January 26, 2012
Punny Election Coverage
I try not to delve too much into politics nowadays, for a variety of reasons, but mostly because I find politics jarringly boring. Also, I've discovered there are a lot of people in the world who have an almost cult-like devotion to their political views and believe they have a divine right not to be offended. Such people are known as "soul crushing jerks."
But, I also have a deep appreciation for the art of puns, and with presidential candidates with names like Newt and Mitt, I can't help but jump in with my own brand of political punditry. Sure, it's been suggested puns are lazy writing, but I'm a lazy writer, so I'm fine with that.
First, a nod to the Republican presidential candidates who have already bowed out of contention. First, there was the former Minnesota governor who we heard Pawlenty about, even though he was about as exciting as soccer. Another Minnesota politician--the only woman in the field--also dropped out, which is too bad, because her craziness made politics almost entertaining, so it would be nice to have her Bachmann.
The Republicans also briefly fielded an African American candidate, but it eventually was revealed that if there was a woman he worked with in the past, chances are he harassed Herman. In the end, Cain wasn't able.
Which brings us to the remaining batch of candidates vying to take the country Barack from our current Obamanation.
I should note right off that I don't have a pun for Ron Paul. A man with two first names simply defies a pun treatment. So, I obviously won't be voting for him based entirely on that particular shortcoming.
Currently, the two frontrunners for the Republican nomination are Newt Gingrich and Mitt Romney. Romney, a Mormon, has had to defend his religious beliefs, while Newt is viewed favorably by Christian voters, according to several polls. So, it was the Gingrich who polled Christians who won the South Carolina primary. Meanwhile, according to some news reports, in an act of Romney theater, he's turned to attack dog mode and has become a real Mitt bull on the campaign trail.
So, there you have it. The stage is almost set for the 2012 presidential election. Mark my words though: things are going to get ugly as the candidates cast off any semblance of Santorum in their quest to inhabit the White House.
While I personally don't have a preferred candidate right now, I tend to think a Mitt Romney presidency would offer the most opportunity for eye rolling puns.
In conclusion, I'm officially declaring "the Gingrich who polled Christians," to be the most brilliant pun ever written.
January 18, 2012
FYI
For those of you who have been wondering what my wife and I have been up to when it comes to the business I've mentioned here over the last few months, well, here you go.
January 13, 2012
Revolutionary Marketing
I've always been fascinated by marketing, by which I mean I've never given marketing much thought unless a company does something colossally stupid, marketing-wise.
Take this week, for example. In a keynote speech given during a presentation in Las Vegas, a Mercedes-Benz spokesperson used an image of Che Guevara to augment the concept of technological revolutions taking place in the automobile industry.
Leaving aside the irony of a luxury automobile company invoking the image of a Communist revolutionary who was anti-capitalist to his core, Guevara was, also, basically an insane guy who didn't mind killing a few hundred or thousand people who happened to disagree with him.
As good ideas go, this wasn't one of them. It's a bit like if La-Z-Boy were to use an image of, say, Hitler, reclining in front of a fireplace, saying "Ahh, Mein Kampfy chair!"
I always like to try to imagine the marketing meetings during which horrible ideas like this were hatched and approved. I mean, it takes a considerable amount of historical illiteracy to think Che Guevara is a good icon to rely upon for selling vehicles most people can't even afford. That's my polite way of saying it had to have been a room full of fairly young marketing interns, one of whom was maybe wearing one of those hip Che Guevara tee shirts that proves he's an outside-the-box thinker.
MARKETING INTERN #1 (MI1): Okay, we have to come up with a presentation for a keynote speech in Las Vegas in a couple weeks.
MARKETING INTERN #2 (MI2): Yeah, and it has to highlight the importance of technology in the automobile industry.
MARKETING INTERN #3 (MI3): So, like, technology is sparking a sort of, like, automobile revolution, or something?
MARKETING INTERN #4 (MI4): YEAH! REVOLUTION! I like that!
MI2: A revolutionary! Like this guy! *pointing at his Che Guevara tee shirt*
MI3: Who is that guy?
MI2: I have no, like, idea. But, man, he was awesome!
MI1: He even looks awesome! A little sparse in the mustache department, but his hair and beret are wicked cool!
MI4: I'd totally buy a Mercedes from that guy!
MI3: Hold on. I'm getting an idea here. Let's replace that star thingee on his beret with the Mercedes logo!
MI4: I'm LOVING it!
