Thank heaven … for SC girls

Thanksgiving means many things to many Americans. Sure, there’s the thankfulness of being free and living in America. There’s family. There’s even the non-stop shopping fever that seems to be trending amongst our consumerist friends. And, then, down at the corner, there’s football – a seemingly endless, four-day orgy of overeating, overdrinking, the occasional nap, and football, football, football. To make matters better, aside from the professional games, most of the college games are rivalry match-ups, games where tradition and a long history of bad blood make them intriguing and “must see TV” regardless of teams’ current records.


Born and raised in Texas, I have a special place reserved in my heart for Texas vs. Texas A&M, a game that draws a line literally down the middle of the family – not just mine, but most of the families in Texas. Thanks, Longhorns, for pulling out the victory last night. You saved the weekend for me, and for that I’m thankful. I’d be more thankful if we can get those knucklehead athletic directors together and ensure this over 100-year old rivalry continues.

Having gone to grad school at Washington, I also have the Apple Cup, the annual show down between the Huskies and cross-state rival Washington State. If you win one game a year, you have to make sure you win this game.

But, at the corner bar, we won’t likely be watching the games of our alma maters and favorite teams, or at least not watching with undivided attention. Rather, we’ll be certain to catch not-so-furtive glances at the USC-UCLA game. Why? Well, I could type a 1000 words on why exactly, but one picture will more than suffice:

What? Are you kidding? Most definitely another couple of handfuls of things to be thankful for.

During my time in Seattle, my buddies and I had season football tickets for the Huskies. Not being big-time donors, we were in the corner of the end zone at the closed end of the stadium. Great place to watch a football game, at least in September, before the rains start in late autumn and last … forever.

But, with all those games and memories, one of the memories most etched in my mind was during my grad school time, when I sat in the student section at about the 45 yard line for the USC game. When the Trojans came to town, it was always a big game, and it was never more so than during the Huskies’ golden years of the early 90’s.

That day, the pre-game crowd was raucous, with the stadium literally shaking as the players and fans prepared for the opening kickoff. Then, to the left, we felt something, something we couldn’t put our finger on, but something palatable in the air. The presence grew stronger and broke us out of our frenzied trance. Then, we figured it out. It was silence.

Silence was overtaking the din of the crowd, and it was starting from the far left corner of the stadium, but growing and swelling – sort of like ‘the wave,” but polar opposite. The crowd was slowly being overtaken with silence, and we were growing more and more confused, until we saw why.

There, walking on the track like an opening sequence of Baywatch, making their way across the stadium to their spot in front of the visitor’s section, was the USC cheerleading squad. Thankfully, it was an abbreviated “travel squad” of cheerleaders, with only four or five girls, for I’m not certain we could have taken much more. Four or five were more than enough. All around me were guys standing silent with their mouths open. I think I actually stepped on my tongue.

It’s not like we didn’t have hot girls in Seattle. Thanks to the grunge music movement whose epicenter was just a few miles away, there were loads of girls with unwashed hair, mixed and matched thrift shop clothes, and fresh “sucked, fucked, and tattooed” tattoos on their shoulder or lower back. You couldn’t take those girls home though, for mom certainly wouldn’t approve.

These USC cheerleaders? It’s not like you could have brought them home either. Not that mom would disapprove, for I’m sure she would have been tickled pink. Rather, they couldn’t be brought home for fear that dad, brothers and every guy in the neighborhood would be over trying to steal your girl.

I don’t remember the score of the game. Don’t even remember who won. But, I won’t forget the impression made by 4 or 5 southern California. And with that, I can say “Go SC” without too much shame this weekend.

Tweet me up @RayHartjen

The Grasshopper Diary

There’re a lot of great things that come from hanging out in bars. There’s … well, okay, maybe there’s only one thing that’s great and that’s the stories. But, really, isn’t that reason enough to spend countless hours and dollars, and more than a few very countable brain cells, leaning against the bar and telling tales?

We all love a good story.

Seeing the trailers and advertisements for the next Johnny Depp movie, “The Rum Diaries,” brings one story to mind. The Rum Diaries is a novel penned by Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson, a not so fictional account based heavily on the author’s own trials and tribulations in Puerto Rico in the late 50’s. It’s simply a novel because Thompson was too drunk to remember all his details, so he had to “fill in the blanks” a bit with stuff that sounded about right. So, he got drunk, wrote and rounded the story out.

To protect the innocents, of which it’s usually difficult to find in a Thompson story, he and his publishers called it a novel. Wink, wink.

