Me and Chuck E. Cheese

Edit: I am a bit horrified to find that Whitney Matheson of Pop Candy has re-redirected her readership here to The League (big fan of Pop Candy! Hi, Whitney!). Welcome one and all. I also apologize for the many, many grammatical and typographical errors. If I'd time, I'd clean it up, but alas.

Every year on my birthday, people ask where I want to go for dinner to celebrate. And every year, I say the same thing. I say that I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese.


Its partially a test. The truth is, I sort of figured out a long time ago that even if its your birthday, you sort of need to pick neutral territory that everyone will like. You cannot say "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese", because nobody over the age of 9 really wants to find themselves at Chuck E. Cheese for any length of time. Which is why they sell beer (or they did). So its always a fun litmus test to see how batshit people (especially Jason) will go when you quietly insist that, yes, you DO want to go to Chuck E. Cheese. When pushed, I insist that I like pizza, videogames and a complementary animatronic floorshow. And offer up helpful bits like "I told you where I wanted to go, and if you don't want to go there, that's fine. Just take me wherever."



I have actually had two birthdays at Chuck E. Cheese. When I was in 5th grade, my parents finally caved and agreed to let me have my party at a Chuck E. Cheese somewhere in Austin (probably off Burnet). And I recall pretty distinctly all of my friends just sort of milling around, realizing we were too old for Chuck E. Cheese. Whether we were too big for the "rides", or weren't into the robots anymore, or whatever... I just remember an awful sinking feeling that I'd made a mistake.

They probably still do this, but they would announce the names of kids having birthdays and bring out these cakes with these goofy sparkling candles, and Chuck would come by and give you a present. And as all of this was going on, all I could think was "Oh, Jesus Christ, I'm too old for all of this..." And as I was about to open the present from Chuck, this girl in a visor who worked there sort of apologized to me in advance, letting me know "we only have presents for little kids..." as I opened up what was a dollar-store Fisher-Price knockoff toy car. Pretty clearly intended for a kid, ages 2-6.

You Want Money, You Better Earn It

At age 16, I was informed I was to find a job once school let out. There was a certain window of time when school let out when people would plan to hire kids for the summer. This was kind of understood by me and my high school pals but possibly less understood by my folks. That year we headed out of town shortly after school let out, and remained gone for a couple of weeks. When I returned, I hit the road every day for several hours filling out applications, but to no avail. I was told at every place I applied that I could fill out an application, but they weren't hiring. For reasons unknown to me to this day, my inability to find a job was met with skepticism by my parents, who seemed to believe all you had to do to land a job was walk in the door of whever you wanted to work, and they'd hire you.

I confess I had a couple of rules.

1) I wouldn't sack groceries. Houston summers can be brutal enough, and I wanted to not wear the goofy bow-tie, long pants and smock get-up Randall's employed. Apparently the Randall's corporation believed that such a get-up would fool their patrons into believing that they were shopping in some Mom and Pop corner store during the early days of the 20th Century rather than in a state of the art grocery with automated rainfall on the out-of-season produce and endless aisles of preservative-laced foods.

In short, I didn't want to sweat so badly in my job that I'd not get tips, which is how the sackers made their dough.

2) I was avoiding the food industry. Apparently The KareBear had some amazing experience working at the same restaurant as a waitress for years as she made her way through school. But everyone I talked to made it sound like a lot of late nights and uncomfortable situations with assistant managers. Also, I get grossed out by other people's partially eaten food.

I wasn't going to land some sweet gig that my parents set up for me (which was something to always be jealous of), and I was starting late, after every 16 year old in the greater Spring area was already out and looking.

Landing the Job

But... Chuck E. Cheese was hiring.

When I asked for an application, the manager pumped my hand and asked if I could come back the next day. He was in his 30's, 6'4", wore a tie, and seemed like a great guy. The next day he put me in a booth, we chatted lightly (I had no experience doing anything but reading comics, shooting free-throws and doing homework, so... not much to chat on), and I thought we hit it off great. I was in!

I'd be nowhere near the food. I'd be working the Game Floor, which I imagined would be a bit like playing casino host to a bunch of 5-10 year-olds, handing out tokens, occasionally polishing a game, and getting free food.

Jason begged me not to work at Chuck E. Cheese. Family Pal Larry Lee had worked at a Chuck's in Austin when he and Jason were in high school.

"You don't just play the videogames," Jason told me. "You're going to hate it."

I steamed. Chuck E. Cheese was supposed to be fun, by definition. I had a job, and he didn't, so was clearly jealous of my job-landing skills, which... when the manager saw me, he clearly saw the potential that I thought pretty much darn near everyone SHOULD see in me.

I started a week later to the semi-surprise of the two managers on duty, Angel and Jim. Angel was probably in her early 30's, but looked older. I had a foot on Jim, and a head of hair he lacked, which at age 16, made me estimate him at somewhere between 20 and 95. The manager who had hired me was no longer with the store. No explanation was given.

With a few others, I was led to the back to be given a uniform and some cursory instructions. Stuff like "food isn't free, but it is half-off. Plan to be here for a two or more hours after closing every night. More on Saturdays" It was true I would be on the gamefloor, which thrilled me. No clearing plates of other people's slobbered-upon pizza crusts. No touching cups with lipstick smears. I would sweep up, I would wipe down machines. And, curiously, despite an utter lack of experience with anything more than a crystal radio kit, I would repair machines and games. And, give out tokens to kids who claimed they'd "lost" a token.

But there was literally no training. The tasks we were to perform were mostly so idiot simple (go sweep up pizza crusts), that I guess spending time training wasn't really necessary. And, what I would soon learn about the staffing issues probably led the managers to believe it was a waste of time.


