So the media is leaked excerpts of the classified National Intelligence Estimate that states the Iraq war has done nothing to combat terrorism but has instead made the fight harder.
This, of course, is the exact opposite of what the Bush administration has been force-feeding us for the past three years. (If something is repeated over and over, does that make it true? Some would argue "yes.")
Our invasion and occupation of Iraq strengthening the terrorist cause. This is certainly unacceptable information. George Bush responds, saying media accounts of the leaked report would only "create confusion in the minds of the American people."
Confused. That's what happens in George Bush's world when Americans hear facts. They become confused.
Can Americans not think? Can Americans not handle a nuanced, complex situation? According to Bush, no, we cannot. He wants the Iraq war to be like those new allergy pills that dissolve peacefully with a sweet, citrus burst the moment they hit your tongue. Instead, leaked reports are giving us those big horse-pills that fall apart in your mouth, tasting like you had just licked the floor of a pharmacy. With no water.
Come to think of it, if all the information you receive had been delicately crafted in Bush's fantasy land and/or filtered through Fox News, then I guess you would be confused.
We've been told again and again how necessary this war is, it being the central front to the war on terror. Fight them there or fight them here, they say. It's that simple. Wait, our government's top spy and intelligence analysts say Iraq has made the war on terror worse? That's . . . confusing.
When you hear "mission accomplished" and "last throes" and then watch thousands more U.S. troops and Iraqi civilians killed, that becomes confusing. When Bush succeeds at linking Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda and then five years later says "Oh did I do that? My bad!" That becomes confusing.
Thanks. Do your best to confuse us and then blame us for being confused.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Endless shrimp
I once ate six corndogs for lunch. Why six? Because that's how many there were. If eight had come in the package I would've had eight. And I would've felt the same way after eating them, disgusting. Not only because of the volume of corndogs, but for the simple existence of the corn dog itself. Take an unhealthy conglomeration of low-grade scraps from the floor of the slaughterhouse, process it all together into a fatty, salty, unnaturally shaped log of meat, batter it, fry it and put it on a stick to make an unhealthy choice easier to stuff into your face. What pleasure.
I once went to a pizzeria and ordered a 16-inch pizza. Once I ate my way through two-thirds of the pie, I felt the rest would be too little to take home and decided to finish the job. After the eighth and final piece, I stared at the empty pedestal the pizza had been served on. Not even crust had survived my caloric binge. I expressed a desire to purge then waddled out of the restaurant.
These had been two instances that I had always recalled as times I ate way too much for no good reason. I ate, ate and kept eating because food remained. Like a dog left alone with a platter of honey barbecued chicken wings, I stopped not out of choice but because the food ran out. I have to admit though, from time to time it's fun to do, as embarrassingly gluttonous, slobbish and unhealthy as that may sound. It's exactly why the moment I saw a chain seafood restaurant's commercials for all-you-can-eat shrimp, I knew I would take part. I couldn't think of a better predicament to be in, imagining myself sitting before platter after platter of shrimp with an unending supply of cocktail sauce.
Upon settling into a booth, I spotted the so-called endless shrimp on the menu. I questioned the waitress how the process worked. To start, she explained, you choose two dishes from the list of fried shrimp, coconut shrimp, popcorn shrimp, shrimp scampi and shrimp pasta. Once you polish off those two you can order more shrimp, one dish at a time, for as long as you want.
"Hell yes," I said, pointing at the selection on the menu. I imagined the waitress coming out at some point and muttering the line from Seinfeld "The ocean called. It's running out of shrimp." That's how much shrimp I planned to put away.
Already nestled in the land where shrimp never end, I was jostled with unexpected questions from the waitress. Garden salad or Caesar? Baked potato, mashed potato or French fries? In what-the-hey fashion I shrugged my shoulders and offered my request. More for the money, I thought.
