Guess who's back back back...

Time warping back to 2001, if I you could paid me a dollar for every stoic-faced, platinum blonde, middle-fingers-in-the-air-like-what poster that Eminem was on at Oneonta State, I would make Oprah jealous with my stack of ones. I mean, the guy was on top of the world and in a hip-hop game that never sniffed caucasian talent like his, you would think that he would stick around like a stain in the rug. Fast forward to 2009, and you could probably ask kids in high school that listen to Top 40 music who Marshall Mathers is and they'd give you one of those patented phrase words like, "Idunnoh".

I was actually paused in my daily yahoo.com headline searches when I read "Eminem takes shots at Palin, Simpson, Lohan and more!". Could it be? The mockery of celebrities that made Slim Shady so renowned and popular is back on the scene? Now I know that he's taken a hiatus from the spotlight the last 5 years because he wanted to produce music, probably invest in some real estate ventures or maybe take his beloved daughter to a Dora the Explorer tour show. Regardless, as rediculous as some of the celebrities are today, there's no way he couldn't get back in the studio like a dog drooling over a piece of meat. Have a looksee.

However, with his mimicking of Bret Michaels, Amy Winehouse, Sarah Palin and John Mayer to get some laughs, Eminem has always been about sticking it to everyone who thinks celebrities are out of bounds or that they get a free pass on their "horrible" problems like having an extra 15lbs after the holidays or trying to romantically please Brad Pitt's leftovers.

I guess in the long run of today's gnat-like-attention-spanned audience; good music, sharp putdowns and clean-cut white boys who can sing never go out of style. (Take note: I'm referring to Eminem... not Bret Michaels.)

I'm sorry... but your just a tool.

If any of you were my REAL friends, you would have stopped me 3 minutes into the first episode.

Do you remember the classic, "The Never-Ending Story?" The villan of the movie, was this fictional force that consumed everything good and pure in the world; "The Nothing." Well, yeah, this threat of biblical proportions is very tangible and comes in the form of VH-1 every Sunday night in a 60-minute drama reality show called "Tool Academy." Sadly, I live to embrace this sign of the Apocalypse. Hey, there are far worse habits to be caught up with, right? I mean, I'm not strung out on the bathroom floor, tied off with a needle hanging out of my arm (although it would probably would kill less brain cells and be easier to admit openly)!

If your not familiar, it started three weeks ago and the point of the show is to showcase 9 guys, who have only the most befuddling nicknames and redonkulous signature pick-up moves (e.g. One guy's nickname is "Matsuflex" and he brags that chicks sweat him for his "manpanties."). If any of you have ever been to a state licensed bar, dance club, BYOB house party... you know from a distance, or if you've been unfortunate, a close encounter with this breed of douchefag.

The whole kicker with the show is that each of these guys has a girlfriend and despite their relationship status, they apparently disregard them and continue to party and sleep/hookup with other chicks at will because...well... they have names like Matsuflex and rock manpanties.

Just like another other reality show Viacom does on MTV or VH-1, they have to fill the hour block with some sort of task or challenge that gets highlighted by unfortunate dialogue from each of the guys (most of them can't start or end a sentence without saying "dude") and there's a hyped-up elimination that comes at the end of the show with tons of drawn out commercial breaks and an exiting catch line (please see title of this blog). In as condense and vague as I can make it, that's what the Tool Academy is. This is what draws me to sit up at 10pm on Sundays when there ISN'T football on. I'm not proud.

My take on the whole show is that... I don't really know why I like this show. Everything I despise about the male Ed Hardy-wearing, Gotti-esque blownout hair spiking, not-now-chief,-i'm-in-the-fuckin'-zone species is showcased on this train-wreck of television. It's layed out for me, every single week, like tarot cards that are beckoning to me "You will never get this 60 minutes of your life back, you know Joe?" But i'm first in line to step up to the reality show buffet... lobster bib tied and utensils in hand. I suppose that's why guilty pleasures exist and intense therapy usually follows.

