Wednesday, February 19, 2014

This Idea Is So Awesome, My Brain Just Exploded

     Okay, you guys. Hear me out. So, last night, I'm watching the finals in the Men's Snowboard Cross. It's my first time ever seeing this sport, and I literally couldn't look away. In case you never heard of it, Snowboard Cross is a race between six guys on snowboards, on a track that twists and turns, and has bumps and jumps, and it's like NASCAR but without the air and noise pollution. It's also like NASCAR, in that there is the potential for tremendous crashes, that can send snowboarders careening off the side of the mountain into a whole other part of Russia, where they don't even know the Olympics is going on, and they're just toiling away in their little village, and it's cabbage soup again for dinner, but then some dude dressed like a cosmonaut falls out of the sky, and they don't know if he's an actual cosmonaut or a space alien, so they club him to death with farm implements, just to be safe.

     And THAT got me thinking:




     Think of the potential, you guys. How do you make a badass sport even more badass? Medieval weapons. Plain and simple. There's already the element of danger in snowboard cross; now we're going to add the element of "whoever makes it to the bottom alive, wins." It would be just like if Shaun White starred in Rollerball - but the ORIGINAL Rollerball, not that crappy 2002 remake starring LL Cool J and the guy who played Sayeed in Lost. The commercial potential alone would be enough to smack the UFC in the nuts - with a medieval weapon, no less. Who wants to watch nearly naked men roll on the mat with each other, when you can tune in to see American snowboarder Trevor Jacob catch huge air, AND crack his Latvian opponent in the back of the head with his Adidas Skullcrusher Mace, on his way to glorious (if a little bit bloody) victory? Seriously, is that even a question?

     The 2018 Winter Games will take place in South Korea. I'm already lobbying their committee to give this idea some serious consideration. Also, I speak a little Korean, but not much past "I'll have a chocolate donut with sprinkles," or, "What was that shit? It burned the hair out of my nose." But I'm not going to let that slow me down. This is the kind of inspired idea that comes along once in a generation. Or maybe also comes along after not enough sleep, and way too much liquor. Which may or may not also have been mixed with Xanax. 



Wednesday, February 12, 2014

An Open Letter To Jack Bauer.

This is NOT an actual photo of me. This is a photo of Jack Bauer. I do, on occasion, stand like that, though. Just not with a gun. Usually I'm holding a latte. Or the remote.

     Dear Jack: I hope this correspondence finds you well. Probably not, though, since at the end of season 8 of 24, you were a fugitive from, like, everybody.  I think even the Amish are after you, at this point. And, if the rumors are true (and by "rumors" I mean the ads for the new season of 24 that aired during the Superbowl, which was lame as shit because the Broncos didn't bother to show up and Seattle spanked them like little babies, and I hope you didn't bet on the Broncos, though you were probably too busy running around and chasing bad guys, and I don't even know if they BET on American football over there), then you are still a fugitive, and you're in London. I'm sorry I rambled a bit, back there. The Broncos just really pissed me off.

     But that's not what I'm writing about, Jack. I'm writing to tell you that, this time around, you need a real partner. I don't know what's about to go down in London, but I want to be there when it does. And please don't let my very minimal military experience, or my complete lack of knowledge about field operations for CIA, or the fact that it took me literally years to figure out what CIA stands for, or the fact that you are a fictional character in a highly-stylized and mostly improbable action drama disqualify me. Please, Jack, hear me out before you blow me off (or blow me up; you do that to people). I think, as partners defending the world from evil, we'd be a great team. For example:

     *You are a highly skilled covert actions operative, with years of experience in the field, in everything ranging from espionage, counter-intelligence, tactical communications, weapons training, demolitions, and hand-to-hand combat. Whereas I know how to walk down a street in Mexico in the middle of the day while really, blindingly drunk, remove a passing woman's straw hat, invert it, and throw up in it without messing up my flip-flops.

     *You are a loose cannon who doesn't play by the rules. I once fired a cannon. Not real one, though. It was at an amusement park. I was really disappointed when I found out it was a fake cannon. And, I also don't play by the rules, but mostly because I don't understand them.

