80HD

1. Need I say more?
2. I suppose it'd be a pretty crappy post if I stopped already.
3. Would it be lame to dedicate a second post to my resurrection?
4. Doesn't another comeback cheapen the whole idea of a resurrection?
5. I don’t mean to offend Jesus, Raptor Jesus, Carles from Hipster Runoff, Rod Beck, or Betty White so I’m avoiding it altogether.
6. Or can I play the resurrection card since I revamped the kitchen?
7. What are y’all’s thoughts on the new buffet-style format?
8. You can pick and choose the thoughts on which you’d like to comment.
9. Isn’t this a more sensible way of communicating?
10. Aren’t you glad I’m helping you limit yourself my giving you smaller portions?
11.
You’re welcome, lard asses.
12. But is it wrong of me to embrace my generation’s errant attention span?
13. Should I be morally obligated to curb this trend?
14. By exacerbating this trend, am I somewhat of a social super villain?
15. Did I get these “scars” by watching too much TV as a kid?
16. Did you know that Mark Hamill (Luke Skywalker) voiced the Joker on the animated Batman series?
17.

Listen to him overanalyze the laugh around 1:30.
18. Should the Academy confer a portion of Heath Ledger’s Oscar to Mark Hamill?
19. What physical chunk of the Oscar does Mark Hamill deserve?
20. Would it be cheesy to award him the right hand as a tribute to the final scene of Empire Strikes Back?
21.

22. Would you take offense to that decision if you were Mark Hamill?
23. Do you find my new banner offensive?
24. Does that cat make it less creepy?
25. Would you believe me if I attributed the inspiration for the banner to television’s most uncomforting program Wonder Showzen?
26. Was Wonder Showzen the best thing to ever happen to MTV?
27. Was Wonder Showzen the worst thing to ever happen to MTV?
28. Were any Wonder Showzen episodes even tolerable besides the pilot?
29. I felt creepy embedding that video, so you're just getting a link instead.
30. If Wonder Showzen were a song from 2010, what song would it be?
31. The Books: "A Cold Freezin' Night"
32. Does a song featuring samples from a self-help tape of two kids exchanging death threats fit the bill?
33. It’s really not that disturbing.
34. Just catchy.
35. Honestly though, does any other song better capture you at your angriest?
36. No.
37. What better illustrates your thoughts at that moment than an eight-year-old inside your head threatening, “I’m gonna think of something so you stay alive as long as I want you to, so I can kill you?”
38.
Nothing.
39. Oh, and it’s not schizophrenic ‘cause your headphones are putting that eight-year-old’s voice inside your head.
40. Not your conscience.
41. This time.
42. Want four more songs tearing up my iTunes?
43. Delorean: "Grow"
44. That song’s climax is magic.
45. Does anyone else find the sampled, distorted chick voice sexy?
46. In a non-European way.
47. Sexy not just because of the novelty.
48. Delorean are Spanish, by the way.
49. Is she uttering Roger Craig’s 1986 San Francisco Giants catchphrase “Hum baby?”
50. Maybe.
51. How relieved am I that Tim Lincecum is finished pitching in August?
52. Did “The Freak” steal his groove from Stella?
53. Is she gonna get it back before his next outing?
54. Am I gonna eat crow after he gets bounced in the third inning of his next start?
55. Will Buster Posey win the NL West?

56. Hasn't he at least locked up the Wild Card?
57. Will the Padres drop their eleventh straight?
58. Does anyone even want to go to the playoffs this year?
59. And bowl games, those things are so last season and won't be back in style until 2012.
60. Something don’t feel right.
61. Arcade Fire: "Modern Man"
62. Did Leonardo DiCaprio write the lyric, “I had a dream I was dreaming?”
63. Has Leo been nightly extracting my memory of this blog?
64. Not this time, Jack.
65. Does this mean I’m back for good?
66. Just don’t sit at home and refresh the page.
67. Is this version of the blog better than the original?
68. David Bowie: "Criminal World"
69. Is Bowie’s cover superior to Metro’s original?
70.


71. Metro can’t touch that bass line.
72. Say what you want about Let’s Dance, Bowie does pop well, too.
73. Pop and coke aren't synonyms for Bowie, either; for different reasons.
74. Who knew Stevie Ray Vaughan played lead guitar on the album?
75. I’m never riding in a helicopter.
76. Should I renew an old Cafe tradition with my final song selection?
77. Dear Michael Rapaport,


(Left, obviously)
78. I generously give you the vulgar tune so good that Pitchfork excused it as "post-censorship."
79. Cee-Lo: "Fuck You"
80. I leave it unedited for you, of course.


