It’s a mid-summer’s day in Paris. The windows are flung wide open. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. And Adam Duritz is complaining.
Whining, of course, is nothing new for the Counting Crows frontman, who has worn uncertainty and despair like a sheriff’s badge for the better part of two decades, even while living the supposed good life in the beds of various Friends stars.
Today, however, he’s got some honest-to-god reasons for being unhappy. Beyond being locked in his hotel room for an hour-and-a-half interview while his bandmates explore the Louvre, Duritz is reeling from his recent days’ activities, which have included three festival shows, one of them in 120-degree heat, and a severe case of food poisoning after an evening shucking clams.
“It’s been a hell of a few days,” he moans as he shifts around under the sheets. But even in his misery, it’s apparent that this is a new Adam Duritz, bathed and baptized in the waters of his own music.
On Counting Crows’ fifth studio album, the wonderfully jarring Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings, Duritz not only shows his scars, but reveals the knife that formed them – a scythe of depression and mental illness that’s had him wandering through a half-life for the past 15 years. On the album’s two halves – the fierce and flailing Saturday Nights and the plaintive Sunday Mornings – Duritz, now 43, explores both his slow disintegration and the painful, floundering attempts at rebirth that followed.
Team Last Call talked to Duritz about his disease, how he almost lost those famous dreadlocks and why his long December might finally be coming to an end.
Team Last Call: You’ve described the Saturday Nights half of the album as the binge and Sunday Mornings as the hangover.
Adam Duritz: I was trying to point out to people that Sunday Mornings was not about redemption. So I said to think of it more like a binge and a hangover. But that brought up a lot of misconception that the Saturday Nights part was about partying, which it’s not. Saturday Nights, there’s nothing celebratory. It’s a record about disintegration and falling apart. It’s about, your life is going to hell. Some of it’s done drunken and on drugs, but basically, that’s just about disintegration.
TLC: The hangover seems very different from recovery, which is something you’ve explored before. “There’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last …”
AD: I think recovery is a hangover. When you’re hung over, your body’s putting itself back together. It just hurts like hell. If you wreck your life, you may decide to put it back together, but you don’t have the skill to do that in any way that does anything but hurt. You don’t know how to do any of it right. You screw it up over and over again.
So most of Sunday Mornings is about failure. It’s about trying to do the right sort of stuff, but it’s all about failure. That’s how my friend put it when we were listening to the record. She said, “Boy, the healthier you get, the sadder this record gets.”
TLC: You made this record during a weird span of time when everyone was busy hating your band and you as an individual. Did that have any affect on the writing or the approach?
AD: I think I decided to talk honestly about what has been going on in my head for the last 15 years because of it. It’s understandable – I write these albums about having a difficult time in life, and meanwhile, from the outside, you look at me and you say, “Well, I don’t get it. He’s traveling the world. He’s got a band. He’s selling a lot of records. He’s screwing all these girls.” – by the way, all of which is fiction. Seriously. It never occurred to me that the press was so fake.
If I had the love life I’ve read about, I wouldn’t complain half as much as I have. Although that’s not really true, because if you think heaven on earth is dating a movie star, then you’ve never met one.
TLC: So people read this stuff about you, and then you lose your right to be unhappy because you have this glamorous life.
AD: It seems so stupid to me. They’re basically saying, “Look, you’re rich and famous, so you should be fine.” God, I was like 6 years old the first time my parents told me that being popular in school and having money isn’t the be-all, end-all of life. Isn’t that the first lesson your parents taught you? Money doesn’t bring you happiness. Popularity isn’t everything. Prom queen doesn’t mean shit. I was probably 6 when I heard that. And now at the age of 43 I’m reading some moron writer who actually uses that as a basis for writing a review of the record. All I could think of is, “What a fucking mouth-breather, man! What the hell is going on in your brain?”
Nobody around me wanted me to talk about the mental illness [on this record]. And I said, “Look, it’s gone on for long enough.” I felt like the band was starting to suffer from my reluctance to be honest about things. You’re looking at someone who looks like they have a dream life, and they’re complaining about it. Well, I have a problem. I have a serious mental illness that makes the world seem like a hallucination all day long. And this is the truth that you’ve been shitting on me about all these years.
I didn’t want to become a public spectacle while I was falling apart. But I’m a lot healthier these days, and I feel like I can sustain whatever embarrassment will come from talking about having a serious mental illness. I’ll deal with it. But you just can’t take a free shot at me anymore for being, like, a fat pig who whines. I mean, you can, but the deal is, I have a serious mental illness and I gained a lot of weight on medication. I weigh 60 pounds less now. I’m on my two feet and I made another record. You just don’t get the free shot anymore.
All I wanted to make people do is review the record. You’re still allowed to not like the record. I have utter respect for people who don’t like my record. But review the record, not me.
TLC: A lot of younger bands have started naming Counting Crows as a big influence.
AD: That is where our fan base is. It’s not the people who bought August and Everything After and are now 40. It’s 17- to 22-year-old kids whose older brothers or whatever played it for them. So our fan base has never gotten old. It turns over every year. The “Shrek” thing dropped it right down to the age of 6. [laughs] But you know, those guys, Chris [Carrabba from Dashboard Confessional] and Ryan Ross and Brendan Urie from Panic [at the Disco], at a time when we were maybe a very un-cool band, they went to journalists who interviewed them and they said, “No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Counting Crows is our favorite band. We get everything from Counting Crows.” And the first few journalists must have shit on them for it. They took a hell of a risk doing that.
TLC: I heard that your publicist wanted you to shave your head for this album.
AD: She said to me one day, “Look, I know this is going to seem really weird to you. Just don’t dismiss it out of hand. I think this might be a really good time for you to think about changing your hair. Make it clear to everyone that you’re a different person.”
I went home and I thought about it. But the truth of the matter is, my whole life I looked in the mirror and I didn’t get it. What I would see in the mirror did not feel like me. And the first time that ever really changed for me was the day I first put those dread extensions in. It’s funny, because it’s a fake thing. They’re not real. But I walked downstairs and down the street … and I saw my reflection and I stopped and turned and looked at myself, and for the first time in my life I felt like, “Oh my god, it’s me!” All the sudden in the mirror there was this crazy thing on my head that seemed like me. It was free and it was insane and it was mad, like me.
TLC: When you think back to moments like that, does that even seem like the same lifetime?
AD: It feels exactly the same. I think that’s one of the things that’s good about me, actually, is that I have not changed very much.
