Sunday, November 23, 2008


Ever find something you did a long time ago and realize that you don't remember doing it at all?

No? Then I guess I am alone. Again. Naturally.

So I was just looking through some old Word files when I came upon what looks to be a fabulous opening to a short story. Check it out:



Jimmy Blasewell stood behind the counter, eyeing the scraggly dude in the worn Army jacket down the chip aisle.


That's all there was in the Word file. Now I'm pissed that I never finished it because that's a story I'd really like to read.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Shear Lunacy!

I have concluded that two eyebrows are better than one.

Let me back up. I’m not saying that there’s a huge push towards sporting a one-eyebrow look. Nor am I saying that people with unibrows are somehow less than the rest of us. And finally, let me dispel any notions that I am talking about galaxy-traveling aliens or deep sea-dwelling creatures with only one eye – and by extension – only one eyebrow.

Hmmm. This explanation is not going all that well.

I’ll regroup.

Let’s start from the start then, somewhere around five years ago. Desperate for a haircut, I pulled into a parking lot off of Greenville Avenue and walked into, I think, a Supercuts. Or maybe it was a ProCuts. Or Cuts-R-Us. Or The Cutting Edge. Or A Cut Above. Or Cut’n’Run. I don’t really remember, but it wasn’t the Follicle Factory, the Follicle Follies or the Haircut Hut either. I’ll just cut to the chase – ha ha, I said cut – and call it a barbershop.

Well, in this particular barbershop lived a mid-sized African-American man I’ll call Jesse. I can’t recall his name, but Jesse fits. Somehow. Anyway, this dude was slicker than Tupperware on kitchen tile. I mean, here we were in 2003 or so, and this guy was decked out in a black Member’s Only jacket, black parachute pants and topped off with a head full of Jeri curls that would make Jermaine Jackson go cryin’ to his momma.

Now you might not think it from that incredibly accurate description, but Jesse clearly had it going on; the guy was cool beans from the get-go. It must have been the duds that were holding him back, because quite frankly, he was Michelangelo with those scissors of his. I don’t know what he was doing in some Podunk barbershop, I don’t pry that way, but this man was obviously performing several levels above this particular pay grade. But awesome though it was, my haircut wasn’t what impressed me the most.

See, what happened was, as soon as he finished off with the clippers, he put an attachment on it and before I could blink, he swiped it across my eyebrows in two quick swashes.

I was practically beside myself with amazement. I had no idea you could do that. I just figured eyebrows - in general - were untouchable, and sooner or later in life, I’d have Senator’s Eyebrows just like Ted Kennedy, Strom Thurmond and old people in general.

But Jesse had just turned my world upside down with two simple strokes of a beard trimmer.

Later, I learned this phenomenon’s real name: Manscaping.

Life forever changed, I thanked Jesse, overtipped the living daylights out of him, and walked outside with spirals in my eyes.

Flash-forward to yesterday. After shaving, I grabbed my beard trimmer – bought about five minutes after my revelatory one-two from Jesse, as a matter of fact – and carefully placed the spacer guard over the blades. It was time.

Being a five-year pro at this, I figured hey, it’s second nature by now. So I brought the trimmer up to my face, readied myself and quickly, expertly and gracefully swiped left to right and took off my right eyebrow.

Somehow I had botched the setup. A quick check of the razor told me it was true. I had messed it up. I couldn't blame anyone else. It was me. I was my own eyebrow killer.

Now I’m no Peter Gallagher or Sylar from Heroes. I’m not even the lead singer of Alabama. But I do have fairly thickish eyebrows. Two of them, in fact. But this was like a reverse Highlander.

There can be only one.

I stood there and looked at the alien mutant in the mirror. Half human, half Borg. I had to act fast before I lost my nerve, and since resistance was futile anyway, I closed my eyes and did the other one. You know, to even it up.

The upshot is, I don’t look near as bad as you might think. The downshot is it’ll take a couple weeks to get back to what might reasonably pass as normal. But that’s okay, I’ve got a kid now, I can lay low and maybe, just maybe, be passable by Thanksgiving.

Or I can embrace the situation. Maybe I’ll write “Eyebrow! The Musical.” Or try to pass myself off as Whoopi Goldberg’s brother.

