by Anna
Congratulations are in order, as it has been one year.
My temp agency and me. Together.
With this milestone, I find it an appropriate time to reflect upon and recap my experiences with you all.
Before temping, I used to be scared of First Days. Butterflies in the stomach, tossing and turning the night before, wanting to bail at the last minute- no more. Temping is almost all first days. I can now comfortably walk in anywhere and convincingly pretend like I work there. Like Kramer in that Seinfeld episode. Here's why: all offices are the same. I can work your phones even though you can't. I can work your fax machine even though you struggle. I can take a pretty good guess where the coffee pot is and when I find it I will brew some more because it was kindly left on and empty. Su casa es mi casa.
Although all offices are essentially the same, there are weird things about each one that the employees are so used to they now find normal. And these things are frickin' weird. Like the 150 pound German Sheppard guard dog that wanders around the office when the boss feels like bringing him in. Or the Sting fan who does tarot card readings in the dark in the conference room during lunch breaks and has a black umbrella open above her cubicle. Or the bosses teaching each other ab-crunch and sit-up technique on the floor next to the copy machine. Bosses with fanny packs, bosses with bandanas, bosses with Tourette's level cursing at top volume.
People tell the temp secrets. And I'm not an especially welcoming chatty person. I was the FIRST hear of a wife's pregnancy. I knew the divorce histories of bosses, which calls from exes to courteously blow off and which to pass along with adequate warning. One after-work drinks session revealed the CEO's wife's failed business venture in the neighboring office space and their ultra-religious family's attempts to separate themselves from her gay celebrity sister. I was consulted about travelers' diarrhea.
Secretaries, especially those trained in computers late in life, leave passwords all over their desks. Voicemail and computer passwords scattered all over the desk, like peanut shells at Brothers. They don't quite get that these things are supposed to be secret. My only negative temping experience thus far deals with this topic. Allow me to relate my brush with accusations of corporate espionage:
Some Friday I was sent on a one-day assignment to fill in for a receptionist at an insurance firm. I was told they were strict and not to fool around at all, I wasn't even allowed to bring a book. Fine. I arrive and discover that not only it is mind numbingly slow and boring, the person who was meant to be supervising me was out for the day. I sit for 2 hours looking out the window and at all the secretary's Grandchildren Art. I am driven by boredom to ask permission to use the computer, even though I was told not to play around on the internet by the temp agency.
My sanity was on the line here, people. No one knew the password to log on to the secretary's computer, but I was given the impression I had the go ahead, if only I could get on. My sleuth work revealed the password on a Post-It amid crayon drawings and kitty notepads. I signed on, checked my email, and looked at the news online. Entertained myself for 6 hours and answering the phone a grand total of 8 times. Day ends, I clear the history of sites visited and delete cookies, log out, and bid good riddance to one of the more boring experiences of my life. Well, on Monday I receive a call from the temp agency.
agency: I need to talk to you about your assignment last Friday.
me: Is there a problem? (uh-oh)
agency: Yes. Did you go on the computer there? (in voice used to talk to 4-year-olds) You were told not to.
me: Yes, actually I did. I was given the impression it was all right by an employee. All I did was check email and look at the news.
agency: (ultra-accusatory tone) Well, first of all-how did you get on the computer? They're telling me there is NO POSSIBLE WAY you could have gotten that password. Also, they're saying there is absolutely no record of you using the internet. What were you doing on that computer?
me: The password is on the desk. I only looked at the internet, no files on the network, nothing like that, if that's what you mean.
agency: They assured me there was NO POSSIBLE WAY you could have logged onto that computer. And why doesn't it show you were on the internet?
me: I don't know what else to tell you. That's what I was doing. I did clear the history since I checked my personal email.
agency: You cleared files?!?!?!
me: No. No files, just history.
agency: Well (not understanding a thing), they are REALLY freaking out about security issues right now (you know, because of 9/11) and you have really jeopardized our relationship with this client.
me: I'm sorry if I caused a problem.
agency: Well, you did.
me: (after hang up) Well........you........Shut Up.
The life lessons I have learned from temping in the past year are these:
People take themselves too seriously. People take their work too seriously. Most of the "paper-moving" efforts (filing, faxing, mailing) done from 9-5 don't matter. At least for now, though, it pays the bills and seems to amuse me well enough. At least temporarily.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Potty Talk
by Stephanie Anderson
The bathroom is a highly sensitive location. We make excuses for going to it, and even give it pet names, as if saying "the little girls room" or "the head" actually secures from our audience our destination or intent. While in the restroom, not resting, we avoid the eyes of and certainly conversation with our fellows. No matter how many Everybody Poops books are penned, there will still exist some degree of social discomfort about this universal and frequent bodily function.
Why then, Why, when it is clear that this is a potentially embarrassing task, do establishments insist on upping the ante? The only thing worse, it seems than going to the bathroom with members of your sex, would be to walk into the same room intended for the opposite. The nightmare of happening into the wrong bathroom ranks right after standing before an all-school assembly in your underwear.
Despite the potential embarrassment of their patrons, restaurants, bars, and various public gathering places have found a need to creatively mark the respective doors of their male and female bathrooms. Some have taken to using photographs that require close examination to decipher who is who. Some use drawings, where you actually need to form an art history panel to analyze. I hope you don't frequent foreign locales, or that if you do, you read up on travel conversation for the appropriate language, because, at a glance, "senor" and "senorita" are similar words.
I was recently at a fast food establishment, somewhere I expect to be a final strong hold of plastic, faux wood signs, donning, in bleach white, "WOMEN" and the universal skirted stick figure. Instead, when I politely excused myself from the company of my charming companion, I found two doors marked "M" and "W." One the exact inverse of the other, Isn't there some pro-dyslexic legislation to protect us from this sort of outrage.
At least the toilets in this country can be used for free, but we wouldn't have them strewn about if they weren't a necessity. They need not be adorned or made festive in any way. Please, I'll just take mine clean and clearly marked.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
The Hunted
by J.E. Sawyer
Holy shit! Do you like knife fights and tracking? If so, I bet The Hunted, starring Academy Award winnner Tommy Lee Jones, Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro and Hot Danish Chick Connie Nielsen will be right up your alley! But boy, if you don't get off on a solid 94 minutes of tracking and knife fighting, you may be a little disappointed.
This is not The Fugitive. Hell, it's not even U.S. Marshals. It's just William Friedkin throwing bearded Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones at another dumb chase movie. In this dumb chase movie, Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro plays a renegade Special Forces assassin who's gone nuttier than a squirrel in September. He's running around in the woods of Oregon knifing up other Special Forces guys who have been sent to take him out. He says a few things throughout the course of the film about how people don't respect nature and animals and shit, but I was about to snap the neck of a spotted owl if TLJ didn't track BDT down fast enough to have another knife fight.
Please note the presence of the knife in the previous passage. Now, let's move on.
Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones is the man who trained him and, ergo, must hunt him down. In several flashback scenes, we learn that the vast majority of his Special Forces training consisted of tracking, knife fighting, and making knives out of the raw elements of the Earth -- like busted up cars, rocks, and chifforobes. This last part becomes important later, when both men lose their knives.
Connie Nielsen is the token pseudo-romantic interest (and there's about as much chemistry between her and TLJ as a 6th grader's vinegar and baking soda volcano). She is the FBI Special Agent sent to bring BDT in for his grisly murders. However, her character is irrelevant to the plot because she's completely ineffectual at finding Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro without the mad tracking skillz of Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones. She doesn't even use a knife once in the whole damned movie. Clearly, William Friedkin is trying to tell us something: dumb broads bring guns to knife fights.
I think I've pretty much summarized the movie for you, so I'll move on to the quick recap. There's tracking in the forest, tracking in Portland (above and below ground), tracking in houses, tracking in Canada, and knife fights in the forest, Portland, and by some rapids. The knife fight by the rapids is preceded by, I shit you negative, Tommy Lee Jones crafting a knife from rocks and Benicio Del Toro forging a knife from the top of a car windshield in a small campfire. At this point, I was beginning to expect that the final duel between the men would be a Raingutter Regatta or Pinewood Derby held at the Boy Scout Troop 137 pot luck.
If I had to pick a literary equivalent to The Hunted, it would probably be The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss. Basically, Benicio Del Toro is like the Lorax but, you know, with a knife. Society is, of course, the Onceler. I think that leaves Tommy Lee Jones as a Brown Bar-ba-loot and Connie Nielsen as a Swomee-Swan. However, I think I'd rather read The Lorax fifteen times in Polish than watch The Hunted again. Because it sucks ass.
P.S.: I wrote this review because I know Anna wants to make out with Benicio Del Toro and I live to break Anna's heart.
Holy shit! Do you like knife fights and tracking? If so, I bet The Hunted, starring Academy Award winnner Tommy Lee Jones, Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro and Hot Danish Chick Connie Nielsen will be right up your alley! But boy, if you don't get off on a solid 94 minutes of tracking and knife fighting, you may be a little disappointed.
This is not The Fugitive. Hell, it's not even U.S. Marshals. It's just William Friedkin throwing bearded Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones at another dumb chase movie. In this dumb chase movie, Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro plays a renegade Special Forces assassin who's gone nuttier than a squirrel in September. He's running around in the woods of Oregon knifing up other Special Forces guys who have been sent to take him out. He says a few things throughout the course of the film about how people don't respect nature and animals and shit, but I was about to snap the neck of a spotted owl if TLJ didn't track BDT down fast enough to have another knife fight.
Please note the presence of the knife in the previous passage. Now, let's move on.
Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones is the man who trained him and, ergo, must hunt him down. In several flashback scenes, we learn that the vast majority of his Special Forces training consisted of tracking, knife fighting, and making knives out of the raw elements of the Earth -- like busted up cars, rocks, and chifforobes. This last part becomes important later, when both men lose their knives.
Connie Nielsen is the token pseudo-romantic interest (and there's about as much chemistry between her and TLJ as a 6th grader's vinegar and baking soda volcano). She is the FBI Special Agent sent to bring BDT in for his grisly murders. However, her character is irrelevant to the plot because she's completely ineffectual at finding Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro without the mad tracking skillz of Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones. She doesn't even use a knife once in the whole damned movie. Clearly, William Friedkin is trying to tell us something: dumb broads bring guns to knife fights.
I think I've pretty much summarized the movie for you, so I'll move on to the quick recap. There's tracking in the forest, tracking in Portland (above and below ground), tracking in houses, tracking in Canada, and knife fights in the forest, Portland, and by some rapids. The knife fight by the rapids is preceded by, I shit you negative, Tommy Lee Jones crafting a knife from rocks and Benicio Del Toro forging a knife from the top of a car windshield in a small campfire. At this point, I was beginning to expect that the final duel between the men would be a Raingutter Regatta or Pinewood Derby held at the Boy Scout Troop 137 pot luck.
If I had to pick a literary equivalent to The Hunted, it would probably be The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss. Basically, Benicio Del Toro is like the Lorax but, you know, with a knife. Society is, of course, the Onceler. I think that leaves Tommy Lee Jones as a Brown Bar-ba-loot and Connie Nielsen as a Swomee-Swan. However, I think I'd rather read The Lorax fifteen times in Polish than watch The Hunted again. Because it sucks ass.
P.S.: I wrote this review because I know Anna wants to make out with Benicio Del Toro and I live to break Anna's heart.
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
EXTRA! Baghdad Falls!: 21 Day Collapse Eclipses French Record
(From ECA's Wire Services)
The rematch of the controversial 1991 draw between Coalition forces and the Iraq army came to a sudden and early close Wednesday in Baghdad, as the Iraqi corner surprisingly threw in the towel. The debacle has not only interfered with the plans of TV journalists for an extended stay in warmer climes, but it replaced the longstanding benchmark of military ineptitude, established by France in 1940.
Analysts were surprised by the unexpected demise of the Saddamites, since the Coalition was operating without three crack squads of German army cooks and the platoon of elite Saudi Mercedes mechanics who played such an important role in the 1991 precursor to this match. Moreover, the Coalition had misplaced the U.S. 4th Infantry Division, its vaunted "sucker punch". Coalition commanders had only recently located the lost division and had not yet moved it into the ring.
In the opening moments of the rematch, in fact, the Saddamites had put up a ferocious battle. The sons of the late Saddam Hussein, the late Uday and the late Quasay, had "keyed" the doors of seven Bradley armored vehicles parked on the front lawn of one of the late Saddam's palaces and late members of their gang had slashed the tires of two M-1 Abrams tanks, before inadvertently discovering that the tanks did not have tires and that tanks are quite heavy.
In fact, this determined resistance led seasoned war correspondents, R.W. Apple of the New York Times and Robert Fisk of the London Independent, to report that the Iraqis had pushed the Coalition forces into the sea and were proceeding to butcher thousands of ringside civilians who had not cheered loudly enough for the late Saddam. This report was picked up by most American news outlets and the BBC, since informed observers had expected this result and the Iraqi army had a long history of butchering nearby civilians. However, some dissident voices in the U.S. Defense Department, speaking only on background, pointed out that the nearest sea was the Caspian Sea, 1500 miles from Baghdad in the other direction, and no Iraqi military unit in history had ever advanced successfully beyond Kuwait City.
President Jacques Chirac of France was magnimonious about the fall of the hoary French record. President Chirac gave substantial credit to the late Saddam Hussein, with whom he had long-time business and personal relationships. Chirac stated that, although the French had given much to establish the Saddamite regime, the late dictator had taken French principles to a new level. Nonetheless, Chirac said, "I doubt that the French motto, 'All hat and no cattle' will ever be replaced with the new Iraqi chant, 'It ain't over 'til....whoops, it's over'." American journalists on the scene were awestruck by the fact that Chirac could say "It's over" in seven languages.
