Brian Jaeger

My dear friend, Matthew Daughtry, asked for content and when there is a request for content, who am I to say, “Well, I just ate enough Baked Lays to make their healthy claims null and void…because I have.  What’s a serving size?  Seriously?  Well, shit.  Eating baked chicken only compounded my already sad meal.” 

I think we have all said those exact words at some point or another.  If you haven’t, then YOU’RE NOT LIVING!

So, in honor of Matt’s traveling and the fact that there just isn’t enough advice available on the internet, here are my tips for handling nights in a hotel.

First of all, drink.  Just drink.  What situation have you ever been in that wasn’t improved by drinking?  Job interview?  Check.  Do you REALLY want to work for some stuffed-shirt who doesn’t understand how important a fifth of whiskey is to consume before most school children have finished reciting the Pledge of Allegiance?  (Wait, they don’t do that anymore?  What the hell is wrong with ‘merica?!)  Heavy machinery?  “Don’t operate if you’ve been drinking”, is just a way to let “The Man” take fun out of an otherwise menial task.  Oh I’m sorry, did you want this construction site to be a Puritan revival?  I didn’t think so.  And that’s why my flask WAS full of gin and now is not.  Teaching kindergarteners?  Try doing that sober.  My God, they are the neediest, most dependent bastards ever.  If I have to teach these snotty little kids the alphabet, then I’m going to need some extra help from B&J, G&T, and/or XXX.  (The last one only applies if you have a jug handle of moonshine in a cartoon.) 

So, my first bit of advice is to drink.  Drinking allows adventures to happen.  Haven’t spent 5 hours watching videos on YouTube of sports bloopers and finding them funny whereas you’d find them boring whilst sober?  Try drinking.  Never really understood where Arnold Schwarzenegger’s level of drive was born?  Then watch this:

http://espn.go.com/blog/playbook/trending/post/_/id/8637/30-for-30-short-film-arnolds-blueprint

(Thanks, Reddit.)

Okay, so I understand that drinking when traveling may not be the best idea.  Chances are that you have to wake up early for work…hence the reason that you’re traveling.  So here are some other ideas for those times when you just look around and wonder if anyone died in that hotel room:

1) Someone Died In That Hotel Room - Who was it?  How did it happen?  I mean, you ARE in a hotel room.  Someone died there.  If they didn’t die THERE, then someone died AFTER staying there.  Who were they?  What were their hobbies?  How did they entertain themselves while wondering what to do in a hotel room?  Create a character.  Then draw them.  Give them a name.  After that, imagine a family for them…next thing you know, the alarm is going off, you feel weird about how you fell asleep, but hey, that’s one more night down in a hotel room.

2) Walk Around The Hotel - Nothing makes people more uncomfortable than a man in his 20’s to 40’s just lurking around a hotel room at late hours, looking at things.  Thankfully, nothing feels as awful or creepy as being a man in his 20’s to 40’s walking around a hotel pretending to look at things, care about plaques, and approaching the front desk to ask if there’s anything going on in that particular area late at night.  For every human that seems legitimately afraid that you’re going to attack them, treat yourself to a snack at the vending machine.

3) Lay The Wrong Way In The Bed - Do it.  I dare you.  Time yourself.  It won’t be long before you just feel weird and establish the normal laying position.  We have been trained.  Don’t forget it.  “The Man” wants you to sleep a certain way.  Metaphorically give him the finger and lay diagonally, face-down, and with absolutely no intention to sleep.

4) Fast Food - This one is real.  You’re on vacation.  Why obey a diet?  So many teen-focused movies have talked about “different area codes” and how you can cheat on your spouse or significant other.  Why limit it to that?  Scour the area and buy one REALLY shitty item from as many menus as you can.  When you eat all of them while laying in your boxers watching Collateral starring Jamie Foxx and Tom Cruse, which has finally made its way to HBO, you, sir or madam, are the winner.

5) Call Random Rooms - There are usually just three digits separating you from someone randomly staying in the same hotel.  One of them must be a decent conversationalist.  Start the conversation with, “I know who you are, and where you are right now, and I plan to make sure that you never wake up.”  It’s funny.  They won’t sleep.  But you will.

6) Eat Something That Isn’t “Edible” - The maids will assume you stole that lamp, but joke’s on her…you ate it.  Buy a first aid kit, or only shit near a hospital for 24 hours.

7) What Am I Not Watching? - Hotels boast having every channel on cable (and usually HBO).  Watch all of the things that humans stopped watching 10 years ago.  Oh, a re-run of “Mad About You”?  Why not learn how far comedy has come since Paul Reiser was considered relevant.  Documentaries on PBS usually make you smarter, and also allow you to realize how many countries, people, and events throughout history that you never knew existed really mean absolutely nothing in the context of your life.  It’s funny.  Those things are real, but at the same time, completely worthless.

8) Fart - Do it.  Do it a bunch.  Even if you try to do it but don’t have to and crap a little, who is there to judge you?  God?  No, he’s been doing that for years.

9) Call Someone And Lie To Them - You’re in a hotel.  Rules don’t apply.  Scroll blindly through your cell phone contacts and pick a random person.  Then, call them and begin with, “Hey man (or woman), I know we haven’t talked much recently, but I really have to get something off my chest…”  Then, claim that you saw them do something truly awful while drunk.  Or, if you have the resolve to do so, claim that you died and this is a call beyond the grave.  Tell them that you know that they have done wrong recently and they only have a short time to atone for their sins before they die and meet the awful fate that you have.  You think Jacob Marley was really dead and haunting Scrooge?  Nope, just bored in a hotel.

10) Claim It - Call the front desk and when they answer say, “I’ve thought it over, and I’LL TAKE IT!”  When they answer in a confused fashion, just keep going.  Start saying things like, “I never thought I’d be a hotel room owner, but you helped make this dream possible!”  And, “I wasn’t sold on the place at first, but my goodness, you only live once, so I’m staying!”  Then, hang up the phone saying that you’ll be by in the morning to draw up the papers and make it official.  You will make some lowly front desk clerk’s life a living hell for a bit, but you’ll sleep sound as a rock sinking in quicksand.

And there you have it.  If you stuck around to read all of this, then I’ve already hampered you from executing any of these tips successfully.  But, if you found one you like, then I hope you are happy with your choice and that your traveling is better for it.

Travel safe.

Oh, and masturbate.  That’s what hotels are for.

You’d think that at my age I’d know better. Decided to go with red as the theme for my bathroom since I thought, “No one ever does red and people enjoy the hue of alarm when showering or taking a crap,” so I bought red towels and red bath mats. Doing laundry tonight, I threw one of the new red towels in with the laundry (because I still do laundry like a college kid…and I think separating whites and darks is racist). Or I’m just lazy. Now, I have a load of laundry that looks like I wrapped Elmo inside it and tossed a grenade in. So, if you see me in the next week and it looks like I have bits of Elmo’s carcass all over my clothing, this is why. Or I’m just trying to start a new trend of wearing only clothing with red speckles of lint all over. Or I could just use a lint roller, but again, lazy.

What happened in Boston was a tragedy.  However you look at it, the awful qualities of humans were exposed today.

But while I watched and read, if anything, this should reaffirm our faith in the human race.

As I watched the news roll in about this terrible act, I was drawn to the fact that for every person involved in the bombings, there were several more who ran to the aid of those injured by this senseless act.  For any person who planted those bombs or helped in the plot, there was someone who threw their own safety to the wind in order to try and save those who needed it.  Innocent men and women sprang to help those injured in what was a display of the worst side of humans.

There is no real happiness in this, but that makes me happy.  Amidst the death and injury caused by this, the fact that fellow humans were willing to risk their health and lives to aid those who needed it most, makes me happy for what humans are capable of.

But I’m also angry.

Foremost I’m angry at the individuals who orchestrated this.  I’m angry that some person, like me, can come to the conclusion that attacking innocent people has any justification.

I hope we find out who did this quickly.  And I hope they pay for it dearly. 

That said, I’m also angry with how this played out in the news.  I worked in news for almost a decade and the most terrible part of the job was dealing with situations like this where there is no silver lining.  There’s no way to report the facts and understand why people act this way or why certain humans decide that random attacks are the answer for whatever is causing them anger, however misdirected.

However, facts weren’t the only thing being reported.  Advice for what those living in the city can do was not the only thing being reported.  The ways for other humans to help, were not the only things being reported.

News should be based on facts.  It’s not that way anymore. 

What an awful disservice to those that were impacted by this tragedy to report rumor.  What a terrible dishonor to those that lost limbs, lives, or loved ones to toss out opinion and might-be’s all in order to keep viewers watching.

This is why I’ve come to hate the state of “news” now.

The other thing that made me angry was watching reaction on social media.

More so than ever, we have platforms to engage and interact when terrible tragedies like this happen.

And don’t get me wrong, I think it’s important to utilize Facebook and Twitter to commiserate on what is a terrible event.  There is a certain catharsis in coming together when something like this happens.

But do something.

The thing that makes me the angriest about social media, especially following tragic events, is that it’s so easy to post a pic or a status or Tweet support and then go on with your life.

All of those posts and Tweets do nothing.

There is a feeling of helplessness that comes about when something happens like this.  The initial reaction, at least for me, is that if I knew who did this I would inflict the most awful torture upon them.  There is also the feeling that you really want to do something to make it all better.

But all the posts promising prayers and all the Tweets of solidarity don’t change anything, and they don’t help either.

So, I donated to the Red Cross tonight.  I’m not stating this as some way to deify myself.  It’s not much, but it’s DOING something.  I’m not saying this is how you should react to a tragedy like this.  I’m not even saying that if you DON’T do something that means that you don’t care.  All that I’m saying is that if you really feel the anger and pain caused by a member or members of the human race inflicting death, injury, and sadness on other members of the human race, then do something.

If you REALLY feel terrible about what happened and want to address that, do SOMETHING.

The problem with social media is that it makes us all lazy.  It’s very easy to just post something in 30 seconds then walk away from it.  I’m not saying that makes anyone insincere who posts or Tweets support for those affected, all I’m saying is that it does absolutely nothing tangible.  It’s important for us to come together in these situations and support those directly impacted by it, and it’s important to show solidarity through the mode of communication that we have.  

But don’t just type something and send it off into the emptiness of the internet. 

Do something. 

Coming this fall to FOX Family: A boy looking for a friend finds out that those noises coming from under the stairs are NOT just bumps in the night. He’ll discover a brand new world right underneath his feet! Tune in for…

Evan And The Creepy Incest Monster People

Starring Evan Cantwell and based on an idea of what the movies “The People Under The Stairs” and “Flowers In The Attic” are about without ever actually seeing them, Evan will learn that you have to take the first step towards understanding in order to climb your way to friendship.

Evan: Hey, you guys want to play some video games?
Creepy Incest Monster Person: Is that where we all have sex with each other while eating mouse parts?
Evan: I don’t like you creepy incest monster people.
(Cue The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Do You Believe In Magic”.)

By now, any Gator fan, Florida Gulf Coast University fan, or any sports fan happening to flip on ESPN after work tonight has seen this:

http://deadspin.com/espn-goes-live-to-fgcu-pep-rally-just-in-time-to-catch-458768330

This does not bother me.  Nope. Not at all.  And here’s why.

I’m not going to get mad at the student body of Florida Gulf Coast University, a.k.a. the denizens of Dunk City, because they started a “Fuck The Gators” chant.  I’m also not going to censor myself by saying an “F The Gators” chant because I’m not going to insult your intelligence…and because ESPN apparently feels there’s no reason for censorship either.

I look at it this way.  21-year-old Brian would have been right there chanting with them.  Hell, 21-year-old Brian would probably have started the chant.  I also can’t imagine that 21-year-old Brian would have attended that pep rally without drinking a few Natty Lights beforehand.  So, I’m not going to act all high-and-mighty and mature and scold these sophomoric potty mouths.  Some of my fondest memories of high school are the basketball games where we packed the stands and made it our goal to chant the most offensive, combative, and frequently vulgar phrases at our opponent.  Especially if our opponent was better than us or represented something we disliked.  (I’m looking at you, The Bolles School, you silver-spoon-born, trust fund assholes.)

So, I have no problem with the “Fuck The Gators” chant.

