following jokes are a sneak preview of next week's "Holiday Humor" page in Reader's Digest. Please enjoy!
A little boy wanted a bike for Christmas. "Give me a bike!" he told his mother. "But you've been terrible all year. Why should Santa bring you a bike?" she asked. The boy thought about it for a minute. "Because if he doesn't, I'll tell dad that you've been boinking the mailman!"
A man went out shopping on Christmas Eve. He hated shopping, and so he put it off until the last minute. Desperate for help, he went into the lingerie store at the local mall and flagged down a cute young salesgirl. "Excuse me, but I'm in a really tight spot. I have to get my wife a Christmas present. You're about her size. Could you try on a few things for me to check the fit?" The salesgirl was reluctant, but decided to help out a desperate man. He handed her the most scandalous outfits in the store, and she gamely tried them all on and modeled them for the man. "Do you see anything for your wife?" she asked. "Oh, I'm not married," he answered. "But I am a registered sex offender. Now if you'll excuse me, Spencer Gifts closes in 10 minutes."
Billy and Timmy got into a snowball fight. Billy took things too far, wrapping snow around a rock and hitting Timmy in the face. Timmy wanted revenge, so he made five snowballs, put them in his freezer and waited until a June day when Billy was playing in the street. He ran inside, grabbed his armful of snowballs, and ran out into the street pelting the shocked Billy repeatedly until he ran into his house. Timmy laughed and laughed in the middle of the street, until Billy emerged with 10 rocks he had been keeping in his freezer and started pelting Timmy mercilessly in the head, blinding him in the right eye. The moral: Let he who is without snow cast the ten stones!
Two little girls were making snowmen side by side. "I like your snowman," said the first girl to the second. The second girl corrected the first: "It's not a snowman, it's a snowWOMAN." The first girl was puzzled. "But it looks exactly like my snowman! How can people tell that it's a girl?" The second girl shot right back: "Simple. It's completely irrational, makes 30 cents less on the dollar and ruins men's lives."
Little Joey was putting out cookies for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve when his father walked into the room. "What are you up to?" asked dad. "Santa needs chocolate chip cookies to give him energy!" said Joey. The father thought for a minute and said, "Actually, I think Santa would really like some of that single-malt scotch in the cabinet over there." Joey wanted to make Santa happy, so he did what his dad suggested. That morning at 3 a.m., Santa had the extra energy to beat Joey with a large black leather belt.
Q: What's the difference between an elf and slave labor? A: The slaves were eventually freed!
If we have the metrics, someone needs to measure the social benefits of charitable work done by the Salvation Army. And then we need to weigh it against the damage done by people who have psychotic breakdowns after working near Salvation Army bell ringers for a month.
So Many Choices
So hard to figure out what to see at the multiplex these days ... I saw a pretty intriguing preview for this psychological thriller starring Will Smith. "Seven Pounds," I think it was called. Then the other day, I spotted an ad on TV for this new romance starring Will Smith and Rosario Dawson. "Seven Pounds," I think it was called. Or maybe, just maybe, I'll see that new Will Smith drama where it looks like he's fighting a terminal illness. "Seven Pounds," I think it was called.
That must have been one hell of a pitch meeting. I'm guessing it went something like this: "Will Smith is intere ... hey, how did this bag of money end up in my hand?" I also think it's great that though they have three different promotional angles, not ONE of them explains what "seven pounds" means. Was this movie made on a dare? It's like someone put a line on how much money Will Smith could pull in opening weekend if the movie defied all description. I'm taking the under!
In other movie advertising news, they are now running ads for "Doubt" highlighting Meryl Streep's performance which make the movie look like a comedy about nuns. I guess pedophilia isn't selling. Maybe they can add fellow Oscar winner Whoopi Goldberg, digitally! And then they can change the name to "Sister Act 3: Back in the Rectory."
Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching!
Looking Back: The Boy Who Wanted Cookies
More from the vaults: here's a story from 2005.
There once was a boy who wanted cookies. It was all he put on his Christmas list.
He was a small boy, with many older brothers. Their lists were filled with toy cars, and exciting games, and air rifles, each list long enough to run from a snowman's nose all the way to the ground. Each day as Christmas approached, their lists grew longer and longer.