Other French officials were less sanguine. Foreign Minister Dominique de Villipen pointed out that the technology of war has changed substantially since the French set the world standard for surrender. "The French army had to retreat through vineyards and cities full of dog droppings," he argued. The Iraqis were able to flee across the open desert with the best of French technology at their command."
Villipen went on, "In American baseball, although Mark McGuire hit 70+ home runs, everyone remembers Babe Ruth for his performance and his larger-than-life personality. Despite the Iraqi futility, I expect that France will be similarly remembered, for a longstanding combination of pusillanimity and poor personal hygiene."
...In Other Sports News
April 9, 2003 Democratic Republic of Congo
The United League of Nations traveling team, the Blue Hat Bureaucrats, known and loved back in New York as the Newmans (for Alfred E. Newman, quote: "What, me worry?"), took it on the chin again today, as a thousand people under their protection were massacred in the Northern part of that country.
This runs the Newmans' string of road losses to at least three, following similar performances in Bosnia and Rwanda. The Newmans were apparently concentrating on polishing their helmets, as they were again unable to control the offensive movements of the more highly motivated murderers. Coach Kofi Annan was, however, upbeat. "There were only a thousand innocent civilians murdered in this match-up. That is a much lower number than in any of our past performances. At this rate of improvement, we should be down to the hundreds in the near future."
Asked, back in New York, whether the coach's job was in jeopardy, Libya, which currently chairs the ULN Human Rights Committee, responded, "Heh."
... Today's Sports Quiz
What is a Mirage?
a. A French fighter jet
b. A French military force
c. A French promise
d. All of the above
Answer in the next issue.
The rematch of the controversial 1991 draw between Coalition forces and the Iraq army came to a sudden and early close Wednesday in Baghdad, as the Iraqi corner surprisingly threw in the towel. The debacle has not only interfered with the plans of TV journalists for an extended stay in warmer climes, but it replaced the longstanding benchmark of military ineptitude, established by France in 1940.
Analysts were surprised by the unexpected demise of the Saddamites, since the Coalition was operating without three crack squads of German army cooks and the platoon of elite Saudi Mercedes mechanics who played such an important role in the 1991 precursor to this match. Moreover, the Coalition had misplaced the U.S. 4th Infantry Division, its vaunted "sucker punch". Coalition commanders had only recently located the lost division and had not yet moved it into the ring.
In the opening moments of the rematch, in fact, the Saddamites had put up a ferocious battle. The sons of the late Saddam Hussein, the late Uday and the late Quasay, had "keyed" the doors of seven Bradley armored vehicles parked on the front lawn of one of the late Saddam's palaces and late members of their gang had slashed the tires of two M-1 Abrams tanks, before inadvertently discovering that the tanks did not have tires and that tanks are quite heavy.
In fact, this determined resistance led seasoned war correspondents, R.W. Apple of the New York Times and Robert Fisk of the London Independent, to report that the Iraqis had pushed the Coalition forces into the sea and were proceeding to butcher thousands of ringside civilians who had not cheered loudly enough for the late Saddam. This report was picked up by most American news outlets and the BBC, since informed observers had expected this result and the Iraqi army had a long history of butchering nearby civilians. However, some dissident voices in the U.S. Defense Department, speaking only on background, pointed out that the nearest sea was the Caspian Sea, 1500 miles from Baghdad in the other direction, and no Iraqi military unit in history had ever advanced successfully beyond Kuwait City.
President Jacques Chirac of France was magnimonious about the fall of the hoary French record. President Chirac gave substantial credit to the late Saddam Hussein, with whom he had long-time business and personal relationships. Chirac stated that, although the French had given much to establish the Saddamite regime, the late dictator had taken French principles to a new level. Nonetheless, Chirac said, "I doubt that the French motto, 'All hat and no cattle' will ever be replaced with the new Iraqi chant, 'It ain't over 'til....whoops, it's over'." American journalists on the scene were awestruck by the fact that Chirac could say "It's over" in seven languages.
Other French officials were less sanguine. Foreign Minister Dominique de Villipen pointed out that the technology of war has changed substantially since the French set the world standard for surrender. "The French army had to retreat through vineyards and cities full of dog droppings," he argued. The Iraqis were able to flee across the open desert with the best of French technology at their command."
Villipen went on, "In American baseball, although Mark McGuire hit 70+ home runs, everyone remembers Babe Ruth for his performance and his larger-than-life personality. Despite the Iraqi futility, I expect that France will be similarly remembered, for a longstanding combination of pusillanimity and poor personal hygiene."
...In Other Sports News
April 9, 2003 Democratic Republic of Congo
The United League of Nations traveling team, the Blue Hat Bureaucrats, known and loved back in New York as the Newmans (for Alfred E. Newman, quote: "What, me worry?"), took it on the chin again today, as a thousand people under their protection were massacred in the Northern part of that country.
This runs the Newmans' string of road losses to at least three, following similar performances in Bosnia and Rwanda. The Newmans were apparently concentrating on polishing their helmets, as they were again unable to control the offensive movements of the more highly motivated murderers. Coach Kofi Annan was, however, upbeat. "There were only a thousand innocent civilians murdered in this match-up. That is a much lower number than in any of our past performances. At this rate of improvement, we should be down to the hundreds in the near future."
Asked, back in New York, whether the coach's job was in jeopardy, Libya, which currently chairs the ULN Human Rights Committee, responded, "Heh."
... Today's Sports Quiz
What is a Mirage?
a. A French fighter jet
b. A French military force
c. A French promise
d. All of the above
Answer in the next issue.
Monday, March 31, 2003
Deep in the Heart of Texas (The State)
by Stephanie Anderson
I have stepped up the art of administering systems. While I never thought I would be able to accomplish the main goals of the job, this week I achieved the miraculous. I spent two days with one goal: to print. It sounds like a simple task, especially when everyone else in the office, working on computers that I configured, is printing with ease. But no matter how many times or ways I try to send my batch of fifty letters to the printer, nothing comes out. I am losing a signal somewhere between the computer saying it is printing, and the printer who denies, denies, denies.
This elusive signal remained ambiguous for 2 days, and then the phone rang.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Are you trying to print something?" drawls the voice on the other end.
"Well, yeah, actually, who's this?"
"My name is Rudy Rodriguez. I am in San Diego, Texas. Your letters are printing on my printer." ???
I say nothing because I cannot form words and simultaneously accomplish the look of awe, frustration, and confusion I am delivering to the receiver.
"Ma'am? Could you stop printing? We've gotten at least 50 pages already, and I don't think you can use these letters on our stationary."
"OK. Yeah. I'll figure it out. I'm sorry, I guess?"