I will say though that for all the shame and denial that my newfound TV habit brings me, I get a sliver of satisfaction from watching with my girlfriend. So far, at the end of each episode (except for this past week, when she was sleeping), we find ourselves looking at each other during the credits roll, and she gushingly says "I'm glad your not a tool."

Hey, I'm glad I'm not a tool either... but that doesn't mean I'm not entitled to some hair gel and manpanties, right?

I'm sorry, but i'm a pretty patient guy.

I can usually turn another cheek when struck, bite my lip when spoken to harshly and certainly, put on my poker face when I probably have redlined blood pressure from someone pissing me off. But frankly, if something lasts over the span of several weeks, even I have my limits. The staring contest that is my roommate situation, has caused me to finally blink and bow out. Moving is my only option. I'm kept it pretty classy for the last 8 weeks or so, but this is my rant.

Why is it such a big deal? Because i'm a man of reason. I could understand how someone had a falling out with a partner, or a bout of depression struck someone who was working a horrible, punctual, stress-filled job. But what excuse does someone have when it comes to seeing a grown woman quit eight full-time jobs over a year, consistantly sleep on the couch because she's too lazy to use her own newly purchased bed and live on a diet of Wendy's and gummi bears? None whatsoever. I realize none of these things have a real cause/effect on me personally outside of her recent "extreme makeover, 'Don't Lift a Finger' edition" idea.

What started out as a simple project to paint a bedroom and order some new furniture, has turned my beloved living space into a stagnent indoor garage sale that no one seems to be moving any of the merchandise. Imagine piles of outdated clothes, most of which probably don't even fit (yes, I think I saw a B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt in there somewhere to gauge the word "outdated"). Next to those piles, shoes stacked on top of shoes, like some kind of national monument that would make any japanese tourist snap a 100 pictures at. Finally, the recliner that is no longer a recliner, but a cemetary for dresses and tops on hangers that will never see the common public because somehow they fall behind in favor to that B.U.M. sweatshirt. And that's just the living room.

My kitchen has been turned into a furniture warehouse as the once accommodating countertop and table space has been bullied by the newest residents of the room's decor... my roommate's new bedroom furniture set. Boxed out by two dressers and a night stand that block most of the counterspace, you wouldn't recognize the cooking room without the necessary stove in the middle of it because I found myself on numerous occasions believing that a liquidation warehouse had replaced my once useable kitchen.

So, why does all this clutter exist? And you think to yourself, "Has she even bought the paint yet to follow through on this project?". Oh yes. The paint sits in the living by the television, which apparently brings her more joy and pleasure than a permiscuous Fabio on Viagara. Every day that I walk through the front door, the untouched paint cans sit with no intention of migrating to the actual room that needs them. Of course, my roommate sits in a slouched position on the couch, usually reading a book, texting some 20 year old busboy at Red Lobster and trying to catch up on Guiding Light reruns ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Throw in her newfound love of drinking, I mean, with multi-tasking skills like that, there's no reason she can't possibly include swinging a paint-covered brush around a room too, right?

Regardless, much like the other 29,381 times in my life, I have to start packing up the truck and relocating my blue-collar life again. All because someone can't treat me like something more than some lower species of animal that apparently doesn't deserve the respect and consideration of someone who contributes to household chores and monthly rent.

Well, I hope she gets around to opening those cans of paint soon cause she's going to have two bedrooms worth renovating at the end of the month.

Family Affair

Staring at the Matterhorn that was July's weekends, I did it. I persevered through a visit with the mom/Tom tagteam, then powered through a visit by Joe Sr. and then Angela & Co. decided to be the icing on the cake by visiting my birthday weekend. Count it. Three family visits in three consecutive weekends. I mean, eat your heart out David Blaine. His underwater/frozen-in-ice schtick ain't got nothin' on me.

