Those monsters.
Last Friday I watched in horror as a six-year-old boy drifted 6,500 feet above the plains of Colorado in a silver plastic bag. A CNN aviation expert warned the kid might have been frozen stiff or unable to breathe due to the high altitudes.
Falcon, as they called him (that was his name), was in trouble.
Surely he’d pissed his pants.
At first I enjoyed what seemed like a true-life “Flight of the Navigator,” but then real fear sunk in. Witnesses reported an object that fell from the silver plastic bag while it was floating high in the air. That object must have been the intrepid Falcon, who was not in the silver plastic bag when it landed several miles from his home.
But it wasn’t Falcon who fell. He was hiding in a box in his family’s garage.
So what was the mysterious object? Could it have been the last few sane thoughts belonging to Falcon’s father, Richard Heene? Did they jump onto that silver plastic bag along with his self-respect and consideration for other human beings?
Or perhaps it was the maternal instincts once belonging to Mayumi Heene, the mother and video editor of the family. Did her husband’s long-term aspirations of launching their children into the stratosphere strip her of a definitive characteristic found in all … mammals?
“Hide in the box, Falcon. Cha-Ching!”
But Falcon couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The poor kid didn’t know he was being exploited, and – in front of millions of viewers – he spilled the beans. And in those simple words …
“We did this for the show.”
… It all becomes so clear.
You see, the Heenes wanted to be on television. And who doesn’t? I’ve been on television and it’s fucking amazing. You get to DVR yourself and queue the video for every single person who enters your home.
“See how I look into the camera but you can’t really tell because I’m blurry?”
Still, the journey of a child star is along a dark and winding path. For every Neil Patrick Harris there are 1,000 Mario Lopez wreaking havoc and destroying everything they love. Seriously - let’s not forget the Corey Haims and Gary Colemans of the world before they become poster boys for something else.
And that’s where it gets twisted. Somewhere inside of their sad, lonely and diseased brains the Heenes thought they were doing a good thing for their family. A good thing for Falcon. They were wrong. No six year old with a household name has ever done well. In fact, the most successful one to date just died of a drug overdose. His name was Michael Jackson.
So I say let the ‘Balloon Boy’ drift out of the headlines. Let him be a normal kid away from the cameras. Let him have a shot at a productive life. And make sure his parents don’t interfere with the process. In fact, someone should revoke the Heene's ability to purchase or operate A/V equipment. For Falcon’s sake.
Fact: Ten years from now the Gosselin kids will be smoking meth with the stars of “Britney Spears is My Mom.” The pipe sharing will be featured on the “Gosselin/Federline Road Rules Challenge.”
Fact: The Heene family will get its own TV show. It might be after Poppa Heene serves a few years in jail or the kids spend time in various orphanages (also a show), but “The Heene Family Flying Low” will happen. Damn straight it will.
And every time I order popcorn at the Frolic Room and watch the glowing metal coils heat and expand the foil bag resting above the portable stove, I’ll remember the Friday I sat on the edge of my seat and watched that same shape drift above the plains of Colorado.
Those monsters.
With every kernel that pops: “Those Goddamn monsters.”
Last Friday I watched in horror as a six-year-old boy drifted 6,500 feet above the plains of Colorado in a silver plastic bag. A CNN aviation expert warned the kid might have been frozen stiff or unable to breathe due to the high altitudes.
Falcon, as they called him (that was his name), was in trouble.
Surely he’d pissed his pants.
At first I enjoyed what seemed like a true-life “Flight of the Navigator,” but then real fear sunk in. Witnesses reported an object that fell from the silver plastic bag while it was floating high in the air. That object must have been the intrepid Falcon, who was not in the silver plastic bag when it landed several miles from his home.
But it wasn’t Falcon who fell. He was hiding in a box in his family’s garage.
So what was the mysterious object? Could it have been the last few sane thoughts belonging to Falcon’s father, Richard Heene? Did they jump onto that silver plastic bag along with his self-respect and consideration for other human beings?
Or perhaps it was the maternal instincts once belonging to Mayumi Heene, the mother and video editor of the family. Did her husband’s long-term aspirations of launching their children into the stratosphere strip her of a definitive characteristic found in all … mammals?