Bewildered, I hang up the phone and turn to my coworkers. "Guess where that document is printing," I say hesitantly. In response to their feigned half-interest, I announce, "Texas."
"The State?" is their unison, quizzical response.
Yup, the state of Texas. I thought that the fascinating part of the problem was that the computer is mysteriously whisking off my orders to a completely different office and executing them on a completely different printer. But, my co-workers seem to be hung up on the fact that in 1845 Texas joined the union.
Next, I email a techie to try to get some insight towards correcting this interstate error. "Hi. I don't know if you can help me, but my computer is printing in Texas."
Seconds later, my clever new mail noise alerts me to his response: "The state?"
That's right. Only shortly after parting ways with Mexico, Texas became a state. Now I am printing there, on a brother printer, even though my impressive computer claims to be printing on a Hewlett Packard.
Showing a true lack of professional decorum, I picked up my keyboard to launch it at the next person who questions Texas' statehood. In my fury, all I manage to do is slice my finger on a loose piece of plastic.
Hours later, allowing time for everyone to digest this lesson in national history and geography, a voice on the telephone is able to bring my computer back to participate in the day's scheduled activities here in Washington. The District.
That evening, after coming home and allowing my frustrations melt away into reruns of 7th Heaven, I call a friend from whom I can expect empathy for my ridiculous day. I carefully dial an intelligent girl who grew up in the Lone Star State. She would certainly not ask any inane questions about location. I wove her my tale. She paused and then clarified: "So you printed in Texas, ____ _____?" You may guess at what those last two words were. When you figure it out, call the poor girl and explain why that was the point at which I hung up.
Michelina's: An Expose
by Anna
Much like Streganona's pot of spaghetti, the cult hatred of the Michelina's/Macarena ads is bountiful and unending. To the microscopic percentage of readers with Internet access but no television, here is a description of the campaign I am talking about:
Television Ad number 1: A fun-loving, Casual Friday-type Macarenas her way around the office kitchenette while the no-nonsense boss approaches hotly down the hall. While her outstretched hands flip and flop at the appropriate times she sings something along the lines of: "...Top-a quality-a and the price a nice surprise-a. Hey! Michelina's!" The original Spanish has been changed to ridiculous Spainglish.
Television Ad number 2: A So-White-It-Hurts shopper Macarenas through the frozen food section of your neighborhood supermarket. Her sensible bob and mock-turtleneck tucked into her high-rise khakis leave us wondering, "Is this lady much fun?" But when the store transforms into a non-decade-specific discotheque (playing the modified dance "hit"), we know she is a cool cat, and it's gotta be the Michelina's. Wink.
No one in the United States likes these commercials. Especially no one who had the Macarena pounded into his or her head 6 years ago. The choice of this pulsing Latin tune to sell frozen entrees to the Lean Cuisine crowd has everyone baffled. Chat rooms, blogs, everyone I talk to wants to know: What's going on?!?
People were paid to think up, act in and produce this commercial. Unbelievable. In my Internet hunt I could find only a lone production manager who fessed up to the work. Dale Dreher (http://www.ad-upmnet.com/dreher/), was it really worth it?
It turns out, my fellow Minnesotan's, the roots to this whole problem lie within our very backyard. Read on: "My mother, Michelina, came to Minnesota's Iron Range, a melting pot of people of more than 25 nationalities who lived side by side, sharing customs, beliefs and recipes from the "old country." From this rich resource came Michelina's® international cuisine." How could that cute old Italian allow the monster that is the Michelina's Macarena? El dinero?
This commercial may be a sign of the apocalypse. We can be certain that the end is nigh when the following songs and products are united:
"Mmmm Bop" & Malto Meal
"Achy Breaky Heart" & Oxy 10
"Bust A Move" & Metamucil
Much like Streganona's pot of spaghetti, the cult hatred of the Michelina's/Macarena ads is bountiful and unending. To the microscopic percentage of readers with Internet access but no television, here is a description of the campaign I am talking about:
Television Ad number 1: A fun-loving, Casual Friday-type Macarenas her way around the office kitchenette while the no-nonsense boss approaches hotly down the hall. While her outstretched hands flip and flop at the appropriate times she sings something along the lines of: "...Top-a quality-a and the price a nice surprise-a. Hey! Michelina's!" The original Spanish has been changed to ridiculous Spainglish.
Television Ad number 2: A So-White-It-Hurts shopper Macarenas through the frozen food section of your neighborhood supermarket. Her sensible bob and mock-turtleneck tucked into her high-rise khakis leave us wondering, "Is this lady much fun?" But when the store transforms into a non-decade-specific discotheque (playing the modified dance "hit"), we know she is a cool cat, and it's gotta be the Michelina's. Wink.
No one in the United States likes these commercials. Especially no one who had the Macarena pounded into his or her head 6 years ago. The choice of this pulsing Latin tune to sell frozen entrees to the Lean Cuisine crowd has everyone baffled. Chat rooms, blogs, everyone I talk to wants to know: What's going on?!?
People were paid to think up, act in and produce this commercial. Unbelievable. In my Internet hunt I could find only a lone production manager who fessed up to the work. Dale Dreher (http://www.ad-upmnet.com/dreher/), was it really worth it?
It turns out, my fellow Minnesotan's, the roots to this whole problem lie within our very backyard. Read on: "My mother, Michelina, came to Minnesota's Iron Range, a melting pot of people of more than 25 nationalities who lived side by side, sharing customs, beliefs and recipes from the "old country." From this rich resource came Michelina's® international cuisine." How could that cute old Italian allow the monster that is the Michelina's Macarena? El dinero?
This commercial may be a sign of the apocalypse. We can be certain that the end is nigh when the following songs and products are united:
"Mmmm Bop" & Malto Meal
"Achy Breaky Heart" & Oxy 10
"Bust A Move" & Metamucil
Sunday, March 02, 2003
Johnny vs. Saucy Jack
by Anna
There are only two reasons that I should ever write about movies; I am neither a skilled nor authoritative movie reviewer. If I see a lesser-known movie that I want others to see (Hedwig & the Angry Inch, for example) OR if I have a fundamental problem with a movie and just need to complain about it, I may be known to bang a little something out. The latter reason drives this piece. I had two big beefs with the 2001 Jack the Ripper thriller, From Hell, starring Johnny Depp and Heather Graham.
The first is the way they chose to mix facts, theories and fiction. The real story of Jack the Ripper is scary and intriguing because so little is known. A crazy Hannibal Lector type crept around Victorian London tearing up women, leaving cryptic, taunting messages for the police in his wake . And that’s pretty much all anyone knows for sure. The movie takes one of many theories surrounding the mystery and presents it as fact. It wants to be an historical horror film. But what makes the real story so scary is the fact that it remains unsolved. The movie, on the other hand, fingers someone as Jack the Ripper and shows him getting his just desserts. No! Everyone knows that “I’m having an old friend for dinner” is a great ending to Silence of the Lambs. And why? Because he’s still out there!
