Who named this?

I know it was the Earl of Sandwich, but who decided that the word "sandwich" should stick? That was a concious effort. I mean, there are so many better ways to name things, and I just feel like it's a cop-out to pick some jagoff's last name (or landed title in this case) and just call it a day when some mahfuck decides to squeeze together some of Duke of Prosciutto's lunchmeat between two slices of Lord Pumpernickel's bread. Think about it -- what if that glass of water was named after Sir Cedric Water? Or, what if that wall you have your cool blacklight posters on was originally named after Count Eadweard of Wall? I want descriptive nouns from now on, not bullshit proper names of long-dead syphillitic barons from Middle England. Latin, Greek, Sumerian -- linguistically, it's all a step up.

What this nomenclature issue really relates to is the tremendous amount of anxiety related to a promotion I'm about to receive at work, and how that plays into all my paternal issues in terms of being a manager of men, and the responsibility for their professional well-being and general temperament in the workplace.

I'm not cut out for this! I had a really poor father figure for a father growing up, and it's a snakebitten situation asking me to graduate to a position of authority, when I have no template for how to conduct myself in such a role. I'm so afraid of transmitting all my character flaws as a person onto my fellow workers -- friends -- for/to whom I'm responsible.

This is the same ball of wax I've dealt with in thinking about my potential as a parent... a poor parent, which I most certainly would be. Which is why I'm standing next to the microwave at gonad-level as I type this, in hopes of a quick-and-easy sterilization.

A new appreciation for

Matthew Perry. Who the fuck knew that Chandler Bing could act?

Aaron Sorkin's "Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip" is currently rocking the shit in the Caesarian Section, and the former "Friend" has much to do with that. He's sharp, smart, quick, and forceful -- a far cry from the customary Perry personae of indecision, weak-willedness, and cowardice. I'm liking this new thing a lot.

The rest of the show has a lot to recommend it as well. I assume that it'll be the breakout Fall ’06 hit, and deservedly so. Sorkin is back in his idiom of show business, a topic he's better suited to tackle rather than politics. The only hitch so far in the progress of the show is that Sorkin is not that great a comedy writer. He creates sturdy characters with believable personalities, but he has a tendency to go deep, deep... DEEP into earnestness with them all. And that is starting to rear its head on "Studio 60." The Sarah Paulson character gets into lip-biting earnestness when conversing with Perry about things she believes in, as does Perry himself -- but I can't slam Chandler Bing or Paulson for that. It's coming out of Sorkin's pen.

So Aaron, bubbaleh, back off the earnestness and enjoy your dark showbiz demesne of comedy, clubs, drugs, sex, and glamour -- we don't want "West Wing" set on Ivar.

No danger to Man

Lessee... no fingers lost. No drill holes in lower extremities. No dental damage via errant power tool. Christmas is still on, and the pope still shits in the woods.

Hosannah -- the Salad was able to install a pair of hooks in the so-called "liquor closet" for his shwife's hat- and bag-hanging purposes.

Things of this nature are referred to "handyman's tasks," insofar as they only require hands. Which I have -- three of them, in fact. As a victim of a terrible congenital birth defect, I'm required by societal decorum to sheathe the superfluous, constantly-grasping manum in an empty Pringles tube -- nature's counter to an overgrabby hand.

That guy who spends all morning trying to come up with that clever line

To self, in the morning, while shaving...

Okay, yesterday, I walked in there and quoted from "Caddyshack"... or was it from "Blazing Saddles"? No, it was "Saddles" -- I walked in and said "Where're all the white women at?" Maybe I can use "Caddyshack" today. Maybe I'll say, "Pool... or pond. Pond'd be good for you." That'd be funny. Maybe I should say that. But they'll all be expecting that.

To self, in the car while driving downtown...

Or... OR... I can always go "Office Space" on them. "PC Load letter? What the fuck does that mean?" People always love that. Everyone's seen that movie a thousand times already, though. Even I'm sick of it at this point. Back to basics... back to basics. "NO SOUP FOR YOU!" "No soup..." I don't think so. Too 1994. Wednesday should earn a deeper-dig than "Seinfeld."

To self, on the way back to car after stopping for coffee...

