What Brown Can't Do For You

My research revealed that this gentleman is off T-Chain

Below are the lyrics to his underground boom era classic which seemingly shares similar themes and motifs with his great-grandson’s modern day smash.:

“I’m in Love with a Flapper” by Model T-Pain

Spoken over Music:

Don’t you know you’re the only dame for me
You’ve got my heart returning to Normalcy

(I’m in love with a Flapper)
She dancing, she smoking, she voting,
She sniffin that coke and
(I’m in love with a flapper)
Dame you’re anything but boring
Can’t you feel that you got my 20’s Roaring

It is late at night and I’m on a mission,
To have a stiff drink and defy Prohibition
So I go to the Jazz club and pull up a stool
And there you are dancing and I stare like a fool

The Charleston, the Bunny Hug and the Black Bottom
Those are all the latest moves and dame have you got them
When the music stops you don’t even think,
You see a man about a dog and order a drink

Slowly Sippin on that whiskey you look like a vandal
Like Tea Pot Dome, you’re such a scandal
I look at the bar mirror to make sure I’m dapper
Cause I am pretty sure I falling in love with a flapper

(I’m in love with a Flapper)
She dancing, she smoking, she voting,
She sniffin that coke and
(I’m in love with a flapper)
Dame you’re anything but boring
Can’t you feel that you got my 20’s Roaring

I can see you’re shin now so please stop teasing me
You’re so untouchable but I want you to raid my speakeasy
With that hat on your head and that short bobbed hair
I want to touch you right now so let’s forget Laissez-Faire

Our eyes finally meet and my mind starts to wonder
If you’ll let me drop your tariffs like Fordney-McCumber
My heart is racing like a stock ticker and I feel kind of dizzy
As you ask me if you can drive my Tin Lizzie

We get in the car and you whisper in my ear
“I can’t wait to play with your planetary gear”
You’re driving me crazy dame, I’m begging you please
Let me take off those Cat’s Pajamas and get you down on your Bees Knees

(I’m in love with a Flapper)
She dancing, she smoking, she voting,
She sniffin that coke and
(I’m in love with a flapper)
Dame you’re anything but boring

Researching this topic proved quite invigorating and I implore each of you to step out from the 42 inch flat screened box and spend time looking up nonsense on your computer. Hope all is well with everyone and take care.

I resent my inability to rap. As someone without any viable or marketable skills, it would be a nice arrow to have in my currently barren quiver. See, I have a tendency to stammer and mispronounce words whenever I hastily attempt to sing along with a rap song. I am like Eliza Doolittle, only I sell corporate retirement solutions instead of flowers. Ironically, however, I am really proficient at rolling my Rs, which makes it somewhat of a tragedy that I am not Spanish.

In addition to their cunning linguistic agility, rappers can also incontestably infuse ridiculous words into the popular lexicon. For instance, what the fuck is a “Soulja Boy”? Is it a new breed of human? I would have liked to be in that delivery room when the doctor pronounced, “congratulations, it’s an eight pound seven ounce Soulja Boy!”

This phenomenon served as the basis for posting “Snoop Dogg To Judge Grammar Rodeo” on the Daily Lodger website three years ago (which can be found here: http://www.geocities.com/duuues/morenews.html)

When it comes to using grammar, you have to give Snoop Dogg his propers.

This article details how Snoop, who frivolously manipulates the English language to suit his own needs, will be critiquing contestants on their grammatical abilities. In addition, Snoop also will perform a song he prepared for the event entitled “Upper Was The Case (They Gave Me),” a remix of his innocence anthem “Mrder Was the Case”

I have always wondered what that song would sound like, so I finally eased my curiosity and cobbled together the following lyrics:

“UPPER WAS THE CASE (THEY GAVE ME)”

Spoken over music:

I am standing in front of the judge
It looks like he is gonna give me a long sentence
Things are about to get tense
And I am too young to diagram

Hook:

Upper was the case that they gave me
If it’s capital punishment, then let it be.
Can’t remember what comes after THC
Is it i or is it e?

I’m gonna put my pipe away cause I’m hooked on phonics
It’s time for proper grammar so forget your ebonics
So if you can’t dot every I or cross every t
Your ass ain’t even cut out for a fuckin spelling bee

Gonna censure my cursive so need to get my penmanship ready
Printing ain’t easy but it’s necessary.
You best know when to use a proper noun
Or else you nothing but a grammar rodeo clown

This competition can breed so much unnecessary drama
Like when you forget to put a comma between baby and mamma
And just when the downpour becomes a light drizzle
You end your future by dangling a partipizzle.

Upper was the case that they gave me
If it’s capital punishment, then let it be.
Can’t remember what comes after THC
Is it i or is it e?

Time to diagram and you should have no excuse
You best spot compound objects like gin and juice.
When I use exclamation points and raise my inflection
Can you feel the size of my interjection?

If your punctuation is off key, home is where you’re goin’
You’ll need to leave the stage and clear out your colon
So if you think your winning the trophy, you just plain wrong
You can just turn your ass around and let me see your diphthong

Upper was the case that they gave me
If it’s capital punishment, then let it be.
Can’t remember what comes after THC
Is it i or is it e?

Spoken over music:

My judging the rodeo isn’t an errand
Just another opportunity to use the possessive before the gerund.

