Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Witz Pickz: Standard Treadmill Procedure

I still can't feel my finger tip. For those of you keeping track at home, that's 4.5 days. Let the betting begin.

In other news, I was privy to the most frustratingly annoying thing ever at the gym. At my gym, there are about 10-15 treadmills and inevitably, if you go at any regular time, there's a line for those treadmills. The line usually isn't very bad, maybe 10-20 minutes at the absolute worst time, and most of the time it's in the 5 minute range. The other day, I managed to hit that anomaly time when EVERYONE running seemed to have started right before I got there, so nobody was finishing up. Except for one kid. While I stood next in line, waiting for a treadmill and watching the minutes pass, a skinny kid walked excrutiatingly slowly on a treadmill a few feet away. How slowly? Well, when I looked at his speed, it said ".5," which is approximately the speed at which turtles move WHILE SLEEPING, and coincidently, the speed at which my brain starts to slowly set itself on fire with rage. And he wasn't even reading a book or watching television.

I tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why this person was "exercising" so minimally with so many other people around him. "Maybe he JUST bought some new shoes and is trying to break them in RIGHT BEFORE a really important interview or meeting that he can't be sweaty for." That seemed reasonable, but implausible, because he was running in sneakers (we'll talk about how some geographic regions of the country call them tennis shoes another day). My next thought was that maybe he was in some kind of a "Speed," scenario, wherein he was not allowed to stop moving, but had to be in constant motion or else a bomb strapped to family would explode. If that were the case, I would think he'd want to be out on a street so he could at least walk towards or near options of strategic use, or at least get some fresh air. I mean, regardless of your dire circumstances, it's kind of douchey to take up a treadmill for that long at a gym. It's called sharing.

My next two thoughts were long shots (not like those first two), but like to think they show significant thought and knowledge. "Maybe he's a Lost Boy of Sudan, and is reliving the tragic and seemingly impossible journey he took to refuge." I wanted this to be true, because of my previously mentioned secret desire to show Lost Boys how to use everyday appliances and technology here in the States, but I knew it wasn't true, for the same reason that I knew it wasn't, "Maybe his ancestor was on the Trail of Tears and he is taking that journey in his mind's eye." This would have been great and acceptable, only he was the wrong kind of Indian. It was far more likely that he was recreating his cousin's walk to the HP Tech Support Center in Bangalore. He looked like what one of the slave children in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom would have looked like during their awkward teen years...

Out of ideas, I simply stared, shocked, baffled, and severely pained by the event I was witnessing. Every few minutes or so, another calorie probably ticked off on the machine, and I started to wonder if this guy ever did anything else, or if he simply loped all day on a treadmill, maybe calling in stock deals every few hours, and then had a sandwhich delivered to him mid-stride. And it was right at that point when my migraine of frustration reached its peak, and my brain started plotting ways to kill a man without having 40 people around him notice-- when I honestly thought, "He may never leave that treadmill again,"-- that he simply stepped off and left. Like PEACED. One minute he was on the treadmill, the next minute he was off it and out the door.

I walked over to the machine, and stood standing there like an idiot, waiting for the machine to stop. It took me a few long moments to realize that the machine was STILL ON. He never actually turned it off-- that's how slowly it was going. It was impossible to tell if the machine was winding down to zero or if it was actually just moving at speeds that glaciers would mock. I looked back at the other people behind me for support and gave them the, "What the hell is going on, am I supposed to go on here or is he still using it," face, which actually probably came off more like, "I wanna get on this treadmill now, but really have to pee." Either way, I got a few looks of support and a few looks of consternation, so I turned off the treadmill and stepped on for my long-awaited run.

The problem with waiting 20 minutes for a treadmill is that you have to make it count when you get one. So even though I should have been relieved, I suddenly realized that I was in for a long trip myself. I immediately wished I had a sharpee so I could write "Championship Runner" on my t-shirt, so the next guy staring and loathing me from the sidelines would at least think that I was in training and not just a guy who really likes pizza and socially acceptable physical appearances. Oh well.

If I Could Run My Legs the Way I Run My Mouth, I'd Look Anorexic,

"I wish I lived in Ethiopia-- everyone there is SO SKINNY!" -Girl in my High School...

Monday, July 28, 2008

Witz Pickz: Surviving Dr. Skipper

I may or may not die because of Dr. Skipper.

I was originally going to post this over the weekend in case I didn't last until today, but I figured that while I, personally, feared my imminent doom, you all probably just wanted to be left alone to your weekends and didn't need to have my final moments detract from your enjoyment of street fairs, vintage clothes shopping, or baseball watching. Fortunately for us all, but let's be honest, primarily for me, I'm still here today to tell my tale and possibly start some sort of charity fund.*

For those of you who aren't in the know (read: not way cheap), Dr. Skipper is not the crazy captain of a crabbing vessel on Deadliest Catch. Nor is he my "on the cheap" psychiatrist or the homeless man that lives on the corner down the street. It's not a He at all. Dr. Skipper is the retarded cousin of Dr. Pepper (which makes the degree all that more impressive). When Safeway brand was immitating Dr. Pepper they thought, "We need to make this thing sound classy. What sounds like 'pepper?'" They then proceeded to select a name that not only had nothing to do with pepper or food or flavors, and instead chose the nickname of a profession to complement the prefix of another profession. The logic train was burning coal aplenty that day.

On Friday night, I was innocently carrying a bottle of Dr. Skipper to my car (as opposed to carrying the bottle to my car while kicking puppies and robbing the elderly) along with a few other items. The bottle started slipping, but being a trooper, I kept walking. As I got to the car, the bottle slipped some more and between my two fingers and I felt a sharp pain. I set the bottle down and thought everything was fine. As I was driving, however, I started to notice that the numb, tingling in my finger from the slipping bottle wasn't going away. I poked at it, pinched it, and bit it (those are my three EMT techniques-- if they don't work, I'm out of ideas). Still no feeling. It felt like a callous underneath the skin, and tingled like when your arm is juuuuust beginning to fall asleep. "Whatever, it will be better in an hour," I assumed out loud. But you know what they say about assumptions-- they're fucking dumb.

I woke up Saturday with the finger still numb and tingly. "Damn," I thought, "If 3 hours of alcohol induced pass out sleep on a couch doesn't make me heal, what will??" The rest of the day, my finger continued to feel the same. I investigated it in the shower when my hands got all wrinkly, thinking I might be able to see something like a collapsed...well, I wanted to say ventricle or vessicle, but I didn't know if those words were right. But I looked-- nothing too unusual. I spent more time than I should have investigating a scar that I later remembered was from when I punched my hand through a glass door pane (well the door kind of punched my hand), but that's a story for another day. Which left me with no answers, a numb middle finger (yeah, ok, that parts adds comedy), and made me question my current invincibility. After all, this numb finger thing is nothing if not Classic Witz.

The thoughts started churning. "I probably pinched a nerve," I thought without knowing really what that entailed. WebMD is no help when all you have to go on is, "numb finger," and, "callous inside finger." By Sunday, the phrase, "irreparable nerve damage" crept into my mind and I started to wonder how I'd feel about having a numb tip of my finger FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. Would it be cool? Would it be obnoxious? Would I somehow get really really good at something I was previously terrible at like bowling or playing piano a la the film Rookie of the Year? And yet, all the time, one thought was percolating in the back of my head-- air bubble. Somehow, a tube of some kind had been damaged, and somehow an air bubble was lingering. It's only a matter of time before that tube opens again, the bubble makes its way to my brain, and I finally manage to fall asleep before 1am only to die of a brain aneurism. I'm knocking on wood, but if that happens, I tooootally called it and expect someone to start the blog, "StuffWitzCalledAndDiedBy.Com." Even with those thoughts of my foolish death, I wasn't about to go to the doctor on a weekend (my health care ain't THAT good) and spending 60 bucks in order to email my doctor for answers just doesn't fly with me. So I did what all smart, broke peopel do and asked people who AREN'T doctors what they think. Thus far, here's the medical advice they've provided:

"That's weird, dude."
"Just give it a few weeks and then see a doctor." (Clearly someone betting on my death)
"You should like...I dunno."
"I don't know what to tell you about that."
"You're such a hypochondriac!"

