Over two-thousand years ago, the Messiah walked the Earth. The King and Redeemer of the Jews, the man who would be betrayed by the very people he had come to enlighten...so the story goes. I talk, of course, of the man upstairs, the big JC.
Two-thousand years later, this conversation takes place.
My sister Meagan: "Hey, what do you want for Christmas?"
Me: "I don't know, what do you want?"
Meagan: "I want Across the Universe. Is there any movie you want?"
Me: "Uhhhh.. Ooh! The Dark Knight."
Meagan: "Okay. I'll get you that. See you later."
(Disclaimer: The Dark Knight is a phenomenal movie and my slight Christmas griping in no way affects how stoked I am to be a proud owner of said film.)
Ah, yes. Christmas. The Granddaddy of them all. The King of all holidays. The McDonald's to Hanukkah's Hardees. But how did we get here?
How has the celebration of the birth of the Messiah been bastardized so severely? Even the most outlandish games of Telephone never ended up this bizarre. How has the celebration of the birth of the martyr of the Christian faith turned into a day in which everybody goes and buys each other stuff?
The sense of obligation is the thing that gets me the most. I don't know if it's because I'm a selfish bastard, or because I just need to save money, but I don't really get into the spirit of giving. I give gifts out of a sense of reciprocity. If people are giving me stuff, I guess I had better give them stuff too, lest I be a huge douchebag. I narrowly avoided having to take from my savings account to finance this Christmas, and I'm trying to reserve said funds for something important in the future, like initial payments on an apartment.
Christmas...the holiday in which you contemplate dipping into your account for the future in order to buy your mom's boyfriend a waffle maker, for the sole reason that you've noticed a To/From involving the two of you already under the tree. What a kick in the pants.
In the olden days, Christmas was a magical holiday when Santa came in the middle of the night and gave you everything you wanted. Now it's the holiday in which you run presents by your whole family beforehand, because if you're going to spend X dollars, they'd better like it.
Until we can find a happy medium between rampant consumerism and religious fanaticism, Christmas will continue to be a major headache. But hey. At least I got a bunch of cool stuff.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Okay Publicists, come up with something else.
Why is it that every time some young Hollywood punk like Lindsay Lohan goes out and gets a DUI, the country doesn't burn her at the stake? I mean, that's a pretty dick move, and as a public figure and role model to an unfortunate few, she should certainly be castigated. But she usually does just fine. Why??
Rehab! Yay!!! I love this time-honored strategy of douchebag pampered California kids evading responsibility for their actions by blaming a nonexistent addiction. Half the time these people are like 18, 19, 21 years old. They're not alcoholics. They're just idiots. But this way, they get to blame the booze, total lack of control, and it wasn't really their fault to begin with! YAYYY!!
I imagine the conversation must go something like this.
Publicist (P): Man, Young Hollywood Douchebag, you've really done it this time. I can't believe you flipped your Hummer on Rodeo Drive, rolling over a crowd of Japanese tourists and right into an expensive boutique. How are we going to clean this up?
Young Hollywood Douchebag: I know right??? It's like, crazy though! *Texts on Blackberry*
P: I've got it. You're an addict. You'll go into a cushy Beverly Hills rehab for a week, sit in a spa and exfoliate, and text on your Blackberry. Instead of being completely lambasted by the media and never working again, people will feel bad for you. Then, if you ever do clean up your act, whether superficially or actually, everyone will be very excited and you'll officially be making a "Comeback." How's that sound?
YHD: *Texts on Blackberry*
P: Alright! Well I'll alert the newspapers.
How does this work? It's so see-through, it's insane. The celebrity-rehab defense is akin to chasing some sort of criminal around... you've almost got them, BAM! They're in a church. They've got Sanctuary. Well, you can't do anything now, right? Rehab is celebrity Sanctuary. Fuck that. I hate these people. I guess anything to keep TMZ on the air, right?
...Stop it.
