Witz DOESN'T Pick: Train Fatalities (Going out on a Limb With This One, I Know...)

Every now and then I'm willing to take a stand on something and this is one of those times. CalTrain, Northern California's answer to the question, "How can we force people to know the name 'San Bruno,'" has had more and more fatalities in recent months, including another one this morning. While I'm sympathetic to the deceased and those who cared about them, I continue to be baffled at how you end up as The Meat on a Train N' Tracks Sandwich (I wanted to say how you end up on "The business end of a FREAKIN' TRAIN!" but it occurred to me that the business end of a train is actually just a seat on the train because it is literally a business and you would have paid for a ticket. And I completely DO understand how that could happen). I assume there are only two ways for this to happen:

Suicide:
The obvious explanation for how someone could get hit by a train is that they placed themselves in its path specfically for that purpose. I don't know about you, but that annoys the hell out of me. In fact, I would be willing to believe in Hell just so I can think these people went there. It has nothing to do with religion and suicide, but simply the fact that these people didn't just want to kill themselves, they wanted to kill themselves and make everybody else late. Every time the train hits someone, the train has to stop, they clean up the body (which has to be emotionally damaging to both the people cleaning it up and the conductor and passengers who just found out they HIT A PERSON), and all the trains are delayed by *FUN FACT ALERT* about half an hour (approximately the same amount of time it takes to watch an episode of Weeds). Killing yourself is your own business, but getting in the way of a COMMUTER train just isn't necessary. Find some cargo trains and hop in front of that. You know what doesn't feel emotional stress? Coal.

Sometimes, it's not just people. Cars and trucks also get hit by the train, sometimes killing the drivers. If any of these are suicides then I'm completely baffled. Why would you possibly feel the need to destroy your vehicle and put the train and its passengers at risk? I guess if you're not fully committed, you might end up living through the accident, but I can't imagine post-Not Dying From Purposefully Placing Your Vehicle In Front of a Train life would really be stellar. The only other explanation I can think of is that they want to be sitting comfortably in a controlled atmosphere when they go. Get the heat or AC just right. And more likely, have the music that you want playing-- to which I say, "BUY AN IPOD! They're not that expensive and it's not like it's gonna matter anyway! Don't worry about breaking a perfectly good iPod either, because it was probably going to die soon anyway!"

Also, orchestrating a soundtrack to your death is risky business. Whether you're in your car or listening to an iPod, there's a big problem with timing. SURE, trains usually run on time-- maybe that's why people keep jumpin' in front of them, it's reliable. BUT, occasionally they don't. Even when they are on time, there's some wiggle room of a few minutes. One minute you're listening to "I Will Follow You Into the Dark," ready to go, and the next minute, the train's bearing down on you a little after it was supposed to and you're listening to that The Darkness song that you thought you deleted a long time ago. That's definitely what would happen to me with my luck. I can just imagine people talking afterwards:

"I heard he was listening to "Umbrella" when he died."
"Me too! I heard he had the whole album!"
"Not just the one song?"
"Nope, the whole thing!"
"Weird!"

Meanwhile I'm struggling from the grave to tell them it isn't true just to keep my music cred. That's no kind of legacy. So please, stop stepping in front of trains...it comes off as needy, and reaks of desperation. Nobody like desperate.


Total Disregard:
The only other way you end up getting hit by a train is complete and utter disregard and obliviousness towards your surroundings. Trains run on tracks, make lots of noise as they approach, and have warning lights and sounds that go off as they approach a stop. One article about this morning's fatality states, "Caltrain categorized the victim as a trespasser." I kind of assume they mean "homeless person," but yeah, I'd say they were trespassing. Anyone standing ON THE TRACKS is clearly trespassing. It also says that he wasn't at a crossing. Even if you're not at a crossing, how do you possibly not see or sense that a train is about to hit you? When you feel the tracks shaking, do you stop and check to see if you just got a text? And even if that's the case, wouldn't you check to make sure it's a good time to pause on train tracks and check your phone??

As mentioned earlier, it's not just people. Cars, trucks, semis, all sorts of vehicles have been hit by the train. This is even weirder to me. If they ain't commiting suicide, they have to just be saying, "Welp, I recognize that my vehicle is physically blocking train tracks...and I understand the light is red and those other warning lights are flashing...and I see a train coming towards me...but fuck it, I was here first." My only explanation that I'm willing to partially, mildly, understand is that these people are victims of craving adventure too much. Here's why:

A few years back, I was exiting the highway on a long exit ramp, minding my own business. All of a sudden, the car in front of me inexplicably swerved to the right and slammed into a light post. The light post started falling across the path of the road and I had a quick decision to make. Having seen way too many movies and played out this scenario in numerous video games, my immediate thought was "SPEED UP!" How many chances do you get to zoom underneath a falling light tower?? I started to push down the accelerator when I suddenly remembered that instead of riding in an ATV or a plane or a motorcycle, or a sports car, I was riding in my Subaru Station wagon, and even if I didn't die from getting hit by the light, it was my only mode of wheeled transportation-- uh, also, I'm a good samaritan. So I swung my car to the side of the road, parked it, and ran over to the guy in the other car (aka my Adventure Catalyst). I still regret my decision.

So it is pseudo-vaguely plausible that these people were driving quickly, making green lights, and all of a sudden saw the train tracks beam coming down to block their way and thought, "Speed up or slow down?" Their adventure instincts kicked in, and with nobody in a car accident on the side of the road (ironically), they chose to speed up and succeeded in dodging under the giant wooden beam....and then they got hit by a train. We'll call it a half-victory.

Either way, suicide or obliviousness, please please please keep your bodies and vehicles off the tracks when the train is coming. It's not that we're all dying to get to work, but delays can get boring, and I would have put an episode of Weeds on my iPod to watch...right after I listen to Umbrella.

Unnecessary Simile Usage: The Train Hit Him Like A Ton of Bricks*,
Witz


* (No, it hit him like a FUCKING TRAIN)

Witz Pickz: They're Not All Gems -- Biggest Mistake Gifts That I've Asked For

In my family, we celebrate Christmas and Chanukkahj (I'm making a big push to convince people there's a silent "j" at the end of Hannukah), but Chanukkah is more about being awkward, and failing at religion, and laughing at inconvenient times that makes my Dad mad because it makes my Mom mad because nobody's taking Not Her Religion seriously. Long story short, Christmas is the bomb. Here's a preview, even though I'll probably get into it in more detail another post.

Our Christmas routine includes waking up later and later as time goes on, having something happen that leads to an argument (usually the phrase, "Thanks for ruining Christmas, Witz!" can be heard), followed by classic Witz Family "We're stuck with each other" family bonding. Then, my sister and I make brunch and we get to the actual presents part. Stockings first, then the tree, ultimately ending with the "Big Gift." The "Big Gift" is always from Santa Claus. This is weird primarily because we know it's not from Santa Claus and when my sister and I say "thank you" to our parents, they say "You're welcome," and not, "Don't thank us, thank Santa Claus." They're willing to play along for the tagging of the gift, but are damn well going to get credit for what they spent their money and thoughtfulness on. Anyway, through the years, I've made some weird "Big Gift" requests, some of which were better thought out than others. Here are a few of the ones I maybe shouldn't have asked for:

Treadmill:
This was the "Big Gift" that I asked for sometime in high school. I can't imagine what I was thinking. I hate running. I played sports every day of the week. I wasn't morbidly obese. And yet I felt the need to ask for the fattest sounding gift I can think of. The weird thing is that there was clearly a moment when I asked for it and my parents weren't immediately like, "This won't be a good gift." I've neglected to use good gifts before, and yet they spent hundreds of dollars on a TREADMILL. They had to have known I wouldn't use that-- which I suppose makes them really great parents, but I'm surprised they didn't at least push me a little on whether I really wanted it instead of some sort of video game system or something. Even if they knew I wanted the treadmill and were ok with me not using it, they had to have realized that it only fit downstairs in our super creepy basement. Beyond being super creepy, our basement has a really really low ceiling. Our ceiling is so low, there was discussion of redoing it and that spawned this little tete a tete:


WITZ: Are we going to raise the ceiling like you were talking about?
DAD: I don't know-- why do we need to raise it!?
WITZ: Well, because we're in middle school and my friend The ATX can't even stand up down here.
DAD: You have other friends besides The ATX!


With the added height of the treadmill, my head would literally be inches from the ceiling every step I took. But they went ahead and got it for me. Even more shocking is the fact that there was actually that "Uhp-- we have one more gift for you......why don't you take a peak downstairs!" moment when I got excited, ran downstairs, and was psyched to find a machine TO RUN ON. In the end, it turned out to be a great gift...for my sister. Between the low ceiling and the constant threat of spiders, murder, and ghosts, I barely used the thing, but my 4'11'' gymnast sister still runs on it today.


Pool Table:
I wanted a pool table. I was probably in middle school or younger and thought it'd be cool to have a pool table in my basement (possibly to make it less creepy). I didn't think much about the whole logistics of the size and placement, and that resulted in me getting a mini-pool table. If you can have sex on regular sized pool tables, this was a pool table you could hold hands on...with one of you on either end of the table so it didn't tip over.

When I got it, it was alright, because I was smaller-- but as soon as I was a reasonable size, the table became ridiculous. My Dad never wanted to play with me because it was so goofily small, and then when I got bigger, I never wanted to use it. Due to a warp, it also had this habit of making all the balls roll towards the holes right after the break, and the pockets had a tendency to fall off when more than one ball was in them (due to a lack of staples-- yep, the table utilized staple technology). So every time you played "pool" you were basically saying, "I really want to clean something up."


It turns out there was one major upside to this gift. I'm not very good at pool, but a few weeks ago, my friend who I will call Nitro (as opposed to just saying "My friend Nitro" which sounds like I'm either friends with an American Gladiator or banging some huge dude from the gym) and I were at a bar where there was (oddly) a mini-pool table. WELL, I DESTROYED HIM. Like, all the angles and bounces of my old shitty table came flooding back to me, and I just trounced him three games straight. Totally worth it.


