Why Philadelphia Sucks, Featuring The Mystery Of Barry - 04/26/07

I was recently given the opportunity to go the wonderful city of Philadelphia on a business trip. When I say "business trip", I'm making this sound much more important than it actually was. I was flown there for two days so that I could learn how to use an instrument that measures lung capacity, which, on the surface, sounds perfectly reasonable, until I explain that the way this device works is by having the patient blow into it. That's all. That's all you do. I mean, sure, it's all computerized, and reports the data directly back to the company and maybe fries an egg or something just for fun, but that's still all there is to it. The patient takes a deep breath, then exhales. I wasn't about to turn down two days off from work to travel, so I wisely didn't point out the sheer stupidity of flying someone relatively far away and putting them up in a nice hotel just so you could show them how to blow into a tube, and I soon found myself in the middle of the City of Brotherly Love.

Philadelphia is a dirty city. I apologize to anyone reading this that's from there, or lives there, or simply appreciates it in a historical sense. But it's fucking filthy. And I don't mean it's dirty in the sense that there's trash everywhere, because there's surprisingly few cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, or any of the other usual debris you see rolling around the streets of a major metropolitan area. It just has this sense of underlying griminess, a sort of weird filmy substance that seems to coat everything. I know that it's old; really old, but I've never seen a city that's been around for hundreds of years actually look like it's been around for hundreds of years to such a great degree.

Due to the totally useless nature of my trip, I had a bunch of time to kill, so I decided to wander the streets to see what I could see. I'd been there in the past with my dad, but that was back when I was a lot younger, and at the time I was much more concerned with making sure my Optimus Prime action figure stopped Serpentor's diabolical plot of world domination than my father's earnest attempts to get me to appreciate my nations history. The hotel that I was staying at was on Market Street and literally a block over from City Hall, so I figured that such a central location would be an ideal place to start my adventures.

But when I got about halfway there, I realized that I didn't have any specific destination in mind to go next. The hazy recollections of my youth weren't going to help, and I had done absolutely no research whatsoever on potential tourist spots prior to boarding the plane. I seemed to recall that there was a large bell somewhere that was important, and I think the Declaration of Independence was transcribed here after a burning Englishman spoke to Ben Franklin or something. Oh, and I remembered that part in "Rocky" where Sylvester Stallone ran up a bunch of stairs and screamed something to the heavens about winning an arm-wrestling championship that was also somehow synonymous with his son's love. Or maybe I'm getting my movies mixed up, I don't know.

I also apparently had to, at some point, purchase and consume a cheesesteak.

Cheesesteaks are another reason I'm glad I don't live in Philadelphia. Can you imagine what it must be like to have a greasy sandwich be the most recognizable thing associated with your city? I know, I know. There's history here too. But that's actually the sad part. I can guarantee that if you walked up to a group of five random strangers anywhere else in America and said the word "PHILLY!" followed by an expectant pause, four out of five of them would respond (after the awkward silence brought on by having a stranger yell things at them) with the words "CHEESESTEAK!" And I guess you could argue that this is because most Americans are ignorant of their own history and more concerned with eating mass quantities of oily food, but still. I guess it's not entirely our retarded populaces' fault; the city itself doesn't do anything to dispel this perception. There's literally a cart on every single street corner selling "Authentic Philly Cheesesteaks". They're all over the place. I was in the bathroom at the airport washing my hands when all of a sudden, a surly man in an apron came out of nowhere and handed me a piping hot sandwich smothered in cheese and onions. I wasn't hungry, so I had to refuse, but then he looked like he'd get mad if I didn't tip, so I had to give him some money, but all I had was a five, and I didn't want him to have to get change out of his little basket by the sink, so I just gave him the whole five…. It was awkward. I suppose it could be worse; someone could run up and say "PHILLY!", to which everyone would immediately respond with "GOPHER FUCKING!", but it's still not something I'd want the world to immediately think of when someone mentions my city. And before anyone brings up the fact that when someone says "Atlanta", the first thing that comes to people's minds is "racist hillbillies", I've got two words for you: Fuck off. We have chicken and waffles too.

Oh, so yeah. I bought a cheesesteak from a vendor on my way down to Market Street. It was tasty. Not mind blowing or anything, but you know. Good. Sorry.

I got to City Hall, and began to take stock of my situation. I had no map, which was bad, but also had no real idea where I was going, which was good. This way, I rationalized, I couldn't get lost. Not that the map would have really helped. As anyone who's ever tried to go anywhere with me can attest, I suck with directions, possessing absolutely no internal compass whatsoever. For example, the first week I worked at Emory Hospital, one of the janitors found me underneath a staircase in the basement crying because I'd gotten lost for two days and couldn't find my way out. Which may sound ridiculous, but in my defense, it's a big hospital and I was new. I'd also eaten the bag of breadcrumbs I was planning to use as a trail marker for lunch, but you can't blame me for that. Breadcrumbs are delicious.

Despite this handicap, I still love exploring big cities; because while I may lack any sort of basic navigational skills, I make up for this deficiency by having absolutely no shame whatsoever in asking nearby strangers for directions. Seriously, it doesn't matter. Homeless people, old people, bus drivers, street mimes, whatever. Well, maybe not mimes. Clowns really freak me out, and a mime is basically a chalk-white clown wearing a beret that smiles insanely and doesn't speak while contorting their bodies to make it look like they're trapped in an invisible box, all of which is absurdly creepy. So usually when I see a mime, I've either screamed in terror and run away or reflexively bashed them in the face with a shovel before I can finish asking where a particular street is. Fucking mimes. In contrast, I find that homeless people, as long as you give them a dollar or some change or something first, are especially helpful. I mean, it makes sense; they've got nothing else to do besides wander around a city, so it's to be expected that they have an intimate knowledge of how to get from point A to point B. It does make me a little suspicious, though, when their directions include trips through dark alleys or stopovers at abandoned warehouses, but whatever. I'm inherently trusting, and those times that I've followed a hobo's directional advice and gotten mugged are probably just coincidences.

But thankfully, the city of Philadelphia is kind enough to have provisions set up for idiotic tourists such as myself. While I was throwing away the remains of my cheesesteak, I happened to notice something strange. Emblazoned on the top of the trash receptacle was what appeared to be a diagram of some sort. Intrigued, I looked closer, thinking maybe I'd been fortunate enough to stumble across directions that would lead me to a garbage pirate's hidden cache of gold and jewels. Sadly, it turned out to only be a map of the greater downtown area.

Trashcan Map



I'm kind of on the fence about the practical utilities of these trashcan maps. On the one hand, I suppose people are more likely to throw away whatever refuse they're holding as they come closer to figure out where they are, which helps keep the city clean. On the other hand, I was forced to spend an inordinate amount of my time wandering through Philadelphia pausing to stare at the tops of filthy garbage cans, which I'm sure looked to any passers-by like I was trying to carefully pick out the tastiest piece of trash before I reached in and grabbed it. Although if you think that's embarrassing, you should have seen the looks I got when I took out my camera and snapped a picture of one. Even the French tourists were pointing at me and laughing.

So after holding my breath and carefully perusing the helpful trashcan map, I decided on a few vague destinations. I'd go down to the Historic District and wander around until history got boring, and then if I had time, I'd try to find the stairs Rocky immortalized. I wasn't sure exactly where in the city that scene took place; but I figured that due to the massive number of posters and coffee mugs I'd seen plastered with Sylvester Stallone's stroke-victim face, Philadelphia was sufficiently proud enough the movie was shot there to put a gigantic neon walkway or something equally classy that would lead me straight to where I needed to go.

I won't bore you with a description of the Historic District; it was pretty much what you would expect it to be. All the places of note had enormous lines of screaming schoolchildren being chaperoned by surly adults or vacationing families trying to pretend that looking at an old bell was a totally awesome way to bond that I didn't feel like waiting around. I took a bunch of pictures, but these were the only ones that I thought were worth mentioning, and that's only because I have a weird imagination.

Tomb of Franklin! Danger: Mummies!



This is the solemn and distinguished resting place of famed inventor and statesman Ben Franklin. It was nice; it's tucked away in this quiet, unassuming little cemetery and is actually the only part of the entire city that isn't covered with huge statues of Ben holding a kite or inventing science or whatever. The one thing that did intrigue me, though, was that the whole gravesite was absolutely littered with pennies. I understand that it's symbolic and all because of his famous adage that "a penny saved is a penny earned", but he's also on the backside of the hundred, and I didn't see any of them fluttering around. I guess that we as Americans are willing to honor our forefathers by depositing monetary totems dedicated to their memories on their gravesites, but only as long as it's nothing too extravagant. The Egyptians would laugh at us. I threw a quarter down to remind him that even though he electrocuted himself in the name of scientific enlightenment, people still hate his useless little coin and think Washington was way better because he founded America and is worth 24 cents more. Slightly worried that his corpse might still be energized from his experimentation and angry enough to come back to life and try to eat my brains, I quickly dashed around the corner, only to be confronted with this:

Tranny Franklin


See what I mean? Franklin mania. He's everywhere. This one, though, is unique. Most of the statues differ only in what he's doing; the costume remains relatively unchanged: tasteful pantaloons, stylish doublet to hold in the paunch, maybe a tri-corner hat for the ladies. But it looks like this one was commissioned after he died, probably by someone who didn't like him very much and thought it would be funny to have Franklin commemorated in drag.

