Rebel Without a Shape

Thank God for processed meat. If it weren't for processed meat, we'd have to eat meat in chunks, strips and other naturally occurring shapes. That's crap! If I want to shape meat, then I'd better be given the opportunity because I work hard and I deserve it. I had a turkey burger today and it ruled all over the place. If it weren't for the processing that that turkey meat went through, it totally wouldn't have fit right on the bun. That's garbage.

I'm tired of people always putting down processed foods. If regular food was so great, then why is everybody processing it? Riddle me that! Processing food means grinding shit up, adding shit to it and putting it into a way cooler shape than it used to be. I think my favorite shape is amorphous.

Amorphousness kicks ass. Not only is it fun to say, but it's a shape with some style. It's a shape that is defined by not being a definite shape. That's way more rebellious than weak-ass James Dean ever was. So you drove your car off a mountain, wow. Meanwhile, amorphousness is breaking the rules of logic! Amorphousness: 1; James Dean: 0.

James Dean was a way bigger loser than people give him credit for. If James Dean is so cool, how come he's dead? The guy's an American icon and he's not even smart enough to be alive to appreciate it. James Dean only did one cool thing in his life: I'm pretty sure he invented the leather jacket.

Leather jackets keep going in and out of style. It seems like whenever people aren't dancing around in a white room wearing cow skin in a Gap ad, leather is very five minutes ago. However, it seems that whenever cows get uppity, leather is cool again. Wearing leather is instant image. The greatest thing about it is that you have no idea what image it's going to portray and it's going to be one of two: tough or gay.

That's not true. You could also look tough and gay. I don't know why gay people are thought of as "not tough." It's a bogus stereotype. The prisons are literally packed with really tough gay dudes.

Prisons are super, by the way. They make for great movies. "The Shawshank Redemption," "Attica," "Escape from Alcatraz," "The Rock," "No Escape," "Ernest Goes to Jail," I could go on. Movies about prison are awesome because you're inevitably going to get a minimum of two really bad ass guys doing bad ass things. You know what's really bad ass? Eating prison food. I'll bet it sucks.

What's weird is that it's mostly just processed food, which is great. The difference is that processed food only tastes good when you get a hot plate of freedom of the side. Processed freedom.

Get Your Peanuts!

Everybody who ever got born--which is most people--wanted to be a peanut salesman at one point or another. That much is certain. They just whip those nuts at people all day long with the precision of a mohel, and it's rad. Yes, I said, "whip those nuts." No snack is better when you're hungry and can't get real food than peanuts due to the gratification of working through the tough shell in order to get to the nutmeat. Nut meat. I remember thinking to myself as a young lad, "Peanuts are totally great! I'll bet peanut salesmen make like a billion dollars every day."

Yeah, they don't.

As it turns out, peanut salesmen make just enough money to exceed the poverty level. I assume, though, that they get unlimited peanuts which is worth its weight in platinum. Many people don't know this, but platinum is a metal. You can use it for all kinds of stuff, but its best use is for making yourself look like a robot by putting it on your teeth.

I hope that doesn't go away. My favorite thing about the hip hop industry had to be their robot impersonation. I feel like that's the idea for most hip hoppers: be as much like a robot as possible. That's why they have platinum caps and gold chains and stuff; they are trying to cover their bodies in metal, just like robots! Why do you think they wear their hats backward? Think about it. Robots aren't people so they would have no idea how to wear a hat. But hey, I back it; robots rule!

Now, attributing the dance, "the robot" to hip hop would be obvious, so why do it, right? Wrong. "The robot" was invented by robots and hip hop stole it. The robots got pissed about it and filed a lawsuit against DefJam in 1989. They settled out of court and nobody has ever done "the robot" since then.

Suing people rules. Actually, the only thing that rules is being in an environment in which you can yell, "I object!" and actually get another dude to yell, “Overruled!" at you. Usually, when you yell, "I object!" in a regular situation, you get totally shot down and you're left hanging like a squirrel that slipped on a clothesline. Try walking into a restaurant like El Pollo Loco and yelling "I object!" and then add, "He's badgering the witness!" or something else that sounds intimidating and legalish. You'll probably just get asked to leave without even getting any chicken.

So, now you're hungry and there's only one question to ask: "Anybody got any peanuts?" Dammit, I hope so.

Forever Your Girl

For years I have argued that Paula Abdul was the greatest female songstress of the late 80s and early 90s. Yesterday, I was hyperventilating on the treadmill (because my elliptical was broken) and "Blowin' Kisses in the Wind" came on my iPod. For those brief minutes, I wasn't an out of shape sweaty dude on a moving walkway; I was a brilliant striding demigod ambling through an ethereal garden of ecstasy.

