25 Years, 21 Days, 21 Goals

Ah, September. The month for the NFL, the debut of Fall TV, and the annual celebration of Joel! In honor of my first quarter century on Planet Earth (aren't we glad it didn't get downgraded), I am posting one goal, every day, that I hope to achieve in my next 25. As you've already read the title I imagine you realise this is not the first in this series. If you like to start from there, click here. Consider these posts lagniappe (that's something extra for you yankees).

21. Play in a high stakes Texas Hold 'Em tournament. -- I have, over the last five or six years, fallen madly in love with Poker. No Limit Texas Hold 'Em to be precise. I play as often as time (and money) allow me to. But I have never played for more than twenty dollars at a sitting (and that was only once). I am not what I would consider a gambling man. I know that sensible people do sensible things with their money (like buy nice televisions and hundreds of DVD's) but I would love to play in one of these tournaments with a couple of thousand dollar buy-ins. I am thinking that for this to work out, I'll have to be a fairly successful writer. But, you read my stuff, I'll be there in no time, right?

FYI 21 shopping days until my birthday. My favorite color is dark blue, just...you know...in case.

Pluto isn't a Planet? What's Next? Goofy isn't a Dog?

First I'd just like to say, this is (I'm pretty sure) my 100th blog. I write for my personal page, Apathy as Activism (a political blog), and Truth and Spectacle (a movie review blog) and if you add them all since March of this year, I've written 100 (counting this one). Impressive, I know. Bow before my superior time-wasting abilities! Now I was going to write about something...

Ah, yes! Pluto has been downgraded. I'm sure all of you have heard about it by now, but in case you haven't here's a link. The International Astronomical Union has downgraded the Pluto from Planet to "dwarf planet" (notice the lack of capitalization, as if Pluto required further ridicule). Astronomers had, for the past several years, acknowledged that Pluto's place among the Planet's was tenuous at best. But to the average Joe and Jane (or Jaque and Flicca, if your French) Pluto's demotion came as a surprise. It leaves this writer wondering what else might get the "Pluto" treatment?

1. The Indian Ocean -- Speaking geographically it is the smallest Ocean, couldn't cartographers just decide to call it the Indian Gulf? How does this affect maritime law? Would it become the new hangout for Pirates? If so, can I move there? So many questions.

2. NBC -- Let's face it, the last few years have not been kind the peacock. After "Seinfeld" and then "Friends" departed, they seemed to be able to do no right. Could the FCC decide that enough is enough and send the house that Carson built to cable? Technically no, since it's part of a huge corporation that will undoubtedly rise again, but come on we are talking about humor here! Think of it, instead of "ER" and the new Aaron Sorkin project, cable's NBC could have "The Badge" a dark gritty drama about a cop on the edge of the law that lives next to a wacky guy by the name of Kramer, and hangs out with his best friend George. Thrilling! Or how about their dramedy "Snip/Fold" chronicling the misadventures of two plastic surgeons.

3. MySpace -- Could the most visited internet portal, become just a lowly webpage? Not bloomin' likely! With 90 million members (probably over 100 now, that counter just seems to roll) MySpace is truly the best thing since sliced bread (and let's face it, it's hard to blog on sliced bread). Here's to a million more members (would any of you like to be my friend).

So not only has Pluto been downgraded to a lowly "dwarf planet" but it seems to be alone in the downgrading. How sad Pluto. But just ask Goofy how he felt when he found out the duck with the speech impediment was a bigger draw than him.

25 Years, 22 Days, 22 Goals

In precisely 22 days I will turn 25. In honor of that milestone (cheaper insurance, yeah!) I've decided to list a goal each day that I hope to achieve in my next 25 years. I'm sort of tackling the easy stuff first, but as we near my birthday I'll wish for the tougher things. These are (for those of you interested) short posts in addition to (as opposed to instead of) my regular blogs, they will continue. Without further ado, here's goal number...

22. Play Tevye in "Fiddler on the Roof." -- For those that know me personally, you know that I am semi-retired as an actor. I acted pretty much non-stop throughout junior high, high school and college, including two summers as a professional. I decided somewhere along the way that my passion just isn't for acting. I'd much rather direct and write, so that's where I turned my creative abilities. But, Tevye is one role that I will come out of retirement to play. I don't care if I have to go to some podunk town, and direct the show myself at the local community theatre, I'll play Tevye somewhere, someday. It is (in this fatboy's opinion) the greatest role for a heavy man, ever written (with Ben Franklin from "1776" a close runner-up).

Pssst...You only have 22 shopping days left before Joel's birthday. He likes fast food gift cards, DVD's and Nintendo...I'm just sayin'.

It's Like Home Alone, for Big People

My wife is tending to (I feel like I'm eighty because I just said tending to) her sister-in-law and niece, due to a recent accident (nobody worry, they're both fine). That leaves the Drunken Rogue home alone almost all week. In our (mine and Ella's that is) 2 years of marriage, I've spent about three weeks by myself. She went to Boston once, Florida and now Bossier City. In that time, I think that I have learned quite a few valuable lessons for the bacheloring (I mean this only in the "running the house on your own" sense, not the "chasing skirts 'til four in the morning" sense...I promise) husband. Since I'm fairly proud of any knowledge I have, I'm going to share it with you now.

1. The cats (while tremendously intelligent) can not change their litter themselves. -- At times, when Ella is home, it seems that the litter just magically stays clean, but when she leaves I understand that is only because she cleans it. There is nothing like coming home after a hard day's work, opening the front door and being greeted by the overwhelming smell of ammonia, baking soda and poop. Stay on top of this task, gentlemen.

2. Popsicles and beer, while tasty, do not count as dinner. -- I am a simple man, with simple tastes. I just as happy (happier indeed) with a fast food hamburger and fries as with a steak. But even the bacheloring husband needs actual sustenance. And no, Guiness doesn't count, no matter how thick it is.

3. Proper hygeine, even in the abscence of the little woman, requires at least a bath every three days. -- With your lady love out of the house, you might let that stubble grow an extra day, or re-wear your favorite pants, but please do not overlook bathing. True there is no one but you to notice your pit smell, but your co-workers will appreciate you being Zest-fully clean.

4. 15 hour marathon sessions of videogaming are not nearly as fulfilling as they were in college. -- The first time Ella vacationed without me I thought, "Now is my chance to finish all those video games I never got around to beating." I love playing video games, and am very much looking forward to the new consoles, but a man with a full time job just shouldn't play for more than hour or two at one sitting. Besides, it makes my eyes blurry.

5. Make sure you leave the house as clean for her return, as she left it for her departure. -- There is no surer way to end that celebratory hello kiss and hug badly than leaving the house filthy. I know it's fun to leave your clothes on the floor, and your fast food bags and boxes on the counter beside the empty beer bottles, but for your own well-being pick them up before she gets home. She worked hard on the house before you leaving, and the last thing she wants to do when she gets back is clean again. So here's a checklist:

Clothes in the hamper (nobody said you actually had to do laundry)
Trash taken out (would it kill you to put in new bags, too?)
Toilet seat in its full down position (we know you left it up while she was gone, but your fun is over)
And man's secret weapon in the battle of smell, Febreeze! (Seriously. It doesn't stain, can be sprayed on literally any fabric, or surface and can make that fart smell like a flower).

Alright guys, now you're prepared for that time alone, enjoy it, eat what you want, have an extra beer, be a slob...but clean up before she gets home.

25 Years, 23 Days, 23 Goals

In 23 days I'll turn 25. As I look back over the last quarter century, I thought it would be nice to lay out over the last 25 days of my 24 year 25 goals I hope to achieve in the next 25. These are short posts, in addition to my regular blogs. Today's goal:

23. Own a home -- My father has instilled in me, all my life, the belief that the only way to get ahead in life financially is to own a home (or become a very successful drug dealer, or Bob Barker). Ella and I both enjoy gardening and plants. You put those two things together and it sorts of begs for us to have our own house. This is really in impossibility (and unreasonable) right now. Ella is still in school, and we don't plan on being here very much longer. I imagine though that if (when) I get a writing job, it (the house buying) will be high on our list of priorities.

Incidentally, only 23 shopping days left until my birthday. I'm registered at Best Buy, Wal-Mart and Target (I'm kidding) (but those are great places to shop for me, if you are so inclined).

25 Years, 25 Days, 25 Goals

Alright, so I should have started this yesterday, but I'm lazy. I also have a stressful full-time job in radio, but mostly I'm lazy.