Rehab! Yay!!! I love this time-honored strategy of douchebag pampered California kids evading responsibility for their actions by blaming a nonexistent addiction. Half the time these people are like 18, 19, 21 years old. They're not alcoholics. They're just idiots. But this way, they get to blame the booze, total lack of control, and it wasn't really their fault to begin with! YAYYY!!
I imagine the conversation must go something like this.
Publicist (P): Man, Young Hollywood Douchebag, you've really done it this time. I can't believe you flipped your Hummer on Rodeo Drive, rolling over a crowd of Japanese tourists and right into an expensive boutique. How are we going to clean this up?
Young Hollywood Douchebag: I know right??? It's like, crazy though! *Texts on Blackberry*
P: I've got it. You're an addict. You'll go into a cushy Beverly Hills rehab for a week, sit in a spa and exfoliate, and text on your Blackberry. Instead of being completely lambasted by the media and never working again, people will feel bad for you. Then, if you ever do clean up your act, whether superficially or actually, everyone will be very excited and you'll officially be making a "Comeback." How's that sound?
YHD: *Texts on Blackberry*
P: Alright! Well I'll alert the newspapers.
How does this work? It's so see-through, it's insane. The celebrity-rehab defense is akin to chasing some sort of criminal around... you've almost got them, BAM! They're in a church. They've got Sanctuary. Well, you can't do anything now, right? Rehab is celebrity Sanctuary. Fuck that. I hate these people. I guess anything to keep TMZ on the air, right?
...Stop it.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
"Push to Cross" buttons...the Placebo effect?
Here at the Denim Douche, I, your humble friend and narrator, like to steer clear of the esoteric. That's right, we're all about universals here. And by we, I mean me. The other day I had a post half typed up about a strange new trend in my music listening patterns whereupon my iTunes top 25 consists of 18 instrumentals and 7 songs with vocals. But then, I realized that nobody really cares. I realized that I was drifting towards the cardinal sin of all Blogdom...chronicling boring crap about my life that really could be best kept in a Hello Kitty diary under my pillow.
However, amusing anecdotes about the minutiae of day to day life, in the Jerry Seinfeld vein, are a clever way to sidestep this problem. Everyone has a special place in their hearts for "I can relate to that!!!" common observations and potentially crackpot theories. So without any further ado, I present...
"Push to Cross" buttons actually do nothing.
You know, I've been alive a while. It's been more than 21 years now, but who's counting? I've stood at my share of crosswalks. I've waited for my share of white-silhouetted men to replace that foreboding red hand. In all of my life, I think I have been to approximately three million crosswalks. I'll have to check with my statisticians. Anyway, there are times when I stand and do nothing, and there I times when I tap the button like I'm winding my Shy Guy in Mario Party 2, and there is no difference.
Why is this button here? Is it even connected to anything? Pressing questions to say the least. But invalid? I think not. When I was a naive young child, much like the girl in that photo up there (internet photo...my days of following young children around with cameras are over), I had my theories.
1. The cross sign wouldn't appear unless I pressed the button. Wrong. It comes up anyway.
2. Pressing the button will make the light change sooner Nope. It's on a timer.
3. (Approx. 1995-Present) The button doesn't do a goddamn thing.
Now, of course, this theory is based solely on observation. But like I said...I've spent a lot of time observing, and I'm pretty sure something like this couldn't just slip by me. Not if lab rats can learn to collect food on a fixed ratio system! Whoops, too much Learning Psych.
One day I'll have to do some real data collection...hit the button 10 times, not hit the button 10 times, note the differences. I doubt it'll be as easy as the back cover of Highlights, though. In the meantime, I suggest that those of you with any knowledge of the inner workings of electronics re-wire these useless buttons to at least frighten the elderly. Set off some explosions, administer an electric shock... buttons weren't made to do nothing, god dammit! It's time for a revolution in intersection-navigating technology, and I want all of you to be at the forefront. Ready...go.
