Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Now I know how a surgeon feels

Okay. Sunday night, in a trade off with SockMama, I agreed to iron her shirt in exchange for her doing the dishes. That was great for me - I hate the dishes almost as much as I hate reality TV. Almost.

But here's the thing. In my vast ironing background, I've only experienced ironing my stuff. Needless to say, I'm a pro at ironing slacks and dress shirts. Seriously, if there were an ironing Olympics, I would probably get to a medal round. I doubt I would get the Gold, though - that honor would most likely be bestowed on a guy from SoHo who lives above the Versace store.

Anyhow. I plug in the iron and fire it up (Heat Level: 5 - this is cotton we're talking about). As it's heating up, I take a good look at my adversary: It's a colorful striped shirt with a pronounced collar and oh-so-cutely designed cuffs that are folded back. And stitched. A considerable opponent, to be sure.

The iron clicks and I (gently) lay the shirt down on the board. But there's a problem. It seems that, for whatever reason, women's clothes have more stitch lines than men's clothes. So while my dress shirt folds easly on its various lines, this shirt wouldn't---instead of forming a nice, simple crease at the line, there are TWO stitch lines that, no matter what angle of approach I took, I couldn't get the area pressed. I would fold one side and it would fuck up the other side. The definition of a vicious cycle.

20 minutes later, I'm still grappling with my new foe. No amount of folding, halving, shaping, smoothing, or altering helped; the shirt was becoming even more wrinkled by the minute. I decided to take a different approach.

By buttoning the shirt, I was able to flank the double stitching sides and effectievely iron out many of the wrinkles. Alas, the area in between the doublt stitching remained untouchable - it was the cotton Don Corleone. And I happened to be playing the hapless mortician who's daughter got mugged by some thugs in the begining of the movie.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Here's a little story 'bout...

Okay. I know. I haven't been posting lately. Christ, leave me alone! Okay, just had to get that out; last week was an INSANE week at work and I wanted to say that more than a few times.

Anyhow, I got this idea as I was searching old my sketchbooks for inspiration and ideas for some ads. I didn't find any. But I did come across a nifty little thing that caught my attention: a (unfinished - always unfinished) story that had me grinning. Perhaps it'll do the same for you:

The flight was delayed, of course - they always are. At least that's what it feels like. I get to the airport hours in advance, work my way through ticket counters and brash security personnel, get to my gate with enough time to drink my coffee and read The Journal, the the flight's been delayed.

Not cancelled. Delayed. At least if it were cancelled I could get a hotel room or something. But nope - delayed.

Sometimes it's not so bad, travelling. Once you get to your destination, everything could change for you. Maybe have an interesting meeting for onec, or a conference that actually puts a smile on your face. The nights are usually the same when you're on the road: the conference/meeting/dinner ends, and you hit what is most likely the hotel bar, watch some basketball highlights, get drunk, and go to sleep.

Last night was kind of like that. Except for one thing. I got lucky.

It's hazily clear to me; a mixture of sour Long Islands and sweet perfumes. Her name - and I'm bad at names anyways, so don't use it against me - was something along the lines of Jenny. Or Penny. Fuck, it could have been Greg Normal for all I cared.

Anyhow, the meeting rate, which in hindsight was a good thing, because I probably would have missed Penny/Jenny/Greg had I arrived earlier. But man, that fucking meeting, though.

This little prick of a sales guy, always playing the charming fuck, he held the meeting, right? Which basically amounted to him telling us just how great his numbers are. That was it.

Meeting are for the most part a huge waste of time. Stephen Hawkins, God love him, has it all wrong. The cause of black holes in the universe aren't due to radioation, energy, gravity...nothing like that. Meetings. That's what black holes are: they suck in time, erergy, passion, focus...everything right out of the air, just like that. Until 5 pm roles around and, in a mad rush of tired sighs and wrinkled slacks, people flee for the exits. Nothing accomplished, nothing gained, except age and crow's feet.

That's exactly what happened with this kid Paul, right? Except that he keeps it going until five fucking thirty! In Boise. Fucking Boise. Seattle's too far, Vegas too tempting, so we're stuck in Boise. With this shithead Paul. Smug asshole. His mission in life is to remind anyone and everyone around him that he is unbeatable, the best, most reliable guy on the West Coast. On a daily basis, no less.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, was bored out of their fucking skulls. Even the ficus in the corner looked depressed - it was realizing that, like the rest of us, it was trapped in a prison with unlocked doors and a staid slide show.

