The Daily Update

Song of the day:

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go
I'm standin' here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye

But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn
The taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn
Already I'm so lonesome I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go

The first job I ever had was as an usher at a movie theater. (That sentence first read as "The fist job I ever had was", which is an entirely different story altogether. Even I can learn to use spellcheck.) It was minimum wage, but it was a fun job, and I got all of the free popcorn I could eat. (That gets old faster than you think. Yup. Even faster than that.) You also got to catch parts of the new releases, see free movies that aren't the new releases, and flirt with the counter girls. (Every sentence should have some separate segue to it, apparently.) Or you do at least, if you have the courage and gumption to do so.

That wasn't really my style.

There WERE times however, where some of my spontaneity and verve showed itself. No, not that. It wasn't that kind of theater unless there was a Madonna movie showing. See, we often would have soundtracks of recent or currently playing movies playing over the speakers. Even in between shows. Having nothing better to do than stand there and guide people to the bathroom or keep teenage kids from jumping theater to theater, you start feeling the groove and singing along, and maybe tapping your foot. Well, one particular night, I was really feeling the lyrics of The Bodyguard, lip-synching along with Whitney Houston, when one of the counter girls very bluntly threw off my groove, and asked point-blank, "Matt, are you a prostitute?"

"Uh, no". (That was the truth at that time. )

"Then stop singing that you are the 'Queen of the night'."

It was then that I learned a lesson I have kept upon my lips many times hence. There are simply some songs that you cannot sing as a man and keep your manhood. It is unacceptable to hear the vocal strains of "Girls just wanna have fun" from anyone who owns a penis. "Natural Woman" castrates those who are not. "Sisters are doing it for themselves" will do so without male accompaniment, for fear of having to hang their head in shame. The small tinkling chime you hear would be his testicles rolling about like small bells.

There was even an ad campaign surrounding a mid-size pickup that centered around this phenomenon. It may have been Nissan, but the idea was that they were trying to show how much space their second row provided. Some poor cowboys were put through the torture of having a fellow cowhand sitting in the middle of the second row. Oblivious to what flowed from his vocal cords, he sang with emotional gusto the anthem of "Damn, I feel like a woman." Those to his sides grimaced in awkward pain at the death of his masculinity.

A new song has entered within this realm, and I must concede I have felt a temptation I have not felt in some time to open my lips at the sound of its approach. It should come as no surprise that it is Pinks "Stupid girls" song. The song is catchy, and the message behind it one worth listening to. It's also a message that SHOULD come from the mouths of more men. This said, men are best to find their own way of saying the same thing. The lyrics take on new meaning for a man to try to put voice to them, and simultaneously renders him bereft of his fortitude. And if one is not careful, a man could find himself defending himself against charges of meaning what he sings, accusing women of less than stellar IQ's.
Nay, good friend, it is much better to leave such songs to the fairer sex, and instead take up another tune. If none comes to mind, I might suggest "California Girls" by the Beach Boys.


This day in history:

On April 7, 1862, Union forces led by Gen. Ulysses S. Grant defeated the Confederates at the Battle of Shiloh in Tennessee.

In 1927, an audience in New York saw an image of Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover in the first successful long-distance demonstration of television.

In 1939, Italy invaded Albania. (Less than a week later, Italy annexed Albania.) Later, Italy would ask Albania "who's your poppa?" and fall asleep.

In 1945, during World War II, American planes intercepted a Japanese fleet that was headed for Okinawa on a suicide mission.

In 1947, auto pioneer Henry Ford died in Dearborn, Mich., at age 83.

In 1948, the World Health Organization was founded.

In 1949, the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical "South Pacific" opened on Broadway. Gay men everywhere were thrilled.

In 1966, the United States recovered a hydrogen bomb it had lost off the coast of Spain. Oh, hey! That's where I left it! I would forget my head if it wasn't screwed on.

In 1969, the Supreme Court unanimously struck down laws prohibiting private possession of obscene material. LIke, olive loaf.

