STOP READING ME

Brokenjpg has moved. A brand-new, shiny, unlinked-image-themed blog can be found at:

(drum roll please)

brokenjpg.net

Go there now. Shorter URL, same long-ass rants.

Tis the Season

I'm just a humble Jewish boy, so I don't profess to understand much about this "Mistletoe" thing.

But it seems to me a smart man could take advantage of that. Seems to me like maybe people have been hanging that wondrous weed a little too high. Seems like the kinda thing you could fix with a shirt.


Buy one for you and one for your other half. And have yourselves a Very Merry Xmas.

PS- Just make sure not to wear it backwards. Or do. I don't judge.

The Meaning of "True Christmas"

Wife and I saw a movie preview today for that crappy-looking Adam Sandler movie coming out. The plot involves something about him reading stories and them coming true. At the end of the trailer, the words "Coming Christmas Day" appeared. But they showed up like this:

COMING
CHRISTMAS DAY

Then, the word "True" faded in, so it read:

COMING TRUE
CHRISTMAS DAY

Obviously, they intended it to read "Coming true, Christmas day". But I was so focused on the shitty fade effect that I read it as "Coming, true Christmas day".

Which prompted me to lean over to the wife and say "True Christmas? What the hell is True Christmas? Like Easter?". This in turn caused the wife to nearly die of laughter. When she could breathe again she assured me this was the most hilarious- and stupidest- thing I'd said in quite some time.

So of course, I had to tell you.

Fuck Twilight

Let me tell you what I have against this movie. It's making vampires "popular".

Full disclosure: I'm a geek. I don't wear it proudly, per se, but I don't deny it. I never wore a pocket protector, and among my friends I was the most comfortable talking to girls. But I suck horribly at sports (martial arts excluded), and have always had a predilection for using words like, well, predilection. Once or twice I have been accused of rolling dice.

I liked mythology as a kid. Still do. And so along with the Greek and Norse pantheons, I also knew about Vampires. And werewolves. And dragons. And elves. And do you think I ran around talking about them? Do you think I read books about them in school, or bought folders that had them on the cover?

Shit no.

It was a dark secret. Like masturbation was during the 50s, or watching porn before the internet. Even if you did it, you never talked about it. You couldn't talk about it.

But now, the cool kids are watching vampire movies. The popular people. The trendsetters.

No. I simply won't stand for it.

Fuck you people. You're pretty. You're popular. You lost your virginity in 8th grade, and you didn't have to take your cousin to prom. If I'd been caught reading Brahm Stoker's Dracula, I'd have gotten a wedgie. But you read some Dan Steele infused necrophiliac babysitter's club fantasy and claim it's in vogue. Damn you to hell.

I didn't draw the g-damned line, but I stood on my side of it. The Vampires didn't love people, they freaking BIT THEM. So did the damn werewolves. Which, by the way, never bothered fighting the vampires because who gave a shit, they were werewolves. And the elves were awesome because they were elves, not because they were Orlando Bloom. You had your sex life, I had my books, and we knew where everybody stood.

But no. Now, you pervert my secret love. You take this thing, these stories, these myths. You apply your damned Gilmore Girls soap opera plots to them and call them your own. It's Dawson's Fucking Creek with vampires, and now suddenly that's ok. Well it's not ok. Not unless you retroactively start dating me instead of the varsity jock boyfriend you had in 10th grade.

Of course it's been pointed out to me that I want my wife to read these things. Precisely because they're Dan Steele infused necrophiliac babysitter's club fantasy. And aside from the necrophiliac part, I find that a compelling argument. I'm considering buying her the first one for Hannukah.

But I'll still force her to hide it out of sight when there are people around. That's the price of admission, and all the true blood-drinking fans paid it back in the day.

Someone get Satan a scarf

The shirts are selling. People (many of them you guys) are buying them. With money. Thank you.

The only thing more surprising than the fact the shirts are selling, is the fact that I made any shirts at all. It was something I've wanted to do for a while now. It was one of my "projects". The kind that I "am really going to finish this time". Let me share with you, briefly, a few of the "projects" I've started and have not finished:

• Two comic books
• One partially written short story
• Three short stories that I've thought of but have not written
• A plan for an entire anthology of short stories that are thematically connected
  
• A fucking novel
• A story told through twitter
• A story told through a blog
• Another blog
  

And now, by comparison, the projects I have indeed seen through to completion:

• A blog
• Design T-shirts

So, yeah. Would not have bet on those odds. I'm already working on the next round of shirt designs. In the meantime, somebody get Satan a space-heater. That bastard's gotta be freezing.

Seriously guys, thanks.

YES WE DID

Barack Obama is president. Thank you Will.I.Am. Thank you Shepard Fairey. Thank you Chris Hughes. Thank you America.

And thank you Obama, for making it possible for me to look my future children in the eye.

Luxury Bowling is Retarded

I have come to accept that there is no such thing as a good bowling alley any reasonable distance from Miami. Oh, there are several "luxury" bowling alleys. A new one is opening up quite close to my house. Let me tell you why these are shit.

I go bowling to enjoy a cheap night out on the town, engaging in an "athletic" contest that no one is ever really good at. The sole exception being people who were once part of a bowling league, a fact so embarrassingly dorky that everyone makes fun of that person anyway, despite the fact they just bowled double your best score.

What the hell does a bowling alley need to charge for, anyway? There's virtually no recurring cost. Hell, they make me pay to borrow a pair of shoes that I expect to smell like they were pried off a dead hooker. Half the lights in the place aren't lit. You re-use the balls and pins "ad infinum". Please explain to me what part of this experience lends itself to charging 50/hour, and calling it "luxury"?

Don't tell me it's lane upkeep. Any true bowler knows that the average bowling alley lane is shit, and should remain so. Lane 14 has a depression that leads your ball to the left? Then bowl accordingly. That's called home-team advantage people. If you don't like it, we'll go to your alley next week.

Bowling is a blue collar pastime. Like miniature golf, or the zoo. It is an activity not intended to be observed by the upper crust of society. They've got their bottles, VIP rooms, and attractive hookers. Leave me my dank, smelly bowling alley and "in this light I can be almost certain your not a man" prostitutes. It's the least you can do.

Happy Holloween

"Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the Zombie Apocalypse was that it never happened. Humanity had been so thorough in saturating their culture with the means to identify and eliminate the zombie threat that it was over nearly before it began.

In fact, it's likely that had it not spawned on Canal Street (a well-known den of drunkards and voodoo where shambling about and moaning is perfectly acceptable behavior) the outbreak would have been stifled in an afternoon. As it was, the whole situation was perfectly contained after only a few days and about 36 victims. And most of those were killed by organized citizens using firearms and barstools. A few were saved for study, and several were bought by a television station and used for a series of rather creative reality shows.

It is impressive to note that despite humanity's hundreds of years of planning and propaganda for a potential Zombie epidemic, they were completely unprepared for the Flu Epidemic that eventually wiped them out."