"Yeah, we don't spend too much time in law school talking about numb fingers..."
"Oh...I guess this is a good time to say that I thought you were in med school..."

I'm like the boy who cried wolf, only I cried it because THERE'S ALWAYS A FRIGGEN WOLF! Which brings us to today.

Nothing has improved as of today. I sit here typing what might be my last post ever (I mean, even if I'm ok, I'm still gonna be lazy...who knows when my last post will be?), drinking green tea and hoping that anti-oxidants somehow clean up this mess in my finger. I'm about two days away from starting to barter with higher beings, and by next weekend I'm sure I'll start giving away my stuff (which, incidentally, would have been great if the timing coincided with my moving BEFORE I put everything in my new home). It's sad to know that if I had to write a will right now, the stuff I kept while moving includes, "One box containing old concert tickets, a bag of batteries (possibly dead), and packs of matches from bars I was never very attached to in the first place," along with, "a ripped clothes hamper, broken touch light, and about 50 beat up t-shirts that I no longer wear." So enjoy that.) I need to work on my getting rid of things.

On a complete tangent, I'll conclude by saying that the "Accidental Death & Dismemberment Plan" along with "Life Insurance" freaks me out. It's like when I bet against teams I like and then say, "If my team wins, it's like I paid for the victory. If my team loses, at least I'll win some money!" Sure, my sister prooobably doesn't want me to die, but if I do, she gets to buy a home in Paris. Awkward.

So I leave you in the hopes that we meet again. If anybody reading is a doctor, feel free to donate your expert medical advice via the comments section, and remember that while I totally appreciate the readership, maybe you should be doing other things than reading blogs at work. For those of you who are med students, this is a great venue for passing along things you learn in class and proving to yourself that you know them. I'm not super-psyched that you're reading this instead of learning your knowledge sensitive profession, but since I don't foresee any of you probing my body for answers later in life (fingers particularly crossed for those of you who are going to specialize in breast cancer), I feel ok with it just this once.

I Wonder If This Is How E.T.'s Finger Felt,

*Note: If I survive, I will be keeping the money from the fund for myself. Tagline: "Witz -- Putting the 'fun' back in Charity Fund."

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Witz Pickz: 250 Posts and Counting

Yup. That's right. 250 Posts. Now, I realize that I had 200 posts like...six months ago or something, so the fact that I've only accrued 50 is somewhat terrible of me, but hey, it's still a base ten mathematical landmark (and yeah, I'm pretty pumped that I just remembered "base 10").

So for my 250th post, I'd like to call out one reader in particular-- that's right, I'm calling out my readers now. This reader is a nameless woman who read my blog and said that I come off pretentious. Instead of dismissing this idea, let's go ahead and explore it, because this site is nothing if not fair and subsequently extremely judgemental.

In fact, we don't need to dismiss the idea so much as file it away as irrelevant. I mean-- the name of the blog is WITZ PICKZ! EVERYTHING is based on my opinions! Instead of saying, "Book ends are stupid," do you really want me to say, "Book ends are stupid, unless they're your thing and you use them a lot and that works for, because in that case, maybe I'm wrong?" What kind of a person would I be, and how enjoyable would that be to read? How much of a chump do I come off as if I write, "People who write 'Wash Me' on cars are baffling and annoy me...but maybe I just don't understand them and instead of judging, I think I need to talk to some of them as people and get their side of the story." HORRIBLE.

On the other hand, is it really pretentious? What about the laundry list of posts involving my weakness, failure, defeat, uselessness, worthlessness, sweating, inability to exist in a complex world, plane escapades, and embarrassments? How pretentious can you be when the world knows you're rockin' a double ass seam on your boxers?

So I'm gonna keep going with it, and just say that worst case scenario, I'm not big in Texas. Because, let's be honest, The South isn't exaaactly my target demographic--...unless it is, in which case that's ok too.


Digital Photo Frame:
You'd think the digital photo frame would be sweet, but I have one rockin' out on my desk at work and it is TERRIBLE! I'm sure it would be cool to have in a home, in a room that you don't hangout at constantly, but in a cubicle, it's like you have a little A.D.D. buddy poking you in the ribs every few seconds. Only when you finally break down and say, "Ok, little A.D.D. buddy, let's go DO something!" you remember that it's only a picture frame and it would be unusual and socially unacceptable to take it with you on your adventures unless you are in a Pixar film which I am currently not. The problem is that the motion is due to the Slide Show mode, which you HAVE to have on because if you don't, you just have a $100+ still picture frame and you look ridiculous. So the slide show is on, the pictures keep changing, and it's impossible not to feel like your world just got a lot more chaotic-- and let's be honest, it also makes me a little motion sick.

An even bigger issue I just learned about, is the fact that a slide show is nothing without music, and so as the pictures change, there is an undeniable urge to throw on some headphones and play some music-- or worse, just turn on your speakers. When pictures are set to music of any kind, they gain a meaning and framework that they didn't necessarily have to begin with. This makes the whole viewing/listening experience VERY EMOTIONAL. One second I just had a picture on my desk, the next minute I'm watching a slideshow of me and my friends, listening to Death Cab For Cutie, and unconsciously start scrawling out a suicide note on a pad because this must be the last thing that happens before I KILL MYSELF. If you go the speaker route at any point, not even necessarily in intentional collaboration with your frame, your co-workers will walk by, see the pictures, hear your music and start this conversation:

THEM: gotta a little montage of memories thing goin' on over there, huh?
YOU: Oh no, no, I'm just listening to music and have a digital frame.
THEM: Yeah, everything alright? I see a lot of those pictures are happy memories, but you're listening to Modest Mouse.
YOU: Yeah, no, I'm fine-- it's on shuffle. Also, who puts up photos of UNHAPPY memories?
THEM: Whatever, geez, I was just making sure you were ok!
YOU: No, sorry, I didn't mean--
THEM: You know, you're such a pretentious asshole-- have fun offing yourself pretentious asshole!
YOU: (to frame) Ok, little A.D.D. buddy, let's go DO something!-- Oh yeah. Right.

Thanks For Readin,

Monday, July 21, 2008

Witz DOESN"T Pick: Door Holding Awkwardness, Car Quippers, and Strange Boxers

Door Holding Awkwardness:
I think we've all been there-- you open a door, and someone is behind you, only not RIGHT behind you, they're within range to make you hold the door, but far enough away that it's not necessarily expected. And every damn time, this leads to one of three scenarios.

Scenario A: You hold the door cordially. The other person looks ahead, sees that you've held the door, and begins doing the "hustle up" so they don't make YOU wait. They don't break into a full on RUN, because they're not THAT worried about it, but there's a definitely speed up of the arms and legs, even if neither one makes them move any faster than they would if they were walking. All this does is make the person holding the door feel more awkward inevitably leading to the, "You don't have to rush," line which is not even remotely true. I say rush. I'm not holding the door because I hate lying down and watching television in my apartment. I'm doing it to be nice, and now because of that, we both feel awkward. That is why when people hold the door for me, I want to start phasing the rush out of my life. I'm gonna smile politely and then just saunter over while the other person continues to hold the door for me. Then, if I'm feeling classy (read: like a jackass) I'll actually reach out and hold the door so THEY can go inside first-- like I'M the one who held the door for THEM. Money. This scenario is made even more awkward if you end up both stopping to get mail afterwards. You clearly have used up all conversation and politeness with the first encounter, so the mail encounter is gonna go over like the gay guy in boot camp. Not to mention the elevator ride might be next, at which point you better have gotten some mail to look over way too intently, or else you're gonna have to either suck it up for the Silent Ride or start a conversation about mail, which is not much better:

YOU: (looking at fliers) Looks like we'll all be seeing each other at Jack-in-the-Box, huh?
THEM: Pardon?
YOU: You know, since we all got the coupons...
THEM: I don't eat fast food...
YOU: Well, I would have said Chevy's, but I thought that was too regional a joke...
THEM: It's like Mexican Chili's...
YOU: Even though Chili's is kind of like Mexican Chili's...
THEM: I think it's "southwest" themed...
YOU: That explains why the tacos are so gross and confusing...
THEM: You're really stickin' it to Chili's during this 30 second elevator encounter.
YOU: They don't give you enough fries...
THEM: Fatty...
YOU: What was that?
THEM: I said, "Have a good night!" (exit elevator)
YOU: (to yourself) I shoulda just opened my Netflix...

