Gaining Weight without Exercise--Ramblings from the Kaplan Trio

Where Are They Now? An Interview with Gargamel

2009-02-15T21:58:00.018-06:00

Gargamel circa 1985

Gargamel present day

In our ongoing attempt to bring original content to our readers, we've tracked down a very special guest for this week's post. He's a man/wizard that really needs no introduction (but I'll give him one anyway). He's everyone's favorite bad guy from the 80's cartoon "The Smurfs". And now we have him for an exclusive, unplugged one on one interview with Gaining Weight Editor, Brad Kaplan.

Brad Kaplan: Gargamel, How are you, my friend?

Gargamel: I've been unsuccessfully hunting Smurfs for decades, my show was cancelled back when you were Bar Mitzvahed, I'm bald, my clothes are ratty and my cat died. How well do you think I am?

BK: Fair enough, fair enough. So what have you been doing since the show was cancelled?

G: To be honest, it's been a tough run. It's one thing trying to bring down The Smurfs when I was getting a fat paycheck every week. Once the money stopped rolling in it seemed somewhat silly. I went down to Jamaica for about 6 months and opened up a parasailing business. The customers just didn't respond to me. Plus, I'm bald. And pasty. Needless to say it wasn't a great climate for a guy like me. I was spending more on sunscreen per day than I was on weed and prostitutes. When I came back, I had been evicted from my castle--although I've still managed to squat there for the last 20 plus years.

BK: Wow, that's tough. But with all due respect, I know you and if you approached me on the beach in a bathing suit, I'd probably quickly retreat in the other direction. So what did you do when you got back?

G: A little of this and a little of that. My desire to kidnap, torture and eat Smurfs really never waned and hasn't to this day quite honestly. But I found other things to do. I sold insurance for awhile. I found I had quite a knack for telemarketing. And threatening to put spells on prospective customers was a decent technique. Sometimes fear is an effective tool in sales. I still have my license if you want me to work up some numbers for you. At your weight, life insurance or disability might make some sense. Why don't......

BK: I think we're getting off topic, Gargs. And I'm pretty well covered. Why don't you tell me about the final days of the TV show?

G: You know, I felt it deserved another year. To the average viewer I know I came off as a bumbling idiot. But I was close to catching a Smurf, maybe all of the Smurfs. They are smaller and more deceptive than they appeared on TV. Damn it all. Just one more season. I would have had my breakthrough. I butted heads with the producers about this. They even considered bringing in what they felt would have been a more competent villain, but the focus group results really supported me. I even offered to take a pay cut. One more season and I would have had my glory (maniacal laughing)!!!! I just know it! I even told them if I did capture and eat a Smurf on Saturday morning children's television, they could do a three episode arc with me on trial. It would have been captivating television. I would have taken any type of punishment for the pleasure of consuming one loathsome Smurf--public flogging, guillotine, any type of humiliation. I just wanted to eat a Smurf. I still do.

BK: You know Gargamel, I'm not a judgmental guy, but some might say that's a pretty weird fetish.

G: How dare you, Kaplan! You're really going to mess with me. You cowardly, stocky Jewish bastard. You've never been in a fight in your entire life and all of a sudden you're going street on Gargamel. Do you know who the %@!@ I am? I can turn you into a hamster, I can give you small pox, maybe a bad paper cut. All with the snap of my fingers!!!!

BK: Actually, I watched your work for almost a decade and came away largely unimpressed. No disrespect though.

G: Who are you to say eating Smurfs is a fetish? I've been to Shaw's Crab House with you and have seen you consume dozens of oysters. It's like you're making love to them. How is that better?

BK: Kind of a weird gray area we've entered, as I do love oysters and have admittedly eaten some weird, exotic stuff in my day. But I've never seen a Smurf on a restaurant menu. We should probably move on. I've always wondered about your name. Gargamel. Is that a first name or last name?

G: Wow, you're really getting personal. OK, I'll give you my story. I was born Arthur Goldberg. I was raised in a middle class Jewish home. I was a frail, whiny, self loathing tween. My father couldn't stand me or my heavyset, overbearing mother and ran off with his secretary. I didn't have a father figure and I was a wussyish boy. Wussier than the other wussy Jewish kids that used to pick on me in Hebrew school, beat me with a shofar and steal my hamentashen. Wussy--that's a good word. Anyhow, I used to vow revenge on them--I'm a big revenge guy, but I was too spineless to actually do anything. I was kind of a loner as you might imagine. I did a lot of science fiction type reading and was interested in wizards. I knew The Hobbit by memory. I also masturbated many times a day, but I suppose that's not relevant. I wasn't much of a student, but I managed to get into University of Michigan, which I believe to be a poor school, despite it's critical acclaim. I flunked out within a year. I was working the grill at a local fast food restaurant and reading Mad Magazine in my spare time. At one point, I saw an advertisement for Wizard school and the rest is history. I went every Tuesday night and was moderately competent at wizardry. I knew that my destiny was to become a middling wizard at that point. Arthur Goldberg wasn't a great mediocre wizard's name so I came up with Gargamel. I was a fan of Art Garfunkel so it was kind of a tribute to him. Paul Simon sucks by the way.

BK: So just Gargamel?

G: My formal name change was to Gargamel Cornelius Jackson, but I haven't used either Cornelius or Jackson since 1977. At the time I was trying to create a potion to turn me into a bad ass mofo. I figured if I ever became an African American Hoops Star or got cast in a hard hitting action movie, I'd go by G. Cornelius Jackson. Didn't pan out though. So it's Gargamel. Just Gargamel.

BK: So how'd you go from night wizard school to living in a run down castle in the middle of nowhere obsessed with capturing Smurfs?

G: I never had much self confidence to begin with. When I reached my late 20's I started balding and that didn't really help my sense of self image. They didn't have Propecia or transplants or anything like that back then. Imagine, had there been Propecia 3 decades ago my whole life could have been different. I became more and more isolated from society during those years. And I got a kitten as most viewers know. That type of housing and setting just seemed conducive to my lifestyle.

BK: Yet it wasn't happily ever after for you?

G: Ha! Obviously not. Happiness is a mythical thing. Just like eating a Smurf probably is a mythical thing. But it could have been a peaceful existence were it not for those reprehensible Smurfs. Damn those blue bastards!!!! Their ridiculous way of life, their enthusiasm, their silly names and that despicable Papa Smurf!!! If you're not a man that knows how to hide the matzah, do me a favor, don't call yourself "Papa"!! I know you're with me on that, Kaplan! The way they use "smurf" as a noun, verb and adjective--get over your freaking selves!!!!! MOTHER @^@^@&@ SMURFS!!!!! @#%^&$#*$@#$%^&%#$$#@!&&@!@#$!^^!! (unrecognizable swearing)!!!!!!

Wow. I need to calm myself down. Deep breaths. OK. OK. I was always a bit eccentric, but living so close to their Utopian society really drove me mad. The fact that the public responded to them so much, made me even more insane. And violent. I was never a violent guy. But they way these goofy blue creatures were showered with attention--somebody needed to put an end to it. And the fact that I was made to play the fool at their expense....well, Gargamel just didn't want to go out like that.

BK: Well, Gargamel, I appreciate the time that you've spent. It's still somewhat early--you want to hit up Shaw's for some oysters and beer? My treat...

G: Are you going to buy that insurance from me?

BK: Uhhh, no.

G: Go @^#% yourself, Kaplan.

BK: Fair enough.

Michael Phelps: No Swimming for Three Months. No Weed Either.

2009-02-07T04:01:00.019-06:00

So what is the downside to enjoying getting high as a motherfucker?

My favorite part of the Michael Phelps story is his punishment. "USA Swimming suspends Michael Phelps for 3 months." It's clear that based on the suspension Phelps will be unable to swim for 3 months. It's unclear whether the suspension prohibits him from being photographed while taking bong hits.

Outside of that, here is my major issue/question regarding this "suspension". The last time I checked the Olympics are once every 4 years. Since we just polished off an Olympics this past summer, by my estimation we don't have another one scheduled for 3 and a half years. This previous summer's events being somewhat of an exception, no one really cares about the Olympics. I certainly don't. If NBC can barely get people interested in watching swimming DURING THE ACTUAL OLYMPICS, how does it make a bit of difference if a SWIMMER gets suspended THREE AND A HALF YEARS prior to his next event that anyone even moderately cares about. Seriously, what does a 3 month suspension starting in February 2009 even mean?

1) No Pool Parties--Poor Michael is going to have to sit in a chaise lounge and stare longingly at his friends as they splash and frolic around in the pool. They're going to be whooping it up playing pool volleyball, seeing who can hold their breath the longest, diving for nickels in the deep end, doing cannonballs off the side and seeing who can create the biggest splash with their belly flops. USA Swimming is like the mean parent that won't let their kid go in right after eating.

2) No Marco Polo for 3 months--How dare they? For all of Michael's Olympic achievements, he is most proud of his Marco Polo skills. Michael barely has to call out the requisite "Marco" to find his prey. By the time the other participants respond with "Polo", you better believe a pursuing Phelps is already there to make a quick tag. And he's even better when he's on the "Polo" side of things. He once participated in a celebrity Marco Polo game and Mark Spitz was the "Marco" guy to Phelps' "Polo". Spitz tried to hunt down Phelps for almost 4 hours with no success. Though Spitz denies it, rumor has it that he actually opened his eyes a little bit before finally catching Phelps, a huge "No-No" when playing this game.

3) He's supposed to go to Florida to visit his grandparents in March--What's he possibly going to do every day? All the other grandkids are going to be out at the pool and poor Michael is going to be stuck in the condo watching General Hospital. His grandma did say they could go to the flea market one day, so I guess that will be pretty good. And they always go to Jai Alai one night which should be fun. There are supposedly some sales going on at Town Center Mall that he'll probably check out. And they do have a Tony Roma's pretty close to where his Nonny and Poppy live, so that will be a treat. Still, not being able to swim is disappointing.

4) He can shower, but no bathing--USA Swimming is really trying to send a message with this one. As part of Phelps' punishment, he is not allowed to take baths during his three month suspension. They've even installed cameras in the bathrooms at his house, his girlfriends apartment and his mom's place to better enforce this ruling. He was given 48 hours to turn in all of his rubber duckies and any other bath toys in his possession. I heard Phelps just purchased a new box of Mr. Bubble within the last few weeks which will completely go to waste. He IS allowed to shower once a day, but only for the sole purpose of cleaning. Washing his face and brushing his teeth are also permissible activities. He is allowed to drink water. Gargling is on the banned list for reasons that are unclear at the time of this reporting.

So all of you kids out there reading, take this as your cue to learn a valuable lesson from this important role model. If you like bubble baths, if you like playing basketball on one of those novelty swimming pool hoops, if you like jumping off the high dive (no pun intended), if you like swimming at your grandma's pool until your hands get all "pruney"--I advise you, I implore you--SAY NO TO DRUGS!!!

Say No to Snugs

2009-01-14T10:00:00.001-06:00

Since I have exhausted my DVR and memorized every episode of Barefoot Contessa; (I officially know how to make a gratin out of everything from zucchini to Captain Crunch), I have discovered that even though we are almost to 2009 and at a height of technology, we are still being exposed to infomercials. I don't really get it. We have the Internet. You can shop online for anything you want. Our country is in a recession. Who is still calling a number to order excessive crap being sold over the television? It's always the same thing. The product is a value of $129.99, yet you're only paying $19.99. There's always the fine print below that the shipping and handling is more than the actual product. If you call RIGHT NOW, you will receive an additional product; only if you call within the next 37 seconds. I've seen countless European hair removers, knives that can cut cans, pancake puffers and magic stain erasers, but nothing and I mean nothing, tops The Snuggie. About a month ago was when it first surfaced. I was aimlessly surfing the Internet when an overenthusiastic male senior citizen caught my attention. The Snuggie is a blanket with sleeves. I'd go on to describe it more meticulously, but there is really nothing else to say. It is a blanket with sleeves. My initial reaction was, is this one of those Saturday Night Live spoof clips? What channel am I watching? Some idiot really woke up one morning and said, "I've got it! A blanket with sleeves!" Sure, I've had my share of invention ideas that I kept solely in my brain up until right now. The bathtub full of tiny holes so you press one button to fill it up faster, marker wipes for children that instantly remove marker stains. Don't even think about patenting these, they're mine dammit! Even more of an idiot is the "Snuggie Model" in the infomercial. This idiot is the idiot that demonstrates what you can do in a Snuggie that you could not possibly do with a regular blanket. "Talking on the phone, holding the TV remote and using your laptop are a breeze!" Are there seriously people out there that find it difficult to hold a remote control and keep a blanket over them at the same time? I mean those that are physically intact? I witnessed my three-year-old niece perform this very task two days ago. She must be a prodigy. Then there's the two adults playing backgammon in their Snuggies. Model #1 and her daughter reading a book. Model #1 pouring herself a cup of tea. As my brother so impeccably pointed out, "Have these people not heard of a sweatshirt?"

15 Snuggie Alternatives and Other Practical Ways to Save on Heat

2009-01-14T07:30:00.004-06:00

1. Electrocute yourself

2. Stand in front of the dishwasher during the dry cycle

3. Fart in tight pants

4. Fill a spray bottle with boiling water and mist

5. Set yourself on fire

6. Arrange a group hug with your neighbors

7. Eat a hot dish

8. Cut a regular blanket into the shape of a robe

9. Borrow an electric blanket from your bubbe (if you know what a bubbe is)

10. Make a headband out of aluminum foil and lay under a halogen lamp

11. Purchase a used windbreaker

12. Do the running man

13. Warm yourself with a hairdryer

14. Grow a beard

15. Gain 20 pounds

An Ode to Gentiles

2009-01-03T22:52:00.004-06:00

Another Winter in Chicago is once again upon us. And by us, I mean me. So what does this winter season mean for ME? Well, it means the inevitable blustery weather, a four month runny nose/cold/flu and the ability to eat soup at every meal. Oh, and I just finished off yet another Christmas. Below are some random notes from this year's yuletide (note: I have no idea what yuletide means or whether or not I just used it correctly).....

I'm slowly being phased out of my building. Nothing concrete has happened, but the general feeling is palpable. During the holidays, the lobby of our building historically housed a standard Christmas tree in the sitting area and a battery operated Menorah on the doorman's desk. For the record, I am not a big Hanukkah guy and I don't think it should ever be compared to Christmas (I'll expound on this in more detail momentarily). When living in a nondenominational building though, the menorah in the lobby is the bone that is thrown to the resident Jews every year. Its unspoken message is, "there you go, now allow us to shamelessly celebrate our holiday in your face for the next 3 weeks." I never felt I was the guy that needed this bone--my feeling always was "have your holiday, I'm cool with Christmas."

Some changes did occur in the building over the course of the last year though. New management was brought in late summer/early fall. The old manager, was a finicky, fussy, crotchety, 40ish Jew that bore resemblance to Harvey Fierstein. While I could easily poke fun at him, the bottom line was the man looked out for my interests. And whether I cared or not, I knew that he was getting new Duracell's for that Menorah the first week of December every year. Now that he was off to some Kibbutz in Israel, where did this leave me? Did his move to the desert equal the demise of my Jewish way of life?

Predictably, yes. The new manager is a perfectly lovely, gentile woman (I've never actually seen or spoken to her). Her disposition is a cross between Martha Stewart and Mrs. Claus (I have no idea if this is true or not). What changes did she have in store for our building "at the most, wonderful time.......of the yearrrrrrr?" (Thanks to ESPN bowl coverage, I can't get that song out of my head). Well, for starters, there wasn't a Menorah to be seen (again, not complaining). The Christmas Tree was overwhelmingly large (which actually proved to be a good thing as it was less noticeable when my daughter predictably stole an ornament every time we walked through the lobby). There was gaudy tinsel and decorations EVERYWHERE (not a big deal, but it did hurt my eyes a little bit, frankly). There was a hired Santa in the lobby every Saturday and Sunday from 12-5 (a charming enough gentleman, but they probably could have found a better use for my assessment dollars). She also put in an Egg Nog machine near the elevators (not really my taste, I prefer my eggs with lox and onions).

Truth be told, I'm actually a big lover of Christmas. And, as mentioned before, I'm not particularly into the Hanukkah hype. I understand the basic plot--the burning oil, the 8 days, the Maccabees, etc.--and I'm simply not buying it. I'm a big three guy--Passover, Rosh and Yom. These are the McHale, Bird and Parish of Jewish holidays. Hanukkah is a secondary event within the Jewish holiday hierarchy. Yet certain Jews try to elevate it to first tier status. Why? Because it's in December? Because there is a gift giving component involved? It's not a competition versus Christmas. If Hanukkah fell in July, it would be a complete afterthought. It would be Sukkot with potato latkes. Our Christian friends aren't trying to use Ash Wednesday to trump Rosh Hashanah. To paraphrase Larry David, "Let them have their holiday!!!"

With the Hanukkah comparisons squashed, I wanted to take a moment to share some of my likes and dislikes of the Christmas Holiday.

MY DISLIKES

1) Those Reprehensible Christmas Sweaters--this comment is not meant to be disparaging towards Christmas, Christians, Christianity or Christ himself. But seriously, I'm pretty confident it doesn't say anything in the Bible about dressing like an idiot.

2) People that wear those Santa Hats--See above. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with you people?

3) Caroling--Let me start by saying that I'm actually a big fan of Christmas songs. But people that go out caroling? I can't even come up with anything funny or scathing to say. We should just move on.....

MY LIKES

1) The Family Component--There is really nothing like traveling great distances, fighting bad weather, and packing into small quarters, to spend time with people that routinely drive you crazy. I am saying this without a hint of sarcasm. I'm a big believer in family and as an outsider looking in that is what Christmas is all about.

2) Roasting Chestnuts--do people do this? I support roasting anything (I'd prefer root vegetables, organic chicken or suckling pig, but chestnuts are serviceable). The open fire concept seems a little bit dangerous and I'm a believer in fire safety, but I assume the proper precautions are being taken.

And since I talk about chestnuts so infrequently (IE: never), here is something that I've always been curious about: Chestnuts versus Water Chestnuts. The weird thing is, I've eaten water chestnuts many times in Chinese restaurants. I don't ever recall eating a regular chestnut (I've had hazelnuts, macadamia nuts, walnuts, etc; but never a chestnut). So why is it that I know precisely what a chestnut is, but am left wondering what the hell a water chestnut is? For an abnormal guy like me, this is indeed one of life's great mysteries.

3) The Music--While I don't like caroling, I am a big fan of Christmas songs. Perhaps having a 3 year old will do that to you. But if you've never appreciated the work of Sinatra or Ella Fitzgerald, I suggest downloading some of their Christmas performances. You won't be disappointed.

4) The Food--I'm surprising myself by saying this. I'm a card carrying brisket, gefilte fish, corned beef, matzah ball soup and lox eater through and through. But I have a mild appreciation for one aspect of Christmas cuisine. In fact, I have something major to get off my chest....

I've been having a secret love affair with ham for decades. I'm not supposed to like it and I don't readily admit it. But I love ham. Absolutely love it. For some weird reason, my grandmother would occasionally get Honeybaked Ham on certain holidays. I still don't understand why. To say this concoction is outstanding is an understatement. This is food nirvana. And I loved being in Europe for many reasons--the culture, the history, the nightlife--but my secret reason was the ham. Turkey and Chicken are not big in Europe for some reason. On most days, you'd go somewhere for lunch and there would be no turkey or chicken in sight. Only ham. My friends would always genuinely express protest and I'd fake go along with it and act as if I was outraged that I couldn't get traditional white meat. This was pure acting. Allow me....."FUCK!!!! No turkey again!!! You've gotta be fucking kidding me! There is nothing for me to fucking eat here! What the Fuck? I don't know what to do. Ham is fucking disgusting. I'm so sick of the fucking food on this fucking continent. I don't know what the fuck to do. Well, I've got to eat fucking something. Waiter, two ham sandwiches please....and stack 'em high, baby!!!" Anywhere you go in Europe, you can get ham--in crepes, in salads, on sandwiches, as it's own entree--Europe is a ham lovers paradise.

And so my fellow Jews, when the holidays come around next year, and you wish your non-Jewish co-worker a Merry Christmas and they come back at you with Happy Hanukkah, I implore you not to take this bait. Tell them thanks, but no thanks. Tell them to enjoy their holiday or better yet try to enjoy it with them. Weasel an invitation to their house and indulge in the splendor of Christmas. Roast some chestnuts with your gentile brethren (but try not to burn down their house). Indulge in a succulent piece of ham (even if you have to pretend you don't like it). Afterall, Yom Kippur is only 9 short months away and Adonai is a forgiving fellow.

The "Fat" Man

2008-12-15T12:32:00.040-06:00

Fat Albert--Bill Cosby's Big Boned Alter Ego.

Jake and The Fatman--Fatman was the co-star on this moderately successful 80's drama.

Fat Bastard--"Get in my Belly!!"

Minnesota Fats--pool shark played by Jackie Gleason in "The Hustler"

Fats Domino--50's rock and roll legend

Lafayette "Fat" Lever--underrated 1980's Denver Nugget guard who turned out 4 of the best statistical seasons in NBA history from 1986-1990.

Jared "Fats" Shapiro????--could he be the next member in a long line of great "Fat" men?

Given my overly reclusive nature, I've surprisingly had many friends with many nicknames over the years. I've been friends with a Boob, a Buddha, a Rooster, a Q-Dog, a Fixer, a Formanto and even an EG Green. I've enjoyed the use of all of these names, yet there was always a part of me that longed for more. There is a name out there that is the true gold standard of nicknames and any other name really fails to compare. The name I'm referring to is "Fat" or "Fats". Whether you use the singular or plural version this is the nickname by which all other nicknames should be measured. There have been many great "Fats" in history (as illustrated above) and I've sadly never had a relationship with any of them. As I enter my twilight years and continue to associate with less and less people, I've come to the realization that I may never have a "Fats" in my life. Saddened by this truth, I've decided to take matters into my own hands. I went through my rolodex of friends in an attempt to find someone worthy of this billing. This friend would need to embody everything the name "Fats" stood for. He'd have to be able to carry on the legacy of other great "Fat" men that came before him. After much introspection and analysis, I came up with only one friend that I thought may be able to live up to the title. My friend, Jared Shapiro, is a Fat Man. But does he have what it takes to be the "Fat" Man? Before we anoint him "Fats", I thought that out of respect to this great name, that we should take a moment to review his resume.

I. APPEARANCE

Over the years, Jared's appearance has been broken down, scrutinized, made fun of and over analyzed to the point where my friends and I have ultimately exhausted the topic. Yet I'm going to break it down one final time. Consider this the definitive and final work on the subject. When breaking down Jared's appearance it really comes down to two parts--his head and the rest of his body. We'll start with....

A. His Body--Jared once described himself as shaped like a pear.

SIDENOTE: "The Pear" is actually an often used nickname and a pretty good one at that. I actually considered keeping him out of the "Fats" sweepstakes, because he already had a pretty solid nickname. In the end though, I had to give him the opportunity to go for his dream name. It's kind of like Roy Williams leaving Kansas to coach North Carolina. Kansas is a storied program and was certainly a great job, but at the end of the day it just wasn't North Carolina. "The Pear" is a great nickname, but "Fats" might just be his destiny.