Beef #2 is the accents. Everyone knows Johnny Depp and Heather Graham, among others, are Americans. Acting is a competitive industry where hundreds of people audition for single roles. Can’t the moviemakers pick someone who sounds the part rather than paying the gianormous bucks for the big names and dialect coaches? I just didn’t believe ol’ Johnny’s from Souf London, yeah? I’m not an accent snob, but these Yanks were performing alongside of born and bred British actors and the difference was glaring. England’s got actors to spare- take pity on my ears and put them in your movies.
Overall it was just quite bad. Don’t get me wrong, I love Johnny Depp but the girls get picked off predictably and his opiate fueled premonitions are just dumb. I’m not so disgruntled that I’m going to send anthrax to 20th Century Fox or anything, but I am very glad I rented this movie for free from the public library.
There are only two reasons that I should ever write about movies; I am neither a skilled nor authoritative movie reviewer. If I see a lesser-known movie that I want others to see (Hedwig & the Angry Inch, for example) OR if I have a fundamental problem with a movie and just need to complain about it, I may be known to bang a little something out. The latter reason drives this piece. I had two big beefs with the 2001 Jack the Ripper thriller, From Hell, starring Johnny Depp and Heather Graham.
The first is the way they chose to mix facts, theories and fiction. The real story of Jack the Ripper is scary and intriguing because so little is known. A crazy Hannibal Lector type crept around Victorian London tearing up women, leaving cryptic, taunting messages for the police in his wake . And that’s pretty much all anyone knows for sure. The movie takes one of many theories surrounding the mystery and presents it as fact. It wants to be an historical horror film. But what makes the real story so scary is the fact that it remains unsolved. The movie, on the other hand, fingers someone as Jack the Ripper and shows him getting his just desserts. No! Everyone knows that “I’m having an old friend for dinner” is a great ending to Silence of the Lambs. And why? Because he’s still out there!
Beef #2 is the accents. Everyone knows Johnny Depp and Heather Graham, among others, are Americans. Acting is a competitive industry where hundreds of people audition for single roles. Can’t the moviemakers pick someone who sounds the part rather than paying the gianormous bucks for the big names and dialect coaches? I just didn’t believe ol’ Johnny’s from Souf London, yeah? I’m not an accent snob, but these Yanks were performing alongside of born and bred British actors and the difference was glaring. England’s got actors to spare- take pity on my ears and put them in your movies.
Overall it was just quite bad. Don’t get me wrong, I love Johnny Depp but the girls get picked off predictably and his opiate fueled premonitions are just dumb. I’m not so disgruntled that I’m going to send anthrax to 20th Century Fox or anything, but I am very glad I rented this movie for free from the public library.
The Inevitable Demise of Creed: A Saga of the Year 2007
by Brett Sheats, Prophet and Seer to the Stars
Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.
Those of us in touch with our metaphysical side often gaze upon the face of the unseen world that shadows our existence. It is a confusing, paradoxical place full of curious quips and contradictions queer. Often travelers to this dark realm are forced to take journeys through the unworldly landscape and emerge enlightened on the other side. The stories they tell are fantastic.
I recently met with my spiritual guide, who appears to me in the guise of a green fairy. Like the talking coyote who led Homer Simpson through his Chili-induced quest, the green fairy leads me on paths made for my steps alone. This night, my journey was… into the future.
The future?
That’s right, Conan, the future. All the way to the year 2007. And once I arrived there, I saw incredible and glorious things. Paging through a newspaper I found along the way, I learned the following facts:
1. In the year 2007 our nation is ruled by a monarchy… and our ruler is King Garth Brooks! The national anthem has been changed to “The River.”
2. In the year 2007 humans are birthed from cow placentas. I have no explanation for this fact.
3. In the year 2007 Duke is 1-15 in ACC conference play. Their only ACC win came against 1-15 UNC at the Dean Dome. The two teams meet twice a year in what is becoming known as the ‘new Army-Navy game.’
4. In the year 2007 happiness has been replaced by ‘contentment’ and sadness has been replaced by ‘melancholy.’ In related news, there is only one color, and it is mauve.
I could continue for hours about all the interesting facts I learned along the way. But it is sufficient to tell you that the year 2007 is a scary and frightful place. I was eager to return to my native time, never to set foot in this hellish realm ever again. But, on the back page of the ‘distractions’ section of the paper, I found an article that almost convinced me to hold on with both hands and stay in this era of what I soon realized was bliss. The headline read:
'"Creed" front man Scott Stapp declares band formally broken-up.’
I couldn’t believe my mauve-soaked eyes. Creed was gone. Creed: The bastion of sinners, followers of Damien, son of Satan, was no longer. I was overjoyed. I looked to the heavens, arms wide open, and for once knew that He existed. I wanted to know all of the facts that led to this fall from grace, this breakup of the most insidious and dangerous group since the "Committee on Unamerican Activities." I ran to the nearest library.
After hours pouring through Seventeen and Teen Beat, the story had become ingrained in my mind. It was almost too fantastic to believe. But the green fairy assured me it was true by placing her finger aside her nose and nodding twice. In the summer of 2003, there was dissention amongst the band mates over the name and cover of their new album. Lead singer Scott Stapp wanted the new album to be called Crucifixion Demigods and the Insatiable Rapture. He envisioned the cover to be a close up of his left eyeball, with the reflection of a church in flames seen in the pupil. His lone figure could be seen standing in front of the burning alter with a dove in his hand. The dove would be clasping a smaller version of Stapp in its talons.
The other members of the band, Mark Tremonti and Scott Phillips, felt this was not ‘epic’ enough for the standard of the band’s previous albums. They instead wished the album to be simply titled We are Gods, and the cover to picture the three band members completely rebuilding the World Trade Center by themselves, brick by brick. The South Tower was pictured to have a large crimson ‘C’ emblazoned on its side.
In the end, Stapp won out due to his amazing good looks and luxuriously shampooed and conditioned hair. The album was a commercial success, selling a bazillion copies worldwide. The damage to the band’s psyche, however, was severe. Stapp reportedly went into isolation after the fight with his bandmates, and at one point even considered switching shampoos. His family staged a group intervention in time and his locks were saved.
The band took some time off following the fall-out and even worked on some solo projects. Tremonti released the critically-panned $oaking in the Million$ on his own label. Phillips debuted a short-lived modern jazz quartet called The Hot Stick Boys comprised of four drummers. Their album, Beatin’ it, was a commercial disappointment.
During these lean years, Stapp took a shot at the silver screen-- writing, producing, directing, and starring in Wall, his own personal declaration of the isolation of stardom. Stapp released, in conjunction with the film, a two-CD rock opus (Also called Wall) that spoke of his lonely days living at the top. An excerpt from the album is as follows:
“Oh, I’ve rocked the world, I’ve rocked the house. Why can’t I rock down this wall-eee-all?
