Thursday, September 18, 2003

get back to work.
HALLOWEEN CONTEST!!!! DETERMINE THE MOVIE WATCHING FATE OF THE STEANS HOUSEHOLD FOR ONE SPOOKTACULAR EVENING!!!!!



Hey, everybuddy...

I love me some Halloween! It's the one night of the year we can all dress up and fight crime... I mean, be monsters or something... Honestly, it's a chance to get drunk and dress up like Cher, but we don't talk about that incident anymore...

ANYWAY, I just had a GHOULISHLY bad idea. I am going to run a contest in which I allow you good folks to determine what SPOOOOOOOOOOKY movie I watch on HALLOWEEN NIGHT!!!!!

But Ryan, you say, it's the middle of f**king September! Well, Leaguers, that's true enough! But I need to locate and purchase/ rent the movie before All Hallows Eve!



So here's the deal...

All entries will be listed in a laundry list of Halloween Movies that Make Leaguers Scared. The List will be published a few days before Halloween, so you can see what other Leaguers are watching! Hurray! Interactivity!

I will watch 1) the movie with the most votes, and 2) the one for which I receive the best essay on why i should watch this particular Halloween movie.



Rules for entering:

1) Must be a movie which has something to do with the general theme of scary stuff. Does not need to occur on Halloween, and can be a comedy
2) Each movie must be accompanied by a reason why this movie is so awesome, and why it will make me love spooky stuff even more. 1 sentence minimum.
3) You may offer up to 4 entries. Each entry must follow official rules.
4) Only entries I can actually locate via the internet, etc... are really eligible, so sending a link is helpful. E-Bay is not a link.
5) Movies which are really, say, Sci-Fi movies (Spaced Invaders) or Ninja Movies (American Ninja 4) are scary, but in the wrong way. Do not recommend movies which are not SPINE-TINGLING!!!
6) You must include your name and address (in case I decide upon a Halloween Prize!)

I want this movie to be SCARY, folks. I want some real, creepy, scary, Halloween madness.

I am considering a Halloween prize, so I'll let you know what that's going to be.

Greetings, Leaguers...

Not much going on today, but I thought you might appreciate this story...

This is why I send all notes to MY mistress by carrier pigeon.

and now, TOYS THAT SHOULD NOT BE

I don't run TTSNB all that often anymore, as the recurrent theme is: if you have this on the shelf, your chances for having sex will be greatly diminished. This may not be a major issue for much of America's adult toy buying public. I assume either these collectors 1) are unaware that this will diminish their chances for tawdry sex as the toy in question will make their intended nervous and possibly frightened... 2) have given up and know that the chances for any sex actually occuring are next to nil 3) married somebody and THEN sprung the toy thing on them. I more or less went for option 3. It works beautifully.

MacFarlane toys has a knack for realistic portrayals of sports figures, right down to musculature, etc... and for this they should be proud. But you'll never see these toys appear here, because they're kind of cool, and fun and a neat collector's item. But MacFarlane also spawned the absoludicrousness of the Spawn franchise. First a comic, then toys, then an HBO cartoon, and then a movie... Spawn is a high schooler's fantasy of poorly misconstrued mythology, history and religious notions, all wrapped up into a really goofy package and no comprehensible plot.

But the real importance of Spawn is that it allowed it's creator, Todd MacFarlane, to create a toy building franchise. Which brings us to today's topic of MacFarlane's Wizard of Oz toys. Yes, these toys are disturbing, grotesque, and sure to drive PTA mother's to a frothing frenzy... but most of all, one has to wonder... why? What the hell was going down at MacFarlane central when they decided to take a 100 year old story and turn it into a Meatloaf album cover?

Ladies and Gentlemen, please turn your head and do not look, because these are some toys that should not be...


The Lion
The Scarecrow
The Tin Woodsman
The Wizard of Oz
Toto (no, really... this is their Toto...)
and the piece de resistance! Dorothy! (please hide all children before clicking here...)

Now I think it goes without saying that these TTSNB were designed by some dudes who are great sculpters, and who think anything that isn't "hard" is "lame"... and who pretty clearly have some issues with women. I just like to imagine their studios all tweaked out with fading Iron Maiden posters and groovy lights they bought at Spencers.