So back to my pear shaped friend. For anyone that can't quite visualize what a pear shaped body looks like, I'll give you another illustration. Jared really looks like famous McDonald's character, Grimace. His day to day actions might say "I'm the Hamburglar", but his body SCREAMS, "I'm Grimace". Either way, it's safe to say that he knows his way around a Big Mac. If you're tired of the pear references and can't visualize Grimace, he also bears resemblance to a Weeble Wobble. And if none of these comparisons are working for you, I can tell you that his body is more or less shaped like a Christmas Tree. That is, a Christmas tree with the biggest tree topper star on top in the history of mankind. Which brings us to....

B. His head--Saying Jared's head is big is like saying Blagojevich is a bad Governor. While technically accurate, it's not really telling the entire story. Jared's head gets compared to a melon and rightfully so. Once again, clarification is necessary. The truth is, Jared's head makes a cantaloupe look like a tangerine by comparison. If you want to compare his head to a watermelon however, well, now you're talking (but only if you're talking about one of those humongous watermelons that can easily feed all of the employees at a Fortune 500 company's summer picnic). You'd think a big noggin like this must have a big brain inside. I don't subscribe to this theory. I personally think it carries a regular sized brain that is surrounded by a few dozen pounds of chopped liver, italian meats and thanksgiving stuffing that he's stockpiled over the years.

II. HIS WORK HISTORY

Jared's formative years were spent working as a waiter at Don's (a local diner in the Livingston, NJ area). While Don's was always a very successful establishment, ownership noticed that their profits were down by a staggering amount from 1991-1993 (not surprisingly, the same timeline as Jared's tenure). Long time customers that came in for large portions of comfort food were taken aback by how skimpy the plates had gotten all of a sudden. Common complaints included:

"I'm used to getting a heaping platter of chicken fingers and fries. Why does this plate only have one and a half chicken fingers and a few streaks of ketchup on it?"

"Why is my double cheeseburger half eaten?"

"Waiter, you and I are not on a date, and I didn't ask for 2 straws with my milkshake."

"Sir, is that my chicken pot pie you're wearing on your shirt and chin?"

Eating off of the customers' plates wasn't the only issue. One night when Jared was a junior in high school, his Mother woke up at 2 in the morning and realized that her son wasn't home. Worried that he had gotten into some type of trouble she quickly called the police. After an exhaustive search of the area, Jared was finally located at Don's. He had fallen asleep in the walk in fridge. He had passed out with nothing but a big spoon and a 50 gallon tub of Rocky Road ice cream that he just about polished off. It took his Mom two days to get the hot fudge out of his hair.

Even after the "Don's incident", Jared still hadn't gotten food service out of his system. He went off to college and quickly ran for the position of Kitchen Steward at our fraternity house. Jared's love of pork constantly came to the forefront and was suffice it to say "controversial" in our all Jewish house. This controversy came to a head at a Sunday night meal when the brothers found the only offerings available to them that evening were ham or salami sandwiches. While Jared tried to defend his position by claiming that these meats were "turkey based" his credibility was shot. He sadly resigned his position in shame later that week.

A year or so later, after his ego had mended, Jared decided to take a waiter position at Damon's Ribs. This experience was almost like coming out of the closet for him. At Damon's, he had nothing to hide and could wear his love of swine proudly. It was a true place of acceptance for Jared and he could really be himself for once. As expected, Jared thrived in this setting. Sure his customers didn't always get their fries, but they loved his enthusiasm just the same. He was a rising star within the Damon's system and if it weren't for an ill timed angioplasty that was a result of eating nothing but baby back ribs for an entire semester, the sky certainly would have been the limit for him there.

III. OTHER MISCELLANEOUS NOTES

-His dream is to someday host a dinner party and serve chopped liver out of his belly button.

-He believes that gefilte fish should be highlighted on the menu at every reputable seafood restaurant.

-On vacation, he initiates the "early dinner rumors" conversation before breakfast is completed.

-He developed a restaurant concept that only features Bar Mitzvah type appetizers. And it would have been successful if it wasn't all you can eat and if he wasn't a customer there.

-He created the concept of the "Guest Carver". This involves having VIP "guests" (usually stocky Dad's or celebrities) getting to do honorary shifts "carving" (prime rib, turkey, roast beef, etc) at medium to large functions. He actually presented this idea to our friends' parents during the planning of our graduation dinner. Although it was a close vote, it was ultimately rejected (damn you, Bill Shane).

-He contemplated trading one of his children for a platter of pigs in a blanket and his own personal make your own sundae bar. He ultimately thought better of it.

-He once tried to convince me to fly to Acapulco for lunch, because he was in the mood for a Kafka Burger (which Jared describes as a "taste explosion in his mouth").

-He authored a well received essay on how to strategically place yourself near the kitchen at weddings in order to maximize the number of passed appetizers you can consume in a 1 hour window.

-He often dreams of carving his own Gyros while shirtless.

-He is notorious for arriving 2 hours in advance for the Forman Super Bowl Party (which is known for both quality and quantity of food) to get a headstart on the eating, even though it is a six hour game.

-He likes Chips Ahoy cookies more than most people.

IV. ACHIEVEMENTS

He once ate a 96 ounce steak that he cooked himself at a restaurant in Madison called Prime Quarter. His picture is still on the wall there.

V. REFERENCES

Pretty much anyone that's ever been at a table with him when onion rings or nachos were served.

So Jared, after careful review and thoughtful analysis, a verdict has been rendered. It is with great pride and pleasure, that I now anoint you the newest "Fats". Whether you choose to go by "Fat Jared" or "Fats Shapiro" is entirely up to you. Just know that I'm proud to call you my "Fat" friend. Wear this crown well (even though it probably won't fit on your gigantic melon). And please try not to get barbeque sauce on it.

The Mindless Thoughts of a Road Tripping Son-in-Law--The Sequel

2008-12-12T17:53:00.016-06:00

"On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again,
And I can't wait to get on the road again."
(Lyrics provided by my main man, Willie Nelson)

This just about sums it up for me. Except that I hate the road. My friends are not musical and we've never attempted to make music (on the road or otherwise). And the places I keep I going to I actually have been to many times. And I keep seeing the same stuff (IE. Olive Garden, Super Target, McDonald's Toll Plaza, etc.) I anticipate that much to my dismay, I probably will see them again too. So yeah, I could probably wait to get on the road again. Beyond that, this song was pretty much written about me.

In a previous entry http://notinbookershouse.blogspot.com/2008/07/mindless-thoughts-of-road-tripping-son.html, I wrote about the absurdity of the Super Target store that I witnessed on one of my many Chicago to Toledo jaunts. I never thought anything would top the Super Target phenomenon. However being the devout guy that I am (that's devout as in devoted to providing inane ramblings, not devout in a Jehovah's Witness sort of away), I continue to push the envelope. And lo and behold, on the same stretch of I-90, 6 months removed from the Super Target finding, I had another jaw dropping experience.

I'll set the scene. It's your average gray-skied Indiana Friday afternoon. We get out of Chicago without any hiccups. Alexis (my 3 year old daughter) is in her car seat navigating her DVD player like she invented the technology. Kristyn (my wife) is in the backseat next to her navigating her DVD player like it's 1996 and she's pissed off that she had to give up her VCR for this new device. I'm in the front seat listening to ESPN Radio. (I recognize that listening to ESPN Radio in and of itself is not cool. It gets worse. I'm not just listening to ESPN Radio, I actually downloaded several podcasts to listen to in the car. It gets worse. Most of these podcasts are fantasy football related. I was never the coolest guy to begin with, but whatever "cool" genes I did have clearly went down the drain of my shower sometime between 1999 and 2001. But I digress.) So as I'm listening to a combination of Matthew Berry discussing Terrell Owens' worth sans Tony Romo and Dora The Explorer discussing Tico the Squirrel's worth sans his goofy looking car, all while trying to fight off the urge to fall asleep and barrel into the highway median, I noticed it. At first it looked like any ordinary McDonald's. The red and yellow signage, the golden arches, the notification that they've served 20 trillion and counting (I don't impress easily, Ray Kroc). This wasn't just any McDonald's though. This was MCDONALD'S EXPRESS!?!?

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't McDonald's build it's empire by serving....fast food? In fact, I'm pretty sure the term "fast food" stemmed from McDonald's. So wouldn't the term "Express" be inherently implied? Calling it "McDonald's Express" is like saying "Smart Genius, Rich Billionaire or Tall Giant". The name is redundant. So that being said, I ask myself this question--if they are going to take the liberty of calling it "McDonald's Express" (versus the standard, "McDonald's"), are they implying that this version is somehow faster than the undisputed King of Fast Food?

Before we answer that, let's take a moment to recognize just how fast your average McDonald's is. Let's say I'm a husband and father driving my family from say...Chicago to Toledo. Traffic is awful, weather is bad and to compound things we are hungry. Restaurant choices are limited so we decide to stop at McDonald's (since they strategically have at least one at every highway exit on the planet). We walk in, we don't know what we want and there is a line. Even given these challenging circumstances, we're able to be at our table with our full meal in front of us in less than 4 minutes. We're able to have indigestion in 7 minutes. That's fast, baby! We're talking Carl Lewis fast. These guys are known for inventing "fast food" for a reason and it's clear they've perfected their craft in their 60+ years in business. So again I pose the question, how have they improved their speed so much at this one given location that it warrants the name, "McDonald's Express"?

After much pontification, here are some potential answers that I've come up with:

1) Orders can be placed telepathically. For the last 20+ years, McDonald's has been pouring money into research and development. They've been using this investment to breed highly evolved employees that will redefine the entire food service industry. Not only are these highly evolved beings thrilled to be working at McDonald's Express and making minimum wage, they are each trained to make over 75 Big Mac's per minute and can fry perfect french fries using heat vision (sort of like Superman melting a glacier).

So picture a heavy set truck driver cruising down I90-W from Ohio. It's the middle of the night and he has to get his delivery to Wisconsin by sun up. He is hungry, but doesn't have much time to stop. He sees a McDonald's Express billboard. He thinks to himself, I could go for a large coffee, a couple of Quarter Pounders, some fries, maybe one of those apple pies. As soon as he thinks it our evolved staff begins processing his order. And moments later, as our bleary eyed truck driver opens the door to the restaurant, but before he even steps inside, he's pelted with his order which is shot out of one of those novelty t-shirts guns that they use at NBA games to get souvenirs to fans sitting in the third deck. It would literally be like the last scene of "Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid" where Butch and Sundance get shot up by the entire Bolivian Army. If we can ignore the downside of this guy getting scolded by hot coffee that was traveling at an incredibly high speed, this system would undoubtedly put the "Express" in McDonald's Express. And it's not like McDonald's doesn't have experience defending this type of lawsuit.

2) The food comes in pill form. How nice would this be? You go up to the counter, tell the attendant that you'd like a six piece nugget, a McRib sandwich and a medium fry. You give her the money, she hands you 3 pills, you pop them in your mouth, take a slug of Sprite and you're good to go until your next meal. These pills are filling just like consuming a regular meal and you get all the wonderful side effects that you'd get from eating at McDonald's (IE. sluggishness, indigestion, diarrhea, etc.)

3) But what if I don't like swallowing pills? Oh, I've got you covered elementary school reader. McDonald's Express also offers their meals in the form of an injection that is loaded with cholesterol, fat, taste and calories.

4) McDonald's Express is a giant vending machine. As long as you remember your quarters, you can walk in, avoid human interaction, and have a tasty Filet O' Fish sandwich and a large fountain drink within mere seconds.

SIDENOTE (as always I have to go off on at least one idiotic tangent per post): Now a word on Filet O'Fish. I'm not sure this is what it's actually called, but if it's not it should be and if it is, I like it. The name would pass as an Irish Sandwich. Tom O'Brien will have a Filet O'Fish before he heads up to O'Sullivans for a pint of Guiness, some soda bread and a sack of potatoes. (Did I just stereotype the Irish? Those guys can clearly kick my ass and WILL (damn it, I did it again). I just can't help putting my foot in my mouth. I will now subconsciously mention that they're good drinkers (DAMN IT)). I'm sorry Irish readers--that was meant in good fun. Feel free to ask to see my horns or comment on my big nose at our next face to face meeting.

Now a second word on Filet O'Fish. Our babysitter often has my wife or I do McDonald's runs. Her standard order is a large chocolate shake and a double fish sandwich (she's not Irish, apparently). Double fish sandwich might be a menu item at her local McDonald's, but they've never heard of it at the McDonald's by my place. Needless to say, hilarity ensues when I go through the drive through and attempt to order this. First the order taker has to tell me that they don't sell this item. At this point, I ask if they can make it special for me. They tell me, yes, but they'll have to charge me for 2 fish sandwiches. I accept these terms. The next step is to pull around to pay for and receive my food. You should see the look of horror the window girl gives me as I accept my double fish sandwich. I normally compound the problem by attempting to explain to her that the sandwich isn't for me. I always leave with the feeling that I was unconvincing (note to self: the correct move is to just quickly drive away in shame).

Now a third and final word on Filet O'Fish. You're ordering fish? From McDonald's? Really? Really??? Best of luck with that....

5) The chef is a robot. You don't hear as much about robots as you used to. Remember back in the 80's? Is it me, or was public opinion back then that robots would pretty much be running things by the year 2000? But here we are in the year 2008 and you don't hear a damn thing about robots. Maybe McDonald's Express has changed all that and will bring the robot back to prominence and fulfill its destiny.

So to conclude, unless McDonald's Express has executed one of the five theories that I have just laid out, I will continue to question the ridiculous use of this name. While I'm skeptical that they've implemented any of these concepts, who am I to question the immortal Ray Kroc (a fine Irishman, no doubt).

I Love Her (because Chris Harrison instructed me to)

2008-12-08T20:24:00.006-06:00

I just saw a promo for the new season of "The Bachelor". This season's schmo (er, bachelor) just went on the record saying that he KNOWS that one of these 25 women is his WIFE. He knows it. He GUARANTEES it. Despite overwhelming evidence from the last 34 seasons (that they've managed to jam into a 3 year time span) with nary a marriage, this jonah thinks he's a LOCK to find his WIFE on THE BACHELOR. In a way, I'm envious. This guy is still a believer in true love (within the context of reality television). I, on the other hand, will continue to be a believer in deli meats (and witchcraft).

Ginger Ale: The Rodney Dangerfield of Beverages

2008-12-08T14:57:00.017-06:00

Diet Canada Dry. The mere mention of it makes my mouth water (in a good way). Cold (if refrigerated in advance, otherwise, not cold)*, effervescent, refreshing, light, good with food or as a stand alone beverage, not sweet and yet having just the right amount of sweetness. It is one of the truly perfectly crafted drinks. And did I mention effervescent? Brief pause for my internal conversation.............

(I did. I mentioned effervescent. Roughly 35 words ago. I'm sorry. I can't help it. What can I tell you--it's fun to say effervescent. I may name our next child Effervescent. Effervescent Kaplan. It sounds good for a boy or girl. Good luck selling that to the wife, Brad. Jackass.)

And we're back. What was I talking about again? Ginger Ale, right. Riveting stuff. I'll work on fixing the economy next week. In the meantime, let's tackle why Ginger Ale gets no respect (god, that's hokey).

Here's my problem. You can walk into any restaurant on the planet and get some type of diet cola drink. Yet I don't even have the confidence to ask a server for a diet ginger ale mainly because:

a) I don't want to be the victim of said server's disdain and/or mockery
b) I don't want to be perceived as "difficult" resulting in same said server tampering with my Turkey Club
c) It's a virtual certainty that they're not going to have it anyway

It's "c" that's the crying shame. Who do I blame for my outrage? That's what I need to get to the bottom of. I have 3 possible candidates so please indulge me as I breakdown their respective accountability and how they could (potentially) become less a part of the problem and more a part of the solution.

1) Restaurateurs/Chefs

I don't know that I can blame the restaurateurs entirely. I know of plenty of chefs that would love to highlight pork belly and offal on their menus. Unfortunately, they know that their rube customers would continue to order the same boring, mainstream dishes (IE. roasted chicken, filet, salmon, etc.) leaving the pork belly and offal unsold and unappreciated. It's a bad business move--so why bother trying? The same issues apply to diet ginger ale. It is indeed the calves pancreas (or sweetbreads for those of you scoring at home) of the soft drink world. It might be great, but in the end you have to cater to your customers' wants. You could say that the restaurateurs/chefs are the ones that need to start the grassroots effort to give ginger ale broader appeal. Unfortunately, we're not talking about sushi, foie gras or even sundried tomatoes. The restaurateurs are going to continue to push Diet Coke and my beloved Ginger Ale will have to take another angle to get its due.

2) The General Public (sorry, but that means you, buddy)

Can I blame the general public? It would be easy to take this route considering my overall dislike of the common man (No, I don't mean you, READER. As far as you're concerned, I'm talking about those other READERS. Believe that.) Seriously though, the general public are a bunch of sheep. Through peer pressure and (somewhat) sophisticated advertising, they are programmed on what to like. Society tells them that their beer of choice is Budweiser, their winemaker of choice is Ernest and Julio Gallo and their diet soft drink of choice is Diet Coke. They adhere to this unconditionally. It's stupid, but I can't say it's their fault. How do you bring the type of change that I'm looking for (besides getting Obama to advocate Ginger Ale. Yes He Can!)? Celebrities, baby! The only way to induce change in dumb, follower people is to enlist their even dumber heroes to shill to them. Britney, Paris, Girls from that Hills show--you're on the clock....

3) The Ginger Ale Muckety-Mucks

Here's the real culprit. What the hell have these guys been doing? They're like the old money guys. They created a delicious beverage around 100 years ago, have a nice niche following of loyal drinkers, do ok at the saloons when someone needs a mixer for their whiskey and continue to make a fortune without a whole lot of effort. But the fact remains, these guys haven't gotten off their asses in 50 years. Come on Ginger Ale executives. You're better than this! Get off those yachts and private golf courses and spread the gospel. Your drink should be in every refrigerator in the world. I shouldn't feel embarrassment going into my favorite dining establishment and ordering your delicious potable. I want you to reach into that war chest and recruit an army of salespeople that will recruit a navy of restaurateurs that will recruit an air force of chefs that will recruit a marine core of waiters to help champion this cause (my apologies to the coast guard for leaving them out of that sentence--it was getting too run-on-y). Or at the very least hire Britney (or Obama). Yes We Can!

*I suppose ice would also make a drink cold.

...and I'll need a beer chaser with that

2008-12-08T13:20:00.006-06:00

During the week I get a lot of my financial and industry news from the CBS Marketwatch website. Today I noticed that their stock ticker is now sponsored by none other than Jack Daniels. Seemed appropriate given the current state of the economy. I'd expound on this, but sometimes the best joke is the one that goes untold. Drink up, bastards.

Dudley At Large--Volume I: Dudley caught between Moon and New York City

2008-10-30T00:05:00.013-05:00

As mentioned in my sister/associate's earlier post from this week, we have received news that Dudley was never confirmed dead and is presently at large (potentially). Sure he'd be roughly 200 years old in dog years. Whatever. I try to remain optimistic that the old pooch is still kicking as I'm never one to underestimate the heart of a champion (to my knowledge Dudley never won anything, I'm just being unctuous). As the shock value of this news begins to dissipate, we are left wondering what our four legged friend has been up to in his travels over the last decade and a half. With our large and loyal following, we have started to slowly receive emails from readers that have either spent time with or have second hand knowledge of Dudley's comings and goings since his mysterious disappearance from his Orchard Lake estate some fifteen years ago. We will periodically post some of the more interesting ones in an ongoing segment titled, "Dudley At Large". This will be a cathartic exercise that will give us all an opportunity to catch up with a dog that we didn't really care all that much about in the first place. If anyone has any past or present information on Dudley, please email our Dudley HotLine at lkaplan44@gmail.com. Thanks. I will leave you with this interesting Dudley email that we received this week. Enjoy--

From: ibuble@solarishs.org (Irene Bublegartner)
Sent: Thursday, October 30, 2008 1:05 AM
To: brad@chicagosunset.com
Subject: Dudley--loyal friend to dying, British comedic legend

Dear Sirs:

I hope this email receives you well. My name is Irene Bublegartner and I am a nurse at Muhlemberg Hospital in Plainfield, New Jersey. I write to you today as I may have information about a nondescript dog named Dudley that you seem to have an unhealthy interest in.

In the winter of 2002, one of my patients was none other than British film and comedy legend, Dudley Moore. He was battling with pneumonia at the time (which he would ultimately succumb to) and was in my care for a couple of months. While in our facility, Moore was weak and despondent most of the time. He really had no interest in visitors and slept for large chunks of the day. I remember one time Liza Minelli showed up with a gorgeous fruit basket and a magnum of Bombay Gin. Moore refused her and her gifts and I was forced to literally throw an irate Minelli to the curb (I'm a husky woman). The only thing that would cheer Moore up during this trying time was the occasional visit from a shaggy, gray haired pooch named in his likeness. I remember Moore telling me one time in a rare lucid moment about how he came to know the other Dudley. He was down in Atlantic City doing a 3 night set at Harrah's in the fall of 2000 and asked his agent to arrange for some female companionship for the evening. At the completion of his set (which received a lukewarm response from the sparsely populated main ballroom crowd), he went back to his dressing room expecting to find his escort for the evening. Instead he found a scraggly, unkempt dog, chirping loudly and jumping on him with reckless abandon. When the dog finally calmed down, Moore checked his tags to find that the loud, drooling dog also went by the name, "Dudley". It was love at first sight.

From that point on, Dudley and Dudley were rarely apart. Moore recognized that this was a talented canine and quickly incorporated him into his act. (Editors note: this runs contrary to my recollection of Dudley. From what I recall, Dudley had no discernible talent whatsoever. Anyway, back to her email. BK) They developed a cult following (by their own estimation, not the public's) on the boardwalk in AC, as Moore, always the shameless huckster, tried to cash in on his Arthur fame, by doing a duet of Christopher Cross' "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)". With Moore singing lead vocals in his smoky British accent and Dog on the piano, the duo captivated literally dozens of Jersey Shore passersby as they clumsily stepped around the duo's equipment in pursuit of salt water taffy.

A couple years later, when Moore became ill and was admitted to our facility, his biggest concern was not his illness, it was the hospital's strict "No Pets" rule. I remember conversing with an inconsolable Moore and listening to him ramble on about how, "Dudley isn't my pet, he's my friend" while intermittently sobbing. I even recall saying under my breath, "Well, the hospital's not going to go for that loophole, "Arthur"". We figured that after a few days passed, that Moore would relent about the dog and start concentrating on his treatment. This was simply not the case. In fact, I was working the midnight shift one night and I went to check on Mr. Moore. When I arrived at his room he was nowhere to be found. Our security guards found him about an hour later. He was in a wheelchair in nothing but a hospital smock making a beeline towards the Jersey Turnpike. It was the middle of January. When he was safely back in his room, I asked him what possibly motivated him to leave the hospital and go out into the freezing cold in the middle of the night. He told me that if the hospital wasn’t going to let him see Dudley, he was going to continue to take matters into his own hands. It was at this point that I caved and told Mr. Moore that I’d help him sneak Dudley into the hospital a couple times a week. All I wanted in return was for him to arrange a lunch date for me with Kirk Cameron, his co-star in “Like Father, Like Son”. After all, Kirk Cameron is dreamy. A deal was consummated.

