Close your eyes. Imagine we're all Hobbits, the halfling creatures created by J.R.R. Tolkien for the Lord of the Rings series, among other things. They walk barefoot and have hardened feet, transformed through a millennium of stomping through the mud and grass and rock of the Shire. They like to drink heavy ales and lagers. And boy, they like to smoke the good stuff, because in the Shire there really isn't much else to do. Hobbits live amongst the trees and the hills of the shire and generally bother no one but themselves. Living in their hillside abodes, dug out of the ground, they've learned to keep to themselves for the most part, a virtue that is generally respected through the various lands of their world. In fact, many of the different cultures and/or species living in Middle Earth couldn't even tell you what a Hobbit was. If that's not proof of their fondness of some good ol' fashioned privacy, then I don't know what is. Anyhow, their living quarters are largely exquisite for beings of their size, with long, circular halls and vaulted ceilings that wind and weave their way directly into the countryside. While our properties here may range from a lowly trailer in a trailer park to an acre with a raised ranch and a backyard and on up, theirs may range from a mound to a larger hill. Where we would say, "I own that parcel of land," they'd make sure to retort, "Well, that's my hill." Nowadays, actually living inside a hill would either disgust the rich and privileged or elicit chuckles of absurdity from the rest of the bunch, but whether or not you're ready for such a move doesn't change the fact that the move may happen.
I've recently come across a little something that would almost certainly improve the Hobbits' living conditions in Middle Earth and potentially improve ours here on Mother Earth. It's called eco-architecture, and it's science is truly mind-blowing. Engineers and botanists alike have discovered another way to live as one with the greenery around us, specifically inside the comfort of a tree or two. Experiments commence when scientists in Tel Aviv began looking for a way to better shelter those in earthquake and tsunami stricken areas. What they found was a specific type of tree that, when grown in air instead of soil and water, developed a soft enough root for shaping. The roots are then molded around metal structures that have already been shaped into a specific object. Finished projects include multiple park benches that even include their own natural form of shade. Future projects include streetlamps and an entire playground, and within the decade, a prototype home is expected to be finished.
Think of the positive ramifications for such a project. First off, and quite obviously, instead of chopping down the trees to build homes, we'd be living in and under the shade of them. Secondly, they would completely protect inhabitants from earthquakes and other natural disasters as stated earlier. Trees are generally the only things standing in the wake of said disasters. Third, these "eco-structures" would cut costs, strenuous manual labor hours, and would aid in the fight to go "green" by contributing to a more eco-friendly and eco-safe environment. And these are just a few of the benefits that eco-architecture would provide.
Surely, not many of us who have watched Lord of the Rings once or even upwards of fifty times could've imagined living a day in the life of a Hobbit, but perhaps, we should've. We could certainly learn a thing or two from them. They're a jolly people. Maybe this stems from their oneness with the land. Who am I kidding? It may have something to do with that, but their affection for the hash probably takes the cake there. All kidding aside, a world with eco-architecture, not that dissimilar from a Hobbit abode, is a better world. Period. Sign me up for the first prototype right now. You'll all soon follow. Give it ten years, and we'll all realize that it is a Hobbit's world, and we're just living in it.
Check out the article and the pictures. The house looks amazing.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26438939/
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Dispatched - Mutant Name: Treebeardhandsman
Most of this speaks for itself, so I'll keep it short. Actually, I'm already speechless. All I can say is: a guy in Indonesia has tree roots for hands! Not literally of course, but either way, you have to see this for yourself. It'll make you want to run to the bathroom, throw up, and run back to your computer for more. I heard about this guy a couple of months ago, and apparently he's making a recovery now. Either way, it's horrific. Read the article and specifically check out the video report. Ewwwwwwwwww.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26406111/
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26406111/
The Popcorn Editorial (The POP-ED) - Is The Dark Knight really the GOAT?
I ran into Seekonk Showcase with the rain coming down on me in sheets, fully expecting to be a soaked, smiling movie-goer withing the half-hour. It was the second week that The Dark Knight had been out in theaters, and as was to be expected, I had heard nothing but rave reviews. One particular appraisal caught my eye, however, simply because it was so preposterous that it couldn't have been true. On my go-to movie website, IMDB.com, The Dark Knight had received a sufficient amount of excellent ratings to warrant the #1 movie of all time crown. Initially, this rating came as a complete surprise to me, but then, I started thinking. I became angered with movie-goers everywhere for making such a mockery of the system.The Dark Knight had vaulted itself above movies of the likes of The Godfather, The Empire Strikes Back, and The Shawshank Redemption, among dozens of others, and simply because it was so overly over-marketed and shoved down our throats. The Heath Ledger tragedy notwithstanding, I guess the PR department executed their task to perfection, building their movie to be the most anticipated sequel ever, but I couldn't understand why the majority of Americans, usually knowledgeable and sensible with their movies, bought the garbage. America had already decided, before they had even seen the movie, that they would love it unconditionally. Were they really that stupid?Were they really that anxious to immediately rate this movie a 10 without question? I was sorry to say it, but yes, they were. Don't get me wrong here, though. I love my Batman, too. But I like to be a bit more practical when it comes to these things. I mulled over this situation as I entered theater number 9. Would I somehow be let down, disappointed because it had already been so hyped? Or would I stay level-headed and keep my wits about me in the midst of the barrage of hoopla? We would soon see......
