The Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013

I guess I missed this little gem. Everyone else in the free world got the memo, but I am still scratching my head. Pursuant to the Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013, you are guaranteed in your freedom to access a Redbox machine unhindered by obstacle, social convention, or common decency. Here are some of the finer points.

-It shall be noted that Reasonable Access is defined in the context of this law as direct straight line access to a Redbox machine, not to exceed 20 paces from the nearest paved surface upon which a vehicle can be parked. 

-Under no circumstances should a consumer have to cross perpendicular to a lane of traffic when gaining access to a Redbox machine. This includes parking lot throughways even when posted speed limits are below 5mph and properly marked crosswalks are available.

-You may, in the act of accessing a Redbox station, drive in a manner oppositional to the regular flow of traffic. No summons may be issued for driving the wrong way or for parking in a manner that suggests that the driver was driving the wrong way at the time the vehicle was parked, so long as the driver was doing so to gain access to a Redbox station.

-Barriers that limit access to a Redbox machine or station will be deemed unlawful and no consumer shall be bound by such obstacles. Curbs and low barriers may be driven over to gain access should the consumer deem it necessary or when such obstacle puts the Redbox machine beyond the allowable 20 pace limit.

-Loading zones and fire lanes shall be renamed and re-marked as Multi-Use Fire Dept/Redbox Access Lanes, with Redbox access taking highest priority in the event of a double emergency. No emergency vehicle may attempt to disturb, molest, or relocate a vehicle which is being used for the expressed purpose of accessing a Redbox machine.

-Handicap parking zones may be used by consumers accessing a nearby Redbox station, as under the RRRAA2013, not having a desired movie in your hand has been classified a physical handicap.

-No establishment housing a Redbox machine on its premises may deny entry to a consumer based upon standards of dress or appearance. This includes any No Shoes/No Shirts policies. Such policies are considered unlawful when used to deny a consumer reasonable access to a Redbox machine.

And there you have it. In black and white. Go forth, park on curbs, drive the wrong way, stand in a Walmart lobby with no shirt or shoes, it is your right as a 'Murican.

At What Point Do You Stop Collecting Things?

I mean, really, at what point do you stop collecting things? Is it when you can't even rationalize it to yourself anymore, or is it when the A&E film crew comes banging on your front door? Shit, who is knocking on the door? False alarm. It was just my subconscious mind playing tricks on me in an attempt to make me see how dangerously close I hover to hoarder status. Screw you, subconscious, that ruse ain't gonna work. Right now I'm staring at four turntables in various states of disrepair, heaps of albums and laserdiscs, no less than three typewriters, and boxes upon boxes of comic books, most of which I have never and will never read. There might even be a flat cat under all this mess. *elbow nudge to all the Hoarders watchers (inside joke y'all). Ugh. I've fallen under the spell of the unwanted and forgotten. I have to remember that just because no one else wants this shit anymore, it's not my job to provide it safe quarters. But for realsies, this shit is pretty fucking cool. I got a German made Dual CS-431 turntable that just needed a needle for a measly five bucks. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Another Dual, a CS-1257 that is a fucking mechanical conundrum, for another five bucks. Aaaaand it has an intact Ortfon stylus, I might ad. Gimme that, too. And albums? Yep, tons of 'em. All cheap, all in fair condition, and mostly jazz and big band. I'm in a jazz and big band mood as of late, me thinks it's due to my love of trombones and stand up bass. Daaaaaaaaammmit. I forgot about the VHS tapes. Did you know that they are like $.75 apiece and on some straight up BOGO status most of the time? Yup, rocking some Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, Monty Python, all that back in the day shit on VHS. Fuck netflix. It's too instant. Analog4lyf, son! Anyways, I guess the point I was trying to make was that, to answer my own question from before, you never stop collecting. Never stop until you die beneath an avalanche of pointless garbage. On a related note, you want comics? I got you. Mountains of mid-eighties commons. You pay me for a flat rate box, I fill it with bagged and boarded comics, I send them to you. Free. Of. Charge. (other than flate rate shipping, that is) Holla atcha boy. I'll be in the junk dungeon poking the insides of this Dual turntable with a screwdriver.

Go ahead audiophiles, cry about it. I replaced an Ortofon cartridge with a NuMark. I'm a rebel. 

One day, I'll figure out how to fix this one. Stabbing its guts with a screwgie* ain't working.

I use this typewriter to keep my precious Laserdisc collection from toppling over.

Yeah. VHS. Killin' it with this shit. I'm always kind, and I always rewind.

Ninja Turtles #2-5. Mint. Jealous? Don't be. They could be yours for the cost of postage.

Boxes of this shit. C'mon man, just say you want some fucking comics!

*elbow nudge to all the No Country For Old Men watchers. 

The Short Course Student Template

I think that we have all taken some kind of short course at some point in our lives. It's usually a course that you have no interest in, is scheduled on the two nicest weekend days of the perceivable future, is required by some kind of higher authority, and is generally regarded as a way to make you pay for some puppet to force feed you common sense information you should already know. I've taken SDV100 (College Success Skills), a course that took two days to teach me that I could kick failure in the nuts and ride the Pegasus of  Success as a prerequisite for graduation from TCC, I've taken court mandated driver improvement classes, I've attended HR crash courses on how to avoid slapping the asses of the unwilling and how to refrain from slur laden water cooler talk, and most recently, I took a motorcycle safety course which, although informative, was still a weekend of DMV required captivity. I have noticed that no matter the course, no matter the information being delivered, the classes always seem to be formed using some kind of magical universal student template. Almost as if when the classes were being assembled on the great cosmic chessboard, that Microsoft Office paperclip with googly eyes reared his stupid fucking head and said, "Hey! I see you are trying to assemble a dynamic group of students who are forced to participate in the same mundane course. May I help you with that?" Fuck you paper clip. Why you gotta do me like this? Googly-eyed Paperclip, explain to me why, aside from the regular Joe, these four students have to be in every course?