In exactly 24 days (that's why I should have started this yesterday) I will turn 25. I thought it appropriate to list one goal, every day that I hope to achieve in my next 25 years. These will be (I hope) short posts in addition to our regularly scheduled blogging. You guys are a fantastic audience, thank you for reading, commenting, subscribing, and not reporting me to the authorities (whichever of those is pertinent to you, please accept it). So without further ado, my first two goals (you know, because I should have started yesterday).

25. Be published -- This one is by far the easiest (and most obvious, I write or co-write three different blogs for goodness sake). In today's world I could self-publish a small run and sell it online with no overhead...wait a minute that's a good idea. Look forward to "Ramblings of a Drunken Rogue: The Novel" being hawked here before long. As I'm sure you all know by the frequency of these blogs, I love to write, and hope to do it for money very, very soon (who says an artist can't be materialistic?)

24. Attend the NBA All-star game -- I know I covered this one in a "Places I want to go before I die" blog, but deal with it. The All-Star game is scheduled in New Orleans next (2008). If Auntie Ann and I are not there with bells on, it will probably be because I have died in the interim. Seriously, I can thing of nothing that would keep me away.

See you tomorrow (throughout the month of September) with more...Incidentally only 24 shopping days until my birthday...I'm just sayin'.

Fears.

I'm afraid of snakes. I'm afraid of spiders. I fear the death of my loved ones, but not really my own. I guess that's just because it's hard to wrap my mind around my own mortality. I've read scary books since I was a small boy, vampires, werewolves and all the rest have been companions of mine for a while, so the boogeyman (and all his henchmen) doesn't frighten me. But I recently re-read a book that terrifies me. "Flowers for Algernon" by Daniel Keyes.

Most of you have probably heard of it, it's one that is often assigned in some form in American Literature in High School or College. Originally published as a short story, it was turned into a television movie, then a novel, then a major motion picture. It tells the story of Charlie Gordon, a mentally handicapped man who undergoes an experiment to increase his intelligence. The experiment works, and Charlie becomes a genius, but the effects may not be permanent. In fact since it is an experiment, the scientists don't know if Charlie will even return to his normal level of intelligence or regress further. It's written in the form of a diary, as Charlie takes down his thoughts and feelings on the entire process. And it's the most frightening thing I've ever read.

Intelligence is something I pride myself on. I've always been smart, and as a kid that sort of torments you. I thought about things at a much younger age than I think other people do. When I was six and seven years old, I would lie in bed at night contemplating eternity, and the chances that everyone I loved would spend it on the same side as me. That's big stuff for six or seven. I questioned the nature of God, and the plan of salvation, while my friends were still watching Saturday morning cartoons. Being smart is a good thing, though. It helped me in school, it helped me make friends, it sent me to College, and now it's helping me write these blogs.

"Flowers for Algernon" frightens me, because it describes the one manner of death that I tremble at, senility. As you read Charlie's diary entry you watch him, correct his spelling, start using complex sentence structure, increase his vocabulary, attack difficult concepts and ideas. And then you watch it all go away. You hear him describe what it feels like to lose his mind. That's what I'm scared of.

My father's mother died some years ago, and until the last few years she had been a vital woman. But in the last years (and especially the last months) she would lose all concept of time, and her place in it. She'd confuse me for her son, introducing my mother and I to the nurse one day as husband and wife. I had been around Alzheimer's patients before, so this wasn't the first time, I felt it's effects, but it was the first time I wondered if she knew what was happening. Could she see us through a fog, saying one name, but knowing that wasn't right? Did she talk about her husband, as if he wasn't dead, but then think to herself, "Twenty years have gone by?"

Alzheimer's (like Cancer) is a disease we have to thank science for. Not that science created it, but by eliminating other (earlier) ways for human kind to die, science has enabled us to die of Cancer and degenerative diseases. Science is proud and doesn't like to fail, so I have no doubt that somewhere, right now, some brilliant man that fears losing his mind as much as I do is working feverishly on a cure...or a stop-gap...something. Less of my generation will die of these diseases than of my parents' generation. Less of theirs will die of these diseases than their parents' generation. Progress continues.

But the thought that keeps me up at night, the thought that makes me write almost 100 blogs in less than six months, is "How long do you have the ability? How long until you watch it slip away?" And so in the words of Dylan Thomas,

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The Four Seasons (and no, I'm not Speaking of the Talented Singing Group)

Other than two summers spent in beautiful Ohio, a few trips to Alabama, one to Jamaica, a journey to Canada and the occasional trip to Texas, I have spent my entire life in Louisiana. That life has not been a long one, I admit, but I am sure that a period of 25 years should be sufficient to account for any abnormalities in the normal way of things. In those 25 years I have come to realize that Louisiana is blessed (and cursed) by a lack of something that other states (every other state in fact) take for granted. Four Seasons.

My friends who live in Ohio year round tell me that not only do they enjoy the occasional summer day with temperatures over 100, but also the yearly snow (sometimes several feet deep). My extended family that reside in Alabama have tales every year of swimming in the local lakes come summer, strolling through the woods in light jackets in the fall as the leaves change, being snowed in at least once nearly every year, as well as the mild spring as the flowers come back. Hell, even my friend from Arizona (why haven't you moved home yet, Amanda) enjoys multiple seasons and she's in the middle of the desert!

Louisiana (for those that don't live here, or haven't lived here long) does not have four seasons. We have (to be generous) two and a half. As my readership continues to expand (I have several readers now that live in other parts of the country) I thought it would be nice (and educational) to layout the yearly schedule we cajuns (and would be cajuns) endure.

1. Summer -- Summer, for most people, means ice cream, baseball, swimming, and vacation. For Louisianians Summer means sweat, mosquitoes, droughts, 100+ degrees for four+ months, and (if we're very lucky) hurricanes. That's right the uncomfortable humidity and temperature are not signs enough from God that our location displeases Him, we also get tropical storms to cement the idea. 1 Season

2. Fall -- Oh, we do have a fall, although you almost couldn't tell it, by the changing of the leaves, since paper companies have left us with almost nothing but pine trees. Unlike the fall that the rest of the world (short of Saharan Africa, and Antarctica) experience, ours does not last. We get one week (two if there has been a bad hurricane) of cooler temperatures and low humidity. One week to relieve us from the Summer heat and prepare us for... 1/4 Season

3. Winter -- Winter, we get, in full force even. What we don't get is snow. You know the pretty part of Winter, we skip that. Winter in Louisiana is like this, humidity (impossibly) higher than in the summer so that even at a normal temperature like the low 50's the wind stings your skin, rain for about five months, occasionally it's freezing rain, and once every four or five years for one night we get snow, it lasts approximately an hour on the ground. Winter is cold, monotonous, and long. 1 Season

4. Spring -- No one in the world is happier to see Winter end than those of us in Louisiana. That first temperate day, when the sun comes out and laying in the grass sunbathing you can almost imagine Winter never happened, is one of the most pleasant days of the year. The problem is it's only accompanied by about six more (14 total if we're lucky). Spring is welcomed but only because we always forget that it leads us right back into Summer. 1/4 Season

So in summation we sweat four 5 months, we sing for a week, we freeze and drip for five months, and then we sunbathe for a week. That, my friends, is the 2 1/2 Seasons of Louisiana. Call your travel guide today, if you book quickly you might make it for the week of fall!

How "Star Wars" would have been Different if Conceived by Oliver Stone

As a follower of the flanneled one, I'm the first to defend Lucas' continued bastardization...I mean completion of the Star Wars Saga. However it occurred to me today that the series could have been quite good with a different creator. Oliver Stone for instance.

What would that galaxy far far away be like if the man behind, JFK, Natural Born Killers, Nixon, and the recent World Trade Center had imagined the Skywalkers?

1. Darth Vader would have been a paranoid leader with an inferiority complex -- While Vader's foreign policy has been praised throughout the Empire, his fear of the Rebellion at home, paralyzed his Domestic agenda. Rumor has it that even kept a holograph recorder running secretly at all times in his office. Ironically it was those holographs that ruined his relationship with the Emperor. It seems the Emperor found the recording that contained Vader's list of decorating changes to the Imperial Palace once Vader and Luke overthrow the Emperor. Vader had chosen twenty foot tall blood red drapes for the great room with a spinning fountain that displayed the words, "The Galaxy is Yours."