Verb to your mother

Anyway, I hope everyone is having a great holiday season and I implore you to post your own lyrics to Upper Was the Case, as it is currently not worthy of studio time. Take care.

In the Spring of 2004, I decided that it would be in my best interest to put my school work aside and establish a rudimentary website that would only be seen by those whom I begged. I even included a hit counter to track its progress and popularity; although its inflated numbers resulted from afternoons of missed classes I spent hitting the refresh button. The website, entitled the Daily Lodger, was as a fake newspaper consisting of terribly written articles and all too infrequent updates. Hence, its misleading title was not so much a misnomer as it was the product of my own laziness.

It has been three long years since the last article, “Fat Child Chosen First in Dodgeball,” was published and I feel an obligation to provide closure to all those who have inquired when the next installment would appear. So, if you will indulge me, I will use this blog as a forum to give the Daily Lodger the send-off it never deserved:

TOP STORY

EA Sports Announces Boston Terrier Will Appear on the Cover of “Vick ‘08”

REDWOOD CITY, CA—After months of anticipation and ongoing speculation within the gamer community, John Riccitiello, CEO of Electronic Arts, revealed that the Boston Terrier will appear on the cover of “Vick ’08,” its latest installment of the highly popular dog fighting video game franchise.

“Our Board of Directors and programming staff are pleased to announce that the Boston Terrier will adorn the front casing of the 2008 edition of Michael Vick Dog Fighting,” Riccitiello said. “We collectively believe this beautifully violent animal possesses both the tangible and intangible qualities necessary to succeed inside the ring and is poised to have another outstanding year . . . or in his case seven”

The producers of the game were so impressed with the overall skill of the Boston Terrier that it is rumored the animal will have a Jaw Strength rating of 100, a first in the history of the “Vick” series.

Although being chosen to appear on the “Vick” cover is a coveted distinction, it has recently developed a more dubious reputation. However, handlers of the Boston Terrier refused to lend credence to theory of the “Vick Jinx,” which surfaced after previous cover dogs failed to reproduce their prior successes with tragic consequences. The English Mastiff, which appeared on the jacket of the 2007 edition, was electrocuted while 2005 poster dog, the Akita Inu, was playfully led to the woods and shot.

After hearing the news, Ice appeared either confused, angry or about to sneeze

Upon receiving the news of the incident, Ice Cube, whose 1992 hit “Check Yo’ Self “ poignantly articulated the consequences of Culpepper’s actions, released the following statement:

“I believe that we will reach a day when there will be universal recognition that checking oneself is the only preventative measure to wrecking yo self. Are We There Yet? No. Will it happen Friday? No . . . Next Friday? No . . . The Friday After Next? No. I have to say X-X-X to that because that is just the State of the Union. This is Dangerous Ground and it is not like Higher Learning on such an important and socially relevant issue like this one can be purchased in some Wal-Mart DVD bargain bin. It takes time.”

Culpepper’s assailant still remains at-large, however sources within the LAPD have hinted that the shooting was justified and any charges would be quickly dismissed.

NATIONAL BRIEFS

President Bush Elevates Threat Level After Reading Spoiler Alert

WASHINGTON, DC--Department of Homeland Security spokesman Russ Knocke announced President Bush has elevated the National Threat Level to Orange after reading a disturbing spoiler alert on an IMDB message board.

According to Knocke, Bush had been perusing the Smallville forum on the popular movie database website, when he encountered an alarming message from Lex_Loser69.

“In his downtime yesterday afternoon, President Bush went online to opine and speculate about the much anticipated upcoming 7th season with other Smallville enthusiasts. That is when he came across the disconcerting spoiler alert,” Knocke said. “The unidentified user, who goes by Lex underscore Loser 69, claimed a supernatural attack on Smallville will result in the possible death of Chloe, Clark Kent’s best friend. Our latest multi-sourced intelligence validates this assertion and the President is taking this threat to our national security very seriously.”

According to several White House insiders, President Bush has been placed in an undisclosed location and has issued a deployment consisting of US military forces and state militia to the fictional Kansas farming community.

Upon reading the message, President Bush ordered the threat level be raised to "the color of Slice"

White House Press Secretary Tony Snow would not confirm that President Bush has been removed from the grounds, but he did release the following statement on the President’s behalf:

“We will expend every resource available to protect our country and save our Chloe. Her spunk and bright-eyed idealism represents the true American spirit. While her love for Clark may be unrequited, our collective feelings for her are out in the open spaces. We will also do whatever it takes to save her community. Although your ville might be small, your heart looms large.”

Despite the apparent credibility of Lex_Loser69’s information, both The Department of Homeland Security and The Pentagon will continue to collaborate to identify his source, the guy who is friends with the girl who used to date Tom Welling’s personal trainer.


I would have added these articles to the actual Daily Lodger Website, however I cannot recall both my Geocities username and password. Additionally, all those who want to visit the archive can do so by clicking the nominal link on the left hand side of this page. Also, I encourage you to post your own headlines you would have liked to see on the website. I hope all is well and take care.

00:13:10: We now see a shirtless Wesley meditating in his bedroom. It is decorated in an Eastern motif that was obviously taken from the set of Rising Sun. We are now getting a glimpse of Wesley’s tortured past, as a black and white flashback reveals how his wife was killed in a convenience store robbery. In the end of this sequence, Wesley tries convince his dying wife that “It is not too bad . . . everything is going to be alright” She can not hear him as she has been shot in the head from point blank range.