But the youngest boy wanted nothing but cookies. Every night before going to bed, he closed his eyes and wished to Santa: "Please sir, bring me cookies. I have no need of toys; as my brothers always tire of the toys they receive. I have no need of clothes, as I always get their clothes when they grow. I know you cannot make me older, as it is my fate to be the smallest brother for all of my days. But being the smallest, before I can enjoy any Christmas treats, my older brothers have eaten them all. All I want is, for one day, to enjoy the things that regular boys enjoy. A simple bag of chocolate chip cookies just for me is all I need to make my Christmas bright."
The older brothers teased him mercilessly. "Cookies?" they shouted. "Why would you want cookies? We have cookies every week! Why not ask for a baseball glove, or a hockey stick, so that we can have an excuse to hit you in a competitive environment?" They were big and loud, like older brothers usually are, and they did not understand their younger brother, who was somewhat dainty and inclined to like arts and crafts.
The youngest boy stayed true to his heart, however, and every night he repeated his wish. On Christmas Eve, his heart full of hope, he wished one last time for cookies and went to bed.
The next morning, all the boys rushed downstairs. Each older brother ran excitedly to the mountains of gifts surrounding the tree, looking for the tags bearing their names. As long as their lists were, so were their gift piles tall. They jumped in glee, their avaricious little faces red with exertion.
The youngest brother had no pile. He sat quietly on his mother's knee as his siblings tore into their mounds of loot, each one a tiny tornado of clawing fingers and wrapping paper. In minutes, they were chasing each other around the living room with their new air rifles, board games and lava lamps in hand.
As the last ribbons settled, the mother leaned down to the youngest boy's ear and whispered. "I think there is one present left. Under the tree." And sure enough, as the youngest brother crept forward, he spied tucked under the lowest branch of the tree a simple red sack, no bigger than a bag of flour. He pulled the sack from under the tree, gingerly opened it, and inside found ...
Chocolate Chip Cookies! Struck dumb with joy, the youngest brother grabbed the first perfect disk from the bag, raised it to his mouth and nibbled on the edge. It was the best cookie he had ever tasted, and he squealed with glee.
The sounds of this happiness gave the older brothers pause. What was this? What treasure had they missed? They gathered around their youngest brother, who continued to nibble away at the most fabulous of cookies, tears forming in his eyes from each mouthful of sweet goodness. The plastic playthings and metal monstrosities in their gift piles did not make them feel this happiness. The oldest brother turned to his mother, and asked, "Why didn't Santa bring us cookies?"
"You didn't ask for them," replied mother. "You asked for toys that will be forgotten by February. You teased your brother for wanting cookies. But he understood that Christmas is a time for simpler joys, and he will have the merriest Christmas of all. Now it's time for me to start breakfast."
The older brothers stood there in a circle, crestfallen. The youngest brother finished his cookie, and looking up from his trance, saw their faces. It made him sad. "They are not such bad brothers," he thought. "Maybe the best gift of all would be to see them smile. I will share these cookies with them."
But just as he opened his mouth to make this generous offer, his mother left the living room and headed to the kitchen. As soon as she departed, the oldest brother grabbed the sack from his hands. Two others held him down, and a third covered his mouth. Pinned and unable to scream, he watched as his older brothers ate all the rest of his cookies, making unnecessary smacking noises and licking their fingers as they finished each one.
Trivia fans ... if you missed the last Happy Hour, here's somebody's cell phone footage of the Dance Off to determine the ultimate winner of our second game (yes, I stole this idea from Quizzo). The passion ... the sensuality ... you gotta get to the Jan. 21 show. You owe it to yourself.
Fun in the Sun
Two days before the winter solstice, it's 70 degrees in Raleigh. I had to do a holiday party this afternoon, and people were in short sleeves, plus there were blue skies visible out the window. And you could hear "Sleigh Ride" playing on the radio in the kitchen! Mele kalikimaka.
Congrats to my alma mater for winning the college football championship! Uh, the I-AA championship, but we'll take it!
Boo, hiss, to the alumni guy who e-mailed me about it and signed his message "We Are UR." In four years of going to every Richmond home football game (I was in the pep band, ladies), not once did I hear that cheer, which I believe is the property of Marshall and Georgetown. Why steal? Did Rock Chalk Spiders not fit on a t-shirt?