And so it came to pass that every Tuesday and Friday night at around 1 AM, I’d sneak Dudley in through the hospital loading dock. The two of them certainly lived it up and the boost of energy that Mr. Moore received when he was in the company of Dog was nothing short of miraculous. They’d hoot and holler, smoke cigars, play gin rummy and serenade one another with their beloved Christopher Cross medleys. On some nights, I felt like I was doing two jobs—my normal registered nurse responsibilities and playing cocktail waitress to Dudley and Dudley. I’d bring Moore his standard tumbler of English Gin and Dog a tasty bowl of Alpo. Upon my return, sometimes I’d find Dog tipsy with Gin on his breath, while Moore was finishing off the remains of Dog's late night snack. When pressed for an explanation, Moore explained that Dog grew up on high quality Jewish home cooked meals and scoffed at eating food from a can (dog food or otherwise). Moore on the other hand, grew up in Britain and American dog food was an apparent upgrade to his palate. This story was later confirmed one night when I was on my dinner break. I had brought in some leftover brisket and just the smell of it caused Dog to crash through the nurse’s station, jump on the table and devour my humble dinner right in front of me. I didn’t complain though—after all, I was dating Mike Seaver at the time.

Sadly, Moore’s condition continued to worsen and he finally passed away in February of that year. Dudley was, of course, by his side. Kirk and I attended the funeral together later that week. It was the first and only time I’d ever seen a dog act as a pallbearer. Dudley did NOT give the eulogy, however (that would have been too ironic). Afterwards, at the wake, Dudley was entertaining the crowd on the piano (naturally playing “Arthur’s Theme” over and over again). With all the Hollywood types in attendance, I mentioned to Kirk that Dudley may get a pilot deal out of this. This made Kirk rage with jealousy and, looking back, was probably the beginning of the end of our relationship. I would have been right though were it not for Dudley’s ill timed crap in the living room that made all of the mourner’s evacuate the wake.

That was the last I ever heard from Dudley and I can really only speculate as to his whereabouts. If you get any new information, please pass it along—he still owes me a brisket dinner.

I Remain (see, I’m a blog reader),
Irene Bublegartner, RN

An Analogy for Dudley

2008-10-28T15:17:00.013-05:00

On September 7, 1996, Tupac Shakur was the victim of a drive-by shooting on Las Vegas Boulevard. After attending the Mike Tyson/Bruce Seldon boxing match, Shakur was shot five times and taken to a nearby hospital. Although some say that Tupac Shakur was pronounced dead six days after entering the hospital, there have been many speculations that Tupac is still alive. The staggering evidence includes a lack of photographs from the hospital and talk of his own funeral in an album released after his “death”.

Yesterday, I learned that around the same time, give or take five years, Dudley, previously mentioned in http://notinbookershouse.blogspot.com/2006/01/eulogy-for-dudley.html , like Tupac, was never officially pronounced dead. Having not heard from Dudley in ten-odd years, my brother and I made the likely assumption that Dudley had either passed of old age or committed suicide. Not so. New information has surfaced and we learned that in actuality, Dudley ran away from home and was never rescued by his owners. Is Dudley still out there? Has anyone heard from him? Is the poor bastard still puttering around being sullen? Dudley, if you’re reading this, please email me at lkaplan44@gmail.com.

My Sister is a Whore

2008-07-31T11:03:00.002-05:00

It is never a good sign when you're calling the person you look up to and whom you hold in the highest regard, a whore. Luckily, even though she's a Catholic school girl, the kind of whore I'm referring to has nothing to do with getting drunk and telling a guy you'd like to see his condo at 4 AM. (This is a relief since she's married to my brother and has a three year old). The kind I'm referring to is strictly limited to the whorish tendencies of Facebook. This is not to be confused with the Facebook stalker category, which I have admittedly fallen in to from time to time.

A few years back, I was at my brother and sister-in-law's house, surfing the Internet and likely Facebook stalking, when Kristyn glanced over my shoulder and said with the underlying tone that I might be a pedafile, "You have a Facebook page?" I replied yes and quickly closed the window, knowing that Facebook was more of a college thing and she probably thought of it as a way to meet creeps online. In actuality, it was an avenue to look at your high school friends at their respective colleges, taking beer bongs and smoking pot bongs.

In the past year or so, Facebook has evolved from a community of college kids to a place where I've become friends with everyone from my former campers to my third grade teacher. And then came Kristyn...the Anti-Christ. A couple of weeks ago I got a Facebook alert that Kristyn Perlman Kaplan had requested me as a friend. Initially, I went through my brain filofax to make sure I didn't know anyone else by that name. When it finally set in, I accepted her and waited for the madness to begin.

Her next move was an album filled with pictures primarily of Alexis, my niece. (Side Bar---When my brother joined Facebook I deleted all pictures I had up of Alexis for fear that he'd yell at me for exposing her online.) Still confused, I rolled with it.

Last night as we discussed our weekend plans on the phone, Kristyn admitted that she was stressed out. Assuming it was something involving work, family or a new purchase from Intermix, I asked her why. She sighed and said she was annoyed because she couldn't figure out how she knew her latest Facebook request and it had taken her all day to figure it out. I laughed, especially when her next thought was to ask me if I had any good pictures she could post on her profile.

I will continue to marinate this new idea of the entire world being on Facebook. If my grandma signs up, I might have to deactivate.

"Fo', Fo', Fo'."

2008-07-23T08:09:00.014-05:00

I've been sharing a bed with Moses Malone.

This would make me Kareem Abdul Jabbar. And every night we box out and fight for position like it's Game 4 of the 1983 Finals with about a minute and a half left to play. Our game hinges on one crucial rebound and we scrap and claw and push and cheap shot like our season is on the line. I'm an All Star. A Hall of Famer. One of the greatest rebounders in basketball history. I'm the one with the more storied and celebrated career. The UCLA pedigree. It doesn't matter. I'm going to lose this battle. No matter how hard I try, Moses is going to come down with the ball and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

The Moses I speak of is my 3 year old daughter, Alexis. Over the last week she has developed a distaste for her bedroom. As she seems to have the final word on all matters in our home, we've inherited a third bedmate over the last several nights. On the surface, there is naturally a part of me that enjoys this. She looks great, smells delightful and is quite charming. I feel guilty admitting it, but the novelty wears off a bit around 1 AM when it's time for me to really throw down on some sleep. That's when Moses comes out and starts clearing the glass. Moses weighs in at around 41 lbs and is barely 3 feet tall. So I've got 3 feet and about 150-200 pounds on her (I'm not proud of this by the way). This shouldn't even be a fair fight.

SIDENOTE: I have years of experience playing ball. While my skills are QUITE limited (save when I'm playing on the hoop at Mike Redmond's house), the one thing I could always do was rebound the basketball. I have always had a fleshy stomach, a warehouse back, a sore right elbow, loose ankles, poor eyesight, limited stamina, no hops and an overall crodgetty jewish man's physique. None of that matters--Laimbeer didn't look pretty doing it either. The bottom line is...I can board, baby! Throw me onto the Atlanta Hawks and put me out there in dress clothes for 20 minutes per game. If you don't think I'm getting you six boards a night, you've got another thing coming.

You're probably asking what's with the basketball analogy. Well, the battle for position in our bed is quite synonymous with rebounding. Positioning, blocking out, timing and using your elbows and knees to give you any possible advantage. Always remembering to protect your back, your eyes and your private regions at the same time. My wife, Kristyn, would dispute this, but she typically is allotted around 60% of our king sized bed for her own luxurious sleeping pleasure (We'll call her MJ (or Michael Jordan for you non-basketball readers) for the purpose of this post. Meaning that she's going to get all the whistles and there isn't anything we can do about it.) So it's a foregone conclusion that MJ is going to get her 30 a night, and therefore the left side of the bed is off limits for myself and my adversary, Moses. We are stuck fighting in the paint for that remaining 40% of mattress. There is no gray area. The winner is going to be guaranteed a good night's sleep. The loser is going to be stuck in the guest bedroom at 1:30 AM on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning writing this ridiculous blog as they've lost the ball to their opponent and the corresponding right to a proper night's rest (that's probably too much foreshadowing).

So why can't I beat her? Sure, she's my kid and I love her and everything, but saying that I'm going easy on her would be a cop out. I'm in it to kick ass. It's a dog eat dog fight and I want my 30% of mattress (which is still comparable to a cot, but hey, I'm not greedy). Why can't I use my weight and strength to command my territory? I try. I literally pick her up and wing her three feet to the right (Kareem never tried that). But she's relentless. Within seconds, her foot is once again entrenched in my back. I'm laying on my side completely straight, barely hanging onto my 5% of the bed, defying gravity and logic by not falling off the side. I don't give up easily though. I reach deep down, fighting exhaustion, and hoist her again. I reposition myself to quickly grab this newly created open space laying my body flat now and even leaving some extra room on the edge for myself. I'm feeling invincible. I weigh 2?? pounds for god's sake. She can't move me. Can she? She can. She does. I don't even know how. Her low post moves are otherworldly. She is from a new generation of players. She thrashes and elbows and kicks and pushes. It's symphonic. Within moments I'm back down to 5% of total mattress. Only 25% of my body is even on the bed at this point. The rest of me is somehow floating in mid air. It's a miracle of physics and probably not in a good way. Before I plummet to the floor like a bowling ball out of a plane, I decide to make one last ditch effort. I pick her half angelic/half 83' Finals MVP body up delicately. I gently tiptoe into her room and carefully place her in her bed. She immediately starts crying. Sobbing, in fact. A very un-Moses like move, but I give her points for her relentlessness. I'm defeated. She is ruthless. I quickly rush to her aid and obediently bring her back into our bed. Game. Set. Match.

I am now exiled into the guest bedroom. My season is lost. But I'll be back. Extended workouts, diet--it will be a complete overhaul of my body. Training camp is around the corner. The season is not far off. Moses--you'd better be ready for me.

The Mindless Thoughts of a Road Tripping Son-in-Law

2008-07-21T22:24:00.016-05:00

The last few months since my father in law became ill, my wife and I have been driving back and forth from Chicago to Toledo at least a couple times per month. Under normal circumstances I could go months without even seeing the expressway. Now I'm towing the white line like I'm Doyle Brunson circa 1963 (if you don't know what I'm talking about pick up a copy of Super System). Among other things, it has given me the opportunity to take in the splendor of what we affectionately call AMERICA. The Heartland, the Midwest, the Heart of our Coun.....oh, who am I kidding, the drive is brutal. I've actually become a semi-regular at the Elkhart Olive Garden. The waitress there actually recognized me last night. This is not a good thing. However, if you're looking for a below average meal with above average company, you can usually find us there every other Monday night around 7. Mention this blog and I'll even throw in a free appetizer of fried lasagna or whatever other preposterous dish they're serving. Bon Appetito!

So aside from seeing tons of farmland, open space and Indiana cops, the drive also gives me the opportunity to view some of America's finest retail and dining establishments from the comfort of my car. Many of these places we take for granted. Maybe this is unfortunate. Let's take the crazy monstrosity that we know as Target. The breadth of products and services they carry has always been mindblowing to me. Based on my recollection, this is a place where you can buy a cantaloupe, a lawn mower, a plasma television, a fall wardrobe, a pizza and salad lunch, a birthday card, a propecia prescription (not that I'd know anything about that), a sectional couch, a set of 400 thread count egyptian cotton sheets and a Mr. Potato Head all under one roof. It's basically a Publix/Home Depot/Best Buy/Bloomingdales/Pizza Hut/Hallmark/Rite Aid/Crate and Barrel/Bed Bath and Beyond/Toys R Us rolled into one annoying superstore. I hate the insanity of Target and when I see one (and they're difficult to miss) I cringe a little bit. Last night was no exception as I was barreling down I-90W and saw it coming in my peripheral vision. Only this wasn't any Target. This was, in fact (I'm still in a state of disbelief), a....Super Target! It was unmistakable (literally, considering the sign was so large that you could see it from the moon on a clear night). My mind was racing with thoughts--what about this Target could make it "Super" relative to the other Target's? So far, I've come up with 2 possible answers:

1) Maybe it's called Super Target because it has super powers. Does this location wear a cape? Do Super Target customers get to wear capes while shopping? Is the store made of steel? Can it fly? Does Super Target fight crime? Can it swim underwater, communicate with animals, run really fast, jump very high or see in the dark? Does it have super strength? Can it make itself invisible (this is the option I'm secretly hoping for)? Or maybe it's "Super" in that it gives "Super" great value to the citizens of Metropolis (or in this case I think South Bend, Indiana) on their day to day purchases. After much consideration, I'm guessing that it's probably not called Super Target due to it's Superhero qualities. Which lead me to my next theory....

2) Maybe it's called Super Target due to it's super size relative to your regular Target. Seems somewhat logical. Of course, a regular Target is typically about the size of Michigan Stadium. Just how big could this Super Target be? Is Super Target it's own self contained city? Have they recently added a new county in Indiana called Super Target and I just haven't heard about it? Or, maybe it's larger than that. Maybe the government is in talks of adding Super Target as our 51st state? Bigger than that? Maybe the Super Target people have made this Super Target so big that they are planning on seceding from the Union? Are we headed towards another Civil War?

I now started feeling like I was getting closer to getting my answer. But if this Super Target was super due to its super size relative to a regular Target wouldn't their product offerings need to be super by comparison also? I was starting to get a headache. I already detailed the extensive and exhaustive line of products and services that your regular Target carries a couple paragraphs ago. What other things could this Super Target possibly sell you that you can't get in a regular Target. After much thought, here are some possibilities that I've come up with:

-400 single family homes strategically located throughout the store (I've already contacted my realtor friend in Indiana about getting me information on a 4 bedroom near the frozen food section. I like Ice Cream.)

-An 18 hole Jack Nicklaus championship golf course (site of the 2012 Ryder Cup)

-A car dealership

-A full service hospital

-A private school

-A plumbing supply emporium

-A Turkish bath house

-A nuclear waste storage facility

-A pot dealer

-Bookmaking services

-A race track

-An international airport

-A discotheque

-A funeral parlor

-A catering facility

-A church

-A temple

-A mosque

-A cemetery

So, needless to say, as much as I hate regular Target, this Super Target--I need to check this mother f&*%$# out! I will be driving through in the next couple weeks and will pull over and have a look around. I will report back my findings. Or, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll buy land there, become a general in the Super Target Army, and declare war on all of you bastards. As the old saying goes, The South Will Rise Again!

Stockard Channing has a Twin--Look Out!

2007-12-12T00:29:00.001-06:00

Last May, I said aloha (in the goodbye sense) to my corporate job and decided to go back to school and take on the oh-so highly coveted position of the nanny; CEO for five-year-olds.

Luckily for me, my best friend Lauren is a nursery school teacher. Her ability to network nanny positions is basically comparable to Donald Trump's ability to network in the real estate world. I had a job before she even put the "Best Friend of Miss Reiswerg" flier on the wall.

My new job was for a family that moved to Chicago from New York a year earlier. Up until this point, I was under the impression that I had grown up pretty lucky. Mind you, I still think that, but this nanny job provided me insight into a whole new world of spoiled.

The children, a four-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl, were very intelligent kids with wonderful potential and solid futures ahead of them. They also individually had at least five times the clothes than any member of my family. Although I have many more examples of why these kids lived in this world I had never known, I don't want to lose sight of what, actually who, I am writing this blog about. The mother.

Her name is Sharon. Honestly, I used to think you had to meet her in order to explain what kind of a person she was. Then I realized I was giving her way too much credit. When Sharon hired me at the end of April, she very adamantly explained that their was one component of my job that was MOST important to her; her annual trip to the Hamptons in August. It was pertinent for me to be there with her, helping out with the children. I wondered how I had never heard of the concept of bringing two babysitters on vacation when there were already four capable adults to watch three children.

Let's just say, the trip to the Hamptons was a paid trip for me to bask in the sun while the kids went to camp from 8-3. I would think an investment banker with a college degree from NYU would be able to crunch numbers a little bit better.

The trip ended with a shit storm, when I learned that Sharon and her family decided not to come back to Chicago, but to stay in New York...ultimately. It was lovely also to receive the news two days before they were supposed to come back to Chicago, from her husband whom I had exchanged about ten words with.

Since then, I have tried to maintain contact with Sharon, simply because I cared about the well being of her children. Often times my attempts to contact her were in response to something she initiated, but her general trend was no response or a response that was followed by a favor she needed of me.

Maybe I'm old fashioned, but when someone spent months with your children and expressed legitimate interest in their lives in a completely non-pedafile way, you would want to maintain contact with them. You would also think that when someone (me) knows that you sleep with your Blackberry taped to your pillow (her), you would respond.

Today I changed my email. I forwarded a message to all of my old contacts, including good old Sharon. Below are an archive of emails between us today. Enjoy!

From: Sharon
To: Me

How are you? Why the change in email?

From: Me
To: Sharon

Hi!

I'm good...how are you? How are the kids and everything in New York? I miss them!! No big reason for the change...just everyone always leaves out the "d" and I'm applying for teaching jobs for the fall so wanted to make it more concise. When are you coming to visit?

From: Sharon
To: Me

Request from sam and ryan

1 - sweet mandee bee cookie And one chocolate cupcake with pink frosting. How can we make it happen?

From: Me
To: Sharon

Yeah so I'm going to be a teacher. I know you must be so excited for me, since you've made it clear how much you care about my well being. It's hard to find someone who is so interested in my life and makes it so obvious that they put everyone else before themselves. You must get that all the time though.

As far as the cupcakes, I would suggest you tell your children, who you have turned into obnoxious spoiled brats, that you live in New York City! Perhaps you should remind them, as you reminded me, that New York is better than Chicago not only in some ways, but in every way. There is nothing good about Chicago, other than the nice people, who stupidly gave you the benefit of the doubt.

I guess that was overdoing it a little bit, I will retract. If you have already falsely promised your children the baked goods, as I'm sure you have because we know you love a bribe, I have an alternate plan for you. Call Sweet Mandy B's---I think you could probably get the number from Google. I'm pretty sure they could overnight you some treats, on yourself, as I don't have money to be spending on your frivilous necessities. They will probably require a minimum amount of goodies, since they are shipping them to you out of state. Seeing that I am pretty familiar with their inventory, mainly from the months I spent parenting your children, I would suggest getting one of their cakes. You may as well make them write something on the cake, just for fun. I've got something perfect.

GO FUCK YOURSELF (and don't forget the exclamation point).

$40 A Day, I'd Rather Spend it on Drugs

2006-12-12T14:42:00.000-06:00

I loathe Rachael Ray. With the exception of maybe Gilbert Godfried, I truly believe her to be the most annoying person on television. That said, I am guilty of something. Admittedly, $40 A Day generally tends to be the last thing I watch before I go to sleep. I don’t even understand it myself. Her voice, her comments, her facial expressions, everything about the show bothers me. I would compare it to the violence in the action movie that grosses you out, yet you can’t look away from it. Last night, as I watched her ‘take on’ Seattle, I once again internally criticized the show. I would say my biggest pet peeve throughout the thirty minutes, is the reaction to the food she’s eating. I have seen the majority of the episodes and not once have I heard Rachael say, “Eh, you know what, this isn’t the best brisket sandwich I’ve ever had,” or “Well this burrito tastes and smells like shit, but at least it only cost me $4.75 plus tax and tip.” Is it possible that with every first bite of food she takes, that annoying grunt/groan she makes is genuine? Highly unlikely.
I also think there are many aspects of $40 A Day that are impractical. If the show was completely honest to its audience, it would be called “$40 A Day; you can manage it if you have the appetite of a 90 pound model”. In one episode, Rachael orders a bowl of greens with dressing for lunch. Now we all know Rachael is no anorexic, but come on, a bowl of greens? Now, not only are you faking your orgasmic reaction to the food, but you are trying to convince an innocent viewer that they will be satisfied with this lunch of roughage.
Here’s another thing. I hate the way she tries to ‘mingle’ with the locals. Come on. I’m sure the person you find on the street to ask who serves the best eggs in Atlanta is just a random resident who doesn’t even notice the cameras behind her. Let’s face it, the restaurants she’s going to are planned in advance and these fake locals are crew members pretending to tell Rachael where she should spontaneously go eat.
My final annoyance could be the most important. Before the mid-show commercial break and at least two other times throughout $40, Rachael checks in on her spending via an animated check that pops up on the screen. After she announces what she has already spent, she continues to comment on going over her budget, breaking her budget and having enough money for dinner. Once again, I have yet to see her go over her budget. The show isn’t called $46 A Day and furthermore, how will we know if you spent more than $40? You could be lying about the price, guzzling wine at the commercial breaks or getting free sandwiches from restaurant owners.
Rachael is like that annoying girl in high school that somehow always showed up to the party uninvited and wouldn’t shut up when she got there. Rachael, if you’re reading this, I don’t really understand why you’re famous, I don’t understand who is buying your magazine but I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I said I don’t understand who is watching your shows. Yum-O.

The Fake Abbreviations

2006-07-18T16:59:00.001-05:00

I must say that I am noted quite frequently for my sarcasm and dry sense of humor. I guess I am most aware of it when I’m around someone who doesn’t know me very well and they give me a puzzled look when I tell them I enjoy stealing from my roommates. There have most certainly been instances in my life where I’ve had to remind myself of my surroundings and hold back on sarcastic commentary, i.e. job interviews, long conversations with Zeese, driving tests, jail…oops, there I go again.

The sarcasm is heightened however, when I’m around my family. It is mutually understood among the Kaplan’s that there are inside jokes, jargon, nicknames and destinations that stimulate sarcasm in the most bizarre sense of the word. It is also understood that if you try to explain Schteffie, two salty sides, Welcome Brother, Muck, Cup or Sunday to anyone outside of the insider, you’re bound to be greeted with another blank stare or a simple, “You’re so weird”.

I have come to realize in the past year that the Kaplan’s are not the only ones with a, shall I say, language set of their own. Jon Perlman, my sister-in-law’s brother and personal friend, has developed his own skill set that I have personally coined: Jon’s Fake Abbreviations. Over the past few years, Jon and I have developed a relationship that is largely based on text messaging, emailing and instant messaging. Through these channels, I have come to know Jon very well. It is now my duty to give you a personal analysis and interpretation of Jon’s made up terms that can only be used ‘digitally’.

It all started innocently enough. Some years ago I received an instant message from Jon. Instead of the standard, wudddddddddddup or hey, I was greeted with ‘vor’. Not quite sure what he was talking about, I asked him, ‘what is vor?’ In typical Jon fashion, his response was, ‘vor’. This continued for a few minutes until I called my brother, Brad to ask him what ‘vor’ meant. I was told that it stood for-verification of read, in other words, an abbreviated way of asking, ‘Are you there?’ Soon this became the standard greeting among Jon, myself, Brad and my sister-in-law Kristyn. Eventually it was shortened to just ‘v’, and it is still used sparingly among this group of four.

The real dictionary of terms has developed in the past six months and I have created a User’s Guide to Jon’s Fake Abbreviations, listed below.

