Allergic...TO BEES!

No-one has ever made a heart-stopping thriller called Allergic to Bees, but it could really be something. A guy living out his life just like everyone else, but just that little bit more carefully. Every few minutes he would see something yellow or black or yellow and black, or hear a buzzing, and for a second he'd go "Is that a bee?"

and then a minute later he'd go "Oh... no. I guess it's not a bee."

And then he'd move on.

It would be like Repulsion, with bees! Or no bees.

Superish

So I watched the Super Bowl, after my 18-month old had gone to bed, so she wouldn't bother me with her constant yammering about how Troy Polamalu is overrated or with her tedious diatribes about the 3-4 defense. And sure, it was a good game--but when 2 teams you don't care about are playing in the Super Bowl, it's all about the commercials.

Apparently there was something about a guy eating Doritos off other men's pants that didn't go over very well with basically all of humanity, and some highbrow satire from Groupon that didn't bother anyone even a little bit. Way to overestimate America's sense of humor, Groupon.

My favorite was the new starkly realistic talking baby E-Trade ad, where he suddenly loses his ability to trade stocks, to talk, even to think in a complex way. Stock price graphs become nothing but lines to him, their pretty colors an unanswerable riddle. In the end, he poops on himself. The last shot as the camera pulls away shows an enigmatic grin, suggesting that, perhaps, the only real success is in failure.

Or the other one, where he is indicted for securities fraud, gets tried as an adult, and spends a year in Leavenworth. That one was good too.

Of course, that's not true. I hate the talking baby. I hate him powerfully and beautifully, as I have mentioned before in other times, referring to other babies.

The Futontross

I put you on Freecycle, futon. And still, no-one wants you. What does that say about you, futon? That no-one wants you even when you are free. And I didn't even include the awful truth that you still smell vaguely of cat pee.

Your mattress weighs a metric ton, and your folding frame does not stay up--one of many ways that you are an invertebrate. Your mattress is too heavy and thick for your frame, I know. It was me that made the poor choice of giant mattress with inadequate frame. But that does not excuse you just lying there, taking up half the guest room, taunting me with your amorphousness--some vast and awful reminder of why some wonders of the Orient should have been left there, along with duck feet and/or beaks.

Your days are numbered, futon.

Aaaaaa!

Burrito longitudinal split! Structural integrity fatally compromised!

I am engulfed in a sea of frijoles negros. It is much like Pompeii, only with more warning and legumes.

SOUP DAY!

Just thought I'd break the months and months of silence here to let you know that is clearly and unambiguously Soup Day. I urge you in the strongest possible way to go and eat some soup right now. If you can't eat it, for some private reason that you'd rather keep to yourself, like maybe you were traumatized by soup as a youngster when you walked in on your parents having soup one day, the delicious broth running down their chins, then you could maybe at least think about soup for a while. It's the least you could do.

Me, I'm having corn chowder with something that might be called poblano--I don't know what it is. But it is so good. I'm turning to the wind, my eyes wide open*, naked and alive for the first time, thanks to this soup.

Soup. Freaking. Day.

*I don't recommend this. If you must turn to the wind, please wear eye protection.

A Possibly Astute Observation
There comes a moment when you're eating red licorice when you think to yourself "You know, I'm only one step away from eating plastic here."

In fact, I'd go as far as to say that red licorice is probably the closest you can get to a non-food item and still have it be food. Not sure who would win in a non-food-off between wax lips and red licorice, but it would be close.

Here's to You, Brad

I don't come around here much anymore, but there's no place that makes sense more than this to talk about my friend Brad Graham, a man I knew only online and never met.

A few years ago--I suppose it is more like 8 years ago now--I was working in a godawful job that I called "Purgatory Inc." when I wrote about it here on My Life as an American Gladiator. To keep from going crazy, I spent a lot of time at Metafilter, an collaborative blog where users would post links to "The Best of the Web" and comment on those links. As my job seemed more and more, well, kafkaesque, I spent more time there, goofing around and cracking wise, avoiding soul-crushing brochure writing duties. Eventually, I got to know a few of the other wiseacres and joined them at a new site they'd made where such chat was welcome.

I'd keep a window open to this new site all day at work, and as the minutes dragged by, I'd chat away with that bunch of reprobates, including one TheBrad.