However…

21-year-old Brian graduated high school with a 4.2 GPA and a SAT score over 1300.  So, 21-year-old Brian would only have been at Florida Gulf Coast University if 21-year-old Brian got arrested before getting accepted to the best college in the state.  (Which, in retrospect, probably wouldn’t have been a completely outlandish scenario.)  Or if 21-year-old Brian lived in Fort Myers and was dating some dumb girl who he believed he’d be with forever so threw away his potential and followed her to FGCU.

I’m happy for these FGCU students.  I really am. 

They get to enjoy this glimpse of what it’s like to go to a real school with a strong athletic program.  These guys and gals chanting away will speak of it fondly later in life right around the same time that they realize that a degree from Florida Gulf Coast University is about the same as graduating from “Saved By The Bell’s” Surf U. 

“Here’s today’s math lesson, sunblock 20 is better than sunblock 15.”
“Surf’s up, Zack!  Cowabunga dudes!”

So, chant away you princes of FGCU, you kings of Dunk City.

We’ll just enjoy it even more when you go back to your glorified community college and the Gators are in the Elite 8.

A group of very peppy young white women, one of their boyfriends, and three little black children got on the train today and sat around me. The kids were probably about 7 or 8, two girls and one boy. I imagine this was some form of a “Big Brothers Big Sisters” situation and they were taking the kids ice skating. It was cute. They all seemed very happy, were taking pictures of each other, the kids were checking out one of the women’s personal pair of ice skates, and were all having a good time. At some point, the boyfriend tried to connect with the little boy and started playing “Rock, Paper, Scissors” with him across the aisle. After that, the boyfriend asked the kid what shoe size he wore. While the kid was checking the tongue of one of his shoes, the boyfriend says with a surprised voice, “Trey, did you know you have a big hole in your pants?” The little kid looked down to discover this huge hole right in the crotch of his jeans. He pondered it for a second, put his hand down to inspect it, then looked up and said with a completely serious face, “Well, my balls ain’t out. So I’m alright.”

I almost had a stroke trying to muffle my laughter for the next two stops.

My mom and I have a special relationship. She texted me this picture with the message, “Why do we have these?” I responded with, “In case I ever kidnap a child and would like to entertain.”

(Really they are from a night when Evan, Jared, Rabble, and I went to the Albertsons near our house and Albertsons was getting rid of Halloween stuff. They told us whatever we could fit in a shopping cart we could have for 10 bucks. We got SO much candy and random Halloween swag. This later led to the “Juicy Fruit Challenge” where the challenge was to stuff as many Juicy Fruit fun size gum bars into your mouth as you can fit. I believe Evan is still the reigning champion though Skyler and Wurns put up valiant fights.)

UPDATE: As I’m about to post this, my mom calls me to tell me that she and my sister, Caitlin, are continuing to clean out my closet and asks, “Do you need these empty CD cases?” I asked what that meant and she says, “I’m looking at a Michael Jackson “HIStory” CD case with no CDs in it. You don’t need that, right? I also have a Joan Osborne cassette tape here. You really don’t need that, right?”

Though, I’m certainly beating my brother, Kevin, who apparently kept a water bottle that was half full. I think a “One Of Us” Joan Osborne cassette tape single trumps half-empty water bottle any day.

I’m going to out myself here.  I used to “catfish” people.  Yes, at one point, I used to use the internet as some kind of twisted playground to amuse myself at the misfortunes of others.

It was 8th grade and AOL was the name of the game.  Sure you could have the “internet” and everyone was on dial-up, but all the cool kids were on AOL. 

I never had AOL.  We didn’t do that in my household.

But I had friends with AOL.  Also, AOL, in an effort to expand their reach, was now allowing regular internet subscribers to create usernames for free and enjoy their new “Instant Message” system and chat rooms free of charge.  (Without ALL the bells and whistles that regular subscribers were entitled to, of course.)

So, much of my 8th and 9th grade Friday and Saturday nights were spent bullshitting online with friends.  At that age, boredom usually leads to some awful way to find entertainment.  With this new toy of the internet right at our fingertips, literally, we started using it in a way that you can anticipate a 12-year-old would.

We started pranking people.

Going into chat rooms where faceless “people” were engaging in polite conversation was rife for immature fun.  To hell with their conversations on if Pearl Jam would end up being more influential with the Beatles.  All we had to do was go in four or five strong and start typing cuss words and picking one person in the room to direct all of our fake ire towards. 

I would sit, in the dark, cackling with laughter in the knowledge that some 35-year-old man was just STEWING somewhere halfway across the country because we started telling everyone in the chat room that he lorded over previously that he murdered an orphan, or once tried eating poop, or farted and shit his pants at a wedding.

“I do not know these people.  Really cute, guys.  Why don’t you GET A LIFE!”

And we would chortle with laughter.  Physically alone, but connected through the internet, and all of us would be IMing each other the whole time we terrorized chat rooms.

It became almost an art form.  What convoluted scheme could we concoct and unleash on an unsuspecting chat room full of strangers?  Who could drop the most dirty, offensive, or downright bizarre line during one of our chat room raids? 

It was fun.  Hey, at least we weren’t out getting drunk or doing drugs.  It seemed harmless.

Another go-to brand of entertainment we engaged in was going into a chat room and pretending to be a naive young woman.  “16/f/FL” would IMMEDIATELY draw forth the marks.  Then, we’d end up chatting with them and invariably end up telling them that we had to get off the internet, so they should call us to “have some fun”.

Then, we’d give them one of our friends’ home phone numbers.

This was usually at about 3 AM.

We’d convince them to do it, and then bite our nails in anticipation for when they’d sign back on (I mean they had to log off to access their phone lines…this was before cable and wireless). 

“What the fuck was that?  Some old guy answered and was all pissed off!”

We would collapse with laughter knowing that our friend’s dad got some random call that woke him up from a dead sleep at 3 AM, then listened as some nervous 17-year-old boy stammered a, “Uh…hey, um, is this Kristen?”

We were juvenile delinquents amusing ourselves at the expense of others.

My friend Adam and I terrorized the internet so much that his mom had to delete an account because we led some poor woman on that we were an actor in LA who had a recurring role on “Suddenly Susan”.  She had a fantasy about having sex in the cab of a big rig.  I’m not making this up.  We felt like we had won the lottery with that one.  Until Adam’s mom grounded him after receiving some very angry emails to their main account about the “punk kids” that were “messing with my life”.

We actually rediscovered this bit of tomfoolery in college one night when a group of us were drinking and hanging out at our house in Gainesville.  We had the internet hooked up to the TV in the living room and found a chat room site.  Of course we went in and pulled the old “16/f/FL” bit…and the IMs came immediately and in a plentiful supply.  (God bless the internet.)  So, we would take different approaches with each one and laugh when one of them realized what was going on.  We then started offering up friends’ phone numbers to these chat room lurkers for phone sex, and then laughed in the knowledge that one of our friends was receiving a random call on his phone from some internet pervert.  Most of the group ended up leaving and going to the bars, but my girlfriend at the time and I stayed in and continued messing with people and having them call our friends who had been party to the rouse just a half hour before.  (They ended up getting sick of all the random area codes that kept popping up on their phones.)

So, my point is that, I know how easy it is to fool people on line.  I like to think that I was there in the early days of “catfishing”.

But as I grew older, I found other ways to occupy my time.  I also assumed that with the increasing reach of the internet, and the increased savvy that internet users had achieved, pranking people like this was no longer an option for bored preteens trying to create havoc in the cyber realm.

Then this Manti Teʻo thing hit.

Now, I’m still unconvinced that this grown man had no clue he was involved in a relationship with someone who didn’t exist.  I fully expect a press conference by Saturday in which he comes clean, explains that they thought it would be funny, that it went way too far, that he immediately regretted it and was embarrassed by it, and he apologizes for any hurt it caused.

That said, if this truly WAS a case of an extremely gullible and dim human being getting trolled by the anonymity of the internet…wow.

This is impressive on a scale that would absolutely cripple 8th grade Brian’s mind.

As I mentioned before, when we would “catfish” people back in the late 90s, the prank would last all of 20 minutes or so.  It was an unspoken rule that if we led someone on for more than 15 minutes, shit got too creepy and the humor was lost.

But 4 months?

4 months of believing that a human exists that really doesn’t, and 4 months of believing that you are in a relationship with them?

Wow.  Just…wow.

This goes beyond anything Ashton could cook up on “Punk’d”.  This goes far beyond Tom Sawyer sitting the rafters watching as Aunt Polly wails at his fake funeral.

Pranks aren’t supposed to last this long.  Just the word “prank” is quick and cutting…like a prank should be.  There is a certain art to the “slow burn” where you take a prank to its very limits before the big reveal. 

But 4 months.  That is just simply unfathomable.

So, whether it turns out that Manti Teʻo was just a simple, naive pawn in someone else’s elaborate prank…or if he helped orchestrate and cultivate this prank…this has got to be possibly the most amazingly epic prank ever executed in the history of the universe.

Either way, it seems that in this case it’s the sports “journalists” who bought into this prank the whole time that truly got that 3 AM wake up call.

I just woke up from one of the more haunting dreams that I’ve ever had. 

(Disclaimer: This may get a little dark.)

After an unknown length of what had been an unremarkable dream, I was suddenly informed by a faceless source that for the remainder of my dream I would have full and ultimate control over what happened. 

Now, this would normally be cause for a small cerebral celebration…though not TOO intense of a celebration since you never want to rock the mental boat when a lucid dream hits and risk crossing that fragile line between reveling in a highly lucid dream and lying awake in the dark with the realization that you’ve lost an incredible gift on account of your cavalier flaunting of awareness. 

However, there was a catch.

I was bluntly informed that I now held the reigns to infinite adventurous possibilities.  BUT…I was also made aware that whenever the dream ended, I would wake up as an old man, have just enough time to take in my surroundings, gain an understanding of who I had become, and then die.

Yup.

This was not a bargain either.  I was not given this scenario as an option.  It wasn’t some mysterious dream peddler holding out a magic dream bean in the palm of his wrinkly paw and cooing, “Take it or leave it.” 

I now existed in the dream with the knowledge that I could do anything and everything possible within the dream realm, but at some point therein I would wake up and find myself moments away from real life death.

(I warned you that this might get a little dark.)

The only thing I really remember now (since dream memory tends to fade exponentially from the point of waking) was panicking and feeling that my state of sleep was too flimsy and fragile and that I was doomed to wake up any moment.  Needless to say, I DID wake up shortly afterward with a quick jolt from one of those feelings of falling.  My brain finally reached that “Oh, it was all just a dream” state of relaxation, but before I hit that point of pacifism, I endured a brief spell of pure terror.  It began in the lucid dream when I honestly believed that whenever I woke up I would be met with the image of a foreign room with grieving strangers staring at me, have a flash of what my life had been up to this moment, and the instant that I achieved a full consciousness of my real life, die.

Honestly, the real reason that I started writing this was to secrete the thoughts churning forth from my racing brain so that when I return to sleep I’m in a higher state of mental peace.  But I was also intrigued (once the nightmare quality wore off) by this twisted scenario and it left me wondering what I would do if it were ever presented again. 

The things that you would immediately try to accomplish and experience in a dream are FAR different than the things you would legitimately write on a real-life bucket list.  I’m fairly upset with myself that the second I received this cryptic “your dream is fully in your control, but then you die in real life” ultimatum, I didn’t immediately launch into the air.  As cliche as it is, I could have at least STARTED with the obvious choice of flying while I pondered all of the infinite options available to me.  I was given no set length of time before my omnipotent dream life would end, so it’s possible that it could have ended in what would have felt like two minutes in dream time (before I’d even had time to fly past the moon).  Then, I would wake up about to die without having done anything with my dream powers except try to make a decision on what to do.  That said, the same possibility exists that I COULD dream for what would feel like 900 years in dream time and accomplish more things than would even be capable to imagine during my real life. 

(I’m fully aware of how much my contemplation is sounding like “Inception” now.  It’s kind of hard to avoid that.)

Also, right off the bat I’d feel guilty for not spending my inexact amount of dream time with family and friends.  It feels selfish that I’d take a risk and immediately spend time as a member of the 1927 New York Yankees, immerse myself in one of the battles from “Braveheart” (with no fear since I have ultimate control and thus cannot be hurt), or trade verses singing all of my favorite songs with a constantly-changing list of celebrities in front of a crowd as raucous and massive as the Wembley Stadium crowd that rocked along with Freddie Mercury in 1985 during Live Aid.