-Excerpt from the Galactic History Primer of Balthura IV, regarding extinct species

This IS the big announcement

I went to summer camp for a couple years. One of those years Barney the Purple Dinosaur was a big hit with the kiddies (by which I mean, children far younger and less cool than the self-assured, totally wicked, 12-yr old crew of Bunk 9). And on the first day of camp, one kid shows up wearing a shirt that has what looks like Barney roadkill and the headline "All Purple Dinosaurs Must Die".

We all thought it was awesome. When I asked him about the shirt later, he said "Yeah, I always wear it on the first day new places. I could get hit by a car tomorrow, but you'd all remember me as that guy who had the purple dinosaur shirt". 12-yr old me thought that was kinda fucked up. And awesome. With that in mind:

Welcome to the BrokenJPG store. T-shirts people will remember you for. Even if you get run over tomorrow.

I'm a good friend

Still not ready for big announcement. But I thought I'd share this. It came after a half-hour discussion with a friend of mine, concerning a problem he was having.


Yup. I'm the bestest.

$500 to the person who correctly identifies what my buddy icon is. Without googling. Cheaters.

Take that, AAA

My wife called me at 7am on Saturday because she found a flat tire after pulling her first all-nighter ER shift. And who came and fixed that bitch in 5 minutes?

Oh, that was me.

Told you I had one redeeming car-related ability.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to change a headlight. If it goes well, I can claim my ability to fix automotive vehicles has increased 100%.

Big update in the coming days, as soon as I get a second to figure out what day/hour/year it is.

An Inconvenient Poop

Long-time readers know that I do my best to help the environment. That's the reason the wife and I bought those canvas supermarket bags- less plastic in the landfill.

Then we got a dog.

It poops.

Now we can't buy groceries fast enough to keep a positive bags-to-bowels ratio. In fact, we had to go out and buy plastic bags, just to keep up.

If anyone has an environmentally friendly solution to this, let me know. Because apparently the hole in the ozone layer, those category 4 hurricanes, and the impending extinction of the polar bear are all due to an adorable little schnauzer-dachshund mix.

You didn't warn me about that, Al Gore.

Check the hamster, Billy-Jean

I drive a 97 Audi A4 that I do not in any way deserve (it was my father's old car) and I am never likely to own a better vehicle in my life.

I hate it.

I hate that car for the same reason my wife hates watching me sing karaoke. We despise the things that make us feel stupid.

I'm a man. I should secretly yearn for the day my ride breaks down so I can pull it off to the side of the road, raise the hood, and enact automotive surgery shirtless on the side of the freeway, the envy of every male with a still-working mode of transportation.

But every time my car makes a strange noise, or the engine takes an extra second to turn over, or it's time for an oil change, a small voice inside me whines "please dear g-d let it be nothing".

My naivety is staggering. I swear the mechanics can smell it on me. These guys could say anything is wrong with the car, and I'd be forced to believe them, because I have nothing to argue with:

"Whelp, looks like ya burned out yer flux capaciter. They're not really made for 1.22 jigawatts, ya'know."

"Now, whatcha got here is a dead hamster. I can fix it for ya, but I'm gonna have ta get the replacement from Pete's Pet Emporium. May take a few days."

"Son, the issue is yer a damn loser. I can tell just by your radio pre-sets. The car can sense that, y'see, and it just won't run for ya. Now I offer sessions, to try ta get it ta like you. First thing we gotta do though, is get rid of that top 20 countdown shit, ya'understand?"

The fact is, I'm not an idiot. Just automotively deficient. I would love to write something for one of these guys. They could bring me some long copy, and I'd take a long look at it, suck in my breath, shake my head, and go; "now whatcha got here is a dangling participle. Ya gotta attach that to tha subject or you'll never be able to go anywhere with this sentence.

If that don't work, maybe just whack it a few times with a hammer".

Editor's note: the one thing I can do is change a tire like a fucking champion. If tire-changing was an olympic event, I'd at least score a bronze. This is the only upshot to having picked up 6 nails in my tires the four years I've been driving in Florida. I hate cars.

Reading this could save a Ninja

Since I first learned of Bill the Ninja Killer, I've been uneasy. Always has the silent assassin existed at the height of the pseudo-Japanese/anime food chain. But now, with a mere word, Bill and his ilk can upset the balance forever.

In order to protect this cherished order of helpless trained killers, I have compiled quick list of ways in which you can differentiate between a Ninja and a Terrorist. Spread this list far and wide, and perhaps together, we can save a Ninja:

#1:
This is a towel.

This is a ski mask.
Nuff said.

#2:
The terrorists weapons of choice are explosives. You will most likely notice them strapped to the terrorists' chest.

The ninja's weapon of choice is the katana. If you see him wielding one, you will most likely notice it protruding from your chest.

#3
When a terrorist intends to kill you, they will send you a video of themselves. This will mostly involve a lot of screaming, some posturing, and an annoying penchant for making a shrill "LALALALALA" sound right after declaring Jihad on you.

When a ninja is going to kill you, you hear nothing until the deafening silence is broken by the whisper of your last breath leaving your body.

These are a few of the most basic ways to differentiate between the terrorist and the ninja. Feel free to add more in the comments.

Ignorance is no excuse. If you have no idea what sparked this post, start reading here.

Re: Photosynthesis

Dear Lawn-

I see you, you free-loading, photosynthesizing, son of a bitch. I just mowed you two weeks ago. TWO WEEKS. And there you are, smugly waving in the breeze, going "oooh look at me, look how tall I am! Any day now the neighbors will start to complain, guess you better mow me again!"

I'm sorry, did I say "mow"? I can't mow you, can I? Have to use a weed whacker for the entire yard. You're too full of weeds and vines, you miserable excuse for mother nature's doormat. In fact, if there's a complete square inch of grass in this entire 1/1000th of an acre that claims to be my backyard, I'll be amazed.

So you know what? I'm not mowing you. Uh uh. Not this time. You see this industrial size container of Weed-B-Gone here? It's got your name on it. So here's how it's gonna go. You shrink back to a socially acceptable size of undergrowth, or I'm gonna get crazy with this thing.

It's got a "foam" setting, and I'm not afraid to use it.

Stop the War

No, not the war in Iraq. I'm talking about the one where two races live nearly side-by-side, but continue this tradition of aggression that their ancestors taught since the earliest days of history.

I'm talking about the war between cats and dogs. My poor dog, Mia, is as guilty as anyone. We rescued her, so I've no idea what her early years were like. But unless her entire family was slaughtered by felines before her very eyes, her cat-hatred is uncalled for.

Just a few weeks ago, while walking, she sniffed a cat on the other side of a fence. She immediately barked her head off at it: "For the sins of your fathers, you honorless sack of hair! I shall strip your skin from your bones and have you turned into a pair of earmuffs! Which no one will ever buy because we live in FLORIDA!"

At least I assume that's what "bow-wow-wow" meant. I could be off slightly.

The cat, obligingly scared shitless, went screaming up a 10 foot palm tree. Very shortly thereafter it contemplated, as all cats in such situations do, how very much easier it is to get up a tree than to get down one.