Front Row Teacher Talker: This person finds a comfy seat right at the front of the class and gets real chummy with the instructor. They attempt to delay class by forcing the teacher endure an empty and sad pseudo-friendship. During breaks, they cling to the teacher in hopes that their undying and instant adoration will be reciprocated. I'm sure that 93% of front row teacher talkers attempt to friend the teacher on Facebook before the class is even completed.

Story Guy: This guy has a story for EVERYTHING. It doesn't matter what it is, Story Guy will step up to the plate with a story that is barely relevant, not entertaining, and mildly brain numbing. I get it, in 1987, you drove to Pasadena on a Vespa and bought pistachios from a street vendor wearing a hat made from old Budweiser cans. Now can we get back to learning about motorcycle helmet construction? Thanks.

The Back Row Teacher: Back Row Teacher already knows the content. Back Row Teacher knows everything. Back Row Teacher knows everything but how to avoid court mandated courses and how to shut the fuck up. They live and breathe the phrase "well, in my experience..." Hmm. Fascinating. With credentials like that, you would think that you would be getting paid to be in this classroom rather than paying for the pleasure.

The Cryptic Bragger: Oh, you know the Cryptic Bragger. They are the ones who weave and intertwine self praise into seemingly benign questions or anecdotes. During a lecture in SDV100 about financial responsibility, one student raised her hand and said "I know that having a few credit accounts is good for your credit. I personally have a $2000 line of credit at Eddie Bauer." Congrats. You can now pay 23% interest on moccasins and flannel shirts. Idiot. They just don't have the foresight to know that we are all snickering at what they perceive to be accomplishments. "I ain't never took no motorcycle class. Taught myself. I'm pretty good on two wheels, mang. On my second bike now. The first one? Oh, I crashed it like a year ago. I'm just here 'cause I got caught with no license." Nice. You clearly don't need to be here.

Look, I know that we all can't be perfect human beings. I'm not asking for that. Just realize that when a group of adults is forced to give up a weekend to attend some form of short course, all they want to do is keep their heads down, press on, and get through the course as fast as possible. Personal anecdotes, arguing with the teacher, trying to pat yourself on the back though cleverly disguised stories and answers, and trying to engage the teacher in witty banter is just holding the whole class up. I can't speak for everyone in class but when you keep me in a short course longer than I need to be, I am mustering every bit of psychokinetic ability that I have in an attempt to make you spontaneously combust right where you sit. General rule for a short course: "Shut the fuck up, listen, and let's get through this." Easy. Goddammit stop talking to the fucking teacher!

Proper Short Course form. Heads down. Mouths closed. Don't be the ass-tard that ruins it for everyone.

The Seed of Doubt and the Fruit of Disappointment

Well folks, I fucked it up. Fucked it up royal. I had a Sony SL-5400 in my hands, felt its weight, caressed its faux wood panels, popped the tape mech a few times, then I choked. Unwilling to take a chance on this mechanized piece of happiness, I put it back on the shelf of the thrift store with the promise of return. Why? Still reeling from the $3 loss I took on the last Betamax I bought (which turned out to be DOA), I wanted to test the SL-5400 for proper playback prior to purchase lest I get burned again. I didn't have a test tape. I didn't have a test tape and I had the arrogance to think that I was the only dead format collector in town and that the SL-5400 would wait for me. Wrong. Fucking wrong. Now it's gone.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Betamax –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Betamax –
Nameless here for evermore.
~E.A Poe (from his lost book Lamentation of Dead Formats)

Never again will I hesitate when faced with the opportunity to own a Betamax player. Never again. I sowed the seed of doubt and harvested the fruit of disappointment. 

Oh, SL-5400 you made me feel whole now I exist as an empty husk again.

Sharpening Your Implements

I am certain that there once existed a core set of skills that were passed down generationally to ensure the survival and well being of all subsequent peoples. By my lifetime, most of the more practical core skills have been lost in translation. One such skill: sharpening implements. Axes, knives, chisels, and the like should require occasional sharpening. Should. I've generally regarded such things as disposable and I've been hucking them in the garbage as they see the end of their usable sharpness. That's what trickled down to my generation; use it, destroy it, pitch it. Nah, nah, nah, muthafucka, I'm breaking the cycle. So, filled with a sudden swell of DIY spirit, I picked up my trusty Harbor Freight axe, some files, a honing stone, and my 1955 copy of the Popular Mechanics DIY Encyclopedia Volume S and headed to the garage. The DIY Encyclopedias contain all the knowledge in the world. True story, bro.

Knowledge. Raw and Unfettered

I chucked the axe in the vice and went to work. Following the book as best I could with what sharpening and honing tools I had on hand, I proudly brought my axe to an edge fine enough to easily cut paper drawn across it. I should also mention that sharpening axes in your garage at 5pm must not be a common activity. Most of my neighbors who enjoy afternoon walks seemed to look at me more strangely than they usually do when they saw me intently filing away at my axe blade. Waving while testing the blade edge with my thumb didn't seem to alleviate concerns. Oh, well. They'll see. When the world ends and I am standing proudly with my tinfoil hat, my axe, and a shopping cart full of antique DIY encyclopedias, they will beg to partake in the knowledge I have kept from the prying telepathic minds of invading alien overlords. 

