April 30: Not So Famous Amos

In Mrs. Cole's third grade class, we were required to do reports on influential African Americans. Some people went the boring route and chose Martin Luther King Jr. or Rosa Parks. Being the natural clown that I am, I did my report on Bill Cosby. I remember we were asked to do something more than just a written report, but I can't remember what I did or what I learned about the Coz. In fact, I remember my classmate Doug's report and presentation on Wally Amos and his "Famous" cookies more than my own.

When your primary objective in life is to act like an idiot and try to make people laugh, you care more about cookies than human rights. Perhaps that's what caused me to remember Doug's report. I'm a big fan of the cookie and all things related to it. I can do a spot-on imitation of Cookie Monster's C is for Cookie and I often fantasize about the chip warmer at work being filled with homemade cookies instead of corn chips. Whenever I go home or my parents visit me, my mom bakes cookies and I usually eat five to six a day until the batch is gone.

Now, when I say that I remembered my friend's presentation, I don't mean that I remember everything about the cookie pioneer. I just remember Doug bringing in homemade cookies for the class as a part of his report. He did such a convincing job of telling the story and struggles of Wally that he had every eight-year-old in that class drooling at the thought of a good cookie. Because the report was on Famous Amos and Doug brought in the tasty treats, the two became synonymous with each other.

Since that day 19 years ago, every time I see a bag of Famous Amos cookies, I think of Doug and his report. I think about how well the report was presented to the class and how I've always longed to have a fresh Famous Amos cookie. These thoughts circle through my mind every time I hold a bag in my hands and open the package. I dream about being in the kitchen with Amos as I pop that first bite-sized cookie into my mouth. I am, however, instantly extremely disappointed as soon as that dry, dusty texture touches the surface of my tongue.

Store-bought Famous Amos cookies are little discs of sand embedded with flavorless chocolate chips. I've never been a fan of Chips Ahoy and their obnoxious animated cookie mascot. Famous Amos cookies are just slightly better than the Nabisco snack and not by much. When I pop a cookie into my mouth, I want my taste buds to dance and throw little parties on my tongue. Unless I purposefully freeze it, a cookie should be soft and chewy. It should be flavorful and cause me to salivate. A cookie should not send me in search of the nearest water fountain. Don't get me started on dipping a Famous Amos Cookie into a glass of milk! I might as well dunk a rock and pop it into my mouth. Come to think of it, that might actually be better than the compacted sawdust chunk that is a Famous Amos.

Obviously I never had the pleasure of having an original, but I guarantee that if they were anything like the nonperishable mess that I know and hate, Amos never would have gained the distinctive title of being famous. He never would have found himself in that dynamic trio that he's in with Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth. On the other hand, if his original cookie was as disgusting as it is today, I wouldn't have anything to complain about on April 30. So, in a way, I want to thank you, Wally. Thank you for sucking.

April 29: (Race) Car Ya-Yas

I recently posted a blog entry on my distaste for bumper stickers. I wrote how I didn't see the point of expressing one's views with adhesive and plastering those beliefs on a car that was going to be left unattended was just asking for trouble. Today, however, I would like to write about using one's vehicle for comic relief.

Is it just me, or do an overwhelming number of Mexican gardeners have awesome stuffed animals riding on the outside of their compact trucks? While sitting at a traffic light today, I looked to my right and noticed a blue stuffed shark strapped to the tailgate of a small Nissan truck. Its vibrant blue fur was quite the contrast to the unwashed dark blue of the dirty truck. I've never seen a teddy bear on a Suburban or a Camry. I have yet to see a stuffed Nemo on a PT Cruiser, but there's always a spot for such a character on a beat up Ford Ranger with a lawnmower in the bed. The real joy for me, however, comes when I see that oblivious man behind the wheel staring blankly ahead. He never looks like the kind of guy that would have a teddy bear on the grill of his truck. He looks so serious!

I know for a fact, that my next favorite is a favorite for almost everyone. There is no better feeling than that of witnessing a Dodge Ram with a pair of beige colored testicles swinging peacefully from the trailer hitch race by on the freeway. I could be having a lousy day, but when I pull up behind that truck at a stop sign and I see those nuts, my mood changes drastically.

I want to meet the guy (I'm assuming it was a dude) that came up with such an idea. I bet he was the life at every party he attended. I bet he had the best sense of humor around and he was the envy of pranksters everywhere. How did he come up with the idea? How many balls did he have to see before deciding they would look good on the back of a truck? Was he looking at a trailer hitch when the idea light came on or was he staring at a hairy sack? How much money has that guy's invention generated?