The truth is, you didn’t have anything to do with [your success]. You just made your record, and other people bought it. I always say that fame isn’t something you do to yourself. Fame is something other people do to you.
TLC: You’ve said that your goal is to simply leave behind a legacy that you’re proud of. What else is there for you to do in order to accomplish that?
AD: Children and art – that’s what Sondheim says. There are only two things anyone can really leave behind in this world: children and art.
I’m very different now. There are things I can have in my life like my parents have, like my friends have, that I couldn’t have had back then. I could have children, I could have a family, I could be in love, I could get married. In fact, I met someone, and she makes every day feel like it’s OK. Whether I’m a thousand miles away from her or not, I feel good.
Posted by
Jeff
on
8/08/2008 12:12:00 AM
Labels:
Adam Duritz,
Counting Crows,
interview,
Saturday Nights,
Sunday Mornings
Posted by
Jeff
on
8/01/2008 12:37:00 AM
Labels:
email,
heaven,
left behind
The website youvebeenleftbehind.com is one of those things that, like Cindy McCain's eyebrows, is at once hilarious and terrifying.
I first heard about the website on Wait Wait … Don't Tell Me, NPR's weekly quiz show. I almost broke my neck diving for the laptop to check it out, eager to get in on the joke. Only, it wasn't a joke. This website is as serious as the apocalypse. Literally.
Youvebeenleftbehind.com is a service that enables customers to send e-mails to friends and family, just like Hotmail or Yahoo – only these e-mails will be sent after the Rapture.
Specifically, the website is designed to enable individuals who believe they will be physically swept up to heaven after the Rapture (aka the Second Coming of Christ) to contact loved ones who have been "left behind" on earth.
By sending your recently damned friends a quick note, you can "snatch them from the flames" by convincing them to stop doing things that will make them go to hell, like listening to Nickelback. With any luck, your friends will repent and will be able to catch the proverbial second bus up to heaven, where post-grunge is definitely not allowed.
For just $40 a year, you can store e-mails to up to 62 of your closest friends whom you believe are going to hell, which is great news if you know a lot of Bush supporters. The website holds onto the e-mails until the Rapture occurs, at which point they will be sent automatically. You have the option of writing your own original letters or using one of the website's templates, including the popular "Nanny nanny boo boo, I'm in heaven, how 'bout you?"
According to the UK's Daily Telegraph, youvebeenleftbehind.com was created by Mark Heard, a "49-year-old supermarket shelf-stacker from Cape Cod, Massachusetts."
"He said he got the idea in 1999 while trading in shares online," the article explains. "It suddenly occurred to him that he would not be able to send his trading password to his wife if the Rapture suddenly took him."
This statement has some curious implications. One is that, while Heard believes he will be in heaven after the Rapture, he also thinks his wife isn't going to make the cut. He also seems to believe that, once she is left behind, in the middle of the Antichrist's rain of hail, fire and blood, his wife plans on doing some serious online trading.
"Surely," I thought while reading the article, "there must be some kind of misunderstanding." So I decided to ask Heard about it.
"Yes, unfortunately at this point in time, my wife of 17 years will not be making the trip to heaven," Heard tells me during a rather colorful e-mail exchange. "How can I say that? She is vocally not a Christian and has no relationship with God, nor does she desire one."
And you thought your dinner conversations were awkward.
According to Heard, the e-mails stored at youvebeenleftbehind.com will be sent out precisely six days after the Rapture, in what is known as the "tribulation period," during which those left behind will experience great horrors like pestilence, famine, disease and Fox News, which will be the only fully functional news team still on earth.
"I have a team of Christian couples scattered around the U.S. – four active couples and one alternate," Heard explains. "They are scattered to protect us from having the team wiped out by attack, natural disaster or epidemic. They are couples in case one is sick, injured [or] killed. If three out of four fail to log in [to the website] for three days, the system figures the Rapture has taken place.
"Also," he adds, "one team member is located near the server bank with access in case the net goes down or malfunctions."
This brings up an interesting question: Will the Internet even work after the Rapture? Does Verizon Wireless have an apocalypse contingency plan?
"I do believe that the Internet will be up and running," Heard reassures.
"Eventually, God will take it down, as he destroys the world system," he says. "That won't be until the second half of the tribulation, though."
So that's a relief.
All of the e-mails stored on youvebeenleftbehind.com are specially encrypted so that you can safely send login information and passwords for your bank account, investments, retirement fund, etc. to your doomed loved ones. Because if nobody claims your money, says Heard, "the Antichrist gets your stuff." And that's a bummer no matter how you spin it.
Heard says he will definitely not steal your private information and use it to buy himself a new car, so that's one less thing to worry about.
The idea for youvebeenleftbehind.com is, of course, genius, albeit in a potentially soulless, "exploiting the fears of others" kind of way. With a clientele "between one and 1,000" people, Heard is raking in up to 40 grand a year to do little more than provide an e-mail account with storage space the size of Bill O'Reilly's tiny black heart.
And the best part is that – if it somehow turned out to be a hoax – no one could prove it until, you know, the end of the world.
But I will give Heard this: He talks a good game, and if he sincerely believes in what he is peddling, it's hard to bash him.
"[There] are those that think we only set this thing up as an elaborate ruse to get personal information," Heard says. "Most of those calling it a scam are only repeating what someone else said. They didn't look into it for themselves.
"It has been interesting just how much this thing has turned into a ministry," he adds. "Since I launched You've Been Left Behind, the secular media attention has been insane. Over 125,000 unique visitors from 160 countries have hit the site. You've Been Left Behind has been on every Internet site, blog and newspage. It's been on National Public Radio, ABC News, Fox News, hundreds of news.coms, The London Times, The London U.K.Gardian, the front page of the Irish national newspaper …
"I must say that God has used this site to get up in people's face again."
Here's hoping there are no spam filters after the apocalypse.
Posted by
Jeff
on
7/01/2008 12:35:00 AM
Labels:
euphemisms,
swear words
As per usual, prior to writing my column, I conducted hours of extensive research on the Internet in order to ensure that I wouldn't have to come up with any of my own jokes. While conducting this research, I made many startling discoveries, including the fact that I can fit upwards of three Krispy Kremes in my mouth at a time.
Another profound discovery was how very many slang words there are for "testicles." For your reading pleasure, and also for my word count's pleasure, here are several of my favorite testicle euphemisms: balls, nuts, berries, jewels, danglies, plums, stones, rocks, bobbles, love apples, teabags, cajones, huevos, Rocky Mountain oysters, Montana tendergroin, hairy grapes and Dick Cheney.