...Two and a half hours later...
I walk out of theater 9 jumping out of my boots. The movie was excellent. Christian Bale was born to play Batman. He brought a performance just as good if not better than his in Batman Begins. Maggie Gyllenhaal played a much more mature Rachel Dawes. I thought she stepped up to the plate in a way that Katie Holmes could not. And Aaron Eckhart played a wonderful District Attorney Harvey Dent, endearing us to this character that was the main symbol of hope in Gotham before he takes the ultimate plunge into the darkness. Surely, however, not one person in the theater that day or week or month went to examine Gyllenhaal's Dawes or Eckhart's Dent. They went to see Heath Ledger and his utterly demonic portrayal of The Joker. Ledger stole the screen every time he appeared and commanded the movie every time he didn't. Each scene he graced us with gave us a glimpse into a truly troubled character, hell bent on his theory of chaos, and each scene without left us yearning for more. I must have caught myself saying, "When the hell is Joker coming back?" or "Alright, where's our man Heath?" about a dozen times throughout the film. And each time he came back, he delighted me even more. It was truly one of the best performances that I had ever seen.
All hugs and kisses aside, this movie was not a 10. It is NOT the best movie of all time. I personally wasn't the biggest fan of Eckhart's Two-Face. He came off as whiny. Furthermore, for a man who prided himself on such strong will and character early in the film, he turned over to criminality rather easily. Perhaps, that was the director, Chris Nolan's problem there. I also thought the movie's length was a small problem. It seemed to linger on more than it needed to later in the movie. This may be attributable to the fact that Nolan attempted to include the plots of two major villains in the film. I saw that as a slight problem as well. Two-Face arguably deserved his own movie. He seemed be entirely underappreciated as a villain, while Dent grabbed all of the spotlight. These are all manageable errors, however, and it should be noted that the movie is a must see regardless. I give it a 8.5 to a 9. See it immediately if you haven't already.
For the record, The Dark Knight is still ranked in the number one spot at IMDB.com, but now it is tied for first with The Godfather and Shawshank Redemption. Maybe our movie fans are beginning to come to their senses.
...Two and a half hours later...
I walk out of theater 9 jumping out of my boots. The movie was excellent. Christian Bale was born to play Batman. He brought a performance just as good if not better than his in Batman Begins. Maggie Gyllenhaal played a much more mature Rachel Dawes. I thought she stepped up to the plate in a way that Katie Holmes could not. And Aaron Eckhart played a wonderful District Attorney Harvey Dent, endearing us to this character that was the main symbol of hope in Gotham before he takes the ultimate plunge into the darkness. Surely, however, not one person in the theater that day or week or month went to examine Gyllenhaal's Dawes or Eckhart's Dent. They went to see Heath Ledger and his utterly demonic portrayal of The Joker. Ledger stole the screen every time he appeared and commanded the movie every time he didn't. Each scene he graced us with gave us a glimpse into a truly troubled character, hell bent on his theory of chaos, and each scene without left us yearning for more. I must have caught myself saying, "When the hell is Joker coming back?" or "Alright, where's our man Heath?" about a dozen times throughout the film. And each time he came back, he delighted me even more. It was truly one of the best performances that I had ever seen.
All hugs and kisses aside, this movie was not a 10. It is NOT the best movie of all time. I personally wasn't the biggest fan of Eckhart's Two-Face. He came off as whiny. Furthermore, for a man who prided himself on such strong will and character early in the film, he turned over to criminality rather easily. Perhaps, that was the director, Chris Nolan's problem there. I also thought the movie's length was a small problem. It seemed to linger on more than it needed to later in the movie. This may be attributable to the fact that Nolan attempted to include the plots of two major villains in the film. I saw that as a slight problem as well. Two-Face arguably deserved his own movie. He seemed be entirely underappreciated as a villain, while Dent grabbed all of the spotlight. These are all manageable errors, however, and it should be noted that the movie is a must see regardless. I give it a 8.5 to a 9. See it immediately if you haven't already.
For the record, The Dark Knight is still ranked in the number one spot at IMDB.com, but now it is tied for first with The Godfather and Shawshank Redemption. Maybe our movie fans are beginning to come to their senses.
The Festo - Scrumptious...
Hey, would you eat a five pound hunk of shark that's been rotting for two months in a rundown shed somewhere in Iceland? No? How about a yellowtail heart, just recently yanked out of the fish's chest and still beating? Not too appetizing, huh? Well, here's the main course: a smorgasbord of bugs and insects, including deep fried tarantulas on a stick and baked hissing cockroaches that are fed almonds to give them a nutty taste. Yummy. Although these dishes may seem waaayyyyy too over the top normal folk like you or me, they are a part of the everyday scene for a guy like Andrew Zimmern. The Travel Channel's show, Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern, is truly one of the great finds on primetime television. Every episode contains some of the grossest, most addictive content found on any station.
It's currently 12:30 on a Monday night-slash-Tuesday morning and I'm watching this culinary freak of a man stare at a bucket of sheep's blood, wondering whether or not he'd like to go bobbing for brains. It's great TV. And it's in Hi-Def!!!! Now, he's gobbling up a piece of grandma's sheep's blood cake. I kid you not. Nothing like some feel-good dessert to cap the night off.