“Hide in the box, Falcon. Cha-Ching!”
But Falcon couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The poor kid didn’t know he was being exploited, and – in front of millions of viewers – he spilled the beans. And in those simple words …
“We did this for the show.”
… It all becomes so clear.
You see, the Heenes wanted to be on television. And who doesn’t? I’ve been on television and it’s fucking amazing. You get to DVR yourself and queue the video for every single person who enters your home.
“See how I look into the camera but you can’t really tell because I’m blurry?”
Still, the journey of a child star is along a dark and winding path. For every Neil Patrick Harris there are 1,000 Mario Lopez wreaking havoc and destroying everything they love. Seriously - let’s not forget the Corey Haims and Gary Colemans of the world before they become poster boys for something else.
And that’s where it gets twisted. Somewhere inside of their sad, lonely and diseased brains the Heenes thought they were doing a good thing for their family. A good thing for Falcon. They were wrong. No six year old with a household name has ever done well. In fact, the most successful one to date just died of a drug overdose. His name was Michael Jackson.
So I say let the ‘Balloon Boy’ drift out of the headlines. Let him be a normal kid away from the cameras. Let him have a shot at a productive life. And make sure his parents don’t interfere with the process. In fact, someone should revoke the Heene's ability to purchase or operate A/V equipment. For Falcon’s sake.
Fact: Ten years from now the Gosselin kids will be smoking meth with the stars of “Britney Spears is My Mom.” The pipe sharing will be featured on the “Gosselin/Federline Road Rules Challenge.”
Fact: The Heene family will get its own TV show. It might be after Poppa Heene serves a few years in jail or the kids spend time in various orphanages (also a show), but “The Heene Family Flying Low” will happen. Damn straight it will.
And every time I order popcorn at the Frolic Room and watch the glowing metal coils heat and expand the foil bag resting above the portable stove, I’ll remember the Friday I sat on the edge of my seat and watched that same shape drift above the plains of Colorado.
Those monsters.
With every kernel that pops: “Those Goddamn monsters.”
Awesome Must Stop
Your new shoes aren't
awesome. They are
reasonably priced
and fashionable.
Awesome is a tidal wave,
which crashes hard against
a city, and casually devours
every structure in its path.
Your new shoes aren't
awesome. They are
reasonably priced
and fashionable.
Awesome is a tidal wave,
which crashes hard against
a city, and casually devours
every structure in its path.
Greetings desperate lovers,
I hope this blog finds you well.
A little birdie flew into my window this morning. Her eerie bird eyes watched me sleep well into the afternoon. When I awoke a message had been left on my bed. It was written in her violet droppings.
"Throw a party," it read. "Start planning this instant."
And here we are.
I've thrown several social functions in my day; from keggers and cookouts to sock hops and S&M sessions, I've pretty much seen it all. Once I watched a dude eat a bong. No shit.
I find that one practice commonly overlooked by party planners is the process of DeThieving a home prior to an event.
DeThieving: (to DeThief) The act of hiding valuables and other objects that may become desirable during the night through the eyes of trashed partygoers. (e.g. "Dude, hide your bong. Carl might eat it again.")
"But Jason," you contest. "I don't invite larcenists into my home. The cunning art of DeThieving is unnecessary within my social circles."
Don't be so sure. Even the most heralded individuals are subject to bouts of inebriated theft. DeThieving allows you - the party planner - to take away the source of the urge before it manifests.
Below are some common items I remove during the DeThieving process.
1. Q-Tips. It seems like the only time partygoers remember to clean their ears is when they're in my goddamn bathroom. In the past as many as 12 wax-drenched cotton tips may have been left in my wastebasket at the end of a night. But no more.
2. Toys and Collectibles. I learned this the hard way in '02. I saw the bastard eyeing my Michael Jordan Starting Lineup Action Figure. He'd been staring at it since the moment he stepped in. I leave for a split second... and he and MJ are both gone. Forever.
