Time for Chris Rock to break bad.
I hate nepotism. Pick a celebrity or a famous/wealthy citizen and, more likely than not, society is forced to live with their offspring and all of the advantages they’ve been bestowed. Sure, Jayden Smith is hilarious in a bat-shit crazy sort of way, but do we (i.e. society) need him? Do we need Judd Apatow’s daughter who couldn’t act her way out of a gazebo? We (society again) gave up on Michael Jordan’s kids as basketball stars (go us!), but at least in sports you have to earn it (see Steph Curry vs. Austin Rivers). In entertainment, you don’t have to be good (there are few metrics of talent), but if your mom or dad made it, then you and your next 12 generations are set. Politics works the same way (not necessarily as Jeb Bush hoped and anticipated; but he never would have even had the pedestal to attempt a presidential run if ma and pa hadn’t paved the way). Hillary’s riding Bill’s gravy train. Bono’s daughter is acting up a storm. So’s Phil Collins’. Can’t wait for little Apple Martin and North West to start their own bands, fashion labels, perfumes, etc. Millions and billions of dollars just funneling into the same ol’ grubby hands because they can and we will. I’m in the camp that believes a silver spoon sets the wrong example. If Brooklyn Beckham is going to make it, let him make it (or not make it) on his own, without the built-in PR army pillaging on his behalf. Let others stand on equal footing. But it won’t happen like that. We like our royals. We’ve been genuflecting for too long to stop now.
Every crisis is a midlife crisis; until you live longer than twice your age at the time of the initial crisis. Then it becomes a third-life crisis.
The moon’s risen up there hidden behind opaque sheaths, halfway towards disappearing for good. The bed calls, unmade, creased sheets and a folded over comforter. I fight back sleep, eyes open, replaying a fever dream, awake, rummaging through cabinets and cupboards, searching for something to consume. An undisturbed glass of water is visible on the kitchen table, left behind, lukewarm. I chug it to 1/8th full. Leave the rest, ever the optimist. Blurry vision. Reminder to make an appointment with an optometrist. But I have eye drops in my backpack, top pocket. Screwcap, plastic wrapper. Sanitary. Skip the doctor’s appointment, health insurance won’t kick in 80% until I hit my deductible, anyway. Another hour begins. Water down to 1/16. Halving it over and over until math becomes a flat line. The cat plays with a toy in the background.
How humans used to communicate feelings of love:
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
-Shakespeare, Sonnet 18
How humans communicate feelings of love today:
Brushing your teeth is like a shower for your mouth.
Watching TV is like radio for your eyes.
Grapefruits are like the obese love-child of an orange and a lemon.
Mirrors are like windows you can’t see through.
Maple syrup is like boiled down tree piss.
Circus peanuts are like orange death.
Greeting cards are like letters you were too lazy to write.
Musical greeting cards are like letters you were too lazy to write (with music).
Dinosaurs are like big chickens.
Chickens are like tiny dinosaurs.
Forests are like nature’s lungs (so are large bodies of water).
Die Hard is like the best 80s action movie.
The river wild
River Phoenix rising from the depths of
but his brother’s still around
rapids, rocks cleaving
with no inner
guy orders tea in a walking boot
caffeine hits bloodstream
Dear River Outside Window,
Q. Which team wins?
- Mike Bibby (PG)
- Michael Jordan (SG)
- Mike Dunleavy (SF)
- Michael Cage (PF)
- Michael Doleac (C)
- John Stockton (PG)
- John Starks (SG)
- John Havlicek (SF)
- John Salley (PF)
- Jon Koncak (C)
- Billy Donovan (PG)
- Bill Sharman (SG)
- Bill Bradley (SF)
- Bill Russell (PF)
- Bill Walton (C)
- Chris Paul (PG)
- Chris Mullin (SG)
- Chris Mills (SF)
- Chris Bosh (PF)
- Chris Webber (C)
- Bob Cousy (PG)
- Bobby Jackson (SG)
- Big Shot Bob (SF)
- Bob Pettit (PF)
- Robert Parish (C)
- Larry Brown (PG)
- Larry Hughes (SG)
- Larry Bird (SF)
- Larry Johnson (PF)
- Larry Sanders (C)
- Kevin Johnson (PG)
- Kevin Martin (SG)
- Kevin Durant (SF)
- Kevin McHale (PF)
- Kevin Garnett (C)
- Dave Bing (PG)
- David “Skywalker” Thompson (SG)
- Dave DeBussschere (SF)
- Dave Cowens (PF)
- David Robinson (C)
- Ricky Rubio (PG)
- Ricky Pierce (SG)
- Rick Barry (SF)
- Rick Mahorn (PF)
- Ric Smits (C)
- Paul Westphal (PG)
- Paul George (SG)
- Paul Pierce (SF)
- Paul Milsap (PF)
- Paul Silas (C)
A. The Kevins
A list of phrases I’d like to see used in public:
- Woohoo yoohoo chocolate milk!