Bruins Hockey Jersey:
Now this was back when hockey was less of a joke and The Hartford Whalers existed and The Boston Bruins were my other favorite team because of guys like Ray Bourque. So it's not weird that I asked for a Bruins hockey jersey-- I played street hockey after school, ice hockey on ponds, and I went to hockey games when I could. What's completely random is that I decided this one time that I not only wanted a Bruins jersey, but I wanted MY NAME ON THE BACK of the Bruins jersey. Maybe it seemed like a good idea at the time, but apparently I didn't factor in how incredibly mockable having your name on the jersey of a team you don't play for is. Did I think, "Hey, you know what are cool? Name tags! How can I make name tags even more prevalent in my life?" It wasn't made any better by the fact that I hadn't ever played organized hockey in my life. It wasn't inspirational. It was just basically a 12 year old kid reading off the old list of what he wanted to be when he grew up:


1) Soccer player (I severely overestimated America's love of the sport. I also drastically underestimated the amount of commitment and effort this would take, along with how puberty would treat me.)
2) Baseball player
3) Hockey player
4) Events Assistant at a Major University... (YESSSSSSSSSSSS!)
5) Writer

I'm still shooting for baseball player. So anyway, it was awkward wearing the jersey around my friends, and it was even more awkward wearing the jersey to actual games.


"WHO THE HELL IS WITZ??" drunken fans would ask?
"Oh, that's me."
"YOU PLAY FOR THE BRUINS!?"
"No..."
"WHY DO YOU HAVE A BRUINS JERSEY WITH YOUR NAME ON IT?!"
"Because I'm that cool."


That pseudo-real conversation wasn't even funny-- it was just informative.

Non-Digital Camera:
I still feel bad about this one. I asked for the cheapest film camera possible and got a nice, somewhat expensive camera. I already had a digital camera for taking most pictures, but I wanted to be able to mess around with photography a little. Facts about me:

1) I've never taken a photography class in my life.
2) I never intend to take a photography class in my life.
3) It doesn't take much for me to quit on something.
4) I don't like drawing attention to myself in public.
5) When I was eleven, I threw a wood block at my sisters head and broke a window in our basement. I'm pretty sure I didn't actually want to hit her, and I'm also pretty sure she ducked, but maybe it's another example of why I'm not a pro baseball player. This is only relevant because that window is still broken and was never replaced by my Dad, which means maybe he's a bit slow to follow through on things as well at times (the story also gives you a better idea of the creepiness that the basement has captured so well). Genetics + Socialization = Witz is never going to use his camera.

Let's just say I still have the original roll of film in the camera (because someone else put it in for me, because I never took a lot of pictures, because I don't know how to take it out, because I don't want to pay to get it developed if I do get it out, and because I don't need to be the douchey-artsy hipster guy taking photos in public).

There's A Fine Line Between Funny and Spoiled,
Witz

P.S. Checkout the new music playlist I have on the right, along with an RSS feed you can sign up for AND a new "Fans of the Site" thing you can/should sign up on to let me know you care. Who knows, maybe I'll even send everyone who signs up something sweet for the holidays (read: maybe I'll scrounge up something cheap from work that I can send you-- whooo liiiikes post-it paaaaads??)

Witz Pickz: Venting and Shooting Yourself in the Leg...Literally.

Venting:
The vent in our bathroom collects dust the way I collect amusing ailments. I don't know if it actually affects much in the bathroom, but once it became extremely clogged up, I started taking notice and decided to do something about it. See-- I'm a man of action-- maybe not "daily" and maybe not "appropriate," but action all the same. I'm also a big fan of cleaning or organizing when other things seem out of my control. If you can't evade a larger life problem by physically solving a minor house-cleaning problem, then somebody shoot me right now.*

So this past weekend I decided to tackle the vent. The problem is that our bathroom ceiling is inexplicably high. It's like they decided to make up for the lack of space in our bedrooms by giving us obscene headroom in the bathroom. It's the bathroom equivalent of a Honda Element (or the Scion Xb). If aliens saw my bathroom, they would assume that humans expanded in water. Other things aliens would assume if they saw my house:

1) Marriage is between three men and a woman

2) Mostly girls like Star Wars

3) A fun game humans play with ants when they come streaming into their homes when it rains is called "tag" and is played with a paper towel or fingers. A fun game ants like to play with humans is called, "Hide in the sugar until someone reaches in to grab it and then swarm over their hands like a terrifying scene in a movie and make them shriek like little girls." Sometimes ants "play too hard" and swarm into the bathroom and shower, and that's when humans call the exterminator and rain down hellfire in the form of poisonous traps and "knock-down spray." Humans are kind of dicks.

So I needed to come up with some way of reaching the vent. Standing on a chair and reaching didn't cut it, so I decided to put some paper towels on the end of a broom and reach up. I wanted it to collect the dust, so I wet the paper towels. Reaching up, I proceeded to turn the dust into cement, and mash it down into a thick layer, completely blocking the airflow. I needed a solution fast. "Where do people turn when they need fast solutions?" I thought and it suddenly hit me. I ran into my closer and grabbed what I needed. Utilizing classic abortion technology, I reached up with my unbent coat hanger and cleared each strip of soggy dust from the vent. Minutes later, the vent was completely clear and I felt worlds better. Thinking that this would probably happen again, I placed the hanger on my "bathroom shelf" in the closet, and then hesitated. As it turns out, having an unbent coat hanger on your bathroom shelf is EXTREEEEMELY creepy! Shaving cream, Nyquil, Vitamins, Sunscreen, hook-fashioned coat hanger. So I did what anyone would do-- I placed a box of condoms next to it and turned the shelf into a mini anti-pregnancy diorama.

...these are my friends and readers...

Plaxico Burress:

I know I don't usually get topical here, but it's not everyday a football player has to miss games because he SHOT HIMSELF IN THE LEG. For those of you who haven't heard, the Giants wide receiver announced that he'd be missing some games because he managed to shoot himself in the leg. The trump card is that he is now pleading NOT GUILTY to HAVING A GUN. In case his explanation of what happened wasn't enough evidence, the GAPING WOUND IN HIS LEG might be held against him in court. One explanation I heard for what happened is that he tried to look badass by putting his gun down his pants, but the gun fell down his pants, and when he tried to pull it back up from INSIDE his pants, it went off and shot his leg (totally and completely badass). This explanation does further my theory that the best home protection would be to place tons of guns all over your home. If somebody broke in, the odds of them picking up a gun and shooting themselves would be pretty good. Plus, it might not even get that far-- just seeing that many guns might be enough to make them think twice about robbing you. I don't think that's actually what happened to Plaxico, though. I'm pretty sure he was trying to see if he was Hancock.**

I Hope Plaxico Uses the "Leg Stigmata" Defense,

Witz

*Note: Just an expression, you will be prosecuted. Also, if I were to be shot and killed, I still expect my corpse to be preserved, at least well enough for me to go posthumously tandem skydiving. I don't care if it's with a buddy or an instructor, but one way or the other, you better get my Action Corpse onto and out of a plane. I'm not saying I'll haunt you if you don't, but I can't promise I won't do my best to convince the ghost of Bernie Mac to wake you up by rehashing scenes from The Bernie Mac Show. Too soon?

**Surprisingly, shooting himself in the leg does not mean that he is not Hancock. It either means a) He's not Hancock or b) He IS Hancock, but is too close to his soul-mate and therefore his power is diminished and he can feel pain. If I just shot myself in the leg and my wife ran in about to scream at me, I'd probably try and explain option b. And yes, I liked the movie Hancock-- who doesn't like Will Smith? I even saw Hitch. Twice.

Witz Pickz: Post Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! I decided that the best way to celebrate Thanksgiving after the fact is for me to attempt to recall the story of Thanksgiving. Feel free to help me with the details.

A long time ago, before ipods, but after dinosaurs, a group of oppressed white people came to America to escape persecution and parking tickets. They arrived on a boat named The Mayflower, so named because everyone agreed it sounded, "too gay," for any pirates to attack it. You don't get street cred for blowing up "The Mayflower." These people were called Pilgrims and they believed very strongly in buckles. They put them on their hats, they put them on their belts, and they put them on their shoes. As my friend Turbo put it, "The Pilgrims were to buckles what Pimp My Ride is to LCD screens." I don't know why they were so into buckles, but it either had to do with keepin the Lord in or the Devil out, or maybe just to keep all their clothes on as they slowly starved to death.

Starving to death was not part of the plan, but they hadn't accounted for the extra energy they would expend being extremely racist. They knew they had arrived at the prime location because they found a really big rock to step out on. They named their town Plymouth after a shitty car company, and dubbed the rock, "Plymouth rock," thereby showing their vast creativity and love of the outdoors. Finally after much anticipation, the murdering, raping, and pillaging got into full effect and these things tire a white dude out. So they all huddled down into a house that Abraham Lincolm made out of the logs that now bare his name and prayed for the best. When praying didn't workout, they turned to the Native Americans who decided it would "Most definitely, I promise," help them in the long run to keep these intruders alive. WOW, WERE THEY WRONG!

Running Bear: I think we should save these white people.
Walks On Wind: Hmm, I have my RESERVATIONS!
Both: Ahahahahaha-- awwww :(

So the Indians showed up and taught the Pilgrims how to gorge themselves on loosely associated foods. They then read the children a book where they taught them that the english word "corn" is the same as the english word, "maize." They did have a sneaky ultierior motive-- to make the Pilgrims' intestines fill up, press against their absurdly prevalent belt-buckles, and kill them all like that one fat dude in the movie Seven (Se7en). Unfortunately, there wasn't enough food for that, but there was an act of God that day.

There was very little turkey left. Everyone was worried and so the Pilgrim leader, George Washington Carver (inventor of the Turkey Carver sandwhich at Boston Market), started making everyone trace their hands on the turkey that was left. In this way, the meat would be rationed and everyone would get one handful of turkey. He was asked to "guestimate" how many days the turkey would last and he said the answer was one day (in his best guestimation, which he was never very good at). To everyone's surprise and excitement, the turkey ended up lasting the next EIGHT days-- and it was deemed by all to be a Miracle. That is the story of Thanksgiving and that is why, to this day, we eat a haphazard assortment of obese foods on the last Thursday of November, why we eat turkey leftovers for the next week, and why Sacajawea is on the dollar coin.

