Maybe he should hang out with John Edwards at some locale other than Fantastic Sam’s

Random political observation: This Blagojevich fellow needs to ditch the 14 year-old boy haircut. He looks too much like a quarterback for the Crimson Tide.

Dirty Laundry

You know, because I am in the Journalism school day in and day out despite my complete ignorance on the subject, I have come to grow fond of journalists. I am surrounded every day by notepad-wielding soldiers of the army of the written word. I guess more than anything, I respect them and their abilities of talking to complete strangers. Maybe if I could do that, I would be rolling in the ladies. Journalists are admirable, to be sure.

But I have also developed a pet peeve regarding the field. It used to be that when you would watch the news and something of great importance happened, they would cut away to an anchor who would tell us all about the “breaking news.”

Now, though, it seems that they have completely bastardized the phrase. Now, I can watch CNN for an hour in the morning and everything they’ve got for me is all of a sudden “breaking news.”

That group of elementary school children stacking cups for charity? “Breaking news.”
That lost dog from Florida that showed up in Canada a la Homeward Bound? “Breaking news.”
The Kansas City Royals suck? “Breaking news.” I think you get the point.

See, back when breaking news was rare and actually meant something, it was like a little treat during an otherwise bland and unexciting newscast. Now, however, they throw the term around like it’s a vowel, for God’s sake. Personally, I think that the term “breaking news” should have to meet three requirements:

First, someone’s gotta die. Yes, it is a sad reality, but when the news flips up “breaking news” about Sarah Palin adopting a polar bear or whatever it is she does, my heart flutters and then sinks. “Breaking news?” That’s hardly news!

Second, the newsworthy event has to be able to occur instantaneously or within a very short period of time. “Breaking news” that is merely an update on a developing story isn’t news. It’s a clarification of a prior news item and therefore terribly boring and lame.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, the event must not happen often. Listen, I don’t want a barrage of “breaking news” at all hours of the day. I think that “breaking news” should be limited to once a month at least. “Oh, the President of Mexico was killed by a flock of albatrosses? Sorry, we used our opportunity up last week. I knew we shouldn’t have run that story on packing peanuts!”

Maybe my cynicism is what’s kept me out of the major.

Laugh Tracks and You

When watching sitcoms on TV and they put in a laugh track, I think that the loudness and exuberance of said laughter is way too extreme.

No show is that funny.

I can mumble and be cute… why won't Ellen Page do it with me?

Tonight, Ian and I went on a man-date to the movies to see Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. And, following an hour of a lifestyle I cannot possibly relate to, I have come to a conclusion. I think it’s funny how Michael Cera plays the exact same character in everything he has ever done.

Arrested Development? Awkwardly charming teenager.
Superbad? Awkwardly charming teenager.
Juno? Awkwardly charming teenager.
Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist? Awkwardly charming teenager.

This is by no means a complaint. I find his films to be quite heartwarming. Plus, he is obviously doing something correctly. I mean, if it works for him, dude should rock the weirdness until his penis falls off from boning the legions of tiny girls who adore the feeling of “AWWWWW” that overcomes them every time they see him avoid eye contact and stutter strangely when making a point.

I just wish I could pull it off, too.

Cubbies for a day

This past weekend, Ian and I made the trek up to the fine City of Chicago to enjoy a Cubs game and a Jimmy Buffett concert. A few observations:

Every bloody thing in Chicago is named after Mayor Daley or his dad. The Richard M. Daley Building, the Richard J. Daley Center, the Richard M. Daley Public Restroom (A Richard J. Daley Project). You get the idea.

Chicago has public transportation down, man. We took the train from our hotel to Wrigley and back in a snap, all for the low price of two dollars. (I will have to get used to public transportation this coming fall, because I think I’m taking the bus to campus if I can’t find someone to sell me a red parking decal. This is a not-so-subtle hint.)

I felt sort of like a traitor when I clapped for Cubs hits. Oh well, I balanced that out by wearing the right cap:

My cousin Scott is a dirty, funny, old man. He burned a bunch of bootleg and compilation CDs and brought them to Buffett tailgating, where he offered them to old drunk ladies in exchange for a good view of their funbags. I have photos. They are disturbing.

Finally, I think I fill out a coconut bra quite well, don’t you think?

Yes, Indeed, I'm Walkin'

So, when a guy gets a walk in baseball, why does he run to first base? It’s called a walk, people. If I were playing, I would take my own sweet time to get to first base, man.

Look: baseball is a special sport because even fat guys can participate. Earning the right to walk anywhere should be their bread and butter. It’s 90 feet of leisure in an otherwise taxing world.