Further adding to the feast was a basket of garlic butter biscuits laid on our table. What I thought would aid me in my overeating endeavors – starving myself in preparation – turned out to be the first downfall. So hungry was I that I inhaled a Caesar salad and three biscuits without much thought. My hunger deluded me into thinking salad and biscuits would bounce off me like Jell-O and saltine crackers.
After giving ample time to let the salad and biscuits begin to take effect, the shrimp finally arrived, fried and scampi per my specifications. Twelve of each assortment, the shrimp weren't jumbo but were not tiny either. Like the salad and biscuits, I put away 24 shrimp and a scoop of mashed potatoes with little effort.
And then I waited. The waitress was suddenly nonexistent. And as I sat, my stomach began to send a clear message to my brain. "Things are filling up down here, Jack."
The waitress reappeared and I quickly put in an order for coconut shrimp. And waited again. If they were going to advertise this never-ending shrimp extravaganza, I thought, at least have some ready to go.
And then it became clear. These were definite steps of conspiracy inserted into the endless shrimp process to limit the number of shrimp a person can humanly consume.
The salad and biscuits? Obviously it costs less to plump someone up on salad and biscuits than with shrimp. And the one-at-a-time policy gave waiters an opportunity to drag their feet when taking and putting in your next order.
"Bah!" I thought.
Nonetheless I put in order after order. I stopped after 60 shrimp, my head on the table as I groaned "No more shrimp." I stopped when the word "scampi" began to make me want to throw up, when grease and butter on my hands looked to be permanent. Unfortunately I also stopped because the waitress had once again disappeared, saying in some way, "OK, Jumbo, you've had enough."
I once went to a pizzeria and ordered a 16-inch pizza. Once I ate my way through two-thirds of the pie, I felt the rest would be too little to take home and decided to finish the job. After the eighth and final piece, I stared at the empty pedestal the pizza had been served on. Not even crust had survived my caloric binge. I expressed a desire to purge then waddled out of the restaurant.
These had been two instances that I had always recalled as times I ate way too much for no good reason. I ate, ate and kept eating because food remained. Like a dog left alone with a platter of honey barbecued chicken wings, I stopped not out of choice but because the food ran out. I have to admit though, from time to time it's fun to do, as embarrassingly gluttonous, slobbish and unhealthy as that may sound. It's exactly why the moment I saw a chain seafood restaurant's commercials for all-you-can-eat shrimp, I knew I would take part. I couldn't think of a better predicament to be in, imagining myself sitting before platter after platter of shrimp with an unending supply of cocktail sauce.
Upon settling into a booth, I spotted the so-called endless shrimp on the menu. I questioned the waitress how the process worked. To start, she explained, you choose two dishes from the list of fried shrimp, coconut shrimp, popcorn shrimp, shrimp scampi and shrimp pasta. Once you polish off those two you can order more shrimp, one dish at a time, for as long as you want.
"Hell yes," I said, pointing at the selection on the menu. I imagined the waitress coming out at some point and muttering the line from Seinfeld "The ocean called. It's running out of shrimp." That's how much shrimp I planned to put away.
Already nestled in the land where shrimp never end, I was jostled with unexpected questions from the waitress. Garden salad or Caesar? Baked potato, mashed potato or French fries? In what-the-hey fashion I shrugged my shoulders and offered my request. More for the money, I thought.
Further adding to the feast was a basket of garlic butter biscuits laid on our table. What I thought would aid me in my overeating endeavors – starving myself in preparation – turned out to be the first downfall. So hungry was I that I inhaled a Caesar salad and three biscuits without much thought. My hunger deluded me into thinking salad and biscuits would bounce off me like Jell-O and saltine crackers.
After giving ample time to let the salad and biscuits begin to take effect, the shrimp finally arrived, fried and scampi per my specifications. Twelve of each assortment, the shrimp weren't jumbo but were not tiny either. Like the salad and biscuits, I put away 24 shrimp and a scoop of mashed potatoes with little effort.