00:15:36: After much contemplation and bad elevator music, Wesley accepts the job and will be introduced to the stockholders in Los Angeles—wait a second, isn’t that is where Charles Rane is going? They won’t possibly be on the same plane . . . will they?

00:18:54: Yes. And so is the disobedient flight attendant from the training session. And thus, the tightly scripted first act seems to have concluded with plot progressing payoffs. Also, Elizabeth Hurley is introduced. She is actually tackling the challenging duel role of flight attendant/ant eater.

00:21:30: The flight attendant, who has been identified as Marti, is counting out the passengers. She comes across Passenger 57, who of course is Wesley. He is reading the “Art of War,” not the ancient Chinese book of tactical strategies, but the script to a future shitty project. The tension between to characters is still marginally palpable.



00:25:20: Wesley and Marti speak for the first time and there is still rancor in the air. Marti calls him a control freak. Wesley goes off script and claims “I’m a freak alright, but you can be in control” His reward for such an impromptu rejoinder, an icy glare and a packet of aspirin.




00:26:41: Marti fills the empty seat next to Wesley with a frigid white bitch who looks like she finished behind Elanor Roosevelt in the Miss Hyde Park pageant. She confuses Wesley with Arsenio Hall. Consequently, she does not get to hear Rule 2. Also, there are subtle hints suggesting that Elizabeth Hurley’s character may not be all she seems, which is fitting.




00:28:00: Not subtle enough. While Wesley is in the bathroom, a balding man in the cargo department (a poor man’s Clint Howard, if that’s possible) supplies Hurley with a gun. She shoots the two agents accompanying Rane and he takes over the plane with some goons who are among the passengers. Wesley is confronted by a gun toting goon with a mullet, but disposes of him and uses him as a shield. In a standoff, Rane coldly kills Passenger 56. Thus, all those clamoring for a prequel will be decidedly disappointed.




00:33:03: Wesley and Marti escape to the cargo area where they confront Rane’s mole. Wesley proves that white men can’t jump kick, and employs some frenetic hybrid karate to easily defeat him. Even amongst all the chaos, Wesley calmly spews the apropos line “When you got to go, you got to go” as he sends the vanquished careening into an oddly, yet conveniently, placed bathroom.




00:36:35: Back at the airline headquarters, officials have identified the highjacker as Charles Rane, or by his fitting moniker, “The Rane of Terror.” Bruce Greenwood (John from Cincinatti) plays the airline director, who isn’t exactly floating on air when he hears the FBI brought a terrorist aboard his plane without prior notice. He is now forced to take this situation by the Ranes . . . terrible.




00:37:14: Wesley cuts the fuel line and the plane is “going to go down one way or the other,” according to the pilot. The plane has to land in some redneck area of Louisiana. I have a feeling the traditional by the book local sheriff and the flashy, judge-me-by results style of Wesley Snipes are going to clash.




00:39:55: Rane calls Wesley down in the cargo area. We have finally arrived at the moment we have been waiting for. I can sense it. The postulate is about to be presented. There seems to be a mutual respect between Rane and Snipes, but it is clear their ideologies and morals clash. Finally, Wesley poses the question to Rane:




“Ever play roulette?”




“On occasion,” Rane coolly responds.




Then, as if the filmmaker knew the significance of the moment, he furiously closes in on Snipes from at least 30 feet away so he can capture the gravity of the following line:




“Always bet on black”




And there you go. Cinematic and statistical history. In retrospect however, the line seems a bit forced. It is as if the screenwriter had come up with this line first and then wrote some hackneyed hijack movie around it. On second thought, that is exactly what happened.




00:41:11: Rane dispatches stereotypical, pony tailed goon #2 down to the cargo area. He is able to kick Snipes off the plane while keeping Marti on board. The plane lands in Louisiana, just yards away from a crowded fair ground –Snipes is obviously not injured. Local Louisiana authorities arrive on the scene and immediately take Wesley into custody—he is sentenced to be executed within 5 minutes.




00:48:38: Cooler heads prevail, but the local authorities begin to negotiate with Rane before the feds can arrive at the scene. In return for fuel, Rane describes a co-conspirator who betrayed him as “a black man . . . very smooth and convincing.” Embarrassed that he let Omar Epps slip through his fingers, the sheriff keeps Wesley in custody to save face.




00:50:57: Rane let’s some passengers go, however he escapes amongst the commotion and heads toward the fairgrounds. After, the local cops keep calling him “boy,” Wesley does some more quasi-fu moves and escapes with one of their motorcycles. As he has a weakness for cinna-sticks, he too heads toward the fair.




00:56:31: At the fair, Rane and Snipes’ paths cross. Shots are fired and a clown is hit in the back. He is now crying on the outside.




00:59:01: Rane is apprehended after a shoot out at the carousel. Unfortunately, there is a lot of collateral damage as many porcelain horses are euthanized.




01:02:12: Even though he is in custody, Rane instructed his men to kill hostages every 20 minutes. Hence, Rane uses this as leverage to convince Snipes to let him back on the plane. All Snipes can do is accept his terms and sulk in his bomber jacket.