2. Leia's adopted father would have been a drunken abuser -- The Princess' fall into the arms of the scoundrel Han Solo would have made that much more sense, seeing as how she was raised by an abusive alcoholic. This would have also greatly changed the "Do you remember your mother?" scene from "Return of the Jedi" as her response would have been, "Yes, but everytime I spoke of her, Papa gave me a f*%#*@ backhand."

3. As Han Solo is frozen in carbonite he screams "This is the last time you see a bad guy like me!" -- Changing Han's backstory from a Corellian to an immigrant from Cubania would have given a little more edge to the character, as well as an awesome accent. Imagine lines like this "Choo you cawlin' scrwuffy loookan'?" or his response to Leia's "I love you." "Choo damn straight choo do!" Thrilling and not only would the Cubanian Han have shot first, he would have shot last and quite a lot in between.

4. Obi-Wan, instead of the kindly old mystic, would be an angry paraplegic, who Luke meets at an Imperial protest. -- As Obi-Wan waves a "Make Moisture Converters, not War!" sign and chants, "Remember the Clone Wars! Remember the Clone Wars!" Luke approaches him about the wandering R2 droid. "I don't remember owning any droid!" Obi-Wan yells, smelling of Bunta Juice and Death Sticks. "Hey kid! You oughta buy me a drink, I'll tell you what the Empire is hiding about the war." Yep he definitely smells like Bunta Juice.

5. The Destruction of the second Death Star in "Return of the Jedi" would have been viewed from the point of two Imperial Firefighters trapped in the debris as they struggle to save the lives of those around them -- More dramatic? Yes. However it would sort of clash with that whole, "the evil Empire versus the noble Rebellion" motif of the other films. This one is probably best left alone. Alone, Stone could have won acting words with this viewpoint, the flanneled one never did that.

Fantasy Cast List for Oliver Stone's Version of the Star Wars Trilogy:

Luke Skywalker - Michael J. Fox
Obi-Wan Kenobi - Woody Harrelson
Princess Leia - Juliette Lewis
Han Solo - Andy Garcia
Emperor Palpatine - Anthony Hopkins
Darth Vader - Samuel L. Jackson

Yamamma! Part Two of the Continuing Linguistic Tragedy

This is Part Two of Yamamma's story. If you haven't already read about Yamamma, then make sure and check out Part One!

When we last left our hero, Yamamma, the brave school boy of Lithuanian heritage was having a hard time making friends on his first day of school. The bus driver had yelled at him, and a boy by the name of David had pushed him out of his seat. Now alone and teary in the back row, Yamamma thought of his mother, Hismamma, and his father, Kissmighass. He knew he had to make them proud. And so Yamamma had not lost hope for his first day at school.

Yamamma, was very quiet for the whole bus ride, not wanting to upset anyone. As he saw strangers on the street he waved the traditional greeting finger of Lithuania at them, and some of them even waved it back. Others ran after the bus screaming but Yamamma didn't know what they were saying.

The bus had reached the school and all the students started filing off and heading to their classes. As Yamamma passed the bus driver, she yelled at him, "You better learn some manners before the next ride, Jack!"

"I am Yamamma. I don't know Jack," Yamamma said.

"Yeah and with a lip like that, you're gonna get suspended. Get outta here!"

Yamamma left the bus with his bag on his back, wondering what was wrong with his lip. There was a lady standing in the front door of the school telling children where to go as they came into the building.

"Hello. My name is Ms. Smith. What grade are you in?"

"The Kindergarten grade, Ms. Smith. This is my first day at school," Yamamma replied.

"What a nice young man. I wish the other children would be more well mannered like you. Your room is right over here."

Ms. Smith walked Yamamma to his classroom, patted him on the head and said, "Have a great day...I didn't even ask what your name was."

"Yamamma!" he said proudly.

Yamamma wasn't sure what Ms. Smith said, because she mumbled it a little bit, but he could tell she was not happy as she stomped away from his classroom. Yamamma thought to himself, "This might be harder than I thought." As he walked through the classroom door, a big boy leaning against the back wall of the classroom waved him over.

"Hey, I like your style, man. You really told Ms. Smith where to stick it." the boy stuck his hand out, Yamamma did the same, after a few moments of silence, the big boy grabbed his hand and shook it.

"My name is Roger. You sure are a weird looking kid."

"My mother tells me I take after my grandfather, but I've always thought I looked like Horsiesass."

"Who?" Roger asked a bit shocked.

"My cousin. Horsiesass," Yamamma answered.

"What kind of a name is Horse's ass?"

But apparently Roger had spoken out of turn. Because no sooner had he asked Yamamma about his cousin, than the teacher, a stern looking older woman, was dragging Yamamma's new friend out of the classroom.

"I can't believe it, not even five minutes into the school day and already such language! What do they teach you children at home?"

The class did not have time to hear Roger's response because he was already gone from the room. Yamamma wasn't sure why, but he made a decision not to mention any other family members for a while.

Class seemed boring to him. The teacher (he had discovered her name was Mrs. Cranberry) spent far too much time repeating herself, and was generally very focused on over pronouncing words. Yamamma knew he was a smart boy, Hismamma had told him so, but surely he was not that much more intelligent than the other children.

Scared after the incident with Roger, Yamamma had decided it would be best if he just stayed quiet for a while, and other than one particular easy question about the weather, he was never called on. Finally a bell rang, and Mrs. Cranberry said, "CHIL-D-REN (She spoke awfully slowly, and far too loud). IT IS NOWUH, TIME FOR LA-UNCH! FOLLOW ME."

And so they did. Yamamma waited in line with his tray, realising for the first time that he actually was quite hungry. He had lot's to choose from: globs of meaty-looking red stuff, hamburgers (that only looked partially stale) and his favorite food in the world, yummyumm! He wondered how they knew about Lithuanian dishes here, but he couldn't contain his excitement as the cafeteria lady asked him what he'd like to eat.

"Yummyumm," he answered.

The cafeteria lady mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, "Oh, Jesus. Kindegardeners, they might as well be monkeys." and then shouted. "JUST POINT AT WHAT YOU WANT!" She then added under her breath, "And they say video games don't rot the brain."

Yamamma didn't know what a video game was but he pointed at the yummyumm, and she scooped it up for him.

"MACKIN CHEEZ!" she said loudly. "Next time ask for Mackin cheez!"

Yamamma nodded hoping that she wouldn't yell anymore. He took his tray with the yummyumm (which he would now try to remember to call mackin cheez) and began to look for a seat. He feared a repeat of the incident on the bus, when David (who he had so hoped would be his friend) pushed him off the seat. As he scanned the tables for a place to sit alone, he heard a pretty voice behind him.

"Do you need a place to sit?"

Yamamma turned and saw a pretty little girl sitting all by herself. She wore a pretty blue dress and had a bow in her hair. But the best thing about her was what was on her tray, yummyumm (mackin cheez). She had good taste, that much was clear.

"Do you need a place to sit?" the girl asked again.

"Well, I'm not sure I should. The last time I sat with someone else they pushed me down."

"Well I won't push you down. Come on, sit down. My name's Joanie. What's your name?"

"Yamamma!" he replied.

"Her name's Claire. What's yours?" Joanie asked again.

"Yam..." Yamamma began to think back on the days events. First his mother, Hismamma, had told him people wouldn't like him for his name. Then when he had told David his name, David pushed him down. The bus driver, and Ms. Smith had both seemed mad at him, when he mentioned his name. Maybe he should use his nickname instead.

"Mammy. My name is Mammy."

"Well, Mammy. Sit here and we can eat lunch together."

For the first time, Yamamma had a friend. He finally thought he might enjoy school. But little did he know what awaited him, that night. When Hismamma and Kissmighass would come to the school for Parent Teacher Open House.

Coming soon to a blog near you: Yamamma! A Linguistic Tragedy Part Three -- Kissmighass and Hismamma come to School.

Yamamma! A Linguistic Tragedy

Yamamma was a special little boy. He had a family that loved him very much, but for some reason he had never had any real friends. He had been told from a young age that his life would be hard, but he didn't truly understand until that fateful first day of school. His mother, Hismamma, walked him to the bus stop, counseling him along the way on what to expect.

"Son, school will be difficult. You're smart so the classes won't bother you, but the other children might be very unkind."

"Whatever do you mean, Mother?"

