NBA Player Hater Saturday: Jordan "Make a Wish" Farmar

Mr. MHHS nominated the hated rookie player of the year... the award goes to Jordan Farmer. In part because the Lakers blew it last night in their triple overtime game against the Charlotte Bobcats, but mostly because he is physical-defect fugly. Perhaps the picture to the left, where Farmar is apparently pointing off in the distance to nothing while pretending to extrude a basketball out of his ass and tasting the air with outstretched tongue clears up any questions.

Happy New Year Jordan! Remember: try not to drink too much, as alcohol can have irrevocable effects on people's lives (as Mr. MHHS was quick to point out with me in the case of Farmar).

I No Longer Care That I Am Sick...

Update: Currently playing Animal Crossing: Wildworld
Anticipating: April 2007 Release of The Settlers

merry christmas

This year for Christmas I got the stomach flu - it's a wonderful present that arrived early and when it seemed like it was going away, playfully returned when I tried to eat solid food to remind me that I do, in fact, love projectile narfing at four in the morning and then sobbing as I wipe up what didn't make it into the toilet. Who knew that what I needed most on Christmas would be disinfectant? And I'm not bitter in the least that, as my entire family feasted like locusts on a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, I got to eat a delightfully jiggly bowl of Jello. Jello looks really cool, you know? I mean, have you ever really looked at Jello? It's like taking a trip into a crystal palace, but one that moves.

What I've really come to realize though, the neatest thing about stomach flu is that for at least the next week or so, I'm going to be so paranoid about anything that I eat because who knows what's going to happen to it when it hits my intestinal track. That really makes you appreciate the mystery of life, you know what I mean? And I think that's what Christmas is really all about.

NBA Player Hater Saturday: A.I.

I've been watching a lot of basketball in the last 24 hours or so: I caught most of the Lakers/Nets game last night, saw UCLA massacre Michigan this morning (I'm biased of course, but the Bruins are looking really tight this year), and the Clippers beat Houston tonight (although most likely because Yao got injured early in the game - he broke a bone in his knee and will be out for at least six weeks). I've watched with especial disgust over the past couple of weeks about the whole Allen Iverson trade talk. I think what grosses me out the most is the way everyone goes on about him and the way Iverson goes on about himself. Where did the nickname "The Answer" come from anyway? The last couple years he just got worse and worse in terms of hubris (his rap album under the name of Jewels anyone? urinating in public? acting out on the 76ers with Chris Webber? sigh...).

Maybe I should go easier on him - we actually grew up in the same town in Virginia. OH wait, but I actually turned out to be a nice person. Anyway, if anyone has any legitimate, basketball related reasons to hate on Iverson, you can certainly help my specious argument out...

It Fucking Got Me

I evaded it in Urbana, but when my uncle couldn't pick me up at the airport because he had the stomach flu and I knew we were to share the same bathroom and kitchen that my luck had run out. I feel like dying right now.

Having trouble sitting up. I fucking hate this.

I Would So Eat This...

December 19, 2006 / December 19, 1994

So I arrived to my grandparents house in Sherman Oaks (in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles) today and will be here for the next three weeks or so. Every time I come back, I usually go through the stuff I have stored here over the years : there are a lot of pictures, letters, schoolwork, and writing I saved over time. This includes several diaries I kept - I thought it would be neat to match up a day from the past with the current date - while not always the most riveting reading (at least not this entry - but I can really emote in other ones!), it is fun to crack up about the doofy stuff I use to think about. On December 19, 1994 I had just arrived to my grandparents house in Sherman Oaks too (at the time I was living in Sonoma with my other grandparents but my brother had already lived down here for two years). I was a freshman in high school and basically a dork who loved eating junk food and watching 3-2-1 Contact - including one of my favorite segments, Mathnet!
December 19, 1994:
I arrived in LaLaLand today and at the moment puking up Gummy Worms... well not really puking. Woke up at 7 (I got about 6.25 hours of sleep), airport, etc. We came to the house and lounged around, then Frank and I went to the supermarket to get snacks for throughout the week - he can drive now!!! When we were at the market, I saw a celebrity... the guy from Mathnet. Not exactly my favorite person in the world, but pretty cool. I think I'll get hair dye and dye my hair black like Mia Wallace, or maybe red. I don't know... I'll ask Frank to help me with it. So things are pretty good. We had Chinese food for dinner.