01:08:04: Rane is able to manipulate his way back on board. However, Snipes and the local sheriff temporarily reconcile their differences through trite, playful banter and are able to get Snipes back on the plane unbeknownst to Rane.




01:13:07: Snipes easily eliminates Rane’s pony-tailed henchman by telling him his look is sooooo last season and makes his way toward the cockpit. In doing so, he smacks Hurley across the face and sets her nose in place.




01:15:27: Snipes and Rane begin engage in hand to hand combat. At first, Rane’s White Lotus seems like it can counter Snipes’ Black Hand. Ultimately, however, Snipes conquers his foe by kicking him out an exit window. In doing so, he exclaims “I am tired of this motha fuckin Rane on this mother fuckin plane!!”




01:18:41: The plane lands safely and Snipes is met with a hero’s welcome and a new girlfriend, Marti. Will there be fireworks?




01:21:02: Yes. Despite the shootings and carnie casualties, the fair decides the show must go on and proceeds with its elaborate fireworks display as the credits roll.


Watching this movie is always a rewarding endeavor and I appreciate all those who experienced it vicariously through this blog.


As I reflect on it further however, I still owe Passenger 57 a debt of gratitude as it allowed me to accomplish the second goal I mentioned at the outset of this post: I finally made it Rane.


I would like to make the running diary a common feature of this space to compensate for the recent lack of activity and I implore you to leave your recommendations of movies you would like to see chronicled in real time. I hope all is well and take care.

I have noticed that recent college graduates have habitually struggled to find some semblance of identity after four years of exhaustively being labeled. I suppose there is a certain comfort in knowing that you belong either to a certain clique, segment of the student body, or are the guy everybody thought had graduated, like, three years ago only to be creeped out that he is sitting next to you in an introductory level politics class. However, once you accept your diploma and flip your tassel, the composite individuality imposed on you by your fellow classmates immediately molts away and ceases to exude any relevance whatsoever. And so, the search for the true, organic self begins.

Some graduates travel abroad hoping to be inspired by foreign landscapes and culture; others seek vocational schooling to equip themselves with a specialized skill to facilitate successful entry into the professional realm; while others sit stagnated on a couch watching the NFL Network and Room Raiders marathons passively waiting for something to happen.

However, much to the chagrin to those who have pursued these often painstaking avenues in order to "discover one’s self," a simple online personality quiz could have revealed everything they needed to know about themselves in a fraction of the time. Right now, I am currently content in knowing that I am Miranda from "Sex and the City," Marissa from the "O.C.," Brian from "Family Guy," Dwight from "The Office" and the black guy from "Grey’s Anatomy." Consequently, when I meet new people, I casually tell them that I am a breast cancer survivor who overdosed on painkillers in Tijuana and served as a police dog while maintaining a beet farm and once choked out Dr. McDreamy. Have I done any or all of these things? Well according to a few "television-themed" personality tests, yes I have.

By answering a slate of ridiculous questions and submitting your responses into a vast and random character-generating universe, you can specifically determine your own personality traits by being identified as a popular television character. This is either a sad indictment of the increased media induced conformity that is so rampant in our culture or just really, really convenient. Instead of pursuing the laborious task of getting to know people through a gamut of potentially awkward conversations, it would be just as informative and more entertaining to refer them to a small list of television programs and personalities that encapsulate the true essence of your character.

However, the character scope of some television shows is far too narrow for such an exercise to produce a conclusive and self-fulfilling outcome. Therefore, it is imperative to broaden the sample so that all unique traits and characteristics are well represented. In order to account for this complexity and breadth of human individualism, it is important to distinguish a single source that possesses a bevy of identifiable characters. My recommendation is biased, yet viable: Mike Tyson’s Punch Out. This game boasts a roster of rich and colorful personalities who possess an array of recognized stereotypes that are universally identifiable. Let’s examine each character individually to determine which one best exemplifies you.

You are Glass Joe:

You are a glutton for punishment who resents that the Reset button is pressed every time you land a punch. You have 99 losses in 100 professional fights and your only victory came against a fellow Frenchman who surrendered before you had the chance to. Despite the painful rigors you have endured throughout your lackluster boxing career, you are blissfully unaware that fights can be longer than one round.

You are Von Kaiser:

You take pride in your mustache and antiquated and hateful political ideologies. Although your name is translated as "of the Emperor," you failed to fulfill your supposed birthright and you consequently developed a severe inferiority complex as you never ascend to a rank above a mere contender.

You are Piston Honda:

Despite attaining the championship in the minor circuit, you harbor a maddening jealousy of your more successful cousin, Honda Prius, which you take out on your opponents. After years of depression resulting from your unrealized potential, you receive a ray of sunshine in your life when your longtime friend and national hero, Shinjo, gloriously returns to Japan after a brief stint as a Major League Baseball player in America.

You are Don Flamenco:

You either are a strong believer in déjà vu or just completely baffled by Little Mac’s simple alternating combination of lefts and rights. Blessed with a surname that reflects your flamboyant dancing skills, you fail to use your quick feet in the ring as you are easily distracted by Mr. Referee Mario’s hair despite the fact that it is covered by a misshapen digital red cap.