Next, on to Independence Hall. Once again, there was a long line even though the place was about to close, so I contented myself with wandering around the outside and taking pictures. And I'm glad I did, because I found what is, without a doubt, the best statue in all of Philadelphia. You would think that in front of a building of such importance there would be a statue of George Washington, or Thomas Jefferson, or maybe even Jesus or Santa Claus. But no. Standing proudly outside in the main courtyard, the site where our great nation came together to denounce the tyranny of the hated British and forever establish our democratic freedom, was a statue of "Barry". That's all it said. "Barry".

"Barry"



I was dumbfounded. I mean, this guy was obviously someone important; why else would anybody waste their time carving his likeness out of a huge piece of rock? My mind began to furiously scan through all of the old history lessons I never paid attention to in school, searching for some reference to "Barry". Unfortunately, I soon realized that my years of binge drinking had reduced my scholastic memories to nothing but vaguely stylized Fraggle Rock reruns, which while amusing, were less than helpful. I had to do something. Any minute now, some Japanese tourist was bound to walk up next to me and start asking questions that I would have no idea how to answer. Why wasn't there any more information included besides his first name? Did he win some kind of pre-revolution raffle, where they carved a statue of whatever townsperson hated the British the most? Was he the first person killed when the war started, and no one bothered to get his full demographics? Maybe he was George Washington's retarded brother-in-law, and Martha made her husband erect the statue so that Barry would stop hiding her powdered wigs and playing with George's wooden teeth. No, those were all stupid. Then, out of the corner of my eye, my worst fears were realized: a tiny Asian man with a huge camera and multiple children obediently trailing behind him was approaching. He had the determined look of someone who would be dissatisfied with anything less than a full explanation of Barry's life and role in the history of America, something I was obviously woefully unprepared to relate. Thinking quickly, I pointed behind him and screamed "LOOK OUT!! GODZILLA!!", to which he responded "GODZIRRA?! RO NO!! RUN FOR YOUR RIVES!!", before sprinting off in the opposite direction. It was a close call, but I was safe. I turned back around to ponder the inscrutable riddle that was "Barry". I looked at him from the left. I scratched my head, then looked at him from the right. Still nothing. Sighing in exasperation, I trudged around to the back of the statue, thinking that maybe his ass might hold the key to unraveling his historical mystery. And sure enough, there it was. A small plaque, on the completely wrong side of the statue. It turns out that "Barry" was actually "John Barry", the founder of the U.S. Navy. That was it. How fucking boring is that?

Thoroughly disgusted, I vowed to make my way to the final destination of my pilgrimage and turned my rage onto a middle-aged guy dressed like Paul Revere and waving a bell on one of the street corners:

Me: "Hey, jackass. I'm looking for that place the boxer with Down's Syndrome ran up a bunch of stairs in that movie about boxers. Also, I think Mr. T was there at some point. In the movie, not at the stairs. Am I going in the right direction?"

Fake Paul Revere: "Verily, young master, you are indeed nearly to your journey's end. Follow this thoroughfare over yonder hill, and then—"

Me: "Wait. Stop. God, you're making my ears bleed. Look at yourself. I mean, it's the middle of a Wednesday. So it's not like you're dressing up in a vinyl colonial outfit and prancing around out here because you like history and this is just your cute little hobby. This is actually your job. Does it bother you that your wife sleeps with other men solely due to the shame your profession brings her? Why haven't you killed yourself yet?"

Fake Paul Revere: (hangs head) "I'm already dead inside."

That cheered me up, so walked around until I found a hobo digging around inside one of the trashcan maps, and armed with not only a derelict to give me directions but a map on the back of a garbage bin to confirm it, I quickly found my way to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It was a long walk, but it was worth it. Directly outside of the museum is a huge statue that attempts to collectively display all of the excitement and wonder that took place during the founding of America.

Chick with sword


Here's a woman crouched over the body of what is presumably her husband, ready to take up his weapon to defend their freedom against the British tyranny.

I'm a shitty photographer


Next, we have a mounted colonial, possibly "Barry", bravely gesturing with his sword point towards the bright and democratic future his beloved country would soon enjoy.

Indian tits



Here we have a picture of some Indian tits, because I, like my forefathers before me, think tits are cool.

Mooseknuckle



This is a mooseknuckle.

And what lay just beyond this massive commemoration to our great nation's history? What else could possibly be included near so noble a monument to the majesty of America?

Adrianne! Yo! And stuff!



It's Rocky! Yay!
I know that the movie was shot here, and it's a great, classic movie and all, but come on. Do you really need to erect a statue of a retarded boxer outside of one of the most historic places in America? Why not just put up a huge sculpture of Will Smith and Bill Pullman in the front lawn of the White House so that we would always remember Independence Day? I tried to run up the steps, hoping that recreating the famous scene would lessen my scorn, but I passed out about halfway up. After regaining consciousness and smoking a cigarette, I slowly made my way to the top. They were doing a whole bunch of construction, so it was kind of hard to recreate the exact scene, but I swear to God there were still about eight idiot people smiling and dancing around with their fists raised while their embarrassed companions quickly took pictures of them. After laughing at a huge overweight woman pretending to be Rocky and almost falling over and breaking her ankle, I trudged back down the steps and began looking for a bum so I could ask directions back to my hotel.

Thus ended my adventures in the magical city of Philadelphia. It had been fun; I'd learned about my nation and now, whenever anybody stopped me on the street to ask me who founded the U.S. Navy, I could look them in the eyes and respond with confidence, "Barry did." So thank you, Philly. You're delicious greasy sandwiches and statues dedicated to both obscure historical figures and movie icons have touched me in a way that I'm sure I'll never feel again, at least until I go to a city that's slightly cleaner.

WARNING: THIS BLOG CONTAINS 0% HILARITY. ALSO, A FULL HELPING OF FIBER - 03/12/07

So as the title to this blog suggests, it is not funny. After writing however many of these posts that I have, I've realized that I kind of enjoy writing. My mom tells me that I'm good at it, so I must be because she never lies, but writing funny stuff really isn't that hard for me. Honestly, everything that I've written so far has basically been transcribed by the tiny dwarf that lives inside my brain and then typed out verbatim. If you're curious, his name is Trevor, and yes, he's available for parties.

Anyway.

A couple of weekends ago, I had the privelage of being flown to Vegas by a drug company who, for some reason, had decided that if they spent lots of money on me, I would return to Atlanta and furiously campaign for their groundbreaking new cancer treatment. Which I would totally do, except that I'm not nearly far enough up in the oncology chain of command to do anything remotely like that. I mean, it's a good treatment, and I think we should start doing it, but I have a degree in history, what the fuck do I know? So the weekend ended up being an awesome mix of meetings, drinking, and gambling, not neccessarily in that order or exclusive to just one at a time.

While there, I started thinking about writing, and how I really had no idea if I was capable of expressing anything besides my mocking disdain for celebrities or my paradoxical love for the guy with the Emo haircut on Heroes. I was bored on the plane ride back, and since Noel and I had already proved our superior intelligence to the uninterested guy sitting next to us by finishing the crossword puzzle in the back of the SkyMall catalogue, I wrote a story. I've never really written anything like this before (except for that one time in fifth grade when I won a Rotary Club contest with a two page essay on the majesty of banannas or something), so if it sucks balls, please tell me.





This is a story about the power of a gesture. You know what a gesture is, don't you? The pointing of a finger, a wave of the hand; a twitch, a flutter, a shrug. But How, I hear you thinking, Can a gesture have any kind of power? A gesture is nothing, an involuntary firing of neural pathways resulting in a barely noticeable movement. You are thinking this, and people who know about these things are looking at you with scorn, because you are wrong, as wrong as wrong can be.

There was a time when everyone knew and feared and respected the power in a gesture. Back when the world was new, the right person in the right place at the right time could summon a God or banish a Devil with nothing more than a flick of their fingers; and there were men who walked the Earth who could wave their hands and part the mightiest of seas. But soon people began to forget, as people do, and the power of gestures gradually faded away. They retained their symbolic authority, of course; such as when men who wore laurels of ivy like crowns upon their heads decided if someone lived or died by motioning with their thumbs, or when religious fanatics used an outstretched finger to indicate which of the towns women would be burned alive for witchcraft.

But where did this power go? It is an inherent rule of the universe we live in that energy can be neither created nor destroyed, but merely transferred from one place to another. This means that it is still there; we have just forgotten how to see it. Would you like to learn how? It's easy, you just have to know when and where to look.

There is a city in the middle of a desert, a city more or less the color of electricity, which blinks and glitters and pulses amidst the red waste of the barren land around it. It resembles a beautiful plastic rose in the lapel of a dead man's jacket; pleasing to the eye but ultimately false and smelling vaguely of decay, and there is no better place in the entire world to witness the power of a gesture. The particular place that we are going to observe is off the beaten path, you could say; in a room far away from the hustle and bustle and bright lights of the games of chance offered to the general public. You must know people who know other people to play the game offered in this room, as the game is simple but the stakes are high; they are as high as the person playing wants them to be.

The room is completely empty except for a small horseshoe-shaped table directly in the center, with a high silver chair sitting in front of it. There is a woman standing behind the table; her white tuxedo shirt is starched and immaculate, and the cone of harsh light that frames her makes it glow. Her face is beautiful but cold, like an ancient statue carved from marble or granite. Her fingers are quick and deft, and if she wanted to, she could rearrange a randomly shuffled deck of cards by number or suit in four seconds without looking. She doesn't want to at this moment, but the knowledge that she could is still impressive. She has been staring at the man sitting across from her since he sat down, and she hasn't blinked her eyes once. The effect is supposed to be unnerving, and it might be. Her hand has moved like a liquid snake four times to send cards spinning across the table with unerring precision, and when she does this, her arm is the only part of her entire body that moves.