The Science of Parking

In my twenty years on this planet and in our society, I’ve been afforded ample opportunity to observe the inner workings of life and the way people act. I am by no means an expert on social science or anything like that, but it occurs to me that life and success therein can be boiled down to a very fundamental science: the science of parking.

Throughout life, we all go through various stages. Be they natural human progressions like learning to walk or professional progressions like landing that big job with the fancy corner office, these stages are extremely relevant to one simple thing – parking. And while the type of parking varies as life plunges on, the issue always remains the same. Each one of us yearns for that parking space we don’t have currently.

I realize that this idea is just a matter of the grass being greener on the other side, but it’s quite telling to see how this simple science of temporary spatial occupation evolves as we grow.

When you’re little, you can’t walk. For whatever reason, the good Lord didn’t bless us with thunder thighs out of the womb, so we must acquiesce to the whims of our parents and park ourselves wherever they see fit. This is all well and good until you figure out that there is more to this world than the juvenile jail of your crib. You want a new parking space – a better space to your liking, perhaps with a view of WGN and Bozo the Clown and 24 hour security in the form of your favorite blanket.

Then, you grow to be a child of school going age. You’re driven to school every day until you see the sweet parking space the fifth graders have for their bikes. You want that freedom. And wouldn’t you know it, you are given the chance at a new parking space when your folks deem you old enough. Sure, it’s a bit cramped, but when you can ride your bicycle to school yourself, who cares? You have your own parking space which says that you are older and more mature.

However, these faux parking spaces, as necessary and wonderful as they may be can never compare to the thrill of having an actual parking space for, you know, an automobile. And to consolidate the boundless task of describing the individual steps that lead to the pinnacle of parking satisfaction, I will summarize every man’s professional goal in life: Like The Jeffersons, move on up.

You spend your entire working life climbing the ladder, jumping through the hoops, and moving ever-so-closer to the prized parking space right in front of the building. It goes like this until, through your immeasurable hard work and dedication, you can finally pull into that space in the morning without fear of crossing an executive type or incurring a fine from the Parking Gods whose power is matched only by the mighty Zeus or Athena.

But what then?

You get tired; you slow down.

You slow down all the way to the point where you look back on your lifelong journey from parking garage to parking garage, from meter to meter, and you suddenly ask yourself why you did it.

Was it for the fame? Was it for the glory? Was it for the money? No, it was only for that one parking space.

Maybe I should start riding the bus.

Confessions of a Night Owl

Lately, my sleep schedule has been very thrown off. It seems that I can’t adapt properly to life with employment. Despite the fact that I now get up in the morning (technically) for some sort of obligation Monday through Friday, I still find myself going to bed after 3:00 in the morning.

Which brings me to my point, here. Today, the lovely Sarah Jones and I were discussing how early we got up every day for high school. I woke up at 5:00 in the morning every day. As a reference point, that’s less than two hours away from now. Man, if I knew then how my biological clock would operate now, I’m pretty sure I would have dropped out of school completely.

Seriously, it amazes me how much more devoted to my studies I was in high school. It makes me feel really guilty about how I live my life now.

But not guilty enough to go back.

A simple formula for scary success

You know, the plot for any given movie in the horror genre can be essentially boiled down to an intensely silly game of mad libs. The Child’s play movies are prime examples of this.

A (spooky human figure) transforms into a (inanimate object not generally associated with blood and gore) and attacks (defenseless thing) to regain his life. The (defenseless thing) cleverly attacks the (inanimate object not generally associated with blood and gore) with (silly object) and the (inanimate object not generally associated with blood and gore) appears to be defeated. However, the (part of inanimate object not generally associated with blood and gore) moves in the closing shot of the film, leaving the story wide open for a sequel.

With this simple formula, let’s write our own movie idea, shall we?

A man who has had plastic surgery to look exactly like Liza Minelli transforms into a talking wooden spoon and attacks the adorable residents of Meerkat Manor to regain his life. The adorable residents of Meerkat Manor cleverly attack the talking wooden spoon with a colony of mutated termites and the talking wooden spoon appears to be defeated. However, the handle of the talking wooden spoon moves in the closing shot of the film, leaving the story wide open for a sequel.

Now that, my friends, is spooky stuff.

Exams drive me to do crazy things

If you go to the University of Florida, I’m sure you’re familiar with TutoringZone. I had never before used their services – a four hour lecture that tells you everything you need to know for a myriad of classes – until I realized that my statistics test is Saturday and I have yet to watch any class on the Internet.

Whoops.

But there I went, into the green room with a few hundred of my closest friends, where I actually learned. It was epic.

Oh, and I counted. The guy who taught the review dropped the F-bomb 127 times. Awesome.