Swimming in the Streets

I visited my good friend SingSong one recent Saturday in her current home of New York City. Since I spend most of my time in Philadelphia, the Special Olympics participant of major U.S. cities, it is nice to escape to an actual metropolis every now and again. Since my trek took place in July, a time of year during which New York is almost as hot as I am, it was decided that a traditional summertime activity was in order.

The original plan was to travel to Brighton Beach, which was perfect except for one small flaw: it was Brighton Beach. While I’m certain the sunlight would have looked quite magnificent bouncing off of the bullet casings in the water, we opted out this time. Besides, it would have required a ride aboard the New York City subway. Normally, I don’t mind the MTA, but in the dead of summer, descending into any given station is similar to walking into Rush Limbaugh’s armpit after he has finished a run (to the fridge) (or from the annual Gay Pride Parade). Thus, we settled on the next best thing: a city pool.

Like “Brighton Beach,” the term “city pool” doesn’t always conjure up the most pleasant of images. When most folks hear the term “city pool,” they picture a concrete hole in an overgrown-with-weeds (or an actual weed plant farm), possibly abandoned, property. Said hole is filled with stagnant water that made its way there via a 1937 rainstorm. Splashing around in this atrocity are the poorest of the poor, people so far below the poverty line that they have begged for money from street bums and art majors. Not helping matters is the fact that most areas containing “city pools” also have an equal, if not greater, amount of “private pools” and “bathtubs.”

The New York City city pool (I think it’s OK to use “city” twice there, right?) SingSong took me to differed greatly from the above description. For example, there were TWO concrete holes on the property.

Also, the place was perfect. No overgrown weeds. No stagnant water. No poor people. No Rush Limbaugh. Two very clean and well-maintained Olympic-sized swimming pools glistened under the early July sun, as well as under the supervision of numerous lifeguards. It was quite a relief to SingSong and I; we may have very well thought, thanks to the aforementioned stigmata attached to the term “city pool,” that we’d be entering a fenced-in version of New York Harbor. Again, this wasn’t the case at all; the pollution content was at a strict 0% (compared to the Harbor’s 200%) and, unlike New York Harbor, all of the bodies in the city pool were living.

Being a part of the city government, however, the pool was not without its regulations. Like the airport, courthouse, or any store frequented by Lindsey Lohan, bag-searchers greet you. I suppose that’s a good thing; if someone shot, blew up, or otherwise harmed swimmers with a weapon smuggled onto the premises, the ensuing blood and body parts could clog the pool filters. What really confused/irritated/semi-amused me was the t-shirt rule.

Only, and I mean ONLY, white t-shirts are permitted in the pool area.

If your shirt is any color other than white, you must lock/discard/eat it, even if your sole plan was to leave it on a plastic lounge chair while you swam. I have to wonder how difficult it was for the two (yes, TWO) pool employees to tell people (including us) this. Both of these employees hailed from not-so-Caucasian races…and were forced to execute a “white only” rule, even if it did apply to clothing. For the record, bathing suits of any color were permitted. At least for now.

Lockers are available to use, although the “lock” part of the term is your responsibility (technically, the pool provides many public “ers” to patrons). If you don’t bring your own padlock, your valuables have all of the security of a September 10, 2001 airline terminal. Fortunately, the combination lock I brought did the trick and also served double duty as a nostalgic reminder of the past when combination locks were used every day by us in high school. The actual memory of HOW to open the lock was not part of this reminder, unfortunately. Squeezing our stuff into a 10-inch-by-10-inch locker (which is nearly TWICE the size of a standard $3000/month Manhattan apartment), we commenced swimming.

The experience was fun and wholly devoid of incident. The universal 3-foot depth of the pools was kind of a downer; diving into one could very well result in serious head damage, sending you to the hospital or New York City government. Before long, the lifeguards constantly blew their whistles, signaling that swim time had ended for pool cleaning and maintenance. I wondered why the guards didn’t simply demand everyone exit the pool verbally before remembering that they would have had to say so in about 97,000 different languages, including Klingon.

In closing, my apprehension toward city pools was shown to have been misplaced; it simply belongs on Philadelphia city pools. It was a definite improvement over the township swim club my family belonged to during my childhood. The club was seriously located directly across the street from a sewage treatment plant and defined “good” conditions as “maybe you’ll only contract three diseases today.” Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and retrieve my black t-shirt from the impound.

Suburbia After Dark: Introduction

As much as I hate to admit it, I grew up in the suburbs. Specifically, the suburbs of Philadelphia.

If you aren’t familiar with Pennsylvania’s largest city, I will fill you in on an important aspect of it: most of its residents are about as well-traveled as a stillborn baby. Generations of people live their entire LIVES in single neighborhoods, considering a trek to a neighborhood ten miles away a “day trip.” They only familiarize themselves with roads leading to/from the supermarket, work, and the New Jersey coastline. Roadways and cities that make up the greater Philadelphia area (which encompasses southeastern Pennsylvania, most of southern New Jersey, and northern Delaware) are foreign not only to out-of-towners, but also to many who share the same area (and even zip) codes.

The suburbs are even worse.

Despite telling others that they’re “from Philadelphia” and rooting for its sports teams, a good percentage of those living in those cul-de-sac- and strip-mall-infested communities outside of the city’s boundary lines rarely, if ever, trek downtown. They grow up accustomed to a lifestyle where everything can only be accessible via personal automobile and in “communities” sans town centers and interpersonal relationships with folks living more than one address away.

Since I learned early on that it would be most beneficial to trade my suburban Catholic upbringing for a functioning brain, I spent the majority of my adolescence and adulthood (thus far) seeing the suburbs for the barren, bland asphalt shrines that they are. I ultimately wound up relocating to the city in 2008; even though it is no New York or Washington, DC (which I refer to as “actual cities”), it was nevertheless a thousand times better than my home region of southern Delaware County, Pennsylvania.

