Tuesday, June 29, 2010

I Can Change My Mind, And So Can Elena Kagan

Today must be Wear Your Sandals to Work Day, because a whole bunch of famous people are flip-flopping!!

Now, there was a time, when George W. was running against John Kerry, when flip-flopping was the worst thing in the world that you could do, because it showed mental weakness, a lack of mental toughness, and the non-possession of mental non-weakness. To say that John Kerry "flip-flopped" was to call him a big ol' Waffle House waffler, and, thanks to the catchiness of chanting "FLIP FLOP" and also the idea that anyone looks good in windsurfing spandex, Kerry lost the race.

Fast forward to today, using your Adam Sandler Presents Click remote controls: "flip flopping" is now more or less known as it has always been known i.e. as a process of rational critical thought, a cornerstone of intellectualism. (Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do not believe this was brought up during the 04 Campaign). And indeed, this has been another day of flip-flopping in what might just be the Week of Flip Flops, which sounds like an absolutely horrible Drew Barrymore sentimental girl-comedy but isn't:

First it was Elena "Look at That Haircut, She Must Be A Lesbian" Kagan, who, according to The New York Times-- which doesn't even have a retractions section because it NEVER flip-flops-- says that Kagan "backpedaled" in a previous statement about specific disclosures of constitutional views for SCOTUS nominees. Whoa, Kagan! I bet it's hard to backpedal wearing FLIP FLOPS! Careful not to trip over your flimsy foam heels when you're backpedaling, Lanie dear!

Second, in the sport that has American newsanchors flopping daily over whether it is called "football" or "soccer," Sepp Blatter, President of FIFA, the sport organization that sounds most like the name of gay man's French poodle, announced that he was changing his mind, and that, due to the general incompetence of the umpiring in the World Cup thus far, he would consider using instant replay in future contests. While Blatter was widely seen to be wearing a black suit with a gray tie, there is no word what kind of footwear he had on, though I think we can all safely assume it was FLIP FLOPS.

It's been a Whale of a Waffle Week, hasn't it? Obama decided to fire McChrystal, and Senators decided not to tax big banks, because, hey, what have big banks done lately that they deserve to be taxed?

I just hope all of this flip-flopping stops by the time I have children; I will not let my kids grow up to be flip-floppers. When they form an opinion about something, they will never change their mind about that thing. This will apply to everything, and they will be adored by their friends and colleagues, respected by their professors, and generally will be pleasant to be around. They will not be allowed to wear flip-flops; they will have the palest, most shriveled toes in all of America, and news pundits will call them geniuses.

And you may think that all of I've written above about my future children will be untrue--that they won't have any friends or colleagues, that their professors will find them pig-headed and anti-intellectual, and that they will generally be impossible to be around--but you'll be wrong. And when you change your tune, and want to come to my 4th of July BBQ to chill and celebrate America with me and my cool kids, well, don't burn your eggs waiting for your red-white-and-blue invitation in the mail--my kids don't associate with flip-floppers.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Thinly Veiled Postwar Red Threat Metaphor Films Are Back, Baby!

...or at least, they could be.

Following the news that the FBI arrested 11 seemingly ordinary citizens who were in fact nefarious Russian spies is great news for fans of groaningly-obvious paper-thin postwar allegorical Communist threat films everywhere. That YOUR VERY NEIGHBORS could be plotting to blow up the world, perhaps with a shiny nuclear briefcase, perhaps by infecting you and your loved ones with some sort of disease that turns you into a pod-person, can only mean that Red Threat film is back in action, baby!

I am particularly excited about the rebirth of this genre (and this threat) because, as you may know, I am a 23-year-old single college graduate, clean-cut, seemingly American, athletic, friendly, waves at the neighbors, pets the neighbors' dogs kind of guy; but also, I live in a retirement community in decidedly-Caucasian Central New Jersey. I only hope that at least one of my new neighbors accuses me of being a Russian spy. God: it would make up for all hardships and diseases you have thrust upon me if I were to be called in front of the retirement community's Council of Elders and accused formally of being a Soviet infiltrator. This would be the happiest moment of my life, listening to the "evidence," having 50 year old Communist slurs hurled at me by paleo-McCarthyites, giving blood to prove that I did in fact have red human blood and not green alien blood, or, worse, no blood at all, a bloodless life form.