To be honest, I can't even remember the overall point of the meeting, really. Paul rambled for hours like some motivational speaker hired by the second leading bleach manufacturer in the U.S. That's what I do, by the way. Bleach. I know, it's not exactly Hollywood, but it pays for Gin and Tonics.

And that's it. I never finished it and never looked at it again until last Friday. Anyhow, till next time!

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

I got nothing

So, as the title suggestions, I've got nothing to post. I mean, you compare my plastic wrap expose to this and you're basically making Jordan vs. Manute Bol references - the latter just can't compete with the former.

That said, I think I'm going to take a page from (read: rip off) one of my main commentors: Christiane. Anyhow, she had apparently ran out of Sapphire and was fighting withdrawel symptoms when she had come up with this "bored" list. I shall copy her (Sapphire and all):

*3 CD's you last listened to (or for those iPod freaks, first 3 songs if you shuffle):

Call me old fashioned, but I choose to actually listen to CDs ON my iPod; shuffling sucks - it always seems to find the worst songs in my collection that I would rather they just take up valuable hard drive space. Anyhow, here's my three CDs I've listened to on my iPod:

>>The Walkmen: Bows and Arrows; Green Day: American Idiot; The Killers: Hot Fuss

*The 3 books you read most recently (assuming ya'll are edumacated folk)

Well, since the release of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas and Halo 2 (mostly Halo 2), I've been hard pressed to finish many books. However, even though I take about twice as long to finish them now, I still finish them. Mostly. My last three:

>> State of Fear, Michael Crichton (yes, I'm a Crichton whore - I can't help it.); The Plot Against America, Philip Roth; East of Eden, John Steinbeck.*

*3 blogs you read religiously (and spare me the whole "I only read 24Knits" crap. We all know it's true even if you don't say it)

This is going to sound either lame or full of shit. Maybe both. But believe it or not, here's my three I read everyday. And am usually feeling incredibly guilty because I know that they are updating their blogs, and I am not:

>> Fizzle and Pop. Collin. My first-ever non-related blog reader. What can I say? I love this guy. Not like that. "But not that there's anything wrong with that."

>> Son of Cheese. Derek. Works with Collin. I know. My immediate blogosphere is rather limited, but these guys crack me up. I can't help it.

>> 24Knits. Seriously. I do. Everyday. I have this unfulfilled need for ferret updates and fettered-away finger nail clippings.

Oh, and just for the hell of it, if you haven't yet caught Arrested Development on Fox, you are missing an incredibly funny show. Sure, you may have to miss that Desperate Housewives bullshit, but trust me. It's WAY better. Oh, and if you haven't, now's the perfect time to pick up the first season on eBay.

* So I never actually "finished" this one. Does this still qualify me as edumacated folk?

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Here I come to save the day! Or the chosen! Whichever...

Yesterday, I'm sitting in my new enhanced (read: larger) cubicle when one of the print production managers comes over with a print sample. Now, this sounds innocent enough, I know. But believe me. It wasn't.

It has seriously changed my life. Whether it's changed it for the better remains to be seen, but all I know is that Bibleman has now found a very near and dear place in my heart. Right next to the bile pipe that seems to be directly connected to my reality tv hatred organ. I don't know.

Now, before you run off screaming that I've been converted, realize that I think this may be the tackiest thing outside of the original Power Rangers series. Actually, if you jump around the web site a bit, I'm sure you'll be quick to agree - it seems that Bibleman's "powers" bear a remarkable resemblance to PhotoShop and AfterEffects plugins.

If you care to know more (and I know you do), here's a quick description of the print sample that I now have prominently displayed on my bookshelf:

First off, this sample happens to be the DVD case (on sale now at, and if you act now, you get a Hymnal berating, absolutly free!) that is featured on the bibleman site. Luckily enough for me, the DVD case actually has space for THREE discs. (Sadly, they did not include sample movies.) So, not only are there images of Bibleman striking a very serious pose - probably the same one he gets when he beats the hell out of kids for stealing gum or lying - there's images of what I assume are the bad guys. There's a business-type (of course) guy, but his face is green and his teeth are yellow (probably from the greed); and a scientist-type guy complete with a funny, James Bond sytle monacle.

But the absolutly best part of the whole thing: the copy. I'm not going to quote it word for word, but here's a taste:

"His Sword of the Spirit."
"...Helmet of Salvation..."
"....Breathplate of Truth..."

