Once it became widely known to friends and coworkers that I was into cycling (usually when I showed up in full spandex to an event, also the turning point where many friends and coworkers became ex-friends, former coworkers, and the plaintiff named in the sexual harassment suit) I often found myself invited to participate in sporting events.
Ah, but not the bike races you may assume. No, nothing that simple, rather it's usually a triathlon. Why do people assume, just because I can ride a bicycle, that I can also run and swim? I guess they see me walking (sometimes in spandex, for which I apologize) from which they extrapolate that I can also speed it up into a run. Fair enough. But swimming? The most interaction I have with water, outside the bathroom, is riding my bike in the rain. And usually when I try that I crash. I view swimming as a way to keep from drowning, for which it is great. But a way to get from point A to point B? No fucking way. I'll take the ferry, thank you very much.
So the activities themselves are annoying enough, but then there are the distances. Let's take the most common "beginner" triathlon, the sprint distance. You start off with a .5 mile swim. So right off the bat I drown, nice start. After resuscitation there's a 12.4 mile bike ride. Really? That's literally how far I rode last January when it was 10 degrees and snowing. It's a joke distance, barely worth putting on a helmet for. So, after getting warmed up on the bike you get to jump off and run 5k, which is not dauntingly long but just kind of, well, boring, like all running really.
But I hear you out there, with your shaved bodies and poor bike handling skills, you "true" triathletes mocking me to take a real challenge and do a longer triathlon, maybe even an iron man. Yeah, 2.4 miles in the water, 112 miles on the bike, and a 26.2 mile run. Do I even need to delineate why this is idiotic? You know what, I really don't think I do. Let's just move on.
Here's my biggest problem. It isn't that triathlons exist or that people participate in them. Hell, most people I meet think I'm insane for enjoying cycling like I do, far be it for me to judge any else's sporting choices. Hey, if you want to combine football, chess, and hopscotch into some unholy amalgam please, be my guest, but don't invite me to join in just because of my love of hopscotch (it should totally be an olympic sport). I mean, if I tell you I like apples do you send me a bag of potatoes? If I tell you I play hockey do you invite me to join your handball league? So quit inviting me to do your triathlons. Well, unless you want to do a relay team and all I have to do is ride the bike leg. I wouldn't mind passing some triathletes with their goofy helmets and $4,000 wheels.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Haircuttery
All my life, someone cut my hair for me. First my mother, who was a big fan of the "Prince Valiant." For those of you fortunate enough never to have had one of these inflicted on you, here's the 'style.'
Thanks Mom!
Once I moved on to having professional haircuts, I went to a friend of my mothers who would periodically have fun at my head's expense. Like when she thought I'd look good with Agassi's haircut. His pre-bald haircut. Yeah, this one:
To be completely honest, I was 100% behind the idea. I mean, who wouldn't be? And besides, all that was separating me from Andre was the hairstyle. Oh, and the fitness, skill, and good looks. But mainly the hair.
As I reached high school, I went with the ponytailed look, reducing my haircuts to annual trims, still professionally administered, just to keep from looking too much like Cousin It. Fine, I looked exactly like Cousin It, though less skillful, fit, and good looking.
Eventually I got a job and cut my hippy hair off and, you know, stopped looking like as much of an idiot, despite what every picture of me on this blog may indicate. But now I am faced with a new hair related problem. That's right, Kiki, and it's a doozy:
Yeah, from birth her hair just stuck straight out. All the time. No matter what we did. Hats, hair clips, bows, water, gel, glue. Nothing could contain the madness. Finally, after six months, her hair finally succumbed to the siren song of gravity. But then we were faced with a new challenge. Now that her hair was no longer vertical it was just in her eyes. So, much like my mother before us, we were forced to cut our child's hair. But, being progressive, forward thinking, and hip parents, we wanted to give her something different. Something unique. Something sleek and modern:
Alright, to be fair, it's quite a bit like the Prince Valiant. Actually, it's a lot more like, well...
 |
| Hot! |
Once I moved on to having professional haircuts, I went to a friend of my mothers who would periodically have fun at my head's expense. Like when she thought I'd look good with Agassi's haircut. His pre-bald haircut. Yeah, this one:
 |
| To be fair, this may be a wig |
To be completely honest, I was 100% behind the idea. I mean, who wouldn't be? And besides, all that was separating me from Andre was the hairstyle. Oh, and the fitness, skill, and good looks. But mainly the hair.
As I reached high school, I went with the ponytailed look, reducing my haircuts to annual trims, still professionally administered, just to keep from looking too much like Cousin It. Fine, I looked exactly like Cousin It, though less skillful, fit, and good looking.
Eventually I got a job and cut my hippy hair off and, you know, stopped looking like as much of an idiot, despite what every picture of me on this blog may indicate. But now I am faced with a new hair related problem. That's right, Kiki, and it's a doozy:
 |
| What? |
Alright, to be fair, it's quite a bit like the Prince Valiant. Actually, it's a lot more like, well...
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Wanted: One Babysitter
So, we lost our babysitter. No, we didn't misplace her at the mall or leave her at the park, but we do find ourselves without a viable childcare alternative to, well, us. I know, horrors!
So we consulted that infinite database of all parenting knowledge. Yep, we googled "babysitters" and came back with some creepy site. Undaunted, we tried searching for "real babysitters" and did no better. Same for "experienced babysitters", "strict babysitters" and "coed slutty babysitters". Fine, so the last search was for my own benefit. Anyway, finally we searched for "babysitters, really, babysitters, you know, to watch a baby, our baby, not some weird and creepy babysitter pornography appealing to stunted and deranged perverts. Seriously." and found some honest to goodness babysitters in our town. Not to say some weren't every bit as disturbing as the pornography. Let's meet the candidates, shall we?
Our first applicant is Jazmyn. Now, let's not be hasty in judgement here. Sure, her name and chosen spelling might, possibly, somewhat hint that perhaps, maybe, she could have at some time danced with, you know, no clothes on. But hey, we're enlightened and open minded parents, if she is comfortable with her body and secure in her choices who are we to hold it against her? No, what sunk Jazmyn was her assertion that she doesn't believe in letting children watch "telivision". Really? I mean, I guess that's fair, when I think about it I find that I also don't believe in children watching telivision, or even tilevision, tellevision or tellyvisheon for that matter. I'll even go so far to make the blanket statement that I am against children watching anything that doesn't exist.
Well, Jazmyn's out (sorry Jazzy, we barely knew ye), but let's see who's next!