So now there are two cards in front of the man, and these cards are decorated with cryptic numbers and symbols. If one were to combine these numbers and symbols, the result would be a different, higher number, for this is the nature of addition. Because she doesn't want to feel left out, there are also two cards in front of the woman, but only one of her cards is visible.

The man's hand is resting on the edge of the table, with his first two fingers poised and ready to tap. If he does, the woman's arm will move faster than thought and another card will appear before him, to be added to the value of his current cards. If this number is greater than another particular number, he will automatically lose and she will win. There is a number that describes the probability that this will happen. If the mans number does not exceed that other particular number, or if he had initially laid those two fingers down flat on the table instead of tapping them, the woman will flip over her unrevealed card and other options will present themselves. If the value of her two cards together is greater than the value of his two cards, she will win and he will lose. There is yet another number that describes the probability that this will happen. If the value of her two cards is less than the value of his two cards, she will make more cards dance in front of her until her collection of numbers and symbols is greater than his. But wait! If this value exceeds that other particular number, she will lose and he will win. There is still yet another number that describes the probability that this will happen.

As you can see, there are a great deal of numbers involved in this game, and as they float and zoom through the realms of probability, their powers (for everyone knows that numbers are powerful and terrifying things) grow and become chained to the raised fingers of the man at the table. So in this potential gesture already is the chaotic essence of chance itself, building in pressure and rage for the mans fingers to move, to release it, to freeze the burning flux of uncertainty that is so hated by the cold finality of logical numbers.

That's some powerful stuff.

And this isn't even the half of it.

There is still this mans personal power; the power of his history, of the situation, of cause. Of why he's here in this dark room at this specific time and what it will mean to him if he wins or loses. There is the power of the other people who will be affected when his fingers make their tiny gesture and the woman's slender hand gently slams her face-down card over with a noise like a silent thunderclap.

For example:

Maybe he is a meek and unattractive man, who is married to a woman so beautiful that on their wedding day, even his own mother had to question why the woman was marrying him. The man has made a large amount of money by successfully manipulating the nebulous world of international finance, but is convinced that his wife loves him for more than the material things he is able to provide for her. But maybe today he found out that she had been having an affair with the man he was always afraid she would have an affair with, that handsome man she works with who makes her laugh but who she always insisted was just a friend. He had to go back home that morning because he forgot his briefcase, and when he got there he went upstairs because he heard strange noises, and his feet are moving him towards their bedroom and he wants to stop because he knows what he's going to see but he can't and then he watches them but they don't see him and then he goes back downstairs and he gets in his car and he leaves. And the man doesn't know where he's driving to or what he's doing until he's somehow arrived at a city in the middle of the desert. And he meets someone who sees the look in his eyes and takes him to that room to play a game and as his fingers are poised to tap or lay down flat he realizes he's decided that if he loses, he's going to go back and talk to his wife, and tell her that he forgives her, and that he's loved her since before he even knew what the word love meant. And then he realizes he's decided that if he wins, he's going to take the money the woman across the table will give him, and he's going to spend it all on a gun, and then he's going to go back to his house and after screaming and howling out all of his pain and rage and jealousy, he's going to shoot his wife five times before putting the barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger. And his palm is dry and his fingers are steady and he is about to gesture.

Or:

Maybe he is a confidence man, a man who is able to ease his way through life like a snake through an oily tube by using the trust and gullibility of others for his own benefit. This man is likeable, and friendly, and has a smile that could power the electrical grid of a small town. If you met him, you wouldn't think twice about buying him lunch and lending him your car (he said he'd be right back), and you won't even realize that your girlfriend was still sitting in the passenger seat as he peels away laughing. The city in the middle of the desert is a Mecca for someone like him; there are people here with money who have no business having money, and are only too glad to part with it. And although the man has had no formal schooling and couldn't tell you, for example, the average rainfall in the Amazon basin, he can do things with cards that make him seem like he's made of magic. This particular time, he had chosen to tell everyone that he was a visiting prince from a faraway land who of course had no experience in these types of card games but would be more than happy to be taught how. He had only a small amount of money on his person, as there had been a mix-up with his bank statements and passports and other things that he as a prince did not have the time to worry about, but his title and reputation and charm were enough to get him into one of the richest of games with the most important of people. As he kept winning, and winning, and winning some more, one of the other men at the table became angrier and more suspicious, and when the prince who wasn't really a prince stated that he had to take his winnings and leave to go attend to princely matters (you know how these things are, affairs of state, don't hold up the game on account of my leaving, etc.), the angry man grabbed him and searched him, finding a number of other cards that if added to the ones already in play would make the total number in the deck significantly higher than 36. Normally in a situation like this, the angry man would have taken the prince who was not really a prince into a dark room with very good insulation and plastic tarps on the floor, as he was the brother of one of the men who ran the games and considered a very dangerous individual by those people who knew about these sorts of things. He had eyes that were bright and sharp and cocaine crazy, and he had done things to those who had similarly cheated his brother that would impress even the most hardened of criminals with their creativity. But such was the eloquence and charm of the prince who was not really a prince that the angry man found himself seeing his point of view, and how it really would be much more dramatic if he were given the chance to play the ultimate game, with the prince who wasn't really a prince's life as the wager. So now the confidence man sits at the table across from the woman, and he is confident, man, that as soon as his fingers move, his life will change forever. If he wins and is allowed to live, he thinks he'll go back West, and find the girl that he left all those years ago before she found out who he really was, and who he couldn't bring himself to swindle back then and who he can't stop thinking about now. Of course, if he loses, the angry man is standing outside of the room with murder in his heart and a gun in his hands, and will take him away to make sure that he suffers horrifically before he dies. And his palm is dry and his fingers are steady and he is about to gesture.

Or:

Maybe he is a man who is really more of a father, with a daughter who was born six years ago last month and who is, as the saying goes, the apple of her fathers eye. He doesn't make much money working in the warehouse, but he dotes on her, and tries to give her everything she's ever wanted, and is so full of pride and love for her that it's a wonder he doesn't pop like a cork every time he looks at her. But two months ago she began to get sick, with a cough that sounded like it belonged in the lungs of an old man who had smoked three packs of unfiltered cigarettes every day since he was twelve. He took her to their family doctor, and that doctor did not know what to do, so the man took her to other doctors, who wrote notes and ran tests and shook their heads and looked down at their white coats when they told him that she was going to die. Despairing, he read as much as he could about her condition, and began to look overseas for any conceivable way to save her. And then he found one doctor in France, who was the worlds leading expert on this particular disease, and had written a great many important papers that had been very well received by those few smart enough to know what he was talking about. He was offering a highly controversial but so far effective treatment regiment at his clinic in Paris, and the man who was really more of a father was overjoyed. He called this doctor on the telephone, and after trying to make himself understood to a receptionist who only spoke very fast French and very poor English, he managed to get the doctor and tell him what was wrong with his daughter. The doctor listened sympathetically, and told the man that he of course was very sorry about his daughter's condition, but that he could not accept his American health insurance, and that this treatment was incredibly expensive as well as time consuming. The man despaired, because even if he sold everything he owned, he could not afford to continue paying for the treatment if he was not able to work, which he of course couldn't do if he was in Paris. He confided in one of his coworkers at the warehouse, a man that some said had dealings with people who were less than reputable. His coworker told him that if the man who was really more of a father was willing, he could talk to an acquaintance that had a contemporary who could get the man into a particular game of chance in a city that was in the middle of the desert. The man agreed, and sold his house and his car and the ring he had given to his wife before she died and now as he's sitting there at the table across from the woman, the fact that he could lose everything doesn't even cross his mind, because he knows, deep down in his heart (or maybe it's in his soul) that he's going to win and take his daughter to Paris and she'll be cured and they'll spend the rest of their days in the sun on the west bank of the Seine. But then there's that other little voice, the one that lives even deeper down in a tiny crack and that everyone has no matter how much hope is in them, and it's saying that when he finally decides to move his fingers, he's going to lose and the only thing in his life that he's going to be left with is the prospect of watching his daughter die slowly and painfully in a dirty hospital bed. And his palm is dry and his fingers are steady and he is about to gesture.

None of these stories are true. Wait, the first one is. Or maybe it's the third. No, was it the second? It doesn't matter; it is irrelevant, inconsequential, immaterial. All that matters is that in this room in a city in the middle of the desert, there is so much energy collected from the emotions of the man involved and harnessed together by the chains of probability and the furious desire of numbers to once again be ordered as they were meant to be that the very air feels like it's crackling with what could well be pure nuclear fission.

The man does not feel it; or if he does, he simply does not care. But in some primal way he must know that when he makes his gesture, this power is going to come hurtling down like a comet made of dynamite thrown from the arm of a particularly vengeful and very angry god.

But his palm is dry and his fingers are steady, and the man at the table smiles like a knife and his fingers move in the tiniest of ways and in that room in a city in the middle of the desert everything comes rushing together and the power explodes with a fury beyond description and in that one moment everything in the entire world has changed but if you look around you realize that nothing has really changed at all.

And that is the power of a gesture.