OpenDrive

L.A. Clippers

After serving over six months of a self-given year long ban from barber shops, the inner wimp in my apparently schizophrenic self convinced the sterner half to shorten my sentence and finally get a haircut. So I ended my lockout and chopped my locks off. I assure you, however, that this was not entirely because of my inability to keep promises. I mean, I do suck at that. But I opted to break my vow of not cutting my hair in a year’s time for reasons that exceeded this admittedly lame, short term goal. For the Chef, prepping wholesome dishes at the Cream of the Crap Café takes priority over my dubious dream to look like Tom Hanks from Castaway or something like that.


Really, what was I thinking?

Sacrificing this guarantee was the only way I could show my complete subservience to the ensuing blog post, as you’ll soon understand. Not to mention the Café doesn’t own any hair nets. I pray you diners appreciate that my dream and goal of lasting a full calendar year without bringing a pair of scissors to my mane was ended in order that I could continue to serve you up meals.



I realize that photo probably alienated 50% of my readership. But in the unlikely event that some female diners haven’t walked out on me, I won’t resort to poop and fart jokes to win you guys over. This post demands that I tell the men how it is. So without further ado, I preach this:

Hair. Is. Out.

Beards, moustaches, and side burns aren’t excluded. Like flip flop tans, jorts, and Michael Rapaport movies, there’s no need to fashion any of them, unless being a social outcast is your thing.


You weren’t even last summer. Or the year before.

So in accordance with this finding, I gave myself wholeheartedly to the trend, going so far as to even shave my dear moustache.

Think about it. Harry Potter’s new movie sucked, while former astronaut Buzz Aldrin is laying down beats with Snoop Dogg. The public is scorning grizzly bears everywhere after a number of recent attacks, while endangered bald eagle populations are flourishing in Ohio.

Need any more reason to lose those locks?

Dean VandenBiesen of LifeGem, a Chicago based diamond company, already has 240,000 of them. That’s the amount of money the company made after obtaining a lock of Beethoven’s hair. And now VandenBiesen’s gotten his hands on a swath from another deceased musical icon, Michael Jackson.

For those of you whose only news source is the Cream of the Crap Café, (which I don’t recommend, but respect), the king of pop died a full month ago, and in death has become more of a spectacle than in life. LifeGem is doing nothing to terminate the freak show. Vandenbiesen recently seized a lock of hair from a producer of the notorious 1984 Pepsi commercial shoot in which Jackson’s hair caught fire, and conceived his craziest idea since deciding his single-worded last name deserved two capital letters.

LifeGem will extract the carbon from Jackson’s hair, and later refine it into diamonds, as they did with a piece of Beethoven’s mop. According to Vandenbiesen, the company should be able to extract ten full diamonds to be priced at a later time. The idea’s a tad unsettling, but I’m not about to infringe on Vandenbiesen’s business prospect, although the man has to understand that he could only create a creepier diamond by inviting the BTK killer to throw out the first pitch at a Cubs game and letting Marilyn Manson sing “Take me out to the Ball Game” backwards during the seventh inning stretch.

And it doesn’t even matter how you spell it. Federal wildlife officials announced last week that the white-sided jack rabbit will be evaluated for its own dose of hare-loss treatment. Due to a number of factors such as drought, grazing, shrub encroachment, and wildlife loss, the species has dwindled to a mere 150 rabbits in its only American abode, the boot heel of New Mexico. As if some place termed the “boot heel of New Mexico” didn’t already sound like a place where things go to die.


Filming location for Michael Rapaport’s next blockbuster, anyone?

Finding so many incentives to lose hair is one thing, but when you compound that with an imminent extinction of a species of the other kind of hares, the message should be clear: hair has really got to go. Or hares do. But I don’t really see how to confirm the latter until like Easter. And you know fads. By then they could be cool again. It’s best to stay on the safe side here and just follow my lead.

Where Have All the Good Endings Gone?

Once upon a time America had a healthy obsession with good endings. World series came down to the final at bat of game 7. Bands called it quits after epic, self-destructive feuds. Movies didn't conclude until Edward Norton was revealed to have an alter ego. And boxing matches weren't stopped until someone's ear got bitten off. Americans lived and died by the motto, "All's well that ends well," and as a tribute, Sir Mix-a-lot immortalized this renaissance of the good end in his anthem, "Baby Got Back." It seems we lived in a different world back then. Damn, I miss the 90's.


Okay, not all of the 90's.

Some time in between then and now we lost touch with the tush fascination. I term this new phase the "Softball Bat Era," named after the device with quite possibly the most anticlimactic ending in the history of human invention.