Antenna balls is another form of automobile flare, but I think they're a little overdone. They aren't original anymore. I really liked the campaign that Jack-In-The-Box had a few years ago, though. Depending upon which city a person was in, he or she could get their Jack antenna ball with that particular city's baseball helmet. Buy a Jumbo Jack in San Diego, get a Padres Jack antenna ball. Buy one in Kansas City, get a Jack sporting a Royals helmet. When Wienerschnitzel had the commercials with the running hotdog, people could get a little hotdog to put on their antenna which was cool, but overall, the concept isn't that creative or funny anymore.

The best example of automobile hilarity that I can remember, however, was how a driver used his car's DVD player. It was about nine o'clock at night and I was in Hemet, California. I was at a stop light when I looked to my right and saw that the car was playing a movie. I always like trying to see if I can guess the movie that the riders are watching before the light changes, so I was squinting and trying to figure it out. It didn't take long for me to notice a naked woman on her back being violated in every which way. Embarrassed, I quickly looked away, but not before noticing the driver looking at me through his tinted window and laughing hysterically.

I don't know if he was laughing at catching me catching him watching porn or if he was laughing at my own attempt at getting double takes. On that particular night, I had a life-sized stuffed dummy riding shotgun in my own truck. I had just finished shooting my Survivor audition tape and I couldn't possibly throw my dummy away. I didn't have any place to keep him, so I kept him strapped into my truck. I usually keep him in the back seat, but for some reason, I thought it would be funny to drive around with him in the front seat that night. No, I have never used the carpool lane with him. It was simply for a laugh.

Stuffed animals strapped to the racks of a trucks and antenna balls expressing team pride. Pornography on a night's drive and swinging testicles racing by. I've seen some fascinating forms of creativity on and in vehicles. Some are weird and completely random. Others are hilarious and awe-inspiring. Don't use your vehicle for propaganda, but as a means of expressing your creativity. Drive around with a dummy in your car and you'll be amazed at the number of double takes you get on a daily basis and you'll be equally impressed with how scared your passengers will get when they realize they aren't the only ones riding with you!

April 28: Let's Vent

If you have ever been a server, you know what it's like to think your night is over just to have one last group of people arrive and expect to be served as if it's the middle of the shift. It sucks when this happens, but you do it anyway.

Tonight, this very thing happened. I had all of my checks closed out and I was in the back doing my final duties before calling it a night when a co-worker informed me that I had been sat. I had to drop what I was doing and give the group of people the rundown of having to order right then and that they would only be able to get one round of drinks.

Fifteen minutes later (now five minutes after the close of the restaurant), I brought them their orders and asked if there was anything else they needed. A very flamboyant man pointed to his empty glass and said, "I need another margarita. Does anyone else want anything before last call?"

I simply laughed and reminded him that last call was fifteen minutes ago; in other words, it was when he sat down. He then threw his hands down in frustration, looked over his shoulder, and asked, "Where is my cousin?"

Apparently, he is cousins with one of the restaurant's owners. He's that guy that has never done anything for the restaurant but happens to be related to someone that has. He never worked there on the weekends or helped seat people on a busy afternoon. He's that guy that goes in because he knows he can get away with things that he couldn't at other restaurants.

After a manager informed me that he was a part of "the family," I served him his margaritas (he was the only one of the group that wanted one) and continued with my closing duties. So not only does he feel entitled to show up ten minutes before the restaurant closes, he can receive drinks when every other guest is being turned down for the same request. On top of that, he paid with a hundred dollar bill!

I know anyone that's reading this doesn't care, but I appreciate you letting me vent. Good night.

April 27: The Final Speech

Comm 101. Public Speaking. A class that was required for graduation. A class that most people feared and put off until the last semester of senior years. Public speaking is the number one fear for Americans so it made perfect sense that this was by far the largest class on campus. The average classroom size at Chapman University was thirty people, but Comm 101 had upwards of one hundred students.

Students stressed over final papers and exams, but dreaded standing in front of a lecture hall full of judgmental peers. A semester of technique and style led to a two-week period of final speeches by nervous and terrified young adults. They gave speeches on deaths in the family. They delivered sermons on the struggles of immigrating Mexican families and gave tirades on political mumbo jumbo.