Taking some swings at the test stump/ Stump Drinking Game arena

Adventures in the Land of Thrift: Travel Edition

Thursday 19SEPT2013: The Sad Realization

I stood amidst a bustling crowd of junk herders buzzing in all directions, grabbing, evaluating, and stashing what treasures they could manage to get their hands on into rickety, rusty, reclaimed shopping carts. I fought my way back to the electronics section and lifted my arms in exasperation at the realization that these vultures have picked clean the bones of the collective Virginia Beach thrift carcass. I had combed the same stores again and again, each time noticing less and less new inventory. I realized then that my treasure wasn't going to be found here. It most likely wasn't going to be found anywhere in Hampton Roads. What was the elusive treasure I was seeking? A Laserdisc player. I needed a Laserdisc player so I could watch the Special Widescreen Edition of Andromeda Strain that I found alone and unwanted in a pile of old opera LPs and Firestone Christmas compilation records. If I was going to have any chance at finding a working Laserdisc player, I was going to have to leave the metropolis. I was going to have to take this show on the road.

Friday 20SEPT2013: One Last Sweep

Goal: Laserdisc player and/or laserdiscs. Wing chair for the reading room.

It was decided that before the great exodus, Pops and I would comb the local outlying thrift stores one last time. I could barely drag myself to each successive store as the weight of constant disappointment was beginning to crush my soul. At the last stop, just as I was about to give up all hope, Pops spotted it. "Oh, man! A Tandy 1400. Those were the shit back in the day!". I glanced at the gray plastic behemoth. Rays of light broke through the clouds, shined through plate glass and illuminated the primitive laptop as the angels above plucked the strings of gilded harps. Well, maybe not, but that shit still made my heart skip a beat. I flipped the lid. Dual floppy drives. Monochrome display. A battery pack reminiscent of Tyco R/C cars. Great success. The lady at the counter said she had placed it on the shelf as a joke with the word "vintage" sprawled across the top in grease pencil thinking that people would see it, chuckle, and move on. Jokes on her. Best $6 I've ever spent. Although, missing it's power adapter, it added one more treasure to the list.

Friday 20SEPT2013: Departure

Goal: VB to Greensboro. Minimal stops. 254 miles.

With some clothes, a Chromebook, and the Tandy 1400LT personal computer in hand, we departed VB for Greensboro, NC. Made one stop along the way at a Goodwill somewhere along 58. Added one promising power adapter (later found to be dead), one Roy Orbison CD, and one Van Morrison CD to inventory. This location was greatly lacking in electronics and furniture. Onward we traveled.

Friday 20SEPT2013: Arrival in Greensboro

Goal: Dinner and sleep.

We arrived at our base of operations, unloaded the cargo, and briefed my brother on the mission. He agreed to provide transport and knowledge of local customs on this quest. An initial scouting of local thrift stores lands us a chair which we plan to collect on Sunday. We also spot one of the greatest pieces of electronics that I have ever seen. Walnut case, brushed aluminum face plates, and covered in buttons, knobs, and dials. We stand perplexed and google the model number. It is some kind of machine that blasts your brain with waves of good energy. I want it but fight the urge. No room in the budget. We return to base and comb Craigslist for treasures. Sleep comes difficult as I find myself dreaming of Laserdiscs.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: First Leg of NC Journey

Goal: Motorcycle exhaust. Greensboro to Concord. 72 miles.

Pops had previously made contact with a man in Concord, NC regarding a full factory exhaust for his motorcycle. It was decided that we would chase this lead first while I struggled to make contact with my first Laserdisc player lead. I had texted, called, called again, and left a message. No response. The plan was to travel to Concord and await contact. After traveling 72 miles with no word from Laserdisc seller #1, we added one complete motorcycle exhaust to the inventory. We departed in the direction of my first lead in hopes that they would call and set up a meeting before we arrived. I was beginning to get annoyed with craigslist.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: The Second Leg

Goal: Laserdisc player and laserdiscs. Concord to Cameron. 83 miles.

83 miles goes slow as fuck when you stare at your phone in pure frustration the whole time. The closer we come to Cameron, the more irrationally angry I get. I text one last time, careful to word the message sans venom and spite. I inform the seller that we will head back to Greensboro. In the meantime, I begin to work lead #2 in Chapel Hill. I email (since seller did not provide any real contact info) that I am interested in the laserdisc player they have listed. They email back to say it's still available. I tell them we will be passing through Chapel Hill in an hour and to email a time and place if they are available for the sale.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: Begin Radio Silence

Goal: Laserdisc player. Cameron to Chapel Hill. 46 miles.

We head towards Chapel Hill and lose all contact with the civilized world. Lead #2 has fizzled out as the seller refuses to email me back. By the time we reach Chapel Hill, lead #2 had to be completely written off. I am butthurt. Butthurt as fuck. It consumes me. My day is ruined.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: Back to Base

Goal: Sleep. Chapel Hill to Greensboro. 51 miles.

Fuck Craigslist. Fuck Craigslist sellers who don't want to sell. As I settle in for the evening, I get an email from the Chapel Hill lead. "Had to step out. Meet up another time?" Fuck off. At 9PM just as I was about to give up all hope for this Laserdisc adventure, lead #1 texts me. Hope is restored. Sleep is difficult as I dream of Laserdiscs and revenge against Chapel Hill lead.

Sunday 22SEPT2013: The Score

Goal: Laserdisc Player and Assorted Laserdiscs. Greensboro to Cameron. 68 miles.

We began the journey to Cameron renewed. Well, I did anyways. I couldn't read the moods of the other adventurers. A fog of lingering disappointment seemed to remain in the air. Hopes were not high among fellow crew members in light of all previous attempts to purchase a player. Despite the odds, the transaction went smoothly. The seller was friendly, had the unit hooked up for testing, had the manual and OG remote, and actually worked for a company that I was employed by years ago. I leveraged this distant familiarity into a $10 discount. We swapped anecdotes about dead technologies, inventoried the movies, and closed the deal. I left Cameron with a Laserdisc player and pile of mixed Laserdiscs. Great success. 

Sunday 22SEPT2013: Triumphant Return

Goal: Pack up goods from home base. Transfer inventory to return vehicle. Cameron to Greensboro. 68 miles.

