Name Drain

January 14, 2011 at 12:32 pm (Uncategorized)

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I’ve always heard the phrase, “What’s in a name?”Ok, “always” may be pushing it, but at least once I have heard someone say that phrase. I love names. That statement in and of itself really doesn’t mean much, but I like the process behind coming up with names. Some people and parents in particular have a grand old time coming up with names. They add things in like

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Talk Time

January 11, 2011 at 2:25 pm (Uncategorized)

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The past couple weeks I’ve been listening to an inordinate amount of Black Eyed Peas songs. Now while some people will claim ignorance on the group or say things such as “Black Eyed Peas are the biggest sellouts ever. GROSS”, if we’re honest with ourselves we know that they have some pretty catch tunes. One time I was caught at the gym on the treadmill singing out loud the lyric, “Let’s get retarded in here,” which was met with equal glares of disapproval from old scholarly types who don’t find mentally challenged musical…

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Rap Games

January 6, 2011 at 12:40 pm (Uncategorized)

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This morning while driving to work I was reminded that when I was younger I wanted to be a rapper. Actually, let’s just tell the truth, I STILL want to be a rapper to the point that sometimes I will turn the radio down to see if I know the entire rap verses to songs. I’ll say this.

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Word Smith

January 4, 2011 at 12:50 pm (Uncategorized)

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Anyone that knows me knows that I am a lot of things. I’m a human. Aside from that fact I can’t really think of anything else that I am. As the world famous Popeye the Sailor Man once said, “I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam and Wimpy, you said you would pay me back today for that hamburger I gave you last week. I will not fall for your clever ruse again!” At what point do people realize that Wimpy isn’t going to pay them back? It has to be by the 4th Tuesday where you haven’t received your money from him that you probably wouldn’t give him a hamburger any more. I’m still debating as to which is more outlandish.

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Overrated is Worse Than Underrated, So Let’s Just be Rated

December 21, 2010 at 12:30 pm (Uncategorized)

Well, the time has come. The days are dwindling to our favorite holiday that will be protested by some religious group which feels left out of all the “spirit.” I still am not sure why other religious groups don’t just get in on the cards and gifts and spinning tops which have undecipherable hieroglyphics on them which evolve into a game of fun. Why can’t we have a Merry Sikhmas? Happy New Hindi? Baby Buddha’s Belly Barbecue Bash? When did Christianity corner the market on fun holiday cards with midgets in green and a fat man in a red wool suit which totally is unfashionable? They acted like they came up with it first a thousand years ago.


Christianity is so old that it delivered Jesus. Zing!

That doesn’t work as well without the yo’ momma part.

Now that all the furor over Happy Holidays versus Merry Christmas will mercifully come to end in a few days with only 450 Christmas parades shut down, it’s time to turn our attention to another holiday. You know, the one everyone asks you about as the days and nights get closer to it. The one and only New Year’s Day. If I had a dime for every time someone asked me the last couple weeks what I was doing for New Years I would have 3 and a half dimes. (One time someone stopped in the middle because their phone rang. So close to a full 10 cents.) Everywhere you turn this week someone will ask you what you’re doing for New Year’s and your answer will vary depending on your mood.

Happy response – “I don’t know! Let’s do something super fun. I love New Years!”

Everyday response – “Eh, I don’t have anything planned, might just go out for a little bit.”

Older than 30 response – “ Why can’t we just have a small house party, eat some caviar, talk about the new healthcare policy, and debate the new export laws that Japanese ports have put in? I can bring over this documentary I rented about the extinction of Asian elephants! Can I borrow your turtleneck?”

Curmudgeons – “Another New Year? This happens every year? I’m just going to watch Green Acres and go to bed at 12:01. No, screw it. 11:59. Take that world clocks, I will not succumb to your time terrorism any longer.”

To be fair, New Year’s Eve/New Year’s Day is the most overrated holiday on the calendar. What are we even celebrating? A new year. We can celebrate a new year any day of the week. My year starts on May 14th, so I’m still 5 months away from my New Year’s party. But if I call my friends on May 13th and say, “Hey want to come over for my party tonight, I bought noise makers and funny black hats?” I’ll be struck down with the fury of 10 moms who bought a book on toilet training instead of Call of Duty for their kids.