Since I’d have no clue how much dream time I’d have left to enjoy this full creative control, I’d feel guilty if all of a sudden I was torn away from singing “Superstar” with Luther Vandross and Yasmine Bleeth (but as Caroline from “Baywatch” and with a voice like Karen Carpenter) on stage, and found myself on my death bed in real life with just seconds to live. 

But then would any time spent with family and friends really even count or truly “mean” anything since it would just be part of a dream, and not real?  Especially since I’m fully aware that they are just figments in my dream?

So, the compromise that I came to was that either A) I can do all of those things I listed before while ALSO hanging out with family and friends (it’s my dream so I can create a dual narrative where both are possible), or B) I can incorporate all of my family and friends into a super amazingly cool dream where, say, we all have our own dinosaurs and ride them together, only each dinosaur is made of each specific person’s favorite food and they can just reach down and take bites of it as they ride along. 

(If any of my dream friends or family are creeped out by the idea of eating a dinosaur that also happens to be nachos, I can help them out by making it so that there is a lovely little picnic basket next to them on the dinosaur’s back with an infinite supply of whichever food they choose.  But for me, grabbing a hunk of dino-back that immediately turns into a Skyline Chili Cheese Coney in my hand is far more entertaining.  And, okay, maybe I’d also like the dinosaur to scream in pain whenever I do this.  And then maybe each time it happens, I hush and soothe him by whispering that it’s all going to be okay and won’t happen again…but then it DOES happen again literally 10 seconds later.  Hey, it’s my dream.  If I want to derive sick pleasure out of torturing a dinosaur made of delicious Cincinnati chili concoctions, that’s my prerogative.)

Anyway, before I got off on a 4 AM mind-dump just now, the notion of having infinite possibilities for an unstipulated length of dream time was extremely appealing.  The caveat that at any moment I could be thrust from my dream back into reality, and have only a brief time to take everything in before dying…not so much.

It also made me think of this new iPhone 5 commercials touting the “Do Not Disturb” feature where the “dreamer” is playing ping pong against Venus and Serena Williams: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=eLJN_d2sVjk#!

How delightfully jarring would that be if after such a light-hearted commercial, when the narrator says, “Now my iPhone knows not to ring unless it’s important because disturbing this…” instead of saying “would just be wrong” followed it with, “…would cause me to awake to the living nightmare that my real life has passed me by without my knowledge and death is just moments away!”

Okay, I did all I can to get this out of my head in order to safely return to sleep.  Hopefully when I wake up, I haven’t aged more than the few remaining hours I have until my alarm goes off.

Again, I’m regifting an old Facebook note (from Christmas Day, 2011) here for your enjoyment…

I started writing this note last year after posting Christmas Music Part I: The Good, The Bad, And Ones About Date Rape (Such a whimsical title in retrospect.) You can check that out here:

http://brianjaeger.tumblr.com/post/38465496224/christmas-music-part-i-the-good-the-bad-and-ones
 

Anyway, in that note I touched on some of the more bizarre and even disturbing Christmas songs floating around America’s soft rock radio dial.  But at the end of that note, I eluded to an upcoming individualized treatment of my absolute favorite Christmas song, a song that NONE of the yuletide nonsense I touched on in the first note could hold a candle to…Newsong’s “Christmas Shoes”.

(Oh yeah. AND they made a movie. And a music video. We’ll get to all that.)

However, I never finished it.  That is due to two reasons.  First of all, I’m notoriously lazy.  Things simply don’t get “done” a lot.  Second of all, after writing almost the entire thing I was fact-checking some lyrics, and while Googling the song I discovered that I had been beaten to the punch.  That asshole Patton Oswalt already had a stand up bit entirely based on the song.  Total Christmas cock block.

Go on.  Listen to it.  It’s funny:

Patton Oswalt’s Christmas Shoes Treatment

So, like a child who doesn’t want to play with a toy because some other kid already touched it, or a guy who doesn’t want to date a chick because all his friends have already had sex with it, I sulked in the corner defeated and decided to just shelve it instead of leading anyone to believe I was plagiarizing.

But then I came back across the Microsoft Word document recently, and figured what the hell.  It’s Christmas.  The time for sharing.  And since this thing was basically complete already, why not share it?  I listened to Patton’s bit again and all similarities are basically thematic, and let’s be honest, fairly obvious.  Well, other than catty Jesus.  We were damn near identical on that one.  But I enjoy that part of the note, so I kept it in anyway.  Plus, I focused more on the video itself than the actual song, so it’s not as similar as I had remembered.

Now, even with the full disclosure that I wrote most of this BEFORE hearing Patton’s stand-up (and overly attempted to avoid any similar jokes and comments while finishing it), I still fully expect comments from those who believe the contrary.  But even more likely, at least a handful of, “His is funnier,” comments. 

Fair enough. 

Merry Christmas.

CHRISTMAS SHOES: THESE SHOES WERE MADE FOR DYIN’

Let me start by posing this question: When you think of the true meaning of Christmas, what comes to mind?

Buying shoes for a kid so his mom can die in them?

That’s what the band Newsong must have thought when they penned “Christmas Shoes”.  If you’ve never heard the song, here’s a nutshell version of the story that’s growled out by a lead singer whose voice sounds like Bruce Springsteen ate Tom Waits’s throat.  There’s a poor kid whose mother is terminally ill with an unspecified sickness.  We can assume that it’s cancer, but it very well could be AIDS.  Or Pac Man fever.  Or any of the maladies your loved ones can die from on the Oregon Trail, because you just HAD to be a farmer instead of a doctor.  Either way, bitch be mad sick, yo.  So, armed with this knowledge that his mom is cocking back her leg in preparation to kick the bucket, he goes to buy her some “Christmas shoes” in case she “meets Jesus” on Christmas Eve.  However, the boy doesn’t have enough money to purchase them.  

The entire song was written from the perspective of a guy in line at the store who ends up paying for the shoes and is reminded of what “Christmas is all about” by the experience.  The kid runs off with his death shoes and the guy feels all warm and fuzzy because of the Christian charity he demonstrated.  Also, HIS mother is probably still very much alive. 

We never find out if the mom survives.  We’re all just supposed to feel Christmas cheer because he got the shoes.  I hope it’s not diabetes.  If he comes home and those feet are gone, there will be eggnog on everyone’s face.  Plus, I’m pretty sure the kindly gentleman narrator didn’t give the kid his receipt.

So, that’s the basic storyline we’re working with here.  A storyline that Nicholas Sparks would look at and say, “How simple and melodramatic.” 

I’d love to see the notes that the guy from Newsong jotted down on a Waffle House napkin before tying this madness together.

“Add my gravelly voice and a creepy children’s choir and this will be a hit!”

Now, it’s worth noting that Newsong is a Christian band, and this is widely considered a “Christian” song.  So, if that’s the case, why is Jesus portrayed as materialistic and judgmental?  And why does this kid have an ancient Egyptian view of how the afterlife works?  This must be how he perceives his mother’s final judgment playing out:

Scenario 1:

(Mom arrives in heaven wearing her boring-ass regular shoes.)

Jesus: (Yawning.)  Well, those shoes are drab.  Looks like it’s hell for you.  Next!

Or…

Scenario 2:

(Mom arrives in heaven wearing a pair of sweet-ass Christmas shoes.)

Jesus: Oh…my…home!  I am so jelly!  Get in here, you, and tell me where you got those gorgeous shoes!  I just HAVE to know!  Peter, do you see these?!  What a bitch!  You’re a total bitch and you know it! 

The fact that the guy in line singing this song feels that the boy was sent by God to remind him of “what Christmas is all about” is also disconcerting.  “What’s that, little boy?  Oh.  Your mom is going to die on Christmas Eve and you’re too poor to buy her shoes?  Sounds like a sign from God to me!  Don’t worry cashier, I’ll get the tab for this kid.  His extremely shitty life and adorable selflessness just filled me with the Christmas spirit!  Yay Christmas!  Here’s your shoes, kid.  Good luck with that whole mom-dying thing.  I just feel great now!”

And that’s just the song…

CHRISTMAS SHOES: THE VIDEO (BASED ON THE MOVIE THAT WAS BASED ON THE SONG THAT WAS BASED ON A SICK AND TWISTED CONCEPT)

Now, if the song wasn’t bad enough already, the folks at the Lifetime network amped shit up a notch.  A song alone could not fully bring this concept to life.  Oh no.  Only one man could help take this ridiculousness to a supersonic level.

That man? 

Rob Lowe.

As you can imagine, this song was destined to become a movie on the Lifetime network.

So why just focus on the ridiculousness of the song itself?  Or the movie based on the song?  No.  I’m going to do you one better and skip the movie, and go straight to exploring the music video BASED on the Rob Lowe Lifetime movie that was BASED on the song.

Yuletide mind-fuck, y’all.

The fact that this exists means that someone liked the song SO much, that they made it into a movie.  Then, either to promote the movie or because they were bored, Newsong filmed a music video using clips from this movie.

Oh yes.  This happened:

CHRISTMAS SHOES: THE VIDEO (BASED ON THE MOVIE THAT WAS BASED ON THE SONG THAT WAS BASED ON A SICK AND TWISTED CONCEPT)

Care to take a journey with me?  Click on that link, and follow along!

0:00:  The video starts with Brad Paisley’s wife (yes, that’s former Felicity sweetheart, Kerri Russell) and her son playing a game of catch.  Cute enough.  However, rather than staying in their perfectly suitable and safe front yard, the mom encourages her son to run across the street instead.  Since she already knows she’s dying, she doesn’t have to worry about bullshit like good parenting or protective instincts anymore.  “Fuck it, kid.  Go weave through traffic so mom can thread the needle between two Jettas.” 

“Yes, Brad, I’m going to be acting with THE Rob Lowe!”

0:07:  Enter Rob Lowe, who (though being a breath of fresh handsome) ruins this little slice of mother-son bonding by driving his car directly into the path of the ball like some sort of asshole.  Instead of taking responsibility or acting concerned that she just nailed a stranger’s car with a tight spiral (okay, as much of a spiral as a woman can throw…oooh, misogynist burn), she appears to actually throw her kid under the bus.  This seems ironic considering the fact that she just sent him on a slant route into oncoming traffic. 

0:09:  So instead of apologizing or asking if the man’s car is okay, she pulls the, “Oh, this guy here!  What am I going to do with him?” bit.  She doesn’t say, “I apologize, sir.  I directed my child to run across the street, then I threw a ball with a trajectory that simply would not have come anywhere near him, and I also timed that throw with an appallingly glaring ignorance to your car driving just feet away from me.  This is 100% my fault.”  No.  Remember, she’s dying.  No need for civility.  Instead, she acts like her cute little dog just peed on his carpet. 

0:10:  But check out Rob Lowe’s reaction to this.  Oh man, it’s fantastic!  He wants absolutely NONE of this complete BULLshit.  He’s a goddamn businessman and he does NOT have time for this crap.  In response to her light-hearted “boys will be boys” faux apology, he shoots her a look that just screams, “Shut up, you poor, stupid bitch.”  He won’t even look her in the face when he clearly mouths, “Yeah right,” before stylishly driving away and muttering about how much he hates Christmas, and footballs, and moms.

I can only imagine that right after this interaction, he keeps replaying the incident in his head and gets mad at himself for the fact that all he could muster was a, “Yeah right,” when what he really wishes he would have said would have been, “Listen, you dirty suburban whore.  If you ever hit my car with a football again, you‘ll be peeling your son’s face out of my tire tread.”  And then in his little fantasy, he would have tossed like twenty $100 bills out the window and spit in her face, then drove off after screaming, “Go fuck yourself!  I’m rich!” 

So, now we’ve established two things: 
1) Kerri Russell and her son have a loving relationship. 
2) Rob Lowe is a total dick.

So, now it’s time to establish the awesomeness that is Newsong.

0:13: We’re introduced to Newsong in an awkward Christmas-time human panorama.  The band is apparently comprised of Dave Attell on vocals and a bunch of dudes looking at different things that all exist in starkly different geographical locations.  I think that might actually be Sting to Dave Attell’s right and Josh Brolin to his left.  But my favorite is the guy on the far left wearing aviators with his hands in his pockets.  That guy just does NOT GIVE A SHIT, which is totally bad ass.  He’s all, “Christmas shoes?  Heh.  Sure.  Whatever.”