Folks like me remember the days of Fear Factor, where desperate people would put themselves through the agony of eating cow anus for a shot at forty thousand. Well, this guy does it for free. I guess his show could be considered the spawn of the NBC hit, but I can guarantee it's much more fun and definitely more informative, especially for those of us who enjoy the Food Network. Yes, it is that good of a show. It has single-handedly pulled me away from the Olympics, for Christ's sake. So, it must be good. And on that same token, while we're tooting many horns here, let's just give the Travel Channel a round of applause for not stopping the fun at Zimmern.
Their other major primetime show, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, is a great hit as well. Bourdain, though probably just as crazy in his broad spectrum of tastes, doesn't seem as desperate to eat fire-roasted bat as Zimmern might. But this works just fine within the parameters of his show. He routinely takes his viewers to exotic locations, not to find the most absurd foods known to man but to give us a quick taste (usually with the help and guidance of a local or two) of what the food and drink would be like for the average tourist.
Both in primetime slots, the two of these hosts work incredibly well together, Zimmern with his wackiness and Bourdain with his calmer, composed demeanor. In fact, Travel Channel is at its best when it throws on a long marathon of Bourdain and Zimmern, just as I'm doing right now. It's like watching the Ali and Frazier of eclectic palettes, each of them throwing haymakers in the form of funky dishes and traditional tastes.
Sometime in the future, I can see a mega-show. We'll call it, "Hey, Try This! We Swear it's Great! With Bourdain and Zimmern." Their logo will be the two of them giving the cheesiest smiles to go with a couple of giant thumbs-ups, while a recently hacked-off giraffe head sits on a plate in front of them. The show itself will be a two or a three hour monster of a Monday night with the two of them on screen at the same time challenging each other to eat more cow dung custard. I can see the two of them pushing each other to the absolute brink, where they begin trying foods that not even the natives thought of attempting. They'd each have the most manufactured smiles pasted on their faces as they lined up ten shots of coagulated goat semen.
All that wishful thinking aside, however, both shows are spectacular as is. Kudos to the both of them for doing some of the coolest shtuff I've seen. I'm jealous. Three cheers to the Travel Channel for striking gold twice. Hip-Hip...Hooray!
Written Tuesday, August 12, 2008 at 12:16 in the A.M.
It's currently 12:30 on a Monday night-slash-Tuesday morning and I'm watching this culinary freak of a man stare at a bucket of sheep's blood, wondering whether or not he'd like to go bobbing for brains. It's great TV. And it's in Hi-Def!!!! Now, he's gobbling up a piece of grandma's sheep's blood cake. I kid you not. Nothing like some feel-good dessert to cap the night off.
Folks like me remember the days of Fear Factor, where desperate people would put themselves through the agony of eating cow anus for a shot at forty thousand. Well, this guy does it for free. I guess his show could be considered the spawn of the NBC hit, but I can guarantee it's much more fun and definitely more informative, especially for those of us who enjoy the Food Network. Yes, it is that good of a show. It has single-handedly pulled me away from the Olympics, for Christ's sake. So, it must be good. And on that same token, while we're tooting many horns here, let's just give the Travel Channel a round of applause for not stopping the fun at Zimmern.
Their other major primetime show, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, is a great hit as well. Bourdain, though probably just as crazy in his broad spectrum of tastes, doesn't seem as desperate to eat fire-roasted bat as Zimmern might. But this works just fine within the parameters of his show. He routinely takes his viewers to exotic locations, not to find the most absurd foods known to man but to give us a quick taste (usually with the help and guidance of a local or two) of what the food and drink would be like for the average tourist.
Both in primetime slots, the two of these hosts work incredibly well together, Zimmern with his wackiness and Bourdain with his calmer, composed demeanor. In fact, Travel Channel is at its best when it throws on a long marathon of Bourdain and Zimmern, just as I'm doing right now. It's like watching the Ali and Frazier of eclectic palettes, each of them throwing haymakers in the form of funky dishes and traditional tastes.
Sometime in the future, I can see a mega-show. We'll call it, "Hey, Try This! We Swear it's Great! With Bourdain and Zimmern." Their logo will be the two of them giving the cheesiest smiles to go with a couple of giant thumbs-ups, while a recently hacked-off giraffe head sits on a plate in front of them. The show itself will be a two or a three hour monster of a Monday night with the two of them on screen at the same time challenging each other to eat more cow dung custard. I can see the two of them pushing each other to the absolute brink, where they begin trying foods that not even the natives thought of attempting. They'd each have the most manufactured smiles pasted on their faces as they lined up ten shots of coagulated goat semen.
All that wishful thinking aside, however, both shows are spectacular as is. Kudos to the both of them for doing some of the coolest shtuff I've seen. I'm jealous. Three cheers to the Travel Channel for striking gold twice. Hip-Hip...Hooray!
Written Tuesday, August 12, 2008 at 12:16 in the A.M.
The Skinny Post - Foot Locker, Eh?