We returned to home base triumphant. I, myself, was high on success. I had achieved a major goal. I have wanted a Laserdisc player since I was just a wee lad, admiring them on the carpeted shelves of Circuit City during the early to mid nineties knowing that one day I would call one mine. And there I stood, bathed in the light of pure victory, Laserdisc player raised high above the land like a newborn Simba. Dead formats, I love the shit out of you.

Sunday 22SEPT2013: Homeward Bound

Goal: Pick up chair from Goodwill. Return home. Greensboro to VB. 254 miles.

The last order of business was to collect the chair we spotted on day number one. Fortunately, no one wanted it. I barely wanted it but Pops found it to be quite comfortable and at $15, who gives a fuck. We loaded up, strapped down the precious cargo, and headed home. We put miles behind us and grey clouds made way to reveal blue skies, surely a sign from above. "You done good, Adventurers. You done good."

In the end, we covered a shade under 900 miles in our impromptu journey for treasure. I spent some quality time with my brother and Pops and together, we punched adversity in the dick. Nyah, nyah, nyah, Craigslist. I got my fucking Laserdisc player. Go suck an egg. 

Gin: Why Do They Make This Shit?

Goddammit. I have resorted to drinking gin. Been-on-top-of-the-fridge-for-several-years gin. Hmmm. Hold on, let me just take a quick swig. Yep, ok, here is how it is: a nice, sharp, medicinal aroma, starts with a fairly sterile taste of a fermented and distilled pine cone, and ...... well, what can only be described as a hint of isopropyl on the finish. Yes. Very good vintage. Very good indeed. I can feel the firing of synapses coming to a halt. I give it three thumbs up, six stars, and an A for effort. Tastes like shit but is unwavering in it's pursuit of the wholesale murder of brain cells. Good on ya gin, good on ya.

Gluing Speakers, The Saga of Intergalactic Strife, and the Great VHS Concession of 2013

So, when we left off with the previous blog, I was in the middle of rebuilding a set of Infinity Sterling SS-2002 speakers. Again, I guess I must reiterate that it's not a rebuild in the strictest sense of audiophile standards since I didn't replace capacitors in the crossover or anything and I merely replaced the surrounds on the woofers, but I'll still label it a rebuild. I'm a rebel like that. Unfortunately, I didn't exactly document the gluing process but long story short, the $8 eBay speaker surround kit worked in conjunction with the recommended craft glue to rejuvenate these thrift find speakers. They sound fuggin' amazing. With really bright highs and a nice low end, they actually sound heaps better than the Fisher speakers they sit on top of. Actually, even at a fraction of the size, they weigh about the same as the monstrous 3-way Fishers. And as Boris the Blade would say; weight is a sign of reliability.

Completed Speakers Sitting Atop the Shoulders of Giants

With that completed and out of the way, it was back to the thrift store for me to find more pointless shit that I can hoard in the reading room. But what would occupy my time this go round? I thought long and hard about that. I considered tape decks, 8-track players, laserdisc setups, outdated encyclopedias, but a quick flash in the corner of my eye from a gold colored VHS box set caught my attention and ultimately sealed the deal. BOOM. The Star Wars Trilogy digitally enhanced and remastered in THX sound on VHS. Ugh. VHS. The fucking scourge of cassette based home entertainment. The absolutely abhorrent asshole of analog audio/visual reproduction. But, since I have all but given up on my Betamax quest, I figured why not just bow down before the VCR gods and concede defeat in the VHS/Betamax format war started decades ago. So, in addition to my $2.98 box set, I had to purchase a $6.98 VCR and my foray into the world of Intergalactic Strife had begun. Oh, did I mention that at the age of 28 I have never watched the Star Wars Trilogy? I know, dafuq right? I'll wait while that little tidbit of information sinks in. Never. Watched. Star Wars. Recently, I had watched an unmolested, digital, OG copy of a New Hope (Ya know, the one where Han shoots first?) provided to me by a friend after much guffaw regarding the fact that I had never watched a single frame of Star Wars. So other than that very recent screening of Episode IV, this was my big leap into the Star Wars franchise. 

Without much pomp and circumstance, I spent the weekend watching the Trilogy on the far superior and unerring format of VHS tape (note the sarcasm). I was truly impressed by the movies and how they hold up after all these years. For what it was, for when it was, the practical effects are fucking incredible. So incredible in fact that I found Lucas' digital enhancements to be disgusting and out of place. I see now why people of discerning taste looked upon me with disgust when I told them, quite proudly and arrogantly in fact, that I had never seen Star Wars. I will save you the hassle of reading a whole diatribe on my full Star Wars experience and I will just point out a few things that stuck out in my mind.

1: Luke is a total crybaby in most of Episode IV. 

2: R2D2 poops a third appendage when it's time to really haul ass.

3: Han is a bad motherfucker who is quick with the one liners.

4: Sand People will totally jack your land speeder up and strip it for parts if given the opportunity.

5: People continuously back talk and sass a man that can Force choke you until your trachea collapses.

6: Everyone got a medal of valor except for Chewy at the end of IV and that is bullshit. Total fucking bullshit.

7: Tauntaun guts are nasty but warm.

8: Yoda loves snacks and flashlights and won't hesitate to bust a droid in the face with a walking stick.

9: Luke is a total crybaby during most of his Jedi training.

10: Han is a bad motherfucker who gets cock blocked numerous times in V.

11: Lando Calrissian is the biggest intergalactic pimp to ever live. He also has the best hair in the galaxy. And that cape, c'mon. No one rocks a space cape like L to the Cizzle.

12: Being frozen in carbonite would suck. Like, ruin your day suck.

13: Being unfrozen from carbonite would suck. Like, ruin your day and vision suck.

14: Slave Leia: super smexy.

15: Ewoks are adorable. Even when they die horrible, tragic, violent deaths, they do it adorably. 