0:23:  We get a close up of the raspy lead singer who has patterned his look after Tom Hanks in “Philadelphia”. 

Denzel should have bought Andrew Beckett some Christmas shoes.

0:29:  A delivery truck with a grossly negligent driver spills a single pair of Christmas shoes onto the road.  That driver is going to have hell to pay when the inventory check reveals that he somehow “lost” a pair of gaudy red slippers.  How does that happen?  There are literally five things you need to remember to do if you are a delivery driver.

1)      Drive to location.

2)      Get out and open backdoor.

3)      Drop off delivery.

4)      Close backdoor.

5)      Drive to next location.

This guy has already failed at number 4 and when he gets to the next location, he’s going to realize that he’s also failed number 5. 

(I’ll ignore the fact that the lid of the box was obviously tied to the truck so that the shoes would “reveal” themselves better in the camera shot.  This director does not take chances.  The budget calls for one and only one “truck drives off, shoes fall out” medium close-up shot…and he’s not risking anything.)

0:37:  Cut back to AIDS Tom Hanks and The Disinterest Bunch, who are now apparently sitting at The Grotto on Notre Dame’s campus.  They must have gotten tired of standing.  Creating dramatically staggered pose motifs is exhausting.

Thankfully, Rob Lowe was there to retrieve the delivery truck shoes and realizes that there is a local business that specializes in Christmas and Christmas-themed apparel RIGHT BEHIND HIM, which also leads me to believe that maybe the shoes were actually SUPPOSED to be delivered there.  And if THAT’S the case, then that delivery driver actually failed steps 2, 3, and 5.  He is just not cut out for this line of work.

0:42:  Rob Lowe just hands over the discarded shoes to an apparently bewildered Old Man Shopkeep.  That whole bewildered thing must be an act, because this old man is then perfectly willing to make a profit on what are basically stolen goods.  This old dude may spread holiday cheer by climbing his mini-ladder to decorate his street tree, but he will not think twice about turning a profit on products that fall off the back of delivery trucks.  I bet he also sells used car stereos, and electronics in slightly dented boxes at his store.  Is he actually Shredder?

0:49:  Oh look!  It’s the highly anticipated annual Harold Wilson School’s Christmas concert.  (The school must be named after British Prime Minister Harold Wilson.)

0:53:  Brad Paisley’s wife steals the chorus’s thunder by hogging the microphone at the end of the show and most likely beginning with, “And we were worried we couldn’t top LAST YEAR’S Harold Wilson School Christmas Concert?!  Well, boy were WE wrong!”  Which probably caused the old people in the audience to burst into a light-hearted chuckle, until she abruptly adds, “Oh.  And also, I’m dying!  Might not make it through Saturday.”  Silence.

0:57:  Her son makes doubly sure to give mom a RED rose, not a black one, because boy wouldn’t he be embarrassed!  We also learn that the slightly balding, manly looking gentleman that was sitting next to her son during the concert WASN’T some creepy pervert on a date with him, but rather his dad.  We also learn that mom only wears mock turtlenecks.  Like a cartoon…a cartoon that’s dying.

1:04:  Newsong’s Dave Attell gets to be the star again and do some more raspy crooning.  Somewhere, Bob Carlisle is fuming.  “That guy is stealing my sentimental raspy ballad concept!  Butterfly kissssssssses after midday prayerrrrrrrrrs!” 

(You know you want to.)

Meanwhile somewhere else, Michael Bolton just laughs and fucks his pile of money.

1:17:  News anchorman Harry Smith is moonlighting as a doctor. 

I make house calls.

He stops by the home to deliver the mom’s death sentence.

Dad: Doctor, what is it?

Doctor: Well it doesn’t look good.  It’s sickness.

Mom: Oh my God.  I feared it would be sickness.

Dad: But Doctor, how?  Just yesterday she was sending our kid on a fade route across the street and pegging the cars of passerbys like she does every Saturday.

Doctor: I’m sorry.  The tests came back.  It’s definitely sickness.  And the kind that makes you die.  Quickly. 

Mom: Oh my.

Dad: Doctor, is there anything we can do?

Doctor: There is one thing.  You need to find this woman some shoes that a Jewish grandma in Boca Raton wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.  (Chuckles to self.)  “Caught dead wearing.”  Oh me.  Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to The Early Show so that our viewers can watch a live feed of a doctor probing my anus.

1:44:  The son (who I’m just going to call “Rusty” at this point) sneaks into his parents’ room to cuddle up in bed with Brad Paisley’s wife.  Brad Paisley is too busy fishing to give a shit.

1:50:  Rob Lowe is the consummate stock movie businessman.  We know this because he wears a coat over his suit and women follow him around through a bustling office while holding his papers and quickly telling him about meetings and messages.  And as we all know, movie businessmen simply do not get into the Christmas spirit unless a little boy intervenes.

1:53:  Rob Lowe gets a mysterious phone call and looks very concerned.  Maybe someone called to say that Mad Men is getting cancelled.  Or it was his magic mirror calling to tell him that someone is fairer than he.  Or the country club let a black person join.

2:03:  In one of the most poignant scenes, we learn that this mom HATES the Boston Red Sox.  She won’t even let her kid wear a Red Sox hat at her bedside.  She then explains to Rusty that the Red Sox didn’t even make the playoffs last year and are doomed to choke every year.

Mom: Honey, before I die there’s something I need to tell you.  The Red Sox suck.  They spend millions of dollars every year on teams that fall short.  You probably won’t see another contender until after I’m LONG dead.

Son: No, don’t say that!  They are making great preseason deals! 

Mom: It’s Boston, dear.  Enjoy the 2007 World Championship, it’s not happening again for a long time.

Son: No!  No!  No!  (Cries.)

2:28:  But Rusty’s not like the Red Sox.  He won’t be so easily defeated.  (Hi-yo!)  After his mother hallucinates that she’s E.T. (“You’ll be here, Elliot.”), Rusty rushes off without any parental supervision to find a cure…or at least footwear that will help him say all the things that words just can’t.  Mom and dad have a quick staring contest.  We don’t get to see who wins.

2:45:  Meanwhile, dad kidnaps mom from the hospital.  No way in hell he’s letting the hospital squeeze out another dime when it’s so clear that she’s doomed.  He starts crying upon realizing that he could have done this weeks ago and saved way more money to spend on the future new-mom.

2:51:  Dave Attell and the rest of the Soggy Bottom Boys are now back at The Grotto.  At this point, the other guys in Newsong are starting to wonder why the hell they are even there.  They didn’t even bring their instruments, and other than the old bearded hobo, none of them are singing. 

Newsong Dude 1: So you’re telling me that for this video, we just stand and/or sit and look in opposite directions?

Lead Singer: Yup.

Newsong Dude 2: You sure you don’t want us to do background vocals or play our instruments?

Lead Singer: Nope.

Newsong Dude 1: Can I wear my sweet ass khaki coat?

Lead Singer: Sure.  That’s cool.

Newsong Dude 2: Well, if he’s wearing a sweet ass khaki coat, then I’m wearing MY sweet ass khaki coat too!

Newsong Dude 1: I can never have anything for myself can I?  Fine.  We’ll all wear our sweet ass khaki coats.

Newsong Dudes: Yay!  Agreed!

But then Newsong Dude 4 apparently went rogue and wore his black leather jacket to the shoot and then pretended he didn’t remember them all agreeing on wearing sweet ass khaki coats.  I wonder if they ever had to deal with this kind of dissension in Rockapella.

3:03:  Thankfully the Christmas shop owned by the old peddler of stolen merchandise is within motivated-child-running-distance from the regional hospital.  Being the impulsive kid that he is, Rusty decides that the first item he sees is the thing that he NEEDS to buy.  He’s also roughly 12 years old and doesn’t understand the concept of providing a specific amount of tribute in exchange for goods.  So, with a pocketful of nickels and quarters he rushes to the cashier.

BUT before we see that interaction, we get the most head-scratching moment in the entire video.

3:20:  Rob Lowe is sitting in his darkened office working well after closing time on Christmas Eve.  Why there is only one small light on in the entire office, far behind his desk, when he’s obviously going over papers, I have no idea.  Then, all it takes is one glance at his watch for Rob Lowe to BOLT out of his chair.  For some mysterious reason, he sees a specific time on his watch that reminded him to get the FUCK out of there immediately and go to the Ol Shopkeep’s store.

Rob Lowe: Dum dee dum dee dum.  (Glances at watch which shows 8:23 PM.)  OH SHIT!  8:23!  I’ve only got seven minutes to get down to the store to discover the true meaning of Christmas.  This TPS report will just have to wait.

3:29:  Rob Lowe bugs a store employee to help him find this urgent Christmas gift…which ends up looking like it’s the board game Monopoly when he approaches the cashier.  Rob’s about to walk up to check out when that little kid completely cuts him in line.  This family has effectively made Rob Lowe their bitch at this point.  Mom tosses footballs at his car, and now Rusty cuts him and when Rob says, “Excuse me,” the kid just waves him off and tells him to fuck off.  Then, this preteen tosses a piggybank’s worth of change on the counter and looks up like, “Is that good?  We square?”

And then comes my favorite part of the entire video.

3:40:  The cashier takes one look at the kid and immediately remembers how awful his life is.  In his head he’s thinking, “My wife left me.  I’m working at a goddamn disambiguous store on Christmas Eve.  And now I’ve got this fucking kid who HAS to be at least 11-years-old throwing a handful of change in front of me that I just KNOW isn’t enough…but now he’s going to make me count it out in front of him.  God I hate Christmas.  Oh look!  Would you imagine that!  He’s short at LEAST fifteen bucks.  What a goddamn shock.  Seriously, fuck my life.”

I honestly feel bad for this cashier.  It’s America, not some market in Morocco.  But we wouldn’t be listening to this song if the cashier said, “Awww, nuts.  You know what, kid?  Take the shoes.  It’s Christmas, ain’t it?”  I’d like to see a version of this where the cashier is the hero…but then Rob Lowe tells the cashier’s boss (since he’s a capitalist dick) and cashier gets fired.

Nope, it’s not gonna go down that way.  This story needs a villain.  And this clerk seems more than happy to oblige. 

3:44:  The cashier looks at the handful of change, then back at the kid like, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”  After counting, he gives the kid a grimace that says, “Oooooh, so sorry, kid.  I really wish the reality of the situation was different.  But, eeeeeeeh, you, errrrrr, don’t have enough money.”

But that’s not the best part of this particular scene.

While we’re rooting that this dumbass kid somehow just happened to have the exact amount of change needed to purchase those fugly shoes, a chorus of horror movie children begin to sing.  Their frighteningly innocent voices ring out from some ghostly point of purgatory, as if an orphanage just burned to the ground while the children were trapped inside, and as their spirits float in limbo (because they were never baptized) their tormented and damned voices join together.  Then, like the human overlord of these dead orphans, the bearded rasp-master from Newsong begins to sing along with them. 

I fully expect to have nightmares about this for the rest of my life.

3:59:  Rob Lowe may not be wearing a superhero cape, but he’s got a stunning turtleneck, and he saves the day by buying the shoes.  Honestly, I really think he’s just impatient, and didn’t want to wait in line for the inevitable conversation that would have taken place:

Rusty: But mister!  My mom is going to die tonight and she needs shoes!

Cashier: I’m sorry, kiddo, but whether they’re for a dying mom or not, it’s $26.50.  I don’t set the prices here.  That weird old man over there selling stolen merchandise does.

Rusty: But she’s dying!

Cashier: Yeah.  I get it.  It’s still $26.50.

Rusty: Dying!

Cashier: $26.50.

Rob Lowe: Oh my God!  Make it stop!  I’ll buy the goddamn shoes.  I’m a goddamn businessman and I don’t have time for this crap!

4:04:  So, Rob Lowe bought the shoes for the kid.  At first, in true dickhead form, he sighs as if he’s above all of this, but then all it takes are three magical words from the child to completely shock and freeze him…

“You’re not handsome.”

Just kidding.  That would be ridiculous.  Rob Lowe is VERY handsome.  No, the kid says, “Thank you, mister.”  Apparently the fact that the kid didn’t just say, “Yeah, whatever,” then flick him off, causes Rob Lowe to question everything he’s ever thought about Christmas and reevaluate his entire life.