Ah, Robin, a bit older, a bit more experienced, a bit, well, judging from her photo, blurry and pixelated. But that's alright, the technologically challenged can be great caregivers, just look at Mary Poppins. Sure, she could fly using an umbrella but did you ever see her using an ipod or GPS? I rest my case. Anyway, so Robin has been nannying and babysitting for many years and prior to that, let's see, oh, she went to a prestigious art college, that's nice. And let's see, oh, she majored in... seriously...really... photography? Sorry Robin, if you're that bad at your chosen area of study I hesitate to hire you in something outside your "area of expertise."
And now we come to Sarah. A sweet girl, fairly experienced but still young enough to keep up with a toddler into the wee hours as needed. A student at the local university, she is studying abnormal psychology, which will come in handy when dealing with, well, me. However, what really caught our attention is that, in addition to babysitting services, she also works as a dogsitter. Now, many of you will judge us negatively for our priorities, but bear in mind we have a cute, well behaved, and relatively easy daughter. We also have three ill behaved, bad tempered, and strange dogs. Yeah, if she can handle them then Kiki will be a breeze.
So we're trying out Sarah this weekend. If all goes well we will have solved our childcare conundrum through the proper application of google. If, conversely, things don't go well... let's just say if you see a cute part-Japanese toddler for sale on Craig's List could you just go ahead and buy her for us? I'll thank and reimburse you later.
So we consulted that infinite database of all parenting knowledge. Yep, we googled "babysitters" and came back with some creepy site. Undaunted, we tried searching for "real babysitters" and did no better. Same for "experienced babysitters", "strict babysitters" and "coed slutty babysitters". Fine, so the last search was for my own benefit. Anyway, finally we searched for "babysitters, really, babysitters, you know, to watch a baby, our baby, not some weird and creepy babysitter pornography appealing to stunted and deranged perverts. Seriously." and found some honest to goodness babysitters in our town. Not to say some weren't every bit as disturbing as the pornography. Let's meet the candidates, shall we?
Our first applicant is Jazmyn. Now, let's not be hasty in judgement here. Sure, her name and chosen spelling might, possibly, somewhat hint that perhaps, maybe, she could have at some time danced with, you know, no clothes on. But hey, we're enlightened and open minded parents, if she is comfortable with her body and secure in her choices who are we to hold it against her? No, what sunk Jazmyn was her assertion that she doesn't believe in letting children watch "telivision". Really? I mean, I guess that's fair, when I think about it I find that I also don't believe in children watching telivision, or even tilevision, tellevision or tellyvisheon for that matter. I'll even go so far to make the blanket statement that I am against children watching anything that doesn't exist.
Well, Jazmyn's out (sorry Jazzy, we barely knew ye), but let's see who's next!
Ah, Robin, a bit older, a bit more experienced, a bit, well, judging from her photo, blurry and pixelated. But that's alright, the technologically challenged can be great caregivers, just look at Mary Poppins. Sure, she could fly using an umbrella but did you ever see her using an ipod or GPS? I rest my case. Anyway, so Robin has been nannying and babysitting for many years and prior to that, let's see, oh, she went to a prestigious art college, that's nice. And let's see, oh, she majored in... seriously...really... photography? Sorry Robin, if you're that bad at your chosen area of study I hesitate to hire you in something outside your "area of expertise."
And now we come to Sarah. A sweet girl, fairly experienced but still young enough to keep up with a toddler into the wee hours as needed. A student at the local university, she is studying abnormal psychology, which will come in handy when dealing with, well, me. However, what really caught our attention is that, in addition to babysitting services, she also works as a dogsitter. Now, many of you will judge us negatively for our priorities, but bear in mind we have a cute, well behaved, and relatively easy daughter. We also have three ill behaved, bad tempered, and strange dogs. Yeah, if she can handle them then Kiki will be a breeze.
So we're trying out Sarah this weekend. If all goes well we will have solved our childcare conundrum through the proper application of google. If, conversely, things don't go well... let's just say if you see a cute part-Japanese toddler for sale on Craig's List could you just go ahead and buy her for us? I'll thank and reimburse you later.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Snotsy
When I am riding my bike and the temperature drops below 60 degrees, an interesting thing happens. Well, interesting to me, hazardous and disgusting to those behind me. See, my mucous production goes into overdrive. In other words, I become a snot factory. Oh, and phlegm, don't forget the phlegm, oh so much phlegm.
In an effort to uncover the cause of this, well, 'skill', I did some digging into the family history and I think I may have figured it out. Oddly enough, it turns out my great-great Aunt Susie-Lou was a hagfish.
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| Auntie. Unfortunately, I got her nose. |
Also known as a slime eel, the hagfish can produce 5 gallons of slime in minutes. Yep, sounds about right. Now, the hagfish's slime is thought to be a defense mechanism or protective film, either of which don't seem to explain my problem... unless it is protecting me from anyone chasing me, or protecting my entire face, and leg, and arm, and bike, and the guy behind me from wind and possibly sunburn.
It occurred to me that maybe this was my body's way of expelling heat and waste, much like a dog pants rather than sweats. However, the problem with this hypothesis is that I also sweat like a, well, here's my great Uncle Herbert:
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| Be quiet, he's sleeping |
If only I could find a way to turn this into a marketable skill. Know anyone looking for industrial quantities of snot?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Weight Weenies
Ah, cyclists. Among our other issues (shaved legs, saddle sores, spandex), many of us suffer from the delusion that the only possible thing standing between us and Tour de France glory is the extra 3 grams we're carrying around, unnecessarily, on our bicycle. We go to extreme, and often absurd lengths to shave grams. Well, not extreme or absurd, just extremely and absurdly expensive.
You see, most cyclists won't go to extreme or even ordinary efforts to eliminate the extra 3 (or 30,000) grams they're carrying around on their ass. If you go into most any bike shop, but especially one in an expensive suburb, you'll see a steady procession of average looking guys looking to spend almost any amount to save a bit of weight on their bike. Because excess weight makes you slower. And, by my reckoning, every gram of weight slows you down by at least 11.3 mph, so going from an 18.5 pound average bike to a sub-seven pound featherweight will make you 140 mph faster. Yep, it's science (though not necessarily sound mathematical reasoning).