Despite my overly wordy thoughts on those communities existing outside of major metropolitan areas, I would be lying if I said that the suburbs didn’t fascinate me a little bit. So embedded in the 9-5, weekends-off lifestyle enjoyed by the many middle-class residents therein, the suburbs become an eerily beautiful place after hours. In the daytime, major roads are bumper-to-bumper for miles with gas-guzzling SUVs and minivans piloted by blue collar Republicans, overweight soccer moms, and the semi-spoiled offspring of such. The cookie-cutter McMansions dotting the towns’ developments, sub-developments, and non-major thoroughfares are (in a very loose sense of the word) alive with such activity as grass mowing, garden tending, etc. The bland, square buildings housing paper-pushing 9-5 jobs and chain retailers are abuzz with commerce.

But at night?

Eerie silence abounds. The aforementioned housing developments are shrouded in darkness, as life ceases to be after 9-10PM (even on weekends). If one is lucky, he or she may spot a lit window or two, proof of some extremely bored homeowner or any given member of his/her nuclear family unit partaking in their domicile’s extremely limited indoor activities. The stores, restaurants, and businesses lining the major roadways are just as silent/dark, claiming full responsibility for the creepy lack of traffic on a stretch of asphalt that, a mere eight hours prior, was busier than Times Square at rush hour. Bars and certain restaurants are of course open past the near-universal 9:30PM close of business, but even their lives for the day expire in the first one or two wee hours of the morning in most states. Only the occasional gas station, pharmacy, or all-night diner breaks up the monotony.

Suburbia at night is what I’m interested in.

I grant partial credit of this sudden interest to the 1996 film “subUrbia,” which I watched recently on VHS (yup, seriously VHS; the flick has yet to be released on DVD). Starring then-unknown talents like Giovanni Ribisi, Steve Zahn, Parker Posey, and Ajay Naidu, the Richard-Linklater-directed feature was written by Eric Bogosian, who had also written, produced, and directed the play of the same name off of which the film was based. If you haven’t seen the play or the movie, I strongly suggest checking it out, as it successfully illustrates the life of young, aimless, directionless people in modern-day suburbia, a land their parents and grandparents were drawn to and thought nothing of in the middle of the 20th century. The film takes place almost entirely at night and almost exclusively in the parking lot of a typical convenience store.

I grant the rest of the credit to my own past, during which I had slight bouts of exposure to suburbia after dark. My friends and I spent our early (and even mid) twenties working retail/food jobs to supplement our respective educations and thus failed to see our free time begin until after 8PM. Movie theaters and all-night (or at least late-night) restaurants were our saviors; occasionally, we’d act like “normal” twenty-somethings and even hit up a bar or nightclub. I clearly recall being fascinated, and even somewhat drawn to, the desolate parking lots and near-empty streets under the post-midnight skies overlooking our dull area.

Tomorrow (July 1, 2011), I invite everyone over to my Twitter feed and, more importantly, Tumblr account, for a little “live blogging.” I will be spending the last few hours of fumor.net’s two-and-a-half-year anniversary date, as well as the wee morning hours of July 2, walking around the abandoned roads of suburban towns I frequented in my past. I will tweet when I feel necessary but will update Fumblr more frequently with photographs and descriptions/memories of the images contained therein. I’m not exactly sure what I hope to accomplish with this project, nor am I sure I even really WANT to accomplish anything, aside from quenching some years-long desire to wander around suburban Philadelphia after dark.

Hmm, aimless, directionless…

I feel like a suburbanite again.

Just keep me away from the SUV dealership.

Hottest Audrey Griswolds

The “National Lampoon’s Vacation” movie series consisted of four entries released over a span of fourteen years (I don’t count the direct-to-video sequel “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation 2: Cousin Eddie’s Island Adventure” nor do I count “Hotel Hell,” the HomeAway.com ad that starred Clark & Ellen Griswold and aired as a short film on the company’s website as a promotional tie-in to Super Bowl XLIV). Along with the “Fletch” movies and half of the “Caddyshack” movies, the “Vacation” movies helped Chevy Chase become a defining star of the 1980s. Interestingly enough, the dull box office performance and overall execution of 1997’s “Vegas Vacation” helped Chevy Chase become a defining star of 1990s failure.

Even though Chase’s “Clark Griswold” and Beverly D’Angelo’s “Ellen Griswold” characters retained the same actors in each of the four films, the roles of their children Rusty and Audrey changed with each entry. It even became an in-joke of sorts when, in the opening scenes of “Vegas Vacation,” Clark remarked to the fourth set of actors portraying his children “You kids are getting so old I hardly recognize you anymore!” Sadly, in a movie containing dialogue like “Where is the damn dam tour?,” this was one of the wittier lines of dialogue.

Anyway, I and many other males my age who grew up with the “Vacation” series saw one positive outcome of the third- and fourth-billed actors in each entry: four different Audreys. Between 1983’s “National Lampoon’s Vacation” and 1997’s “Vegas Vacation,” four different actresses were needed to play the role of the Griswolds’ adolescent daughter.

The burning question? How do the Audreys rate in terms of hotness?

1. Marisol Nichols, Vegas Vacation

Whether they’re compiling (or have compiled) a similar list themselves or not, anyone who has seen all four “Vacation” movies will agree that the hottest Audrey EVER was none other than Marisol Nichols. The producers must have taken note of her hotness as well, seeing as how they created a subplot wherein she temporarily becomes a cage dancer alongside her stripper/dancer cousin Vicki (who, despite being the offspring of Randy Quaid’s character, isn’t too shabby herself). Her conservative clothing early on in the film was permanently replaced with form-fitting dresses well before the film’s third act. It’s downright amazing that Clark or Rusty (or Ellen, for that matter) never participated in some hardcore incest with a hottie like that under their suburban Chicago roof. I personally would have rammed my Family Truckster into her repeatedly, blood relation or not.