Epilogue:
In the years that followed, Thanksgiving became much more of a social holiday. It became a time when families could get sneaky drunk together and inevitably learn something sexually explicit about their grandmother. Thanksgiving became a time when the line between joyous celebration and horrific obligation became thin and vague, and this was only made more true by Adam Sandler's "Thanksgiving Song." Strong unions (no, conservative Californians, I don't mean between two people of the same sex) led to getting both Thursday and Friday off of work, meaning people could stuff themselves longer, drink more, and get even more sexually explicit with their inappropriate family stories. It also meant that everyone could shop the day after Thanksgiving. They decided that nothing complements the stress of planning or attending a family get together like gathering millions of people into tiny stores with limited merchandise at ungodly hours of the morning. Thus, Post-Thanksgiving-Shopping-Day was born. The inventors decided it needed a catchier name that sounded less like work and more like a movie starring one of the Wayans brothers. Black Friday was created. The Thanksgiving story continues to unfold, each and every year, as the middle-aged earnestly embarass themselves with what they are appreciative of, and the youth come up with amusing, ironic, sarcastic examples of what they are thankful for-- just like the pilgrims did.

Throw Your Hand Turkeys In the Air, If You's A True Player,
Witz

"Thanks for killing my friends, effers!"

"Totally and completely BADASS!"

I tried to give it feathers, but it turned out to be backhair. Hm.

Witz Pickz: Bacon-Chocolate, Calling Shotgun, and Gettin' His Friggen Post On...

Bacon Chocolate:

Yep, I had bacon chocolate. Let's start with the product and then we'll move on to the implications. Bacon chocolate is exactly what you think it is-- chocolate with bits of bacon in it. It mixes salty and sweet and actually tastes pretty good. It alllllso tastes a lot like you ate some bacon for breakfast, said screw it to brushing your teeth and had a late morning Hershey bar (aka the Sunday Special). And let's be honest, the chocolate disappears in your mouth much faster than the bacon, so you end up with a mouth full of bacon bits and basically just feel like you're eating bacon...which doesn't feel fat at all.

The IMPLICATIONS of Bacon Chocolate are far worse. Bacon Chocolate is to food now what interracial marriage was to society in the 50's (or...now in some places. Also, ironically, the chocolate in this metaphor is the white person and the bacon is the other person). You're going to get some looks, some people will scorn you, and at least one person will yell, "NOT WHAT GOD INTENDED!" But, like we all know, it IS what God intended. Bacon comes from pigs. Where do pigs live? In mud. What's mud look like? No, not that. Chocolate, exactly. All these years, we've been up in arms about pigs being filthy animals, while The big G to the Hyphen to the D (an awesome rapper name would be G-Hyphie-D...ok, that's sooo my rapper name now) has been pulling out His hair yelling, "NOT THE POINT, EFFERS! NOT THE POINT! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU FIGURED OUT 'EATING EGGS' AND 'MILKING COWS' BUT YOU CAN'T QUITE GET YOUR MIND AROUND 'BACON-CHOCOLATE!'" And yet people are still wary-- and possibly for good reason.

Bacon-Chocolate is a Gateway Treat. Once you eat a bar of chocolate laced with flesh, anything seems acceptable. Case and point, checkout this recipe for Bacon Chocolate Chip Cookies. Oh, it's ok to eat bacon in things? Might as well have that human meat on rye sandwich I've been pining for (Ok, I'm going to make my first and only "Alive" the movie/book/real-life-experience joke/pun here so get ready-- "as all old people know, Andes Candies have been puttin' human flesh in their chocolates for years." Boom-- not all gems). It's a slippery slope to slovenly death once you have bacon-chocolate, but it's a slope lubed by chocolate syrup ridden down on a sled of crispy pork product. Or as some like to call it, "Hershey Park in Pennsylvania." Shockingly, the park has provided a picture which perfectly sums up everything I've said here today:

Calling "Shotgun":

It was brought to my attention yesterday that somebody tried to call shotgun on Thanksgiving leftovers. This struck me as a) fascist b) homeless and c) against the rules. Let's deal with "c." I don't know what's it was for previous generations, or in other geographic locations, but growing up, calling "shotgun" applied solely to cars. You can call, "no bitch" if you're worried about the middle (because as we all know, only BITCHES sit in the middle). If you were worried about your chair when you got up you'd call, "Fives" (note: I've learned that some people called, "Fire on my seat" which is both more creative and less than cool), and if you wanted anything else, you'd simply, "Call it." For example, in 2000 and 2004, George Bush won the election simply by "Calling it" (just to get in one G. Bush joke before OBAMA!!!). You could try calling "dibs," but there was only a 50/50 shot of anyone recognizing that as a legitimate claim and not simply something to mock you with.

Calling "shotgun" is a whole other thing. You can only call shotgun when it comes to cars, and you can only call it when the car is in sight. Unless you are planning on cutting a hole in the food and consuming it at great speeds (just open up your throat, the mashed potatoes go right down), it's not the appropriate call. Even if you COULD call shotgun on leftovers, this person's claim wouldn't count yet. It would have to come RIGHT as the LAST person at the table stopped eating and not a moment sooner. That is the moment food becomes leftovers (it's in the Bible somewhere). The BEST way to claim leftovers is to load up your own plate with food and then NOT eat much, if any, of it (also in the Bible-- if you look at The Last Supper close enough, you will see Judas sneaking food scraps into a 'to go' bag. This is also called anorexia). Regardless, shotgun refers specifically to the front seat of a car. HOWEVER, the one thing that trumps even calling "shotgun" is motion sickness. I get extremely motion sick in the back of cars, so I usually just wait until someone else joyfully calls "shotty" and then call, "throwing up on person in the front seat" which almost always results in a seat exchange and a few choice phrases from the former shotgunner. But as they say, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but inner ear imbalances leading to nausea last forever."

So, Leftovers Shotgunner, time to grow up and play by the rules. Without the rules, we're just a bunch of wild barbarians, running around making a mess, with bacon in our chocolate.

You Down with G-Hyphie-D? Yeah, You Know Me,

Witz

Justin Timberlake Shotgunning a Beer-- you know, for the ladies...

Witz Pickz: Fry-Day -- A Food Post

Eff it-- let's talk food. I had a grilled cheese and fries for lunch, which was awesome, because it's delicious, and it was also telling, because eating a grilled cheese and fries at work is like screaming, "DESPITE MY THOROUGH HATRED OF SCHOOL, I STILL YEARN FOR COMFORT FOOD THAT REMINDS ME OF MY CHILDHOOD AND THE SCHOOL CAFETERIA BECAUSE I'D RATHER BE THERE THAN HERE TODAY!*" Here are some other food thoughts:

We Want Food Within Other Food: If there's one thing my twenty six years on this planet have taught me, it's that us humans want our food served the way we expect to be at the end of the meal-- stuffed. If we are immediately able to deduce what our food is, simply by looking at its exterior, then something is drastically wrong. Thanksgiving is the perfect example:

JOHN SMITH: Whoah whoah whoah-- what the hell is this gaping hole in the turkey? Now that we've ripped out all the guts...why WOULDN'T we stuff something else in there??
SQUANTO: Sounds logical-- I vote for seasoned bread cubes!
JOHN SMITH: Good call, Squanto! (They high-five)

But it doesn't end there. Chicken Cordon Bleu suggests that when we eat chicken, we're all secretly disappointed that we aren't eating ham. Chicken Kiev suggests that we secretly want butter hidden inside everything, and for that butter to surprise us in a painful explosion of burning hot liquid. Eating a pepper and eating rice seems ill-conceived, so why not throw the two together? I'm sure everyone will still eat the pepper and not just the rice...Most recently, I have discovered goat cheese and walnut stuffed figs...that were wrapped in prosciutto. I don't even have a joke for that one-- I'm just really excited they exist, and it just goes to show that the stuffed food theory is thriving.

Mr. Phipps' Pretzel Chips: I wonder if Mr. Phipps was fated to make pretzel chips just for the sake of end rhyme-- like maybe he would rather have made scones, but that was not alright with his food company. I imagine him saying to his Dad, "When I'm older, I'm going to make SCONES!" and his Dad angrily replying, "Goddammit! You're a Phipps! You will make chips, like your father, and my father, and his father before him!" and Little Phipps screaming, "I hate you! I hate you!" and running to his room. Sad.

Breakfast for Dinner: Was anything more falsely exhilirating growing up than "breakfast for dinner?" I have vivid memories of my mom popping into the kitchen after a long day, usually in her sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and whispering to my sister and I, "Hey...let's do BREAKFAST FOR DINNER!" as if her parents were going to run into the room at any moment and tell her to behave like a respectable adult. Maybe she was whispering because she didn't want my Dad to hear, as if he would put a stop to such shenanigans, but the only reason I remember him sighing whenever my mom said, "Let's be ridiculous! BREAKFAST FOR DINNER!" was because it meant he was the one who had to make us omelettes.

Which was the thing-- Breakfast for dinner never meant our ACTUAL breakfast for dinner. If it meant our ACTUAL breakfast for dinner, we would have had to jump up excitedly and shout, "HELL YEAH! TOAST FOR DINNER!" or my mom would have had to say when we got home from school, "Now don't spoil your appetite before we have YOGURT FOR DINNER!" Because actual breakfasts consist of cereal or less. I do that NOW. I have breakfast for dinner because I can't afford more or can't drag my ass to the store to fix myself a real meal. If my mom said, "Hey kids, what about breakfast for dinner??" and it meant toast and cereal, I'd have to ask if we had suddenly become ass poor. "Jesus, Mom, breakfast for dinner? What happened? Were we robbed? Did Dad go Willy Lohman on us? Do-- do I need to get a job to help support this family?...Because I'm eight." But that wasn't the case. Breakfast for dinner meant eggs or omelettes, and fruit, and bacon and maybe even waffles or pancakes. Sometimes it meant bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel, which my dad served like it was gourmet and Dunkin Donuts serves like it couldn't care less.