Just to illustrate for any non-believers out there, the friendly people at Speedplay make a wide variety of road pedals, all of which have the same performance (you know, they hold your foot), varying only in physical materials and thus weight. Their baseline pedal weighs 305 grams and costs $115. Their top of the line pedal weighs 218.5 grams and costs $630. That's negative 86.5 grams for $515, or $2,703 a (negative) pound! Just for reference, negative pedal weight costs more than actual weight of marijuana, and is significantly less enjoyable.
So why are we all so dumb? Two words.
Lance Armstrong.
Yep, I pin this one squarely on ol' Lancey. See, before Lance came along, the guys winning professional bike races looked like this:
Yeah, the kind of guy who had no problem eating and even carrying a tray of pastries during a race, because it looks fucking cool. Alright, to be fair, maybe a tray of dessert is not the most badass example, but this definitely is:
Smoking and endurance sports? Nothing cooler.
My point is, cycling used to be cool, until Lance and his team of nerds sucked the fun out of it and made it all about results and winning. I want to go back to the good old days, when it didn't matter if you failed to win because you were carrying some extra weight, as long as you were enjoying yourself. Really, which of these situations would you rather find yourself in?
You see, most cyclists won't go to extreme or even ordinary efforts to eliminate the extra 3 (or 30,000) grams they're carrying around on their ass. If you go into most any bike shop, but especially one in an expensive suburb, you'll see a steady procession of average looking guys looking to spend almost any amount to save a bit of weight on their bike. Because excess weight makes you slower. And, by my reckoning, every gram of weight slows you down by at least 11.3 mph, so going from an 18.5 pound average bike to a sub-seven pound featherweight will make you 140 mph faster. Yep, it's science (though not necessarily sound mathematical reasoning).
Just to illustrate for any non-believers out there, the friendly people at Speedplay make a wide variety of road pedals, all of which have the same performance (you know, they hold your foot), varying only in physical materials and thus weight. Their baseline pedal weighs 305 grams and costs $115. Their top of the line pedal weighs 218.5 grams and costs $630. That's negative 86.5 grams for $515, or $2,703 a (negative) pound! Just for reference, negative pedal weight costs more than actual weight of marijuana, and is significantly less enjoyable.
So why are we all so dumb? Two words.
Lance Armstrong.
Yep, I pin this one squarely on ol' Lancey. See, before Lance came along, the guys winning professional bike races looked like this:
 |
| 'Sup |
Yeah, the kind of guy who had no problem eating and even carrying a tray of pastries during a race, because it looks fucking cool. Alright, to be fair, maybe a tray of dessert is not the most badass example, but this definitely is:
Smoking and endurance sports? Nothing cooler.
My point is, cycling used to be cool, until Lance and his team of nerds sucked the fun out of it and made it all about results and winning. I want to go back to the good old days, when it didn't matter if you failed to win because you were carrying some extra weight, as long as you were enjoying yourself. Really, which of these situations would you rather find yourself in?
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Reach Out and Touch Someone
Have you heard about the latest breakthrough in digital technology? No, not the iPad 2 (now with two cameras but still no flash support!), not the new Android 8G Smartphone with inbuilt Gameboy (a crappy phone AND a ballsy game system), not even the new 4D Television from Samsung (see time pass before your eyes!!!). No, I am referring to the latest news in crowdsourcing and infodynamics, not to mention other made up words like digitography and sensontology; The FleshMap Project. Relying on the old adage that calling something "The ____ Project" makes it seem serious. Conversely, calling something "The _____ Experience" makes it sound stupid and mildly sleazy. "The FleshMap Experience"? Yeah, makes me feel like I need to shower.
Anyway, they had thousands of people indicate where they like to be touched and where they like to touch others. They then digitally represented their answers in a simple graphic. So, in a stunning insight into human sexuality, they discovered, through the most cutting edge technologies and exhaustive research, that men like to be touched on the crotch. Seriously, here's the stunning graphic to back it up:
I mean, I guess it is mildly surprising that the genitals don't glow with the light of a million suns, blinding the viewer and causing the computer screen to erupt into flames. But really, is this the best our technologies can generate?
But, to be fair, there is some interesting data coming out of the "project." Namely, in the graphic showing where women want to touch men.
To be fair, I don't know that the data set was only women, it presumably also included gay men and the other myriad sexual orientations drawn towards the male body (is bisexual still a thing, or did we decide that was dumb?)). Unsurprisingly, the crotch is not as bright as men wish it was, but that's not what interested me. No, it was the right forearm and both shins. Apparently there are women (men/transgendered/small woodland creatures) who want to touch a man's forearm and shins. But then, maybe they're just trying to stay away from the glowing crotch area, it does look like it might burst into flames at any moment.
But, in the end, all this study really tells us is that no matter what fancy new label you put on something, crowdsourcing is just asking a bunch of people their opinions, which are typically short-sighted, selfish, and ignorant. And no matter how you gussy it up with digital representations, at the end of the day most of us just want someone to touch our special places.
Anyway, they had thousands of people indicate where they like to be touched and where they like to touch others. They then digitally represented their answers in a simple graphic. So, in a stunning insight into human sexuality, they discovered, through the most cutting edge technologies and exhaustive research, that men like to be touched on the crotch. Seriously, here's the stunning graphic to back it up:
I mean, I guess it is mildly surprising that the genitals don't glow with the light of a million suns, blinding the viewer and causing the computer screen to erupt into flames. But really, is this the best our technologies can generate?
But, to be fair, there is some interesting data coming out of the "project." Namely, in the graphic showing where women want to touch men.
To be fair, I don't know that the data set was only women, it presumably also included gay men and the other myriad sexual orientations drawn towards the male body (is bisexual still a thing, or did we decide that was dumb?)). Unsurprisingly, the crotch is not as bright as men wish it was, but that's not what interested me. No, it was the right forearm and both shins. Apparently there are women (men/transgendered/small woodland creatures) who want to touch a man's forearm and shins. But then, maybe they're just trying to stay away from the glowing crotch area, it does look like it might burst into flames at any moment.
But, in the end, all this study really tells us is that no matter what fancy new label you put on something, crowdsourcing is just asking a bunch of people their opinions, which are typically short-sighted, selfish, and ignorant. And no matter how you gussy it up with digital representations, at the end of the day most of us just want someone to touch our special places.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Do You Hear My Voice?
So I was reading my weekly science magazine, because I am a tremendous nerd, and I came across a rather shocking bit of information. Apparently, approximately 85% of the population hear a voice when they read. Like, a little voice, in their head, telling them the words. WHAT?
Really?