Scenario B:
You don't hold the door. Fuck them.

Scenario C:
This is most awkward and the one that happened to me this morning. You go to hold the door for someone as you enter a building, like at work in the morning for example. The person is a ways behind, but it seems appropriate at first. After committing to the hold, however, you realize that they are way too far behind and aren't even noticing (or are pretending not to notice) so that they can do the hurry up. In addition, the door hold timing didn't account for the lack of the hurry up, so suddenly you are off balance and careening dangerously into the building and away from the door. Your only option is to let go of the door and go ahead into the building. Unfortunately, by that point, the person has gotten very close to the door, but not quite close enough to catch it when you let go and helplessly watch it shut. The whole scenario plays out like this:

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand-- fuck you."

You can try and re-open the door, but by that point you'll hit them, plus, this is the point to make the call on an awkward conversation trip up the stairs or run for freedom, so you might as well keep the momentum going and never look back.

Car Quippers:
Who are these people that feel the need to write "Wash Me" on other people's cars? Never in my entire life have I felt that urge. What comes over these people that they see a dirty windshield on a car and feel like they have to use their finger to tell the person that they should wash the car. THEY KNOW. TRUST ME. When they check their mirror and can't see out the back, they know that it's dirty. You don't have to tell them. And why do these people have such a personal investment in the cleanliness of other people's cars anyway?? It seems a bit messed up. What kind of overachiever do you have to be to go out of your way to be obnoxious to someone. Is there some dark secret in their past? Did their parents die in a horrible dirty car related accident? Do they write off the action as a deductible during tax time? It makes me want to write on their impeccable cars in dirt, and say, "Thank you for the heads up on my car. Unfortunately, I haven't had time to clean it recently, as I have been driving through dirt and forests, gathering up all the animals that have been left homeless by the recent forest fires and providing them with shelter, care, and food. I appreciate the head's up, though."

Strange Boxers:
If I seem off (or particularly on) today, you can chalk it up to my boxers. I bought a few packs of what I thought to be normal boxers at Kohl's not to long ago and have just now started wearing them-- leading a very baffling discovery. Instead of having whatever the normal seam is in the back, one of the sets has, like, a double seam, parachute harness style deal going, that is not only massively uncomfortable, but entirely unnecessary. I would literally have to to fit one VERY SPECIFIC body type for these to fit appropriately. The other set has one seam...but it's OFF-CENTER. I always sort of assumed that children in a sweatshop in Korea were making my clothes, but up until now I assumed that they were actually good at it! The front barn door and the back seam are not on the same axis, so no matter which one you align centrally, the other makes life very uncomfortable. It's a classic choose your poison scenario, and it's not the kind of scenario I'd wish on anybody. The few times I've worn them, I end up walking like I was just shot in the leg and kicked in the crotch. My hips must swivel, to complete the painted picture. If they aren't irregular, then I don't know who they would fit. Maybe there's a lot I don't know about the physical anatomy of Korean sweatshop children. Maybe it's time to stop shopping at Kohl's.

Sweatshops Are Like Saunas That Pay YOU,

Friday, July 18, 2008

Witz Pickz: Friday -- The F Stands for Failure

Oscar Pistorius AKA Cheetah Legs failed in his three attempts to qualify for the 2008 Beijing Olympics that begin on 8/8/08. His court ruling went in his favor, but he was then unable to beat his best time by enough to match the qualifying time for the individual 400m. He thought he'd be chosen for the 1600m relay team, at least as an alternate, but he was left off of that team as well-- most likely for someone who HAS LEGS. Now, I've clearly been on the douchebag side of the fence on this issue, and just want to let everyone know that I'm not changing my tune.

Now you might think that this proves that the cheater legs don't give him an advantage. That thinking is ridiculous and here's why: Oscar Pistorius holds the Paralympic Record for the 400m with a time of 46.56. This means that he should have a show on NBC called The Biggest Cheater. His bionic-legs have clearly given him an advantage, it just ALSO turns out that he's just not that good a runner. Huh.

And while I applaud his effort and think he is a courageous and strong and determined person, he's still a 21 year old kid who wants to win at what he does. One article states that, "The 21-year-old Pistorius, who said his legal battles prevented him from focusing on training, had acknowledged it might be more realistic to aim for the 2012 London Olympics." I'm gonna drop the name Lance Armstrong. And you know why? Because Lance Armstrong doesn't make excuses. He makes Tour de France victories. He beats testicular cancer and then rides one nut lighter to the top. Oscar Pistorius runs two legs lighter and installs CHEETAH LEGS and doesn't make the cut. He makes excuses. And I totally understand, because it's pretty obvious that I would be a professional baseball player if it weren't for my day job, mediocre hand/eye coordination and underwhelming dedication to my dreams. I guess we'll see in 2012 if Oscar "trains harder" or if his cheetah legs get a technical improvement.

The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford:
I'm gonna write this now because I don't know if THIS MOVIE WILL EVER FREAKING END!!! I've sat down and watched three significant amounts of it and each time I start to believe the end is near, but it never is. And the problem is that it's not really exciting, or compelling, or viewer friendly-- it's just really well shot and oddly interesting. I genuinely want to know what happens, but then again, don't I already know? The interest comes in the acting and the relationships and seeing how they get from point A to point B. The problem is that point A started when I put the disc in and point B may or may not exist. It almost feels like how Aqua Teen Hunger Force described Highlander: "the Highlander was a documentary, and the events happened in real time!" Each minute drags out, and there are only so many times I can bask in the glory of a well delivered glare by Brad Pitt or a sketchy, mopey regret by Casey Affleck. I might shoot a documentary of the movie and me destroying it called, "The Assassination of 'The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford' by the Patriot Witz."


A goldschlager and coke is called a "Gold and Coke" and tastes like Christmas.
A goldschlager and Dr. Pepper is called a Dr. Goldschlager and tastes like Chanukkah.

I may smile and nod, but I still have no idea who or what Perez Hilton is.
Same goes for OJ Mayo, but he sounds like a bad breakfast combination.

I accidentally and awkwardly typed "One sex" to somebody on gchat instead of "One sec" and had to spend the next 20 minutes explaining how I am part of the One Gender Movement.

If I can't even stick to eating the soup I bring for lunch, how am I supposed to succeed at anything in entertainment? Maybe I was born without motivation and need to get some Cheetah Motivation installed. Worst case scenario, I eat more gazelle meat.