What if I just lay some funny voices down? What if I do the Clintonesque thumb-point -- "Good jobs, for good Americans." Wait! I got it! "NAHT GAHN DAH IT!" Carvey's Bush always kills.

To self, while locking up car and proceeding into office...

"Spock... Spock! KHANNN!" No, everyone's just watched that Comedy Central Roast... too obvious. Been a while since I broke out a little Christopher Walken. Close... close... warmer... Dennis Hopper! "Pop quiz, hotshot!" No one will see that coming!

To crowd, walking into the morning conference with west coast sales reps...

"SEIZE THE DAY! SEIZE THE DAY!... Seize... the... remember? From 'Dead Poets Society' ?" [beat] "Anyone? 'Bueller?' Anyone?" [beat] "Hmm... 'So solly!' 'So solly!' 'Velly solly!' "

I should write something

IshouldwritesomethingIshouldwritesomething
IshouldwritesomethingIshouldwritesomething
IshouldwritesomethingIshouldwritesomething
IshouldwritesomethingIshouldwritesomething
IshouldwritesomethingIshouldwritesomething
IshouldwritesomethingIshouldwritesomething
IshouldwritesomethingIshouldwritesomething
Ishouldwritesomething.

There.

...this fucking job...

False step

I'd love to help you, but as you can see, I seem to be having a little trouble with my foot here. It's caught in this antiquated, painful apparatus. Boy, it hurts like the deuce, I can assure you of that.

Can't seem to budge this bastard. I'm kinda stuck here.

I have to admit, it's a pretty impressive device -- it looks very expensive. State of the art technology, maybe, 30 years ago. And who leaves bear traps out anyway? Ah, that's neither here nor there.

So, while I'm feeling my bones grind to splinters and the vital fluids wash out of my body, I can only think about my diminished mobility and the inability to express myself adequately at this point in time. Boy, there are so many things in the world I would love to be doing, and as exciting as this rusty, iron trap is, stepping onto the contact plate was not one of those things; at least, not when I left the house this morning.

But, maybe I should be thankful for what the beartrap is giving me -- stability. I am assured of one constant place in the world, a little niche for me and my rapidly en-blue-ing extremity. Not a lot of people can boast that kind of advantage. And it's all for me.

So, I'll just be over here, sitting in the pine needles, going dizzy as I watch hikers and raccoons go by. At least I think those are raccoons -- truth be told, I'm getting kinda loopy. You don't have to worry about how this whole situation is going, because I think it's pretty obvious-looking.

I'm America's NEW Mayor!

Hello, I'm Michael Bloomberg, the current mayor of New York City and future "America's Mayor," as soon as Rudolph Giuliani does something stupid to abdicate that title. I'm a man of many convictions and contradictions, and I'd like to leave a lasting national legacy outside of naked capitalistic greed.

I'm here to talk to you today about my efforts to fight poverty in New York with a flotilla of tax credits and rewards for lower-income families.

Isn't that nice?

Perhaps while the poor of this great city is out buying contaminated spinach with the five actual dollars they'll receive from this bonus plan, they won't notice that I've enabled the sale of every last remaining square foot of sallow earth in the city limits for development as ultra-luxe condos and apartments. I figure it was the least I could do for progress in the city. I owe a huge debt to the many Patrick Bateman-esque anony-drones of the world who sweep into New York from cultureless enclaves and wash out the natural character of the place. I guess, sorta like me.

Enjoy the spinach, suckers!

Public health hysteria

If there was an outbreak of E.Coli bacteria in little Swedish Fish candies like there's been in spinach since last week, Uncle Salad would be fucked.

Apples, in a cardboard box

Hi! I'm your local FreshDirect deliverydude! I'm the guy who wakes you up at 7 a.m. on a Wednesday morning by idling outside of your building for 35 minutes at a clip, all the while my stinky truck is chugging out inky, black diesel smoke.

I'm sure you want to get on board with the newest, hippest thing there is going with food service in New York: Balducci's and Zabar's are either too crowded or too inconvenient to get to, but you don't want to sacrifice access to twenty-dollar cheeses and four-dollar apples. What else is there to do?