Some vintage Chuck horror

The Uniform

Not clear on the spirit of the law, but intent to maintain the letter, I listened carefully to the uniform instructions. I was to wear what they gave me. No exceptions. A red, collared shirt with my name-tag. A blue visor with the logo. And a pair of khaki pants that was pretty clearly too small for me.

Someone asked if we could substitute our own clothing.

The answer was a definitive "no".

I have no recollection of my first day, other than squeezing into the pants I'd been assigned and worrying a great deal about whether I would burst, Hulk-like, from the pants should I squat down, and exactly how much of my wedding tackle would be on display at each shift, because... golly those pants were tight.

Plus, the visor pushed my hair up into a weird sort of explosion, jutting out the top of the elastic band.

I hopped into my disintegrating '83 Honda and headed off for work.

I was relieved to find we wore these little blue smocks that covered the area of primary concern, but did nothing to disguise the action going on in the aft.

The Way it Works

The most important thing to know is how totally gross a place full of children eating greasy pizza really is. Especially kids full of sugar who believe all bets are off because the ranting, robotic mouse keeps telling them they can "be a kid". Which, apparently, means pushing, shoving, kicking people in mascot costumes in the crotch and ass, and occasionally vomiting for no particular reason.

If I had a triumph in the summer of 1991, it was that I drew a line in the land which stated that I would clean neither the stalls, nor the vomit from the floor. That job, I bargained and bartered my way out of it. And you knew you were in dutch with the managers if you had to clean the bathrooms, but at our store, that usually fell to the "show floor" staff, who were perceived to have it somehow easier than the game floor staff during the usual hours.

But kids sort of leak fluids. Never, ever, ever allow your child to play in the ball crawl. No matter what they tell you, you can't actually clean one of those things. Just vacuuming the thing thoroughly, which was done a few times each week with a shop-vac, took the entire evening cleaning shift from 10 - 12:00 or 12:30. There was a semi-annual schedule for actually cleaning the ball crawl, and reportedly they found all kinds of stuff in there.

Walk into any Chuck E. Cheese, and you'll see some schlub constantly wiping things down. That's because greasy little kids are putting their greasy little hands on everything, always. Leaving handprints. The definition of sisyphian task was trying to keep the glass doors to the place hand-print free on a Saturday. Which the managers would do if they were displeased with you for some slight. Or, if they were really irritated, you could be condemned to rub the rubber floor edgings with lemon oil.

My Fellow Staffers

The turn-over was incredible. The entire crew I started with was gone within three or four weeks. Having a new person wander out to join you on shift occurred with such regularity, I mostly identified people by their physical traits instead of names. Guy Who Talks About Being Drunk All the Time. Girl With Too-Huge Boobs. Old Person. Too Much Make-Up Girl. That Guy Who Wears Shorts Even Though Its Not Regulation, But Nobody Says Anything. We were also not really supposed to talk to each other, anyway. Perhaps they feared Chuck himself would lead a Norma Rae-line uprising.

I didn't work many mornings, which was when you wanted to work. Customers tend not to hit the Chuck until later afternoon on weekdays, so the place is oddly sedate for the first few hours, especially before opening. And there were these two women who were in their late-40's, I'd guess, who had been there in a minimum wage position for over a decade. We were going through staff like people go through grapes, and these two had been there and seen it all. They were entrusted with the amazing "token counting machine", which had to be run every morning so they'd know how many tokens were in the store. I remember asking why they didn't become managers if they were there so long, and the conversation became suddenly very awkward until one of them assured me that they didn't want all the trouble of being a manager.

And from what little I knew of Jim and Angel, I didn't blame them. Angel seemed only like she constantly wished to be anywhere but there, but was at least kind of useful. Jim just dreamed up stuff for you to do, like polishing the baseboards. He just seemed particularly frustrated, and refused to crack a smile, even when I slipped and fell in the kitchen and the first words out of my mouth were "there's a lawsuit in there somewhere!" I spent that next Saturday cleaning windows.

Career Advancement

Sure enough, I learned how to fix the ski-ball machines through a sure-fire method of trial and error that would make any psychology lab proud. (If you perform this action, you will receive an electric shock... if you perform that action, the game will come back alive, and you get to play a few rounds to test the machine).

I cleared out hobos. Once ate a handful of the pink powder they use to make cotton candy, right out of the box (do not recommend). Gave away handfuls of tokens to kids who lied about losing them. But never dressed in the mascot suit, for which my carriage was too large.

I did almost wear it once on a slow day, but a party of several dozen showed up, unaware you were supposed to schedule a birthday party in advance. Thus, my one chance for wearing the suit (and going to Fiesta to drum up business, which is what I told the manager I was going to do), was foiled.

Losing Faith in Humanity

I don't know if any particular incident occurred during my summer at The Chuck, but I do recall coming home every night increasingly despondent over what I saw as some less-than-stellar parenting. Drunk parents. Parents who yelled. Parents who felt that Chuck E. Cheese was some sort of "time out" for them, and that whatever happened on behalf of their destructive little monsters within the confines of our store was our problem. Kids whose parents tried to use the Chuck as a daycare.

And I'll never forget the dad who walked up to the ball-crawl while I was on duty and just heaved his infant into the balls. I didn't actually see the action occur so much as looked over and saw the top of an infant's head disappearing beneath the balls, which were about 6-12 inches higher than the actual balls. Plus: Infant with no motor skills and 10 year olds doing flips off the sides into the pit is just a bad combo.