Sample sentence: "The next TruckNutz owner who sends me an angry e-mail is getting kicked right in the Dick Cheney."
Euphemisms like those have existed for thousands of years, ever since the invention of the first dirty word, which was "glockenspiel." Some of these terms were created for the sake of political correctness, like "special needs" and "nail technician." Others were invented as replacements for swear words ("dog mess"). And others were developed in order to sugarcoat, "spin" or otherwise misrepresent the truth of a matter ("mission accomplished").
Some of the earliest euphemisms were what are now called "minced oaths," or words used to avoid profanity – "Gosh" instead of "God," "darn" instead of "damn," "heck" instead of "hell," etc. Many of these words date back to biblical times, making them some of the oldest words in the history of language, along with "apple," "serpent," "Israel," "begat," "camel," "Joseph" and "Technicolor dreamcoat."
Over time, however, many great euphemisms have been phased out of common language, much like punctuation and grammar. For example, no one uses the popular Elizabethan exclamations like "zounds" (a shortening of "God's wounds!") and "gadzooks" ("God's hooks!" – referring to the nails on Jesus' cross) anymore, except for people who are actually from the Elizabethan era, like John McCain.
Some euphemisms became so commonplace over time that they eventually were deemed to be just as offensive as the original term. For example, the word "crippled," once thought to be demeaning, was replaced by the less severe "handicapped." That, in turn, became offensive, and was replaced by "disabled," which was replaced by "physically challenged," which was replaced by "differently abled," which hasn't been replaced yet because nobody knows what it means.
Other euphemisms are so politically correct that they're offensive again. Like saying "vertically challenged" instead of "short" – how patronizing is that? I mean, really! Don't these people face enough tiny little challenges in their day, what with their stumpy little arms and beady little eyes? The last thing they need is to be insulted, no matter how adorable it is when they get "angry." Bless their little hearts.
Don't say "vertically challenged" – say "short," or even "impish" or "itty-bitty." Just don't condescend. Don't waste your breath on "gravitationally challenged" – say "fat." Don't mince your words with "morally challenged" – just say "republican." And don't beat around the bush with "intellectually challenged" – again, just say "republican."
Sometimes a word has so many different euphemisms that it's hard to keep track of which is OK to use. Take "fat," for example. There's "overweight," "obese," "big-boned," "curvy," "chunky," "plus-size," "great personality," "Dick Cheney" …
Who's to say which is right? It really gets confusing after a while. For instance, you could literally have a sentence that goes, "Dick Cheney has a really Dick Cheney Dick Cheney." What does that even mean? You tell me. And while you're at it, maybe you'd like to explain what you were doing looking at Dick Cheney's Dick Cheney in the first place.
Clearly, all of these euphemisms are getting out of hand. And the situation's only going to get more kerfluffled from here.
The younger generation has started cutting out words altogether in favor of text-message acronyms like OMG ("Oh my god!"), LMAO ("Laughing my ass off!") and BILLOREILLY ("Dog mess!"). The main problem with acronyms is that if you're over the age of 13, you can't really use them without looking totally republican. Plus, if you have to explain what the acronyms mean every time you use them, it sort of defeats the point. KWIM?
I think we should just wipe the slate clean and create a new batch of euphemisms so that people can successfully not swear in a way that everybody else can understand. Or better yet, let's create a whole new set of swear words that won't offend anyone, like shrubbery, doily and kitchenette.
Sample sentence: "Bill O'Reilly is a idiotic piece of shrubbery who should be repeatedly smacked in his doily until he stops talking such complete and utter dog mess. Kitchenette!"
That way, the swearer is able to vent, and can do so without upsetting anyone, like, for example, my mother.
And if you've got a problem with that, you can go Google yourself.
Every month, it's the same old routine. I write a column, the magazine hits the streets and 24 hours later, like clockwork, the Team Last Call office is flooded with fan mail. To the point where I have to be like, "Mom, stop it."
But in all seriousness, I don't like to brag, but I've been known to receive as many as one letter a day. I've got to hand it to them, my readers are an enthusiastic bunch, and I'd like to personally thank all 10 of them.
Each letter I receive is unique, if not illegible. Sometimes I'll get one from, say, a concerned republican offering helpful tips pertaining to my bodily orifices and the various objects I might want to consider shoving into them. Other readers send letters offering constructive criticism along the lines of, "What's wrong with you?" and, "I guess they'll give a column to anyone these days." To the point where I have to be like, "Mom, seriously."
Others write to me with questions about life and love in general, such as:
"What do you think about life and love in general?"
"Who do you think was the world's first fat person?"
"Do you think Fox News really just makes up facts, or simply gets them all wrong?"
"If Rush Limbaugh was the last surviving human male on planet Earth, would he still die a virgin?"
To which I respond: You've never actually read my columns, have you?
But by far the most popular question my readers ask – as you've probably already guessed – is, "When are you finally going to write a column about TruckNutz?"
Which is really coincidental, because I was about to do that right nowNutz.
TruckNutz, also known as Bumper Balls, are disturbingly lifelike pairs of fake testicles designed to dangle from the back of a truck, most often between a "Bush/Cheney '04" sticker and a decal of Calvin peeing on something.
These Nutz serve an important function, which is to let other drivers on the road know that the owner of this truck is the kind of man who would actually spend $40 on a pair of fake balls. And also, presumably, to communicate that he is tough and shouldn't be messed with, and the reason he shouldn't be messed with is because his truck has fake testicles.
"Look out, other drivers!" the TruckNutz say. "Nuts in your face!"
TruckNutz are available in plastic and chrome, and come with varying amounts of wrinkles and veins. They measure up to six inches in length and are available in a full spectrum of colors, the most ironic of which is blue. Some of them light up in tandem with the truck's brake lights for maximum testicle visibility.
If this is the first time you've heard about TruckNutz, consider yourself lucky. Studies show that even just reading about them kills brain cells, which explains that little hissing sound you're hearing right now. Prolonged exposure to TruckNutz has been proven to cause permanent damage to such important lobes as the frontal, the temporal, the hernial and the not-listening-to-Nickelbackal.
I've been doing some thinking about why TruckNutz are popular. There's the obvious theory that TruckNutz owners are compensating for certain unmentionable shortcomings, by which I mean their tiny winkies. But these people are already driving large trucks. How much more compensation do they need? Apparently, two balls more.