However, amusing anecdotes about the minutiae of day to day life, in the Jerry Seinfeld vein, are a clever way to sidestep this problem. Everyone has a special place in their hearts for "I can relate to that!!!" common observations and potentially crackpot theories. So without any further ado, I present...
"Push to Cross" buttons actually do nothing.
You know, I've been alive a while. It's been more than 21 years now, but who's counting? I've stood at my share of crosswalks. I've waited for my share of white-silhouetted men to replace that foreboding red hand. In all of my life, I think I have been to approximately three million crosswalks. I'll have to check with my statisticians. Anyway, there are times when I stand and do nothing, and there I times when I tap the button like I'm winding my Shy Guy in Mario Party 2, and there is no difference.
Why is this button here? Is it even connected to anything? Pressing questions to say the least. But invalid? I think not. When I was a naive young child, much like the girl in that photo up there (internet photo...my days of following young children around with cameras are over), I had my theories.
1. The cross sign wouldn't appear unless I pressed the button. Wrong. It comes up anyway.
2. Pressing the button will make the light change sooner Nope. It's on a timer.
3. (Approx. 1995-Present) The button doesn't do a goddamn thing.
Now, of course, this theory is based solely on observation. But like I said...I've spent a lot of time observing, and I'm pretty sure something like this couldn't just slip by me. Not if lab rats can learn to collect food on a fixed ratio system! Whoops, too much Learning Psych.
One day I'll have to do some real data collection...hit the button 10 times, not hit the button 10 times, note the differences. I doubt it'll be as easy as the back cover of Highlights, though. In the meantime, I suggest that those of you with any knowledge of the inner workings of electronics re-wire these useless buttons to at least frighten the elderly. Set off some explosions, administer an electric shock... buttons weren't made to do nothing, god dammit! It's time for a revolution in intersection-navigating technology, and I want all of you to be at the forefront. Ready...go.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Competitive Eating.... What have I done with my life?
On some Thursdays, I like to wander over to the Hooters in Manchester for the glorious man-ritual known as all-you-can-eat Buffalo wing night. I bask in the sights, the sounds, the glory. You may not be able to see it through the flat-screen TV's, and walls covered with vintage 80's photos of Hooters girls posing next to the likes of Woody Harrelson and Jay Leno, but all-you-can-eat wing night is a primal, guttural throwback to my favorite time...the time of the hunter-gatherer.
You see, back in the good ole' days, before bullshit like portion control and vegetables came into play, people ate as much as they could in one sitting. Hey, you don't know where your next meal is coming from... eat up! So, here I am. Hooters is my tribe. I'm being served copious amounts of poultry from my squaw. I prefer the squaw that's sitting at the stool next to that lonely guy over there, but mine will do. I'm being served plate after plate of steaming tasties, when all the sudden my thirst for flesh is quenched. After about 35 wings, I call it quits.
(Aside: Those well versed in early human evolution might be noticing at this time that my idyllic vision of a hunter-gather Hooters features neither hunting nor gathering. In fact, it more closely resembles early human agriculture, in which humans started raising livestock as a community so as to largely eliminate the need for dangerous/strenuous hunting. While that is true, and certainly relevant, the point I am trying to make is one regarding the pure voracity of the hunter-gatherer appetite. Agricultural humans, having a much more stable source of food, were able to portion control and eat vegetables, both of which have no place at all-you-can-eat Wing night. I'm talking pure indulgence. Like Michael Phelps without all that pesky swimming.)
After this man-sized meal of nothing but meat, I am quite pleased with myself. After coming home, I become curious... I probably ate for a solid 30 minutes (with breaks in between plates of wings, but the fact of the matter is, I was full)... what's the record? What man has eaten the most wings in that span?
