Kwam's Rant

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Kids are not dogs. Dogs are not kids.

2012-01-23T15:14:00.000-05:00

As a parent of two actual humans, there are few things that piss me off more than someone calling themselves a “pet parent.” The only parents a pet has are those of the same species that had sex in a river, up in a tree, or in some dark alley after sniffing each other’s butts. Period.

As a human, you are their owner. Their caretaker. Their trainer. Their master. BUT YOU.

ARE NOT.

THEIR PARENT.

Now I know a lot of people feel differently, and I’ll openly admit that I’m, not, nor ever have been, a “pet person.” I see pictures of puppies and kittens and I shrug. Why anyone would voluntarily invite an animal into their home that eats, poops, and has no prospects for contributing to the household is beyond me. Another mouth to feed, and all they do is bring stick back that you’ve thrown away? No thanks, I’m good.

But that’s not my point – I’ve got no beef with pet owners. If you like pets, if you LOVE pets, that’s great – I hear they’re good for companionship and $100k-winning funny videos and customizing your furniture with a layer of dander. Bully for you. Love your pet. Dress your pet in goofy looking Christmas sweaters. Whoop-dee-do. And don’t get me wrong. There’s no denying that as living, breathing creatures, they’re part of the family – the family pet.

What gets me are the people who compare their dingy furballs to my children. You’ve gotta be effing kidding me. It’s an insult to anyone who’s had to go through pregnancies, miscarriages, adoptions, and the like, not to mention all the parents actually RAISING REAL CHILDREN. And then, when these people actually HAVE children, they refer to the pets as their SIBLINGS? Uhm, NO. And how do you think your kids feel about growing up being equals with a being that has to go outside to pee and would gladly eat its own poop? Hell, if the animals could talk, THEY wouldn’t even agree.

Unless your last name is Duggar, you didn’t give birth to a litter. They’re not your children. They’re not. Unless you routinely pop your kid in the nose with a newspaper, or stick him or her in a crate all day so you can go to work.

That’s the rant.

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Pizza or Chili? YES.

2012-01-18T18:49:00.004-05:00

OK, today’s dinner experiment was an Italian twist on a January favorite – PIZZA CHILI.

I figured it could work if I substituted pepperoni for the sausage we usually use, and Italian spices for all the Tex-Mex ones we’re usually working with.

And holy crap, it worked. I’ll tweak it the next time I make it, but it was pretty good. Now, let’s be real. While it wasn’t “Oh my God, we have to have this for every meal for the rest of our lives”-good, the KIDS ate it. Yes, the same 8- and 4-year-old who could conceivably live on Kraft Mac and Cheese and chicken nuggets for the rest of their natural lives. And that was a victory in and of itself. At the end of the day, I thought it was like a meat lovers’ pizza minus the dough. My wife compared it to a lasagna minus the noodles and ricotta cheese – which I’d say is pretty damn accurate.

I posted pictures as I was prepping and many of you asked for the recipe. So, here ya go:

Kwam’s Crock Pot Pepperoni Pizza Chili

Note: Feel free to substitute whatever pizza toppings you like, but for veggies, I wouldn’t add until the last 30 minutes in the crock pot. You can also substitute any of the meats for soy protein, turkey pepperoni, etc.

THE MEATS:

1 lb. ground beef (course-ground chili style if you can get it, or any meat you usually use for chili)

6-8 oz. pepperoni (diced if you have time, thin slices will work too)

THE NON-MEATS:

1 14-oz. can of Diced tomatoes with garlic

1 14-oz. can of Crushed tomatoes

4 oz. Parmesan/Romano cheese mix

1 tsp Crushed red pepper flakes

1 tbsp (or 1 oz.) Fresh oregano

1 tbsp Minced garlic

2 tbsp (or 2 oz.) Fresh basil

1 tsp Sage

1 tsp Sugar

1 tsp Black pepper

¼ cup Mozzarella cheese (per bowl)

THE PREP:

Turn the crock pot on high. Mix the garlic, oregano, basil, pepper flakes, sage, black pepper, and sugar.

Brown the ground beef in a skillet. While that’s cooking, slice the pepperoni. Then, pour both cans of tomatoes into the crock pot and bring to a simmer before adding the spice mix you just made.

Once the meat is browned, toss in the pepperoni until it’s bright red. Then add the meat mix and parmesan/romano mix to the crock pot. Stir it up.

Cook on “high” in the crock pot for 3 hours, then serve in bowls with the mozzarella sprinkled on top.

Enjoy!

Serves 4-6.

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No, YOU're gonna need a bigger boat.

2012-01-18T09:29:00.004-05:00

Dude.

I will never. EVER. EVER. Go on a cruise.

EVER.

I know I’ve said it before, and I’ve had my own, personal, I-Can’t-Fricking-Swim-And-Get-Nauseous-On-A-Boat-Of-Any-Size issues for years. Even a three-hour tour. That’s no secret. I can barely sit in a hot tub without feeling like I’m gonna hurl (for a number of reasons). But fuck cruises.

They just stop. The boats, that is. Just for no reason. They just stop working in the middle of the ocean. I have friends this has happened to. They were stuck. FOR DAYS. They had to be evacuated. FROM THEIR VACATION. Do they run out of gas? Do the hamsters stop going? Are the working-class, coal-shoveling Irishmen in the bowels of the ship tired? I don’t know, and I don’t care, because a ship with no power in the middle of the ocean is just asking for...
Pirates. Really. Yes. And they’re not the oddly effeminate, drunk, hair-braided-with-shells, Johnny Depp type of pirates. They’re crazy zombie-looking dudes with machetes who for some reason want to steal my lounge gear and the jewelry we had no business bringing on a cruise, anyhow. And they’re real. And they’re everywhere. This “international (lawless) waters” stuff is BULLSHIT, yo.
I hate people. I cannot imagine being cooped up with the same people for the duration of a cruise, especially because in situations like those I attract weirdos the way Kardashians attract black guys. You point out the weirdest person in the room, and they will find me. And want to sit next to me AT. EVERY. MEAL. I don’t go on vacation to make new friends, so leave me the Hell alone, Dale from Ohio.
Disease. I hate being sick. And a cruise seems like a much nastier science experiment than sitting in an airplane for a five-hour flight to LA. I’ve actually had more than one set of friends get VIOLENTLY ill from random “outbreaks” on their cruises. One was so bad that they were asked to SKIP one of their ports of call. FUUUUUUUUCK that.
People just disappear. Why are people not paying more attention to this? Uhm, it seems like every other month, someone is just “mysteriously disappearing” from their cruise. Falling overboard? Abducted by aliens? Taken below decks to be Julie McCoy’s sex slave? Who the hell knows? All I keep picturing is that guy who hit the propeller in “Titanic.” You know what I’m talking about. People puree, dude. People puree.
They capsize and sink. The only thing worse for me than sitting in a dead ship waiting for crazy zombie machete-wielding weirdos to cut me into pieces for a pair of Bermuda shorts and some travelers checks is THE SHIP SINKING. I’ve seen “Titanic.” I sat through BOTH versions of “The Poseidon Adventure.” And I also watched the news this past week. We’re talking about sending people to Mars, and we can’t figure out some system or building materials to keep a random rock from flipping over a goddamned cruise ship?
Charo. As a child, I LOVED “The Love Boat.” But whenever Charo showed up, that killed it for me. And I haven’t seen her in a while, so I’d imagine she’s on a cruise ship somewhere. MY cruise ship (see #3). No thanks.

So, enjoy the Lido Deck. Shuffle the Hell out of those boards. But leave me out of it.

Feel free to bring back some duty-free rum or tequila, though.

That’s the rant.