4:17:  We are confronted with one hell of a creepy scene.  He takes the newly acquired shoes and slides them on what appear to be dead and lifeless feet.  For almost 10 seconds, it appears as if he was too late.  Mom’s dead.  But hey, he got shoes for her. Why not make the corpse feet look nice?

4:26:  Whew.  Mom’s still hanging in there.  She does that crazy-woman E.T. thing again, and Rusty plays along so that she doesn’t realize just how deeply she’s spiraled into lunacy.

4:36:  Newsong is pleased with this. 

And so are we.

Merry Christmas!

This is a Facebook note that I posted in December of 2010.  I haven’t edited it, so for that I offer an apology.  But since I’m lazy, you now get to read it here.  Aren’t you lucky?  If, for some reason, you read this two years ago and hated it, well, I suggest you go here instead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_sfnQDr1-o

It’s that time of year again. 

The time of year that Delilah STOPS playing Lonestar’s “Amazed” for some hillbilly listener named Tom’s second wife who’s “just the most amazing thing in my life, Delilah”…and STARTS playing The Carpenter’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” for some hillbilly named Janet’s second husband, Darryl who is “just so incredible with my two daughters, Delilah, and I’m so happy we’re sharing our first Christmas together”. 

(Delilah was torn between Lonestar’s “Amazed” and Paul McCartney’s “Maybe I’m Amazed” for Tom’s dedication.  Delilah also used the phrase “joy in your heart” and asked “Does he/she just make you feel like your heart could explode into a million little pieces of love?” with her high baby voice, causing both Tom and Janet to laugh warmly and sheepishly admit, “Yeah…yeah…yes, he/she does, Delilah.”)

(Every picture of Delilah on Google images depicts her as a bird of prey.  That’s some impressive beak on that lady.  That said, I still TOTALLY would.)

Yes, it’s the Christmas music season!  (Or the “holiday” music season if you have a crush on Osama bin Laden and ACTUALLY believe that Barack Hussein Obama was born in ‘Merica.)

I have to admit, I love me some Christmas music.  But just for one month.  Then, it all needs to go back into the vault until next year.

This also means that it’s that special time of year when rednecks make an exception and allow the word “gay” to be used as a positive modifier:

(Christmas music playing on an old beat up radio.)

Song On The Radio: Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  Make the yuletide gay.

Cletus: What the fuck did she just sing?  Who went and made the yuletide gay?!  That yuletide ain’t no queer!

Buford: Now, settle down, Cletus.  It’s Christmas, so we let it slide.  Wait until December 26th, then we can go back to bein’ intolerant about antiquated adjectives and their modern day connotations. 

The only other exception rednecks grant is while watching the opening of “The Flintstones”:

(A redneck is watching “The Flintstones” while wearing a wife-beater and drinking a can of MGD Light.)

TV Theme Music Playing: We’ll have a gay old time!

Redneck: Alright, Hanna-Barbera, I’ll let it slide this time.  But better not make it TOO gay there, Fred.

Christmas music is already such an extremely specific genre, but I thought I’d take a moment to explore the four specific  categories into which ALMOST all Christmas songs fall…and a special few from the “other” category later on.

“Jesus” And “Santa And Friends” Songs

First you have your “Jesus” songs and your “Santa And Friends” songs.  This is the most general division between carols.  Most Christmas songs are about the birth of Jesus or about Santa Claus and his supporting cast of Christmas characters. 

The “Jesus” songs are the ones that drunk old men bellow during midnight mass on Christmas Eve.  They are almost always slow and solemn like “Silent Night” or “O Come O Come Emmanuel” or celebratory and soaring like “Joy To The World” or “Hark The Herald Angels Sing”.  Self-righteous atheists don’t let their children listen to these kind of Christmas carols. 

Atheist Parent: Oh, I’m sorry, can you please turn off “Away In A Manager”?  I don’t want my child’s brain poisoned with the lies of the Jesus myth.

Non-Douche Parent: Um, no, we’re not going to do that.  It’s just a friggin’ simplistic Christmas song.  Honestly, I don’t care what your beliefs are or aren’t.  This really isn’t an intellectual battle to pick or choose.  You’re not sounding enlightened or better than anyone right now, you’re just sounding like a pretentious dick.  This song just has a nice, calming melody. 

Atheist Parent: (Condescending.) It also has a bad, dishonest message.  You DO know that the “birth of Jesus” story is archetypal and a version exists in like a bunch of religions.  I mean, you’re smart, so you know that right?  Because I do.

Non-Douche Parent: Your wife hates you and your kid is fat.

On the other end of the spectrum are the “Santa And Friends” songs.  These are the songs that atheist parents DO let their kids listen to.  Also, most of these songs were created to sell Christmas cards or to develop into movies by television networks in order to make a ton of money in commercial advertising.  Some of the characters are charming, like Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer.  Others make me want to punch an angel in the dick, like Frosty The Snowman.  Every time that sack of snow says “Happy Berfday!” in that dumb-ass voice of his, I start rooting for the sun.

This makes me very angry:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8Y_Oh1Xb10

The “Jesus” songs are usually far more somber and reflective while the “Santa” songs are all upbeat and cheerful.  However, it would be AMAZING if they made a religious song about the birth of Jesus Christ on a cold night in a barn set to the whimsical tune of “Up On The House Top”.  The words basically write themselves.  All you have to do is get Gene Autry to record a version replacing “Up on the housetop, click, click, click, down through the chimney with good St. Nick!” with “Down in the stable, push, push, push, popped out of Mary, it’s Jesus Christ!” 

The converse would also be humorous I believe.  Like if they made an extremely serious song about Santa Claus to the tune of “What Child Is This?” and had Andrea Bocelli sing it.  (Which would also be funny because Andrea Bocelli literally wouldn’t know.)

Christmas Carols Are Like A Fine Wine

Another division in Christmas songs can be found between classic songs recorded back in the golden age of radio, and the absolute shit that performing artists have churned out since.  The former category consists of the “Bad Ass Old Man” songs.  These are songs that you have been listening to since you were a kid because your parents listened to them, and your parents’ parents listened to them.  They’re like Norman Rockwell carols that just make you feel snug and secure.  Manly men like Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Burl Ives singing songs about the general feel of Christmas.  There’s just a certain air of class and dignity to “White Christmas”, “The Christmas Song”, and “Silver And Gold”.  Granted, behind these musical cups of hot chocolate there was severe alcoholism and spousal abuse, but these are the dudes that make Michael Buble wish he was born during World War One.

I’m the opposite of “ahead of his time”. Your mom loves me.

Then you have your “We’re A New Popular Singer Or Band Contractually Obligated To Put Out A Christmas Album, But We Don’t Want People To Think We Were Lazy And Just Re-Record Old Standards, So We Wrote This Shitty New Christmas Song” category.  These are almost always atrocious.  Pretty much every “new” Christmas song penned after 1960 is absolute garbage. 

Every time that “Wonderful Christmastime” by The Beatles comes on the radio, I wish that Mark David Chapman would come and shoot ME in the face.  Equally as awful as every original Beatles’ Christmas song is NSync’s “Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays”, which you can enjoy here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKj92352UAE

The premise of this video is that Santa has a case of the shits, so pre-death Gary Coleman in a green elf pimp suit calls on NSync (who are apparently mid-ski trip judging by their clothing) to deliver the presents.  The boys from NSync did, after all, send Santa Claus an autographed 8x10 glossy…which when you think about it, kind of makes them assholes: 

Mrs. Claus: Honey, you have some more mail.

Santa Claus: (Sifting through all the children’s Christmas lists.) What do we have here?  A letter from the boys in NSync.  (Pulls out autographed 8x10 glossy and stares at it in confusion.)  What the hell is this?  Seriously?  THEY are sending ME…Santa Claus…an autograph.  I’m fucking SANTA CLAUS.  Yep, definitely going to wipe my ass with this. 

Anyways, NSync act like assholes on a sleigh in front of a green screen and then they party with some racially diverse homeless dudes, racially diverse children, and racially diverse babes.  The Asian babe in the video looks particularly disinterested in the Christmas party.  Oh right.  She’s Asian.  They don’t have Christmas.  Or joy.

Thank God that Justin Bieber didn’t crap out a Christmas album in time for this year.  When he does inevitably put one out, I bet that his big hit will just be a remake of “Baby” replacing “baby” with “Santa”.

Justin Bieber: (Singing on stage.) Santa!  Santa!  Santa!  Ooooooooh!  Like Santa, Santa, Santa, nooooo!  Like Santa!  Santa!  Santa!  Oh!  Santa Claus is coming to tow-own! 

12-Year-Old Girl In Crowd:  (Screaming and crying.)  OMG!  I wish I was Santa!

Girl’s Friend: That’s weird.

There are very few exceptions to the rule that any new Christmas carol will completely suck.  One of these is Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You”…the only Christmas song that can give you a boner. 

I’m fairly certain that every girlfriend, wife, and partner has, at some point, cooed “All I Want For Christmas Is You” to their significant other.  Nick Cannon is lucky that he gets it from the original source…but he would have been luckier if it was 15 years ago.  Ooooh, Mariah Carey burn.

This is the Mariah that Nick tells people that he’s married to…

…and this is the Mariah that Nick actually wakes up next to. “Precious”, indeed.

The vast majority of Christmas songs fall into one of these four categories.  But then you have some outliers.  These are the songs that somehow became ingrained into the American Christmas conscious without appealing to religious sentiment, mentioning Santa or Rudolph,  being crooned by a classy guy who’s dead now, or making you want to commit suicide.

And because of this, they are all somewhat creepy.

The Outliers

One Christmas song that has always disturbed me is the old standard “Baby It’s Cold Outside”.  Whether it’s Dean Martin singing the duet with some dame, or Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson barely breathing out the words, the fact of the matter is that this song is about date rape.  It makes me uncomfortable every time I see people smiling and singing along to it.  And the ironic thing is that douche bags use the line “but, baby, it’s cold outside” in REAL LIFE when they’re trying to get a chick to stay for a yuletide bang session.  Only, they can get away with that festive reference as a joke instead of having to say, “I don’t want you to leave because I am fully planning on having sex with you tonight and the weather is the most convenient excuse.”

I can see this leading to very bad things:

Girl: (Standing up from the couch.)  Well, it’s getting late, I better leave.

Boy: Oh, really?  You sure?  Come on, have another drink.

Girl: No, I really should go.

Boy: (Coy smile.) But, “baby it’s cold outside”.  (Wink.  Chuckle.)

Girl: (Laughing.) Like the song!  Oh, that was clever!  But, no, really (pause) “I’d better scurry”.  (Winks and laughs.)

Boy: (Laughing along with her.) But, “baby it’s cold outside”.

Girl: (Awkward laughter.) Yeah…um, you already made that joke.  I really can’t stay. 

Boy: (Continuing to laugh, more creepy now.) “Gosh your lips look delicious.”

Girl: (No longer laughing.) Okay, now you’re creeping me out.  The answer is no.  (Starts to open the door.)

(Boy forcefully pushes the door closed.)

Boy: I don’t think you heard me.  I said, “Baby…it’s cold…outside.”

(Girl pepper sprays him and runs like hell.)

Seriously, if you read the actual lyrics to that song (found here: http://www.allchristmaslyrics.com/baby-it%27s-cold-outside-lyrics.htm) in a serious voice, it sounds like the beginning of an episode of Law And Order SVU.

Another creepy one is “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”.  If we’re to assume that the child singing the song is unaware that Santa Claus doesn’t exist and thinks that it’s ACTUALLY Santa Claus and not his father that mommy’s making out with, then this song is basically a musical retelling of a traumatizing childhood experience.  This child not only witnesses a fat man in a bizarre costume break into his home, but then watches as his mom commits adultery with the elderly, obese, cookie-breathed intruder.  There is no way that kid will respect his father again:

Dad: Son, go clean your room.

Son: The hell with that.

Dad: What did you just say to me?

Son: I said I’m not doing it.

Dad: How dare you disrespect me!

Son: You mean like your slutty wife disrespected you by open-mouth kissing Santa Claus in YOUR house?  And after that, he gave me a bike.  Naw.  Your rules don’t apply to me anymore, ya Christmas cuckold.