You *know* Audrey has to be hot when Christie Brinkley appears in the movie (reprising her role from the first “Vacation”)…and she’s the SECOND hottest one in the flick.

Fun fact: Nichols and her on-screen brother, Ethan Embry, also appeared together in “Can’t Hardly Wait,” although Nichols’ “blink and you’ll miss her” cameo was in stark contrast to Embry’s starring role.

2. Dana Barron National Lampoon’s Vacation

Thanks to everything from the clothing choices to the hairstyles, it was damn near impossible for ANYONE in 1983 to appear even remotely attractive. I’m glad my birth certificate registers a 1980 birth year, because I don’t know what I would have done had my prime sexual years been the early 1980s.

Thankfully, guys of that particular age in 1983 had Dana Barron.

Cute as a button but still pretty smoking hot in a few scenes (the scene in which she and Rusty discuss a potential divorce between their parents after Ellen catches Clark swimming naked with Christie Brinkley comes to mind), Barron ranks a solid #2 after Nichols’ lead. Additionally, a few of the shirts she wears reveal that Audrey’s breasts are each roughly the size of Marty Moose. Then again, it’s not terribly difficult to look attractive when you’re standing next to Anthony Michael Hall for half of the movie, whose braces-covered overbite should have been properly credited as the character of Rusty.

Plus, she proves early on in the movie that she can kick her brother’s (and presumably her dad’s) ass in whatever the hell passed for video games back then.

Fun fact: Dana Barron is the only “Audrey” who actually reprised the role in a later sequel. Granted, the film was “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation 2: Cousin Eddie’s Island Adventure,” but it’s still an interesting trivia point nonetheless.

3. Juliette Lewis, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

A lot of “hottest Audrey” lists may place Ms. Lewis in the #2 (or even #1) spot. I completely disagree with this assessment. True, Juliette Lewis was indeed pretty damn hot in her prime. Unfortunately, that hotness didn’t really develop until well into the 1990s, several years after the 1989 filming of “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

While she has a semi-hot face, Lewis’ hair in this movie is what really loses her points. Screaming “1980s” louder than any pair of spandex or Rubik’s Cube ever could, it, like Anthony Michael Hall’s overbite, should have been its own character in the movie. She looked cute in the opening scenes of the movie with her outdoors hat covering most of her hair.

She makes up for the giant hair with a pretty damn nice body, highlighted by skintight outfits in several scenes, which is very uncommon for women in Chicago in December I would imagine. By the way, exactly how she suddenly became Rusty’s older sister after spending the previous two installments as his younger sibling is a mystery. That must have been one hell of a growth spurt.

Dana Hill, National Lampoon’s European Vacation

I almost feel bad “awarding” this last-place spot, seeing as how the actress who played Audrey, Dana Hill, had Type I diabetes and died from it at the young age of 32 in 1996. But some things need to be done.

Perhaps the “Vacation” series’ weakest entry also features its least-hottest Audrey. It’s safe to say that Audrey in this one is downright hideous. She looks more like Rusty than Jason Lively does and spends most of her scenes gorging food. While all of the other “Vacation” movies are capable of taking place in real life, the same cannot be said for this entry, primarily due to Audrey.

For one, she has a boyfriend (who ultimately breaks up with her for a mutual friend of theirs; apparently, while she was in Europe, her boyfriend had his sight restored). A girl who looks like that would NEVER have a boyfriend, not even if she was paying for it.

Secondly, John Astin’s “Kent Winkdale” character takes a page out of Richard Dawson’s book in the movie’s opening scene on the set of the fictitious game show “Pig in a Poke” and kisses his female contestants. A friendly kiss with Ellen ultimately leads to a full-blown make-out session with Audrey, much to the concern of Clark. John Astin spent a good chunk of the 1960s wrapping himself around Carolyn Jones’ sexy, shapely “Morticia Addams” on the old “Addams Family” TV series. There’s no WAY he would even WANT to THINK about TOUCHING a creature like Dana Hill, let alone assaulting her with his mouth. He’d hook up with Lurch first. I would say that he used a stunt kisser for that scene, but what guy would be desperate enough to make it in Hollywood to accept that role?

So, now it’s your turn, everyone. Do you agree or disagree with any of my choices? Do you have a favorite Audrey (or Rusty, for that matter)? Why?

Yoink

Most of my life was spent in the suburbs of Philadelphia, where my parents and half their parents made their homes.  My current job took me into the actual city limits five days a week and, as of May 2008, on a full-time basis.  Thanks to my constant exposure to the “City of Brotherly Love,” I have done things that are unique to visitors and (most) area residents alike.

I’ve visited the Liberty Bell.  I found it much less impressive than the Liberty Bell building’s restroom, seeing as how said restroom served a function here in the 21st century.

I’ve eaten a cheesesteak.  In doing so, I again visited the Liberty Bell’s restroom.

I’ve run up the steps of the city’s art museum, a la “Rocky” (if by “run” you mean “climbed at a normal pace while douchebag tourists and bored frat guys ran a la ‘Rocky’ on either side of me”).

I’ve done it all.  In fact, the only real “Philadelphian” experience I have yet to encounter was robbery of my person.

Until recently.