"Breakfast for dinner" should be the rebellious slogan of a generation. When 50's values were thrown to the wind in favor of the unconventional, the indulgent, and the syrupy freedom of post-work waffles.

The Color of Cheese: Not the name of an unpublished Toni Morrison novel and not a collection of Maya Angelou poems, the color of cheese is actually a sensitive issue within our society as a whole. On numerous occasions, I have run into people who have a problem with yellow cheese, and as a kid, I remember PREFERRING yellow cheese to white cheese. I'm pretty sure Velveeta and Kraft capitalized on this color rift and succeeded in putting a greater divide between those on the left (yellow/orange) and those on the right (white). Well, I'm gonna put myself out on a limb and solve this one once and for all: THERE'S ABSOLUTELY NO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE TWO! It's just food coloring. If you can taste the difference between orange and white cheese, then you can taste the difference between blue and brown M&M's and that means you need to either join the marines so your skills can be put to greater use (I have no idea how this would be utilized) OR you need to tell us which M&M is the best, because I ASSUME that it's blue, but that could be waaaaay off and I think marketing has a lot to do with it. Also, you must waste about 80% of your M&M's.

Sweet N' Low: When I was little, my friend Zak Jazz and I were at a Friendly's and proceeded to take all of the Sweet N' Low out of the holder and hide them in the cracks in the booth. When the waitress came over and asked us what we were doing, Zak shouted, "Uh, we're stopping CANCER!" because we believed Sweet N' Low caused Cancer. The waitress looked at us blankly, because that's probably the last thing she expected to hear and because what can you say to that really? You can't say, "Well, put it back," because then you're Pro-Cancer. So she left. The point of the story isn't whether we were brats or whether or not I now realize how annoying we must have been to a sad, tired Friendly's waitress. The point is that I still have no idea of Sweet N' Low actually contributes to Cancer, and I'm not sure I ever truly will.

Top Chef: The newest season of Top Chef has started, which is cool, because it's the only socially acceptable show to watch where people cook amazing food. If you sit watching the Food Network for too long, you a) can't talk about it with anyone and b) feel like a tubby bitch. "Hey, what'd you do last night?" someone asks you the next day. "Oh, I sat around eating dinner, watching people make more dinner, and then felt hungry because theirs was better than mine." Not cool.

Top Chef is acceptable because it's a competition. It's like The Real World if everyone on the show was super responsible and focused on their careers. All these chefs from around the country/world compete to out-delicious each other. They very rarely create drama and when they do, it's usually because someone turned the oven up too high or they're out of cumin. Despite the omnipresence of knives, nobody ever attacks anyone else, they just yell in a way that would make my family say, "Amateurs," and then they go back to making their five course meals. It's not dramatic, but it's enjoyable. Because these are people who can cook really effing well. They are the MacGuyver's of the culinary world, and since we all eat (mostly-- Sorry India!), we all can connect with what they are doing.

Plus, at least for me, it makes me want to cook. After I watch a season of that show, I'm downstairs, laying out my ingredients, doin' a little meal prep. Then, at the end of the night, you can walk in, see me surrounded by vegetables, herbs, empty meat cartons, shredded cheese, heaps of coriander, covered cutting boards, carved out cans, and a sink full of dishes-- and you can ask me what I've made, and I will inevitably tell you, "Toast." Because, as it turns out, I am no top chef. Yet. But at least I can have breakfast for dinner.

Have Delicious Weekends...Better Posts Next Week,
Witz



*hahahaha..."today"

Witz Pickz: THE RETURN!

Aaaaaaand THAT'S what it would have been like if all my jokes about my immune system turned out to be true or if my comedy karma caught up to me and wiped me off the face of the Earth-- no more Witz Pickz.

I apologize for my inadvertent "Child left in the grocery store" situation I put you in. One minute I'm there and you're eating free samples of "Just Bunches" cereal (which is a ridiculous product! How can we serve a spin-off cereal of Honey Bunches of Oats? Aside from the fact that food products shouldn't have spin-offs, we don't live in a "Just Bunches" world-- giving people just the bunches creates a false reality about how people are able to get what they want. It says, "You don't have to work hard for what you want, wading through the bad times to get to the good; simply wait around until somebody offers you exactly what you want with a price tag on it-- 'Just the bunches.'" What's so wrong with the flakes? Doesn't good need evil? Doesn't right need wrong? Do the bunches taste as good without flakes? Probably. Bunches are fucking delicious!), and the next minute you're swiveling your head around looking for me-- at first casually, then with some confusion, and then with concern. Not that I've disappeared, necessarily, but that you don't have a ride home. Well, people, I'm back-- and my station wagon has room for you all.*

The fact is, it's absurd that I haven't been able to post for so long, and I have an abundance of things to write about. I have stories about meeting Sarah Silverman, horrible New York City bartenders, baffling reservation policies, ridiculous commercials, endeavors in Dallas, and the ever-present tales of public humiliation. Barack Obama is our next President (and your new bicycle), Knight Rider: The Series exists, and I have eaten Bacon Chocolate. There will be a lot to look forward to in the coming days.

Consider this the new season of Witz Pickz-- the one where you weren't sure if the show was cancelled or not (Californication: not cancelled. Arrested Development: still cancelled. Friday Night Lights: sort of cancelled...it's on DirectTV only now...which is weird, but not as weird as the fact that Lyla Garrity is banging Derek Jeter, which may or may not mean that Tim Riggins has herpes), and it didn't effect your life very much, but now that you're watching it again, you're glad it's around.

Here's a pick to get things started:

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Center Seat Surprise
I flew United Airlines for the first time in a long while and was surprised by how smoothly the whole trip was. We left on-time, we arrived early both legs, and thanks to a big booking move by Smokin' Ocken, I got to sit in Economy Plus, where the "plus" stands for more leg room. Unfortunately, my neighbor in the middle seat misinterpreted the "plus" to mean, "for four-hundred pound behemoths." To my dismay (but not surprise at this point in my life), one of the larger human cubes I've seen sidled up to my row and plunked himself into his seat, which I can only accurately refer to as his "ass cage." It was like those egg-like Fischer Price people that fit specifically into rounded "action stations." In this case, his actions were limited to "heavy breathing" and "emmanating odd, difficult to place scents." Also, he had a Nantucket Nectars lemonade-- life is in the details.

As his lower body fit snugly into the seat, his upper body sort of poofed out, so his top half spread over into my seat (which made me think of the song "Do you know the Muffin Man?" to which my answer was a resounding, "YES, and his sweat knows no bounds!"). While I normally sit in a window seat (left side for ultimate sleepability), I was thankfully given an aisle seat on this trip, which meant that while I wasn't squished up against the window praying for death, I WAS in an awkward nodding off predicament. Because the man was so large, his shoulder blades weren't quite able to go all the way back, so as I fell asleep, I sort of snuggled back in behind his shoulder like a makeshift sleeping cave. My only other option was letting my head loll to the side into the aisle, which happened several times and each time resulted in a near tragic Drink Cart Demise, which would have been embarrassing, but predictable (Witz died dignified right? Oh, no, that's right-- he was aced by a drink cart on an airplane). It was impossible to tell if the man was asleep or not, because the difference between sleep and waking was about an inch of space between the man's head and barrel-chest. His belabored breathing was also a constant, which led to an odd thought process on my part:

While I wasn't stuck by the window praying for my own death, I did start to inexplicably hope that this large man would die-- not because I wanted him dead, but because I somehow believed it would make the situation a lot better for the both of us. It would relieve him of his awful breathing struggles and obvious discomfort, and it would allow me to lean up against his corpse without feeling awkward. I imagined it would feel a lot like sleeping on one of those "Wrestling Buddy" pillows from the 90's. Anyway, I realized that if the guy died, they still probably wouldn't move his body until the flight was over, and odds were in favor of unwanted bodily excretions (which may or may not have been happening already pre-death), so I quickly put thoughts of euthanasia out of my mind, and concentrated on not getting smothered like a kitten getting slept on by a gorilla.

While we flew, I wondered how it was possible that a man that large not only was able to purchase only one seat, but how in the world he decided on settling for a center seat. What are the limits for size in seats? My Dad (No Paullution) later asked me why this guy was able to buy just one seat if he was that big, and I guess the answer is that when you buy tickets online, there's no box for height, weight, or morbid obesity. They should just have a link that reads, "If you are built even remotely like Grimace, please click here." I then started wondering if it would make sense to just force anybody that looked borderline huge to climb into one of those "Must be this size or smaller" cases before they can board the plane-- like a money booth without any money. They already make me put my carry on luggage in there to make sure it will fit in the overhead compartment, why not have a little closet for larger folks? If nothing else, the shear embarassment of it will make them deal with the problem themselves, although much like me and my luggage, I suppose it could result in a lot of big people taking off clothes they are wearing and putting them into their backpack in order to fit. These are the thoughts that occupy my time on airplanes.

Four hours later, we landed in Dallas and I was forced to admit that everything is, indeed, bigger in Texas.

Witz Is Back, Back Again, Witz Is Back, Tell Your Friends, Witz Is Back, Witz Is Back, Witz Is Back...,
Witz


*Well...four of you...it would have been six, but the whole "Click it or ticket" thing has me uneasy with passengers in the trunk. You understand.

Witz Pickz: Once More Into the Breach...

I know, I know, "What happened to Witz?" Did I decide that my running diary on Bee Movie was the pinnacle of my writing and no more posts were required? Nearly, but that wasn't it. Did I re-read all of my posts, laughing less and less as I realized the horrors of my own life and redundant shame spirals? Nope, not there yet. It's all much more simple than that-- I got busy, and I got sick.