But if people are cheering at all, it's a marked improvement over the student section from 1994-1997, which might have to go into the Awful College Fandom Hall of Fame. At the start of any home game, all the fans from the city would be in the stands for kickoff. The student section would be empty, because everyone was still tailgating. They would roll in around the start of the second quarter. Guys would be wearing shirts and ties and girls would wear sundresses, because it was a "tradition," probably invented by a guy who thought it might be fun to see a bunch of 19-year-old girls in sundresses who were drunk enough to sit with their legs splayed. They would start to leave at halftime to get back to campus.
Terrible, right? I know the CAA ain't the Big 10, but why even show up if you're watching less than half the game? And neckties?
I'm guessing things are better at home games these days, though, and that means 2008 has brought TWO championships to my teams of choice (TM). Two and a half, if you count the Philadelphia Soul. What a year!
Watching televison the last week, I get the distinct impression that some guy at the McDonald's corporate HQ accidentally added a few zeros to their seasonal McNugget order. Either that or there was some kind of chicken-killing pandemic at McDonald's-owned coops. Whatever the reason, ETHNOCENTRIC MCDONALD'S ADS ARE BACK! YES! YES! YES!
One thing you have to respect about the new McD's ads is that they take the McNuggets out of the restaurant and into the streets, maybe because there is no greater reality gap than that between McDonald's employees shown on television and those in an actual McDonald's. Some come close: TV women drinking Miller Lite vs. actual women drinking Miller Lite; average TV size of McD's patrons vs. actual average size of McD's patrons. But in the last ten years, the absolute best McDonald's customer service experience I can remember would rank "sullen."
It makes you wonder who they aren't hiring. "Look, we'd love to give you this job, but you punched the interviewer in the face 14 times before saying hello. We have a really strict rule: no more than 10 face-punches per interview. On your way out, could you send in the guy who was stabbing the cat?"
Last Minute Shopping
If you're in a fix, you should head down I-95 to Virginia's exit 4 (Skippers). There are lots of great gifts in the Love's truck stop, including the delightful and affordable "Acoustic Guitar in a Box," perfect for the person who says they want to learn but never bothers to really follow through with anything. Need t-shirts with some kind of flame pattern? They have you covered. But even if you can't find the perfect gift at Love's, there's sure to be an inspiring idea in one of the urinal ads.
I myself would love to get the Jada Diecast Peterbilt Trailer Truck (1/64 scale), decorated with the logo and images from "The Godfather." How many years have you searched and searched for that perfect gift for the person in your life who loves models, long-haul trucking and the works of Mario Puzo? Praise the angels. Your search is over.
This one was a lot of fun. Even if you aren't familiar with Bert, you've kinda sorta heard of him -- he is the inspiration for the movie "Van Wilder." During his 7-year stay at Florida State he was profiled by Rolling Stone as the biggest party animal in the country. (You can get the article on the media section of Bert's web site.)
Since then, he's been a cable star ("The X Show," "Hurt Bert," "Reality Bites Back"), a comedy club regular and a partying legend. I'm really hoping I get a second shot to talk to him, because there's a ton of stuff I didn't even get to touch here -- like why he was living in Russia in 1995 and hanging out with the mafia. If you want a taste of that, here's a 5-minute Love Line clip where he gives a condensed version of "The Machine" story.
If you subscribe through iTunes, you should already have this ... if you don't, shame on you, but here's a link so you can download it. The interview lasts about 22 minutes. NSFW (it gets crude at times).
I don't expect much from local news, but Philadelphia's NBC affiliate did a 3-minute story about a report that clears Barack Obama's staff of any improper activity in the Rod Blagojevich mess, without actually mentioning that the report was compiled and written by Barack Obama's staff. My journalism degree started tingling immediately.
Let's assume for the moment that everyone on BO's staff is clean. Perfectly plausible, even likely. If this is the case, are they dumb enough to not realize that pimping an internal report makes you look guilty? How do you run what most people are calling a brilliant political campaign and then do something this bush league?
Fey was selected by AP members as the performer who had the greatest impact on culture and entertainment in 2008," the wire service said in a story that focused on her appearances as Sarah Palin on Saturday Night Live during the recent presidential elections. "She simultaneously entertained us with her wit and put a mirror up to the nation during the election and made us think about what was going on," said Scott Shive, assistant features editor at the Lexington Herald-Leader. "She is the epitome of the smart kid coming out on top for once."
