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 :)