This will be me for the next two weeks or so, until this story dies down or until the security guard at the front gate of my community arrests me. It is up to you, Oceanaire Protection Services.

Oh, what wonderful news from the Times today. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go talk in hushed tones on my cell phone and dig a series of mysterious holes in my backyard under the cover of the moonlight.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

I went-a to Ikea

Hey home assembly fans!

Today I (home) assembled my first piece of Ikea furniture. In case you haven't heard, I moved into a 32-year-old father of two's body last week, so I've been doing a lot of furniture shopping. And by a lot, I mean just that--a great deal. Or else I wouldn't have used the word. I'm a strict Orwellian when it comes to usage.

Anyway, I bought a desk chair, despite having no computer desk, computer table, computer sandbox covered with tarp--nothing to hold up my monitor or desktop except the carpet and a cardboard box. The keyboard is on my lap right now, and in case you were wondering, I am wearing underwear which ix blocking at least 75% of it from interpopulating with my Evergladesian thigh hair and glute pimples.

So, if you are at my house in the next, say, month or so--in between my regular home appliance sterilization cycles--and you are planning on licking the underside of my keyboard, just remember: if it's ASDFGHJKL and under, you're fine; but if you're licking QWERTYUIOP, then, hoo, boy, I don't know WHAT musculo-follicular transmittable diseases you're going to get.

Anyway, the chair.

It is called Markus, which most of you probably know as the name of the director of the beloved 1989 West German animation short ZEICHENFISCHFILM, a movie title which must always be written in all caps and which must always be shouted. My mother chose the Markus over several other more sensibly named chairs, for example, the haughty, elegant, victorious Hugo:



Namesake of Australian tennis great, the Laver:


Or the little-chair-that-could, the Kolon, which is listed on the Ikea website as a swivel chair despite clearly being a floor mat:


Keep growing, buddy! One day you'll be a chair! For a Japanese person!

The real scandal is not that my mother did not choose HUGO or DER KOLONCHAIR, but rather that she passed up on two perfectly good chairs that may or may not have earned our family money in royalties. I am speaking of course about JEFF, named after my father:


And the chair that made Marietta famous, the GILBERT:



Why did my mother opt for the MARKUS and not the JEFF or the GILBERT? Is she leading a secret double-life, perhaps involving a Swede named MARKUS? Only time will tell. If I ever find this mysterious MARKUS, or MARKII, mark my words: "Hey-a, Markus, why you gotta add-a pepperoni? Ikea penis inna your car-a!"

Also I built the MARKUS chair no problem, except the armrests are loose and it is constantly on fire for some reason.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Readjusting the Panty Lines That Are My Life

Well, I'm back, and I am settling in, re-gelling, assuming form, like liquid or gas in a container.

I moved into a retirement community. My parents bought a second home on the Jersey Shore, in a cute little ex-mafia village called Waretown, and that second home happens to be located inside a community of active 55+ adults. My parents come for the weekends, and otherwise I have the home to myself during weekdays (except Mah Jongg Wednesdays). It's nice, and there is air conditioning, a television, a French Door refrigerator, and three different toilets. What else could a sweaty lazy fat Lactose-intolerant boy of 23 ask for? A girlfriend. Don't answer that. A girlfriend.

I've been going running lately. The past 5 days I have ran. I did not go running one time in Thailand, but now I am like Steve Prefontaine over here (don't bother looking it up) because I run all the time. I hope it's not upsetting the neighbors, my ability to run. Will it make them bitter? Do they think I am showing off, with my working legs and hot chest? Are the men afraid that I am going to steal their women, that the horrors of the documentary Cougar Town are true?

I sure hope they are.