Hurray, MacFarlane toys. You've taken something perfectly nice and made it stupid.

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

I have been led to believe I am not supportive enough of my brother's musical interests. I feel badly about this, and so, in his honor, and that of the Mono Monkey Music Experience, I ask that you visit his band's web-site. Which has broken links to the actual musical bits. You can, however, see a lovely painting of what appears to be the surface of the sun.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: The Monkeying Ensemblage of Musical Mononucleosis
whoa... CNN.com has printed a review of Neil Gaiman's new work...
Y - The Last Man

Finished reading Volume 2 of Vertigo Comics' Y - The Last Man last night.

Vertigo puts out some real junk from time to time, but other times, they hit an absolute homerun. It seems like years since I've been really interested in what Vertigo was printing, but that's turned around with this new series. Y chronicles the story of Yorick Brown, who is the last man on earth. The story occurs in the present day, but follows a bizarre turn of events when every single male of every single species suddenly and inexplicably drops dead, except for Yorick.

The story is not the tale of sexual conquest you'd expect, but rather a sort of Omega Man/ 28 Days Later/ Mad Max look at the outcomes of such an event. I wish I could say that this is a story with a beginning, middle and end for you to look forward to, but the second volume of the series only goes up to issue 10, so i have no idea how far the creators are planning on taking the series, nor do I have any idea where the series is going.

I don't even feel terribly inclined to detail the fallout of the disaster, as the very real dangers of such an event are written in perfectly, and any review I would give would just do them a disservice. Anyhoo, if you're digging around for something new to try, I can't recommend this series enough.
I went to bed ridiculously early last night (9:00pm) for want of really having anything better to do, and trying not to be the zombie I usually am by Friday morning. I woke up before my 5:10am alarm after having a bizarre dream that I would rather not get into because it was both banal and disturbing.

As I may have mentioned previously, the Superman comics have not exactly been stellar as of late... but this winter shall see big changes in the books. Not the least of these changes will be a return to the "realistic" (aka - non-Manga inspired) renderings of the core characters.

here are some links to look at for what you will be seeing in the future of Action Comics. Supes and Captain Atom. Batman and thug. Superman and Batman escaping and explosion.

At any rate, I am totally pumped about the new art direction for Superman. The pencils here are by Ivan Reis, a young Brazilian artist (Brazil produces some great artists...) Let's hope the inkers and colorists don't muck it all up.

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

oh, and there's this...

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by it slef but the wrod as a wlohe.