I got busy through work and through awesomeness like

Playing a Skate Park Opening in Sebastopol, California:
Sebastopol is a small town outside Santa Rose, California, which is a small town outside of San Francisco, California. Everything you imagine about the town is probably true. When we got to the skate park, we found three things to be true 1) You could add up the ages of any five people there and they still wouldn't be as old as us 2) Skateboarders of any age are still cooler than us 3) This was a town event. The mayor had been there earlier, and we were slated to play for the slew of teens and pre-teens around 3:30pm. We wandered into the skating area and were immediately greeted by a small child charging across our path with blood EVERYWHERE. We all did the obligatory, "AIDS!" step back and then watched as a panicked father charged toward the kid and the tent. Moments later, the alleged father happily walked away from the tent, announcing to his friend, "That's not my kid! You scared me!" Cue the "Real American Hero" music now. We made a note to dedicate one of our songs to the Absentee Parents of the Bleeding Child at the Med Tent.

Once around the lot and we were ready for some drinks and food. We circled up and decided we'd like some liquor and some sandwiches. Two quick right turns later, and the city of Sebastopol delivered with the almost comedically titled, "Liquor and Deli." The sandwiches were delicious, the drinks were good, and we were ready to rock some teens faces off. And so we did:

Make sure to watch these on the "high quality" mode to the bottom right of the frame.
A Victory Nonetheless - Cookie Jar
A Victory Nonetheless - Bailey Black
A Victory Nonetheless - Agrocrag
A Victory Nonetheless - Ric Flair Saves the World (Sebastopol) and Wasted

A HUGE thanks to Nick, Paller, Patel Me No Lies, and Mark for driving up to the show.

Hello Leslie's Bday Fiasco:
Hello Leslie's birthday was Sunday, and Saturday night we celebrated like the spritely, easily healed teenagers that none of us were. The night reaffirmed my belief that I a) know awesome people and b) tend, when drinking, to end up in conversations with cute girls without having ANY IDEA how I got there or what I'm saying. I'm pretty sure I kept repeating the sentiment that "Good people are good," for a while. We also ended up at a late night diner, eating grilled cheese & fries while I spoke exclusively to the two couples next to us and informed the girls that, "your guys HATE ME right now!" I knew I was a people person.

Don't worry though, the topper of the night came when I was Frankensteining it home (i.e. walking furiously with completely stiff limbs, letting momentum and luck lead me home) and was joined by a girl who decided that the best idea in these circumstances was to make conversation with me. I need to emphasize how dark and rapey my neighborhood is. I need to emphasize how 2am-ey the night was, and how batshit crazy I must have looked. Apparently, though, rapists and murderers don't wear shirts with french cuffs, which honestly, is a pretty fair assumption. She started talking: Where was I going? Where did I work? And then the kicker, "Are you Jewish?" Yes. "You should meet my roommate-- she needs to meet a good Jewish guy." Wow. What a standup roommate! I can't even imagine the horrible horrible guys that this girl's friend must have dated, if a Frankensteinian, google-eyed, 2am, non-practicing, curly haired wanderer constituted, "A Good Jewish Guy." I assumed the entire thing was a dream, until I woke up in the morning, like in so many movies and fairy tales, and found the girl's business card tucked into my pocket. The answer to your next question is No.

SICK:
Other than being busy, I've been sick. In fact, I'm sick right now, and decided instead of annoying the hell out of everyone on gchat at work, I should probably put my house-ridden insanity to use right here.

Being cooped up in a house for 3 days with no one to talk do does wonders for your creativity. Like always, I started out by watching House episodes to try and find cures for myself (far superior to WebMD). Unfortunately, I don't think I am the recipient of any recent transplants, and my symptoms pretty solidly suggest that I have a cold (which is JUST what NOT A COLD would want me to believe!). Moving on, I started tweaking on vitamins and cold medicine so that while I lay in a half-sleep, coughing, congested daze, I was able to think about such things as, "Which pair of shoes is most likely to come to life and kill me in my sleep?" The answer, incidentally, is my Self-Loathing Homosexual Penny Loafers, which I haven't worn since high school and have stuck behind another couple boxes beneath my dresser. Next, I had some brilliant insights like, "Why do they have dayquil and nyquil, but no napquil?" and, "it shouldn't be called a comforter if you wake up beneath it sweating like you just ran forty miles across a desert in a wool unitard."

Eventually, I fell asleep which was awesome, because who hasn't wanted to dream that the cat that lives in your house can talk, and is trying to kill you, and that, in case this psycho cat isn't enough, your house is scheduled to be shipped to New Jersey in a week, so you better find a new place to live or start loading up on warm jackets (and the aforementioned comforter)? Oh, yeah, and Red Sox fans, I've experienced the next two games of the ALDS in Oliver Stone-like clips, and let's just say that the voice-over announcers who set the scene for me are very confident.

I'm growing a "sick beard" which is like a "playoff beard" only instead of being lucky, it's just lazy. I think I've just about discovered the maximum number of pillow configurations that I can have with my two regular and two memory foam pillows (which both seems and IS too many pillows for one twin size bed). Just looking at what the memory foam pillows have remembered gives me chills when I see them in the morning, or maybe that's the shockingly hot/cold breeze that is simultaneously cooling me down and making me sweat feverishly. There may or may not be ants on me. I occasionally start to sing invented alt-country tunes. I am CONSTANTLY considering starting to watch the DVD box sets of The Wire that one of my roommates has. I am both furious and perturbed by the fact that our toilet paper is softer on my nose than my kleenex. The books that I have in my bookshelf are not remotely a representation of myself, but more so a representation of everything I am not (they are all the books I HAVEN'T read yet...). The number of bottles of wine I have in my room and shirts I wear to work are equal. My poker chips are called, "Professional Poker Chips" but I don't think I'd be allowed to use them in a casino. My "Right Guard Anti-Perspirant/Deodorant" claims to be a "Stealth Solid" when all this time I've assumed it was simply "clear." And most importantly-- how can there be SO MUCH EUCALYPTUS in my backyard and NO KUALAS IN SIGHT???

Got Me Lookin' So Crazy Right Now, Got Me Hoping You'll Save Me Right Now,
Witz

Witz Pickz: Bee Movie -- A Running Diary

Remember that "guy watching Bee Movie alone in the dark" scenario that I'd described earlier? Yeah, well it's happening. To make the whole debaucle more group oriented, I'm going to keep a running account of the experience:

08:00 - Well, I'm eight minutes in and I'll say this-- Bee Movie does not fuck around with their theme. I haven't heard so many bee puns in my entire life (I guess it'd be weird if I had). It really makes me wonder if Jerry Seinfeld has been sitting around his apartment the last ten years just going effing insane with Bee themed jokes. Did he try and throw down 45 minutes of Bee themed material at comedy clubs and got ridiculed off the stage? Probably not-- because these jokes ain't that bad.

12:20 - "Stem-sucker" is not nearly a different enough to make its way into a PG movie about bees.

20:00 - Cool, Seinfeld threw Puddy some business-- and he's really funny. Eff- I'm way into Bee Movie!

26:50 - This chick wants to bang Bee Jerry Seinfeld. It's amazing. Not only is she unfathomably accepting of a talking Bee, but she clearly wants him. Then again, I guess she's married, so she's right in Seinfeld's wheelhouse (ooo-- nice decade old Seinfeld dating burn). Speaking of which:

33:30 - Ray Liotta burn!?

35:00 - I can't believe I'm watching a movie about talking Bees and their secret lives, and yet my reaction when a random Hispanic Honey Packer starts talking and fencing a bee with a thumbtack is still, "That's a bit unbelievable."

36:00 - A mosquito with Chris Rock's voice? I smell a buddy flick!

40:00 - Whew, shit just got real. You're not gonna believe what us humans are up to-- gassin' bees and stealin' honey. Don't worry though, it's JUST AS MUCH LIKE THE HOLOCAUST AS YOU THINK.

42:00 - Ooph-- Bee Larry King burn. Is Seinfeld going through and crossing off his "Enemies" list from 1983?

43:30 - Bee Jerry is taking legal action against all humans for their stealing of honey, along with some more minor accounts including using bee-related names for things. Man, I'm glad our judicial system is so accessible.

44:00 - Possible quote of the movie between Puddy and his Bee Lovin' Hussy Wife:

VERONICA: Listen, you better go, we're busy working...
PUDDY: But it's yogurt night!
VERONICA: I'm sorry, but I have to...
PUDDY: (leaving) WHY IS YOGURT NIGHT SO DIFFICULT!?

46:00 - 1950's Bee Movie Joke Commentary: "A black supreme court justice? This movie really IS UNBELIEVABLE!"

47:00 - I didn't know it was possible to over-act when you're only doing voice-over, but John Goodman has proven that it is. I'm very uncomfortable.

50:00 - Sting! They're raggin' on STING!? TOO FAR BEE MOVIE! Oh my god, they're railing on Ray Liotta again. Why not just run him a bath, put on some Tom Waits, and hand him some razor blades?

53:00 - Bees have retard strength.

56:00 - If this chick bangs Bee Seinfeld, it's gonna be like that scene in Seven all over again.

58:00 - Remember those Bee concentration camps I mentioned before? Yep, turned out to be the key to the whole legal case. Bees win the day! Jews and African-Americans remain shocked.

1:02:00 - Oh, see, now Bee Jerry has gone too far...his frivolous lawsuit against the humans has resulted in TOO MUCH honey being in the Bee economy, thus making work less necessary and disrupting the entire flow of bee society. I think he's gonna learn something very valuable about the status quo (is this an uber-conservative "stay the course" movie??)

1:05:00 - I was apparently way off base with that buddy flick comment. Chris Rock is AWOL.

1:12:00 - I space out for FIVE MINUTES and the Cuckolding Bee Jerry and his Inter-Species Love Interest (which sounds like the name of a jam band) are flying an airplane?? What happened?? And how come THIS is the part of the movie where I think they took things too far?

1:08:00 - I just went back to see what I missed. Apparently Bee Jerry and Veronica are taking a plane somewhere because it will solve everything-- and I was wrong before-- the most unbelievable aspect of the movie so far is that the plane took off on time. Bee Jerry seems to have his own seat, which makes me wonder if he really had to pay for it, and if he did, was that really necessary? It has to be at least a $300 flight, and that money can't possibly be his on account of his lack of a currency based economy, so is Veronica sugar momma-ing him on this trip? Couldn't he just have sat on her lap? Can BEES make it through airport security?