Being robbed is just as commonplace to Philadelphia as rooting for the Eagles professional football team or weighing in excess of 450 pounds.  I tended to avoid robbery thanks to my tendency to go out in public looking exactly like a broke college student.  True, this same image repelled girls as well, but I suppose that is a small price to pay for the lack of having a gun barrel jabbed into the back of my neck and an uneducated voice belonging to a member of the 70% of the city’s populace forever looking UP at the poverty line demanding money and/or “smokes.”  It looked like my impending move to New York City (which is set to take place sometime in the next 4000 months) was going to occur with all of my valuables still safe in my possession.

Or so I thought.

A few months back, the local news took a break from its up-to-the-nanosecond coverage of Charlie Sheen to run a story that was (surprise!) designed to alarm members of the viewing public.  The story detailed a string of “grab and run” style thefts of cell phones from unsuspecting public transit riders.  Grainy, pixelated security camera footage saw device after device yanked from the hands of people aboard trains, buses, or even on platforms.  Ever the vigilant protector of the ridership it systematically robs of money and reliability, SEPTA, the city’s public transit system, issued the following statement:

“We urge people to keep their cell phones in their pockets.”

The, they raised fares.

Fun fact: SEPTA’s police force is the state of Pennsylvania’s SECOND LARGEST police force, behind only that of Philadelphia itself.

Seriously, the above response was all they had to offer.  No increased police presence.  No hiring of more alert station crew (the majority of whom would fail to notice an H-bomb exploding nearby, as doing so would interrupt the precious, $25-per-hour nap they went on strike for a few years back).  The responsibility falls to the victims, the taxpaying (and SEPTA fare-paying) public in the corner of Pennsylvania that contains the state’s TWO largest police forces.

Recently, I am ashamed to say, I became one of those victims.

One rainy weekday, I was aboard one of the system’s (two) subway lines.  As the train decelerated to pull into the next stop, I foolishly decided that it was safe.  My history aboard SEPTA’s various vessels was wholly uneventful, crime-wise, up to that point and I assumed this trip would be no different.  Besides, the stop we were pulling into was my destination.  I opened my bag, took it out, and patiently waited for the doors to open.

The doors opened.

Suddenly, a nearby passenger snatched it from me and sprinted out of the train, running as fast as his criminal legs would carry him.  No gun.  No threat.  No demand of money, even.  Just the same grab and run that I had seen played out on local TV just prior to news of Charlie Sheen’s latest Twitter update.

By now, you’re no doubt saying, “Well, you deserved to have your phone stolen.”

To that, I say, “Who said it was my phone?”

I possess a DROID, for Pete’s sake (for you non-”Smartphone” users out there, a Droid is basically an iPhone with dignity).  I protect that thing better than I would my own children.  It’s probably a good thing that I’ve opted out of procreation, since, if it ever came to my child’s life or my Droid, I’d be waving bye-bye to Mike, Jr. without hesitation.  I’m sure a stolen child is traumatic and all, but at least you have your contact list AND background settings safe at the end of the day.

In a city that is basically an oasis of nice areas in a sea of ghettos, you can bet that my Droid is safely hidden at all times (unless I’m bored).

It was my UMBRELLA that was stolen.

My dollar store umbrella was now in the clutches of a really lame thief.  Seriously, dude: people out there are scoring cell phones and you yank an UMBRELLA?  Your thievery career is obviously in its embryonic stages.  What’s next?  Someone’s newspaper?

The funny thing is that the day on which this occurred saw not only torrential downpours, but also winds that were strong enough to tip over mountains and maybe even some of the lighter residents of Philadelphia.  The two-block walk separating my apartment and the subway entrance enlightened me to the fact that my soon-to-be-stolen umbrella was on its last spokes.  In fact, I would bet my Droid (sorry, I mean my child’s life) that a mouse cough would permanently invert it,  rendering it about as valuable as a fruitcake or iPhone.

Now, it was someone else’s problem.

The stop at which I departed was linked via a series of underground, rain-repelling tunnels to a dollar store, so I was umbrella-less only for a short period of time.

Traitor King

Throughout my life, I have loved fast food chain Burger King. Ask any one of my friends, family members, or romantic partners, particularly those who tend to now avoid me: I suggest good old “BK” for EVERYTHING. Quick snack? Burger King. Milestone birthday? Burger King. Anniversary dinner? Burger King. Funeral luncheon? Burger King. My dad not only worked at a Burger King through college, but also met my mom there (this doesn’t mean I was conceived there) (as far as I know).

One day, prior to attending some sort of event in the city (it could have been a show, it could have been a movie, it could have been a ritual killing; I don’t remember), I decided to grab dinner somewhere. A number of restaurants in the vicinity met my strict culinary criteria:

–They were right there
–They were cheap

I opted for my old favorite, primarily because its competitors in the area did not contain that delicious, lightly peppered staple known as chicken tenders. Little did I know that I was about to find out the hard way that these chicken tenders were also not a part of Burger King’s menu.

Sitting down at a table consisting of 15% Formica and 85% grime, I began to dig into my meal. I popped open the traditional midget-casket-resembling box of tenders, assuming my eyes would be blessed with the usual sight of eight crispy tenders shaped like regal crowns. Instead, my eyes were slapped with the content of the below picture:

Bewilderment was the first feeling to bubble to the surface (apparently, my feelings were surfacing in alphabetical order that day). What were these nugget-like things? I have seen them before, sure, but always with a McDonalds or Wendys logo nearby. I quickly dismissed said bewilderment with the logical conclusion that the chain simply opted to change the shape of their chicken pieces. I still remember (and am still somewhat pissed about) the chicken tenders’ previous plastic surgery, when their long, finger-esque shape had become a dorky-looking “crown.” Since dead processed chickens aren’t exactly art supplies, you really had to possess nearsightedness or mental retardation to think you had a box of eight crowns. They looked more like severed duck feet than anything a royal (even that turd Prince William) would ever adorn.