Vd: Commonly used as a response to ‘V’, an alternative to yes, or a signification of agreement. Vd is Jon’s abbreviation for verified.
Example- Me: Alexis is cute.
Jon: Vd

Dd: The opposite of Vd, usually the second most common response to ‘V’. Many times additional D’s are incorporated to the abbreviation, indicating a more fervent response.
Example-Me: Are you going out tonight?
Jon: Ddddddddd

Sik: Abbreviation for sick, in the form of the word cool. Used most often in multiple text messages that I have no response for. Usually Jon uses this abbreviation to tell me what places in Chicago he finds to be acceptable venues to drink Red Bull and vodka.
Example- Jon: Enclave Sik.
Me:-
Jon: Enclave Sik.

Gros: Abbreviation for the word gross or the opposite of sik.
Example- Jon: Quartino gros (he likes big plates of protein, hence small plates of pasta would not agree with him)

Fyi: I’m sure you’ve heard of this one. It is the proper abbreviation for ‘for your information’. Still used to abbreviate those three words, Jon likes to use it at the end of a personal opinion, following sik or gros.
Example- Jon: Fresh Meat sik, fyi.

RFN: Acronym for ‘right fucking now’.
Me: When are you going there?
Jon: RFN

Brutus: Originally, I thought brutus was another word for brutal. In reality, or Jon’s reality, brutus means great or really sik.
Example-Jon: 30 E Huron pool brutus

Trust: Jon’s way to say ‘trust me.’ You can pretty much assume when Jon says trust, he is aware of something that he won’t reveal to you.
Example-Jon: Suite, fyi
Me: Why?
Jon: Trust.
(Reasoning behind it: Vince Vaughn was at Suite this particular night.)

Since I have formed a core understanding of Jon’s terminology, I have become an avid user and believer in it. Fake abbreviations are not only fun to use, but they are extremely habit forming. I highly recommend you implementing these terms into your digital messaging habits, RFN.

The Bad Breakfast

2006-07-01T09:18:00.000-05:00

As is my practice every morning, I gave my daughter Alexis breakfast this morning. Her customary meal for the last 2 months or so has been a piece of whole grain toast with jelly. Since bread is her favorite food and everything else comes in a distant second, she consumes this meal with great delight. This morning, however, I decided to tinker with the menu. Since her diet can best be classified as 80% bread, 15% pasta and 5% miscellaneous, my wife and I decided that we should try and modify these ratios and be a little more forceful with the fruits and vegetables. Also factoring into my decision this morning, was that we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant last night and Alexis's meal was essentially two baskets of bread and 3/4 of a meatball. All of that being said, when I put her in her highchair this morning, I definitely threw her a curveball. The first food I attempted to give her was bananas. Not a whole banana or a cut up banana, she'd never go for that (or any fruit in that presentation for that matter). The only way to possibly get her to eat fruit, is in the pureed, baby food variety. So she's in her chair, expecting her toast with jelly, and I come with the spoonful of bananas. Her first reaction is a look with a crooked eye as if to suggest, "Dad, are you fucking kidding me? This isn't what I eat for breakfast." I try again. Now she gives me a slightly stronger protest, the head turned away, as if to say, "Dad, seriously, I'm not eating this, stop joking around and get me my toast." One more try. Now she gives me the hand pushing the spoon away. A stronger protest suggesting, "DAD, FIND ANOTHER KID TO PUSH THESE SHITTY BANANAS ON! I'M HUNGRY AND DON'T FEEL LIKE PLAYING GAMES. GET ME MY GODDAMN TOAST!" I'm defeated with the fruit, but still have the mettle to try and mix up the diet. I go for the baby cereal with 2% milk. Again, I get a look as if to say, "Well, you've got balls, I'll give you that." She takes a spoonful, but again the look saying, "I'll humor you and eat a little of this, but don't for one second think this is acceptable or that I like it." We go through this routine with each spoonful as she disappointedly eats her cereal. My daughter's first disappointment--I took no pleasure from it. Every few minutes, I try and reintroduce the bananas. She looks at me like this is laughable. She finishes the cereal, but is still hungry. I decide to scramble her an egg. She wants food now though, so I try and bridge the gap with the Cheerios. She's a little bored with the Cheerios, but she certainly enjoys them more than either bananas or baby cereal, so I figure she'll see view them as an upgrade. In a way I'm right, because she eats some of them, but the majority are thrown on the floor as an overall protest to the meal. The eggs are now ready. I spread a few on her tray. She picks up a little piece and studies it. Puts it in her mouth. One second. Two seconds. Slowly spits it out and lets it dribble down her shirt. At this point her arms are raised, sugggesting "just get me the hell out of this highchair, this mockery of a meal is over". Twenty minutes later she goes down for her nap, disappointed by the events that have transpired. She shoots me a final glance before she lays her head down. There is no mistaking her message. "You better have one hell of a lunch planned."

So Long, Jackass!

2006-06-08T17:43:00.004-05:00

Parties come in many different forms and flavors. I am lucky enough to have been to everything from a Bar Mitzvah to a Blunt Mitzvah. I’ve come to realize, though, that there is one party that I just won’t ever completely understand. The Going Away Party. It’s not that I don’t get the concept: Hey, I’m going away so come get drunk and mourn my departure. What exactly do you do at a going away party? Basically you’re standing in line to talk to the person leaving about a dinner you went to with them two years ago that “seems like yesterday”. I just don’t get what you’re celebrating. I could see celebrating someone going away if you wanted them to go away, but then the person normally hosting the event probably wouldn’t be there. Can you imagine getting an Evite saying: Hey, that close talker with bad breath (have you noticed how those two characteristics go hand in hand, by the way) is moving to North Dakota! I know I’m not the only one excited! And to be safe, let’s have the party after they leave, just to make sure they don’t show up.

Three Cheers for the Bus Driver

2006-04-24T17:30:00.000-05:00

Since moving to a city close to a year ago, I’ve come to realize you can learn a lot from taking public transportation. Sure, I took the occasional bus in college, but let’s be realistic, 95% of the time I was either getting dropped off by one of my friends or I was calling a freshman for notes. The following are observations I have made over the past several months.

1) The Middle Syndrome (it’s not just for children anymore)-Nobody wants to sit in the middle seat on the bus; it’s a rule. Of course I’m referring to the benches in the front that seat three, where the first occupants tend to take the two end seats and when the bus gets overly crowded, the middle seater dives in. Not an intricate observation, I know. But here’s the fascinating part. Somehow, I always end up sitting next to the guy who doesn’t want to move over. I’ll be sitting in an end seat of a three-seater, fully occupied. The person sitting in the other end seat gets up, and the guy in the middle remains seated next to me. Mind you, this situation only happens to me when the bus has a variety of desirable seats available. I wonder, does this person really enjoy sitting more or less on top of me when there is a perfectly decent seat right next to him where he doesn’t have to feel my pulse. Sometimes I want to move to another seat. This causes a whole inner monologue in my head. “If I get up, will this person be one of those crazies who calls me out on it and starts yelling and asking why I felt the need to switch seats? Maybe they’re getting off at the next stop and that’s why they didn’t move over. Maybe they’re cold and they wanted to be close to me for body heat. Maybe they didn’t notice that the other guy got off the bus.” Whatever the reasoning, I don’t like it. Vacant seats on the bus can be hard to come by. I think there needs to be another announcement on the bus. Right after the little robot voice says, “Please be considerate and give up your seats for passengers with disabilities and expected mothers,” they should add in “And don’t be a jackass. Move over if you’re in the middle seat and the end seat is vacant.”

2) The Cell Phone Junkie- I am not a morning person. Anyone who has ever seen me within two hours of waking up knows my personality resembles a slightly less intense Ebenezer Scrooge. I get on the bus to work and I expect my twenty minutes to be a time to zone out and forget that I’m starting another day with my boss that has two capital letters in his name. To the girl who needs to talk on her cell phone, loud enough for everyone to hear, to the point where I know what brand of plates her and her fiancé are registered for, STOP! If this is the conversation you are going to be having at 8 AM you need to learn how to text message or take a cab to work. I couldn’t believe it. This happened to me about a month ago and I think everyone on the bus wanted to throw her and her cell phone out the window. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been found guilty on charges of bad cell phone etiquette a few times, but who wants to discuss their personal life in front of 50 plus strangers?

3) The Headphones Guy- I never expected to turn into that guy with the headphones. Admittedly, though, I think I can safely say, it happened. I never understood the concept of people walking around enveloped in music. How are you aware of your surroundings? What if someone is calling your name and you can’t hear them (my grandmother wanted to know). And furthermore, you look like a fool. I’ve accepted and assumed the privilege of music while you’re working out. Other than that, I couldn’t endorse it. I have to say though, I get it now. It’s relaxing. It clears your head and prepares you for a day or winds you down for an evening. Plus, there’s nothing better than listening to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” before I’ve had coffee.

4) The Germaphobe-Since I started taking the bus, I’ve become obsessed with Purell. Obsessed. My sister in law (whom I’ve referred to as Bad Ass in the past) is the queen of Purell. She goes through more bottles of Purell a week than her daughter goes through diapers. I don’t know if I’ve taken over her title, but I’m getting there. Not only do I keep a bottle with me, a bottle at my desk at work and a bottle at home, I’ll put it on while I’m on the bus. I’ll hear someone sneeze in the back of the bus when I’m sitting in the front and I’ll break it out right then and there. Someone smells like Indian food? Same deal. It’s almost like I’m a super hero and the Purell is my magic weapon. Still, I know, how much more sanitary is touching my roommates dog, which I don’t Purell after doing so, than touching the chrome bar on the bus—probably not much.

5) The Passenger Awareness-I’ve become very aware of regulars that I see every day on the bus. One woman in particular I always notice. She wears a bright orange jacket and closes her eyes the entire bus ride. I know a lot of the bus drivers too. They give me a nod or (gasp) a piece sign when I get on. Another woman is on the bus on my way home from work. I can’t figure out if she’s friends with this particular bus driver and that’s why she’s on the bus in the first place, but she sits in the seat closest to him every day and goes on and on about how many rollover minutes she has on her cell phone and how much she’s paying for them. I’ve had to sit next to her a few times. This is one instance when you would think the headphones come in handy. Not so. Even at my iPod’s maximum volume, I can still hear this woman’s shrieking voice at full capacity. (With Kool and the Gang as background noise).

Jesus Is My Co-Pilot....For Now

2006-03-10T23:28:00.000-06:00

I have never been a fan of bumper stickers. Sure I get the occasional giggle from a particularly witty phrase tattooed on someone's fender. "Unless you're a hemorrhoid, Get off my ass!" is a particular favorite. But on the whole I just don't care for the statement that a bumper sticker makes. And by statement, I'm not referring to the quip printed on the sticker, but rather the message a person sends about oneself by sticking a slogan on the rear of their vehicle. It is most certainly the sticking something on your bumper, and not the sticker itself that irks me. I became aware of this fact when I realized that I was particularly benign to seeing stickers on guitar cases, luggage trunks, surf boards, mail boxes, or any other random place one might stick a sticker(can you say that 5 times fast?).

As I see it there are three major categories of bumper sticker; political, religious, and humorous. Often times a bumper sticker may cross over two genres (after all if we can't separate church and state in Washington D.C. how can we expect to do it on bumper stickers). But most bumper stickers will in some way fall into the three main classifications (I've intentionally omitted all honor student bumper stickers as they deserve their own blog).

In the interest of brevity I have decided not to dissect each category in my usual angry rant. This blog has a point and it isn't to bash bumper stickers. I could go on about how I love to honk when I'm horny, or how nothing gives me a bigger smile than seeing some asshole who devalued their seventy thousand dollar car by slapping a Mondale/Ferraro '84 sticker on the bumper. But as I said, I have another purpose.

As much as bumper sticker users irritate me, there is one regard in which I have always respected them. Much like those who don tattoos, the bumper sticker junkie isn't afraid to commit to their beliefs. They will slap that stupid sticker (nice alliteration, eh) on their car knowing full well it would take an expensive laser surgery to remove it. I may not agree with your methods but I give you a polite nod of respect for your unwavering grit in standing by your beliefs (Even if those beliefs revolve around "nuking the whales").

But alas, ye that dons the rectangular adhesive message. Purveyor of slogans that can only be transmitted via a 10 X 2 piece of glorified duct tape. I have a bone to pick with you. For you see I am something of a purist who appreciates the nostalgia that comes with being true to form, and keeping things as they are. I like the original Pepsi can, I like my fire trucks red not yellow, and I like the first mom on the Fresh Prince of Bel Aire not her replacement. I like the old Tiger Stadium, the Quebec Nordiques, the Denver Broncos old logo, and it drives me bonkers that the Muppets didn't die with Jim Henson.

More than anything I disliked the whole bumper ribbon fad from the get go. Indeed I like the status quo, and it is my feeling that ribbons should be reserved for track meets and pig tails. I have nothing against supporting the troops per se, I just wish we could support them in the form of a parallelogram (symmetry is an obsession with me). Yet despite my reservations, I still could have looked past this grotesque dereliction of taste.

But, where I used to respect your testicular fortitude, now I merely loathe your cowardice. Because nothing could have prepared me for the horrible truth that I soon discovered about the new bumper ribbon fad. I was shocked and appalled to the point of violent dry heaving when I learned that these bumper ribbons were not stickers at all.....they were MAGNETS!!!

How dare a person attempt to sell me on an idea via the rear fender of their car, when they are not even committed to it themselves. I'm not going to be persuaded into supporting anything, by some shady waffler who can just change their mind (i.e. peel off the magnet) on a whim. How dare you insult the integrity of a long line of marvelous people, who have destroyed their vehicles for a purpose greater than themselves. You charlatans don't support the troops, YOU SUPPORT NOTHING!

With my faith in mankind destroyed yet again I have resorted to the only protest I could muster, which is petty larceny. So if I see your car with a magnet on the back, I'm going to steal it and then spit on your windshield. Hopefully you'll learn that if you're going to believe in something, to believe in it with a little backbone. I've already confiscated so many that I needed to build an extra room in my house just to store them all.

Here's five bumper stickers I'm currently manufacturing.

1. I just gave a can of botulism to your kid who beat up that honor student
2. I've got so much money, I don't care that this bumper sticker completely devalues my Porsche
3. The Moors will rise again. Tariq ibn-Ziyad LXVII in 2012!
4. Not even plastic surgery could make me as ugly as the person I see in my rear view mirror.
5. Bring back bumper stickers! (This one will be a ribbon, but you can bet your ass it won't be a magnet!)

Gale Sayers Eats Kugel. You Should Too.

2006-03-04T13:06:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK
*NOTE--THIS POST IS MINDLESS RAMBLING AND NOT A WELL THOUGHT OUT LITERARY PIECE. REGARDLESS, BON APPETIT....

Different Families acknowledge special events in different ways. Here are some examples:

-Putting on your finest outfits for Sunday Church

-Taking the plastic off your furniture

-Breaking out a special bottle of wine you've been saving

-Using the good china

-Sitting in the Living Room

In my family nothing says it's a big time event more than the presence of a Kugel. I don't care if it's the Super Bowl, Yom Kippur, Sunday Brunch, Mothers or Fathers Day--if there is a Kugel there, you know it is BIG. The Kugel actually is bigger than the event itself. Meaning that if my family is entertaining for the Super Bowl and someone makes Kugel, the event goes from being a Super Bowl party, to a Kugel party which coincidentally happened at the same time as some game on TV. One thing is for sure with my family--if the Pope is coming, Kugel will be served.

What is it about this concoction of noodles, egg, brown sugar, butter, cottage cheese, and corn flakes that makes it the gold standard of "entertaining"? Well, for one, it's delicious. Two, it's aesthetically pleasing. And three, it couldn't be more fattening if it wanted too (always a plus).

Different families have different variations on how they take their Kugel--

-Hot or cold?

-With raisins or without?

-Big flat noodle or the lesser used, but equally great, spaghetti noodle?

As a kid, my family once hosted football great, Gale Sayers, for brunch at our house. Not the most charming person I've ever met. He pretty much sat in our family room and watched football and avoided conversation with anyone but my Dad the entire time he was over. You could have been a little friendlier and upbeat, Gale. It's not like we were running Brian's Song on the big TV. No one kicked you in your left knee. There wasn't even the expectation to go into the backyard and put together a small pickup game, so I could go Deacon Jones on your ass. Had you shown a little more attention to me as an impressionable adolescent, maybe you could have kept me off the streets, away from the smack, gang banging and whatnot. I've subsequently heard you on the radio and seen you on TV. You always come off as personable and affable. The world can think that you are Mr. Personality, but I'll always know better. The only thing that put a smile on your face that day 16 years ago, was a fat piece of my mom's Kugel. You even insisted on getting the recipe (that's made up). Kugel baby, it's the great equalizer!

The Farmer in CorDell

2006-02-22T22:40:00.001-06:00

POSTED BY LINDSAY

Ok, I'll admit it. I am not always the sharpest knife in the drawer, or in the chopping block depending on your kitchen space. To me, the only person I know that truly defines perfection is my niece, Alexis, (See The Idiot Father). I may be a slightly critical person but I am also consistent, which is why my top pet peeves have rightfully remained the same over the years. Unfortunately for me, I recently found someone who encompasses every pet peeve I never thought to include on my list and thus defines my new list of pet peeves. Before I fill you in on my latest and most irritable, I would like to give you a rundown of my standard classics that now take a distant second place to my new list. I apologize in advance if I'm hitting too close to home for anyone but if it makes you feel any better, it's never too late to change your ways!

Old Pet Peeves:
-People with B.O.
-People who walk at a snails pace for no reason in the middle of the street/sidewalk and have no regard for the people behind them who are trying to get somewhere. ( I really have nowhere to go I just truly can't stand these assholes!)
-Close talkers
-People who change their personality depending on who they're with
-People who choose to use alternative swear words (curse words for the East Coasters) i.e.-frick, heck, dang, fudge-also anyone that uses the phrase "Dog gone it" applies to this peeve
-People that can't spell
-People over the age of eight who drink Mountain Dew--this rule could be stretched to an early ten, but if you're thirty, drink some coffee or turn to drugs. It's better to be a drug addict than to be caught drinking something neon yellow.

Sidebar-I should also mention that this doesn't necessarily only apply to humans-I'm fully against a terrier that has B.O.

So, while those listed above most definitely continue to annoy me, my new jackass boss has undoubtedly taken the cake and outstaged every one of my former pet peeves, as well as fit the description for some off the old list.

I'll begin with the basics. His name is CorDell. That's right, a big capital D in the middle of his name. Let's examine this. Upon receiving my first email from him I wondered to myself, do you think he created the big D in his name? And now that I know him, he most certainly did. It's like in that movie with Steve Martin and Sarah Jessica Parker when her name is Sandee and she spells it with alternating capital and lowercase letters. Please, who has the time for that bullshit?

Now, let's go over his appearance. He's 31 and he looks about 45. He wears his hair in a stylish comb over, yet he's not balding. His standard outfit usually consists of pants out of a Land's End catalog, some sort of paisley metro shirt from Banana Republic so he can look "liberal" and a pair of ankle boots that would only be appropriate if he were a jockey in Manchester, England.

Now that we've covered the basic reasoning for why CorDell defines the word douchebag, here is a list of the latest pet peeves.

1)He does the dry laugh: If you're not sure what I'm referring to, I'm talking about that annoying sound that resembles a cough that's most commonly exerted when a real laugh isn't really necessary but you want to appear humorous. News Flash: It's not funny, you just sound like you have asthma.

2)He thinks he's a genius and everyone else is beneath him: Now let me clarify this. Diane Sawyer is my hero, if she wants to prance around Times Square and act like she's better than everyone in New York, that's her right. She is brilliant. I don't find someone that spells graphically (graphycally) and doesn't know the difference between two, to and too (Hello, fourth grade!) to be smarter than me. He finds the need, however to constantly undermine everything I say by being inquistive, as well as talk to me like I'm incompetent.

Here are some examples:

Example 1:

Me: The print out that we want isn't coming out in the colors we need, we need to change the printer ribbon

Dell: (Smirking at me) The ribbon or the cartridge?

Me: Blank stare

Example 2:

(After my first presentation for the partners of the company)

Dell: You did a really good job, I think that went well.

Me: Me too, I'm surprised, it was better than I expected.

Dell: (In all seriousness) Yeah I expected you to choke and thought I was going to have to cover the entire thing.

Me: More blank stares

3) He answers the phone in a professional voice even though he has caller ID and knows exactly who is calling him: Last week, he answers his cell phone in his annoying voice, "Hello, this is CorDell." Because his desk is five inches from mine I can hear the entirety of his conversation and realize thirty seconds into it that he's talking to his wife. His wife! Does he really not know her number on the caller ID or does he just feel the need to maintain "professionalism" while discussing which Olive Garden he should meet her at for dinner? I'm dumbfounded.

This last one is part of my classic list, however I could not leave it out as it is one of the most pertinent to defining his character.

4) Every other word out of his mouth is frick: I work in an office where fuck is completely acceptable, if not preferable in conversation. CorDell opts for frick and why wouldn't he? I think you can rightfully agree that "Frickin-A" lost its luster the second you graduated from middle school.

I plan on frequently adding more annoyances to this list as I continue to contemplate poking both of my eyes out with a pencil so I can leave work and bypass talking to him. If you know CorDell (there's only one right?), I'd like to keep my job for a while, so I would appreciate you keeping this from him.

Dwoskin Picks a Peck of Pickled Peppers

2006-02-14T21:45:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

This friend of my parents, Marc Dwoskin, is very into pickling stuff. An excellent hobby in my book and earns him immediate credibility with me. So every year he pickles a new vintage of peppers (One might argue about using the term vintage for peppers. I think its fitting and appropriate. Clearly, they differ from year to year--same as wine. And I'd put a 2003 Dwoskin Hungarian Pepper up against a 1990 Chateau Margaux any day of the week). I'm not sure how many types of peppers he actually pickles, but the 3 types I'm familiar with are:

1) Hungarian--A larger, yellowish banana type pepper. Hot, but the mildest of the group. These are tremendous!

2) Jalapeno--You know what they are, but in pickled variety. Incredibly hot for my taste, but if cut into very small pieces and used in salads, turkey burgers, etc, they're very tasty.

3) Scotch Bonnet--Small little peppers, the hottest of the 3. I wish I was man enough to enjoy these, but the heat is pretty much unbearable to me (it's like the Equator in your mouth).

So basically Dwoskin goes down to the Eastern market in Detroit on the appropriate date every year and stocks up on that years inventory of peppers. He then goes through the pickling process (I'm foggy on these details) and stores the pickles in mason jars for what I believe is several months until they are at the appropriate condition for eating. He gave my Dad a couple jars a few years ago, when he expressed some interest, and my Dad has become the equivalent of a Crack addict (not that I'm criticizing this) with these peppers ever since. He introduced my brother and I to them and we both fell in love also (although, admittedly, I can only eat them in moderation, whereas my Dad literally could cut them up at 7 AM and put them on his breakfast cereal).