He had a quick wit, and a love of language. He'd revel in a pun or a Tom Swifty, or a shaggy dog story, and was always quicker at them than me. Here's one Swifty I wrote that I know he liked:

"I won't be able to make up my mind whether to play golf or go see Hamlet" Tom foreordained.

He is in the OED as the coiner of the term "blogosphere"--a term he did in fact coin, and hated.

He was very openly gay--from him I learned that it's much funnier to call them "the gays" than "gays". He campaigned for gay rights and AIDS education. He told stories of his nights out at the bar scene in St. Louis, usually with some perfect witticism at the end.

I still visit that site and chat with the reprobates, though my job keeps me a lot busier now than then. A job I got because one of the folks on the site hooked me up with an interview 5 years ago this January.

And this weekend, my online friend Brad was found dead in his home. And I am not sure what to do about that. What do I do with this grief for him, someone I never met? I don't know.

I write this, I guess, and say I am proud to have known you, Brad, you reprobate.

News from the Baby Front

Oh my. The sleep. I remember the sleep.

I've been grabbing an hour's sleep here and there, while the wifely friend takes her shifts. Mostly, I've been watching just remarkable amounts of television, with the kid on my lap or next to me in her bassinet, my mouth hanging open, my chin and neck region a scraggly mess. Surrounded by burp cloths, Boppys, onesies, and empty coffee mugs.

I've also spent a lot of time marching around the room rocking her in my arms, which I highly recommend, and singing whatever song I can think of. Winners so far are:

• Johnny Cash - Sunday Morning Coming Down
• Social Distortion - Ball and Chain
• Lou Reed - Walk on the Wild Side (edited for tender ears)
• Brazil
  

The sleep deprivation is worth it, of course, because it gives you complete justification for doing really amusing things to your newborn daughter. When the newborns are asleep, they are really asleep. You can play with their arms, Walk Like an Egyptian style. You can flap their lower lip so it makes a nice little pop noise. You can, of course, call her humiliating names like Poo Commando, El Dribblo, and more.

So far things are as tiring as I expected, very occasionally more stressful than I expected, and overall just awesome.

We are keeping her.

I Guess We're Going to Have to Take Control

So, something recently happened. I became a dad for the first time. My daughter was born at 6.10 yesterday morning, and damned if she isn't the best thing I've ever seen in my entire life.

This probably explains why I'm sitting in a hospital, trying to keep my eyes open, watching Ghostbusters 2. I always seem to end up in front of the tv, viewing marginally amusing comedies at important life moments. The day I got married my best man and I sat in a hotel room, as the minutes ticked down until the big moment, watching My Blue Heaven. I regret to this day not saying to my wife during our vows "You could totally melt all this stuff!"

Or maybe the thread that links my important life moments is Rick Moranis. Could be worse, I guess. Could be Martin Short.

But back to the matter at hand. The Ghostbusters just animated the Statue of Liberty somehow, and I find myself with a little person sucking my finger. A little perfect person with long fingers and toes and grey-blue eyes, wearing a hat that makes her look like GloWorm.

I'm tired, and in love, and I see my wife in a new way. I'm so proud of her and our new daughter.

Can't wait to see what the next big life change will be. I better check the listings for Honey, I Shrunk the Kids just to be on the safe side.

Swearing

I wanted to say a few brief words about the inauguration today, besides "sucks to be the guy behind the big hat". That, I think, goes without saying.

What I really wanted to say was that I forgot how it felt to have a president that can make it through a speech without smirking. Who sounds like he believes the words he's speaking. Like maybe he even had a hand in writing those words. Who mentions Islam, Judaism, and even those who don't believe in any religion, and the importance of recognizing all those beliefs.

Look, I don't think Obama is some savior. I just think that he might among the best of us, someone wise, and that's who I want guiding the country. Not someone looking to line the pockets of his friends, fiddling as we burn.

For God's sake, not some simpering, smirking asshole. That's what I forgot about. How it feels not to have an asshole representing us to the rest of the world.

So, for now, until proven otherwise, let's enjoy the moment of seeing Barack Hussein Obama sworn in. Of seeing a non-white family there on the stage, for the first time. Let's just mix it up, and let ourselves hope, for a change.

A Brief Confession

I subscribe to Word of the Day emails only so I can feel superior when I already know the word.

Just In Case

So a bunch of crazy Swiss types think it's a good idea to tamper in God's domain and start accelerating particles all willy-nilly (not to get too technical for you). To me, it seems like they're just asking for some janitor to stumble into a vortex and be given supervillain powers, but do they care? No.