"Sir," I said, yanking the baby out of the balls. "Is this your child?"
A guy I know didn't look like Jeff Foxworthy, but that's how my brain recalls him, sort of stared at me through the netting.
"Sir, I don't think this is a good idea."
I now know that the look of incomprehension probably came from a pack of Coors Light which had probably been consumed pre-Chuck, but I watched as he tried to sort out what I was saying.
"The ball pit is actually pretty deep. I don't think its good for your child."
"She likes it!" he insisted.
The child was actually somewhat emotionless, which was impressive, given the fate which could have greeted her at the bottom of the ball pit.
"Aren't ya'll supposed to watch these kids?"
"Well, yeah. But this isn't really safe."
"You don't think...?" He said, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to return to the table with his child instead of just heading to the counter for a pitcher of the lousiest beer in Spring.
"She may be a little small for the ball crawl," I explained. "She can't stand up in here."
"I think she'd have fun," he was still looking for an angle.
"I don't think so......"
He reluctantly took the child back. And I flashed forward to a lifetime of similar decisions this child was going to endure at the hands of her idiot father. I imagined sitting on the handlebars of an ATV couldn't be too far off in her future.

The Floor Show @#$%ing Sucks

I'd been working at Chuck E. Cheese all of a week when I was having dinner at my friend Mari's house and her brother asked, "So, are you in the band?"

I didn't have super-fabulous memories of the Rock-a-Fire explosion from Showbiz Pizza, or the mishmash of other characters that had populated Chuck E. Cheese when I was little. But I do remember that they played familiar radio tunes. And by played, I mean awkwardly jerked around in something always approximating the beat, but not actually on beat, with the patented delirious eye-rolls and herky-jerky laughing, lifted straight from the on-cue guffaws one saw on TV variety shows of the era.

At some point between when I'd last stepped into a Chuck E. Cheese, and had been weirded out that Mitzy Mozzarella was receiving a spotlight solo for lip-synching the Bangles' "Eternal Flame", and when I started work, someone in the Chuck E. Cheese corporation figured out they could save money by penning original, family friendly tunes. About stuff like "Summer Fun".

And so, every 55 minutes or so, I was reminded of the summer fun kids were supposed to be having while I was pushing a dust pan around and sweeping up stray pizza crusts, waxing the floorboards and telling little scam artists that I would not give them a handful of either tokens or tickets at no charge. Not even if they volunteered to be my friend (which happened more often than you'd think).

The band was sort of a weird deal, in that they had the different pre-programmed sets, and I don't really remember them every breaking. They just never seemed to be programmed all that well to begin with. And when they were taking a break or whatever was supposed to be happening behind the scenes, they still bombarded the place with music and video of the band. So, really, from the minute you walked in until the minute we closed the door behind Tipsy McStaggerson and Family, you had to hear the same loop of half-assed, crappily penned and performed tunes about important topics like fun, friendship and hygiene.


This is sort of the set up we had.

Our store may have been a former Showbiz, from before the merger, as the layout was a multi-stage affair, and different from a lot of what I see on YouTube. They'd reskinned the Rock-afire explosion during the conversion, or something. I don't know. I never thought to care enough to ask.

The show emulated a bygone era of a band, an MC and a comedy act, which the kids, short on their fandom of "Our Show of Shows" may not have been picking up on the origins of the borscht-belt humor and stylings. But, hey, talking rat and his horrible, Italian stereotype, Pasquale and whatever the hell else made up the band (such as purple horror, Munch), always hit their cues and were far less trouble than the average Chuck E. Cheese employee.

I honestly think the kids kind of hated the band.


One Armed Bandits and Free Videogames

My friend Dave (not his real name) took a job at The Chuck shortly after me, apparently intrigued by the possibility of wearing the mouse suit or something. He somehow ended up behind the counter, which is where veterans usually worked (you know, people with 6 months of experience).

I noted that he would often be on the floor playing games during my shift. Often at multiple times, with the smock removed and his visor off, indicating he was "off duty". His girlfriend was often hanging out next to him, despite the fact she didn't work there.

"How did you swing two breaks today?" I asked him as I passed the Whack-a-Mole machine one day (I'd gotten amazingly good at Whack-a-Mole, which needed constant fixing). He looked at me like the sucker I was, and continued playing.

"Dude," he explained. "They never pay attention. I just take breaks whenever I feel like it."
"But don't they notice all the breaks on your time card?"
This was met with a sigh. "I don't ever actually clock out."
"Oh."
"Yeah, you're the only person who doesn't do it. Haven't you ever noticed that?"
"No," I answered honestly.
"You need to start."
I never did.
Like everyone else, he was also using the stash of tokens to play the games for free. And while he wasn't exactly robbing the place blind (really, there was little to steal in a commerce system that worked on Chuck E Currency), he had figured out how to game the system in about two weeks. I never did.

Dave had been born with one-arm, which hadn't slowed him down at all. He played sports, including lacrosse, which he was much better at than me, what with my two hands.

It was never an issue for anyone until he was assigned to wear the mouse suit and the kids noticed Chuck had an arm that didn't look quite right. The rules were pretty simple for wearing the suit, which I didn't do, as I was too tall. Put on the suit, walk around (but not when Chuck is on stage), shake hands, wave "hello" to babies, and when kids start to attack, which they always will... retreat. And never talk when you're in the suit.

And so it was that some kid spied Chuck's arm just sort of hanging there and called him out.
"Hey, you're not Chuck E. Cheese! You're the guy from behind the counter."
Dave waved a "no" motion with his one hand.
"Yeah, you are!"
"Yeah, you are!" a chorus of suddenly ugly little children chimed in.
"Shut up, kid!" the mouse said in a muffled voice, his plastic mouth never moving.
"Yeah, you are! You're that guy from the counter!"
And, of course, the kicking and hitting began as Chuck uttered some profanities and retreated to the stage door.

Here's a training video someone put together, probably in response to how uninspiring it is to get in the suit and beaten for $4.25 an hour.