The Cobbler:
The minute I heard that my friend The Color Thiel Part 2 was going to the cobbler, I knew I had to go. It sounded delicious, and I also had no idea that cobbler's still existed. It seems like such a specific job that he MUST double as something else-- a cobbler/lawyer or a cobbler by night, but a Quizno's employee by day. But nope, there was actually a cobbler. I imagined some small man, probably Danish (which ALSO sounds delicious), who would hobble and cobble all day long and into the night as the job demanded. I pictured him sleeping in the back room with a small bed underneath the photo of his first and only love who died before her time (because if I'm imagining a cobbler, I'm gonna imagine one sad fucking cobbler). I also imagined that he could grant wishes, but I think I got that mixed up with something else. Anyway, I imagined so many things that I couldn't actually go in-- it would ruin the dream for me. Instead, I sat in the car and watched as The Color Thiel Part 2 made her way into the wonderland in which the cobbler worked-- or at least tried. Because The Cobbler, as I could only have hoped, had a door that worked stable style, with the bottom being closed while the top was open. Three times she tried to get in and couldn't, until finally, awkwardly, she had to shout for the cobbler to open the door. It was at this point that I was given but a single glance at the cobbler's white, Danish arm. That was enough for me. He exists. The Cobbler and perhaps many cobblers are out there-- anything is possible.

I really want a friend who's nickname is The Cobbler.
I really want to make a combination chocolate/cobbler bar called the Cobblerone.

Dr. Goldshlager's Cobblerone Bar,

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Nut-Punching Shower, Hipster Cleverness, Tunammunity

Nut-Punching Shower:
I love me some water pressure. I really and truly do. When I get in a shower for the first time, there's always that fear that instead of a solid jet of water, I'm going to be stuck with the spiteful drizzle of low shower pressure. When it comes down to it, I'd always rather have a shower that knocks me on my ass instead of one that acts like the drain is a urinal. BUT-- I am currently in a two week living period with a shower I have come to name Arnie the Nut-Punching Shower. I call it Arnie because that just sounds like the name of someone who would punch you in the nuts. Like, every chance he got-- and he'd still laugh at it, even when everyone else thought the joke was dead. But, like the shower, it also sounds like the kind of guy who means well underneath it all, and you'll keep hanging out with him despite his painful tendencies.

Because lemme tell you, this shower has some painful tendencies. This was me the first day: Whistle whistle whistle, turn on the water, check the temperature, step into the shower and OH GOD! Dodge around, cover up the junk, and do some high steps trying to spread around the punches. Here's how the last three days have gone, every time, without exception: Turn on shower, breath deeply, step boldly into the-- OOPH, cover the junk, adjust and shower with only a few accidental punches let through. Which led to this morning's conversation in my head with Arnie, while I got ready to step into the blast:

ME: How are we this morning, Arnie?
ARNIE: Aw, you know, Mr. Witz, Arnie does alright...
ME: Feeling calm?
ARNIE: Not so much, Mr. Witz.
ME: Well, I appreciate your honesty, but I'm gonna get in the shower now.
ARNIE: I know, Mr. Witz, I know.
ME: And I'd reallly appreciate it if you wouldn't nut-punch me this time...
ARNIE: You know I can't make that promise Mr. Witz...
ME: I know, Arnie, but just this once, I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
ARNIE: I'll do my best.
ME: Ok, I'm stepping in....nooooow-- OOPH-- GODDAMN IT ARNIE!
ARNIE: He-he-he-he-he.

Spoutal abuse.

Hipster Cleverness:
I went to a delicious pizza place last night, which was all well and good except that it was all dark glass on the outside and nice and cozy on the inside. Even though it looked nice, the bartenders were dressed kinda punk and our waiter may or may not have actually worked there. Aside from him being a little off in general, he kept saying he could do stuff like he was doing us a favor and pulling off miracles. Like, we ask if we could carmelized onions on the pizza and he replied, "Uh, yeah, totally, I don't see why not, I mean, we have them, right?" as if he was gonna have to pull some strings with the higher ups, but since he liked us he could probably make that topping happen for us. Odd. Anyway, that has nothing to do with this topic. This topic has to do with their webpage. Because on their webpage they have two words that annoy me-- the first of which is "cakeage."

Instead of "corkage," Little Star Pizza uses "cakeage" as a clever way of saying, "We're going to punish you for it being your birthday." You see, if you bring your own cake to the restaurant (despite the fact that they don't sell cakes), you have to pay $1.50 per person for it. The table next to us actually did bring a cake so I was able to hear the interaction up close. I wasn't even remotely surprised when I heard the guy say that "Cakeage fee is like corkage, get it-- but it's cakeage," and everyone at the table laughed and said how cute it was. Cute like $1.50 x 8. At least it sounds like something a surfer dude would say, as in, "Dude, I'm gonna get some hella cakeage at the birthday party!"

The other thing that the website told me was that you could only make reservations between the hours of 3-5pm. If you left a message any other time, then the "reservationist" would call you back. The "reservationist." Am I crazy or is that a terrible name for a job? It sounds like someone who is either way into having reservations for Native Americans or someone who is WAY against them. Andrew Jackson was the head of The Reservationist Party that ran against The Whig Party in the 1804 election type stuff (ok, since I clearly just wikipedia'd "historical political parties" lemme list some of the other parties I found: The Nullifier Party (aka Ralph Nader), the Readjuster Party (which sounds like it'd help my back out quite a bit), the Anti-Monopoly Party (aka Scrabble Junkies), the Concerned Citizens Party (which made the regular Citizens Party look like chumps), and the New Party (aka the party lacking any and all creativity)). I don't like the fact that the reservationist has such strict rules and guidelines on the webpage. It makes them sound very angry and easily upset. I guess those 2 hours a day of work really weighs on them.

Tuna Community:
It has come to my attention that there is an entire community of people who must eat tuna way too much. I like to refer to these people as the tunammunity, and there's more people involved than you think. When one of my co-workers said that she loved tuna, I assumed that she meant fillets. That's reasonable. Imagine my surprise when I learned that she meant canned. It's ok to like canned tuna, and I do like it myself. But LOVING canned tuna means that you see cats eating and get jealous. Until yesterday, I had filed it away as not my problem. Then I saw something that changed all that. Yesterday, I was introduced to FLAVORED canned tuna. Dried Tomato and Basil to be specific-- and it was in an easily peeled away can. This means that Starkist has an audience of people who WANT more tuna and want more flavors involved with the tuna. They've had so much regular tuna that they need more options without having to give up their precious fish. There is clearly a tunammunity.

So why does this make it my problem? Well, I'll tell you what, it's not just MY problem, it's YOUR problem too. While we've been worrying about recycling and polar bears drowning and global warming as a whole (you know, or not apparently), the Tunammunity has been packing away cans and cans of mercury laden tuna. This means that we're on the verge of having an entire group of people acting absolutely insane with mercury poisoning! Who knows what they'll do? They certainly don't. I imagine it's going to be almost exactly like I Am Legend, only with less Will Smith. WHAT KIND OF WORLD WOULD THAT BE?? It's time to stop this tunammunity for their own good. Stage interventions. Hide the tuna in grocery stores. Write letters to your local politicians, and tell them it's time for action-- even if they are a Reservationist.

I'd Like to Hear Someone Describe Teddy Roosevelt As "One Nut-Punching Reservationist!",

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Witz Pickz: Hilarious Sex Dice (aka Witz Makes it Awkward)

Oh I'm goin' there. For years now, I've been staring at these novelty sex dice that were given as a joke birthday present to Witz Gal. They've followed us on two moves, almost getting thrown out both times, only to make the cut because they're just too damn amusing to get rid of without sharing the amazingness. In fact, right at this moment, they are on their way towards their third move. I stared at them for about five straight minutes, trying to decide if this time was the time to get rid of them, then began giggling profusely and decided to pack them. Which means that right now, the novelty sex dice are buried in my "sports equipment box" which is packed in the shed of one of my supervisors-- just sitting there, waiting to be awkwardly discovered. She's PROBABLY learning about this right now. Might as well bring the awkward to her instead of the other way around. Besides, the time has come to tell the world-- and thanks to a little digital camera magic, I can do just that.