MI1: This is just an epically great concept. I can't wait for the reaction Mercedes will receive when this presentation is given.
MI2: We'll get noticed for sure!
As bad as this marketing decision was, it's only a matter of time before some marketing person, somewhere, does something even more ill advised.
Mark my words, at some point you'll see a commercial featuring Ronald McDonald selling an anti-cholesterol medication while doing a jaunty dance in his oversize clown shoes.
What can I say? I have faith in the marketing minds of the world.
UPDATE: I can't believe I forgot about this, but there was something about "Mein Kampfy chair" that seemed too funny to have just popped into my head:
January 11, 2012
January 05, 2012
Eugene Robinson Can Go Screw Himself
I've never thought much of Eugene Robinson's opinion writing, which always tends to resort to the lowest common denominator where everything boils down to racism. But his recent remarks on the Rachel Maddow show made me feel compelled to comment on his willfully ignorant stupidity:
"He's not a little weird, he's really weird," Robinson said of Santorum. "And some of his positions that he has taken are just so weird that I think that some Republicans are off-put. Not everybody is not going to be down, for example, with the story of how he and his wife handled the stillborn child. It was a body that they took home to kind of sleep with it, introduce it to the rest of the family. It's a very weird story."
For obvious reasons, this addled bit of thinking bothers me more than just a little bit. First off, it's not accurate; Santorum's son lived for two hours after birth. But that doesn't even really matter. A baby that was deeply wanted and loved, yet was stillborn or short-lived, is an epically tragic personal event.
And it's not just the loss of the child. When I think back to the loss of my son after only two all-too-brief days, we also mourned the life we had been planning (with ultrasound images we cherish), the family of five we were going to be but were no longer, the dream of raising a twin boy and girl (who were kicking at each other just minutes before they were born).
We sang the alphabet song and Silent Night to our lost son--not just a "body." We bathed him, put lotion on his body, and dressed him. We held him, and hugged him and, yes, we brought his tiny body back to our hospital room just because we wanted desperately to be with him for as long as we possibly could. When we buried him several days later, we held him and kissed him good-bye.
And, you know what? We're still mourning. We're still trying to find the light. This, a year later. And I'm not sure we'll ever actually find the end of this horrid tunnel. Just thinking about it brings me right back to the entrance.
So, tell me, Eugene. Does any of that strike you as "weird?" Because, it occurs to me that you seem to be confusing "weird" with "love." With all due respect, which is very little, I can't say I'm "down" with that.
December 23, 2011
Nothing Quick About It
My wife and I are continuing to pursue my wife’s dream of opening a small business, which means we spend about 40 percent of our time getting the business ready, 60 percent of our time arguing aggressively, 50 percent of our time trying to take care of two children and 40 percent of our time being atrociously bad at calculating percentages.
Because we both spent most of our lives avoiding mathematics and accounting the way Keira Knightly avoids anything resembling food, we weren’t adequately prepared for the complexities of keeping accurate small business accounting records.
To help us track our accounting, we purchased an accounting software program called QuickBooks which, contrary to its name, is neither a book and is in no discernible way quick.
Hoping to save money on an accountant consultation on how to use QuickBooks, my wife bought a copy of “QuickBooks 2012 for Dummies,” which seemed appropriate but, after reading about 70 pages, it became painfully obvious to me that we needed “QuickBooks 2012 for Lobotomized Chimpanzees with ADD.” I thought, after reading 70 pages, I was prepared to at least tinker with QuickBooks, but as soon as I fired up the program, I realized the author of “QuickBooks 2012 for Dummies” was an absolute liar. Worse, judging by the tone of the book, he really enjoyed being a liar. I can’t help but believe he sat in front of his keyboard, tapping out lie after lie, laughing maniacally the entire time.
Beyond inserting the CD into the computer, nothing about my QuickBooks experience remotely matched the smug tutorial penned by the “QuickBooks 2012 for Dummies” author. Within five minutes, I was hopelessly lost in what can only be described as some sort of accounting software Purgatory. I’m sure actual accountants absolutely love QuickBooks. They probably take a copy of QuickBooks to bed with them and whisper sweet nothings into its central CD hole. I, however, am not in any way an accountant, so I spent my first QuickBooks experience desperately wishing I could hurl that CD into a wall like a ninja throwing star.
To really round out the whole QuickBooks experience, my wife was sitting right next to me, watching me click helplessly on countless options that took me absolutely nowhere. She just sat there, waiting for SOMETHING good to happen, only to have me fail miserably time and time again. To be perfectly honest, it must have been a lot like watching a Vikings game.