You are King Hippo:

You prefer to be called King despite not being recognized by any authoritative international body. A man of mystery who lists your weight and age as "??," you obnoxiously boast that "I have my weakness. But, I won't tell you! Ha, ha, ha!" I am sorry to you that it is pretty fucking obvious: aside from Peanut M&M’s, it is your tendency to leave your soft and ample stomach exposed for a thorough beating. However, despite your slovenly appearance, you are the king of etiquette, as you would rather lose a fight than have your shorts fall down in front of a crowded arena.

You are Great Tiger:

Even though you have the utmost respect and admiration for the animal, your Tiger-skinned robe has earned you the ire and hate of PETA. Through years spent in illegal underground magic schools, you have mastered the Tiger Punch through the art of teleporting. However, this mystical ability is deemed worthless, as you have also perfected the unfortunate propensity of telegraphing, as you tell your opponent to expect this potentially dizzying jab.

You are Bald Bull:

Always known to pass the buck, you adamantly blame your baldness on your barber even though it was genetically inherited from your mother’s side of the family. Your pre-fight routine consists of attempting to intimidate your opponent by blowing deformed man-kisses at him and your repertoire of punches is highlighted by your Bull Charge, which is an exaggerated and pompous uppercut which usually leaves you face down on the canvas. Many fight observers have speculated that your testicles have yet to descend from your abdomen as every time you get hit in the stomach you appear as if you been hit in the nuts.

You are Soda Popinski:

An ardent sympathizer with the Communist Russia of yore, you like your wars just like your beer . . .cold. Your adroitness as a fighter is only surpassed by your ability to hold a bottle while wearing a boxing glove. Despite having been one of the finest fighters ever produced by the U.S.S.R. and possessing a PSI punch of close to 2000, you eventually become the Russian Karl Malone as you are a contemporary of the Great Ivan Drago, the Michael Jordan of the state sponsored doping and boxing program.

You are Mr. Sandman:

You seemingly embrace your moniker as you constantly espouse trite expressions about going to sleep. Despite your impressive record, your two loses were not as a result of a knockout, but rather of your narcolepsy which you have been fighting since birth.

You are Super Macho Man:

Your 35-0 record is a testament to your ability to make your opponents fall in love with you by hypnotically flexing your pectoral muscles. Your listed age of 27 belies your older appearance, complete with pasty complexion and gray hair. Either you are lying or are simply an albino.

You are Little Mac:

At the age of 17, you drop out of high school and literally enroll in the school of hard knocks: the WVBA boxing circuit. Despite being listed at only 107 pounds, the WVBA commission grossly neglects weight class enforcement leaving you to fight opponents three times your size. To compensate for this startling disadvantage, you hire washed-up former heavyweight champion Doc Louis for sage guidance. However, Doc has a poor ringside manner and can only muster shallow advice such as "join the Nintendo Fan Club today" when you are desperately seeking strategy. Your boxing attire consists of a tank top, which may indicate a reluctance to take your shirt of at the beach and you have to constantly deflect rumors of homosexuality resulting from your pink warm-up suit.

Somewhere within this spectrum lies a personality that best encapsulates you (please excuse my obvious omission of Mike Tyson as I did not want to insult anybody). Which one is it? Please leave a comment and let me know. Take care.

Of all the Da Vinci Code's shameless plugs, most of them ended up going into Tom Hanks' head

Now, I don’t venture to the movies that often, which is a shame considering I could have abused the student discount at my college theater for an additional two years. However, despite not seeing any of the following movies, I have pieced together a composite synopsis for each one based exclusively on their titles and trailers alone:

The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift: The phenomenon of drifting, an art that politically dissident Cubans have perfected on water since 1959, has been revised and incorporated into underground automobile racing on the streets of Japan in this soon to be TNT new classic. Many critics have deemed this film the best of the recently beleaguered TFATF franchise, which is all but incontestable, considering it is sans the wooden Paul Walker. Walker, rumor has it, callously turned down the opportunity to star in the last installment of the trilogy to film Eight Below or, as it is known on this blog, 2 Fast 2 Furry-ous.

Little Man: Unfortunately, this movie is being touted as "from the makers of White Chicks," which is a shame because everything should be judged based on its individual merit. Essentially, instead of being a cop who poses as a white woman, Marlon Wayans plays the titular "little man," a criminal masquerading as an infant. He is subsequently adopted by a well-to-do man, played by the Other One, and his wife, who immediately becomes an object of his affection. However, this is where the film unpredictably, but brilliantly evolves from a trite and intellectually bereft escapade into a Greek Tragedy reminiscent of the works of Sophocles. Little Man, overcome by his lustful attraction, cowardly kills his surrogate father in a moment of passionate rage. However, once the act is complete, he undergoes a cathartic moment of great sorrow as he realizes that he has just killed the only benevolent father figure he has ever known. Blinded by his own sense of suffocating pity, Little Man leaves the home to wander the earth during a self-imposed time-out. Forget a sequel; let’s talk trilogy.

John Tucker Must Die: This film chronicles the exploits of John Tucker, a veritable Campus Man who cleverly manages to keep his multiple partners secret from one another. When his transgressions are inevitably unveiled, John becomes the subject of revenge for the vindictive ladies he coldly exploited. Unfortunately, one of the vixens is the unappealing Ashanti (he must have been drunk), who enlists the help of her cohorts at Murder Inc. The movie concludes when the unsuspecting John asks Ja Rule for the time, to which Ja replies, "Half Past Dead mother tucker!" Thus, John unwittingly becomes another tragic statistic in the senseless turf battle between tone deaf rappers.