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Cleaning Out The Junk Drawer

2012-01-17T12:01:00.002-05:00

Happy New Year, everyone!

I’m not big on resolutions, because I’m a firm believer that they never really last past Valentines’ Day. But this year, I made a big change I’ve been putting off for nearly a decade.

Yep.

Sometimes, you need to start from scratch. From getting your garage in order to moving to a new city, you’ve gotta reset the counter, clear the decks, and just start over.

This weekend, I did just that with my laptop.

You see, since I got my first used PowerBook “Pismo” back in 2003, whenever I got a new desktop or laptop Mac, I’ve used their crazy simple Migration Assistant. You plug the old one into the new one, and everything gets transferred – apps, settings, even your desktop backgrounds.

She still works, but never gets used because my iPhone has more computing power.

Like I said, it’s crazy simple. But here’s the problem. Since then, I’ve gone through about 6 other machines. And there are a lot of old, outdated, useless apps on my computer that just keep making the move. And old preference files and utilities and settings for printers I no longer own. This adds up to gigabytes of crap I’m not using, or isn’t compatible, is trying to work, and is probably slowing my system down. And then here I sit, wondering why my almost new hard drive is already near full. I’ve got the electronic version of a very full junk drawer – and I just kept shoving stuff in.

But I hate change. And I haven’t kept track of the “critical” apps and utilities. And I don’t even know where the installer disks are for half this stuff. So, I was very hesitant to clean things up. (Like throwing away the random key in the junk drawer only to realize that you just locked yourself out of your backyard shed.)

Combine this with the fact that I, Apple poster boy, early adopter, guy who found it very hard to get anything done the day Steve Jobs died – hadn’t upgraded to OS X Lion yet. Apple’s latest operating system, it’s chock full of new features, and I’m usually the first to pre-order, install, and run with it.

But this time, I was hesitant. They weren’t completely clear on what would and wouldn’t work with it. I have older Macs that have been passed down to the kids that I still need to manage. My TiVos and Mac were finally getting along. And like many Mac users with iPhones, I had finally achieved the Jenga-like balance of getting all my calendars and contacts to sync – BOTH WAYS. I was happy with Snow Leopard, and had everything running just right. So why rock the boat?

Both of these thoughts came to a head when I got my wife a MacBook Air for her birthday, and I decided to use her now retired MacBook as a test bed for Lion before we pack it up or sell it on eBay.

I got completely sucked in. I saw the value of the 250 new features. And when I set up Outlook and iCal… IT WORKED.

But, in the back of my head, I pictured all those hidden files and bloat dating all the way back to 2003. I’d usually just upgraded the operating system, just layering the new on top of the old. I now had almost 10 years of computer clutter to sift through.

Before I knew it, I had made a full backup of my laptop, with redundant copies of my critical client data, and was staring at a screen asking if I wanted to completely erase my hard drive.

I twitched. I hesitated like a Cold War silo soldier turning the second key. And I hit “continue.”

And I started from scratch. I found my most recent installers, and bought Lion-compatible ones where needed. I re-entered even my most basic information. The only two folders I transferred were my “Work” and “Microsoft User Data.” It felt faster. It felt lighter, and after two days of installs and downloading updates, I came in 43GB nimbler than before.

Best of all, My phone still syncs with my calendar. (Knock on wood.)

The junk drawer and the garage can wait until next weekend.

That’s the rant.

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The Christmas Countdown

2011-12-23T11:58:00.005-05:00

Christmas could just as easily be called “stressmas.”

Lights, cards, parties that you don’t want to be at, And of course, gift giving. Of course you could do it the easy way: pay attention and shop early. But who the Hell has time for that shit? And some people you don’t know as well, and then you get invited to their houses and you have to bring something (cheese is always a hit), and the kids change their lists, and you didn’t realize work was doing a gift exchange, and…

So you wait. You procrastinate, and then, YOU PANIC. And eventually, you say eff it. Here’s how it goes, depending on how long you wait:

1 Month Out:

“I’ve got plenty of time, I’ll just hit Black Friday or Cyber Monday and be done. Oh yeah, I should probably order the cards.”

3 Weeks Out:

“I’ll just go out at lunch this week and pick stuff up at the mall.”

2 Weeks Out:

“Damnit, I have to remember to go to the mall after work this week. After the kids’ pageant, and decorating the tree, and sending the cards. What do you mean I WAS SUPPOSED TO ORDER THE CARDS?”

1 Week Out:

“Gift Cards and online shopping it is. These express delivery charges aren’t that bad.”

5 Days Out:

“Uhm…uh….I’ll just stop at CVS on the way to their house. They have wrapping paper there, too, right?”

3 Days Out:

“Wow, who knew that these gas stations had such great gift ideas? I mean, who doesn’t like scratch-off tickets, Gatorade and Slim Jims?”

2 Days Out:

“Agggh! There’s gotta be something in this house I can wrap up for them…like these random keys in the junk drawer – they look festive, right? At least they jingle. ”

1 Day Out:

“Gifts? Bleh. The holiday has become so commercialized now. That’s why I’m not giving presents this year.”

By the way, no one believes you. That’s the rant.

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Say CHEESY!

2011-12-20T00:27:00.004-05:00

So let’s say you run away from home, get run over by a bus, or you’re a hot white lady who makes the mistake of going to Aruba. At some point, they’re going to have to show your picture on the news. But why the Hell is it always such a bad picture?

People. Is THIS how you want to be remembered for all time?

Look, I understand that your family is probably distraught, panicked, scared, and generally overwhelmed because you may be laying dead in a gutter somewhere. So, when the local NBC station shows up at your house looking for pictures, they grab what’s most convenient, which apparently is whatever is on their cell phone, wallet, or your high school yearbook. Even in the age of Facebook, they seem to find the least flattering picture possible. It’s bad enough that I’m missing or dead. No one needs to see me in a Benetton polo and flat-top hair from 1989.

Same goes for obituary pictures. Seriously? I live a long, full life, and the best picture my surviving family has for the newspaper is me wearing a goofy captain’s hat on front of an inflatable palm tree and fake moonlit backdrop? WTF?

So, I’m planning on choosing a few of my favorite pictures of myself and putting them on a USB flash drive. This particular USB flash drive will be duplicated and given to my parents, siblings and spouse. The pictures will be cropped, red-eye corrected, and camera-ready, so even while people are watching the story and feeling sad, they’ll still be thinking: “Damn, that is one handsome mofo.”

Then, and only then will I plan my trip to Aruba with Gary Giordano.

That’s the rant.

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Holiday Remix: No More Singing

2011-12-15T08:53:00.005-05:00

It's no surprise that most Christmas songs aren't any good.

For every Bing Crosby or Burl Ives, you've got 17

Selena Gomezes-es, the Chipmunks, or that Emmitt the Otter Jug Band bullshit. And those are just the folks singing new versions of old songs. Maybe, just MAYBE once every 10 years a *new* Christmas song will break through, but it's rare to say the least. For me, it's great, because there's no shortage of songs to pick on. It's sad that anyone with access to bells and a recording studio thinks that they have the right to make Christmas music. Ugh. But speaking of bells….

"Silver Bells"
I find this one hard to believe. If it's Christmastime in the city, you won't hear any bells. You'll hear some horns, definitely some sirens, some hookers asking if you need a date for your office party, some crying kids, and the occasional gunshot. Ding-a-ling, hear them ring? Not unless you're in Topeka. And I just saw that "city" on "COPS," so I'm not even so sure about that one, Chachi.

"Step into Christmas"

So, is Christmas a pair of pants? Boots? A pile of poop? I still don't get how I'm supposed to step in a holiday. Then again, Sir Elton, you also sang "Crocodile Rock," which I STILL don't get. Come to think of it, I don't really get any of your music. Crazy British people. At least this one isn't constantly caught diddling himself in a park. But more about THAT Brit later.