After about 20 minutes, my wife understandably lost interest in watching me click aimlessly while swearing incessantly, so she walked away to do actual productive things and told me to come get her if I made any sort of progress whatsoever. Suffice it to say, I never had to go get her.
I suppose in many ways it’s all pretty much my fault. After all, I spent most of my early formative computing years playing computer games. Somehow, I failed to realize that maybe playing “Dungeons & Dragons” online wasn’t the best training for eventually using a complicated accounting program. I mean, sure my pursuit of a 30th level thief with a vorpal blade seemed important 10 years ago, but in my current situation it strikes me as a monumental life error. This, I realize now, is what my parents refer to as “wisdom.”
Which is sort of ironic, since I always liked my “Dungeons & Dragons” characters to have high wisdom number ratings. In retrospect, it occurs to me maybe I was compensating for something.
December 19, 2011
December 11, 2011
December 09, 2011
It’s a Girl Thing
Lately, I’ve had to come to terms with an unfortunate truth about parenthood, which is: I have absolutely no idea how to properly dress a baby girl.
Our first child, Aiden, was, and remains, a boy. The cold hard fact is, you can dress a boy in anything. Cut head and arm holes into a garbage bag, and you have a perfect rainy day poncho for a boy. Try that with a girl and people will likely think you’re trying to throw her away, at worst, or punishing her, at best.
The thing is, I mistook the ease by which I could dress our boy as some sort of talent on my part. The fact I could put jeans and a tee-shirt on Aiden and have him look presentable was something I viewed as a great parenting accomplishment.
But then our daughter came along and totally torpedoed my inflated opinion of myself as an accomplished dresser of young humans. This torpedoing didn’t happen right away, mind you, because for the first several months our daughter’s wardrobe consisted almost entirely of onesie outfits.
Unless you have a deeply ingrained fear of zippers or buttons, you’d have to be a colossal idiot to mess up dressing a child in a onesie. So, my inflated opinion of myself as a brilliant dresser of infants remained intact until our daughter went and grew big enough to require “outfits.” Girl outfits are astronomically more difficult to coordinate than boy outfits. A boy outfit is like a hammer and a nail, while a girl outfit is like an array of dental tools you have absolutely no idea how to use.
Girl outfits have stripes and polka dots and frilly, poofy stuff that serves absolutely no purpose other than to designate a girl is a girl rather than a boy. Personally, I would have no problem dressing my daughter like a boy—in fact, I’d probably actually prefer it, if for no other reason that it would save a whole lot of time.
Unfortunately, my wife insists on dressing our girl like a girl, which is admittedly annoying, but I’ve learned from experience I’ll never win these kinds of arguments, so my daughter’s closet is packed with all sorts of girlie outfits that have to be coordinated “just so.” And I have exactly zero talent at determining what constitutes “just so.”
With my lack of girl dressing skills thus established, allow me to illustrate a typical daughter dressing experience:
ME: Let’s see. . . I’ll try putting these multi-color polka dot pants on her along with this striped pink shirt. There, that looks cute. I’ll go show my wife.
WIFE: What is she wearing?
ME: Uh, clothes?
WIFE: She looks ridiculous. Why not put her on a street corner with a cardboard sign that says “Homeless. Please help. God bless.”
ME: Well, that’s a little harsh, I think.
WIFE: Stripes and polka dots?
ME: It looks festive.
WIFE: I don’t want her to look festive. I want her to look cute. She’s not auditioning for clown school.
ME: Wait, why are we barring her from a clown school audition? She should be able to do whatever she wants with her life.
WIFE: Do you realize how much a top quality, four year clown degree costs? We could never afford it.
ME: You never know. She could maybe secure a clown school scholarship.
WIFE: She’s not going to get a scholarship for anything dressed like that!
ME: Can’t we just dress her in onesies until she’s 18?
WIFE: Just because you did that doesn’t mean she has to.
The frustrating thing is, my wife's last barb isn't even remotely true. I actually wore bleached jeans, Zubaz and Members Only jackets, which is admittedly far more embarrassing than wearing a onesie.
November 18, 2011
November 13, 2011
November 11, 2011
Who says journalism is dead?
Husband dives into nine tons of trash to find ring
That's the lead story on MSNBC.com. Seriously.