Well, yes, apparently so, according to the information. And chances are you, dear reader, are hearing these words in your head right now. Weird. What does my voice sound like in your head? If I may make a request, I would prefer James Earl Jones or, at the least, Morgan Freeman. But, let's face it, it's probably Andy Dick. On helium. Damn.
Anyway, I was shocked by this tidbit of information because I am apparently one of the minority of people who hear nothing when reading. I just don't get it. I look at a word, I know what the word is, I don't have a voice telling me what it is. I guess I cut out the middleman? But it raises so many questions in my mind, silent though they may be, such as...
Do people really have a running commentary while they read?
Does punctuation, change what... you hear?!?
Do typographical changes make it sound LOUDER or saucy or emphatic or dumb?
If you read something en français does it sound différents?
¿Qué hay en español?
Do you hear different voices for each character in a book or the same for all?
If it is a female versus male character do they have different voices?
Do ya'll hear accents or jus' the same ol' fer everyone?
Really?
Well, yes, apparently so, according to the information. And chances are you, dear reader, are hearing these words in your head right now. Weird. What does my voice sound like in your head? If I may make a request, I would prefer James Earl Jones or, at the least, Morgan Freeman. But, let's face it, it's probably Andy Dick. On helium. Damn.
Anyway, I was shocked by this tidbit of information because I am apparently one of the minority of people who hear nothing when reading. I just don't get it. I look at a word, I know what the word is, I don't have a voice telling me what it is. I guess I cut out the middleman? But it raises so many questions in my mind, silent though they may be, such as...
Do people really have a running commentary while they read?
Does punctuation, change what... you hear?!?
Do typographical changes make it sound LOUDER or saucy or emphatic or dumb?
If you read something en français does it sound différents?
¿Qué hay en español?
Do you hear different voices for each character in a book or the same for all?
If it is a female versus male character do they have different voices?
Do ya'll hear accents or jus' the same ol' fer everyone?
Do people really have a running commentary while they read?
Weird. You all (well, 85% of you) are weird. Just weird. But I would like to sound like Marvin Gaye, if that's alright. Weirdo.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Earthquake in Japan
Well, I'm sure you've heard an earthquake hit Japan. The scale of the violence and destruction is just incomprehensible. Thankfully for our little family all my wife's relatives and friends are safe and accounted for. Sadly there are many thousands of others that are not so fortunate. I have written a lot about Japan and travelled there extensively and love the people, the culture, and the country and it is always terrible to see nature exert such destructive forces on any people but that much harder to watch when you have some personal connection. Unfortunately I've been relying on the national television media for much of my information, which is akin to asking your eight year old niece to describe the plot of a David Lynch film. They'll get some facts right, others massively wrong, and just generally miss the whole point.
Thankfully due to the wonders of modern technology and the robustness of the Japanese infrastructure we have been able to talk with my wife's family in Osaka, which was quite far away from the destruction, and her brother in Tokyo, who had to stay in at his office overnight but is at his apartment now and doing well. I must say, if ever there was a country and a culture that could deal with this type of destruction it is the Japanese. Even having lived in California, I've never seen a place more prepared, top to bottom, for a calamitous earthquake. From their building techniques and home furnishings to their school drills and infrastructure, Japan is constantly aware of the risks of their geological location and planning for the worst. It's just terrible that finally their preparations were needed (and then some).
I hesitate to even include this in what is typically a light little meaningless blog, but if you feel the need/desire to help by sending money/food/clothes or just buying tickets to Charlie Sheens' live tour (seriously, he's doing a tour and giving the proceeds to Japanese relief? I mean, I guess doing charitable work, even in a totally batshit crazy way, is still good, right?) please do so. At the same time, if you do have the itch to help out but want to help with Haiti, which even a year later still has enormous work to be done, or Chile, or even someplace that has issues that are not geologically caused, or even something close to home, go for it. It's a good thing. Even if Charlie Sheen does it.
Thankfully due to the wonders of modern technology and the robustness of the Japanese infrastructure we have been able to talk with my wife's family in Osaka, which was quite far away from the destruction, and her brother in Tokyo, who had to stay in at his office overnight but is at his apartment now and doing well. I must say, if ever there was a country and a culture that could deal with this type of destruction it is the Japanese. Even having lived in California, I've never seen a place more prepared, top to bottom, for a calamitous earthquake. From their building techniques and home furnishings to their school drills and infrastructure, Japan is constantly aware of the risks of their geological location and planning for the worst. It's just terrible that finally their preparations were needed (and then some).
I hesitate to even include this in what is typically a light little meaningless blog, but if you feel the need/desire to help by sending money/food/clothes or just buying tickets to Charlie Sheens' live tour (seriously, he's doing a tour and giving the proceeds to Japanese relief? I mean, I guess doing charitable work, even in a totally batshit crazy way, is still good, right?) please do so. At the same time, if you do have the itch to help out but want to help with Haiti, which even a year later still has enormous work to be done, or Chile, or even someplace that has issues that are not geologically caused, or even something close to home, go for it. It's a good thing. Even if Charlie Sheen does it.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Japan Tales - Odds 'N' Ends
Going through my photos on the computer I came across a few items I saw in Japan that were just so batshit crazy I had to snap a picture to prove they existed:
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| Teeny tiny beers. You know, for toddlers. |
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| Frightening McDonald's sandwiches. |
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| Bit hard to make out, but the label reads:"Green Cola, for your natural life. Made from selected raw materials, derived from plants such as fruits, with cola's own dynamism and briskness." This is nice, because I have been looking for a more dynamic soda. |
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| That, dear reader, is maple syrup and pancake flavored soda. Served hot, out of a vending machine, on the street. Right next to the used panty machine. |
But nothing was close to being as peculiar, odd, and befuddling as this gem:
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| This is a trash can that seems designed to make you review your life choices and become filled with regret. Thanks a lot trash can, you jerk. |
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Sing a Song of Sixpence
Parenting experts recommend talking to your child, interacting with them, and even singing to them. Now, we try to do right by our child, so we do engage her in conversation, despite her less than stellar contributions to the discussion (gooey-gooey-gooey doesn't often add a lot to the discourse, though we do enjoy it).
We play and dance with her even though she hasn't taken much of a shine to the waltz, her cha-cha is pretty weak and her tango is, well, kind of a mess. But she is pretty awesome at the stomping baby dance, wherein she stamps her right foot repeatedly, both on and off the beat. Yeah, we're waiting for the dance shows to call.