I picked up the first tender…er, nugget…and, its lightly breaded coating attaching itself to my fingers (another noticeable difference), bit into it.

The crispy coating? Gone. The lightly peppered recipe? Also gone. In its place was this impostor nugget; it was as native to a box of Burger King chicken tenders as much as an onion ring or cantaloupe would be. Why was it here? Why did it bring seven siblings? The flavorless meat reminded me of something you would find in a recently-thawed-out box of Weaver chicken pieces from the supermarket. I bit into a piece of the box in which the nuggets resided and came to the chilling conclusion that the taste of cardboard matched the taste of the meat within its walls. I also realized that people around me who were probably about to ask me for spare change saw me bite into a chicken tenders box and felt it was in their best interest to avoid me at all costs. Did Burger King run out of its own chicken tenders and need to borrow some at the last minute from some other store?

Then I saw the signage.

These are the “new” chicken tenders.

The old ones are GONE.

This is like saying “We canceled tonight’s Billy Joel concert so we could bring you…William Hung!”

My love of Burger King had seen tough times in the past, sure. The aforementioned chicken tender shape shift, for one. When it adopted the creepiest mascot ever that hovered outside of people’s windows, I was cool with it. And when its online Subservient Chicken did not have a pre-programmed response to “masturbate,” I understood. But this was too much. At a place with such a specific name (BURGER King), I expect the highest grade of chicken products!

One of my favorite fast food items had been lost to a permanent change meant to highlight the chain’s dipping sauce offerings (seriously). The damn thing was being HEAVILY PROMOTED. What hurts the most is that this boring, cardboard-flavored thing carries with it the moniker “chicken tender.” It’s like the more promising of a couple’s young sons dying and the parents opting to rename their underachieving, drooling kid after him. Yes, I did just compare the changing of Burger King’s chicken recipe to the death of someone’s child. Don’t like it? Write your own Facebook note.

My future trips to Burger King are now sadly limited. I suppose I will be ordering Whoppers from now on.

Until they replace them with tofu burgers.

R.I.P.

It’s the End of the World as They Know It

As you read these very words, the planet Earth is in its final moments of existence, if a handful of billboard-raising religious nuts are to be believed (and really, if we can’t trust THEM, who really CAN we trust?!). According to preacher Harold Camping, the Fred Phelps of this particular arm of religion, one particular interpretation of the Bible gives May 21, 2011 as Judgment Day. Instead of carting him off to a white padded room and injecting him with enough drugs to knock a whale/elk/James Earl Jones on its ass, some folks out there actually AGREE with his statement. Granted, this is for good reason: Camping’s failed prediction that the world would see its demise in 1994 means that the guy sure as hell has experience in picking out Judgment Day.

Needless to say, this whole Rapture thing bothers me.

Why?

Is it the whole “end of the world” part? No. First of all, I’m an atheist, meaning the day I choose to believe in any sort of god is the day I also believe in the existence of Santa Claus, Jiminy Cricket, or a funny Will Ferrell movie. Furthermore, look at today’s damn society. Hearing news that it is going to end forever would be happily welcomed by me; I wouldn’t be bothered in the least.

Is it the stupidity fueling this campaign? No. The fact that “American Idol” is still on TV and that Lady Gaga tops the “Most Influential Celebrities” list (hell, the mere fact that we even HAVE a “Most Influential Celebrities” list) is proof positive that most people have the IQ of pubic lice’s pubic lice. I’m used to the stupidity of the masses by now. I will admit, though, that I am slightly irked by Camping blaming his busted 1994 proclamation on a mathematical error. Since when were religious nuts people of math and science? It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that at least half of the folks buying into the May 21 Rapture date still think our planet is flat.

What bothers me to the point of column formation here is that this whole episode is the latest proof of how LAZY people have gotten. I’ll admit that I’m no champion of activity myself; single machines do my cooking and dishwashing and I opt to simultaneously celebrate “cleaning day” and “new equinox.” But I’m not THAT lazy. When I drive, I don’t circle parking lots for hours until a space adjacent to the handicapped spots opens up. I WALK. And I also think those who treat escalators and people movers as rides on which you remain stationary should be put to death and have their corpses urinated upon.

The May 21 folks exemplify this laziness. Remember Heaven’s Gate? For those of you who don’t, it was a late 1990s cult that believed leader Marshall Applewhite’s deadly Kool-Aid would land them aboard the UFO supposedly trailing the Hale-Bopp comet. Those people would be spinning in their graves, Nikes and all, if they learned about the Rapture idiots. Why? Because they went and DID SOMETHING to realize their insane proclamation. Both groups possess similarly dumb ideas: one believed that death equaled spaceship entry while the other believes that a Middle Eastern carpenter zombie is going to go around picking favorites. The difference was that Heaven’s Gate did some work. They rented a compound. They bought Nikes. They mixed Kool-Aid.

The Rapture folks are doing NOTHING.

They expect their precious deity, the same one who stood them up in 1994, to do all the work for them. Sure, they bought some billboard space and freaked out at news reporters, but ANYONE (*cough*Donald Trump*cough*) can do that! Not a single member of this cult even prepared REGULAR Kool-Aid. Your precious savior is taking time out of his busy schedule of appearing in frying pan grease and playing soccer to play judge, jury, and executioner to eight billion people…and you can’t even prepare JUICE? Isn’t the world supposed to heat up to like 9 zillion degrees (almost TWICE as hot as Phoenix)? Some juice would be appreciated!

I will close this piece with a letter to the aliens flying in the tail of the Hale-Bopp comet.