Economic stagnation? European chaos? That's just boring stuff. Let's lead with a story of a guy who went dumpster diving to find a ring.
The fact I graduated with a journalism degree 13 years ago and now I'm looking to open a secondhand furniture store with my wife is COMPLETELY coincidental.
November 01, 2011
Oh, Pioneers
A few months ago, my wife became seriously dedicated to the idea of opening her own business. Without going into the details of her business plan, I can divulge that it requires her husband, who is me, to lift and move vast quantities of furniture from a U-Haul trailer into our garage and porch.
My wife grew tired of constantly renting a U-Haul to go pick up more furniture for me to lift and move, so she started looking for good deals on large freight box trucks. For those unfamiliar with box trucks, they're basically some of the largest vehicles you can drive without having to obtain a commercial driver's license. As with the unexpected constant furniture moving, I likewise didn't expect to be the primary pilot of the box truck once one was procured. But, if there's one thing I've learned about marriage, it's to expect the unexpected.
Well, last week, my wife officially obtained a 1992 Ford box truck which gets, roughly, five gallons per mile. This thing drinks more fuel than Lindsay Lohan drinks booze.
I'd driven a couple box trucks before, but only over short distances and always through very rural environments. The box truck my wife purchased, however, was located in the heart of the Twin Cities. This struck me as completely unfair.
People who know me know I'm an easily stressed out guy. Ask me to do something completely out of the ordinary, and my blood pressure is almost guaranteed to spike into heart attack range. Navigating an ancient, gas sucking behemoth box truck through the Twin Cities during noon rush hour easily qualifies as "completely out of the ordinary."
Here's the thing: I've grown to depend on rearview mirrors. I love review mirrors. If I didn't already have a wife, I'd marry a rearview mirror. Large, ancient box trucks do not have rearview mirrors. They have a gallery of side mirrors that shake violently whenever you exceed 50 mph. The only thing that shakes more than the side mirrors is me due to stressful agitation and a constant feeling of an impending traffic accident.
Learning how to drive via side mirrors is like learning a new language, except when you're learning a new language, messing up doesn't lead to sideswiping a Volkswagon.
As I embarked on my maiden voyage with that huge box truck last week, I spent the first 20 minutes trying to figure out the difference between the big rectangular mirrors and the little square mirrors. What I learned is, if a vehicle doesn't appear in the big rectangular mirror, but it does appear in the little square mirror, then that vehicle is RIGHT ALONGSIDE MY BOX TRUCK!!!!!
To my credit, I wasn't involved in any accidents that long and stressful day, and the box truck now sits menacingly in our driveway, just daring me to try driving it again.
And, if my wife's business happens to take off, I'll be driving that horrible box truck much, much more in the future. So, keep your eyes on the local news for a story about some guy driving a 1992 Ford box truck into the ditch because he couldn't figure out his side mirrors.
October 28, 2011
You read it incorrectly, people
They were just following my advice. . .
A neighboring hotel's staff alleged voiced concerns about having to recently escort hotel employees to and from bus stops late at night due to inappropriate behavior, such as public masturbation, from street protesters.
October 26, 2011
Hey Occupy Wall Street? Let's Debate.
The Occupy Wall Street (OWS) demonstrations continue to confound those trying to understand what it's all about. Which isn't surprising, since no OWS protester seems to be able to adequately or coherently verbalize exactly what OWS is all about.
According to one MSNBC.com headline/article today: "Another idea for student loan debt: Make it go away." That's a peculiar solution, and it's a solution that indicates such protesters probably didn't take a lot of critical thinking classes whilst packing on their student loan debt.
But, that brings me to my own personal great OWS protest idea. I think the OWS protests and the ideas expounded by OWS participants need to be more critically debated. I mean, mass protests are great and all that, but the OWS protests seem to be descending into general chaos, which in turn leads to inevitable clashes with law enforcement, followed by arrests. And, arrests tend to be counterproductive to getting ideas out there. So, rather than simply protesting, I again say we need debate.
Mass protests need to turn into mass debating.
I'm a huge advocate of mass debating. In my opinion, everyone should take some time out of their busy lives to mass debate. A daily mass debating session would almost certainly relieve a lot of the OWS stress we see building up. If the OWS movement would simply get together and mass debate, I genuinely think we'd see a lot of progress.
I know it sounds difficult but, trust me, mass debating is one of the easiest things you'll ever do--I learned how to do it at a very young age--and you'll be surprised how fulfilling it is. When people can come together and verbally ejaculate and critique their ideas in a full on mass debating session, you'd be amazed how much they can accomplish.