3. Porn. This is more of a suggestion that a personal practice as I've never owned a porn or even seen one. Still, smart money says any video or magazine left out in the open has a 50/50 shot of leaving inside of a guest's jacket. Put that High Society where it belongs; between your box spring and mattress
4. Pets. Sure you know your dog is cute - that's why you bought the little guy. But beware. Your pet's cuteness is magnified tenfold through the eyes of the partygoer, and your chances of of pet thievery double every hour the party rages on. The same is true for babies.
5. Food. A good host always supplies marginal food for his or her guests. But sometimes the partyers finish the chips, dips and bite-sized snacks and still want more. My suggestions:
A) Chain and bolt the refrigerator.
B) Live next to a Taco Bell.
C) maintain a filthy fridge to discourage others from eating the food inside.
I hope that helps when you plan your next party. Please enjoy yourselves this holiday season.
Festively,
Jason
I hope this blog finds you well.
A little birdie flew into my window this morning. Her eerie bird eyes watched me sleep well into the afternoon. When I awoke a message had been left on my bed. It was written in her violet droppings.
"Throw a party," it read. "Start planning this instant."
And here we are.
I've thrown several social functions in my day; from keggers and cookouts to sock hops and S&M sessions, I've pretty much seen it all. Once I watched a dude eat a bong. No shit.
I find that one practice commonly overlooked by party planners is the process of DeThieving a home prior to an event.
DeThieving: (to DeThief) The act of hiding valuables and other objects that may become desirable during the night through the eyes of trashed partygoers. (e.g. "Dude, hide your bong. Carl might eat it again.")
"But Jason," you contest. "I don't invite larcenists into my home. The cunning art of DeThieving is unnecessary within my social circles."
Don't be so sure. Even the most heralded individuals are subject to bouts of inebriated theft. DeThieving allows you - the party planner - to take away the source of the urge before it manifests.
Below are some common items I remove during the DeThieving process.
1. Q-Tips. It seems like the only time partygoers remember to clean their ears is when they're in my goddamn bathroom. In the past as many as 12 wax-drenched cotton tips may have been left in my wastebasket at the end of a night. But no more.
2. Toys and Collectibles. I learned this the hard way in '02. I saw the bastard eyeing my Michael Jordan Starting Lineup Action Figure. He'd been staring at it since the moment he stepped in. I leave for a split second... and he and MJ are both gone. Forever.
3. Porn. This is more of a suggestion that a personal practice as I've never owned a porn or even seen one. Still, smart money says any video or magazine left out in the open has a 50/50 shot of leaving inside of a guest's jacket. Put that High Society where it belongs; between your box spring and mattress
4. Pets. Sure you know your dog is cute - that's why you bought the little guy. But beware. Your pet's cuteness is magnified tenfold through the eyes of the partygoer, and your chances of of pet thievery double every hour the party rages on. The same is true for babies.
5. Food. A good host always supplies marginal food for his or her guests. But sometimes the partyers finish the chips, dips and bite-sized snacks and still want more. My suggestions:
A) Chain and bolt the refrigerator.
B) Live next to a Taco Bell.
C) maintain a filthy fridge to discourage others from eating the food inside.
I hope that helps when you plan your next party. Please enjoy yourselves this holiday season.
Festively,
Jason
The flicking of bottle caps will no longer be tolerated. No more can I stand by while others twist off their bottle caps, raise them high above their heads and flick them toward distant corners of my apartment or unaware partygoers. Penalties will be enforced. Social and physical repercussions will be realized.
The flicking of bottle caps may seem some sort of meaningful skill or acquired communication tool within certain circles. Others may believe it is an amusing way to pass the time while drinking or a means to solidify a healthy bromance.
Flicking bottle caps is none of these things. The flicking of bottle caps is dangerous, infantile and ultimately disparaging to the basic fundamentals of the human race. These conclusions become clearer as we weigh the consequences of bottle cap-flicking.
1. The bottle cap's final resting place is one of two places; inside the couch or under the couch. Regular people throw away their bottle caps in the garbage. The bottle cap wants to go into the garbage with the rest of the bottle caps from those fabled regular people.