"Pretty Paper"
This one belongs on the Charlie Brown Christmas Special it's so depressing sounding. And can you say ADD? Dude, it's Christmas, and you're singing about the ribbons a

nd the paper? Hello, there are gifts under there. THAT's the good stuff! Unless you didn't get anything good... which is why you have to sing about the paper... and I stand by my original assessment that this is depressing as hell. And Roy, take off the dark glasses, you're freaking me out.

"Do they know it's Christmas? (Feed the world.)"
Lemme see. They live in a tribe in Africa. They don't believe in Jesus, if they even know who we're talking about. So, the answer would have to be...NO. And do they care? Not so much. If they saw a big fat white guy and 8 reindeer, there's good money that says they'd eat them. But the part of this song that always pisses me off? Bono yelling (about the poor naked starving Africans) "Tonight, thank God it's them, instead of you!!!" Wow. That's really the spirit of the season. Never mind the fact that feeding the world, as a noble cause, shouldn't be restricted to Christmas, a holiday they (once again) don't even care about. Luckily Bono got much better at this with about 20 years of practice.

No, they don't know it's Christmas. Thanks, jackass.

"Little Saint Nick"

I love the Beach Boys as much as any red-blooded American who longsfor the days when we could leave our front doors open and hang out with Gidget, but this song crosses a line. Santa in some souped-up
hot rod with "...a ski for a wheel?" I don't think so. And where are the reindeer, huh? Lemme guess...way down in Kokomo?

"Last Christmas"
Classic 80s junior high school Christmas party slow dance song. Too bad it started sucking for me when I realized that George Michael was singing about a DUDE. As for my casssingle? The very next day, I gave it away.

"Santa Claus is Coming To Town"
...yeah, and John Walsh from "America's Most Wanted" is right behind him, the stalker. He sees me when I'm sleeping, knows when I'm awake? Is he also digging through my trash and calling me at 3 AM just to hang up? No, wait, that's just my psycho neighbor. Never mind. Wrong song.

Oh crap. Now I have it stuck in my head. Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya to Bermuda, Bahama, c'mon pretty mama…Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go down to Kokomo, we'll get there fast and then we'll take it slow, THAT's where we want to go…way down to Kokomo…

That's the rant.

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Holiday Edition: It's A Wrap

2011-12-13T09:37:00.004-05:00

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So, I sat down to start wrapping Christmas presents today. Not holiday presents, not December presents, CHRISTMAS presents. For CHRISTMAS. It’s a sad frickin’ world we live in where the mere mention of a specific holiday raises an eyebrow. I understand, as most of us do, that there are different religions and beliefs. DUH. Me and mine? We celebrate Christmas. If you celebrate Hanukkah, or Kwanza, and you wish me a happy or merry one, I’ll take it for what it is, not consider you some politically insensitive a-hole.

So, Merry Effing Christmas.

Anyway, wrapping. My dear wife and I come from two completely different schools of thought on this one. She’s all about the presentation – the right bow, the matching tissue paper, the color-coordinated gift tags, and the perfectly folded corners. Me? I look at wrapping paper for what it is – something to cover up something else that you don’t want other people to see. My goal in wrapping a gift is that the recipient cannot peek, shake, or otherwise decipher what’s in the box.

Above: Gifts wrapped by my wife

This requires a lot of tape.

No, really. Like, a lot. Like “Christmas-morning-you-better-bring-the-letter-opener-to-open-gifts-that-Kwam-wrapped-a-lot.”

See, I was one of those kids that always tried to sneak a peek. Lifting that one un-taped corner, then laying it flat again; holding the gifts wrapped in that thin drug store wrapping paper up to the light to see what lies beneath – I was crafty.

Now, when I sit to wrap for my kids, I’m not building a pretty package. I’m building a fortress. A fortress made of recycled paper and 3M (no off brands here) Scotch™ tape. Gift tags? Maybe, if they’re handy. Bows? Meh. If you’ve seen a kid unwrap a Christmas present – or any present for that matter – precious few care about that crap. All that work you put into it ends up a shredded pile of trash out by the curb. I make sure the gift is covered on all sides, and I write the “To” and “From” right on the paper with a super festive black Sharpie. The kids don’t notice, the kids don’t care.

Don’t get me wrong. The gifts don’t look like they were wrapped by Ray Charles, and I even take care to get special paper JUST for gifts from Santa. They just don’t have six-inch ribbon curls and music coming out of them.

You know who appreciates the bows and tags and glitter and unicorn rainbow tape? Grandmothers. In fact, they keep all that stuff. So, sure, I’ll do it up for Granny. With all the time I save wrapping the kids’ gifts, I can spend that quality time.

So, if you’re lucky enough to get a gift from me, don’t waste a lot of time looking at it. It’s what’s inside that counts.

That’s the rant.

Comic books...without the books.

2011-03-26T16:07:00.005-04:00

I’m reading more comic books today than when I was 14 years old, and I don’t have a single crate, mylar bag, or overstuffed closet to show for it. And I couldn’t be happier.

In 2002, my 15,000-issue comic book collection went away. I didn’t lose it in a fire, or to insensitive parents who wouldn’t let me keep it in their house anymore (though they were, and they wouldn’t) – I lost it to adult responsibility. You see, my then-pregnant wife and I decided that Captain America, Spider-Man and Green Lantern would serve us far better as active contributors to the house we were about to buy. So I sold my collection.

The pride of my former collection -- Namor and Tony Stark helped the down payment on our first house.

Nine years later, I read my comics digitally. No clutter. No bagging and boarding. And best of all, I can bring my collection with me anywhere. And I do most of it using ComicZeal, a great iPad/iPhone app that really brings the experience of paper comics to life without so much…paper. While I’m getting too old to try reading a comic book on my iPhone screen, after a full year with the iPad, I can say with some confidence that it's a great solution. With it, I’ve been able to catch up on the great (and not so great) storylines of recent years AND discover some new comics, as well. Civil War, Skrull Invasion, dead DC characters rising from the dead and wearing rainbow lantern rings? Yep, yep, yep.

AIN'T IT PURDY?

ComicZeal offers a simple interface, auto-magnification, in-app folders to keep certain titles or crossover together, and wireless sync. It tells me what page I’m on, even if I switch books, and has quickly become the #1 app, usage-wise, on my iPad.

If you don’t feel like dropping five bills, but still want to read comics digitally, check out this article. I’ve gotta get back to my comics.

That’s the rant.

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Can I get a little warning?

2011-01-25T16:21:00.003-05:00

People suck.

Yeah, I’m just gonna lay it out there with a broad generalization. People are annoying, judgmental, selfish, conniving, slimy, needy, and when all else fails, just plain stupid. All you have to do to confirm it is watch ANY reality TV. I mean, really, when was the last time you made it through an entire day without having to deal with at least one moron? You know, the kind of person that made you wonder how you both could have come from the same primordial soup?

They say the burden of the world is on the intelligent, thus the phrase “ignorance is bliss.” If you don’t watch news, or care, or pay attention at all, the world is a pretty chill place. The rest of us are the ones worrying about mortgage payments, war, healthcare, and figuring out why NBC cancelled “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.” (Damn, I loved that show.)

Intelligence is also knowledge. And how cool would it be if you knew ahead of time who the annoying morons were – an early warning system as it were? You get warned by labels on cigarettes, beer, your clothes, and even full-fat mayonnaise. So why not warning labels for people? You know, like a tag or shirt they have to wear: “I tell long, pointless stories,” “I don’t really care if she has an orgasm,” “I’m an angry drunk.” If you like those sorts of things, stick around and keep talking to them. If not, move on.