Dear aliens,

You were lucky. You got some thoughtful and effort-expending folks back there in 1997. In case you need any product for your soylent green, I can point you to a crapload of people to choose from. Just don’t give them the satisfaction of taking them on May 21.

Go back in time and take them on May 20.

Love, Mike

PS: When you decide to terminate Earth, “Independence Day” style, I will fight on your side.

Want to Have Some Nun?

My friend RedHot is an Irish step dancer. Actually, she excels at ALL forms of dance, making her the polar opposite of yours truly when it comes to the craft. When I attempt ANY dance, even the Twist, I do not appear even remotely graceful. Rather, I resemble a broken marionette puppet being operated by Michael J. Fox. To say that I suck at dancing is like saying the Pacific Ocean sucks at being dry.

Anyway, RedHot’s proficiency in Irish step dancing in particular has taken her to venues all over the country, both close to as well as far away from each year’s annual St. Patrick’s Day holiday. A New-York-City-based troupe with whom she toured recently touched down in the Big Apple suburb of Yonkers, New York. Since my only real plans on the date of her performance included choosing between beef-flavored or chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles for lunch, I decided to make my way north from Philadelphia to see her dance. Upon my arrival, I quickly discovered that “Yonkers” is apparently a word that is Gaelic (or possibly Japanese) for “town full of Irish Catholics no younger than my parents.” A main street through the town was lined with businesses whose signs were rarely without a shamrock, leprechaun, or the word “Irish.” We’re honestly talking businesses with names like “Paddy O’Malley’s Dry Cleaning.”

It was a far cry from the Bronx MTA station I had used to access the neighborhood. Located less than a mile from Clover City, the subway station, held together by graffiti, was smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood that I would call the “Detroit of Detroit.” It’s a neighborhood so bad that its main nighttime illumination source does not come from street lamps (which were stolen a LONG time ago) but rather from the moonlight reflecting off of the used crack pipes, malt liquor bottles, and blood puddles carpeting the street. It’s so bad there that you aren’t considered officially shot unless you’ve been hit by 5 or more bullets.

RedHot’s performance was held in, of all places, a church. The church was either defective or God wasn’t paying attention (gee, when does THAT ever happen? Cancer patients and homeless people, don’t answer that), as I failed to burst into flames immediately upon entry. Once inside, I noted that the dance numbers performed by her troupe, as well as her solo routine, went off without a hitch. She did just as great a job of dancing as I would have of falling on my face and dislocating a major body part, such as my ass.

During the show’s intermission, I bypassed the G-rated refreshments and used the little leprechaun’s room. On my way back, I passed a group of the church’s nuns. One of them, as is standard, was approximately 10 billion years old and most likely predated the entire Catholic faith. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if I was told that this nun spanked the actual Jesus Christ with a prehistoric ruler during the Son of God’s school days. However, a multi-era gap separated her from the other nuns in the group.

The other sisters were YOUNG. And CUTE.

Of course, I checked them out. The years of public schooling, “Beavis and Butt-head,” and Tucker Max essays that stood between the present and my abandoning of the Catholic faith led me to think thoughts like “I can do things to you that your rosary NEVER could!”

Holy shit. Was I really objectifying NUNS in a CHURCH? Religious or not, that’s a pretty messed-up thing to do.

Sadly, the only thing I regret about doing this was that it made me feel old. Traditionally, nuns have always been frail old ladies with 3-digit Social Security Numbers or stern, middle-aged women who looked more like Tom Arnold than anything remotely resembling a female. Attractiveness was NEVER a characteristic. Were young cute girls really becoming nuns or am I now so old and senile that I was actually checking out nuns falling into one of the previous sentence’s two categories?

Before I made an attempt to perform the first carnal activity in the church that did NOT involve an altar boy, I composed myself, took my seat, and enjoyed the rest of the show. While occasionally glancing at the nuns, of course.

One Sucky Evening

While the rest of my age bracket is overwhelmed by wholly useless activities like socializing or raising children, I like to spend my free time watching old “Looney Tunes” cartoons on Youtube. My sisters and I were raised on the Warner Bros. classics since exposure to them didn’t require my dad to shell out additional money to the cable service to get The Disney Channel (which was still a “premium” channel back in the 1980s). While our counterparts had Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, we had Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. While our counterparts’ parents had cable- and trips-to-the-Disney-company’s-overpriced-theme-parks-related debt, our parents had little to worry about aside from late fees issued to them in case we weren’t done with the latest VHS tape of Warner Bros. cartoons we had rented that week. I’d say we came out on top.

One of my visits to Youtube resulted in my viewing of the cartoon classic “One Froggy Evening.” For those of you unaware, the cartoon stars popular Warner Bros. staple Michigan J. Frog and details his relationship with a building demolition team member who locates him in the cornerstone of a building currently being torn down. Whenever the worker is alone with the frog, he belts out loud renditions of popular 1930s songs with remarkable talent (this is a trait rarely found in amphibians). However, when the worker attempts to cash in on the frog (or merely informs others of its abilities), the frog suddenly lapses into silence, emitting little more than a drawn-out “ribbit.” This ultimately drives the poor guy out of house and home and into a “psychopathic hospital.”

Those of you who remember watching this short probably thought the same thing I did: What does this have to do with Justin Bieber?

Yes, I do mean THAT Justin Bieber, popular culture’s latest offering who looks eerily like “My Girl” star Anna Chlumsky right around the time she starred in “Gold Diggers: The Secret of Bear Mountain.” Lately, he appears to have replaced Miley Cyrus AND the Jonas Brothers in that all-too-important “shallow teenage girls whose interests change 15 times per day (one time for each IQ point they possess)” demographic. I listened to almost 1.2 seconds of one of Bieber’s songs; this extensive research led me to the logical conclusion that he cannot sing for shit. My farts are more melodious than his lyrics (and have deeper lyrics). The sound produced by a cat being run over by a riding mower would be more pleasant to the ears than any given Justin Bieber tune. Thus, we are forced to ask: how is he popular? WHY is he labeled as a popular musician when the powers that be know full well that this should be a term used to describe REAL musicians (i.e. Frank Sinatra, Aerosmith, William Shatner, my anus, etc.).

