So, let me get this straight. Ashlee Simpson has a new CD, a new marriage, and is on the cover of People Magazine, and can't get her album to sell more copies than a couple of guys with a show on HBO?
And another thing, since when is the girl who lip-synched on Saturday Night Live marrying a bass player a big enough event to make the cover of People Magazine? What's wrong, were Angelina and Brad out of the country this week? Hulk Hogan's daughter not updating her blog anymore? Nobody from The Hills entering rehab or releasing an album?
If you're marrying a bass player and his name doesn't rhyme with "Saul McPartney," it's not really news. Marrying the bass player is like being married to a professional athlete, but instead of the star quarterback, it's the punter.
No blog today, as it is both my birthday and a holiday, and I am going to lounge appropriately.
I'd like to thank Travis over at One Word, One Rung, One Day for the birthday shout-out in today's blog. Rather than actually say how old I am, I'm going to simply post a picture of me from exactly half my life ago.
If nothing else, it makes me feel better about getting older.
I detest morning DJs. Detest may not be the best word, but loathe just falls short. Everybody thinks their favorite radio guy is different. There's always two guys, one of them usually named after an animal ("Cooter & The Weasel," "Bubba & The Big Dog," "Willie & The Wombat"). The sidekick guy is in charge of the wacky voices and those oh-so-funny prank phone calls. There's a minority voice of reason, usually a woman or a black guy, that in some cases is the only actual funny person on the show. Finally, there's an intern who is always pushed into going out and doing stupid, quasi-dangerous bits at local businesses.
They do those crazy contests that involve people embarrassing themselves, and they're always reading surveys from Cosmo on the air trying to get women to call in and tell them dirty stuff. Anytime anybody says something even remotely funny, there's streams of laughter like Fonzie just said "Ayy!"
As much as anything else, morning DJs are responsible for the rise of satellite radio. The only thing worse than listening to a Clear Channel "modern rock" playlist sponsored by The New AT&T is listening to it get interrupted by Skeeter and the Dog Boy try and talk housewives into telling them if they've ever diddled the gardener, Desperate Housewives style.
These are also the same guys who put their own faces on billboards to show how funny they are. You're riding around in town, and there's a big airbrushed picture of nobody you could ever recognize, trying to get you to tune into their morning zoo crew show.
"Ooooh! Turn it to 107.3! They have a racially balanced morning show where one of the guys has a funny nickname. I'll bet he's hilarious. And there's a woman, too, and they all look like they're having a good time, standing there on the billboard. That must be what comedy looks like."
They should have to put up a real list of what you're going to experience when you tune in.
"Catch The Morning Riot on 93.7 With Jim-Bob & The Love Porcupine! They'll read Cosmo for you! Stupid, repetitive sound effects! Pre-planned unfunny bits! Quasi-racist jokes! Live drop-ins from housewives! Dated political humor! Guests you've never heard of, and contests that might kill you!"
About two months ago, I got a bill for a toll from the Texas Tollways TXDOT (Texas Department of Transportation) folks.
The bill: 1) Didn't list when the infraction occurred. I don't remember ever driving on a toll road, and since I'm a cheap bastard, I doubt I did. 2) Didn't list where the infraction occurred, no mention of where it happened or even which toll road it was on. The state is 268,000 square miles, I'd like a little more of a specific location than "Somewhere in Texas." 3) Didn't list the vehicle. There was no description, and no license plate. My car title note doesn't even come to my apartment, it still goes to the old house, so I doubt it's mine. 4) Didn't have the correct name on the account. The bill was sent to my apartment for "Reid Jamie Elaine FloydFred Allen." Only one of those names is mine, and it's not even the important one.
I called the number on the invoice, and TXDOT couldn't tell me when or where the violation occurred, on to what vehicle. The woman apologized, and told me to write a letter on the bill that explained that person wasn't at this address and to send it back in.
I did that. Since then, I've received six more bills from TXDOT, each adding another dollar to my bill for an "Invoice Fee." Right now, Mr. or Mrs. Reid Jamie Elaine FloydFred Allen owes the state about ten bucks.