Think of all the shitty meetings, bad relationships, and disappointing parties you could avoid – and all the free time you’d have! Sweet FREEDOM!!!

But I’ll also give THIS warning. Get used to being lonely.

That’s the rant.

And yes, they are available at the Rant Shop: http://www.cafepress.com/kwamsrantshop/6878727

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R.I.P. Adam Sandler's Mojo

2011-01-23T23:09:00.004-05:00

Oh, Adam Sandler, where have you gone? Much like Saturday morning cartoons and innocence, you’re absent, and it makes me sad. Moreso when you keep making these awful movies. “Spanglish?” “Funny People?” (They weren’t.) That stupid-ass Disney movie that even my kids couldn’t sit through?

And now…you telegraph what you wish we would all do with the title of your latest failure: “Just Go With It.”

My answer is, NO.

Even though Brooklyn Decker is HAWT. Even though I could stare at Jennifer Aniston having a dental exam. I will not see your stupid rom-com. Why? First, a bikini is as naked as either of those chicks will be in that movie. Second, you’re not funny anymore. Third, you’re not funny anymore. “Zohan?” That one with Don Cheadle where your hair looked like Don King? Click? Dude – you tried to make me cry with THAT shit. You suck. I mean, we all have mortgages to pay, but are you even TRYING anymore? You’re now dead to me.

When do we want a good movie from you? T-t-t-to-DAYYYY, junior!

Have some dignity like David Spa—I mean, Will Ferr—oh, nevermind. They’re useless, too.

I’ll be point blank. Here’s when we like you – when you’re an idiot. Opera Man. Canteen Boy. Billy Madison. Happy Gilmore. These are what you’ll be remembered for. And while you spared us endless, useless sequels (I’m looking at YOU, Mike Myers), you gave us declining quality nonetheless. If it were still on the air, I’d expect you to pop up on “The Match Game” or as this generation’s J.P. Morgan on “The Gong Show.”

Scratch that. I forgot there are 176 versions of “The Chanukah Song.”

Go back to being stupid, Adam. Not making stupid choices. Or, just go away. And again I say, I will not “just go with it.”

And why the hell WAS J.P. Morgan famous?

That’s the rant.

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Read THE BOOK.

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Yeah, I was in Menudo.

2010-11-09T14:17:00.002-05:00

I was reading People magazine the other day (don't judge), and there was a ridiculously long article about former Menudo member and current out-of-the-closet gay dad Ricky Martin. It got me to thinkin: Remember MENUDO? Wow. Takes me right back to Junior High, where I understood the phenomenon only slightly less than I do now. But the chicks LOVED these guys. L-O-V-E-D them....until the much less suburban scary NKOTB came along and stole their white-girl thunder. Sadly, I do remember seeing this video in... 6th? 7th grade? and wishing I had the courage to sing under my crush's window while dancing with five of my closest Hispanic friends:

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qaQ3O444sDM)

Alas, I was meant to be a New Edition wannabe. But, I digress.

What it got me thinkin was this: If I were a single 30-something Hispanic guy, I'd TOTALLY use the "I used to be in Menudo" line. ALL THE TIME. It's not like there's any way to check. First off, can YOU name any member of that group BESIDES Ricky Martin?

*CRICKETS*

That's what I thought. And, at last count, there were enough "former Menudo members" to completely inhabit the state of Delaware (which, coincidentally, would be a HUGE upgrade). And based on what I'm seeing above, you don't have to be as good-looking as Ricky Martin, either.

Then, all you'd have to do is memorize a few lyrics and woefully cheesy dance moves (again, see above). If your singing voice isn't up to snuff, tell her you left the group before your voice changed. See? Easy peasy.

Finding super-tight acid washed jeans and an oversized neon OP t-shirt is up to you.

That's the rant.

Now, you:

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7 days of random...

2010-10-28T00:45:00.002-04:00

Seven things I experienced this past week:

I was a zombie. And a rasta. At the same time.
For the first time since "Star Trek," I saw a movie twice in the theater. It was "The Social Network," and the second viewing was marred by a couple having sex in the back row of the theater. Considering the price of movie tickets, it would have actually been cheaper for them to get a hotel room. No, it wasn't hot. Yes, they were both unattractive.
My son not only scored the winning (and only) run in a huge game against his league rival White Sox, but also turned an unassisted double play in the final inning to preserve the lead and end the game. He's 7.
I finally hit 100 sold copies of my book. *happy dance*
I found myself humming "Da Dip" for the first time since 1995. Or was it '96?
I finally got a semi-decent explanation for that stupid commercial where the loser wimpy kid gets chased into the back of a minivan. However, the commercial (and minivans) still suck.
I realized that I could give a rat's ass about Taylor Swift. No surprise at all if she turns out to be one of the celebrity aliens they call out in the next "Men in Black" movie. Apparently Will Smith's kids aren't making enough to cover the mortgage on their own.

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Hallo-WEAK.

2010-10-28T00:00:00.006-04:00

Well, as I posted to no one in particular on Facebook yesterday, we're just a couple days away from all the girls dressing like sluts and all the curious guys dressing like women. Not that there's anything wrong with that. If I have to stand around all night sweating in a goofy-ass costume, getting to see

lots of drunken boobies in naughty pirate and nurse outfits seems like a fair trade. Men dressed as women? Entertaining, but not worth the price of admission. Then again, I was once groped at a drag show in Key West, so I'm pretty much scarred for life on that one.

That's what I get for going somewhere on a dare.

Anyhow, I've never been a big Halloween fan, as previous October rants have documented. And for the record, if you come to my house dressed as a clown, you may get punched in the junk, or see a grown man faint. The second scenario may work to your advantage since this will likely happen in my doorway, giving you full access not only to the candy bowl, but the wallet in my back pocket. However, I digress.

I didn't like Halloween as a kid because we got chased home from our catholic school by public school kids throwing Nair-laced rotten eggs at us. If I DID go trick-or-treating, it was in an apartment building -- not really a Norman Rockwell painting there. And my mother had me so terrified about laced candy and apples with razors inside that I never enjoyed my treats, though if you timed it right, there were definitely tricks in the stairwell.

High school? Too old to trick-or-treat. Not cool enough to be invited to any Halloween parties that I can recall. And yes, more rotten eggs as I ran to the bus stop. YAY.

In college, I was first introduced to the idea of "Slutty __________" as a costume. That made things much more interesting. So did the fact that we won money or free beer for our costumes, and went to some kick-ass parties. At least I looked like a moron (or Geordi LaForge that one year) for a good reason, right?

Yeah. I still have that Enterprise ship in my office.

Post-college was more of the same, with the introduction of office Halloween parties, which were fun mainly because I worked at advertising agencies.

Alas, I still don't really get excited about this faux holiday. I wear a costume because I catch less crap than if i show up in regular clothes. I don't "get into character," except the year I channeled Lil' Jon and had a sore throat for a week afterwards.

Now that we have kids, and I have a wife who loves Halloween, it works. Besides having an actual, kick-ass adult Halloween party to go to every year, there's also a simple division of labor in our little suburban neighborhood -- Mommy walks the kids around the neighborhood, and Daddy hands out candy at home and plays scary music.

No, I'll never love it. And I probably will never spend hundreds every year on fake headstones and life-size mummies that jump out at you. But I've found a way to make it work while drawing smiles from my fam. So I've got that going for me.

That's the rant.

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Rip Van Kwamster

2010-08-28T16:08:00.002-04:00

I gotta say, that blog-stealing asshat really pissed me off. After 12 years -- yes, 12 YEARS of rants, I actually considered closing up shop. And as you can see, I took some time off. But should I really have been surprised?