Mia pranced. Then sat. Then pranced a bit more. All the while with the smuggest and most self-satisfied look I have ever seen on a dog's face. When I finally dragged her away, she went with the self-assurance that she "Had done her part to preserve the honor of all the generations of canines before me. Enjoy your impending lesson in Newtonian law, sandbox-shitter." Or at least that's what I heard.

I thought that would be the end of it, but today, the counter shot was fired. This post is already long enough, but I'll tell you of the feline treachery later.

Bill, the Ninja Killer

To understand the horror of the following story, all you need to know is this: I once pitched an idea involving ninjas.

The overall campaign was green-lighted, but the ninja's were killed. I recently discovered the method used to murder these silent assassins. And in hope of saving future ninjas, I share it with you.

In the hallways of the client the ninjas waited, silently planning to communicate a simple message to an unsuspecting populace. Then they overheard something like the following conversation:

Suzan: Wow, this ad campaign we got from those guys is great! It's so funny! Hey Bill, check out this ad campaign!
Bill: Wow that's awesome! I really like this stuff! But...why are there terrorists in this ad?

And just like that, the ninjas died.

Just like a zombie movie.

They stood before him, barely moving. He gripped the weed whacker, and fingered the trigger. The sun was hot, and he could smell their cloying stench in the still air.

Nothing to do but go for it.

He pulled the trigger,and the weed whacker spun to life. Whirring noisily, he took a step forward and swiped at the nearest foe. The buzz deepened as the cord bit into rubbery flesh, but it quickly rose to a wine again once it passed through. One down.

Initially, he was cautious. He probed along the edges of the crowd; cutting a few down here, then moving to another part. Never letting himself get too deep in. It was slow going, but at least it was going.

Looking up, he saw the thickest mass of them yet. Shocked, his finger slipped off the trigger. The weed whacker slowed, then stopped. In the sudden silence, neither side moved. Then, almost as one, they swayed towards him.

"To hell with this," he thought. "It's taking too long. I'll get tired. Or the weed whacker will break. Or the twine will run out. Just take them head on."

He stepped into the thickest part and raised his improvised weapon, swinging it in a wide arc. He was wearing gloves, but his arms were bare and he could feel bits of pulp and sticky matter landing on them. He angled the whacker the wrong way and a spray of organic debris arced up into the air, landing on his head, his face, his shoulders. They never made a sound. Whole swaths of them cut down, and not single cry of pain or agony. They went down like grain, like wheat, like...well, like weeds. A sense of wild euphoria gripped him, and he fought the urge to laugh.

Aside from how he'd look doing it, some of that shit might get in his mouth.

There was a faint smell of ozone, like something just on the point of burning. He didn't know if it was the motor in the weed whacker, the friction of the twine against their flesh, or both. It hung in his nostrils, blotting out the sticky sweet aroma that wafted off the remains. Then a fleck landed on his lip, and he could suddenly taste it...

It was the better part of an hour before it was over. By the time he was finished, there was so much on him it looked like he'd rolled around in the remains. But his expression showed a hint of pride as he lifted the whacker to one shoulder and surveyed his handiwork.

"It might not be the easiest way," he said to himself "and it might be messy. But it'll be at least a month before I have to come into the backyard and take care of these weeds again."

Ahoy ye bilge-rats, it be Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Yar, I be lovin this holiday, truly. It be one of the few ideas not pillaged by them chum-sucking, deck-swabs at Hallmark. Be they forever damned to Davy Jones' Locker. All ye be needin to know bout it is here. Yohoho and a bottle o' rum.

If'n ye not be an uber-geek copywriter like mesself, and don't know yer doubloons from yer poopdeck, just drink your fill of rum and add "aaarr" to the beginning/end of everything ye say. And refer to all women as wenches. They love that. The official TLPD site be having more advice.

Getting closer to my flying car

I remember when voice commands first showed up in my cell phone. Thrilled to have a vessel that would obey my unquestioning commands, I eagerly recorded "Jodi" and "Home" into it.

The results were....disappointing. I couldn't just cruise down the road and say "Jodi". No, I had to pitch my voice exactly the same way the phone recorded it. "Jo-di. JO-dee. JO-Dee."

Due to the constant mockery of my wife, (who heard me perform the same ritual for Home) I never bothered recording anymore verbal commands after that.

But yesterday, while driving, I accidentally hit the button on my bluetooth headset. Which asked me to "Say Command". In a mood to perform pointless acts of speech, I blandly said "Jodi".

"Did you say Judita?"

Say WHAT?

I have never programmed this earpiece. It was a cheap, last minute purchase for $14 when I got my phone. It just read my contact list and verbalized a name from it. On it's own. Holy crap. Ok, don't panic. Just do the logical thing- talk back to it.

"No", I said.

"Jimmy?"

It's going down my contact list? "No"

"Jon?"

"No"

After going through a couple Js on my contact list it gave up. Undeterred, I hit the button again and in a perfectly normal voice said: Call home.

My mother picked up the phone.

AWESOME. My unprogrammed $14 POS bluetooth just performed speech-recognition. Man, any day now I'll have a flying car that transforms into an ipod that can also toast and butter my breakfast in the morning. All on the way to work. I should tell someone about this. Like my wife:

"Judita?"

Hmm. Maybe the car won't transform. Let's try it again:

"Joo-ahn?"

Jew who? Oh. Juan. Ha. Clearly this earpiece isn't Spanish. My excitement subsided a bit. It appeared my transportation and toasters would remain earth-bound for the foreseeable future.

Still, I did find a hack. Jodi is #2 on speedial:

"Call 2"

My wife picked up the phone.

Man I can't wait till my car flies. Then I'll poop on birds.

September 10th is a good day to die

I really haven't even had time to read about this. But from what I understand, there's a chance that the Large Hadron Collider might create a black hole when they turn it on. And by "a chance" I mean "none whatsoever". But it's not the science, it's the realistic fiction that excites me.

A black hole, people. A black hole. The mere fact there is a giant machine that could (not really) end the world is awesome to me. I am really excited to be alive right now. Particularly if the world is going to end tomorrow. Lends some immediacy to the moment, y'know?

Of course, I know what will really happen when they turn it on. I read it in a Tom Swift book once (and only once, I was strictly a Hardy Boys guy). It'll create a small black hole, and someone will get sucked into it at the same exact time their evil twin comes shooting out into our world. It's science fact.

And yes, I know about the Hadron Collider Rap. But you know what? People do this kind of shit every day now. Welcome to 2008. We've got rapping physicists and black hole machines:

Obviously I'm not blind [UPDATE]

Went for a check-up Friday, and now the shingles IS in my eye. I'm out of jokes. This sucks.

(When I get my eyepatch I'm gonna dress up like a pirate and call myself a copywritaarrr.)

Ok, NOW I'm out of jokes.

Obviously I'm not blind

If I were, I'd have said it by now. So there really wasn't much suspense. But this story does point out why I'd make an awesome superhero, so you should still read it.

I am surrounded by doctors. My wife is in her fourth year of med school. My brother- and sister-in-law are residents. My father is a cardiac anesthesiologist and my father-in-law is a retired family physician.

So when they finally told me "yes you have shingles" I knew what that meant. It meant "yes, there is a chance you'll be blind in one eye."