And even ol' tone deaf dad sings to her. Only problem is, I only know two songs. The spiderman theme song and "little boxes" (a.k.a. the "Weeds" theme song). So, every song she gets is a variation thereof. The other problem is, I don't have a very good memory, so every song is slightly to extravagantly different. But, they do have one thing in common, they're all crap. Just abysmally horrific. And I realized, singing to your child is great in a general sense, but in my specific case, I should probably just stick with talking. I mean, how helpful is hearing, to the tune of "The Amazing Spiderman"
Baby girl,
Baby girl,
Does whatever a baby girl does.
Can she swing from a tree?
No she can't, she's just a baby.
Watch out, here comes the doodle bear.
Yeah, I just need to leave the musical teaching to others. You know, non-morons. Oh well, that just leaves more time for the stomping baby dance.
We play and dance with her even though she hasn't taken much of a shine to the waltz, her cha-cha is pretty weak and her tango is, well, kind of a mess. But she is pretty awesome at the stomping baby dance, wherein she stamps her right foot repeatedly, both on and off the beat. Yeah, we're waiting for the dance shows to call.
And even ol' tone deaf dad sings to her. Only problem is, I only know two songs. The spiderman theme song and "little boxes" (a.k.a. the "Weeds" theme song). So, every song she gets is a variation thereof. The other problem is, I don't have a very good memory, so every song is slightly to extravagantly different. But, they do have one thing in common, they're all crap. Just abysmally horrific. And I realized, singing to your child is great in a general sense, but in my specific case, I should probably just stick with talking. I mean, how helpful is hearing, to the tune of "The Amazing Spiderman"
Baby girl,
Baby girl,
Does whatever a baby girl does.
Can she swing from a tree?
No she can't, she's just a baby.
Watch out, here comes the doodle bear.
Yeah, I just need to leave the musical teaching to others. You know, non-morons. Oh well, that just leaves more time for the stomping baby dance.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
On The Road Again...
Well, we took on a bit of a challenge last weekend. We decided to take Kiki on a 4.5 hour car trip. Why, you ask? Because we're masochists? Because we decided we were having it too easy as parents and needed a challenge? Because we're idiots? Well, yes, but it was mainly because we wanted to go skiing... on the warmest February weekend on record. 64 degrees and sunny is perfect ski weather, right? Mmmm, slushy.
Anyway, through our struggles, failures, mishaps, and failures (there were enough to merit inclusion twice) we did learn a few lessons in road tripping with a 1 year old that I am now going to attempt to pass onto you, dear reader.
Tulibo's 6 Step Guide to a Relaxing and Trouble Free Road Trip with a 1 Year Old:
Step 1) Leave the child at home. Seriously, they aren't going to remember the trip anyway. You can always tell them they came, they're not going to know. If you're really concerned just invest in Photoshop and you can drop them into a few vacation pics to prove they were there.
Step 2) So, you've ignored step 1 and brought your child along. Congratulations, and welcome to hell. But hey, this isn't so bad. You're on the road, they're napping in the back, you're making good time. Uh oh. They woke up. Now, you may think you should stop, change their diaper, feed them, and continue on your merry way. Resist this urge. Remember, this is not a human you are dealing with, this is a toddler. Once you free them from that carseat they will not happily return. At least not without an hour of running and playing first. Therefore, if you have any desire of arriving before the end of your vacation, resist the urge to stop at the first stirring. Put some miles in while you have the chance, push on until they're making their unhappiness known from the back seat, because soon enough you'll find yourself spending more time in a fast food restaurant than is healthy. Which brings us to...
Step 3) Don't stop at a fast food restaurant. Yes, on previous 'pre-child' (a.k.a fun) road trips, Burger King was your best friend. Well, no longer. Now you have a little person who wants to walk around, crawl a bit, and generally touch (and taste) everything within 30 inches of the floor. Now, the next time you're in a fast food establishment, take a good look at the dining area floor. You know what, just go ahead and lick it. Oh, don't want to? Then don't let your child either. Now, I can see you out there thinking to yourself "I don't eat fast food, I am an evolved and sophisticated traveller. My body is a temple, that's why I eat at Applebee's/O'Charlie's/Houlihans/Chuckie McFoodieStuff's/Uncle Fattie's House of Burgerdogs/etc."
Well, Mr. Smartypants (or Mrs. or Ms. or Dr. as the case may be) how do you plan on letting your child run around for the 30 to 60 minutes it is going to take for them to burn enough energy to accept once again being strapped into the car? Do you think the waitress is going to allow you to sit and sip on your water for 40 minutes after your check is paid? She's got to get new butts in those seats, her tattoos aren't going to pay for themselves you know.
No, when you are traveling, be on the lookout for yuppie-ish enclaves, places where you can leisurely enjoy a meal and sit for a while afterwards undisturbed, where they have a beverage menu rather than a soda fountain, the kind of place where the floor may have been cleaned since 1973. I'm talking about Panera/Starbucks/Hipsterville Cafe/etc. There you will find you can enjoy a relaxed lunch while the little one toddles around, pleasant staff that are just pleased you won't be taking the table to mooch free wifi and "work on your novel" while making your $3 latte last all day, and nice touches like floors that aren't sticky, bathrooms with changing tables that haven't been ripped from the wall (assuming they were ever installed to begin with), and toilet paper that is not reminiscent of sandpaper (hey, mom and dad need pampering too).
Step 4) Don't rely overmuch on technology. You may have the car decked out with all the latest gizmos and widgets; a rear seat DVD infotainment unit, a white noise generator, and the latest in GPS military spec satellite radar/lidar guidance systems. But one faulty battery, one missed signal, one overeager guidance shortcut and you can find yourself listening to the sweet sound of static radio harmonized by your screaming child as you bounce along a dark, rutted, and icy gravel "shortcut" in the middle of nowhere. Trust me, I've been there:
Do yourself and your child a favor, bring a couple nice, simple, non-electronic toys. Just in case it all goes to hell at least you can cuddle a doll when your car loses a wheel and you have to wait in the freezing rain for a local hillbilly to find and rape you.
Step 5) Upon arrival, do whatever is possible to maintain your child's habits. If they always eat dinner at five, by god, get that food in them by five. If they take two naps a day, plan your schedule around it. If they always sleep in a room of their own and you find yourself in a single room... well, sometimes you need to improvise...
Look, I'm not necessarily proud that we had our daughter sleep in the bathroom, but the point is she did sleep. Better a sleeping baby by the toilet than a crying baby in a palace. Hmm, I think that may be the name of my next childcare guide.