Jamie made me like football.
I didn't watch football as a kid. Anything not involving magic swords or light-cycles was kind of off my radar scope, and my folks never expressed much interest in the wide world of sports. My dad worked something like 80 hours a week the entire time I was growing up, and would occasionally watch the University of Florida play, or maybe the Miami Dolphins. When this occured, Dad went silent for the length of the game, eating popcorn and encouraging us to play with Legos on the floor so we would remain pre-occupied. Anything louder than a low whisper would result in expulsion from the TV room.
In 7th grade all of my friends went out for football, and, being an absolutely ridiculously large kid, I was happily recruited by the coaches. I played left tackle. And here's where things get weird... Dad's "be quiet and play with Legos" policy backfired. I had not absorbed one thing during a single football game. I played football for a season without ever understanding what a "down" was. Not a clue. I knew I was on offense. I knew that when certain plays were called out, I had certain actions to perform, but I wandered around without the slightest idea as to what I was doing or what was happening.
When my string went in, I ran onto the field behind them. Whistles blew, I got screamed at a lot, and I sweated profusely. But I didn't even know why you kicked for an extra point versus a field goal. But unless you count the little magnetic games where you line up players and they run in circles, I'd never watched a game of football.
I have no idea how, between 7th and 8th grade, that I came to understand the rules of football. 8th grade went much better, and I even made an interception that year and had some success as a 1st stringer. I also took to watching the sport. Particularly the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who really, really sucked back then. But they sucked so bad they were charming, and I made a habit of following them for a few seasons, at least reading up on them in the paper.
When high school loomed ahead, I decided I was going to be a basketball guy. When approached by the football coaches in the hallway at school that first year (standing a full 6'3" and weighing in around 190 lbs.) I declined, stating I didn't believe in bleeding on Friday nights. The coach didn't think i was funny, either.
But I made a decision at age 15 or so that I was no jock. I was a drama guy! I wasn't going to be a walking stereotype seeking a letter jacket and a flat-top (which was actually popular at the time with the team). I decided to be a jerk about the whole thing and make a bad-80's movie out of guys I'd been friends with just the year before. Jocks were stupid jerks... not smart guys like, say, me...
Then in the mid-90's, I started dating Jamie. And Jamie loves the Cowboys. It made me nervous... my high school girlfriend was as bad off as I had been that confusing 7th grade season... and I was comfortable with that. It was something we could mutually agree not to be interested in. I don't even remember discussing the issue with other girls I dated... But Jamie... Jamie loved her Cowboys. No fair-weather fan is she.
And so Sundays and Monday Nights in the Fall have received a new significance. It is football time, and nothing is to come between Jamie and her Cowboys. It was fun in the mid-90's. Emmitt, Irvin, Aikman... didn't matter which Coach... and all was fun and well. But we all know what happened to the Cowboys. Under Dave Campo, Jamie's beloved team fell apart, but still, every Sunday, we watched the damn Cowboys clown their way up and down the field.
Enter Coach Parcells, and last night's victory at the Meadowlands. What the hell was that? 21 points from the kicker? Who cares! Cowboys win, 35-32 on a Monday Night game. The game was, for lack of a better term, a complete clown-show. 21 points by the kicker? Quincy Carter having a career high for yardage? Not that I foresee great things this season, but...

I still like things with light cycles and magic swords. But I've made room for football, too. The truth is, the sport is still a complete mystery to me. I have not a clue what a "West Coast Offense" is, nor do I understand half of what is coming out of Al Michaels' mouth. But I don't really care. What I do like is that I can watch the game with Jamie, and she's more enthusiastic than me. She gets Sundays and Mondays for football, and I have no reason to complain. That, and it gives me some leverage when I want to watch my Superman DVD for the 80th time.

Monday, September 15, 2003

One of the things which is entailed in moving far from family and friends is the cost inherent in travelling. I'm no Jack Kerouac. I've no illusions of roadside fun or white line fever. It's more of an endless procession of switching out albums and staring into expanses of nothingness between what I recognize as civiliation. And a lot of feeling awful whenever I linger in towns with populations under 10,000.

Flying isn't much better, but it's generally faster. The adventures of overnight stays in far-off places, the delays and hang-ups one comes to expect are not something which fill me with a rush of adrenalin. THe seats are cramped, the food presently non-existent, and the manners of others on planes has such a "me first" ring to it, that it's a miracle fist-fights don't break out every day.

I've gotten to the point where, due to my frequent bad experiences, I always carry a backpack which i don't have to place in the over head bin. In the backpack I carry a fresh pair of underwear, contact solution and case, glasses, a clean t-shirt, toothpaste, toothbrush and two books. Being stranded overnight just once has taught me the value of having these thigns onhand. The backpack is absolutely necessary as anything in the overhead bin is fair game and can and will be crushed by the little wheeled suitcases experienced travellers now carry so as to avoid waiting for their luggage to come off a plane. Somehow these little suitcases have been designed to be just small enough to make it past the flight attendants, and just large enough to not fit properly in overhead storage. Hence, you get the pleasure of watching a perfect stranger grapple and crush your own luggage as they struggle to fit their suddenly enormous bag into the tiny overhead bin.

Suitcases are lost, flights changed, delayed, overbooked. Clerks have bulletproof shells which are invulnerable to your harshest criticism. Once in the air, there's no escape. Being booted from a flight from Dallas to Oklahoma is almost funny to them (not so much to my wife). Service from in-flight personnel has gone the way of the do-do, and everything from "ticketless travel" to the necessities of baggage x-rays has made just getting to your gate a nightmare.

But still, I'm now more than a thousand miles from my folks' house, and the idea of driving home for the upcoming holidays is too mindbending to endure. As such, we are flying.