But there's got to be something more to the story, some little X factor that separates a man who rolls his eyes at TruckNutz from a man who gently scoops them up and whispers, "You complete me."
One entry on Wikipedia identifies this factor as "machismo," which is Italian for "back hair." Another entry, which I created myself, classifies it as acute idiocy. Whatever the factor is, it's apparently spreading, particularly in the South, for reasons that are too obvious to makes jokes about.
Not surprisingly, TruckNutz are receiving a good amount of backlash from a certain demographic of Americans, comprised primarily of people who don't enjoy having someone else's balls in their face. The outcry of these non-consenting ball-lookers has prompted Florida officials to pass a law fining any driver up to $60 for exhibiting his Nutz. In Virginia, a law is pending that would result in a $250 fine per Nutz.
As one might expect, the TruckNutz backlash is now experiencing a backlash of its own. Upset Nutz owners across the country are ferociously defending their right to dangle their Nutz wherever and whenever they want, like Bill Clinton. It's a matter of free speech, they say. In America, everyone has a right to express his beliefs and opinions. For some people, that means starting a prayer group in school or staging a peace protest. For others, it means hanging a fake pair of balls from their bumpers.
The last thing I want to do is judge. If some dude wants to invest his money in rubber testicles, as opposed to, say, ending world hunger or reversing global warming or sending supplies to our troops, that's his personal, private business.
I think the crux of the issue here is that, ultimately, TruckNutz are just in really, really bad taste. But unfortunately, there is no law against bad taste, or Howie Mandel would be locked away in Sing Sing on 126 counts of douchery. What we're left with, I'm afraid, is a world in which Nutz must not only be tolerated, but embraced. The sooner we can reconcile ourselves to this fact, the sooner we can shift our focus back to the issues that really matter. Like Miley Cyrus.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some mail to open.
Mom!
But in all seriousness, I don't like to brag, but I've been known to receive as many as one letter a day. I've got to hand it to them, my readers are an enthusiastic bunch, and I'd like to personally thank all 10 of them.
Each letter I receive is unique, if not illegible. Sometimes I'll get one from, say, a concerned republican offering helpful tips pertaining to my bodily orifices and the various objects I might want to consider shoving into them. Other readers send letters offering constructive criticism along the lines of, "What's wrong with you?" and, "I guess they'll give a column to anyone these days." To the point where I have to be like, "Mom, seriously."
Others write to me with questions about life and love in general, such as:
"What do you think about life and love in general?"
"Who do you think was the world's first fat person?"
"Do you think Fox News really just makes up facts, or simply gets them all wrong?"
"If Rush Limbaugh was the last surviving human male on planet Earth, would he still die a virgin?"
To which I respond: You've never actually read my columns, have you?
But by far the most popular question my readers ask – as you've probably already guessed – is, "When are you finally going to write a column about TruckNutz?"
Which is really coincidental, because I was about to do that right nowNutz.
TruckNutz, also known as Bumper Balls, are disturbingly lifelike pairs of fake testicles designed to dangle from the back of a truck, most often between a "Bush/Cheney '04" sticker and a decal of Calvin peeing on something.
These Nutz serve an important function, which is to let other drivers on the road know that the owner of this truck is the kind of man who would actually spend $40 on a pair of fake balls. And also, presumably, to communicate that he is tough and shouldn't be messed with, and the reason he shouldn't be messed with is because his truck has fake testicles.
"Look out, other drivers!" the TruckNutz say. "Nuts in your face!"
TruckNutz are available in plastic and chrome, and come with varying amounts of wrinkles and veins. They measure up to six inches in length and are available in a full spectrum of colors, the most ironic of which is blue. Some of them light up in tandem with the truck's brake lights for maximum testicle visibility.
If this is the first time you've heard about TruckNutz, consider yourself lucky. Studies show that even just reading about them kills brain cells, which explains that little hissing sound you're hearing right now. Prolonged exposure to TruckNutz has been proven to cause permanent damage to such important lobes as the frontal, the temporal, the hernial and the not-listening-to-Nickelbackal.
I've been doing some thinking about why TruckNutz are popular. There's the obvious theory that TruckNutz owners are compensating for certain unmentionable shortcomings, by which I mean their tiny winkies. But these people are already driving large trucks. How much more compensation do they need? Apparently, two balls more.
But there's got to be something more to the story, some little X factor that separates a man who rolls his eyes at TruckNutz from a man who gently scoops them up and whispers, "You complete me."
One entry on Wikipedia identifies this factor as "machismo," which is Italian for "back hair." Another entry, which I created myself, classifies it as acute idiocy. Whatever the factor is, it's apparently spreading, particularly in the South, for reasons that are too obvious to makes jokes about.
Not surprisingly, TruckNutz are receiving a good amount of backlash from a certain demographic of Americans, comprised primarily of people who don't enjoy having someone else's balls in their face. The outcry of these non-consenting ball-lookers has prompted Florida officials to pass a law fining any driver up to $60 for exhibiting his Nutz. In Virginia, a law is pending that would result in a $250 fine per Nutz.
As one might expect, the TruckNutz backlash is now experiencing a backlash of its own. Upset Nutz owners across the country are ferociously defending their right to dangle their Nutz wherever and whenever they want, like Bill Clinton. It's a matter of free speech, they say. In America, everyone has a right to express his beliefs and opinions. For some people, that means starting a prayer group in school or staging a peace protest. For others, it means hanging a fake pair of balls from their bumpers.
The last thing I want to do is judge. If some dude wants to invest his money in rubber testicles, as opposed to, say, ending world hunger or reversing global warming or sending supplies to our troops, that's his personal, private business.
I think the crux of the issue here is that, ultimately, TruckNutz are just in really, really bad taste. But unfortunately, there is no law against bad taste, or Howie Mandel would be locked away in Sing Sing on 126 counts of douchery. What we're left with, I'm afraid, is a world in which Nutz must not only be tolerated, but embraced. The sooner we can reconcile ourselves to this fact, the sooner we can shift our focus back to the issues that really matter. Like Miley Cyrus.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some mail to open.
Mom!
The other day, I was floundering around the park on my daily jog – my lungs wheezing, my face puffed up like a swollen tomato, my belly sloshing around like a trash bag full of pudding – and all I could hear were three little words banging around in my brain like shoes in a dryer:
I'm still fat.