After about a half hour of marinating at a buddy's house, he randomly asks me to come upstairs to his room. He says he wants to show me something. So, thinking nothing of it, I follow, naturally not expecting much, maybe some previously-rolled goodies or a new pet or something. Turns out that this kid has a foot locker up against one of the walls of his room, and in this foot locker is pure adrenaline and sheer testosterone with a sprig of delight and masochism. He's packing an arsenal of assault rifles and shotguns that could hold down a small battalion. Turns out that he's collecting these things. Turns out that I like this kid a whole lot more than I thought I did. Here I am, blatantly awed by this run of events and visibly excited from the mere presence of these beasts of destruction. So, first, he reaches in, breaks out his twelve-gauge, and passes it around, unloaded of course, for me to feel up and play around with. Next thing I know, he hands me a 1917 Smith and Wesson, old school rifle mostly made of wood. I forget what kind. I take a long gander and place it back in its respective cubby, and right away there's another gun in my hands, this time a World War I sniper rifle of some sort, equipped with a contemporary scope and a five round clip. Absolutely unreal stuff. Then, comes the grand finale. I'm fiddling with these guns, laughing and drooling over them, and he reaches back into the foot locker and pulls out an AK, built from the ground up. This was easily the coolest thing my tender eyes had ever seen. The rifle is at least three feet long, resting nicely in my hands and has a banana clip that's two times bigger than Mr. T's head. And the damned thing is heavy. All I could think of at the time was the video clips of destitute children living in poverty-stricken African countries in the midst of never-ending civil war. At the ripe age of seven, they're handed these guns, fed some drugged concoction, and told to fight for a side. There are still two hundred thousand child soldiers on the continent of Africa. Insane. Heavy. Too heavy. Nonetheless, who could really think about that in this particular situation. Especially with some tasty spirits already flowing through me. This gun was clean, unadulterated power in my hands, and I loved it. I remember being speechless for the following half hour or so. Then, we went outside to drink another brew.
Dispatched - Excuses, Excuses...
Raise your hand if you had ear infections as a small child. I know you can't see me, but my hand's up. In fact, it's way up. I had some biggins to say the least as a young one, and at a rate that I couldn't even tell you. It seemed as though every couple of weeks I was back at the good Dr. Wexler's office, getting a massive clump of earwax plucked from the inner caverns of my skull with something that resembled a weapon from Hostel. Anyhow, all of the trouble finally came to a head when the doctors claimed that the infections were causing serious damage. I was sent thereafter into the operating room, where giant men and women in white and blue garb would magically cure me with the wonderfully complex ear-tube technology. Many years and not so many earaches later, I'm here doing completely fine, my would-be lifelong hearing problem thrown to the wayside and left to rot and die in the deep past. Turns out, however, it isn't gone. Apparently, I'm scheduled to be obese.
According to a study done at the University of Florida, inner ear infections lead to a very sweet sweet-tooth (we'll call it a sugary, syrupy, Twinkie-tooth), and eventually to obesity. This is just great. Now I have an excuse to give myself up wholly to the perils of weight-gain and the exhilaration of sheer gluttony. Here's the problem: I'm not going to do that, but there are plenty baby belugas in this world who wait for this kind of info. You'll be able to spot them easily; they'll be the one's sitting outside Ben and Jerry's, taking a quadruple scoop of Rocky Road topped with caramel, chocolate syrup, peanut butter, Frank's Red Hot Spicy Cayenne Pepper Sauce, and Italian dressing to the face, only to whip out their box of Twinkies afterward to sop up whatever goo they couldn't pick up with their spoons. And don't forget the fact that they won't be feeling bad for themselves because they'll be giving you an earful about how they think they can remember this one time in third grade, where they needed to leave school because of an ear infection. Or could it have been a toothache? They can't remember. Fabulous. Check out the article.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26391940/
According to a study done at the University of Florida, inner ear infections lead to a very sweet sweet-tooth (we'll call it a sugary, syrupy, Twinkie-tooth), and eventually to obesity. This is just great. Now I have an excuse to give myself up wholly to the perils of weight-gain and the exhilaration of sheer gluttony. Here's the problem: I'm not going to do that, but there are plenty baby belugas in this world who wait for this kind of info. You'll be able to spot them easily; they'll be the one's sitting outside Ben and Jerry's, taking a quadruple scoop of Rocky Road topped with caramel, chocolate syrup, peanut butter, Frank's Red Hot Spicy Cayenne Pepper Sauce, and Italian dressing to the face, only to whip out their box of Twinkies afterward to sop up whatever goo they couldn't pick up with their spoons. And don't forget the fact that they won't be feeling bad for themselves because they'll be giving you an earful about how they think they can remember this one time in third grade, where they needed to leave school because of an ear infection. Or could it have been a toothache? They can't remember. Fabulous. Check out the article.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26391940/
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Skinny Post - Don't Spare the White Russians, Spoil thy Child
I had an awesome White Russian the other day that had a shot of espresso and a double shot of Sambuca. Dee-lish. I had really only tried White Russians on one other occasion, and that was back in high school. At least I think it was back then. Anyway, my buddy and I were at a party that was thrown by some girlfriend of a friend of a friend, and we sat at their home bar and drank them all night with the girl's mother. It was a good time. She was a loose parent, and I liked it. She was a realist, and that's how you need to be sometimes as a parent. A realist. unfortunately, kids will be kids no matter what, and as a parent, there are two ways to go about controlling your kids: the hard way and the really hard way. The latter consists of keeping your child closeted and reclusive during high school so when it comes time for college, they end up in an ambulance during the first week of the first semester of Freshman year, getting their stomachs pumped because they didn't know what the hell was going on when it came to partying. It's like throwing a rookie boxer in the ring with no training and no sparring experience. It just doesn't work. The boxer's going to get hurt. The kid is going to end up hospitalized or dead. On the other hand, the hard way is much, much easier. Of course, it entails walking that fine line, but it's possible regardless. This method consists of simply communicating, accepting the fact that your kid will drink, coming to terms with yourself and your kid, and realizing that you, as parents, probably did much, much worse when you were young. I mean, if anyone is my age, then their parents definitely grew up in the seventies, and we all know that the seventies were chock full of very large, naked parties and no-holds-barred, psychedelic drug raves. And naturally, White Russians. I enjoyed them so.