2. The bottle cap can chip objects. It is made of metal and has sharp edges, which tear through clothing, drywall, glass, wood, tribal masks, lampshades and plasma screens. <!--[endif]-->
3. The bottle cap can hurt people. It is made of metal and has sharp edges, which tear through skin, hair, eyeballs, mouths and tongues. God forbid the bottle cap might land perpendicular against the ear of a houseguest and blow his or her eardrum out.
4. The bottle cap spreads germs. The transients and other nefarious types flicking these bottle caps certainly are not of the breed that washes their hands after using the bathroom. But still I sit, on my hands and knees, picking up their filthy caps.
Be a friend. Don't flick those fucking bottle caps.
The flicking of bottle caps may seem some sort of meaningful skill or acquired communication tool within certain circles. Others may believe it is an amusing way to pass the time while drinking or a means to solidify a healthy bromance.
Flicking bottle caps is none of these things. The flicking of bottle caps is dangerous, infantile and ultimately disparaging to the basic fundamentals of the human race. These conclusions become clearer as we weigh the consequences of bottle cap-flicking.
1. The bottle cap's final resting place is one of two places; inside the couch or under the couch. Regular people throw away their bottle caps in the garbage. The bottle cap wants to go into the garbage with the rest of the bottle caps from those fabled regular people.
2. The bottle cap can chip objects. It is made of metal and has sharp edges, which tear through clothing, drywall, glass, wood, tribal masks, lampshades and plasma screens. <!--[endif]-->
3. The bottle cap can hurt people. It is made of metal and has sharp edges, which tear through skin, hair, eyeballs, mouths and tongues. God forbid the bottle cap might land perpendicular against the ear of a houseguest and blow his or her eardrum out.
4. The bottle cap spreads germs. The transients and other nefarious types flicking these bottle caps certainly are not of the breed that washes their hands after using the bathroom. But still I sit, on my hands and knees, picking up their filthy caps.
Be a friend. Don't flick those fucking bottle caps.
The other day I sat on my bed and sorted a year's worth of nickels, dimes and pennies. I didn't have a reason to sort them, other than the twelve-month stretch since the last occasion, but thought maybe I'd discover an old wheat penny within the mounds of coins.
I did. Two of them.
But the world is seldom that magical. Most of the time things are moving too fast for us to appreciate and when the adverse becomes true, and each second stares us dead in the face, we only then realize how truly lucky we are during those average fleeting moments.
Once in a great while, if we discover time moving at a comfortable rate and cleverly combined with solidarity, we are allowed an instance of reflection. For as much as we question, blame and accuse God – at least he/she/it/everything/nothing gives us some time to ourselves now and again.
… so I counted out the loose change resting in the same Tootsie Roll Bank given to me as a youngster. To be honest, the Tootsie Roll Bank has seen better days. The weight of the coins over the years has bloated the cardboard cylinder, which also features several burns from its use as an ashtray during college.
But the Tootsie Roll Bank still serves its purpose; it holds my loose change. This time around the total was thirty-eight dollars. No shit.
The coins were placed in Ziploc bags and together, the coins and I, we were off to the bank.
I remember watching the bank tellers pouring my coins into their counting machines as a kid, anxious to see if my arithmetic was correct. Something about the process made my coin-hoarding all the more worthwhile.
But those wonderful machines don't make money for banks, and have since been removed. If you want to use one of those cool coin counters you have to go to a supermarket where the CoinStar System will charge a flat percentage against the money deposited.
Bullshit. I refuse to use it.
In the past, the bank employees took my word for the total deposited and dropped the money directly into the account. Those were the days: "Take coins to the bank and receive dollar bills equivalent to your smaller denominations."
COINS: MONEY.
"I'm sorry, sir," the teller explained. "To deposit this money it must be in the appropriate coin sleeves."
"Coin sleeves?" I asked.
"Yes." She pushed a handful of the paper rolls through the teller window.
I sighed. "Is there somewhere I can sit?"
She pointed me toward a large desk usually reserved for a loan specialist. And there I sat, counting thirty-eight dollars worth of coins and placing them inside individual sleeves.