Thompson spent the last half of his life living outside Aspen, Colorado. A few of those years in the 80’s coincided with my friend Amy living there, a young lass on her own for the first time, chasing her boy across the country and trying to make ends meet as a bar waitress.

An occasional customer of the bar was Hunter Thompson himself, and one early afternoon presented such the set of circumstances to create a timeless bar story. So, here goes, as straight from Amy’s mouth to my keyboard, with only about 15 years separating the two.

Thompson walks in and takes a seat at the bar. He orders a beer and four or five cocktails, including, remarkably, a Grasshopper. I mean, c’mon, who orders a Grasshopper anyway? You can’t make that kind of thing up, and it’s definitely an anchor to the story. This significant, mindful detail gives credence to the entire story.

Anyway, Amy’s friend, the bartender, says sheepishly, “Uh, I don’t think I can give you all those drinks, sir.” To which, Thompson replies, “Son, how old are you.”

The bartender says something, some number in the low- to mid-20’s.

Thompson slides his sunglasses low on his nose making direct eye contact, leans in and says, “Boy, I’ve done more drugs today than you’ve done in your entire life. Now, give me my fucking drinks.”

And to that, Thompson got his beers and all his cocktails, including the Grasshopper.  You can't argue logic.

True story.

At least as far as we both know.

Today, we raise a toast to Gonzo. Barkeep! Grasshoppers for the house!

Share your tale on Twitter @RayHartjen.

When pulling your Weiner will be okay

Our national media obsession of all things Weiner and wieners ended – at least we hope ended – today as U.S. Congressman Anthony Weiner (D. New York) resigned his elected position. The once-promising high flyer for the Democratic party, and a very likely future mayor of New York City at that, came crashing down to Earth in a humiliating scandal derived from risqué pictures sent via Twitter.

Now, have you seen the picture that caused all the hubbub? Really, a little chub, a bit of wood in a pair of jockeys, caused all that?

In the first place, what’s the big deal, anyway? This is the day and age of ubiquitous social media platforms and connected hardware devices, of information overload and whatever the hell “sexting” is. If you haven’t sent an inappropriate picture of yourself over the internet, you're just not trying - it’s just a matter of when, not if.

It’s always something pushing the boundaries in politics. What’s one’s cross to bear and a career ender in one decade becomes a non-issue in the next. Remember the idea of Ronald Reagan becoming president, and the scandalous thought that he had once been … divorced!

Bill Clinton famously – and barely - escaped the drug use fervor created by his “never inhaled” stance. Eight years later, the United States voted in the silver-spooned cocaine cowboy, George W. Bush and his DUI conviction past. Who the hell knows what Obama has done. We don’t know, simply because we don’t care enough to ask. Drug usage is so … last generation.

Of course, nothing changes the fact that Weiner is out on his, uh, butt, and things aren’t looking good for the career public servant. He hasn’t ever had a real job, and he has no business or law degree. What’s next for him, other than his recent job offer from Hustler’s Larry Flynt? American politics have given some pretty outrageous second and third chances before.

Well, hello Marion Barry, how long have you been standing there?

We’re won’t have Weiner to kick around once all this fades into history sometime in the next 42 minutes. Oh, there will be the hard-to-resist Weiner jokes, “pulling the Weiner,” so to speak. The lasting legacy will be a redefinition of what’s appropriate or inappropriate to tweet, post, etc. The bar has been raised – or lowered, depending on how one looks at it. Everyone is going to have a picture, you just wait and see.

A couple of more martinis, and I just might tweet out mine tonight.
Look for my photos on Twitter @RayHartjen

But, does every vote HAVE to count?

Oh, the boys in the bar love a good political story on TV, what if there’re no sports on ESPN, ESPN 2, ESPNU, “ESPN the ocho,” etc. Democracy and dictatorship – those are two topics, often morphing into a singular one that makes for a spirited debate between sips of spirits.

Let me go on the record here: As a devout believer in democracy, freedom, and liberty, deep down I don’t really have any strong objections against tyrannical dictatorship as long as one simple rule is observed, and that is that I get to be the dictator.

Not coincidentally, the same goes for censorship; if I’m the censor, then no problem.

Alas, break the simple rules, and all doesn’t seem so bright, right and rosy.

Anyway, the subject of voting came up between martinis it conjured back memories of a flight I had into Oakland International Airport – an awfully regal name earned by having a daily flight to Mexico, or what we often call South San Diego - 12 or 13 years ago, before I relocated to the Bay area. Pre-9/11, this was when the rental car lots were right across from the terminals, a brisk 45 second walk through the congregation of smokers who cloud the vicinity of every public building on the west coast.

I showed my Washington license to the National attendant, who offhandedly remarked, “Oh, Washington, D.C.”