During that first honeymoon year, Dwoskin was always good to our family, keeping our refrigerators stocked with his peppers (One might argue that he seemed to be a little stingy with the Hungarians, always claiming "that he didn't have any". But again, his hobby is PICKLING. So I'm certainly going to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one). So Dwoskin would hook us up with our pepper stash, the only caveat being that we return his mason jars upon completion (as solid a deal as one could ask for). As the new season was nearing, Dwoskin approached his best customer (my Dad) to make the pilgrimmage to the Eastern market to help shop for the upcoming vintage. To me this would be a terrific experience and also a great opportunity. You'd think it would be the equivalent of a wine connoisseur getting a trip to Bordeaux or a cigar aficionado going to Havana. My Dad (who certainly qualifies as a pepper guru), however, declined the invitation, not wanting to get up at the crack of dawn to take part in this activity. I questioned this decision back then and my same issues remain today. My issues with the decision, in no particular order:

-He was running the risk of putting our pepper supply in jeopardy. My Dad's thought process was, why should I help with the legwork and learn the nuances of the pickling process, when I can just continue to enjoy the spoils of Dwoskin's largesse? At that time, every time he returned a mason jar to Dwoskin, he was given a full one back in return (kind of like Netflix, but this service was free and he never got a movie/pepper that he didn't like). It was the perfect set up. Where my Dad was misguided is that he believed that this sweet deal would continue indefinitely with no strings attached. I advised him that even if he didn't want to go, it was worth sucking it up for one morning to ensure that you're grandfathered in for unlimited peppers for the entire year's vintage. Seemed like a small price to pay. I felt that by turning down Dwoskin's invitation, he was exposing us to the risk of potentially offending and alienating Dwoskin, and possibly cutting off our supply at the source. He wouldn't hear of it though, he thought these concerns were unfounded.

-IT WAS AN OPPORTUNITY TO GET A DAY OF ALONE TIME WITH DWOSKIN!!! Now I don't know Dwoskin that well, but from what I do know of him that doesn't seem like a bad thing. First of all, they are both decent looking, middle aged Jewish guys with good hair. They both have a little bit of paunch and girth to them. Plus they have at least one shared interest (Peppers). The only thing my Dad was giving up on this Saturday morning, was a walk down to the end of the driveway in his robe to get the Free Press, a cup of coffee, a crossword puzzle and a few phone calls to me. He could of probably politely done all these things throughout his morning with Dwoskin. Clearly it was a missed opportunity.

-It was a chance to get an inside look at how great pickling goes down. Dwoskin was offering the Keys to the Castle and my Dad wasn't willing to stop by and pick up the envelope. Now a few words about my Dad. He doesn't have a lot of hobbies per se. He enjoys talking on his cell phone, checking voicemail, reading the Buckeye Sports Bulletin (BSB), doing crossword puzzles, watching sports, going to Costco and doing airport runs. Thats about it. The only other hobbies involve food. He enjoys mustards and sauces as much as any Kaplan, he's tinkered in creating dry rubs, he likes barbequing and derives as much pleasure as is humanly possible by getting a good sear on a piece of fish or meat. So clearly, pickling would fit right into this category and would only enhance his repertoire. This is a craft that he could pass down to his children and grandchildren. If something (god forbid) ever happened to Dwoskin, he'd be next in line to take over the operation. I just don't see the downside.

So anyway, my Dad didn't go that day and as predicted the relationship soured. Sure, we get the occassional jar here and there, but it was never like that first magical year again. I don't know how to contact Dwoskin directly, but for anyone that may have his email that reads this ridiculous blog, if you could please forward this message to Dwoskin for me I'll be forever indebted to you. Thanks in advance.

Dwoskin--

I don't say it enough, but I'm very fond of your work and have been for several years. I know that my Dad didn't turn out to be the apprentice that you were looking for and I want to right that. I will be the Anakin Skywalker to your Obi Wan Kenobi (except that I won't turn against you and annihilate the entire Pepper Pickling population). You let me know the date for the next trip to the Eastern Market and I will make the necessary travel arrangements to be in Detroit on that date (I will pay for my own transportation and lodging). I promise to be up and ready to go at whatever hour you ask. I'd like to learn the entire process start to finish and can take a leave of absence from work to spend time in your basement watching the peppers pickle over time (The only thing I ask is that you have a good TV with cable and ample snacks and beverages available in the fridge). I eagerly await your response and look forward to building a long and mutually rewarding relationship pickling peppers, united as one.

I Remain,
Brad Kaplan
Soon to be Apprentice to Dwoskin, Pickling God

*I don't have a picture of Dwoskin to post and really wish I did. I put it out there that I thought he looked like Neil Lefton (particularly the same great curly hairdo). I was forcefully told by an unnamed source that, "He looks nothing like Neil Lefton!!!!" So even though I have no picture and can't really describe what Dwoskin looks like, we can safely say that the next time you see Neil Lefton, you'll know that's not what Dwoskin looks like. I'm just going to say that Dwoskin is easy on the eyes and we'll leave it at that.

I Don't Know What a Bubbie Is

2006-02-14T14:38:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY LINDSAY, GUEST CONTRIBUTOR

Sunday afternoon for me usually means a lunch date with my roommate Lauren. Lauren has been one of my best friends since my first year of college and I must say she's given me some of the funniest stories to share with others. Last year, during our last semester of school, Lauren went to visit her boyfriend in New York. Unfortunately, after she arrived at the Indianapolis airport check-in, she realized she had left her luggage in the kitchen of our house in Bloomington. Maybe you had to be there, but to me, the funniest part of the story is that she didn't realize she didn't have a bag until she got to check-in. She parked her car, took the shuttle to the airport and walked to baggage claim without realizing she did not have a bag. Lauren's lifestyle also has a lot of parallelism to a person suffering from obesity. Her typical dinner consists of two sandwiches from Potbelly's, followed by another dinner of some sort an hour later, followed by a lot of laying on the couch and finally a night of sleep.

I love her like a sister but you must understand that going out to lunch with her involves recognizing her habits that you must accept in order to ensure a successful meal. Usually I wake up about 10:00 the latest. I call my friend Ashley because I know she's been up since at least 7 and we chat for about an hour. Lauren rolls out of bed anywhere between 11:30 and 2, even though she went to bed at least four hours before me. We discuss where we are going to go to eat. My general rule tends to be that I want lunch over breakfast, simply because I'm partial to lunch. Lauren just wants to go somewhere with dip. I can honestly say that if dip were a food group, Lauren would be its most avid user.

The next step involves getting ready to go to lunch. For me, this means, brushing my teeth, putting on sweat pants and sometimes some blush. For Lauren, it means, taking Franky the hot dog on the porch and yelling at him to pee on a pad, plucking her eyebrows, doing two loads of laundry and going back to bed for an hour. So three hours later, we're at California Pizza Kitchen. Lauren hides behind the parking garage wall while she smokes a cigarette, afraid that her nursery school students will see her. I remind her that it's 4:00, and most four-year-olds eat lunch at 11:30, but she argues that you can never be too cautious.

We order as soon as we sit down and sit more or less in silence the entire meal. We've reached a point in our relationship where there are no longer awkward pauses and we prefer not to talk to each other. Lauren also hates to wait for the check. As soon as she's done, she's ready to go. Dessert? Nope. Just the check, now. We drive home in silence and Lauren goes to her room to take a nap. Lazzzy Sundays.

Mission Impossible--Seacrest to Spielberg: The Ultimate Makeover

2006-02-11T07:26:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

My Brother In Law, Jon, recently began a search to find a new condo. He found a unit in his current building that he has some interest in. Due to reasons that would be way too exhausting to explain, he had to pose as me via email to initiate a conversation with the Seller. A dialogue has now been created via email between Fake Brad (Jon) and Seller. This is quickly moving towards a face to face meeting. Personally, I don't think that Jon can pull off a sufficient impersonation of yours truly. But as a loyal and faithful brother, I am here to help create a step by step handbook of how to successfully execute this tranformation. This is not a new reality show, but it will truly be, The Ultimate Makeover.

Let us first take a look at the subjects:

APPEARANCE:

BK--Looks like a younger version of Steven Spielberg (minus the facial hair) with Mario Batali's body and Howard Stern's nose.

JP--Looks like a cross between Ryan Seacrest and one of those Aryan Kids from "The Boys from Brazil".

ATHLETIC ABILITY:

BK--Has low post moves like an out of shape, white, jewish, 6 foot tall Charles Oakley. Slow. If I started running the 40 now, I'd still be running by the time you finished this post.

JP--Received a full scholarship to play Division I tennis. Scrawny, yet wiry, waifish, yet spry, flimsy, yet scrappy. If he were a basketball player, he'd be Jeff Hornacek, but with better hair and a worse shooting touch.

ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION:

BK--Sometimes enjoys a Ketel One rocks when out or a Glass of Red Wine with dinner.

JP--On an off night, makes Barney Gumble look like a social drinker.

EATING HABITS:

BK--This has been well documented. Not a lot of self control. Adventurous. Likes all cuisines, but for an indifference to Mexican and a dislike for Indian. The only specific food I truly dislike off the top of my head is polenta. Weaknesses include Italian and Jewish Delis, Good Japanese, Old School Italian Restaurants, Greek, Shellfish (particularly East Coast Oysters and in season Stone Crabs (obviously)), Barbeque (but not from North Carolina, that was gross) and anything in the Thai/Chinese/Vietnamese genres.

JP--Plays it close to the vest. Doesn't venture past the 10-15 JP seal of approval local establishments. Favors American Grill style fare. Likes big plates of protein (ie. steak and/or chicken) and lots of it. Consumes Diet Coke with the same frenetic abandon that he downs Miller Lite on a Friday night (hey, that rhymes!). Atkins diet could be interchanged with Perlman diet if it weren't for those sticky copyright and patent laws. The next dessert I see him eat will be the first dessert I see him eat. Enjoys a Big Salad as much as Elaine Benes.

FASHION SENSE:

BK--Wardrobe is a cross between my Papa Howard, Al Gore and Larry David. I wear a lot of Polo, not because I want to, but because I don't know what else to wear.

JP--Either ultra casual college kid gear (favoring backwards hat, comfortable sweat pants and lots of hoodie type sweatshirts) or Urban Hipster (fancy, trendy dress shirts matched with expensive, designer jeans).

Clearly, my work is going to be cut out for me.....

I've decided the best way to pull off this makeover is with an 8 step plan that I've created. This may not be quick, but damnit, we're going to do it right.

THE 8 STEP TRANSFORMATION PLAN

1) A 4 week drying out period at the Betty Ford clinic. This is only necessary after a weekend getaway to Vegas or Toronto. Also would be applicable after a Friday night where he leaves over 1 and a half credit cards at local watering holes.

2) An anger management course and possibly a small prescription for Xanax in an attempt to adopt my more even keel, passive, non confrontational personality. This will also be beneficial to tackle road rage issues, which leads me to....

3) An 8 week enrollment in the Phil Perlman Drivers Education course. This will help to keep his average speed in the 40-50 MPH neighborhood, eliminate tactics such as gunning it through red lights, reckless U turns and speeding up when approaching idiot pedestrians that have no clue that JP, in fact, has the right of way. Also, he'll have to learn how to drive less skillfully and swerve more when talking on his cell phone in the car, in an attempt to better mirror my technique.

4) A long weekend in Madison, Wisconsin during football season. This must include a Thursday night at Bucks for cheap pitchers of Vodka Lemonade, at least 1 Marlin lunch and 1 Marlin dinner, an afternoon drinking beers on the Terrace, a game of catch in library mall (type of ball is optional), a sandwich from Fraboni's, a Football Saturday that includes a morning stop at Brat's for Bloodys, a great seat in Section P, a Badger win, a rousing 5th quarter, either a Turkey BLT at Rad Rye or a Burger from Dottie's (or both), a Pint at the Irish Pub, a Cocktail of his choosing out of Stein 228 at Paul's Club (Kaplan's Whisky), a night at Still's with Rosalita on the jukebox at bartime and a couple Good Afterbars. Only then will he know the true power of UW and be able to put his allegiance to the not as great Mid American Conference in the rear view mirror.

5) Operation Weight Gain. He's got about 80 lbs to put on if he's going to match my robust physique. Carb it up, baby!!!! Lots of Bread--French, Rye, Pumpernickel, Focaccia, Bagels, and Bialies. Also, lots of Pudding--Chocolate, Vanilla, Banana, Rice and Tapioca. Or to simplify things we could just do an all Bread Pudding diet (has this ever been attempted before?). Mix in lots of fatty cheeses and cured meats to go along with it. Plates and plates of Lasagna. Substitute Diet Coke with Chocolate Malts. Deep Fry everything (including the lasagna and the chocolate malts). You'll be there in no time.

6) Correct your eyesight (or really incorrect it). I have to assume JP has perfect vision based on his prowess on the tennis court coupled with his aggressive driving skills (without ever having an accident). This will have to change. I can't see anything. He's going to need more of a Kurt Rambis, Chuck Muncie or Clark Kent kind of look. Just getting some frames with faux lenses isn't going to cut it. If JP read, I'd tell him to spend a couple months reading some books with small print in the dark. We'll come up with something though--maybe we'll just throw some Bread Pudding in his eyes.

7) Now that he's put on the weight, he's going to need the Biggggg Pants. 38's should be snug, yet roomy. A half day at Brooks Brothers, the Polo store and the Camper store, should get him the look he's seeking. Lots of V-Neck Sweaters with button downs underneath are the in vogue look. Stan Smith's for his feet if he's feeling whimsical. Polo golf shirts in every color will be the staple to complete this wardrobe alteration.

8) A weeklong trip to either Bourgogne or Napa Valley. No more Boone's Farm for you, my friend ("I thought this was a fine wine store? What do you mean you don't sell Boone's Farm?). If you want to roll in my shoes, you'll need to know the difference between a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Sauvignon Blanc and how to pronounce Gewurztraminer.

So remember, young Jon Perlman, you must complete my 8 step plan. Only then, Brad Kaplan will you be!

WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY THAT? (a tribute to the most obscure song lyrics of the 70s & 80s)

2006-02-07T14:59:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY EL SHAZZARINO, GUEST CONTRIBUTOR

American's love lists, American's love countdowns, and American's especially love rankings. Lebanese-American Casey Kasem (born Kemal Amin Kasem) is the founder and Godfather of the countdown. He changed his name, to avoid being profiled and strip searched at the airport. From 1970 until 2004 he hosted the "American Top 40" radio program, which laid the foundation for every list and countdown program in American history (That's right "10 best commercials of 1999", you're just a Kasem doppelganger).

Casey's charismatic style, extensive knowledge, and hypnotic voice spawned a Marxistlike following. I myself, recall tuning in every Sunday morning on the way to Sunday School. The carpool would invariably catch songs 37-35 on the way there, and be treated to the top 3 on the way home. This being long before the internet existed, week in and week out I was never able to find out what songs filled slots 40-38 and 34-4.

Kasem reigned supreme in the countdown world until the beginning of the 21st century. It was around this time that cable television was facing a harsh truth. They had so many channels and so little to air. What followed was an endless barrage of B-movies, re-runs of old television series, and my nemesis reality television (See http://notinbookershouse.blogspot.com/2006/02/why-steve-urkel-is-famous-and-i-never.html ). While this shitstorm of second rate programming rained down upon the unsuspecting viewer, one revolutionary network was retooling. VH1 had already begun to steer away from it's dull beginnings of just airing music videos. "Behind The Music" was giving VH1 all kinds of street cred, with it's dramatic theme music and roller coaster ride through the lives of our favorite musicians. One could argue that the show was somewhat elitist because only musicians who had battled through drug and alcohol abuse were worthy candidates to be featured. Yet, despite the exclusionary nature of the show, VH1 had earned loads of programming currency, the only question was what to spend it on.

Enter the countdown show! 100 Greatest Teen Stars, 40 Most Awesomely Bad #1 Songs,40 Most Awesomely Bad Breakup Songs, 40 Most Awesomely Bad Dirrty Songs...Ever, 40 Most Awesomely Bad Love Songs, 40 Most Awesomely Bad Metal Songs...Ever, 10 Most Excellent Things, 100 Sexiest Artists, 25 Greatest Protest Songs, and the list goes on and on and on.

I have no particular grievance with countdown shows. In fact I find myself watching and trying to predict what their top 10 will be. Then I determine what my personal top 10 would be. Frankly(yet embarrassingly), I get excited when they agree with me.

Casey Kasem pioneered it, VH1 revitalized it, and so many other cable networks (ESPN, E!, The History Channel, TV Land, TCM, etc.) copied it. Now, I will join the ranks and create my own countdown. Out of respect to Casey Kasem it will be music based. Since VH1 has covered just about every music countdown topic imaginable, it will have to be obscure. Most importantly it will need a kick ass title. So without further ado I give you......

WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY THAT?
(a countdown of the most obscure song lyrics of the 70s & 80s)

THE 70s

I'm no poet laureate but I love music. I really listen to the lyrics and appreciate the depth of great songwriters. I like to think that although I don't understand poetry at all, I do generally understand the deeper meaning of songs. Here are 5 that I don't understand.

5. JOY TO THE WORLD-Three Dog Night (Naturally-1970)

Lyrics:
Jeremiah was a bullfrog
Was a good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him a-drink his wine
And he always had some mighty fine wine

My Interpretation:
The artist is singing about a friend of his from France. He's a frog, has mighty fine wine, and is difficult to understand. Sounds like a Frenchman to me. It was nice of him not to call his friend smelly too.

4. PARKER'S BAND-Steely Dan (Pretzel Logic-1974)

Lyrics:
You'll be riding by, bareback on your armadillo
You'll be grooving high or relaxing at Camarillo
Suddenly the music hits you
It's a bird in flight that just can't quit you

My Interpretation:
First, Steely Dan gets honorable mention for most obscure lyrics by any band all time. Despite the obscurity, I have managed to figure out most of their songs through excessive listening. That said I have no idea what they're talking about here. I know what an armadillo is and Camarillo is a city in California I believe. What a tangled web that Donald Fagan weaves.

3. LOOKIN OUT MY BACK DOOR-Creedence Clearwater Revival (Cosmo's Factory-1970)

Lyrics:
There's a giant doing cartwheels, a statue wearin' high heels.
Look at all the happy creatures dancing on the lawn.
A dinosaur victrola list'ning to buck owens.
Doo, doo, doo, lookin' out my back door.
Tambourines and elephants are playing in the band.
Won't you take a ride on the flyin' spoon?
Doo, doo doo.
Wond'rous apparition provided by magician.
Doo, doo, doo, lookin' out my back door.

My Interpretation:
Let me preface by saying that I believe it's a cop out to look at song lyrics and simply state "they must have been on drugs when they wrote this". However, they must have been on drugs when they wrote this. He's looking out his back door while tripping on mescaline?

2. BARRACUDA-Heart (Little Queen-1977)

Lyrics:
You met the porpoise and me
No right no wrong, selling a song-
A name, whisper game.
If the real thing don't do the trick
You better make up something quick
You gonna burn burn burn burn it to the wick
Ooooooh, barracuda?

My Interpretation:
I think that Heart was comprised of some fairly empowered women. So I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that Barracuda is a metaphor for men who prey on women. These lyrics represent the line of bullshit that men use to get women in bed. As for the porpoise, I'll go ahead and assume it's a colloquialism for vagina.

PAUSE FOR A COMMERCIAL BREAK TO PEAK THE VIEWER'S INTEREST AND ANTICIPATION....

1. BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY-Queen (A Night at the Opera-1975)

Lyrics:
I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramouche,scaramouche will you do the fandango-
Thunderbolt and lightning-very very frightening me-
Galileo,galileo,
Galileo galileo
Galileo figaro-magnifico

My Interpretation:
A small skinny man named Scaramouche is trying to buy movie tickets online. He marvels at his lightning fast internet connection and screams "Galileo" (for some odd reason) as his credit card is accepted. This song was very forward thinking.

THE 80S

The music of the 80s didn't have the depth of the 70s. It was a bubble gum era and the music was shallow and meaningless. There were some catchy tunes, but the lyrics left little to the imagination. Here's the most complex of the simple.

5. 99 LUFTBALLON(Nena-1984) & ROCK ME AMADEUS(Falco-1986)

Lyrics:
Sprechen Ze Deutch?

My Interpretation:
I feel that these two songs deserve honorable mention. Despite being entirely in German both of these songs reached the peak of popularity in the U.S. Since I don't speak German the meaning of these lyrics completely elude me. Ill go out on a limb though and say Falco is singing about Mozart and Nena is singing about balloons.

4. SLEDGEHAMMER-Peter Gabriel (So-1986)

Lyrics:
You could have a steam train, If you'd just lay down your tracks
You could have an aeroplane flying, If you bring your blue sky back
All you do is call me
I'll be anything you need
You could have a big dipper, Going up and down, all around the bends
You could have a bumper car, bumping, This amusement never ends
I want to be your sledgehammer

My Interpretation:
The fact that he inexplicably switches to Spanish and says aeroplane vexes me. Is it just because he wants that extra syllable? I'm equally puzzled by his bizarre transition from constellations to bumper cars. Perhaps this song is just a gross abuse of popularity. I never thought of Peter Gabriel as arrogant, but the truth is I don't know the man. Maybe he just figured his fans would swallow nonsense because he is so beloved. That or he just wants to fix all our problems. Does the sledgehammer have any meaning? Would the overall message of the song change if he was our allen wrench, our phillips head screwdriver, or our ball peen hammer?

3. ILL TUMBLE 4 YA-Culture Club (Kissing To Be Clever-1982)

Lyrics:
Downtown we'll drown
We're in our never splender
Flowers, Showers
Who's got the new boy gender

I'll be your baby
I'll be your score
I'll run the gun for you
And so much more

I'll tumble 4 ya, I'll tumble 4 ya, I'll tumble 4 ya, I'll tumble 4 you

My Interpretation:
Nothing moves me more than a love story. And no love is more pure than the love of a gymnast for his coach. Boy George's metaphors are so subtle and sneaky you can barely see the balance beam and pummel horse behind the lyrics. Keep tumbling for me George.

2. ELECTRIC AVENUE-Eddy Grant (Killer on the Rampage-1982)

Lyrics:
Who is to blame in one country
Never can get to the one
Dealin' in multiplication
And they still can't feed everyone, oh no
We gonna rock down to Electric Avenue
And then we'll take it higher
Oh we gonna rock down to Electric Avenue
And then we'll take it higher

My Interpretation:
Eddy Grant was just sticking it to the Church. This song may well have been written as an ad for Trojan condoms. The only message I can find here is "use birth control". Who knew that behind his smooth beats and intoxicating rhythm, Eddy Grant was so politically charged. Take it higher Eddy, Take it higher!

DRUMROLL PLEASE......THE MOST OBSCURE LYRICS OF THE 1980s COME FROM THE SONG....

1. THE REFLEX-Duran Duran (Seven & The Ragged Tiger-1983)

Lyrics:
So why don't you use it
Try not to bruse it
Buy time don't lose it

The reflex is an only child, he's waiting in the park
The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark
And watching over lucky clover isn't that bizarre

My Interpretation:
I'm guessing that in the first three lines he's talking about his erect penis. The second section leads me to believe he's some sort of perverted pederast hiding in the park, waiting for an unsuspecting child to molest. I never realized Duran Duran were so edgy and obscene. What really disturbs me is that I sang along with this song as a boy. You violated me Duran Duran, you sick European bastards.