Yes, after doing a caricature of a political figure that a) she happened to resemble; and b) is very easy to caricature, she helmed a show that ... uh, just cracked the top 50 in Nielsen ratings. Following massive media coverage of that caricature, mind you.
Oh, and I love the "smart kind coming out on top" quote. Because smart people NEVER succeed. Oh, wait, I forgot about business, and literature, and art, and television quiz shows, and science ...
This is just a stupid and ulitmately meaningless entertainment story, but it's a pretty good lesson in how editorial bias works -- reporters see and emphasize things that appeal to them. Most of the country, statistically speaking, doesn't really care about Tina Fey. You could probably make a case that Miley Cyrus had a broader cultural impact. But Tina Fey appeals to the average reporter demographic.
Bleh.
Wrapping Up
For the first time in recent memory I have all my gifts wrapped before Christmas Eve!
I still did a crappy job though, on principle. I understand that you need to cover up the gift for the surprise factor, but why make it fancy? No matter how nice of a job you do, it's going to end up in a crumpled ball in the corner. Why spend any money or time making sure things have hospital corners or using a protractor to measure paper for circular packages? If you spend more than 3/10 of a second thinking about tape placement then you're failing as a human being. I feel the same way about lingerie.
All this being said, you have to admire the classics:
Small gift in a big box. Take something like earrings, and then put them in a box leftover from some kind of an appliance, preferably a refrigerator. You'll want to complete the illusion by balancing out the weight, with something like millstones or a dead homeless person. Then enjoy the surprise on your loved one's face!
Big gift in a series of small boxes. Your whole morning can be filled with the joy of discovery by individually wrapping each piece of an unassembled Ikea desk. Hide the Allen wrench in a glass of champagne. Then enjoy the surprise on your loved one's face!
Anything that's not jewelry in a jewelry box. A single chocolate-covered pecan in a ring box; a crazy straw in a necklace box; a photo of you en flagrante with your loved one's sister in an earring box. Then enjoy the surprise on your loved one's face!
Wrapping about 50 puppy-sized boxes, then telling your kids, "see if you can find the puppy in time!"
The first time I met D.C. Benny was in Indianapolis; we were working the Downtown Crackers together a few years ago. I remember being very impressed by him, because he bought me food more than once.
But far beyond the bonds formed by free food, I really liked his comedy -- he has a storytelling style that most people don't even attempt in this day and age, at least not in comedy clubs. If stand-up acts had a difficulty rating, he'd have a pretty awesome start value. It's not too tough to shock or pander, but to actually get people listening and invested in an eight-minute story? Especially when a lot of those people might be drunk, in an age of short attention spans? Not easy.
He pulls it off, though, and in the interview he shares some of his thoughts on the process. Cool stuff, especially for fans of the craft. If you haven't locked in your New Year's Eve plans, there are a few tickets left for the late show at the Improv (with the countdown and all that jazz) -- D.C. is your headliner, and he's joined by Rob Maher and Jason Weems. That's a very good show.
If you subscribe through iTunes, you should already have this ... if you don't, shame on you, but here's a link so you can download it. The interview lasts about 21 minutes. Only mild profanity; nothing objectionable beyond that.
One correspondent, after hearing about the bear in the Santa suit, passes along news of a bear holding a chainsaw in New Mexico. Actually, do a google image search on "chainsaw bear" and enjoy the results!
I think we're all afraid of being charged by a bear. But if a bear with a CHAINSAW started running at you? Your last thought would be, "Well, that's something you don't see every day." And then the gruesomeness. At least you'd make the papers, assuming they could identify your remains.
Happy Madison
The older you get, life is less about figuring out who you want to be and more about finding the people who will tolerate the wackadoo you've become. I'm happy to report that at 32, there are at least three folks on the planet not obligated by DNA who were willing to take me to James Madison's house for my birthday. I'm a lucky guy!
Montpelier is in the REAL real O.C., Orange County, Virginia, and for the last few years it was a construction site. The house had ballooned to 55 rooms under the care of the duPonts, the great American family which understands that money is pointless unless you spend it, whether it's on shooting Olympic wrestlers, or in the case of Marion duPont Scott, owning a president's house and then raising champion racehorses there. There's a race track and everything!