In the movie, Ashanti plays a boy crazed 18 year-old cheerleader. Give me aaaaaaaaaaaa . . . .BREAK!!!

This is just a mere sampling of the cinematic offerings currently available during the all to fleeting summer blockbuster season. I recommend you take advantage because Oscar pushing season is a long four and a half months away. I know I won’t.

I hope all is well with everyone and I encourage you all to leave a comment to let me know how you are doing and which movies you are planning to see/not see this summer. Take care.

The only thing that could possibly be more Gigantic than Saturday is apparently the man standing right next to it.

Despite studying Spanish for several years, including a few semesters in college, my vocabulary and grammatical understanding are strictly confined to "si," "no," "¿Puedo ir al cuarto de baño?," and "zapataria." However, I have also heard that the word "gol" in Spanish is loosely translated into English as "goal." Fortunately, this uncomplicated translation is the only prerequisite for understanding soccer matches broadcast on Univision.

For the average American sports fan, soccer is typically an after thought. It is low scoring, it is difficult to differentiate the players, and it has a tendency to violate standard child labor laws (i.e. 15 year old Freddy Ado). However, the impassioned cries of the Univision announcer more than compensate for these inherent, yet forgivable flaws as he seamlessly breaks down the barriers of logic to get me excited about a sport and language that I don’t understand.

In addition to coercing him to play for their team, I wouldn't be surprised if the D.C. United made 15 year-old Freddy Adu sew his own uniform.

For instance, here is a call he made during last Sunday’s apparently exciting Brazil-Australia match: "Ronaldinho a Ronaldo a Kaka! Kaka sostiene la pelota!! Kaka sostiene la pelota!!! a Ronaldinho, a Ronalado a Kaka!!!! Kaka golpea la pelota . . .
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (announcer briefly pauses after passing out, but gains consciousness after a few seconds and resumes the call) OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!

To summarize what transpired, evidently Little Ronaldo (Ronaldinho) passed it to Regular Ronaldo who in turn passed it to Kaka. Kaka, who I assume has the patience of a saint, proceeded to hold the ball and then held the ball some more before passing it back to Little Ronaldo. Little Ronaldo, who is contractually obligated to always pass the ball to Regular Ronaldo, did so without hesitation. Upon receiving the ball (a.k.a. pelota), Regular Ronaldo, who was so impressed with his last pass to Kaka, repeated the exercise and kicked it to Kaka. Kaka then unconventionally forewent the stern dictates of mundane repetitiveness that usually govern the low scoring sport by attempting to put the ball in the net. Seemingly against all odds, he succeeded and euphoria ensued (primarily in the broadcaster’s booth).

My description of the action, despite being comprehensible to all "uni-lingual" Americans, is far less compelling then that of the Spanish announcer. However, despite his Herculean efforts, I will not be able to sustain a long-term interest in the game simply because of its low scoring nature. I just don’t understand how one goalie could protect such a large area from intrusion. Which begs the question, why not place one at our borders? And if somebody happens to slip by him, the Spanish announcer could capture the intensity of the moment by shouting Ille-GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!

Anyway, I hope all is well with everyone and I implore you to leave a quick message to let me know how you are doing.

DC Comics announced last week that they are resurrecting the Batwoman comic book (or graphic novel if you want to be a dick) franchise after a 27 year hiatus. Why is this news you ask? Well, for one, in a genre seemingly dominated by omnipotent male characters, it is refreshing to see that strength, morality, and bravery are not exclusively possessed by one gender. Well, that, and because the new Batwoman will be a lesbian. In fact, the story on cnn.com reporting this cute little nugget was the most popular item of last Thursday morning followed by the possibility of a US military probe into the massacre of a dozen Iraqi civilians. Oddly enough, because of the inclusion of the word "probe" in the headline, they appeared as related stories.

So what is this sudden fascination about gay superheroes? Haven’t they have been around since their inception into popular culture? For me, all veneers become stripped when a character puts on a pair of tights, throws a cape over his shoulders and demands people call him Captain Marvelous. Thus, despite being an anachronism, the concept of the thu-per hero has resonated for decades.

According to the news story, the original Batwoman was introduced in 1965 and was killed off in 1979, presumably for rejecting Batman’s romantic overtures in issue #45, where she told the Cape Crusader to take his "Futility Belt" and go back to concentrating on "‘Robin’ Dick Grayson’s cradle."

The most discouraging aspect of this story isn’t how a comic book character’s orientation is now being used as the country’s moral barometer; rather it is that the inevitable Batwoman movie will only be rated a mild and disappointingly tasteful PG-13, thus failing to be either graphic or novel.

However, my primary concern rests with what implications this announcement will have on the Justice League of America. Obviously, the addition of Batwoman would be a tremendous coup, as it would boost its status among other equal opportunity employers. Nevertheless, the JL is itemized in the budget and falls under the direct jurisdiction of the Department of Defense, a sphere of government which funds combat organizations that adhere to a strict policy of "don’t ask, don’t tell" or in the case of mutant superhero Banshee, "don’t ask, don’t yell." The Justice League’s incapacity to include Batwoman would not only decrease their ability to fight super villain related crime up to 12%, its ranking among Working Mother Magazine’s list of Best Companies for Women would drop exponentially.