I Just Broke Up With My Cable Box

I kicked it out at 12:21 PM (CST) - it only took two cables and one mere power cord to bring a year and a half of procrastinatory joy to its end. What can I say? It just didn't work out - at first it seemed like we had so many of the same interests that reinforced the conception I held of myself before the box moved in. We would giggle at the Daily Show every midnight and watch CNN Headline News as I furrowed my brow and crunched on cereal, but then the box tried to change me...One day I'm watching Chappelle Show reruns and the next day, all of a sudden it's 7pm, I haven't gotten dressed and I'm watching a Real World marathon on MTV and recounting to my friends that I can't believe that Jen slept with Alex after he and Colie made out the night before. Pretty soon, I know what time the hour block of Golden Girls comes on Lifetime television for women and I start planning my work around it. Did I mention the countless meals I consumed on the floor of my apartment as I stared raptly up at my television screen? The cable box turned me into this sick person that I didn't even recognize.

I gave the box a great last day - we watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy on TNT (now that's a commitment, okay?). And finally, a really awesomely bad horror movie with quite possibly one of the funniest demonic possession/cunnilingus/chainsaw scenes I have ever seen (okay, the only one, but still, it was pretty funny).

The World Waits With Baited Breath Wondering... What Will Happen to Melo?

Okay, maybe I'm just wondering what is going to happen to Carmelo Anthony after the brawl between the Nuggets and the Knicks last night (thanks to Mr. MHHS for texting me with the news). Marty Burns (sportsillustrated online blogger) suspects a 5 to 10 game suspension, but also insists in his column today:

"In the end, Anthony will be the one hurt the most by Saturday's bad scene. The fourth-year forward was just starting to repair an image that had been somewhat tarnished by an earlier pot bust in his NBA career (he claimed it belonged to a friend) as well as an appearance he had made in a drug dealer's video. He not only was leading the league in scoring this season, but he had earned praise from Karl and Team USA coach Mike Krzyzewski for his leadership and overall play."

NBA Player-Hater Saturday: Chris Kaman, King of the Fuglies

With two weeks left of 2006, it's that time to start thinking about the top moments of the year... you know the moments that you carry with you beyond a mere year and remember for a lifetime. Where were you on April 29, 2006?

That's right, Kaman got grabbed in the roundies by Reggie Evans.

His interview in the clip is absolutely incoherent. That may be because, according to the wikipedia article on Kaman, he suffers from ADHD and "as a child he used to tear shingles off of neighbors' rooftops." Ummm, that's not frightening behavior that portends he may end up serially killing human beings later in life or anything. Did I mention the real reason I am hating on him? Because he is cornea-searing fugly. Pretty shallow - and I admit has nothing to do with his basketball-playing skills at all - but how would you feel running into this guy in a dark alley?





Nba.com's bio on Kaman reports his favorite TV show is Friends and that his hobbies include working on cars and singing. Wow, someone please restrain me from wanting to rub my entire body over his pasty white skin and suspiciously ginger hair just to get him to sing for me. I am DYING to know what songs are his favorite at karaoke (bonus points for hilarious guesses in the comments section). He also "takes time each holiday season to go shopping for toys with children from Camp Ronald McDonald." I suspect each year several of the children mistake Kaman to be Ronald's older, drug-addicted, deadbeat brother Fugald.

I Would Totally Wear This T-Shirt Because Pwnage is a Hunger...

Chicken Maniaco... I Am Coming to Get You

So I am crazy about living in Urbana, but as I realize I will be leaving in a few days, I have to admit I really start thinking about what it is I miss the most about LA.

I'm talking about you Dino's Burger, and your El Maniaco chicken plate. When I first met you, your fiery red half-chicken served atop a bed of french fries doused with a Greek marinade I can only describe as liquid crack, accompanied with a thimble of chilly cole slaw was only $3.50. Times change and I hear you cost $4.50 now. You are so worth it. I will see you at the corner of Pico and Berendo next week.

My other favorite reasons for returning?
- Zankou Chicken (Armenians doing Lebanese)
- Papa Christo's (Greek)
- Pho 79 (Vietnamese)
- In-n-Out Burger (American)
- oh yeah, and my family! (Armenian Mongrel)

Paperman

More from the Japanese fashion world: this is the Paperman hat. Since I can't read Japanese, I'm not exactly sure why this hat exists or who would actually buy it. Some guesses:

- Fecal Freaks
- Significant Others or Partners of Fecal Freaks (known as "Fecal Friends")
- People who suffer from the phobia of running out of toilet paper but not the phobia of looking ridiculous.
- Sociopaths, who may also be fecal freaks, who have so much money they would actually hire someone to be a human toiletpaper dispenser.
Any guesses?