-Kids don't even research at libraries or use encyclopedias anymore for papers.

-They're perfectly fine cutting and pasting whatever they find on the Internet.

-When they do, they don't attribute anything, or fact-check it.

-They have no problems illegally downloading music, games, TV shows, or movies.

-Somehow, TMZ is now a credible *gag* "News" source.

So, really, who would give a shit about copying my random musings about the A-Team, or when it's OK for me to publicly lust after Selena Gomez?

*birds chirping*

But I'm here, I'm awake, and I still see the world through childish, silly eyes. So please form an orderly line. The Rant is now re-opened for business.

-K

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Meet Scott Owens. Blog Thief.

2010-07-11T12:15:00.003-04:00

Hey, loyal readers, I'd like to introduce you to Scott Owens of Broken Arrow, OK. I briefly mentioned him yesterday.

http://www.myspace.com/scottthediver

He's a 50-ish Dad, Grandad, Commercial Diver, and a BLOG THIEF.

He's been stealing my rants for years and posting them on his MySpace blog.

Let us pause for a moment and laugh at the one person left on MySpace.

And this isn't an "oops I forgot to attribute it" situation. This is a full-on, "I'm gonna change Kwam's name to my name and pretend these are my experiences" situation. Except, there's no way, for example, that his father would have taken him to his first movie in a theater when he was 3 -- to Star Wars, no less -- in 1977 -- SINCE HE WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL.

I have contacted MySpace copyright infringement since he's also in violation of the DCMA -- and, of course, my lawyer, because my words are my babies.

So, Scott, I invite you to steal this blog entry. Please post it on your blog so everyone knows what a no-talent, hack, asshat you are.

Or, you could be decent (which would be a surprise) and remove the entries before the above authorities make you do it.

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I make no PROMises.

2010-05-04T12:17:00.010-04:00

It's prom season and coast to coast, awkward teens are milling around the mall, getting measured for tuxes and picking out dresses that look more like "Gone With the Wind" than "going to the gym." Once, my wife and I were having dinner with her parents when we saw a bunch of kids on their way to the prom, taking pictures of each other and giggling the whole time. I looked at one stick-boy who couldn't have been more than 17 and thought:

Yuk it up, Chachi. 10 years from now you'll be laughing at this. The suit. The hair. And yes, as sweet as she seems, as hot as she looks, you'll even be laughing at your date.

Remember YOUR prom? Remember your dress or your tux? Remember your date? Remember that haircut that was so fresh that you still smelled like barber shop? Seriously, getting ready for prom was like the ultimate obstacle course. Everything you hated about being a teenager rolled into one night:

First, you have to get a date. It's high school so the old rules still apply. If you're a guy, you're doing the asking. If you're a young lady, you're waiting to be asked. (If you're gay, they cancel your whole prom and it becomes national news, but that's neither here nor there.) So, you're either staring at the phone, too nervous to touch it, or waiting for it to ring, buzz, or vibrate. Or worse, you're standing by a locker smelling like Dad's aftershave, waiting for your personal Venus to come by, and praying that she'll say yes.

And heaven help you if she's not the first person you asked. Because the whole school knows that you asked Samantha and she said "no." You're damaged goods, buddy, right up on the clearance rack next to that Microsoft Zune. Hell, you might as well be a leper at that point - or start hanging around math club meetings, hoping for one of those girls with pigtails and glasses, who isn't too discriminating. Hey, in the movies, they always turn out to be babes.

If you say no to too many guys, the one you're waiting for may be too afraid to ask you. Or no one else will ask you, and you end up taking your hot cousin who happens to be home from college. So you get sick of waiting for Dream Date Ken. You panic. You say yes to the quiet guy from homeroom. Next day, Ken shows up to ask you. UGH! Dilemma!

And no, I NEVER got to go to prom with my first choice. EVER. #StillBitter

For the ladies, it's a balancing act.

Either side of this fence is hell, unless you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. If so, you're already WAY ahead of the game, but don't gloat, because people STILL get dumped mere days before the prom.

Next, you have to get some dress-up clothes. For most girls, this is a blast - a new dress, new shoes, new bag.

This also means weekend upon weekend of shopping, either with your friends or without. Either way, one of them may show up in your dress, which apparently is the absolute worst thing that can happen. What if she looks better than me in it? What if she picked nicer shoes? Too much to worry about. You need the perfect, unique, never-before-seen prom dress to end all prom dresses. So, you go to the newsstand and pick one out of "Seventeen's Prom Issue."

...Just like every other girl.

Hmph. What do you expect? You're still a high-schooler.

For guys, it's renting a shoes and an ill-fitting suit that 100 guys have worn before you, that you don't really want to wear anyway. This once again speaks to the fundamental difference between men and women.

They'll spend hundreds on a dress they'll only wear once. We rent a tux for the night, and save ourselves about $400. Anyhow, as a guy, you really don't want to dress up, but you buy into this tradition for one night. You get a tux and try to make it your own - cool tie, matching vest, or the classics -- wearing your Chuck Taylor high-tops or tuxedo t-shirt with it. And if you weren't the guy who did this, you can name the guy at prom who did.

Then, Mom wants to take pictures of you. Lots of pictures. Pictures that end up lingering in your life for way longer than they should (Facebook, anyone?). And they are always on the front lawn, so the neighbors can see you, too. And, of course, make comments about how grown-up you look. Why? Because without your baseball cap, jeans, and grungy shirt, it's the most presentable they've ever seen you.

Then, there's dancing. In front of teachers. In a gym. Nothing is more romantic than dancing with your sweetheart under a basketball hoop while your friends make faces at you from the bleachers. Yes, what better place to say goodbye to high school than the same room where you got nailed in the family jewels by a stray dodge ball in 9th grade, or where your bra popped off in the middle of calisthenics? Ah yes, the teenage years are filled with much irony.

Then, you're hoping to get lucky. You know just what I mean. Let the campaigning begin. "C'mon, baby, it's prom night. Everybody does it on prom night!" "This will make tonight perfect." Puh-leese. Ladies, even if you say no, that won't be how he remembers it. Ever wonder why most guys say they got lucky on their prom night, yet most girls say they didn't? You do the math.

Dating. Lying. Backstabbing. Parental awkwardness. Teenaged awkwardness. Sexual frustration. Welcome to prom, people.

I was more of a realist, I guess (AND A GEEK). On MY prom night, my idea of "getting lucky" was not spilling anything on the tux so I could get my full deposit back to buy a new Sega cartridge.

That's the rant.

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HULK-a-mania!

2010-04-09T11:51:00.006-04:00

As you might have guessed, I watch a lot of TV. I mean. A. LOT.

It started when I was a kid. I actually had 3 parents growing up. Mom, Dad, and Zenith. They were quite a team. Zenith told me I wanted Cocoa Puffs. Mom bought them for me. Dad made me eat them after I took three bites and decided I was "full."

But that's neither here nor there. As some of you may recall, I took a moment last week to reflect on "Happy Days," one of many shows I loved as a kid. And I ripped it apart. So, it got me thinking about other dumb shows I watched. Shows like...

The Incredible Hulk.

Why did I watch this so religiously? It was sooooo formulaic. Drifter and former scientist David Banner wanders into small town, helps some old lady cross the street, then he's accosted by local thugs. They beat the crap out of him because he's a big sissy, then he becomes a big, green anti-sissy and beats them up. Then he holds some little kid's hand, turns back into the sissy, and wanders away. All the while, he's chased by some loser reporter.

I just summed up all 3 seasons of it.

And still, I have questions.