And then I waited. The waitress was suddenly nonexistent. And as I sat, my stomach began to send a clear message to my brain. "Things are filling up down here, Jack."
The waitress reappeared and I quickly put in an order for coconut shrimp. And waited again. If they were going to advertise this never-ending shrimp extravaganza, I thought, at least have some ready to go.
And then it became clear. These were definite steps of conspiracy inserted into the endless shrimp process to limit the number of shrimp a person can humanly consume.
The salad and biscuits? Obviously it costs less to plump someone up on salad and biscuits than with shrimp. And the one-at-a-time policy gave waiters an opportunity to drag their feet when taking and putting in your next order.
"Bah!" I thought.
Nonetheless I put in order after order. I stopped after 60 shrimp, my head on the table as I groaned "No more shrimp." I stopped when the word "scampi" began to make me want to throw up, when grease and butter on my hands looked to be permanent. Unfortunately I also stopped because the waitress had once again disappeared, saying in some way, "OK, Jumbo, you've had enough."
Monday, September 11, 2006
Thoughts that result from spending 9 hours on the couch watching football and eating nachos
Sunday was the first time I had heard of Rams' safety OJ Atogwe. Upon hearing his name pronounced (OH-jay Uh-TOG-way), it occurred to me that his name is Pig Latin for Joe Watog. This got me thinking of the possibilities of piecing together an All-Pig Latin team. With a first and last name that translates directly, OJ Atogwe would be a first-teamer, no doubt. People with last names only -- John Elway comes to mind -- would be second-teamers.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
An advertisement for the Schick Quattro razor raises the question again, "How many blades will finally be enough on a razor?"
To Schick, the answer is a paltry four. But to Gillette, makers of the Fusion shaving system, the answer is a resounding five, as they own current bragging rights in this game to see who can put the most unnecessary blades on a razor.
The sad thing is that there are very talented scientists, as we speak, trying to figure out how to make it seem like you need six blades on a disposable razor for the closest shave possible. But how close can a shave possibly get? What is the ultimate goal of all these additional blades on the razor? That your shave is so close that you'll never have to shave again? That your whiskers fret at the sight of so many blades, rescind back into your face and apologize profusely?
(In related news, Burger Kings rolls out advertising for its Triple Whopper. How many beef patties will it take before even the biggest slob finally says "OK stop stacking patties on my hamburger.")
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A beer ad touts that Miller Lite has half the carbs of Bud Light. Besides the concern over carbs being so 2003, if you are the type to obsess over carbs, perhaps beer shouldn't be your drink of choice.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
When people use the word workaholic, obviously they're using a derivative of the word alcoholic. Instead of being addicted to alcohol, they're addicted to work. Fair enough, but shouldn't it be called a workic? Even more annoying is the term chocoholic.
The only way these hybrid words would make sense is if you were addicted to drinking alcohol in the workplace or if you had a chemical dependency on alcoholic chocolate.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Samsung unveils multiple versions of an advertisement for its flashy high definition TV, each version featuring a former-white-quarterback-turned-NFL-analyst. So far Steve Young, Troy Aikman and Dan Marino have participated. I can envision them getting the much older former-white-quarterbacks-turned-NFL-analysts Joe Theismann, Phil Simms and Terry Bradshaw to pitch for their standard, non-state of the art TVs.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Speaking of white quarterbacks doing commercials, I saw Peyton Manning appear in five different ads (two for Gatorade, one for NFL apparel, one for Sprint and one for DirecTV).
What makes Peyton Manning the hottest NFL pitch man of the moment? To start he's a well-spoken, likable, goofy, nerdy white guy willing to poke fun at himself. Pretty much non-threatening and wholesome on anyone's scale. He's also the NFL's best quarterback, which doesn't hurt.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
An advertisement for the Schick Quattro razor raises the question again, "How many blades will finally be enough on a razor?"