My favorite part of any New Year’s gathering is when people tell you that they have been to Times Square for the annual ball dropping. That’s right; to signify a new year a huge, extravagant, glittering ball drops from the heavens and explodes on your face. What a metaphor for your life disappearing before your eyes. A ball dropping on your head. Not even Charlie Brown could draw it up better. But these people who go to New York love it and say, “You have to do it at least once.” No. No, you don’t. On the list of things you have to do once it should be filled with things like seeing the Taj Mahal, skydiving, and drinking milk past the expiration date. It should not be filled with standing in below freezing weather ready to watch a ball drop from 4 miles away with a million of your closest strangers.

I don’t make the life rules. I just apply them.

Then we get to the parties. In our 20s we loved New Year’s parties. We expected New Year’s to be some kind of whimsical day where we kiss someone at midnight, fall in love with them, and have babies while visiting such faraway lands as Cincinnati, Ohio for family reunions. Except the reality on New Year’s is that we’re depressed because we’re single and hanging out with our friends that are couples at a bar we paid $50 to get into. So at midnight instead of kissing someone we’re just shouting “Whoooooo!” at the top of our lungs with our eyes closed while the creator Auld Lang Syne rakes in money for the one time it’s played a year so we don’t have to look at everyone in their make out sessions. Thus begins the process of going through all the repressed memories of the past year’s relationships and asking yourself why you didn’t just buy her that scarf she wanted for her birthday and instead opted for the cutesy make it yourself present. How were you supposed to know her Grandma fell on a photo album and broke her hip last year and she has to relive it every day?

A picture is not worth it.

As the years pass I’m slowly getting to curmudgeonly status with New Year’s Eve. It’s not worth it. The night never turns out the way you want and you end up just curled up in a ball on New Year’s Day nursing your hangover with orangina and beef jerky and cursing yourself for being shammed into thinking it was going to turn out different.

This never happens to Asian Elephants.

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At The Tone Please Don’t Act Like a Moron. Beep.

December 14, 2010 at 12:49 pm (Uncategorized)

Gather round and let me regale you with a tale from when boys were boys and men were men and various luminaries told magical quips to all their friends. We’ll harken back to the days when girls wore side ponytails and teachers huddled in the hallways after multiple viewings of scud missiles being dropped on a country with a Q in its name. A Q! “What a teaching tool this will be,” they would say to each other. The teachers would then hold hands and go back to the break room to devour their tuna fish sandwiches and graham crackers all to the joy of not having to deal with Tommy Thompson, the ruffian who would smoke cigarettes in class.

Back in the old days of nineteen hundred and ninety-two technology was much different than it was now. Believe me, it was. So after long days and longer nights many people would race back home to the one thing that could make their life complete outside of a shot of whiskey and surprise marathon of Happy Days. One thing that would show that yes, they had indeed made it.

The Answering Machine.

This surprise box did not tell you answers to the questions you asked. That would not be invented until years later under the name of an Internet search engine called “Ask Jeeves.” Spoiler alert. Jeeves had no answers. No, this magical answering box held messages from people who made phone calls. Phone Calls! These existed back then. You would run home see a flashing light and listen to the message. The suspense was palpable. Your heart was racing. Who could it be? A long-lost friend? Someone giving you money? Leonard asking you to come over so you could play his Nintendo?!?! I want to be Mario! You listened to the message and…it was Time Magazine asking your parents to renew their subscription.

You won this round, Time, you always do.

I remember loving to come home to the answering machine having messages on it. My parents and I would be out at some Indian family reunion where my Dad fell asleep again and I would race home to listen to the messages. Before caller ID, you never knew who was calling you. Oh, the surprises, I thought. It was one of the few joys I had in my childhood besides finding a rogue onion ring in my order of French fries from Burger King. Why was I so excited? Mainly because I ordered French fries, but onion rings were so much better and I didn’t know I could replace the number 3 with onion rings so I ended up always getting French fries. Then once in a while, once in a while, glory would strike and there would be a delicious onion ring for me to devour in my mouth and I would savor every last…

Oh, the answering machine. Correct. Moving on.

Nowadays, that joy does not exist anymore. You see everyone back then was adept at leaving messages. People would talk for 30-45 seconds in a clear, concise, manner and all would be right with the world. We now live in an era where everyone has a phone with text messaging capabilities. The last month I have received phone calls from 3 people. Only 3. One is my mother who doesn’t know how to text and if she did it would look something like, “miss u. when u’s coming home? Do u h8 ur mther? U nvr call.”

She’s illiterate.

