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I suppose this is getting to be a little old…two rant-oriented posts in a row. Such is the way of things. Sometimes there’s a lot of stuff that rubs you the wrong way in a short period of time. The rant du jour:

I don’t have HBO at the apartment, but I do at my house. I really like to watch the Sopranos, but I have no means of doing so at my pad. Fortunately enough, there’s a handy Tivo at my parent’s house and, believe it or not, they have HBO. How nice for me. I don’t get a lot of time to watch the recorded episodes when I get home (I feel a little guilty going back only to sit in a dark room and watch episodes of a show my parents don’t watch). Consequently, I have a backlog of about 9 or 10 episodes.

I really like the Sopranos. It’s like my show. I’ve been watching since way before it was a media darling ala Sex in the City or the Osbournes. Each episode I watch is like a gradual unfolding of something that I’ve been invested in for a long time. It’s more than a movie because I’ve invested numerous movie-length viewing periods into this show. Each season is a continuation of a huge arc…things you see 20 episodes before has payoffs in the current season.

Well, everyone and their mom (unless their mom is squeamish) are always talking about the Sopranos these days. It’s all over entertainment news; people talk about it in the office, at school, everywhere. I generally try to avoid it, because I’m effectively a season behind. I don’t want anything to be given away prematurely. It seems like common courtesy to avoid giving away major plot points in an open forum, but hey, where has courtesy gone these days?

Twice in the last month or so (the latest being tonight), major media sources have ruined MAJOR plot points in the Sopranos. I don’t want to go into details, but it’s absurd. One I caught unintentionally in a Letterman interview and the other I just read on Relevant magazine. The Relevant one just kills me because I love that site. They have this great headlines thing on there…it has lots of small tidbits about what’s going on in the world, in culture, etc and I always skim over it first thing. If you feel like venturing to the site (beware the spoilers), you can see what I’m talking about. The first three words on the news thing is “Warning: Spoilers ahead,” but the rest of the line proceeds to deliver the spoiler. Because I was skimming, I hit the ruinous information first and it registered before the warning.

Why couldn’t the spoiler be a link? Why did it have to be there right in front of me? Who thought that was a good idea? Greg and I had a big argument about it…he thinks it necessary so people who don’t watch the Sopranos can be briefed on what’s going on, so they can be in tune with culture, have something to talk to people about. I can see that, but why does it have to be RIGHT IN THE OPEN?

On a completely unrelated note…well not really, because it involves Greg and I discussing something…

Is it morally wrong to time travel into the future to kill yourself? I say it is because that’s essentially suicide. Greg says it’s not because future you doesn’t even exist yet, plus it’s you that you’re killing. I asked if it was wrong to go into the future and kill other people and he said that, yes, that was indeed wrong. That’s basically future homicide…doesn’t it make sense that if homicide is wrong and homicide in the future is wrong, and suicide is wrong, then future suicide is wrong? If killing yourself in the future is ok because when you go back in time future you won’t exist anyway, then wouldn’t it be ok to kill people in the future because they would cease to exist similarly when you go back in time. I guess Greg has a burning desire to justify the murder of his aged, future self. Some sort of strange Dr. Kevorkianism working in his mind? Hard to know. I say they’re both wrong, but what do I know. Temporal ethics make my head hurt. I just want to go back in time and prevent this whole conversation from ever happening.

Amazon.com has a promotional section of their site called the “Gold Box” filled with weird stuff you wouldn’t normally buy but would consider because of the insane savings.

Oddly enough, I mostly get jig saws and My Little Pony dress up sets. And then sometimes I get great stuff like this:

I have no idea what this is.

I suppose, based on the title, anyone could assume what this is all about. Ah, you think, “Steve went to the mall today in search of yuletide gifts and ran into the usual gamut of disappointment, frustration, and drunken Santas.” Well, that’s about the size of it (excepting the Santa part, unfortunately). Ever since the time passed where scantily clad girls at the mall were in my age bracket, I’ve hated the mall. Hated it with a passion rather. I prefer to do any shopping I have online, sans atrocious markups and life-draining lines at the cash register. When did Christmas become so ridiculous?