I've been running for four months now, and boy are my legs tired ha ha ha. But for real, it's been four months, and as far as my scale is concerned, I've spent that entire time dumpster diving behind the Krispy Kreme factory. Which is hardly even true.
I can't help but wonder if there isn't something inherently wrong with the design of my body that I can spend hours of my week lumbering around my neighborhood and actually gain weight. Seriously, that happened one month. I don't even know why I bother to jog at all. I'm about as fit to run as John McCain. (Zing!)
All my 23-year-old coworkers need to do is think about exercising and they get skinnier. They lose an average of 15 pounds a day just by breathing. They lost another five in the time it took for me to type that. But not Old Man Royer. I just sit here writing bitter columns, eating my Lean Cuisine and swelling up like a bee sting.
Now, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being fat, other than the health complications, the self-esteem issues and the social stigmas. And the premature death. I'm just saying that being fat doesn't work for me. Because you never know when someone might walk up and say, "Oh, hello, 31-year-old dude with a receding hairline and zero fashion sense. I'd like to give you a multi-million dollar record deal!" When that moment comes for me, I'd like for my profile to look a little more Michael Phelps and little less Michael Moore.
But there is some part of my genetic makeup that refuses to not be fat. Which is how I know I'm related to Dick Cheney.
Sometimes I think about the world's very first fat person – specifically, what made him fat, and how it might explain my present situation.
I mean, someone had to be first. Somebody somewhere, at some point in the history of the human race, was the very first person to get a little junk in his trunk. Who was that guy? Where did he come from? Did he have a record deal? Did he like to put words in italics?
Simple logic tells us that fat people date back to at least 2004, when the first "Biggest Loser" aired. However, after consulting several top scientific resources, including Wikipedia and TMZ.com, I discovered that obesity can actually be traced back as far as Meat Loaf.
But the truth is, no one really knows for sure, so I'm forced to take the Fox News approach and just plain guess. What my gut tells me is that obesity actually extends back to the time of the caveman. I believe this in part because I Googled the words "fat caveman" and got a bunch of hits. I also believe this because I conducted a scientific poll among my friends, and not a single one of them has not ever not seen a fat caveman.
Cavemen, as we learned from the classic 1970s series "Land of the Lost," were small, angry, chimpanzee-like humanoids with jutting underbites, excessive body hair and little to no grasp of language. So basically, they were Nickelback.
Cavemen can also be identified by their extremely skimpy clothing and sexual promiscuity, as is illustrated in detail in 2004's direct-to-video classic "Bikini Cavegirl," in which a young female cavebunny accidentally transports herself into the future and, in order to get back home, takes the logical route of having sex with lots and lots of pasty white dudes with moustaches.
Cavemen lived a grueling day-to-day existence full of constant struggle. They had to hunt and gather, fight and kill. They had to scrounge for every meal. It was a dangerous, terrifying world full of hazards – from saber tooth tigers to tyrannosaurus rexes to seriously spotty cell phone reception. In summary, survival in prehistoric times took every ounce of a man's strength and energy. He had to be a lean, mean, death-avoiding machine. And that's what cavemen were.
Until one day, when one of them got fat.
How did this happen? It couldn't have been hereditary, since neither of his parents were fat. But he was the very first fat guy. Ever.
And it couldn't have been laziness. A caveman had to be on the move every day just to survive. Plus, if he stayed home, he knew Mrs. Caveman would never stop nagging him about how he should be out hunting for food like the rest of the men and how everyone else on their block had nicer cave paintings than theirs and how a strange charge showed up on their cable bill for a movie called "Bikini Cavegirl."
So why wasn't this caveman out hunting and gathering and burning lots of caveman calories? Was he on some sort of caveman disability? Was his union striking for higher caveman wages? Did he become the CEO of a caveman oil company, get rich, install himself as vice president of the cavemen government, start a disastrous war, pass a tax cut for the top one percent of the caveman population and get richer, fatter, balder and uglier while the caveman economy was on the brink of collapse?
Possible, but not likely.
And there are other questions, like how did the first fat person's friends react? Did they even have a word for obesity? "Hey, Thog. Have you seen Ogg recently? He's getting really … something."
If anything, I know even less now than when I began my research. I don't know who the world's first fat person was. I don't know why I gain weight when I jog. I don't know why you are still reading this column. All I really know is that my fatness is like 30 pounds of story fodder wrapped around my mid-section, and I'm going to milk it for all it's worth. Who knows – maybe one day it will help me become vice president.
I'm still fat.
I've been running for four months now, and boy are my legs tired ha ha ha. But for real, it's been four months, and as far as my scale is concerned, I've spent that entire time dumpster diving behind the Krispy Kreme factory. Which is hardly even true.
I can't help but wonder if there isn't something inherently wrong with the design of my body that I can spend hours of my week lumbering around my neighborhood and actually gain weight. Seriously, that happened one month. I don't even know why I bother to jog at all. I'm about as fit to run as John McCain. (Zing!)
All my 23-year-old coworkers need to do is think about exercising and they get skinnier. They lose an average of 15 pounds a day just by breathing. They lost another five in the time it took for me to type that. But not Old Man Royer. I just sit here writing bitter columns, eating my Lean Cuisine and swelling up like a bee sting.
Now, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being fat, other than the health complications, the self-esteem issues and the social stigmas. And the premature death. I'm just saying that being fat doesn't work for me. Because you never know when someone might walk up and say, "Oh, hello, 31-year-old dude with a receding hairline and zero fashion sense. I'd like to give you a multi-million dollar record deal!" When that moment comes for me, I'd like for my profile to look a little more Michael Phelps and little less Michael Moore.
But there is some part of my genetic makeup that refuses to not be fat. Which is how I know I'm related to Dick Cheney.
Sometimes I think about the world's very first fat person – specifically, what made him fat, and how it might explain my present situation.
I mean, someone had to be first. Somebody somewhere, at some point in the history of the human race, was the very first person to get a little junk in his trunk. Who was that guy? Where did he come from? Did he have a record deal? Did he like to put words in italics?
Simple logic tells us that fat people date back to at least 2004, when the first "Biggest Loser" aired. However, after consulting several top scientific resources, including Wikipedia and TMZ.com, I discovered that obesity can actually be traced back as far as Meat Loaf.
But the truth is, no one really knows for sure, so I'm forced to take the Fox News approach and just plain guess. What my gut tells me is that obesity actually extends back to the time of the caveman. I believe this in part because I Googled the words "fat caveman" and got a bunch of hits. I also believe this because I conducted a scientific poll among my friends, and not a single one of them has not ever not seen a fat caveman.