This girl’s Christmas gift? A lifetime of therapy.

In that same spirit, “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” is about a drunk old lady who is attacked and nearly murdered by an animal on Christmas Eve.  “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” is about a child who wants a strange old man to bring him body parts for Christmas.  And “Santa Baby” just makes me feel icky since it’s usually being sung by some woman who is either dead or ancient or some young chick doing a Betty Boop impression.  It’s just gross that any chick would try to seduce Santa Claus.  That’s like trying to get Captain Crunch to fuck you.

Molested by grandpa = Santa fetish

A current favorite outlier song of mine is Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne” for the complete ridiculousness of the song and the supremely awesome man falsetto.

If you’ve never heard it, check it out here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Y8ag_Prj24

In a nutshell, Fogelberg creeps up behind some chick that he used to bone, while she’s in the frozen food section of the grocery store.  She “spills her purse” upon recognizing her old lover, and this causes the two of them to “laugh until we cried”…which must have created quite an awkward scene for anyone who just happened to be in the same aisle shopping for Hot Pockets.  Even though they’re both at a grocery store, which never stay open beyond midnight, they can’t find a bar that’s open at that hour.  So instead, they decide to just sit in her car and get blitzed on a 6-pack. 

Classy. 

She goes on to complain about her loveless marriage to some architect, and Fogelberg takes this as his “in” to drop some compliments and try to score an HJ in the backseat of her station wagon.  But Fogelberg is notorious for not sealing the deal, so they finish the beer, she takes off, and the song ends with the two miserable with their lives (and a sexy saxophone solo). 

YAY!  MERRY CHRISTMAS!

But of ALL the outliers, there is ONE so perfectly incredible that it’s worth its own careful consideration and analysis.

I’m speaking, of course, of Newsong’s “Christmas Shoes”.

“Christmas Shoes” is a Christmas carol that is depressing, melodramatic, confounding, and glee-inducing all at the same time.

In the next installment, “Christmas Music Part II: Christmas Shoes”, I’ll give you the full break down of the “Christmas Shoes” video, which features scenes from the Lifetime Original Movie starring Rob Lowe that the song inspired.  But until Part II, I encourage you to get acquainted with this modern day masterpiece:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNsvE33pRSw

To be continued…

I normally type about silly things here.  Inconsequential ramblings, pointless observations, worthless obsessions over Publix supermarkets, bygone Buffalo chicken flavored frozen treats, and Ryan Lochte frisbee beer chugging.

But I want to take this time to write about a cause I believe in…and I hope you believe in as well.

It’s easy in life to get distracted and ignore the things that really matter.  We go about our day-to-day lives overlooking causes that truly deserve our attention.

Did you know that the video for Take That’s “Back For Good” is currently lingering right under 5 million hits?  At last check, the video was at 4,855,268 hits.

This is unfair.  This is unjust. 

So, in the true spirit of the holiday season, I implore you to take a few minutes and brighten up your day…and brighten up the universe…by clicking this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2ICtCO8TCw

Let’s get Take That to 5 million hits. 

“In the twist of separation,

You excelled at being free
Can’t you find a little room inside for me?”

Just ditched my elderly-snail-stuck-in-molasses speed cell phone, and became a Samsung Galaxy SIII man. So, now I guess I need to have two young daughters provide me with a video to watch during my flight back to Chicago tomorrow morning. But more importantly, I now require a totally babe-a-licious wife to vaguely hint at the subject matter of the video that she made for me, that I should NOT watch on the plane. It could be a video of her shaking her wife boobies at me or maybe a festively topless “Santa Baby” performance. Then again, due to the utter lack of specificity, it very well COULD be a video of her banging the gardener or angrily reading Mein Kampf while punching a puppy in the face.

“Let’s just say, you shouldn’t watch it on the plane.  I could go to jail for what I’m doing in that video.  Also, I swear those animals are having fun the whole time…regardless of how nightmarish their screams sound.  K, loves ya bye!”

Dear Lane Kiffin,

I hate you. I hate your face, I hate your name, I hate all that you are both physically and intangible. You are cocky with absolutely no reason to be. You are a dickhead who would never have graced a sideline if it wasn’t for your dad. You treat the media like you’re above them, when you repeatedly prove that you can’t build anything successful unless it’s handed to you. You don’t deserve your hot wife. You may have the most punchable face in the history of faces. Whenever I see some exaggerated, over-the-top, jock asshole in an 80s movie I know that’s EXACTLY how you’ve acted your entire life. I wish you were a cat so you could die 10 times. Check that. I hope you are the first human who lives forever, but you have to suffer and watch everyone you love die over the course of a life filled with sadness and pain. You are the worst.

That said, good luck tonight. I will be cheering for you. GO USC! (Just remember that tomorrow, win or lose, I go back to hoping you die in a fire.)

Love,

Brian (and all of Gator Nation)

In my last post, I detailed my search for a grocery store to replaced my dearly missed Publix.  At the end of that journey, I settled upon Jewel-Osco.  However, there is one aspect of Jewel-Osco that I have found unsettling, even frightening.

Bob.

You can’t walk around Jewel-Osco without this asshole peeking around a corner.  He’s everywhere.  If I was a woman, I’d feel extremely uncomfortable shopping with ol’ Bob here tracking my every movement within his store.  I’ve actually seen women zip their jackets up a little higher and pull their coats down below their butts after noticing Bob’s steely gaze coming from behind a stack of pickle jars.  (Okay, I haven’t actually seen that happen, but I bet it HAS happened.  He looks like a sexual deviant.)

Why does any company choose an unsettling middle-aged man as their mascot?  How was that decision made?

Jewel-Osco CEO: Alright, ladies and gentleman, Jewel-Osco needs a face…an identity that families can connect with, a symbol of what our store stands for and an inviting and engaging character to attract new customers.  Now, who has an idea?

Marketing Rep 1: How about Jules and Oscar?  Two lovable little bear cubs who get into wacky adventures throughout one of Jewel-Osco’s grocery stores.  They can wear shirts with their first initial on them.  Jules can be the smarter of the two and have to explain things to Oscar like, “Oh Oscar!  I said to put cookies on SALE, not to paint cookies on a SAIL!”  Or maybe Jules says they have to lower prices, so she leaves and comes back and Oscar has LITERALLY lowered the sale signs to comically low levels.

Jewel-Osco CEO: I hate it.  You’re fired.  Pack your bags.  Kill yourself.

Marketing Rep 2: Um, how about we get Jewel, the folk singer, to do it?  I don’t think she’s got anything going on for the next forever.

Marketing Rep 3: What about the happy-go-lucky sushi chef who gives out samples at our Lincoln Avenue location?  Wait, check that.  Isn’t he under investigation by the Department of Public Health for putting awful things from his body into the sushi rolls?

Marketing Rep 4: What about Jew Losco, a rabbi who shuffles around the store and says things like, “Matzah at a two for one deal?!  These prices are meshuga!”  Then, we play Hava Nagila as he dances through the aisles.

Jewel-Osco CEO: No, no, no, no, no!  These are all terrible ideas!  Doesn’t anyone have something good?!

Marketing Rep 5: How about my next-door neighbor, Bob?

Jewel-Osco CEO: I’m listening.  Tell me about this Bob.

Marketing Rep 5: Well, he COULD be 30, but he also looks like he could be 45.  He looks like he could be Papa John’s gay brother.  He’s unemployed and stays in his house a lot.  His hair is always done perfectly, and I hear he sleeps in a hair net to keep it that way.  He keeps Halloween decorations up year round.  He listens to Depeche Mode a lot.  When school lets out and kids walk past his house from the bus stop, he comes out and waves at them for awhile and then goes immediately back inside.  His mother used to live with him, but no one’s seen her for a long time.  Whenever he orders a pizza, he has them leave it in front of the door and passes the money through the mail chute.  Hmmm, what else?  

Jewel-Osco CEO: Stop.  You’ve said enough.  I love it.  You’re getting a raise and a promotion, mister.  Ladies and gentleman, we have it!  Our new Jewel-Osco mascot…Bob!  Now, go get him and bring him in here.

Marketing Rep 5: What time is it?  11 AM?  Ah, I think this is usually when he feeds and pets the mice at the cemetery while eating an entire box of Popsicles.  Be back soon!

Brilliant marketing, Jewel-Osco.

Just looking at Jewel-Osco Bob gives me the willies.  I purposefully avert my eyes any time I’m in the store and see the yellow and red of a Bob sign coming up.  But I can still FEEL those eyes.  Oh yes, I can still feel them.

But if Jewel-Osco Bob wasn’t already unsettling enough, this is the television advertisement that Jewel-Osco decided to go with: http://vimeo.com/44121489.

Go ahead.  Watch it.  I’ll wait.  Back?  Okay…

This commercial is one of the most horrific things I’ve ever seen in my entire life.  I was already spooked out by Bob’s constantly watching eyes on the signs at Jewel-Osco…now, he’s literally stalking women in public places.

Okay, okay.  I can hear you already.  “Brian, you’re exaggerating.  This is just a cute little commercial displaying the loyalty that Jewel-Osco has towards their customers.  You’re doing what you always do, trying to make yuk-yuks by grossly misinterpreting innocent things.”

Oh yeah?  Well, before we dive into the specifics of this commercial, please watch the commercial one more time…EXCEPT this time, play the Bob video simultaneously while playing one of these videos in another window:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fvPltYhBzY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ru1ASyqPjI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsH62rue8Jo

Fucking terrifying, isn’t it?  Not so willing to defend Bob anymore, are you?

Now, let’s just go over what’s happening in this commercial.

First of all, it BEGINS with Bob frantically chasing a woman through a city park.

Yup, sounds about right.

I assume Bob is chasing her either because:

A) In his head he’s convinced that if he doesn’t smell her one more time, he’ll suffocate
B) He didn’t get to secretly lick EVERY item he bagged for her
C) He’s a decent man and dedicated Jewel-Osco employee who really cares about Helen as a customer but more importantly as a person…and wants to kidnap and murder her then possibly wear her skin like a bathrobe.

When Bob finally catches up to Helen, he says, “You may not remember me.  It’s Bob from Jewel-Osco.”  How could Helen forget?  Once you meet Bob, for the rest of your life you will feel his presence whenever he is near.  It feels like a jagged icicle slowly dripping and crawling down your spine.

Bob jokes, “What?  Was something chasing you or something?”

This is EXACTLY the kind of line that a serial killer in a horror movie would say to a nervous person that they had been chasing. Then, the two would share a lighthearted and relieved laugh…right before the serial killer cuts the poor victim’s head off and then eats their brains with Tostitos Scoops! tortilla chips.  Luckily for Bob, those are on sale.

You can tell that Helen is in prime “fight or flight” mode when Bob says, “We haven’t seen you in awhile!”  She stammers over her words while she silently curses the fact that of all the times she goes for a run THIS had to be the time she forgets her pepper spray at home.

Creepy-ass Bob proceeds to load Helen up with Jewel-Osco sale items.  Ignoring the fact that this is stalker behavior, Bob is just being a dick now.  Helen is obviously in the middle of a run.  Regardless of your intentions, Bob, you’re just disrespecting her privacy and right to exercise.  And couldn’t you have just given her one of the bags in that cart instead of handing her a ton of randomly-sized individual packages?  How’s she supposed to carry all that shit after you take off?  Not to mention that she’s in the middle of nowhere after he’s been chasing her on a sunny day for God knows how long, and he’s giving her cheese, bacon, and ice cream.  Bob, at least bring a little cooler for her so all that shit isn’t spoiled or melted by the time she lugs it home.

Then comes my favorite part.

So, up to now, Bob just seems like maybe he IS a decent, misunderstood guy.  Hell, he might just have a touch of some kind of mental problem and truly thinks he is doing a good thing here by chasing this woman down and educating her on the deals available at Jewel-Osco. 

But then, he brings her son into this.

“Timmy loves hot dogs.”

Holy shit, Jewel-Osco.  Are you kidding me?! A strange man approaches a woman in a park and then starts talking to her about her son and how much he loves hot dogs?  Gee golly, I sure want to go patronize Jewel-Osco now!  Maybe if I’m lucky, during my personal exercise time later today, some wild-eyed man in an apron will approach me and hand me phallic objects while talking about my 6-year-old child!