I swear to you the following were the first thoughts to go through my head:

If I go blind, I'm rocking an eye patch. I don't want a glass eye, or one eye that doesn't actually see stuff and points the wrong way. I'm totally getting an eye patch.

And I'm gonna redo my whole resume. Shit yeah, I'm going to format it so all the copy is on the left half of the page, and the whole right half is blank. Then at the top I'll put "Ben Levy: a writer with singular vision". I will totally stand out from the crowd.

Honestly, those were my first thoughts.

Which means I, like Spider-Man, crack wise at the sight of terrible, life-altering danger. We men of action see our darkest fear staring us in the face, and we make jokes out of it. I faced a life of eternal myopia, and I mocked it.

According to my father, I was just in denial.

That's ridiculous.

Mind you, while those thoughts were running through my head, my mouth was laughing. Not-hysterical-but-a-little-more-loudly-than-I-probably-should-be-under-the-circumstances-laughing. We men of action are entitled to such things.

A matter of semantics

My father is a doctor. He's actually an anesthesiologist (and I am actually able to spell that right on the firs try-EPIC WIN). Specifically, he's a cardiac anesthesiologist. This means he works on people whose hearts keep trying to give out on them. What I'm saying is, the man has seen some shit.

I once had a tiny cut on my forearm that became infected. Overnight, a lump grew that became the size of a baseball. When my arm doubled in size in an hour, I brought it to my father's attention. He looked at it and said: "I'm a little concerned."

Later, my family physician said: "It's a very serious infection. If it gets worse, you'll be calling me from the ER, because that's where you should go if the antibiotics don't work."

In other words, he too was "concerned".

What does all this have to do with my shingles? When I called my father the morning before I was diagnosed, the conversation went like this:

"So they think it might be shingles. I think it's ridiculous, but the rash is actually making my eyelid swollen, so I'm going to the dermatologist today."

"Go to the ophthalmologist."

"I've got an appointment with the-"

"Go to the ophthalmologist today. I would prefer you go there before the dermatologist. If it is shingles and it's near your eye, that's very serious. Do you understand?"

And in my head I'm going: 'that's very serious'...oh FUCK.

Herpes Zoster- it's not just for houses anymore

Herpes Zoster is the technical name of the disease commonly called Shingles. Ooooooh, I see what he did in the headline now, I get it. "Houses". Ha.

It's a disease categorized by stabbing pain, disgusting rashes, and occurring in old people.

Old people and me.

That's my head about four days in. Awesome. (Trust me ladies, I'm ugly. But I'm not thaaaat ugly.)

There's a lot that's gone on in the last week, and trying to cram all of it in a single post is pointless. Most of you have probably left after seeing that picture anyhow. For those who stayed, I shall relate one of the many stories to come out of this mess: the Dermatologist.

I'd had the stabbing pain for a week, the rash for three days, and finally went in to see a dermatologist. So the wife and I are in the office, and in walks this doctor. Must have been 6 feet tall, and looked about 22. Exuded confidence and charisma. I felt like asking him out on a date.

He shakes my hand, shakes the wife's hand, introduces himself and then says "So, you have Shingles."

That's it. No medical history taken. No questions asked. Didn't sit down, put on gloves, or ask me to take my glasses off. Strolls into the office and declares the diagnosis. In a tone that suggests it's so freakin obvious we must have come for another reason. Then, for good measure, he goes:

"Oh and you know about the [COMPLICATED MEDICAL NAME I DON'T REMEMBER] you have on your left cheek? Sometimes we find that those become cancerous. It's nothing serious, but you should have it checked once a year. Just keep an eye on it. Also, my super-hearing has detected your heart skips a beat every 79th second, I recommend seeing a cardiologist about that."

Ok, I made that last sentence up. But all the rest of it was true. This guy was like House before he busted up his leg and got all cranky at life. I was in and out of that office in 5 minutes.

Which was a good thing since -now that we'd diagnosed it- there was a chance the Shingles could make me blind. But that's for the next post.

DUN DUN DUUUUUUN!

Michael Phelps becomes G-d, confers invisibility on teamates

I respect what Phelps has done. He couldn't be a bigger deal if he'd walked across the pool for his last race. But it really blows for his team mates. There were some incredible guys there. Like Lochte, who medaled twice in less than an hour. And those other guys, who raced really well. You know, whatsarenames.

It's not Phelps' fault. According to what I've been drip-fed by the media, he's a fantastic guy. He once killed a hundred nazis barehanded and discovered the power of unassisted flight, just to save a cat up a tree. Or something like that.

And I'm not saying any of that is a lie, or MP isn't the new JC. I'm just saying it really blows to be the other guys on Swim Team USA. Whoever the hell they are.

NBC is trying to kill me

I must have been an axe-murderer in a former life. Maybe a child-molester. Clearly I've done something horrible. And Fate, not finding a suitable punishment for me in the present-day, has decided to destroy the last fond memories I have from my childhood.

Dear reader, I apologize for what you are about to see: a grown man's warm youthful memories, callously used as the kleenex for NBC's programming ejaculate.


What they have done is create the Anti-Rider. This is the perfect antithesis of all that was good about the show. I won't even discuss the plot here, for fear of spontaneously combusting through sheer hate. Suffice it to say there's deeper writing in teletubbies porn (never mind how I know, shut up). But look- NBC has graciously found a way to sum up this travesty for me:



KITT happens? KITT happens? Oh fuck you. Seriously, bring me the writer and/or studio executive who thought that was a good idea, and I will gouge their eyes out. With a blunt shovel. That I have dipped in whale urine. And set on fire.

The worst part about this is what they've done to KITT. I would have thought a car would be impervious to this sort of career-suicide. I mean, sure he did that stint with Hoff in Germany, but it could have been worse. It's not like he drove himself drunk. But clearly I underestimated the geniuses at NBC. They couldn't come up with a good catch-phrase, but they did discover a way to destroy the last shreds of dignity for another of my childhood icons:


What the fuck is that? Why does it have three dicks on its hood? Is it for an automotive bukkake scene? Because that would actually make more sense than the rest of the shit you've shoved up KITT's tailpipe. Did you have to chop it up worse than Joan Rivers's face? Even if it was based off a 1982 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, the real KITT would still be the baddest car on the road today. Oh you've got fucking flame decals? He's got g-damned LAZERS. Which he can use to set your car on actual fire, douchebag. This is not a common list of standard fucking features.

Now listen to me very carefully NBC. Very. VERY. Carefully. There is still a way to salvage all of this. It's not too late. If you follow my directions to the letter:


Do exactly what you're doing. Keep the PR machine rolling. Fuck it up even more, I don't care. Play the first episode. Then, 5 minutes in, have the real KITT burst onto the set, destroying everyone and everything for the next 40 minutes. Sets will burn from his flamethrowers, lazers will punch through the grips and cameramen. In the climactic ending, he'll launch into the air from a turbo boost, and pop the director's head under his tires as he lands. Then the camera will zoom in on that one, scrolling LED and he'll say. "You didn't really think I'd let them get away with this, did you Ben?"

