Archive for December, 2007
’tis the season for morbid obesity »
Thursday, December 13th, 2007
Or at least that’s what I’m headed for presently. I can’t say for sure that I won’t slow down a bit and reorganize my deposits and all that, but I’m gaining natural insulation faster than hedge-fund douchebags gain monetary worth. My mass index is increasing like the temperature is dropping. It’s a sad state of affairs.
It’s not all my fault. In this season of giving, love purchasing, forgiveness buying, and gift one-up-manship the best thing to hand out is free morsels to speed the process of someone’s own death how better to say I love you than to bring on premature heart disease, right?. I don’t have the self control to avoid the plethora of ridiculously unhealthy bits of free. The price is right, as they say.
I don’t know why I even bother bringing a lunch. There are Rice Krispies treats, pizza, cookies, bagels, brownies, chips, more pizza, sandwiches, and any number of other nutrition-free chunks of delicious. When you factor in the new site we’ve attempted to launch in less time, with less people and far less brain power necessary to get it done right and the food purchased in order to keep morale high enough for productivity, you have yourself a banquet of artery-clogging, life-shortening grub almost daily. Yesterday there was a tenant appreciation breakfast where I chugged down close to a pound of less-than-mediocre food stuffs and by half of five I was scarfing appetizers off communal plates at Kieran’s.
Not only am I increasing my empty calorie intake exponentially, but I’ve decreased my activity level. I probably expend, on average, as much energy as a sleeping hippopotamus in the water, with its head being held up by a well-placed log over the course of a day. Conducive to maintaining or losing weight? Not so much. Last year I was moving furniture for half the cold months. I didn’t have money or an office of generous old people to overeat at current levels. I was, by comparison, svelte.
So that means just one thing: a half-hearted, unrealistic resolution to put effort into keeping my poundage at a reasonable level. I’ll have to aim for an American average so as to make things a bit easier. Oh bite me… whoever heard of learning to snowboard on the black diamonds? Aiming low is the American ideal after all. I had thoughts of a gym membership starting the beginning of this month, but I wanted to get into a rhythm of working out on my own first. I know, silly me, why adjust to an exercise schedule without paying monthly fees? I haven’t had a chance to get into that yet.
Taking a peek at the horribly designed B.M.I. calculator brought to us by the National Institute of Health, I’m on the wrong side of the overweight mark for the first time since sophomore year. The goal is to drop to at least a twenty-two, but avoid getting scrawny in the process. I’m not exactly against anorexia or bulimia and all that sounds harsh, but if you’re that self-conscious or appearance-oriented and you’re still alive, you’re sort of working against natural selection, but I, personally, lack the dedication for such things.
As of posting, I’ve eaten two brownies, two powdered cookies, and a sugar cookie. Not a good start.
writers’ strike fallout: exhibit d »
Tuesday, December 11th, 2007
This writers’ strike is going to get annoying. Already I pay far less attention to what’s going on in the world because the Daily Report hasn’t satirized anything in weeks. My lust for life or at least the one I live vicariously through fictional and trite television characters has faded. I don’t eat well, I barely sleep and I can hardly muster the energy to rise from bed.
Well, that’s a slight exaggeration. None of those three things has really made much of a shift since high school, so I can’t blame the W.G.A. no matter how much I wish I could. I worked from home wednesday, friday and half of thursday. I didn’t need much for enthusiasm. In all honesty, the lack of new programming will have a similar affect to a sunburn burns a bit at first, but within a week or two I’m just as pale and sunscreen-less as ever I was, so I think I’ll be fine.
As alluded to in a previous post, the foul stench of burning hair that is reality television will seep into every pixel or electron beam of your screen. Some of you may enjoy this. You enjoy the Dancing with the Stars, the Hills, the Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Graders and the Deal or No Deals in the lineup. You also have an affinity for shiny objects, buy popular things to feel better, and generally hate yourself, but those aren’t much my problems unless you’d like to pay me in high hourly payments; because I can tell you that happiness comes from a bottle just like anyone else.