It will be interesting to see how the introduction of the new Batwoman will play out. Will her costume be made out of flannel and have cut off sleeves? Will she have the complete Xena set in her DVD collection? I don’t know and don’t care. I believe that comic books publishers should revert back to a time when kids weren’t pondering these complex questions, but rather spending 3 dollars on a pack of Marvel Cards hoping to get the Hologramed Sinister Six group card (It always eluded me, although if anybody wants to trade, I still have quadruples of the unpopular, but under appreciated Black Falcon).

No matter where he goes, the Falcon certainly knows how to transform it into a black fly affair

Unfortunately, collecting cards was my only hobby as a child. I spent most of my days either placing them carefully in plastic sleeves or playing Nintendo. Despite my resistance, my mom continuously urged me to go out and get some exercise. After much deliberation, we finally compromised and a Nintendo Power Pad was purchased. For those who don't recall, the Power Pad provided the opportunity for obese children to vicariously experience the thrill of running without the nagging consequence of losing weight. Although the number of games compatible with the Power Pad (or as it is known in Japan, Family Trainer—true story) is limited, World Class Track Meet more than overcompensates for the lack of titles. In the game, you have the option to compete in a series of races against computer characters of escalating difficulty, even though their pre-race stretching routines reveals them to be equally limber. In order attain the highest honor the game can bestow, a digital misshapen yellow circle which presumably represents a medal, you have to beat Turtle, Bear, Horse, Rabbit, Bobcat and Cheetah all in succession. It took several days of intense playing to realize that there is no disconnect between their names and running ability. For example, Turtle is as slow as the animal of the same name and shape. This revelation was refreshing because it resolved a previously held misconception that the game was racially insensitive as it ignorantly bestowed stereotypical names upon its cast of Native American characters.

Padding the self-esteem of fat kids since 1988

Inevitably, after many long jumps and races against Cheetah that left me winded, the foundation of my house became slightly compromised and the Power Pad had to be discarded. Even though it provided hours of fun and calorie preserving exercise, I finally started to resent all the time I spent on the Power Pad when the whistle blew during the 40 yard dash of my high school’s physical fitness test and I just stood in place furiously shuffling my feet up and down. My final time: one that even Turtle would be ashamed of.

Hope all is well with everyone and I encourage you to post and let me know how you are doing. Take care.

I don’t read nearly as much as I should. Unlike a nutritional regimen based on calories, I don’t think there is a recommended amount of pages one should consume in a day, but I would assume a steady diet of literature keeps the mind from getting flabby (you see what I did there).

My apathy toward reading is not entirely my fault. For those of you who don’t know me, I was a fat kid. Right now, I am wearing the same pants as I did on my first day in the 4th grade, which is good because it is both thrifty and vintage, and therefore fashionable. Even the professional aptitude test I took as a child foreshadowed that I would grow up to be either a fat guy or an unentertaining acrobat (not mutually exclusive). Anyway, my rotund figure in my academically formative years is noteworthy because my elementary school participated in the now deceased “Book-It” program sponsored by Pizza Hut. Essentially, through a good faith contract between the school and the benevolent and intellectually enterprising pizza chain, each student would be guaranteed one personal pan pizza, with a choice of one topping, for every five books that he/she read. However, there was one glaring loophole in that otherwise hermetic agreement—Pizza Hut did not clearly define how many pages constituted a book. My class, as would almost every other grade school student, took advantage of the gaffe, and with free food at stake, I took carte blanche. However, as I whetted my literary appetite and voraciously read small book after small book, my teacher gradually realized that my motives weren’t totally academic. It was after I notified her that I had just completed the illustrated novelization of a Thundercats episode entitled “Eye of the Tygra”, when she panned my transparently cheesy attempt to extort Pizza Hut for free food.

In this poignant novelization, Tygra painfully discovers that he is the bastard love child of Tony the Tiger and Paulie Walnuts of "The Sopranos"

I was indelibly discouraged from reading thereafter. I just did enough to get by for the rest of my academic career and stubbornly tried to disrupt President Bush’s vision of no child left behind by matriculating for three sophomore years. However, over the past few weeks, I have experienced a renewed and unadulterated pleasure in reading reminiscent of my halcyon (I’m not really quite sure what that word means, but I am going to use it anyway) days of perusing illustrated novellas based on Saturday morning cartoon shows and watching Lavaar Burton creep out scores of children (including myself) on Reading Rainbow—a show whose hallucinogenic opening credits suggest that reading a children’s book produces the same euphoria as a hit of acid. I owe this refreshed outlook to a little periodical known as the New York Post. Whether it is their snappy abbreviated headlines (Prez Sez Fuel is Cool) or a picture only story of a celebrity with accompanying caption, the Post seems to inherently know that I am not capable of handling anything that doesn’t rhyme or that isn’t in color.

Here our hero is excitedly reading "Mouth Sounds" to millions of impressionable children. Wait, exactly how did his character on Star Trek go blind?

As a Journalism major, one might believe that I would be offended that the Post presents itself as a legitimate news source. However, it is important to understand that I was a Journalism major by default as it required the least amount of credits to attain and the building took the least amount of time to get to. Therefore, I really don’t have a philosophy on what should be considered viable, unbiased, hard-nosed journalism and what should be deemed as tabloid gossip--for me the line is not black and white even though the print is.