In case you would like to check if the Large Hadron Collider has destroyed the world yet, check out everyone's favorite site (and make sure to view the source):

hasthelargehadroncolliderdestroyedtheworldyet.com

I sometimes think of Clippy, and where he is now. Maybe selling pencils down on skid row. Following passers-by, his breath reeking of Jasco. "Hey... mister..." he slurs. "It looks like you're trying to get away from me! Here are some options you might try."

And as his victim hurries away, the tears roll down Clippy's face. "I just want to help. Only to help."

The Napoleonic Wars

I have had a deep and abiding need for a Napoleon since last week. Not the pint-sized French general kind, but the pastry kind. My usual go-to pastry destination, Whole Foods, left me Napoleonless, in a "not much call for them around here, squire" interaction. Another luxury grocery store which shall remain nameless (but is in fact named Draeger's) also failed Napoleonically and has snotty clerks to boot.

If I don't get a Napoleon soon, I can't be held responsible for the consequences. I might have to build a doomsday machine, lug it to a remote island location called, I don't know, let's say Skull Island, and threaten the world supervillain style until my demands are met.

I bet that's how Dr. Doom got started. And the real tragedy is that he probably got his Napoleon right after they put that metal mask on him, so one of his henchmen had to push the Napoleon through the tiny mouth-slit.

The Return of Large Oily People

As you may have heard, NBC is basically admitting defeat and complete lack of imagination and bringing back American Gladiators, the finest program ever produced in recorded history. Of course, I've been in talks with the network. They want me to return to the field of battle, and once again become what, in my heart, I've always been: an American Gladiator.

But I pause. I wonder. Would it be fair to subject the soft and pliant contestants to the full brunt of my awesome 5'11", 160 lb. frame? Let's not forget that I was the only American Gladiator to projectile vomit in the Atlasphere--and finish the match, as the vomit whirled around me, making purchase difficult, and resulting in me laying prone on the sphere's floor, crying like a little girl. That historic moment struck fear, and not a little pity, into the hearts of my foes.

But whether or not I decide to return to former triumphs, you should watch this show with something approaching regularity (incidentally, regularity was not something the American Gladiators themselves experienced, with the massive quantities of anabolic steroids and body oil those guys were ingesting). Because it makes America strong.

if I could suggest an American Gladiator viewing strategy to stop you from slipping into unconsciousness as enormous beefslab individuals wail on their hapless opponents, it would be this: wager. American Gladiators is made much more interesting when you've got a five-spot riding on that ingratiating turd from Ohio who wants to win the competition for his dying mother/sister/puppy.

And let's not forget the drinking. You can't make it through an episode without imbibing heavily. Why not make it a game? Take a drink any time:

• One of the Gladiators poses, "Gun Show" style


• A contestant is shown getting choked up about his or her family in a gratuitous "up close and personal" segment


• Hulk Hogan (star of Suburban Commado and Mr. Nanny, who is commentating this time, by the way) says "Hulkamania!" or any "BAM!" type phrase that means "Oh my, that large person hit that small person quite well!"

Anyway, here's the canned blurb some incredibly misguided publicist sent me. enjoy:

NBC's classic competition show of the early 90s is back. "American Gladiators" which pits the strength and agility of both male and female contestants against each other, will be taping at the Sony Studios (Culver City, CA) from Nov 28th-Dec. 12, 2007. The host is Hulk Hogan.

For groups of 10 or more (from a registered organization), who attend a taping, NBC will write a donation check. The more people, the higher the payment. For details, please call: 1-866-515-4950

Online reservations for individuals can be found here:

http://americangladiatorstickets.com/form.html

The Wisdom of Bob Dylan

How many songs could a tambourine man play, anyway? And why would you want to hear one, no matter how alert and directionless you might be? Because really, no matter what song the tambourine man might play for you, it's going to sound like kss! k-kss! k-kss!

I guess it's better than Mr. Triangle Man or Mr. Kazoo.

Eight (or Ten) Arms, No Waiting

I can't believe I missed International Cephalopod Awareness Day this year. Beside the fact that I've surely offended some of my favorite cuttlefish, I've probably moved up the list for grisly disembowelment when the Old Ones show up. Let's hope Cthulhu sleeps in.