To Schick, the answer is a paltry four. But to Gillette, makers of the Fusion shaving system, the answer is a resounding five, as they own current bragging rights in this game to see who can put the most unnecessary blades on a razor.
The sad thing is that there are very talented scientists, as we speak, trying to figure out how to make it seem like you need six blades on a disposable razor for the closest shave possible. But how close can a shave possibly get? What is the ultimate goal of all these additional blades on the razor? That your shave is so close that you'll never have to shave again? That your whiskers fret at the sight of so many blades, rescind back into your face and apologize profusely?
(In related news, Burger Kings rolls out advertising for its Triple Whopper. How many beef patties will it take before even the biggest slob finally says "OK stop stacking patties on my hamburger.")
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A beer ad touts that Miller Lite has half the carbs of Bud Light. Besides the concern over carbs being so 2003, if you are the type to obsess over carbs, perhaps beer shouldn't be your drink of choice.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
When people use the word workaholic, obviously they're using a derivative of the word alcoholic. Instead of being addicted to alcohol, they're addicted to work. Fair enough, but shouldn't it be called a workic? Even more annoying is the term chocoholic.
The only way these hybrid words would make sense is if you were addicted to drinking alcohol in the workplace or if you had a chemical dependency on alcoholic chocolate.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Samsung unveils multiple versions of an advertisement for its flashy high definition TV, each version featuring a former-white-quarterback-turned-NFL-analyst. So far Steve Young, Troy Aikman and Dan Marino have participated. I can envision them getting the much older former-white-quarterbacks-turned-NFL-analysts Joe Theismann, Phil Simms and Terry Bradshaw to pitch for their standard, non-state of the art TVs.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Speaking of white quarterbacks doing commercials, I saw Peyton Manning appear in five different ads (two for Gatorade, one for NFL apparel, one for Sprint and one for DirecTV).
What makes Peyton Manning the hottest NFL pitch man of the moment? To start he's a well-spoken, likable, goofy, nerdy white guy willing to poke fun at himself. Pretty much non-threatening and wholesome on anyone's scale. He's also the NFL's best quarterback, which doesn't hurt.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Check out my latest short story An Original Performance Art Piece at Poor Mojo's Almanack.
Here's an excerpt:
Dave took some convincing but it wasn't anything a 10-pack of tacos, a quart of chocolate milk, a miniature ceramic burro and $75 cash couldn't do. He agreed to spread the word, but would go about it discreetly, seeking only musicians interested in the avante garde. The tactic nearly backfired when a quartet of low brass players thought the term "avante garde" was code for homosexuality. Dave was roughed up a bit before nimbly looking up the term in a pocket dictionary while his ribs were being stomped. Realizing the error, the low brass quartet apologized and treated Dave to an arrangement of the theme from Guys and Dolls.
Here's an excerpt:
Dave took some convincing but it wasn't anything a 10-pack of tacos, a quart of chocolate milk, a miniature ceramic burro and $75 cash couldn't do. He agreed to spread the word, but would go about it discreetly, seeking only musicians interested in the avante garde. The tactic nearly backfired when a quartet of low brass players thought the term "avante garde" was code for homosexuality. Dave was roughed up a bit before nimbly looking up the term in a pocket dictionary while his ribs were being stomped. Realizing the error, the low brass quartet apologized and treated Dave to an arrangement of the theme from Guys and Dolls.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Humiliation and destroyed relationships: A fantasy football draft story
Estimated reading time: 3 minutes 18 seconds
Fantasy football had always been a source of embarrassment and soiled relationships for me. While it usually takes an entire season to humiliate myself and destroy at least one acquaintance, this year I managed both before the season had even started.
My fantasy football draft was a disaster. But it wasn't who I did or did not draft – Tiki Barber, Anquan Boldin, Kurt Warner, blah, blah, blah – the players don't matter. It was the events surrounding the draft that made me want to find a necktie, a closet and cut my life short.