16: The Emperor is a big pile of pale yuck butter. What the fuck happened to that guy?

17: Admiral Akbar, you knew that shit was a trap. Didn't you see the meme?

18: I think I would have given up after the first Death Star. Something smaller would probably be easier to defend and have way less exploitable weaknesses.

19: Ewoks beat the shit out of the Imperial Army with rocks and rope. Adorable. Fucking adorable.

20: I want to party with the Ewoks in those badass tree houses.

And that's it, kids. I watched it, I enjoyed it, and although I kind of regret waiting this long to see it, the wait made it that much sweeter. Now, the true question is: leave it there or watch Episodes 1-3? Can you feel the conflict within me?

Beta Tapes: How Shall I Play Thee?

So, I have this pile of Beta tapes that are begging to be played. Ok, wait, before I get too deep into this nonsensical story of failure and regret, let me address the readers who may not have heard of Beta tapes. Once upon a time, in a much simpler world, two formats of home video were locked in an epic struggle to become the dominant force in home entertainment. In one corner we had VHS, the bloated, oversized cassette of inferior quality. In the other, we had Beta, a sleek, high quality cassette system capable of near Bluray quality video reproduction. For some reason (most conspiracy theorists blame it on the porn industry's silent endorsement of the VHS format) VHS won the battle and rendered Beta all but obsolete in the realm of cassette based home video.  It was kinda like the Bluray vs. HDDVD format battle of the early millennium but set in the eighties. Got it? On the same page? If you are still lost, consult wikipedia, I have it set as a drop down feature at the top of the page. Ok, so as I was saying, I have all these Beta tapes and no way to play them. This hasn't been an issue to me for neigh on 15 years now. These Beta tapes were filed away deep in my memory and all but forgotten. But, as it so happens, I wandered upon a Beta player at the Habitat for Humanity store today. I walked out of that bish with a Beta player for $3. Three 'murican dollars, y'all. I was so fucking hyped that I sped right home, right past several other thrift establishments, because I was ready to set up this wood grained abomination and watch some Beta tapes. Let me preface this by saying that these are no ordinary tapes. These aren't some stupid movies that I could find on Netflix and load up instantly, these Beta tapes contain elusive programming that are all but extinct. We are talking about Wishbone, dammit. I have nearly every episode of Wishbone recorded on Beta tape, ripped right from WHRO 15. I am dying to see this Jack Russell Terrier give me synopses of books I am too lazy to read. Ever see a dog battle a windmill a la the Man of LaMancha? I have. And I want to see it again. But, as fate would have it, this Beta player is FUBAR. It ate my copy of the Color of Money, too. But I will just write that off as a sacrifice to the gods of video cassette. However, this whole situation has me irrationally upset. I mean, yesterday, not a single fuck could have been given about these Beta tapes. But today? That shit is top priority. I will have a Beta player. And I will have it soon. Get Beta or Die Tryin'. New album me and Fiddy 'bout to drop. Exclusively at Best Buy. Beta tapes: how shall I play thee?

The Land of Obsolete and Forgotten Things

For as long as I can remember, I have always had a soft spot for things that everyone else cast away as unusable trash. My quest to save obsolete goods started early in life. I can remember shimmying my way up into the attic as a wee lad of five to recover a Sony Turntable that had been packed away and rendered obsolete by the advent of Compact Disc. Oh, it was a glorious feeling, the feeling of rescuing an artifact, I was like a little Indiana Jones recovering precious chunks of history from the hands of evil. Here in my possession was a completely functional piece of electronic equipment that was tossed aside simply because of a technology that was newer and more exciting. After I hooked it up to an old analog stereo receiver, I loaded up an album (a Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass album to be exact) and dropped the needle on that spinning black disc of vinyl. Nothing could match that crackle and pop of the needle tracking dead grooves on it’s way to the first track. Once the needle tracked and fired off the sounds of Herb Alpert’s brass ensemble, I instantly fell in love with vinyl. Still to this day I maintain a record player and a selection of classics on vinyl. Something about the crackle of dust hitting the needle and the variable pitch of a warped record brings me back to a childhood spent watching records turn and turn as they pumped the sound of Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band out of a pair of grotesquely large and out of style Kenwood speakers.

Ol' Herb the Lady Killer

But vinyl was merely a gateway drug for me. It led me to a harder lifestyle of preserving Betamax players and tracking down Beta tapes from any thrift store accessible to a child via BMX bike. Later on in life, when Laser Disc fell out of favor with the techno-snobs, I scooped up a player and as many peripheral goods as I could get. Soon after that I was onto vintage video game systems. Ataris, Sega Master Systems, NES, any old console and game I could put my hands on was happily hoarded away in my room, which at that time served as the Land of Obsolete and Forgotten Things. Even when I got a drivers licence, my car choice was impacted by my desire to save the cast off and unwanted. I bought a 1980 Ford Fairmont Futura that had a date with the crusher. Yep, I rocked out a 1980 Ford Fairmont from the junkyard. Yep, it had a functional 8-track player. Yep, it was a chick repellent. But it was another thing saved from the jaws of destruction.

My old 1980 Ford Fairmont. Photo circa 2002.

I wish I could say that I grew out of this compulsion to save obsolete goods, but you will find my home no better off than my old childhood bedroom. I have a whole room cluttered with old Polaroid Land Cameras, 35mm cameras, video game consoles, typewriters, musty old books from the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s, old comic books, and ac adapters of every possible voltage and current. I can’t drive by a trash pile or a garage sale without having to slow down and visually inventory possible scores and saves. Fuck. I just realized that I am one of those people you see on Hoarders. Well, I guess if you don’t hear from me for a couple of years, send a camera crew, a psychologist, and a crew of shovelers to dig me out of my mountain of saved treasures. How ironic would it be to have been killed by the very items you sought to save from destruction?

Can it be saved?