One thing’s for sure: Congress is definitely out of the question. For now.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Tears, Fears and My Boy Elliot

Guess what? I just figured out how to embed music on my blog. Now every time you visit, you'll be treated to one of Floydjoy's Fave Raves.

You're welcome.

Of course, if you just can't stand my tasty selections, or you just plain want to watch a video, all ya gotta do is stop the player. What ... I can't do everything for ya.

In other news, Elliot had his first laugh tonight. Two of them, actually. Woo hoo!

If only he knew how he did it. But let me tell you, being a parent doesn't get much better than that. Robin got him to do it by rubbing lotion on his hands. Guess she hit a pressure point. As soon as he did it, my ears perked up like "Whaaa???"

If only I could bottle these moments.

Hey, the rest of you stop listening for a minute, I've got to say something to my son.

Elliot, I don't know what it is, but you do something every day that lights me right up and leaves me with a big, stupid grin on my face. Stay gold, Ponyboy.

Also, the guys who gave us the literal A-Ha video in my last post have struck again. This gives you an idea of how surreal the 80s really were.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008


Here's a little piece of greatness that's sweeping the Interwebs.

And here's another.

Monday, October 06, 2008

Munchkin Milestone!

Elliot is almost three months old now. And last night, he hit a big milestone - he slept through the night! Maybe not such a milestone for him as it is for Robin and I, because we might actually get decent sleep now.

Anyway, here's a picture of the little bugger. Ain't he cute?

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Road House Rules

Twelve ways Patrick Swayze and his mullet will change your life.

I’m on the couch flipping channels. Not looking for much, just something to watch. The Bachelorette? Uh, no. According to Jim? Double no. Law and Order? No, three channels in a row. Then, a smile breaks out on my face as Patrick Swayze comes into frame on the next channel – probably TNT – and slams some poor dude’s head through a table top.

Awesome. It’s Road House. I throw the remote aside; it’s useless to me now.

A couple of quick facts. FACT #1: There are literally thousands of people who say that Road House is a bad movie and has nothing substantial to offer.

FACT #2: These people are spectacularly wrong.

FACT #3: Road House is one of the greatest films ever made.

FACT #4: Road House may very well be the only self-help guide you’ll ever need.

Like it or not, these are the facts. And yes, I’ve heard all the arguments. “You can’t be serious,” the elitist cineaste might say over a hot cup of Earl Grey. “For example, the English Patient and Atonement are great films. So too, are The Last Emperor, Sense and Sensibility and A Room With A View. Road House is simply not in the same league.” To which I say, “Thank God for that.”

Those aren’t great movies. Not even close. They might be important, I’ll give you that. But to me, great movies aren’t important, they’re visceral, fun and endlessly exciting. They stop you dead in your tracks. You could watch them on an endless loop and never get tired of them. You suffer through insanely long commercial breaks when they’re on cable because you have to watch it to the end, even though you’ve seen it twenty-eight times, and in spite of the fact that you own the DVD. I’m talking Die Hard. Caddyshack. Predator. The Bourne Identity. The Blues Brothers. Independence Day. These are great movies.

But Road House may just be the best of them all.

First, some background: the criminally underrated Swayze plays Dalton, the best bar bouncer in the whole wide world. In fact, he’s so good he transcended the traditional bouncer role somewhere along the way and moved up to “cooler” status. I’m not sure of the distinction, but rest assured — this means he’s completely badass. What’s more, he’s got a degree in philosophy from NYU, which one might assume is a feeble stab by the writers to intellectualize the guy, but that’s not it, exactly; there’s something deeper at work here. Plus, Sam Elliott’s along for the ride, and that’s always an excellent thing.

Using a plotline no more complicated than the average Western – loner comes to town, faces adversity, defeats bad guy in the end, in this case a nasty little piece of work named Brad Wesley – this morality tale goes the extra yard and packs more depth and insight than True Grit, Stagecoach and the entire run of Bonanza put together. More remarkable than that, though, is the stunning way in which it deconstructs the modern male psyche. This is a film literally riddled with timeless commentary about what it means to be a man. That would be enough for most movies, but not Road House. This is a film that raises the stakes and defines HOW to be a man.