"Our family has been mistreated from the day your were born. Now understand it's not your fault, but some people just don't appreciate our heritage. We named you Yamamma, which in our native tongue of Lithuanian means 'strong boy' but people don't seem to like that name in this country."

"Mother, I am sure that I will make many friends in school. No one would hold something like an odd name against me!"

"Oh, you poor deluded child."

Hismamma broke into tears and ran back towards their house, leaving Yamamma all alone at the bus stop. As he sat there on the bench, Yamamma smiled to himself. Finally he would make friends. Other children his own age. It's not that he didn't love his family, but they were nothing like the glimpses of other families he saw on Television when his mother and father were out of the house. He wondered at the things he heard, they described things as "cool" or "radical" but he didn't understand what they were saying. Sometimes they sang, but the music seemed less important than the flashy outfits they wore or the cars they rode. Those songs were not at all like the traditional folk songs of Lithuania Yamamma sang with his family.

As the bus pulled up, Yamamma picked up his bag and climbed aboard. The driver looked at him smiling.

"What's your name little boy?"

"Yamamma!" he replied, holding up the traditional Lithuanian greeting finger.

"Alright you little snot! Get in the back," the bus driver barked. "I swear these little bastards get worse every year!"

Yamamma didn't know what he had done to upset the driver, but thought it best to do as he asked rather than bothering him more. He made his way down the aisle, looking for an empty seat. Most of the seats were already filled with children laughing and enjoying their reunion after the summer. Finally Yamamma saw an open seat and stood waiting to see if the little boy sitting there would let him sit as well.

"Hey, sit down, man what are you waiting on? My name's David. What's your name?"

As Yamamma sat beside his new friend he answered, "Yamamma!" But suddenly David was pushing him back into the aisle.

"Then find another seat, punk!"

Perhaps he and David would not be such good friends after all. Yamamma continued down the aisle until finally he found a completely empty seat in the last row. He sat his bag down beside him, and then turned around facing out the back window. The tears began to well up in his eyes, but he knew he should be strong. Hismamma and Kissmighass were counting on their son, and he would be strong for his mother and father. Yamamma was sad, but knew that things would get better.

Coming soon to a blog near you: Yamamma! A Linguistic Tragedy Part Two -- Yamamma meets a friend

Paramount Finally Smells the Crazy and Kicks Cruise to the Curb

Boy I love alliteration.

The USA Today is reporting that Paramount Studios has ended it's 14 year relationship with the High Priest of the Loony Bin, Tom Cruise. Apparently some of the studio heads, finally picked up a paper or turned on VH1 and realized the man they pay $10 million a year to produce new films, is a complete wacko.

One wonders what the final straw was, what act of insanity was one too many for the house that Spielberg built? Was it the couch-jumping shows of devotion on Oprah's set? The anti-psychiatry diatribes? The belief in extra-terrestrial human-possessing entities? Or maybe the fact that he apparently faked the birth of child? How could you ever think this guy is crazy?

The studio did make an offer to Cruise's production company of $2 million a year, however that fell through when Cruise discovered the contract was not for a producer but a freak show attraction at the studio's theme park. I can see the marquee now, "See the Man with the Imaginary Baby!"

You know what, seeing as how Paramount now has some money available, I'd like to officially apply for the job of Producer. I'm crazy as hell, and have lots of ideas for films. I could spend my days jumping on couches telling everybody what a wonderful woman Ella is, and picking fights on the Today show with Matt Lauer over the use and misuse of psychiatric drugs. Sure beats my current day job.

Cruise's partner, Sillyhead (excuse me, I mean) Paula Wagner, said she is upset that the breakup turned into a "personal attack." Cruise however was not suprised, since he knows that the studio heads only act negatively because of the mind control of the intergalactic tyrant, Xenu. Cruise hopes that they gain a higher level as Operating Thetans, and free themselves, as he has, from the bonds of slavery implanted on the human race 75 million years ago.

Seriously, how could you think this guy is crazy?

Good Times, Old Friends, Long Goodbyes, and General Sappiness

There is no single barometer for aging more efficient or evident than the comings and goings of old friends. The post-college experience (and most of you that read this are in that period of your life) is one of continual goodbyes. I have been blessed in the past few weeks to have reconnected (or at least touched base) with several old friends. That has only really served to remind me how much I miss them.

Before college even got started good for me, I was already saying goodbye to people. I guess that's the price you pay when most of your friends are older. If you've read "The Life and Times of the Drunken Rogue" you know my college years were populated by some of the most interesting (and frankly, strange) people imaginable. But one by one you say goodbye to those people. This past weekend, Ella and I had to do it again.

Erin, Ella's brother's girlfriend (is that confusing enough for you), has finished up her college career and is embarking on her real one, in Dallas. Now, it's a great job and we couldn't be prouder for her, but couldn't she have waited a few more months until we were leaving too?

On the flip side of that, two weeks ago, I got to spend several days with two friends I haven't seen in a while. Amanda, who flew in from Arizona, and Walker, who lives here, but we just haven't gotten together in a long time. The nicest thing about these quasi-reunions is that you're reminded why you were such good friends in the first place. Conversation is effortless, you don't have to be anyone other than yourself, you just enjoy your time with them.

I know that many of the rest of you are going through similar times. A couple of you have even blogged about it. The point of this is to say I feel your pain.

Here's to good times, old friends, long goodbyes and other sappiness. Enjoy them while they last.

Sweaty, Muscular Men in Tights and Why It's Not Homo-Erotic

So, much like my Flava-Flav confession of last week, I have something to share today. It's a deep dark secret, and one that, I admit, at times I'm ashamed of.

I love professional wrestling.

Does that make me a geek? Absolutely. While the rest of the world scoffs at my love for a fake sport, I stand proudly with the trailer parks and NASCAR fans, throwing the DX sign, and chanting my favorite catch phrases. And no, that doesn't make me the least bit gay, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Last night, Ella and I (that's right I got Mrs. Drunken Rogue to go along) journeyed to the home of my favorite sports guy F-O-X, to watch the latest Pay Per View from World Wrestling Entertainment, Summer Slam! For those that don't follow the world of Professional Wrestling (and as I look at my subscriber list, I'm seeing that's probably most of you, indeed this may be one of my lesser read blogs) WWE hosts a pay per view once a month, but there are four major ones every year. We (and by we I mean Fox, myself and our other redneck inbred buddies, Chuckles, Bro. Nick, Other Nick and K-Rob) have decided to purchase those four big pay per views, splitting the cost.

So last night we all got together at Fox's new crib (sweet digs by the way) with our respective wives/girlfriends (all except Chuckles, because, well, you have to make a pretty solid commitment to a girl to get her to come watch wrestling, and Chuck is still playing the field), got some pizza, and settled in for three hours of sweaty muscular men in tights. My wife (astute observer that she is) had already commented on the way to the event, "This all seems a little homo-erotic. I mean oiled up dudes in underwear, rubbing on each other. That's a little gay!" You have to forgive her, she just doesn't understand the nuances of Pro Wrestling... What's that?...You think it sounds a little gay, too?...Well apparently we need some examples of how NOT GAY it is!

1. First of all there is a beautiful bevy of WWE Divas in the locker room -- That's right. In between the spandex clad muscle men matches, we are treated to petite ladies 'rasslin' around the ring. Of course, a lot of them aren't really that pretty, and some of them are actually lesbians. And we do all agree that's the most boring part of the events...

2. The wrestlers are constantly making homo-phobic jokes -- It's not rare at all to have a storyline (that's right, it's a male soap opera) where one of the wrestlers is believed by his former partners to be gay, and therefore he becomes ostracized or even attacked because of it. Also one current running joke is that the president of the company, Vince McMahon likes dudes. When I pointed this out last night, Ella just smiled and said, "They make fun of what they fear about themselves." I didn't really understand that, but I'm sure I made my point.

3. The oil and the tights are for physical advantage, not for vanity -- The wrestlers wear the tights to increase agility, not to show off their package. And the oil is so their opponent can't get a good grip on them, not really to show off their muscles. To this, Ella said, "Right, because it's not like they've already decided who's going to win or lose! They want make sure it's an even playing field." At first I thought I had swayed her, but the more I think about it, I think she was being sarcastic...

I've loved wrestling since I was a little kid. Papaw took me to see house shows in Monroe, and I've been hooked ever since. I fade in and out of regular viewing, but I generally try to keep up with the broad strokes of what's going on. All of that wrestling knowledge has sparked quite a few great wrestling jokes, which would be completely wasted on Ella, as she would probably just point out how it makes me look gay, and let's face it, she'd be right. But last night I got to break out all the funny stuff.