Then he'd open the door, I'd jump in, and we'd ride off into the sunset. Dun-dada-dun. Dun-dada-dun. Dun-dadadaDA-Dunnnnnnn. Da-dun!

But if it doesn't happen exactly like that, every NBC exec who's responsible for this should be corn-holed by a rusty tailpipe.

Jane, stop this crazy thing!

This little guy has so much heart (and momentum), that ya gotta love him. I'd like to think he got right back on and tried again after the camera stopped rolling. In his honor (and for all those hamsters still behind the iron curtain) I made this:


Course, the original is red and yellow. I have no earthly idea why it appears here in shades of blue. Nicely done, blogger.

This is the first thing I've drawn in a while. I'm not satisfied with it in the least, and I may try to revisit it later. For now though, I'm just glad it came out semi-identifiable. Here's the original sketch, which in many ways I like better.

Laugh until you cry

This woman may be the finest comic of our time. The dialogue? Impeccable. I've rarely ever...what's that? Are you sure? Serious? Oh come on, no one's that-

Oh g-d. I'm ashamed to share the same species as this woman. In fact, I refuse to believe she is human. She's like an ape whose tail fell off that discovered a video camera near a sprinkler.

The best copy you've never seen -Vol 1

Below are samples of copy that have never seen the light of day. Pieces like this normally occur when I'm ass-deep in revisions for something that was "really important simply must be done by 6pm today oh but we really have the time to dick around with it for another three weeks so you'll be rewriting it everyday until then".

While they clearly display a level of frustration, they're not eligible for entry in TBCYNS unless they also meet the objectives they were written for and still speak to the target. In short, they must have been shown to the client.

1- a banner ad with an annoying wordcount (as if there's any other kind).

We can’t explain everything you can do in this application in just 75 chara

2- bonus entry: why the creatives never go out drinking with the legal dept.

This intro paragraph has been rewritten about fifty times. This is because it’s very difficult to find a way to suggest there are adult themes in this application without upsetting our legal department. (The legal department would like to inform you that at no time are these adult themes explicitly illustrated. But they are vigorously hinted at.)

I hope you enjoyed the first installment of "The best copy you've never seen". If people like it, there will be more. If people hate it, there will probably be more anyway. It's my blog, that's how it works.

And then he said...

"Waiter, there's a fly in my soup."

"Apologies, sir. My crotch was on fire."

This one's for all the gamers

Some people hang with friends or finger paint in their free time. What a waste. I say if you have time to kill, do something significant with it.

*I've rescued princesses. I've slain Dracula half a dozen times. I've saved the galaxy from aliens. I've also conquered it more times than I can count. I journeyed with four warriors of light, saving a land that will never remember our sacrifice. I defeated Dark Dragon (twice). I freed the realms of Hyrule, Ivalice, and Magvel. I've slain demons and devils from the darkest pits of hell, and singlehandedly prevented the zombie apocalypse. I've killed men for sport, and forced small animals to fight for my amusement. I've rescued queens and defeated emperors. I've commanded dragons, elves, and titans in battle. I've beaten my wife into unconsciousness, and laughed with maniacal glee while slaughtering fuzzy animals. I've halted the mad schemes of mad scientists a score of times. And I've eaten everything in sight and vomited it back out.

Does that sound like a waste of time to you?

*Super Mario Bros series, Castlevania, Metroid, Spaceward Ho!, Final Fantasy, Shining Sword 1 & 2, Zelda, Final Fantasy Tactics, Fire Emblem, Diablo, Resident Evil, Unreal Tournament 2004, Pokemon, Lego Star Wars, Heroes of Might and Magic 1-4, Wii Sports boxing, SuperSmash Bros (I hate pikachu so much), MegaMan, and a couple Kirby games. There's more, but I got tired of this post.

This is what I imagine Long Copy feels like

Oh my God. Oh my god they're reading. They're still reading! They're to the third 'reading' in the paragraph! Guys, guys come on. This is it. Someone's actually reading us. Holy shit. Holy -hey! Hey, "linoleum"! God help you if you don't stay on the end of that line. I swear on my kerning if there's a big blank space at the end of that line because you don't fit I'll write you out of this piece myself. Of course it matters! Everything matters! Oh my god they're halfway through. This is incredible. Is this getting too long? Quick, everyone be concise! Squish yourself if you have to. Don't look like you're doing it! God. The point. Where's the point? Oh my god did we lose the point? Ok, no it's here. Holy fuck do NOT scare me like that again. We are almost at the end we cannot afford to get lost now. Bring it together people!

Oh my god they read to the end. Oh...oh god. Oh, that was better than sex. Someone get me a cigarette. Seriously.

Your Zappos shipment will arrive 3 hours ago.

I think most people agree that Zappos.com is good shit. Possibly even the shit. And after reading this story, I've discovered they embody corporate soulfulness, a trait I did not even know existed prior to reading about it.

Yesterday, at 10:30pm, my wife ordered me a pair of crocs from Zappos. (Don't judge me, they're for walking the dog) Today, I came home from work to discover a box on my front step. There were crocs inside.

They were ordered at 10:30 last night. I got them in less than 24 hours.

This is not the first time I have bent space-time to my will. I am not above suggesting that my latent mutant powers might be revealing themselves at last.

Showing my Age

As birthdays go, after 21, most people agree there's not a whole lot to look forward to.

Still, it's an excuse to have a good time and maybe even score some gifts, so I count it as a good day. But this year, as I was registering the shiny new 8G iPod nano my parents insisted on getting me (they really had to twist my arm) something a little sad happened.

See, in the process of registering it asked how old I was, demographically speaking. I used to be 18-24. Now I'm 25-32.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have jumped a demographic.

Luckily, I have a shiny new 8G iPod to help cope with the pain.

The only thing stranger than fiction

We have a contract with Terminix to handle pest control at the house. I became quite friendly with the regular technician. There's a bit of a language barrier between us, but it's not too bad. On the day this particular exchange took place, he had just sprayed a portion of my house with fire-ant powder.

Me: Hey, is it ok for me to go back there? (Points to the laundry room that was just sprayed.)

Tech: Oh yes, fine. (He makes an unconcerned wave of his hand, despite the fact that perched atop his head is a full face air filter- something he's never worn before.)

Me: You sure? I can do my laundry, no problem?

Tech: Ah! This powder is....what is word...nuve?

Me: Nerve?

Tech: Yes! Nerves! So- to ant, it gets inside, yes? Kills very quickly, very deadly. But we are much bigger than ant. (A carefree wave of his hand, accompanied by an expression of unconcern.) For us, is no problem.

Me: Ok, so we're fine?

Tech: No, no. would take very much, have to be right in face.

Me: (still a little worried) ok....

Tech: Maybe, for little bit, you feel younger- (he gets an exaggerated sad face and pantomimes tears.)

Me: What?

Tech: Yes. Like when you were little.

Me: Huh? Sorry, I don't understand.

Tech: Is like- I am from Cuba. So, for me, when I (sniff sniff) too much -I am with it all day- I think back when I am little boy. To Cuba. (With a dramatic pose he clasps both hands to his heart) Ai, Cuba! But you- maybe is not Cuba. Maybe is French girl. (With a dramatic pose he clasps both hands to his heart) Ai, French girl! Yes?