In 1994, civil war erupted in Rwanda, a day after a mysterious plane crash claimed the lives of the presidents of Rwanda and Burundi. In the months that followed, hundreds of thousands of minority Tutsi and Hutu intellectuals were slaughtered. The itsies and bitsies were completely wiped out, but the teenies and the weanies were able to forge a bond of truce.

today's birthdays:
Actor James Garner is 78. Movie director Francis Ford Coppola is 67. Singer John Oates is 57. Actor Jackie Chan is 52. Football Hall-of-Famer Tony Dorsett is 52. Actor Russell Crowe is 42. Actor Bill Bellamy is 41. Actress Heather Burns is 31.


The Office

NBC has found a show worth watching by picking things off of the British scrap heap. The office was of mild success in England, but has found a very special place in the hearts of those who simply can't get enough abuse at work.

The Office collects those moments you might have at work that are only funny so long as they aren't happening to you. We all have had those bosses that have made us wonder if they were intentionally malicious, or completely unaware as to how insensitive they were to say or act in the manner they did. Or the co-worker who is just as clueless as to what is going on. This show places them all together with a mean streak running deep within it's writing. There isn't much doubt that it is a funny show, though there are moments that are funny only because of how terribly uncomfortable some moments are, and you slowly remember that it's only a television show. The best description I have is one that I have routinely used...Sometimes the show is funny in it's own way, and other times it rears up and hits you in the forehead with a 2x4 with its insensitivity, leaving you stunned. You'll feel sheepish later when you turn to whomever might be watching it with you and wonder if he/she really said that.

Steve Carrell stars as the boss who is completely clueless and classless. There is also a nice subplot between Jim and Pam, Jim being single, and Pam being engaged to be married. You'd like to envision a happy ending for them (not THAT kind), but given the brutality of the show from time to time, it is hard to see things working out for them.

Even still, I can see a time where I am posting quotes from this show. And show reviews. Just a thought. I haven't done a show review since that Joe Millionaire show, and I think we all enjoyed that.

If you're game, lemme know what you think.



But other than that, it's fine...

My manager recently sent out a notification that if there were some imperfection in our chairs, that we should speak now, since they are considering getting some new ones. Not knowing where to start, I went ahead and compiled a list.

My chair is possessed by the soul of one David Hasselhoff. My chair likes to give me "the shocker". My chair likes new age jazz. My chair does cover songs that Michael Bolton wouldn't do. My chair had an affair with Marilyn Monroe in the White House. But not that Clinton girl, because it has standards. My chair is responsible for the clubbing of baby seals. My chair wants to open a night club called Baby Seals. My chair also wants to attack the babies of music star Seal. My chair is behind the rapid decline of reality shows. My chair has career goals to become a Texas State Prison Electric Chair. My chair sees nothing wrong with Canada, and calls it "Back Bacon". Stupid chair.

My chair attends Klan meetings, and justifies it by saying "some of my best friends are black." My chair has spent more than a 2 week span in Wisconsin. My chair puts creamed corn on everything it eats. My chair passes gas, and then blames it on me. My chair sings the name song over and over and over. My chair scoffs at your level 3 cleric. My chair wants to fill your peanut-butter cups with potassium bromide instead. My chair doesn't appreciate my well-sculpted glutes like the rest of you do. My chair wants Louie Anderson to return to Family Feud. My chair watches women's tennis for the competition; not to see hot girls in skirts. But my chair still snickers like everyone else when they pull the tennis ball out of their shorts.

My chair will lick my undercarriage, but won't kiss, because "it's too personal". My chair is for the dismantling of Israel. My chair stands in the grocery lane to read the magazines but doesn't buy anything at all. My chair refuses to acknowledge the term of Finland Chief of State/President Tarja Halonen. My chair thinks that Roadhouse is an actual movie, instead of female-porn. My chair repeatedly tells me it's "got your back", but it never does. In a similar vein, it also plays the "got your nose" game, even though he really doesn't. My chair cheers for any team that plays against yours, because it can't stand to see you happy. My chair pollutes, and doesn't give a hoot. My chair pops the bubbles that you blow from your bubble wand.
My chair can't be trusted with your puppy's tail. My chair will tell you it will find a job, but when was the last time you saw it filling out an application?