These dice don't even need to be remarked upon for the funny-- instead, think of me more as a conduit-- like wire for electricity, or Tyler Perry for horrible entertainment. I call them NOVELTY sex dice not because they're intentionally jokey, but because they are oversized and soft like pillows. They look like something you'd win at the claw game at a carnival-- if anyone ever won anything at the claw game. How do they work, you wonder? On one die, there is an action. On the other, a body part. Unfortunately, there are only 6 sides on a die and really only a few acceptable body parts and actions you can write on them while still being able to display them in stores. What I mean is that while it would be POSSIBLE to print "Stick a gerbil" as an action and "someplace ill advised" as the body part, that's not gonna sell as a jokey teen gift and whoever buys it might face immediate felony charges.

Instead, the novelty dice limit themselves to vagaries and general regions. Thankfully, this means the options are incredible. In fact, there are three types of funny that these dice produce. The first, of course, is the Not Quite Right combinations-- and the ones that just don't seem like a good time for the other person. My favorite of these is:

Somewhat aggressive to begin with, the "Blow Above Waist" option is vague and confusing. It sounds like you're being held prisoner by two southern rednecks Deliverance style, and they are trying unsuccessfully to make you do sexual things to each other.

"Now blow him above the waist!"
"DO IT!"
"What does that even mean--"
"DO IT!"
"Al- alright, lemme just...(blowing on stomach)"
"Oh god, that tickles, hee-hee, stop, stop..."
"Now you blow her above the waist."
"I'm sorry, blow her?"
"Yip. Blow 'er."

Aaaaand scene. Runner up in this category is "blow lips."

The second kind of funny is the Mystery Locale.

The mystery spot represents all of the mystery and magic that the world holds. It makes us say, "What will they choose to suck??" It reminds us that the world has limitless options and freedoms. It also encompasses all of the thoughts and ideas that the dice people couldn't actually print on the dice....and let's be honest, it probably most directly translates to "anus."

The final type of funny (if I must limit it to three types), and possibly my favorite is the super, awkwardly blunt combinations. Such as:


The opposite of the mystery spot, the blunt awkward declaration states all too clearly what it is you should do. There's still the male/female not quite rightness, and it mixes in some of that Deliverance thing again, but it's in a class all its own. I can't imagine them actually being exciting in any way, but more like an insight into how Cavemen and Cavewomen mixed things up in the bedroom-- er-- cave. Like they figured out 3 combinations that worked for 'em and decided to write them down on "Old School Wheels" aka cubes. It just proves that it'd be nearly impossible to take the dice seriously. How can you not burst out laughing when the dice tell you to "blow ?"?

"Are you blowing on my elbow?"
"That's right, baby."
"You got the question mark again, didn't you?"
"Uh-huh-- maybe creativity isn't your thing...why are you laughing?"
"You'll see."
"Are you licking my scalp?!"
"thath's wight, waby."
"No more question marks for you. Yeah, you think it's funny. Too bad they don't have dice that berate you and make you feel sexually inadequate. Oh look, you rolled 'Make it' and 'bigger.' What's that one? 'Hurry up' and 'finish?'"
(That was like a joke within a joke within a joke. I'm getting good at this.)

Wow. Here we are, time to go our separate ways again. It's like a great comedic weight is off my shoulders. I also feel like we're all a little closer now-- like a great big family...but like a great big family that discusses and laughs at sex dice like a creepy family.

"Read Below the Waist,"

P.S. While moving this weekend, we were lucky enough to get this stellar photo. FYI, if you're ever moving a bench press bench and a memory foam mattress box at the same time, you're one digital camera away from a great phallic photo opportunity.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Monday Melange 2

Mmmmmm, melange...

Hotel Towels:
Why do hotels still utilize gym towel technology? They try and provide all different kinds of amenities, from free HBO to a pool to fitness rooms, and yet even some of the nicer hotels I've been into have horribly uncomfortable towels. They're the kind that make you think the someone in charge saw those "cottage cheese ceilings" and said, "That. I want that-- only as towels." Maybe they thought it would save time, like instead of needing to shower AND exfoliate AND dry off, you could just rub down with the rough fabric and kill two of three birds with one of two stones. And another thing-- are horse jockeys the primary guests at hotels or is the Ramada just trying to make my life a little sexier? Nowhere else in the world are towels as tiny as they are at hotels. Sure, SOMETIMES this might not be awkward, but combine those towels with an overloaded room of soccer players and no bathroom vent for the steam, and you're one quick turn away from "tandem skydiving" if you know what I mean-- which you might or might not since I just made up that euphamism...All I'm saying is that it's time for hotels to step it up on the towel front and give me a towel I can work with. I don't need more than they're normal ration of shampoo, I don't need free toothpaste-- but I could use a little more shower comfort, as opposed to having it feel like I'm getting mauled by a friendly long nailed Kuala Bear every time I dry off.

Energy Banter:
I parked my car in the event lot the other day and headed into work. Unlike most days, when there isn't an actual event, there was an Energy Summit going on so the lot was packed. Feeling chipper with the knowledge that my car WOULDN'T be towed, I walked towards the exit. On the way, I saw a Zip Car and a person near me from another car at the same time. The problem when two events like that occur simultaneously is that I forget to make comments in my head and actually deliver them out loud. In this case, it led to my saying,

"Really? Driving a Zip Car to an Energy Summit? SOMEONE'S trying too hard..."

Guess who found that amusing? JUST ME. Certainly not the person I spoke to, who didn't even give me a courtesy chuckle, but instead fake smiled slightly, frowned a little, and walked off quickly. Maybe making jokes about someone saving TOO MUCH energy to someone at an ENERGY conference isn't a good idea. I blame my chipperness.

New iPhone:
My friend, Casual Monday, got a text on his old phone from AT&T telling him how much sweeter the new iPhone is. It's faster and more awesome and does more things! That's like being told by your girlfriend how much better this other girl who's way into you is-- only you already booked a vacation with the old girlfriend and the ticket is non-transferable.

Poor Metaphors:
My office sent a cookie bouquet to a guy who broke his leg that said, "Get better quickly!" or something to that extent and it had pictures of turtles on it. When I pointed out that it doesn't make ANY DAMN SENSE, because turtles are the SLOWEST OF CREATURES, I was told, "No, it's like the tortoise and the hare, because the tortoise finishes first," to which I pointed out that it had NOTHING TO DO WITH SPEED, but simply that the Hare went running off like me on red bull & vodkas and then crashed for a while when he hit a sugar low. The fact that Hare needs to be on the Zones diet to control his blood sugar doesn't mean that Tortoise is any faster. Those cookies shouldn't say, "Get better quickly!" they should say, "Stay on course-- take as long and steady a recovery as you need," but then they sound like Republicans. Zing.

Eli Stone:
Everything balls crazy that happens to you is probably fake. You know this. Get your shit together.

Stop hanging out in grass. It is absolutely insane that the threat of "stepping on a bee" exists. Obviously, I recently stepped on a bee, classic Witz occurrence. BUT SERIOUSLY-- spread your wings and fly. The threat of stepping on a bee is almost as nuts as the idea of hitting a bird with your car. When it happens, it seems almost impossible. Why would birds not dodge my car? Why would birds fly at head level? It's so baffling that when you hit a bird, it actually feels like it's YOUR FAULT. Like YOU did something specifically horrible to the world. Like if other people saw, you're the asshole. I still might see Bee Movie...

Cottage Cheese Ceilings: Setting the Cottage Cheese Industry Back 60 Years,

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Moaning Noises and Motorcyclists

I was thinking recently, "What embarrassing life detail haven't I told people about yet," and this one sprung to mind. Every now and then, not often, but definitely often enough, when I'm falling asleep, usually in a less than ideal sleeping environment, juuuuuust before I actually fall asleep, but when I'm already dreaming, I will wake myself up with an audible moan. I always recognize that I made a sound and usually cover it up with ANOTHER sound, like clearing my throat or coughing, or grumbling, but I also sometimes just ask, "Did I just make a noise outloud?" which usually results in giggling by whoever is there. This is awkward enough already, but from what I can tell and from what I've been told, the moan is slightly sexual sounding.