Me: (Staring at him like he's got three heads.)

Tech: Because I am from Cuba, even though I am glad to be here, always a little (both hands to his heart again) to be gone, yes? But for you, is something else makes you feel like that. Maybe French girl, who knows?

Me: Oh! I'll feel depressed!

Tech: For maybe one hour, maybe littler.

Me: ...French girl?

Still not an emo blog

I got sick last week. Real sick. The kind of sick that robs food of its flavor and sleep of its restfulness. I was so sick I lost 5 lbs.

I'm all better now, though. And to prove it, I shall look at the silver lining in all of this.

I lost 5 lbs in a week. I am the envy of every female on the planet. Booyah!

My toothbrush is haunted.

Like the majority of the population, I have an electric toothbrush. I use it roughly twice a day, unless I feel really lazy around bedtime. It is a relatively simple device. It has only a single button on the handle. Press it once for faster, once for slower, and once for “off”.

This morning I finished brushing my teeth and pressed the button twice for slower/stop, while taking the brush out of my mouth. Toothpaste splattered my glasses. This is because the head of the brush never stopped spinning. Irritated, I pressed the button again. Still spinning. No speed change, and certainly no “off”. I tried a variety of things, such as pushing the button hard, pushing the button several times in quick succession, and pushing the button while really thinking about it. You know, cause maybe I wasn’t pressing it like I meant it.

I stood there a moment pondering the spinning brush. I could just leave it and go to work. But then the brush would win, and I felt the constant buzzing noise was beginning to take on a mocking tone. I tried holding the button down for 6 seconds to restart it. Still buzzing. I gave the device an exasperated glare. There were only two ways to properly affect any change in it. One was to press a button that was (I assume) stuck in the “pressed” position. The other was just to-

Hmmm. If Braun (makers of haunted toothbrushes) weren’t complete idiots, then when the brush has been placed on the stand to charge it will automatically….

Shut off. Genius Braun. Sheer genius. Except for the whole “malfunctioning device” part. Idiots.

Pitch black is the new green

Yesterday I attempted to turn on the bathroom light. There was a fizzy pop, then the room became only a little less dark. Two of the three bulbs over the mirror were dead.

I have replaced nearly every light in my house with eco-friendly twisty bulbs (didn't do it in the bathroom yet). Partially cause I like mother earth, and partially because the twistiness is a visual novelty to me. But as I stood there, in my towel, in the near-dark, I realized that eco-friendly lightbulbs are for pussies.

If you really want to save the environment, don't replace any bulbs in your house at all. Sure twisty bulbs save energy, but you know what saves even more? No bulbs, that's what. I took a shadowy shower that morning secure in the knowledge that not only had I won an environmental victory, but a victory for all lazy men as well. No more climbing up ladders to change lightbulbs. If your domestic partner doesn't like it, accuse them of not doing their part to save the environment. And while they're at it, they can get you a beer.

After all, the more you drink, the less energy the fridge has to expend cooling bottles.

Great News! I'm not dead!

I have been writing my ass off recently. I mean, not here obviously. But other places. Like at work.

Which I shall go to now.

To write.

Bye.

Shitty Comic Contract Make Hulk Smash!

TokyoPop is possibly the biggest manga publisher in the US. Evidently, they're also evil.

It's been covered quite well by this gentleman here, so I won't attempt to go over it again. Below is my cliffs notes version:

• TP is graciously allowing anyone the chance to get their comic published. To start, just provide them with a fully finished 24-36 pg comic. It's that (cough cough) easy.
• You just have to sign their contract, which promises they'll pay you if they like your work.
• If you make the edits they request.
• If you agree that it's cool for them to leave your name off the credits.
• If you sacrifice the ability to control the future story arc.
• If you agree not to take any profits from merchandising or outside sales.
• If you relinquish all rights to your characters forever.

And all this is written in the tone of an asshat. If you don't know what that tone is, click the link above. It's contained therein.

But its all good. They'll pay you a cool $20/page for the privilege. I thought the deal the Writer's Guild agreed to was great, but this? This is just charity. Pure and simple.

Oh and that right there? That was sarcasm.

Catch the Wind: A Presentation by Beau Bergeron

Pretty much since college, I've been very lucky to be surrounded by incredible people. People who never seem to stop moving, whose creativity and optimism are so much a part of who they are that you become inspired just by standing next to them.

Beau Bergeron is one of those people. He made this for a job interview, and projected the whole thing on his shirt. It is awesome. You should watch it.

The Ballad of Sir Jurie

Place not ye faith in Hippocrates,
poor healer at best twas he,
I say to you sir,
tis no better cure,
Than that served by great Sir Jurie.
-From The Ballad of Sir Jurie

In my quest to try new things and break out of my creative comfort zone, I recently grabbed a Mini Munny. I discovered Kid Robot when I was interning with these people in NYC. There was at least one collectible, blind-boxed, designer-painted vinyl figurine on every desk. It was awesome.


I wussed out on buying a DIY vinyl for a few months, until a couple members of the old ICG crew picked them up. I decided it was high time I reminded myself why I'm not an Art Director.


I picked out a white MM, and was overjoyed to discover my "mystery accessory" was a bat. I immediately scrapped the lava monster design I'd been thinking of (I may do it later) and started thinking about what I could do with a Louisville Slugger.


I hate baseball, so making a ball player was out. I briefly considered painting him to look like a proctologist. But I would have had to make a white lab coat, and I really didn't want to sew anything. Eventually, I thought it would be entertaining to make a knight, with a bat instead of a sword. When it came time to the name, I guess I was still on that doctor kick though, and I dubbed the little goof "Sir Jurie".


I learned a couple of things:

1) Sharpies are not your friends. Using them is a one-way ticket to Smearsville. Population: you.

2) If you don't paint well on paper, there's no reason to believe you're DaVinci on vinyl. My spray-painting went surprisingly well (I haven't touched a can since college). The paint markers? Not so much.

3) Munnys are theives. I was excited cause a MM is only 10 bucks. Then I bought a can of metallic spray paint, two paint markers and a can of fixative. All in all, the shiny little bastard put me out about $25. A lot of this stuff I'll use over, but I was foolishly thinking I'd be done with just the metallic paint and a six-pac of sharpies. (See item 1)


Overall, he ain't bad for my first attempt. I kept it simple. After I had so much trouble just painting the black and brown, I decided to skip highlights and shadows. The metallic base is really what makes it, so I didn't want to give myself any more excuses to screw it up. I ended up changing the visor at the last minute because I didn't have faith I'd be able to do the sketch justice. Then I changed it again when I totally fucked up the alternative. But I am really happy with the "tail hatch". That and "X-Calibur" crack me up.

Pure Genius

Thanks mostly to the brilliance of Isaac Pagan, our IKEA genius ads are up on Ads of the World.

You can find them here.

And of course, they're always here.

Today's childhood sucks.

You kids today, think ya got it all. Well, maybe ya'll have cellular phones tucked into ya diapers, but there's one thing you don't have: real toys in your cereal. Let Uncle Benny tell ya what it was like in the good ol' days.

