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

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.

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.”

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.