When it was my turn to face the crowd, I nervously descended the stairs to the front of the lecture hall. I stood in front of the giant dry erase board and waited patiently for the professor to get his papers organized. When he pointed at me signifying the okay to start, I scanned the audience. Students from freshmen to seniors looked down on me with anticipation of another long and boring lecture on a family pet or the purchase of a first car.

In a deadpan, I began with an oral history of the yo-yo. I drew diagrams of axles and strings. I explained how the evolution of technology changed a simple toy and how creating a ball-bearing to spin around a metal axle resulted in longer sleep times and more advanced tricks. As the ridiculously silly address progressed from history lesson to enthusiasm over a child's toy, my energy level climbed higher and higher.

The audience, which started as a stressed out and slouched group of students, sat up in their seats and leaned forward. I delivered each word with clarity, enunciation, and unparalleled fervor. I bounced back and forth with merriment from diagram to diagram as each student dutifully listened.

They roared with laughter as I extracted my bicycle helmet from beneath the podium and placed it on my head. Their anticipation grew as I withdrew my purple Spintastics Tigershark yo-yo and did a few loop-de-loops in preparation for my Hydrogen Bomb finale. They held their breath as the butterfly-shaped toy shot to my right, fiercely spinning at the end of the string. Eyes were glued on the the purple blur as it flew around extended fingers, bounced off taut strings and shot through a final loop-de-loop before safely landing in my open hand. The spectacular culmination sent an unseen wave of energy throughout the room causing every sitting member to leap to his and her feet in uproarious applause.

Although I had politely asked for a standing ovation if my attempted stunt were to succeed, it still felt great to be on the receiving end of such admiration and love. As I proudly stood with my Tigershark clenched in my right hand, I couldn't help but smile and take several bows. Fear of speaking publicly had nothing on me!

April 26: A Moment of Your Time

As I lie in bed with the shades drawn, the ceiling fan quietly sends a peaceful breeze throughout my apartment. My eyelids grow heavy and my breathing becomes shallow and calm as sleep descends upon me. Dreams of cool brooks, grandiose swaying trees and sugar plumbs (or something like that) flicker through my mind's eye. My goose down pillows comfortably form to every contour of my tired and heavy head and my 1500 count thread Egyptian cotton sheets feel soft and cool against my worn out body. I'm in a world of clear blue skies and vibrant green grassy fields. The phone rings, destroying my fantasy world and sending me flying back into reality.

It's Chris from the National Rifle Association. He wants to know how I'm doing before he introduces himself. You see, if he introduces himself first, it allows me to hang up the phone faster. This way, he's insured a way to keep me connected; pretty smart if you ask me. He wants to know when the last time I went hunting was. He wants to know if I'm interested in preserving the second amendment from the government (or something like that).

I humor him by letting him know that I'm fine and out of habit, I ask how he's doing. I don't care how he's doing, but I ask anyway. I tell him that I've never been hunting and that he should save his breath; I'm not interested in what he has to say. But wait! He insists on trying to spark my interest with that second amendment thing. I interrupt him and tell him that I'm simply not interested. I tell him to cross my name off of his list and to move on to the next guy.

After ending the call, I ponder about what it must be like to have a job like that. I was rude to the guy because he unknowingly woke me from such a comfortable siesta. Granted, I probably shouldn't have been sleeping in the middle of the day, but still.

I can't imagine being forced to go into work every day and call complete strangers to get them to donate money or sign petitions or take surveys. No one likes being called by telemarketers and because there is that invisible shield protecting us, we don't have any problem treating these people like crap. Sure, the guy probably knew what he was getting himself into when he took the job, but it's one thing to know that you're going to get a few rude people and a completely separate issue to have to deal with them 99% of the day. It's got to wear a little thin, doesn't it?

I begin to feel bad for Chris. I was part of the problem. He'll go home tonight and his girlfriend or wife will ask him how his day was. He'll respond by saying how much he hates his job and how he hates being the bad guy; the stranger that no one wants to talk to.

As I lie in my darkened room staring at the silent ceiling fan, I regret my actions, but when I rub my eyes and realize how tired I still am, my empathy disappears. How dare he call me and disrupt my slumber. What makes him think I would want to hear his propaganda on the NRA? I long to return to my grassy fields of sugar plums and placid blue skies.

April 25: You Just Got Poned!

In high school it was Goldeneye. In college it was Halo. Guys everywhere were crowded around television sets and killing each other with AK-47s and grenade launchers. As time passed and technology improved, people didn't even have to be in the same room to play. They began gunning each other down from different states and countries. Now, friends connect their consoles to the Internet and use headsets to communicate with each other. Some of them team up with each other to kill other teams and some of them prefer the free-for-all style where it's every player for himself.