Also, you can see the basic uniform I wore at the time. Also, why is there jazzy 80's keyboard music through this whole thing?

All Good Things Must End

In my final weeks, I remember feeling daring and going into work in non-regulation pants. After weeks of seemingly smuggling grapes into Chuck E. Cheese, not one person noticed or said anything about my pair of non-reg khakis that allowed for greater freedom of movement, shall we say.

I wound up scheduled in the ball-crawl a lot. Which I hated, but I kind of hated it less than other jobs, because usually you were scheduled alone in the ball-crawl, which meant it was less likely you'd get stuck with Only talks About How Much he Drinks Guy, and spend six hours hearing about how very much liquor he'd drunk out of his parent's cabinets the night before.

Until one day I crawled into the ballcrawl and someone came in right after me. We chatted for a while, agreed it was weird we were both scheduled in there, and then I went back out to check the schedule. I was nowhere to be found on the chart.

"What the hey?" I asked Angel.

Apparently after I'd checked the schedule on Sunday (when it was supposed to be final), she had changed it, and I was supposed to show up and work Monday instead of Tuesday. When i didn't show Monday, she'd assumed that, like everyone else, I'd quit and rescheduled my shifts to others for the entire week and closed me out as an employee. This was just how most people quit. You just quit showing up, and if you didn't show, they weren't going to pick up a phone and call you or anything crazy like that. My absence was taken the same as every other of the hundred or so similar disappointments they would see breeze through that year.

"We've made the schedule for the next week, already. You aren't on it. Maybe the next week?"

"Honestly," I sighed. "I was quitting then. I start school and have after-school obligations."
"Well," Angel and Jim (who'd shown up) assured me, I would have a place at Chuck E. Cheese any time if I wanted to come back.

I considered it that fall when the play I was in ended, but another play came immediately after, and so on. Alas, I never returned to The Chuck to work.

Return to the Chuck

I went back in high school after quitting to take some students from my mother's class out for a "special day". The food was terrible, I used up my non-free-tokens in about five minutes and so retreated to a booth and watched the show.

A few of my classmates were there working, and I saw nobody who had worked there with me. I felt badly for all of them. Especially when Michael P. was yelling at me through the Munch mascot costume so I'd know it was him in there.

They've changed Chuck's look. He no longer dresses like a ringleader, pimp or showman, all in red sparkles and a fancy hat. Instead, he's now a sort of mid-90's idea of corporatified "cool for kids", with a sort of sporty look, as if he might go roller blading or something else edgy or "in your face". I dunno. Miss the old Chuck. I sort of think of him as this old, outmoded entertainer, and I've always thought of him that way. No need for kneepads and a skateboard.

And then sometime in 2002, just before I moved, my co-workers packed into cars and took me to Chuck E. Cheese for lunch on my birthday. The pizza was better than I remembered, and the show just as creepy and bad.

We hung out way too long, and got back to work an hour late, thanks to playing video games. And I tore a four inch hole in the leg of my jeans jumping onto a jet-ski video game, ninja style.

I confess I don't know if I entirely feel good or healthy in regards to Chuck E. Cheese. Or about trying to drag friends and family into my annual desire for self-immolation by way of animatronic floorshow. But it is what it is.

There have been rumors we may be returning to Chuck E. Cheese pizza in the coming week in celebration of my birthday. I let my annual threat slip, and I think people are taking me up on it.

More reports as events warrant.

Presidential Language

It seems that President Obama did the narration for the audio versions of his own books, which makes complete sense.

What makes it interesting is when the President starts quoting other people. Other people who might have more of a, shall we say, common manner of speech than what we normally associate with the leader of the free world.

Needless to say, our more sensitive Leaguers will want to bypass this link. So, Judy, do not click here.

This should drive Jason nuts...

Everyone in this video has never kissed a girl.

Note how everyone speaks in comic cliches to the point where its clear, they have no idea what they're really saying... It's an odd mish-mash of comic thought captions, Batman quotes, and poorly rehearsed, awkwardly presented, badly penned heroic platitudes. The stuff you gloss over on the page when you know you're reading substandard dialog, etc...

Every once in a while I give Reals (Real Life Superheroes) a mention on this site. Let me be clear: I'm not about to put on a cape and mask and go out to try to confront the dude going through the DT's in front of Walgreen's. I don't find this to be a particularly useful idea, or an effective one, but I do find it fascinating.

Here's a guy who challenged The Real Superheroes.


This guy could be a real menace to The Reals, but first he's going to need to secure permission to borrow his Grammy's car

What's unreal is how many of these guys there seem to be once you search "RLSH" on YouTube. And that the videos are uniformly awful.

I kind of appreciate that these folks seem to basically realize that the best they can do is offer volunteer work, but I'm not sure why the masks and capes... The people at the city food pantry would probably prefer if they had your real name and did not have to refer to you as Dark Vengeance Monger.

And I don't even know what to say about this video:


The video is literally 10 minutes of moment after moment of soul-crushing awfulness.

The video is pretty long, but, seriously, I only WISH I could come up with this stuff. There's a feature film in here somewhere.

So, yeah, these guys are pretty much the numb-nuts you thought they were. FFWD to the 8:00 mark if you need an example.

So what can you do to join (because I know Michael is already wondering)?

I have no idea. But here's a website. I tip my hat their direction, only because the suggestions listed for activities are (a) not likely to get anyone killed, and (b) might actually be beneficial (even if by accident) to somebody, somewhere.

EDIT: For some reason the comments link has disappeared. To see comments, please click on the title of the post and scroll down.

Who was Watching the Watchmen's Licensing Dept?

I wrote about all this coming not but a week ago.

The comics blogosphere is abuzz about these Halloween costumes from Watchmen.