Seriously, what a boring barrel.

A good ending is no longer just a rarity, it's an endangered species. A six game World Series became a blessing. The music industry replaced the terse, effective, "breaking up" with the snooze-inducing, "going on hiatus to pursue solo projects due to creative differences." In movies, Edward Norton gave into the cookie cutter super hero film phase, while the Coen Brothers continue to leave their audiences with cinematic blue balls. Not to mention, best pictures resort to a Bollywood dance number.


Now that's what I call a Jai Ho.

And in recent news, the problem seems to be growing worse. A trip to Coney Island results in wading through sewage. MMA's prime time fighters like Andrei Arlovski can't last longer than an itunes store preview in the ring. And North Korea missile launches, like everything else in that God forsaken place, come up short.


Don't applaud, Mr. Dictator. That joke was distasteful and uncalled for.

Maybe that last example is actually a good thing.

But diners, the Chef, well aware that dessert is the best part of the meal, vows to personally revive the good ending with this post. I know that life itself, ravaged by home foreclosures, bankruptcies, and delayed retirements, now lacks a good ending. So worry not, and take comfort in my promise to take the rekindling of the grand finale as my personal vendetta.

To accomplish this, however, I must eradicate the bad ending, which occurs for three reasons:

1) When something's doomed from its inception, it is impossible for its end to experience a dissimilar fate.

(i.e. why Michael Rapaport movies never become box office successes or quality films).

This rule sheds light upon the inevitable crash of "I'm a Celebrity. . . Get Me out of Here!" For starters, the title contains a bold-faced lie. If you are related to a celebrity or the majority of the viewers have to wikipedia you to figure out how you got on network television, you are not a celebrity.

I find it fascinating that though NBC has left them to starve in the jungles of Costa Rica, Daniel and Stephen Baldwin are still bountifully feeding off brother Alec. And while we're on the subject of contestants who double as blood-sucking parasites, Janice Dickinson continues to sell her dignity by leeching onto reality TV camera time. And for consistency's sake, if the producers are going to label John Salley a "former NBA star," why is Dickinson not a "formal model?" With each appearance she becomes less likable, her skin more bacon-like, and her eyebrows more Vulcan-like.


The proof is in the pic.

Clearly this textbook "Softball Bat Era" program defies rule number one. The bigwigs behind the show had some sense to end Monday's episode by booting Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag under the guise that she had fallen ill. I would have preferred to see Spencer puking his guts out, but I guess I can't be too picky.

2) When something drags on for too long, it is impossible to atone for its excess with a solid conclusion.

(i.e. If you find when delivering a speech that you absolutely need to use the word "picaresque" (count it, 1) twice, it should be fairly obvious that you are ranting and your speech has lost all redeeming grace. I cannot stress that enough. I'd repeat myself, but I'd be breaking my own rule).

Brett Favre's interminable retirement saga most definitely fits this mold. Though he already bogeyed his career, he still had a chance to cement his legacy until he threatened going two over. Emmitt Smith, Joe Namath, and Joe Montana all retained their gridiron aura despite boneheaded post-prime team changes. Favre, on the other hand, has to endure disgrace as a result of the slightest interest in a stint at Minnesota, a division rival of his former kingdom in Green Bay. Either Brett Favre is that much of an attention whore, and so resolute to make Janice Dickinson look as humble as a monk on a vow of silence that he's willing to antagonize his worshipers, or he really does want to play so badly that he's willing to antagonize his worshipers.


I smell a lose-lose.

And all signs point towards the latter (which doesn't necessarily rule out the former). Vikings coach Brad Childress has denied rumors that Favre's timetable to commit has expired, and members of Favre's extended family have reportedly booked 25-30 rooms at Midway Motor Lodge near Green Bay during the November 1st Packers game against the Vikings. Anyway you slice this cheesehead, Favre's talks with the Vikings have all but made his legacy irreparable.

3) When something becomes too complex, it is impossible to resolve it without a cop out.

(i.e. When a teacher tries to get too tricky with a multiple choice question, he or she resorts to the anticlimactic "D) All of the above" catchall answer choice).

The modern day story that fit this mold was the item that delivered to me the key to overthrowing the "Softball Bat Era." In my heuristic journey to emancipate society from the poisonous standstill in good endings, I came face to face with some of the bleakest denouements that nearly rattled all hope from my now famished disposition. The roguish stories became so profuse I saw myself reflected in the depravity of each of the characters. The knaves, the scoundrels, and the rascals became the status quo in this complacent society, and I craved nothing more than to liberate myself and the common people from this tolerated filth. At last, I found the solution to my problems, but not before being scarred by my experience. I was wearied by such a gloomy odyssey, but my triumphant breakthrough allowed me to reconcile with the humor of the world again, and I found that my deliverance from debasement was ultimately picaresque. . .