Why I Love Music, Featuring Cowboy Troy - 03/01/07

I love music. Love it. All kinds, all styles, all genres. I get goosebumps when I hear the violin kick in during the Vox cover of Pachabel's Canon, and have been known to cry when I hear bagpipes because they remind me of a funeral I went to once. Despite this passion, I had not, until very recently, jumped upon the iPod bandwagon. Well, you couldn't really say that I "jumped". It was more like I was picked up and forcibly thrown by my girlfriend. She bought me an iPod Shuffle for Christmas, and despite the fact that I had told her before that I didn't really want one, she had the good sense to know that I'm an idiot and that this would be a perfect gift for someone that truly enjoys music. The only reason that I hadn't gotten one previously, other than laziness, was that I couldn't really think of any time I'd actually use it. It's been a general rule of mine that I only run if things are chasing me, like zombies or the police, which usually only happens once or twice a month, so using it while jogging was out. I didn't think that I'd use it much at work, because I'm only actually at my desk for about an hour at a time, and I didn't want something like this to happen while I was seeing patients:

Dr. McCancercure: "Mr. Patterson, I'm afraid I have some bad news. The results of your CT scan show that you have lung cancer. It's malignant. You have less than a year to live."

Mrs. Patterson: "Oh...oh my God! Jim! No!"

Mr. Patterson: "There, there, Mabel. Don't worry. We'll get through this. I just have to hang in there until little Suzie's college graduation. I...I promised her I'd be there."

Dr. McCancercure: "Fortunately, here at Emory, we have several cutting-edge experimental treatments available for people with your type of horrible, incurable disease. This is Austin Hamilton, from the clinical trials department. He's going to discuss your options with you. Austin?"

Me: (using a tongue depressor as a microphone) "DON'T!....STOP!....THINKIN' ABOUT TOMORROW!!"

Dr. McCancercure: "Um...Austin?"

Me: (taking out iPod earbuds mid air-guitar solo) "What? Oh. Right. Cancer. Yeah, I was just demonstrating through the power of song that you, uh, totally shouldn't give up hope, and always think about tomorrow. The tomorrow where you're still alive, that is, thanks to our awesome cancer treatments! "

Ha ha! I kid, but yeah, my job can be depressing. So anyway, I never really thought I'd use an iPod even if I had wanted to go out and spend however much money they are on one.

But now that I have one, I'm inseparable from it. I have become That Guy. If you've ever ridden in a car with me, you know that if I'm driving, I begin playing air drums on the steering wheel once a song comes on, and will not stop until the car has been turned off. With an iPod blasting music directly into my ears, the desire to frantically play invisible instruments is increased by about a thousandfold. At the gym, for example. I forget that while I might think in my mind that I look like an incredible badass lifting weights while listening to The Soprano's theme, no one else can hear it but me. I've gotten some really dirty looks from people that I've accidentally kicked in the face while doing a furious aerial split at the end of a guitar solo, and anyone trying to exit the gym gets highly annoyed when it takes them 10 minutes to leave because I think I'd look cooler walking out to whatever song I'm listening to in slow motion.

My musical tastes are fairly varied, and because I can play several instruments I think that I can definitely appreciate songs on a technical level as well as a purely auditory one. Well, let me clarify that. When I say that I "play" several instruments, I'm not being entirely accurate. I played saxophone until the ninth grade, when I realized that despite everything my band teacher had told me, playing a woodwind with mediocre skill won't really get you laid. So I promptly learned to play guitar, with the rationale being that if the ugly little toad frontman from Green Day can bang groupies while playing the same three power cords over and over, then hey, so could I! Unfortunately, every other male at my high school had the same idea, and they were all much better than I was. Undeterred, I decided to learn how to play bass, figuring that this way, I could at least be in a band, and maybe get some of the girls that the lead singer and guitarist had decided they didn't want. I've noticed that bands approach recruiting a bass player with one of two methods: they either get someone who's really good, and legitimately contributes to the rhythm with a unique and distinguishable bass line, but isn't much to look at. Like Flea, from the Chili Peppers. He's incredible, but looks kind of like an anthropomorphic weasel hopped up on meth. Or, if the rest of the band is ugly, they get someone who doesn't look like they've been obsessively honing their musical genius in between playing Dungeons & Dragons in their parents basement, but will look good featured prominently on the cover of a CD. I, of course, would fall in to the latter category: no appreciable musical talent, but would look hot in a black and white photograph pensively smoking a cigarette under a bridge in Berlin. Sadly, I was unable to use my looks to coast into a career as a musician, and ended up having to sell my bass after my sophomore year in college so that I'd have money for gas to drive home for the summer. But bass players are still one leg up in the band hierarchy from the drummer, which is unfortunate, because I honestly think playing the drums takes way more skill. One of my best friends is a drummer, and watching him play is fucking amazing. I guess being able to coordinate all four of your limbs to move at completely different tempos and beats is just an innate skill, because every time that I've tried to play on his set, it sounds more like a drunk hobo falling into a pile of metal trash cans than anything even remotely harmonic. And they still get no recognition. Go ahead, name one famous drummer. See? You can't. The only one that I can think of is the guy from Def Lepard, and that's really only because he's missing an arm. I've never seen them live, so I don't know how he actually manages to play, but I'm assuming he makes up for his limb deficiency by repeatedly smashing his face into the cymbals with uncanny rhythm and precision. Oh, and the drummer from Guster, but that's because I was really impressed by the fact that he plays the drums using his bare hands, and when I saw them once in college, he actually managed to shatter his cymbal and send a jagged piece of it hurtling into the crowd, narrowly missing my left eye and coming to rest lodged in the skull of the girl behind me. The fact that there was blood everywhere and she wouldn't stop screaming surprisingly didn't lessen how cool it was. I mean, he broke a cymbal with his bare hands! That's just awesome.

So yeah, I think that I have fairly good taste in music. I've always liked punk, but not real punk, because that sounds like listening to cats being tortured and then replayed at high speeds while a retarded monkey screams in your ear. More like the Bad Religion, NOFX types of punk. Punk that doesn't really have its roots in anarchy and political commentary, but is more concerned with skateboards and hanging out at the mall. I went through a phase in college where I thought it was cool to go to large warehouses wearing pants that completely obscured my feet and dance with highschoolers dressed like butterflies to music that a British guy made on his laptop, which is always fun. Right now, I guess the best way to describe what I like is by saying that it's "Indie" rock, although I'm uncomfortable with that term. I almost feel bad admitting that I really like, for example, the Wallflowers, just because back in the day they enjoyed some amount of mainstream popularity. I mean, it's kind of a catch-22; if a band is actually really good, they'll get noticed, picked up by a major label, and you'll start hearing their songs during the Rick, Pancho and Slappy morning show on the radio. If they're not, they'll fade into obscurity. For example, I've liked Fallout Boy and Panic At the Disco for years, but it's only been recently that they've become hugely popular with angsty teenagers who wear makeup and cry because they aren't allowed to drive their parents Subaru after midnight. And this has, in a sense, ruined those bands for me. I mean, I'm certainly not going to go see one of their shows now, not only because of the high ticket price, but because I'll be the oldest person there by about 10 years and don't want to have to keep sneaking drinks from the bar to surly highschoolers. This does make me wonder, though, what my own musical taste will be like in 15 years. When I look at my parents musical collections, it's like a switch was thrown during a certain year and they didn't even know that people were still making music after that point. Maybe it was when I was born; I was probably a terrible baby, and my parents just didn't have the time to buy records or tapes or whatever because they were always taking me to the doctor after I'd shoved a crayon into my nose or tried to stick my hand in a blender. But one of the things I truly love about music is finding new bands that I like, and because I can illegally download as many songs as I want, I can go ahead and check out the band that a friend said was good without worrying about wasting eighteen dollars on a CD that will end up only having one track that I enjoy. Maybe this is the difference; back then, you actually had to go see a band in concert to know that you liked them, or buy one of their albums so that you could listen to it. I'm sure that even as I write this, Lars Ulrich has risen from his dark throne of human skulls and ordered his elite Music Reclamation Gestapo to ride forth and have me killed for piracy, but whatever. The point is, I don't think that all of a sudden, I'll wake up and say "Well! I'm 40 now! Guess I'd better stop listening to all of that innovative and easily obtainable music that I love!" If anything, I'll probably listen to it more, as music will be my only escape from the harpy-like shrieks of my future wife, in addition to calming me down when I want to throw my child out of a window because it won't stop crying. My impeccable taste is helped, of course, by the fact that I surround myself with friends who also have good taste in music. Take Lee, for example. If it will make you cry and came out before 1998, Lee is your man. He introduced me to the Wedding Present last year at a show at the Earl, and I can honestly say that it was one of the best performances I've ever been to. Or Ryan. "Ryan," I'll say, "Have you heard that new song by the Silversun Pickups? Noel played it for me last week and it's awesome". After casually tossing his scarf over his shoulder, he'll reply "I heard about them like a year ago, dude. I stopped listening to them when I realized their Myspace page had more than 100,000 views. I've moved on. Have you heard of the Orphins? No? Didn't think so. Check them out; they're good." Even Ian will occasionally surprise me by downloading a bunch of songs by some new band that he heard on NPR, although I have to admit that having him earnestly tell me that he really enjoys running while listening to My Chemical Romance was pretty funny.