I politely corrected her. “Washington state,” I replied.

Naturally, she said …

… wait for it …

… “What’s the difference?”

Where to begin? Geographically? Politically? Ideologically? Existentially?

I decided to take the Kindergarten approach and said, “Washington, D.C. is the nation’s capital, on the east coast, between Maryland and Virginia, while Washington state is two states above California here on the west coast, you know, where Seattle is.”

“Uh, yeah, whatever. Will you be returning the car full of fuel or would you like to prepay the entire tank?”

I drove off that day in my non-descript, no frills GM fleet car with a profound realization. Being old enough to have a job meant that dumb ass was old enough to vote. Granted, I don’t know if she was smart enough to vote, but she was certainly old enough to vote, although working at the Oakland airport meant it was possible, if not entirely probable, that she was a convicted felon, and therefore prohibited by law from exercising that right.

I enjoy hearing public policy debate and commenting to a friend that I am looking forward to canceling her vote with my opposite vote at the polls. That perspective is so much more funny than the realization that some dumb ass “what’s the difference between Washington D.C. and Washington state” voter might cancel out my own vote.

Oh my, I just thought of it – What if she actually voted with me? What would that say about my choices?

Nah, that’s just nonsense.

So, the true realities present themselves. We’ve got to get people out to vote, but we’ve got to get the right people out to vote. You know, the right people – the people who see things as I see them.

If you end up with too many voters like that National attendant, you’ll likely end up with Sarah Palin in office. Then, when she’s in her U-Haul driving around Seattle looking for the White House, we’re going to have to bring that entire Washington D.C./Washington state debate to a bigger, broader public forum, and that’s something I just don’t know if I have the stomach for anymore.

Hit me on Twitter @RayHartjen.

The Mighty Pen (& a still dangerous sword)

In the early part of the 19th century, English author Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote “the pen is mightier than the sword.” It’s been the battle cry for the meek ever since, giving hope to those hopeless of pushing their way to, and over, the top. It’s the rallying cry, the last bastion for the meek in their quest to actually inherit the Earth.


It sounds nice; almost utopian, in a manner of … typing. Over the long-term, it might even be accurate. Key is “over the long-term.” I can’t help but noticing while watching democratic protests streaming from around the world on CNN to my comfy, warm, corner bar that the first attempts to counter swords with written words sort of ends up as a bit of a disaster for those very first to draw the battle lines.

Of course, there’re no pens these days, or swords to for that matter. The pen went out with stationary. Seriously, has anyone outside of Japan, home of the 5-story stationary store, seen a piece of stationary in the last decade? Today’s pen and paper is a high-speed network connection and social media platforms. Unfortunately for the initial protestors, those trailblazing mavericks of social unrest, the sword too has been replaced – by high-powered bullets and rifles.

Old regimes in Tunisia and Egypt have toppled, and the impact of the modern day pen (the internet) on those revolutions, cannot be underestimated. However, those regimes, and those currently under duress in Bahrain, Libya, and even, shhh, keep it on the down low, China and Iran, have a fondness to embrace the quick first response, that of violent attack and repression.

You don’t bring a smartphone and a Twitter feed to a gun fight, unless what you’re going for is martyr status. So, while others rejoice in the revolution and the freedom that invariably springs from it, try convincing the families of the over 250 dead in Libya that the ‘pen is mightier than the sword.”

History will remember those with the pens fondly, but for my liking, I’m making sure me and my pens stoke the fire of the revolution safely ensconced in some pub, far away from the rat-a-tat-tat of some kid’s AK. Those on the wire might be advised to turn tail and get the hell back. That or trade in their pens for bigger pens that go “bang.”

Viva la revolucion.

Tweet me up @RayHartjen

That's likely to leave a mark

Sometimes you need a trip to the hospital and an X-ray to properly diagnose a broken nose.

Other times, it's as plain as the nose on your face.

For Brandon Vera after his UFC fight on Jan. 1, it was the latter.  Of course, I could be wrong, as I'm not a doctor. 

Since when did Philly get so soft?

So, tonight it finally happens. The Eagles and the Vikings square off in Philadelphia, in a game that was supposed to be played on Sunday night but was postponed – 9 hours ahead of kickoff – because of a pending snow storm. Since when has football succumbed to the mamby pamby depths of baseball?


Okay you baseball lovers, before you start writing all sorts of hatred vitriol; just remember that your sport is pretty much the only one where a player pulls himself from a game because he got a blister on his finger.

Oh, what now? Cat got your tongue?