AH SHIT! . . . I'm pretty sure I just broke all three rules. . . I gotta get the hell outta here.

The Return of the Chef

After three months of inexcusable inactivity, the chef is proud to present the grand re-opening of the Cream of the Crap Café. I’d normally fashion some sort of lie to justify my hiatus, but I’ve matured a lot in my time away from the keyboard.

I did not close shop in fear that my dishes would transport the swine flu, which has panned out to become a major disappointment.

(Not that I’m some sort of apocalypse aficionado, but when one of your favorite movies is Twelve Monkeys you hold deadly viruses to a different standard.)

Nor did I turn my oven off to avoid the heat that President Obama is taking from appointing Judge Sonia Sotomayor.

Although I do like what Barack is cooking.

Nor did I unplug my freezer after noticing that the Cavs had started cooling down. (Even though I should have, not just because it offered an answer to the Lebron vs Kobe question, but because I have to wait another 12 months for Joe Smith to finally be rewarded with an NBA championship. It's inevitable.)

Memory. All alone in the moonlight.

Nor was it in fear that former veep Dick Cheney would have me waterboarded for bad mouthing him.

This, by the way, is not waterboarding.

And despite popular belief, I’m not waiting for the last Minnesota senate seat to be filled.

There. You're caught up.

No, diners, the truth is, one of my regular customers shorted me one too many times. Weekly “patron” Michael Rapaport’s excessive dining and dashing has prevented the Café from being viable in this economy. (And for those of you who think you know me, this joke has nothing to do with him being a Jew.)

Michael Rapaport doesn't tip.

The Chef's Beef with the bROTH soup

How fitting that Asher Roth's dish isn't filled with any of the good stuff?

Asher Roth sits on his first album while recording his next track. There's no need for a computer in this process.

I feel I made two poignant observations after listening to Asher Roth’s “I Love College” on the radio. The first is that I am a shameful human being for not turning the station once I immediately recognized that one of the janitors at Omaha’s channel 94.1 had neglected to take out the trash and instead let that garbage of a song get on the airwaves. But I atoned for my first error soon thereafter. One particular line that caught my attention was the edited,

“I danced my FACE off and had this one girl completely naked”

to replace,

“I danced my ASS off and had this one girl completely naked”

Other than the fact that no matter how you edit the song its still the same lyrical crap that’s been regurgitated through rap music longer than the amount of time the uninspiring Roth wishes to wither away in college: the rest of his life (and since there’s no justice in this world, that may be a long time), the edited version appears to miss the most vulgar part.

Put yourself in the shoes of a father. You toil all day at work convincing colleagues in Singapore to buy your new software which your rival company will eventually render obsolete in six months. After Singapore nixes the negotiation offers, your younger co-workers, whom you couldn’t relate to even if you were ten years younger, decide to drink their sorrows away at the bar tonight. Aside from the fact that you’ve been working at the company since before they were born, you can’t go because your wife has prepared dinner. She hasn’t burned the meal the last two nights, so the law of chances tells us it’s going to be scorched tonight. To make matters worse the boys have invited that new fox from sales and the two new public relations interns it would be socially unacceptable and just plain creepy for a man your age to ever strike conversation with. I mean let's face it. You're not exactly this kind of lady killer:

You're more like this kind of lady killer:

Drew Peterson, the reincarnated Henry VIII

When you get home, your wife yells at you for buying the wrong shower curtains at Lowe’s before you got to the office. You lock yourself in the bathroom to recreate a leisurely spot to read today’s paper, but your 12 year old daughter has to primp herself for the high school boys’ JV soccer game, so you’re forced to relinquish the only remaining sanctuary that somewhat resembles your man caves of old. Dinner is predictably charred, and while your wife drops off your princess at the game, you run to Lowe’s to exchange your beige shower curtains for the ones with the floral design. Upon returning home, your wife yells at you for getting the wrong floral-patterned shower curtains and says she’ll just do it herself tomorrow. You finally get your chance to break past the front page of the sports section in bed when your wife reminds you that she needs your reading light off at ten. You go down to the family room when your daughter calls from her new cell phone asking for a ride home. You’re also trapped into dropping off her friends Stacey, Jennifer, and Jessica. You are turning into Jessica’s neighborhood, and at that moment Asher Roth’s “I Love College” comes on the radio.

Freeze!