People often tell me I'm blind to keep mass debating, which is nonsense. I saw the light when I first started mass debating. I would often come home from school as a child and I'd vigorously mass debate, and it was awesome.
When I see the OWS protesters, I think "now, there's a bunch of mass debaters," so they're clearly in a perfect position to just sit down and start mass debating. Just think how much additional fawning media attention the OWS movement will get when the cameras catch hundreds or thousands of people engaged in a mass debating session. Why, the media has probably never seen such naked spunk on display.
And, don't forget, both men and women can mass debate. To be perfectly honest, I actually prefer to see a crowd of women mass debating--it's a beautiful thing, trust me. When I see women mass debating, I often feel inspired to mass debate myself. Guys mass debating is fine and all that. In fact, guys are probably better at mass debating and have certainly logged in more mass debating hours. But, I gotta say, women just plain look better when they're mass debating. So, the OWS protesters should keep that in mind: when they're mass debating, they should keep all the women up front.
There you have it. That's my simple OWS mass debating advice. If nothing else, at the very least, if I see a huge crowd of OWS participants enthusiastically mass debating, the OWS movement will finally at least make some sort of sense.
October 24, 2011
October 19, 2011
A Journalist's Take on Science
Last month, science was rocked to its core when it was announced the speed of light may not actually be the interstellar speed limit after all. And, since it was science that was rocked, pretty much no one else cared.
Unfortunately, I'm a journalist, which means I have to both pretend to care about science AND write like I know what I'm talking about. So, let me just say, this announcement is huge. Maybe.
Einstein's "Theory of Relativity" holds that nothing can travel faster than light, because the faster an object moves, the more mass it requires, and once an object approaches the speed of light, it would need infinite mass--which means any time you're standing in light, you're being crushed by mass. As a journalist, I have to think about this concept in layman's terms, so imagine the impossibility of Rosie O'Donnell running a three minute mile, and you can begin to understand Einstein's point. Although, I personally think he just smoked a lot of marijuana--patent clerks have a lot of extra time on their hands, if you catch my drift.
Anyway, last month scientists observed some quirky little particles called neutrinos outpacing light particles by 60 nanoseconds. I wrote that last sentence with such confidence, I'm betting you think I know what neutrinos and nanoseconds actually are. I don't, of course, but "Neutrinos" sounds like a super healthy cereal, and "nanoseconds" sounds like a second helping of "Nanos," whatever the heck those are.
Obviously, the implications of this discovery are huge, and scientists worldwide are in a tizzy about what it all means. After all, science--particularly physics--has been solidly grounded for almost a century on the understanding that nothing can travel faster than light.
In my view, it's ridiculous to think light could maintain that kind of stamina for nearly 100 years. Do you think Abe Vigoda could win the 100 yard dash in the 2012 Olympics? Of course not. Neutrinos are simply the Usain Bolt of physics, while light is Carl Lewis. I'm really throwing out a lot of names no one knows here, aren't I?
Whatever. The point is, physicists are now faced with a dilemma. If neutrinos can travel faster than light, that means Einstein was wrong. Previously, to suggest Einstein was wrong meant a scientist would awaken one night to find a severed horse head in their bed. OK, this is science we're talking about, so a scientist would more likely awaken to find their hand dipped in a cup of warm water. Regardless, to say Einstein was wrong used to be a pretty big deal, but now it appears he actually was. . . WRONG.
Einstein's been dead since 1955, so he's probably not going to get too upset about being told he was wrong, but for living scientists this development is like being told there's no Santa, or that Paris Hilton is a societal asset, or that Charlie Sheen makes sound life choices. It means scientists have to question some of their most strongly held theories, and scientists hate that.
My advice, as a journalist, is simple. Keep telling light that it's really, really fast. Give light continued confidence. If light comes in second after a foot race with neutrinos, give light a participation ribbon and take light out for ice cream afterwards. Tell light it's still special and important.
We still need light. After all, we have "light bulbs" not "neutrino bulbs" and, last I checked, Darth Vader wielded a "light saber" not a "neutrino saber," which would no doubt be a faster saber, but that's not important.
It's okay that there's something faster than light. It keeps science fresh, and everyone knows stale science tastes simply awful. It means anything is still possible.
It means Abe Vigoda could actually win the 100 meter dash in the 2012 Olympics. How wickedly cool would that be?