Pennsylvania Governor Ed Rendell gets just how ridiculous postponing a football game is because of the pending threat of 8 inches of snow and some winds. However, he gets it wrong in that it speaks to the wimpy nature of the United States. Rather, it’s the candy-ass wussification of Philadelphia that should be under indictment. The City of Brotherly Love used to be known as one tough city. Hell, it’s the city of Rocky Balboa, for crying out loud. The city that once famously booed Santa Claus and cheered when Michael Irvin laid injured on the field with a neck injury. Fans were once so notoriously rowdy in the old stadium, an adjunct municipal court was put in. 

That's a tough crowd.  Or, apparently, was a tough crowd. 

Hey, around the rest of the United States, we held up our end. We were ready for game time. Philly, you let us down

Postponing the game was criminal. First of all, I-95, right next to the stadium, was never even closed on Sunday. If the freeway stays open, how freakin’ dangerous can getting to the game be (other than the ordinary danger of navigating Philadelphia on any given day)?

So, me and the boys in the bar have what exactly to entertain ourselves with on Sunday night absent the game? Ourselves? The same old boring conversations we have every other night of the week, save the blessedness that is Monday Night Football? Yeah, I don’t think so.

Exhibit two in the criminal nature of the postponement: Fantasy Football. Week 16 in the NFL is also known as semi-final week in the world of Fantasy Football, where my team – the first place Bay Area Bad A$$ - is taking on a challenger who has the Philadelphia Eagle’s Michael Vick playing quarterback. Now, if the game is played on Sunday, in a mini-blizzard, it looks pretty good for yours truly. Tonight, when it’s just cold – let’s just say I’m praying for a sprained ankle to come early in the first quarter.

Somebody, somewhere owes me. Somebody needs to pay.

Freakin’ Philadelphia. I wonder if they all got dresses for Christmas?  Its only saving grace is Scrapple and Pat's steaks. 

Stupid is as stupid does

Sometimes the stupidity we humans display is mind-boggling, don’t you think? Potential causes are aplenty. Some can clearly be pinned on genetics, biology, and just plain ol’ fashioned bad luck of drawing the short straw. Yeah, that’s a pisser. But, what about societal stupidity – plain “learned” stupidity based on being self-centered and unwilling to sacrifice one iota for a more collective good?


Don’t think it happens? Let me present case in point #1 (and, it will be the only case, because I fear my martini will lose its chill, and that won’t be good for anyone).

You're certainly familiar with Sun Chips. You know, those chips you think are good for you because they’re called “Sun Chips” – evokes some kind of vegan utopia of natural ingredients and low fat content. Anyway, a little while ago they introduced new packaging – a completely biodegradable package; the first of its kind, made entirely of plant matter, not plastic.

Earlier this month, Frito-Lay announced they were going to abandon the innovative, eco-friendly, “green” packaging. Now, why would they do something that stupid, you ask?

Short answer: because people are stupid.

Long answer: Consumers complained vigorously. The roots of the complaints, however – in my opinion – didn’t lie with the bag, but rather consumers themselves. People just aren’t willing to sacrifice one bit of modern convenience and pampering. Frito-Lay is discontinuing the bag because of complaints that it’s too loud.

Yes, you heard that correctly, it’s loud.

Go ahead. Look it up online. Go to YouTube – there’re a lot of videos out there about the topic. True, the packaging is louder, I'll even admit it's just flat out loud, but for cryin’ out loud, it’s completely compostable and biodegradable. In no time at all, the package turns into fertilizer. Alternative plastic bags, on the other hand, continue to pile up in the oceans for generations. Not generations of marine wildlife; generations of stupid human wildlife.

So, what’s good for Mother Nature and the planet goes away because of bunch of fat, sodium-addicted, mental Neanderthals are too f’ing lazy to put their guilty pleasure snack in a bowl so they can better hear Jerry Springer while they sit on their vinyl covered sofas?

Are you f’ing kidding me?

I need a drink. Now, where did I put that glass?

This morning’s sign of the apocalypse

There are a few tell tale signals that society is going to hell in a hand basket. The first is that people sit around on bar stools all day criticizing others while offering nothing productive in return. Yes, it hits a little close to home, but it’s rather unavoidably obvious, now isn’t it?


An even more obvious sign that the apocalypse is hitting, though, lies with the simple observation of Monday morning habits in the office.

First off, it’s a generally accepted rule of a civilized society that the first person in the office – particularly on a Monday – does not make a pot of decaf coffee first.

Never!

Bloody hell, people, that’s a mortal sin.

But, wait, that’s not all!