What makes Road House unique is its multilayered approach to storytelling. If you want to watch it on a surface level for babes and pure ass-kicking entertainment, you absolutely can, no problem. But if you want to dig deeper, maybe learn a few things about the human condition? This is definitely the movie for you.

So herewith, distilled for easy consumption, the wisdom and philosophy of Road House, broken down for the betterment of man by yours truly.

1. What’s at stake? Your very soul. The playing field is established early on when the owner of a rowdy, out-of-control bar named the Double Deuce hires Dalton to clean it up. Described as “the kind of place they sweep up the eyeballs after closing,” the Double Deuce clearly represents the damaged human soul – the devil’s playground, if you will – and the character of Dalton serves as the catalyst for a necessary change towards good. Or maybe that’s just me. Anyway, the star of the 1970s hit TV show Emergency! plays the owner, which makes it all the more poignant, I think.

2. When faced with the unknown, do some recon. Dalton arrives unannounced at the Double Deuce, slipping in under the radar so he can scope out the scene and see what he’s up against. This is the classic teaching of preparedness. Naturally, it pays off – he spies the skanky waitress dealing drugs and John Doe from the seminal L.A. punk band X stealing money from the till. Smart play, Dalton. Even Confucius wasn’t this sly.

3. Recognize that opinions vary. This is the first existential salvo lobbed in the movie, and it’s a grenade-caliber doozy. When some oversized lug sizes him up with the words, “You don’t look like much to me,” our hero coolly replies, “Opinions vary.” Dalton doesn’t let such idiotic insolence get under his skin. And neither should you.

4. My way or the highway. Clich├ęs become weapons in Dalton’s hands, and this particular one is used to great effect when he lays down the rules to his new staff, which is, of course, all of the same guys from the old Double Deuce staff. Compare this tactic to the NFL: when a coach changes jobs, he usually brings in his own people so that he is instantly more comfortable. Dalton needs no such pampering; he is an unstoppable force of nature. To choose the highway is unthinkable, and you know it. You know it deep in your soul.

5. Never underestimate your opponent. Expect the unexpected. If you think this is advice that applies only to bar fights, then you are a moron, because this is advice for LIFE. Someone bucking for the big promotion you’re after? Or maybe it’s the guy in the left lane who’s about to cut you off. Either way, be on your toes. But if you’re a husband, beware – marriage adds a whole new dimension to this timeless teaching. Hey, Dalton’s the best, but he can’t work miracles.

6. Some people are too stupid to have a good time. We’ve all been there. Some douche bag shows up at a party or a restaurant looking for trouble and tries to ruin things for everyone. Don’t be that guy. Because if you are – and Dalton’s anywhere around – your leg will be broken toot sweet and you will no longer be able to drive your monster truck over the local car dealership.

7. It’ll get worse before it gets better. If you make a break from the herd, there are going to be plenty of bulls trying to knock you down before you get to the fence. It’s human nature. They want you to stay so they can feel better about their dumb asses. But it’s not about them, it’s about you. Dalton knows this. So do what he does – man up. Don’t be afraid to stand alone against the Brad Wesleys of the world. Nothing worth having is free.

8. Pain don’t hurt. Strap yourself in, because we’re going deep on this one. Sure, we all know pain hurts, but that’s not what Dalton is talking about. He’s saying that real pain is when someone close to you dies or your best friend betrays you. Surface pain just doesn’t compare – plus, it can give you focus if you use it right. A gaping knife wound exposing most of your left rib cage? P’shaw! That ain’t nothin’. Bring on the staples. No anesthetic, please.

9. Nobody ever wins a fight. After a particularly rip-roaring dustup, Dalton drops another pearl: “Take the biggest guy in the world, shatter his knee and he’ll drop like a stone.” The message is clear – size doesn’t matter. Neither does your bar fight record. Consider Einstein. What if his bar fight record was 0-37? It wouldn’t change the fact that he was freakin’ Einstein. Fights don’t prove anything. Still, everything being equal, Dalton could have kicked Einstein’s ass. Just sayin’.