I purchased Call of Duty 2 for my Playstation3 console with the hopes of improving my game skills on the day the game came out in November. I had never been any good at any game that wasn't baseball related, but I thought I would try nonetheless. What I didn't expect, however, was the enthusiasm these other online players possessed. Guys will literally spend hours on end playing the same game over and over again running their characters around in these made-up worlds dodging bullets and spitting expletives and insults through their headsets. A noob like myself had less than zero chance at survival.

I've never been called such offensive and downright foul names by complete strangers. N-words, F-words, c*ck-sucker, and f*ggot. All because I couldn't shoot and kill before being shot and killed myself! You see, when you're sitting comfortably in the privacy of your home with a headset on and a controller in your hand, you can say whatever you want to the other players in your simulated battle zone. And because I spend each round running around aiming towards the clouds instead of mowing enemies down with gunfire, I am the recipient of such taunts.

This is the basic breakdown of each round for me: Game starts, my character steps around a corner and POW! Dead. Camera changes to the killer's perspective and I watch my character step around that corner only to be gunned down by a merciless teenager with a different area code. The game then drops my character in a different area of the level. This time I'm in a warehouse and at the top of a flight of stairs. I'm more cautious as I approach a window to look down on the other players in hopes of picking each one off. Out of my rear speakers, I hear a slash and watch my character fall to the ground. Camera changes to the killer's viewpoint again. There I am; looking out of the window minding my own business. My killer approaches my character, withdraws a knife and slices through the back of my neck.

Throw in the expletives and hate-filled insults in between each kill and you have a typical round of online play. My character stays alive for an average of fifteen seconds before being gunned down and dropped into another area of the game. This "entertaining" process goes on for the duration of the five minute round before the game congratulates me on spending the most time looking through the "kill cam." My counterparts are being awarded with "best shot" or "most kills." I get "most time spent looking through the kill cam." Thanks.

Suffice it to say I didn't play Call of Duty 2 very much before retiring it to my shelf. I finished the game on the easiest setting (which took longer than it probably should have) and haven't played it since. This is the new wave of home entertainment: to sit at home in my underwear and be called a f*ggot by punks with no lives. At least it comes to me in stunning high definition surround sound!

April 24: Don't Judge Me

When I walk into someone's living room, one of the first things I notice is the DVD collection. I'd like to think that I'm not the only one that eventually ends up browsing the list of titles as soon as an opportunity presents itself, but that probably isn't true. You can tell a lot about a person by the choice of DVDs he or she might have and I'll even go as far as to say that I judge my friends based on their taste in movies. Is it fair for me to do this? Not at all. Especially when you look at my collection.

I went through a Jim Carrey phase where I collected every (mainstream) movie that he was in. I don't have Earth Girls Are Easy or Once Bitten, although I have seen both and both are equally terrible. My collection begins with Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and ends with Bruce Almighty. It was after the latter that I realized I wasn't such a fan anymore. Fun With Dick and Jane? The Number 23? Give me a break! I have every movie in between that he starred in though. I don't have Batman Forever or Simon Birch because he wasn't the lead in either of those movies.

Because I was such a fanatic about collecting each of his films, my collection can look a little lopsided. It's easy to only see certain blocks of titles by quickly looking at my shelf of DVDs which makes my taste in film look extremely limited. Take, for example, my nine seasons of Seinfeld, six seasons (and one coming in June) of Curb Your Enthusiasm, ten Pixar films, and five seasons of The Office. All are great, but they take up a lot of space on my shelf and draw a lot of attention. The box of the first three Indiana Jones pictures is huge and distracting as are the three dictionary-sized extended editions of The Lord of the Rings.

If you look closer, however, you might find some real gems. (500) Days of Summer and Inglourious Basterds are new additions and both are fantastic if you weren't already aware. The Departed, Kingpin, and the Back to the Future films are all classics. These are the movies that I want to be judged on, but they some times get overshadowed by the bulkier and more expansive collections.

So when I go to a friend's house and start judging him on his collection of movies, I should probably think twice about what he would see if he were to browse my shelf. Most embarrassing movie I own? My Big Fat Greek Wedding. In case you're wondering, I won it in college and didn't go out and spend my hard-earned cash on the Nia Vardalos rom com. That doesn't mean that my friends wouldn't see it sitting with my Gladiator disc, though. I only hope that the giant, silver Toy Story box distracts them before they notice.