Anyway, once onboard, Bee Jerry charges the cockpit, scares the shit out of the pilots (who, apparently haven't been keeping up with the biggest news story on the planet that illuminated the existence of talking bees who are sueing humans), who freak out, pass out, and set back my general comfort and sense of airplane safety twenty years.

1:15:00 - Bee Jerry Seinfeld just domestically abused his stolen wife.

1:19:00 - I don't know what "You gotta think Bee," means, but all the bees have started saying it and I really wish they'd had Luis Guzman or David Ortiz doing the voice and saying, "Joo gotta think, b..."

1:30:00 - The bees land the plane safely, and everyone ignores the fact that it was Bee Jerry in the first place that caused the incident (I'm sure there's a political/foreign affairs comparison here, but I sure don't know what it is-- I only know 3 current events newspieces: Travis Barker and DJ AM are severely burned, but should make a full recovery, Tampa Bay is up 2.5 games on the Red Sox with 6 games left, and the stock market looks like the opening scene from the movie Twister-- oh and Megan Fox is on the cover of GQ.).

The bees and humans live in perfect harmony, and, rather uncomfortably, Bee Jerry now co-owns the flower shop that Veronica runs, and has stolen Puddy's wife and life. "That bee is living my life!" Puddy announces, and it's funny, but also very, very sad. I would love to make a sequel that is the same story told from Puddy's perspective and show how absolutely batshit crazy the whole thing, including his wife, really is; how his entire life goes to shambles because of a vengeful, horny bumblebee. How he works hard all day long, and isn't even able to have a relaxing, uncomplicated yogurt night. He would end up broken, devestated, and alone-- all at the hands of a bee. Which is just how Bee Movie ends.

Bee Cool Bitches,

Witz

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Car Trouble

I know that "Car Trouble" sounds like a movie starring Ice-Cube and Mr. Bean, but doesn't that only further my point?

My car is a disaster right now-- for starters, I haven't had it washed in probably eight months to a year, and parked it in a dusty lot for the last four months. This is an intentional move because I think it gives it that good, "don't steal me" look that I'm going for, and frankly, nobody ever differentiates by saying, "That guy drives a Station Wagon," and "That guys drives a dirty Station Wagon," (and if anything, "dirty station wagon" sounds cooler, like "Man, that guy drives really cool! PLUS, I'd be "ridin' dirty.") They just notice that I'm driving a soccer mom car-- end of story. So my car kinda looks like if Swamp Thing and Herbie made sweet sweet love and 9 months later (because in this scenario if a swamp creature and car mated, they'd follow the same birthing schedule as humans) my car-baby was born.

My windshield wipers don't remove water so much as paint impressionist art with dirt, and I'm never entirely sure that my car is going to stop when I brake (it's a little game I like to play called "Involuntary Manslaughter or Not!?")-- although I'm ALWAYS certain that they will squeel gleefully at my duress. My driver side rear tire loses air like it's selling it for crack, which makes it look like while my other three tires have been hitting the gym and staying in shape, this one's taken a month off to drink Budweiser and eat nothing but double whoppers with cheese while watching Law & Order marathons on TV (also, how awesome does that sound??). Oh, and you know those, "house noises" that you hear as houses shift and settle? Yeah, my clutch pedal has that. Maybe it's having an existentialist crisis, or maybe I'm one gear shift away from my doom-- TBD! To top it all off, one of my heat shield clamps is loose (again) and makes a high pitched metal clinking sound, so every time my car idles, children sit up in bed thinking that Santa's in the neighbordhood (yes, I realize this scenario assumes that children are constantly in bed-- but just go with it). I like to say to people who hear it, "Listen to her purr, huh?" and they like to say to me, "You cheap son of a bitch, take care of your goddamn car." I will, Dad, I will.

While I realize that my car sounds like one great big game of mouse trap at 70 mph, no one thing is enough to push me to spend the money to take it to the shop. These problems are all superficial and non-threatening. It's like when you're coughing, and sniffling, and your throat hurts, but you don't have a fever and aren't hallucinating that Tom Arnold is stealing your canned goods-- so you don't go to the doctor. Instead, you turn to self-diagnosis. Which really makes me wish I'd learned ANYTHING about cars growing up. My Dad explained to me a bunch of times how to change a tire, and in a pinch, I think I could use some context clues to make it happen, but when someone asks me, "How do you change a flat tire?" my answer is always going to be, "You call triple A." If someone asks, "Can you change your own oil?" I reply, "No, but I have $15 and they invented Jiffy Lube."

Unfortunately, when you're rollin' down a popular street with your car sounding like Marty McFly's DeLorean when it runs out of plutonium (p.s. 100% definite that neither Marty McFly nor Doc Brown had any functioning sperm left by Back to the Future III), you wish that you knew a thing or two about fixing your own car. I read a few websites and here's what the response was to the heat shield clamp. "It's a whole lot of noise, but not any type of problem. Just get in there with a soldering iron (soddering iron) and clamp it back down!" Uh-huh. I can barely operate a regular iron, nevermind a SOLDERING IRON! I primarily wear shirts based on what came out of the dryer least wrinkled and it's only under extreme circumstances that I bust out the iron and ironing board and have at it, and I'm still no good with the Bermuda Triangle part where the sleeves meet the torso (and it's time you admit that neither are you).

It makes me wonder what I did instead of learn how to do useful things like fix my car. "Can you check your own car's engine?" No, but I can tell you more than you care to hear about the show Freaks and Geeks..."Can you rotate your tires?" Nah, but I can play Say It Ain't So on Rock Band at 78% accuracy! "Can you replace your coolant?" I can drink abundantly if that's what you mean?

So until I have the money or until one more thing goes wrong that puts me into House MD territory (er-- House Associate-Degree-in-Mechanic-and-Repair-Technology), I'm gonna keep fightin the good fight, continue to raise my actuarial chances of death, and keep on giving children false Christmas hopes.

At Least One "Will Work For Food" Homeless Person HAD To Have Been A Mechanic Right? Like Even In the Army? I'd Even Take Him to Red Robin If He'd Solder My Heat Shield (...Hm, Easily the Most Homoerotic Metaphorical Non-Metaphor Witz Pickz Has Had Yet),
Witz

P.S. Yep, that was Red Robin reference was "sign-off post foreshadowing"

Witz Pickz: !!Weekend Roundup!!

Check it out, I've repackaged the "Monday Melange" as a hip new Monday segment called "The Weekend Roundup." It's gonna be the same stuff I'd write about anyway, but with this sleak new marketing, I hope to trick you into being more excited and prone to laughter than usual. Also, I forgot what number "melange" I'm on and am not even willing to make the effort to scroll down and figure it out!

On Friday night I finally figured out what to say to famous people! My friend DC Cab was in town with his girlfriend and we ended up at a wine bar that was extremely confusing in that it was swanky, but playing Notorious B.I.G. songs-- presumably for white hipsters who like to enjoy a glass of fine wine while hearing large black men demand "the loot." Or maybe people just like hearing what Biggie would do if he were in their position:

"Soon as he buy that wine I just creep up from behind and ask what your interests are, who you be with-- things to make you smile, what numbers to dial. You gon' be here for a while, I'm gon' go call my crew, you go call your crew-- we can rendezvous at the bar around two."

Oh Biggie, no you can't, the bar will be closed at two. Anyway, when I ordered a Fat Tire instead of wine and got a look from the bartender, I fought back the urge to take my queue from B.I.G. and explain to her, "motherfucking right, my pocket's looking kind of tight."

The other confusing thing about the bar was that it was theoretically a place where you bought wine to drink, but was ALSO a big, barely attended room with bottles of wine everywhere, to be sold during the day. There was a time in high school when taking things like signs, posters, ashtrays, etc. was playful and referred to as "ganking" something, not stealing. That bar was the first time since those years when I honestly felt like it would be ok to simply "gank" a few bottles of wine, and the others agreed. "Hm, should we buy a glass of wine for 10 bucks, orrrr, have these eight bottles for free?" It was almost as if they were daring us to do it because it would make us uncool. It was the same urge that hits me every time I walk past an unattended Wonder Bread truck with, like, hamburger buns in the back. I don't possibly need them, and could probably get in trouble, but THEY'RE JUST SITTING THERE! I imagine more people would get this urge and possibly follow through if they showed up already drunk. Thankfully, I never had the chance to follow through with my urge to steal because DC Cab had spotted a guy that looked astoundingly like one of the three helpers on Mythbusters.

This was because the man was, in fact, one of the three helpers from Mythbusters. Tory-- which is spelled like one of his parents wanted to name him Troy, but had a lazy eye that got out of control right as they were writing the name down. We debated what we should do about this Mythbusting Assistant, as well as what the implications were for DC Cab having accurately identified one of the non-independently-mythbusting-mythbusters. After great debate, his girlfriend went over and pretended that she was way into the show, even though she hadn't seen it before. Tory was very astounded, to say the least, and finally delivered a line he must have been saving for years, "It's not everyday that a hot chick comes up and tells me she watched my show!" and then they hugged. My brain finally clicked into gear and I had something to say to this "famous person."

ME: (stepping closer to the guy with DC Cab in tow) Sure, but I bet you get the hot chick's boyfriend who actually watches the show coming up a lot more often, huh?

Tory stared at me for a second while my words registered and then slumped against the wall. "OH MAN!" he exclaimed, dejected, but much more himself. We talked for a few more minutes, I think I admitted that I'd only seen the show a few times, and concluded awkwardly with the stellar line, "Keep up the busting!" which did attract a little more attention to our conversation, but probably not the right kind.

Saturday night we celebrated the fact that we closed the Johnson account. Woo! Johnson account! Yep-- that's an inside joke for a few of my readers. I won't make a habit of it. During this stretch we were "those guys" on the public bus, met and dismissed a man who looked like a live action version of Donkey Kong, and I told an old man that I hated us too, which made him laugh, which made me smile, which had no effect on him one way or the other. We went to a club where I danced, which is always a great idea, because I'm nothing if not born to hip-hop dance.

We bailed mid-sentence while talking to some girls because my friend declared, "I hate this girl, I hate everybody, we need to leave, fuck you Witz," which are the 14 words to my heart. We avoided the police, a fight, and vomiting in the cab, which was the triple crown for the night, and the cabbie and I became BFF. I hate us, too.