Top Three Humorous Moments from Last Night (my apologies to those that don't get it, I promise the next post will be non-wrestling related)

3. As the first of two main events began, we mimicked the announcers by promoting our own Wrestling event, "The Brawl for it All," featuring a battle royal between our beloved Fox, and a rival sportscaster from Monroe. As the joke grew we threw in other local radio and tv personalities, in the end forming a card I think would actually sell. I'm talking to a promoter right now, seeing what kind of advance we could get for setting this up... also, I'm completely kidding.

2. During the second match from Smackdown! (for those not in the know, this is the crappy and underperforming show of the company. Not even wrestling fans watch that one), we joked about the arena clearing out as everyone visited the restrooms.

1. As that second Smackdown match (between King Booker and Batista) King Booker and his escort, Queen something or other, were introduced by the announce team. Queen whose-her-face was compared to other, real queens, "She makes the Queen of Sheba look like a streetwalker!" etc. to which my buddy Kyle added, "She makes Queen Elizabeth look like she's got syphilis!" Fox and Nick both quickly retorted, "Queen Elizabeth's Dead, man." Kyle and I looked at each other, not believing that we could have missed news like that. "How?" Kyle asked. Again, Fox and Nick almost in unison, "Lex Luger made her overdose, he's in jail." For roughly a second and a half, Kyle and I were both again astounded. How in the world did Lex Luger (a former pro wrestler) end up at Windsor Palace with enough H-train to kill the queen? Then it occurred to us, that it was a simple case of mistaken identity. Nick and Fox were describing a lovely lady known by the title of Ms. Elizabeth, that used to escort Randy Savage and other wrestlers. She did in fact overdose at Luger's house, but Kyle and I were referring to the reigning monarch of England. She (while exceedingly old) is in fact still alive.

If I could leave you with one thought, I'd say this. Wrestling is, at face value, a little gay. But it's also a lot of fun. For a bunch of guys who generally lead civilized lives, we get to live vicariously through these characters. We don't fix our problems with violence, however much we might want to. We don't abuse and use women, however much our inner caveman might want to. And we don't oil ourselves up and grapple with other grown men in tights, however much we might... I'm gonna leave that right there.

Also, if you ever get invited to Lex Luger's house, go. It'll be a hell of a good time. Just don't take any pills he might offer you.

Joel's Lessons in Coolness: Tips for the Rest of You

I understand that not everyone can be cool. Cool, by it's very nature requires that some people don't have it. Just as it would be difficult to define good without evil, what would be cool if there were no lame?

Those who live without cool, however, are a sad and lonely bunch and (at least occasionally, and among their own kind) should get to enjoy the feeling of being cool. In the interest of sharing some of the knowledge I've gained through more than two decades of coolness, I have created this short primer in coolness. I hope you and the millions like you find it eases your pain, and perhaps even brings you new friends...(well, let's don't get our hopes up too much).

1. Repeat movie quotes as often as possible -- Whenever applicable (and sometimes even when it's a stretch) you should insert quotes from movies you and your friends enjoy. It's actually better if not everyone with you knows the movie or particular quote, but make sure that at least one person cooler than you will laugh at your use of the quote. If only lame people laugh, that quote should be retired.

2. Find a hobby -- Nothing says lame like idleness. Keep yourself busy, and give yourself something interesting to talk about by taking up a hobby. Some cool hobbies include (but are not limited too): stamp collecting, accordion playing, recycling, blog writing.

3. Now that you have a hobby, talk about it incessantly -- everyone loves to hear about you, so spend as much time as possible detailing the minutiae of your newfound hobby. That glazed over look in their eye is just the jealousy that they don't have a cool hobby.

4. Always top your friends -- Whenever someone is describing something cool that they did, or something fortunate that happened to them, make sure you have a story to top it. Ex. "I went skydiving this weekend." "Oh, yeah? That's almost as cool as my HALO jump this weekend into the mountains of Afghanistan. I was looking for Osama Bin Laden. Yeah, I caught him." or "I can't believe it, but I got a $5,000 raise this week at work." "Oh, that's nice for you. I bought out my company, so I'm pretty much running things over there now." These "topper" stories are not in any way required to be true.

5. Three words, Public Displays of Affection -- I guess that's technically FOUR words, but you see, there were three important words and one preposition...so...yeah... Public displays of Affection are the perfect way to remind your friends that you are desirable and definitely cool! If you have roommates, you should only make out with your gf/bf/paid escort on the couch in the living room. They may act like it's weird, but inside they are thinking how cool you are, and how much they wish they were in your shoes. If you live alone, try to make out as often as possible at parties, or when watching a movie together as a group. Nothing says cool like swapping spit in front of other people.

There are, of course, many more lessons on the road to coolness, but these will have to do for now. I've got a big day ahead of me, making out with my wife at her brother's house, decorating my new office as General Manager of the radio station, and writing a few more blogs. It's really hard work coming up with something new to write all the time, but I know you guys enjoy them so, "I'll Be back!" (said in my best Arnold voice).

Snakes are Scary, Planes are Cool, Snakes on a Plane is Scary Cool!

Since Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge, man and serpents have had a beef with one another, and rightly so. Snakes don't have legs, man. That's weird! The serpent is a representation of all that is evil, deceitful and untrustworthy. Satan is often shown as a reptilian figure. Snakes are the epitome of evil. Even brave men fear snakes.

Since man first looked to the skies, and beheld the beauty of birds in flight, he longed to join them. After centuries of failure, the Wright brothers finally enabled man to truly enjoy a "bird's eye view" from the seat of an airplane in the early 1900's. Since that time, man has conquered not only the sky but space, traveling all the way to the moon. The sky holds no fear for man.

But what if there were snakes in the sky?

That question (and others, like "How cool is Sam Jackson?") will be answered tonight with the release of "Snakes on a Plane," the largest B-Movie in history. I know not all of you can get behind movies that are bad on purpose. But I love schlocky films. Movies that revel in their baditude (yeah it's a word! I'm a writer, if I write it, it's a word). There is something to be said about a movie that aspires to be simple fun. Cardboard characters, predictable scares, and the baddest man on the planet, that's what you'll get when you see "Snakes on a Plane." So for those that aren't so sure that they are ready to join the "Snakes on a Plane" army, here's the top five reasons to see "Snakes on a Plane."

5. Julianna Margulies -- You remember her as George Clooney's girlfriend from "ER" but she's made appearances in films like Disney's "Dinosaur" and "Ghost Ship." She's also done a lot of guest work on TV like "Scrubs" and most recently as Tony's (and Christopher's) girlfriend on "The Sopranos."

4. David Koechner -- he's one of the funniest supporting actors in NBC's version of "The Office" (Todd Packer) and he's hilarious in the new Will Ferrell film, "Talladega Nights." This guy is a perfect supporting character with a voice and face that you can't help but laugh at (sorry Dave it's true).

3. Snakes -- slithery, slimy, scary. 'Nough said!

2. Plane -- it's a confined space, it's 40,000 feet in the air, and it's rocketing towards its destination. 'Nough said!

1. Samuel L. Jackson -- the single baddest man to ever walk the planet (other than possibly Hercules, if that dude was real, he was badder). He is the only actor ever to play both Shaft, and a Jedi Master. That's right he's a bad mother-SHUT Yo' MOUTH! and he can harness the powers of the force, that is to say nothing of his skills with the ladies. 'Nough said!

Let's recap: Snakes are scary, Planes are cool, Sam Jackson is the man, and "Snakes on a Plane" is the greatest movie, perhaps of all time! See you tonight at the movies.

Flushing for Dollars

As a young man, I had issues with public bathrooms. When I was shopping or at school and nature called, I'd just hold it. Many were the days I'd rush home, bursting at the proverbial (and literal) seams. Even in college, if I really had to go, I'd just skip class and head to my apartment.

Why the aversion to public toilets? Probably most of the same reasons you don't like them.

1. Germaphobia
2. Sickly anti-septic smell
3. Sandpaper-worthy toilet paper.

Now, we all agree that people (and by the way, who are these people?) misuse public toilets. They miss the seat (or don't aim at all), they use up (and don't replace) the toilet paper, pour water soap and other interesting fluids all over the sink, etc. But do the cleaning supplies to correct these abuses have to smell like a combination natural gas and that stuff from the doctor's office? Wouldn't some nice "country fresh" Lysol do the trick? Let's assume for a moment that industrial strength cleaners are the only ones that are up to the job, if that's the case shouldn't the clean last a while? I clean my bathroom with store bought products (and not that often I might add) but when I do, it stays clean, at least for a while.