Step 6) Please, just leave your child at home. Seriously. Just look how easy it is to use photoshop to create lasting family memories of your "together" time.
Here's Kiki skiing with us in Utah:
Here's Kiki enjoying the sun in Costa Rica:
And here's Kiki at our wedding, 3 years before she was born.
Anyway, through our struggles, failures, mishaps, and failures (there were enough to merit inclusion twice) we did learn a few lessons in road tripping with a 1 year old that I am now going to attempt to pass onto you, dear reader.
Tulibo's 6 Step Guide to a Relaxing and Trouble Free Road Trip with a 1 Year Old:
Step 1) Leave the child at home. Seriously, they aren't going to remember the trip anyway. You can always tell them they came, they're not going to know. If you're really concerned just invest in Photoshop and you can drop them into a few vacation pics to prove they were there.
Step 2) So, you've ignored step 1 and brought your child along. Congratulations, and welcome to hell. But hey, this isn't so bad. You're on the road, they're napping in the back, you're making good time. Uh oh. They woke up. Now, you may think you should stop, change their diaper, feed them, and continue on your merry way. Resist this urge. Remember, this is not a human you are dealing with, this is a toddler. Once you free them from that carseat they will not happily return. At least not without an hour of running and playing first. Therefore, if you have any desire of arriving before the end of your vacation, resist the urge to stop at the first stirring. Put some miles in while you have the chance, push on until they're making their unhappiness known from the back seat, because soon enough you'll find yourself spending more time in a fast food restaurant than is healthy. Which brings us to...
Step 3) Don't stop at a fast food restaurant. Yes, on previous 'pre-child' (a.k.a fun) road trips, Burger King was your best friend. Well, no longer. Now you have a little person who wants to walk around, crawl a bit, and generally touch (and taste) everything within 30 inches of the floor. Now, the next time you're in a fast food establishment, take a good look at the dining area floor. You know what, just go ahead and lick it. Oh, don't want to? Then don't let your child either. Now, I can see you out there thinking to yourself "I don't eat fast food, I am an evolved and sophisticated traveller. My body is a temple, that's why I eat at Applebee's/O'Charlie's/Houlihans/Chuckie McFoodieStuff's/Uncle Fattie's House of Burgerdogs/etc."
Well, Mr. Smartypants (or Mrs. or Ms. or Dr. as the case may be) how do you plan on letting your child run around for the 30 to 60 minutes it is going to take for them to burn enough energy to accept once again being strapped into the car? Do you think the waitress is going to allow you to sit and sip on your water for 40 minutes after your check is paid? She's got to get new butts in those seats, her tattoos aren't going to pay for themselves you know.
No, when you are traveling, be on the lookout for yuppie-ish enclaves, places where you can leisurely enjoy a meal and sit for a while afterwards undisturbed, where they have a beverage menu rather than a soda fountain, the kind of place where the floor may have been cleaned since 1973. I'm talking about Panera/Starbucks/Hipsterville Cafe/etc. There you will find you can enjoy a relaxed lunch while the little one toddles around, pleasant staff that are just pleased you won't be taking the table to mooch free wifi and "work on your novel" while making your $3 latte last all day, and nice touches like floors that aren't sticky, bathrooms with changing tables that haven't been ripped from the wall (assuming they were ever installed to begin with), and toilet paper that is not reminiscent of sandpaper (hey, mom and dad need pampering too).
Step 4) Don't rely overmuch on technology. You may have the car decked out with all the latest gizmos and widgets; a rear seat DVD infotainment unit, a white noise generator, and the latest in GPS military spec satellite radar/lidar guidance systems. But one faulty battery, one missed signal, one overeager guidance shortcut and you can find yourself listening to the sweet sound of static radio harmonized by your screaming child as you bounce along a dark, rutted, and icy gravel "shortcut" in the middle of nowhere. Trust me, I've been there:
Do yourself and your child a favor, bring a couple nice, simple, non-electronic toys. Just in case it all goes to hell at least you can cuddle a doll when your car loses a wheel and you have to wait in the freezing rain for a local hillbilly to find and rape you.
Step 5) Upon arrival, do whatever is possible to maintain your child's habits. If they always eat dinner at five, by god, get that food in them by five. If they take two naps a day, plan your schedule around it. If they always sleep in a room of their own and you find yourself in a single room... well, sometimes you need to improvise...
Look, I'm not necessarily proud that we had our daughter sleep in the bathroom, but the point is she did sleep. Better a sleeping baby by the toilet than a crying baby in a palace. Hmm, I think that may be the name of my next childcare guide.
Step 6) Please, just leave your child at home. Seriously. Just look how easy it is to use photoshop to create lasting family memories of your "together" time.
Here's Kiki skiing with us in Utah:
Here's Kiki enjoying the sun in Costa Rica:
And here's Kiki at our wedding, 3 years before she was born.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Tasteless
Mayhap you've heard of this new phenomenon, the supertaster. These are people who have ultra sensitive taste, caused by a surplus of fungiform papilla, a.k.a. taste buds. To such individuals, everything tastes, well, more. Salt is saltier, meat is meatier, chees-its are, as difficult as this is to believe, even cheesier. Apparently, this is a 'scientific' explanation for why people are "picky" eaters. To which I say bullshit, eat your fucking vegetables and quit your bitching. Yeah, it is going to be fun when Kiki starts refusing foods, no?
In other flavor news, there's a new taste as well! Nevermind sweet, salty, bitter, or sour. No, now there's umami. It is sometimes described as delectableness, deliciousness, or savoriness, which is not really helpful at all, but supposedly soy sauce and meat are oozing umami out of their pores.
In short, food marketers hadn't had a new taste to sell in several decades, so they mined the internet and found that the Japanese had another taste name, and now they're using it to try to sell food. Think about it, seeing "Soy Sauce, it's liquid salt" doesn't make you want to rush out and buy some, but "Soy Sauce, it has umami" makes you feel sophisticated and intelligent for knowing what the fuck they're saying, so you should probably buy a gallon or two.
But this is just the tip of an approaching taste tsunami. Soon we will be told we must pay attention to the tastes of spicy and juicy, then ooey and gooey, and shortly we will be told to try to taste the flavor crystalization and bubbaliciousness of our dinners. I, for one, can't wait. Partly because I am a total sucker for marketing (New AND Improved? I should probably buy two then), but mainly because I am what is known, apparently, as a non-taster, though if Latin taught me anything, it should be subtaster, but maybe that just sounded like an unfortunate Subway job description.