A phone call from someone makes you feel better about everything. The problem is that I have friends that blatantly refuse to leave messages so you have to call back and say, “I saw you called.” When Alexander Graham Bell invented the phone I bet he never thought that phrase would ever be uttered. Seeing phone calls? The robots are winning. If he knew that would happen he would have bunkered himself so far in the ground that we would be digging him out right now with his skeleton clutching on the remnants of his first made phone and an incessant buzzing sound because it was off the hook.

Too soon?

Since this dawn of a new day has arrived I realized one important thing. I have no idea how to leave a message for anyone anymore. Back in the good old days, I knew exactly what to do. Name. Phone number. Why you’re calling. Goodbye. Hang up. Very simple. Now that I’ve been out of practice I’ve lost all ability to talk like a sane person. The other day I left a message that sounded like the cross between a 9-year-old hopped on pixie stick dust and someone who just got knocked out by Mike Tyson.

“So, um, yeah, I’m calling because, ah, well, it’s 2:30. Oh. Oh. It’s Rahul. Hi. Um, so what time is everyone meeting tomorrow? Because, um, wanted to make sure I’m there when. You know. Just call me back. If that’s cool. I mean it should be cool to call back, right? Hehe. Ok. Bye. Oh. It’s Rahul.”

It was a sad day for the human race. Here I was a 30-year-old college graduate from a fine University talking like one of the Rugrats. I had failed my 12-year-old self. If I could have went back in time at that moment I would have apologized to my 12-year-old self. Then I would have told him that he was going to have his pants pulled down on the way to baseball practice freshman year of high school so make sure he puts a belt on because he’s going to have on briefs and it’s not a good look for him.

Things were simpler in 1992. People called. They left messages. The answering machine lit up and everyone was happy. Now I’ve lost the ability to talk to a machine. The end is nigh.

Only onion rings can save us now.

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If Men Are From Women and Women Are From Women, Why Do We Argue?

December 8, 2010 at 1:24 pm (Uncategorized) (, )

From the beginning of time, or at least since written word was introduced into the Universe, women have been called the “fairer sex”. I’m not sure when this all started, but it probably has something to do with women writing important business appointments in day planners and men writing them on the back of multiple Orbit gum wrappers. Mainly, it’s because women are more civilized since they leave the house with pants on and like telling you to put the toilet seat down. Even though, I don’t understand why the toilet seat is such a point of contention. It raises a lot of questions for me. Is it that hard to put down? Or do women just go all willy nilly into the bathroom, don’t look around, and are falling in toilets all across America?

“HONEY! I fell in the toilet again! What did I tell you?!!? I’m blind when I walk in here since my eyeballs emit a high toxic radiation which makes it impossible to open my eyes and locate the seat. THANKS JERK!”

Do some bathrooms have super toilet seats that only are able to be put down by the strength of one rogue man who just put it up? What’s so hard about the flip and sit? Do women want to prove a point that men are dumb? Do they have to? Just look at a man eating cereal and watching TV at the same time if you want to see idiocy. If aliens landed here and that’s the first thing they saw they would be certain there was no intelligent life here.

“Klongin, This “thing” has a substance coming out of his mouth dribbling on its chin, is hunched over with no support while using a spoon as a shovel, and is laughing hysterically at an animated mouse with an anvil. These things are smarter than us? I think not. Back to the hubscoliptership before we lose our ability to coagulate into liquid sour patch kids.”

Obviously, women are the fairer sex. Except Yoko Ono. (Cheap aside – I wanted to work Yoko in here on John Lennon’s anniversary of his death. Segway! I was reading up on Lennon’s assassination since I’m a sucker for Wikipedia and I noticed that Yoko Ono asked the world to have a 10 minute silent pray to honor Lennon on December 14th, 1980. 10 MINUTES! Can you imagine people trying to be silent for 10 minutes in 2010? People can’t be quiet for 10 seconds now a days. Hell, people can’t really do ANYTHING for 10 minutes. Watch a TV show, browse the Internet, have sex, nothing lasts for more than 10 minutes. Even at the movies where you’re supposed to be quiet, every 4 minutes you’re making a crack that Ben Stiller’s next movie is going to be a documentary called “My Agent Calls and I Always Say Yes: A Ben Stiller Money Grab”. Yet, in 1980, millions of people were quiet for 10 minutes which proved one thing. People will do anything to get Yoko Ono to shut up.)

My whole life it’s been patently certain that women are the better species. They smell nicer, they look nicer, they feel nicer. Those things sounded so much better in my brain, but when written out look like the manifesto of a serial stalker outside the dorm room windows of coeds on the UCLA campus. “But officer, she FELT so nice.” I probably should be deleting the previous 3 sentences, but I’ll carry on and pretend I didn’t write them.