You and your gang find some sissy, and beat the crap out of him. Let's also say you throw him behind some boxes. 10 seconds later, some big green guy in torn pants comes out from behind the same boxes and beats you and your gang up. Yet, you always think the green guy must've "eaten" the sissy? Hello!! It's the same guy! Look at the pants!!! How dumb are you? Oh yeah, you're in a gang in a small town. Never mind. Man, wait unti the "A-Team: shows up, you morons.

How come, when a guy says, "Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry," everyone laughs at him and beats the crap out of him? Oh yeah, because it's stupid.

And there were things they didn't show us... like, the day David Banner got into a fender bender and killed someone. Or the DMV debacle. Or the day they forgot to put the prize in his happy meal. And I'm sure he was no fun to be around when his team was losing or when his girl had just dumped him. So my question is, just how angry did he have to get to turn into the Hulk? Even the most even-keeled person might go all big-and-green at their in-laws' house once in a while.

But out of all the things on that show that freaked me out, it was those damn eyes right before he turned into Lou Ferrigno. As freaky as Michael Jackson's eyes in the Thriller video. That and the fact that this 300-lb. man was running around with his ding-dong hanging out. Now THAT was scary. Why couldn't he just wear sweatpants? It's not as if he didn't know he was going to turn into the Hulk at some point.

Speaking of which, his shoes, socks, shirt and hat would all explode off of him when he super-sized it, but his pants always remained. Weird.

But, it was still better than BOTH tries at a Hulk movie. (Ok, the second one was a VAST improvement, but still)

Eh, then it went off the air and I started watching The Dukes of Hazzard on Friday nights at 8. But that's another rant for another day.

See ya!

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24+ Hours of iPad.

2010-04-04T20:48:00.005-04:00

So, a lot of you have asked, and I appreciate that you value my opinion.

I’ve had my iPad for a little more than 36 hours, and I have to say, I’m impressed. Not fanboy, rose-colored glasses impressed. Genuinely impressed. My 32GB, Wi-Fi version is great – for me. I say that because I saw a very specific need for it from the beginning.

My main reason for getting this thing was that it presented a seemingly better option than the Kindle (and/or Nook) that I’ve coveted the last year. I read a lot of books, I’m not patient enough for the library, and I don’t want them piled all over the house. It’s more than the Kindle or Nook, but it’s based on a system that I’m an expert at, and from a company that I’ve rarely been disappointed by. Plus, it’s bigger, and offers more than JUST reading books. So, that’s my eBook argument, and I’m sticking to it. So here we go:

Overall:

Get a microfiber cloth. This thing gets fingerprint messy fast. But it’s fast, responsive, and fun. Feels solid in the hands, and while I won’t be fitting it in any pocket other than cargo pants, it’s a good size. I love the orientation lock button so it doesn’t keep flipping while I’m reading in bed. I’d like to put it in a case, and luckily mine is now on the way.

I don’t feel a need for the 3G, as I don’t want another monthly expense, and already have my iPhone if I want to surf the web, check e-mail, etc. out in the world. But that’s my scenario, using it mainly as an eBook reader. Speaking of, here are the highlights of my experience so far:

eBook reader:

So far, so good. Read inside, and outside, by sun, by cloud, by lamp, and in the dark. 45 pages total. No eye strain. No weird glare, though the glass does show fingerprints like a mofo. My ePubs imported perfectly into iTunes, with the minor exception of about half of them losing their cover art. But I’m already used t that with my music, and the cover art wasn’t hard to add. The options, animations, and look are all stellar. The free “Winnie the Pooh” book with iBooks is a nice touch. iBooks on the iPad makes me very happy my wife opted to get me “DJ Hero” instead of a Kindle last Christmas.

Bonus:

The Marvel Comics app. Wow, do comic books looks great on here. As do magazines on the Zinio app. Damn.

Music:
It’s a big iPod touch. Yep. I hear that a lot. And in the case of watching movies or reading books, guess what? It’s a good thing.

Videos:

Wow. Between my own library, YouTube, ABC player and Netflix (can Hulu be far behind?), I’ve got a lot of high quality eye candy to look at. Like I said, MORE THAN AN EBOOK READER.

Games:

I like what I have so far, mostly blown-up iPhone games, but I’m waiting for some that really show off the bigger screen.

Battery Life:

It showed up with a 97% charge, and about 36 hours later….40% left. And I’ve obviously been using it a LOT.

So…this is what I expected, and then some. This will keep me more than entertained on a long flight, or on my upcoming camping trip with my Cub Scouts. And it looks a lot better on my nightstand than 118 paperbacks.

My in-laws were impressed. My 6-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter both used it intuitively. And a wifey who “didn’t get it” already warmed up to a much improved, big-screen epicurious app.

So far, I’m not even close to missing 3G, a camera, USB ports or whatever else people are complaining about. It’s a kick-ass book reader PLUS movies, music, comic books, games, and, well, you get the idea.

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Until you've walked a mile in their iPad...

2010-04-02T12:19:00.001-04:00

Ok, I’ve had quite enough.

Seriously, everyone, SHUT THE HELL UP.

Good. Now…

Either you want the iPad, or you don’t. You can’t love it or hate it yet, because I doubt you’re one of the special few who has laid hands upon it. So, writing 600 words on why it sucks, or why you’re not gonna get one is as dumb as saying that it will change your life.

I’m GETTING one, and I’m sick of reading about it. Just like in politics, these pundits SUCK.

It’s a thing. A. THING. Just like a car, or a house, or a pair of shoes. Kenneth Cole just announced cushy new loafers. I don’t see anyone writing weeks and weeks of hate articles about how they’re no better than my sandals, or expensive as my dress shoes. No one screaming about how they don’t have shoelaces and will “fall off your feet at every opportunity.” But the same logic applies: No one is making you buy loafers. If you don’t like loafers, don’t see the point of loafers, or don’t like how loafers look, don’t buy them, and move along. But shut up about how they’re not boat shoes, sneakers, flip-flops, or pimp shoes with an aquarium in the heel.

This man is not your Dad. He can't MAKE you get one.

Some people will like it, some people will love it. And others will never get it – or get one. It happens all the time. There are still people who don’t see the point of TV (I can’t use my imagination like radio!) or computers (I find the clickety-clack of my typewriter soothing). I call these people crazy.

Now, back to refreshing my UPS tracking page.

That's the rant.

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Rich? Or Ditch?

2010-03-18T10:13:00.006-04:00

This weekend, while enjoying an expensive dinner in a fancy French restaurant, I realized that the rich and the poor have a lot in common.

But first, a few things about fancy eating.

I'll admit. I don't know much about wine. So, I thought I'd save some embarrassment by ordering the house white. Sound safe, right? Good enough for the house, good enough for me, right? So, the wine guy come over and shows me the bottle. It's green. It's got a label. Looks like wine to me. But he won't leave. I didn't know I actually had to say "Yes, that's fine my good man," in my best Thurston Howell III voice.

Anyhow, he comes back after opening it, pours half a sip in my glass, and
starts looking at me. I guess this is the part I saw on TV when I'm
supposed to smell it, and squish it around in my mouth. I don't know what
I'm smelling. I don't know what I'm tasting for. It's not skunky. So, I told
him it was "excellent." I don't know. It sounded like an upper crust thing
to say.

Next came the cavalcade of supporting characters. The water guy. He pours
the water. That's it. He doesn't change utensils. He doesn't take your
order. He doesn't clear the table. He's the water guy.

Then there's the fork guy. He's cool. He only handles forks. No knives, no spoons, no melon ballers. Just forks. And he's good. And so, they all came and went - the order taker, the order bringer, the guy who comes out and explains what's on your plate, the plate take-away guy, the wine guy, the dessert guy, the coffee/tea guy, and finally, the check guy.