Back in the day, all the cereal boxes had prizes inside. Real prizes, not crap about "send in 300 boxtops and we might give ya sumthin in 6 weeks". We didn't wait six friggin weeks! No sir, if there was a prize you got it the day you opened the box. A physical plastic toy, hand-glued and painted by poorly fed orientals only a few years younger than you were.

I just bought a box o' Cheerios. The box said there was a SPEED RACER TURBO CAR INSIDE! I opened the box, and here's what I found:


Right from the start I can tell- childhood today sucks. Back in 91', I once opened a box o' cereal and got a painted figure o' Ducktales. That masterpiece of plastic was like a tiny version o' Michaelangelo's David that was then painted by DaVinci.

But whaddya kids get? A single color piece o' plastic. Inside the first bag, it's shrink wrapped with- I still can't believe it- directions.


In my day, cereal toys was awesome cause they was free. Mom paid for it, the Chinese built it, all you had to do was play with it. That's how it was in my day. You kids have it that good? No, your toys today come with stickers. Like this:


I don't care if you can hire pirates to download your free iPods off the interwebs, today's childhood sucks.

My favorite part is how the stickers are on the flip side of the directions. So ya can't look at both at once unless you have a sticker stuck to your sweaty little sausage finger, losing all it's stickiness as you try and figure out where the hell it goes on your car. Don'tcha look at me like that, ya know I'm right.

If it was just that the stickers didn't stick, I coulda understood. If it was just that the patterns didn't line up no good, well, that's how it was in the old days too. And if the wind up motor got stuck and it barely moved, I mighta said "yeah, these kids today got it pretty good". All that stuff is tradition. Builds character.

Then THIS happened:


I know I put the sticker on right. It's the only way it fits, and I checked them directions twice. But I don't know if I should complain, cause that's exactly how it looks on the box:


In my day, they had the decency to put in a little effort and lie to you about it. I guess they just can't spend the trouble on youngsters these days. Makes ya wonder who won the war.

Now here comes the icing on the cake. Them Hollywood advertising people can't even be bothered to put their own logo on the toy. No, they gotta have you do that for them:


I don't know how much them child-laborers get fed these days, but it's too much.

Look, I know you kids think your life is great. You've got that free porn you can load down whenever you want, and all the phones have texturing now. But let me tell ya sumthin: If ya ain't got real toys in ya cereal, ya'll got nuthin.

My advice? Don't spend all your efforts putting upside-down stickers right-side up on plastic pieces o' crap. Start working on a time machine and set it for 1985. Cause today's childhood sucks.

An Open Letter to George Lucas

Dear George,

If you F*CK up the new Indy Movie like you did the first three Star Wars movies, I hope an army of Fedora-wearing Ewoks pee on your lawn.

Love, Me.

Inspired by this news.

101 Words of Awesome, daily.

It was a brilliant idea. Brilliant.

He'd create stories of exactly 101 words each, written daily. Putting down exactly 101 words was no great chore, the hard part would be in the telling. Something short, but still sublime and wonderful. He’d label them as “fiction for the attention-deprived”. Most would be self-contained, but a few might be ongoing tales. It was practically made for the blog format. And if it did exceptionally well, the stories could even be sold in book format.

It was quite a shame someone beat him to it.

At least the post about it was only 101.

Faster than a speeding neuron

I found this article on Wired interesting. It basically says if you read too fast, your brain can't process the words. That may seem basic, but let me explain.

I believe in super powers. I just don't think these powers make really cool noises, or surround you with colorful auras when used. Everyone knows somebody who seems to have extraordinary abilities. That guy who never seems to get hurt no matter how hard he gets hit. Or that girl who eats as much as she wants and still has a (ahem) "bangin" body. I would call those super powers. They're tiny genetic mutations that give people an advantage in a specific area. I had a whole digression here, but I'll save it for another post.

My super power is speed-reading. For years I've been able to tear through books at an average of 80-100 pages an hour. And for months afterward, my memory of what I've read is near photographic. I used to destroy the curve in my English classes. Not only was I reading the book instead of the cliffs notes, I could read the entire novel in the time allotted for the first three chapters, and still answer the questions on each test thereafter with perfect accuracy. Side note: I was almost universally despised by the students in my English classes.

But while I defy the scientific facts presented in Wired, there is one side-effect I've noticed. It's very strange, and I wonder if anyone else out there has ever experienced it. If I read a book in a single sitting (something that is not uncommon), I tend to finish the book feeling as though I've missed something. I've written the following paragraph three times in an attempt to explain it properly, so here we go.

Ok, remember that scene in the Matrix where Neo gets crap downloaded straight into his head? Then he sits up and goes "I know Kung Fu". I think it's sort of like that. I sudenly discover my brain now holds an entire story, a whole cast of characters that I never knew about before. But at the same time, I haven't fully explored them. It's like picking through my brain and discovering I knew stuff I didn't know I knew.

If this sounds confusing, believe me, it is.

It's such an irritating sensation that I forced myself to read Patrick Rothfuss's Name of the Wind over a period of three days. The effort it took to put that book down nearly killed me, but it was worth it. I've discovered that if I break for about an hour, my mind can catch up, and I'm spared that disorientation at the end of the book. Anyone else have any experiences like this? In the meantime, I'll be by the phone, waiting for Stan Lee to call with my movie offer.

Corrupting the minds of our youth

In college, I knew a lot of people who wanted to be teachers. I had always considered teaching a difficult profession. But I had never before considered how nearly impossible it is to be a GOOD teacher. I remember one of my friends- a guy- telling me: "In the class I teach, I have an 11-yr old girl who lives with her single mother. She's never met her father, and is an only child. I'm not just her teacher, I'm the only adult male role-model in her life."

Let's just let that one sink in a bit.

Why am I waxing philosophic about education? Last night I covered for my CD in his "digital stew" (ie-interactive concepting) class. That's right. I held the power of life and death in my hands. Or at least the attendance sheet.

I was very conscious of a couple facts going in. First, I love to hear myself talk. So I had to make sure I knew when to shut up. Second, I think I'm funny. This belief is not universally shared (just ask my wife) so I had to watch the jokes. Third, I had to prove I belonged on the other side of the desk. See, 6 months ago, I graduated from MAS. I'm not so egotistical as to believe that 180 days "in the real world" had suddenly made me better than anyone in school. So I felt like I had to prove I was worthy of the desk I'd be temporarily sitting on (I hate chairs).

Truthfully, none of this probably mattered. I was a sub, for one thing. For another, I don't think I can actually ruin these people's lives in a single class. I would need at least two for that. But I always wanted to try teaching. And since I'm an egotist, I always felt the world could benefit from my wisdom, and that I'd be rather good at dispensing it.

I am definitely not a GOOD teacher. But if last night was any indication, I could be worse. Getting bored students to talk is damn near impossible. I was about to poke them with electric cattle prods just to prove they were still breathing. I looked like an idiot on three separate occasions (that I'm aware of) by mixing up words and failing to find a particular website I was citing as an example of something.