10. There’s no amount of money. Whatever your station in life, just make sure that this is what you say when the town bad guy asks you what it will take to get you to come work for him. This kind of act is called “principled” and will make you look like you have “integrity.” Chicks dig that. Mysteriously, you are not, however, required to do anything at all about the humongous shiner that the bad guy gave his “girlfriend.” Just look indignant, say “there’s no amount of money,” and walk out, because that is exactly what Dalton would do. Classy.

11. Be nice – until it’s time to not be nice. This may be Dalton’s finest moment. Like England Dan and John Ford Coley before him, he believes that love is the answer. And it is. We should all work for a better world of love and peace. Noted beanpole John Lennon would have been a hell of a bouncer in this world. I mean, can’t we all just get along? Sure we can. But there’s a problem – the world is full of Brad Wesleys, ready to take us past the breaking point. And when they do, nice gets thrown out the window, larynxes get ripped out of throats and polar bears fall on big fat people. In other words, it’s Charles Darwin all over, baby, only with better hair.

12. Accentuate the positive. Okay, put yourself in Dalton’s shoes. You killed a guy with your bare hands, which is exactly what happened in Memphis a couple years ago. Haunting. Next, your best friend is killed, so you kill four or five of Brad Wesley’s bodyguards in return. You almost killed Wesley himself, but held yourself back. Redemption. That’s a lot for anybody to handle. But you’re a philosophical man, so how exactly do you deal with so much violence, carnage and sorrow in the space of just one day? Easy – you go skinny-dipping with the hot town doctor. And you do it in the same place you ripped the bad guy’s throat out. That is cold blooded stuff right there. Dalton doesn’t dwell; that’s not his way. Move on, baby. Attack life. And get lucky.

Well, there you have it. As anyone with a brain can plainly see, Road House is more than the sum of its parts; it’s practically bursting at the seams with important, life-altering allegory. I’m sure there are people out there who still won’t be able to admit that they’re wrong, and they’ll continue to try and convince you that Road House sucks and is a bad movie. Obviously, in the words of Sam Elliott’s Wade Garrett, that dog won’t hunt. Don’t listen to these people. You know better. You’ve got truth and philosophy on your side. Remember – the naysaying will get worse before it gets better, and some people are just too stupid to have a good time.

So go. Spread the word – but be nice. The power of Swayze compels you.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Music Of My Life, Volume 1

I don’t know what album I need to break out right now, but I sorely need one. I’ve got a lethargy to end all lethargies. Usually, I can find music of some kind to help lift me out of it, but today? No dice.

Isn’t it interesting how the right music can elevate you out of a mood, or put you further into one? I’m not talking just one song, either — although that in itself is a cool enough notion — I’m talking about full-on albums. Anybody can listen to Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” and get pumped about working out, running, playing a game or just simply getting off the couch, but the extended feeling of a well-crafted flow of songs into a single experience can transport your state of mind into something else entirely.

It’s about the feeling you get. You can wallow, celebrate, whatever you want, if you’ve got the right tuneage. So herewith, my favorite mood-changers, enhancers and comfort foods.

It’s raining outside, I’m somewhat melancholy and want to stay that way. My first instinct? Break out Sting’s “Mercury Falling.” The opening crescendo of the drum roll relaxes into an easy, smooth groove perfect for the don’t-want-tos. People call Sting easy listening, and he is that, but for a different reason. Especially on this album. Sometimes all you want is easy. Not easy in the inoffensive sense of Doris Day, but the kind of easy this album has in spades: the ability to carry you on its shoulders when you don’t have the drive to do it for yourself. Some people – and most critics – dismiss this album as one of Sting’s lesser efforts, but if you do that, I hate to tell you, but you’re missing out. The sequencing is genius, with the lush soundscape of “The Hounds of Winter” followed by the even more resigned, sorrowful “I Hung My Head.” Any chance of redemption? Sure, track three, “Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot.” See what Mr. Sumner did there? Just enough gloom to get you ready for the light at the end of the tunnel. But not for long. From the funereal opening of the next song (“I Was Brought To My Senses”) to the sad country stylings of “I’m So Happy That I Can’t Stop Crying” to the logical conclusion of the aptly titled last song on the album, “Lithium Sunset,” this collection of songs — even the ones that are upbeat — is imbued with a cloudy, slightly depressed sense of ennui that fits me to a capital T when I’m not feeling up to snuff. For that alone, Sting gains entrance into my own personal album hall of fame.