Due to the above mentioned misadventures of the past year, Jamie and I had accumulated $566 in travel vouchers, which I put toward our flight home for the Holidays. But purchasing tickets online doesn't show any clear way to apply vouchers, and so I decided to call the American Airlines reservation line in order to apply my vouchers toward the cost of our flight.

I waited thru a few minutes of chirpy airline spokesperson voice telling me junk I already knew before an operator was able to take my call. The woman on the other end sounded down, even as she greeted me.

Online, I had already found my selected flights and was able to simply relate times and flights to her. When i mentioned the vouchers, she grew short with me, somewhat snippy as suddenly she knew the call would be extended as we walked through how all of this was going to work.

At long last, we worked through all of the paperwork, confirmation numbers, addresses, etc...

I don't remember what was said immediately before, but suddenly she threw in: "Sorry if I sound a little hasty."
"Uh..." I kind of let it hang. She had sounded hasty, and it annoyed me. Bad customer service is something one expects, especially over the phone. She'd been cranky at every turn, sounded vaguely distracted, and had kind of berated me for failing to correctly identify the proper code she'd been looking for of the dozen or so codes on the voucher stub.
"Yeah, well," she said, cancelling out the short and un-prepared speech I was about to deliver. "Sorry. You're my last call."
"Oh, end of the day." It was 4:30 my time, PST. I guessed she was Central or Eastern time. Sunday night dinner was probably ahead, no weekend to speak of behind her. Probably a weekend of getting yelled at by geeks like me.
"No, after this call, I'm done. They're shutting down the St. Louis call center."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'm your last call?"
"Yeah, this is it..."
I was quiet for a moment. Should I extend the call, push her job that much longer? Get her another 15 minutes on the clock? Or was she salaried... was she done and out the door to spend Sunday night, god knows where in a St. Louis apartment, knowing that tomorrow, she was out of a job, out of money...? Were there kids? A husband or partner? Anything...?
"Oh, God. I'm really sorry."
"Yeah."
"Is there..." anything I can do? I started to say. "Hey, well, good luck." I was picturing a bar, some poorly strung Christmas lights and a half-empty bottle of booze in this woman's immediate future.
"Thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No. I guess not."
"Well then, thank you, sir," she said too quickly. "And thanks for choosing American Airlines."
And before I said anything, she'd hung up.
I'm not looking forward to this flight. If this is any indication fo things to come, I'll surely be stuck in Dallas overnight and into Christmas Eve. And I know I'm going to be spending my time on this flight wondering if this woman has found work yet in order to have herself a merry little Christmas.

Friday, September 12, 2003

And now.... BEARS ON TRAMPOLINES!!!!!



this bear was cornered in a suburban neighborhood. Before shooting it with a tranquilizer dart, they placed a trampoline beneathe the bear to insure it would land safely. Apparently the cops don't understand the difference between a trampoline and a net. The bear bounced clean off the trampoline and landed on the ground. Don't worry, it was out like a light the whole time and slept it off under the watchful eyes of a vet.
I can't tell you I know exactly what this means, but it looks like UT's RTF department is opening a production studio on campus to make indie films using free student labor. Actually, since students pay tuition, they will probably pay to get credit for working on these films. It sounds cool, but if I know anything about UT, the movies which are produced will probably be really, really boring.

Oh, well. After years of waiting for someone else to bring productions to Austin, somebody at UT finally got their act together to give students a chance to actually do something other than scramble for one of five jobs a year which open up in Central Texas in the the world of film.
One of these days and it won't be long.
I'll rejoin them in a song.
I'm gonna join the family circle at the Throne.
No, the circle won't be broken.
By and by, Lord, by and by.


Johnny Cash, 1932-2003

Despite the fact I lived in Texas for 20+ years, I've still had trouble adjusting to the heat of the Arizona summer. Keep in mind that the Arizona summer begins in mid-April and continues into early October. But already, here in mid-September, the mornings are beginning to cool.

The afternoons are insanely hot, so much so that the brain doesn't seem to actually function on any level but the reptilian survival mode if you spend anything more than a few scant minutes in the sunlight. Any myths about the desert cooling at night don't really apply in July and August. But the past week, it's actually been cool in the morning, and, as a result, my mood is much, much better upon arriving at the office.