Making decaf may have been a mistake. Granted, a mistake that earns one a non-stop, shinkansen bullet train ticket to hell; but, in the end, just a mistake. There’s still hope for saving your entire family from a fate of eternal damnation. That punishment is reserved for the cretin idiots who stop making coffee after their pot of decaf is completed.

WTF?

Would it kill you to at least start a pot of “real” coffee before you slink off to your cube and your miserable, decaffeinated existence?

There was once an age of civilization where people dressed up to fly on commercial airplanes, where restaurants, movies, and everyplace in-between weren’t disturbed with incessant mobile phone chatter, and when people had the collective common decency and courtesy to brew more than just their own shitty decaf coffee.

Yes, the apocalypse is upon us, and just one more reason to slip a little Bailey’s Irish Crème into your morning coffee.

Beer Provided By the Company – What’s Not to Like?

Whoa!

Wait a second.

A news story just aired about workers striking at the Carlsberg brewery in Copenhagen, Denmark. When you think of a strike at a mechanized factory, you tend to think of one of two possible roots. First, naturally, is pay. Everyone wants the check – a little do rey me for the weekend festivities. Second, particularly in light of industrial accidents and the like, is the working environment – safety. After all, who wants to die at work, even if you are well-paid?

So, imagine the surprise along the bar when the reasoning for the strike was broadcast – are you sitting down? - Workers are striking because they’re upset at the changes made to a drinking on the job policy.

Come again?

The only drinking on the job policy we have here in the states is “Don’t drink on the job!” Seems the Danes are a bit perturbed because now they can no longer drink whenever they want to while on the job (they actually used to have coolers spread out along the plant). Rather, now, drinking is restricted to the canteen during their 30-minute lunch break.

Oddly, drivers are exempt from the rule. Since they work primarily away from the factory, they actually get to TAKE THREE BEERS FROM THE CANTEEN WITH THEM WHEN THEY GET IN THEIR TRUCK!

WTF?

The company says there are alcohol switches on the trucks – if you’re drunk, they won’t turn on. I suppose it’s okay to drive a multi-ton truck in Denmark with just a slight buzz.

Previous to the new Draconian policy change, the rule only stated that you couldn’t be drunk at work. I wonder how many accidents they have at the plant? What about beer-fueled sexual harassment? I wonder the cost of beer guts alone to the overall health plan costs?

Those of you who know me know that I tend to be anti-union as it is. This just cements it. I’m of half the mind to fly over to Denmark and become a scab worker, just to take advantage of the 30-minutes of free beer that I’ll actually get paid to enjoy.

Note to Carlsberg workers: If you don’t want your jobs, there’s a bunch of dudes over here that will gladly take them (oh, and the beer too!). Now shut the fuck up and pass the bottle opener.

Tweet up your drink order @RayHartjen

Speidi – At Last, the Final Chapter

For a whole twenty-one seconds this week, talk in the bar was about the Speidi breakup. You know, Heidi whatshername and Spencer whatever. The couple that is, and if there’s a God, soon to be “was,” famous primarily for being famous. Why they’re famous, I’m not really sure. It’s from some TV show MTV – the beacon on riveting intellectual entertainment.

Google tells me it’s The Hills. It’s in its fifth or sixth season, which means they’re approximately one and a half million idiots out there who get more stupid by each passing episode. Unbelievable.

Now, I don’t know much about Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, but I do know just a little to really not care for them at all. First exposure was a commercial when they were on “I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here.” Please. You’re only on that show if you’re such a minor celebrity as to not be eligible for minor celebrity status of contestants on “Dancing with the Stars.” In the clip, they were throwing a tantrum, talking about how big of stars they were, etc. Huh? Heard that Spencer wanted to be a Navy SEAL. That was until he found out that the SEALs don’t take pussies into their outfit.

Anytime, Spencer – you and me. I’ll fight you in back yard. Just give me time to finish my martini and it’s on.

Second exposure to Speidi was the news this winter of Heidi undergoing a whole host of elective plastic surgery procedures. Like 10 or something. I didn’t know there were ten different parts of your body you could get plastic surgery on. Knowing her, she got one of SoCal’s hottest new procedures, the labiaplasty. Yeah. You read that right. Plastic surgery for a woman’s hoochie. People, I can’t make this kind of shit up – look right here for yourself. If one’s not desperate to appear on a “episode” of MILF Hunter, why would one opt for this?

Anyways, we all saw divorce coming when news broke that Heidi was replacing Spence as her manager, replacing him a psychic, of all qualified people. Exactly what kind of management does someone like her need? Here’s betting that before long, the only work Heidi will be able to get is the receptionist at her psychic/manager’s office.

As for Spencer, he’ll fade to some trailer park, working weekend shifts at the car wash and turning tricks at night along Hollywood Blvd.