So, while it’s hard to find flaws in women after 30 years on this planet I have been looking and, finally, I have found one. This past weekend I went to a friend’s birthday party and one of the girls there lost her phone. It is a very traumatic experience to lose your texting and Facebook machine all in one so we went searching the bar for it. After looking around for 5 minutes she decided it would be easier just to dump her purse on the table in case it got lost in the bottom of it. Fair enough. I know her purse was pretty big, but it probably wasn’t packed with….


What erupted from the purse was a cascade of things I didn’t know women kept in there. Makeup, feminine products, gum, hair ties, lipstick, lip gloss, lip botox injections, money, cards, a Care Bear Diary, paper from 1972, receipts. It was like someone dropped an atomic bomb on the worst time capsule ever put together. I’ve never seen so much trash and random objects in one place before. Is this what women keep in purses? Their whole life? All that was missing was a Tamagotchi, cabbage patch kid, and a videotape of her telling her dad in 1989 that she wished she didn’t live there anymore.

Then it hit me. Men win. When it comes to carrying things, we win. You see men carry 3 things. Wallet in the back pocket, phone and keys in the front. Unless you’re 62 years old or a Swedish tourist visiting DC that thinks the fanny pack is fashionable, this is what you carry. We don’t need our whole life in our pockets. We are the simple ones. We’re the more civilized people. We are THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME.

Slight Hyperbole Alert.

Woman can have their nice smells and their organized day planners. They can have their flowers and scented soaps from Bath and Body Works. We have our wallets. We have our pockets. We have the right to leave the toilet seat up every 3rd Friday in March. For once we are champions.

Excuse me Tom and Jerry reruns are on. The Lucky Charms are calling.

We doth but men.

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One Man’s Struggle For Relevance Makes Us Thankful

November 30, 2010 at 3:16 pm (Uncategorized)

We all like to complain that our lives are terrible and have no meaning. Maybe, we’ve just been dumped by a girl or a guy or a swinging couple. Someone turned out hot water off at our apartment. You caught your 50-year-old neighbor making out in front of her door and you now have no eyeballs because you singed them off with a flaming Q-tip. Whatever it may be we all complain, but we never really have it that bad. We at least have the Internet to read this wonderful blog.

Viva Life!

I guess I can just call my life, “interesting” from now on. I don’t necessarily have a bad life. I mean how can I complain about my life when there is a war in the Middle East, people with no jobs that have kids trying to make ends meet and according to Sally Struthers, starving kids in Africa that we can help with exactly one dollar a day.

How can we help people by giving them a buck a day? It makes no sense. Shouldn’t we be giving 5 dollars a day? 10 dollars? You know what one dollar gets you nowadays? About 1/432 of a gallon of gas. That’s what. After those kids use their dollar for gas they have nowhere to go.

“Hey Timmy want to come over?
“Sorry, I can only drive onto the road today and back.”

Ridiculous. Also one dollar doesn’t even get you anything from McDonald’s. You can’t be a Dollar Menunaire at all. More like Dollar Six Menunaire. There’s tax on those cheeseburgers. Ask Grimace, he knows. (Aside: I would love to nickname one of my friends Grimace. I don’t see how this could possibly go wrong. “Hey Grimace, toss me one of those Coors Lights.” “Those chicks like you Grimace.” “I bet you Grimace picks his nose and eats it.” I’m now adding Grimace onto my “if I have kids” name sheet. I’ll put it after James and before Babatunde. If anyone would like the title of Grimace for now please send a friend application and essay ASAP).

I urge everyone to give more than a dollar a day. Maybe two dollars. Maybe three. Or if you’re crazy insane, 4 dollars. We can make a difference.

Making the world happy: 2, 3, or 4 dollars at a time.

Where was I? Yes, so I can’t really say my life is awful even though today I did make the statement that my life was atrocious. It’s really not. Take for example Charlie Brown. That kid has the worst life of all time. Some may call it hyperbole, I call it fact-per-bole. Let us count the ways.

1.) He’s like 8 years old and he’s bald. What a debacle. No wonder the red-headed chick isn’t into him. That’s like dropping a 20 on the ground and right before you go to pick it up, it turns into a penny. Then that penny evaporates into thin air and sucks all the hair off of your head.

2.) His team is horrendous at baseball and he can’t fly a kite.

3.) Lucy doesn’t even let him kick the stupid football, but he’s so dumb he keeps trying.