Here. I think Horus and JMD need to team up and goes as Ozymandias and Dr. Manhattan this year. Alan Moore must be laughing himself to death. I just hope Gibbons winds up with a gold house and a rocket car out of all this.

Well, the guy in the Nite Owl suit actually looks a bit more like the one in the comic than the fellow in the rubber thing in the movie.


The manufacturer has no idea what this movie is about, do they?

And for those of you wanting to go as either Super Dork or Drunk Nascar SuperFan, are you in luck!

There's something so totally off about the availability of a Comedian costume, it enters into the sublime...

I can't wait for your kids to start demanding their very own Comedian action figures. Sadly, I can't speak to why its kind of messed up without giving away major parts of the plot, but... yeah. You might want to see the movie before getting your kids jazzed about Comedian bedsheets and an Ozymandias role-play set.

Look, Watchmen was one of two comics that sort of made comics unsafe for young children. The general populace got a glimpse of that this last summer with Dark Knight, and just as Batman and Watchmen were responsible for a sea change in how we think of superheroes in 1986 for comic fans, they're poised to do it again for the general audience.

I sort of expect there are going to be the same outraged parents groups insisting that superheroes are for kids, so how could you do this? And that's okay, but... you know, they still have plenty of superhero stuff that's safe for your kids. You just might need to be a bit more vigilant about what they read and watch.

and you accused Jake Lloyd of making Star Wars cheesy...

Donnie + Marie + Dilution of Brand = Awesome

Just FYI: The first video's audio track is really, really far off from the picture. I don't even know what would cause this and I used to work with video equipment for years.





I also want to say: Redd Foxx on Donnie & Marie as Obi Wan has filled a special place in my heart I didn't even know was empty. Thanks, internet!

really, the thought of Redd Foxx as any kind of mentor to Donnie Osmond sort of blows the mind...

Tip o' the hat to Journalista

Hey, Ya!

Senior Adult Choir: Hey Ya @ Yahoo! Video

Many items

Football Update

Well, we can mark another win up for UT from this weekend. We're ranked #3, which is odd. Of course, we've only lost to Tech who seems headed for all kinds of glories this season.

Colt still looks great, but its clear someone or something is keeping him from running. And something has rattled him and keeps him from attempting passes further than a few yards at a time.

I am still rooting for my Horns, and I think we're set for a great bowl game this year, provided we can win our next two and do well if we're in the Big 12 Championship (if we so land). But I sincerely hope Mack brown has plans to build up our secondary for next year.

Good BBQ in Giddings

Today we met the A&M contingent of our office halfway between Bryan and Austin in Giddings where we ate meat. Leaguers, if you're on 290, I HIGHLY recommend the City Meat Market. That was some top-notch grub served in true Texas fashion.

And, hell, there were honest to god old school cowboys in there. The kind who could choke the life out of you if the notion so took them. Awesome.

It was one of those places where the smoke is cooked into the walls and you start salivating a bit just walking through the door. And the food totally matched the ambiance and first-smell guesses as to what you would get.

I need to use this winter to begin making BBQ pilgrimages around the state. Meatgrimages, if you will. I want to eat Elgin Sausage in Elgin. I want to eat ribs and beef in Lockhart. Shall I go to New Braunfels for Wurst? Or to Kerrville? What meats did our Czech forebears cook up? What about our Mexican forefathers?

So many meats. So little time.


Unfortunateness

Swedish dance bands from bygone eras.
For some reason I think I linked to an earlier version of this, like, four years ago.

Yeah, go ahead and laugh. Then ask yourself: who had better luck with swinging Swedish women, you or the dudes in "The Schytts"?

That, Leaguers, is the sound of the universe having a good laugh at you.


Beat it!
So I employ Technorati to help me track responses to blog posts. They track, somewhat imperfectly, whether or not someone has linked back to your posts.

A long time ago, I used to get linked around the net. When I don't post on comics, those links tend to dry up. But when I write for Comic Fodder, I notice that I get linked to a lot more often from sources of note (in the comics blogosphere, which is like being a big wheel on the island of misfit toys, I guess). Anyway, it gives me a little thrill to see myself linked elsewhere because (a) it lets me know others are going to come read whatever I wrote, and (b) it lets me know people I care about reading have actually read whatever I wrote. And that, Leaguers, is the blogging circle of life.

One of my fave-rave sites for YEARS has been Heidi MacDonald's "The Beat". So, I was thrilled to see in the links of Technorati that Heidi had linked back to a Comic Fodder article I'd written for last week about the economy and what comic publishers could do to save their skin in these troubled times. But at Technorati, when I clicked on the appropriate link... the article was no longer there.

I was sad. Heidi may have had good reasons for either pulling or never posting the article, but my fifteen minutes of Heidi-powered linked fame was gone, and I was left with nothing but a small reminder of what could have been.

Oh, Heidi... why hast thou removed my linky link?

Okay... yeah, the article was kind of weak.

That said, the guy who wrote the article that spawned my article DID link back (it's the line about "longish think piece"). Which is pretty huge in my world. Unfortunately, Spurge wasn't in the mood to elucidate on what he had in mind. Would have been interesting. Anyway, he's been covering comics and the economy for a few days and its good reading.


New Years Party Update

In case you missed it, here's the official flyer for the Melbotis New Years Hullabalunacy:



To see the invitation, go here.

This Moment in History - Financial Armageddon

At least nobody is panicking

Do Nothing Hurricane Day

It's been a slow, slow day.

For those catching up:

The Hurricane hit Houston. It missed Austin almost entirely aside from some clouds and lovely wind. Although we were projected to get 60mph gusts and driving rain all day, we received a light downpour from 11:40 - 11:55pm, as I'm writing this.

