Too Much Lost

I've been watching Season 3 of Lost on DVD. If you haven't started watching Lost, don't start. It is evil. If you watch Lost, you know what I'm talking about.

In the past week, I've watched over half of Season 3. I average about 3 episodes/day. I should say that I limit myself to 3 episodes/day. Increasing the daily intake sounds like a good idea, but like alcohol or chocolate, too much Lost comes back to bite you in the ass. Best if you don't ask how I know this.

I fear that my daily quota may be too high. Today, I cut through a residential neighborhood on my way to the gym. Not once but twice, I slowed down so I wouldn't hit a squirrel that darted into my path. "That's kind of strange," I thought, "Wonder why the squirrels are so squirelly today."

On my way home from the gym, I approached a guy pushing a jog stroller. As he got closer, I realized that he was pushing 2 dogs in the stroller. At first, it didn't even register. It took a full 30 seconds before I put all the pieces together and realized that he was taking his chihuahuas out for a ride in what looked like an expensive stroller, and seemed completely unphased by the ridiculousness of his circumstances. I bet if I'd stopped and asked him what he was doing, he'd say, "I'm taking my dogs for a walk. Why do you ask?"

Then, as I rounded the last curve in the neighborhood, I passed a squished squirrel in the middle of the road. After all the other strange anomolies, I decided that the big shadow monster must have killed the squirrel. Right after it slammed Mr. Eko into a tree and before it went after Kate and the eerily calm blond woman. I'm half expecting to see a polar bear on my next trip to the gym. Yep, too much Lost.

Fox News Flash

Today, I went to the gym. Again, I had my headphones in, but was forced to watch the bank of TVs in front of the phalanx of treadmills. I had a choice: I could watch barely-clad women shaking everything they had within an inch of their lives in what passes for music videos these days (oh, how I yearn for the days of yesteryear when people actually wore clothes in music videos) or I could watch Fox News. It wasn't really a choice at all.

My headphones spared me the audio assault from these two sources. However, with the Fox TV on "mute," I had to see the close-captioning. I couldn't read it because I don't wear my glasses at the gym, but I still had to see it. So, I could follow along, despite my overwhelming desire not to.

Here's what passed for news this afternoon:

Former Senator Bob Kerry did not insult Barack Obama. Seems he made some comments that "someone" (Fox News) might have taken the wrong way (and reported as fact), so Kerry wrote a letter to Obama, apologizing for the non-insult. This non-news warranted a panel discussion on Fox News. Again, no glasses and no audio meant I couldn't follow what in the world these people found to debate, but it seemed to get pretty heated. I imagined that they were debating whether Kerry intended the insult, whether Hilary Clinton was somehow behind all of this (because we all know that she's the source of all evil, according to Fox News), and whether Obama should accept Kerry's apology. I would imagine that not once did any of these people consider that maybe, just maybe, they were wasting everyone's time.

Next news flash: Mike Huckabee will not condemn Britney's Spears's 16 year-old pregnant sister. I'm not kidding, this "news" warranted a "This Just In" flag on Fox News. Seems someone (Fox News) thought we'd all give a rat's ass about Mike Huckabee's opinion on this subject. I have to say that I'm terribly disappointed to learn that Mike Huckabee even knew who Jamie-Lynn Spears is. Hell, I'm disappointed that I know who she is. Seems Huckabee thinks Spears the Younger made the right decision to keep her unborn baby and he won't condemn her. Very big of you, Mike. I'm sure she'll sleep better knowing that.

Let's all just take a step back for a minute and remember that despite what Big Sis does or does not wear when she's in public, Jamie-Lynn Spears is 16 years old. She is one of too many teenage girls who get pregnant every year in this country. Her condemnation is not a campaign issue. The campaign issue is: What does Mike Huckabee propose to do to help pregnant teenage girls who don't have famous big sisters with truckloads of cash? What does he plan to do to help families whose implosions aren't captured by the paparazzi? What realistic plan does he propose to prevent teenage pregnancy? If candidates can't address the real issues, and if the media can't ask the real questions, clearly we just need to stop all political campaigning because clearly it's an enormous waste of time and money.