Only here's the thing-- IT NEVER HAPPENS WHEN I'M HAVING A SEXUAL DREAM! It's ALWAYS right before I get bitten by a snake or hit by a car, or mauled by a bear (hm-- don't read anything into that one). In my head I'm in terrible danger or trauma, but in reality, I'm the guy in the middle seat on an airplane, trying to sleep with my head straight down and moaning myself back to wakefulness. I'm THAT guy.

On the other hand, it is kind of better than some other options. There's the "about to fall asleep single shout" which sounds like, "AH!" briefly and powerfully. That was an oldie but goodie, but I guess I've grown out of it. I should also be lucky that I don't talk in my sleep, because if what I say while awake is any indication, my sleep talking would be more than a little out of control. Although, I suppose my sleep talking could be where my brain says, "Finally, this asshole stopped making jokes, let's solve some of the world's problems," and I might actually start spouting off foreign policy, cancer solving algorithms, and equations for cold fusion (which would be directly related to my seeing Chain Reaction with Keanu Reeves back in the day-- isn't Cold Fusion a Gillette razor now?).

The one thing I do which I don't mind and would LIKE to know more about is laugh in my sleep. Apparently, I will very very occasionally start laughing-- well, giggling in my sleep. Fingers-crossed, it's not a sign of dimensia, but I am never able to remember what I'm laughing about, and it seems like whatever I'm able to giggle about in my dreams must be pretty hilarious-- unless my subconscious mind finds my impending doom or directionless future amusing, then maybe I'm better off not knowing.

I don't care if you're my best friend in the world-- if you ride a motorcycle and don't follow even the simplest of traffic rules, I hate you. I will yell at you while I drive. I will swear at you on principle and those swears will probably be uncommon and including illogical combinations-- like "douche-fucker." I can abide motorcycles cruising up the space between lanes when I am in deadlocked traffic-- I don't like it, and I think it slows down traffic more and is dangerous and might cause death if I try and switch lanes, but I won't call them out. BUT, in most any other situations, it's uncool. I don't like motorcycles cruising between cars in moving traffic, dodging and weaving and knowing cars will get in trouble if we hit them. It's almost as bad as bicyclists not stopping at stop signs even if it's not their time to go. It's the simple attitude that motorcycles can go and do whatever they want that drives me crazy. Which brings us to this motocycle encounter:

Last week I'm at a left hand turn light. In front of me is a big city bus. I am literally six feet behind the bus at the light. There is nobody behind me. From out of nowhere, a motorcycle cruises up and I see him in my rearview mirror. No big deal. Only instead of pulling up behind me, he PULLS IN FRONT OF ME and wedges himself between me and the bus. I'm obviously shocked, but I'm feeling like making some memories, so I wait for the light and get ready to roll. The light changes, and we turn onto a two lane road that very quickly turns into a one way road. There is a light about 100 yards ahead. As the bus pulls ahead, opening up some space, I see my opportunity and make like Days of Thunder. I'm going low. I'm going low. I'M GOING HIGH! I slam into fourth gear and swing around the outside of the motocycle, zooming past him and pulling in front right as the two lanes merge-- with my Subaru Outback Station Wagon biotch.

The light is red, so I stop right behind the bus and watch as the motocycle approaches behind me, not looking to stop. He vears a little to the left and I angle the car slightly to block him. He looks to zoom around me to the right, so I swing the car back to the right in my limited space-- clearly trying to block him out. I'm laughing happily, having blocked the motorcycle out entirely, until the guy guns the engine and zooms past us ON THE DIRT AND MULCH GROUND (i.e. off the road). He turns and scowls at our shocked and smiling faces as he goes by, in a way not even angry so much as foiled and surprised that anyone would try and hinder his freedom. I suppose that would be his freedom to get 20 feet closer to a red light. Anyway, long story medium length, if you find me in a gutter on the side of the road, with both of my knees broken-- it was probably because of that.

And These Aren't Even Things I'm Stressed Out About,

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

Witz Pickz: Lumberjack Jamboree (Fourth of July Weekend Party 2 of 2)

North Fork, California. Home of The Buck Horn Restaurant and Lounge, Mr. Bob's Therapeutic Massage (and probably child pornography ring), and, for one magical weekend every year, The Annual North Fork Lumberjack Jamboree. On Sunday, I was able, for a brief instant, to become a part of this burly world. Here's a sensory explanation of how it was:


What if that's all I gave you? What if I got all Kerouac on you and then just peaced? Here's what went down:

The Scene:
We arrived on Sunday at the North Fork Rec Center not knowing what to expect, six tourists in a world where people clearly had spent a little bit of time. As we approached the jamboree, we saw the spread-- events were going on in a rectangular coral with an announcer's booth and old wooden benches set up stadium style. At the top of a slight hill, concession stands were set up, all of which shocking for different reasons.

Food is very telling, and this is no different at a Lumberjack Jamboree. On the one hand, there was thai food, which as one of four food options, was entirely unexpected. Getting the thai food would be like going to a steakhouse and ordering the vegetarian sandwhich (which I've done, and would NOT recommend it). On the other hand, was the confusing yet intriguing "Indian Tacos--" feathers, not dots, which were being sold behind a tiny shack that looked like it was out of Kid Nation. After a little exploration, we learned that Indian Tacos are much like regular tacos, only they're served in a fried dough shell as opposed to regular taco shells-- AKA brilliance! For anybody who thought that Native Americans gave a fuck, there's proof to the contrary. The most epitomizing food, however, was the vegetarian platter. The veggie platter was mushrooms, zucchini, and onions-- oh, but they're ALL DEEP FRIED! I saw many a person putting down a stack of fried veggies and man did it look good.

You see, the Lumberjack Jamboree is like those veggies. Wholesome and good for you, but definitely deep fried and greasy. It was extremely stereotypical and rednecky, but at the same time, people were more courteous than I'd seen in a while.

The Queen:
A huge error in judgement led us to miss The Woodchopper's Ball and Queen Coronation Ceremony the night before. The problem was that it was very difficult to get any documentation on the subject, and aside from going camping, there was the issue of the apostrophe. Was it The WoodchopperS ball, as in, lots of wood choppers and us too? Or was it The Woodchopper's Ball, as in, a ball for those who chop wood? We clearly didn't want to get our ass kicked by pretending to be something we aren't. Anyway, at the ball, there were apparently numerous fights (which would be like watching hippos fight) and the Queen was coronated. The four contestants had to be single women without children, which is tougher to find than you'd think, and it meant they were about 16 years old. True to form, there were very few specifications that had to be met, and I'm pretty sure whoever sold the most tickets to the event on Sunday won the crown. After some anticipation, we were introduced to the Queen on Sunday, as she made her way from the announcer's booth to the platform. She had classied herself up in a pink tank top, some tight short shorts, and flip-flops, and rocked some dark sunglasses and prized tiara alongside the other mark of North Fork royalty-- a big gulp cup. She waved to the crowd and everyone went wild, us included. Any Queen with a tattoo is fine by me.

The Lumberjacks:
At first sighting, all you can think when you see the plethora of Lumberjacks is "that's a whole lot of burly." As you adjust, you realize that most lumberjacks are of a certain physique-- big chested and with a pronounced gut. Stout is the word that comes to mind. We started picking out favorites as the events went on, and it wasn't very long before some storylines emerged. My immediate favorite was George Harrison, Jr. for obvious reasons. A skinny guy with a mohawk, possibly Native American or Hispanic, with a lanky physique, I couldn't help but sing the theme song to James Bond, Jr. in my head, replacing the words with George's name. And if you got that reference, I'm glad we were doing the same thing at 3:30 p.m. in fourth grade. The next guy who gained our respect was Dennis Harvey-- a slightly older lumber man, but still with some fire in him. Here's a video of Dennis chopping off a slice of a tree with his chainsaw.