Let me rock it down, cast it asunder, down six feet under.
Down it gooooes, dow-eee-own it gooooes.
Oh father, in your golden throne, how can I rock down this wall-eee-all?”
The film, which cost in excess of $120 million to make, was a box-office blunder, grossing just over $400,000. At this point, with money in short supply and the band members applying for food stamps, they knew it was time for Creed to rise forth once again, calling upon its fan base of millions. In 2006 they reunited for a nine month stay in the studio. Recording with Phil Spector in Stapp’s own personal facility, the buzz was that the new album was ‘a modern day Let it Be, mixed with a dash of the magic of Styx.’
In the end, the public had other thoughts. The album, titled The Phoenix of God’s Divine Judgment debuted at #324 of the Billboard Hot 500. From there, it languished in the mid 300’s until it fell of the charts completely in week 7 of its release. The band was devastated, and completely stopped speaking to one another. Tremonti turned to the bottle for salvation. On two seperate occasions, Phillips was arrested for picking up transvestite prostitutes in Reno, Nevada. Stapp developed a well-publicized heroin habit that culminated in an extended stay in the Betty Ford Clinic and a short stop at the California Psychiatric Institute in Carmel. Band publicists called the treatment a ‘personal matter’ revolving around ‘trauma relating to his childhood.’
Less than a year later, in 2007, from the west spire of his personal compound, Stapp released the news that the band was now defunct. There would be no more Creed as far as he was concerned. He hoped the other members of the band would respect his ‘enlightened’ wishes and not tour as Creed, or face ‘assured eternal damnation.’
And those were all the facts available. As I walked from the library and hopped on my Segway to get back to the subway, I felt myself feeling a sense of sadness for the band that once ruled the charts. As the wind whipped through my hair and caused my eyes to water, I felt a strange feeling in my stomach. It almost seemed as if I was miraculously converted to being a fan of the once mighty band. But then I realized it was just gas. As the green fairy whispered in my ear that it was time to go back to the year 2003, I stepped boldly into the light and returned to the physical realm in which we all live. Once arrived, I turned on the radio and was greeted by a crooner who lamented, “What’s this life for?” All I could think was, “I don’t know, but you better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.
Those of us in touch with our metaphysical side often gaze upon the face of the unseen world that shadows our existence. It is a confusing, paradoxical place full of curious quips and contradictions queer. Often travelers to this dark realm are forced to take journeys through the unworldly landscape and emerge enlightened on the other side. The stories they tell are fantastic.
I recently met with my spiritual guide, who appears to me in the guise of a green fairy. Like the talking coyote who led Homer Simpson through his Chili-induced quest, the green fairy leads me on paths made for my steps alone. This night, my journey was… into the future.
The future?
That’s right, Conan, the future. All the way to the year 2007. And once I arrived there, I saw incredible and glorious things. Paging through a newspaper I found along the way, I learned the following facts:
1. In the year 2007 our nation is ruled by a monarchy… and our ruler is King Garth Brooks! The national anthem has been changed to “The River.”
2. In the year 2007 humans are birthed from cow placentas. I have no explanation for this fact.
3. In the year 2007 Duke is 1-15 in ACC conference play. Their only ACC win came against 1-15 UNC at the Dean Dome. The two teams meet twice a year in what is becoming known as the ‘new Army-Navy game.’
4. In the year 2007 happiness has been replaced by ‘contentment’ and sadness has been replaced by ‘melancholy.’ In related news, there is only one color, and it is mauve.
I could continue for hours about all the interesting facts I learned along the way. But it is sufficient to tell you that the year 2007 is a scary and frightful place. I was eager to return to my native time, never to set foot in this hellish realm ever again. But, on the back page of the ‘distractions’ section of the paper, I found an article that almost convinced me to hold on with both hands and stay in this era of what I soon realized was bliss. The headline read:
'"Creed" front man Scott Stapp declares band formally broken-up.’
I couldn’t believe my mauve-soaked eyes. Creed was gone. Creed: The bastion of sinners, followers of Damien, son of Satan, was no longer. I was overjoyed. I looked to the heavens, arms wide open, and for once knew that He existed. I wanted to know all of the facts that led to this fall from grace, this breakup of the most insidious and dangerous group since the "Committee on Unamerican Activities." I ran to the nearest library.
After hours pouring through Seventeen and Teen Beat, the story had become ingrained in my mind. It was almost too fantastic to believe. But the green fairy assured me it was true by placing her finger aside her nose and nodding twice. In the summer of 2003, there was dissention amongst the band mates over the name and cover of their new album. Lead singer Scott Stapp wanted the new album to be called Crucifixion Demigods and the Insatiable Rapture. He envisioned the cover to be a close up of his left eyeball, with the reflection of a church in flames seen in the pupil. His lone figure could be seen standing in front of the burning alter with a dove in his hand. The dove would be clasping a smaller version of Stapp in its talons.
The other members of the band, Mark Tremonti and Scott Phillips, felt this was not ‘epic’ enough for the standard of the band’s previous albums. They instead wished the album to be simply titled We are Gods, and the cover to picture the three band members completely rebuilding the World Trade Center by themselves, brick by brick. The South Tower was pictured to have a large crimson ‘C’ emblazoned on its side.
In the end, Stapp won out due to his amazing good looks and luxuriously shampooed and conditioned hair. The album was a commercial success, selling a bazillion copies worldwide. The damage to the band’s psyche, however, was severe. Stapp reportedly went into isolation after the fight with his bandmates, and at one point even considered switching shampoos. His family staged a group intervention in time and his locks were saved.
The band took some time off following the fall-out and even worked on some solo projects. Tremonti released the critically-panned $oaking in the Million$ on his own label. Phillips debuted a short-lived modern jazz quartet called The Hot Stick Boys comprised of four drummers. Their album, Beatin’ it, was a commercial disappointment.
During these lean years, Stapp took a shot at the silver screen-- writing, producing, directing, and starring in Wall, his own personal declaration of the isolation of stardom. Stapp released, in conjunction with the film, a two-CD rock opus (Also called Wall) that spoke of his lonely days living at the top. An excerpt from the album is as follows:
“Oh, I’ve rocked the world, I’ve rocked the house. Why can’t I rock down this wall-eee-all?
Let me rock it down, cast it asunder, down six feet under.
Down it gooooes, dow-eee-own it gooooes.
Oh father, in your golden throne, how can I rock down this wall-eee-all?”
The film, which cost in excess of $120 million to make, was a box-office blunder, grossing just over $400,000. At this point, with money in short supply and the band members applying for food stamps, they knew it was time for Creed to rise forth once again, calling upon its fan base of millions. In 2006 they reunited for a nine month stay in the studio. Recording with Phil Spector in Stapp’s own personal facility, the buzz was that the new album was ‘a modern day Let it Be, mixed with a dash of the magic of Styx.’