Sunday was a big tv day, which was great, because I haven't had a chance to rant about commercials lately. Fortunately, I saw some doozies. First up, was football, and so I saw this gem of a Quiznos commercial: a shot of a meatball sub and the announcer guy saying, "Too many balls on the field! NO SUCH THING!" Nothing more to say there-- I just laughed for a while. I later saw an updated version where they say, "Too many MEATBALLS on the field! NO SUCH THING!" which is still weird and confusing and funny because there should never be meatballs on the field-- it's a field on which professional sports are played. Which fattie lineman is stuffing beef down his face on the field at such a pace that he actually drops one onto the field? Even if it's not a league penalty that the referee would call, it's still not something that should be acceptable NFL behavior. Maybe Quiznos should just stick to toasting stuff.

My other favorite was with this chick who is standing in her pajamas talking to the camera. She says, "I may be in my pajamas, but I'm not going to bed-- I'm taking online classes to get my degree!" Wooow. She's gonna be all kinds of ready for the real world. Aside from the fact that going to class in pajamas was not exactly rare in college, this girl is essentially saying, "Not only am I not ready to step up and make the commitment to go to school and get a degree, but I'm one of my primary reasons for not doing so is that I really only want to wear clothes I can sleep in." That's a pretty serious level of lazy. I half-expect her to be in other commercials as we watch her life progress towards a sad and bedsore ridden end: "I may be lying naked in the shower, but I'm not bathing-- I'm looking into the endless abyss that is my life and trying to find one single reason not to slash my wrists right here and now!"

Just this morning I checked my Netflix Queue and was dismayed to discover that Bee Movie has been shipped. I have since received an email telling me the same, which is great, because when Netflix emails you stuff like that, it's like your buddy's trying to get you excited for plans you guys have later on (and that's a nominee for saddest thing Witz has ever said on this site). The problem is that I'm not excited for Bee Movie. It was one of those movies that I clicked on to add to my queue just so I remembered it existed, but without the intention of it ever making it up past spot number 30. You need some place holders at the end of your list; Bee Movie, No Reservations, and First Sunday have been really great in that respect. But now, through some sort of mishap, Bee Movie is heading towards my mailbox. When talking about my conundrum, I was informed that it's "actually kinda cute," which is clearly a ringing endorsement. "Surprisingly, a movie about bees vaguely taps into your unconscious desire to sympathize with cute creatures through anthropomorphism!" I guess I have to ask-- is it cute to watch as a dude, alone, in a twin bed, on a weeknight? Because that's my typical netflix scenario. These are the barometers of life.

Tell Your Friends, To Get With My Friends and We Can Be Friends, Shit We Can Do This Every Weekend,

Witz

Witz DOESN'T KNOW IF HE Pickz: The Socio-religious Nature of Brisket, The Most Terrifying Balloon Experience Ever, and MORE!

Brisket. Simple enough. And yet this morning at the train station, an offhand remark by my friend "North of the Border" made me realize just how political, religious, and potentially world altering brisket really is.

North of the Border: I went to this place for dinner last night with really amazing brisket.
Witz: Cool.
North of the Border: You know who makes good brisket?
Witz: (thinks: the Jews)
North of the Border: The Jews.
Witz: Very true. And you know who else?
North of the Border: Who?
Witz: Texas!
North of the Border: Very true.
Both: Complete opposite ends of the spectrum.

This makes me wonder if that was like, God's plan all along. He was like, "We'll make the Jews have great brisket and Texans have great brisket-- they can meet in the middle." Did He do that for a lot of things? I mean, was that the same logic he used for The Middle East?

God: Hey, you guys wanna hangout here?
All Religions Ever: Uh, I guess so?
God: Done! I'm gonna go space out for a while-- and by "a while" I mean three-thousand years.

After all, the universe (and numerous religions/philosophies) is characterized by opposites. Light/Dark, Good/Evil, Pleasure/Pain, Meet The Parents/Meet the Fockers...maybe everything was created not to have polar opposites, but to have those opposites slowly move towards each other until they meet in the middle-- like socially viable, but ultimately weak-willed political candidates. Maybe brisket is a microcosm for the entire universe. Or maybe I just have too much time to think on the train.


The Most Terrifying Balloon Related Experience Ever:
About 3:50 p.m PST, yesterday, Hello Leslie and I had the most terrifying balloon related experience ever. I don't care if you've fallen out of a hot air balloon. I don't care if you've been molested by a balloon clown. This was worse.

I should have known something was up when The Balloon Guy hemmed and hawed about taking the balloons over himself. I mean, he's The Balloon Guy-- that's his thing. Instead, he pointed at the 15 inflated helium balloons rattling in the wind, that he's intertwined and tied to a pole and told me they were all mine. He then booked it to his Balloon Van and went on with his Balloon Life. "No problem," I thought, "we'll just bring them over in that golf cart." See, our only option for transportation was to walk about half a mile or to use a golf cart. Since we were in a rush, and I didn't want to look absurd, I decided the golf cart was our best bet. I loaded the balloons into the back seat and let them rest against the roof of the open air cart. Hello Leslie climbed in back as my balloon wrangler (which I'm pretty sure is not another name for a Fluffer), and I climbed in the front to drive, theoretically not absurdly.

About five seconds later, as I pushed my foot down on the accelerator, that theory went out the open air window, along with several balloons. The cart might only max out at roughly 10 mph, but those balloons got moving in the wind like there were hurricane gusts. They started flying around Hello Leslie's head and clustered forward toward the back and sides of mine. They whipped around and made hollow thwunk sounds as they careened off our faces and back into the chaos. Quickly, the chaos overtook us.

Picture this: You are walking quietly on a sidewalk. There are the sounds of birds, a slight breeze, and nothing else. A golf cart slowly approaches on the street. There's a guy in a jacket and tie, hunched desperately forward over the steering wheel like how a T-Rex would drive, a terrified woman in a dress in the back, balloons enveloping them both, and two loud, constant "AHHHHHHH!!!!" screams as they slowly pass you by and leave you back in your silence. That was us. We were rolling down the street, a cart full of multi-colored helium balloons, one dunking booth away from a street fair, scared out of our minds.

Back in the balloon hell, the balloons swirling and thumping against each other and us like a pack of angry bees, I suddenly understood what Hurricane Katrina must have been like. The balloons were gaining static as they slid against our hair and clothes, and I became obsessed with the fear that a balloon would pop right next to my ear. Then it happened-- like a gun going off to start a race, it popped right against my ear and I let out a pained shout, while making eye contact with a man crossing the street in front of us. He hustled along. Suddenly, there was another pop from the back and Hello Leslie let out a shout. If I hadn't seen Saving Private Ryan, Generation Kill, Star Wars, Rudy, and The Mighty Ducks, I might have just quit right then and there; just bailed on my vehicle, left the balloons and went AWOL. Fortunately, however, those things and the first 30 pages of Bill Clinton's presumably inspirational book, "My Life," led me to press on. We made it to the dropoff points, set the balloons up, and succeeded in our mission. Post-Traumatic Stress pending...

Currency Exchange:
For a number of years, I have classified how much I want some food or entertainment item in terms of what and how many of a thing I would kill or do to get it. Here are some more-- feel free to add your own in the comments:

-I would kill four tiger cubs for a pumpernickel bagel.
-I would kill three innocents for a milkshake and fries.
-Matt says: I would kill a bald eagle for some wendy's.
-I would kill six gerbils for a grilled cheese.
-Titan AE says: I would kill a million gerbils. For no reason. Those things are gross.
-I would de-foot fourteen penguins for a new episode of House.
-I clubbed seven baby seals and got a new Mitch Hedberg CD.
-Global Warming killed millions of polar bears. (That's my blunt global warming "fact-as-joke" joke).
-I would kick seventeen manatees for Lost to come back, get its shit over with, and be done forever.

I Would Kill Nine Attractive Mutes For Better Blog Fodder,
Witz

Witz DOESN'T Pick: "Rainbow's End" Trailmix, Pumper-Rye Bagels, Microwave Cordiality

Trader Joe's "Rainbow's End" trail mix assumes that instead of gold, there are nuts and M&M's at the end of the rainbow. That would be useful if it was a long trip to get there, but ultimately disappointing to those seeking treasure. It's a pessimistic point of view, even for a very tasy product. Can you imagine the reaction?


TREASURE SEEKERS: AHA! We have followed the rainbow from it's arc across the sky to its physically improbable end here on the ground! We will be rewarded with GOLD!
END-OF-RAINBOW-DISTRIBUTOR: Actually, there is no gold-- BUT we do have this mix of fruit, nuts, and chocolate for you!
TREASURE SEEKERS: WHAT? No gold!? What have we risked our lives for? What have we traveled miles and miles for? What have we used all of our vacation and sick days up for?
END-OF-RAINBOW-DISTRIBUTOR: A tasty snack!
TREASURE SEEKERS: Well-- are there a lot of almonds?
END-OF-RAINBOW-DISTRIBUTOR: Nope, it's mostly peanuts!


It makes me feel like Trader Joe's is saying, "Why would you want gold when you can have a delicious, healthy snack?" To which I would reply, "So I can afford your goddamn trail mix." What else are they selling? I bet they have "Halloween Avocados" and "Tooth Fairy Millet." Lose a tooth, gain a protein laden grain. I bet they have organic "Geltless Chocolate" for Chanukah and "Santa Presents: Tofu" for Christmas.