I’m feeling pitiful. Life sucks. It’s times like these that instead of worrying about being depressed, I embrace the poor me syndrome with gusto and slide Pink Floyd’s “The Final Cut” into the CD player. If there’s anything bleaker out there, I’ve never heard it. Roger Waters’ opus is full of everything that matters when it comes to depression (even if it’s a temporary feeling). Let’s run down the list. Insane mood swings? Check. Gunshots out of nowhere? Check. Primal screams? Double and triple check. We all ought to fall down on our knees and thank Pink Floyd for this one — they took all the dour and dismal you could ever ask for and recorded it for posterity. By the time you reach the end — and believe me, it’s a compelling little monster that won’t let you stop listening once you start — you will truly be grateful that your little problems don’t amount to a hill of beans in the scheme of things.

I need a reminder of life being full of promise. Everyone goes through this emotion at one time or another. “I feel old, used up; what does life have for me anymore?” Yeah. That kind of thing. Well, there’s only one thing to do if you’re me: You pop in the first Van Halen album. Sure, I know every nook and cranny of these songs; I could win everyone’s freedom if our kidnapper said he’d release us all if I could air-guitar any song off Van Halen’s debut. And then I’d do another just to piss him off. There are classic albums, and then there is this. The first time I ever heard their version of The Kinks’ “You Really Got Me” was in the background of a movie called “Over The Edge,” starring a really young Matt Dillon. It was about disenfranchised kids in Southern California, but I didn’t care about that half as much as finding out in the credits who did that song full of awesome. Then, one membership to the Columbia House Record Club later, that puppy was mine, and I just. Plain. Wore. It. Out. “Jamie’s Cryin’” is so cool it makes Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing” cool by association. David Lee Roth might have set the standard for vocalists being consummate showmen, but here, Eddie Van Halen produced the most glorious rock guitar sound ever heard, before or since. Think about it. If you’re in a crowded bar with everyone talking and one of these songs comes on, the man’s distinctive sound still has the sonic power to make you perk up, sit up a little straighter and tune in a little more … even though you’ve heard these songs a million times. And that’s the point: even though these songs are seared into my memory like a comfortable old shoe, every time I hear them I am instantly transported back to being a teenager. At a time in my past when the most important thing you could do in life was rock, being fluent in Van Halen was a passport to the world.

I need comfort food. Sounds easy, right? Well yeah. Just whip out your Journey “Escape” eight track tape and crank it up! Whoa, hold on there, old-timer; nowadays it’s either a CD or iPod. Nice substitutes, but it really doesn’t do the album justice. Until I can get a digital version of “Dead or Alive” that fades out in the middle and then resumes after an audible click of the player changing tracks, though, they’ll have to do. And what an experience. From “just a small town girl” to “hoping you’ll see what your love means to me,” this is one of those American institutions that is so essential to our national fabric that, quite frankly, I’m scared to death of a world that hasn’t been exposed to it. “Who’s Cryin’ Now.” “Stone In Love.” “Lay It Down.” “Still They Ride.” A who’s who of classic tunes, all in one cool, early-eighties package. In total sum: if you haven’t, at one point in your life, ever lip-synched Steve Perry or air-guitared Neil Schon, I’m not sure I want to know you.

Aaaaannnnddd that’s it for volume one. Somewhere in time, I’ll get back to this list; there are way more than this. I mean, I haven’t even gotten to Sinatra’s “Wee Small Hours Of The Morning” yet, and that might very well be the ultimate mood setter ever.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Guess Who's Adopting A Kid?


Well, me and my wife Robin.

While the grammar police decide whether to issue me a warning or just plain give me a ticket for that last sentence ... I don't really care. Sorry. Too busy celebrating/freaking out about looming responsibility.

It's pretty cool, actually. This will be a grand new adventure.