And, with that, we can turn our attention to more important matters, like inventing the discreet urinal to place in front of a barstool – there’s just way too much up and down over the course of a night, right?

Tweet me your drink request @RayHartjen

Catching Tiger by His Tale

Thanksgiving is football.  It's as plain and simple as that.  It's the time of year that we can escape from the wuss sports - namely baseball and golf. 

Except this weekend, this year.

Across every TV in the bar, non-stop, scrolls the sound bite-sized story of Tiger Woods' "serious" car accident.  C'mon, give me a break.  He gets in a car accident and has some cuts to his lips?  Let's all take a deep breath, gather our composure, and cancel the planned candle-light vigil. 

Toward the end of yesterday, news broke that Tiger and his wife/"rescuer," Elin, declined a police interview investigating the accident.  Saturday, they played the same card, asking the police to please return on Sunday.

WTF?

I'm just imagining me getting in a car accident at 2:30 am, being found laying in the street "slipping into and out of consciousness," and trying to tell the police to please come back in a couple of days to ask me what happened.  Its says right here, if you're not a celebrity in our celebrity-crazed society, you're quickly two fingers into a full body cavity search down at the precinct before you can utter the words, "Miranda rights."

I'm interested in Tiger's tale, whenever he chooses to tell it.  First, how the hell do you get in an accident pulling out of your driveway?  How fast do you have to be peeling out of your driveway to lose control, bounce off a fire hydrant, and slam into a tree hard enough to 1) knock yourself "in and out of conciousness," 2) make a sound loud enough to alert your wife inside your mansion, and 3) require said wife to break the rear window with a golf club in order to rescue you? 

That tale outlined above?  Iimpossible, of course.  Rather, I will suggest the story will undoubtedly be the age-old story, told many times over the history of mankind.  It goes something like this:  Rich man meets hot nanny who works for a competitor.  Rich man marries beautiful woman, and has a rich, beautiful kid.  Rich man goes on a trip and end ups meeting another hot woman (or two).  Somehow the wife finds out, and confronts him.  Rich man tries to escape in his car.  Beautiful wife chases him with golf club.  Rich man wrecks car.  Beautiful wife clocks him with golf club. 

All I'm saying is that this Tiger Tale is building toward one huge divorce settlement, and should keep the tabloids busy long enough for them to forget how to spell "Lindsay Lohan."

Now, if you'll please pardon me - I need to get back to this one last gimlet before me and the boys head out to re-enact "the accident."  First stop, Las Vegas and the other women.

Backfiring the Fox News Boycott

A great thing about modern bars is the ubiquitous nature of WIFI connections.  Like a double tall, non-fat latte, you can get one on every corner.

Just now "stumbled upon" an interesting web page.  It's from the MoveOn Organization - "Democracy in Action."  Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.  Anyway, it's an online petition to sign that encourages President Obama to continue his boycott of Fox News.

Dudes, I think they're on to something.  Let's start a petition that asks every politician to boycott ALL networks.  We'd never have to see the lying bastards again!

Brilliant!

By the way, I signed the petition and left a comment asking them to keep Obama off all the networks.  Something tells me not to answer any knocks on the door at home.

Putting the Fun Back Into "Fun Sized"

October brings two things of cultural significance. One, is Octoberfest, and a great reason to get together and eat, drink, and be obnoxious. The other, of course, is Halloween, a great reason to get together and eat, drink, and be obnoxious, only this time wearing a goofy costume.

Remember trick or treating and stumbling across the "holy grail" - full-sized candy bars? It was paradise found, and you quickly circled to see if you could get to the house for a repeat visit before the bucket was empty and the front porch light turned off.

All too familiar were the little "fun size" bars. You know, the little bitty candy bars. I hated those damn things. Who said they were "fun" anyway? Fun, we all know, was full-sized. It's like that for everything, including candy. Especially candy.

But, now there's an option even smaller than "fun size." I don't think there's a name for it. It's just these little, tiny mini-bites. Not even a single serving. Taking a blind taste test, you might not even have a big enough bite to discern exactly what candy bar you're almost tasting. The only good thing about the little bites is that it makes the crappy little "fun size" way more palatable in comparison.

So, that's what it took to position "fun size" in a more favorable light.

There's a lot of things that makes being a kid better today than in years past - PlayStation 3, mobile phones, ubiquitous pizza delivery, etc. Little tiny packages of candy ain't one of 'em.

The Week's Sign of the Apocalypse

Turning the pages of the "news" paper this morning, I saw the following:

Kim Kardashian will receive $50,000 for celebrating her 29th birthday in Las Vegas.