Paula can do that to you. She does it to me every time.

I would argue that Paula Abdul was the biggest star over a period of a couple of years that music saw in the 90s. When she was hot, she burned like herpes. Did you know that she had six number one singles IN A ROW! That's ridiculous. Not even Thor could do that, and he has a huge hammer! And we all know that there is very little that a big enough dude with a big enough hammer can't do.

Take John Henry. Didn't he eat a train or something? Either way, he was another example of a big dude with a big hammer doing a great thing: eating a train. Big dudes with big hammers are always doing cool shit like eating trains and busting stuff up and wearing people out over anything. Or nothing, they don't even care.

I wonder sometimes, as I lie in bed, looking out at the stars, if there were people on that train that John Henry ate. Just kidding; I live in the basement, I can't see any stars.

When you live in a house with three other 20-something-year-old dudes and you live in the basement, you can get away with sleeping in until like 4:30 on any given Saturday or Sunday. You can do this because no one's going to wake you up and you can't tell midnight from noon in a room with no real windows. With this kind of darkness, though, it makes the potential to be eaten by ghosts very high. Because ghosts eat people and they live in the dark.

I've come to terms with the fact that I'll probably get eaten by ghosts. It doesn't bother me that much anymore. I've probably eaten dozens of ghosts in my life, but mostly in marshmallow form around Halloween. A good analogous situation of a person eating ghosts their whole life and then, eventually, getting eaten by a ghost is Pacman. He munched on ghosts all day, supplemented his diet with cherries and yellow dots and did fine for himself... until he got eaten by Inky, Pinky, Blinky or Sue, I don't remember which.

Pacman was cool. He had life figured out. Eating, running around, making "momp momp" sounds... he was a visionary. He was one of the most amazing dudes without a hammer that I can think of. He was probably the biggest deal of the 80s until Paula Abdul came out with "Straight Up."

"Straight up now tell me is it gonna be you and me together? Oh oh oh. Or are you just having fun?"

Always, Paula. I'm always having fun when you're involved.

The Day the Music Un-Died

On February 3, 1959, the music died. Three legends were lost in a horrific and devastating plane crash leaving the world aghast. However, from the wreckage and debris, the sorrow and anguish, came inspiration for a generation of musicians. The day known as the "Day the Music Died," encapsulated so bittersweetly in Don McLean's allegorical masterpiece, "American Pie," it could be argued, was the very same day on which the music born anew.

Thirty-five years later, Music lies in her deathbed, a sick, tired shadow of her former self. Her vital signs blip sporadically at uneven intervals; the pallor in her eyes hints only vaguely at glory days gone by; her sickly musk of abandon and prostitution evokes both pity and ire. Music, after an extensive and costly heart-and-soul-ectomy, seemed on the cusp of rejoining Buddy, Richie and the Bopper.

In September of 2004, the music died once again. Ashlee Simpson did something that no woman had ever done before: she went triple-platinum on her debut release. One month later, Ashlee was caught lip syncing on one of television's most coveted live forums for over a quarter of a century: Saturday Night Live. One month later, Ashlee was slated to sing at the biggest college football game of the year: the Orange Bowl.

As Ashlee accepted her award certifying that over 3,000,000 people found her talented enough to warrant purchasing her album, music flat lined. The following developments regarding SNL and the Orange Bowl were a metaphorical equivalent to kicking the corpse in the ribs and pissing on its grave.

But music, like a phoenix or a really gross zombie, always seems to rise from its tomb.

On January 4, 2005, in Miami, Florida, Ashlee Simpson delivered one of the worst live television performances of all time, singing her new single, "La La," in front of 72,000 drunken college students and alumni. Her voice could be compared to a rusty door hinge being wrenched back and forth, a cat violently disemboweling itself, or a fat man slowly twisting a family of squirrels into one giant, hairy slinky.

This single instance of vocal atrocity, though, was not what brought music back from the dead. Music's pulse jumped back into a steady rhythmic beat as a stadium of 72,000 and a television audience of millions stood and booed Billboard's 2004 "Best New Female Artist" right out of the stadium.

As America truly opened its eyes for the first time, it saw not a beautiful, iconic artist on the 50 yard line. It saw a spoiled, untalented 20-year-old millionaire with no idea how bad she sucks. If there's one thing America knows, it's how to deal with a spoiled, untalented 20-year-old millionaire with no idea how bad she sucks... you boo the shit out of her.