Cavemen, as we learned from the classic 1970s series "Land of the Lost," were small, angry, chimpanzee-like humanoids with jutting underbites, excessive body hair and little to no grasp of language. So basically, they were Nickelback.
Cavemen can also be identified by their extremely skimpy clothing and sexual promiscuity, as is illustrated in detail in 2004's direct-to-video classic "Bikini Cavegirl," in which a young female cavebunny accidentally transports herself into the future and, in order to get back home, takes the logical route of having sex with lots and lots of pasty white dudes with moustaches.
Cavemen lived a grueling day-to-day existence full of constant struggle. They had to hunt and gather, fight and kill. They had to scrounge for every meal. It was a dangerous, terrifying world full of hazards – from saber tooth tigers to tyrannosaurus rexes to seriously spotty cell phone reception. In summary, survival in prehistoric times took every ounce of a man's strength and energy. He had to be a lean, mean, death-avoiding machine. And that's what cavemen were.
Until one day, when one of them got fat.
How did this happen? It couldn't have been hereditary, since neither of his parents were fat. But he was the very first fat guy. Ever.
And it couldn't have been laziness. A caveman had to be on the move every day just to survive. Plus, if he stayed home, he knew Mrs. Caveman would never stop nagging him about how he should be out hunting for food like the rest of the men and how everyone else on their block had nicer cave paintings than theirs and how a strange charge showed up on their cable bill for a movie called "Bikini Cavegirl."
So why wasn't this caveman out hunting and gathering and burning lots of caveman calories? Was he on some sort of caveman disability? Was his union striking for higher caveman wages? Did he become the CEO of a caveman oil company, get rich, install himself as vice president of the cavemen government, start a disastrous war, pass a tax cut for the top one percent of the caveman population and get richer, fatter, balder and uglier while the caveman economy was on the brink of collapse?
Possible, but not likely.
And there are other questions, like how did the first fat person's friends react? Did they even have a word for obesity? "Hey, Thog. Have you seen Ogg recently? He's getting really … something."
If anything, I know even less now than when I began my research. I don't know who the world's first fat person was. I don't know why I gain weight when I jog. I don't know why you are still reading this column. All I really know is that my fatness is like 30 pounds of story fodder wrapped around my mid-section, and I'm going to milk it for all it's worth. Who knows – maybe one day it will help me become vice president.
Posted by
Jeff
on
4/08/2008 12:32:00 AM
Labels:
april fool's,
reality show
For my entire life, it's been apparent to me and everyone around me that I am destined to be a reality TV star. It's my entire reason for existence.
I've got the looks, I've got the charm, I've got the shamelessness. I've got a boy-ish face, so I'm likeable, but I've also got long-ish hair, so you know I'm dangerous. And if there's money involved, I'm totally willing to show my tender parts on national TV. Plus, I'm short, so I can fit in a lot of interesting places that bigger stars can't.
I've got an English degree, so I could be the sensitive, bookish half in one of those mismatched-partners shows. And I have a big mouth, so I could make a show colorful, like Scott Baio. I also have a tattoo, so I could play the tough-guy role like Dog the Bounty Hunter, or maybe the lady from "Nanny 911."
In short, if there's a man out there who's got more to offer a reality TV show than I do, I'd like to meet him. So I could shoot him and reclaim that number one spot.
For all of these reasons and more, I'm so excited that a reality show is finally making its way to Central PA.
It's just been confirmed that "Whoopsie," which is tentatively scheduled to return to Fox this coming fall, will be filmed almost entirely at the Senorita Burrita restaurant in downtown Lancaster. This will be the second season of the popular reality series on Fox, and the third overall since "Whoopsie" first broadcast on FX in 2006.
Senorita Burrita was chosen out of literally thousands of potential sites as the setting for the show's next season. Although she was aware that her restaurant was being considered as a setting, owner Jen Foster admits that it didn't diminish the shock when she received the confirmation call.
"I'm excited, but a little nervous. I get stoked about it," says Foster. "I can't actually legally talk about when or how it will be filmed, but it's coming!"
Needless to say, serving as the set for "Whoopsie" will be an incredible boost for the California mission-style burrito shop, which opened its doors in 2003 at 227 North Prince Street, nestled in the heart of Gallery Row just steps from the famed Chameleon Club, record label and retail shop CI Records, mid-century modern furniture and art gallery Metropolis and vinyl wonderland Mr. Suit Records.
"I knew I had to keep it under wraps, but it was impossible," says CI's Jeremy Weiss of the recent announcement. "'Whoopsie' had been a favorite of mine. When I told the guys at work, they were like, 'What?'"
As for why Senorita Burrita was ultimately chosen, Foster can only guess.
"We've served Hulk Hogan, Gavin DeGraw, Henry Rollins," she says. "Maybe they wanted to do a show in a small town, but at a shop that attracts a lot of interesting personalities."
The show, of course, will benefit more than just Senorita Burrita. It's also sure to create many lucrative opportunities for the surrounding downtown businesses. Says Chameleon Club co-owner Holly Skiadas, "I expect the immediate neighbors to feel the impact, but only time will tell if there will be an economic boom for the 100 and 300 blocks of Prince."
As for details about the show itself, Skiadas, like Foster, isn't talking. "I am not at liberty to speak about the project," she says politely.
However, that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to speculate.
If it's anything like the original "Whoopsie," this season will involve a dozen or so contestants pitted against each other in "Survivor"-style challenges of physical and mental skill. It's safe to assume that at least some of these challenges will involve tasks like working the Senorita Burrita lunch rush with various handicaps like blindfolds, arm and leg weights and the now-infamous Whoopsie Weasel. Other times, the challenges may involve more behind-the-scenes tests, like handling employee schedules or placing produce orders. As Foster assures with a laugh, it's not as easy as you might think!
With me being (apparently) something of a "local celebrity," as well as a regular at Senorita Burrita, I was chosen to serve as one of the episodes' "local" judges. It's just one episode, but I'm optimistic about the opportunities it could lead to. Plus, my mom will finally have something to brag about to the ladies at church.
I've got to admit, even though the show is already in pre-production, it's hard to believe that it's actually going to happen here in Central PA. I keep trying to picture last season's contestants working behind the restaurant counter, and it's next to impossible. Brianne Washington in a Senorita Burrita shirt? Hotchie-motchie!