Then, with only the help of “One Froggy Evening” and some extra-strength Benadryl, I managed to figure it out.

Maybe, just maybe, Bieber IS a great singer…but only in front of the poor schlub who found him (in this case, Usher). In private, he is capable of belting out the finest rendition of “Hello My Baby” since, well, Michigan J. Frog. But once Usher attempts to cash in on him by showcasing his talents to others, he, like the frog, emits a drawn-out croak (or its musical equivalent “Never Say Never”) and nothing else.

Now, while this comparison of flash-in-the-pan music to half-century-year-old Warner Bros. cartoons might explain HOW Bieber got famous, it ceases to explain WHY. In the cartoon, people react negatively to Michigan J. Frog, as, in their eyes, he isn’t able to do more than ribbit. Why isn’t the same treatment bestowed upon Justin Bieber by audiences at large, rather than just by me and others with functioning brains? Are we able to chalk it up to the fact that audiences in the “One Froggy Evening” era simply had taste?

Whatever happens, I will close with this thought: “One Froggy Evening” ended with Michigan J. Frog being stuffed into a cigar box and placed inside the cornerstone of a new building, where he remained until the 2050s. Not that I’m suggesting anything to those of you living close to Bieber’s mansion and who have access to empty cigar boxes…

Fumor Tries the McRib

Fast food is a key component of my diet. When they perform my autopsy following my heart explosion (next week), they will note that my digestive tract will be 78% filled with items that spent time in an industrial deep fryer and served to me by a high schooler in an ill-fitting uniform earning minimum wage. Whenever I am out with friends and the topic of where to eat arises, I almost always suggest “Burger King!” (I say “almost always” because sometimes our travels bring us closer to a Wendys). The collective “no” I receive in reply, often unanimously, is spoken in such a way that not only is the idea of Burger King declined, but also the entire concept of fast food dining. They want me to suggest somewhere a little more upscale (meaning it has tablecloths), perhaps a place that has “bar and grille” in its name and features appetizers thrice the price of a standard 3-course Value Meal at Burger King. Needless to say, I (intentionally) never pick up on these subtle cues, and go on to suggest KFC instead.

So, when I heard that early November 2010 was going to see a resurgence of McDonalds’ popular cult item the “McRib,” I was ecstatic. I went around to anyone and everyone who had the misfortune of crossing my path and excitedly described that not only was I happy that the McRib was back, but that I had also never tried it. They didn’t seem to care. Chances are, you don’t either. Too bad.

Those of you who DO care are perhaps a little flabbergasted at the fact that a McRib sandwich has never met the inside of my esophagus. A lover of all things fast food who has never taken the opportunity to ingest a sandwich that is so rarely offered that websites have sprung up pinpointing locations that had it in stock? Surely such a creature doesn’t exist!

I don’t know why I never participated in the McRib craze. I remember its hype, the websites, and the horrible season 14 episode of “The Simpsons” that tried to parody the craze but ultimately led into what every post-2000 episode of the once-great show has: Homer acting stupid while the rest of the characters basically shouted out “Look at me! I’m making a reference to something! Oftentimes I will make note of this!” I attribute my interest this year to the fact that I really have nothing else of note going on in my life at the moment.

My taste test was performed at a McDonalds in Chester County, Pennsylvania, an uber-suburban area where people who make below $200,000 per year are considered homeless. The restaurant was filled with the types of people who thrive in that sort of environment: Baby Boomers in shirts and ties who had made their way over from one of the 10,000 office parks that infiltrate the area…Gen Xers in business casual clothing from the same office parks who are about to be laid off by their Baby Boomer cohorts because country club fees have risen…stay-at-home soccer moms possessing the same weight and IQ of the Cheerio-encrusted minivans they drive. As far as I knew, I was the only cynical writer in the establishment.

I was shocked at the McRib’s asking price: $1.99 for the sandwich or $3.99 for the meal. I am wary of such prices, as they are usually assigned to food items no larger than the packet of ketchup accompanying them. Even in fast food places, you have to spend well over $5 for a meal that will clog even ONE artery. Years ago, a five-dollar bill in a fast food place could get you halfway to a coronary.

I ordered my McRib without its requisite onions and pickles, as I find those disgusting. Yes, I, someone who once ate a sandwich containing only bologna, cheese, roast beef, and bacon, actually finds certain food items disgusting. Often these items fall into the “fruit and vegetable” category. I refuse to eat anything that grows out of the ground; instead, I prefer eating things that have stood ON the ground. My taste buds agree, as an ex-girlfriend of mine found out one day when she actually tried to force feed me a piece of lettuce. My gag reflex was invoked and I immediately hated her for it. Of course, I’m a mature person and knew she meant well. I eventually let the episode pass and went back to hating her for other reasons.

My $4.23 meal (damn sales tax) consisted of a soft drink (some mutant form of Dr Pepper), the standard McDonalds fries that are 99% salt and 1% more salt, and a McRib slathered in barbecue sauce.

The verdict?