I don't know if anyone else has had anything similar happen, but it seems to me the great state of Texas isn't using my tax money effectively. If this is how we're going to pay for our roads, we might want to consider having a bake sale.
After a week of moving, I'm finally back up and running again. Quite frankly, I'm lucky to be alive, much less back on the internet.
Moving into the new house, I had to get my utilities transferred over. Getting my water moved took an extra few hours because I didn't find out until I was at the Water Department counter that my city does not accept debit cards for payment. They apparently only accept cash, checks, and beaver pelts. Good to know for future reference.
I also had to have cable strung up at the new place, so I called my cable company which for purposes of discussion, we'll call SuddenlyUnlinked. Well, SU doesn't actually do their own installations. They hire out, it seems, for the kind of people who make Larry The Cable Guy seem like a Rhodes Scholar.
These two guys come out and go to work, even though it's pouring rain outside. I made sure there was a doormat outside, so the inside guy could wipe his boots off and not track in the mud.
So I look up, and here comes the guy walking through shirtless.
Yep, his shirt was wet, so he just took it off, like that's an option that society accepts. He just left his shirt off for the entire time he was working. Girlfriend Kimberly was quick to point out that this was not "Good" shirtless. He had the kind of body that made you want to go throw out all the bread in your house.
I was worried I had stumbled into a 70's porno movie. I kept waiting for the pizza delivery girl to show up, and my next door neighbor (The "Head" Nurse) to come by.
No PopCast for this week, as I am up to my backside in moving. Instead, today we'll tackle a topic I've been meaning to get to for months, and ask a question for the ages.
Do I sound too gay when I sing "Midnight Train To Georgia?"
Girlfriend Kimberly responds in a definite affirmative, and says it just sounds downright odd when I perform it without changing the pronouns. I, on the other hand, grew up wanting to be a Pip and feel like it should be done in the traditional manner.
Side note, I really did want to be a Pip. I didn't realize it was a family title, I was hoping it was either a job I could apply for, or possibly an elected office.
Anyway, here's the song. The PopCast will return next week, assuming I can find and unpack it.
Catching up on some television over the weekend, I think I've hit upon why real life is so frustrating. There are things that happen all the time on television that just don't happen to us in real life.
Cars Exploding - I've mentioned this one before, but cars explode on every single cop and detective show on TV. Every week, a dozen cars go up in a giant fireball. I've never seen one, not even once. I feel like I've been gypped.
People Angrily Leaving a Restaurant Without Eating - This happens a lot, especially in romantic comedies. there's a meal, the food is served, and then someone gets upset and storms out. I don't think I've ever been angry enough to leave without eating. And for that matter, who's paying for that meal? I don't care how angry you get during the appetizer, most maitre d' are instructed to tackle you if you try to leave without paying for that prime rib you ordered.
Overturning A Table - Here's another one. I've been waiting for somebody to get in an argument and flip a table ever since I saw Duran Duran's "Rio" video. Doesn't happen in real life, at least not on purpose.
Phone Manners - Nobody ever says "good-bye" on the phone. They just hang up and walk off. I can't help but imagine the person on the other end of that call saying "Hello? Hello? Why, you rude bastard!"
Paternity Tests - I've never known anybody who needed one except Anna Nicole Smith, but there's one a month on soap operas. And also, every paternity test is wrong. Every single one is compromised. No soap opera fan was surprised when OJ was acquitted,because they're used to things always being wrong.
Haircuts - No one every gets a haircut in an episode, nor does anyone's hair ever change from episode to episode unless it's a plot point.
Groceries in Paper Bags - I know as viewers, we have to see that somebody's bought groceries. Apparently we're too stupid to know that unless we see the characters walking in with the same type of grocery-carrying-apparatus that June Cleaver used forty years ago. To heck with recycling.
I'll freely admit it, I'm a dog person. Having a cat has been a new experience for me, and while I certainly do enjoy your softness and companionship, taking you in has raised some questions.