The real triumph of this societally-debilitating trend of creativity-free programming is the reincarnation of a classic pile of shit. Smell what I’m stepping in? I’ll give you a hint… it’s the tiny chunk of saturday mornings that at least in my mind, because I don’t care about previous accomplishments or facts Mike Adamle made his mark before catapulting to stardom as a sideline reporter for the X.F.L. note: I thought this guy was Bob Costas until about twenty minutes ago. Shows what I know.
Still don’t follow? Cripes. It’s American Gladiators neue. For your own safety, don’t go to americangladiators.com. You just went there didn’t you? Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Also, don’t think of pink elephants. There’s no way this show can be good for our country as if we need another parallel between that other decomposed empire.
The Hulk may have finally found his place to die television-wise and Ali not the real one may have found a way to taint her father’s heroic and controversial legacy. I commend them both. The show, like it was before, will be entertaining. It will also stimulate your brain in the same way a head-first fall from a second-story window does. Can’t go wrong, right? I imagine large parties of Sunday drunks packed around a coffee table, covered in Milwaukee’s Best, eating Pringles and cheering for the musclebound chick in not-quite-enough spandex. In other words, the sweetness.
It could be better though. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Holy hell, that’s disgusting. Where would I even get a goat with such short notice? Bring the original gladiators back? Have them fight reppies retired professionals, duh? The prize being the 401k accumulations of their opponent? And the gladiators have incentive, too. The back realignment surgery they’ve needed since that odd twist in a joust during the round 2 preliminary of 1993. I think they’d fight for it just a bit more, don’t you? If the 401ks of their opponents isn’t enough I don’t know how many rounds they go through, but that could be a nice chunk of bank, we could throw in a private performance from Hulk’s daughter I can’t imagine she’s all that busy.
They won’t take my advice. It’ll be the same twenty-something exercise addicts tossing tennis balls or swinging giant Q-tip looking things at thirty-something egomaniacs with a thirst for celebrity. Blah, Blah, Yawn, Zzzzzzz… and I’ll see you on the 6th.
drive »
Tuesday, December 11th, 2007
It was almost five hours on the freeway. For hours there were monotonous lane changes, mile markers, and billboards. A river or two were crossed, an orange moose was passed and more than three hundred miles were traversed. The resorts sprang from forest nothingness a few hours in. The construction, bringing traffic to one lane for a few miles at a time, would slow things down at a different mile marker each trip. The turns were mechanical and mindless.
There was the truck, mounted vertical with its engine to the ground, on the right. There was the giant mouse on the left. There was the Bog. There was the turn just before Madison. There were the state roads for more than an hour. There were the downtowns of a few different small towns. The speed limit changes, fifty-five, sixty-five, forty-five and thirty.
When I drove, I’d be in my own world. The iPod going through three or four CDs worth of music. The tank of gas emptying. The odometer ticking by rhythmically. The speedometer needle dancing between seventy-five and eighty-three. Other times, on the bus, I’d sleep or read for long stretches, paying little attention.
Trips were limited almost exclusively to the weekend and my mind would wander to the plans therein. There were always too many to fit, with too many people to see. I was exhausted on the trip back almost every time. By the time I was resting in front of the television, I was already looking forward to the next trip.
It’s different now. The drive is only fifteen minutes and less than a dozen miles. I know the roads just as well, but I’m on them only a short time. The anticipation is there, but relief comes sooner. The construction is shorter and avoidable.
There’s the lake on the right. There’s the Russian Art Museum on the left. There’s the Harriet Tubman statue on the left. There are a few stop signs and a couple stoplights. After exiting the freeway, the speed limit is thirty. There’s Famous Dave’s on the right. The landmarks, miles and cars are few. I can avoid the traffic by departing sooner or later. I can make the trip more often and for no reason beyond boredom.