Though it is a bit depressing to learn that this handicap of mine has a name, and a grammatically incorrect one at that, it does explain a lot. Like why I enjoy coffee the consistency of motor oil, scotch that causes your eyebrows to singe and fall out, and, periodically, chewing on dirty diapers. They're packed with ooey, gooey, and bubbaliciousness. Not to mention flavor crystals out the ass, no pun intended.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Rose By Any Other Name
Much like Eskimos and snow or prepubescent boys and breasts, my wife and I tend to generate lots of names for the things we love. We've had many names for each other and our pets, but then our daughter came along and, well, we went all stupid. Thus, our daughter, Akira Elise, has been alternately called:
Kiki
Keeks
Keekster
Doodle
Monster Mash
Pumpkin Pie
Squishy Face
Tiny Dinosaur
Baby Bear
Sy Snoodles
Peach Face
Squeakers
Squishy Face
Tiny Dinosaur
Baby Bear
Sy Snoodles
Peach Face
Squeakers
Pretty much anything except Akira. Actually, everything but Akira. I think we're mathematically more likely to call her Abraham Zebbediah Jackson than Akira. But you've got to admit, Zebbediah is fun to say.
Yeah, so she's never going to figure out what the heck her name is, but we figure if we give her enough nicknames than any noise she hears will sound like one of her names. That way we can just yell anything and she'll respond, which will be helpful if I ever have a stroke. I'm just trying to plan ahead here.
Yeah, so she's never going to figure out what the heck her name is, but we figure if we give her enough nicknames than any noise she hears will sound like one of her names. That way we can just yell anything and she'll respond, which will be helpful if I ever have a stroke. I'm just trying to plan ahead here.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
First Birthday
Well, it's official, we made it past Kiki's first year! At 8:02 p.m. on January 27, 2010 Kiki came into the world; screaming, gooey, and reminiscent of a chinese sumo wrestler.
And here we are, after what was at times the longest and the shortest year of our lives, with a little girl. We got through our first year as parents and managed to keep her alive and not screw her up too terribly. Well, at least not that we can tell. It has been amazing, crazy, absurd, and the greatest thing ever. Looking back, I can't believe how much she's changed, although at times she does remind me of that tiny diapered baby.
Happy birthday Doodle. Happy birthday.
And here we are, after what was at times the longest and the shortest year of our lives, with a little girl. We got through our first year as parents and managed to keep her alive and not screw her up too terribly. Well, at least not that we can tell. It has been amazing, crazy, absurd, and the greatest thing ever. Looking back, I can't believe how much she's changed, although at times she does remind me of that tiny diapered baby.
Happy birthday Doodle. Happy birthday.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Sell Sell Baby
Well, it had been almost 14 days, so it was time for another trip to our local baby supply depot. This time, being wild and crazy parents, we chose to hit "Buy Buy Baby" instead of our old reliable "Babies R Us" because, what the hell, maybe they have some even dumber products. And we were not disappointed.
First off, what the hell were they thinking with that name? Buy Buy Baby? Am I the only one who imagined a black market baby exchange? Well, needless to say, I was disappointed from the start, since I was really curious what Kiki would trade at. But instead of boards showing the exchange rates for the various ages, ethnicities, and cuteness on offer, I was greeted with stacks of baby crap literally to the ceiling. I mean, it's great that you carry crap, but do you need so much of it? How many of these are you really going to sell?
I mean, just what the fuck is that? Do you need 300 in the stores? Is there going to be a run on... what IS that? Is it just me or does it seem strangely sexual, in a creepy furry gross kind of way? As far as I can tell from their website, it appears someone had a lot of surplus beanie babies, so they just glued a pacifier on them and sold the whole lot to BBB. BBB means "Buy Buy Baby" if you didn't get that. I got fed up with typing something as inane as Buy Buy Baby over and over, so instead I shortened it and then proceeded to type it twice in explanation necessitated by trying to avoid typing it once. Stupid store. Anyway, I guess it does fill a need in the marketplace. You know, if you're child loves pacifiers and you just wish there was a way to make it appear they were making sweet mouth love to a stuffed animal, well, consider your wishes (however sick and perverted) granted.
Delving deeper into the store, I was delighted to find my favorite bathing device, the bucket:
Oh, sorry, POD. It's apparently inspired and designed by "european"? What? That doesn't even make sense. How can the same person design and inspire something? They were self-inspired? And grammatically it is weak at best. European Inspired? How so? Because they use buckets? So therefore, it was equally inspired by janitors, right? But my favorite is the tagline: The Most Natural Way to Bathe Baby. Really? A bucket is more natural than, say, a river? Or a stream? Or a puddle? Or letting a dog lick her clean? Or a powerwasher? Alright, maybe not the last few, but in what way is a bucket any more natural than a bathtub? To be fair, maybe the pod is made of something more natural, like wood or smashed up ants, that makes it more natural.
But lest you think we are cruel and heartless parents, parading our daughter through the store, mocking everything and buying nothing for her, we did get something for lil' Kiki, though not from BBB...
Now, before you get all upset, we only let her drink three and she was not allowed to drive afterwards.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Childproofed!
Well, it finally happened, my darling daughter is walking. Not a ton, just a few steps here and there, but now the real fun begins. See, previously she would sometimes pull herself up and could slowly get around with a modified army crawl type of locomotion. But now, well, she stands up on everything more solid than a stiff breeze, pulls on and chews everything within 36" of the ground, and crawls at approximately mach 2 (my radar gun is only so accurate). And as the old adage goes, what comes up must come down... often times on it's face, usually at speed, and always accompanied by crying and yelling. Sometimes she even breaks out the dreaded "Silent Scream" wherein she freezes for about 5 seconds, her face bright red, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth wide open in a huge yell... but no sound comes out. Well, eventually it does, and that's kind of her "okay, this time it really hurt" signal, but that first silent frozen moment is just horrible... and kind of cute too.
But she's not some one trick pony, she's got lots of skills other than falling down. She has also learned to feed herself, and likes to practice whenever she can with anything at hand... like lint, dirt, and hair. Delicious. She also seems obsessed with crawling fully into the fireplace. I mean, I guess it does look warm, being all, you know, on fire.