I'm unfamiliar with cats, are you supposed to sleep 32 hours a day? I worry about you to the point where I'm considering bringing home mice from the pet shop just to see if you'll wake up.
In the stores, there are all sorts of toys and climbing materials for cats. Why don't you ever do anything like that? I bought you a jingly toy and you just looked at me like I was an idiot. Is there anything else I can bring home you might enjoy, like a rubber mouse or a Rubic's Cube?
After a few weeks of having to sweep a half-mile radius around your litter box, I get it. You need a bigger place to poop. I'll take care of it. How an animal so finicky she barely eats can lay more poop than a rabid wolverine, I'll never know, but I'll keep sweeping.
You know those pointy things on your front feet? You should probably be aware you can retract those any time you want to. When you get them stuck in the couch, or the blanket, or the carpet, you don't have to sit there pulling and flopping like you've been glued to the ground.
Thank you so much for the cameo appearance you put in every night in my bed. Each night as I lay down and you hop on the bed, I feel so warmed by your love and devotion. Then thirty seconds later when you climb out from under my loving hands, jump down and run off, I wonder why I couldn't get the cat from the commercials.
I assure you, I really enjoy scratching you behind your ears in that spot you like. However, your insistence on laying down two inches away from my reach just baffles me. I'm used to dogs, which are veritable fountains of attention and affection, so I apologize if I'm not reading your signals correctly.
I should also assure you I have learned my lesson, and will not attempt to whistle for you or snap my fingers to get you to "come" ever again.
I'd like to welcome a new sponsor here to Reid About It.com. This week's blogs are brought to you by Designs By Appletree. DbA designs and makes cool necklaces out of scrabble tiles.
No, seriously. That's what I thought when I first heard about it, but they really look cool.
Check out the website here. She's having a sale, buy three necklaces and the fourth one is free, but I can do even better than that. If you order from them by next Friday (5/9/08) and mention ReidAboutIt.com in your payment, you'll get free shipping. Just tell them I sent you. Enjoy!
The PopCast is back, this week touching on such varying topics as Hannah Montana, Big Brother, and Iron Man. Oh, and also how Robert Downey Jr, the Rasputin of Hollywood, is living proof that women are irresistibly drawn to guys who are no good for them.
Greater detail and even more sarcasm available on the PopCast.
I had several other things I wanted to write about today, but I woke up consumed with something. Yesterday a song came on my car radio that I hadn't heard since it came out long ago.
Unfortunately, it was by Jewel.
For those of you who may not remember, Jewel was a pretty little former van-sleeping Alaskan singer whose trademark was writing the same kind of awful poetry normally embraced by creepy weird chicks with leghair who live in the dorms for all four years of college.
One of her songs came on, and I made the mistake of listening to it. Twice last night, I awoke in utter absolute feverish confusion, with her song in my mind.
My hands are small I know But they're not yours they are my own They're not yours they are my own And I am never broken
What the Hell was she talking about?
Eh? "They're not yours they are my own"? Well, if it makes no sense, say it twice, that'll straighten everything up. Whose hands are you talking about? Was there a doubt as to which hands you were referring to at the end of your arms?
She goes on to refer to praying, and being God's eyes, hands, and mind. So they're God's hands?
No. They're still her hands. And she's pretty fervent about it, because she says the same thing eight times in the song.
"If I could tell the world just one thing It would be that we're all OK And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful"
Apparently, Jewel was truly inspired by the philosophical musings of Bobby McFerrin.
This was Jewel's last popular song, except for "Intuition", which I believe was actually a love song written about a razor.
We're missing a golden opportunity here, we should translate her poetry, and drop it into Iraq. If we can get an Arabic version of lines like "poverty stole your golden shoes," they'll be so confused, we can control the country without loss of life.
Finally, the first sign that there is order in the universe.
And another thing, since when is the girl who lip-synched on Saturday Night Live marrying a bass player a big enough event to make the cover of People Magazine? What's wrong, were Angelina and Brad out of the country this week? Hulk Hogan's daughter not updating her blog anymore? Nobody from The Hills entering rehab or releasing an album?