The one musical style that I'm not really that in to is Country. I don't know why, but hearing a man with a twangy accent lament about how his wife shot the dog and then wrecked his pickup before running off with a fieldhand doesn't appeal to me. I've remained largely ignorant of any happenings in the Country music world, except maybe for when the fat Dixie Chick took a break from eating to announce that she thought the president was an idiot. Which was stupid of her, as the main demographic for her shitty warbling are the people responsible for electing him into power in the first place, but I thought the fact that everyone made a big deal out of it was amusing. Recently, however, I've become aware of a new element in the genre, one that I stumbled upon purely by accident. See, normally when I get home, I throw on CNN so that I have some background noise while I go through the mail, change, and reassure my frantic idiot dog that it's really me that's walked through the door and not some kind of robot imposter wearing my skin. I've had to stop with the CNN, however, as I get home right at the same time that Lou Dobbs Tonight comes on. His show is terrible, because all he's done in the last few months is talk about illegal immigration and how Mexicans are slowly killing our country. Seriously, Lou Dobbs hates Mexicans. HATES them. I think that Lou Dobbs honestly believes that the Mexican people are the root of every single problem that we as a society face in the world today:

Semi-attractive Anchorwoman: "And that was an Indian guy in a labcoat with the latest research, showing with incontrovertible proof that Global Warming is real and will one day kill us all. Terrifying! Ha ha ha! Coming up next on CNN, Lou Dobbs Tonight. What have you got for us, Lou?"

Lou Dobbs: "Tonight, I'll be discussing the hidden Mexican/Nazi/terrorism connection: is Osama bin Laden really a Mexican Hitler who's traveled forward in time to destroy America? The truth will shock you! Also, I'm going to drink a fifth of gin and then go indiscriminately fire a handgun into a crowd of migrant workers while screaming ethnic slurs and crying, live on the air! Don't miss it."

Really, his show has degenerated into this. It's sad. Anyway, I don't like watching a fat, jowly old man turn purple from his bigoted rage, so I've been putting on USA when I get home instead. This isn't much better, as I'm forced to watch Vincent D'Onofrio solve mysteries by twitching and stuttering at a suspect until they confess on Law & Order CI, but it's still better and less disturbing than Lou Dobbs' unbridled hate for immigrants. Also on USA, they have a show called Nashville Star, which I guess is kind of like TV sensation American Idol, only the contestants have sillier hats and less teeth. I've never actually seen the show, but all of the commercials prominently feature the two hosts, and this is where my interest was piqued. One of the hosts is Jewel, the folk-rock starlet who's pretty hot until she opens up her mouth and reveals her terrifying snaggletoothed maw. The other host is what appears to be a black man dressed like a gay cowboy. I'll admit that I'm not what you would call an authority on Country music fashion, but even I can tell that his getup is magnificently hideous. His gold belt buckles are typically the size of a large dinner plate, and sometimes he's wearing a checked scarf or bandanna or something around his neck, maybe with a bolo thrown in for good measure. His hats could easily be turned upside down in the event of a flood and be used as a makeshift canoe for both him and several small children. Seriously, it's like the costume room from Howdy Doody went blind and threw up all over him. The first time I saw a commercial for the show, I was curious about this guy. Then I saw him again in a commercial for Sonic fast food, where he was still dressed in his retarded cowboy uniform, but trying to think up lines for what kind of sounded like a rap song. It was here that I also learned his name: "Cowboy Troy". So who was he? Where had he come from? Was he really a black cowboy rapper? I came to two possible conclusions. The first was that the network executives, in an effort to make their show more diverse, had kidnapped some random black guy and his family and were threatening to kill them unless he pretended to be a cowboy on a nationally syndicated show about hopeful musicians trying to break into the Country music scene. This didn't seem likely, so I went with my second scenario: that this guy was actually an aspiring musician named Steve, but couldn't get his break in whatever genre he was struggling in. He then went to his agent, and they sat down to have a brainstorming session:

Steve: "I just don't understand it. I've been performing at local venues and releasing my own independent records for two years now, and I'm still no closer to getting signed. What am I doing wrong?"

Agent: "Well, Steve, the music industry is absolutely flooded with artists these days. What you need is a hook; something catchy, something that makes you stand out in a crowd."

Steve: "Like what?"

Agent: "Like...like, I don't know...maybe you could be the frontman of a band that sings nothing but thrasher anthems about how great lawnmowers are. Ooh, or maybe you could be a rapper who only wears and rhymes about the color yellow. Wait, what about "DJ I-PEN", a house DJ who only spins beats arranged in iambic pentameter? The kids would love that."

Steve: "No, no. Those just don't feel right."

Agent: "Well, we could always dress you up like a cowboy and have you rap country songs."

Steve: "Hmmm....."

Agent: "Actually, Steve, I was kidding."

Steve: "No no, wait, it'll be perfect! Totally unique! Nobody will see it coming!"

Agent: "Steve, as your agent, and more importantly as a friend who cares about you, I feel obligated to point out that the vast majority of the population that likes Country music have ancestors that used to dress up in white hoods and hang your people from trees. This might not be the best demographic for you."

Steve: "I'll be fine. This'll be great! I'll be spanning both musical and cultural divides with my non-threatening and slightly comical appearance! Wait, I need a new name. Something that rolls off the tongue, but also reminds people that I'm a rapping black cowboy. You know, in case they close their eyes and forget."

Agent: "Sigh....Uh, how about, I don't know...Cowboy Steve?"

Steve: "No, no, it has to flow better. Should it rhyme? Maybe it should rhyme. I mean, my stage name when I was in a band was "Brock Rocker", and everyone liked that."Cowboy Floyd?" No, that's stupid. What about...hmmm...Wait, I've got it! From this point forward, I shall be known as "Cowboy Troy!" Get me wardrobe! I need huge belt buckles shaped like Texas and a hat large enough to store several oversized dictionaries!"

Please be aware that I have nothing against rapping black cowboys; I would make fun of anyone dressed like this regardless of if they were white, yellow, red, or blue. I just think it's a bold move, and one that I don't think any other black musician has taken before. It's the same principle as Eminem; for the most part, I think white people trying to rap look ridiculous, but it's neat to see people say "You know what? I know that this particular genre is typically identified with this particular race, but fuck it. I'm good at it, so why I shouldn't I perform it?" Since I really was curious, I turned to Wikipedia, which I'm convinced will one day become the repository for all human knowledge, for the real story. The ballad of Cowboy Troy is actually pretty cool. It turns out he's just a guy from Texas, who, after getting a degree in psychology from UT, decided to start a music career. He's been performing since 1988, and actually enjoys a large degree of popularity in the Country music world. He describes his unique style as "Hick-hop", which is fairly retarded, but whatever. You have to admire a guy who's willing to face not only ostracization from other members of his race (I'm assuming most hip-hop artists aren't asking him appear on their albums) as well as potential hostility from the people he's trying to sell records to based solely on the color of his skin. Good for you, Cowboy Troy. You're a perfect example of what makes music great.

Why Most Commercials Are Terrible, Featuring Insane GM Salesmen - 02/06/07

It was Superbowl Sunday this last weekend, that wonderful time of year when the absolute best of our nation's gridiron champions test their skills against one another in a grueling physical confrontation to determine who will be the greatest football team in the world. Well, not the world. Mostly America. And just until next year. As anyone who knows me can attest, I'm really not that into football. It's not that I don't like watching large, muscular men in skintight clothing getting sweaty and jumping into piles on top of each other, it's just that I can't muster up enthusiasm for something that has absolutely no effect on my life whatsoever. I don't know if this is a reflection of how self-absorbed I am, but I honestly can't think of any trend that I follow with the degree of obsessivness that some of my friends display with sports. Don't get me wrong, I scream with joy every time I read that there's a new Harry Potter book coming out, and I attended the midnight premiere of Revenge of the Sith dressed like a Robot Jedi (thus combining two things which are awesome; namely, robots and Jedi.) But once the initial euphoria passes, that's it. I don't compulsively check websites every day to make sure J.K. Rowling hasn't been kidnapped by evil wizards because her books are getting too close to the truth, or to see if there's been inside information leaked about how George Lucas plans to further ruin the Star Wars franchise by re-releasing the movies and adding even more annoying CGI space muppets. Maybe it's sad that I don't have things I'm that passionate about in my life, but if the alternative is to be forced to care that "hulking man-ogre #1" was purchased like a pack of cigarettes from "team with racially insensitive name #4", then I don't really care. I guess that there are varying degrees of fandom; for example, one of the only reasons that I ever watch sports with my friends at all is to laugh while Country Mike screams incoherently and throws beer cans at the TV. And that's fine; he gets into the game, and maybe part of him honestly believes that if he yells loud enough, the quarterback will be able to magically sense his devotion with the power of his mind and kick another homerun past the goalie or whatever. But then there's the totally opposite end of the spectrum; like the insane fanaticism that prompts Oakland Raiders fans to loot and pillage after what seems like almost every major game their team is involved in. That kind of manic devotion I just don't get; at what point does "Boy! I sure am bummed that my team didn't win the Superbowl!" turn into "Hey! My fucking team lost! I'm going to follow this cinderblock through a window and steal some televisions!" I can't think of anything that would make me so excited that I have to express my enthusiasm by lighting cars on fire, and to be honest, I'm kind of glad that I don't. I think that liking football is something you have to be introduced to at a young age. For example, my dad never really watched sports on TV at all, so I never had the magical experience of rooting for the home team on Sundays, just me and the old man drinking beer and bonding. I tell everyone it's because he's from England, when actually that's just a clever excuse for me to work the fact that I'm half British into the conversation, which I believe totally enhances my sex appeal. This argument would have more credence if my dad liked soccer, because then he could angrily complain about how we stupid yanks took the word "football" and applied it to the wrong sport, right before he yelled "Oi!" and layed someone out with a crippling headbutt. So I didn't grow up watching sports, and I think that's probably the main reason why I don't like them now.