- Make like a spider and web.
- Stayin’ alive like Johnny Five.
- Go blog yourself!
- You smell like an olfactory sensory neuron.
- Open your rods and cones.
- Honeydew, honey don’t.
- Time to teleport.
- That warms the cockles of my seafood stew.
- Don’t give up, take down!
- It’s a Catch-22,000 Leagues Under the Wide Sargasso Sea.
- That’s so atomic!
- I’m so hungry I could chew, swallow and digest a horse.
- Say hello to my amigo pequeño!
And the Crummy Award winner for Best R&B Pop Classical Rock Rap Duo/Group/10-Piece Orchestra Album Performance of a Song in a Nightclub Bathroom with the Lights Off goes to…
Drove past a Chuck E. Cheese at 7:00 p.m. Not a parking space to be found.
I don’t understand why I can’t just eat all the damn sea salt caramel chocolate bars I want without becoming diabetic. Or as many bacon wrapped anythings without having my chest sawed open and my veins suctioned out. Or as many Chick-fil-A Spicy Chicken sandwiches. Or as many buckets of movie theater popcorn layered with real butter-flavoring as I damn well choose. It’s all natural. Every single ounce of it comes from this planet. Something had to live or spawn to become the food that ends up in my stomach. And if was invented in a lab, someone with a pulse and a mother had to get in that lab to grow it, mutate it or invent it. Okay? Seriously, if it exists in reality, it’s natural. Now, who’s with me?
I blurted all over her.
In her best-selling memoir, Just Kids, the legendary Patti Smith tells the story of her – wait, who? A songwriter author performer visual artist poet? That’s like ten things; I’m calling bullshit. Did she write Blowin In the Wind? Does she have pipes like Aretha? Did she shock the world with Leaves of Grass? Does she get the stadium rockin’ with Born to Run? Do her paintings hang at the Met next to Cézanne and Manet?
Why does every Baby Boomer who slummed it in New York City in the 60s feel the need to write a 500-page biography with some bullshit twee title slapped on the front?
I like their tartness. I usually eat them frozen. They’re pretty great fresh, too, but then you have to eat around the pit and that’s more effort than I really care to give. Plus, in comparison, fresh cherries are typically more expensive per pound. They are also quite enjoyable dried, but only without sugar added. I mean, they’re right up there with blueberries, and definitely higher than strawberries, which tend to be blander than anticipated. The key to flavorful strawberries is to find the smaller variety available at local farmers’ markets, when in season. Those gargantuan, bright, shiny, Rudolph’s nose strawberries have all the looks, but none of the substance. All in all, I prefer cherries.
When SpudWeb callously followed MacTuber’s innocent and heartfelt “biotic” post seconds later with a slapdash stream-of-conscious brick tome movie idea, R#P readers couldn’t help but think of Dale getting buried alive.