Well, you can order a whole bunch of overpriced produce over the "Web" and have it delivered right to your door! There's no reason to exit your apartment ever, unless you're looking for a cab to take you to your office at Salomon Smith Barney, or your Jaguar to take you out to Amagansett. Tired of "ethnic" clerks? We are too!

But -- what's the best part of our service, aside from the needlessly-wasted fossil fuels and solipsistic reinforcement? The paper! That's right, we use a ludicrous amount of cardboard to individually wrap each item you receive. Sound wasteful? It is! Since you're more than worth the value of 6,ooo lowly human beings, don't you think you're entitled to waste valuable resources on that same scale?

Signs point to...

Look, "Authority Figures," you have no right to go around telling me that I have to keep my pecker under wraps on the public's beaches. I gotta let it all hang out there, Monsieur Gendarmes! This kind of set-up is too sweet to keep hidden under denim all day long. I'm doing a service for all the other beachgoers and weekenders. When was the last time the fascist vichy government did anything to benefit my fellow citizens?

This belongs to us -- the people! When Rousseau, Locke, Paine, and Hobbes all scribbled their influential documents some four hundred years ago or whatever, they didn't see any curbs on mankind's behavior. They sky's the limit, bitches. And I plan to go right there.

So, if'n y'all see me and my junk on the white sandy Atlantic beach, you don't have to thank me. Just give me a thumbs up, a sign that you know we've all advanced the cause together, a few notches.

Awkward public nudity first, then Darfur. Thou art our quarry.

Papal screwhead

Okay, there's a ton of noise about what the placeholder pope Benedict, a.k.a. Joseph Ratslinger, said this week to infuriate Islam:

"Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread the faith by the sword, he preached."

What about what the geriatric pope said to piss off your Uncle Salad?

"The world’s profoundly religious cultures see this exclusion from the divine, from the universality of reason as an attack on their most profound convictions .... A reason which is deaf to the divine and which relegates religion into the realm of subcultures is incapable of entering into the dialogue of cultures."

I get it -- Benedict's fondest hope for humanity is that it embraces faith as a means of dealing with one another. Sounds reasonable to me. I was just thinking what the planet Earth needs right now is people sealing themselves off from reason and relying on dogma, as opposed to observing shifting currents and employing facts as their guide. We're so much better off investing in archaic belief systems that don't acknowledge things like homosexuality, shellfish, and birth control, as opposed to the secular human interaction which addresses what actually propitiates human civilization.

I'm on board.

By the way, did the Roman Catholics have to pick a Hitler Youth as the pope? C'mon, there were SO MANY other non-former-fascist choices, and yet they went with the draconian ex-Nazi.

If I'm not happy, no one will be!

Look at me! Do I look happy? Well, I'm not! And if I'm not happy -- no one is going to be, either!

Gimme that! I want it! That thing over there -- that's mine! You can't have it! If you're happy, then my good time is ruined. It only works if I have things that you don't.

This is mine! You'll never even get to sniff it! Not a sniff! If you're having a good time, I can't be! Don't you get it?

If I'm not happy, no one is! I'm going to walk all over your good time with my little powdery feet until it spoiled. I won't rest until you're pouting. Then -- I'll be smiling!

Boring, but important

It's shit like this that makes me lose faith in our government -- Mohammed ElBaradei and the IAEA have concluded quite impartially that Iran has little to threaten us with in a nuclear sense, as their atomic program is churning out only enough material for reactor fuel, not weapons.

Leave it to our House of Reps to overblow the rhetorical case against Iran, because we certainly would hate to concede fact to them at this point. Yes, Iran looks terrible for supporting Hezbollah in the Israel tilt, but let's call a spade a spade here -- Iran is as much of a threat outside its borders as Iraq was.

Brothers

I had a dream last night where I was attending a dinner with Charlie Sheen. I remembered reading recently that Emilio Estevez had a child (which is actually true), so I congratulated Charlie on becoming an uncle. Hie eyes opened wide and his mouth went flat. He was angry -- fuming.

"What did I tell you? WHAT DID I TELL YOU! Don't ever mention my brother! Ever!"

He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and stewed. And I felt stupid.