This year's roster of contestants is nothing to sniff at either. Among the people I was able to confirm so far are a few big personalities from last season (Tiffany Van Der Mar, Jimmy Kleese), as well as some B-list celebrities from other reality shows, including Tonya Marx-Davies from "Lunch Swap." Rumors are also being spread about an encore guest-hosting appearance by Marc Summers, but the producers absolutely refuse to confirm or deny it.
What they will confirm is that, as before, new contestants will be added to the show throughout the season as people are voted off – and they're looking for men and women from around the area. Filming could begin as early as this spring. Maybe you can be the Julianne to my Helio!
I've got the looks, I've got the charm, I've got the shamelessness. I've got a boy-ish face, so I'm likeable, but I've also got long-ish hair, so you know I'm dangerous. And if there's money involved, I'm totally willing to show my tender parts on national TV. Plus, I'm short, so I can fit in a lot of interesting places that bigger stars can't.
I've got an English degree, so I could be the sensitive, bookish half in one of those mismatched-partners shows. And I have a big mouth, so I could make a show colorful, like Scott Baio. I also have a tattoo, so I could play the tough-guy role like Dog the Bounty Hunter, or maybe the lady from "Nanny 911."
In short, if there's a man out there who's got more to offer a reality TV show than I do, I'd like to meet him. So I could shoot him and reclaim that number one spot.
For all of these reasons and more, I'm so excited that a reality show is finally making its way to Central PA.
It's just been confirmed that "Whoopsie," which is tentatively scheduled to return to Fox this coming fall, will be filmed almost entirely at the Senorita Burrita restaurant in downtown Lancaster. This will be the second season of the popular reality series on Fox, and the third overall since "Whoopsie" first broadcast on FX in 2006.
Senorita Burrita was chosen out of literally thousands of potential sites as the setting for the show's next season. Although she was aware that her restaurant was being considered as a setting, owner Jen Foster admits that it didn't diminish the shock when she received the confirmation call.
"I'm excited, but a little nervous. I get stoked about it," says Foster. "I can't actually legally talk about when or how it will be filmed, but it's coming!"
Needless to say, serving as the set for "Whoopsie" will be an incredible boost for the California mission-style burrito shop, which opened its doors in 2003 at 227 North Prince Street, nestled in the heart of Gallery Row just steps from the famed Chameleon Club, record label and retail shop CI Records, mid-century modern furniture and art gallery Metropolis and vinyl wonderland Mr. Suit Records.
"I knew I had to keep it under wraps, but it was impossible," says CI's Jeremy Weiss of the recent announcement. "'Whoopsie' had been a favorite of mine. When I told the guys at work, they were like, 'What?'"
As for why Senorita Burrita was ultimately chosen, Foster can only guess.
"We've served Hulk Hogan, Gavin DeGraw, Henry Rollins," she says. "Maybe they wanted to do a show in a small town, but at a shop that attracts a lot of interesting personalities."
The show, of course, will benefit more than just Senorita Burrita. It's also sure to create many lucrative opportunities for the surrounding downtown businesses. Says Chameleon Club co-owner Holly Skiadas, "I expect the immediate neighbors to feel the impact, but only time will tell if there will be an economic boom for the 100 and 300 blocks of Prince."
As for details about the show itself, Skiadas, like Foster, isn't talking. "I am not at liberty to speak about the project," she says politely.
However, that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to speculate.
If it's anything like the original "Whoopsie," this season will involve a dozen or so contestants pitted against each other in "Survivor"-style challenges of physical and mental skill. It's safe to assume that at least some of these challenges will involve tasks like working the Senorita Burrita lunch rush with various handicaps like blindfolds, arm and leg weights and the now-infamous Whoopsie Weasel. Other times, the challenges may involve more behind-the-scenes tests, like handling employee schedules or placing produce orders. As Foster assures with a laugh, it's not as easy as you might think!
With me being (apparently) something of a "local celebrity," as well as a regular at Senorita Burrita, I was chosen to serve as one of the episodes' "local" judges. It's just one episode, but I'm optimistic about the opportunities it could lead to. Plus, my mom will finally have something to brag about to the ladies at church.
I've got to admit, even though the show is already in pre-production, it's hard to believe that it's actually going to happen here in Central PA. I keep trying to picture last season's contestants working behind the restaurant counter, and it's next to impossible. Brianne Washington in a Senorita Burrita shirt? Hotchie-motchie!
This year's roster of contestants is nothing to sniff at either. Among the people I was able to confirm so far are a few big personalities from last season (Tiffany Van Der Mar, Jimmy Kleese), as well as some B-list celebrities from other reality shows, including Tonya Marx-Davies from "Lunch Swap." Rumors are also being spread about an encore guest-hosting appearance by Marc Summers, but the producers absolutely refuse to confirm or deny it.
What they will confirm is that, as before, new contestants will be added to the show throughout the season as people are voted off – and they're looking for men and women from around the area. Filming could begin as early as this spring. Maybe you can be the Julianne to my Helio!
Posted by
Jeff
on
3/01/2008 12:31:00 AM
Labels:
holiday,
March,
st. patrick's day
Last month, the Super Bowl and Mardi Gras took place within two days of each other, making it the most barf-tastic three-day stretch in recent memory.
Lord only knows how much alcohol was consumed and expelled during that magical time period. If Lindsey Lohan had anything to say about it, the answer is a lot.
"But wait!" you might be thinking. "What about this month? Isn't there anything to barf about in March?"
Actually, there's plenty to barf about this month. In fact, March might be the single barfiest month of the year, thanks to one internationally celebrated Irish holiday I like call "Throw Up Beer In The Back Of Your Friend's Car Day." Easter!
Just kidding. It's St. Patrick's Day. Or as Amy Winehouse likes to call it, Day.
So, why is St. Patrick's Day so throw up-y? Well, according to one reputable website, by which I mean Wikipedia, many American St. Patrick's Day celebrations center around "alcohol." And if it says it on Wikipedia, then you know it's true. Or that it's totally not true. You never know, which is part of why Wikipedia is awesome. It's like playing Russian roulette, only instead of bullets, you use facts.
For example, I looked up Tom Cruise on Wikipedia and couldn't find the words "creepy," "really creepy" or "super creepy" anywhere, so that shows you just how off it can be. I wonder if Wikipedia is where President Bush looked to see if Iraq had WMDs? Just a thought.