The Festo - Kitty Vacation
Recently my eldest and best kitty friend, Shiloh, just happened to disappear for two weeks. The ten year old cat was getting up there in age, and after a week of his disappearance, I decided that he was probably dead, most likely curled up under the massive tree next door that had gobbled up many a wiffle ball in my day. It was no surprise to me that an older cat would do such a thing; two of our previous cats had vanished years ago at a tired age never to be seen again.
Anyhow, on one of the days without him, I took a look outside as I waited for a friend to arrive, and a friend i did find. Shiloh sat there, looking up at me, his white paws a little dirtier, his body a little slimmer. I screamed his name to my sister to alert her of his presence before letting him back in the house that had missed him for days. He looked beaten, as though he had been through a few bar fights or slept on a curb one drunken night. In any event, he sprinted the length of the house and made a dash for the bowl of food. When i say he ate for fifteen minutes straight, I really mean he ate for more like five to ten, but that's not the point. He chowed down like he had never chowed down before. he ate cat food like Ed Norton ate teeth in Fight Club. And once he was done feasting, he got back to living life just as he had for the prior ten years, laid-back as ever and loving the catnip.
This got me to thinking, though. What the hell was my cat doing for two weeks? We all know he wasn't here, and he had never pulled such a stunt before. So, without further ado, here is my Shiloh two-week vacation story. I'll keep it as short and as absurdly over-the-top as possible.
Shiloh packed his bags and his flea collars and told his best buddy from down the street, Elliot, that they needed a break from the rigors of couch napping and carpet napping and...lawn napping. Elliot concurred, and they were off to Mexico for some fun in the sun and some beach napping. Each of them knew that no airline would willingly let felines on a flight, especially not middle-class felines like them. So, in a daring effort at T.F. Green Airport, the two of them hit the runway in hot pursuit of a large passenger plane, their tote bags flailing behind them. Toward the end of the tarmac, the front of the plane began to lift. They knew that the back wheels were their only shot. When they began coming off the ground, Shiloh and Elliot leapt with dreams of sipping run by the pool at the resort/spa still in their heads, hoping to grab something, anything. Shiloh stuck his left claw into the rubber of the tire and Elliot clamped on to his best friend's hind leg. As the wheel retracted back into the plane, they regained their footing. They were officially on the flight.
Three hours later, the wheels touched down again. They were in Mexico. They jumped out of the wheel cubby and immediately went searching for cute cats in bikinis. Shiloh had heard such wild stories of Mexican cats, but he'd never seen it for himself. Walking down one of the streets, Elliot noticed something a little strange. "Why does that say New Orleans Motel?" he asked. They each realized their dilemma as a seven foot transvestite wearing a Mick Jagger mask approached them, asking if they knew where his uncle Penelope was. They shuffled past him, or her, and decided to cut down a small alley to book it. During their race down the street, a small group of dirty men, probably washed up go-go dancers, jumped out and mugged them, taking their dufflebags, IDs and spending money. They were left battered in a New Orleans alley with no where to turn, when someone popped out and gave them a break. He tossed two tabs of acid their way and told them to take it easy. Shiloh, seeing no current way out of the situation, popped his tab immediately and Elliot soon followed. They looked up to give thanks, but their charitable friend had disappeared.
The following two weeks were a complete blur, a fourteen day LSD trip that probably should've killed them. Twelve pound felines can't handle large amounts of drugs. That was common sense. Shiloh could only remember something about a voodoo lady and her bleeding goat. When the two cats finally came to, they were decked out in funny-colored beads and riding in the back of what seemed to be somebdy's work van. Shiloh looked to his left and saw a pile of brass instruments sitting next to a man who was holding a saxophone. He called himself Hank, but who could be sure? Hank looked back at them and seemed to be excited that they were awake. "Fellas, our roadies are awake!" he screamed to the front. "Nice," they returned. "You flippin' felines are crazy, man. I can't believe how miffed you were last night," he continued.
He would later fill them in on how he and his two buddies were a saxophone band and were heading to New England for a bunch of shows. Apparently, our feline protagonists met them at a bar called Bungalow Bill's and proceeded to smoke peyote with them until the sun came up. They had been on the road for over ten hours already. The two cats were told that they'd be home in a little over a day. Twenty-four hours of grogginess later, Shiloh and Elliot were dropped off on the street they knew so well. Shiloh walked up to his door and knocked twice.