I wish I could reminisce of a time when guys that looked like Bing Crosby innocently carried delicately wrapped, festive parcels up the thoroughfares of main street USA, but I can’t. Christmas, for as long as I’ve been alive, has been about clawing your way to the front of the line at JCPenny in order to max out the plastic buying meaningless swag for friends and family. Why? Because it’s that time of year. So? Well, the wise men brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh to baby Jesus. Oh did they? Sure did. Relevance? We’re supposed to break the bank so Timmy can have XBox. Alrighty, I’ll just go along with that then. Jeez…

I like the sentiment behind gifts. You are a valuable person to me; I appreciate having you in my life. Please take this gift. I like that…that’s nice. That also can be done any time of the year, completely divorced from a season where the pressure to lavish nice things upon everyone is smothering. Not only nice things, nice things that are approximately equal in value to what the other person is getting you. You know what else is mildly sick? It’s sick that I find out people are getting me something, so I have to run out and buy something of approximately equal value and give it to them. It’s not that I don’t like giving gifts to people…in fact I love it. I just hate giving gifts out of that motivation. I end up ordering up a bunch of gifts that don’t really mean much just so I don’t feel guilty about getting something without giving something back. When did it get like this?

Steve’s new policy: next year, no one gives me gifts on Christmas. I don’t care about Christmas gifts; I haven’t since I quit playing with GI Joes. I don’t need anything for Christmas (or my birthday, the day before), so I don’t want anything. If, at some point in June, someone sees something I might like, or thinks of me and wants to get me something, that would be cool. Just don’t do it because of the importance our society places on giving gifts this time of year.

On a lighter note, isn’t it kinda cool to see angst ridden teenage mall employees aggressively take out their anger at the expense of their minimum wage job? Waiting in line tonight at Subway in Metrocenter mall, I encountered a couple of these disgruntled employees. There was a big line of people wanting sub-par Subway sandwiches and these two guys slingin’ condiments behind the sneeze guard were shouting out this anti-Subway propaganda:

“Hey, why don’t you guys go to McDonalds? You’ll get your food faster and I bet it’ll taste better.”

“Subway! It’s not made fresh! It’s old! You don’t want this!”

“This line is really long…you don’t want to be here!”

Oh man, I chuckled pretty hard. Stickin’ it to the establishment in a funny way. More power to ya, dudes…

I just noticed something today as Greg and I were in the kitchen, he microwaving enormous portions of egg beaters and I shoveling heaping spoonfuls of Lucky Charms into my mouth…a good 90% of the things he and I say to each other when no one is around amounts to complete and utter nonsense.

Here’s some sample dialogue:

Steve: What the heck?!

Greg: What?

Steve: Where do they come up with these shooting star marshmallow shapes? That has no place in Lucky Charms. Hearts, stars, horseshoes, clovers and blue moons, pots of gold, and rainbows and the red balloons. Now the song doesn’t work. Where does shooting stars fit in there?

Greg: Try that song again, Steve.

Steve: Hearts, stars…oh, I see. Stars. Nevermind.

Greg: Ooooh…my eggs are bubbling. Look at it.

That’s like the most brilliant dialogue we’ve exchanged the entire day. The rest borders on incoherence. Things like “Ahh…ponies are pretty” or “Cripes! Where are my pants? Who moved my pants?” are the norm. Sometimes the exchanges don’t even take the form of words. I stumble out of the bedroom in the morning, hold up my hand, and grunt out a spirited “uuuunnnggh,” to which Greg replies “eh”. We then sit at our computers in complete silence.

I wish our meaningless banter had some sort of facade of intelligence. Sorta like most discussion in undergraduate literature classes:

“Well, I think that the sexuality expressed in Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” is a sexuality of the soul.”

“It seems that the dichotomy present in Donne is that some of his work is steeped in licentious metaphysical conceits while some is pious and reflective.”

What do these things mean to you and I? Jack squat. But boy, do they make you sound intelligent. Sure, it looks good, but underneath they’re only elementary observations or unfounded claims. It’s still better than, “Unnngh.” Well, maybe…

Well, in the words of Nick and the spirit of nonsense, I close this post:

Slibbidy Jibbity

Things are getting a little hairy around the apartment these days. Of course I’m referring to more than me with my shirt off. HA! Oh man, I should be shot for that one. Anyway…

Lately, there’s been a non-stop parade of strange odors. There always were quite a few strange smells around the place (hence our purchase of scented candles for our onecommunity), but lately it’s just been getting ridiculous. In the pantry, about two weeks ago, there was this overwhelming smell of burning. Seriously, it was like hobos were lighting campfires underneath the cereal, next to the potatoes. I half expected someone to offer me a roasted can of Bush’s baked beans when I went in for some coffee.

The unappealing scent of burning was gradually overcome by a smell that can only be characterized as rancid bacon. Maybe not quite rancid, but bordering on that. It’s kind of like the olfactory equivalent of listening to the punk band, Rancid. It’s not completely unbearable; it just catches you off guard and makes you ask the question, “Who would do something like this?”