More heroes would emerge as the day went on. But after two competitions (tying the line and the chainsaw one), George and Dennis were our guys.

The chainsaw competition was cool, but kind of boring, and it was pretty obvious we were all their for the ax-throw (because no, there was no log rolling to our knowledge, and yes, we were also very disappointed). We moved down to the front row, in the sun, and close to the action. In front of us were two single-looking moms with young boys, the moms drinking beers and the boys watching in awe. At one point the mom said something to a older gentleman thrower named Tom, to which the boy noted with astonishment, "Momma, you talked to a LUMBERJACK!" His voice carried both awe and the possibility that she was about to be up to no good. Anyway, back to the rules.

Two throwers went at a time on separate targets. They got 4 throws and the top 3 counted. you could score 2, 3, 4, or if you hit dead center, 5 points. Another rule is that you have to hit the target with one side of the ax and not the tips at the top of each blade-- this came back to haunt Jason "Just the tip" Tilling, who hit the bulls-eye, but didn't score any points because of how it landed.

And for those of you trivia fans, if you are ever asked what color the center of an ax-throw target is, the answer is THE BULLS-EYE IS BEERS!!! That's right people-- they shake up and place a can of beer in the center of the target, so that it EXPLODES when it is hit with an ax. This is obviously the best move in sports since adding the DH in baseball. Every exploding can is as exciting as a grand slam in baseball-- probably because you feel like your buddy just did something ridiculous in your backyard and your parents are going to get pissed now and make everyone go home. Amazing.

Here is where our other plotlines emerged:

Dale Tucks (?):
Dale looks like a Native American smurph. He had leather gloves he used and his first few throws didn't quite find their mark. He was quiet and affable, however, and people in the crowd were very excited for him when he landed his second exploding bulls-eye, and finished with 14 pts, a number which tied...

Nathan Hodges and Jerry Hodges AKA Those Hodges Boys:
Nate Hodges had also landed 14 points, and sat cockily over to the side talking to other LJ's. Young and barrell chested, Nate was already a local legend, having won the previous three Championships at the Jamboree and looking to be the first ever to win four in a row. At the same time, his younger brother Jerry was entering the competition, and was getting a lot of support from the crowd. There were numerous calls of, "C'mon Jerry Hodges!" which didn't seem to help much as the camo clad youth seemed to let his frustration throw him off his game, and he put up scant few points. In stark contrast to his confident brother, Jerry looked younger and more angry, and potentially capable of killing the entire town if that's what it came to. The Hodges Boys would make another big appearance later on.

Back at the ax-throw, Nathan and Dale went into a sudden death finale, one throw each to determine the winner. Nathan slammed down a four spot with his powerful throw to begin and Dale carefully matched him with a more contained toss. They went to the next round, and the place was electric. Nathan stepped up, knowing he needed to close things out, and let his ax fly-- 3 pts. Shaking his head and stomping back to watch, Dale lined it up, knowing a door had been opened. Then, looking not unlike Joe or Mac from the Super Nintendo game Joe & Mac, Dale threw his ax and landed it for 4 pts. Dale had stolen the event from Nathan Hodges, and everyone applauded the effort.

One saw, two lumberjacks. Sold. Here's footage from the Double Buck competition. This isn't them, but Jerry and Nathan Hodges teamed up for the event and powered through to a 3rd place finish with the crowd going nuts the entire time.

We had to leave before the competitions were complete, so we didn't find out who won until today. It took some investigating, but thanks to my correspondence with Hardware Bob, I was able to find out that NATHAN HODGES WON IT ALL! He is the first LJ ever to win four straight competitions. And I'll tell you what-- they might just be regular guys, some probably younger than myself, but that day they were larger than life and like rock stars. For that day, they were not simply men-- they were Lumberjacks.

Clearly I Didn't "Chop Down" The Length of This Informative Post,

Here are some photos from the day:




Monday, July 07, 2008

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Camping (July 4th Weekend Part 1 of 2)

I was conned into camping this weekend. I say conned because I didn't know it was gonna happen until I KNEW that it was gonna happen, and I say it negatively because unlike 95% of people I've met, I hate camping. So first let me tell you why I hate camping and then I'll sit back and listen while everyone tells me why I'm wrong.

Here's how I was conned:

ME: I think we're comin' up on Saturday instead of Friday.
MY-FRIEND-FORMERLY-WITH-A-POOL: Oh, that works. You'll miss the camping part though...
ME: Cool-- I hate camping.
(flash forward to Saturday)
MFFWAP: We went camping last night, it was amazing.
ME: Cool.
MFFWAP: We stayed at this place with a waterfall and rocks and it fed down to another little pool of water and then another waterfall. It was really amazing-- I'd love to show it to you if you're up for it.
ME: Cool.

Here's what everyone should know-- if someone you know who does not intend to bang you says they want you to see a beautiful bit of nature, and that beautiful bit of nature turns out to be an hour away from where you currently are-- that person intends on camping there with you. And so we learn.

The thing about camping is that I have a home and know that electricity exists. If it weren't for those two things, I'd be more into it.

THEM: Hey Witz, come camping!
ME: Oh man, here's the thing: I pay rent every month to have this home with ammenities like a stove, and refrigerator, and bed, and shower, and toilet...
THEM: Yeah, but it's nature man! We'll have food dogs and chocolate!
ME: Yeah...
THEM: And beers!
ME: True...
THEM: And it doesn't matter if you drop stuff or cook it poorly, because the five second rule is the "Whenever you feel like it" rule in nature, and hot dogs are pre-cooked!
ME: Well, I can understand all that. But with all the beer and hot dogs, what's our bathroom situation like? Because I have a toilet here.
THEM: That's the best part! You can pee in the bushes and crap in a hole!
ME: Even after dark?
THEM: Especially after dark!
ME: Hmm, well I'm still gonna pass, but I appreciate the invite.

It's not that I hate ALL of "camping." I like all the buildup: the hiking, the settling in, being secluded in nature, the camp-fire, the s'mores, the drinking, the bonding, the stories, the pictures, the memories. All that is fine by me. The part of camping that I hate, and the part which I think makes it CAMPING, is the sleeping outside on the ground. There are only two reasons why I should be sleeping on the ground-- either I'm poor, or I've become a pubescent Indian girl and it's that time of the month. Now, I'm not gonna be able to prevent the latter if some kind of "struck by lightning" scenario occurs, but the poverty part I've managed to ward off successfully for a while now.

I have enough trouble sleeping regularly, in a bed, with ideal sleeping conditions. I don't need to be lying out on the ground, no matter how many comforts I bring, which in this case, were very few. Camping for me means rocks and roots digging into my side, hard earth beneath me, really cold temperatures during the night hours that quickly turn into sauna like conditions in my tent when the sun comes up. I could sleep outside of the tent, but that quickly translates into being bug fodder and I do like the false safety of mesh and a zipper. The noises don't help the sleep any either, especially when at first light (5-6am in the summer) the most obnoxious birds on the planet start alerting us to their presence. I swear, the bird that we all dealt with Sunday morning must have ignored the "Show up early, first come, first serve" signs on "Get Your Bird Call Day:"

BIRD WE HEARD: What's your bird-song sound like?
REGULAR BIRDS: Rainbows and dreams. How about yours?
BIRD WE HEARD: A truck horn. So I like to sing it twice. Constantly.

When I'm not camping, and I hear something like that, I can shut a window, shut a door, etc and solve the problem.