Are you shitting me?

Now, a disclaimer: the source article is a scoop from the New York Post, which isn't exactly the bedrock of journalistic integrity. I wouldn't be sruprised if it was nothing more than an "ad" placed by some scum bag publicist to garner more attention for a person who seems to be a professional at garnering attention for no reason of any social significance.

Of course, it's true. You can feel it in the fiber of your soul, can't you?

Kim gets her ridiculous bounty for placing her also ridiculous booty in theoft-too trendy Tao nighclub in the Venetian Hotel. We, as civilized members of society, are called upon to rise up and do something about this nonsense. Dr. Ray's Rx for the cultural revolution includes:

• Join me in boycotting the Venetian and Tao. I frequent Vegas on occasion, and while they won't miss my hundreds on the gaming tables, collectively, they might miss our thousands. Who am I kidding? they won't miss us. But, the Venetian, as pretty as it is, sucks anyways. If you want to go to Venice, go to the real Venice - it might even be less expensive. As for Vegas, all the fun is on the other side, and other end, of the street. As for Tao, my shoes are never nice enought to get in, so it's not like I have to change my behavior. If you're reading this, my guess is you won'thave to either.
• Now for the more, er, delicate step. Everyone in attendance - particularly the nobodies who paid a huge cover just to get in the same party with pooper princess Kim - needs to be "fixed." No, not rehabilitated, as there is no effective manner of rehabilitation for celebutard ass kissing or jock sniffing (the two are often interlocked as one debilitating illness). By fixed, I mean sterilized. It's not eugenics, it's common sense. We don't need more ignorance and vanity in the gene pool.

There you have it, a quick two-step fix to begin to get our society back on the fast track to the right track. The next step is one I take alone - kicking Spencer Pratt's ass in a cage fight.

Join me brothers and sisters - the cultural revolution continues!

Sound the battle cry on Twitter @RayHartjen

Hungry for More

The other day, I was hungry, and, it sucked. Bad. I mean, I was starving. To the point it felt like my stomach was trying to eat itself.

Mind you, it was 5:00 pm, less than a handful of hours after I had eaten lunch. I don't know, maybe I ate a slightly smaller lunch. Or, maybe I napped less and burned more energy in the afternoon. Regardless, I was hungry and unhappy.

Of course, I wasn't really hungry at all. Four hours removed from a meal doesn't exactly qualify as hunger. There would be no telethon in my honor.

How much would it suck to really be hungry? I'm talking haven't-eaten-anything-in-days type of hunger. You know, like hundreds of millions of people on our planet.

This afternoon, I heard a talking head on NPR talk about the suffering we've been doing during this global recession. I took a quick glance around. Road clogged with luxury imports? Check. Starbucks on the corner full of people getting $3 coffees? Check. Every person in site tweeting on a smart phone? Check. Going home to a house not made of mud and hay? Check.

I guess suffering means having to cut back your Starbucks intake from 18 a week to 15. Hey, bring your own mug, you can even save a dime!

"They" say the economy is improving. I don't know. Just in case, I'm going to hedge my bets. Less food, more drinking. That way, if it doesn't turn around, I won't really give a shit.

Plus, I think I wear that long-hair, unshaven, drunken, broken, tortured-artist-soul look well too. With any luck, the chicks will dig it.

Look what it did for Kurt Cobain. Except for the whole suicide part, that is.

Gonna to have to get more used to those hunger pains.

Follow the party on Twitter @RayHartjen

A Fish Story of a Different Sort

One night, a couple of decades ago, I'm sitting in a bar in Media, PA, a suburb or Philadelphia, drinking a bunch of cold ones with my friends Lisa, Bill, and Bobby. The door opens, and a guy walks in carrying a 4-5 foot long alligator.

The bartender says, "Yo, you can't have that reptile in here. You twos got to leave."

The guy says, "This animal is completely domesticated. He's as tame as a guide dog, for chrissakes. If I can prove to you he's safe, can he stay?"

Bartender shrugs and says, "What do you have in mind?"

The guy orders a pint of Guinness and places his alligator on the bar, directly across from us on the other side. As the bartender slides over his draft, the guy drops his pants and barks to his alligator, "Open!"

The alligator then opens his mouth wide. This guy proceeds to put his balls in the alligator's mouth, resting right on his tongue - an honest to goodness teabag. He then casually drinks his Guinness, like nothing's going on.

We're staring, absolutely speechless.

After about ten minutes, after he's finished his pint, he pulls his junk out of the gator's mouth, pulls up his pants, then orders the gator, "Close," to which the alligator promptly closes his jaws.