One downside to the house: there is no computer desk. I have a desktop computer and no desk. It's more like a cardboard top. Here is the setup:

the silver box thing with the electronics and wires is on the floor.
the monitor is on a cardboard box holding blankets
the speakers are on an adjacent cardboard box holding books
the keyboard is in my lap
the mousepad is the back of a felt photoframe
the mousepad is on the floor
i am sitting in a beach chair with retractable sun-shade

A knock at the door. Probably an elderly neighbor wanting to meet the new people. I'm not going to answer the knocks, though, because I just had an idea for a zombie movie. Spoiler alert: it's set in a retirement community on the Jersey Shore, and the hero is really fucking cool. Despite this, he will inevitably be played by Shia LeBouf, who will play the same character that he does in every movie, to lukewarm reviews. Then he will get paid even more money for his next role, despite being so forgettable and mediocre in every way.

Imagine a guido zombie. A man. Black Harley-Davidson T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Fading bicep tattoos, sagging bicep skin. Chin strap beard. A rectangular island of hair on the very top of his head, shaved close to the skin the rest of the way around, connecting to the sideburns, fading into the chin strap.

And he is undead.

How's it goin', you gonna give me some brains to eat here or what?

Let's brainstorm (find the pun) some titles:

Don of the Dead
Army of Asbury Parkness
28 Days Later (The Yankees)

Now excuse me while I submit this to M. Night Shyamalan. Spoiler alert:: the movie isn't going to be very good.

Friday, June 4, 2010

This Week on 60 Minutes: Are Pthalates the Cause of Your Tiny Little Chicken-Penis?

It's been awhile since I blogged. I wrote this a couple weeks. I have since moved into the retirement community. This post is now anachronistic. Also it has no ending and no resolution. In this way, it mimicks life:


In the coming week or so I will be moving into a retirement community at age 23, part of a misguided, nonsensical attempt to live my life patterned to what I assume the plot of Benjamin Button to be. As part of the move I will now be watching 60 Minutes on a regular basis and nodding in vigorous agreement with everything that Andy Rooney says (well, as vigorously as my jowls will allow me to).

The lead story on this week's 6T Mins was a subject that was very near to my heart--as well as to my pelvis--that of small penises. Apparently a group of chemicals called "phthalates" [pron. "fal-ate", the same pronunciation as "phallate," def. "of or relating to the phallus"], which are used in EVERYTHING IN YOUR HOUSEHOLD, have been linked in a famous study to smaller penises in boys who were exposed to phthalates while in the womb. This research was presented in the so-called "Swan Study," so called because the research was carried out by a Dr. Swan and not because the tiny penises eventually blossomed into larger, more normal-sized penii. To quote a website that may well be entirely unreliable:

A sobering study suggests that exposure to phthalates before birth may under-virilize boys, which can be seen with a shorter penis length, thinner penis width, smaller and less distinct scrotum, shorter distance between the anus and scrotum, and higher likelihood of undescended testicles.

Read more: http://www.drgreene.com/blog/2005/05/27/smaller-penis-size-and-phthalates#ixzz0oo3nJgoA

Thank you, Dr. Greene; you can go hang out with Dr. Carter and Nurse Hathaway in the break room now.

It is easy to see why this pressing issue was the lead story on "60 Minutes" (or "60 Millimeters" as it was being called this week). There are perhaps more dramatic enemies of the United States--urban gangs, terrorists international and domestic, the Jews. But I would guess that there is no greater threat to the collective male American psyche than the fear of having a package-peanut ding-a-ling.

One only need to watch the advertisements for 60 Minutes to know that men are at least thinking about their celery stalks. About 30% of all the commercials tonight, and most nights, I believe, feature affluent-looking, silver-haired men in tweed jackets or Navy blue blazers giving themselves pep talks about how to approach their doctors about cock starches like Viagra or Cialis. For it is one thing for a man's oil tower to suddely go dry; and it is another thing for that tower to stick only three feet out of the dirt. The reanimation of geriatric zombie penises is yesterday's news; the producers of 60 Minutes recognized this and, happening upon this phthalate story, have simultaneously re-energized and lengthened the public obsession with swizzle sticks.