Duffer

Oh, you should've seen the way I was hitting the ball last weekend! I started off on the blue tee, and I crushed the fucking ball down the fairway using my three-wood. I was only a five-iron away from the hole, and I dropped it into the cup in three strokes. The next whole was a fucking par-three dogleg, with a sandtrap three-hundred yards down the fairway. I slice the ball off the tee and drive it right into the sand, dammit. I knew that was going to happen. So I'm sitting in the sand and I take my wedge out, thinking I'll pitch that fucker onto the green -- but after two chops, I'm just pushing sand around. So, five holes go by, and I'm shooting the worst round of my life. I mean, it started out well, but the fucking ball keeps landing in the salad. At one point, I'm nearly standing on top of a dead squirrel to chip my fucking ball out from between two trees -- the way the ball was going, I'd be lucky to finish 18 holes by sunset. But then I get this one hole that's set beyond a water hazard, and I smack the ball clear over the water -- at least 250 yards, and I got it with my three-iron. I was practically in a position to just tap it into the cup with as close as I got it to the pin. I tell you, right at that point, the whole round changed because my short game picked right up and....

Heavy traffic

The wi-fi and I were stuck in traffic the other day. Whilst zipping in and out of lanes, I had the occasion to employ profanities against some of my fellow motorists. One such driver was taking his sweet-ass time in the middle lane, so I had to pass him dramatically. Our story begins here:

Me: YOU FUCKING MUTT! GET OUTTA OF MY LANE!

Her: What is that?

Me: What is what?

Her: Is that some kind of racial insult?

Me: What?

Her: "Mutt" -- a racial thing?

Me: No! I would never call someone out on a race basis. Please!

Her: OK, just wondering.

Me: Didn't you ever see "Goodfellas"? Joe Pesci runs around the movie calling people "mutts." Y'know, "You fuckin' mutt! You stumblin', mutterin' prick, ya!"

Her: I don't really remember.

[beat]

Me: OK, y'see that guy there? In the blue Honda?

Her: Yeah?

Me: YOU WHITE BASTARD! GET OUTTA MY LANE!

Overheard

This weekend, on public transportation heading back into New York City:

"There are some Lithuanians I can do without."

CBS Evening News

So, Katie Couric is looking to viewers for suggestions how to sign off the P.M. newscast? I have two:

"White power!"

or

"I'm bigger than the news."

Solidarnosc!

Further proving that the partner du domestic and I were years ahead of our time, this spicy little item comes down the pike: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie will not get hitched until the gays can follow suit.

"Angie and I will consider tying the knot when everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able," Pitt says, proving that he is both tonsorially and morally superior to most people.

I like to think that he was inspired by our nuptials. Next up: Will Smith and Jada Pinkett will start cutting up the plastic rings on their six-packs of Fresca because we suggested it.

Austrian real estate

Natascha Kampusch, the 18-year-old Austrian girl at the center of the creepy kidnapper story, just gave her first interview with German TV about the travail, and among the details she discussed was the 65-foot windowless cellar she spent the last eight years in at the hands of Teutonic loonie Wolfgang Priklopil.

I hate to be the first to point this out, but if that dank prison had been located on the island of Manhattan it would have had a substantial dollar value attached to it as either a co-op or a luxury rental. Some douschebag developer would get Philippe Starck to design concrete grotto chic furnishings -- maybe a little spray-paint mandala, that kind of thing -- and then toss it out into the world and wait for Ethan Hawke to bite.

What's more, that girl lived rent-free for eight years; she was also unemployed, to boot. Can you imagine that kind of cushy free-ride? It's time to rejoin society, Inga -- you need to learn about a little thing we like to call "das free market."

The Official A.C.S. "Jokey Hour"

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Well, how would the chicken even be aware of the road as a differentiation in the environment, as a lifeform with a rudimentary intelligence? There's every reason to suspect that the chicken would move purely on the basis on instinct and perhaps even a soupçon of reasoning, but there would in no way be a concerted identification of the "road" as a regarded object, per se, to said fowl.

* * * *

What did the one squash say to the other squash in church?

Oh my gourd!

Whiz-man

I'm the whiz-man! You know, like whiz-kid? Except older! The whiz-man! Or maybe whiz-guy.