The real reason that I watch the Superbowl is for the commercials. According to the arbitrary numbers I just made up, each second of airtime during the Superbowl costs roughly six hundred trillion dollars, so you would think that every single piece of advertising done during that time would be a work of artistic genius. Sadly, this wasn't the case at all. I mean, there were a few good ones, like the two lions discussing the correct pronunciation of "carne asada" before presumably mauling an antelope to death, or the one with the sad robot who dreams about committing robot suicide because he's not working hard enough for GM. That one is kind of creepy when you think about it; it's basically implying that every single employee of GM is so incredibly loyal to their company that if they mess up and get fired, they'll spiral down into a crippling depression before trying to throw themselves off of a bridge. This actually makes me more hesitant to buy GM products; I mean, what if my particular vehicle is recalled for some minor defect? Based on the commercial, I would drive it back to whatever dealership I bought it from, and be greeted by something like this:

Me: "Um, excuse me? I called earlier. I'm bringing back in my Pontiac Torrent Crossover. Besides having a ridiculously stupid name, it also appears to have a defect that causes the trunk to become unlocked whenever I accelerate past ten miles an hour. I was planning on killing some hookers and using the Pontiac Torrent Crossover's spacious and roomy interior trunk space to my advantage when disposing of the bodies, but you can see the problem if one of them is still alive and the trunk just randomly flies open. It'd be kind of an awkward moment for everyone involved."

GM Manager: "I see. Yes, that most certainly is unacceptable. Please, accept this as a token of my sincerest apologies while we investigate who is responsible for this...this atrocity."

(takes out knife, slices off right pinky finger)
Me: "Oh...Oh my God!! What the fuck did you just do that for?! Jesus Christ!!"

GM Manager (calmly bandaging bleeding hand): "Ah, I believe that we have found the culprit."

(two GM henchman enter, dragging a third employee, kicking and struggling, between them)
GM Henchman 1: "We found him in the North breakroom, sir. Apparently one of the guards failed to properly secure his ankle shackles after his 3 minute lunch break, and the scum escaped before he finished working on the trunk lock."

GM Employee: "NO! AHH!! PLEASE!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HELP ME!!"

GM Manager: "Silence! Your pitiful mewling brings not only further shame upon you, but on your entire family!!"

GM Employee: "AHH!! NO!! NO, I BEG OF YOU, GRANT ME A MERCIFUL DEATH!!"

Me: "Um, you know, all of this isn't really necessary...."

GM Manager: "Ha ha ha! Of course it is, sir. Here at GM, we believe that quality and dedication to our product is the highest priority."

Me: "Yeah, but....I mean...are you all going to, like, kill that guy?"

GM Manager: "Due to his many years of loyal service, I have decided to be lenient and allow him the option of ritual suicide. Although it is more than this piece of sniveling filth deserves."

GM Employee (tears of happiness now streaming down his face): "Oh, thank you sir! I will remember you and your generosity in the afterlife!"

GM Manager: "Take him away."

(Positions knife over left pinky finger)
GM Manager: "Now then, sir, have you been experiencing any other troubles with your GM vehicle?"

Me: "No, I think everything else has been pretty cool. Thanks."

Honestly, who really wants that on their conscience? One of the other funny commercials was for Bud Light, but was only entertaining because it involved people slapping each other in the face, and you really can't go wrong with physical humor. I don't know why we as a society have decided that watching someone fall down a flight stairs is amusing, but I have to admit that I laughed uproariously at the Doritos commercial with a girl faceplanting in front of her car. I guess that if we didn't have this fascination, Bob Sagat's career would have ended much sooner than it did. I'm pretty sure the last two seasons of America's Funniest Home Videos were only variations of "Man Hit in Groin With Object", or maybe "Man Hit in Groin With Object, Falls Over, Is Then Hit in Groin Again, This Time With Heavier Object." And I'm sure that ratings had probably never been higher.

The only other commercial of note was the one with Kevin Federline in it, and I'm amused right now because I honestly can't remember what product it was advertising. It was for a bank or something, right? He's pretending he's in a rap video and has his reality shattered when it turns out he's not actually draped in mink and throwing money around, but working as a fry guy in a fast food restaurant. Then there's some tagline about how life can change quickly, so use our totally safe banking, or something. Awesome. The sheer patheticness of this commercial fascinates me; you can just tell that he's decided to give up any dreams he had of being taken seriously as an artist, and has already consigned himself to pulling in as much cash as he can while people still remember that he's a joke. That's the sad part. Vanilla Ice will go down in musical history as one of the worst things to ever happen to rap music, and he could do a commercial when he's 80 about how goofy he is and it would still resonate. No one's going to remember who the fuck K-Fed even was in the next ten years. The only other thing that I thought about while watching this commercial was thinking how at the end of it, they probably made him give back all of the designer suits and fur coats he was wearing during the shoot, while he stood in a corner in his dirty wifebeater and looked morose.

So these are supposed to be the cream of the advertising crop, the best of the best? Not really. I guess the companies used all of their money to buy the airspace and could only afford a single monkey with a typewriter to script the ads, but come on. Don't get me wrong, they were better than half of the commercials that play during regular broadcast hours. There are two out right now that I find particularly ridiculous. The first is the one for Quizno's delicious new Delectable Italian Whatever sandwich, where they compare it to an inferior yet just-as-rubbery Subway sandwich. The legality of these types of commercials has always kind of intrigued me; I mean, why stop at pointing out that your sandwich is packed with a greater variety of meatlike substances? Why not just tell people that your competition uses discarded third world babies as the stock for its Creamy Ranch Dressing, or seasons its burgers with dirty hobo fingernails? Can you do that? Do they have to go through a rigorous series of blinded scientific studies to determine that their sandwich is, in fact, bigger? That's not the part of the commercial that really gets me, though. Quizno's marketing strategy here involves their "satisfaction guarantee", which states that if you're not completely satisfied with their product, you're eligible to receive another zesty sandwich, free of charge! Yay! Hey, genius, if I wasn't totally satisfied with your greasy faux-lunchmeat the first time, why the fuck would I want you to give me another one, even if it doesn't cost me anything? This is actually a genius plan when you analyze it, because most people, if they're unhappy with their purchase, won't take the trouble to march back into their local eatery and argue with the subhuman counter slave to try and get a free sandwich. Then if they do, an altercation like this will no doubt ensue:


Irate Customer: "Excuse me? I just purchased one of your Delectable Italian Whatever sandwiches, and I have to say, I'm disappointed. The subtle blending of herbs and spices didn't blend quite as magically as I'd hoped in my mouth, the presentation was boring, and I'm pretty sure I bit into what looks like a human tooth."

Subhuman Counter Slave: "Grunt."

Irate Customer: "So anyway, despite my complete disgust with your product, I'd like you to give me another one, only this time, I won't pay for it."

Subhuman Counter Slave: "But you just said you didn't like it."

Irate Customer: "Correct. And that's why I want another one. For free."

Subhuman Counter Slave: "But if you don't like something, why would you want more of it?"

Irate Customer: "Because...I...No, wait, I do like it. Give me the free one."

Subhuman Counter Slave: "Ha ha! Based on the terms and agreement of the Quizno's satisfaction guarantee, you must be totally dissatisfied with our food before we'll give you more of it. Buy a sandwich or get out."

Irate Customer: "Curses!"

The people at Quizno's are brilliant. The other commercial I find laughable is the one for some kind of Herpes medication. I forget which one it is, as commercials for people with debilitating venereal diseases invariably show happy couples strapped into a kayak parasail flying over the edge of a waterfall at sunset, so they're hard to differentiate. I'm sure that life isn't nearly as peachy when you're screaming because it feels like your pee is made of flaming needles as these ads would lead you to believe, but that's not the best part. In an effort to apparently make their ads more credible with the addition of random numbers (numbers mean SCIENCE!), the commercial points out with tremendous gravity that over 70% of the population has been infected with Herpes when their partner was displaying no active symptoms. This is great; it means that if you do happen to get Herpes from having unprotected sex with whatever random stranger you brought home, it's not your fault. The flip side of this amazing scientific fact, of course, means that 30% of people infected had sex without a condom with someone who had red, swollen genitalia covered in weeping sores. In that case, fuck you. You deserve whatever horrible affliction befalls you. Have fun with your kayaks and sunsets.

So commercials, for the most part, either make no sense or are just stupid. Admittedly, if I worked in advertising and was told that my brand new account was for a cream that lessened the pain of a Herpes outbreak, I'd probably be stumped on where to begin. But these people do this kind of stuff for a living. If it were me, I would just follow the cardinal rule of marketing: if you put a monkey, or maybe a midget, or a midget in a monkey costume in your ad, it will be a resounding success. Or at the very least, make just me laugh. And isn't that what's truly important?

Why All Celebrities Should Be Burned Alive, Featuring Clay Aiken Eating Delicious Cake - 01/03/07

There are a myriad of problems facing the population in the world today. Whether it's the almost comical pointlessness of the war in Iraq, the racial and economic hotbed that's become the issue of illegal immigration, or the increasing likelihood that the Earth will soon explode due to global warming, it would seem that the average person has enough to occupy their thoughts. But there's one facet of society that has emerged in the last 60 years which completely renders these other terrors insignificant; one thing that I believe truly heralds the eventual downfall of Man. I'm speaking, of course, about peoples (especially Americans) inane fascination with the actors and actresses that we have deemed "celebrities".