Don't Miss This Investment Opportunity

Run to Target, grab all the Pope John Paul candles you can get your mitts on, and wait. Yeah, just kick back and wait for the value to appreciate tenfold. Maybe even twenty or thirtyfold. At less than two dollars a share, these candles are the only stock you should be investing in. What could possibly go wrong with a stockpile of Pope candles? Nothing. But, these are limited edition, you have to act now. I mean, I know the idea of stockpiling candles sounds stupid, but what if some dude in a magical DeLorean rolled up to you in 1987 and told you to stockpile Michael Jordan rookie cards because they would be worth thousands of dollars apiece in the future? You would probably say "Yeah right, spaceman. A piece of cardboard bearing the likeness of a relative nobody in the NBA is going to be worth thousands? Nice try. Go drive your wire covered DeLorean down the block and harass some other jackass.". But that is because it was too soon to appreciate the future value. I am the spaceman (sans DeLorean). I am telling you that once this new Pope gets settled in and all the JP candles have been burned, you and your stockpile are going to be worth a friggin' mint. Seriously, we are talking about Pope before the Pope candles, two Popes back status. Value should start to climb any day now. So I'll see you at the Antiques Roadshow in fifty years, suckas. I'll be the dude with the Radio Flyer full of OG John Paul candles wearing a gold dookie chain and a jacket made out of Benjamin Frankies. I'm gonna be rich!

Bobs vs Toms: Choose Your Alliance

There is a battle going on. Canvas vs canvas. Philanthrope vs Philanthrope. Make no mistakes readers, it's ugly out there. The fact of the matter is, you better choose your alliance wisely. These muh-fuggers ain't messing around, they are out for blood. But who should you side with? Let's just see if we can't hash that out.

First, we have Toms, the OG on the block. Dating back to 2006, Toms was the first big player in the philanthropic shoe game. This OG status may appeal to the Hipster crowd, seeing as they can claim to have been a part of the BOGOTANCSE (buy-one-give-one-to-a-needy-child-somewhere-else) movement before it went mainstream. Although, now that they are mainstream, this may cause a polar shift away from Toms, unless they start making Civil War brogans.

Next, we have Bobs. The new kid on the block. They hit the streets running in 2010, a long four years after Toms. One could argue that Bobs just came along and ripped the whole look of Toms, but in reality Toms ripped the look of the traditional Espadrille (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Espadrille) anyways, so fuck 'em. I imagine that to Hipsters, Bobs have all the tongue in cheek appeal of four-striped Adidas knock-offs or Pro-wings. "Oh yeah, I'm aware that these are a rip of Toms and shouldn't be cool, but that's what makes them ironic and cool". So, Bobs have that going for them. Plus, yuppies love supporting big corporations and being as Bobs are manufactured by Sketchers, yuppies can just pick up a pair of Bobs the next time they are out buying a pair of ass-sculpting Shape-Ups. Shit, I bet even the Cubes is rocking out Bobs, because it's all about comfort for that dude.

Toms:

-OG in the shoe game

-Helps the needy

-Mainstream now

-Don't make civil war brogans yet

Bobs:

-Ripoff of a ripoff

-Helps the needy

-Ironic in the sense that it's cool not to be cool

-Cubes may be rockin' em

-Made by the same peeps that make them Shape Ups

Choose. Now.

Man, the Z-Poc Be Scary

I'm not really sure why people automatically assume that a trove of guns is the best commodity to own during a zombie apocalypse. Seems like carrying a ton of guns and ammunition would be more cumbersome than useful, and if I am to believe everything I know from television, comics, and movies, firing guns just attracts mobs of the undead almost instantly. A .22, maybe. It's light, quiet, and a thousand rounds of .22 will fit into a single cargo pocket and weighs nothing. Who is really gonna lug around a shotty and all those huge shells? That won't fit in a bug-out fanny pack. You know what will? Claw hammer. You know what's cheaper and more available than any gun? Claw hammer. Care to speculate on what is a perfectly lethal, yet stealthily silent weapon? If you guessed claw hammer you are a friggin' genius. Yep, when the Z-poc hits, I'm kicking it old school: pointy sticks and claw hammers. I might even acquire a katana or two, who knows? No guns for me though, they don't fit my post apocalyptic utopian agenda. Nope, just me, my stick and bindle, the bug-out fanny pack, a claw hammer, and a chain-mail shark-bite suit. That's all I need. Matter of fact, I think I have some Harbor Freight coupons laying around. I might grab a few more claw hammers for my hammer caches. You can never hide too many hammers strategically about your metropolis. That's a fact that you can take all the way to the bank. (Don't bother looking for them. Even if you wander upon my maps, they are all written in modified Nostradamus code, translated into ubbi-dubbi, and transcribed backwards and upside down. Good luck deciphering that shit, even I can't do it.)

A beautiful hammer in classic hickory, does it get any better?

Kali Ma, the Xiphoid Process, and Batman's Fabled One Touch Insta-kill

Nothing strikes fear in the heart of a young child like the threat of instantaneous death. In my case, this fear was embodied in three recurring concepts or ideas: Kali Ma, the xiphoid process, and Batman's fabled one touch insta-kill. There was no better way to reduce me to a blubbering pile of tears than to even mention in passing that you were capable of inflicting any of these upon me. My brothers knew this well and used this knowledge as the ultimate tool in the big brother arsenal. Let's take a look at the origin of these fears, shall we?

First, we have Kali Ma. If you watched Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom on BetaMax religiously as a child like I did, then you know full well the power of the phrase "Kali Ma". It's what those creepy skull-hat  wearing fuckers in the Temple of Doom chanted as they pulled the still-beating hearts from the chest cavities of hapless victims of ritual human sacrifice. For some reason, I reckoned that the phrase "Kali Ma" was the source of the power it took to plunge one's hand into a chest. It was simply uttered and some spell was cast upon the flesh of the recipient so that the fingers of a heart snatcher just melted right past ribs and skin, right to the cardiological jackpot. Still, to this day, you are not gonna press fingers to my chest and utter the phrase Kali Ma. I will bludgeon you to death with a tube sock full of tangerines before that goes down. I am a man of science, but I don't fuck with that Kali Ma business.