Written on Wednesday, August 13, 2008 at 1:28 in the A.M.
Anyhow, on one of the days without him, I took a look outside as I waited for a friend to arrive, and a friend i did find. Shiloh sat there, looking up at me, his white paws a little dirtier, his body a little slimmer. I screamed his name to my sister to alert her of his presence before letting him back in the house that had missed him for days. He looked beaten, as though he had been through a few bar fights or slept on a curb one drunken night. In any event, he sprinted the length of the house and made a dash for the bowl of food. When i say he ate for fifteen minutes straight, I really mean he ate for more like five to ten, but that's not the point. He chowed down like he had never chowed down before. he ate cat food like Ed Norton ate teeth in Fight Club. And once he was done feasting, he got back to living life just as he had for the prior ten years, laid-back as ever and loving the catnip.
This got me to thinking, though. What the hell was my cat doing for two weeks? We all know he wasn't here, and he had never pulled such a stunt before. So, without further ado, here is my Shiloh two-week vacation story. I'll keep it as short and as absurdly over-the-top as possible.
Shiloh packed his bags and his flea collars and told his best buddy from down the street, Elliot, that they needed a break from the rigors of couch napping and carpet napping and...lawn napping. Elliot concurred, and they were off to Mexico for some fun in the sun and some beach napping. Each of them knew that no airline would willingly let felines on a flight, especially not middle-class felines like them. So, in a daring effort at T.F. Green Airport, the two of them hit the runway in hot pursuit of a large passenger plane, their tote bags flailing behind them. Toward the end of the tarmac, the front of the plane began to lift. They knew that the back wheels were their only shot. When they began coming off the ground, Shiloh and Elliot leapt with dreams of sipping run by the pool at the resort/spa still in their heads, hoping to grab something, anything. Shiloh stuck his left claw into the rubber of the tire and Elliot clamped on to his best friend's hind leg. As the wheel retracted back into the plane, they regained their footing. They were officially on the flight.
Three hours later, the wheels touched down again. They were in Mexico. They jumped out of the wheel cubby and immediately went searching for cute cats in bikinis. Shiloh had heard such wild stories of Mexican cats, but he'd never seen it for himself. Walking down one of the streets, Elliot noticed something a little strange. "Why does that say New Orleans Motel?" he asked. They each realized their dilemma as a seven foot transvestite wearing a Mick Jagger mask approached them, asking if they knew where his uncle Penelope was. They shuffled past him, or her, and decided to cut down a small alley to book it. During their race down the street, a small group of dirty men, probably washed up go-go dancers, jumped out and mugged them, taking their dufflebags, IDs and spending money. They were left battered in a New Orleans alley with no where to turn, when someone popped out and gave them a break. He tossed two tabs of acid their way and told them to take it easy. Shiloh, seeing no current way out of the situation, popped his tab immediately and Elliot soon followed. They looked up to give thanks, but their charitable friend had disappeared.
The following two weeks were a complete blur, a fourteen day LSD trip that probably should've killed them. Twelve pound felines can't handle large amounts of drugs. That was common sense. Shiloh could only remember something about a voodoo lady and her bleeding goat. When the two cats finally came to, they were decked out in funny-colored beads and riding in the back of what seemed to be somebdy's work van. Shiloh looked to his left and saw a pile of brass instruments sitting next to a man who was holding a saxophone. He called himself Hank, but who could be sure? Hank looked back at them and seemed to be excited that they were awake. "Fellas, our roadies are awake!" he screamed to the front. "Nice," they returned. "You flippin' felines are crazy, man. I can't believe how miffed you were last night," he continued.
He would later fill them in on how he and his two buddies were a saxophone band and were heading to New England for a bunch of shows. Apparently, our feline protagonists met them at a bar called Bungalow Bill's and proceeded to smoke peyote with them until the sun came up. They had been on the road for over ten hours already. The two cats were told that they'd be home in a little over a day. Twenty-four hours of grogginess later, Shiloh and Elliot were dropped off on the street they knew so well. Shiloh walked up to his door and knocked twice.
Written on Wednesday, August 13, 2008 at 1:28 in the A.M.
The Festo - Olympic Couch Potato
Today is the third day of these 2008 Beijing Olympics. Needless to say, I've been glued to the screen watching many of the diverse events, not excluding badminton, gymnastics, rowing, and handball. After a breathtaking opening ceremony, filled with a dazzling light display, an otherworldly soundtrack, and quite frankly, the most artistic overall performance I have ever seen with these two brown eyes, the Olympics have shot out of the gate running, sprinting rather, and I, for one, am teeming at the lips for much, much more.
The problem here is that over these last three days, I have grown into a bum, a couch potato. There are no other words for it. There is no excuse, no point for my sheer bumdom...aside from the twenty-ninth Olympiad, that is. These last three days have seen Manny Francis abed or acouch all day long, flipping through the multiple channels that NBC has offered with coverage of boxing, swimming, or weightlifting, only to get up at a rare commercial to fix myself a ham and cheese sandwich on toasted white bread with a dab of light mayonnaise or to snag a granola bar for a quick exit of the kitchen and a hasty return to my warm seat in front of the television. Sure, some may say my slight obsession with the quadrennial games is a bit too wild. Some would say that medication could be the answer. And then, some, myself included, would call an ace an ace. We'd tell you that the Olympics have created a bum.