The good news is, I'm halfway decent about picking apart the good and the bad in work. Even more important, I'm halfway decent at expressing those parts verbally. It was great to sit there and be able to say "this was good, but here's how you can make it better" and then watch the lights go on behind people's eyes. Oh my g-d. They got it. I know they did, I just saw dawning comprehension. Holy shit, that one's nodding! They're nodding! They get it and agree with me!

Did I say that was great? That was awesome. I suspect this is what parents feel like.

There was one surprise to the whole evening. I'm not the asshole I thought I'd be. I imagined myself ripping into every student who did sub-par work, who didn't care, who was going to graduate and go abso-fucking-lutely nowhere because- while they might have the talent- they lacked the drive. I thought I'd verbally shred those students because when I was in school, they were wasting my time. And I would pray for the day a teacher would call them out on it.

I saw a few of those students last night. And I could have shredded them. With my vocabulary and lung capacity, I could have made them cry and wet themselves. But you know what? Why waste the time? I gave them the attention their work deserved (30 seconds of criticism), I drew what lessons I could for the class from the examples they had, and I told them to sit down. Why should I go to the effort of working if they weren't? Save my energy for the students who spent theirs.

Which was why, when I was finished with the class, I told them they could go early. But if anyone wanted to stick around, I'd go over whatever work they wanted to show me one-on-one. I took a 15 minute break, and returned to find 3 students waiting for me.

Three students that wanted to make an effort. Three students that were willing to put off the drinking and put in the energy. Three students who were under the (probably mistaken) impression I knew something worth sharing with them.

I'm really proud of that.

According to Burn Alter Ego, I am now "The Man"

Thus proving this is the best and most accurate Alter Ego Facebook app ever.

UPDATE: How do you get to be "The Man" you ask? Like this:


Best. Burn Pic. Ever.

No talk, watch

This is not an invitation to start 20 questions

I probably won't be updating as often for a while. I've started work on a side project. It involves writing, of a sort I've never done before. I'm really very excited. I'm also not interested in telling too many people about it, because it would be much cooler to just show you all a finished product instead.

Or at least a half-competent rough draft. Honestly, the way I shoot my mouth off it'll be a minor miracle if the whole world doesn't know every intimate detail by next Tuesday.

And now I'm off to keep working on the mystery project that I'm not telling you about. Yet.

Poop, the other dark chocolate

I have been dog-sitting my dog-in-law for the last week and a half. Since the wife and I can't afford a dog of our own right now, we're quite happy to watch "Libby". She's a beagle, an excellent canine archetype. And since she's 11, she's far too old to be poorly behaved. There's only one problem.

This dog eats poop.

This 11 yr old, arthritic, shit-hunting hound will drag me 2 blocks in search of scat. It's like a delicacy to her. No doubt in that peach-pit sized dog brain there's an entire registry of colors and consistencies of various defecation. "Hmmm...almondy, with a texture not unlike a whipped mouse... aged perhaps two days, and... yes I detect a hint of IAMs."

At least, that's what I assume she's telling me every time she woof's when I drag her away from some "after dinner" delight.

Burn Alter Ego: Update

Just thought I'd show how the app progresses. For those who don't remember, I looked like this before. I've added a framed jersey to the back wall and a camera to the shelf. They'd both be easier to see if I collapsed the menu fully, but I'm rather proud of my reputation. "Weekend Warrior". The weekend IS my job.

Oh yeah, and I've lost my pants. Freaking awesome.

Coming Clean

When I was younger (like 10), I took forever in the shower. We're talking 60+ minutes, easy. Al Gore once came to my house to discuss an entire rainforest I'd killed due to my excessive water use.

As I got older, my shower time grew shorter. But I'm still conscious of the time I spend showering, particularly when I'm running late.

That brings us to one particular morning last month. I was running behind schedule. Trying to gauge how much time I had, I checked my clock- 8:23. I set myself the goal of being done by 8:30. One hasty lather-rinse-repeat cycle later, I jumped out of the shower and checked the same clock again- 8:21.

There is only one sane conclusion: I showered so fast I went backward in time.

I'll leave you all to consider that. I'm about to go end Nazi Germany before it ever happened. If all goes well, my dripping wet physique and this little rubber ducky will be the last thing baby Hitler ever sees.

A thousand words now worth a picture.

This was a lot cooler when I thought I could get it to work on my blog. I can't though. I suspect it has to do with the CSS. But frankly, the people who created this are waaaay smarter than I am, so I'm not about to screw with it.

Essentially, this trick uses technology (or "magic") to alter text so that when you highlight it, it shows colors instead of letters. We can now see exactly how many words a given picture is worth. Only catch is, since each letter equals one square of color, unless you scroll over an entire copy of War and Peace, the image will appear pixelated. Of course, if you ask me, that just means you have to use it in an ad for geeks or gamers. Don't you agree, 8-bit Mario screenshot?

I'm determined to use this. So when you see this shit in a banner ad, you'll know it was me what put it there.

The coolest thing I've seen in the last decade.

Click and drag to change your view in this 360 degree streaming video.

I saw this video, and I started cursing out loud while sitting at my monitor, at work. Then I heard other people cursing too, and I knew they had just checked their email.

UPDATE: For some reason, when viewed on my pre-intel G5, this video killed my mac. If that happens to you, or if you want more examples, visit the company's site instead.

Burn Alter Ego Facebook App: I'm not just pimping it cause they pay me to

There is a new Facebook application out. It's called Burn Alter Ego and you should download it.

Remember the early days of Facebook? You would meet a person, they'd be your friend. You'd stalk them by trolling through their entire history of wall postings and - oh hey! There's Jim. I didn't know this friend knew Jim. I haven't talked to Jim in ages. I should make Jim my friend.


That was an awesome feeling. You were part of an extended network of people all "six degrees of separation" style. But after a while- normally once you leave college- it stops working that way. You make one friend here or there. Maybe two at a time. And you don't know those other people they're friends with. And just asking random people to befriend you on Facebook is plain creepy. Really quickly, your network growth slows to a crawl.

This Burn app, it starts your network growing again. You can choose to "go out" for the night and meet strangers. Essentially, you're randomly paired with another Facebook user who has the app. Once that happens, they appear on your Burn network. You can then poke them or ask them to be your friend or go out with them again tomorrow (non-randomly this time). But now you two have a connection- you've both "gone out" with each other through the app. Now you have a reason to be friends.


"Ben", you're saying "this is retarded. I didn't 'go out' with anyone. This guy and I both pressed buttons, and then we got some story, and a goofy picture of our avatars together."


You're right, anonymous blog voice. That's all you did. And all you know about each other is what your avatars and rooms look like. And that both of you didn't really go out with each other to a club that didn't exist where you didn't get drunk and have a great time. But you know what? Sometimes that's all it takes.

Two days ago, someone named Martina went out with me. I have no earthly idea who Martina is. We never met before. We only virtually went out once, but I am intensely curious about her. I really hope she becomes my friend.

If that's not enough reason to download this app, here are a few more: it's one of the first flash-based apps ever. It's gorgeous. It's immersive. And I wrote the copy for it. Download it now.