Joey Chestnut. And that's where the fascination began. Chestnut ate ONE HUNDRED NINETY EIGHT wings in 30 minutes. Oh my Chestnut. That man is truly the second coming. I delved deeper. Chestnut, of course, was the man who shattered Kobayashi's hot-dog record...he now holds it at 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. WHAT???
I had heard of Kobayashi, and known that someone had beaten him a while back, but it wasn't until I stumbled upon http://www.ifoce.com/records.php
that I started to realize the enormity of some of these feats.
Why the hell isn't competitive eating more popular? Mary-Kate Olsen aside, everybody eats. That is to say, everyone can realize the craziness of competitive eating accomplishments. If Kobe averages 35 points a game, half the country will say, "Is that good?" But nobody can tell me that they're not blown away by the 198 wing count. And if you define athletics as a competition between people pushing the limits of the human body, competitive eating certainly applies.
I hereby start a committee. Let's do away with NASCAR, because it's stupid, and appoint Competitive Eating as the heir apparent. You can't tell me the Southerners will notice. We're the fattest country in the world. You'd think we'd all be able to appreciate something like this! And with the amount of gluttony going down in our country, you've got to think some of our best eaters are hiding in plain sight. Maybe Joey Chestnut is the man right now, but I'd be willing to bet his successor has simply yet to realize his calling.
Step 1: The Challenger...
You see, back in the good ole' days, before bullshit like portion control and vegetables came into play, people ate as much as they could in one sitting. Hey, you don't know where your next meal is coming from... eat up! So, here I am. Hooters is my tribe. I'm being served copious amounts of poultry from my squaw. I prefer the squaw that's sitting at the stool next to that lonely guy over there, but mine will do. I'm being served plate after plate of steaming tasties, when all the sudden my thirst for flesh is quenched. After about 35 wings, I call it quits.
(Aside: Those well versed in early human evolution might be noticing at this time that my idyllic vision of a hunter-gather Hooters features neither hunting nor gathering. In fact, it more closely resembles early human agriculture, in which humans started raising livestock as a community so as to largely eliminate the need for dangerous/strenuous hunting. While that is true, and certainly relevant, the point I am trying to make is one regarding the pure voracity of the hunter-gatherer appetite. Agricultural humans, having a much more stable source of food, were able to portion control and eat vegetables, both of which have no place at all-you-can-eat Wing night. I'm talking pure indulgence. Like Michael Phelps without all that pesky swimming.)
After this man-sized meal of nothing but meat, I am quite pleased with myself. After coming home, I become curious... I probably ate for a solid 30 minutes (with breaks in between plates of wings, but the fact of the matter is, I was full)... what's the record? What man has eaten the most wings in that span?
Joey Chestnut. And that's where the fascination began. Chestnut ate ONE HUNDRED NINETY EIGHT wings in 30 minutes. Oh my Chestnut. That man is truly the second coming. I delved deeper. Chestnut, of course, was the man who shattered Kobayashi's hot-dog record...he now holds it at 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. WHAT???
I had heard of Kobayashi, and known that someone had beaten him a while back, but it wasn't until I stumbled upon http://www.ifoce.com/records.php
that I started to realize the enormity of some of these feats.
Why the hell isn't competitive eating more popular? Mary-Kate Olsen aside, everybody eats. That is to say, everyone can realize the craziness of competitive eating accomplishments. If Kobe averages 35 points a game, half the country will say, "Is that good?" But nobody can tell me that they're not blown away by the 198 wing count. And if you define athletics as a competition between people pushing the limits of the human body, competitive eating certainly applies.
I hereby start a committee. Let's do away with NASCAR, because it's stupid, and appoint Competitive Eating as the heir apparent. You can't tell me the Southerners will notice. We're the fattest country in the world. You'd think we'd all be able to appreciate something like this! And with the amount of gluttony going down in our country, you've got to think some of our best eaters are hiding in plain sight. Maybe Joey Chestnut is the man right now, but I'd be willing to bet his successor has simply yet to realize his calling.
Step 1: The Challenger...
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