In the end, the public had other thoughts. The album, titled The Phoenix of God’s Divine Judgment debuted at #324 of the Billboard Hot 500. From there, it languished in the mid 300’s until it fell of the charts completely in week 7 of its release. The band was devastated, and completely stopped speaking to one another. Tremonti turned to the bottle for salvation. On two seperate occasions, Phillips was arrested for picking up transvestite prostitutes in Reno, Nevada. Stapp developed a well-publicized heroin habit that culminated in an extended stay in the Betty Ford Clinic and a short stop at the California Psychiatric Institute in Carmel. Band publicists called the treatment a ‘personal matter’ revolving around ‘trauma relating to his childhood.’
Less than a year later, in 2007, from the west spire of his personal compound, Stapp released the news that the band was now defunct. There would be no more Creed as far as he was concerned. He hoped the other members of the band would respect his ‘enlightened’ wishes and not tour as Creed, or face ‘assured eternal damnation.’
And those were all the facts available. As I walked from the library and hopped on my Segway to get back to the subway, I felt myself feeling a sense of sadness for the band that once ruled the charts. As the wind whipped through my hair and caused my eyes to water, I felt a strange feeling in my stomach. It almost seemed as if I was miraculously converted to being a fan of the once mighty band. But then I realized it was just gas. As the green fairy whispered in my ear that it was time to go back to the year 2003, I stepped boldly into the light and returned to the physical realm in which we all live. Once arrived, I turned on the radio and was greeted by a crooner who lamented, “What’s this life for?” All I could think was, “I don’t know, but you better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Saturday, March 01, 2003
Stephanie goes to Washington (No, this is not a reality series)
by Stephanie Anderson
Against all odds and intentions, I somehow got myself a job, and in Washington, DC nonetheless. I have to get up at 6 in the morning and join the army of people in grey suits and blue shirts (tie choice: red or yellow) as they push onto trains and highways.
It’s hard to wake up when the sun is still hiding, and so I look to employ the services of an alarm clock. It having been so long since I figured out which button to hold while pushing the “min” and “hour” buttons, I was utterly baffled by the apparatus at my disposal. No worries, I’m up on technology, so I’ll use the alarm on my cell phone. The problem is that when it goes off, I pick up screaming “HELLO!” and when no one is there, I go back to sleep.
The office I was hired into is a brand new entity, due to the much-appreciated fickleness of the American populous. Setting up the office was done with all the thought and organization of dorm move-in, except the furniture all matches. Something I have noticed is that the Federal Government loves marking its territory even more than dogs do. Whatever it is, it needs a seal. Letterhead is stamped with the name of the appropriate office, and a seal. Rugs are plastered with a big eagle for people to wipe their feet on. Letter openers are embossed in gold, with a seal. Even the trash can in the bathroom has a bird with a big circle around it and letters proudly proclaiming: “US House of Representatives.”
They put me in charge of the computers. Considering my alarm clock literacy and the fact that my grandmother passed me in email proficiency years ago, this may not have been the best decision. But government employees need no legal qualifications- only a title. My coworkers were told that I am the “Systems Administrator,” so each day they come to my desk and request my attention for operating or programming problem. I stop desperately struggling with my own machine, and follow them to their's. “You see, when I move the mouse, nothing happens.” They say, showing me the blank screen. I give them a bewildered look and explain this is a problem beyond my expertise and promise to call a technician to come look at the problem. A few hours later, after I’ve desperately plead my case to the voicemail of every techie I know, the person comes back to my desk and says thanks, but they figured it out. “Oh really? What was the problem?” “The power wasn’t on.”
I meet new people every day. This was something I was a bit nervous about being as I can never remember names or anything about anyone, but here in our nation’s capitol, they simplify things for you. People proudly bear their entire belief system on their lapel. Do you love the president, think terrorism is bad, and believe we should send vast fighting forces to the Middle East and France? A small American flag conveys that message swiftly. Are you desperately trying to spend more federal dollars fighting AIDS in remote island countries? A properly colored ribbon on your left breast will do smartly. Do you want abortion doctors to be tarred and feathered? Silver footprints claimed to be the size of baby’s feet at x weeks after conception will do. There is a lapel pin for each strain of political thought and people proclaim their innermost cares on their collar. Lapel Pin Manufacturers have neglected no opinion. When they bring around their silver on velvet depiction of anarchy, I’ll snatch a handful.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
Casting Call for Movie of the Year, 2002
It's the beginning of another year and Hollywood is about to force the world's bored souls (you know, the type of people who sit around reading humor sites on the Internet) through another year of bland to bad movies.
But before we dive any further in, we here at Re:Whatever must make a great decision: Which movie gets the grand prize for 2002? We are not the Academy. No one is paying us off, and there is nothing political going on (except the partisan battle every week over who is slacking the most on the update). We will give the "Best Damn Movie of the Year" award based completely on fact-- our opinion.
But just to add to the warm fuzzy feeling of democracy, we want you to tell us what should get the grand cash prize, or, if you like, which film should be considered under no circumstances. At least one reason, however inane, must accompany each entry.
Those of you that have spent the past year whining that you want to write for us, but you don't know what to write about- NOW is your chance. So write a title and a sentence or two or 100. I anticipate great things. At least they had better be great things to change my mind (yes, of course it’s already made up).
Then sit by your computer and wait until we deem it the time to run another update. Anticipate with bated breath the chance that you may have chosen a winner. Too bad this is the internet and not a race track, because, frankly, you could make more money forwarding one of Bill Gates’ emails than off of us.
But before we dive any further in, we here at Re:Whatever must make a great decision: Which movie gets the grand prize for 2002? We are not the Academy. No one is paying us off, and there is nothing political going on (except the partisan battle every week over who is slacking the most on the update). We will give the "Best Damn Movie of the Year" award based completely on fact-- our opinion.
But just to add to the warm fuzzy feeling of democracy, we want you to tell us what should get the grand cash prize, or, if you like, which film should be considered under no circumstances. At least one reason, however inane, must accompany each entry.
Those of you that have spent the past year whining that you want to write for us, but you don't know what to write about- NOW is your chance. So write a title and a sentence or two or 100. I anticipate great things. At least they had better be great things to change my mind (yes, of course it’s already made up).
Then sit by your computer and wait until we deem it the time to run another update. Anticipate with bated breath the chance that you may have chosen a winner. Too bad this is the internet and not a race track, because, frankly, you could make more money forwarding one of Bill Gates’ emails than off of us.
Boxing Day: A Reform of the American Holiday Season
by Anna
As you return to your boring old daily routine, following the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, are you left with a feeling of exhaustion and relief that it’s all over? Or are you thinking, “More! More! MORE!”
If you are like me, you could use one extra day of fun in there with Hanukkah, my birthday, Christmas Eve, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year’s Eve, boys and girls, there’s an answer: December 26th, Boxing Day. (Yes, Kwanzaa also begins on the 26th, but no one gets the day off for Kwanzaa. I’m talking closed post offices here- the works.)