A History of Inedible Cookies

2006-02-03T17:01:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY LINDSAY, GUEST CONTRIBUTOR

To me, there's nothing better than a good cookie. Some may look forward to going to Joe's when the stone crab is in season and not cryogenically frozen, I look forward to going to Mrs. Fields at the Merchandise Mart when the Manager's Specials are 2 for 1. There's only one person that appreciates cookies as much as me and her name is Kristyn "Bad Ass" Kaplan. Granted, she judges the quality of a restaurant based on whether or not they serve cotton candy, nevertheless, she'll do as a witness for this intricate study. I have tried many cookies in my life, some good, some bad and some that looked like Dudley. The following are my top five favorites:
1) Smiley Face Cookie-Diamond Bakery, West Bloomfield, MI USA
2) Double Doozy-Great American Cookie Company, Bloomington, IN USA
3)M&M-Frances' Deli, Chicago, IL USA
4)Nutella Cookie-Some bakery in Florence, Italy, Europe
5)Chocolate Chunk-Eatzi's, Anywhere USA

My love for cookies has admittedly caused a major problem for me. The problem is not that I am so addicted that I would snort cookie powder if given to me, the problem, is something much more serious. Every time I have encountered someone with the name Cookie in my 23 years, my heart skips a beat. Undeserving? No question. Unappreciative? Without a doubt. In my opinion, the only people that deserve to have the name Cookie are myself, Bad Ass and that guy from Sugar Rush with the dreadlocks. Obviously it's not as common of a name as Kip or Ned, but I've found a few of them and have created a small analysis of the great inedible Cookies throughout history.

Cookie Monster
You all know him. He's furry, he's blue and he's been around the block a few times. I've never actually heard him say anything other than "Me Want Cookie", unless you count the violent chewing sounds he makes as he's shoving them in his puppet mouth. I mean, any character whose sole responsibility is to eat cookies, I have to respect. He seems to do alright for himself. I don't know what rent is like on Sesame Street these days but he must not spend much money on clothes, and his blue outfit doesn't look too shabby after what, 40 years?

Cookie Jarvis
Well, I'm not sure if Cookie is his real name, or if it's a nickname based on his athletic eating capabilities. At a curvy 419 pounds, Jarvis holds the most food contestant titles of anyone in the world.
Here are some examples:

Cannoli: 21 cannoli / 6 minutes
Chicken Fingers: 2 pounds, 2.5 ounces Hooter's chicken wings / 5 minutes
Chicken-Fried Steak: 6 11-ounce chicken fried steaks with country gravy/ Lone Star Cafe / 12 minutes/ Nov. 2, 2003
Corned Beef & Cabbage: Five Pounds Freirich Corned Beef & Cabbage / 10 Minutes/ Mar. 16, 2004
Dumplings: 91 Chinese dumplings / 8 minutes
French Fries: 4.46 pounds Nathan's Famous Crinkle Cut Fries / Six Minutes/ March 31, 2005
Grapes: 8 Pounds, 15 Ounces Grapes/ Smirnoff Twisted V Wild Grape / 10 Minutes/ Nov. 1, 2005
Ham & Potatoes: 6 pounds of Easter Feaster meal / 12 minutes
Ice Cream: 1 gallon, 9 ounces of vanilla ice cream / 12 minutes
Pasta: 6 2/3 pounds linguini (no. 115) / 10 minutes
Pomme Frites: 2 pounds 9 ounces of Pomme Frites / 8 minutes
Sweet Corn: 33 1/2 ears sweet corn/ Sweet Corn Fiesta / 12 minutes/ Apr. 24, 2004

What do you think was harder to down, the pommes frites or the french fries? I'm going to go with the pommes frites as they tend to have a rougher texture than french fries. Again, you have to respect someone who is admitting proudly that he weighs 419 pounds, but with all these stats, I'm thinking he would've chosen a name like Beef Stew Jarvis or Rack of Lamb Jarvis.

Cookie from City Slickers
Cookie, played by Tracey Walter, was the drunken ranch guy who died mid-way through the cattle drive. I guess the director of the movie didn't feel he needed a last name but he appeared to be a nice guy and seemed fine with being second or third banana to Billy Crystal. I see no direct correlation to Chips Ahoy, but maybe it was in the underlying message of the film.
(I have just been informed that Cookie did not in fact die in City Slickers, I confused him with Curly the trail boss. He did, however, break both of his legs.)

Cookie from Road Trip
The only reason I know this character existed is strictly because of the line, "Earl, Cookie, we have a situation." Cookie plays Kyle's mother and truthfully I don't even think she has any lines. She's purely there for decoration.

Cookie is not a name to be toyed with. I take it very seriously. These unworthy Cookie's have no business strutting around town as if they know what they're doing. And so friends, I remind you to consider the worthiness of the next Cookie you meet and decide if they're worthier than me (or Bad Ass).

The Super Bowl--Not a Game for Farmers

2006-02-03T11:48:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

So it's Super Bowl Week. Big matchup between Seattle and the Curtain. Big Deal. It's been so long since there has been a game that you hardly care about it at this point. Nevertheless, my mantra has always been, "It's Football and It's on TV." So with that being said, I started to put some plans in motion for the game on Sunday. Since, I have limited friends in Chicago (or anywhere for that matter), this consisted of an email to my friend Evan (EG). This was forwarded to my friend, Scott (Boob) (for more on The Boob see http://notinbookershouse.blogspot.com/2006/01/my-date-with-boob.html). Lo and behold, a Super Bowl Party was in place (with this group it's more like a minion, but whatever). EG and I manipulated the plan so we could go to Boob's place for 2 reasons. First, he has a great TV and second (and about 100x more importantly), his wife Maxine's cooking would make Daniel Boulud envious. (I've said this many times, but the Boob's weight will be well north of 300 lbs before his 35th birthday. He will wear it well though). So we've got a location, good TV, fine eats, good company (myself, being the exception), the only thing I needed to find out is what time do these festivities begin??? Here is what I found out when I checked ESPN.com.......

5 PM Kickoff!!!! Who do these Super Bowl people think we are?? Gravediggers?? Rock Stars?? Do I work at NORAD?? By 7 PM, I'm ready for a warm glass of Bosco and to slip under the covers (Thank you, Frank Drebin, for the excellent suggestion). Mind you the Super Bowl has always started at this time and since I can tell you where I watched every Super Bowl since Super Bowl XV** (Philadelphia vs. The Raiders, I was 5 years old and watched in my parent's bedroom with my Dad and Jac Roth(Hail to the Chief)), I am, of course, intimately familiar with this fact. However, this is my first Super Bowl with a child. So again, I ask the question, 5 PM Kickoff??? Are we all bouncers at the Excalibur????

Now I know there has been a longstanding issue in the media about the World Series and the NBA Finals (to a lesser extent) starting at late hours. These games are the equivalent to the late night Pac 10 Games on Fox Sports or Great Alaska Shootout games to me. There is a better chance they'll still be going on when I get up in the morning, than there is that I'll be awake when they start. The Super Bowl starts at 5 PM, so most would suggest that this rant is unjustified. I disagree. First of all, the game lasts about 6 hours. Second (and next time you see me, i'm begging you, please slug me in the mouth for saying these words), I have a daughter that adheres to a 7 PM bedtime. On a good night, I'm out cold by 8ish. My friend, EG, shares the same dilemma with his daughter. Boob, although childless at this point, is ready to move down to Del Boca Vista on a moment's notice, so clearly he'll be struggling to keep his eyes open during the second half. So the question was, what are we to do??? Since I don't have either Paul Tagliabue or the President of ABC on my speed dial, I needed to get creative. I called EG to consult with him. Here is what we came up with:

THE PARTY IS OVER AT HALFTIME!!!! I want to take it one step further though. For our purposes, the game should be over at halftime!!! Instead of betting on the outcome of the game, I'll bet on the outcome of the first half. I'll bet the first half total. My prop bets--first half only. Squares will run through 2 quarters only.Considering the Super Bowl runs twice as long as a normal game, I will still be getting my money's worth. So with that being said, my pick for the Super Bowl (drumroll, please).................

SEATTLE BEATS THE CURTAIN 10-6 (This is my halftime prediction, but in my brain this is the final). The Seahawks will be crowned champions. In my mind, Matt Hasselbeck will be anointed the MVP. If I ever pass Mike Holmgren on the street over the next couple years, I will douse him in Gatorade for this crowning achievement (of course, I'd probably do this regardless). It will be irrelevant to me that the Curtain come back and win 23-13. The Seahawks are champions of the National Football League! Congratulations to the City of Seattle!

**Footnote: Under no circumstances should you read this next part (unless you suffer from severe insomnia). I reiterate, DO NOT READ THIS PART! This is a list of where I watched all of the Super Bowls since I was old enough to remember and some notes on my memories. I'm going to put it in smaller print, because this couldn't possibly be interesting to anyone but me. Seriously, I'm not trying to be sarcastic or humorous right now, if you're planning on reading this post to its conclusion, I can not give you the 3 minutes of your life you are about to waste back.....

Super Bowl XV: Philadelphia vs. Raiders--as mentioned earlier, my parent's bedroom with Alan Kaplan and Jac Roth. Jac Roth is about 40 years my senior, but was my closest friend until I was about 15 (no disrespect to Jon Stillman). My brother, Benji worshipped Ron Jaworski as a 3 year old for some bizarre reason, so this was a pretty tough pill for him to swallow.

Super Bowl XVI: San Fran vs. Gallies--my parent's house (family room). This game was actually in Detroit and my Dad had 8 tickets which he sold (see my post on why I'm not a fan of a professional sports team for additional insight http://notinbookershouse.blogspot.com/2006/01/why-im-gruff-fan-and-not-lions-fan.html, but lets just say that this was very disappointing to me at the time, but upon reflection, a very logical and admirable move by my Dad, AK). This was the follow up to the NFC Championship Game where Joe Montana threw the catch to Dwight Clark (which I witnessed at my parents' former friends, the Sallen's, house).

Super Bowl XVII: Hail to the Redskins vs. Fish--Scott Schneiderman's house. I remember sitting on their fireplace and being surprised by Washington's dominance. One thing about going to Peter Schneiderman's house--there are going to be M and M's and there are going to be lots of them. As a 7 year old, you can't ask for much more than that.

Super Bowl XVIII: Raiders vs. Hail to the Redskins--my parent's family room. Big game by Marcus Allen.

Super Bowl XIX: Fish vs. San Fran--my cousins', the Shefmans, house on Commons Road (before Dudley was even conceived). I was a big Mark Duper, Mark Clayton, Marino fan and disappointed that Miami crapped out in this one. My 4th grade bookie tried to have my legs broke in the aftermath.

Super Bowl XX: Bears still Suck vs. Pats--my parent's family room. I think Craig James was NE's RB. Is it any wonder this result was so lopsided?

Super Bowl XXI: Gints vs. Denver--Shefman's house off of Pontiac Trail. Judi Shefman made great appetizers, highlighted by that salami that she glazes with grape jelly. Judi, if you're reading this, please email the recipe to brad@chicagosunset.com. Much appreciated.

Super Bowl XXII: Washington vs. Denver--my parent's family room. Doug Williams exploded all over our television.

Super Bowl XXIII: San Francisco vs. Cincy--my parent's family room. How did Boomer Esiason get to the Super Bowl? One of the few good Super Bowl games from my childhood.

Super Bowl XXIV: San Fran vs. Denver--Robbie Krut's house. Montana was just toying with teams at this point. The Krut's had several grandfather clocks in their home that always seemed to be going off. This was also when the Bud Bowl was at its peak (probably Bud Bowl 2 or 3). My Dad was in the liquor business at the time and was able to get the results a few days before the game. I was able to fleece my friends wagering on it, but felt guilty, came clean and never collected my winnings.

Super Bowl XXV: NY Giants vs. Gruff--Adam and Dan Beltzman's den. This was the first of 4 straight Gruff losses. A dark time in my life. Plus, it was tough to watch 4 hours of TV in a 6 x 8 room with Murray the Dog (his actual name was Mickey--God Bless You, Herms).

Super Bowl XXVI: Gruff vs. Skins--my parent's family room. Beyond that I have no recollection of this game. I think this is because the Lions somehow got to the NFC Championship game that year (where they were quickly disposed of). This was the pinnacle of my Lions fandom and probably why I've blocked out the memory of this game.

Super Bowl XXVII: Gruff vs. Cowboys--Scott Gould's house. The only time I was ever invited to Scott Gould's house. I wonder if I did something to offend him???

Super Bowl XXVIII: Gruff vs. Cowboys--Freshman year of college. I want to say either mine and Beltzman's suite in the Towers or Forman's room in the Towers. Possibly the AEPi house. I was drinking too much Molson Ice in those days to remember too clearly.

Super Bowl XXIX: Niners vs. Chargers--Dave Garfin's room in the AEPi house. We ordered enough BW-3 to feed a 3rd world country. San Fran was favored by around 24 points and they still easily covered. Fun betting night. This was also the same year of the "BET THE KNICKS" debacle where our whole fraternity house parlayed the Knicks -2 against the Hornets (thanks to Jack Price's Betting Service) with the entire NBA board. Needless to say the Knicks lost by 20. Good memories.

Super Bowl XXX: Cowboys vs. Curtain--Mine and Adam Shane's flat in London. This game came on live around 2 in the morning. Can't remember if I won or lost quid that year.
Our friend, Tunis, was sound asleep hours before kickoff (You Woman!!!).

Super Bowl XXXI: Pack vs. Pats--619 Langdon apartment. One of those gambling nights you remember forever. The house went down when Andre Rison scored the opening TD at 10:1 odds. Also hit the 3rd quarter over on Desmond Howard's kickoff return for a TD the last play of the quarter. This ended with a riotous party on State Street in the freezing cold. "When you say Wisssssconsin, You said it All!" Seriously.

Super Bowl XXXII: Denver vs. Pack--Scott Miller and Jeremy Jacobs apartment on the El on Armitage and Bissell. Shapiro was in town from NYC. We were so confident in GB that we took the whole party's action on Denver. Got crushed. Polar opposite of the previous year. Welcome to the Real World, Gents.

Super Bowl XXXIII: Denver vs. Falcons--Dave Alpern and some guy named, Philly's???, apartment in Lincoln Park. I remember they brought in folding chairs for extra seating (a nice touch). This was probably the greatest winning night in history for me from a gambling standpoint. I had a list of bets as long as the Declaration of Independence. Seriously, 90% of them hit. 2 that I remember were having Elway to score the first TD of the second half via run (this paid like 25-1) and Denver to win by 13-18 points (Final Score Denver 34-19). It's been all downhill ever since. I even won the squares like 3 times that night.

Super Bowl XXXIV: Rams vs. Oilers--my apartment with Frish and EG on Kenmore. Dave Garfin and I split a square for an obnoxious amount of $$$ and had that Oilers guy scored on the last play, it would have been interesting. Clearly, I've gotten over it.

Super Bowl XXXV: Giants vs. Ravens--My first and only Forman Super Bowl Party. Yes, it really is as good as advertised. They stuff you with shrimp cocktail, Nana's tuna and chicken nuggets. You sit in a food coma thinking you're not going to eat until Tuesday or Wednesday and out of nowhere, mid 2nd quarter, Fern comes out with enough Ribs and Fried Chicken to feed Terry Denton Burton's entire family at their annual summer reunion. Good stuff. Todd's friend, Jon Cohen (Jonco), is a key player in creating the aura to this party. I pride myself on having a lot of interesting action on the Super Bowl, but he had bets that had me shaking my head in disbelief. Also, the fix is clearly in for Grandma Bea, who made enough money on squares and miscellaneous side bets to get herself a new Cadillac. It's universally understood that the fix is in, but the Forman's put on such a great event, you don't even care.... As far as the game, we were with a bunch of Giants fans and Garfin and I were the only one's objective enough to realize that Baltimore was the second coming of the 85' Bears. A good gambling night.

Super Bowl XXXVI: Rams vs. Pats--Benji and Goldie's townhouse in Chicago. Loaded on the Rams -14 and they lose straight up. Prior to this game, I thought Tom Brady was the second coming of Todd Collins or Elvis Grbac. Who knew?

Super Bowl XXXVII: Tonka Bay vs. Raiders--Kristyn and I moved into our condo that weekend and had no furniture. I remember unpacking boxes all night and watching the game standing up. If that's not sad enough, I hit the Raiders and T Bay had their way with them. A forgettable evening.

Super Bowl XXXVIII: Car vs. Pats--EG invited Boob and I over to watch this. He failed to mention that he was also having every person that he and Jenny ever met from High School, Undergrad, Law School, B School, Price Waterhouse, William Blair, Winston Strawn or just passing by on the street. This is because EG is a smart guy and knows that I loathe interaction with people I don't know (I barely tolerate interaction with family and friends) and knew I wouldn't have shown up in a million years. I think I had the Pats that night to compound matters and Car made that ridiculous push at the end to cover. Crappy night, but thanks again for having me.

Super Bowl XXXIX: Eagles vs. Pats--EG and Jenny's again. The only reason I went back was because Jenny was like 11 months pregnant and I was reasonably confident they wouldn't have an encore from last year. I had the Eagles (who covered), but I think I had the Under (unduraggggga) and the Over hit (which they can't take away from you). God, I'm a dope.

It's Fun to say Shul

2006-02-03T08:55:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY LINDSAY, GUEST CONTRIBUTOR
Let's face it. The high holidays (may have a different meaning if you're Benny Nuggs or Benny Kaplan two years ago) are nothing but a time to see your family and other Jews that you have no desire to see. If you belong to a Temple like Temple Israel, you'll relate to the scene of the high holiday services. 900 Jews fighting over parking their Lexus SUV's and BMW sedans, the fraudulent super Jews that opt to read a line of English in front of the congregation and consider themselves religious, and a cantor that plays guitar on the bimah and used to star on Broadway as Leopold Bloom (true story). The Kaplan family however, avoided these obstacles when I was growing up. Instead of fighting the hour long line to turn on to Walnut Lake Rd, we parked in the condominium complex next door and climbed over a mountain of grass as if we were sneaking into a Rolling Stones concert. Somehow, without fail, my dad always got us into the late service, crucial when you're fasting on Yom Kippur. Even more ironic was that we got the same section of seats every year. Brad and I have had an ongoing joke that I first noticed about five years ago. We all know the ritual of blowing the shofar; typically performed by another FSJ that wants to be Ray Charles for five minutes. The last calling of the shofar is Tekiah Gedolah, a single unbroken blast, essentially held until the dude is out of breath, followed by one short blast. Without fail, every year, directly after the short blast is blown, a gust of laughter fills the sanctuary. I don't get it. It's funny that this jackass on the bimah just combusted a long note through a rams horn and ended it with a short note? This is what you find humorous? I mean, my parents think Ali G is stupid but give them a shofar with opposing notes and they're slapping their knees like abusive husbands. And what kills me, is these stupid congregates hear it every year. It isn't new to you! Get over it! You know what's coming! Judaism where are you?

Why Steve Urkel Is Famous And I Never Will Be

2006-02-02T10:29:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY EL SHAZZARINO, GUEST CONTRIBUTOR

I'm done with Hollywood. Flat out done. I can't take it anymore. I don't know if the problem is, that all of the creative juices have been squeezed out of the proverbial orange of the the entertainment industry, or if they just stopped trying. But at some point in the last 10 years, the powers that be decided that wherever the biggest profits were, that's what would be made. Every shred of integrity, taste, and allegiance to their artform has been washed away in a sea of crap!

"Skating With Celebrities"? Doesn't that say it all? I'm going to try to avoid getting overly vulgar in this post, but this whole issue gets my blood boiling hotter than a habanero pepper. Skating with Fucking Celebrities! It has to be a joke I thought to myself. It's some sort of weird psychological experiment that the government is orchestrating to see if there's even a microfraction of intelligence left on this planet. I can just picture the board meeting of the secret world government. They sat around smoking cigars, snorting lines of cocaine, sniffing glue, and chuckling haughtily. "If 'Skating With Celebrities' survives a season on the air, we will have confirmation that the vast majority of people populating our planet, have the IQ of a vacuum cleaner bag." I know if I secretly ran the world, this would be useful information to me. I'd figure, if I can sell the masses "Skating with celebrities", I can pretty much sell them anything. Then I'd truly have the world by the short and curlies.

Well I have a message to those who wish to continue cramming these shit burgers down my throat. "I'm on to your little game!" The rest of the world may have bought into your creationism, your fictitious deities, and your goddamn reality television, but I'm not. I'm too smart for you. My intelligence will forever shield me from your insanity (which you've convinced the world is sane). My intelligence will protect me until the day your so called rapture comes. When you're being beamed up to heaven to skate with celebrities, I'll be laughing with the devil in our fiery hell, watching re-runs of Cheers, knowing I got the better of you bastards. My intelligence will be my impenetrable forcefield. Unfortunately my intelligence will forever keep me from being famous, and It's all Steve Urkel's fault!

If I hiked my pants up past my bellybutton, put on some big goofy glasses, snorted when I laughed, and acted generally annoying, would it be funny? The answer is a resounding NO! It wouldn't be funny if I did it, and it wasn't funny when Jaleel White did it. But this idiot Urkelnation, thought it was funny, and that's why we're all going to hell on a handcart. This country and planet isn't screwed because we have a bafoonish, alcoholic, coke addict President who believes he talks to God on the telephone. We aren't screwed because of terrorism. We aren't screwed because of global warming, greenhouse gases, or violent video games. Alcohol, drugs, pornography, those are just harmless vices. It's not hurricanes, Halliburton, or Hussein, that will be our downfall. None of these things matter in the least, because our ultimate demise began and will end with Steve Urkel.

Once Urkel got big it was all over. Urkel made Hollywood realize that the public would swallow whatever they were fed. Why waste money being creative and clever? It opened the floodgates and what poured in was a disaster. Now we are subjected to overweight B celebrities being yelled at by drill sergeants. Whorish women pretending to be in love with washed up rap stars, just to get 15 minutes of fame. Talentless oafs humiliating themselves, singing off key, and having their dignity stomped on by an even less talented oaf. Ditzy debutantes and their purse puppies working the window at a Tasty Freeze. The list goes on forever but when celebrities started lacing up those ice skates I just snapped.

Movies are no better. In fact they may even be worse. Through my connections at the CIA I managed to intercept a memo that was secretly passed to the head of every major movie production house in Hollywood. What you are about to see has never been made public before. I put my life in jeopardy right now by sharing it with you but it must be seen. I'm sure those who wrote it will deny having anything to do with it.

May 17, 1998
Memorandum to all Production House Execs
From:
Subject: Stupid Sells

Gentlemen,
In the interest of our continuing plan to make money first, and entertain last the following will be the only types of movies made from here forward
1. Movies based on bad 1970's television shows
2. Sequels
3. Prequels
4. Movies based on Comic Books
5. Movies with Adam Sandler
6. Movies with wizards
7. Movies about The End of the World**

**The World must end (or face the threat of ending) as a result of
a)alien invasion b)A natural disaster(i.e. asteroid, earthquake, flood etc.)

Big Momma's House 2 was tops at the box office last weekend.....Coincidence?

Since this memo was written the top grossing movies in Hollywood were....
Star Wars Episodes I, II, and III (prequels and sequels)
Spiderman 1&2 (Comic Book and sequel)
LOTR I, II, III (Wizards and sequels)
Harry Potter 1-4 (Wizards and sequels)
War of the Worlds, Armageddon, The Day After tomorrow (End of the World)

They may have been wrong about Adam Sandler and 70's TV but that hasn't stopped them.