All of these petty smells were completely blown out of the water by what awaited us when we got back from Thanksgiving vacation. It was an overwhelming smell that seemed localized around the sink. No joke, it smelled like someone broke into our apartment and slipped some poo into our sink. It took a couple days, but tonight, Greg and I discovered the cause of the smell. It’s sort of like in Greek mythology: there was this monster, Echidna, who was the mother of all the famous Greek monsters like the hydra and whatnot. Well what we found sitting next to the sink was sort of like the Echidna of smell in our apartment: a cup with chunks of eggbeaters that had been sitting for a ridiculously long time and that had birthed a pantheon of evil smell minions.

How could this happen, you ask? Well, I cook eggbeaters in cups. I try to economize on dishes by using the same cup over and over (washing in between, of course). Well, somehow this cup got set aside and I just forgot about it among the mass of dishes in our apartment. Since we didn’t have onecommunities last week, the kitchen didn’t get cleaned and it sat there, and sat there, and sat there.

Greg found it tonight, and much like a committee on nuclear waste disposal, we debated on how best to get rid of it. After a few seconds, it was decided that we would dump it in TJ’s toilet. He wasn’t home and it seemed like the best thing to do. Upon pouring the wretched sludge in the john, a Pandora’s box of death wafted out of the cup. I had my nose plugged, but Greg lurched out of the room, gagging. I thought he was going to projectile vomit onto TJ’s mirror. I flushed the toilet…three times, but the smell lingered. I started to panic because it smelled like turd in there and TJ would be home any minute. Taking a dump in TJ’s bathroom is the direst offense that can be committed in our apartment; I didn’t want to be accused of that. I turned on the fan, flushed again, and hoped for the best.

It all turned out ok, but I can’t get over the sneaking suspicion that some of those bits of egg were alive and perhaps even becoming sentient. Could I have destroyed an egg-based civilization? I’ll never know and it will haunt me to my grave.

Sorry for the extra long hiatus…holiday plans, traveling to the other side of town, playing lots of Grand Theft Auto 3, and lots of general hanging out didn’t leave me with a lot of time to write anything. Anyway, I’m back, for better or worse…

Here are a couple nuggets from the weekend:

I went to see Solaris, the new Steven Soderbergh movie. I have to admit, I had pretty high expectations. Soderbergh always amazes me; I suppose I just have a lot of respect for him because he never does the same thing twice. It seems that he’s always trying to reinvent himself. He has success with a movie like Sex, Lies, and Videotape, a spare, low budget movie that focuses on relationships, but he can have the same success with a large cast, large budget movie like Traffic, while still being poignant. He can reach the mass market without compromise in Erin Brockovich, with style in Ocean’s 11, and make an all-around cool genre crime movie with The Limey. Anyway, I was excited about Solaris because now Soderbergh is foraying into the realm of space and science fiction (an area I’ve always been partial to).

I’ll say right now that I wasn’t disappointed; I was just pleased in a way that I didn’t expect. I thought the film would be a more traditional sci-fi movie where the setting mattered and where sci-fi was the point. In Solaris, it doesn’t so much matter that it’s set in space and none of the trappings of sci-fi that are present in the movie are there gratuitously. The setting, the science fiction isn’t the point; it’s a tool that makes examination of humanity and psychology possible. It doesn’t matter what happens to the characters in the end like it would in, say, Star Trek. The film is deliberately ambiguous because, like a good work of literature, it allows us to examine ourselves through our interpretation made possible by the setup of the film. I guess that sounds sorta complicated, but long story short, if you go see the movie, don’t expect something traditional. It’s not a movie where the point is escape, rather the point is introspection and better understanding of humanity. Anyway, I don’t think anyone else who I talked to about the movie (besides Nick) liked it. Maybe it had to do with the expectations, maybe it had to do with the pacing (it’s kinda slow), maybe the girlies wanted more of George Clooney’s butt, whatever. Who knows?

Last night I went with a bunch of chums to see a free holiday light parade in Prescott. That’s not so important because it was ridiculously short and I was mighty cold. The cool part was when we went to eat at a fine establishment called Zooma’s. I feel absurd saying the name…like I’m imitating a racecar or something. Anyway, thanks to Zooma’s, we have Steve’s shaming story of the week. Behold:

I’ll cut right to the point: we had a ridiculously attractive waitress. Normally I can handle those sorts of things, since I’ve already successfully navigated the waters of puberty. Unlike the frothing 16-year-old I used to be, it seems that, generally speaking, I can manage to be around an attractive woman without making a clown out of myself. Well most of the time. Not last night.