Oh wait! How could I forget the scraper guy? There's actually a guy who comes by with this little silver thing and scrapes the crumbs off the table. I kid you not. Like some crazy dinner zamboni, he comes by, sweeps your crumbs away, and he's gone. Ah, the good life.

Anyhow, rich. Poor. Stuff in common.

Eating, for instance.

When you're rich, you don't eat a lot because you spend a lot of your dinner time schmoozing, and talking about where you and Muffy like to "summer." (By the way, it's always "at the shore,"
even if you live in Kansas.) All that talking doesn't leave much time to eat. However, after my "rich person's meal" on Saturday night, I came to the conclusion that upper crust chefs have learned to give you rich folks smaller portions. How small?

I thought my salad was garnish.I thought my entrée was an appetizer.
By the time dessert showed up, I was wondering when my food was coming.

And to make it look even smaller, they present everything to you on a HUGE plate. Don't get me wrong. It was tasty, but I would have liked some more for my money. It also explained to me why French folks are all so skinny. They never have a whole meal!

But, I know how cranky I get when I'm not well-fed, so that must also explain why the French are so uppity.

Now, when you're poor, you also have small portions. This, however, is not by choice. But on the upside, like the rich and European, you have the svelte figure that all the middle class people want!

Work. If you're rich, weekends don't even matter to you, because you never really work. The same goes for your run-of-the-mill poor person.

Home. When you're rich, you live in a mansion that looks like a museum, where you're not allowed to touch anything. When you're poor, you sleep out in front of the museum, where you're also not allowed to touch anything.

Eating out. You're extremely wealthy. When you enter a restaurant, everyone takes notice of you, your companions, and what you're wearing. When you're extremely poor and walk into a restaurant, people also take notice of the same things. And hold their noses. And call the police.

People skills. When you're rich or poor, the average person on the street is SHOCKED when you talk to them. Some even act as if you're not talking to them at all!

Clothes. When you're rich, you wear things that no one else has. Your outfits are one of a kind, and so well-tailored that they're part of you. When you're poor, you also wear things that no one else has, and one-of-a-kind, because they're all out of style. Either that, or you're wearing a tablecloth. And, you wear the same clothes for so long that they actually DO become part of you.

Finally, speech. When you're rich, apparently you have to pick up some affected Bostonian accent and try to sound like a Kennedy. When the rich aren't babbling about "Hahvahd Yahd," they're jabbering on in Latin, a dead language used almost exclusively by stuck up rich people to remind the rest of us that while we were playing "Marco Polo' at the public pool, they were playing water polo at the prep school.

My point? No one understands what the hell rich people are saying. Poor people, on the other hand, usually live in a trailer park or ghetto and also speak languages that no one else understands.

Apparently, the poorer or richer you get, the harder it is for you to be understood. Try to listen to some aristocrat talk about wine, or listen to some bum explain why he doesn't have a job. Then you'll see what I mean.

Well, whether you're stinky, filthy rich, or just plain stinky and filthy, that's the rant.

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Alls growed up and alls growed up!

2010-03-11T20:05:00.002-05:00

The other day, sitting at my desk, I had an epiphany. No, it wasn’t life-changing, cancer-curing, or even the answer to why Carrot Top ever had or continues to have a career.

But it made me stop and think. And these days, that’s rare.

It al started back when my Mom had to go in for surgery in December. Sitting in the family waiting area, I remembered that one of my high school friends was a doctor at that hospital. Turns out, she’s a department head. And not the only one of my high school friends who is a now a doctor (full disclosure, I went to a Medical Science magnet high school), or lawyer, or detective in the NYPD, author, cable news talking head, Wall Street Journal editor, owner of their own business, or captain of industry.

I then realized that when my own Dad was my age he and Mom had been divorced for nearly 5 years already, after only six years of marriage. My wife and I have been together 11 years now.

Then, a few weeks back, someone at the grocery store referred to me as “…that nice gentleman.” That same week, an interviewee my wife was dealing with referred to her as “…the lady.” (Can it be my wife is related to… THE MAN?)

But I digress.

What opened my eyes most recently is the fact that I have two friends, in two different states, running for political office. And not school-board member or crossing guard, either, actual we-make-decisions-that-affect-millions political office. Friends. My age. People I snuck into parties with, got busted for curfew with, who I passed notes with in class. Wha?

That’s what hit me hardest.

We’re not just grown-ups now. We’re running things. Like, for reals. Mom and Dad aren’t cleaning up our messes. We’re not living to get drunk all weekend and hook up. (Well, most of us.)

Somewhere after the angst of the teen years, the freedom of the 20s, and the onset of the 30s, something shifted. Something clicked. Something changed, and now we’re holding the baton.

Yeah. We’re sirs and ma’ams now, like it or not. (I kinda like it, the wife does not.)

Does it mean that we’re old? Nope, just older. Wise? Nope, but wiser.

What it means most, as I’m reminded when I talk to my kids, lead my Cub Scout den, or pay my mortgage is this:

THESE ARE THE YEARS OUR PARENTS WARNED US ABOUT. The “you’ll understand when you’re older” years.

Son of a --

That’s the rant.

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hic I like you, yurr awesome.

2010-03-10T10:37:00.006-05:00

Drunk people.

Maybe you've been one. Maybe you know one. Maybe you're drunk right now - which is pretty sad on a Wednesday morning. Anyhow, everybody knows at least a little something about being drunk. Now, if your only reference for drunk people is the guy with the lampshade on his head back in '72 at that Elks convention, you've got a lot to learn. There are all kinds of different drunks, and I'll try to cover as many as I can.

THE BUM.

Other aliases: Homeless guy. The Drunk. Wine-O.

Characteristics: Smelly, homeless, confused, often belligerent.

Drink of choice: Cheap or free, preferably in a paper bag. T-Bird, Mad Dog, or other such animal-named liquors and malt liquors.

Plus side: Talkative, especially to himself.

Minus side: Never chips in for booze.

Catchphrase: "Spare a dime for some coffee?"

THE HIGH SCHOOLER:

Other aliases: The puker. The lightweight. The quiet one. The wild one.

Characteristics: Doesn't drink or doesn't drink often. Gets loaded quickly. Prone to taking clothes off, yelling, and eventually puking.

Drink of choice: Zima. Spritzers. Anything sweet, colorful, and fruity. Or wine.

Plus side: Fun to watch.

Minus side: ...until they start puking all over your living room.

Blackmail bonus: This person is usually your boss' wife.

Next morning: Highly apologetic. Hungover. Confused about why they feel so sick.

Catchphrases: "Wow! This margarita thing tastes like lemonade!" and "I don't feel so good." And "Drunk? I'm not drunk!"

THE FLIRT:

Other aliases: The slut. The moocher.

Characteristics: Gets loaded so he or she is brave enough to talk/flirt with/kiss/bed the opposite sex. Or, gets loaded to have an excuse for sleeping around. Also rarely pays for own drinks.

Drink of choice: Zima, White Zin, whatever you buy them, and shots. It's all just liquid courage anyhow.

Plus side: Easy to spot from up to a mile away. And just plain easy.

Minus side: Usually has a reputation by the time you meet him or her. Or VD.

Blackmail bonus: They LOVE having their pictures taken.

Next morning: Finds clothes. Puts clothes on. Sneaks out. Goes home.

Catchphrase: "OOH! I'm so drunk... I need a ride home."

THE HUGGER:

Other aliases: Touchy-Feely. Teddy Bear.

Characteristics: When drunk, starts hugging everybody in the room. Not dangerous, but can get annoying, especially if he or she hugs the wrong person.

Drink of choice: Beer, in a bottle that won't spill when he hugs you.

Plus side: Friendly as hell.

Minus side: Won't go away.