(Fun note -- the Scott in Marion duPont Scott comes from Randolph Scott, who you probably haven't heard of if you're under the age of 50, unless you've seen "Blazing Saddles," in which case you may remember when Bart gets the townspeople to listen to his plan to build the fake Rock Ridge by saying, "You'd do it for Randolph Scott," and then a choir sings "RAN-DOLPH SCOTT," as all the people cover their hearts. He was a huge Western star, and he eventually divorced Marion, since for the most part he lived in Hollywood. I love history.)
After a few years of tearing down 33 of the rooms and restoring the interior to its early 19th-century glory, restorers wrapped up work this summer. The house isn't furnished or painted or papered yet, but good tour guides can make up for a multitude of empty rooms, and thanks to superguide Tom we got a pretty good idea of what Montpelier is all about:
Madison's grandpa bought the spread, which was your standard slave-operated tobacco plantation. James Madison was the oldest of about 53 children, and his dad shipped the tiny, sickly James off to the the healing waters of New Jersey (Princeton) for schooling, maybe for religious reasons (I wasn't listening that hard). He finished the 4-year program in two years, then became the "first graduate student" in the the history of Princeton by studying with John Witherspoon, the university president and star of the "Friday" movies. As a big nerd, he was perfectly suited to be a part of the Continental Congress, where he met sugardaddy Thomas Jefferson and started to think a lot about government. He did a veritable crapload of reading on philosophy and civics and that sort of thing, and so when it came time to write the Constitution, Madison was the point man. (You don't send a hick to do a nerd's job.) After that he served in the House that he helped invent, became Jefferson's Secretary of State and then fourth president of these United States. After presiding over the burning-down of the White House, he retired to Montpelier and died there in 1836, the last of the Founding Fathers to kick the bucket.
Sound boring? It is! Madison doesn't have the panache of the other early America bigwigs. He didn't fight in the Revolution, he wasn't too much of a personality, he didn't invent things or have syphilis. All his big accomplishments, aside from marrying a lady with a great rack, are on paper, and that's probably why they call him the forgotten Founding Father: because Americans hate nerds.
Which isn't to say that Montpelier isn't cool. There's the study where he formulated his plans for the Constitution, the room where he died, the dining room where he and Dolley entertained thousands of guests, the guest bedroom where Jefferson crashed when headed to or from Monticello. The house tells you something about family priorities -- it's a duplex, since Madison's mom had her own wing to live in after her husband's death. The estate doesn't really have the plantation feel any longer (all the slave quarters and outbuildings are long gone), but the grounds are pretty nice for strolling. The personality is going to change once they get the place decorated, but it's definitely worth a visit now.
Plus there's a graveyard! The Madison family cemetery is just a stone's throw away from the mansion, so you can enjoy the very plain obelisk sitting on top of James Madison, and the very small plain obelisk on top of Dolley. They're very simple, and very beaten down by time; Dolley's marker looks like it's been split in twain and then glued back together. More people need to insist on being buried in their yard. It would make for a far more interesting real estate market. But put Madison in the "surprisingly underwhelming" category of presidential graves.
As far as future study, James seems intriguing, but Dolley seems to be the cooler Madison. She was the White House hostess for 16 years (Jefferson, a widower, asked her to help out) and was apparently THE party monster of Washington society for something like 40 years. No one at Montpelier had anything awesome to say about Jimbo's personality, but Dolley was an "it girl" before anyone knew what the antecedent of "it" was.
Shall we get down to the business ... of FUN MADISON FACTS?!!!
At 5'4", Madison was our shortest president, and in 1810 he issued an executive order making dunking a basketball punishable by death.
Washington, Madison and Jefferson all married widows, probably because it was easy to figure out that the chick wearing black was single.
Before being known as Montpelier, the estate was known as Mount Pleasant, except by slaves, who knew it as Mount Regularly Whipped in Shackles. Madison found slavery to be intellectually indefensible but never freed his more than 100 slaves, because who wants to do all that paperwork?
In addition to being the first graduate student in the history of Princeton, Madison was the first recipient of a French certificate from the Orange County Learning Annex.