Don't get me wrong, I love movies. I'm a totally ambivalent connoisseur of film, meaning that I'll watch pretty much anything. If it's a well crafted movie with a strong plot, engaging characters, and decent cinematography, I'll enjoy it on an artistic level. If it's a movie starring Boogaloo Shrimp as a break dancer trying to win a dance contest so that the rec center where he engages in his energetic but unorthodox dance styling's won't be bulldozed, I'll laugh at how bad it is. But despite the enjoyment that I and millions of other people derive from watching movies, I don't feel that the actors deserve the level of monetary compensation and public fascination that's awarded to them.

The apexes of this intent obsession are the tabloid magazines. Everyone's read them; even if it's just in line at the grocery store. For some reason, it's impossible not to pull one out of the rack at some point and think to yourself "Hmm. It really is a shame that Jessica Simpson was found in bed with four Taiwanese midgets. Nick must be devastated." I don't know why we do it, and when you think about it, it's ridiculous. I can guarantee you that there's as much, if not more drama going on in just my apartment complex, but no one feels the need to put out a magazine detailing every time my hot neighbor gets out of a car with no panties on. So I've gone and summarized a few of what are, in my opinion, some of the more asinine "events" happening in the world of celebrity gossip.

CLAY AIKEN IS FAT! AND MAYBE GAY!
A similar picture to this one is the whole reason why I decided to write this little piece. I was over at Ryan's the other night, flipping through an Us Weekly (Ryan enjoys shoe-shopping and keeping abreast of celebrity gossip, what can I say? He's a friend; I won't judge him.), when I came across this incredibly unflattering portrait of pseudo-pop idol Clay Aiken on page 10. Unfortunately, a myriad of Google searches for Clay+Aiken+Fat didn't return any hits for this particular image, even when I narrowed it down by adding helpful adjectives like Clay+Aiken+Humongous+Lardass, or even Clay+Aiken+Ham+Overload. So I had to settle for this picture from famed celebrity gossip and overrated waste of space Perez Hilton's website. If you don't know who he is, he's a chubby and flamboyantly gay internet "writer" who has, for some reason, become something of a powerhouse in Hollywood by posting unflattering pictures of celebrities onto his poorly designed website. To make himself extra edgy, he then adds humorous captions like "I LOVE COCK!", or uses the 1998 version of Microsoft Paint to draw semen in the mouths of his victims. While his site is occasionally funny, he's the epitome of what's wrong with our celebrity- based society. I like to think that sometimes, late at night, he wakes up and realizes that if it wasn't for the fact that for some reason people care about what kind of hats K-Fed likes to wear when he's fucking strippers or whatever, he'd still be serving coffee at Starbucks and living with his mother.

So anyway, Clay Aiken is now fat. When asked by the fine journalists at Us Weekly about his recent expansion to unstoppable size, Clay responded by saying it was due to "Stress." He added, "Also, cake." He then proceeded to eat the reporter before going on an unstoppable rampage through downtown Los Angeles. But honestly, who the fuck cares? Clay is such a C-league celebrity/musical talent, they could have just put up a picture of one of those anonymous fat waddling asses they always show on the news when they do a story about obesity, and include the caption "Hey! Everyone! Look at this fat, waddling ass! Ha ha ha!".

There was also some sort of controversy a while back regarding Clay's sexuality. He's obviously scorchingly gay, so I don't really understand what all of the fuss is about. I think that Rosie O'Donnell outed him, and then there was some feud Clay got in with Kelly Rippa when she made a comment implying that she was grossed out that his hand could have recently been up another mans asshole after he tried to cover her mouth to stop her from revealing his homosexual shame to the world. This actually isn't that big of a deal when you think about; I know that if somebody that I barely knew tried to stick his fingers in my mouth, I'd be pretty pissed off. Does it really matter if he was fisting a guy or had been elbow deep in a female hooker beforehand? No, not at all. Having a stranger stick his hand under your nose is disgusting no matter what their sexual orientation is. Maybe these two disinteresting facets of Clay's life are related; maybe he gained all of that weight so that people would stop implying that he was gay. Everyone knows that gays are a fit and athletic people; maybe he just thought everyone would be more convinced that he enjoys women if he looked like no self respecting gay man would touch him with a ten foot pole, let alone his penis. In that case, mission accomplished.


TOM CRUISE AND KATIE HOLMES DID SOMETHING CUTE! OR INSANE! WHICHEVER!
I'm going to go on record here and just tell everyone how much I hate Tom Cruise. He's managed to become one of the wealthiest, most influential actors in the entire world by portraying rich, cocky assholes and showing no real talent other than being able to convincingly scream "haHA!" while looking like he's coked up. I guess he wasn't that bad in Collateral, but it really pissed me off that everyone made a big deal about the fact that he had such range and versatility because he was playing a villain and looked kind of grimy, despite that the only real difference between this role and all of his others was that this time, his character killed people instead of saving the world or romantically fucking a chick on a train or something wholesome like that. The fact that he's also a Scientologist is just icing on the cake; you really can't respect anybody who honestly believes that the only way to excise the spirits of the aliens that are trapped inside of us all is to give bags of money to an organization based on the deranged scribbling of a shitty science fiction author.

But then he had to go and take Katie Holmes away from us. I don't think she's a particularly good actress; her part in Batman Begins was pretty much the only superfluous and unwatchable part of that movie. I don't really know what other films she's been in, except for that one with Keanu Reeves where she takes her shirt off to expose her magnificent chest, which, by the way, is yet another perfect example of a no-talent hack being treated to something he totally doesn't deserve. I'm convinced that if Keanu wasn't a star, and didn't have a team of specially trained Keanu wranglers coordinating his every movement, natural selection would have taken effect a long time ago and he would have wandered into a bear cave after covering himself with honey or something. Anyway, I like Katie Holmes for the simple fact that she was Joey on Dawson's Creek, which I'm ashamed to admit I watched religiously in high school. She had the whole completely hot yet somehow attainable girl-next-door charm, and she managed to pull it of with grace and style. I never got to make out with her myself, but I'm pretty sure she'll call.

But now that she's been kidnapped by Tom and his sinister team of Scientology wizards, I really can't bring myself to muster any kind of emotion besides pity for her. The whole thing is pretty creepy; I think I read somewhere that they met, disappeared for like a week, and when they came back, Katie was glassy-eyed and robotically telling everyone how awesome Scientology was. I guess its okay for people to be interested in this, because the last time that I checked, it was still illegal for a batshit insane cult to kidnap someone and then brainwash them. But I could be wrong. I also don't like the way that the tabloids glorify them as "America's Superstar Couple!", or whatever other retarded copy line some Quaalude-addicted editor decides sounds good, when in reality, they're only an aging actor desperate to maintain his fame and convince the world of his heterosexuality and a former up-and-coming starlet who can't get any decent roles.

The only time that I'm personally going to become interested in their weird relationship is when one of two possible scenarios inevitably plays out. The first is that some highway patrolman is going to find Katie wandering naked down a deserted road somewhere in California, and after her system has purged all of the drugs that Tom was pumping into her, she'll reveal the harrowing tale of how she finally escaped his hidden Scientology hypnosis lair by sneaking out when he was distracted because he was fucking John Travolta. The second, equally likely scenario is that Tom will appear on Oprah again to allegedly announce his love of females in general, and especially his female wife, Katie Holmes. But this time, something will go horribly, horribly wrong:

Oprah: "So, Tom, it's great to have you back with us. How's the married life treating you? Up at all hours of the night with the baby? Children sure can be a handful! Can't they, ladies?"

(Raucous audience applause, punctuated by an occasional WHOOOO!)

Tom: "Silence, foolish human! This charade has gone on long enough! It is time to shed this disgusting fleshy shell and begin the conquest of your puny world!!"

Oprah: "Tom...what...what are you talking about?"

Tom: "All of these years, your primitive race has bowed down and worshipped me as a celebrity idol, little realizing that I had implanted subliminal messages in all of my films to make your eventual subjugation that much easier! For I am not your beloved Tom Cruise... (Rips off rubbery Tom Cruise mask to expose green chitinous skin, bristling antennae, and insectiod mandibles)...I am Zortax, ruler of the Alpha Nebulon Galaxy and soon to be overlord of Earth! Minions, prepare your attack!! AHa ha ha ha ha!"

Oprah: "AIIIEEEEE!!!"

So basically, Tom Cruise is either a deranged closet homosexual psychopath or a bug emperor from space. The sad thing is, both are equally believable. I hope he doesn't sue me.





OOPS! LINDSAY LOHAN SOMETIMES DOESN'T WEAR UNDERWEAR!!
First of all, I need to give credit to Brenda for initially showing me this picture. We were at a party at her house, and in a move that once again proves how lucky Lee is, she enthusiastically gathered everyone around her computer so that we could all see, in her words, a picture of Lindsay Lohan's "totally beefy vagina". I don't think that I stopped giggling for a good two hours and for the rest of the night, all someone would have to say were the words "beefy vagina" to me and I would be reduced to tears of helpless laughter.

Anyway, this is just stupid. Half of the girls I know don't wear underwear when they go out, I guess mainly because given the choice between displaying visible panty lines or having a piece of fabric shoved up your ass all night, it's more comfortable and aesthetically pleasing to just go commando . It's not like she was seen at a club, standing on a table with her dress pulled over head, screaming "EVERYONE LOOK AT MY VAGINA!!!", although with all of the drugs she's supposed to doing, it's probably not that far around the corner. But honestly, this is "news"? Who the fuck cares? It was just gross. I'm sure that one of the most frustrating things about being a celebrity is having to worry about some asshole paparazzi appearing out from under a manhole cover every time you're picking something large and slimy out of your nose, but when you have people taking pictures of you literally every single hour of every waking day, what do you expect? You're not going to look hot in all of them. I know that if I was a celebrity, there would probably be a special issue of People that would come out annually filled with nothing but exclusive pictures of me getting drunk and walking into things. But I honestly don't think that your marketability as an actor or actress is dictated by how many pictures of you wearing ugly shoes or gorging on pie there are in shitty magazines. Celebrities shouldn't care, and neither should we.