Here are 5 movies I can guarantee will be made before 2010.
1. The A-Team--Starring Ian McKellan as Hannibal
Heath Ledger as Murdock
Scott Bakula as Face
and Ving Rhames as B. A. Baracus

2. Lethal Weapon 5--After discovering Jesus and going completely off the deep end, Riggs(Mel Gibson) decides that he can no longer be Murtaugh's (Danny Glover) partner because he's black. Riggs then spends the next hour of the movie berating Leo Getz(Joe Pesci) for his peoples involvement in the death of Christ. Tormented by the delay of the rapture and his ongoing battle with cigarettes, Riggs finally accomplishes what he couldn't in the original Lethal Weapon and kills himself.

3.The Hobbit--The Lord of the Rings Trilogy made over a billion dollars and that was just in the theaters. If you think that New Line Cinema isn't going to make the prequel you probably spend your time watching skating with celebrities.

4.Sanford and Son--Starring Morgan Freeman as Sanford
and Chris Rock as Son

5.Urkel and Adam--Adam Sandler and Steve Urkel are roommates and hilarity ensues. What the hell.....Sandler is on the memo and you can't go wrong with Urkel.

My final grievance is with celebrities crossing genres. Humphrey Bogart is arguably the best actor of all time. Humphrey Bogart was famous and talented because he could act. However he didn't abuse his fame and talent by attempting to put out a hit record or dance the Nutcracker Suite. So why does every celebrity today feel that they can abuse their fame by subjecting you to things they have no talent at. Jessica Simpson should stick to singing. Hulk Hogan is a fine wrestler but I don't need to see him playing dad on VH1. Paris Hilton's only talent seems to be being born rich and attractive and yet she has movies, TV shows, a CD, a line of clothing, and a chain of night clubs. She should have stuck to being rich and attractive, that's what she's good at. Know your limits and stick to your specialty. Can you imagine an OBGYN popping in on a brain surgery. "Hey, Dr. Goldberg(neurosurgeon), I totally rocked a cesarean this morning and I thought I'd test my medical skills elsewhere. Pass me the scalpel and bone saw so I can cut this dude's head open." Stick to what you're good at please. There's a reason Urkel's jazz quintet only sold 17 copies.

"I Remain"

2006-01-31T14:11:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK
I received a thank you note from a friend/business associate of mine recently. I noticed something peculiar about how he signs his correspondence. Instead of finishing with the boilerplate Sincerely (This also strikes me as a funny way to complete a letter. It's like saying, "so everything I wrote prior to this wasn't bullshit. I meant it. I was being sincere"), Regards, Best Regards (These aren't just your average regards, these are the best regards I can possibly give you), Love, With Love, Hugs and Kisses, From, etc., he writes, "I Remain" before he signs his name and seals the envelope. After pondering this, I decided that I like this ending and have decided to incorporate it into my own written correspondence. But what does it mean??? Here are some possible interpretations that I've come up with:

1) I haven't changed my name and gone into the Witness Protection Program since our last phone conversation.

I Remain, Brad Kaplan

2) I had considered changing my name to a Muslim Name (like Lew Alcindor switching to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or Cassius Clay to Muhammad Ali). After much introspection, I've decided against it. I'm sticking with the name my parents gave me. Sticking with it. A strong, albeit run of the mill, Jewish male name. Bradley Michael Kaplan. Brad Kaplan. Brad Kaplan. Brad Kaplan. Brad Kaplan.

I Remain, Brad Kaplan

3) With my increasing fame, I've decided to take on a stage name. Something similar to Cher, Queen Latifah, Prince or Ludacris. But you knew me on my way up. I keep it real. You and I are tight. We have a longstanding personal relationship. Hence,

I Remain, Brad Kaplan

4) I just had my tonsils out. A harrowing experience--could have died. Laugh all you want. It's surgery. I was put under. But I survived. I survived. Not only did I survive, I flourished.

I Remain, Brad Kaplan (stronger than ever)

5) They are building a nuclear power plant right in my town. Right behind my house. My family is moving. My friends are moving. Nuclear waste will fill my yard. My water supply will be contaminated anytime now. I don't care. This is where I'm from. I'm staying.

I Remain, Brad Kaplan

Jarlsberg versus Gouda--The Tale of the Tape

2006-01-30T21:01:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

The Battle of the Cheeses!!!! Like Ohio State vs.Michigan, Rocky vs. Drago, Democrats vs. Republicans--not hardly. This is more like Kaplan vs. Sensible Eating, Shapiro vs. Gallinson (when will they ever see eye to eye?), Frishberg vs. Bailey, Frishberg vs. Markowitz (Dale), Kaplan vs. Mangoubi, Ben Kaplan vs. Ludwig, Linds Kaplan vs. Mikey Jacobs, you get my meaning.

So let me be clear--why am I matching up the Gouda versus the Jarls? These aren't my favorite cheeses (those are more the roquefurt, gorgonzola, quality aged cheddar and the harder aged italian varieties). We're discussing Gouda and Jarlsberg, because to me, they represent the first move into higher end cheeses. As a college senior (SEEEEEEEEEEENIORS!), I had 3 roommates (Beltzman, Shapiro and Forman). The 4 of us used to do our grocery shopping as a group and split the bill 4 ways. Shapiro and I made it a mission of ours to always sneak one higher end cheese into the cart under Beltzman and Forman's noses. This typically involved a 3 step process:

1) Obtain temporary control of the cart and strategically place the cheese underneath a larger item within said cart.

2) At the checkout line, run diversion/interference while the checkout gal scanned the cheese. This usually involved introducing the idea of an after grocery shopping meal at Spurs (Biggggg Salads and Biggg Drinks!) at the precise, critical moment (it sounds easier than it was).

3) Making sure that the receipt ended up in the right hands (ours), so that it could be discarded to avoid later audit and scrutiny.

So our system was down. But which cheese would we pick? Gouda or Jarlsberg? Jarlsberg or Gouda? It's amazing that 2 college students would go to such lengths to obtain a $9 cheese. I think it was more than the cheese. The cheese represents something bigger. Much bigger. What that is, I have no idea....

So which cheese? I've created some different categories and by plugging both Gouda and Jarlsberg into each of these categories, we'll come up with our winner. Without further ado...

TASTE--Regular Gouda is a mild, creamy, lighter tasting cheese. Sometimes it has a slightly nutty, smoky flavor. Jarlsberg is a sweeter, sharper taste. It's nutty flavor is less pronounced than Gouda. Basically it tastes like awesome Swiss Cheese. I love Swiss Cheese. The Pick: Jarlsberg

COUNTRY OF ORIGIN: Gouda comes from the city of Gouda in the Netherlands. I like the Dutch ("What kind of a name is Todd Gack anyway? I think its Dutch"). Also there was a guy in my 4th grade class named Pieter Herman. Dutch fellow. Pretty good guy. Looked like a 4th grade version of Rik Smits (was he Dutch? I think so). Even though Jarlsberg is the world's most famous "baby swiss" cheese, it's actually a product of Norway. I don't have much to say about Norway, other than I took a Scandinavian Literature class my Freshman year of college (SS RODLEY) and I enjoyed the class. However, it took place on the top of Bascom Hill. Getting up that hill in January was the type of walk that made a man crave a good piece of Jarlsberg when he completed it. The Pick: Gouda

TEXTURE: Gouda is a semi-soft cheese. By that I mean its firm on the outside, but softer as you cut it or bite into it. Sometimes it has that harder rind with the smoky flavor (depending on how long it's aged). The exterior and interior of the cheese, has a kind of yin and yang thing going on that provides a contrast in texture and flavor which is sometimes highly enjoyable or sometimes makes you sick to your stomach. Jarlsberg is a firmer, denser cheese. It has the hole formation like a swiss cheese, which looks strikingly similar to my brothers chest (aka: The Holy Moly). The Pick: Jarlsberg

SMELL: Jarlsberg has a perfectly lovely and unintimaditing odor. It doesn't have the pungent smell of a lot of bleu cheeses. Gouda has a very smoky flavor, it almost smells like bacon. That's never bad. (In fact, why isn't there a bacon cologne? a bacon shampoo? Wouldn't there be a market for these products?) The Pick: Gouda

NAME: This is a tough one. Clearly, Gouda is great. Rolls right of the tongue. Its great to use in sentences in exchange for the word good (Example: Question: "Brad, how was work today?" Answer: "It was gouda"). Jarlsberg doesn't have the same cache on the surface. However, when shortened to Jarls it's a lot more catchy. Especially when you stretch out the first syllable (Jaaaaaaaaaaarls). Try it the next time you've had a couple drinks. It's a pretty good word. Still, as gouda as Jarls is, it's not as gouda as Gouda. The Pick: Gouda

MELTABILITY: Jarlsberg gives you a good even melt (Think a turkey reuben, with extra tasty cheese). Gouda melts ok and the melting accentuates the smoky, bacon flavor (a plus), but you have to have a pretty good toaster to get the center to melt through consistently. I have no such toaster. The Pick: Jarlsberg

VERSATILITY: I read online that Jarlsberg can be used as a Table Cheese (I love the sound of this, I'd like a table made of cheese), a Sandwich Cheese and a Dessert Cheese. It goes well with Wine, Beer and Aquavit. I've heard of Aquavit, but never really tried it. Here is the definition from dictionary.com-- A strong clear Scandinavian liquor distilled from potato or grain mash and flavored with caraway seed. That's it--I'm going out to get a bottle (I'll for sure hate it and it will sit in my cabinet until I move, but I'm dying to have a small glass right now). Gouda is apparently also a Table Cheese and a Dessert Cheese. It is good with fruit and wine. My friend Jon "Jack" Stillman bought me a condiment called Mostarda Senapata which is basically a jam, only not especially fruity. Its made of Balsamic Vinegar, Mustard, Pears and Quinces. It's fantastic on Gouda. Screw it though, I'm more of a sandwich guy. The Pick: Jarlsberg

APPEARANCE: Both cheeses are easy on the eyes. Gouda comes in that waxy package, usually red wax (kind of like that gross candy that you get in those clear plastic bags at the drug store. You know, those wax sticks that you bite into and pour that vile sweet liquid down your throat. I always hated that stuff). Gouda, though, is great to peel into and take apart. Jarlsberg comes in a big ass triangular block that is kind of what George Costanza longs for in the "Summer of George" episode. The Pick: Gouda

DECISION: Well, I created 8 categories and we're deadlocked at 4 for each cheese. So it boils down to this....I'm going to my refrigerator for a snack, which cheese do I want? It's a no brainer--the clear winner is Jaaaaaaaaaaarlsberg. Afterall, it's just Gouda. (Bring on the Aquavit).

One Boy's Love of Cereal

2006-01-30T10:08:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY EL SHAZZARINO, GUEST CONTRIBUTOR

What kind of sick irresponsible parent lets their kid eat Cookie Crisp? Admittedly when I was a young buck I couldn't get enough sugary cereals. Give me a goofy cartoon spokesperson and a box full of marshmallows (On a side note the marshmallows in cereal aren't really marshmallows at all. They seem to be sugar cubes colored and shaped to look like anything from a purple horseshoe to a blue ghost.) and I'm in heaven. The more artificial they made a cereal look, the more I wanted it. Let's be honest there are definitely colors in a box of fruity pebbles that don't exist in nature, unless you consider a toxic waste spill a naturally occurring event. Yes, give me a self loathing rabbit who refuses to grow up, a paranoid leprechaun, a psychedelic toucan, or an obviously intoxicated cuckoo bird and I will be at their command.

Kids have never had a chance against the evil cereal corporations. Are Kellogg's and General Mills really any better than Phillip Morris and RJ Reynolds(In fact I researched it and General Mills isn't even a real General). One could argue that the cereal makers offer healthy options as well. To that I say that the cigarette companies offer light and even ultra light now. You may say that second hand smoke harms those who don't even smoke. Well I don't know about you, but I've taken a shard of captain crunch in the eye and dammit IT HURTS!

The truth is kids are ill equipped to combat the barrage of sneaky tactics from cigarette or cereal corporations. They are in it for the buck and they'll do whatever it takes to get kids hooked on their version of crack. This is why the parents are our last line of defense. So I again pose the question.....What kind of parent lets their kid eat cookie crisp?

The problem is we live in a world where people eat dessert for breakfast. How can a parent who goes to starbucks every morning for a double tall vanilla late and a triple fudge brownie, tell his kid to eat a half a grapefruit. And are people so aloof as to not realize the big Entenmann's scam. People, just because someone put the word coffee in front of the word cake, doesn't mean that they've found a nutritious breakfast to have along side your coffee. It's cake! Okay! You're eating a piece of cake for breakfast. Muffins, Donuts, Danish (a doughnut with no hole), twinkies, sno balls, nutty bars when did these become part of your complete breakfast. Oh do I love that saying..."It's part of your complete breakfast". How did advertisers slip this one past us. Cigarettes, coffee, and a mini milky way bar, they're part of your complete breakfast. Are mom's really buying into it when Barney Rubble tells them that cocoa pebbles are part of their complete breakfast. What the hell is the matter with people. Complete doesn't mean anything, it's an empty modifier. If I don't eat breakfast than air is part of my complete breakfast, in fact it's all of my complete breakfast. My friend had 3 shots of tequila and a bagel this morning, so 3 shots of tequila was part of his complete breakfast.

I like cereal, to this day I love it. These days I eat healthy cereal. I like muesli and granola and puffed wheat. Maybe I grew out of my desire for sugared cereal. Maybe I only wanted them when I was young because my mom wouldn't keep it in the house. She may have her flaws but she wasn't dumb or blind. She was sharp enough to realize that modifying the word cookie with the word crisp, doesn't change the fact that you're feeding your child a bowl of cookies for breakfast.

The fastest I ever ran was the morning my little sister was born. At some point during the night my parents had left for the hospital and my grandma had come to the house to look after me and my brother. I slept through all of this. What woke me was my brother bursting into my room and screaming. What did he scream that made me spring out of bed and set my own personal record for land speed travel? It wasn't that we had a baby sister or that there had been complications at the hospital. No, he screamed "Dee Dee is throwing away all the cereal!" She claimed there were ants in the boxes. I still don't know if there were. But I swear to Allah, that with my 5 year old legs I made it down 14 stairs in three steps. Don't fuck with my cereal, not then, not now, not ever.

My five favorite cereals of all times(in no particular order)....
1.Buck Wheats (no longer made)
2.Team Flakes (no longer made )
3.Crispy Wheats N' Raisins (I believe no longer made)
4.Double Dip Crunch (a.k.a. double crunch) (no longer made)
5.Cocoa Krispies (mainly for the chocolate milk that's left behind)

Three Cereals I'd like to see on shelves
1. O.J. Crunch--A mix of crunchy heisman trophies, 3s, 2s, and buffalo bills insignias. Combined with marshmallow Officer Nordberg badges, bloody daggers, and black gloves
2. Dubya Krispies--The box tells you that its sweet puffs of corn and rice. In truth its salted Iraqi toenails seasoned and packaged by Halliburton. Labs have confirmed this but the administration still insists that they are sweet puffs of corn and rice (at least that's what their intelligence tells them.)
3. Tobacc-O's--A smooth mild flavor rolled into crunch cylinders. Also available in menthol.

Ill close by saying that many people have poured beer over cereal at one point in there life. Possibly because there was no milk, but more likely because they were hungover and thought it would be funny. My point is, that anyone who tells you that they enjoy beer on cereal is a liar and you should never trust a word they say. Believe me. I've had beer on cereal, it tastes like shit.

SHOO BE DOO WOP

2006-01-29T15:23:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY LINDSAY, GUEST CONTRIBUTOR

I am not a superstitious person. You won't find me avoiding cracks or crying about a mirror I broke five years ago. I do strongly believe however, that since I left college I have developed the curse of the bad hangover. Don't get me wrong. At least 75% of my college experience was spent nursing Mango Madness Gatorade. Unfortunately, Gatorade, Kirkland Ibuprofen and french fries do nothing but frustrate me when it comes to the chronic headaches I am currently awoken with at least twice a week. Exhibit A: Last weekend my parents were in town and instead of enjoying the potentially great hangover lunch I could have ordered at Lux Bar, I used all of the strength in me to keep from vomiting in my chicken noodle soup. I've examined the possibilities. Sure I'm getting older, I can't even fathom the idea of downing the Bacardi Limon shots that I took like water in high school. I think at one point I could've actually mistaken the vile liquor for water. I decided when I moved to Chicago that it was time to leave the After Shock and Mumms (even though you can buy a whole bunch of it) in the past. My new idea was to go to the most expensive bars in the Gold Coast and order $12 Kettel on the rocks. I figure, why not spend my hefty babysitting salary on these extravagant cocktails, I'm an adult now. Why is it then, that I cannot shake these headaches and painful nausea waves? Reverting back to the examination of my history of drinking, I realized that my first two years of college intoxication were almost entirely provided by the filthy Kool Aid, Everclear mix commonly known at Indiana as Jungle Juice. I've now been tortured into referring to it as Wop, due to nameless Badger influences. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, and if that's the case, you obviously were a loser in college, Wop is most often served at fraternity parties out of a large garbage can. Aside from the Kool Aid and Everclear, there are usually traces of pledge urine and broom stick bacteria, used to stir the disgusting concotion. Why, I wonder, does this grain alcohol that costs less than half a Kettel cocktail at Rockit never bring me the headaches that presently torture me every weekend? It is now my latest mission to bring Wop cocktails into bars all over Chicago so I can remember my college days when Saturday's consisted of nothing but looking forward to 9:00 pm when I could begin drinking again. Aside from these new Wop cocktails, (I'm going to encourage the "Wop on the rocks"), I have developed some other new drink ideas that I think you might find amusing.

-The Yoo Hoo Martini

-The Ice Cold-(a drink so cold that you have no idea what's in it, you're too distracted by the frigid temperature)

-Any alcohol mixed with Welch's grape juice (it's a very underrated juice)

-The Vodka Salt- (vodka mixed with salt instead of juice, tonic, ice, etc)

*Note to readers: Don't attempt to steal my ideas, I'm planning on having all of them copyrighted this week.

A Eulogy For Dudley

2006-01-28T20:38:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

I was recently informed that my cousins' (The Shefman's) dog, Dudley, died roughly 10 years ago. I never had the chance to say goodbye.

Dudley, I didn't know you that well and I don't really like dogs. I remember you as being kind of a loud dog and not overly friendly or playful. You never bit me though. I appreciate that. And I always liked that you shared a first name with Arnold Jackson's friend on Diff'rent Strokes. I hope you are in a happy place. You will be missed.

My Date with The Boob

2006-01-28T14:21:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK
So last night I had a bachelors' evening with my friend, Scott Miller. His wife was out of town and my wife had her mom in, so it was a rare guys night out. This was an opportunity for an evening of gluttony in the form of doing tequila shots until we were no longer functional. It would be coupled with the debauchery of finding the seediest strip club within 60 miles of our whereabouts. At the very least we'd find a casino where the craps tables offer 100 x 1 odds on the come line. Yes, this was our night. We were going to smoke cigars that would make Castro jealous, find an underground poker club, maybe hop a plane to Vegas if the mood struck us. There was one problem--both Scott and I adhere to a strict 10 PM bedtime (different beds, mind you) and our bachelor night, would as expected, take on a different form of gluttony. We may not be able to take part in the activities described above, but we'd certainly have an evening of decadence.

The big question on our minds was where would this holiday feast take place. It was an important decision. We needed to choose a place that both his wife, Maxine, and my wife, Kristyn, would be remiss to go to. This would take a ton of thought, planning and deliberating in order to make the best possible decision. Here were the candidates we narrowed it down to:

1) Thai Lagoon--Down and dirty Thai Food. Very, very cheap. About 4 tables in the whole restaurant. Can have a meal that would feed 12 people (or the two of us on a night such as this) for under $40 for both of us, including tip. High quality stuff.

2) Angelica's Restaurant--An authentic Polish restaurant specializing in Cabbage Rolls, Pierogies and of course, Old Fashioned Butterflied Pork Chops.

3) Fat Willy's Rib Shack--A no frills barbeque joint featuring great ribs, chicken and brisket sandwiches with terrific homemade sauce.

4) Genarro's--Pound for Pound, the best Italian restaurant (and possibly the best restaurant, period) in Chicago. Home of my Bachelor Party. Seared Pork Chops with Peppers, Potatoes and Garlic. Braciole that your grandmother couldn't make nearly as well on a dare. Stuffed Melrose Peppers when in season. A restaurant that requires you be buzzed in to gain access. Pure brilliance.

5) Joy Yee Noodles--Chinese restaurant in a Chinese mall in Chinatown. Offers probably 400 dishes out of a kitchen that probably isn't much larger than mine. It is one of those places that has a photograph of every menu item and wax replicas of several of their entrees in the window. All of this is working against it, yet its ridiculously good. Great Korean Short Ribs. Terrific Mango Smoothies with enough tapiocas on the bottom to choke a small cow.

6) Kohan Japanese Restaurant--This is a new place that just opened near UIC that is a Japanese steakhouse that Boob wanted to try. Two things attraced me to this place. First, I thought it might be like Ginza in Madison which I haven't had since 1997 and it sounded pretty good. Second, the name was strikingly similar to "Kohen" which is a jewish tribe. When Kristyn was pregnant and there was a chance that we might have a boy, I was obsessed with the possibility of having a Pidyon Haben ceremony. In the Jewish Religion, this takes place for the First Born Son of a First Born Son (which I am, my Dad was, and my Papa Stan was). Basically, the first born son is technically property of the priesthood or Kohanim tribe and the family has to pay 5 shekels in order to redeem the son from the Kohen. So until we found out the sex of the baby, I was obsessed with finding a Kohen to perform the ceremony and to buy my son from. I asked every male jew I know what tribe they were (I'm a Levite). As it turns out, the Kohen are a pretty rare breed. Through my extensive search I found a grand total of two Kohanim--My Papa Morty, who passed away about 9 years ago (so he was out) and Donald Cohen (Donco) who lives in New Jersey (I live in Chicago). As everyone knows, we had a girl who I wouldn't trade for anything so it became a moot point. It would have been fun though to fly Donco into Chicago for the ceremony (according to my friend Jared, Donco knows this great Irish place that has unbelievable corned beef and I was hopeful that he might bring me a sandwich).

7) I don't know the name or location of this place--Scott wanted to go to this restaurant on the Southside that only serves apple fritters (apparently great apple fritters). I ruled this out, as I prefer salty foods over sweet.

Keep in mind none of these places would show up in Zagat's under highest rated anything. Pay it no mind. These may not be places where you'd take your lady for Valentine's Day, but for hard core eaters, you'd be hard pressed to find better dining options in all of Chicago.

Anyways, after a lot of back and forth, we decided to give Kohan a try. I failed to mention this earlier, but another draw to it was that its on Maxwell Street, right next to the Maxwell Street Polish Sausage stand (which should have been under consideration for our actual dinner). In the back of my mind I figured if the meal was a bust, I'd get a Polish for the car ride home.

So the rest of my story is somewhat anticlimactic as the meal was ok, but not especially memorable (although the company was first rate). The restaurant specialized in Hibachi and Sushi and naturally we each ordered both. Some of my other notes from the evening:

-Boob is an extremely slow eater (He makes Oren Fox seem like Kobayashi). Next time we go to dinner, I'm going to have him go at 6:00, I'll meet him at 8:30 and we'll still complete our meals at the same time.