The Madisons would entertain as many as 100 guests at their backyard barbeques, and as many as 200 guests at their Live Action Role Playing theme weekends.
Jefferson, during his time in France, would regularly send books about government back to Madison, and in return Madison would send Jefferson cheesecake paintings of Dolley.
Madison's personal notes on the Constitutional Convention are one of the best resources on the proceedings. Madison is known as the "Father of the Constitution." Hmm. Hrrrrrm ...
On rainy days, James and Dolley would exercise by racing eachother on the front porch, because real exercise wasn't invented until 1913.
Dolley Madison saved the Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington during the 1814 burning of the White House, and also the Winter 1814 issue of "Colonial Jugs" for her husband.
Happy Birthday
Thanks to Allyson, Jared and Becca for participating in the Madison festivities. It wasn't just about the presidents -- there was also cake. Behold!
If that wasn't enough, on the way back we got to stop at a fine establishment on the U.S. 29 corridor.
That's a bear in a Santa suit, at a gun shop. Who wouldn't want an angry bear coming down their chimney? It would give you something to shoot. They had all sorts of rifles and shotguns available at the store, as well as accessories. The best thing was probably gun-range targets with pictures of terrorists and home invaders, with point values for the various places that you might shoot said terrorists and home invaders. I have nothing to add to this completely factual account.
I picked up this 2003 Simon Winchester book at a used book store in Seattle, because I had heard good things, and also because it was $5. It details the many events, geological, political and otherwise, before and after the 1883 eruption (and horrifying tsunami) of that volcano.
I liked it, but I won't recommend it, because you probably won't want to read 150 pages on plate tectonics, seafloor spreading and Dutch colonial policy to get to the part about a whole island blowing up. And then after the island blows up, you might not be thrilled to read 30 pages about how sunsets looked different. It is interesting that Krakatoa was the first "global" disaster of the telegraph era, and it's fairly intriguing how efforts to study the results helped revolutionize several scientific disciplines. But it would be MORE interesting if there were some steamy sex scenes thrown in, and it this Simon Winchester fails miserably. Some fun talking points you can throw out there at a cocktail party ...
1) Big volcanic eruptions cause temperatures to drop worldwide. Try to advocate for man-made volcanos as a solution to global warming.
2) Anak Krakatoa, or "Son of Krakatoa," emerged from the ocean around 1930 and is already about 1,500 feet high. This is scary, and will probably end with an eruption that kills millions. Complain that the U.N. should do something.
3) Water is the big killer in most natural disasters, but 10,000 years of human endeavor have been focused on gettng some nice waterfront property. Discuss.
Legal Stuff: If you have questions about this Web site, why? You should spend your time questioning the moral nature of any god who would let Chris White exist. But anyhow ... copyright 2009, Chris White Sucks Inc.
Madison's grandpa bought the spread, which was your standard slave-operated tobacco plantation. James Madison was the oldest of about 53 children, and his dad shipped the tiny, sickly James off to the the healing waters of New Jersey (Princeton) for schooling, maybe for religious reasons (I wasn't listening that hard). He finished the 4-year program in two years, then became the "first graduate student" in the the history of Princeton by studying with John Witherspoon, the university president and star of the "Friday" movies. As a big nerd, he was perfectly suited to be a part of the Continental Congress, where he met sugardaddy Thomas Jefferson and started to think a lot about government. He did a veritable crapload of reading on philosophy and civics and that sort of thing, and so when it came time to write the Constitution, Madison was the point man. (You don't send a hick to do a nerd's job.) After that he served in the House that he helped invent, became Jefferson's Secretary of State and then fourth president of these United States. After presiding over the burning-down of the White House, he retired to Montpelier and died there in 1836, the last of the Founding Fathers to kick the bucket.
Plus there's a graveyard! The Madison family cemetery is just a stone's throw away from the mansion, so you can enjoy the very plain obelisk sitting on top of James Madison, and the very small plain obelisk on top of Dolley. They're very simple, and very beaten down by time; Dolley's marker looks like it's been split in twain and then glued back together. More people need to insist on being buried in their yard. It would make for a far more interesting real estate market. But put Madison in the "surprisingly underwhelming" category of presidential graves.
August 2009: Jefferson.
Fall 2009: comic interviews on the podcast. 