Eco-Trashy Fashion: A Rant About Plastic Bags

Triumph International Japan has done it again - over the past ten years they have created several eco-themed bras made from recycled polyester fiber (the fibers come from plastic bottles). The latest is by far my favorite - a padded bra that transforms into a shopping bag:

Step 1: don a slutty look on your face
Step 2: remove your bra
Step 3: remove the padding (it becomes the body of the shopping bag)
Step 4: assemble bag
Step 5: replace slutty look on face with the self-satisfied smug of someone who is helping the environment.

Although Triumph has decided not to sell the bras, they are advertising them to raise awareness for the Containers and Packaging Recycling Law that was revised this June in Japan. In a nutshell, plastic shopping bags suck and unnecessarily so. 15 billion bags take one tanker of oil to produce and at least 30% of those are thrown away without reuse. Unless suffocating babies with them and feeding them to the hundreds of thousands of sea turtles, whales, and other marine animals who die each year from ingesting them counts as reuse. The EPA estimates about 500 billion to 1 trillion bags are used each year - the U.S. uses about 380 billion so we suck the most. U.S.A! U.S.A!

Imagined FanFiction...

So I am sooo into Top Chef that usually by Monday I start getting antsy for the next episode. Especially now that I found out the host for the show is none other than Salmon Rushdie's wife - strange world huh? I know that fanfiction is usually reserved for programs or movies that are far more embedded in our ummm "cultural imaginary" and far less ephemeral than Top Chef, but I present to you my fan fiction between contestant Marcel and head judge, Chef Tom Calickio (look, I know I am not spelling it right, okay?):

Chef Tom Calickio: Marcel, you've crafted this foam of giraffe confit with grated rhubarb and a whisper of saffron into a shape that resembles your hair.

Marcel: Yes, I have. I call it "Wolverine Junior."

Chef Calickio: But to what end Marcel? To what end? And this refresher on the plate that makes up the duo... can you tell me about it and the thought behind it?

Marcel: I call the duo "If the X-Men Were Translated into a Pretentious Food Dish" and the refresher is made from swiss chard, prickly pear, and the menstrual fluid of a small doe, hereafer referred to as "Juice-alee." You know... like Jubilee but ummm not a girl superhero, rather a refresher.

Chef Calickio: And the virtue in that Marcel, the virtue?!?

Marcel: Sigh... the X-Men were all about virtue Chef.

Imagined Websites...

So today on one of my procrastinatory web journeys, I visited the site deadoralive.com - a site solely devoted to helping you determine if the famous or semi-famous person you are thinking of is living or not. It got me thinking about a website I would love to see:

deadinsideoralive.com
At the website for Dead Inside or Alive, you enter a name to determine if that person is dead inside or not. Let's give it a try:


Dick Cheney:
Is there any doubt? DEAD INSIDE

Bob Dylan: Once ALIVE, but DIED INSIDE sometime in the 1990s, or right around when this picture was taken.

Carrot Top:
Not actually human, so not eligible to be considered
alive or dead inside.

Mar:
Hmmm, this is a tough one, but I'm going to have
to say ALIVE (the jazz hands are a sure indication, yes?)

If you're interested in purchasing the domain name for my imaginary site or if you have suggestions for additional entries, please send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to "Comments" at modal14.blogspot.com.

It's one of those days...

NBA Player Hater Saturday: Tim Duncan

I think this picture pretty much sums it up. Am I supposed to think Tim Duncan is a badass because he is sitting on a weird throne made of simulated ice? He still looks about as tough as my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Miller. So, why do I hate Tim Duncan?

1) He plays for the San Antonio Spurs and they irritate the hell out of me. They're just not fun to watch even though they win a lot. It's like watching someone milk a pig's prostate gland - sure, the job gets done, but it's just so... efficient and technical.

2) He has this reputation of being an all-around nice guy that just rings a little false to me. Sure, I'm jaded because I remember when Kobe Bryant was just this sweet, amazing basketball player and then he turned into a raging, inflated ego, but I suspect Tim Duncan isn't all that goody gumdrops perfect either. How do I know? That leads me to number three..

3) The reason I know he isn't perfect is because about a year ago when the NBA changed its dress code, Duncan told the media: "I think it's a load of crap. I understand what they're trying to do with the hats and do-rags and jerseys and stuff. That's fine. But I don't understand why they would take it to this level. I think it's basically retarded."