My friend Jeff voiced his concern however, and rightfully so, that I - me, floydjoy, the goofball he's known since forever - would be responsible for another human. While I understand he was largely joking, let me just say ... concern noted. In fact, I've got that same feeling myself.

Anyhoo, come late July, a little bundle of floydjoy will be here. A little boy. Nope, no names yet. Okay, some fun, obviously NOT suggestions that have been offered up:

"Copen" Eggen
Worf Tiberius Eggen
Jack Bauer Eggen
Landry Staubach Eggen
Indiana Eggen
Brett Favreneggen

Yup. That's me, baby, all class.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

I Blame Charlton Heston

I'm in a wistful mood, so I might as well take it out on you.

It's probably Charlton Heston's fault. Here I was, just sitting around, mourning his passing a little - even though I never knew him personally - and that got me to thinking about how cool it was back in the day when local TV stations had "Apes Week," where they'd air all five PLANET OF THE APES movies right after school at 3:30 or so. I loved those movies. By extension, I loved Charlton Heston.

And that reminded me of how much I missed those days.

Now, I know the past is the past. I also know that the past was never really as cool as the nostalgia conjured since then. There was always some drama, whether it was girls, school, friends or all in my own head. But screw all that. "Wistful" doesn't mean "reality check." After all, I can be maudlin all I want.

So, forty some-odd years in, some of the long-ago things I miss.

My red, white and blue Jim Plunkett/Patriots-edition leather football. Don't even know where I got it; probably at Christmas or something. Odd that a young boy - a self-professed die-hard Cowboy fan, no less - in Tyler, Texas would even have one. But that sucker was pure awesomeness, and I had it for many, many years of neighborhood football games. Which brings me to ...

Neighborhood football games. Do kids even do this anymore? Oh sure, we never really had offensive lines or anything like that. Just a five-Mississippi count before the defense guy rushes the quarterback sort of thing going on. I can still remember some of the sweet spirals I threw for touchdowns. Of course, touchdowns were very rarely hash marks on a field; more often, they were a little yellow Vega parked on the side or the telephone pole down the street.

The bookmobile. Holy crap, you mean the library comes to me? Dang skippy, only about a hundred yards away from my front door. Conan the Barbarian, Starman Jones or Ball Four here I come.

Stretch Armstrong. Pull arms until inside stuff - read: goo - is revealed. Who said we didn't have entertainment in the seventies?

KISS. Unless you lived through their heyday in the mid- to late-seventies - roughly ROCK AND ROLL OVER through LOVE GUN, or DOUBLE PLATINUM if you can't be bothered to list the albums themselves - you really don't have a definitive clue how cool these guys really were. Now, of course, they're mere shadows of their former glory, but back then, they were a vital part of our lives, easily as unavoidable as junior high history in third period. What sticks in my mind: Bobby Lawson spitting up blood on the school playground. Jesse Fite doing a less-than-Simmons fire-breathing trick with a soda straw. I'm sure there were world-shattering events happening around this time, such as the Energy Crisis and Skylab falling to Earth, but these - THESE are the things I remember. I even dressed up as Peter Criss on Halloween. The Catman! And if you know someone who was a teenager around then, say twelve to fifteen years old, and you ask them if they saw the TV movie KISS MEETS THE PHANTOM OF THE PARK and they say no ... then I hate to break it to you, but they are lying. KISS did indeed rule the world, if only for a couple years. If you want to get a taste of what it was like, all you have to do is listen to KISS ALIVE II.

Steve Martin's stand-up act. I can't tell you how many kids back then would spontaneously break out in a crazy dance and yell out, "I'm getting happy feet!" Oh yeah. I had a t-shirt that had an iron-on of the phrase "Excuuuuuuuuuse Meeeeee!" that sprawled all the way across my chest. We all wanted to be a cat juggler and put our money in Fred's Bank. Everybody cracked up when you sang, "Grandpa bought a rubber." And we all - all of us, no exceptions - actually thought KING TUT was a great song. Why, do you ask? Why did we do and think all these things? Because we were wild and crazy guys, that's why.

Lynda Carter. You didn't have to be a thirteen-year-old boy going through some, uh, changes to appreciate Lynda Carter but ... wow, it was one hell of a perspective.