Innuendo aside, Bob just crossed a line.  When Helen corrects Bob and says that her son’s name is actually “Tommy”, Bob laughs because he knows it doesn’t matter.

Bob doesn’t label his victims.  That would humanize them.

In one last disturbing display of power, Bob refuses to leave Helen alone until she promises she’ll visit him.  What’s worse is that then he FORCES her to say his name.  When she submits and says, “Bob,” his eyes go blank, overwhelmed with what I assume is a wave of orgasmic feelings of domination…and then he goes into a very strange and terrifying little dance.  It’s as if he achieved his goal of Helen acknowledging his power, and now he is celebrating his perverse victory.

God, I feel dirty just watching this.  I need a shower.  Poor Helen.  I imagine that after this exchange, she ran as fast as she could all the way home, tore open the door screaming, “Tommy!  Tommy!  Are you here?  Oh my God, where are you Tommy?!!!!”  Then, she hears his tiny little voice come from the play room and rushes in, hoists him up, and clutches him while her body heaves with sobs of relief and fear.  Meanwhile, in the background, Bob’s face slowly slides into frame, peering with cold dead eyes through a window, a covetous smile sneaking across his face.

The only solace I take in this commercial is at the VERY end when a large black man runs by and Bob turns towards him and screams, “Jerry!” 

I like to imagine that Bob gets right up to Jerry and starts to pull his opening, “You may not remember me,” line but only gets to “not” before Jerry just cold cocks the SHIT out of Bob, leaving him laying in an unconscious heap on the trail.  Unfortunately the commercial cuts off before we can see Jerry beat the shit out of Bob.

So, that’s Bob.

That’s the face of my new grocery store. Publix sure as hell would never decide upon a nightmarish ghoul as their mascot.

God, I want a chicken tender Pub sub right now.

Floridians are spoiled.  No, not just the fantastic weather year-round, or the beaches, or the theme parks, or the lack of income tax, or the loyalty that Miami’s professional baseball team shows towards their players and fans, or the constant barrage of news headlines that seem like lazy Onion articles but are actually real.

Floridians have Publix. 

Now, I’ve bemoaned this loss several times, and I’m sure some of you have already heard me whine about Chicago’s lack of Publix grocery stores.  Whether this is a product of my proclivity for brand loyalty (which I assume is a subconscious byproduct of Catholic education) or the fact that I’m a gluttonous germaphobe, I’ve been honestly amazed, and a little frightened, by how much I legitimately miss and pine for Publix.

Cue Michael Jackson’s “She’s Out Of My Life”

Yes, I’m aware that Publix has locations in Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, and Tennessee.  But those stores are all clustered closely near the big cities of those states.  Just take a look at this Publix location map: http://store.publix.com/publix/.  It looks like all of the green Publix location pegs are huddled in the metropolitan areas of those four states, gathering together for protection against the hillbilly mobs in the rural parts of those states.

Georgia Gang O’ Hillbillies: Hey!  City food stores!  Why dincha come on out from thar and open up one o’ them fancy stores wit’ the pretty chickens-on-spits and them little Oriental raw fish-n-rice pies in Riddleville or Lumber City?

Publix (Huddled Defensively Around Atlanta): No.  No, that’s alright.  We’re just going to stay here.  We don’t trust you.  You’re just going to end up trying to molest us or make us try your grandma’s boiled peanuts and preserves, then tell us that’s what “real food” tastes like.  No, we’re good.

So, with my Publix no longer within reach, I’ve been trying to find a suitable alternative in Chicago.  Chicago has several little small delis and grocery stores dotted all around the city.  However, I found that these places are either severely expensive or severely suspect.  In the former case, you’ll encounter a mustached hipster guy telling you how “super delicioso” the cinnamon-dusted sweet potato and plantain chutney is for only $5.00 an ounce.  In the latter case, you’ll encounter a clerk who looks like a Bollywood character-actor whose specialty is over-the-top villains who glares at you the entire time as you wonder why they put salsa right next to toothpaste and fruit roll-ups, but don’t carry Gatorade.

“Hey man, don’t forget our sale on 6-packs of Howling Fury IPA.  I brew it back at me casa, dude.  Just $48 a sixer.”

My next step was checking out Trader Joe’s.  I walked in and immediately felt that something was wrong.  I sniffed the air.  There was an undeniable lack of artificial flavoring and preservatives in the air.  I looked around.  The customers LOOKED like people…yet, there was something noticeably off about them.  I slowly reached into my pocket and slid on the dark pair of 80s-style sunglasses.  Their previously disguised outward appearances now dissolved into a collection of gaunt frames, sallow cheeks, and tired gaits.

Vegans.  Vegans everywhere.

I looked around at the food and realized that it was a bizarre collection of farm fresh items and non-brand frozen meals.  So many flavors and ingredients were being forcefully smashed together to create one terrifying mutant combination, like culinary Frankenstein’s monsters. 

“Try our Peanut Wasabi Melon Pumpkin Spice Non-Dairy Hazelnut Teriyaki Tortas!  And just in time for Thanksgiving, we have a sale on Cranberry Marshmallow Roasted Red Pepper Blue Razz Chipotle Ecto-Cooler Soap Tru Blood Slurm Dandelion Mustard!”

I fled before one of the customers or employees could lock me into a conversation about Ayn Rand or ask if I’d sign a petition to push for harsher penalties on those who illegally catch endangered Atlantic bluefin tuna.

Blind people lack the sense of vision.  Deaf people lack the sense of hearing.  Vegans lack the sense of taste.

Finally, I decided to give Jewel-Osco a try. 

On the surface, Jewel-Osco is very similar to Publix.  They have rows and rows of name brand items.  They have a deli. 

But upon entrance, there’s just a different feel.  The lighting at a Jewel-Osco is much more yellow and dim than the typical clean white illumination found in a Publix.  So, it sort of feels like a haunted Publix. 

Whereas I typically found a staff of seemingly happy and attractive young people at Publix, the staff at the Jewel-Osco I’ve been visiting appear to be working there as part of some pact with a witch that went horribly wrong.

Young Woman: Madam Spidrella, I’d give anything for just one day to feel what it’s like to be a big famous Hollywood actress!

Madam Spidrella: Well, I can make this so, my child.  But in order to do so, you must promise to spend the rest of your life helping others, in the manner I deem fit.

Young Woman: Yes, yes.  I’d want to spend my life helping others anyway!  I’ll do it!

(One day later.)

Madam Spidrella: So, how was it to be the toast of Hollywood for a day?

Young Woman: Eh.

Madam Spidrella: Okay, well here’s your red apron.  You’ll be wearing this until you die.

Young Woman: Shit.

Bag, my pretties!  Bag your feeble little lives away!  Bwahahahahaha!

But Jewel-Osco does have the majority of the food and brands that I have become accustomed to buying.  Boar’s Head would be nice at the deli, but I can live with the turkey they’ve got.  They also have rotisserie chickens…though not quite as aesthetically pleasing as the Publix fare. 

One thing I have really enjoyed during my trips to Jewel-Osco is the vibrantly happy sushi chef that seems to constantly be smiling and calling out to shoppers to have a sample of his sushi.  He looks sort of like Mike Myers playing a stereotypical (if not outright racist) Asian character.  He’s always very happy to hand over a free sample, so much so that now as I think of it, maybe he’s hiding some terrible secret about what’s IN the sushi.  Hmmm.  Maybe that smile isn’t due to pride in his wares but rather from watching people eat sushi made up of things that used to exist inside of his body.

Dammit brain, why did you have to ruin free sushi samples for me?

For all of its shortcomings, Jewel-Osco isn’t horrible.  It’s no Publix by any means, but it’s adequate.  However, there is one thing about Jewel-Osco that I find completely inexcusable.  This guy:

That’s Bob.  He’s apparently the mascot/face of Jewel-Osco. 

He’s a fucking creep.

And tomorrow, I’ll elaborate on JUST how big of a creep Bob is…

Chicago got really cold recently.  I’ve felt the chill since I arrived in the city about a month ago, but as a large man who spent the last decade cursing the unholy Florida sun and the constant sweating that merciless orb created, I’ve treated this wonderful new feeling of cold much like Augustus Gloop in the Chocolate Room of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.  I went hog wild. 

Me, metaphorically devouring cold weather like the greedy little pig that I am.  I was eating ALL the cold.

My body, after successive Octobers sweating and cursing during the simple 2-minute walk from the parking lot to the apartment, reveled in the ability to stroll around for hours without the fear of breaking a sweat.  Chicagoans bundled up from head-to-toe on the train, would look at me with confused fear as I boarded wearing only shorts and a light jacket in 50-degree weather.  They’d pull their children closer, horrified by the maniacally happy man with exposed calves singing a ditty to himself like, “You can’t hurt me now, Florida sun!  The days of sweaty-back Decembers are done!  In the words of Labyrinth’s Jennifer Con-nel-leeeeeeee…Sun, you have no power over me!”  

Yes.  I do believe the sun is as bad as a baby-stealing Goblin King.

So, for weeks I’ve been dancing around the city, enjoying the sweet embrace of cold.  But just like Augustus Gloop, I indulged a little too much and fell into the Chocolate River yesterday.

I made the decision to run during the day, wearing only shorts with a hoodie.  My stubborn thinking behind this decision was that I was wearing a hoodie, an extra article of clothing I wouldn’t normally wear for a run.  So, just the simple fact that I was conceding THAT much to Old Man Winter was going to be enough to keep me warm during the jog.  Makes perfect logical sense, right?  Especially when it’s in the low 30s outside.

I popped a piece of gum in and set off.  At first, the chill in the air was invigorating.  The cold was mixing perfectly with the minty freshness of the gum, and it felt like I was breathing in air made from the flapping of snow angels’ wings.  The wind struck my face like a thousand soft kisses from the White Witch as if we were riding along in her sleigh eating Turkish Delight.  This was good.  Life was good. 

However, after only about five minutes, Old Man Winter noticed my cavalier attitude and decided to punish me for my impudence. 

The breathing, which at first had tasted oh so frosty and sweet, now began to feel like I was breathing in pure ICEE.  My lungs felt like they were freezing over.  It felt as if I was sucking in Katherine Heigl’s soul.  (I assume her soul is a frozen tundra of icy indifference and frigid evil.)  I was no longer lapping up the gusts produced by snow angels’ wings…I was being forced to blow a snowman in ice jail.

No longer did the wind feel like the White Witch’s soft kisses upon my cheeks as we glided over the hills of Narnia, eating Turkish Delight, making fun of Mr. Tumnus’s odd fawn genitalia, and planning to murder Aslan so we could rule together.  (Hey, we all have our fantasies.  Don’t judge.)  Now the wind gusts were blasting me in the face like a volley of stinging and humiliating face-farts from Sub-Zero.

What child of the 90s DIDN’T know the button combo to perform Sub-Zero’s famous face-fart fatality? 

I was slowly turning into Michael Keaton in Jack Frost.  (I haven’t seen the movie, I just assume there’s some scene where he transforms into that horrifying snowman thing.)

But the worst feeling was that of my legs tightening up like Mr. Freeze’s boner.

As I ran, I began to feel like the T-1000 trying to walk, right after being exposed to liquid nitrogen in Terminator 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYJCWStejSc.

With each stride, my legs felt closer and closer to just shattering into weird hairy, fleshy ice chunks on the sidewalk.  And while that would be totally awesome, especially if a group of school children witnessed it and were never the same again, I quite like my legs and the walking they allow.

This is what could potentially have been me yesterday had I not aborted the run.  Not pictured: iPod shuffle playing Hall & Oates’ “Rich Girl”.

So, finally, I had to admit defeat to Old Man Winter and return home a humbled and shivering man.

I almost felt betrayed as I thawed out in the shower.  I had loved cold so much, and faithfully displayed my affection for days on end, only to be hurt and humiliated by the temperature I so loved.  Why, cold?  Why didn’t you love me back?

But later, as I walked home from the grocery (still nursing the broken heart of unrequited love), cold offered a peace offering that showered down from the heavens.

Snow.

My first Chicago snow flurry began to softly dance down around me.  I actually did a little giggle-hop and clapped my hands together like a poor little Dickensian girl who gets a rag doll for Christmas when she expected nothing (and would have been sweetly okay with nothing).  “Oh Father!  It’s just the most perfect thing I ever did see!  Oh what fun we will have!” 