I can only imagine the thousands of people like me in the world, our own fraternity of Dorito-eating, ottoman-worshipping Olympic fanatics, ready to pop the tube on at any time of day for hours upon hours of fun. I guess we could sue for our troubles, couldn't we? "Your honor, we bring forth this case against the International Olympic Committee and the thousands of athletes that took part in the games. They've made couch potatoes of us. We've lost jobs, friends, and self-respect. We all currently have bed sores. Now, tell them to give us money." What a case it would be.
But all kidding aside, maybe bum is to strong a word. Sports nut would suffice. I promise. I've been watching nothing but baseball (the Red Sox usual mid-season woes have trickled into the latter stages of the season) and Brett Favre coverage (JUST RETIRE ALREADY!) for the last three months. So, give me a break. The myriad of Olympic events are a breath of fresh air. Even the casual fan is intrigued by synchronized diving or water polo. We never see these sports, and they're nothing short of addictive once we start watching them. Who can really blame us?
That being said, I'll take the first step and admit my problem. I'm infatuated with the games, and because of this (coupled with my odd body clock), I am quite bothered by a couple of the aspects of the coverage. Beijing operates on a clock that is twelve hours ahead of the east coast of the United States. Over there, athletes compete in events from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m, give or take, which means that the broadcasts must start at 8 p.m. and end at 11 a.m over here. Follow? Now, that coverage is entirely cool with me. It's not uncommon for me to stay up until the sun rises anyway. With that said, I figured I'd be watching live events all night long, for 12 hours straight. Makes sense, right? Wrong. The live coverage begins at 7:30 p.m. or so and ends around midnight, and I wish someone could tell me why. Maybe it's money. Gotta make that paper cheddar. Maybe they won't get the ratings they desire if they broadcast live during my hours. Frankly, I don't care what it is. This particular fan can't get enough of the Olympics, and by god, if I'm up during the hours when competitions are being held, I want to see them as they happen. I don't want Bob Costas to give me the rundown of what we all missed during his primetime slot. And for this, I'm terribly vexed. I could care less what events they throw on during the wee hours just so long as they're live. I'd watch twelve hours straight, midnight to noon, and wouldn't lose a beat. Believe me. And I just know there are many more like me out there. So, let's rise up and write mass amounts of hate mail, people. Let's wake the neighbors and go streaking in the name of more live coverage. Let's start the petition now, so this doesn't happen to us four years from now. If I have to wait another four years for these precious events only to get the royal shaft with the live coverage again, I swear to the highest heavens......I'll just settle for whatever coverage they give me. And still love it. HAHA.
Written Monday, August 11, 2008 at 3:50 in the A.M.
The problem here is that over these last three days, I have grown into a bum, a couch potato. There are no other words for it. There is no excuse, no point for my sheer bumdom...aside from the twenty-ninth Olympiad, that is. These last three days have seen Manny Francis abed or acouch all day long, flipping through the multiple channels that NBC has offered with coverage of boxing, swimming, or weightlifting, only to get up at a rare commercial to fix myself a ham and cheese sandwich on toasted white bread with a dab of light mayonnaise or to snag a granola bar for a quick exit of the kitchen and a hasty return to my warm seat in front of the television. Sure, some may say my slight obsession with the quadrennial games is a bit too wild. Some would say that medication could be the answer. And then, some, myself included, would call an ace an ace. We'd tell you that the Olympics have created a bum.
I can only imagine the thousands of people like me in the world, our own fraternity of Dorito-eating, ottoman-worshipping Olympic fanatics, ready to pop the tube on at any time of day for hours upon hours of fun. I guess we could sue for our troubles, couldn't we? "Your honor, we bring forth this case against the International Olympic Committee and the thousands of athletes that took part in the games. They've made couch potatoes of us. We've lost jobs, friends, and self-respect. We all currently have bed sores. Now, tell them to give us money." What a case it would be.
But all kidding aside, maybe bum is to strong a word. Sports nut would suffice. I promise. I've been watching nothing but baseball (the Red Sox usual mid-season woes have trickled into the latter stages of the season) and Brett Favre coverage (JUST RETIRE ALREADY!) for the last three months. So, give me a break. The myriad of Olympic events are a breath of fresh air. Even the casual fan is intrigued by synchronized diving or water polo. We never see these sports, and they're nothing short of addictive once we start watching them. Who can really blame us?