So yes, friends, I feared and despised public restrooms for most of my life. That has all changed now. What is the cause of this reversal? I give all the credit to one woman, Rose. Rose was my supervisor during my student job my last year at La Tech. Some of you may remember her from my mention in one of the "Life and Times of the Drunken Rogue" posts. Rose gave me some advice (and how this came up in conversation, I do not know), never use the bathroom on your lunchbreak. Come back to work, do it there, and extend your off time.

Rose, while an incredible secretary and manager of time, was also a genius at wasting said time. I strive every day to be a little more like her in that regard. At first I scoffed at her idea of work-time bathroom breaks, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw the truth of the principle. I can take my full lunch hour to eat, visit with my wife, watch the news, read the paper etc., and then return to work just in time to head to the bathroom with the above mentioned paper.

Now I understand this wouldn't work for some of you. Perhaps your office has a centrally located toilet and you fear the snickers that would come from stinking it up. Maybe you're even more focused on quality toilet paper than I am (I doubt it) and simply refuse to use anything less than cushiony. I urge you to give it a try though, because you are reading the words of a convert.

Benefits to Work-Time Bathrooming

1. Use ALL of your lunchtime.
2. Put off that loathsome work a few more minutes.
3. Catch up on your reading.

There are however some guidelines to follow if you wish to have the best Work-time bathroom experience.

1. Find the bathroom that is farthest from your actual workspace -- Perhaps there is one located a floor up or down from yours. Maybe there is one in the back hallway that is seldom used. Maybe you use the bathroom right beside the cubicle of your workplace rival. Just as in real estate, location location location!

2. Make sure you have the time you need -- Don't schedule your bathroom time just before a meeting. The whole point of this is to create a leisurely comfortable feel in your office, and rushing won't do that. Also you want to have plenty of time to adequately dry your hands after washing. Nothing gives away your secret like shaking hands with corporate while they are still dripping.

3. Reading material -- While not everyone needs a magazine or newspaper, at least take a pamphlet or even the liner notes for that new CD you picked up. In a pinch the employee handbook makes fascinating reading (I had no idea, I technically could take my birthday off!). The point is to occupy your mind, preferably not with work. This is your time after all.

4. Share the secret, selectively -- It's that much more fun to get away with something when you have accomplices. So those office buddies you get together with on the weekends, or the friend from college that followed you into the workplace should be in on the fun as well. I am not suggesting to take them with you, but tell them what you've discovered. ***Caution*** This should not be used as a pick up line on the hot chick from accounting that you've been eyeing. As much fun as work-time bathrooming can be, I hesitate to call it sexy.

5. Bring in reinforcements -- For me, and probably some of you the biggest drawback to using the office toilet is the industrial (re scratchy and thin) toilet paper. So I bring my own. That's right, I brought my own toilet paper. I keep it in my desk, and take what I need when I head to the bathroom. But how to get it into the office discreetly? Do you carry a briefcase, laptop bag, or satchel? There's plenty of room in there once every couple of weeks.

Follow these rules and you too can experience the joys of on-the-clock bathroom breaks. Remember:

Wise Man Say -- use the bathroom at work, and get paid to poop.

The Flavor of Love and Other Signs of the Apocalypse

Hello, my name Joel and I am a Flava Flav addict.

I started as a social "Flav-er" at parties, with friends. I used it to break the ice. "Did you see what Flav did last night. But then I started watching Flavor of Love alone. I'll admit it, I've turned down friends invitations to go to the movies or dinner because I knew Flav was coming on. I knew I had a problem though when I went into withdrawals after the reunion special finally came out of rotation on VH1. What would I do without Flav? How would I know what time it was?

The days passed, and eventually I got better. I even ventured out of the house. I thought I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, but three weeks ago my hopes and dreams were crushed. As I lay on the couch watching The Fabulous Life of Dustin Diamond, I saw the clock. Flava Flav was back, and I couldn't' look away.

The Flavor of Love 2 has reignited my addiction and I might be worse that I ever was. I'm a man in need of help, I know that. But I'm not sure I want help. This might be the best show in the history of television.

For the uninitiated (and at this point if you haven't seen it, you must not have cable...or a television) The Flavor of Love is a quest to find Flava Flav, one of the founding fathers of the rap group Public Enemy, a woman. Sure there are countless women out there that would be with him for his money, or the fame, but Flav wants somebody that's "down for your boy" (I think that means 'loves him for who he is').

The first season ended with Flav choosing a lovely girl by the nickname of "Hoops" (all the girls get nicknames, mostly because Flav can't remember their real ones). But alas, "Hoops" and Flav "weren't like THAT" and now Flav is alone again.

Enter VH1 and the second season of the greatest show ever created, The Flavor of Love.

My Favorite Girls so far from Season Two of The Flavor of Love:

1. "Sapphire" (or whatever her name was) and her "Ricky Bobby Prayer" - "Dear Lord Jesus forgive me for whipping this b**** a** today, and forgive me for thinking about whipping it again." Later (when her prayers are interrupted) "You better quit interruptin' my prayers, 'fore Lord Jesus instructs me to beat yo' a**." Yes, it's a bit sacrilegious, but damn it's funny.

2. "Something" poops on herself, and (most impressively) the stairs in Flav's mansion. Her quote when asked about the incident, "What other girl could come in his house and s*** on his stairs, and still be here? What other girl could do somethin' like that? That s*** is original!" I tell you, that's not the way to my heart, but to each their own.

3. "Hood" tells Flav why she's "down for her boy," "I'm looking for someone I can grow with, you know spiritually. 'Cause I just got saved, and some people may think that's CRAZY, but it Ain't!" Flav is feeling her until, "And when you speak in tongues, that means you know you goin' to heaven, 'cause you confirmed!" Where else can you find a hood rat discussing Christian theology with Flava Flav? Hmmm? I thought so!

4. "Like Dat" (boy he gives great nicknames) is my new guru. Some of her teachings. "Not greedy, but greed. Success. Successful. Life is life." Words to live by, my lady.

5. "Tiger" is a white girl that is so pretty she can obviously avoid Flav's kiss, and still avoid elimination, at least once. Her defense was "I don't like kissing you after you kiss other girls." Did she see the first season of this show?

6. "Wire" when asked why she's after Flav responds, "I want dark babies." The other girls don't like that one very much, and one suggests, "If all you're lookin' for is dark babies, go pick up any crackhead on the corner and get you some dark babies." Gender, class, and race discussions at high levels indeed.

The Flavor of Love Season 2 continues Sunday nights on VH1.

May the Tongues of a Thousand Camels Lick Your Wounds, and Other Curses for Customer Service

When I was a kid, I remember hearing a gimmick country song that had the chorus line (and title) May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose. I haven't thought of that song in years, but this past weekend it came up not once, but twice (the song, not the bird of paradise). What could possibly bring up bad, family oriented cursing? Customer Service representatives or as I like to call them Little Satan's (I'm takin' it back from Iran).

On Friday Mrs. Drunken Rogue (she really liked it when I used that the first time) spent the better part of an hour verbally sparring with a Cingular representative. Of course Mrs. Rogue was definitely overstepping her bounds, I mean, can you believe she expected Cingular to actually send the paperwork so that she could file for her rebate? The nerve. After 45 minutes or so of playing Patty-cake with the Cingular Rep, Ella was finally given the information she needed to send in so as to receive our rebate. Hallelujah!

As if the nine round championship match with Cingular wasn't enough for our weekend, I spent a good deal of time Saturday trying to gain some technical assistance from Dell. My mother's office got a new printer (roughly the size of a Buick...not a new Buick...the one your grandfather drove...yep, that one) and it was not responding to their polite requests to print. After waiting ten minutes (yes, ten actual minutes, not like "it felt like ten minutes" I watched the clock) on hold listening to bad covers of classical music I was greeted by a customer service representative, Punjab.

Before I regale you with the exploits of Punjab, let me say this, The Drunken Rogue loves and respects people of all creeds and colors. Though I come from the south, I have no biases based on religion, race, or even sexuality (although I do hate Lance Bass, but not because he's gay. I hate him because he's stupid). I understand that people of all national origins just want to get a good job, and make a good life for themselves and their families. Alright that's enough of a disclaimer.