It was one of those drafts that take place online where you can draft live or have a robot pick your team using players you ranked at the last minute (computerized drafts are widely known to produce teams with four kickers, three defenses and a handful of players residing on injured reserve.) To start, the draft did not take place at a time likely be free of prior commitments and distractions . . . like "work" or "a career". It was held at 4:45 p.m. on a Thursday, which begs the question, "What productive citizen is free to devote an hour to something as superfluous as fantasy football at 4:45 on a Thursday?"
While technically "at work" during this time, what other choice did I have but to proceed with the draft and somehow draw as little attention to myself as possible?
My fundamental fear was that what I was engaging in would somehow become widespread knowledge. I imagined a large gathering of people – coworkers, interns, my boss, higher-ups, the bosses of my boss' boss – everybody all in one place. Somehow the fact that David Holub was drafting a fantasy football team online while on the company's clock would be broadcast in front of all.
But events that could possibly realize these grave fears were so remote that I didn't give them much thought. But from the start, there were forces working against me.
Being at work at 4:45 on a Thursday, I was forced to rank most of my players beforehand given the high likelihood that I wouldn't be able to devote my full attention to a live draft.
Upon arriving at work – 15 minutes until draft time – I immediately logged on to the draft site, the first successful logon for the day (the trusty web site had been in the crapper the entire day). Following that, I checked my e-mail and discovered a broomstick being firmly jammed into the spokes of my fantasy football draft plans.
A going away party had been scheduled at 4:30 that day. So skip it, you say. And I would have, if the going away honoree was anybody but my immediate supervisor, the kind soul who hired me and gave me a chance to do great things with my career.
And since the sendoff was for a manager, it attracted the types of higher-ups that wouldn't have shown for a going away party for, say, me.
Since I still had 15 minutes until the draft, I figured I would go to the party, hear some goodbye speeches and then silently slip out in the name of fantasy football. This worked perfectly. I hung around for a few minutes, made my presence known, did some glad-handing, slammed some cake into my face, then quietly backed out of the room and ran to relieve the robot from drafting my team.
Just when I thought I was in the clear, sheepishly drafting at my computer, I saw a coworker hustling from the room I had deserted five minutes earlier.
"There you are! Come on back!" she summonsed.
When I left the party, things seemed on the verge of winding down, the point where people engaged in mindless chitchat only to avoid having to go back to work. Apparently things had miraculously reorganized. And out of this reorganization came a worst-case scenario, something that would demand my presence, a public roll call, an event that would make those in attendance say "Where is Dave? What is he doing that would take him away from this special occasion?"
My departing boss had gifts for the members of her staff and had been handing them out publicly while saying something personal about each recipient.
"Awl Hell," I growled when discovering this fact.
My supervisor, my gift and the attention of many inquiring coworkers awaited my arrival. I tried to be vague explaining that I had just "stepped away." This didn't seem to suffice and I wound up broadcasting my whereabouts to all within earshot. Fortunately by that point, people were mingling and chatting and some had returned to their work. I graciously accepted my gift and attempted to genuinely apologize for my absence.
With the draft now common knowledge among many, I returned to my desk to see it through, dammit. But the problems didn't end there. Seemingly every time my turn would come to draft, my phone would ring or someone would stop by to discuss pesky work-related matter. But what could I expect at 4:45 on a Thursday?
By then the damage had been done. Everyone would see me from then on as the guy who selfishly skipped the going away party for his celebrated departing supervisor, someone who went out on a line to create his position and hire him, a person he should be indebted to and very well might never see again. All for something as meaningless, trivial and juvenile as fantasy football.
Or perhaps that was just how I felt.
Fantasy football had always been a source of embarrassment and soiled relationships for me. While it usually takes an entire season to humiliate myself and destroy at least one acquaintance, this year I managed both before the season had even started.