  (Like the Chinese board game "Go," which is supposed to be easy to learn, but turns out to be so complicated that all the armies in Asia used to require their generals to play, plus the only time I ever did play it, I thought the board pieces were actually black and white M&Ms, and only after I'd swallowed a dozen of them and my friend was yelling at me in Chinese did I realize my mistake, except I didn't know how to say "I'm sorry" in Chinese, and I also didn't know how to say, "Where the hell is your bathroom, my colon is unhappy." Board games are stupid.)

     *You know how to hot-wire a car. I know about, where we can book not only flights and hotels, but also rent cars, instead of stealing them. Have you ever tried that, Jack? Have you ever tried just renting a car, instead of busting out somebody's window, lowering yourself down below the level of the dash where the camera can't see what you're doing, and all of a sudden the car just starts up? That is bullshit on steroids, Bauer.

     *We are the same age. Well, I mean, I'm not sure how old you're supposed to be. But the guy who plays you is the same age as me. Okay, yes, he's probably in a little better shape than me at the moment. And yes, I know it's not good when your left arm goes numb after climbing one flight of stairs. Clearly, I need to work on my cardio. My point is, Jack, I feel your pain. (I probably don't feel it for as long as you, though, because I keep a flask on my elliptical. Don't judge me.) We are two hard-charging, rules-not-understanding, experienced middle-aged badasses. Except for the part where I'm not really that much of a badass. And the part where you only exist in television.

     But it doesn't matter. I'm ready, Jack. I'm ready to be your partner in bad-assery. I just need a ticket to London, a gun, some whiskey, my anti-depressant meds, and my reading glasses. Oh, and I need to check my blood pressure every day, usually in the evenings. And seriously, have you ever taken a piss in your life? I mean, I can't go 24 minutes without paying the water bill, so we're gonna need some regularly scheduled breaks in our crime-fighting. Do I need immunizations from Black Death before I come over there? Is that even still a thing, or was that back in, like Game of Thrones days?

     You know what? Fuck it. You've been doing fine without me so far, man. I'd only slow you down. Plus, I have to stop typing now. I'm winded.



Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Blog, Motherfu*ker!

Yeah. Okay. You got it.

     I don't blog every day. I have a firm belief that, when you write, you should actually have something to say. By this I mean, you should have a particular subject in mind, on which you have thoughts, deliberations and, yes, opinions. And I don't have that every day. Because some days - most days, in fact - my bandwidth is occupied merely with the sometimes daunting task of existing. Should I get out of bed? Should I shower? Should I eat? Should I shit-can all of that in favor of watching every season of 24, in my pajamas, and only get up from the sofa to go to the bathroom? Should I see just how far I can push my bladder, and try to watch every season of 24 BEFORE I go to the bathroom? Is that even a worthy goal to pursue?

     You see my point?

     I could jump on here every day and literally just write down all the shit that was jangling through my head. The problem with that is, that's not saying anything. The other problem is, if I did that, some of you would require psychotherapy every bit as intense as what I'm getting now. You'd also probably need medication. You'd also probably get a restraining order against me. F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "All good writing is swimming under water, and holding your breath." I can't hold my breath that long. Not yet. And until I can, I'm not going to post here every goddam day, just to put words in the ether; there's enough words out here already, most of them not worth our time. 

     My belief is, if you're coming to this space, you think it's worth your time. Hopefully, you think it's worth your thought. I like making you smile, or giggle, or laugh out loud, or spew yogurt all over your iPad. Sometimes I feel the pressure of needing to put another post up, because I'm afraid if I go too long, you'll get bored and go back to watching videos of kittens being cute, or listening to lectures on animal husbandry, or reading anything by L. Ron Hubbard. (That last one keeps me awake at night.) But you need to know right now that I don't think that's a good enough reason to write. You may not get quantity out of me, you guys - but I hope you'll always get quality.

     If that doesn't work for you, good luck with those animal husbandry lectures. 

     p.s. this entry is dedicated to David Underwood. You, Sir, are a motherfucker. And I mean that in the most respectful, loving way you can possibly imagine.