"See that? Perfectly trained, perfectly safe," says the guy. The bartender nods and says, "You're right - you both can stay."

With that, the guy looks over at us four and days, "I noticed you all watching. Any of you want to give it a try."

My drunken friend Bill starts to speak, but Bobby puts his hand up and interrupts him.

Bobby takes one more sip of beer and says, "I'm willing to give it a try, but I'm so drunk I might not be able to keep my mouth open that long."

Not all types, but both types

Overheard regarding a break up – “Hey, there’re all types of girls.”

Whoa. Back up.

Philosophically and ideologically, yes, there are all sorts of girls. But, women, there’s a bit of a secret here, and I think I’m safely in the brotherhood by sharing it – it’s not like it’s a classified secret or anything: For heterosexual men, there are really only two types of women.
1. Those you would
2. Those you wouldn’t

Of course, every so often a non-thinking Neanderthal will propose a third – Those you did. Un uh. Not here. This guy will argue that “Those you did” are, in fact, a sub-set of “Those you would.” If you dare argue, you’ll have to face the shameful inquisition regarding the drunken night you did someone from the “Those you wouldn’t” list, and that’s one discussion I think you’ll agree is best not begun.

Now, the criteria for making one classification over another is variable by each individual man. It’s also variable within a single man – it changes over time. Sometimes the list slowly evolves over years or decades. Other times, a girl leaps from #2 to #1 over a single, solitary beer.

Who am I kidding? Opportunity alone often shuffles the deck.

Not exactly a groundbreaking discovery for women, you say? Au contraire, my friends of the fairer sex, for if you know what category you fall into, absolute power is yours.

Uh oh, now that was a classified secret! Oops. Now, where’s that f’ing backspace key?

Fighting Speidi

So, I’m listening to Ryan Seacrest today – yeah, I know; an entirely different blog post, I’m afraid – and he has a “news” item on Speidi. Giving the blonde bimbo – the woman of the pair, in this case – a bit of a break, the story dealt with the douche husband, Mr. Heidi, some Spencer some-thing-or-another. Seems senor douche is quoted in the New York Post (which, admittedly, means there is a chance he didn't really say it at all) as saying, “Speidi is Barack and Michelle famous, not Kardashian famous!” Of course, stating Speidi is more famous than the ever-present, bubble-butted Kardashians, is a lot like saying a hemorrhoid is more annoying than a cold sore.

I have a few questions. First, who are the Kardashians, and why does anyone care - so much so there's a TV show about them? Second, who the hell is Mr. Heidi and why is s/he even remotely famous? The fact this moron has a modicum of fame suggests our society has devolved to levels that make the fiction of Idiocracy seem more like a L. Ron Hubbard-like foreshadowing of future civilization.

Remind to write another post on L. Ron and his peeps.

I can only hope that Speidi is famous because people hate her/him/them. In my nascent campaign for public office (see September 25 post), I might be able to put this (hopeful) public outrage to my advantage. I’ll surely sway the voting public by demolishing Speidi in a cage fight.

Yes, I want to fight Speidi – her, him, or both together; it doesn’t f’ing matter. Bring the bitches on!

Tweet me up @RayHartjen.

Ending Government Constipation

Lots of folks are bitchin’ and moanin’ about government these days – all levels of municipal, state, and, of course, federal – and with good reason too. There’s nothing like an out of touch career politician (or an entire building of them), many of whom have never had a “real” job, to get the emotions roiling.

Trouble is, nothing ever seems to get done. Constructive dialogue seems like a long-forgotten tenet of our free-speech society. Now, it’s all about being bombastic and in-your-face, from political conservatard and liberaltard commentators (O’Reilly and Olbermann, I talking about you douches) to politicians themselves (and, that will include you, Joe “You Lie!” Wilson).

Most everyone is pitching in with complaints. Some are offering up solutions, including the King of the “Wake ‘n Bake” crowd, Joe Rogan. Joe thinks we ditch the system and adopt a Star Trek-like “council of elders,” with no ties to corporations. Now, I’ve had a man-crush on Joe for years now, and I treasure his well-deserved opinion. However, when you start to take your governmental cues from science fiction entertainment, it’s time to push yourself away from the one-hitter pipe, even if temporarily. I’m just saying, Joe …

I figure it’s time for me to offer up my own solutions - time to push myself away from the highball glass and run for office. I’m not sure of what office to run for yet – I’ll have to query the bar. I’m not also sure of the particulars of my platform. But, I do know that it will be centered on getting shit done.

End government constipation. Vote for Ray and get government off the pot.

Follow my campaign on Twitter @RayHartjen