-Boob made a comment to me that someone mistook him for a 23 year old recently. I found that hard to believe. Since there were a lot of college aged people at this restaurant (since it is on the UIC Campus), it got me to thinking. If you asked a sampling of patrons that didn't know either one of us, to guess whether we were UIC students or UIC professors, how do you think the majority would vote? I'd say no question, they'd guess professors. Afterall, we both wear glasses and are paunchy (frankly, in my opinion, the only thing missing would be matching tweed blazers with elbow patches). Boob apparently thinks he could still pass for a ZBT pledge (even if he did look 23, he acts 73, so that puts him at an age of at least 48). Anyone that wants to weigh in on this topic, be my guest....I've posted photos of both of us.

-I ordered a piece of white tuna nigiri and it was literally stark white (the color was comparable to a marshmallow, a piece of copy paper or Evan Gallinson's backside).

So as a final comment, Kohan is not really a restaurant I'd recommend to eat at or to find a Kohen at. Even with me languishing and watching the place clear out as Scott continued to clear his plate, he still managed to get me home before 10:00 (Good man). Boob and I have another date planned for this coming Friday and a better meal can be guaranteed. Also, Boob if you're reading this, try and show up at the restaurant on Wednesday (Thursday, at the latest) and start eating. I'll meet you Friday at 7:00.

Dora The Explorer--A Critical Analysis

2006-01-25T13:22:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

A morning in the life of Yours Truly goes something like this:

-Alexis wakes up between 6:30 and 7:00 AM

-I then wake up between 6:31 and 7:01 AM (on the good mornings the other 250 or so unit owners in our building wake up also)

-A bottle and diaper change ensue

-The next hour is spent doing a myriad of activity (god bless the fine people at Fisher Price, Baby Einstein, LeapFrog, etc.)

-At 8:00 AM sharp the 2 of us proceed to watch Dora the Explorer together, before I leave for work

This is an activity that Alexis loves and I'm not ashamed to say that it is a guilty pleasure of mine also. For those not familiar with the show, 7 year old Dora, spends roughly 22 minutes roaming the forest/jungle with her trusty sidekick, Boots the Monkey. Normally, their adventure involves traveling from Point A to Point D, while passing through Points B and C, to get to their intended destination. I don't have any real issues with this per say, other than I don't find it entirely plausible that Dora can make it from her home (where is her home anyway? Mexico? South America? The West Side of Chicago? Somebody tell me--I'd really like to know!!!) to a destination such as the South Pole on foot in 22 minutes (there are no commercials, but still?). Now there is no question that Dora sets a good example for your children, but I'm not quite sure what kind of example Dora's parents (Sr. and Sra. Marquez) set for me as a parent, letting their 7 year old roam aimlessly around the jungle unsupervised without a care in the world. Nevertheless, I'm willing to give the creators a pass, given that 1) I'm probably not their target audience and 2) the music is catchy, the dancing is good and the animation is substantially better than the Superfriends cartoons I watched 25 years ago.

All of that said, I watched an episode the other morning (Tuesday, I believe) that I found totally implausible and I felt compelled to point out some of my issues with this particular show. The episode started out with Dora's extended family gathered around their family room preparing to watch a nationally televised soccer match. It was reminiscient of that scene in Jerry Maguire where Rod Tidwell's family watches him take a career ending hit and immediately resurrect his career all during one half of Monday Night Football. Instead of Tidwell, the family on Explorer was gathering to watch Dora's 15 year old cousin Daisy play in this particular soccer game. After the ceremonial handshakes, the referee was ready to get play underway when the show took an unexpected turn. It turned out that Daisy's team was short a player and the referee was pushing for them to forfeit the game. At this point Daisy looked directly into the camera and, like the Diving Coach in Back to School, said something to the effect of "Mellon, We Need Ya, Get Your Suit On!" (She really said, "My cousin Dora can play soccer"). So now we've got a capacity crowd at this Soccer Stadium, not to mention what I have to assume is a large television audience, waiting around for Dora to show up to start the game (I don't know who the advertisers were for this soccer telecast, but one has to suspect they were pretty livid. Also, from what you hear about soccer crowds, there is almost a 100% chance that a riot would have ensued). Dora, meanwhile, is taking her sweet time pondering if she should participate in this game. Her parents, while encouraging her to go play, certainly aren't doing anything productive to help (such as offering her a lift to the stadium). I would think a police motorcade would be available to her in a situation such as this. Nope--she is just pushed out the front door, where her and Monkey friend, Boots, are now responsible for meandering to the stadium at a snail's pace, without a care in the world. One big problem though (a recurring theme in all the episodes), THEY DON'T KNOW HOW TO GET TO THE STADIUM!!!! Fortunately for Dora (and the hundreds of thousands of people waiting for this game to start), she has her trusty friend, The Map (or Map), to provide directions.

Now a few words about The Map: while he has a good disposition and a nice enough singing voice, he's perhaps a little cocky based on the quality of directions that he provides. As I mentioned earlier, Dora and Boots, at times travel pretty long distances. If they were going from, say Cleveland to Pittsburgh, I'd tell them to go to Yahoo Driving Directions and their directions would look something like this:

Directions

1.
Starting in CLEVELAND, OH on W SUPERIOR AVE go toward PUBLIC SQ - go 0.1 mi
2.
Turn Right on ONTARIO ST - go 0.6 mi
3.
ONTARIO ST becomes BROADWAY AVE - go 0.1 mi
4.
Take Left ramp onto I-77 SOUTH toward AKRON - go 15.8 mi
5.
Take exit #146/OH-21 onto I-80 EAST - go 46.3 mi
6.
I-80 EAST becomes I-76 EAST - go 51.2 mi
7.
Take exit #28 onto I-79 SOUTH toward PITTSBURGH - go 6.9 mi
8.
Take Left fork onto I-279 SOUTH toward PITTSBURGH - go 11.5 mi
9.
Take exit #8A onto I-579 SOUTH toward VETERANS BRIDGE - go 0.9 mi
10.
Take the 7TH AVENUE/6TH AVENUE exit onto BIGELOW BLVD - go 0.6 mi
11.
Turn Right on 6TH AVE - go <>

The Map on the other hand would tell them, "First, you leave Cleveland and look for the tall building, next you cross over the noisy bridge, and that's how you get to Pittsburgh." THATS IT!!! I'D BE LOST IN 5 SECONDS!!! Honestly, which directions would you pick???

There must be a method to his madness, however, because I've probably seen 50 or so episodes and not once have Dora and Boots gotten lost. In contrast, a couple of years ago I was late for Jaden Beltzman's bris, because Yahoo Driving Directions told me to turn on a street that was no longer there. Score one for The Map--let's move on......

So now, with directions in tow, Dora and Boots are ready to head towards the stadium. You'd think there would be at least some sense of urgency and single mindedness to get there post haste, but NOOOOOO, as expected, that's just not the case. They have plenty of time for singing, dancing, frolicking around and attending to routine problems that the animals in the forest are having (which certainly could be handled without the help of the Almighty Dora and Boots, but whatever). 20 minutes of this absentmindedness goes on, before they finally reach the Soccer Stadium (well done, Map, well done!).

So now I'm thinking, at least maybe I'll see a good sports scene out of this, something comparable to the final scene of Major League. But alas, this particular episode of Dora fails to deliver the goods again. Upon making her way to the field, more time is spent on her getting a jersey and getting the referee's attention, than on the actual playing of the game. So with all these preliminaries finally out of the way, the crowd miraculously still in their seats and not across the street at the bar and Dora's family still glued to the TV, the game is about to begin. There is one problem--now what could it be?? Well, we've been notified that Swiper the Fox has entered the stadium.

Note: For those not familiar with Swiper the Fox, he's kind of like the Darth Vader of the show, albeit with somewhat of a kind streak. His sole purpose is to steal (i.e. "swipe") something of value from Dora, Boots or one of their compatriots on the given episode. He's not swiping because he has a particular interest in the targeted item or for monetary gain. He simply wants to swipe the item and hide it for the sole purpose of being an annoyance. Fortunately for the viewers, Dora is typically able to reclaim the item within 30-60 seconds.

So anyway, Swiper is in the stadium and he's eyeing the soccer ball (as if they don't have extras?). 80,000 plus fans sit captivated while a television audience watches (Where is security during all of this? How did Swiper get into the stadium anyway? Did he have a ticket? I could go on and on....). I'm on the edge of my seat watching to see how this will unfold, when miraculously, Dora prompts the crowd to say the words, "Swiper No Swiping" (this is the antidote to Swiper the Fox's swiping, kind of like Kryptonite to Superman). Crisis averted.

Finally, the game is about to start and I'm going to get the sports scene that I've been longing for. The gun goes off, Daisy quickly passes to Dora, Dora jukes a couple of defenders and kicks the ball past a flailing and overmatched goalie (she's like the Freddy Adu of her hometown). That's it--12 seconds and apparently the game is called so Dora's team can carry her off the field and both teams, the spectators and television viewers alike can collectively do a knockout version of the "We Did It" dance. Game over. Show over.

I feel cheated by this program. Alexis, on the other hand, is gleefully watching on my lap and she couldn't have enjoyed this episode more. Fortunately for me, she'll be talking anytime now and I"ll begin molding her into the Cynical Bastard that I've become. Ahhhh, the circle of life!!!

The Idiot Father

2006-01-24T11:55:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

My wife, Kristyn, was sick on Tuesday morning, so in an attempt to be helpful I stayed home a little later to take care of our daughter, Alexis, and allow Kristyn to get some rest. Anyone that knows me recognizes that I'm a pretty attentive father and spend a tremendous amount of time doting on my daughter. That being said, I decided to give Alexis a bath to help my wife out. Despite spraying water directly in her eyes a handful of times and flooding our kitchen, this process went down without a hitch. I brought her into her room, got her dressed, etc--again, no problems. Where I ran into some difficulty was with the styling of her hair. This is a kid that I've spent over 12 hours per day for the last 7+ months staring at, yet I didn't have the slightest clue which side to part her hair to. My initial thought was to go ask Kristyn, but being the resourceful guy that I am, I turned on our digital camera and looked through some photos of Alexis until I recognized the pattern and styled her hair accordingly. Problem solved--What a Jonah!!!

FYI--Alexis' hair parts to the left, same as mine (poor kid).

Why I'm a Gruff Fan and not a Lions Fan

2006-01-23T18:04:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

Here's why--the NFL is crap. The official party line is that I was a Lions fan for 20 or so years(16 of which I remember), became disenchanted with the franchise's blundering ways capped off by the Wayne Fontes/Scott Mitchell/Barry Sanders (still the most overrated big game player in the history of football) era and decided to find a new team to support. I had a faux relationship with the Packers while in Madison, but that was purely superficial. It turns out my big problem wasn't with the Lions at all, it was with supporting a professional sports team in general. Even more so, it was with attending professional sporting events (no offense to my friends, Forman, Frishberg or Beags, all 3 of which revel in this activity). Maybe it's my inner Niles Crane, but it was being lumped into the element of the beer guzzling, sneaking a pint of tequila into the stadium in their boot, Starter jacket wearing, face painting, jersey donning, Evan Gallinson spirited, get to the parking lot at 9 AM for a 4 PM kickoff, taking off my shirt in -20 degree temperatures (bear in my mind I swim with my shirt on) Lunatic Fan of a National Football League Team. And mind you I have no disdain for the aforementioned described fan, afterall, I'm a Man of the People. I just lost sight of who these lunatics are supporting exactly. A city? A business? A roster of players that is completely different a year later? Before I let this deteriorate into a rant on the problems with professional sports, I'll just say that it was a healthy break and leave it at that.

The crazy thing was this whole epiphany about rooting (or really, not rooting) for a professional sports team took place at the Mecca of all Diehard Professional Football Fans. I am, of course, referring to traveling to a road playoff game to "support your team". My experience took place on Wildcard weekend in Tampa Bay (I'm too lazy to look up the year, let's just say it was the mid-to-late 90's), at the former stadium affectionately known as "The Big Sombrero". There I was,with my Dad and my Brother, surrounded by 80,000 rabid Tampa Bay fans.

SIDE NOTE: My Dad probably had this same revelation about professional sports 20 years prior to me. Yet being the devoted father he is, he kept these feelings to himself (only for me to figure it out on my own later) and still sacrificed to schlep my Brother and I to The Sombrero in the midst of an otherwise nice vacation. You gotta love him. And now back to my story....

You can poke fun at the quality of people you sit with at a home Lions game at the Silverdome (Ford Field came after my defection) and rightfully so, but compared to the crowd at the Sombrero, the Silverdome felt like being at a Country Club. Being the spineless woman that I am(or perhaps I'm just smart), I decided against being the Mishuganah that wears the Honolulu Blue Wig, The Silver Face Paint or The Alex Karras Retro Uni (apparently he was somewhat of a decent defensive player for the Lions in the 50's before going on to play the Dad on Webster to much critical acclaim). My attitude was to wear my standard street clothes (In those days, probably a pair of Polo Khaki Shorts, Solid Color Golf Shirt and Stan Smiths((good to see I've changed my look over the last 11 years--I'm going shopping for a hipper look this weekend--I swear))) and blend in with the crowd (I was lacking a Pirate Patch and a Bandana ((although even if I had a bandana I wouldn't have been able to tie it correctly)) and try not to have the opposing fans give me a beating comparable to the one the Lions were taking 30 rows down. My plan would have gone perfectly, if it weren't for my brother, Benji (always the R2D2 to my C3PO), razzing the textbook Lunatic Bucs Fans in our section. I still maintained hope that my Dad and I could escape unscathed, even if it meant losing Benji as a casualty in the process. As the locals were plotting to pass our bodies to the top of the Sombrero and dispose of us (I know--the Kaplans are heavy set men, but there were 80,000 Bucs Fans), the very team that I was turning on bailed us out. Not on the field--as always, the Lions sucked royally. However, had they not sucked and gotten completely demolished in that game, instead of just getting razzed for 3 and a half hours by said Lunatic NFL fans, my fate would have been similar to Vincent Ludwig (played by the always enjoyable Ricardo Montalban) at the end of the first Naked Gun.

So I'm not a Lions Fan anymore--where does one turn?? Afterall, I'm still a football fan. Sunday is still one of the 7 days of the week and I don't like crafts or antiquing. I know I started this post by saying the NFL is crap, but that was misguided. Being a fan is crap. Or--being a fan of one team is crap. However, as a gambler, you can be a fan of a new team every few hours. If a team is going good, you can be a fan of their work for several weeks running. If a team costs you money, you just change sides (ie--the revenge bet, which I'll discuss in greater detail in later posts). You can take this non-fandom even further by playing fantasy football (you can root for and against both teams simultaneously--a wonderful experience). Plus you get to create fun nicknames for the teams that you gamble on and against. Here are a few examples, that myself, my brother and some of our cohorts have come up with and/or have liked to use over the years:

Buffalo Bills--The Gruff (origin: Billy Goats Gruff)
Miami Dolphins--The Fish or Feesh
New England Patriots--The Engine
NY Jets--No Nickname
Jacksonville Jaguars--The Jigs
Indianapolis Colts--Indimas (Part of the Dimas Family) or the Clots (seldom used)
Tennessee Titans--The Tuxes or The Oilers
Houston Texans--The Tuxes or the Oilers
Pittsburgh Steelers--The Curtain
Cincinnati Bengals--The Gallies, The Gally, Gally Gallies or the Svengals
Cleveland Browns--No Nickname
Baltimore Ravens--Balt
San Diego Chargers--San Dimas (part of the Dimas family)
Denver Broncos--No Nickname
Oakland Raiders--No Nickname
Kansas City Chiefs--The Chefs
Detroit Lions--No Nickname (other than the Gross Lions)
Green Bay Packers--The Pack (not that original)
Minnesota Vikings--TONKA (a favorite)
Chicago Bears--The Bears still Suck
Dallas Cowboys--No Nickname
New York Giants--The Gints (not that original)
Philadelphia Eagles--No Nickname
Washington Redskins--The Hail to the Redskins
Seattle Seahawks--No Nickname
Arizona Cardinals--No Nickname
St. Louis Rams--Nope
San Francisco 49ers--Nada
Carolina Panthers--Car
Tampa Bay Buccaneers--Tonka Bay (part of the Tonka family--a classic)
Atlanta Falcons--The Conies or Hotlanta (which is poor and overused)
New Orleans Saints--The Santos or The Flying Santos (to be used on special occassions)

If you haven't had the pleasure of telling your bookie that you want a 20 time Gruff/Curtain reverse, well, you just haven't lived.

These names work in college also--in fact they are even more fun. And I know, I do have loyalties to my alma mater, Wisconsin (U Rah Rah), which basically makes me a hypocrite and devalues my whole theory. I say to that, having a vested interest in the University you attended is a completely different phenomenon than supporting a pro team and it should be commended.

Anyways, my short list of college nicknames:

Clemson--Cremson
Virginia Tech--The Hokie Dokies
Colorado--Cauliflower or Flower or Colo
Oklahoma-Krahoma
Oklahoma State--Krahoma State
Louisville--Louis or My Enormous Friend (Louis)
Indiana--Indimas
Michigan--Gross Mich
Michigan State--The Spartys or Mush State
Purdue--The Due or the Do Do Do (if they're playing particularly well)
Southern Mississippi--The Southern Man (Part of the Man Family)
Army--Army, Army, Army, Army (picture me singing/chanting this)
Navy--In The Navy (also to song)
Notre Dame--Notre Dimas (part of the Dimas Family) or The Gross Irish (during those times)
Toledo--Tooooooooledo
Colorado State--Flower State or Cauliflower State
San Diego State--Dimas State (part of the Dimas Family
Utah--You go to Utah, You stay in Utah
Mississippi--The Old Man (part of the man family)
Mississippi State--Man State (part of the man family)

There is also the Car Family (South Car, North Car, North Car State, etc)
Also, the Jew Family (BYJew, TCJew, LSJew, JewNLV--these work better with Christian Schools)

With all this fun at your fingertips, you're telling me that I should be sweating Matt Millen, the Mooch firing, the hiring of some bozo that used to coach at the Sombrero, or the team drafting a receiver in the first round every year since my wedding. I say to you, "Not Bloody Likely".

Allof this ties into an ongoing topic to be incorporated into this blog. That of the gambler. I will be posting picks on a regular basis (and the best advice I'll ever give is to take those picks, fly to Vegas and bet everything you have on the opposite of said picks). I will encourage regular contributions from friends and foes alike, as this blog is intended to be a forum for utter nonsense.

And on that note, I leave you with the words to Gridiron Heroes (a song that used to have more meaning to me than the National Anthem, but now, sadly, means nothing):

Forward down the field,
A charging team that will not yield.
And when the Blue and Silver wave,
Stand and cheer the brave.
Rah, Rah, Rah.
Go hard, win the game.
With honor you will keep your fame.
Down the field and gain,
A Lion victory!

Inaugural Address

2006-01-23T10:39:00.000-06:00

POSTED BY BK

Thank you for reading my first ever post! Knowing my personality, more than likely this will concurrently be my last ever post! That being said, I better make this good....

I have titled this blog, "Gaining Weight without Exercise". The full title was actually going to be, "Gaining Weight without Exercise and Other Useless Nuggets (Chicken, not Benny) of Information that will serve No Purpose to Anyone." This website would only allow a limited number of characters for my title, so I had to go with the abridged version. Regardless, both the short title and the long title were not well thought out and I'm sure after stewing at it for awhile, I'll come up with a much wittier title, which I'll then change it to. God I loathe myself....

My mission statement for this blog:

Who am I kidding, I'm way too lazy to write an actual mission statement. Some bullet points (a technique I'm sure I'll keep coming back to on the off chance I stay committed to writing this blog ((I've never really used the word blog before--its pretty enjoyable))) that help breakdown my overview of what to expect from this BLOGGGGGGGG.

-I will probably use parentheses a great deal (see above paragraph). I will use these parentheses as a subtle attempt at humor (most probably will not find this funny). I will also at times use the double parentheses (as seen above). I've never used this before and am unsure whether it is a correct use of grammar. Regardless, it's enjoyable and I'm going with it. That gives me another bullet point as part of my quasi-mission statement...

-I intend to make the double parentheses a part of mainstream writing (this may be slightly ambitious, but no one is reading this anyway).

-I don't know how to actually display a "bullet point", so expect to see a lot of hyphens, which I will still refer to as "bullet points"

-Expect a lot of random sports references, particularly Wisconsin sports references. Case in point, I believe I titled the web address "Not In Booker's House" or something to that effect. Booker Coleman was a seldom used Center on the 1996-7 Wisconsin Basketball team. This is a team that I'm sure you don't recall unless you happen to be Jared Shapiro, Greg Sandler, Scott Miller (that guy just knows stuff) or possibly Pat Richter. To give you a quick synopsis, this was a team that was more interested in the nightly drink specials at BullFeathers than in converting a high percentage of free throws or understanding the nuances of the pick and roll. Nevertheless, they somehow had a great run at home that year culminated by beating Number 2 Minnesota, led by Bobby Jackson, to punch their ticket to the Big Dance (where they immediately bowed out to Tom Penders Texas' Club, although thats not really the point of the story ((come to think of it, there is no point to the story, but I digress))). It was this laissez faire attitude while still achieving success that made this club endearing. You certainly don't remember the players (I really don't either), but I know they were led by Sam Okey, Paul Grant, Ty Calderwood and of course, Booker. So back to Booker--Like most Wisconsin basketball players prior to the Bo Ryan era, he couldn't run, certainly couldn't shoot, couldn't dribble, couldn't really rebound. His one redeeming quality was that he was tall (as they say, you can't teach height). Still on the infrequent occassion that he got in the game, Book played with a swagger reserved for a man like Derrick Coleman, his long forgotten fake half brother. Now I'm not sure if this really happened, or if it is a fabrication of my collective group of college friends' imagination(s), but I'm pretty sure that Booker would wave his finger while on the court (in the same fashion of Dikembe Mutombo) as if to say "not in Booker's House". (Again, I said this blog would serve no purpose, and man, I'm delivering like hell so far....)

-There will be a lot of references to people that you do not know. In most cases, no explanation or background will be given. There will be inside jokes. You will be outside.

-I will talk about food. I will talk about food. I will talk about food. I may talk about wine and beer. I will talk about food some more. I will post grocery lists. I will discuss topics such as where to buy the best veggie cream cheese in a red state. I will give lists on topics such as ten restaurants you need to eat at before you die. I will tell you what to order off of certain menus. These should not be construed as opinion in any way, shape or form. My word on food is the final word. If you disagree, you're an idiot and you are wrong. I will talk about food.

-Sometimes I will treat readers in an adversarial manner. It will be funny.

-I will diet from time to time and chronicle these events. Make no mistake, I will not succeed at it. I may compete with some of my other out of shape friends in battles to lose weight. They will not succeed either.

-Also, I think a young Duany Duany was on that 1996-7 team. Maybe the worst shooter of all time, particularly as an underclassmen. On top of it, he was also a chucker that made George Costanza look like Mike Kelley by comparison.

-I will talk about creamy spinach, pastrami and aged cheeses. You should also.