Punjab was (I think it's fairly obvious) from India. Several years ago I heard a big hubbub about American tech companies outsourcing a lot of their jobs to India (among other less developed nations). I always assumed they meant programmer jobs or computer manufacturing or something. Whose idea was it to hire people who don't speak English (at least no form of the language I'm familiar with, and coming from the south I've heard a few variations) to work as Customer Service Reps? Seriously who thought this would work? Punjab eventually discovered that she was not the right person to answer my particular question, and she transferred me to someone else, but not before we spent fifteen minutes trying to communicate difficult ideas like:

Punjab: What is your first name?

Joel: Joel. J.O.E.L.

Punjab: Noel?

Joel: Joel. J...O....E...L. Joel.

Punjab: Raul?

Joel: J

Punjab: Ray.

Joel: jaaay

Punjab: May?

Joel: Yes, my first name is May.

Punjab: What is your last name?

Joel: I think you should transfer me.

Punjab, God bless her, did eventually get my name written down (I think) but we soon discovered that she was not a technical service person, so I was transferred to Cindy. I've met a few Cindy's. I seen Cindy's on television. I have heard other people talk about their friend Cindy. I've never heard of a Cindy that was demonically possessed, but somewhere in the heart of Dell Computer Company, lives an Evil Cindy.

Cindy was apparently having a bad Saturday (never mind that I was spending my Saturday trying to fix my mother's printer). She actually answered the phone with this question.

Cindy: Sir (big sigh), What is the problem? (bigger sigh).

As I regaled Cindy with the smaller points of my day, and the necessity to fix this printer (It's for the children!) she lost all interest whatsoever.

Cindy: Mr. Hampton (Punjab strikes again), I'm afraid that that sounds like a software issue. The printer is functioning perfectly.

Joel: Except it won't print.

Cindy: But there is nothing actually wrong with the printer is there?

Joel: Do you mean is it on fire or something?

Cindy: Mr. Hampton, there is no need for sarcasm.

And all this time I thought demons didn't understand sarcasm, maybe there was hope for Cindy after all.

Cindy: Look, do you know what the power cord looks like?

I have a college degree. I communicate with other people all over the world by writing humorous diatribes in an electronic forum. I have built stereo systems for cars and homes. I have built my own computer not once, not twice but three times. I knew what the freakin' power cord looks like! But I kept that inside.

Joel: Yes.

Cindy: Well disconnect it.

Joel: Alright.

Cindy: Now push the expulsion button on the printer.

Joel: The expulsion button?

Cindy: Yes, sir. The expulsion button.

Joel: Where is that?

Cindy: On the front of the printer sir. It's right there.

Joel: It's marked expulsion?

Cindy: Sir, it's very easy to see. It has a big read X on it.

Joel: Do you mean the cancel button?

Cindy: Of course I do sir, that's what I said.

Joel: No, you said the expulsion button.

Cindy: Sir, I have a record of this conversation, if you'd like to take it up with my manager.

Joel: No, Cindy. I've found the expulsion button.

All I'm saying is, if you're ever inside of Dell's building and you happen upon a girl named Cindy, hope you have some Holy Water. We finally did get the printer working, turns out it was indeed a software problem. Just goes to show you that even demons can be right sometimes. So from Mr. Hampton, Cindy, Punjab, and all the wonderful people at Cingular, May You Never Need Customer Service!

Flying My Geek Colors Proudly

Alright, first off, I just want to apologize for the last post. I had every intention of keeping it funny and lighthearted, but in the end I am a little afraid of what Iran might do and I let that come out in my writing. I promise from now on, to keep heavy handed, scary political writings on my political blog.

Enough of that.

It's Football Season!

I know, you're thinking to yourself, "Football Season doesn't start until September, and you can't be THAT excited about preseason football." It's not preseason, my friends, that has me giddy. It's Fantasy Football. That's right, the jock equivalent of sweaty geeks hanging out in a basement playing Dungeons and Dragons, is my latest obsession.

For the completely uninitiated here's a quick rundown of how it works:

1. You and ten to twelve of your buddies create an imaginary football team, giving it a cool name like, Your Mom's Favorite Players or (in my case) The Drunken Rogues.

2. You and your buddies then draft real NFL players to play on your imaginary team.

3. Every week you take the stats of these real NFL players and assign them point values. Those points are awarded to whichever imaginary team has that player.

4. Your total points versus the imaginary team you are playing that week's total points decides the winner.

5. Repeat until end of season.

You know, when I type it out it sounds fairly boring and silly, but I promise (and you'll just have to take my word on this) it's lots of fun. I owe my addiction to fantasy football, to my buddy from Alabama, Cliff. Cliff worked with me my second summer in Ohio, at Blue Jacket. Towards the end of the summer, he mentioned to several of us that he was setting up a fantasy football league, so that we could have some fun, and sort of stay in touch during the fall. It sounded like a great idea to me, so knowing nothing at all about Fantasy (and little about actual) Football, I signed up. That year I was mere points away from winning the championship. Since then (three years) I have played in ten leagues total. This year alone I'm in five (and seriously contemplating adding another).

Why would I (a fairly normal, albeit geeky, fellow) get so sucked in to Fantasy Football? One reason mainly. I'm competitive. Also, it makes you enjoy football more. Where as on a normal Sunday you might have two or three games that you are mildly interested in, if you play Fantasy, you need the stats on every game. It makes the entire football season that much more important. So yes, I'm a football geek. But today I will be drafting not one, not two, but three different leagues. It's the best Sunday so far this year!

***Lawyer's Note*** Hookem, Catchem and Skinem, while the legal representation of Joel, and Drunken Rogue Publishing, would like to make it clear that they in no way support or respect Fantasy Football. It's for fat boys that couldn't play themselves and for sad married men wishing to relive there bachelor days by adding a little spice to Football Season. That is all...P.S. Hookem, Catchem, and Skinem meant no disrespect to either Fat boys or sad married men. We did however mean disrespect to Fantasy Football Players. Losers.***End Lawyer's Note***

Apocalypse...Soon!

I don't know what you have planned for the weekend, but you might want to do something a little special. If Bernard Lewis, Princeton Professor and author, is correct it might be one of your last.

Mr. Lewis believes that our friend in the turban from Tehran, President Ahmadinejad (we'll call him Ahmad from now on), has some big fireworks to celebrate this August 22nd. That date (this year anyway) corresponds to the celebration of Muhammed's "Night Flight."

The story goes thus, Muhammed escaped from Saudi Arabia on a winged horse, traveling to heaven and back. To give Christians an easy reference point imagine combining the stories of Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt with baby Jesus, with his triumphant return from 40 days in the wilderness after his baptism. It's sorta like that. It's a Big Deal.

Pres. Ahmad has repeatedly let people know that he believes we are nearing the end of time. In Islam (like in Christianity and Judaism) there is a major battle, which is ended by the hand of God and reappearance (or appearance, depending on religion) of the Messiah. In Islam, this Messiah is called the "hidden Imam." So how does Ahmad (a good Muslim) hasten the coming of the "hidden Imam" ? Apparently by blowing up Israel, and picking a serious fight with the U.S.

Mr. Lewis believes (and I'm starting to buy it a little myself) that Iran already has (either through their own research or bartering with North Korea or Russia) Nuclear Weapons. The fact that Pres. Ahmad and his spokesmen have stated they will give a final reply to the question of their nuclear ambissions on Aug. 22nd (the aforementioned Holy Day) only gives credence to this line of thinking.

Are you scared yet?

America is big, and quite far from Iran. It would be hard to attack us in any direct way, but Israel (or Little Satan as Pres. Ahmad likes to call them) is much closer and considerably smaller in size. Iran could blow them right off the map (along with most of the Arab World). They'd probably just attack us in a few densely populated areas with terrorist delivered bombs. Sure we'd shoot back, as would Israel, but you have to remember, the whole point of this exercise is to hasten the end of the World.

Where's the Soviet Union when you need them? Boy do I miss the days of Mutually Assured Destruction. At least with the Ruskies, we knew they didn't really want to die. With Ahmad and his pals in Tehran, not only do they long for death, they believe that bringing it about faster will please God and therefore grant them a greater reward in Paradise.