He didn't oppose the dress code categorically or talk about how it was implicating objects of dress that have been racialized and therefore denigrated in our culture - no, he was mad because he had to put on a sport coat and decided to liken the code to mental disability. As most of my friends know... you just don't use that word without thinking about it and who it affects.

4) His bio on nba.com says his favorite movie is The Crow. That is just... so lame. How much do you want to bet he has dressed up as the crow for halloween on at least one occasion and thought he really looked like a badass.

Extra credit for anyone who can suggest who Duncan was separated at birth from in the comments section. Come hate with me.

Oh Movies, you're SO stupid! What code doesn't do in real life.

So I'm currently in paper-writing hell, which means I am borderline brain dead and have limited abilities to think of anything funny on my own. I was however, incredibly amused by drivl.com's article on "What code DOESN'T do in real life (that it does in the movies)" - in it, Matthew Inman takes issue with how movies have tended to exaggerate what code is, looks like, and what it does. In his words, "they've morphed a little stuffed teddy bear into a cybernetic polar bear covered in Christmas lights and phosphorescent hieroglyphics with a fog machine pumping rainbow smoke out of his ass."

Make sure to link to the article for all ten hilarious observations, but my favorites include:

4. Code is not three dimensional
Remember in "hackers" when the gibson is depicted as a three dimensional city that the hackers must navigate through? Bullshit! We may use a dash of color in our shell to make things a bit clearer, but last I checked my terminal app doesn't require OpenGL. I'm working here, bitches - I'm not playing quake.

9. People who write code use mice
According to Hollywood most programmers haven't discovered how to use a mouse. Sure, we type fast, but a mouse is a very useful tool and there's no reason we'd abandon it. While we're dispelling stereotypes, I'd also like to say that not all programmers are hot-pocket eating virgins who play WoW. Some of us exercise and have active social lives. Some have even had SEX! Holy Crap!

10. Most code is not inherently cross platform
Remember in Independence Day when whatshisface-math-guy writes a virus that works on both his apple laptop AND an alien mothership? Bullshit!
If real life were like film I'd be able to port wordpress to my toaster using a cat5 cable and a bag of glitter.

Imagined Presents...

It's that time of year again when - already running low on mental abilities - I have to think of gifts for about seventeen or so family members that I get gifts for every year. The problem is, I tend to get stuck in a rut (I think my father got something Beatles-related from me about six years in a row). It would be way more fun to buy gifts for fictional characters than actual real people who have expectations and longlasting relationships with me that warrant a physical instantiation of those expectations in the form of a gift. Today I want to imagine what I would get for our very own American psycho, Patrick Bateman.




1) A hamster with a machine gun.
We all know of his love for both weapons and rodents petite enough to fit into bodily cavities, so why not combine these two interests into one adorable package? Owning a pet will also teach him about responsibility and may help him develop empathy towards other living things. And if the hamster suffocates inside of a prostitute's decomposing body? No big deal - Bateman will just join the ranks of so many other five year-olds who will "accidentally" kill their pets this year. The whimsical machine gun will communicate to Bateman that we all - including small animals - may get a little homicidal sometimes, but let's not take ourselves so seriously about it.



2) Chicken Soup for the Soul
Okay, I know what you're thinking: it's not cool to give gifts to people that try to change them (for instance - never give anyone a Richard Simmon's Deal-A-Meal if they didn't ask for it - that's just messed up). But I suspect that under Bateman's cold veneer there really is someone there! Sure he's the one most likely to mutter the line, "I'm dead and empty inside," but not after he gets a huge helping of inspirational stories that will open his heart (figuratively speaking - not talking about dissection here) and rekindle his spirit. These stories will hit Bateman's sickly amorality like a hot dose of restorative broth. After this book, he may:
- stop killing homeless people and instead spend weekends volunteering at the soup kitchen
- stop feeding cats to ATMs and rescue a few stranded felines from trees for tiny tots
- stop dissolving women in tubs of lime and take them out for a coffee and polite conversation instead

Stocking stuffers for Bateman: spa certificates and skincare items, including a toner that contains little or no alcohol. After all, alcohol dries out the skin and makes you look older. Merry Christmas Patrick!

From the Annals of Bad Science...

We all know the 19th century was fraught with examples of bad and specious scientific practice, but let's not forget the dark period of scientific discovery during the heyday of LSD. Apparently anyone who proposed an experiment of "x" on acid (where "x" was usually a small animal, young child, or counterculture visionary) received the funding and film equipment to document their research. Extra credit for anyone who can do a Latourian analysis of this video in the comments section.

Thanks Mom!