Your life is hopeless. Yet your daughter can still be saved before she whores herself out on picturetrail.com and spends all your money on Ed Hardy clothes. But she’s already twelve, there isn’t much time. Of the aforementioned line, which part would you rather her hear?

“I danced my ass off,”

I mean sure, on the surface ass is technically a “bad word.” But it’s also a long-eared, domesticated beast of burden. It’s also a stupid person. It’s also an abbreviation for an assistant or an association. In context, the phrase paints a picture of relentless effort. You hope your son plays his ass off during his baseball game tomorrow. You wish you had worked your ass off during that sales pitch earlier today. And should your daughter some day aspires to be a Laker girl, you hope she dances her ass off during that audition. I find nothing vulgar with the phrase, “I danced me ass off.” ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS!

Or “And had this one girl completely naked.”

I can see the FCC editing this song now.

And. Safe.

Had. Safe.

This. Safe.

One. Safe.

Girl. Safe.

Completely. Safe.

Naked. Safe.

No edit necessary.

What happened to “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts?”

Would you really rather let your daughter hear a line promoting the objectification of women than a line promoting unyielding effort? Is that the standard you want pop culture to set for her? I know that the machine doesn’t actually feel this way, but when we nit pick the small stuff and ignore the big picture, it certainly appears that way. And in this world, appearance goes a long way.

Let that meal settle in your stomach for a bit. And since it is summer and everything, make sure to wait half an hour before swimming.

Revelation!!

It hit me last Sunday night. I don’t know why it hadn’t hit me earlier, but better while I’m still young than someday way down the road. Now, I had always wanted to write for a living, but I was never sure if journalism was the route for me. I don’t want a job that decides where I have to live and go or a job that sticks me in an office for the rest of my life. Naturally, I thought that meant novels. But that also means being broke for a good minimum of twenty years. How many novelists make it anywhere anyway? This is what living conditions look like for a novelist:

This has cramped and struggling written all over it. I better just save any ideas I have for a rainy day in my future. Is there really no job that can satisfy my need to be both culturally relevant and allow to settle down away from the hustle and bustle? Looks like I'm in a bit of a big pickle.

Okay that's too big. And absolutely ridiculous.

Fast-forward to last Sunday. Or rewind if you skipped the first paragraph and you’re starting now, I promise I won’t judge you. I’m watching the Oscar’s cuz I like movies and I’m in L.A., right? And I think about just how elusive that little guy is. Oscar is the apex of success in the movie industry, which is the apex of pop culture. Nebraskans don’t win those things that often. In fact, I can only think of two. Mike Hill won best achievement in film editing for Apollo 13 and Alexander Payne won best original screenplay for Sideways.

BOOM! Screenplays. That's it. Screenwriting. Wait, yes, screenwriting. That has to be it! Let’s be honest, I can only be cooped up in this kitchen for so long, diners. Eventually I got to get out and do something big or else I’ll be telling my kids “what if” stories my whole life. Then when they bring my grandkids over, my senile self will creep them out with “what if” stories that don’t make any sense.

Don't let me become this, diners.

Screenwriting is the perfect way to avoid that. Let’s recap:

Writing for a living: Check.

Culture Relevance: Check.

A job that doesn’t tie me down to a single place: Check. (I’ll probably have to live in L.A. for a few years, but then I can settle down and write from wherever).

A job that avoids the office: Check.

Money: Lot$ of checks$

Bonuses: Knowing people in the movie industry, winning an Oscar, watching movies as research, not having a sucky life.

Plus, remember those two cornhusker state natives I mentioned earlier? Alexander Payne is a Creighton Prep alum like myself, and Mike Hill even lives in Armbrust Acres, MY HOOD! Hello networking! I'm off to bigger and better things, people.

Change never tasted so good.

So if I want to make my name adapting screenplays, I got to find stories that are fit for Hollywood. For now I can make my cooks do all that dirty work. Order up!

Appetizer: House's Soup of the Day

Taxation finally comes with a side of representation in D.C.

Did anyone else not know that our nation’s current capitol has never had a voting member of congress? Who knew these people had been so politically suppressed over the years? The district wasn’t able to cast a vote for president until 1964 and couldn’t even directly elect its mayor or other city officials until the Home Rule Act was passed in 1973. Washington D.C. does elect a representative, but that delegate can only vote in committees and not on bills. Yeah, I guess you could say the homeless problem in our nation’s capitol is so bad even its only representative can’t find a House! (Same joke twice! It worked both times!)

Does D.C. even have a homeless problem???

On Thursday, however, the Senate overwhelmingly passed a bill that would increase the number of representatives in the House by two, one coming from the nation’s capitol and the other from Utah, which has been pushing 4 representatives since the 2000 census.