Baseball cards. Still got 'em all. '76 Big Red Machine? Yup. Oakland A's dynasty, including Reggie Jackson? Oh yeah. Mark "The Bird" Fidrych? Certainly. And you'll never pry the '75 Brooks Robinson from my hands, probably even after I'm dead.

There's tons more, but I'm losing the wistful. It was melancholy while it lasted.

I feel an "Apes Week" coming on.

Friday, February 08, 2008

Friday, January 11, 2008

Video Comedy Fun Time

I know what you're saying. You're saying, hey man! Another post with videos? Yeah, you got me. I'm lazy. So what?

The important thing is we made it to the weekend! HIGH FIVE!

True confession: I've never seen an episode of the Sopranos. But that didn't stop me from enjoying this Kenny Mayne ESPN spoof starring Cowboys coach Tony Sparano, Tony Romo, Mark Cuban and Jason Witten. And I could listen to Journey all day (and frequently do). Cool sidenote: this video was filmed at the Local Diner, which is right across the street from my office. I eat there all the time.

I don't know how to introduce this one, so I'll just ask the question. What if there's bears?

Ever heard of Jack McBrayer? Dude's comedy genius.

This next clip just kills me. Tim Meadows tries to keep Dewey from ... well, just watch.

And sadly, looks like there'll be no more naked bongo for Matthew McConaughey. :(

Even Bruce Willis - the one from the 80s with hair - sez: "It's fun time! Let yourself be happy!"

That was fun. And now I'm done.

Friday, January 04, 2008

A Series Of Rather Unfortunate Events

Okay, I'll make this short and sweet, mainly because I can barely believe I'm wasting valuable time that could be better spent pounding my forehead against a doorjamb or watching the second hand on a clock move.

But I digress, as I always do.

For your perusal, a rough, woefully incomplete timeline of a bizarre nature:

1. When it all began, it was pretty much common knowledge that Kevin Federline - henceforth referred to with the genius moniker K-Fed - was a no-talent layabout that lucked out; in its pure essence, his story was the equivalent of your cousin Chauncey hitting the lottery.

2. We held off making uninformed, snap judgements until ...

... his complete lack of talent was confirmed.

3. Flash-forward: Britney and K-Fed split up. And amazingly enough, if you can believe it, at this point we still had a positivish impression of Britney.

4. Britney self-destructed on a scale heretofore unimagined. (Google "Britney Spears" and you'll find all you need to know; the mountain of evidence is staggering.)

5. I know I'm jumping ahead here, but really, who cares. Long story short, Britney lost total custody of her kids today.

6. Since she is such a daily trainwreck - again, with literally scads of media evidence to confirm it - we find ourselves generally on bended knee and grateful as a nation that K-Fed has custody of the kids.

7. End result? We discover K-Fed DOES have talent, just not the rapping or musical kind. His talent is being - hands down - a better parent than crazy, idiotic, baby-almost-dropping, moppet-in-lap-illegally-while-driving, panties-less Britney.

Yay K-Fed.


I really need a shower now.

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Go green! Save a woodchuck.

It just struck me today how we never really hear about the duck-billed platypus. Sure, we've all seen the pictures, and boy are they ugly, but you'd think with this enlightened, plugged-in culture we live in that we'd see a platypus blog. Or maybe a platypus myspace page. I cry speciesism on that.

Same with weasels. They don't get their just due either. Yeah, they skulk around, doing whatever it is that weasels do in between helpings of rodent pie, but they really need to come on out into the limelight. They're sneaky, but they're practically exploding with talent. I've heard that some have beautiful voices, the kind that would make an angel cry. I want to hear one. I mean, who wouldn't want to go see a musical called West Side Weasel? I know I would. In a heartbeat.

I'd also like to meet a woodchuck before I die. Is that too much to ask? Sure, you hear about them all the time; evidently they are more than capable of chucking much wood. But isn't it high time we had a woodchuck spokesman? Kind of like a press secretary, only without the flawless diction and political bias.

There you go. Three long-ignored Friends of Earth. I'm sure there's more; hey, there's got to be, but I'm only one man. With one blog. I do what I can.

But I've got a feeling it may not be enough.