As the boos echoed from sea to shining sea, Music slowly crawled her way out of her wretched grave and back into the night. Unfortunately, years of bloodsucking from corporate vampires have left Music not so much alive as undead. Very likely, garbage will continue to spew out of the corporate music factories in the form of young, blonde songstresses backed by computerized sounds and 40-year-old expert studio musicians. But maybe--just maybe--there will be some benchmark for talent. Music is no longer dead but while zombie walk with open eyes, they are a groggy and defenseless bunch in general. They are easily tricked and led astray. But, at the very least, open eyes are better than closed eyes.

I'll take nine million Christina Aguileras and Britney Spearses for every one Ashlee Simpson.

Is Ashlee Simpson done for? No. Her album may even go quadruple platinum or, God forbid, diamond. But, at least her secret is out. Band error, acid reflux and microphone malfunctions can't explain how bad she sucked on Tuesday. Only sheer, unadulterated inaptitude can account for that, and she's got that in spades.

So, God bless you, America. God bless your ability to recognize trash when put in front of your and passed off as music. The music may have died, but you, America, made it un-die.

Buddy, Richie and the Bopper may not be proud of music today, but they would have been proud to take a big bite of American Pie on January 4, 2005: the Day the Music Un-Died.

The Tao of Burritos

Mexican food is like a really wild multi-vitamin. Clearly, it's really good for you and healthy to eat on a daily basis, much like a multi-vitamin, and so the initial comparison is a no brainer. But, also like a multi-vitamin, it can mess you up something fierce.

Have you ever woken up in the morning and taken a vitamin on a completely empty stomach? If you haven't, give it a try. It's the worst feeling in the world, especially if it's a good, hearty vitamin. I'm not talking about Flintstones Kids vitamins; I'm talking Centrum or One-A-Day, bare minimum. First you feel weak and clammy. Within 30 seconds you start feeling nautious and may begin dry heaving. The whole process lasts about three minutes, and once it's over you feel fine, but those three minutes are awful.

Mexican food can be similar. I hadn't eaten anything since like 5:00pm yesterday and just loaded up at a little known (but delicious) El Segundo Mexican eatery called Chile Verde.

Long story short, downing two chicken enchiladas, rice, beans and some nachos on an empty stomach has pretty much the same effect as the vitamin scenario. So, Mexican food, much like vitamins, is both good as well as evil.

The double-edged sword that metaphorically represents chicken enchiladas is yet another reminder of the duality of life by its very nature. The idea that Mexican food is inspired by Taoism, though, is hardly new. For generations, Mexican cuisine has imparted the teachings of the East through various combinations of rice, beans, cheese, corn and meat.

The wu wei, or "going with the natural flow of things" as modern translations would put it, is the central tenet Taoism, as well as burritos. Just as the reed bends in the current of the river, so does the tortilla fold gently over the warm, spicy innards of a burrito.

Just as Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa said, "It is better to die on your feet, than to live a lifetime on your knees," Lao Tse, the father of the Tao, was famous for having said, "Dude, I could fully go for a burrito right now... fully."

In fact, I've acquired a rare depiction of Lao Tse on one of his nightly bull trips to Taco Bell after getting hammered at the local saloon. You may think that the idea of Lao Tse getting sloshed with his buddy Pancho Villa is absurd both because Lao Tse was known for moderation and because Pancho Villa lived literally thousands of years after his Chinese drinking buddy.

You'd be wrong though. As Ron Burgundy said, "It's science."

Anyway, after a tough night of drinking rice wine, eating killer tostadas and discussing the merits of Eastern spiritual philosophy and Mexican culinary philosophy, Lao-dog and Panch (as they called one another) would often wake up with gnarly hangovers.

Realizing how depleted his system was, Lao once had the bright idea of taking a multi-vitamin when he woke up. Pancho was frying up some breakfast burritos in the kitchen when he heard someone fall in the next room over.

Lao, doubled over in agony from the vitamin-induced fits was kneeling over the toilet gagging. It was then that Pancho said, "Lao Tse, my friend, it is better to die on your feet, than to live a lifetime on your knees. That's why you never pop a Centrum first thing in the morning." Then he extended his great frying pan and said, "Here, grab one of these guys."

Lao Tse, starting to feel a little bit better smiled and said to his lifelong compadre, "Dude, I could fully go for a burrito right now... fully." Unfortunately for Lao, he proceeded to eat too many burritos and fell to the same fate of feeling like total ass.

Pancho, on the other hand, went on to lead the Chinese revolutionaries in a successful revolt against the powerful Chinese Public Broadcasting System that had been secretly taking $0.75 of every $1.00 pledged during telethon-style fundraisers for over 4 years.

So let us all learn from this anachronistic tale of gibberish and historical blasphemy. I know I didn't. That's why I ate way too much Mexican food earlier today and am doomed to Lao Tse's terrible fate.

My stomach hurts.