It’s good to see the people of D.C. getting the representation they deserve. Yet even after Milk’s success this past year, a political movie about the plight of an oppressed American people needs more pizzazz if it wants box office success. So I offer this blockbuster synopsis:

The same bill gets passed, but the president discovers a problematic clause in the constitution which states that members of the House must be comprised of individuals selected by the people of the states. However, statehood is not an option for the District of Columbia. Puerto Rico tried it once and, let’s be honest, 51 is such a gross number. I mean, it would totally discredit America’s claim as a superpower if it were to admit a 51st state. For example, just because aliens are cool doesn't mean Area 51 is a cool name for a conspiracy military base.

See, not cool.

Desperate for a seat in the House, the people of D.C. decide that the only way they’ll get that congressional delegate is by militarily supplanting Wyoming as the fiftieth state. (Don’t ask why I’ve had this sudden fascination with states battling other states. Just accept that it’s going to become a 21st century phenomenon). Chaos runs amok as the two evenly populated territories duke it out to decide which one becomes an irrelevant state and which one becomes irrelevant. Bill Pullman makes his first appearance as the commander and chief since Independence Day. I like Jeff Goldblum as D.C.’s representative (good Independence Day chemistry). Michael Rapaport plays Wyoming.

The NFL Matt Casserole


It seems no one’s gonna be playing for the same team next year.

Brian Dawkins, the closest the NFL will ever be to hiring a lolcat, will be playing with the Denver Broncos this year.

IZ ON UR FIELD, TACKLIN UR PLAYURZ

Pro-bowl defensive lineman Albert Haynesworth signed a seven year contract with the Redskins worth a cool $100 million.

Matt Cassel, who has much more in common with Woody from Toy Story than the "gun slinger" title, and LB/TE Mike Vrabel were traded to the Chiefs for a second round pick.

Uncanny.

Cardinals DE Antonio Smith signed a 5-year $35 million dollar deal with the Texans.

Keith Brooking’s a Cardinal. Lito Sheppard’ s a Jet. Jon Kitna’s a Cowboy. Anthony Henry’s a Lion. And Kurt Warner, T.J. Houshsmasnsndssdeiedjefefslgfgfdfd, Lavarerenesnesaurus Coles, the Dark Lord Kromdar, and Reuben Droughns are all shopping.


And then there’s the Bucs. Talk about extreme makeover. They fired head coach Jon Gruden shortly after this season ends, and then within a week they pick up human time bomb Kellen Winslow II reporting for duty, sir! . . .

The biggest threat to Michael Rapaport's douchieness

. . . and they then drop Cato June, Joey Galloway, Ike Hilliard, the legendary Derrick Brooks, and of course. . .

Entree: Chef’s Burger Served Well-Dunn

I don’t think I could give him the proper introduction he deserves. If anyone’s lived a life for the big screen its running back Warrick Dunn. Not only is he the mighty mouse of the football field, but he’s also established the Warrick Dunn Foundation and the Homes for the Holiday Program, which makes owning a home a reality for single-parent families. Dunn personally helps furnish the house and provides a down payment so that these parents might realize the dream that his mother sought for her kids. Dunn’s mother, policewoman Betty Smothers, was shot and killed while off duty when Warrick was eighteen, leaving him to care for his seven younger siblings. In recognition for his off the field work, Dunn was awarded the Walter Payton Man of the Year Award in 2005, the Giant Steps Award in Civic Leadership, and the Bart Starr Award in 2009. In 2007, he even met with his mother’s killer face to face at the Louisiana State Penitentiary.

What can anyone possibly not like about this man?

Warrick Dunn’s an incredible athlete and person, with an inspiring story tailor-made for big audiences. But of course, Hollywood might want the facts fudged a tad. So I propose that his mother’s killers were never caught, and the movie depicts Dunn’s new life: practicing his football skills and working to provide for his siblings by day, avenging his mother’s death by night. The guy’s lived a super hero life already. I think this could work. Jamie Foxx stars as Warrick Dunn, Beyonce as Dunn’s mother (those hips could believably bear eight children, if not eighty), and Michael Rapaport as the killer Foxx ultimately meets face to face in an epic ass-whooping.

Dessert: Sundae, Bloody Sundae


Five years after dropping How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb on the world, U2 is releasing its newest album, No Line on the Horizon this Tuesday. It’s available in three limited editions: a $36 digipack holding the CD along with a 36 page booklet, fold-out poster, and exclusive downloadable film; a $50 digipack containing a 60-page book instead; and a $96 box set with the book in hardback, a second poster, and a DVD of the film. Hey, I like U2, too, but you can’t deny that they’re sort of full of themselves.