And finally, in yet another "not" news story: MLB baseball pitcher, Roger Clemens says he did not, and has never, used steroids. Ever the diligent media machine, Fox News didn't take him at his word. No, no, no. Instead, they posted 2 pictures of Clemens, one where his face looked slightly puffier than in the other. I guess I was supposed to conclude that Mr. Clemens is a big fat-faced liar. Here's the thing - Whether he did or didn't, how's he supposed to prove that he didn't take steroids years ago?

So, to Fox, I say, "News? Not!"

A change is gonna come

Today, I found myself in the pre-holiday funk. No holiday parties in my future, no special someone to spend New Years with...OK, I'll stop before I bring you down, too.

I decided that since the temperatures finally dropped below balmy, I'd make some comfort food. Chicken and dumplings and cornbread. Nothing better on a cold day - and by "cold," I mean 40s. So, I braved the hordes at the grocery store on a Sunday to get all the necessary ingredients and brought home my bounty.

Off and on through the afternoon, I had a recurring thought that my favorite yoga instructor was teaching a class at the gym this evening. As the time approached to either start the chicken or go to yoga, I surprised myself by thinking, "I really think yoga will make me feel better." And, I believe I was right. I even managed to sustain a crow pose for longer than 10 seconds.

Strange how changes sneak up on you. But, I'm still making chicken and dumplings tomorrow - so I can have it when I come home from yoga.

The Holiday

Last night, I watched "The Holiday." I expected that the movie would irritate me, but I was in the mood for a holiday-themed movie. The movie didn't disappoint. Two women trade houses for the Christmas holidays and perfect men show up at their doors within 24 hours of the switch. As if that premise isn't preposterous enough, the movie layers on the ridiculousness.

First, Cameron Diaz opens the door of Kate Winslet's isolated English cottage and there's Jude Law. Not your average man. Not even your average good looking man. No, it's Jude Law. And he's drunk. An endearing drunk. Not a boorish, burping, farting, smelly drunk. A beautiful, slightly tippy, slurring drunk who's happy to sleep on the couch until Cameron Diaz suggests that they have sex. And...when she announces that her ex-boyfriend gave a "thumbs down" to her technique, Jude Law still wants to have sex with her. In the morning, he doesn't say, "So, I'll call you" as he blazes a trail out the door. No, he says she's really interesting and invites her to dinner. Puuuhleeeze.

On the other side of the world, Kate Winslet finds Jack Black attractive. I really don't need to say any more about that.

Yes, I'm cynical. Yes, I'm jaded. Yes, I'm overly critical of movies. But, seriously, drunk Jude Law on your doorstep? I've rented vacation homes and Jude Law never came a-knockin', drunk or not. Maybe I'm just renting in the wrong places, or renting the wrong movies.

More Gift Ideas

In today's paper, I learned that you can surprise someone on your Christmas list with rhino poop. That's right, actual feces from an actual rhinocerous. The International Rhino Foundation (IRF) has high hopes for this fundraiser, auctioning the droppings on eBay. According to the report, "Each piece is dried, mounted in a clear trophy case, and marked with the type of rhino that produced it."

Well, I think we can all take comfort in knowing that each piece is dried. Wonder if the little plaque says, "Rhino that dealt it..." Unfortunatley, if you were hoping for a speciman from the rare Javan rhino, you're you-know-what out of luck. The rhino is so rare that speciman collectors can't find any specimans. I like to think that the Javan-the-Hut rhino is just too proud to have its crap on display.

Now, let's think about who actually works in this industry. There are the speciman collectors - and seriously, who wouldn't want that job? Tromping through the jungle, hoping to land your foot in something really nasty. I suppose there's some skill involved, wouldn't want to bring hippo poo home by mistake. Which brings us to the training for these folks - I'm thinking pictures and smells figure prominently. And then there are the poor souls who sit around and literally watch rhino dung dry. Imagine a cocktail party. You cross the room to meet an intriguing looking young man. You ask, "So, what do you do?" "I mount rhino dung," he replies. And so ends your holiday party season.

What's that, you don't know who you'd send rhino poo to? Well, might I suggest Bill Head, County Commissioner in Carroll County, GA? In a recent work session, Head shared his views on the county's jail situation, saying "the county needed more jail space because of criminals from nearby Atlanta and 'the wetbacks from down south.'"