In conclusion, our society places far too much importance on these essentially vapid, relatively talentless people. I say "talentless" because it really does irk me that Tom Hanks gets paid 26 million dollars to sort of convincingly act like a retard for the four months he was shooting Forrest Gump, and I know cardiovascular surgeons who work 60 hours a week and make about 1/75 of that. And this is why all celebrities should be burned alive.

Why Pedophiles Are Stupid, Featuring Dateline NBC's Stone Phillips - 12/13/06

I was flipping through the channels a few weeks ago, and stumbled onto one of those "To Catch a Predator" specials that Dateline NBC has been doing. If you haven't seen it, it's basically a huge sting operation where cops go online pretending to be horny 13 year old girls, and then convince pedophiles to come to their house, where they're subsequently arrested. I had turned to it while I was watching something else, and although I was fully planning on changing the channel back, I found that I simply couldn't. The sheer idiocy of the people being caught was so overwhelming, I had to keep watching to see just how much my faith in humanity could be crushed.

I guess what really bothers me is how successful this operation seems to be. One of the guys they arrested actually mentioned the show by name, saying that he'd seen a few of the other specials. So it's not like people aren't aware that when they're talking to "ilovebarneyandfucking69", there's a good chance that it's actually somebody who wants to arrest you and not a lonely nymphomaniac thirteen year old. Can you imagine the thought process these people must have? I understand that pedophilia is a mental disorder, and people that enjoy fucking kids probably have some issues already, but what kind of retard do you have to be to actually go over to a stranger's house in the hopes of performing an act that you know is illegal? Maybe most people are this stupid; the police should look into fighting all crime on the internet. They could pose online as "icarrylotsofcash23", and then strike up a conversation where they just happen to mention they'll be alone in a dark alley from 4-6. Any potential mugger that subsequently shows up gets a trip downtown. I know that if I ever happened to be online, and somebody that I had just met invited me over to help their sorority sisters pick out lingerie to have a sexy pillow fight in, I'd probably be a little suspicious. I mean, I'd go, but I'd be sure to circle the block a few times to make sure it actually was a house full of hot girls in tiny panties and not just a fat guy in a gimp suit waiting to rape me. To demonstrate how idiotic you have to be to actually get arrested in one of these stings, I've broken down the steps you would have to take to go from fantasizing about pre-pubescent sex to crying in the back of a police car while being videotaped:

Step 1: Be a pedophile.

Okay, easy enough. I don't know what horrible combination of genetics and upbringing need to be combined so that a person is turned on by having sex with children, but I can't imagine that it's much different than the ones that cause people to fuck corpses or only orgasm when their partner is dressed like the Hamburglar or whatever. The point is, there are all kinds of weird sexual fetishes out there, and while most of them aren't illegal, they're still not the kind of thing you can talk about in public. With the advent of the internet, I'm sure there are tons of places you can find kiddie porn, or at the very least dirty movies with girls who look like they're 14. Basically, as long as you're only fantasizing about say, sodomizing a penguin and not actually doing it, I have no problem with it. It's sick, but whatever. I'm sure that some people would be offended if they knew that I make my partners scream out the names of state capitals while climaxing, but what turns a person on is their business. It's when you actually try and make the fantasy you know to be a crime into a reality that the problems begin.

Step 2: Go online and find sexually promiscuous children whose parents are out of town.

This is where it starts to get weird. On the show, they're vague about where they actually get the transcripts of the 45 year old guy describing his penis to the person he believes to be an underage girl, and I'm kind of curious as to how a potential pedophile even goes about soliciting his victims. Do they just go find a "Rugrats" chat room and send out a general query about who wants to have sex? I mean, I can see if they find somebody on myspace or whatever and cultivate an e-mail relationship over the course of several weeks or months, but some of these guys were literally talking to the online predator squad 30 minutes before they showed up at the house. Do they just find somebody on AIM whose profile says that they're under 16 and enjoy Freddie Prinze Jr. movies and giving blowjobs? And how many messages do they have to send out before they even get a reply? I would love to know what the icebreaking message is; if it was me, I'd probably just go all out and send something like "WOULD U LIKE TO FUCK"? I mean, you know that your eventual goal is to break the law and solicit underage sex, so why waste time pretending to be interested in the pony their dad promised to buy them for Christmas? This is still disgusting, but once again, it's in the privacy of your home, so if it gets you off to type one-handed messages to someone who might not even be female, let alone underage, that's your prerogative.

But then the girl says something like "HEY MY PRENTS R GONE, DO YOU WANT TO COME OVR". This part is actually really scary, because the fact that so many people are caught in these sting operations means that at some point, a pedophile actually met a young girl online, went to her house, had sex, and then told all of his other pedophile friends about it. I mean, that has to explain it, right? Nothing else can account for the sheer stupidity. Maybe there was one guy at the annual pedophile convention who told all of the others about his amazing experience, thus propagating the myth:

Pedophile 1: "My fellow pedophiles, molesters and heshers! I have a story to tell! Hearken to my words, and be glad!"

Pedophile 2: "Yes! Tell us your story!"

Pedophile 1: "I tell you in truth that I, just this weekend past, met a young girl. She had seen naught but 13 years, though her screen-name bespoke of a maturity and wit far beyond her days. We exchanged pleasantries, and anecdotes, and laughed merrily as the night grew long. She eventually confided that her patriarch and matriarch had vacated the country, and coyly sought to entice me to her unoccupied abode."

Pedophile 2: "Gasp!"

Pedophile 3: "Surely not!"

Pedophile 2: "And did you go? Was it not a vile trick, an entrapment wrought by the despicable members of the constabulary?!"

Pedophile 1: "No, my friend. It was no trick. I went, and we....this young, enchanting creature and I...made passionate, transcendent love."

Pedophile 2: "Huzzah!"

Pedophile 3: "Truly, you have given us hope, and hope to all of our brethren!"

A lot of the people that were arrested were mongoloid hillbillies, so it's probably safe to assume they didn't think things through carefully before getting in their pickups and driving across town to fuck a child. But some of the people were doctors, lawyers, businessmen; people you'd think would be smart enough to say "Hmm...While I would certainly derive incredible sexual satisfaction from penetrating a 12 year old girl, logic and probability dictate that when I arrive, I will be greeted not by a sexually naive but willing young temptress, but a large police officer who will shoot me in the face with a taser and then broadcast my shame to the nation." And I'm sure this happens; I'd imagine that for every person that actually does show up, there are hundreds who get freaked out when asked to come over, immediately switch off their computers, and then spend the rest of the day locked in their house with the shades drawn and the lights off. But the fact that some people actually believe the scenario the police trap them with could conceivably happen just blows my mind.

Step 3: Actually get in your car and drive to the child's house.

Here's the part that's pretty disturbing. At this point, you've weighed all of the potential pros and cons of having sex with the anonymous child you just met on the internet, and have decided that it's totally worth it. This is why I don't feel bad for these people; not only are they sick, they're fucking idiots. A bunch of the ones on the show had even stopped on the way to pick up various items that they thought might enhance their experience. A lot of them were pretty mundane: condoms, lube, beer, etc. But a few went above and beyond, like the guy who was found with a penis pump in his car. The best part is that they caught him on tape using it, and then asked him why he waited in his car as opposed to going straight in. He tried to play it off by saying that it was because he was having second thoughts, and he started to cry when they confronted him with the evidence that he was actually inserting his penis in a hydraulic tube in preparation for molesting a child. Also of note was the fat Mexican guy, who showed up with a bag full of Taco Bell. That's actually pretty smart; I'm sure that there's nothing like a zesty taco after having sex with a minor. Maybe he was going to share some with the girl, I don't know.

Most of them didn't seem that surprised when the actress the police had hired left and Stone Philips and his camera crew jumped out and started asking questions. On a side note, they made it a distinct point to mention that the girl was an actress. Can you put that on your acting resume? What would you credit it as? "2006, Los Angeles Police Department - Pedophile bait"? That was how the sting was set up; the girl would lure the guy into the back of the house, say she was going to go slip into some lingerie or something, and then Stone would somberly walk out with a transcript of all of the dirty things the guy had been saying online. A few of them broke and ran right then, which just meant they got tackled and maced in the driveway, which is always fun to watch. But for the most part, they just sat there and had a nice little chat, admitted they were sick, and then quietly walked out front to get arrested. It was kind of funny; every time Stone would confront his next victim, he'd ask them if they knew who he was. For the most part, everyone just sort of nodded and said yes, except for this one hipster guy, who just looked him square in the eye and said "No, man. I have no idea who you are." Stone got pretty mad; you could see his face starting to turn red, and I'm sure he told the cops to make sure they beat that guy with a phonebook a little harder than usual when they got back to the station.

So in conclusion, there are a lot of messed up people out there. I think they've done the show like six times or something, and each time, they catch more and more people. That's fucking insane. I don't know how many of my friends who read this are secretly child molesters (I have my suspicions about several), but if you are, please take this warning to heart: don't try and fuck children that you meet on the internet. You're only going to get caught on national television, and then I'll be forced to say something in the subsequent interview like "Wait, he got caught fucking a 12 year old? Hm. Yeah, I guess I could see that."