I was on the phone a lot. I called The Admiral at 9:00, and again in the afternoon. He's okay. The house has some leaking he managed. He's probably coming to Austin tomorrow to take in some air conditioning.

Spoke briefly with Jamie's mom, and for a long while with Wagner.

Jamie wanted to watch "American Psycho" on cable this morning, a movie I've always been squeamish about sharing with her, but I figured... what the heck? She's a big girl and can handle it. And she did. Partially, I think, because I'd forgotten how watered down the movie is in comparison to the book, which I haven't read since 1991-2, but which (if you've read it) sort of leaves an impression on you.

We also went down to South Congress for coffee with Matt and Nicole, and had a lovely time.

I am often reminded that most people sort of think of The League as sort of a dullard. And so it was today, in having coffee with pal-Matt that I received the cold splash of reality, that it doesn't help if someone knows you pretty darn well...

Me: -but their one movie I saw that I just didn't think worked was "The Man Who Wasn't There".
Matt: Hmmm. Yeah.
Me: I honestly didn't think it was very good.
Matt: Well, you know, that might be more of a "film person" movie.
Me: I... have a film degree.
Matt: (thoughtful pause) Yeah, well...

Sigh.

I know, I know. I've set myself up as this sort of Superman loving dingbat. You make your bed, you sleep in it.

This evening we wound up watching Oceans 13 (which now caps me out on views of all the new Oceans movies, I think). Then Saturday Night Live (until the musical guest, who I had never heard of). I believed Pohler and Fey's opening sketch was a bit of genius. If it's posted, I'll link.

But, totally uneventful day.

I think the buzz is that everyone in Austin was sort of wound up for the bad weather, and when it didn't arrive, it was maybe a big disappointment.

Also, there were a lot of bored-looking evacuees wandering around Stassney and Manchaca today.

The Process

At the risk of career suicide, I'm posting this video which... well. I think its funny.

When Cakes Go Wrong

Tip of the hat to Marshall for providing this work-day killer: Cake Wrecks.

There's something absoludicrous about a cake gone wrong. Perhaps because I find the cakes one gets at the grocery to be kind of... bizarre. They just don't represent anything you'd make for yourself or your family at home, and there's something so perfunctory about the cakes (not to mention the events that precipitate such a cake).

Add in the tragedy or utter indifference that must fill the lives of the makers of these cakes, and the feel of defeat which must strike the person who has come to retrieve the cake the day of the celebration. I, myself, picked up a cake for a former co-worker and friend named John. They had spelled his name "JHON", which we didn't notice until we were half-way back to the office with the cake.

But, you know... they misspelled JOHN. It was so weird to see it misspelled, I paused and looked at it for a long, long time, entering into that weird zone where you wonder if you know how to spell "John" yourself.

From watching Food Channel, I also know that desserts are now no longer just an artform for the palate, but for feats of edible architecture. Which, of course, is going to lead to awesomeness.

Mascot Fail

thanks to Dug

For JimD

This is exactly the sort of thing that make JimD embrace George Lucas and the Star Wars universe with both arms and give them a big hug and a sloppy kiss.

A DITMTLOD special report: Sarah Jessica Parker = Not Teh Sexy?

Apparently Maxim, the magazine for guys too cowardly to justgooutandbuysomepornfortheloveofmike, has put out a list of female celebrities who are assumed to be sexy in the media, but with whom Maxim begs to differ.

They've presented a list of the 5 Unsexiest Women Alive.

There are two gut reactions to this list:

1 - Oh, those poor women.
2 - HA ha ha ha ha ha. (pause) BWAH HA HA HA HA HA.

The League believes both reactions are appropriate. It can't be fun to be Sandra Oh and to wake up one morning to find out you've been deemed one of the 5 Unsexiest Women Alive. I would say she's never really tried for sexy, but I have cable, and I once stumbled across "Dancing at the Blue Iguana". And it was not the gritty slice of life picture it was trying to be. It was so dull, I made it only long enough to see Sandra Oh in it, say something negative about Arli$$, and move on.

What is interesting is that Sarah Jessica Parker tops the list. For many a year, fans of the show "Sex in the City" have insisted that SJP was everything that a sexy, independent, urban-chic woman should be.

Others on the list are a bit more obvious.

Coming in at #5 is trainwreck Britney Spears, the subject of last night's highly disturbing episode of South Park.

#4: Madonna. Who sort of quit being sexy right after "Express Yourself", just as she was gearing up to try to chastise America for not wanting to be sexy with her, leading to her eventual move to the UK, where she morphed into a Disney villain.

#3: Sandra Oh. Poor, sad, Sandra Oh. Who is just trying to be a working actress, for chrissake.

#2: Amy Winehouse. Because a crack-smoking 20-something burning away her talent with the crystal meth and deeply in need of an intervention in public is funny-sad, and in no way sexy.

So why does SJP hit #1? She's together. She's got a career that hasn't involved becoming a public nuisance. There are plenty of other actresses who are unconventional for TV and the big screen.

All of the women on the list are generally attractive, I suppose. But that's not really what Teh Sexy means.

In many ways, we have no idea who Sarah Jessica Parker is, but we do know who Carrie Bradshaw is. And, according to the editors of Maxim, is it possible that it is not SJP, but Carrie Bradshaw that has been found wanting? Is it possible that Carrie bradshaw, and not SJP, has been deemed the least sexy woman alive?

Is it a schizm between what fans of the program feel is sexy and fun versus what frat boys who can't work up the courage to buy real porn find sexy? Does SJP not fit within the mold of the typical Maxim girl? (20, in her underwear, and apparently just come in from out of the rain?) No doubt that's part of the case.

To some extent, sure... the women on the list don't really meet the imaginary standards of the girls in Maxim. Young, somewhat coltish and seemingly available to the kind of guy who might pick up Maxim, anyway. And different kinds of guys like different kinds of girls. I don't think Tina Fey would show up for a Maxim photoshoot.