As you'd imagine, folks are calling on Head to apologize. But, Head is proving Headstrong, bull-Headed even. He refuses to apologize, instead offering an explanation for his comments. Seems he believes that people just misunderstood him. Well, these comments ought to clear things up. Head recently told reporters, "Wetbacks can come from anywhere. They can come from Cuba; they can come from any of the islands; they can come from Mexico. Anyone is a wetback if they are illegal."

Ah, well, that does clear things up. He's not only insulting Hispanics, he's also insulting our intelligence. So, congratulations Bill Head of Carroll County, GA, you've just won a sizeable gift of rhino poo for Christmas, decidedly undried rhino poo.

Mr. Potato Nose

According to today's blotter, "Pitched potato knocks out husband." Here's the story: In the wee hours on Thanksgiving morning, sheriff's deputies in a nearby town responded to a call from a 43 year-old woman. We're not sure what she told them, but when they arrived, they found her husband unconscious with a knot on his nose, a potato laying nearby.

As the husband came to, he and his wife recounted their evening, to the best of their combined ability. According to the couple, they got into a tussle around 1AM, after "they had been drinking," smashed, as it were. We don't know what they were arguing about, but perhaps they engaged in the age-old pre-Thanksgiving "Irish potato" or "sweet potato" debate. The argument boiled over when the husband "used an expletive" to describe his wife. At that point, she grabbed a trusty potato and hurled it at him, "hitting him in the nose and causing him to pass out." Say what you want about this woman, she's got an arm and great aim, even when smashed. She immediately called 911, sure she'd just committed homicide by spud.

When the deputies arrived, the wife told them "that she didn't mean to hit her husband." She just meant to scare him, really. The husband didn't press charges and the woman was not arrested or booked on assault with a deadly spud charges. If you ask me, the whole story sounds twice-baked. Just remember, potatoes don't knock people unconscious, people knock people unconscious. I hear the couple has agreed to let the wife make any potato-related decisions from now on.

If you can't beat 'em

Mark my words - my next car will be a giant SUV. I realize that I'll never be able to scrape ice from the windshield because my stubby legs aren't long enough to allow my stubby arms to reach the windshield. I also realize that I'll irreparably harm the environment every time I crank up the engine. And, yes, I fully realize that I'll have to spend approximately the gross national product of Sweden to fill up the tank. I don't care.

Why am I willing to do all of these things? Well, because I can't back out of a parking space or make a right turn without endangering my life any more. You see, I drive a 2-door Honda. It's cute, it's just my size, it has a tiny turning radius, and it gets great gas mileage. The only thing it doesn't do is allow me to see around, over, or under the hulking behemoths that clog up the Target and Kroger parking lots and left-turn lanes.

Mini-vans, SUVs, and pick-up trucks have become the scourge of my existence. No matter what I do, I end up next to one in a parking lot, forcing me to put my car in reverse, say a silent prayer, and back out slowly, hoping that the hulking behemoth that's coming down the row will see the speck that I am and hit the brakes in time to stop the forward momentum of a thousand tons of steel before crushing me like a bug. Or, I have to sit and wait for all of humanity to come to a stop so the freak of automotive nature can make a left turn, because short of pulling into oncoming traffic, there's no way for me to know that I can make my right turn.

Yesterday, I came out of a store and there was my little car, by itself, no behemoths in sight. Gleefully, I trotted over, anxious to back out with a clear view of everything around me. As I got in and shut the door, I looked in the rearview mirror and there it was - the world's largest red pick-up backing up to squeeze into the space next to my driver's door. So close, I thought, so close to backing up without taking my life into my own hands. And, to add insult to injury, I had to wait for the jackass to completely block out the sun before I could even start moving.

At least he parked straight. I firmly believe that if you're going to insist on driving an enormous vehicle, you should have to pass a parking test before you're allowed to take it home. Just because your car is the size of your house doesn't mean that you get to take up 2, 3, or 4 other parking spaces. And here's a hint - if the sign says, "compact car," that ain't you!

So, I'm throwing in the towel. If I ever get a job, I'm buying the world's biggest SUV and I'm going to park it diagonally wherever I damn well please.