I don't fox with that Kali Ma business

Number two on the list, which is actually a direct result of number three on the list, is the xiphoid process. This, my readers, if you are unaware, is a small triangle of cartilage that dangles ever so precariously from the base of the sternum. I will admit to you now that I am somewhat of a dunce when it comes to physiology. What I know is very basic. Food in, poop out. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. There are some humors that must be balanced, Chi is lingering somewhere about the aura, and diseases are cured by blood-letting. This is my very basic understanding of the human body and it's processes. So, with that in mind, when I was told that a direct poke to the xiphoid process would cause it to dislodge, rupture your heart, and cause instant and excruciating death, I believed it wholeheartedly. I tried to confirm this fact, but my queries led me to multiple Kung-Fu forums which left me with more questions than answers. For the time being, just to be safe, avoid my xiphoid process or you risk the same tangerine sock bludgeoning described in the previous paragraph.

Why is it so goddamned sharp?

Lastly, the basis of my belief in the xiphoid poke, was the Death Touch described in an episode of Batman the Animated Series. In this episode, some ninja dude with mad ninja training is going around Death Touching people (drawing strictly from memory here so don't hit me with crazy accurate Batman hate mail) before Batman intervenes. If I'm not mistaken, there is some wicked sweet scroll with Death Touch instructions, like a papyrus death wikipedia or something, that Batman intercepts in order to fashion a piece of armor that protects the vulnerable chunk of flesh affected by the Death Touch. But, as a child, one needed only to use two fingers and jab about my ribs and torso to instill the fear of instant death in me. Again, crippling tears result. Although, as an adult, I don't really fear the Death Touch of the Batman variety. So, no death by sock borne fruit if you attempt it on me. I mean after all, that is fiction. Batman isn't historically accurate like Indiana Jones. I don't believe any of that Batman hype.

That's the Shit I Don't Like

Let's all agree to stop doing/participating in the following things, m'kay?

1: Irregardless. No explanation needed, just stop it.
2: "Euro" or "Altezza" style taillights on American pickup trucks. If the vehicle was never manufactured or distributed in Europe, it doesn't need euro taillights. Roger that?
3: Stealing shopping carts and ditching them in neighborhoods. Lazy. This is just lazy. If you steal it, just keep it and reuse it the next time you shop. Stop stealing a new cart every time, it's just stupid.
4: Admission fees at junkyards. Why is this a thing? $2 to peruse junk? Stop! Fair warning, if I pay $2 to get in, $2 worth of shit is coming out of there (in my cargo pockets).
5: ATTEMPTING TO HOT PATCH THE ENTIRETY OF I-264 IN ONE WEEKEND. It can't be done. Reducing the highway to two lanes with little or no warning is not so cool and seems kinda dangerous. Maybe we just fill potholes as they happen and we won't have to fill 1,000 of them in two days.
6: Looking at me like an idiot when I reference Vigo the Carpathian. You know who he is. You get the reference. Stare into his eyes and tell me again that you do not know Vigo the Carpathian.

Image credit goes to crocco.net (thanks google images)

You know what? We might have to call this That's the Shit I Don't Like vol. 1. Let's earmark this idea and come back to it when I can piece my brain back together. Thinking about all the 264 nonsense just made by mind implode. There is more shit we need to collectively stop doing. Tell me what you think we should stop doing! If you say blogging, you are wasting your time. Idiots never quit.

The Surprisingly Non-Universal Nature of Onomatopoeias

If you are like me, you have gone your whole life assuming that animals make the same noises in every country. Oh, how wrong we were. Believe it or not, this phenomenon has a name. And a Wikipedia article. What we are dealing with is cross-linguistic onomatopoeia. What that really means is that whereas our ducks might quack-quack, a Danish duck be all like "rap-rap". Ya heard? I know, what a trippy idea. Being that onomatopoeias are based upon the written equivalent of the sounds things make, you would think that they would be a fairly universal thing. Let's take a look at some notable examples of cross-linguistic onomatopoeia.

Albanian babies exclaim: "ua-ua"

A German cartoon in which someone bites into something would have a sound expressive bubble that says "mampf"

Dutch cows "boe" rather than "moo"

Norwegian dogs "voff voff" when the mailman approaches

Hungarian frogs serenade from the lilly pads with "brekeke"

Filipino roosters sound a proud "tiktilaok" at the rise of the sun

Read more about cross-linguistic onomatopoeia here.

Hazard Flashers and the Magic Twine

There is an old adage that claims that ignorance is bliss. Well, if this is the case, then driving down the highway in the hammer lane at forty-two miles per hour with your hazards on and a California King mattress tied to the roof of your Honda Civic with the free twine from the furniture store must border on orgasmic. What is it about hazard flashers and that magical free twine that makes people lose all sense of physics and common sense? If you think about the amount of wind sheer it takes to fold a Sealy Posturepedic in half like a newspaper, why on Earth would you trust free twine from a cardboard box to secure it to your roof for a jaunt about the interstate? That twine looks and feels like it is made from extruded grocery bags and should have the tensile strength of wet Charmin. But it's magic twine. Somehow, emboldened by the psycho-kinetic power of ignorance, that fucking twine (and sometimes a bit of arm muscle) can hold said mattress against hurricane force winds. It boggles the mind. It truly does. Combined with the force-field creating effect of hazard flashers, you can go anywhere with your pillow-top death-trap without a single care in the whole wide world. Pop those hazards on and *poof* laws of common man no longer apply to you. Want to create a full size Jenga set out of your household furniture in the back of your pickup truck and go for a buzz down the road without securing it in any way? Just flick on the hazards and do it. Go five miles per hour, too. Just for good measure. Wouldn't want to topple that Jenga tower at the first pothole, would you?