I thought about shaving a coin off each roll, maybe to teach the bank a lesson. After all, if a bank can't count your money then what the fuck is it good for? Thankfully my satisfaction came in the form of inquisitive customers. The fun started as the first, a middle-aged woman, approached me.
Keep in mind; I'm wearing mesh shorts and flip-flops while sitting next to a cardboard Tootsie Roll Bank and thirty-eight dollars in coins.
"Do I talk to you about a home loan?" she asked.
"You can if you want," I replied. "But you should probably wait until the market really hits rock-bottom. Check back in after Christmas."
Another man approached after eight or nine more rolls of coins were fitted snugly.
"How can I protect my money?" he asked.
"Tootsie Roll containers are the most stable investment I can think of," I replied.
"Tootsie Rolls?" he asked.
"Yes," I urged. "A few coins a day. It can really add up."
"What about long-term investments?" he asked. "What about the economy?"
"I used to be a youngster," I explained. "And the cardboard Tootsie Roll is still here."
He nodded.
And the Tootsie Roll Container remains intact; bloated and boastfull and weary like the chubby boy who first relished in its function.
I did. Two of them.
But the world is seldom that magical. Most of the time things are moving too fast for us to appreciate and when the adverse becomes true, and each second stares us dead in the face, we only then realize how truly lucky we are during those average fleeting moments.
Once in a great while, if we discover time moving at a comfortable rate and cleverly combined with solidarity, we are allowed an instance of reflection. For as much as we question, blame and accuse God – at least he/she/it/everything/nothing gives us some time to ourselves now and again.
… so I counted out the loose change resting in the same Tootsie Roll Bank given to me as a youngster. To be honest, the Tootsie Roll Bank has seen better days. The weight of the coins over the years has bloated the cardboard cylinder, which also features several burns from its use as an ashtray during college.
But the Tootsie Roll Bank still serves its purpose; it holds my loose change. This time around the total was thirty-eight dollars. No shit.
The coins were placed in Ziploc bags and together, the coins and I, we were off to the bank.
I remember watching the bank tellers pouring my coins into their counting machines as a kid, anxious to see if my arithmetic was correct. Something about the process made my coin-hoarding all the more worthwhile.
But those wonderful machines don't make money for banks, and have since been removed. If you want to use one of those cool coin counters you have to go to a supermarket where the CoinStar System will charge a flat percentage against the money deposited.
Bullshit. I refuse to use it.
In the past, the bank employees took my word for the total deposited and dropped the money directly into the account. Those were the days: "Take coins to the bank and receive dollar bills equivalent to your smaller denominations."
COINS: MONEY.
"I'm sorry, sir," the teller explained. "To deposit this money it must be in the appropriate coin sleeves."
"Coin sleeves?" I asked.
"Yes." She pushed a handful of the paper rolls through the teller window.
I sighed. "Is there somewhere I can sit?"
She pointed me toward a large desk usually reserved for a loan specialist. And there I sat, counting thirty-eight dollars worth of coins and placing them inside individual sleeves.
I thought about shaving a coin off each roll, maybe to teach the bank a lesson. After all, if a bank can't count your money then what the fuck is it good for? Thankfully my satisfaction came in the form of inquisitive customers. The fun started as the first, a middle-aged woman, approached me.
Keep in mind; I'm wearing mesh shorts and flip-flops while sitting next to a cardboard Tootsie Roll Bank and thirty-eight dollars in coins.
"Do I talk to you about a home loan?" she asked.
"You can if you want," I replied. "But you should probably wait until the market really hits rock-bottom. Check back in after Christmas."
Another man approached after eight or nine more rolls of coins were fitted snugly.
"How can I protect my money?" he asked.
"Tootsie Roll containers are the most stable investment I can think of," I replied.
"Tootsie Rolls?" he asked.
"Yes," I urged. "A few coins a day. It can really add up."
"What about long-term investments?" he asked. "What about the economy?"
"I used to be a youngster," I explained. "And the cardboard Tootsie Roll is still here."
He nodded.
And the Tootsie Roll Container remains intact; bloated and boastfull and weary like the chubby boy who first relished in its function.