Pumper-Rye Bagel:
This one bagel place, Izzy's Bagels, that I go to doesn't have pumpernickel bagels. For most of you, this probably isn't a problem, but since they happen to be my favorite type of bagel, I'm gonna blog about it. Instead of the pumpernickel, they have a hybrid pumpernickel-rye bagel. What type of no-stance, weak-ass bullshit is that? TAKE A STAND! There couldn't have been an influx of people saying, "Well, I like pumpernickel, but only like...50% of a normal bagels worth. I also like Rye. Juuust putting that out there." Incidentally, I didn't realize that bagel technology had evolved to the point where we can make one bagel with two different flavors-- I guess Willy Wonka moved on from the candy business. Now I know what you're thinking-- you're thinking, "Witz, if you take this stance on bagels, doesn't that just open the flood gates for people to argue against gay marriage (two bagels shouldn't become one union), interracial couples (no explanation required), and creativity in general (all things you are in favor of)? Well, my answer is simple-- No! You're absurd for even thinking it. You're absurd for even putting yourself in a position for me to assume that you are thinking it. We're talking about bagels-- something far more important than those other issues. A pumpernickel/rye hybrid robs the consumer of both half pumpernickel and half rye. It is not a 2 in 1 product, it is an 0 for 2 product.

Cordial Microwave:
The microwave in the work kitchen shows the words, "Enjoy Your Meal," when it's done microwaving. This strikes me as a) cocky and b) rather presumptious. As for the cockiness, it's as if the microwave is saying, "Yeah, I'm pretty sweet at microwaving, so ENJOY THAT! I'm sure it's gonna be awesome." It's presumptious in that I'm probably either not microwaving a full meal OR I'm not microwaving anything that will possibly be enjoyable. It comes off as sarcastic. "Hey, enjoy your hot pocket, asshole," or "Wow, that Eating Right chicken is going to be deeeelicious! Enjoy your meal," and then I imagine it winking. It also makes me as a person look bad if I DON'T tell someone that I hope they enjoy their meal. "Oh hey, this microwave cares if I enjoy my lunch-- thanks for not saying anything to me, Witz, we only see each other 8 hours a day, five days a week! BUT I GUESS THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU!" Friggen microwave.

Post-Microwave Realization: I was walking back with my bowl of soup in one hand and a cup of ice water in the other and as I walked, the soup melted the ice and I thought "I'm a walking Global Warming Impersonation." I also thought, "If someone bumps into me, they're gonna have two opposite horrible temperature related reactions." This is what I think about.

They're Not All Gems...But Give Then Again, That's What They Said About Coal*,

Witz

*Not necessarily true...

Witz Pickz: Bumber-Shot

As I stood sipping a beer Sunday night, with Seattle rock group The Blakes on my left and prolific comedian David Cross on my right, it occurred to me that I have absolutely nothing to say to famous people. I was at Seattle's music/film/comedy/arts festival Bumbershoot, and a friend of mine had hooked me up with a pass for the VIP Lounge. Up until that point, I had enjoyed the free water, cheese platter, and Chapagne "tasting" from 3-5pm. Up until that point, I had enjoyed these things WITH SOMEONE ELSE PRESENT. It was only when I was left alone in the lounge that I found myself shoulder to shoulder with two "celebrities" and absolutely nothing to say-- hence the drink. I didn't even want the drink, but it turns out that even if you are looking out onto a stage where The Saturday Knights are performing, it still comes off as creepy to be an unfamous person standing alone with no obvious goals or activities near famous people.

I wish I could say that "to my credit" I didn't say anything to them because I was playing it cool, but frankly, I didn't say anything because I had nothing of value or interest to say. PLUS, I had already clapped The Blakes bassist on the shoulder and said, "Great set man" earlier in the day, so it was doubly awkward to be standing by him AGAIN. And what do you say to David Cross? "Hey man, you're funny." Wow. And you can't quote the best Arrested Development line of his back to him by saying, "Hey David, love Arrested Developement-- I'm an analrapist!" because talk like that will get you thrown out of the VIP lounge pretty quick. So what is there to say?

I had encountered this problem earlier in the festival when I walked past my favorite up and coming comedian, Aziz Ansari. I walked past him while he was hanging out with two other friends and missed the chance to say hi. Later that night, I saw him hanging out with another comedian and two very attractive, very slutty looking fans. "This is a good time to say something," my brain obviously concluded, so I interrupted their conversation to say, "Hey Aziz-- great stuff, man! (apparently my go to phrase for performers is to say "great," then fill in the ___ for what they do, and conclude with the word "man." Did I mention they let me talk on the radio?) Don't worry though, I didn't stop there, with Aziz trying to figure out what hairy intruder just interrupted his conversation. I realized that I knew the other comedian and quickly added, "You too man, you're...(like you don't know what I'm gonna say)...great, man!" I couldn't for the life of me remember his name (Rob Heubel, incidentally), which was a fun bonus moment, only outdone by our attempt at a handshake, where I'm pretty sure I ended up grasping his forearm like we were Roman Gladiators. The whole thing went over like getting home on my birthday. I'm only getting smoother with age.

After this horror occurred, my friends and I discussed what I could possibly have said to Aziz.

ME: Hey, Aziz! We're...the same age! WOO! We're the same age! I mean, you're Indian and I'm Caucasian, and you're from South Carolina and I'm from Connecticut, but we're the same age! You're a successful comedian and I did a few open mics several years ago! WOO! THE SAME AGE!

With nothing to say to Aziz Ansari, I couldn't possibly say anything to David Cross or The Blakes or Janeane Garafolo who tore past me looking like a drunken troll doll sporting cool tattoos and about 4' 8'' of aggression.

ME: Hey! The Blakes and David Cross! We're white! We're not the same age, and we're of vastly different success levels creatively, and I'm the guy alone in the VIP lounge while you are with your friends-- but we're all WHITE! Let's hangout!

As I was about to leave, The Saturday Knights played a song that immediately made me think, "This sounds like The Blakes if they were a hip-hop group." It was an innocent thought, and IT DID sound like that, but it's very rare in your life when you have a thought like that and the group you're talking about is directly next to you. You're not always able to turn to Muse and say, "You guys sound like Radiohead, but with more affordable ticket prices!" or to Bono and say, "Coldplay sounds like you when you were relevant!" After a great debate, I fought the urge to say something and simply left. Somehow, saying, "They sound like you if you were a hip hop group," and walking away sounds like the last thing someone might say to you before hiding in the trunk of your car and following you home. So I played it cool, and said nothing.

Other Bumbershoot Moments:

"Repent or Else:"
This is not the name of a Christian Hardcore band. It was the gigantic sign that a ragged looking man with cracked out eyes was carrying around outside of the festival. The sign was probably six feet tall and on a giant stake. This, in and of itself, was not unique. As I walked by the man, however, I saw that another guy was talking to him very eloquently. I looked at the guy and he appeared to be a well dressed bespectacled man in his forties-- and he was attempting to have a conversation about the man's sign. I was shocked. If there's one thing I've learned in my years on this planet, it's that YOU DON'T TALK to the man with the REPENT OR ELSE SIGN! The man made a giant sign. He has stated his position. You can't say things like, "but the scripture clearly states...(actual quote)" to him because he's THE GUY WITH THE REPENT OR ELSE SIGN! You're not going to change his mind! Now, maybe if you were the guy with the six foot tall "Do Whatever" sign, you can have a religious debate in the streets. But you can't just be some educated dude walking up to the REPENT OR ELSE guy and deciding to argue the finer points of organized worship. Hoooooly crap.

The Opening Act:
While killing time by the mainstage stands, we were treated to an opening act of sorts. Three girls, none of whom could have been over eighteen, were slowly making their way in front of the stands. Two of them were supporting a third, who was stumble-drunk and looking like each step might be her last. Just as she passed where a couple of us were sitting, she halted slightly, then booted right in front of her on the ground. THE ENTIRE CROWD SECTION CHEERED and APPLAUDED! Apparently, everyone had been watching this progression just waiting like we were for the inevitable. One of the girls was so embarrassed she abandoned her friend and ran off. The other helped her to the bathroom where she would...I dunno really-- it seemed a little late to me. The crowd then played a game for the next ten minutes that I called, "Don't Step In It, But We're Not Going To Warn You." You don't realize how easy it is to ignore vomit on the ground until you watch other people traipse right through it. Every time someone came close to it, the crowd would gasp slightly, and every time someone stepped in it, we'd all groan and break into applause. And we wonder why we can't band together to fight global warming...

Rockstar and...nothing?
The energy drink Rockstar was one of the sponsors of the festival this year, which meant that at the Rockstar stage they were giving out big cups full of Rockstar (which is mildly disturbing when it's yellow). Needing occasional energy boosts (and assuming that my body now craves the stuff), I had a few throughout the days-- and a strange thing happened. While there was no actual alcohol in the drink, my body reacted AS IF there was vodka in it. When I turned my head, things moved a little slower, I began slurring my speech (as did two other friends on mine), and I straight up felt DRUNK. This means that either a) my body noticed my intake of an energy drink sans alcohol and actually secreted stored up vodka into my system OR b) I have trained my body like a Pavlovian dog to automatically feel drunk when I taste or consume an energy drink. Both of these possibilities are perturbing, probably unhealthy, and ultimately, kind of cool.

Greatest Crowd Surfer Ever:
Once again, someone with fewer active limbs has achieved something greater than I have. During The Offspring's set, the crowd actually lifted up a kid in a wheelchair and managed to pass him (still in his chair) all the way to the front of the crowd. The lead singer saw it and laughed during the song, and everyone cheered for this kid as he made his way to the front. It was probably the single coolest thing I've seen at a concert (and I've seen a skanking midget elbow me and my friends in the stomachs repeatedly). It was punctuated after the song by the singer announcing, "That might be the single greatest crowd surfer ever!" I looked at the morbidly obese, goateed man nearby and shook my head, "No," just in case he got any ideas.

Bumbershot:
By the end of Bumbershoot, what with all the stress, and the sun, and the celebrity awkwardness, my body finally broke the promise it made when it decided I would be impervious to illness so long as I constantly pushed it to its breaking point (and drank RBVs). I got sick. Bumbershoot was fun, but by the end of the third day, I was bussing it home before Death Cab For Cutie took the stage, and was content simply to sleep on Dolan Out the Pain's futon for the next 10 hours with a powerade in one hand, and a bottle of nyquil in the other-- which they card for now-- meaning that just to spite them, I took a double dose and it was faaaantastic. It was a great weekend in Seattle, but I was Bumbershot and ready to come home.

I Realize "BumberShot" Sounds Vaguely Like Pornographic Film Terminology,
Witz