As a matter of fact, I have decided that it is easier and less burdensome not to adopt any further philosophies. Because if I possessed any additional philosophies, I could then be considered a philosopher—a tag I don’t want any thing to do with. See, the term philosopher derives from Greek meaning “lover of knowledge.” Not that I have anything against knowledge, it is cool and I like it a lot, but I am at a very non-committal stage in my life right now and I don’t think I am quite ready to take the next step. However, I must concede that, in the past, I have been guilty of sending knowledge mixed messages, especially when I was in college. There were nights when I would totally ignore knowledge by going to a bar or watching SportsCenter until 3am then passing out. Conversely, there were nights when I was desperate or had a test the next day in which I would spend hours getting intimate with knowledge—what Tom Wolfe might deem “a one night cram”—only to completely neglect it the following evening. I wouldn’t doubt if knowledge felt somewhat used from time to time, however that was just the nature of our relationship and, despite all the hurt I may have inflicted on knowledge, it is important to understand how overbearing it could be sometimes. No matter what subject was breached, it always insisted it was right and had no trouble issuing constant reminders that it always beat me at Jeopardy. Anyway, I have decided that it would be mutually beneficial if knowledge and I, for the time being, created some distance between us.

I think knowledge would be better off with somebody a little bit more successful, yet misguided; someone who is in a position to take advantage of all that knowledge has to offer; someone who would benefit himself and others exponentially from knowledge’s presence. Someone like, let’s say . . . President Bush.

Again, let me preface the following diatribe by acknowledging that I am mostly of an apolitical nature and didn’t vote in the last presidential election (I was graciously spared by P. Diddy) and therefore have no right to criticize. However, it is difficult to ignore President Bush’s plummeting approval rating and subsequent second-guessing about his strategy in Iraq. I feel that knowledge would be a calming, yet reassuring influence for the President, thus drawing yet another parallel to a Saturday morning cartoon show, G.I. Joe which espoused that knowing is half the battle. Unfortunately, over the last 3 years of his administration, the White House has provided a mitigated version of G.I. Joe: G.W. Joe where the battle is only half-knowing. It is unfortunate that the President and his Cabinet believed that the people of Iraq would welcome the United States as a liberating presence and that they assumed post-war Iraqis would be veritable Tabula Rasas (or based on the latest edition of Most Popular Iraqi Baby Names Tabula Rezas) warmly receptive to the infusion of Western ideals and principles. Perhaps knowledge’s sanctimonious demeanor could have prevented the current divisive quagmire that has been created overseas. However, like I stated before, too much knowledge can be a detriment. For instance, Bush tried to overcompensate for his lack of pre-war international intelligence, but creating a surplus of domestic intelligence via his clandestine surveillance program. In doing so, he almost effectively changed the acronym of the PATRIOT Act from Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism to Passive Aggressive Tapping program Requiring Illegally Obtained Transmissions. However, time will only tell if the President and knowledge will settle down together so he, our country, and the rest of the world can live happily ever after.

At least that is just my philosophy on the matter . . . shit

x 2 = 200 cigarettes (not the Affleck movie) and a whole bunch of trouble

I thought that working at a reputable publishing house would boost my resume and place me in a favorable position to network in a desirable field. However, what I don’t know could fill a book and I bet they would be more than happy to publish it. I spend my day stapling invoices and achieving levels of boredom so seemingly unattainable they are almost Zen like and I oftentimes find myself placing my hand in the stapler just so I know what it is like to feel. Meanwhile, the gentleman in the cubicle adjacent to mine either has a broken stereo or a vexing fixation on the new Madonna album. I am guessing it is the latter, which only further compounds the interminable monotony of my day as I hear Madonna sing over and over again “ . . . time goes by so slowly . . . time goes by so slowly.”

Even though there is no water cooler, there is still a lot of talk. The bulk of which is generated by the two ladies occupying the cubicles behind me. The content of their talks is quite expansive, ranging from Faust to Flavor of Love to American Idol. I didn’t follow either show intently, but according to them, Ms. New York is an “untrustworthy skank” and “that Mandisa can siiiiiiing, girl.” However, I knew it was time to quit when one of them remarked that Nick Cannon’s “Wild N’Out” was a “great” show (I guess by those standards, I have a great job) and I was noticeably excluded from their plans to see “Madea’s Family Reunion”—I can take a hint ladies.

Why did Pumkin spit on New York (pictured)? Is it because Pumkin is a Rationalist and New York is a Empiricist? Or is it simply because New York is simply a trick ass ho?

What is even more aggravating than the actual work is the tedious commute on the Long Island Railroad. Whether it is the person next to me with the loud I-Pod filled with terrible music everybody in the train car can hear (the winner is the guy with the Celine Dion “My Heart Will Go On” techno-remix) or the guy “silently” doing So Duku who constantly mutters in a tone reminiscent of Rainman “that can’t be a two . . . that has to be a nine . . . that can’t be a four,” the two hour round trip lost its charm after the first three minutes of the first day.

Anyway, my apologies to those who actually check this journal often and I will make a habit of trying to update this blog as frequently as my uneventful life allows. Incidentally, if you don’t have anything planned for the weekend, I recommend “V for Vendetta,” a delightful romp about a masked anti-hero with a Sinead O’Conner fetish who talks the talk and Fawkes the Fawke. Take care.