That being said, I'll take the first step and admit my problem. I'm infatuated with the games, and because of this (coupled with my odd body clock), I am quite bothered by a couple of the aspects of the coverage. Beijing operates on a clock that is twelve hours ahead of the east coast of the United States. Over there, athletes compete in events from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m, give or take, which means that the broadcasts must start at 8 p.m. and end at 11 a.m over here. Follow? Now, that coverage is entirely cool with me. It's not uncommon for me to stay up until the sun rises anyway. With that said, I figured I'd be watching live events all night long, for 12 hours straight. Makes sense, right? Wrong. The live coverage begins at 7:30 p.m. or so and ends around midnight, and I wish someone could tell me why. Maybe it's money. Gotta make that paper cheddar. Maybe they won't get the ratings they desire if they broadcast live during my hours. Frankly, I don't care what it is. This particular fan can't get enough of the Olympics, and by god, if I'm up during the hours when competitions are being held, I want to see them as they happen. I don't want Bob Costas to give me the rundown of what we all missed during his primetime slot. And for this, I'm terribly vexed. I could care less what events they throw on during the wee hours just so long as they're live. I'd watch twelve hours straight, midnight to noon, and wouldn't lose a beat. Believe me. And I just know there are many more like me out there. So, let's rise up and write mass amounts of hate mail, people. Let's wake the neighbors and go streaking in the name of more live coverage. Let's start the petition now, so this doesn't happen to us four years from now. If I have to wait another four years for these precious events only to get the royal shaft with the live coverage again, I swear to the highest heavens......I'll just settle for whatever coverage they give me. And still love it. HAHA.
Written Monday, August 11, 2008 at 3:50 in the A.M.
Draw the Curtains...The Unveiling of The MannyFesto
It seems to me that many of the blogs nowadays have taken a direction for the absolute worst. We've seen it where bloggers have chosen to neglect their pages completely or where they have opted to use their blog as a medium to promote something other than good, clean writing, i.e. countless advertisements, fraudulent personal businesses, or someone else's videos or multimedia. Blogs have seemed to stray away from the creative and morphed into the lazy. Blog diaries are quite simply stale and boring, as they have always been, and Youtube video blogs are downright unintelligent. These reasons, up to now, have dissuaded me from starting my own blog and turned me off from blogs in general, but clearly, my sentiment has changed in that regard. Maybe I'm bored with many of the other blogs I've sampled and hope to present something that I (and hopefully many others) would read and perhaps get a kick out of. Maybe I'm just bored with my own everyday life, as I'm sure is the case with many or most of those in the blogosphere. Whatever the case, I have deemed it the correct time to unveil The MannyFesto, a comprehensive online blog that will emulate something of a mini-magazine.
The MannyFesto will contain no less than four major sections that will be posted during the course of the five day week. The first of these is aptly named The Festo, which will be posted two of the five days. This will be the real meat of the weekly blog, where I will rant, so help me god, on one of the many topics floating around in my mind. Expect exciting topics How Dr. Phil, John Edward, and the Fat Guy from Subway have Ruined the World and Daddy, Would you like some Sausage? The first of the subsections has been dubbed The Skinny Post, where I will post a small paragraph about a simple subject that seems a bit askew. I suppose this section could be comparable to a Peter Griffin, "Grind my Gears" piece. I'll attempt to keep these as terse and to-the-point as possible. Be prepared for a quick read here. Dispatched, the second of the subsections, is where I will peruse an article, give it a quick overview, and provide a link for those who may be interested. In the final weekly piece, The Popcorn Editorial (The POP-ED), I will post a discussion about a movie, newer or older, and a personal rating for that movie. From there, I may have one of my very, very super-interesting friends make a guest appearance and rant about one of their many, many problems in a piece that we'll call The Celebrity Shot, and maybe, juuuuuuuust maybe I'll have the urge to post some of my fiction. I wouldn't expect any posts on the weekends, but I also wouldn't put it past me.
And so will be The MannyFesto, a blog that will hopefully entertain and elicit many a chuckle. Now, for a taste of things to come, I will post a few of my recent pieces. Olympic Couch Potato, Kitty Vacation, and Don't Spare the White Russians, Spoil thy Child were written last week. I feel like they will get the ball rolling nicely and give the reader a good idea of what to expect. Enjoy.
The MannyFesto will contain no less than four major sections that will be posted during the course of the five day week. The first of these is aptly named The Festo, which will be posted two of the five days. This will be the real meat of the weekly blog, where I will rant, so help me god, on one of the many topics floating around in my mind. Expect exciting topics How Dr. Phil, John Edward, and the Fat Guy from Subway have Ruined the World and Daddy, Would you like some Sausage? The first of the subsections has been dubbed The Skinny Post, where I will post a small paragraph about a simple subject that seems a bit askew. I suppose this section could be comparable to a Peter Griffin, "Grind my Gears" piece. I'll attempt to keep these as terse and to-the-point as possible. Be prepared for a quick read here. Dispatched, the second of the subsections, is where I will peruse an article, give it a quick overview, and provide a link for those who may be interested. In the final weekly piece, The Popcorn Editorial (The POP-ED), I will post a discussion about a movie, newer or older, and a personal rating for that movie. From there, I may have one of my very, very super-interesting friends make a guest appearance and rant about one of their many, many problems in a piece that we'll call The Celebrity Shot, and maybe, juuuuuuuust maybe I'll have the urge to post some of my fiction. I wouldn't expect any posts on the weekends, but I also wouldn't put it past me.
And so will be The MannyFesto, a blog that will hopefully entertain and elicit many a chuckle. Now, for a taste of things to come, I will post a few of my recent pieces. Olympic Couch Potato, Kitty Vacation, and Don't Spare the White Russians, Spoil thy Child were written last week. I feel like they will get the ball rolling nicely and give the reader a good idea of what to expect. Enjoy.