First of all, I couldn’t focus…not even a little bit. I’d be having a conversation with someone and I’d just completely zone out. If I had a dime for every time someone said, “Steve, are you listening?” I’d be a very wealthy man. Anyway, Cori had to go with someone out to the car to get something, so she put me in charge of ordering her dinner. No problem, I told her. Such a menial task was well within my abilities.

Cori left and soon thereafter the waitress came to take our orders. She looked me in the eyes, ready for me to tell her what I wanted, and I completely blanked.

“Uh, uh…I forgot what I want.”

I frantically scrambled for my menu and managed to locate my choice. Ah, disaster partially averted. I can still salvage this. I tried to compensate for my idiocy by talking louder and trying to generally be a more amusing guy. It didn’t get me very far because I think the poor girl just wanted to take my order. I then ordered for Cori and came to a major impasse…there were more choices that I didn’t have instructions for. Soup or salad? I opted for one of each because I figured if she didn’t want one, I would eat it and she could have the other. “Alright, what kind of soup?” Aw crap. I went for the enchilada soup. “What kind of dressing for the salad?” Oh man…I have no idea. Rather than cleverly tell her that I’d tell her what kind of dressing later so she could bring it on the side, I just started saying, “uh….uh….uh….” Finally she came up with the idea of ordering later and the whole incident was over. I pretty much kept my mouth shut around the waitress for the rest of the night.

Oh yeah. I ordered the wrong pasta for Cori. I’m a driveling idiot.

Tomorrow night a bunch of people are coming over, some are from our onecommunity, some aren’t…it doesn’t matter. It’s going to be great because, in addition to bonding, meeting new people, etc, there will be a trip to Haji Baba’s, home of fine Middle Eastern cuisine. Sign me up…

I have to say, I’m slightly concerned. Each meal at Haji’s consists of a large portion of food. Even back in my wild days, before I lost lots of weight and could put the food away, a plate of Haji Baba’s chicken showerma pushed me to the limit. I think there’s some depleted uranium mixed into the chicken marinade because that stuff slams into my gut like a wrecking ball. I swear, I have to constantly tense my stomach muscles after the meal just to keep everything in order south of my neck. There are the few, inevitable burps where the meal is relived in vivid flashbacks. It’s not quite like vomiting because it’s not unpleasant and nothing comes up, but you can taste the meal again. It’s an uncanny after-effect. I shouldn’t say it’s not unpleasant…I’m sure it’s plenty unpleasant for those who have to smell the breath. Regurgitated chicken vapors anyone?

Anyway, back to the concern. There are a lot of people going tomorrow and undoubtedly one of them will have a strange reaction to the food. I hate cleaning and the thought of getting little flecks of heaved Middle Eastern fare out of the carpet doesn’t exactly scream, “Yeah buddy! I’m havin’ a ‘grandma at bingo’ good time!” I implore you all…if, a few hours later, you feel like you’re tasting a little more of your meal than should be natural, do me a favor and hang close to the sink or the john. There’s good reading material in there…take all the time you need.

I shall now turn the lens of concern from the group and the apartment to myself. Today for lunch I had Taco Bell (thanks for buying Brad!) and for dinner I had a Filiberto’s burrito. I’m a little worried that, upon consuming Haji Baba’s tomorrow, there might be something comparable to a culinary race riot in my stomach. Beans versus rice…each promotes a different effect on digestive results, and as much as I’d like to avoid unpleasant mental images, I think it’s a very real concern that needs to be addressed. Are there any digestive experts in the audience who might know something I don’t?

Alright, before this goes any further downhill, I’m going to go to sleep and have horrible nightmares about tomorrow’s fireworks. I’m still excited for the social aspect though. Bring the fun! Carpe diem!

Yesterday’s post was negative toward some of Greg’s music (a song that he deleted, actually), so now, as the title says, it’s time to give something back.

In my independent film class last night, we watched “Dancer in the Dark.” It’s that movie from a couple years back that starred Bjork…she plays a poor immigrant woman who’s going blind and who needs to save up money to get an operation for her son so that the same thing doesn’t happen to him. Anyway, all I knew going in was that this movie starred Bjork, a woman whose music I have not been able to stand in the past. In fact, in yesterday’s post, I dissed Bjork as a sidenote to the whole Kenny G debate. I must say that, concerning the movie, I was completely wrong.