The whiz-kid was precocious and irrepressible. Oh, that lil' whizz-kid! What a scamp! What an urchin! The whiz-man, however, is just old and spent. Things aren't as taut and effortless as they used to be for the whiz-guy.

The whiz-kid used to crash through boundaries and spring right back to his feet if knocked on his ass. The whiz-guy now just hits the ground with a thud and gets demoralized. The whiz-kid could convince people of his skill and ability through legerdemain and willpower. The whiz-guy just wants to go home; he's tired of pressure and always having to prove himself. The whiz-guy wants a burger.

The whiz-kid flew out of the hopper, all full of piss and vinegar, never taking "no" for an answer. The whiz-guy feels disenchanted and abandoned, left to lord over a worthless Flying Dutchman.

The whiz-kid used to run on fear, adrenaline, and anxiety. The whiz-guy is running on bitterness and exhaustion.

Empowered

As a modern woman, I don't take my choices lightly. There's a lot of chi-chi fluff out there which serves to debase me as a female, all the more reason to be vigilant throughout the day. That's why I've elected to only associate myself with things that empower me.

For instance, I refuse to touch any brand of chocolate confection aside from Chick Chocolates. Why? Well, because they take the time to understand what kind of chocolate I need as a modern, empowered woman.

Take their word for it:

For women, chocolate is more than just something to eat. We love, crave, enjoy, inhale and obsess about chocolate. Consuming chocolate can make women feel happy and satisfied, with ingredients, many say, that simulate the chemical reaction experienced when falling in love. We recognize ourselves in chocolate: dark, rich, nutty, creamy, light and fun. We love good quality chocolate, and we don’t like to compromise in taste. We eat chocolate regularly, often daily. For women, chocolate is more than a food choice, it’s a relationship.

You see? This isn't just another ludicrous consumer product that contributes to fossil fuel consumption in its production and hectares of post-consumer landfill waste from the excess packaging -- this candy is a statement that says we're gonna stand for the old way of doing things. Compromise is out the door -- Susan B. Anthony, Susan Sontag, Gloria Steinem, and the rest of them didn't work tirelessly on our behalf so we could just pop any shitty candy into our gobs.

Remember them, and remember what we've gained. Our status as empowered women depends on these fucking chocolates.

Hair

I saw a woman on the train last night on my way home... who had... a mustache. A serious mustache. A serious mustache. An actual mustache.

Really. A bleached-white ’stache. Bushier than I'm capable of growing.

Advance praise for advance praise

A blurb from the author Randy Carlisle on Wilhemina Smith's upcoming book, Grecian Earn:

"W. H. Smith's long-awaited second novel is an uplifting travelogue through the life of a disaffected housewife who undergoes an amazing transformation into a fully-realized person, the type of person we could all aspire to be. With the publication of this book, Smith not only avoids any kind of sophomore slump but makes a case for herself as one of the leading fiction voices of her generation."

A blurb from critic and author Whiting Lieber on Carlisle's blurb of Smith's book:

"With this praise, Carlisle establishes himself at the vanguard of advance literary notice, issuing sentences that are not only sing-song in their cadence but also contain familiar pattern of adjectives that highlight the tropes and hooks that come to signify the whole of popular consumer fiction writing. Carlisle sets a new standard for overheating the thin concept of an underwritten treatise into some sort of 'statement' that more than likely bears no actual resemblance to the book at all."

My pants

I was out shopping for clothes with the little lady this lovely Labor Day weekend, and in combing through the racks and racks and stacks and stacks of gay-ass premium jeans that the Salad loves to flirt with buying, I found a partcularly gay-ass pair of denim with the appropriate stressing/whiskering that gets a man's masculinity insulted in his place of business (i.e. my manhood @ my job).

In looking further before I returned one such pair of pants to the rack, I noticed the care instruction label:

We think it's best to wash these with a little shampoo while wearing them in the shower or bathtub. You'll notice the indigo will bleed so don't spend all day in there. While they are wet, bend your knees to stretch them out, but don't strain yourself. When done, simply hang to dry in the sun.