Thanks for my
birthday package!

NBA Player-Hater Saturday: Hedo Turkoglu

I'm thinking of making it a regular part of my Saturdays to talk about one NBA player that I hate... usually for no particular reason except that he is supremely fugly or plays for a team that was mean to a team that I like. To inaugurate "player-hater Saturday" I'd like to introduce all of you to Hedo Turkoglu and Sloth, beloved character from The Goonies:

Separated at birth, I ask? Note the following similarities: asymmetrical, downturned right eye; gaping mouthed smile; and nuggetty, prominent ears.

Besides being... ummm misshapen, Turkoglu also upsets me for at least two other reasons. The first: he is Turkish and I have an irrational, entirely prejudiced fear of Turkish people - especially those who are on public record of possessing Turkish nationalist pride. Believe me, I know it's pretty messed up for me to think that way (I'm a little embarassed to be typing this), but nationalist pride usually scares me period. I grew up with my Armenian grandmother who was raised under the shadow of the loss of so much of her family between 1915-17.

The second reason I'm not crazy about Turkoglu was because he played for the Kings during the 2001-2 Western Conference finals against the Lakers. This seven-game series was unbelievable - the Lakers had beat the Kings in every one of their four games during the regular season and then it looked like we were going to lose to the likes of Chris "the bitch" Webber and Vlade "the foul-flopper" Divac. This was a big year for the Lakers - we were going for a threepeat - and it was before the following year of shame when Malone and Payton joined the team in an attempt to stack the team (the year all innocent faith I had in the Lakers quickly dissipated). In retrospect, I have to say it was one of the most exciting series I have ever seen (hello? Horry's three for the win at the end of game 4?), but at the time I hated the Kings (and Turkoglu) with a vengeance.

Missed Connections

When we were in school together, Lisa, Gaby and I would always look forward to Thursday when the new edition of LA Weekly would come out so we could read "Missed Connections" together. You know, that section in the personals ads in newspapers or on craigslist where people post about a moment they thought they had with someone (anywhere from a single exchanged glance to a drunken conversation at a bar) and are hoping beyond chance that the person might happen to read the same post and reply to the psychotic ramblings of a stranger.

Gaby was a hardcore romantic so I suppose she would disagree with my "psychotic ramblings" characterization - she wanted photobooth pictures, glittery hearts, and endless Valentine's Days - stuff I didn't really think much about. It was 1999 - I was 19 and incredibly... skeptical and viciously sarcastic. Lisa was sanely somewhere between the two of us. But something about "Missed Connections" brought us all together. That and the roach coach parked outside of the fashion building near Grand and Washington where we would have lunch four days a week (except for that time Lisa and I split a 20 piece chicken mcnugget bin when McDonald's had that special and we both felt really sick and thirsty afterwards).

So I have to admit I check out the Missed Connections every once in awhile on craigslist just to see what the strange folk are still posting. This one was posted on November 15 in Champaign-Urbana:

You stopped me on the street tonight and made me feel pretty - w4m

---

Reply to: pers-235087192@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-11-15, 1:48AM CST

I was walking down the street and you told me I was gorgeous. I was wearing glasses and green sweater. I had to rush off and meet someone...but I wish I had stayed to talk with you. I promised to look you up on facebook, but I can't remember your name.

You said you loved the size of my body, but I don't even know if you visit this site. I wish I could get to know you better.
----------

Okay - how sweetly sad is this post? I can't even make fun of it, it just hurts me too much to read. I can just picture her, frantically searching through facebook profile after facebook profile hoping to find the guy who told her he "loved the size" of her body.

This one, on the other hand, I can make fun of:

---

Reply to: pers-235871125@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-11-16, 4:54PM CST

i was chainsmoking rollies and talking to my so-called friend (j/k, no, really) about the everyday benefits of space suits. (she was looking ernest and unimpressed.) later, the guy next to me struck up a conversation about pigs as a centuries-old religious motif/metaphor. you looked nervous as hell.
-------

Okay hipster. Is it just me, or is he not painfully aware that every female in his life is either unimpressed or "nervous as hell" to be near his chainsmoking, hipster existence? Okay, wait. Now I'm feeling all sad about this one too. Is there just something about the genre that is so painfully awkward because these people are completely (okay okay, I guess they're anonymous, but still) ripping themselves open over someone they saw for a few seconds? Maybe I should call Gaby and ask her what she thinks. She'll tell me all about love at first sight and then tell me to watch Love Story or something... sigh. I can't wait to see her and Lisa later this month :)