Soon the proper weather will begin, marked by the return of the retirees from northern states. That's fine. I can appreciate the insane driving if I can crack my windows and just enjoy the cooler weather once again. HURRAH.

But yesterday, at 4:45am or so, Jamie poked me in the shoulder to wake me up.

"The fire alarm is chirping. The battery must be dying."
"Ehhh?"
"The fire alarm is chirping."
"uggggghhhhhh..."
"THe fire alarm---"
"ugggggghhhhh...."
So I went out to check, and yes, one of our smoke detectors was chirping. THe one twelve feet overhead on the vaulted ceiling. At 4:45 in the morning in the living room.
"uggghhhh...."
I wandered back toward the bedroom to tell Jamie what the story was. And I looked into the guest bathroom on my way past, and Mel was standing in the tub.
"What are you doing in the tub?" I said.
"I am a-scared," he said.
"Of the chirping?" I said.
"If that's what you want to call it," he replied.
"But you weigh 116 pounds! You can take down a grown man in a heartbeat!"
"Look," he sighed. "I am a-scared, and I'd like some help."
"I'll see what I can do," I nodded.
So at 5:00am, my beautiful wife was standing atop the decorative ledge running around our living room, helping me to get down the damn fire alarm.
My dog is such a pansy, but was he ever happy we stopped that chirping. I just have a scenario in mind now, should our house ever be robbed. THese men will come into the house to find Mel standing in the tub and looking alarmed. I don't really want to be ashamed of him in front of robbers. Oh, well.

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

My friend Juan Diaz said something to me a while back that I thought was kind of odd at the time, but now I agree with him. Juan said, "I never felt like it was the 21st Century until the day of September 11th."
Juan told me this in early 2002, I think. And at the time, I kind of nodded solemnly but wasn't really sure what he meant. But I've figured it out, and I know what he means. Unlike all of us who laughed at how much 1999 was like 2000, he had been sitting on his hands waiting for a watershed event to define the 21st Century. I mean, why wouldn't he have been disappointed in everything up until 9-11? We'd been promised massive blackouts, massive fiscal collapse and an enduring nightmare scenario to spark at midnight on December 31st, 1999. And I remember holding my breath as we crossed over to 2000, exhaling in a scream as I, and the 30 odd folks I was with, realized the earth was not going to open up and swallow us.
It was the last really good party I remember. I stayed late, til 4:00am, drank champagne, didn't get sick, walked home and fell over in the middle of 45th street east of Duval. I have no idea how long I laid there clinging to the pavement, greatful for the shining promise of the 21st century.

I woke up in a Las Vegas hotel room on the morning of September 11th, 2001. Jamie and I were on our first vacation in over a year. The economy had already started to falter, and she had officially been terminated from her dot.com job on September 7th. We had some money and we went.