It goes on and on.

I knew there was a reason I got a job.

Friday, January 07, 2005

One word.


That's a a lot of beef.

Reality bites. Again

Okay, last night, I get home from the gym and find SockMama sitting on the couch, surfing the web (from our NEW WIRELESS APPLE AIRPORT! That I INSTALLED! Here's me doing the "Independant Andy Kicks Ass" dance - feel free to join in anytime), and, for lack of a better word, "absorbing" a television show. (In her defense, she wasn't actually watching the show - it was one for background noise. If the show is one again next week, that means she's transitioned to actually watching the show and making my life a living, breathing, unbearable Hell.) This show, like virtually everything else on television was reality based.

Sensing the bile rising up my esophogus (now THAT's a tough word to spell - I wonder if I nailed it?), I immediately started to panic. "Not another one. No. It can't be. There's too many. They're everywhere." I felt like Will Smith in Enemy of the State.

Anyhow, I only caught the last part of it, but this particular piece of visual shit is hosted by none other than Joan Lunden! Yep. If you happen to be the one wondering whatever happened to Joan Lunden well, you're in luck, because she just happens to be immitating the venerably bland Martha Stewart (without the whole corporate fraud thing, of course) on primetime on NBC/CBS/FOX/ABC!


Anyhow, the show is called Wickedly Perfect and is quite possibly the lamest idea for reality TV. Think about it for a sec (anymore and you become sucked in, like in Goodfellas or The Godfather, only without the menacing helicopters and Luca Braccis): reality television is all about placing people in stressful situations and then editing the hell out of them to create villans and good guys, bitches and nice girls. Anyhow, the whole point is that they're based (ideally) on a unique idea.

Wickedly Perfect proves that reality TV is out of ideas. Here's the show's overview:

"Emmy Award-winning journalist Joan Lunden hosts WICKEDLY PERFECT, a new reality show that pits 12 people with a creative knack for the finer things in life in a no-holds-barred competition to crown the country's new authority on at-home living. These perfection-obsessed contestants, whose motto is "anything you can do, I can do better," will compete in different areas of beautifying the home and entertaining, including party planning, gardening, cooking, baking, sewing, crafts, floral arranging and decorating. In addition to chronicling the sometimes funny, sometimes factious relationships that develop among the tightly wound, extremely competitive participants, each week a contestant will be eliminated from their luxurious estate located in New England."

Wow. Sign me up. Sewing and floral arrangements? I'm dizzy from the sheer overwhelming tension of the whole thing. I wonder if one of them will do the dreaded "Triple Bias" stitch or set up "Evil Jungle Monkey" arrangement which incorporates Hawaiin hibuscus, native Thai plants (pre-tsunami, of course - they're rare now and more expensive), and a mango thrown in for color and hue balance.

Give me a fucking break. Seriously. I think reality tv is a year away from contestants being locked in rooms to watch watch paint dry. Or grass grow. I mean, I know I'm a reality tv skeptic anyhow, but even the SockMama agreed that the idea is boring - where's the drama? Who can cook apples and present them in a creative manner?

Dear Lord. If this show, combined with Trump (asshole - it starts AGAIN in a week and a half...NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) somehow becomes a regular occurance in my living room, I might actually have to hang myself.

Or find a SARS carrier and make sweet, passionate love to them.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

This is my predecessor?

Way back when, my only (hopefully) non-related reader, Collin (no offense - it's not that I wouldn't be honored to be related to you - I would, it's just that, you know, it would be creepy), happened upon my blog. Way back in 2004, this blog was actually titled "Job Searching Sucks," which was also the web address. However, things changed, I got a job, and felt "Job Searching Sucks" - while entirely relevant overall - wasn't necessarily my frame of reference anymore. (If you are interested (and you're probably not, you can find all of my blog entries from "Job Searching Sucks" here - just click deep into the archives.)

So, without further hesitation, I changed the title and site address to the current, more apt "Adverbloggin" and forgot about my old address. That is, of course, until I fired up Internet Explorer on my Mac at home. See, I usually use Safari or FireFox, but for some reason, I clicked that (evil) blue lowercase "e" and it popped up directly to my home page:

Needless to say, I was wildly entertained and depressed; the former because someone else actually titled their blog the way I once had, the latter because, well, it's just not the most entertaining post.

Kind of like this one.