Ok. So, it wasn't that bad. But really, when you take all three entities and put them each in their own individually marked weekend, you gotta prepare for each differently. One likes to visit Manhattan and the fastest parts of the Asian infrastructure. Another likes the challenge of finding the least amount of concrete and dollar signs possible. And one of them, is my sister who doesn't really care either way. Without fibbing, i was plenty nervous looking at the agenda because I knew that each had never seen Long Island before and each had their own image of how my life looked based here. However, with due going to the island and giving me some options, I'm happy to say that I have 3 new fans of place. Without even driving more than a span of 25 miles, anyone has access to import markets, freshwater fish hatcheries, authentic irish food & drinks, a national park and monument, beaches on two shores and the bagels. Almost forgot about the bagels.

I must sound like some paid-in-full, B-list celebrity who's trying to fill a plug for the tourism division of Long Island on how "oarsome" it is. But as nice as being paid-in-full would be, I was just pleasently surprised how there really is something for everyone here...well, at least something for everyone in my family.

iBored

So, many people would think "Um, hey Joe. About this blog I just read (which I'm currently writing), I'm glad to see that you left 1983 behind and finally got an i-something." iDid it. iGot an iPod after all the prolonging and delaying and reasoning as to why iShouldn't spend the money on something that everyone seems to have at least 3 of.

Curious which one iFinally pulled the trigger on? Well, Nosey McSnooperson, iPicked up the 8GB nano with the little video screen. iFigured that since iAlready had about a bazillion downloaded songs from limewire, iShould probably find someway to carry them around with me than strapping my PC to my back and possibly resembling Egon Spengler.

So, what was the biggest surprise that came from this purchase? That iHaven't felt this shammed into getting a more naked product since Super Nintendo came out with one controller and NO GAMES. My main purpose for this iGizmo was to use it at the gym so iDon't have to listen to grunting, over-the-hill dudes and fat-bottom girls make the Bally's world go round. My gripe basically came from instinct, as natural as finding my mother's teet, that you have to get a hard case for the thing. Duh. Boom... $20. Well, iGuess iCan't just sit there and hold the stupid thing, so you gotta get the "active arm band" right? Bling. $30. Fantastic. Now I'm hooked up and ready to FINALLY start my new life right? No, Joe. When your done getting diesel, where would you listen to this graham cracker of a hassle next? In the car of course. And since we've moved past the cassette deck-to-discman days of 1996, my carkit isn't worth anything to me. Enter the auxilery jack for the iChild. $15. And the best part is... iDon't even get to plug the stupid thing into the wall like any other awesome appliance... like a toaster or Dust Buster.

iSuppose the kicker lies in that the only thing iDon't want to ultimately pay for the iCoaster is the music itself. Very iRonic. Ok. iQuit.

Doesn't it feel good to pay less?

No matter how hard I try, I never retreat on the holiday spending. Even in such years as this one, where I don't have a girlfriend to focus my chi and checking account on, I still find a way to give myself a migraine by Dec. 23 when I'm done shopping and say "Did I honestly just spend all that money?" Of course, all that frantic evaluating and when it comes down to the exchange, you don't have a care in the world and everyone enjoys themselves. I guess my question lies there in, why do we have to spend so much money? Is it possible to have a nice Christmas anymore without spending money?

I don't know a single person that doesn't feel overextended or even annoyed at how they had to get someone an ipod nano on Black Friday because someplace gave you free gift wrapping with it... or maybe wait in the Build-a-Bear line for 2 hours and spend a cool hundred bucks because their bear needed Juicy Couture booty sweatpants. I guess I've noticed how my Christmas shares the same foundation as my childhood one, focused on giving and getting gifts for people so you can see them smile and give you a hearty hug to finialize how much love is shared between the parties involved. I believe though that some people never get over that child's mindset of how you make a list of gifts that you want, without substitutes and if they aren't delivered under the tree before the stroke of midnight on Dec. 24th, the procedure of disappointment, pouting and disownment kick in.