My chair is in cahoots with the potted plants, Little Shop of Horrors-style. My chair pees outside. My chair doesn't use spellcheck. My chair thinks "alot" should be 2 words. My chair loves me only for my money. My chair places things on itself, like thistles and whoopee cushions. My chair once dated Tommy Lee, and now has hepatitis C. And a few others that have yet to be found on the Gyno charts.

My chair once starred in a film that featured chair-on-chair-action. And worse, it was the bottom chair. My chair shot President McKinley, but didn't shoot President George W Bush. My chair watches "Dog: the Bounty Hunter" for grooming tips. My chair thinks Boba Fett is a pansy. My chair waits in the bushes. My chair made Stevie Wonder blind. My chair wants to see Gary Coleman and Emmanuel Lewis fight to the death while trashy women prod them with large lit cigars. My chair is familiar with the art of Ben Wa. You need not ask how I know this. My chair blames Charles Shultz for ruining slave trade. Yes, that Charles Shultz. It also blames Gloria Estefan for giving good-looking Latin women hope that they could be anything but housemaids who could be propositioned when the kids were at school. My chair thinks that unborn fetuses have the right to marry, but noone else. My chair tells graphic stories about when it was in the Franco-Prussian war. My chair thinks the ultimate cuisine experience is Franco-American Spaghetti-o's with sliced Frankie Muniz. My chair goes to movies and claims both armrests for itself. My chair wants to see the return of the 4 man rotation, and it's not talking baseball. My chair wants to build a car lot on Gettysburg. Safe to say, my chair is a jerk.

Book review: Game of Shadows

Book of Shadows documents not only the beginning of the case being made against Barry Bonds and his (alleged) steroid use, but that of anyone who ever ran or jumped, or swam or threw something at the Olympics of the past decade. OR at least, it seems that way. Dare not read, those of you who have any sort of National pride in your athletes. Track stars of all sorts are exposed for their steroid use throughout, and their approach to it all lets the color of your patriotism for sports run pale.

"Runner x is using it, and I'm not going to let him get away with it, so I'll use it to beat him too." Caught within their own rivalries, they risk their own health to beat their competitor.

If the book is accurate, there is too much evidence against Bonds. His relationships with his suppliers is damnable in and of itself, to say nothing of his extra-marital affairs. Having no met him myself, I am forced to rely upon the stories of those who have, and I have yet to find one that didn't refer to him as unbearable. He is not in baseball to be polite or cordial of course...These aren't qualities that hit home runs or steal bases or what have you. And yet, these qualities can buy you mercy in the eyes of those who watch baseball, should you falter. He has no such slack for himself.

Barry Bonds has cheated. It cannot be ignored. So has Sosa and Palmerio, and Canseco and Giambi, and McGwire too, though I hate to admit it to myself. Mcgwire had always been of a large build, capable of hitting great home runs. So it was easy to fool yourself that he was clean. By using these growth hormones and steroids and supplements, they cheated the fans who hoped that they were clean, who hoped that there was a chance that they were seeing the best of the best competing against each other without some hidden benefit. You bring your best and I'll bring mine. Instead, these men used what could be compared to a hidden nitrous boost in a drag race.

This book is not for those that wish to keep thoughts of such pure competitions alive. I don't think I'll look upon the Olympics the same again. As much as we derided the East Germans or the Russians in the past...We are as dirty as they are. As for baseball, it is run by Bud Selig. Selig takes no action or initiative of his own, and only moves when scolded by Congress. He is a sleeping dog who only moves when pushed. Baseball will never be clean under his watch, and he won't do anything more than what he is told to do, hoping it's enough. And it won't be.

Despite my ranting, it's a book worth reading, though it may not appeal to all of my audiences reading tastes.