We don’t celebrate it for the same reason that we don’t drive on the left side of the road: we think the British are silly. But is a free holiday silly? Are we fine putting in a full day’s work on a day that Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and Brits are dancing around and partying with their friends? Boxing Day has nothing to do with religion or the Queen, so everyone gets a go.
The holiday originated in England a long time ago when people had servants, and the servants had to work on Christmas. But the rich people would give the servants the day after Christmas off to go be with their families. Supposedly, their employers sent the servants on their way with some boxed gifts (possibly some of the rich family’s reject presents, like that sweater from Aunt Gertrude). . . Or it might have something to do with alms boxes and giving money to the poor. Whichever is fine with me.
If Christmas is on a Friday, everyone gets the following Monday off. It’s brilliant. The British have recognized it as a bank holiday since 1871. Do you see what we’re missing? This year, Friday December 26, 2003, don’t go to work. They can keep Boxing Day from us no longer!
As you return to your boring old daily routine, following the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, are you left with a feeling of exhaustion and relief that it’s all over? Or are you thinking, “More! More! MORE!”
If you are like me, you could use one extra day of fun in there with Hanukkah, my birthday, Christmas Eve, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year’s Eve, boys and girls, there’s an answer: December 26th, Boxing Day. (Yes, Kwanzaa also begins on the 26th, but no one gets the day off for Kwanzaa. I’m talking closed post offices here- the works.)
We don’t celebrate it for the same reason that we don’t drive on the left side of the road: we think the British are silly. But is a free holiday silly? Are we fine putting in a full day’s work on a day that Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and Brits are dancing around and partying with their friends? Boxing Day has nothing to do with religion or the Queen, so everyone gets a go.
The holiday originated in England a long time ago when people had servants, and the servants had to work on Christmas. But the rich people would give the servants the day after Christmas off to go be with their families. Supposedly, their employers sent the servants on their way with some boxed gifts (possibly some of the rich family’s reject presents, like that sweater from Aunt Gertrude). . . Or it might have something to do with alms boxes and giving money to the poor. Whichever is fine with me.
If Christmas is on a Friday, everyone gets the following Monday off. It’s brilliant. The British have recognized it as a bank holiday since 1871. Do you see what we’re missing? This year, Friday December 26, 2003, don’t go to work. They can keep Boxing Day from us no longer!
Someone Hit John Mayer
by Stephanie Anderson
Legend tells us: “Video killed the radio star.” But, unlike many trusty camping axioms (i.e. “If your feet are cold, put on a hat.” and “A fed bear is a dead bear.”), this old standby about the music industry is utterly false. Video did not murder anything. The true culprit is the DJ.
Music, I think it can be said without much evidence provided, is an OLD thing. Thousands of years of Top Forty charts leave us with quite a selection (though in the beat-stick-on-rock days there was no Casey Casem). This day in age, you could listen to music your whole life, without ever repeating the same song, and still not hear everything.
Why then, WHY, do Radio DJs only play a list of 15 (give or take two) songs? I have run an professional field test on a number of occasions in various locations and discovered this: If you listen to any given radio station, in any city, for three hours, you will hear at least one song at least two times. If you try to compensate by switching stations periodically, you will hear those same songs more than twice in the given period. A law has apparently been decreed from the radio gods to all disc jockeys that playing any piece of music to death is, in fact, the ultimate goal.
This problem is only magnified if the song happens to be one you hate. Currently, “The Zephyr Song” by RHCP, is topping my list of ear numbing strikes per hour.
But, I personally would listen to nothing but the “puff of wind” song if it meant that I did not ever again have to hear “Your Body is a Wonderland” by John Mayer. (For a long time, I contended that the song was really titled “Thaddeus Wonderland,” probably because I had too much wax in my ears. Honestly, I think I liked “Thaddeus” better because it did not include the stupid imagery of a naked woman with “bubblegum toes,” and, it was also the name of a strange kid I sat behind in high school religion.) What’s worse than hearing this song sixteen times a day is that one of the DJs in the DC area has officially declared it the “Valentine’s Day Song of 2003.” What?!? I didn’t even know that Valentine’s had been officially declared a holiday, and now they’re using it as an excuse to fill my ears with “swim in a deep sea--- of blankets.”
I may become a pariah of pop culture, but I can’t carry on like this any longer. I am switching to the no-talk, easy listening jazz station and will even suffer through “Salsa Sunday.” (Except for popping in on a few of Casey’s “Long Distance Dedications.”) At least I will no longer have to listen to morning crews hawk restaurant gift certificates for whoever can call in and share the “zaniest story of a coworker stealing their lunch.”
Legend tells us: “Video killed the radio star.” But, unlike many trusty camping axioms (i.e. “If your feet are cold, put on a hat.” and “A fed bear is a dead bear.”), this old standby about the music industry is utterly false. Video did not murder anything. The true culprit is the DJ.
Music, I think it can be said without much evidence provided, is an OLD thing. Thousands of years of Top Forty charts leave us with quite a selection (though in the beat-stick-on-rock days there was no Casey Casem). This day in age, you could listen to music your whole life, without ever repeating the same song, and still not hear everything.
Why then, WHY, do Radio DJs only play a list of 15 (give or take two) songs? I have run an professional field test on a number of occasions in various locations and discovered this: If you listen to any given radio station, in any city, for three hours, you will hear at least one song at least two times. If you try to compensate by switching stations periodically, you will hear those same songs more than twice in the given period. A law has apparently been decreed from the radio gods to all disc jockeys that playing any piece of music to death is, in fact, the ultimate goal.
This problem is only magnified if the song happens to be one you hate. Currently, “The Zephyr Song” by RHCP, is topping my list of ear numbing strikes per hour.
But, I personally would listen to nothing but the “puff of wind” song if it meant that I did not ever again have to hear “Your Body is a Wonderland” by John Mayer. (For a long time, I contended that the song was really titled “Thaddeus Wonderland,” probably because I had too much wax in my ears. Honestly, I think I liked “Thaddeus” better because it did not include the stupid imagery of a naked woman with “bubblegum toes,” and, it was also the name of a strange kid I sat behind in high school religion.) What’s worse than hearing this song sixteen times a day is that one of the DJs in the DC area has officially declared it the “Valentine’s Day Song of 2003.” What?!? I didn’t even know that Valentine’s had been officially declared a holiday, and now they’re using it as an excuse to fill my ears with “swim in a deep sea--- of blankets.”
I may become a pariah of pop culture, but I can’t carry on like this any longer. I am switching to the no-talk, easy listening jazz station and will even suffer through “Salsa Sunday.” (Except for popping in on a few of Casey’s “Long Distance Dedications.”) At least I will no longer have to listen to morning crews hawk restaurant gift certificates for whoever can call in and share the “zaniest story of a coworker stealing their lunch.”
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