Ocean’s 11 [1960] »
Friday, December 7th, 2007
This is an old one. I can’t forget to consider that. Old movies are cheesy, unrealistic, and filled with acting that most twelve-year-olds could pull off. That said, this one was still mediocre at best. Maybe if I had been around back then and been a fan of the Rat Pack I’d find it more enjoyable. This one is more a showcase for random singing and cool-cat showmanship than creating an actual film.
The story is just as ridiculous as the remake and its sequels, but they put less effort into plausibility than Ghostrider. Also, it’s boring as all hell. The thing takes two hours. There’s a dramatic emphasis on exposition that ends up unnecessary. Even when the characters are playing people they’re supposed to be in real life, like Clooney does, the acting is unbelievable. It’s like an afterthought.
The movie would have been cool in 1960, but today it’s trite and ridiculous. I don’t mind that as much as the random singing asides. I wasn’t expecting a musical. I was expecting an implausible romp with the Rat Pack through Vegas and an impossible heist.
** 1/2
momentum + incline – friction = »
Monday, December 3rd, 2007
Yesterday I entered the have-downhill-skied-once crowd. The weather was nice, the snow was good (I’ve really only had to shovel or drive through it; not an expert in consistency; I’m working off the assumption based on no one noticeably bitching), and my skills were practically magical. I don’t mean, of course, in the sense that Enchanted is magical (related: how badly does that movie have to suck?* scale of one to seventeen, one being not at all sucking), but more that by some act of blind luck I walked (see: hobbled/stumbled/limped) away from the hills.
If I were to stack myself up against any of the under-twelve folk, I’m not half bad for a first-timer, and I’m way better than that kid that was dragging between his father’s legs (poor bastard). My wedge needs some work. Actually, my wedge doesn’t work, so that’s a bit of an issue. I can twist the ski tips in, sorta. I can slow down, sorta. I can even turn (only to the right apparently, which is nice), sorta. But stopping? Not so much. I can only stop when the grade is almost zero or my ass (also: face/flailing appendages/ill-placed pole/fellow skier) is significantly involved.
I learned a few things about the odd pasttime:
Clear-cutting and energy consumption in order to create false precipitation on a tree-less slope is totally worth it.
It seemed stereotypical, but the ratio of minorities rivaling any ivy league or catholic college campus or city on Utah proved the minority-free generalization rather true (though, this is minnesota, so you have to factor that in…)
Those muscles that Susan Summers was so worried about, the inner thigh ones, are used way more often than I would have thought. It’s been a strenuous morning.
When it comes to chair-lifts, timing is crucial. I, personally, lack that timing.
My breaking method is much different than that of everyone. There are to variations. One, begin wedge, speed up slightly for unknown reason, wedge deeper, cross skis, lean to one or the other side, topple/skid to stop. Two, begin wedge, tweak out and abandon strategy, swerve aimlessly at uncontrolled speed until slope decreases, turn right or left and fall to that side, skid to stop. Badass, right?
I think I’ll try boarding the next time I hit a set of slopes. It looked entertaining, the fee is roughly the same, and the thought of having both legs mounted to something is enticing just now. After the slow, aggravating walk down a hill, I’m all for avoiding awkward twisting and uncomfortable shifting in an effort to stand up.
The good news: the first part of the lesson was how to fall and get up from said falls. I’ve mastered the former, and have piles of practice in the latter. Oh, and I can go downhill like a stud. (Sure, to you nit-pickers out there, it’s not a controlled decent, but if we all focused on the details we wouldn’t be killing the planet, now would we? Priorities people. The skiing might be sketch, but I’ve got the down… um… well… down?) I’m not kidding. I have video evidence… no. Not with me, but a guy I know has it. What? Would I lie to you? (Don’t answer that.) I even made it down the hill without falling a few times. I don’t have the slightest clue how I did it, unfortunately (which is key to reproduction).
* the answer: 16.37. Were you close?