That's verbatim. Fucking verbatim. Washing these jeans is as complex and obscure as pledging to become a Freemason. Why would anyone want to own something that you have to wear standing up in the shower to wash? That's a little too Ilan Mitchell-Smith for me.

I don't have that kind of time in my life (or that degree of attention to detail, if you believe my annual employee review) to start a relationship like this with my pants.

Ombudsman

Not to dwell on this whole Steve Irwin death thing too much longer, but I blanched when I saw that Larry King is turning his feckless hour of television tonight over the tributing the Crocodile Hunter. When I think of national human interest stories that mightcould be handled with a delicate touch, the first person I think of is Larry King, for sure.

"Tonight, we look back at the life and career of the irascible Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, in a touching hour of programming. But first, we're talking to the delightful Tim Allen about his wonderful new family movie 'The Santa Clause 4: Clause and Effect.'

"Gainesville, you're live on the air!"

RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

I don't care if it's September 4 -- I'm beating Fox News to the punch and dubbing this, "The Summer Of the Stingray."

Current

Genesis album: A Trick Of the Tail

Anime: Neon Genesis Evangelion

Book of the Bible: Genesis

Sega Genesis game: NHL ’91

Detonation point of Genesis Project: U.S.S. Reliant

Anatomy

Check out this Korean art gallery and their exhibition of anthropomorphic cartoon animal skeletons. Awesome!

Enclave

Are you sick to death of culture?

BELLA VISTA!

Does the idea of a few square miles of pristine, undeveloped forest make you ill deep in the pit of your stomach?

BELLA VISTA!

Interested in only seeing caucasian faces for the rest of your life?

BELLA VISTA!

Are you ready to move to a remote exurban cul-de-sac in the wilds of Arkansas, one of the most backward states in terms of health care, life expectancy, test scores -- just about any quality-of-life category that matters?

BELLA VISTA!

Act now! There will only be a trillion or so more valueless homesites to choose from if you wait any longer. There's no time like the present to abdicate responsible urban living and ravenously devour the natural resources of an unprotected watershed area!

Your quarterly H.R. memo:"The Early Bird"

Welcome, employees! As some of you have noted not so quietly, there's been a bit o' delay since the last "Early Bird." As most of you know, there's been a lot of upheaval the last few months since our new corporate owners came aboard. Well, we're pleased to report that we're back on track, and here to give you a better idea about how things are going to go in the near future.

For starters, in the interest of making us a more closely-knit company, we're instituting "Teamwork Goals" for each department. There will be productivity marks to hit each month that will match up to last year's for that month. We're developing an exciting incentive program that will motivate you to think "Team" before you think "Me." We're all in this together, gang -- one big team! Also, the Christmas party has been canceled.

In other happenings, we stopped by the office of H.R. director Sheryl Gold to ask her what was up with matching contributions to your 401k funds. "The company is trending towards diminishment of matching funds by the next fiscal year," Sheryl said as she removed a severed human arm from a cooler beneath her desk and hungrily consumed the blackened flesh. "Also, as of the fourth quarter, there will accordingly be an end to the profit sharing plan of the last four years. Likewise, we're going to be reviewing departmental responsibilities -- to make us a leaner, meaner team," Sheryl added, as she tore human flesh from bone, strands of decaying meat falling out of her maw. "The 'team' concept is something we'd like everyone to think about," she concluded, as she took a four-week-old Russian Blue kitten out of a shoebox on her desk, placed it on the ground, and stamped down on it with the heel of her shoe.

Moving from Sheryl's office to the "big boss," CEO Bob Garnet, we asked the "prez" what was in store for the company this fall. "We're investigating the possibility of purchasing a parcel on Long Island and streamlining the staffing situation. In the interest of making us a more vibrant and lively group, we'd like to reduce the number of personnel in the Manhattan office," Garnet said as he closed a child's hand in a door while simultaneously whipping his stomach with a car antenna.

That's all for this month, gang -- keep your eyes peeled for the next "Early Bird." In the meantime, we're sorry to report that the kitchen area is being closed off to cut down on water and power costs.

American Gothic

Preparations have been made.

What the Salad is grooving to

Luke Vibert's "I Love Acid"... it's jumped to the top of my treadmill playlist. I love acid.