Sometime around 8:30am Mountain time, I was in the john, doing my morning duties when my brother called my cell phone. I assumed it was work, asking me to fix some technical issue or other from a distance. I shouted for Jamie to pick it up. "It's Jason," she said thru the door.
"Jesus."
"He said something about a plane crash..." she was holding the phone out to me.
"Turn on the TV," he said.
"Turn on the TV," I said.
"What?" she asked.
"Why?" I asked.
"Turn on your TV. A plane ran into the World Trade Center."
"Jesus Christ. Was it-"
"I don't think it was an accident--"
"Someone--"
"On purpose. Yeah."
"Turn on the TV," I said.
"Why?" she asked.
"Turn on the fucking TV."
She didn't want to, or she was confused or something... but if my brother called at 8:30 in the morning when he was supposed to be at work... and if he... and she wouldn't turn it on...
"TURN ON THE TV."
We talked for a few minutes, but here's the truth... we were on Mountain time, I guess, and so it had to have been almost 10:30 Eastern time... but I don't know when the towers actually fell. I don't know if I was watching re-runs, or what I was watching. I have no idea if I saw it in real time or not, and it doesn't really matter.
But I knew I was in a Las Vegas hotel room, a thousand miles from home.
I tried to call a car rental company within the hour. I remember that. I knew we weren't flying anywhere. But the cars were all already gone. I called my folks, I called my brother, I called work... anything... Nobody wanted to talk. We were okay, they were okay, call us if you need anything....
We got breakfast, sitting in the diner of the casino at the Luxor, watching folks just going about their business. Nobody knew on the floor. Nobody had the slightest clue but the guys watching the television screens who were betting on the dogs and the horses.
The waitress looked at us with wide eyes. She must have known we knew. I wondered how many tables she'd been to this morning... Hi, coffee and water? Oh, and there are thousands dead in New York, the Pentagon is smoking and a plane load of folks incinerated in a dell in Pennsylvania. Cream with that?
"Nobody knows..." I said.
"Maybe not."
"Jesus Christ, you'd think they'd care more if they knew. You'd think they could quit gambling for two fucking seconds..."
"Everyone does things differently," she said. And she's right.
We stayed holed up in the hotel room for two more days just watching the news. We'd go get a meal, hang out on the casino floor or whatever for a while, and I'd want to go back and see what they were saying. The projected body count dropped that first day from the 10's of thousands to 10 thousand or less.
I watched folks still gambling, still going about their business. We went to a show the night afterward. I felt sick to my stomach the whole time and I wanted to get out and go. I stayed under the covers or sat at the edge of the bed and I wanted to ge the hell out of Nevada. And we did. Eventually.
But that flight home, with the nervous faces and everyone... everyone ready to go down swinging so that this should not ever, ever happen again...
But this is all about me and what happened to me, which wasn't anything.

Tomorrow and tonight and all week, they're going to replay the footage we're all familiar with. And dead people's families are going to fill our television screens.
So tomorrow I'm committing to a day of silence here at The League. I'm not going to ask what we've done since then, and I'm not going to ask if we're any safer. I'm not going to debate the politics or put a flag around the site for a day. I'm not going to try to say anything about everyone or anyone who died, because I didn't know them, and that's well worn territory. So I'm going to be quiet, and I'm going to shut up for once.

Pentagon

Pennsylvania

New York
I may have just found the winning keywords for The League. It turns out that people are nuts for the hooker/ stripper from The Joe Schmo Show. I received many, many, many hits yesterday from folks seeking info on the high priced hooker.

Viva America.

I tried to find info on who the hooker was for all you pre-verts out there seeking her out (since you're already here, I can at least try to be a helpful resource), but I'm pretty busy, and I don't care enough to really help you out. Go look at the bra ads in the Sunday paper, you sick-o's.

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

First off:

Randy and Jeff Shoemaker are the sole winners of the Green Lantern contest. Even my own beautiful wife failed to know that the Green Lantern is from Sector 2814 (I swear, you put 8 years into trying to share useful information with someone....). In high school I had a plastic Green Lantern ring which would glow in the dark. It was free and one of the coolest give-aways ever seen at a comic shop. One day I will obtain a full sized Green Lantern ring. One Day. But, it will be useless without the power battery...

Anyhow, I may have screwed up those looking for the Green Lantern's Pledge. Apparently, it's actually an OATH. What the hell do I know...? Nothing. It's an OATH. So, on that note...

GREEN LANTERN'S OATH

In Brightest Day
In Blackest Night
No Evil Shall Escape My Sight
Let Those Who Worship Evil's Might
Beware My Power
Green Lantern's Light


and secondly....

about once every nine months or so Jim D. updates me regarding the movements of underground indie rockers, Dead Yeti. He did so again today, alerting Randy and me to the latest drama.

Jim Dedman wrote:
> both of you must, must, must blog about yeti. i mean, really . . .

In response, I wrote:

>For going on 4 or five years now I've received regular e-mails about Dead Yeti. And about once a year, I point out that I have not a clue about Dead Yeti. I wish I did. I think it would complete the Alpha/Omega relationship which is the Steans/Dedman synergy.
>
> It's not that I'm not interested, it's that I really have never really been exposed to Dead Yeti.
>
> Alas.
>
> But keep it up, loyal Yeti fan.
And, gee... here's one to make you shed a little tear...