So kiss your loved ones, say your prayers, and enjoy the weekend. And let's all hope that God's not quite done with us down here, or at least that the Iranian government isn't as screw-loose as I think they are.

The Power of the Stache: History's Greatest Mustaches

The Mustache is perhaps the greatest of all body hair. While a goatee can signify intelligence (and pretention), and a beard can signify wisdom, a mustache is a pure symbol of the one's level of machisma. It can be dashing and debonair, it can be wooly and wild. It is as much an indicator of personality as the smile (or frown) it sits above.

In honor of the mustache, the Drunken Rogue proudly presents:

The Power of the Stache: History's Greatest Mustaches

10. Sam Elliot - a classic handlebar. This film and television actor is often credited as one of the reasons for the rebirth of the Hollywood Western. Without this top ranking mustache he might well be a cowpoke, instead of the leading cowboy. His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- It's actually a vegetarian, but is contractually obligated to stay silent because of Sam's position as Beef Industy Spokesman.

9. Charlie Chaplin - what was once known as the toothbrush has become so synonamous with Chaplin that it is often reffered to as the Chaplin. Arguably the greatest silent film actor of all time (there are some Buster Keaton fans that would disagree), Charlie Chaplin also is the easiest to draw of the men on this list. Most people could guess the identity with just a bowler hat, mustache and eyes. While the toothbrush 'stache looked wonderful on Charlie, it became very unpopular because of a certain dictator. His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- the mustache was actually mute, how ironic for a silent film actor.

8. Friedrich Nietzsche - the Walrus. German philosopher famous for not being appreciated in his lifetime, and later being considered simplistic and backward. Sort of like most philosophers. You've got to appreciate a man who could his mustache run his face though. His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- the mustache was a practicing Catholic

7. Tom Selleck - the simple mustache. Selleck wore it in the role that made him famous and kept it for most of his career. In fact it was the shaving of the mustache that led to his punishment by the Screen Actor's Guild (he repaid his debt by appearing as a recurring character on "Friends"). His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- the mustache preferred Lambroghini's to Ferrari's.

6. Groucho Marx - the mustachio (often exaggerated by greasepaint). This is probably the most imitated mustache in history. The wisecracking Marx brother (not to be confused with the father of modern communism Karl Marx) is still a standard by which comedians are judged. His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- the mustache was, in fact, a descendant of the Communist theorist Karl Marx.

5. Frida Kahlo - the pencil thin. The only woman to make it to the list, Frida Kahlo kept her mustache company with a fairly prominent unibrow. Underneath all that hair (and it was a lot to get underneath of) you'd find a lover, a painter, and a pretty homely woman. Her Mustache's Hidden Secret -- the mustache was a conservative Republican from Connecticut.

4. Salvador Dali - a mustache so perverse they named it after him. The surreal painter wore a mustache most of his life, but it was his tendency later in life to entwine things in it (as shown in the picture to the left) that finally cemented his reputation as a crazy person. His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- the mustache emitted an amazing amount of heat, it was actually the cause of all those melted clocks in Dali's paintings.

3. Martin Luther King Jr. - the thin or mouthbrow. Here is one instance where the man was truly greater than the mustache. The leader (some would say, founder) of the Civil Rights movement in America, MLK is one of the single greatest figures in American history. But imagine for a moment that this young southern minister, had appeared on the scene without the mustache. Would his ideas of tolerance, and non-violence have held as much water then? We may never know, but I say let us be thankful for the mustache, adn the respect it carries. His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- the mustache hated black people, in fact King often had to wear a mustache net to keep it from running away from him at night.

2. Adolph Hitler - the toothbrush, Chaplin or Hitler mustache. After Chaplin spent years trying to bring the toothbrush mustache into vogue with the world's upper crust, Hitler ruined it all with a little thing called the holocaust. Adolph is a perfect example of the tenant "with great power comes great responsibility." He is one of the main reasons why we currently prefer our dictators clean shaven, that leaves them a little less powerful. His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- mustache had a torid affair with Heinrich Himmler's mustache, therefore technically should have been exterminated as a homosexual.

Was there any doubt as to what mustache would take the top spot? The single greatest mustache in history...

1. Burt Reynolds - you could call it a moustachio, but I call it the Reynolds. Burt Reynolds was widely regarded as the sexiest man in the world for most of the 1970's. But what the public didn't know was that he was also the world's greatest crimefighter. The powers of his mustache were almost limitless, but have faded in his later years. It's often reported that the mustache often shows up to act alone, particularly when Burt is feeling under the weather (the enitirety of "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" was shot with only the mustache present, and I challenge you to notice the difference). His Mustache's Hidden Secret -- mustache cheated on Sally Fields with Dolly Parton, leading to Burt and Fields' eventual divorce.

For more on mustaches or mustache growing visit Sharpman.com

I Wasn't Loved Enough as a Child, and Other Excuses for My Meanderings

Those that have known me for a while, (and lately there are a lot of you on here from the high school years) know I used to talk a lot. Those that know me now, know I still talk a lot. Maybe not as much as I once was, but I am still quite loquacious (good word, look it up and add it your vocabulary if you're not already using it).

Some of my would-be talk has now become writing. Stuff I put here or over at Truth and Spectacle - movie reviews for the masses or Apathy as Activism - Political news and commentary. I'm writing a lot these days. But I've had more than one friend ask me, "How can you put yourself out there?" It got me thinking. Why do I want to be a writer? What is it that makes me get attention with my words?

I think the main cause for my longing to be loved is the abuse I suffered as a child. My parents would regularly tell me to be quiet, even though I had something important to say during the middle of that funeral or church service. My Aunt (the best one ever) tells a story about how early I learned to talk. There is some disagreement between her and my mother about the exact date, but there is no doubt that I was speaking with clarity and authority at an extremely young age. This quick development probably is because of my gargantuan head. I have a big head (literally, although I've been accused of the figurative big head also) now, but as a baby it was astronomically disproportionate to my body size. I'm talkin' border line freak. I was however an adorable baby (which is good, 'cause with a head that big, I depended on people to carry me until I was almost one). So I couldn't sit upright, but I could carry on a conversation.

I could also tell a joke. When most children are struggling to comprehend the idea of humor, and making up jokes, not really understanding the principles of the thing, I was memorizing every joke anyone told me.

My first joke: How do you make a handkerchief dance? Put a little boogie in it.

I discovered quickly that while the oohs, and ahhs of adults at the cuteness of a child would dissipate quickly, they could stay constantly entertained by a genuinely funny kid. So that's what I was.

The humor came in handy at school as well. I wasn't athletic (I got fat about third grade), I wasn't rich, but I was hilarious and everybody likes to laugh. I learned early on that while boys liked pretty girls, girls were much more interested in the whole man. So if I was sweet and funny, I got just about as much interest from the opposite sex as the jocks did. Now I'm just about the sweetest funniest fella I know, and the ladies love me (although these days if any ladies other than the one love me, they get black eyes from Ms. Drunken Rogue).

So far, we've got 1. Attention and acceptance of my elders.
2. Attention and affection from the ladies
as reasons for my talkative (and entertaining) nature.

There's one more big one. And this is the point where the whole thing turns into an Oprah Show episode. I really want to make my dad proud.

There it is. My deep dark secret. It's not like he's not proud of me, I have a great supportive Dad. He's been behind me with positive thoughts, and general praise no matter what I've pursued. But generally his interests and mine are not that similar. He's a hunter, I'm not. I'm really into movies, and he's not so much. I've done theatre, and while he appreciates it, it's not something he ever saw going somewhere. What does he think I could have a future in? Writing.

He's told me, as long as I've been old enough to listen, that the only way a man can be truly immortal is to write. Words change the world. Dad and I both ascribe to that theory. And last night, I got a big ole' pat on the back from Pops.

Dad is (too say the least) technologically out of date. I think he might have touched a mouse (of the computer variety) once. Mom or I occasionally turn the monitor his way for him to read something, but even that is rare. If something is online that he REALLY wants to take a look at, he just gets Mom to print it out. And that's what he got her to do yesterday. He had read just a couple of my posts (mostly the political stuff) when he decided to call me to tell me how proud he was, and how much he wanted to encourage me to continue.

Consider it done Dad. So let's run the checklist.
1. I have plenty of friends.
2. I have a beautiful wife.
3. My Pops is proud of me.

Yep, I'm on the right path.

***Editor's Note*** In the future I'll try to bring more funny, and less feely. Thanks for sticking with me. ***End Editor's Note***