Well, faced with a clumsy, pica afflicted, self-immolation obsessed toddler, we turned to that bastion of all parenting knowledge... well, er, parenting goods at least. Here's a hint, it starts with a B and ends with an abies Я Us. On our latest visit we hit the "Safety" aisle hard. Now, we started off with the easy stuff. You know, the gate that only requires 4 hours and a TIG welder to install, so darling Kiki doesn't throw herself down the stairs, even though we all remember how fun that is. We also bought a jumbo bag of outlet covers, so she doesn't electrocute herself (I know, our daughter isn't going to have any fun). Finally, we topped the cart off with a few devices that prevent anyone without an advanced engineering degree from opening a cabinet, though we did not elect for the PRO models, since, though cute and wonderful, Kiki is not yet a professional.
Having bought only three items from the aisles of safety devices on offer we felt like negligent, careless parents. But really, I just couldn't bring myself to spend any more on safety items. I don't think we need to keep Kiki out of the dryer. Frankly, if she really wants to do the laundry I think we'll be okay with it. We also didn't buy a toilet lock, since we'll be overwhelmingly thrilled when our daughter decides to start using the toilet, and this would just seem to discourage her. Besides, the toilet is one thing I really, really don't want to be locked out of. Ever.
But she's not some one trick pony, she's got lots of skills other than falling down. She has also learned to feed herself, and likes to practice whenever she can with anything at hand... like lint, dirt, and hair. Delicious. She also seems obsessed with crawling fully into the fireplace. I mean, I guess it does look warm, being all, you know, on fire.
Well, faced with a clumsy, pica afflicted, self-immolation obsessed toddler, we turned to that bastion of all parenting knowledge... well, er, parenting goods at least. Here's a hint, it starts with a B and ends with an abies Я Us. On our latest visit we hit the "Safety" aisle hard. Now, we started off with the easy stuff. You know, the gate that only requires 4 hours and a TIG welder to install, so darling Kiki doesn't throw herself down the stairs, even though we all remember how fun that is. We also bought a jumbo bag of outlet covers, so she doesn't electrocute herself (I know, our daughter isn't going to have any fun). Finally, we topped the cart off with a few devices that prevent anyone without an advanced engineering degree from opening a cabinet, though we did not elect for the PRO models, since, though cute and wonderful, Kiki is not yet a professional.
Having bought only three items from the aisles of safety devices on offer we felt like negligent, careless parents. But really, I just couldn't bring myself to spend any more on safety items. I don't think we need to keep Kiki out of the dryer. Frankly, if she really wants to do the laundry I think we'll be okay with it. We also didn't buy a toilet lock, since we'll be overwhelmingly thrilled when our daughter decides to start using the toilet, and this would just seem to discourage her. Besides, the toilet is one thing I really, really don't want to be locked out of. Ever.
We also passed on the vast array of corner and edge guards, because, according to the packaging, we are monsters and hate our child. But, in our defense we did get rid of the most obvious issues in the house (glass coffee table, bed of spikes, tiger). Other than that, well, I think we just accept that Kiki is going to run into things, probably at speed, and in doing so she will learn that things can be hard... and sharp... and made of tigers. And eventually everyone needs to learn that, right?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A movie so bad, your eyes will retreat into your brain
The day has finally arrived, Nicolas Cage has done it. He's made the most craptastic movie ever. Going beyond "bad", through "terrible", past "so bad it's good", blowing past "hilariously shitty", and landing solidly in "insultingly, offensively, mind numbingly shitful". Yep, here's the crapfest that did it, it took the cake... the crap cake, as it were. Behold... DRIVE ANGRY
Stunning, simply stunning. From the title (Drive Angry, really? Angry Explosion Movie just wasn't evocative enough? Bloated Flailing Star Vehicle was a bit too honest?) to the, well, goddamn, where to start with this steaming puddle of poo?
Nicolas Cage, looking old, fat, and tired while managing to also appear totally non-threatening and vaguely effeminate (nice dye job) is your star? What, Wilford Brimley wasn't available?
Oh, but he's so sexy, just look how he picks up that young hottie. It must be true, it happened in a movie, right? And who could blame her, with acting chops like that, ol' Nic can get any woman, man, or animal he wants. Admit it, not even Sir Lawrence Olivier could deliver the line "I am going to get her back" in a more wooden, unheartfelt, and ballsy manner.
But wait, it's in 3D!!! Well, it only claims to be shot in 3D, maybe not shown in 3D though. That would be too bad, because then you couldn't see all four of Nic's chins in stunning lifelike depth. It's like you could reach out and touch them. Just for the record, they feel like a balloon filled with pudding. Yeah, I wouldn't recommend touching them.
And before you complain that I cut off a bit of the screen to the right I have two things to say:
1) Really? You want to see more of this? If I was actually nice, I would have just posted a still from the movie instead of the trailer. Or just a picture of a dog being sick.
2) You get what you pay for. Free blog = I can't be bothered to delve into the inner workings of Blogger to fix my youtube issues. Sorry. Take it up with my manager.
The most astounding thing about Drive Angry though, besides the very fact that it was conceived, created, and then released on the general public, is that it manages to make the latest Rock movie look like great cinema.
Stunning, simply stunning. From the title (Drive Angry, really? Angry Explosion Movie just wasn't evocative enough? Bloated Flailing Star Vehicle was a bit too honest?) to the, well, goddamn, where to start with this steaming puddle of poo?
Nicolas Cage, looking old, fat, and tired while managing to also appear totally non-threatening and vaguely effeminate (nice dye job) is your star? What, Wilford Brimley wasn't available?
Oh, but he's so sexy, just look how he picks up that young hottie. It must be true, it happened in a movie, right? And who could blame her, with acting chops like that, ol' Nic can get any woman, man, or animal he wants. Admit it, not even Sir Lawrence Olivier could deliver the line "I am going to get her back" in a more wooden, unheartfelt, and ballsy manner.
But wait, it's in 3D!!! Well, it only claims to be shot in 3D, maybe not shown in 3D though. That would be too bad, because then you couldn't see all four of Nic's chins in stunning lifelike depth. It's like you could reach out and touch them. Just for the record, they feel like a balloon filled with pudding. Yeah, I wouldn't recommend touching them.
And before you complain that I cut off a bit of the screen to the right I have two things to say:
1) Really? You want to see more of this? If I was actually nice, I would have just posted a still from the movie instead of the trailer. Or just a picture of a dog being sick.
2) You get what you pay for. Free blog = I can't be bothered to delve into the inner workings of Blogger to fix my youtube issues. Sorry. Take it up with my manager.
The most astounding thing about Drive Angry though, besides the very fact that it was conceived, created, and then released on the general public, is that it manages to make the latest Rock movie look like great cinema.
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