I think that there is a very distinguished line between wanting to GIVE expensive, lavish gifts and EXPECTING rediculous things. I don't know where that turnover comes into play exactly. I mean, for most sensable people they usually reach adulthood and realize that your list of Transformers, Barbies, Red Rider beebee guns turns into work clothes, gift cards or ...well, I guess an ipod. This ramble really just started after my co-worker told me she heard some woman bitching out her man yesterday, saying that she wanted not just the $700 Louis Vutton bag, but also the matching boots and the belt... but if it doesn't have the $75 complimenting belt buckle, then forget it. He can sleep on the sofa till 2020.

I can't really tell if its just the cost of living and where I live by NYC, or if it's just people living on the account that the ones with the most toys win. All I know is that I really could go every Christmas from here on out without spending my money on anything but friends meeting at dinner, going out to the bar on my days off to catch up and getting the following days to sleep in. To each their own, but I think that's why the joke goes "the holidays bring out the best and worst in people."

I'm a firm advocate that if you don't know what to get someone, or they never seem to give you any suggestions, just pay for a night out. I mean ACTUALLY go out and pay for an evening with dinner, a game, a show, a movie... not the gift card route where you think you get off the hook and the receptee can use them for whenever. I promise if you give your time, initiative, attention and priority... enjoy the occasion and then let the bill be the last of your worries, you'll have a memory, not a boxed-up talking bass that sings "Rollin on the river".

Taylor made.

Well, with the conclusion of today's Sunday football games, there was 14 moments of silence and a memorial defensive play that only featured 10 players to honor the death of former Redskins' safety Sean Taylor this past week. Taylor, 24, was gunned down in his home during an attempted burglary. Unless you don't follow sports, current events, or sunlight doesn't reach under your rock, you have probably heard about this because of the nature and publicity the crime received. Surviving his death were his fiance' and 18-month old daughter, who resided with Taylor in his Miami-suburb home.
Now that your caught up to speed, there has been a lot of talk from so many angles as to how and why Taylor died or if it could have ever been avoided. Taylor, who was black and raised in the Miami area, also was the son of a local police officer. With a middle-class upbringing, and law enforcement father, Taylor still had a pretty awful rap sheet that included an armed assault arrest in 2005. Taylor was supposedly involved in a crime that included a stolen SUV, sprayed with bullets in Miami.
So far, your probably thinking this guy is another black thug, who plays a pro sport, makes millions and had a non-surprising death. But two of my favorite sportswriters did pieces this past week on Taylor's death; Jason Whitlock of the Kansas City Star and Michael Wilbon of the Washington Post. Both black, both highly respected, award-winning journalists touched on the subject that it's not white-on-black crime people have to fear anymore... but black-on-black that is the 800lbs. gorilla in the room. Whitlock's article talks of the "black KKK." Wilbon's piece is titled "Dying Young, Black." I suggest you read both to gain some perspective why I'm writing this blog.
I'm as much a sports fan as anyone, but there is so much that these athletes deal with that is magnified because of the limelight, pressure and worst of all, money that comes into their lives. But it's any pro athlete's responsibility to know that if you have family and a life that you wish to protect... you have to do everything within your power and resources to do so. That means maybe not living near the same hood or rough neighborhood that you grew up near. Yes, he has the liberty to do so, but your name or money is never going to keep people at bay that have nothing to lose, like burglers or robbers or even murderers. If you look at black icons like Jay-Z or 50 Cent... they had come from very low-income, poor projects within NYC to lead music and pop culture into this century. But you ask them if they would have still lived in Bedford-Stuyvestant, Brooklyn or South Jamaica, Queens with their new found fame and money, I don't think they would have had to think twice about it. They got the fuck out.
I'm agreeing with Wilbon and Whitlock that being black, young, famous and desirable in America is not only a lifestyle many seek, but often times hard to be. At least it seems that way from where I'm sitting. As a father, future husband, provider and role model, he owes it to himself and other people to be as much of a noble professional as possible, representing black people in the best of his ability.
But the tragedy of Sean Taylor isn't going to be the first or the last of its kind. That means there's still lessons to be learned.

Sean Taylor 1983-2007