Next morning: Hungover.

Catchphrase: "I love you, man. You're the best."

THE COLLEGE DRUNK.

Other aliases: The Jekyll and Hyde. The party animal. The shooter. Mr. Social.

Characteristics: More control than the high schooler (which doesn't say much), and totally aware of the effects of alcohol. Silly, happy fun drunk, for the most part. Easily slips into belligerent mode, and then loses control over emotion. Doesn't like to drink alone, or lightly. Enters any contest the bar is having.

Drink of choice: Beer and shots. The nastier the shot, the better. Typically served in a test tube or leftover shot glass from Spring Break '96.

Plus side: Usually drunker than you.

Minus side: Usually drunker than you. Heavy to drag around.

Next morning: Rarely hungover. More defensive than apologetic.

Blackmail bonus: Will usually end up doing something really stupid. Bring a camera.

Catchphrase: "Another round for me...and my 4 new friends."

THE OLD GUY.

Other aliases: The sleeper. The snoozer. Who's that passed out in the bathroom?

Characteristics: Gets drunk and then gets tired. Passes out shortly thereafter. Usually among the first to do so, around 10 p.m.

Drink of choice: Mixed drinks.

Plus side: One less person drinking your booze.

Minus side: One more person snoring in your bathtub.

Next morning: Confused, but totally rested.

Catchphrase: "ZZZZZZZZZZ."

This isn't comprehensive by any means, and there are definitely combinations. But whatever. All this talk has made me thirsty. See you at happy hour. But, I must leave you with one last drunkie:

That's the rant.

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Happy hic St. hic Day!!

2010-02-23T14:50:00.007-05:00

Paint the town green, kiddies.

Now that we're past hearts and flowers, St. Paddy's Day is right around the corner. You know, the holiday celebrating...what, exactly? Does anyone even know anymore? (Supposedly chasing snakes out of Ireland, but what in reality might have been chasing the Druids out --- their symbol was a snake.)

Either way, you don't care. You just wanna get drunk. But would St. Patrick really be happy with what we do on his day?

Let's get hammered, ya'll.

He's not the patron saint of binge drinking or cirrhosis. And I'm pretty sure when he was "chasing snakes" out of Ireland that he wasn't doing it for green beer and drunk Bostonians dressed as leprechauns. Yet, that's exactly what we do.

St. Nick's big day? We exchange gifts.

St. Valentine's? Contrived, but we share love.

But no, Pat gets emerald puke and lots of March 18th walks of shame. At least there are parades, though! And Irish people who, though fighting the notion that they're a bunch of alcoholics 364 days a year, jump head first into this stereotype. It's like having a holiday that forces all Japanese people to carry cameras around their necks, of for black people to eat fried chicken and watermelon for lunch. I don't think anyone would get behind THOSE initiatives. Yet, in this case it's acceptable?

For those keeping score, so far, this holiday is a slap in the face to Catholics AND non-alcoholic Irishmen. I just don't get it. Arent those the primary celebratory audiences?

THEN, you've got everyone and their mother, LITERALLY, claiming to BE Irish. And kissing strangers because of it. (HELLO, HERPES!) And pinching strangers for not wearing green. (HELLO, workplace sensitivity training!) And for the record, I can say that because I'm 1/8 Irish on my grandfather's side.

Yep. She looks Irish.

But maybe Patrick did like a bit of the drink. Maybe he had a kick-ass "kiss me I'm Irish" t-shirt he bought at Spencer's. And maybe he did keg stands with green drool dripping from his upside-down beard. I can picture it.

Or not.

But, as holidays go it's not filled with as much family tension, Target commercials, and pressure to go out to dinner as the rest are, therefore, everyone is pretty happy. And isn't that what all our saints REALLY wanted for us?

Oh yeah, and I don't have to buy a bunch of greeting cards.

Pass the Guinness. That's the rant.

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Word? Word.

2010-02-21T22:24:00.005-05:00

Where do old words go to die? I mean, really?

"Hep" became "hip."
"Hip" became "keen" (for about 30 seconds).
"Keen" became "swell."
"Swell" became "cool."
"Cool" has been around ever since.

But what ever happened to "hep?" In this day and age, am I to believe there's no room in our language for hep cats anymore? And if I'm feeling peachy keen, jelly bean, how can I express it? It's funny how words fade in and out of our collective pop-culture vocabulary, like some transporter on "Star Trek." Notice how "dork" came along, and slowly replaced the stand-by put-down "nerd."

Dames. Broads. Skirts. We know 'em as chicks. Some Neanderthals call 'em tricks, hoes, or bee-otches. And then there are the names I can't even type because my younger siblings read some of this. Yikes.

Gams? Stems? Legs.

Things can still be "heavy" or "groovy," even if they're not "far out" or "wicked." Unless, of course, they're "totally awesome.".

When was the last time someone called you a "looker?" My buddy Ed called someone a "kook" the other day, and even he was surprised he used the word. It's a fun word, even to look at. Like "goofy." Doesn't that word just make you smile?

Some words deserve to die. Like "dungarees." Whether you pegged yours or not, "jeans" was a better word. Who besides your Mom calls sneakers "running shoes?" And hardly anyone says "slacks" since Dockers came along and made everything khaki.

Growing up in ultra-urban Brooklyn, New York in the 80s, there was a time when everything was "fresh." My friends were fresh. My LEE jeans were fresh. The new Run-DMC song was fresh. My 'kangaroos' sneakers with the pocket on the side were decidedly NOT fresh. It meant "good." And we used it as such. And if something was REALLY good, it was STUPID FRESH.

That comes from the same school that got "bad" to mean "really good." Anyway, on with the lesson. From stupid came "dope." Dope also meant "good" or "cool." And that lasted until "fly" came along, which was basically "dope" with more sex appeal. Case in point? In Living Color's "Fly Girls." "Dope Girls" just didn't sound right. Know what I mean?

Then throw in a couple of "C-ya, wouldn't wanna be ya's," and you were "good to go."

Of course, then there was the pinnacle of 80's urban cheese words - "WORD." It could be used in ways its predecessors only dreamed of:

To express disbelief: "Word?"
To answer affirmatively: "Word."
"Hey, what a splendid idea": "Worrrrrd!"
"I agree emphatically": "Word up!"

Then came "Phat." Phat rhymes. Phat rides. Phat jackets. Phat beats. Phat rappers. And for those not in the know, you could even say "Phat with a P-H."

Now, I just say "sweet." Same as "cool" in my book.

Sometime during high school, we stopped saying "said." The words "like" and "goes" became the past tense conjugation of "to say." Example:

"She was like, 'get out of here!' And I was like, 'nah, it's true!'"
"So then he goes, 'it can't be true.'"

"Like" also became the "uhm" and all-purpose adjective of a generation. Example: "Man, it was like, cold, right? It was so cold like, I was like, 'Damn, it's cold!'"

Then, in the 90s, if "you da man," it was "all good." And if it wasn't all good, you could rest assured that it was "the bomb." And the whole time, you were just trying to "keep it real." And that's the real 411, the dilly-o, all that, and a bag of chips.

And who can forget the classic "dude?" One of the few words you can have an entire conversation with, like those guys in "Baseketball."

"Dude!" (I can't believe you did that!)
"Duuude." (Calm down.)
"But, dude." (It really hurt my feelings.)
"Du-u-uuude." (You know I'd never do anything to hurt you.)

And, there are many, many more where that came from. So, don't turn your back on our linguistic heritage. It actually is "all good." Try to remember that when your kids ask you what "who da man" meant. It's like asking your grandpa what "I like Ike" was all about.

Damn, that rant was fresh. I'm Audi 5000, yo.

Stay dope, y'all.

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