Okay, so it’s a crime thriller. There’s a guy who’s killing people. And there’s a cop (maybe FBI, maybe another acronym agency), he/she is a rookie, a lot of pressure to succeed, be accepted, etc. The killer contacts the authorities, lets them know that he’s going to kill again in 10 days, exactly. Our hero has 10 days to stop him. But there are no clues; none, nada. The 10 days pass, and sure as shit there’s a dead body. The killer contacts the authorities again (there’s a real cat and mouse thing going on – think John Malkovich and Clint Eastwood in In the Line of Fire). Our hero gets on the phone and challenges the killer, calling him out where it hurts (think Bruce Willis and Jeremy Irons in Die Hard With a Vengeance). The killer is not too happy about that. He says he’s going to kill another person in exactly 6(!) days (i.e., 144 hours/xx minutes/xx seconds), then hangs up in dramatic fashion. Our hero and his/her colleagues get back to work, searching for evidence, scrambling for witnesses, shaking down the usual suspects (think The Usual Suspects) and 6 days pass. Dead body. This one’s brutal. Face cut up, hand cut off and shoved up the cadaver’s ass, etc. The killer calls back, the whole agency is on the line (see In the Line of Fire, the Bourne franchise, etc.) and he’s going off, about how he’s ‘fisting’ them. Our hero is mad, lashes out, but the killer knows the anger is a consequence of the hero’s own fears and failures. The killer threatens to kill another person in 2(!!) days. The hero calls him a pussy, ‘If you’re so good and want to kill someone so badly, then why don’t you just go kill someone right now, come down here and kill me! Kill me right now you fuckin’ pussy!’ The killer is silent on the other end of the line. Everyone thinks he hung up, but the extra who always plays the person who’s tracing the call turns and gestures that the killer is still on the line. Our hero looks up. The killer says, ‘You have 2 days, no more, no less,’ and hangs up again. The cops start kicking over every stone they can, really taking their investigation to the next level. The two days go by and, you better believe it, another dead body. This time someone close to the hero. That really gets to the hero, and he/she can’t make it to the office. The hero is a mess on his/her couch. Empty bottle of alcohol on the coffee table, loaded gun in mouth, thinking about pulling the trigger (i.e., all the ‘I’m in grief and can’t handle it without resorting to self-harm’ cliches). The hero’s cell phone rings. He/she answers. It’s the killer calling to gloat. The hero can’t take it, he/she is falling to pieces. Then the killer springs it on him/her – today he’s going to kill the hero. The hero doesn’t believe it. ‘Believe it,’ the killer says. The hero tries to pull his/herself together, when the doorbell rings. The hero freaks out. But the voice on other side calls out, it’s the hero’s captain coming to check in on the hero who everyone knows was in bad shape because of the last killing. The hero lets the captain in. They get to talking. And, BOOM, we figure it out. The captain is the killer. The killer is in the room. It’s about to go down. Right. Now. The captain pulls out his gun. The hero realizes it now, too (the alcohol was clouding his/her brain which is why we, the audience, figured it out first). Now the hero questions the killer/captain – why? Why did he do it? Why the precise times? And the captain reveals that he was upset because life isn’t neat. It doesn’t happen in set amounts of time. No one sticks to a schedule. You say it will take two hours to build a coffee table, it takes you three. You’re going to complete that report in a week, it takes you a month. He can’t rely on anything. And if he can’t rely on anything, then what’s the point of living. But he can stick to schedule. He will make everyone dance to his tune. In all of this, the hero is figuring out how to stop the captain. He/she does. Captain dies. Hero wins. End of movie.
The title of the movie: Deadline
CNN Moderator: Yes or no: Probiotic or antibiotic?
Cruz: I’m probiotic and anti-government. I enjoy yogurt and I don’t believe in government or politics. Vote for me for president.
JEB: Can I just clarify what I said?
Huckabee: Oh boy, I don’t know about yogurt but I’ll tell you this, my granddaddy used to take us out behind the church and slather our backsides in mayonnaise. [crowd cheers]
Trump: Your granddaddy was ineffectual, and, and, I’ll just say it, let’s be honest, he was a total pussy. [crowd cheers]
JEB: Can I, can I say something?
Carson: History shows us that antibiotics were invented by Turks as a common sense approach to keep the slaves healthy while they built the pyramids.
Rubio: Good evening. [shuffling cue cards, sweating]
Christie: Do I like yogurt? I am yogurt. [lifts shirt; crowd gasps, slowly transforms into cheers]
Walking around with a Venti-sized Starbucks beverage is like walking around with a huge white dildo.
I don’t like the sensation of falling. But if I had to fall, I wouldn’t mind falling on deaf ears.
Ever notice that placebo and placenta both begin with the word ‘place,’ but the word ‘place’ is pronounced differently than all other place words (i.e., placeholder, placement, placekick, etc.), with the hard accent on the ‘a’?
Now you will. Everywhere. Every day. Every minute of the rest of your miserable life.
Am I indecisive? I don’t know.
Since workers moved into offices, workplace evaluators have attempted to understand how people prefer to work. We take Myers-Briggs exams to unlock our personalities. Managers sit us down and ask, ‘What is your work style?’ or ‘How do you like to work?’ And we share anecdotally based on our own self-comprehension. Then the learnings from these analyses are recorded and shared and then everyone goes back to ignoring all of it.
I want to use the word ‘puerile’ more in conversation.