I broke into a slight skip as I watched the powdery joy sprinkle down.  In my head, the song from the train car scene from “White Christmas” was playing on repeat: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CH2KGboA35c.

While watching that YouTube clip I just noticed Danny Kaye’s hand motion right around 1:25 when he says “I’ll build a man that’s made of snow”.  Gotcha, Danny Kaye.  Ya old queen.

And as I smiled broadly, watching the snowflakes flash by in the illumination of a street light, basking in that magical feeling, I was brought back to Earth by the voice of a man on his porch across the street screaming, “Goddamn it!  It’s too fucking early for snow!”

In honor of the one holiday of the year that even the most devout Christians revel in the pagan-try (I too hate myself for that one) of it all, I thought I’d take a look at my own Halloween experience.

As a child, Halloween and Christmas are neck-and-neck as far as the most amazing, mind-boggling, and unbelievable days of the year.  They are simply too much for a child to comprehend.  I don’t know if I’ve had an experience that caused the sheer level of joy as I did when first hearing all that Christmas and Halloween entailed.

However, the difference is that Christmas is a little more complicated and involved.  Sure, the selling point is that one day of the year you wake up and a ton of toys are just waiting there for you to open.  But to get there, you have to explain all about Santa Claus, and how he makes all the toys, and the chimney deal, and how you can’t be awake or he won’t come, and how the tree is important, and stockings, and Frosty, and how you have to be good all year, and how really this is all just an extremely elaborate and bizarre way to celebrate the virginal birth of God-made-man who would later die for all the times that you’ve been bad.

Halloween is FAR more simplistic.

Me: What’s Halloween?

Dad: For one night of the year, you get to go outside after dark, wear a costume of WHATEVER YOU WANT, and then go door-to-door and all of our neighbors will CANDY!

Me: Oh, but I have to be a good boy all year?

Dad: Nope.

Me: But this is all symbolic of something Jesus did, right?

Dad: Not at all.

Me: There’s gotta be a catch here.

Dad: Well, I WILL have to examine all of your candy to make sure that none of the neighbors put razor blades or poison in the candy.

Me: Wait, what?  Some of our neighbors might do that?!

Dad: Oh yeah.  And I’ll have to go with you too, because if they’re willing to razor-blade your candy, who says they won’t kidnap, rape, and even murder you.  Can’t be too careful, Brian. 

Me: Yeah, I dunno about this…

Dad: Oh, and later on, you’ll have to endure watching horror movies with a genetic makeup and natural nervousness that will make each experience a traumatic one causing sleepless nights and clouding your imagination with terrifying imagery well into your teens.

Me: Suddenly, dressing up as Allstar from “Snorks” isn’t seeming so great…

Dad: No, it’s great!  Now hurry up before the all the young mothers in costumes take their kids back home.  When you’re older, you’ll understand what I mean.

But in its simplicity, Halloween is a beautiful thing.  Play make-believe, get candy.  So, ever since my very first Halloween, I’ve absolutely adored the holiday.

My parents went all out for my first Halloween costume.  Apparently I was Rainbow Dwight, Rainbow Brite’s homeless junky brother.

So, for the very earliest years of my life, Halloween consisted of spending months trying to decide what I wanted to be beforehand, then usually my mother either making or buying the costume, then going out with my siblings and our old-school plastic jack-o-lanterns to fill with candy.

It wasn’t until later on that I was exposed to the idea that pillow cases or plastic bags can hold WAY more candy than those dumbass plastic jack-o-lanterns. 

This is really how the childhood obesity epidemic began: the moment we placed those festive jack-o-lantern buckets in the garage to gather cobwebs, while we ran around trying to haul in a pillow size or full garbage can amount of candy.

Shortly after Dad gave me the thumbs up that there were no syringes hidden in my O’Henry bars.

My brother, sisters, and I would return home every night and spread our loot across the floor or table to examine all that we had brought in.  It was also to set up the all important “Candy Trade” that occurred every year in our home.

This shit was serious business.  If you had a good trade night, you would maximize enjoyment of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles viewing.  If you traded poorly, you would have to watch with jealousy as another sibling smiled away while eating THEIR favorite candy, and probably watching something awful like a Shirley Temple movie.  (God, I hated Shirley Temple.)

It was frowned upon, however utilized every year.  The youngest Jaeger sibling was going into the “Candy Trade” at a severe disadvantage.  We learned young to prey on the weak.  So, they youngest sibling usually ended up sitting in a pile of Good ‘N’ Plentys, Raisinets, and those generic lollipops that some old Jewish woman two streets down had been giving out since the Carter administration.

Also, my little brother Kevin had a SEVERE weakness for anything Reese’s.  You could trade that poor Reese’s-addict ONE Reese’s cup and get FOUR Three Muskateers bars in return.  So, it was always a race between my older sister, Erin, and I to see who could con the sucker out of his best candy with the lure of Reese’s.  My younger sister, Caitlin, was too little to catch on.  I think Dad ended up stealing most of her candy when she wasn’t looking.

The Jaeger clan about to embark on another Halloween candy trek, or what I imagine only the most severe lunatics picture in their padded cells, all in unison urging them to remove their own skin.  (Just imagine all four of us chanting, “Remove the skin, to let the evil in!”  Not as cute anymore, is it?)

But then I hit an age where trick-or-treating wasn’t necessarily as “cool” anymore.  So, the cliq of Catholic school kids’ parents started to organize hip Halloween parties for us.  There would be bobbing for apples, games, and music, all set to the backdrop of burgeoning puberty and someone’s mom getting noticeably too drunk.

For our 5th grade Halloween party, I wore this nifty number:

And, yes, if you were paying attention, this is exactly the same costume that my sister, Erin, wore the year or two years before.  You see, with four children, costume recycling wasn’t just convenient, it was necessary.  Several of us went as Old Woman, Santa Claus, or the Cat In The Hat some year or another.

We all went as characters from The Wizard of Oz one year, which my parents thought would be cute.  I don’t like to talk about it.  I was Dorothy.

(Just kidding.  I think I was the Scarecrow.  But honestly, for the life of me, I can’t remember.  I just remember thinking that my entire grade of classmates were going to jump out from behind a bush at the same time and start laughing at me.  I honestly kept my head on a swivel the whole time in fear of that, when really, they were all probably being forced into similar situations elsewhere, and fearing the same thing.  Oh, adolescence.)

Anyway, I went to a Halloween party wearing the Old Woman costume, and I guess my courage to gender-bend won the judges over, so I won a radio.  But not just ANY radio…a radio that could pick up TV STATIONS!  At the time, this was the greatest invention in the world.  I didn’t have a TV in my room, so the ability to basically “half watch” TV in my room was great.  Plus, I could secretly tune in all the TV shows my parents wouldn’t let me watch and finally hear all of that dirty language I imagined.

I also remember how scary movies slowly creeped into the equation around this time.  Apparently, 3rd or 4th grade is the proper age to start watching slasher and horror films near and on Halloween.  The only problem with this is that I was born, and continue to be, a complete puss.  I remember a specific Halloween party where all the cool kids decided to watch “Friday The 13th” in the living room.  I spent almost two hours just standing outside by myself, coming up with excuses as to why I HAD to be outside. 

Kid: Hey, Brian, come on inside, we’re watching Freddy Krueger!

Brian: No, uh, you go ahead.  I’ve gotta, um, stay out here to, uh, watch these here stars.  Heard there’s gonna be a visible comet.

Kid: You can’t even see the stars out here.  Come on, it’s so scary and awesome!

Brian: Oh, I know.  I TOTALLY wish I could, but, you know, I’m allergic to dog hair, and GAH, I mean it really sucks, but they have a dog you know.

Kid: They put the dog upstairs, and it doesn’t shed.  Come on!

Brian: No.  No, that’s alright, you go in.  I mean, what if Freddy Krueger, or Jason, or even a real-life murderous psychopath comes running through these woods right here and has a lust for children’s blood?

Kid: Oh, okay, good point.  Stay out here.  (Goes inside.)

Brian: Oh fuck.

Then, during late middle school and throughout high school, trick-or-treating was pretty much out of the question.  Everything became parties at that point.

I seem way too happy here.

In college, Halloween took on a whole different aspect: drinking.  I can still remember going out on Halloween my freshman year with a group of friends.  We traveled around a friend’s apartment complex knocking on doors and saying, “Trick or beer,” when someone answered.  We collected over 30 beers in just 45 minutes.  Then, we took the beer back to our friend’s house, set them all on the floor as if we were children again, and had a draft.

But for the last decade or so, Halloween has been synonymous with Florida/Georgia weekend in Jacksonville.  So, each year, we would have the Friday night costume party at the Cantwell’s house.  Here are just a few of my costumes from over the years:

A fairy costume I found at my parents’ house that my sister had worn when she was in elementary school.

Billy Mays Hayes.

Ron Solo, Han Solo’s gay brother and Poet Laureate of the Galactic Republic.

So, Halloween soon became what all holidays end up becoming once you reach adulthood: excuses to drink excessively and act like an idiot.

This is currently what Americans think Chicago firefighters look like…

And this is currently what Americans think Chicago police officers look like…

No wonder every Chicago police officer I’ve seen lately seems unhappy.

If the increasing chill in the air or the crunching of colorful fallen leaves wasn’t enough to let you know that we are reaching late October, there’s one other thing I’ve noticed that Chicago offers up as a reminder that the height of the fall season is upon us…

A shitload of Halloween decorations.

Grocery stores that look like someone bought the entire Halloween decoration aisle at Party City, loaded it all into a cannon, and fired it inside.  Bars and pubs that look like John Carpenter’s imagination vomited all over the walls.  Houses that look like “Hocus Pocus” had sex with “Ernest Scared Stupid” and gave birth to a bungalow.  (Then poured a heaping amount of authentic Bulgarian miak all over it.  Rest in peace, Jim Varney.)

“I bet you thought I couldn’t find any this time of year.”

There have been several Florida-to-Chicago instances of “culture shock” that I’ve experienced in my two weeks here.  This one, however, still puzzles me every time I leave the apartment. 

Chicago LOVES Halloween.  It’s kind of creepy, honestly.

I don’t remember this type of decorative celebration leading up to All Hallow’s Eve when I lived in Florida.  I mean, sure, you would see the cheesy Halloween character cut outs at Publix, there would be a handful of houses that would put tombstones in their yard, and of course there are those Halloween costume stores that would set up shop for just one month in some abandoned site of a failed business.  But it wasn’t everywhere you turned, and to the intense degree that it exists in Chicago.

Maybe it’s the product of the different climates.  It’s easier, I imagine to get into the festive Halloween spirit when you have to bundle up to ward off the chilly night air.  When you sweat through a t-shirt walking to pick up the mail at 8 PM, it’s a little harder to give a crap about witches and ghosts.  If you’ve spent all day noticing the leaves change color, you probably look forward to carving pumpkins and sipping a hot cup of pumpkin spice coffee…but if you see ten people sunbathing at your apartment complex’s pool, you’re probably less inclined to want to think up some witty inscription for the fake tombstone decoration you planned to put outside the door.

Here lies old Florida Brian,

Who sweat ‘til his moment of dyin’.

He said, “I’m as lucky as seven,”

“There’s no sweating in heaven!”

Jokes on him, cause in Hell he is fryin’. 

But I think the only clear and logical explanation for the vast disparity between Halloween festiveness in Florida and Chicago is the fact that Florida compartmentalizes its Halloweenery whereas Chicago spreads it out evenly.

Florida scoops up all of its Halloween spirit and dumps it all into Howl-O-Scream, Halloween Horror Nights, and the other big bombastic celebrations of all things scary and terrifying.

So, basically, Florida’s way of celebrating the Halloween holiday is allowing residents to pay 50 bucks to walk around a theme park and have failed actors and part-time baristas jump out of shadows in scarecrow masks to scare them.

“Ahhhh!  You smell like you still live with your mom!”

Suddenly, the amount of Halloweening in Chicago doesn’t seem so bad.

Plus, whereas in Florida it didn’t usually dip below 70 near Halloween, it’s going to be WAY more fun to watch women in their slutty (insert occupation/character/noun) costumes have to contend with 30-40-degree temperatures and bitterly cold blasts of wind.

I hope that Slutty Nurse knows how to treat slutty hypothermia, or else that Slutty Inmate may lose some slutty toes.