Birds aren't the only problem. There are all other manner of things that can annoy, harm, or kill you when you go camping. Bugs, bees, coyotes, spiders, mountain lions, murderers, beasts, monsters, and snakes. And that's in ascending order of danger. Not to be redundant, but snakes are a) my biggest fear and b) most prevalent in nature. Nature is where you camp. I'm tired of hearing, "they're more afraid of you than you are of them," when I have a PARALYZING FEAR OF THEM. We would have to come upon each other and both just freeze completely and start trembling and sweating for us to be equally scared of each other. That snake's first instinct would have to be to jump backward and run forever, even if that meant tumbling down the waterfall to greater harm. Before that snake encounters me, it would have to have already thought out plans of where it would go or what it would do if it were to encounter a human at any given time. And that doesn't typically seem to be the case. Snakes's typical response seems to be to STRIKE. It chooses fight, I choose flight. The snake is not nearly as scared of me as I am of it. So with all these options for death, actually SLEEPING-- actually CAMPING, in or out of a sealed tent (because c'mon, no guarentees) is not something to look forward to. Sleeping is more like whispering a slight, "Let me die peacefully in my sleep," prayer and waiting for the inevitable to happen. With a root sticking in my goddamn back.

Instead of camping, why can't we just, "go hangout in nature for a while?" Get a campfire going, drink a few beers, make some memories, and then pack it in for the night and SUV it back to a warm bed. Because let's be honest, it's usually like 11 p.m. when people head to bed while camping. I'd be good with spending the day with nature, having the campfire thing, and getting into a bed by midnight. Besides, I have some good Netflix at home, and I really want to see Into the Wild. It looks right up my alley.

For A Guy Who's About to Be Homeless, Witz Sure Is Talkin' Some Shit About Camping,

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

Witz Pickz: Gillette Fusion, Virgin America Airlines

In the last week I've flown miles, rocked out at The Retox Lounge, played in a soccer tournament, finished one of the best books I've ever read (Shantaram) and discovered that Elliott Smith had a band called Heatmiser that is just as good as one would hope. AND YET NOTHING has been as exciting to me as the:

Gillette Fusion Razor:
A year or so ago, my friend The ATX told me that he tried shaving with what was then the newest razor from Gillette-- a razor that was battery powered so it shook when you shaved. He said it was weird because you didn't feel anything and it kind of numbed the skin. I told him I wasn't going to visit when he ended up with early onset multiple sclerosis. You see, up until that point, I assumed shaking razors was a bad idea, not unlike that weight loss belt that shocks your body into pretending it's in shape. There are electric razors for that, no need to make my regular razor shake, right? WRONG.

Big-time wrong. Since I flew sans checked luggage to Seattle, I couldn't bring my razor and was forced to buy one there. Guess which razor was on sale? Yep. The new Gillette Fusion-- a razor that not only has FIVE BLADES, but also SHAKES thanks to the AAA battery that is included. Let's break this one down. First of all, five blades seems excessive. It reminds me of a Dollar Store being undercut by a 99 Cent store. Or "7 Minute Abs." Some marketing wizard must have said, "How can we beat the razor with four blades-- oh, wait, here's an idea-- five of em. Pay me, bitches." Now let's talk about how the thing shakes. Obviously, it seems unnecessary, especially since there are now five separate blades that can cut you instead of 1-4 blades. The addition of the battery (which actually makes the price a pretty good deal-- like, if I needed a few AAA batteries and was in a pinch, I'd buy three Fusions) adds bulk to the razor, and when I say bulk, I mean that it turns a regular hand razor into roughly the size of a hammer. But I guess that's why you have to try it.

Because the moment I put that sucker to my face, my life changed-- and I don't mean that I scarred myself or did irreparable damage to my jawline. I mean cue "A Whole New World," give me a new lease on life to sign, and let's get me a new haircut. The Gillette Fusion is not just a battery powered razor-- and it was bad marketing to portray it as such. It's an Acoustic Electric Razor. With that marketing I would have tried it years ago, and would have been pleasantly surprised. The numbing is definitely a plus, and the shaking blades actually DO help cut more hairs without cutting or causing neck bumps, which for me (and I'm pretty sure most Jews I know), makes it similar to the Ark in Indiana Jones (yes, I did just equate neck bumps with nazis). When I got back to California (without it again because of baggage), I actually went to the store and bought ANOTHER one, just so I wouldn't have to go back to the reality of a lesser bladed, acoustic razor so quickly. I'm sure I will have to someday, probably when they prove that the Fusion causes cancer or makes you go blind or has free will and has begun killing its owners, but until that day, I'll live my new acoustic electric life.

Virgin America:
Apparently Virgin America was created on a single principle: "Cool people aren't able to look cool enough on planes, and it's time somebody did something about it." And it's true. How cool can you look when you're waiting in line, shuffling bags, feeling dehydrated, getting frustrated by delays, searching for your seat, getting stuck in the middle seat, feeling nauseaous, reclining slightly, eating on a tray, or popping Wheat Thins Crisps? The answer is not very cool. Virgin America has changed all that.

As you enter the plane you notice two things right off the bat-- the crew and pilot don't look old enough to have authority over your life, and there is mood lighting. Purple mood lighting. You also notice, as your ears perk up, that there is soft techno playing-- like the techno equivalent of smooth jazz or elevator music. If you're anything like me, you immediately wonder if you're cool enough to be on this flight. You're not a club guy or gal, and all of a sudden, you're very aware of being underdressed for your Club Flight-- under armor and shorts not the usual attire to get you on the guest list. You start to think back and realize that you should have known something was up. In the terminal, Virgin America gave very little information, barely announced the flight, and didn't seem even vaguely concerned about boarding or leaving on time. "They were too cool for that!" you realize, too late, and hope that the pilot doesn't skip out on the landing gear just to impress the 18 year old perky flight attendant.

As you sit down in your seat, next to the chic, pseudo-friendly girl flying from New York City, you notice that she's punching decisively at the in-seat entertainment system, Red. Red has live tv, movies you can pay for, music, music videos, a flight map, video games, and a menu to order food and drinks from. You'll probably use that as an opportunity to make some conversation:

"Man, have you ever flown these guys before?"
"This is the first time, but I've been flying from NY."
"It's....definitely interesting...clubby..."
"Yeah, it's fucking awesome. This Red this is awesome."
" do you..."

And all of a sudden you're the very uncool older dude who doesn't know how to use the VCR. You're the Dad in the club, and as far as the cool person next to you is concerned, you're the Dad in the club who needs to put in ear plugs and stand in the corner until his daughter is ready to go home. That's why you're in the middle seat-- you don't belong there. Like me, you might opt to pull out your iPod instead of listening to music on Red. Because you're old school and "the music just SOUNDS better." Instead of watching golf, tennis, soaps, or whatever Kathy Griffin has to offer on Bravo (live tv on a plane at 1:30pm is JUST as bad as live tv at home at 1:30pm), you choose to read a book. You're now the Dad, standing in the corner with preverbial earplugs in, waiting for his daughter to finish dancing, reading a book.

Before the flight takes off, you watch a safety video, with an apathetic voice narrating over a series of mundane facts that you know are boring and redundant, but that the airline typically does not admit. The images are pencil sketches, hip and unconcerned, and even though you know that it's a lot like a Daniel Johnston sketch style, you don't want to say anything to NYC girl because she's cool enough not to know who that hipster reference is. Fortunately, you don't have time to worry about it, because it's time for the super peppy gay asian flight attendant to announce the flight. As he talks, cheerleading the flight, and getting giggles and quick hand claps out of the girls on the flight, you realize what's so odd about the whole thing-- it's exactly like what The Future was supposed to look like in bad 80's Sci-Fi films. Campy, cheesy, brightly colored. Or even more so, it's like if The Fifth Element cinematographer designed an airline. Purple lighting, techno, gay asian men, it's all straight out of a movie. The announcements end, the flight takes off, and you lean back in your seat, turning on your iPod and enjoy the rest of what is actually a very smooth, relaxing flight. Maybe you can get into this club atmosphere. Maybe you're cooler than you think. At the low prices, you better at least fake it. And maybe, just maybe, you'll giggle along, when you land at your destination and hear the over the intercom, the joyous, effeminate, "We landed, WOO HOO!" that lets you know you can leave.

A Baby Seal Walks Into a Virgin America Airlines Flight,