4.) He only gets rocks at Halloween.

5.) His dog that is more popular than him even though the dog never talks and just types on a typewriter all day.

6.) His best friend constantly berates him even though the best friend is the one carrying a blanket around all day. Look in the mirror Linus! You clown.

Could it get any worse for good ole’ Chuck? Really could it? And to top it all off he can’t even write with a pen. He has to use a pencil. If Charlie Brown was written in the 2000s he would have a chain-smoking habit, be strung out on energy drinks, and would have blown all his money on cocaine and string cheese. Delicious string cheese. The nectar of the Gods.

Next time you think you have it bad, think of Charlie Brown. He will NEVER kick that football mainly because he is a fictional character that doesn’t exist in day-to-day life, but more of the fact that the creator of the comic is dead.

Too soon?

I know Thanksgiving has passed, but let’s look around and be thankful for our coworker that snaps gum loudly while talking to her friend “Brittany” on the work phone. Be thankful that our kitchen cabinet is held on with duct tape. Be thankful that your jury summons noticed got sent to the wrong apartment and now you’re wanted by the state for ducking out on your civic duty. At least we have these things. It could be worse.

We could dress in yellow and black every day.

Good Grief.

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Are Humans Out of This World? A Space Investigation.

November 23, 2010 at 4:13 pm (Uncategorized)

I like ALF.

Now, if you were born in the late 1980s or, shudder, the early 1990s you probably have no idea who this ALF character is. I’ll be brief in my description. ALF stood for Alien Life Form, was from a fictional planet named Melmac, liked to eat cats, was 230 years old, annoyed the ever-loving hell out of Willie the dad, and made life more enjoyable for all of us on NBC from 8-830pm on Mondays. Oh, and he looked like this.

When I was growing up I used to have an ALF lunchbox, a big nose, and tried eating my neighbor’s cats. I still contend that the show is one the few rewatchable 80s shows since the humor isn’t someone saying “Did I do that?!?!” or dropping in a “Whoa!” followed by 35 seconds of piped in laugh track. Who laughs at someone saying “Whoa”, anyways? I’ll tell you who. People with big hair, rainbow tights and a date on Saturday night to go watch Days of Thunder at the Cineplex Odeon 4 in East Brunswick, New Jersey. No, not ALF with his grown up humor and girlfriend named Rhonda, he was a cultural icon. He was my idol. He was an ALIEN.

We should have been brothers.

You see, I love pop culture. Now some people say they love pop culture, but I’m infatuated with it. I know what’s happening on the newest episode of Community. I’ve read every TMZ story since February 2010. I’ve downloaded the top 10 songs on the Billboard Hot 100 chart illegally. It’s happened. It’s for this reason I have no friends, but that’s a trade-off you have to make when you’re trying to drop an Oksana Grigorieva reference in an e-mail to a co-worker that they won’t understand. I’m plugged in to the WORLD!

Some guy named BP did what to Mexican Golf? Oil spills?!?!?

Back to ALF. So ALF was an alien, but he didn’t look like all the other aliens that have been featured throughout history. ALF looked more like a mini Chewbacca rather than a mal nourished green version of Salman Rushdie. This got me to thinking about why people say certain people “look like aliens.” Every time someone says that they are inevitably talking about someone with a big head and skinny body that says things like “Beep, Ork, Ark, Werf.” Why is it that we never call someone an alien when they’re really hairy? I’ll tell you why.


At some point the movie and TV people all got together and decided to brainwash people into thinking that all aliens are little green men from Mars that have wires coming out of their head. I did some quick research on the Internet Machine and found out the number of people who have pictures of aliens or life forms from other countries. I was totally and utterly shocked when I saw the number.


That’s right; there is not one documented photograph online of a person not from Earth aka an alien. Not one! I couldn’t believe it considering I’ve seen Independence Day, ET, Marvin the Martian, and saw Jeff Goldblum once in person. Why can’t people from other planets look like us? Why do they always have to look weird and gross and green? It doesn’t make any sense except to scare the crap out of us. Just think there could be someone on Jupiter who looks just like you. They would be classified as an alien. They eat cereal just like you. They drink red wine just like you. They pick their nose and wipe the booger under the company provided desk just like you.

I know you do it.

As humans we all look and act differently, yet according to the entertainment world all aliens act and look the same. Then we have to go calling frail people with big heads aliens. Sure some writers and directors go off the beaten path and say aliens look like Robin Williams (Mork) and blue people (Avatar), but the majority of the time they ride bikes and eat Reese’s Pieces. Well, it’s time to put a stop to this. Next time I see a hairy person I’m calling them an alien. Next time I see a tall person? Alien. Next time I see my boss? Alien. Anyone that says, “Whoa”? Alien.