I have gone on record, stating that I understand that Nicole Kidman is supposed to be gorgeous, but I have yet to find a dude who considers her a Dame in the Media they Might Dig. I see the high cheek bones, the huge eyes, the perfect skin... but what is there to hang onto? Perhaps a different case from Sarah Jessica Parker, who is a bit less conventional, but it is an example of someone that the Entertainment Tonight's and TMZ's of the world would insist that we all must be ga-ga over. But are we? Who made that decision?

Is it a case of what I shall call "The Julia Roberts Effect"? Where the press insists that we all find someone fascinating and beautiful, when, really... meh. That might be what women relate to, or even aspire to, but...

But, mostly, I sort of think Sex in the City, despite the promise of the name of the show, was a major turn-off.


Not Teh Sexy?

Fans of Sex in the City love Carrie Bradshaw because she wears cute outfits that are not office appropriate. She gets in daffy, messy romantic entanglements with sensitive guys who want to work things out. When they don't work out, she learns a little life lesson and/ or is able to re-assert the fabulousness that the show promises regarding her lifestyle. She has a big apartment in Manhattan and great shoes and seems to afford the cost of it all by writing one column a week where she talks about the thing she knows and loves best: herself. She has friends who she doesn't work with who can always make it for lunch, and nobody minds that they all get wrapped up in each other's very personal business (nor do the boyfriends seem to mind that every intimate detail is openly discussed). She goes out every night of the week. Through countless sexual and romantic entanglements in the show's run, nobody was ever really hurt. Nobody ever seemed to actually react in the kind of crazy ways people do when real entanglements come to an end. And, anyone who has seen as few episodes as I've seen would still know that at the end of the day Mr. Big was there as the safety net, the safe guy who would always be there when our heroine got done sowing her oats and decided she wanted for someone else to pay for her expensive shoes.

And they call superhero comics an escapist, adolescent fantasy...

To the point, what is attractive to any guy about Carrie Bradshaw?

Do you find someone sexy who is going to describe your romantic entanglements in a weekly column? Or who has a back-up plan in a rich, good looking guy who rides around in limos?

I don't think this is a question of gender inequality in programming. Could a show with the same basic premise, starring four men, have made it on the air with a title called "Sex in the City"? And if it did, it certainly wouldn't be heralded as empowering and glimpse into the world of urban sophisticate. Quite the contrary, I'd guess.

What little online reaction I've read seems to be women surprised to hear that men do not love SJP/ Carrie Bradshaw the way her fans do. They've pointed to SJP's inner beauty, the fact that maybe she is pretty, but not so pretty that she clearly wouldn't hang out with you... But most of what they're praising is not actually Sarah Jessica Parker, it's Carrie Bradshaw, plus the costuming department for her show.

Returning to "The Julia Roberts Effect"... Maybe this is sort of the same thing as when guys are baffled that women might not find their action hero of choice, the one they'd like to be like, to be the perfect male specimen. For example, I do not think Jamie wants for me to be:
-Jet Li from "Fist of Legend"
-Ash from "Army of Darkness"
-Clint Eastwood from "The Outlaw Josey Wales"
-Kareem Abdul Jabbar
-George Reeves.
But I think she'd appreciate it if I were more like Harrison Ford circa 1980 or so.

For the record, I think SJP is reasonably attractive. And I certainly believe Teh Sexy doesn't come in a certain Maxim-approved package. I'm not sure if my DITMTLOD columns have always reflected that belief, but there you are.

No matter how much SJP's defenders may wish it to be true:

-shoes are almost never that exciting to guys
-it takes a sepcial kind of guy to want to have his physical and personal shortcomings detailed in a weekly column. One that his folks could read.
-Making a career out of whining about your seemingly endless string of failed personal relationships when you're pushing 40 is in no way cool.
-(In fact, a little self reflection that isn't taking place in a weekly column might be good)
-Guys do not care what designer you are wearing. Consider how many guys you've ever heard of who watch the Oscars "just to see the dresses"
-that tutu? Kind of stupid.

I am not sure this was helpful.

Discuss.

FAIL

From this site, by way of Jamie.

In a way, I feel sort of bad for the Pats and Tom Brady.
Its got to be heartbreaking to come that close and then fall short when the eyes of the world are upon you. Yes, of course, its nice to see the Pats get their comeuppance in such spectacular fashion, but, really, they were a very good team, and nobody can say they didn't work for the successes of the season.

Iraq, South Africa education suffers from U.S. Americans' lack of access to maps

Thanks to RHPT and Peabo

Your Zombie Non-Sequitur of the Day

Thanks to Denby/Ruffino

I'm healthy again

RANDY SPREADS HIS GENOME ABOUT WITH NO REGARD TO THE SAFETY OF OTHERS

In case you didn't know, Loyal Leaguer, Randy, and his lovely wife, The Mysterious M, have had a baby.

Congratulate Randy. He is 50% of the face of a new generation.


THE INTERWEB IS WATCHING

I can only assume that Technorati, etc... are to blame for why so many people are finding The League in reference to themselves. I had another person find me.

Here. Read the comments.

I don't know who posted the original bit about Dave Ramsey, but you've helped to make the world a little smaller.



TOTALLY LAME


Blogging about blogging is totally lame. But...

As much as I understand WHY visitors to the site may wish to remain anonymous, I'm not a big fan of anonymous posts to the comments. In a perfect vacuum, I suppose it shouldn't matter who you're speaking to, but that's just not reality.