Tasty. At first, all I tasted was barbecue sauce; for all I knew, there could have been a Chicken McNugget in the bun. Ultimately, the flavor of the Spam-quality pork patty reached my taste buds and was given a passing grade. Despite the tastiness, I wasn’t sure why it was deserving of all the hype. I have only consumed a handful of foods in my life (Cheesecake Factory’s crispy chicken costoletta, Original SoupMan’s Italian Wedding soup, Burger King’s whole menu) that I deem worthy enough of attention-grabbing hype and even prime time television interruption (“Hello. Sorry to have interrupted the series finale of ‘Lost’ during the last 2 minutes of the program, but I just wanted to say that Burger King’s chicken tenders are awesome. Now back to the show, which has already ended”). The McRib is not one of them. When its six-week reign of the McDonalds menu ends this coming December, it will be of no huge loss to me.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m hungry.

A Story of Loss

We all have regrets.

Missed connections. Faded opportunities. Sequels. In a culture that praises possession, the concept of loss is not only more prevalent mathematically, but it is also much harder to swallow. We have all felt it. We’ve turned down job offers, only to see our current job reward our loyalty with a pretty pink slip of paper. We’ve turned our backs on hot guys/girls at the club in favor of his/her hotter (and, as we later discover, quite transsexual) friend. We neglect to keep in touch with that extended family member who goes on to get walloped by a city bus and, worse, leaves his/her entire inheritance to the gerbil.

My own story of loss is no different, aside from the fact that, since it happened to me, it is thus far more important than your own tale of woe. I failed to seize an opportunity and, as a result, a gaping void was all I saw come of it. It’s very difficult for me to commit this story to print, so I hope you appreciate and financially reward my efforts here. I have only told it to two very close friends, about twelve not-so-close acquaintances, and a 7-11 clerk. As you might imagine, my loss involved a “Fraggle Rock” DVD set.

Yes, THAT “Fraggle Rock,” Jim Henson’s 1980s series that followed the adventures of a group of puppets living behind the wall of a very dimwitted man named Doc and his fake dog. I don’t know what the hell Doc is working on in that piece of shit shop he apparently lives in that opens each episode, but he must be focusing that lone brain cell of his on it pretty hard, because there is a LOT he has been missing. Does he even know his own dog is a puppet? Doesn’t he get suspicious when Jim Henson and a team of puppeteers scamper behind his wall every week, their hands covered in colorful felt. And the Gorgs! How the hell did he miss them?! They are at LEAST his size, if not bigger. Of course, he could be living in Philadelphia and would thus not at all bat an eye at a trio of overgrown hideous trolls.

Anyhow, as entire seasons (and series) of TV programs made their way onto DVD in the 2000s, it was only a matter of time before “Fraggle Rock” made it into the rotation. Ultimately, Jim Henson’s widow wiped tears from her eyes (using seventeen-figure residual checks from “Sesame Street”) and gave DVD manufacturers permission to bring her late husband’s vision to home video’s latest medium. The entire series was ultimately released and stamped with a triple-digit price tag. Since such a tag didn’t enter my budget needs, the DVD set never entered my home.

All of a sudden, a miracle occurred.

Electronic exchange, a discount electronics store on Philadelphia’s bar- , shop- , and hipster-laden South Street opened for business. An avid DVD collector, I visited the store numerous times. My movie collection (and weight of my backpack upon leaving the store) soared into the upper 400s, thanks to the store’s $2 and $6 price tags for DVDs. Even TV seasons had deals; an entire season of the exceptionally great show “Boston Legal” retailed for $10, unlike its fellow copies at the mall 30 blocks (and dollars) north. If this store was a restaurant, it’d be the type of place that would NOT charge extra for bacon on your sandwich/burger/spaghetti. Life was good.

And then, one day, I walked in and abruptly stopped in amazement as I approached the TV season shelf. The guy walking too close behind me did not appreciate that. Oh, well; fuck him.

Gracing the shelf was “Fraggle Rock: The Complete Series.”

For $50.

While the price was well below what other stores wanted for it, $50 is still a lot of money to someone who furnished his entire kitchen with $20 worth of Dollar Tree supplies. Plus, I had just gotten “The Ben Stiller Show: The Complete Series” on DVD from THAT VERY SAME STORE for a much more reasonable $4. I opted to side with my usual expenses (rent, cell phone, alcoholic drinks for hot girls) and leave the adventures of Gobo (control freak), Mokey (stoner), Red (slut), Wembley (retard), and Boober (sociopath) on the shelf. Surely in a city that worships little more than hip hop and sports, “Fraggle Rock: The Complete Series” will surely be on that shelf for eons, dust covering its colorful packaging.

A few months later, I received a $50 Visa gift card for my birthday. I could use it for one of two things:

–Groceries so I don’t starve;
–A DVD box set of a show I haven’t watched since age 7.

Clearly, the choice was obvious. I made my way to Electronic Exchange. Then I made my way back to my apartment, because my absent-minded ass had left the gift card on my table. I made my way back to Electronic Exchange.

It. Was. GONE.

Perhaps it was misplaced during cleaning. I scoured the store, checking every last section, including movies, video games, and the jacked cell phone shelves. If you don’t think a clerk would accidentally place a DVD box set on a shelf that contained nothing but iPhones, you haven’t dealt with Philadelphia-area store clerks. Nothing. Nada. Sure, “Charmed: The Complete Series” was still on the shelf (and probably still is today)!

I was heartbroken. I was torn. It took every last ounce of my strength to blow that $50 gift card on a season of “Boston Legal,” a few movies, and a pulled pork sandwich at Subway.

Folks, learn from my mistake. It is too late for me. But it might not be too late for you. Take chances. Seize opportunities. Quit your job (unless you owe me money, in which case quit after I am paid back in full). Buy DVD box sets of 1980s childrens’ programming at 1/3 the price. You only live once, and that life stretches out for like 70-80 long years. You need to be entertained.

And to whoever bought that awesomely priced DVD box set: I hope every disc was scratched and sincere hopes that you and your family die in a house fire.