That's not that cool, Bono.

In a recent interview regarding their collaborations with producer Rick Rubin being left off the new album, Bono was quoted as saying “Rick is a minimalist, which is about getting back to pure essence. That’s the theme of this album lyrically, but musically, this is maximalist. He wants to make a U2 album that is hard as nails and tender as can be but musically bare-boned. There is a place for that. This was the time for experimentation, wanderlust and finding other colors.” Translation: It’s pretentious.



Yet there remains Spinal Tap, the Commitments, and That Thing You Do among other cinematic band gems. Who’s to say a fictional band based off U2’s career wouldn’t sell, too? Naturally, Daniel Day-Lewis would play Bono, Colin Farrell as the Edge, and Michael Rapaport as that one drummer who quits the band because he doesn’t believe they can go anywhere and later develops a drinking problem when they hit it big so he confronts them one night when they’re all stars and everything and slaps Bono’s girlfriend and they get into this big fight and I’ll stop here so as not to ruin the ending. Cough up the ten bucks to see it in theaters yourself. Or buy it once it’s on DVD. I’d get some royalties.

February 24, 2009

Excuse my tardiness in getting this post up, I had some technical difficulties this weekend. Sorry if some of you are starving since its been a full ten days since the first post, but I assure you that the next meal will be served by Sunday. Chef's promise.

It's bloggin' time.

Omaha will not become the capitol of the United States, as I had previously thought. St. Louis will wear that crown.

However, Omaha can take some consolation in knowing that it is indeed my hometown, despite the fact that I was born in the bay area and currently live in Los Angeles. Lucky them.

Yet the West Coast will be pleased to hear its influence will ultimately prevail over the East Coast’s.

Finally, the next war will be fought not over oil, nor water, but everyone’s favorite effervescent beverage:

Pop. I mean soda. I mean coke. I suppose the only way to be politically correct is to say, “this guy”:

Allow me to explain.

If recent trends, findings, and theories alike among the scientific community hold to be true, and global warming is indeed so powerful that sea levels rise to heights where they wipe out the coastal cities, then the country’s largest and most powerful cities will be forced into a mass exodus towards the Midwest. And take it from me, someone who’s lived on the coast and the plains, coasters want nothing to do with the heartland.

"OMG?! People live in Nebraska?" - Typical Coaster

I guess my city pride swayed me to think they’d have most in common with the Big O. A booming downtown. An indie music scene. A plethora of irrelevant counties to the west Omaha can annex in order to accommodate coasters. Hell, the Missouri River might even swell up to give them some semblance of an ocean. Besides, St. Louis has earthquake pwnage potential (check it out), Chicago is packed already, and Denver’s just the heart of the tourist trap that is Colorado.

No one wants to live in a place that brings in one of these every weekend.

Silly me. LA has always had major earthquake pwnage and that’s never stopped anyone from living here. And aside from that, St. Louis has one more advantage over all other Midwestern cities:

They call soft drinks sodas.

Check out a better picture of it here: http://popvssoda.com:2998/countystats/total-county.html

The above map shows the results of a county by county poll asking people if they prefer to call soft drinks “pop,” “soda,” or “coke”.

(Side note: The poll also gave an “other” option where people could fill in their term for the drink if they were social freaks and didn’t call it one of the main three. “Other” responses in my home state of Nebraska included “Stickman” (What?), which was indicated by a full 18 people (double What?), “tarzan slam”, “large farva”, “gay whore”, “ass juice”, “fart water”, “I love Brian Craft”, “nig juice”, “donkey poo”, “Grandpa’s Revenge”, and, my personal favorite, “Lesbians rock NOT!!!!!! People should be straight!!” I don't know why they even thought to post those, but my day has officially been made.)

Personally, I say “pop”, evidence that Nebraska is my real home. Michael Rapaport doesn’t just pretend to be from New York, as one might expect from his pseudo-NYC personality, he actually is from New York. He most definitely says “soda.” This is one of the many reasons why I hate Michael Rapaport.

Even Michael Rapaport himself can't say for sure how big of a douche he is.

As you can see, St. Louis will remain as the last “soda” stronghold in the land of the free. Since most of the coastal cities also call soft drinks "sodas", the closest coasters can ever come to life as it once was is to look to the arch. The already have the St. Louis Blues, what's with some coasters painting the town a little red and white, too?

Washington D.C., meet your successor.