Small Steps Towards a Smoother Doomsday

I watch a lot of shows about preppers. Since I don't fear the imminent destruction of civilized life as we know it, I don't consider myself a prepper per se, but I do employ small strategies that keep me prepared for any unexpected emergency situation. It's all about the small lifestyle changes, not the big ones. Rather than building a huge underground bunker, just modify the little things, like the way you remove your pants at the end of the day. Make "fireman pants" available in various locations just in case of impending doom (or maybe a quick response to an unexpected knock at the door while you are sleeping). Easy day, right? Instead of having to figure out the complicated process of donning pants while in a sleepy haze, just follow this easy process. When removing pants, just let the waistband fall and step out of the resulting pile of pantaloon. This will leave the legs of your trousers accordioned about the cuffs and ready for action. When an emergency arises, simply step into the cuffs and pull the waistband up. Boom. You just put on pants in record time. Just like a fireman. Remember, the small steps add up. We are all about cumulative prepping 'round here. Do yourself a favor, toss a Gerber multi-tool in the pocket of the pants before you fireman them and you are ready for any apocalypse scenario. That's like advance prep, though. You'll have to work up to that. God-Tier preppers duct tape Crocs to the bottoms of their pant legs for the ultimate set of fireman pants. One day, one day readers, I will achieve God-Tier prep status.

Numerical Palindromes and the Aquatic Unicorn

Who would have ever thought that a simple water fountain could become a source of contention and animosity in a workplace of grown men? It seems odd, but one has indeed become the center of a strange competition nexus at my place of work, and the end of civilized life as we know it. On the first day of it's installation, it was a water fountain like any other. Stainless bowl, filtered water, but what is that strange glowing display? A counter? Nice. You see, this fountain was designed to dispense not only from the goose-necked spout designed for direct oral hydration, but also from a downward facing spicket meant to fill reusable water containers. The green backlit display affixed to the front of it touted proudly the number of plastic water bottles that it has displaced from landfills. Little did we know, it was really the steely-eyed face of a quietly lurking Green Eyed Monster.

"I'm number 100, bitches! Read 'em and weep! Centennial water tastes soooo good!". And that's where the problem started. "111! Trips. Eat it, muh-fuggahs!". "121. You ain't never tasted water like numerical palindrome water!". And so that was the game, fighting over any number you could make sound significant. I mean, literally fighting over a water counter. Throwing bo's and knocking water bottles out of other grown men's hands for the chance at some flavorful numerical palindrome water. It was all soon to boil over however, for the chance at a numerical triple double was too great to resist, even for the most Qauker-like passive resistance type dudes.

On this fateful day, the machine was rolled to an insignificant 998 by a Muggle, an innocent bystander in the heated battle of the water counter. My mind instantly reeled with the possibilities. "Oh, yes" I said to myself as I furrowed and unfurrowed my brow like a cartoon villain "I am about to taste of the most victorious set of numbers to ever tick sequentially across this stupid display." 999. Trips. 1000. First to beak 1000. 1001. Numerical palindrome. It was the fabled trifecta. The aquatic unicorn that every player in this makeshift game has been waiting for. But it was I who would hold the honor. Or would I?

I don't know if it was the fact that I ran to my water bottle and speed walked to the water fountain or my trembling hand that gave away the fact that huge numbers were about to be played but the sharks smelled blood in the water and they sprung into action. The sound of wrenches hitting the deck alerted me to the fact that a counter attack was underway. I was shoved to the side as I reached longingly for the fountain and another player approached the machine. A team effort. Dammit. I picked and rolled, and tried to juke my way to an offensive attack on the offending players. It was all in vain. I watched from a distance as the numbers rolled by. 999. Trips gone. 1000. Gone. 1001. Numerical palindrome gone. The unicorn had been slayed, and I didn't even get a taste. Fucking jackals.

The Fate of Physical Books in a Digital Age

I have this strange irrational fear that physical books will one day be made obsolete by digital media devices. I know that this would most likely never happen, but there has been a definite shift as of late towards more digital forms of print media. E-readers are now more affordable than ever, very portable, can hold infinite titles via cloud storage drives, and are really becoming the norm for a lot of readers. Why does this scare me? I don't know, honestly. I just really think that it places the role of physical books in a very precarious bind. The "inconvenience" of lugging around bound bricks of printed information may just push our on-the-go, on-demand, web-connected-everything society right into the hands of our future literature storage overlords. The thought of future generations living without ever having held a real book or having never turned an actual page seems like a crazy notion that I would rather never see come to fruition. I think this is driving me to hoard books. I am constantly on the lookout for books to "save" from the purgatory of bulk bins or second-hand store shelves. I might be a crazy person, yes, indeed I think I have lost my mind. The only thing that satiates my madness is the smell of aging paper and the feel of well worn book jackets resting in my palms. I turn pages with wild anticipation of what will unfold next and dog-ear pages that contain passages that hold special meaning to me. I return to these dog-eared pages to review their significance and find new meaning in every re-reading of these marked paragraphs. It is a fools errand that I have tasked myself with, leading the charge against digital books. In this futile quest I have assembled an assortment of literature both classic and whimsical, both fiction and non, both crispy fresh and moldy old. It is with great fervor that I will continue to line my walls with archaic examples of how we once shared knowledge. Ink, paper, glue. Physical books. Call me crazy, but backlit pixels will never touch my heart like printed word, and pressing the power button will never have the same feeling as coaxing open the pages of a book. Your digital bookshelves will never have the character of worn wrinkled spines and tattered dust jackets. Gutenberg, you my boy, Blue! I got your back, paper books 4life, son!