You Have to Have Goals

The wifely friend is driven. She has near-term and long-term goals. She has a planner. She knows what Franklin-Covey is. I thought it was a Peanuts character. She has goals like "become an executive by 35" or "save money". And--this is the amazing thing--she actually does them.

For me, goals are a little less impressive. For a long time they were along the lines of "eat the biggest sandwich possible", "try not to sleep past noon more than three days a week" or "juggle".

One goal I've always had, though, was very simple: "own a pinball machine".

It's not the most ambitious goal, and it sure isn't the most sensible one. No job interview is going to swing your way because, "Sure, boss. The other guy was valedictorian at MIT, but this guy has his own pinball machine. I bet if we hire him we get to play!" No supermodel ever dated a guy solely because he had a Twilight Zone machine in his basement.

There are only about four pinball machines I've really wanted to own, and they're all Williams machines. Williams made the best machines, and abruptly stopped making them in the 90s, when pinball just couldn't compete with video games any more. They turned to making lucrative slot machines instead. The four machines I wanted were: High Speed, Earthshaker!, Black Knight 2000, and Indiana Jones.

For years I'd talked about getting a machine, but I felt like it was a little selfish. I mean here is this giant machine that's going to take up space in the garage, cost a fair bit of money, and monopolize a lot of my time. Every year, I'd go to California Extreme, which is a pinball and video game show in San Jose, play eight to ten hours of pinball, and come back all revved up to get a machine. Months would pass, and I'd let my goal drift away. But after this year's show, the wifely friend said "Jeez, will you just buy one already?!"

And so I did. I won an auction on eBay for a Black Knight 2000 machine. It needs a little bit of work, like replacement of the lower display for player 3 and 4 scores, but it plays great. My good friend Chimmychanga helped me pick the thing up and drive it back home. Even brought along his reciprocating saw and helped me carve my workbench in half to make room for it in the garage. Actually, he did most of the work.

But now I've finally got a pinball machine. Reaching a goal, you cant beat it.

One Squirrel's Quest for Collectible Toys

In Helsinki, Finland, there is a squirrel who runs into a grocery store a couple of times a day and steals Kinder Eggs. It then unwraps them and makes off with the toy inside.

"It removes the foil carefully, eats the chocolate and leaves the store with the toy," Lindroos said. However the tiny delinquent -- who clearly has no social conscience -- leaves the wrappers behind.

I can't blame the squirrel really. People are nuts for the toys contained within the chocolatey goodness of Kinder Eggs. Like this person, who has a nice site about his collection.

Incidentally, Kinder Eggs are contraband in the US, because they represent a choking hazard. Strangely, you don't hear reports of Euro kids choking every day on a some-assembly required plastic frog dressed like an army man, but there you are. American kids are dumb little monkeys just waiting for the chance to lodge something in their windpipes. No two ways about it. Like turkeys in the rain. And yes, I know turkeys don't drown in the rain.

More information about why Kinder Eggs are not available in the US.

Star Wars Kinder Egg toys, which for some reason are hippopotamuses dressed as various Star Wars characters.

The Kinder Surprise Experiment, which studies "Geographical variance of toy quality in Kinder Surprise".

The Returnering, Part Two

I've been gone for a while, I know. But things in the world in general have been going, let's face it, pretty poorly since I stopped writing here. Also, the stock market fell three hundred points yesterday, and that can't be a coincidence.

So what have I been doing these many months?

What happened was, I got really into that Deadliest Catch show on the tv, so I joined up. For half a year, I stood on the deck of The Time Bandit with other known felons and reprobates, while 40-foot waves slammed me around like a rag doll. I learned from these gentle, aromatic individuals how to hold mighty crustaceans aloft and say, over and over again, things like "Red gold!", "Now that's crab!" and even, when I couldn't help myself--when the sheer unadulterated joy of freezing to death and hurting tasty sea life got the better of me--"Hoo!"

Good times, I tell you. They don't show you all the hijinks we get up to out there on the high seas, either. Somehow, no matter how many times you see a naked man running out of his bunk with a five pound crab dangling from his nose, it just never gets old.

But all that's over now.

It's time for a return to My Life as an American Gladiator, America. It's time for rambling diatribes about inconsequential things, more untrustworthy reviews of 1970s horror movies, more clams, more Cthulhu and, god damn it, more Jurgen Prochnow.

Not every day or anything. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.