Leni Riefenstahl kicked the bucket at the age of 101. Wow, if there were ever evidence that the good die young, this is it.

I don't think anyone is going to ignore Riefenstahl's technical achievements, but it's kind of hard to dismiss her involvement in the rise of the Nazi party. I open the door to you, the reader, to do your own exploration of the life and times of Riefenstahl.

So long, Leni. And don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.
I've been avoiding politics like the plague for many a month now, but I think it's time i came out of the political closet. The League of Melbotis hereby formally endorses the Reverend Al Sharpton for President of the United States of America.

Look, I'm a white suburban kid from Texas. The burroughs of New York and the entire context which Al Shaprton comes from is as foreign to me as the moons of Mars. I know dick about race relations and the class struggle. But I know Al Sharpton is completely insane. I like that about the man. I try to imagine what it would be like to call Al Sharpton "Mr. President" and my ears get warm with glee. The guy gets arrested on a regular basis, is usually embroiled in some sort of law-suit, and has a head of hair second only to John Kerry.

So when it comes time to participate in your primaries and strawman elections, vote Sharpton. If California can consider Arnie, can't we, as a country, consider the wackiness which would ensue with Sharpton at the helm?

Monday, September 08, 2003

One would assume I would have enjoyed Spike TV's The Joe Schmo Show more than I did. But I didn't.
The show rides a curious line between letting a guy humiliate himself on national TV, and trying to allow it's actors to be wacky enough to freak him out. But the truth is, pretty much NOTHING they attempted to do on the show actually seemed to work.
If you haven't seen the show or heard about it, the Joe Schmo Show is a "fake reality show" in which a "reality game show" is being taped under false pretenses. The host and other 7 contestants are all paid actors, and only Matt is an actual "contestant."
I guess the idea was to put a willing participant into a pressure boiler in which circumstances continue to grow stranger and stranger, but the reality is, "reality tv" is so over-produced and scripted to begin with, they really aren't able to
1) make Matt think anything weird is really going on
2) make Matt not act as completely insane as the rest of the cast is supposed to be doing.

Because everyone else is a paid actor, all of these actors are incredibly self-conscious of every move they make as their characters. Thusly, it all seems pretty tame compared to the nutcases who usually inhabit reality TV. Matt is pretty much just trying to ape what he's seen on other reality shows by forming alliances, etc... Unfortunately, as the show is "scripted", there's not much in the way of drama (or anything at stake) aside from whther or not Matt will think these people are actors (which they assume he will clue into). But as I said before, actual reality shows are populated with such a bunch of prima donna freaks that, coupled with Matt's unbridled enthusiasm for being on TV, there is no reason for him to suspect a damn thing.

The moment where I realized that the people putting on this show have a mindset which will probably utterly fail them was when, in episode 2, they had a game called "Hands on a High Priced Hooker" in which all 8 contestants were asked to put a hand or body part on a porn actress. Last person on won the pimping "immunity robe". (the immunity robe was probably the best part of the last hour I watched last night). The fatal flaw was that the punishment for LOSING the game was getting your own room (Joe Schmo had to share a bed with two others prior to this). THis just seemed like an odd choice of punishments, laundry room or no... in addition, it was assumed that this guy they plucked from middle-America would leap at the chance to hang onto a stanger's breast on National TV.

In short, it never occured to the producers of the show that 1) they were rewarding failure, or 2) that Matt might perceive he had more to gain by taking the high road on this one.

In short, I saw how the show was going to work, and I've seen enough of it. After a week or whatever in this house, this guy is not going to realize these people are actors, even if they totally screw up, as a few of them have already done. And it's safe to assume Matt is going to get the $100K the show promises, anyway, as compensation for being the butt of the show's 1 note joke.

In college, we would have loved how "meta" this show was. After being inundated with this sort of crap for so long, it's just the next logical step in the same crap heap all of these shows have become.

BTW, regarding Friday's posts... NOBODY has stepped up with the Space Sector of Earth's Green Lantern. And Jim gave a me a stern dressing down for neglecting to mention the greatest Green Lantern of the Giffen/ DeMAtteis JLA era, Guy Gardner.