Without exception, I like and respect the folks I consider to be Loyal Leaguers. And I think you'll find that even in the most heated debate, I tend to try to pick my words carefully when I'm talking with someone I consider a pal, no matter how far on the other end of an ideological spectrum. That's just common courtesy. Also, if I know with whom I'm speaking, I always have the option of taking the conversation off the blog and into an e-mail conversation.

But I also don't really want to block out the random folks who roll by. If they want to drop a comment, that's okay.

I'm a bit baffled by the recent exchange which took place in one of the posts. Not that someone disagreed with me, because that's par for the course, and I'm cool with that. I just had no idea with whom I was speaking, and that's a bit odd. Obviously this person became upset with me, but I also sort of felt like this person hadn't been around for some of the more colorful debates which have occurred here at The League.

At some point when someone is posting anonymously and failing to identify themselves, you don't necessarily feel as if you've got to put on the same "we're all friends here", game show host face. There are certainly times when i know exactly who "anonymous" is, but I choose to behave with some bizarre gentleman's agreement that I will not reveal the identity of "anonymous". In this case, I don't mind as much, but it does make debate a bit difficult at times as part and parcel of this gentleman's agreement is that one not reveal the identity, even when certain revealing examples could be relevant. But, as I tend to like these folks... I mostly play along.

But the truly anonymous posters...

In no small part, truly anonymous posters are a bit like a person who has crashed a party and then decides to pick a fight with the host. It's a bit baffling to me when a poster such as the one from this week's debate takes umbrage and declares I'm standing on a soapbox. While I'm writing on my personal blog.

In this instance, I sort of think that "anonymous" wasn't anyone I know. At this point I recognize the writing of most Loyal Leaguers, and, moreover, most of you know me well enough to know what my opinions are and where I'm going to draw lines and how I'm going to debate. I'm still not sure what "academic" debate this guy was trying to have, but he didn't get it, I guess.

What was most downright hilarious was the insistence that Anonymous was so busy, so pre-occupied with higher minds than my own that he didn't have time to actually debate with me. But he had time to keep coming back. And surf sites mostly dedicated to nonsense, while leaving lengthy comments.

Anonymous, I salute you.



Tori Amos and school children...

This is incredibly sweet. And with all you Leaguers dropping kids onto the face of Mother Earth, I thought I'd share a moment of brightness and hope that makes me think kids aren't just small, stinky, stupid people...

Skip to the 4:00 countdown mark

The End of Humanity a Good Idea?

As much as The League wants to put on a happy face and love all of humanity, there often seems to be someone out there who wants to make me sort of think the inevitable rise of our robot masters is going to be for the best.

Or, you know, if LA did just fall off into the ocean. That would be a good start.

Because I love doggies and aardvarks, I don't wish for the doom of all life on Earth, but if there were to be a comet coming which was only going to smush humans, I just might think this clip informs my opinion of why this would be a good thing...

Thanks to Randy for both links.

Mother's Day, Baseball, bad pants

Hey, Leaguers!

Happy late Mother's Day to all you Ladies of the League who have some kid depending on you for shelter and food.



My mother is in Italy. Or headed there. Anyhow, I didn't get to see her today, but I did see her yesterday. We were both at the Astros/ Daimondbacks game, but we'd separately bought tickets, so we didn't sit together. It wasn't intentional.

Jamie and I had decided to see a game or two this year, so I'd called up Josh some time back and we got some tickets. And not two days later my mom called and asked if we wanted to go with she and my dad to the game.

Anyhow, this weekend we went to the 'Stros game and watched them defeat the Diamondbacks, which is okay. We sort of turned on the Diamondbacks last season and I sort of knew I would throw in with the Astros once we were in Texas. After all, We were going to be getting a lot more Astros games here, so it was sort of a practical thing. Plus, I don't care for Eric Byrnes. I don't know why, but the man bugs me.

I was impressed with the Astros' new guy, Hunter Pence, which is a terrible name for a pretty good player. he had a good hit last night and caught one of Byrnes' flyballs this afternoon in that game (which I watched part of on TV).

Anyhoo, it's baseball season, plus NBA playoffs, so I've been watching a lot of sports.

Friday night we had dinner with Joanne P, in from Florida, and her lovely sister nancy, in from Michigan. They were here to surprise their mother for Mother's Day, which is pretty nice, I think. Nancy has a cottage in Lower Michigan if anyone is interested in renting a cottage for a week or so in the summer.

It was great to see Joanne, who I hadn't seen in the flesh in five years or so. She looks eerily the same, even as I progress in my role as "the guy who is aging badly".

Saturday we jumped in the car and left Wagner here to take care of the dogs (and see her brother and nephew) while we headed to Houston.

We grabbed lunch then headed to the game where we caught up with Sarah H, as well as my folks.

So I was all sqaured away with my new Astros cap and was ready to settle in for the game when I got a little too excited about the beer guy. I was seated fifth down the row and decided to expedite the transaction so I leaped over the empty row of chairs in front of us. I was mid-air when I heard a horrible shredding sound. My pants had split along the interior seam from the bottom of the shorts up to the crotchal region, thus exposing my red and blue striped boxer/briefs to the world.

The annoying bit was that the shorts were literally brand new. I bought them last week as I own only two or three pair of shorts for some reason, but I also paused for a moment upon realizing what had happened to my pants to recall the scenario in which I'd purchased the shorts.

"Oh, these are $8.00 less. I'll get these," I said to Jamie, a little too proud of the bargain I'd found.

You get what you pay for, Leaguers.

So, yeah, I wasn't so much standing up for the good plays, but I did spend a lot of time sitting with Jamie's sweater in my lap. Jamie's pink sweater.

Anyway, I managed to make it from the top section of the stadium all the way to our car without getting arrested, nor anyone catching much of a flash of my translucent white thigh.

Next time I will just pass the money to the beer guy like a normal person.