Like a trek to the heartland is going to be that easy! We’re talking about apocalyptic conditions people! And as if Appalachia isn’t hostile enough already, just wait and see what it looks like when the world’s ending. If The Hills Have Eyes had a kid with Deliverance it would look something like what I'm picturing. Normally I'd post a picture. You don't want a picture.

As you can see from the map, New England’s quest to St. Louis is not to be taken lightly. The Western tips of New York and Pennsylvania are home to a stolid pop front, and as I don’t think New York socialites want anything to do with the incestuous backwoods, the soda fellowship’s quest will in all likelihood pass through the less hostile West Virginia. If they can make it through to Kentucky, they’re practically in sight of their soda Mecca.


The majority of the group, if any, won’t make it past West Virginia. There’s already no room for error in the rugged Appalachian Mountains, and in desperate times people get defensive. Pop sloshers of the Eastern Midwest allied with Coke tipplers in the dirty south already have the soda fellowship bottlenecked in the hills, and the slightest scintilla of a uniform attack would beleaguer New England back to its ruinous home. Just like that, if it wasn’t already, Appalachia becomes the new Middle East, West Virginia the new Gaza strip, Sunnis and Shiites fade from memory and are supplanted by Coke folk and Poppins.

The next big thing in car bombing.

Battered but not beaten, the Soda fellowship sets up Newer York in East West Virginia. The Coke Folk rally around their Barad-Dur, the Coca Cola Headquarters in Atlanta.

I've never trusted the dirty south.

Poppins draw back and fortify a stronghold in the Windy City, in which they will tarry until the Pacific Northwest arrives from its march across the northern plains. The company heeds closely to I-90, taking comfort in knowing the staunchly pro-pop area affords them a safe journey, something not to be taken for granted in these troubled times. The march makes a brief stop in Wisconsin in a futile attempt to make peace with the poisoned city of Milwaukee. At the gates of Brew City, Captain of the March Peter Oden, the grandson of Hall of Fame Portland Trailblazer Greg Oden, delivers his famed “I Too Have a Dream” speech, in which he paints a world where little children of the soda fellowship live harmoniously with Poppin toddlers. He reminds the heathens with the words that become the very tenet of Poppinism:


“As a hyena who lays claim to a slain wildebeest is met by the lions that made the kill, so too will a city run by sodan insurgents and beset on all sides by the great cape of the Poppins meet that very company should the slanderers ever lay claim to the arch. If that day comes, the scavengers shall see a fury seldom spoken of.”


Milwaukee, rank with fear that Oden and his company would convert its citizens, rejected his plea for peace. With that, Oden raised his sword, and the city of Milwaukee fell to the marchers from the Northwest. And that is the story of how Wisconsin ended.


Meanwhile, a soda fellowship will set out from California before the ocean can take them and will reach St. Louis through the relatively quiet southwest with little resistance. Arriving before the east coast, and in greater numbers, the West coasters will be able to assimilate the new capitol to their culture faster than east coast culture can.

The country, diplomatically speaking, will look something like what you see below, with all of Kentucky as a no man’s land, the last place you’d ever want to find yourself. (It’s nice to know some things never change.)

Only God can guess what happens next.

Now even though I'm gonna keep this post short, I know you're hungry. I don't wanna send you away without eating something, so I had my best chef whip you up something to keep your stomach happy before you head out.

New Orleans Jumba-Liar

The trade on Tuesday that would have shipped Tyson Chandler from the New Orleans Hornets to the Oklahoma City Thunder was rescinded on Wednesday after Chandler failed his physical. The Hornets center had been sitting out since January 19th because of his left ankle, but it was his recurring turf toe that prompted Oklahoma City Thunder team doctor Carlan Yates to advise General Manager Sam Presti against the deal. Something fishy is going on here. And the picture of Presti below keys you that someone is surely up to no good.

Can any person look any more like a creeper?

Chandler hasn’t missed a game because of his toe in three years since the same Carlan Yates operated on it. Chandler even commended Yates for doing a bang up job. New Orleans can’t afford Chandler’s robust salary, and the Thunder could use a guy like him to be competitive.

Side note: Does anyone else realize that Oklahoma City is not actually an expansion team? This is still a well-established franchise! The Sonics were just so bad that it feels like someone slapped this team together over the offseason.

It's a perfect trade for both teams. So what alternative agenda then is Yates operating on? (Pun SO intended.)

Well for starters, both cities are in counties with a strong preference for “coke.” Sam Presti’s from Massachusetts, so undoubtedly he’s all for “soda.” It’s not far-fetched to think that Yates might reach for a “pop.” Someone get back to me about that. If yes, there’s really no other explanation: Yates is sabotaging somebody because of what they call their soft drink. That’s a hate crime.