Anyway, the point is, a lot of people drink alcohol on St. Patrick's Day. As studies show, the abuse of alcohol can have some pretty horrifying consequences, such as hangovers, automobile accidents and voting for Mitt Romney. Who, according to Wikipedia, is made of 80 percent plastic. Then again, Wikipedia also claims that Romney has withdrawn from the presidential race. So there's an example of Wikipedia being right twice in a row.
But worse than any of these side effects, drinking can lead to barfing, which, according to several top scientists, sucks. And yet, no matter how many times they might learn this hard lesson first-hand, millions of Americans will once again end their St. Patrick's Day bowing down before the porcelain god. Calling Huey on the great white telephone. Mugging the porcelain tourist. Playing with the edible yo-yo. Giggling to Ralph over the porcelain intercom. Making a pavement pizza. Singing solo in the porcelain amphitheater. And other funny phrases I found online to boost my word count.
What makes it worse is that most people don't have the faintest idea what they're actually celebrating on St. Patrick's Day.
In fact, for a lot of people (Lindsey Lohan), St. Patrick's Day is distinguished from Mardi Gras only by the fact that the beer they're throwing up is green.
The real reason we celebrate is, of course, to commemorate the life and deeds of St. Patrick, who is famous for chasing all of the snakes out of Ireland, presumably by putting on a green plastic hat and throwing up Jell-O shots on them. This feat is all the more amazing when you consider the fact that Ireland never had any snakes to begin with. And that's an actual true, scientific, non-made-up fact. As opposed to this one: George Bush was forged in the fires of Mordor.
Which is a lie because, as Wikipedia points out, he was actually the one doing the forging.
I don't mean to give the impression that I did all of my research for this article on Wikipedia. That couldn't be further from the truth. I also did some research on pukeplanet.com, which is a website consisting entirely of pictures of people barfing. That's sort of bizarre in and of itself, but the truly remarkable part is how the website advertises itself as – and I swear this is true – "the best site for puke pictures on the web."
So if you've been less than satisfied with the puke-picture sites you've been frequenting lately, you know where to go.
Sometimes I think about St. Patrick's Day and all of the barfing and wonder how things got so out of hand. Like, 400 years ago it was a holy day of obligation for Roman Catholics in Ireland. Now it's a day when people go out to bars, drink their body weight in green-tinted domestic drafts and blarney all over each other's shoes. It's like the entire holiday has been secularized, which is a really, really sad thing. I mean, what would Santa say if he were here?
Yeah, sometimes I get down about St. Patrick's Day. But then I think about those tiny little men in the funny suits who are always hiding their gold – What do you call those again? Republicans? – and I smile.
At least next year we won't have one of those in the White House.
Lord only knows how much alcohol was consumed and expelled during that magical time period. If Lindsey Lohan had anything to say about it, the answer is a lot.
"But wait!" you might be thinking. "What about this month? Isn't there anything to barf about in March?"
Actually, there's plenty to barf about this month. In fact, March might be the single barfiest month of the year, thanks to one internationally celebrated Irish holiday I like call "Throw Up Beer In The Back Of Your Friend's Car Day." Easter!
Just kidding. It's St. Patrick's Day. Or as Amy Winehouse likes to call it, Day.
So, why is St. Patrick's Day so throw up-y? Well, according to one reputable website, by which I mean Wikipedia, many American St. Patrick's Day celebrations center around "alcohol." And if it says it on Wikipedia, then you know it's true. Or that it's totally not true. You never know, which is part of why Wikipedia is awesome. It's like playing Russian roulette, only instead of bullets, you use facts.
For example, I looked up Tom Cruise on Wikipedia and couldn't find the words "creepy," "really creepy" or "super creepy" anywhere, so that shows you just how off it can be. I wonder if Wikipedia is where President Bush looked to see if Iraq had WMDs? Just a thought.
Anyway, the point is, a lot of people drink alcohol on St. Patrick's Day. As studies show, the abuse of alcohol can have some pretty horrifying consequences, such as hangovers, automobile accidents and voting for Mitt Romney. Who, according to Wikipedia, is made of 80 percent plastic. Then again, Wikipedia also claims that Romney has withdrawn from the presidential race. So there's an example of Wikipedia being right twice in a row.
But worse than any of these side effects, drinking can lead to barfing, which, according to several top scientists, sucks. And yet, no matter how many times they might learn this hard lesson first-hand, millions of Americans will once again end their St. Patrick's Day bowing down before the porcelain god. Calling Huey on the great white telephone. Mugging the porcelain tourist. Playing with the edible yo-yo. Giggling to Ralph over the porcelain intercom. Making a pavement pizza. Singing solo in the porcelain amphitheater. And other funny phrases I found online to boost my word count.
What makes it worse is that most people don't have the faintest idea what they're actually celebrating on St. Patrick's Day.
In fact, for a lot of people (Lindsey Lohan), St. Patrick's Day is distinguished from Mardi Gras only by the fact that the beer they're throwing up is green.
The real reason we celebrate is, of course, to commemorate the life and deeds of St. Patrick, who is famous for chasing all of the snakes out of Ireland, presumably by putting on a green plastic hat and throwing up Jell-O shots on them. This feat is all the more amazing when you consider the fact that Ireland never had any snakes to begin with. And that's an actual true, scientific, non-made-up fact. As opposed to this one: George Bush was forged in the fires of Mordor.
Which is a lie because, as Wikipedia points out, he was actually the one doing the forging.
I don't mean to give the impression that I did all of my research for this article on Wikipedia. That couldn't be further from the truth. I also did some research on pukeplanet.com, which is a website consisting entirely of pictures of people barfing. That's sort of bizarre in and of itself, but the truly remarkable part is how the website advertises itself as – and I swear this is true – "the best site for puke pictures on the web."
So if you've been less than satisfied with the puke-picture sites you've been frequenting lately, you know where to go.
Sometimes I think about St. Patrick's Day and all of the barfing and wonder how things got so out of hand. Like, 400 years ago it was a holy day of obligation for Roman Catholics in Ireland. Now it's a day when people go out to bars, drink their body weight in green-tinted domestic drafts and blarney all over each other's shoes. It's like the entire holiday has been secularized, which is a really, really sad thing. I mean, what would Santa say if he were here?
Yeah, sometimes I get down about St. Patrick's Day. But then I think about those tiny little men in the funny suits who are always hiding their gold – What do you call those again? Republicans? – and I smile.
At least next year we won't have one of those in the White House.
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