The movie was stirring and powerful, despite its seemingly outdated and melodramatic plot. There is effective use of musical interludes; this fits in with the recurring reference to classic musicals. Bjork’s character, when she comes to America, thinks she will find an idealized world full of joy and devoid of concerns, the world of American musicals. To fill the gap between her ideal and America’s reality, she has elaborate fantasies involving spontaneously choreographed dance numbers and songs. Of course, Bjork sings, and at first it was nearly unbearable.

I figured I was getting paid back for all the dissings I gave Bjork. Then, gradually the music began to grow on me. Bjork has a very unusual style of singing, but it’s very emotive and very raw. By the time the film was over, I felt like I had been reconciled a bit to Bjork music. I thought this was rather funny because, before the movie started, TJ said, “wouldn’t it be cool if you liked Bjork music after seeing this and then we could play Bjork in the apartment?” I just laughed at him. If he only knew how true is prediction would be.

Anyway, I’d have to say that I like Bjork now. Thanks Greg and Teej for hangin’ in there with the Bjork and seeing something that I didn’t see in her. I still don’t like Kenny G though, but I think that’s ok because no one else really seems to either. Oh Bjork…gotta love any singer whose name rhymes with pork. Gotta love that swan dress too.

It’s bad when you wake up Monday morning, and you don’t recall what happened the past few days. Now I remember: jack crap.

I don’t even know if jack crap is a phrase socially accepted yet, but it seems more than appropriate now. Regardless, I have the Kenny G cd on, my second cup of coffee in hand, and a VHS recording of Dr. Phil. In a few minutes, I’m going to find the “real Greg”…

I hope this episode of Dr. Phil is entitled, “What the frick do I do when my car battery dies?” That would have been helpful yesterday as I sat in my truck turning the key hoping to get a little more than the dimming lights and whirring car alarm. I don’t know what it is about a battery dying. You know the battery is dead, but you still insist on turning that key once more in case it somehow got more power.

I tried various methods to get more power: shutting off the stereo, dimming the dome lights, and touching the posts on the battery while rubbing a balloon. None worked, but I got a jump about two and a half hours later from the helpful Steve. I had to read the instructions on the jumper cables. I was ashamed. I’ve changed my oil (manually and by driving to Firestone), pulled a radiator, filled the washer fluid, looked at an engine while saying “Mmm, look at that,” but this ‘jumping a car’ thing was new to me. For all I knew yesterday, if the instructions included a step three like “lick battery posts to test charge,” I would have gladly done so. Nothing makes you feel more like a man than reading instructions on a simple car task.

Alright, this is a first for me, I believe. I’ve never hastily written a blog entry in protest of what must be seen as a violation of my civil rights. I’m being repressed as we speak, for Greg is listening to smooth jazz.

Now don’t get me wrong; I have just an eclectic taste in music as anyone else. For crying out loud, my latest cd compilation consisted of a fine mix of folk music, classic rock, old-school alternative, and gangsta rap. I have to say, I draw the line at smooth jazz. Real jazz (i.e. Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie, etc, etc, etc) is great, but smooth jazz just seems like a violation of that finer form. Perhaps I’m misguided here, but I’ve always thought that smooth jazz is to real jazz what powdered milk is to whole milk. It’s like a sick shadow of the real thing. It’s kinda like if someone with a tremendous amount of drawing skill drew a portrait of a nude Roseanne hugging a nude Rosie O’Donnell on a Slip ‘n’ Slide. I can appreciate the skills required, but no person should ever have to look at the result.

Anyway, it’s over now, but just a few minutes ago Greg was listening to a Kenny G instrumental cover of Eric Clapton’s excellent “Tears in Heaven.” Kenny G is a clown. Sure, he’s mightily talented, but where does that get ya? If some guy came to town with a finely tuned armpit orchestra, I wouldn’t go see him, despite his skill. Ok, I take that back. I’d be MORE likely to go see an armpit orchestra than I would be to go see Kenny G. I swear, after hearing Kenny appropriate a great song like “Tears in Heaven,” I just want to get in the shower (that has nothing to do with the fact that I haven’t showered yet).

Greg, I’m begging you…on behalf of the rest of the apartment, on behalf of good taste, on behalf of ERIC CLAPTON HIMSELF…please stop playing smooth jazz. I’d rather listen to Bjork.

Side note: You know what the worst part is? When I said, “Oh man Greg, smooth jazz again?” he said, “This isn’t smooth jazz, it’s Kenny G.” Don’t you see what you’ve become? Is anyone else interested in holding an intervention?