My fantasy football draft was a disaster. But it wasn't who I did or did not draft – Tiki Barber, Anquan Boldin, Kurt Warner, blah, blah, blah – the players don't matter. It was the events surrounding the draft that made me want to find a necktie, a closet and cut my life short.
It was one of those drafts that take place online where you can draft live or have a robot pick your team using players you ranked at the last minute (computerized drafts are widely known to produce teams with four kickers, three defenses and a handful of players residing on injured reserve.) To start, the draft did not take place at a time likely be free of prior commitments and distractions . . . like "work" or "a career". It was held at 4:45 p.m. on a Thursday, which begs the question, "What productive citizen is free to devote an hour to something as superfluous as fantasy football at 4:45 on a Thursday?"
While technically "at work" during this time, what other choice did I have but to proceed with the draft and somehow draw as little attention to myself as possible?
My fundamental fear was that what I was engaging in would somehow become widespread knowledge. I imagined a large gathering of people – coworkers, interns, my boss, higher-ups, the bosses of my boss' boss – everybody all in one place. Somehow the fact that David Holub was drafting a fantasy football team online while on the company's clock would be broadcast in front of all.
But events that could possibly realize these grave fears were so remote that I didn't give them much thought. But from the start, there were forces working against me.
Being at work at 4:45 on a Thursday, I was forced to rank most of my players beforehand given the high likelihood that I wouldn't be able to devote my full attention to a live draft.
Upon arriving at work – 15 minutes until draft time – I immediately logged on to the draft site, the first successful logon for the day (the trusty web site had been in the crapper the entire day). Following that, I checked my e-mail and discovered a broomstick being firmly jammed into the spokes of my fantasy football draft plans.
A going away party had been scheduled at 4:30 that day. So skip it, you say. And I would have, if the going away honoree was anybody but my immediate supervisor, the kind soul who hired me and gave me a chance to do great things with my career.
And since the sendoff was for a manager, it attracted the types of higher-ups that wouldn't have shown for a going away party for, say, me.
Since I still had 15 minutes until the draft, I figured I would go to the party, hear some goodbye speeches and then silently slip out in the name of fantasy football. This worked perfectly. I hung around for a few minutes, made my presence known, did some glad-handing, slammed some cake into my face, then quietly backed out of the room and ran to relieve the robot from drafting my team.
Just when I thought I was in the clear, sheepishly drafting at my computer, I saw a coworker hustling from the room I had deserted five minutes earlier.
"There you are! Come on back!" she summonsed.
When I left the party, things seemed on the verge of winding down, the point where people engaged in mindless chitchat only to avoid having to go back to work. Apparently things had miraculously reorganized. And out of this reorganization came a worst-case scenario, something that would demand my presence, a public roll call, an event that would make those in attendance say "Where is Dave? What is he doing that would take him away from this special occasion?"
My departing boss had gifts for the members of her staff and had been handing them out publicly while saying something personal about each recipient.
"Awl Hell," I growled when discovering this fact.
My supervisor, my gift and the attention of many inquiring coworkers awaited my arrival. I tried to be vague explaining that I had just "stepped away." This didn't seem to suffice and I wound up broadcasting my whereabouts to all within earshot. Fortunately by that point, people were mingling and chatting and some had returned to their work. I graciously accepted my gift and attempted to genuinely apologize for my absence.
With the draft now common knowledge among many, I returned to my desk to see it through, dammit. But the problems didn't end there. Seemingly every time my turn would come to draft, my phone would ring or someone would stop by to discuss pesky work-related matter. But what could I expect at 4:45 on a Thursday?
By then the damage had been done. Everyone would see me from then on as the guy who selfishly skipped the going away party for his celebrated departing supervisor, someone who went out on a line to create his position and hire him, a person he should be indebted to and very well might never see again. All for something as meaningless, trivial and juvenile as fantasy football.
Or perhaps that was just how I felt.
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