Finally, ALF has gotten his comeuppance.

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Volcanoes In the Sand Means One Thing. Vegas Runs on Fairy Dust.

November 17, 2010 at 3:09 pm (Uncategorized)

When I was younger I saw Las Vegas as a place full of dreams, lights, and tripling your money while someone gave you a free suite at some hotel I couldn’t pronounce. Maybe all of these ideas came from movies like Swingers and that one, not that horrible, Nic Cage film. Actually, no, they did come from there since I spent most of my teenage years holed up in my room hoping I would meet Heather Graham and trying to ball up an entire fruit roll up and fit it in all in my mouth.

Mission: Accomplished

Dates: Non Existent.

Now that I’ve crossed the gap to 30 and live in Los Angeles I’ve been to Vegas more times than I can remember. (Aside: You know you have a cool city when you don’t even need to use the full proper city name to tell people where you are. Vegas. DC. San Fran. LA. The Q. Well, I’m guessing that’s what people call Albuquerque. Not that I’ve ever heard anyone refer to it as that, but I think we should start because using the least used letters of the alphabet as a nickname increases street credibility. Q. X. Z. Based on this fact if I ever have a kid he or she will be named Quexezzella. Very unisex. Very.)

The first few times you go to Vegas it’s as exciting as you can imagine. Look! A huge picture of some guy named Lance Burton! Cool! You take pictures of said Lance Burton since he seems important and you don’t know when you’ll get to see another billboard of someone else you’ve never heard of. Little do you know that you will see a 400 foot Rita Rudner right around the corner which is about 395 feet more of Rita Rudner than you need to see. But whatever, it’s Vegas. It’s new, it’s flashy, and we’re going to win so much money that Caesars will actually be our Palace.

Then you leave.

Throughout my 20s I went and left Vegas the same way every time. Excited to go. Feeling terrible when I left. This was due to the copious amounts of alcohol ingested in casinos pumped full of air to make you feel superhuman. This was also due to donating money to the fine private owners of hotel casinos after a rousing 15 minutes of craps and going to a Vegas club where leering at women wearing mostly nothing costs around $12 for a drink.

I take my martini cheap.

This past weekend I went to Vegas to spend a few days with my parents. They had never been and I was dubbed “The Expert.” (Double Aside: I just ran a quick IMDB search on “The Expert” and saw that there has been no TV show in America with this name. I’m not sure how a TV show called “The Expert” couldn’t work. The premise? There’s a handsome 5’8 ½ sometimes 5’9 Indian guy that knows everything. I mean everything. People ask him for directions. He knows them. A pilot has a heart attack, he can land the plane. He knows why you park on a driveway and drive on a parkway. He is “The Expert”. But there’s another guy out there that thinks he’s “The Expert” and he keeps trying to foil me, I mean, “The Expert” with cockamamie stunts that nobody could possibly get. Who wouldn’t watch this show? The tagline is already done. “There’s Nothing He Doesn’t Know…Except Everything.” How does Wednesdays at 10 on ABC sound?)

Since my parents had never been to Vegas they wanted to see everything. Everything included the fake volcano erupting outside of The Mirage. In my many trips I had never seen this since I was too busy drinking or too busy napping in my room after drinking. But as I get older I want to do more things that I haven’t gotten to do so the fake volcano eruption outside of the Mirage it was. We get down to The Mirage to see a 5 minute show of fire busting out of pipes and some kind of tribal music blaring out of huge rocks to the roar of around 500 people waiting outside to see it. I’ve never seen people so joyful for something so fake since Joan Rivers face interviewed Milli Vanilli. My mid 50s mother came racing over saying “It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!” The coolest thing she’s seen?!?! This is a woman that’s been to The Taj Mahal, Stonehenge, sat through 3 episodes of that Kardashian show and this, this fake volcano was the coolest thing she’s seen.

Fake it ‘til you make it, indeed.

I’m sure most of the people who watched it thought it was the best thing they’ve seen. Something so set up that it resembled neither Pompeii nor (insert another volcano) made her day and that’s when it hit me. Everyone thinks everything is cooler in Vegas. Fake volcanoes. Buffets. Celine Dion. Put those things in any other city and it becomes lame. Put them in front of a building that misspells “win” and you have a gold mine.

Ask George Wallace.



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